Chương 23: The Trial Week (4)

"Marr," Rastor called. Teren stepped forward because the man before him had done so. Gannik read from the slate.

"Understands orders. Works hard. Follows corrections. Weak with sword. Acceptable with spear. Better in line than alone." Rastor looked at the instructor. The instructor shrugged.

"Marr listens. That puts him above half." Rastor looked back at Teren.

"You pass." Teren stepped back before his relief could show too plainly. Drem passed as well. Hask passed, though Gannik looked unhappy about it. The tall man with the scarred lip was accepted on trial. He would serve under direct supervision for another week before being accepted or sent away. One man failed and was taken away to the labor yard without a word. At sunset, the four who passed stood before Rastor, Gannik, two witnesses, and the marking man. The oath was spoken aloud, one line at a time.

Teren repeated it with the others. Obey the command of your superiors. Hold your post and your place in the line. Defend Karthane and its people. Protect the duke, his family, and his house. Do not desert your duty. Give no aid to any enemy of the duchy or the empire. The word empire stood out. The Corvadryn Empire had been gone for more than a century, but this kingdom claimed to be its successor.

Its soldiers continued to swear loyalty to an empire that no longer existed, as though serving the duke and serving the dead empire were the same thing. Then came the mark. The marking man did not remove the slave mark. He took out a different marking rod from the one he had used when Teren first arrived. Its crystal tip was narrower and set into a shorter handle. He pressed the crystal against the mark on the inside of Teren's forearm. Pain spread beneath Teren's skin as the dark lines began to change.

The Duke's crest at the center remained, while the ring of runes surrounding it twisted and shifted into a new arrangement. Teren could not read them, but the squiggles around the crest were clearly different now. He didn't know whether that was a good thing or bad.

"This's the recruit mark," the marking man said.

"Don't scratch at it unless you want the arm to swell." Drem looked down at his own mark.

"Does that happen?" The marking man lowered the rod.

"Scratch and learn." Drem lowered his sleeve. The first guard to speak to them after that was the older one with gray in his beard and the missing finger.

"You are recruits now," he said.

"That means you can be punished harder for the same stupidity. It also means you draw wages from tomorrow. Small wages though. Try not to spend them all in one cup." Hask grinned.

"We can leave the yard?"

"Under watch, once assigned. There are two approved taverns within a few streets. Cheap food, cheaper ale, and enough cutpurses to remind you why you still need a minder." Drem looked at Teren.

"Hear that? We're worth robbing now."

"Small wages," Teren said.

"Maybe they'll start with your boots." Drem looked down at his cracked, worn boots.

"Then the joke's on them." Another recruit snorted.

"Anyone who steals those will bring them back by morning." The older guard gave them a flat look.

"Get some rest. You report for your assignments at dawn." The men still laughed quietly after he left. Teren looked at the new mark on his forearm once before pulling the sleeve down. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. Recruit... huh? It did not make Teren free or trusted in this place, but it gave him food, training, weapons when needed, and wages.

More importantly, he would soon be able to leave the compound walls without being hunted like an escaped animal. So far, this route had given him the best chance of staying alive. He could not afford to be sent back to the labor yard.

Teren slept badly that night. The new mark itched under his sleeve. The marking man had warned him not to scratch, so of course every part of his left arm wanted nothing else. Drem slept on the bunk across from him with one arm hanging over the edge, mouth open, breathing like a sawyer cutting dry wood. Hask muttered once in his sleep, cursed at someone who was not there, and rolled over hard enough to shake the frame. The barracks smelled the same as before. Sweat. Straw. Unwashed bodies.

But Teren lay awake with the strange certainty that something had changed. He was a recruit now. Not free. Not safe. Not even trusted. But the guards spoke to him differently after the mark had been changed. Not kindly, but with less open contempt. He was no longer being sorted toward labor, pit, or yard work. He had a place in a system that could teach him something useful. In a previous loop, he had died in a pit without knowing how to hold a weapon.

Now he knew how to set his feet, how to fight with a spear and shield, and how not to freeze when facing danger. For the first time, he had found a route when he hadn't been killed for a full week. Tomorrow would show how long he could hold on to it. Worrying about the next way the city would try to kill him wouldn't help in getting proper rest. He still could not sleep. Near the middle of the night, he gave up and slipped quietly from the bunk.

No one stopped him when he stepped into the narrow yard behind the barracks on the way to the latrine trench. Recruits were allowed to use it without asking permission, though a guard sat under the awning by the door with a short spear across his knees. The guard glanced at him once, then looked away. Teren walked toward the trench across the compound, making sure the guard didn't think he was going elsewhere. He knew he should have gone back inside.

Instead, he stopped in the darkness behind the barracks, listening to the compound at night. The intake yard beyond the fence had gone quiet except for animals shifting in the stables and the occasional cough from the labor halls. Farther away, the city made a low sound of wheels, voices, and bells that never fully stopped. Karthane was too large to sleep all at once. Teren looked down at his right hand. The memory of the assay pull sat under his skin. So did the memory of every failure since. In the pit, nothing.

In the alley, nothing. Inside dungeon gate seventeen, nothing. He had been trying blind. That was true. Edras had warned him he could kill himself if he pushed wrong. That was also true. But the old archmage was not here to teach him. No member of the Corvadryn dynasty was alive to do that either. If Teren kept waiting, he might die yet again before he ever learned to use the magic. He moved farther into the shadow beside a stack of old shield frames. Not far.

Not hidden enough from a careful search, but the bored guard who had already looked away was unlikely to notice him there. Teren held his hand low, close to his chest. He tried gently at first to push the mana out. Nothing happened. He closed his eyes and searched for the pressure inside him. It took him a moment to find it, but it was there, faint and easy to miss until he focused on it directly. He tried to move it toward his fingertip. His hand warmed. Teren's eyes snapped open. The warmth vanished.

He swore under his breath. Again. It didn't work. He tried twice more. Each time, the warmth returned, but vanished before he could move it beyond his hand. On the next attempt, he pushed harder, and the feeling disappeared almost at once. Teren frowned. What if trying to force it forward was the reason he kept losing it? What if chasing the feeling only pushed it away? Hmm... He decided to try again, but changed his approach. This time, he did not chase it so hard.

He let the feeling gather and grow stronger before gently nudging it forward, the way the assay had pulled it out of him. For a few seconds, nothing happened. He was about to give up when a speck of purple light appeared above the tip of his index finger. It was tiny. Smaller than a candle flame. Probably smaller than a fingernail clipping. Barely more than a dim glow caught in the night. Teren held his breath as the light flickered. It was nothing like the blinding white fire that had killed him.

There was no smoke, no sound, and no heat that he could feel. The purple glow was so faint that it barely lit the tip of his finger. Then it went out. Teren stared at his hand. A laugh almost escaped him. He bit it down before it could become sound. Again! He tried once more, too eager this time. Nothing came. He tried slower, and a pinprick of violet returned for half a breath before dying. His heart hammered. The flame was useless. It could not light a room. It could not burn a twig.

It could not even frighten a child. But it was a start. For the very first time, the legendary Corvadryn mana had answered his call without the assay forcing it out of him. A sound came from nearby. Teren closed his fist at once. He turned and found no one nearby. Then he moved to the corner of the building and looked around it. The guard under the awning had still not moved. His head was tilted down, chin near his chest. Either already asleep or pretending not to be.

He had just exhaled in relief when a shadow shifted near one of the storage sheds ahead. Teren went still.