But Kayin could not bear his lot. He protested to his king and sire. He showed him his hands bloody from digging and his bloody wounds from fighting with beasts. He asked why he had been made to suffer when Asher knows only warmth and peace. But it was a sin to question God’s patriarch. King Joseph ordered Kayin lashed a hundred times, cursed him for doubting the Lord, and cast him out from the kingdom. And so Kayin’s heart was hardened with rage. He returned in the light of day and slew his brother and took his wives and sons as slaves.
‘My Lord and father have taken from me the light, so I hath taken theirs and will taketh back mine own,’ said Kayin, and he fled with his captives to the northern mountains where the highest peaks came closest to the sun. But Kayin was cursed, and the night would follow him. Even hidden in the mountains he would know nothing but cold and darkness and snow.
Finished, Trey reexamined his aspirants. Some had heard the story before—Harpe, Blackheart, Leonhardt, and to his surprise, Ogdon. He suspected Lord Sylvertre might have been forewarned about the excerpt, but he was curious. He posed his question staring down the skylord’s son. “There is a lesson here, aspirants. I want to know which of you can see it quicker than the others. So who’s first? On your feet!”
Ogdon jumped up before Gildmane could finish. Stilted as his father, he recited a short discourse on the Hibernis Enclave, explaining at length the province’s foundation, its eternal northern winter, and its dissident Messaii branch. He was grinning by the end, as was Lord Austen, both of them impressed by the sheer breadth of his answer. Not Trey, though, and he took advantage of the subjective nature of interpretation to shoot Sylvertre down.
“I didn’t ask for a history, aspirant. I said the lesson behind the story.”
Ogdon plummeted to his knees, despondent.
“Who’s next?”
Leonhardt flew to her feet. “It’s about accepting God’s charge. Kayin refused the will of the Lord. He refused to obey and to suffer for God, so instead his whole bloodline was made to suffer in his place.” She paused, saw that Trey wanted more. “It means we have to fulfil our duty, even when it seems horrible, or else we invite Hell to walk upon the earth.”
“Captain Acker would have loved that,” said Gildmane, thinking of his mentor—then of Ba’al. Too bad it’s the wrong answer when it’s the patriarch who refuses to suffer. Kayin’s true mistake was killing Asher and not the king instead. “Tell me, did you figure that out on your own just now?”
Jael shook her head. “The deacon in Herbstfield taught it in a homily.”
“Herbstfield?” the captain asked.
“Yes sir. It’s a farming village south and south-west from the Castle.”
Out in the middle of nowhere. However did Paul find you? Did he seek you out, or—
“Captain Gildmane,” groaned Noblis. The bishop had yet to return to his seat. Now his knees were shaking, and the cloth he used to wipe his face was dark with sweat. He looked to Trey, desperate, like a slug in the sun on a hot summer’s day. The captain smirked. This was justice for the bishop’s excesses, yet Trey had to admit that he was right. The morning shadows were shrinking in the yard. It was time for the third trial.
†††
A melee, Jael lamented for the hundredth time. She was going to die, she felt surer than of any certainty in her life. She took another look about the “armoury”—a pull-cart loaded with rusted and broken pieces of plate and maille and brigandine. There were musty, patchwork arming doublets, old flattop and nasal helmets, and every kind of steel gauntlet missing its pair. From amidst this pile of antiques they were to choose their armour, then from the stables they’d pick their steeds. That too was a player’s farce. None of the mounts was a proper horse save for one huge, fiery stallion. He was a chestnut destrier, vicious and wild, snapping at the mules and ponies tied beside him. Jael wasn’t sure which she feared more, trying to mount the wild warhorse or fighting the man who managed it. But worse than the horses were their arms. Each of them would be given a tourney lance, a small steel shield, and a sparring sword—twelve feet of ash that she couldn’t lift, straps for the wrong hand, and a hunk of wood.
Another spasm stabbed at her abdomen, and Leonhardt clenched her teeth to keep from doubling over. She knew she needed to hide her pain. The difference it would make if they saw her weakened was the difference between success and failure. Since the race from the gates of Ward Aureus, her fellow aspirants looked bemused with disbelief, like she was some foreign animal. The names, “Sway-Back” and “Ox-Arms” stole into her mind. She had to fight the temptation to push them out. They were better than if they saw her as a helpless maiden. Yet still, they were painful. She wished her father was here to cheer her on, but there were only the judges, and only one seemed to take her seriously.
Captain Trey had glanced at her several times since their exchange during the second trial. Jael wasn’t sure what that meant. He’d been amiable in their conversation, though that did not mean he thought anything of her. He’s a knight, of course he acts chivalrously, Leonhardt convinced herself. Why would he pick me when he could have Harpe or Diamont or Blackheart? They were sons of knights and nobles and wealthy merchants. She was a
