Shadow War - Deborah Chester [121]
“I’ll stand still,” Caelan said grimly. “I don’t want to be held.”
The soldiers’ eyes held doubt, but when the sergeant shrugged, they backed off.
Caelan walked over to the anvil, drawing in deep breaths as he cleared his mind. It had to be done, he told himself. Freedom had to be absolute. He wanted no ownership marks left on him. He wanted no arguments in the future with overzealous bounty hunters coming after him by mistake.
Focusing, he pulled his mind into severance, entering the coldness of detachment. He gripped either side of the anvil and braced his feet apart, trying not to listen to the rattle of the irons or the hot sizzle of the fire.
His heart was racing, and his knees felt weak. He almost wished he had agreed to let the men hold him down. He could yell then and kick, knowing that their strength would be greater than his.
But he dared not have their grip on him. Because he was likely to flow into sevaisin, and if he joined with them or with the fiery metal at such a vulnerable moment, he might never return to himself.
He could not risk that; therefore, he had to be strong. He had to find courage, whether from desperation or pride.
“I’m coming,” the smith said. “Make yerself ready.”
Tensing his back, Caelan lowered his head between his shoulders and tightened his grip on the anvil. He could hear the hissing metal. He could smell the heat of it. He could feel it as it neared his back. He shut his eyes, detaching even farther, driving himself deep into the coldness.
“Now,” the smith said and put the brand to him.
The stench of burning flesh choked his nostrils before he felt the fire burning away the coldness of severance. It came at him fast, pursuing him, melting down his strength, dissolving his control.
Just when it reached him and consumed him, a hand gripped his left shoulder and tried to pull him away from his death grip on the anvil.
“It’s over,” a voice said kindly. “Turn loose, lad. It’s over.”
He fell out of severance with a gasp and dropped to his knees. His back burned as though a fire had been kindled there. Coughing, he rested his cheek against the rough wooden base supporting the anvil.
“Here.”
A cup was pressed to his lips. He tasted water, metallic and cold, and drank thirstily. Opening his eyes, he saw the face of the sergeant bending over him. Respect and a little awe lay in the man’s eyes.
“You did well,” Baiter said. “The cross mark is clean and sharp, the best I’ve seen. Ice is good for it, but try to find ice in Imperia.” He snorted. “Come, then. Back to barracks to kit up. We’ll put a bandage on either side to hold your tunic off the burn. When it’s healed, you can be fitted for armor.”
“Standard issue won’t fit,” the smith said, plunging his irons into a pail of water that hissed. Steam curled from the surface. “He’ll have to have his own armor made, same as an officer.”
“Get to your feet, lad,” the sergeant said kindly.
As Caelan pulled himself up shakily, Baiter slung a glance at the smith.
“He’ll be an officer soon enough. He was a champion in the arena. Them as is champions in one way of living usually can be champions in others.”
The smith put his fist against his left shoulder in a mocking salute, then winked at Caelan to show his jest was well intentioned. “I’ll measure fer that armor come end of week,” he promised.
The three soldiers surrounded Caelan and walked out slowly with him, as though they were guarding him. He could feel their respect and admiration, although they did not say much. He felt warmed by them, and he found himself wishing he had been assigned to their barracks last night instead of where he’d been.
They took him to the quartermaster, who fitted him with good clothing and boots. They took him to the armory, where one-handed he tried out daggers and swords until he made his selection.
Baiter exchanged an awed glance with his men. “You swing that broadsword about like a feather, lad.”
Caelan grunted. It felt good to handle weapons again. He liked the armory, its neatness and order