Stephon growled in his impatience to be doing something, but Michael just laughed at him.
“You’re too itchy, Steph. Too itchy. Go on out to the Gypsy camp and get it out of your system. Just be ready, that’s all. It doesn’t matter whether it’s now or later. Just be ready.”
So they waited.
Even if he wasn’t doing anything useful at the moment, Chernon was determined that when the gate opened, when the opportunity was there, he would be a part of it. He would learn whatever secrets there were that made the women powerful.
For there were secrets! The more Chernon thought about it, the surer he was of it. Otherwise, why had they sent Stavia away? Because they were afraid she’d tell him, that’s why. For a time he had thought he might find secrets in the books Stavia had given him, but there were no mysteries there. Just numbers and names for things and stories about how people had lived long ago—not even powerful people, just ordinary shepherds and weavers and people who grew crops. They might have had reindeer instead of sheep or cotton instead of wool, but there was nothing useful in that. No mysterious knowledge. Nothing about the wonderful weapons. Nothing of the stuff he knew had to be there, somewhere. Stavia hadn’t given him the right books. Probably those books, the powerful books, were secret. Perhaps Stavia herself hadn’t even seen the secret books yet. Maybe only the older women saw them. But whether she had seen them or not, Stavia had been taught something about them. Michael thought so; Chernon believed it.
“She’ll be back eventually,” Michael said to Chernon. “Maybe it won’t matter. Everything may have busted loose by then and we may not need what she knows, but if not, you can find out then. When she comes back, Chernon, you’ll have to figure out a way to get her off by herself. As long as Stavia’s in tight with Morgot and that bunch, you won’t be able to do anything with her.”
So he dreamed of getting Stavia off by herself. A journey of discovery, perhaps. That was something a warrior could do honorably. The Sagas were full of exciting journeys, dangerous quests. In the Odysseus Saga there was that long journey when old Odysseus fought to get back to his own garrison after the great war with Troy! In a favorite fantasy, Chernon imagined himself as Odysseus, leaving the battlefield after the victory. He was wounded, just enough that his bloodstained bandages showed everyone he had been in the battle. Then, as he started the journey home with the garrison, there was a great storm. Everyone got separated, and when the storm was over, he found himself alone, journeying, finding things out.
At first this idea of a quest, a journey, was only a recurrent fantasy, something to while away the long hours in garrison while others played games or carved new gables or doorposts for the barracks, activities that bored Chernon to gaping somnolence. Later it became an obsession. He would take Stavia along as a witness, as a scribe. Someone to record his adventures, someone to see that life need not be usual to be honorable. She would regret, then, that she had not given him books. She would see that he was not merely another warrior. And then he could find out what she knew, really.
Whenever garrison life became boring or sickening or frightening, he lost himself in daydreams of the other places he would go. He could ignore the garrison annoyances. The garrison was only the place he was, a place he would leave very soon, in the blink of an eye, whenever he chose. For now, he would not choose. For now, he would do what the garrison required, but the day would come when it was no longer necessary. Besides, just now he could not leave the wounded ones; he could not leave Casimur.
And then Casimur died at last, releasing Chernon to go back to the dormitory with the other fifteen-year-olds, where he went on tossing as restlessly upon his pillow as he had before. Even though it was the time to think of honor, he was not thinking of Casimur’s honor or his own. His dream took him to places beyond honor, places dark and mysterious at the end of the journey he had not yet begun. In dream he went in search of that place, down dank tunnels and into echoing caverns, sometimes almost finding it. “Secrets?” he whispered in dream, begging the faceless darkness to explain why he was still here, still in the garrison when there was that other place waiting for him.
From the roof of the armory, a trumpet blew. Get-em-up, get-em-up, get-em-up. Ta-ta-da, ta-ta-da, ta-ta-da.
Morning noises. It was quieter than usual in the dormitory because today was the day of choice, and some of the fifteen-year-olds were going to go through the Women’s Gate. Everyone in the century knew it and had known it for some time. Not that anyone said anything. The ones who were thinking of going could change their minds. Right up until the last minute, they could choose to step forward and do the honorable thing, provided they hadn’t been pushed into a corner. So, no one said anything at all.
Chernon sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of his cot, not looking at Habby in the left-hand cot. Habby was going through the Gate to Women’s County. And Breten, and Garret and Dorf. And Corrig, of course. Which was a good thing!
“Chernon.” It was only a murmur, but it brought his eyes up. Habby was offering his hand. “Chernon, I won’t have another chance
