Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [16]
At that moment they passed near the gates. He saw no warding key hanging over the small pass gate. A momentary pang of guilt shot through him, yet at the same time he had to bite the inside of his lips to keep from grinning. Wonder what old Master Mygar thought of him now? Who said he couldn’t sever? He could when he had to. He’d proven it.
With a swagger back in his step, Caelan entered the Elder’s house. The entry was lined with the burled wood of Carpassian walnut, very rare and costly to import. No carving adorned it. The lovely grain of the wood was its only ornamentation. Large oil lamps of plain silver cast a steady illumination to supplement the weak morning light crawling in through the narrow windows.
A servant attired in a plain tunic of heavy fawn-colored wool with a narrow band of dark fur at collar and cuffs stood by to receive them. The servant was clean-shaven and old. His blue eyes regarded Caelan without expression.
In silence the servant led Caelan and the proctors up a staircase. Lamps hung from brackets on the walls, lighting their way.
On the second floor, the air hung heavy with the scents of snow-dampened wool, old carpets, and crushed borage. The same oppressive silence was to be found here as every where else. It seemed, as Caelan’s feet moved soundlessly over the carpet running the full length of the hallway, that all he could hear was the loud lub-dub of his own heartbeat, growing louder and faster with every step.
He swallowed, but his mouth grew no less dry. His confidence wavered, but he forced himself to keep his shoulders straight and his head high. He was the son of a master healer without equal in all of Trauland, not some nobody they could frighten.
The servant tapped softly on a heavy door at the very end of the passage. Caelan heard no response, but the servant opened the door, then stepped aside. Caelan entered alone, the proctors and servant remaining outside. The door closed quietly behind him.
The Elder sat at his desk, writing on parchment. He did not look up at Caelan’s entry.
Sighing, Caelan looked around. The walls of the office were smooth white plaster, very austere. Cold northern light from large windows on one side made the room seem even bleaker. A modest fire hissed and crackled on a small hearth. It failed to warm the room.
The Elder’s desk, fashioned from plain native spruce- wood, held tidy scrolls of parchment rowed up on one side. His ink stand was carved simply from buta horn, as was his pen. On the other side of the desk, balancing the harmony, stood a small triangle, the symbol of severance.
Finally the Elder’s pen stopped scratching across the parchment. He read what he had just written, sanded the ink to dry it, then shook the grains away into a small receptacle and rolled up the parchment.
Only then did he lift his gaze to Caelan. He quirked up one eyebrow, and Caelan walked forward.
The Elder was a thin, white-haired man. His robe was white, indicating the level of his powers as well as his rank. His face curved in a crescent, ending in a pointed chin made more prominent by his short white beard. His skin was very pale, translucent enough to show a faint tracery of veins pulsing at his temple.
It was said that any follower of severance eventually grew progressively paler throughout life, until the very ancient practitioners were practically transparent. They were said to die like beams of light, shining bright, then slowly fading as they finally achieved total severance from life.
“You do not answer my question, Novice Caelan E’non,” the Elder said in a displeased voice.
Caelan blinked and realized he’d heard nothing. He flushed. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I did not hear.”
“It seems you make a habit of living with your mind unfocused.”
Caelan lowered his gaze. He could not protest.
“You have caused much trouble since