Fanfic:Sarkaska's Survival Test
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Day 1: Resistance
The world was darkness: behind the blindfold, Sarkaska Jinlo sat passively. The fight was worn out of him. He could hear the low sounds of horses, and his keen hearing told him approximately where they were. His hands hadn't been bound, but he didn't raise them from the saddle's high horn: there was no need. He could feel from the starts, stops, and tugs that he was on a lead rope tied to a second horse. Any other time the Guards might see this sight, they'd stop the procession immediately, but Sarkaska knew enough to know they'd not be stopped today.
For all he could remember, he'd worry about abduction, but he wasn't so much a fool as to not recognize the test he'd been longing for. He'd had a million fantasies about today, this moment: not one had begun like this. Stinging across the back of his neck was a weal that would leave a scar, thanks to Caden Ives, and his memory was a panic-studded, vermilion haze. He could remember the sound of the sword, could remember bits of the man's growling speech, and then he could remember nothing. Dwillon Gaidin's face swam through the haze, saying something that Sarkaska couldn't decipher, and swam blessedly away, leaving his brain dark.
This stage had no play, no lights, no audience, nothing: that infuriated him beyond any other injustice he'd ever suffered. That such a day could dawn and his mind be numb - that his eyes were blinded when he needed them most, his nose full of nothing more than the scent of late autumn rain. His ears rushed with the sound of boughs on wind, he strained to capture a moment. There was no calling halt even though he was confused and resisting. It was not, he told himself, schooling the avoidance of bitter panic, that he was afraid of being unable to find the Grey Tower again: he was a resourceful man and he had pinpointed the stars above it. He could always turn his feet toward the Seven Sisters and there it would be...eventually.
He had to wonder if the reason that he so regretted being here, astride this anonymous horse, was more that he was not yet the person he longed to be than that today hadn't lived up to even the tamest of his fantasies. They were a boy's fantasies, bright with heroism and fresh starts: Shienar had made him into something grim, something that had had its dreams hollowed out and cored like apples. The center of him was gone, leaving a vortex that he could not fill. He was skin around an achingly empty void, and there was no solution for that. Shienar had been supposed to answer all his questions, and instead, it had heaped more on him. He felt bowed under the pressure of the place he was in, bent double like a peasant pulling a load of rocks in a cart.
One stone for honor. One boulder for his future. One pebble for hope. One titanic mountain for duty.
His breath left him in a tidal rush, and he hunched into his saddle, pulling the cloak someone had wrapped and pinned for him more closely around himself. The autumn rains were pounding the golden fields to either side of the Tower, the heavy droplets punishing the slender stalks until they fell like jackstraws. He had watched it from the heights of the battlements last year. That day, the rain had felt like a benediction, a blessing: a relief from heat and the stifling closeness of too many men in too small a space. Today, it felt like tears, hot, wet, shameful: secret.
What he was now was secret, too: he knew what happened to those who came back from their test, to stand proudly erect at sunset on the seventh day, tired, footsore, hungry, and Ji'alantin, and he had seen what happened to those who were late: those who arrived in carts the eighth day, or dragging their heels. He knew that there was but one stab at this, and he knew other things: that he could not live with himself if he failed, that he wanted to put time between his shameful absence and this...this test. This first test, the one that everyone waited for, wondered about, planned for...the last thing that had been on his mind when he'd dared himself into Caden's office. He'd been expecting punishment.
Was he receiving it? Was this some dire plot that had been hatched to rid Caden and Dwillon of his presence? On the fine razor's edge of paranoia, he alternately dozed and feigned dozing through the afternoon, wondering when - if - the ambush would come. When the soft chorus of evening cicadas heralded their stop for supper and sleep, he was as tightly coiled as a spring. In the midst of familiar voices he sat, blind and helpless, and was fed. Someone bathed his cuts with hands so cool and light he half wondered if it could be a Gaidar instead of a Gaidin. And when he was finally put to bed, the blankets were wrapped so tightly about him that he half wondered if they wouldn't just prefer strangling him with them.
Through his resistance, he sensed an unhesitating welcome. Here, the hands said to his blind, nervous self, is comfort: take it. Here we care for you. In the future, you will care for us.
Having never been anyone's son, the delicate machinations of family were lost on Sarkaska, but his sleep was deep and dreamless, and he did not fight the saddle he was helped into the second morning.
Day 2: Restitution
Perhaps as if asking for forgiveness for the previous day, this day dawned mild and warm. Sarkaska could still feel the dampness and the chill that promised winter soon, but it was easily ignored with weather this well-behaved. The steady crunch of leaves underfoot his mount was not as soothing as it had been the previous day, but in all honesty, he had been weaker than a kitten and confused. The patchiness of his memory had always bothered him, but lately he had noticed a new and frightening trend in it. Sometimes he was certain he was losing his mind in the grips of white-hot, incandescent rage, but the crimson always retreated eventually and left him with prices to pay.
Today's price, for example: he smoothed his bound palms over the saddle's horn, waiting for the next round of "stop and spin." It was a technique that had been used on him before, particularly most of the previous day: he was unperturbed. He'd navigate back by the stars, and no amount of twisting him like a child's top would move the stellar companions he counted on. Like most illiterate, Sarkaska had long ago given up hope of maps: he had been lucky enough that the Tower's population included the Atha'an Miere. They had given him the very key he needed to keep his head in this situation.
The first lesson of navigation is to find one's way home.
Birds could do it: pigeons flew from their coop to the familiar city of their hatching, back to another coop with messages and instructions. Servants did it, once they had become accustomed to the castle they roamed with obsequious ease. He was neither servant nor animal: something intrinsically more worthwhile than either but less. An animal had a rightful home, a purpose, a cycle: it had keepers and tenders. The horse he was astride had stableboys and indeed a stable. A servant's lot was different but still a world away from this, this goal that he was giving himself to. Like a wife, or a jealous lover, he would be bound to uphold a cause and follow a woman (or a man, but Sarkaska doubted he'd serve a man, it just...didn't appeal). After her, he would serve the Tower itself, which could send him anywhere it liked.
And yet, these responsibilities came with honor. His brain unfolded the same familiar argument like another's hands might origami: deconstruction of a man, frame by tedious frame. Man was a thing a Ji'Alantin could not be. He had sworn his oath, if only to himself, in Shienar. Perhaps the oath didn't count if it wasn't heard aloud, but it had been engraved on his brain. This was what he was made for. His mother's pendant moved with the quick, light pulse in his throat as the horse beneath him ate miles with its long legs.
He estimated he was three days' travel by foot away from the Tower. When the hands came at his halted horse again, he let them guide him down, then stood, waiting for the dizziness. Instead, a voice spoke. He recognized it instantly: you do not forget such tones, particularly if their owner has seen you mostly naked doing something you can't even remember yourself. Shame crept up Sarkaska's cheeks at the remembrance - he still hadn't gone near that crazy Illianer girl again. She'd waved madly at him while he was doing stable chores, but Sarkaska was torn. When he saw her, walking and smiling, he felt only relief. She was scrawny and foul-tempered and fascinating, and he was never going near her again.
He'd watched her reading a book in the Gardens once. For once, he'd walked by her without tripping on her, kissing her brainless, or...anything else. It had been a grave disappointment.
Dwillon was still talking: he should listen. A hand touched his belt and he tried to push it off, but after the second attempt, he realized that it was just a knife. It was thoughts of that Illianer girl, honestly: she made him as nervous as a cat.
"Sarkaska Jinlo Drin'far'ji, our journey has come to an end, but yours just begun," the words carrying a hint of malice under the ceremonious inflection: "You will remain blindfolded until you no longer hear our hoofbeats. Only then, once you are certain you no longer hear us, will you remove the blindfold and look upon your surroundings." It was unquestionably a command. His hands jerked up to the covering on his eyes and he pulled them down. This was it? His first impressions of the area were aural and olfactory, but he could smell and hear water, and the darkness surrounding him meant that he was in a deeply forested area. He could survive here, if not as well as he'd like. He'd had worse dwellings on his way to Shienar: no sense complaining when you could do for yourself with less effort.
"You are in the Mountains of Mist," Dwillon continued, "and this is the start of your survival test. You will remain in this immediate area for four days, where you will put your knowledge of survival to use. All you have for supplies are the clothes on your back, the blindfold, and the utility knife that has been placed in your belt." Sarkaska considered this a moment, but he had no real questions: this had all been covered in lectures, in stories passed around the Yards, in legends. He would be a legend - if he could survive. It was all well and good being brave when being put to bed by Gaidin, but this was another matter entirely.
Self-reliance. So much of it depended on the area, and on luck, skill, and patience.
"At the end of your fourth day, you will begin your journey back to the Grey Tower. To pass the test, you will arrive at sunset on the seventh day. Arrive after sunset, and you will fail. Get assistance from anyone on your journey, and you will fail. You must be entirely self reliant, Drin'far'ji."
"Do you have any questions before you are left on your own?"
He shook his head in answer. Then, he folded himself gracefully to the ground, to prevent tripping while he waited and worked at the knots, and listened with resignation to the sound of security galloping away. By the time his numbed fingers had fumbled through the knots, it was early afternoon, and his breakfast was just a memory. Sure enough, the water he heard was no mirage: cursory examination revealed the chuckling brook cut through a corner of the glen he sat in. Pocketing the blindfold - a piece of good linen was always useful - Sarkaska set about making a fire.
Tonight, here, and two more days here. He liked the little clearing: you could build a fine home here. Home: where would he sleep? He had no blanketroll or bedding, and while pretty, the area's main crop seemed to be rocks. Rocks weren't great for sleeping on, but he did clear an area three paces by nine, saving the rocks to build a firepit, which he hollowed out of the ground with the knife, a rock, and a thick branch. Tossing the branch to the side to use later that evening, he gathered tinder and dry moss, then picked up a stone. The knife was fine steel, possibly Tairen or Domani, and produced a fine spark when struck by common flint. He puffed at it until it grew into a voracious companion, feeding it twigs and moss to hear it snap and chortle.
He had never felt more alone in his life. Leaning back, he shaded his eyes from the fire's bright heart, and scanned the sky for the stars that would guide him home.
The sky was dark with clouds, ominous with mocking sheets of occlusion. Fear pierced Sarkaska: he was sailing blind. He had had such confidence in the stars.
Day 3: Relevance
Somehow he had slept. Hungry, tired, sore, cold, and wet, stiff from the rocks he'd huddled against in his cloak, Sarkaska awoke to a sky pearled grey with dawn's earliest true rays. At first, he was transported by the sacred hush of the glen as the sun rose, becoming a ball of molten light just a touch above the farthest horizon. Then, he was desperately aware that he needed to empty his bladder. Filling his belly also wouldn't go amiss: he had eaten nothing yesterday.
Today would be back-breaking. If this was to be his home, then he would claim it. While he did have the debatable ownership of one of Shienar's finest castles, bravely overlooking the Blightborder, it had never been his home before, and it certainly wasn't now. The Tower had put him out, although they had kindly offered to take him back - if. The amount of eternities pressed into that one, tiny word were enormous. But, he determined, staring stonily around himself at the rocky, unwelcoming ground, this would not be a defeat.
Perhaps a temporary camp, but certainly one on the path to greatness. This, though, led him to the reflection that Gaidin were never truly great: they were heroes and legends, but try and name one, for instance, bound to an Amyrlin Seat and being greater than she. He couldn't, but he supposed a gleeman would know one, and was that good, or bad? He honestly didn't know. His stomach growled as he finished his circumspect business behind a convenient tree, and he considered what he had at hand. A length of fine white cloth - his first thought was "bandage," but how seriously could he be hurt if he stayed alert? For now, it would serve him better as a net.
He poked the fire awake with a satisfied proficiency, smiling as it responded to him with wholehearted warmth. He'd set too many fires not to know what to do with one, and his stone-lined firepit was as safe as he could make it. He could leave the flames without setting the forest afire. And anyway, he wouldn't be gone long, or far: the brook cut through the corner of his encampment. Winding the length of fine fabric around his hands, he laid along the brook - to minimize his shadow - and slid his bare arms into the icy water. The initial shock left them burning, and before he could interest some of the small fish swimming in the deep water, his fingers were numb. Yet, you could not pull back, not without startling the fish: he was caught.
It felt like an eternity before he could flip a fish arrogantly from his "net" to the bank. Working life back into his aching fingers, Sarkaska thought about alternatives. A fishing line wasn't impossible, but there were neither vines nor strong roots in the area, plus he wasn't great at dexterously splicing fine threads. The cloth he had now, sodden and a bit muddy, was still his best asset. He could make a trap with it, a wooden frame that could close around larger fish, or he could simply try and control his net with sticks, above the water. It was an option that didn't require ripping the cloth apart: leaving his resources intact seemed a bit more vital at this point.
It took some delicate work - mostly auguring a small hole into two thick, flat sticks he had uncovered in his deadwood pile, so that he could feed handles into his "net" - but some hours later, as his fish dinner roasted, rolled in mud from the riverbank, he felt somewhat accomplished. And hey, it had only taken until late afternoon to catch his breakfast. He wasn't doing so well at survival, it seemed, and the bruised sky promised thunder and rain when the sun set. The prospect of another wet, miserable night did not appeal.
If he had days, and it was sunny, he would have made mud bricks, and used the thick overgrowth around him as makeshift thatch. He had stones, but no knowledge of masonry. They would need shaping, smoothing...mortar. He had a knife. And the fire, of course: a tool in itself. For a while, he considered burning out a tree, but he had no way to put out a fire of that magnitude - even if he could fell a tree with the equivalent of a butter knife. Mud would have been his best choice besides sticks, he thought, dispiritedly, and then wondered what he could do with sticks - really. He had to sleep here for two more nights, and if he laid out in the open, autumn's clutches would be thrilled to give him a fever.
Not to mention the rain. And birds. He cast another glance up at the sky and strengthened his resolve. Quickly, he drew trenches in the ground for stability, then, he gathered as much deadfall as the clearing could provide, heaping it out of the fire's grasping reach. It had been a stormy summer, and a lot of wood had fallen from the trees: Sarkaska could notch and break wood to a uniform length with his blade. It would need sharpening soon, but then...it had never been meant for everyday, all day use. Still, when the cloudburst came, it seeped slowly through his hastily thatched roof of small sticks and grass, and the winds did not blow quite so hard through the gapped sticks that stood silent sentry duty in their trenches, soldiers in the war against the coming winter.
Sarkaska did not sleep warmly, but his belly was full and the cloak prevented the worst of the drips. If he had been able to see the sky from his self-made lean-to, barely big enough for his body to lay curled within, he would have seen stars through the parting clouds.
Day Four: Reverie
It was his last day. It dawned windy, with more than a slight bite of frost. Shivering in his cloak, Sarkaska considered his drenched firepit, morosely debating building another. He'd feel better with the blaze for company, but it was an effort for just one more night. Sourly considering the idea of a breakfast of raw fish made up his mind, and he dourly set to building a second firepit, filling in the first with the dirt and rocks he turned up making the second. Ringing it with the rocks, he laid half-soaked kindling in the center and settled himself in to coax a reluctant flame to life. Like his determination, it was slow to kindle and guttered frequently: he sat back on his heels, ill satisfied.
He wanted to go home. But where did you go when you weren't sure you had one at all? And for that matter, and its philosophical nature, what was home? His pile of wind-shaken branches was technically a domicile. He'd slept in it the night before and he'd sleep in it again tonight. Although he'd promised to spend four days here: the letter of the Gaidin's challenge said that tonight, he could leave. He felt no sadness in his heart to be leaving his miserable shelter. It wasn't home. For a man born to no family and raised without, home was a nebulous concept, a wispy dream.
And he was so sick for it that he ached. Not that he didn't have enough physical reason to ache, he thought, but his longing was so deep that it was hard to conquer. He missed the Yards, that was certain: he even missed the flaming one-eyed freak who'd attempted to cut off his head. Touching the half-healed slice at the back of his neck, he frowned: well, maybe saying he missed Caden Ives was saying untruth. Or maybe the loneliness of the grove was stealing his sanity bit by bit, like mice stealing breadcrumbs. Soon the loaf would be gone.
Creator's palm, he missed bread.
Moodily, he stretched out beside the fire, absently toasting his palms. In the Yards right now, the men were at morning drill, swords or staffs moving in unison as someone called out forms. There'd be horseplay, and laughter, and the promise of hot tea after the morning's chill had turned into hot sweat. There would have been bread, too. His stomach offering a gurgly prayer, Sarkaska thought he'd better set about netting fish for it, and wished he didn't have to. He'd never liked fish, and it wasn't even funny that it was the only food possible out here. Well, he could snare a rabbit, and he'd even seen a likely run. The trouble was, he needed a snare. He could use a strip of cloth, or several braided together, but that would sacrifice his net. The net would definitely yield fish all the way back to the Grey Tower. A snare could be lucky, or it might not.
So as tempting as the thought of roasted rabbit was, he found himself kneeling over his reflection in the stream again, staring into its icy depths. Today's catch he spitted on a pointed stick, and nibbled off: it wasn't tasty and smelled as charcoaled as it looked. Still, once he had something in his belly, the day was a bit brighter. And, despite the windiness, that was also true for the sky: the storm had broken overnight and dissipated. Repressing his desire to shout with his sudden realization - there would be stars! - he found he had begun on his day's tasks automatically. They weren't much more than desperate bids to pass the time, though, and by midday, he had given up piling wood for the fire, slapping mud on the cracks in his wooden hut, and feeding the fire.
He crawled into his shelter, curling fetally, his back to the opening. The sun's position said it was noon: if he was wise, he'd sleep now so he could walk through the night with the stars as his compass. Close his eyes though he might, he found that he was awake, tense anxiety pooled in his belly like a herd of wild butterflies. It only accentuated his burning loneliness. As the wind whistled through the cracks, blowing hard enough to rock his shelter in its supportive trenches, he wondered what really lay in store for him if he could make his way back in time.
If. Such a tiny word for the world to hinge upon.
He hung his hopes on the stars, on memories of conversations, on the sense of facing a daunting task and not cringing. He hoped. And he must have slept, because when he became aware of himself again, it was night, and he was stiff, and cold. Strengthened by his fortifications, his hope, his plans, the sheer audacity of what he dreamt of doing, he stood up, and faced the cold, mocking stars. The enormity of the night sky, up here in the clear mountain air, away from the Tower's glare, was shocking. He fed the fire into life as his eyes scanned the heavens.
When he left his camp, he didn't look back. There was nothing there in that quiet corner except resolve. Even the friendly flicker of the fire was extinguished, and the smoke wreath banished. He had found his guiding star.
He was on his way home.
Day Five: Resolution
By his fifth dawn, his legs were aching and the cold, sharp wind had caused his eyes to water. He paused in his trek to watch the sun come up in solitary splendor, a golden herald coming to an azure throne. Firmly astride the sky, she sat, and the world woke up around Sarkaska with a grateful sigh. Birds sang in the trees, and he recognized the twitter and melodies of several breeds. They were migrating south ahead of winter's first snow, and he was walking northward. There would be no snow today, of course: not with a sky that clear.
He had walked through the night, stopping when full dark had fallen to sleep by the rutted cart path, wrapped in his own cloak. He could have continued on, but he knew that walking in the dark was asking for a twisted ankle, and he did not have the time for that. Better to go cautiously when he went alone and could have no help: better to arrive on time. He did not allow himself to think of failure, now. One foot ahead of the other, as far as he could make them work. But in two days, he would be there. A horse went faster than a man could walk, farther than he could travel alone in two days, but he had three if he was careful to scrounge every moment, and he was strong.
It was, however, time for breakfast. Looking around himself, he gave silent thanks that he was below the frostline: the brushy tangle to either side of the road had blackberries, huckleberries. Most were picked over by the birds, but enough remained to leave a sweet taste on his tongue. He'd fish (again) at the nearest stream: for now, he'd walk on. He traveled lightly, just his linen cloth in one pocket, his knife in his belt loop, and his cloak down his back, looking bedraggled from sleeping in the open on the ground. Well, this was a survival test, not a beauty contest.
Still, he supposed he should have some standards. He'd never show a scraggly beard at morning drill, or go unclean: when he found a stream or a pool, he'd wash. And his cape could use a good beating to remove the dust before it became mud to pour down his legs and trousers. He'd begin the way he'd been taught to go on: conscientiously. But such resolutions were no good without the means to accomplish them: he couldn't make a puddle appear. Or, rather, he could, but not by standing in one place and saying he needed one. For the moment, he followed the path, keeping line of sight between himself and the landmarks he had noted when the stars had finally lost the war to keep dawn at bay. As long as he could see them, he was going the right way.
By early afternoon, he'd found his pond. First, he washed in it, shouting at the cold and shivering like a dog. Then, he shaved: his knife was dull and pocked, so he took some time sharpening it on the rocks until he found one to be a suitable whetstone. Losing himself in the rhythm of steel on stone, he sighed: was this a waste of valuable time? Without an accurate accounting of their time ahorse, he could not even guess how many miles he had to go. Steadfastly, he beat the dust from his cloak: it lost its odd tan coloration and became its usual deep green, the better for creeping through the countryside unnoticed. Now, his legs ached and his stomach was grumbling malcontentedly: he'd fish.
Every moment the sun slid downwards, he fretted: would stopping make him late? It was not a bad life, wandering the countryside, but it was not the one he wanted. He could be a lord: he wouldn't be coerced into a homeless, phantom existence, but he'd be denied the one he wanted. Had he stumbled on the real nature of this testing, standing alone by a pond with a fat river trout in the leaves at his feet? Was this test the answer to the question - "what life do you want?" What did he choose? He had had a fair taste of the world, and he had no desires leading him away from service.
All he had ever wanted was to know who he was. And since that was a question no one else had ever been able to answer, he was forced to look at who he wanted to be: he wanted to be someone worthwhile. It was wrong to say he wanted to be a hero, because Gaidin weren't: not by definition. He still couldn't honestly say he wanted to be bonded, either, but he supposed that was all right. It wouldn't be his choice if it happened, anyway. And the men who were seemed happy enough. Preoccupied, tense, worried, yes, but he'd never heard one say that he hadn't wanted his bond. They operated in sphere of their own, a private world that encompassed their entire existence and only brushed on the real world.
He couldn't say he wanted that total absorption of his own personality and goals, but then again, he had no goals. Pinning his cloak back on, he frowned. That wasn't quite true. He wanted to see more of the world, so that was a goal: he wanted to learn more, that was a goal: he wanted to go home and feel he belonged - a goal. He had goals. He had plans, even. Eventually, he would be Gaidin, Creator willing, and then he would take his warhorse and...what? See the world, he supposed, serve in armies here and there, do as he was bid and be the Tower's strong sword arm in need.
And that was, he thought, firmly, moving forward at a clip that he felt in every aching muscle, exactly what he wanted with his life. The miles melted away in the face of his resolution.
Day Six: Resuscitation
The one thing that didn't flag with the endless miles was the pain he felt. After the moon set, he had settled to the ground in a thin, restless sleep, and woken stiff and aching. He'd done his best to cajole his muscles with massage and the promise of a hot breakfast, but since it was just fish again, his feet weren't fooled into handing him a pain-free trudge to the nearest lake. Grimly, he dunked himself again. The icy water closed his pores and made him yelp in pain, but as a side effect, his aches were gone when he rocketed out a few minutes after wading in. His boots were cracked but his feet unblistered: his aches were purely muscular.
Much worse had happened on survival tests, he knew. There had been snakebite, pneumonia, death: here he was, bemoaning aching muscles. Was he less likely to be accepted back if he was uninjured? Well, that was a silly question to ask: he knew he'd learned well at woodscraft and he hadn't gone tramping through brush or bushes without a stick to poke before him and cautious ears and eyes. The world wasn't hostile, simply feral, and feral can be outwitted. Careful assay of the road ahead kept him from tripping in potholes, and he followed the stars - he wasn't likely to get lost.
He just worried that he was farther away from the Tower than he could walk in three days.
Was that the real price of his jaunt to Shienar? He had learned nothing there except that it was not his place, but his past. He had learned that he was not where he came from, but where he could go. He'd been a fool to go back, he knew, but it had had to be done, at the same time. That did not make it less of a fool's errand, nor did it excuse his desertion of shift and post, or his broken word. He had not gained by his trip, but he also hadn't lost: he had simply grown to realize what had really mattered, and that he had known it all along. You couldn't go home again.
Especially when you left one for a mythical one and all the wrong reasons.
He guessed he could sit down here in the road and wait for someone to come find him and explain the world to him, but that didn't seem likely. And he supposed he could call foul play, should he ever find the Tower. At the very least, Dwillon and Caden together could not move that - the Aes Sedai would put their feet down and run their mouths and no amount of swordplay would stop them. He had to admit that it was a bit daunting that they'd have no problem stalking down out of their tower and ripping through the Yards. He could see it now. Definitely, the Tower was where it always had been. And he was an idiot, but even an idiot could find a constellation.
He was headed the right way. He simply had to keep going.
Foot before foot, mile after wearying mile. He did not stop for lunch, but pulled berries off brambles as he wandered. The mountain road reached a nadir, smoothing out and becoming paved: a true cart road now. The going was easier, but he missed the berries. Finding a fish tonight would be harder, too: ahead he could see smoke rising, and that meant a village. Oh, to spend the evening before a fire, eating a goodwife's stew: it was forbidden and he had sworn to obey. Regretfully, he cut temptation from his path, turning to the side of the constellation's place in the sky to cut the village from his route. Let that be his last temptation, because his time was running thin and his resolve was wearing down.
Should he be ashamed of himself, that the promise of a soft bed tonight and a hot meal without fish had seemed so seductive?
At any rate, the danger was past: the road was clear and empty, and his. He pulled up his cloak and trudged onward, thinking about the village he had just passed. Evening would fall soon: in some of the houses, children were in steaming tubs, being tended by indulgent mothers. In others, farmhands sat down to hot meals. These were good lives, too, he knew: lives he could have. But they weren't the ones he wanted (well, and he could never be a mother, which was fine by him.) There was no shame in tending a field or a crop of youngsters, but they didn't appeal to him. Light's grace, but after this latest debacle, he hadn't even glanced at a pair of ankles without wondering if there was a knife in a sheath at them. His carefree swagger was gone for good around the girls of the Yards, and that had seemed to be a good thing.
He'd thought he was an excellent student. He'd willingly done his penance for that Illianer girl. And then he'd hared off to Shienar. Did one misstep - all right, perhaps he wasn't an excellent student, either - make him so foul a prospect? His brain kept circling the same path: was his test possible, or was this a cruel mockery? His faith was lagging. When he laid down, his brain rebelliously refused to give up worrying. He stumbled through the night, and collapsed, drained, as false dawn lit the world around him.
Below him, nestled into the village of Elman's Creek, so small he could blot it out with his thumb, was the slender spire he aspired to.
He could see the Grey Tower from atop his hill.
Day Seven: Rebirth
He had no choice but to sleep. His knees folded under him, dropping him to the age-old posture of penitence. His eyes closed as he struggled to regain his feet: he fell asleep some way away from the wide, dusty scar of a road. His last conscious thought was that he would have to hurry to make it through to the Tower by sunset: he must not sleep for long. Not that he was even the least bit comfortable, huddled under his cloak another wet, windy morning, but exhaustion made sleep possible. He slept through the late autumn cloudburst, waking only to the insistent beat of rain on his head, bared by his cloak fouled around his long legs. The sun was hidden, but small markings made evident by the study of woodscraft said he had slept for perhaps four hours.
Shuddering in his sodden wool cloak, Sarkaska lumbered to his feet. His legs were still leaden from his exhaustion, but when he felt the muscular protest of abused limbs, he lifted his eyes. With every step, the Tower drew closer. He was winning: he had thanksgiving in his heart and humility on his shoulders. Perhaps it was really a bundle of foul-smelling wet wool, but he thought it was better this way: better to be honestly grateful that his test had been fair. Best to be proud of himself for soldiering through: who had it been who had told him the worst part of soldiering was waiting? Not dying, because that was easy when you thought about it, and certainly, living was harder, but life continued on after the campfires and the battles.
He had done his battle with orders, with patience, with promises. He'd fought dirty and hard: he'd marked time, marched through the night, gone with an empty belly eating food he hated...he'd shown he had the merits of a soldier, and then some. He'd overcome temptation, even, and walked away only mildly scarred. He hated his boots, didn't want to move his feet, but couldn't stop smiling as he stumbled toward the bloody Tower. He wouldn't say he was happy: it was more a severe relief - but as the slender grey finger grew larger, then began to take on definition and detail, he thought he'd never seen anything as beautiful.
It was going to be so difficult to wait until sunset. Not that he would have time to waste: time was not his ally now. Had it been his toilette, stealing precious minutes? His long thoughts on the long evenings? Should he have come earlier? No. He would have admitted his shame, openly decried himself as a liar, a cheat. He'd followed directions to the letter. He'd spoken to no one, taken no aid, left nothing behind and would keep nothing but memories. There was nothing to be ashamed of, he told himself, urging each foot forward, dread blossoming in his heart, nothing at all. He had done all that had been asked.
He had obeyed. He had been steadfast. And he would not be late.
As the sun turned to a molten ball in the western horizon, Sarkaska limped painfully through the gates. A guard saluted him: Sarkaska paused, startled. Always, before, the guards had out-ranked him. If he did not hurry, they still would. That put little spring into his tired step, but he made it across the vast expanse of cobblestone before the sun had been swallowed by the curvature of the planet. This ceremony took place in the Foyer, and would be the first time he was allowed inside the Tower on his own merit: always before, someone had brought him. Like a child, he had been beckoned. Like a servant, he had been instructed. Like a thief, he had been warned. Today, he came as an initiate of its halls: he would not be denied, scolded, or browbeaten. (Much.)
Silence reigned as he passed through the open door, stumbled past seven carrying candles, unlit because he was not dead. He was aflame, from head to foot, alive with urgent pain. With a terrible excitement, so vivid that he shivered in anticipation. His pleasure died in his chest as he confronted Caden Ives Gaidin, his face a raw, scrambled mess incapable of showing what Sarkaska had felt. There was more to come, here, he knew - he sensed. This had changed nothing between them: he could still feel the cold resolve behind the whistling blade. Resolve that now judged him, and said that perhaps he had been found worthy and stumbled his way through, but the true test was coming, and he stood no chance.
He dropped to his knees, unable to hide the cry as abused muscles argued that he could not demand more.
Caden's rasping voice cut through the thick silence like a viper striking: quickly and painfully to the point.
"We are gathered here today because of Sarkaska Jinlo Drin'far'ji, who has proved himself worthy to wear a darker shade of grey." He could not hide his flinch as the man withdrew his sword. For the Light's sweet sake, how many times a week did one boy need beheading? Realizing he'd pulled his shoulders up to protect his neck, he forced them down, inch by painful inch. He was hardly going to be punished now, was he? Hadn't he done exactly what had been demanded of him? The trouble with Caden Ives was that you were never sure what he wanted: he might say one thing, but if you didn't turn over everything - gesture, nuance, intonation, inflection - you missed what he wanted. And even if the man did deign to explain what he wanted, you were still going to hate it.
"Sarkaska Jinlo," his damaged voice continued, in its sibilant, eldritch tone "you have passed the trials set upon you by your superiors, and have passed them admirably and without dishonesty or failure."
It was the truth. He had done everything asked of him, as it had been asked, in the time allotted. He had not failed. Indeed, he was shocked that he was even here: it had seemed from the start as if he were doomed to fail.
The Gaidin was waving a sword at him again.
Instinctively, his shoulders went back up around his neck, but this tap ended far from his throat. First one shoulder, then the other: an age-old gesture of fealty. He was sworn, now. He could never change his mind. There would be no farmhouse for him, no seeing the world if it wasn't something this man wanted him to do, no choice that would ever be entirely his or about him. And despite the enormity of this realization, he welcomed it: it filled him with a sense of belonging. He, the son of no man, the father of no child, the beloved of no one: this was his place.
And it was the beginning of his time.
"It is the duty of every individual to dedicate themselves for the betterment and advancement of their home and calling." The words had the sound of ritual, but he took them to heart. "Yet it is my distinct pleasure, honour - as well as duty - to confer upon you, the rank of Ji'alantin of the Grey Tower." It might even be true: the man didn't seem the type to lie, even if a ceremony said he had to.
"Rise, Sarkaska Jinlo Ji'alantin."
