A loud clatter woke Hanor with a start. Not wishing to stir from his slumber, he feigned sleep, the sounds of Rainer approaching drawing him to his senses. Groaning, the audible coughing of that now familiar alarm deflated his will to carry on. The fifth morning since that fateful experience with Brandor by the lake, those memories were now a bleary mist through the shadows of fatigue. Yester-turn’s morning swim followed by a long trek with a log strapped to his back had nearly killed him. Every part of his being was lamenting for freedom from this tyranny. There was nothing left to give.
“Are you eager for another turn of the day’s work?” asked the unrelenting figure, whipping the thin blanket away from Hanor.
Not responding, wanting to cry and return home from this madness, Hanor dared to open his eyes. The beaming grin staring down was that of a starved animal savouring its final meal. Surprised that the sun was up, the three previous mornings had been a struggle in the dark, the polite cough announcing the beginning of a new turn. Certain it had been Rainer’s way of teasing him, he now waited for the barrage of verbal abuse that was sure to come.
“Your meal is ready,” was all that Rainer said.
Turning, he walked back to the small fire burning on the other side of the clearing, leaving Hanor to stare after him. Suspicious, sensing something strange in the air, what was he up to?
Leaning on his elbows, Hanor checked the vicinity. Two ropes had failed in the night, leaving the canopy flapping to his side. Chirping sounds of the forest sang, reminding him that life continued whether he got up or not. Trees encircled behind and to his left, with Freemans Lake spanning out like a mirror of calm to his right. It all seemed too peaceful for his liking.
Sitting up, grimacing, something was going on. His charge brought across a bowl of steaming broth, a lump of dried datter milk and a slice of quaner for him to eat, the smile given added further uncertainty. The trickster returned to the fire, surprises a part of his nature. Rarely had Hanor been given a chance to relax. Determined to prepare him for life in the real world, the notion had sometimes filled him with respect for the man. It did nothing to help when in the grips of an arm-lock or leapt on from behind, but there was still enough to appreciate what he was trying to do.
A hard path to follow, Rainer had absorbed his frustrations without protest. Working him through like a master craftsman, many tantrums had he thrown. Calling upon his position as Heir of Manson, but a snide grin was all Rainer had needed to silence him. With his parents’ approval to do this, left Hanor helpless. Not pushing him beyond his measure, but Rainer had certainly taken him to his limits.
Aching to the bone, wondering what this turn of the day might bring, he looked again at his compatriot. Thick heavy-set arms controlling agile, skilful hands dished his own meal up like any deft cook at home in a Cook-house. A square solid complexion, with wiry mottled hair covering deep eyes, his guide and teacher was capable of hiding every emotion. Hanor did not realise he was staring when Rainer looked back.
“Do you have something to ask?”
Startled, not once had Rainer tried to strike up conversation. Lacking in energy, Hanor had not pressed for it much, blaming him for his sufferings rather than the seasons of idle abandonment he himself was guilty of. Stammering, his boyish manner returning, “Er… no…, yes… er…, I am not sure.”
“You are quite a young man,” Rainer chuckled, revealing traces of respect himself.
Unsure of his meaning, Hanor waited for more but nothing was added, leaving him guessing.
For a while, the two just sat eating the full flavoured broth, a worthy reward for their gruelling efforts.
Finishing his meal, Rainer turned to him with that knowing expression Hanor had come to know and fear. “When your father first said of the task concerning you,” the robust figure began. “I scoffed at his request. Not disrespectfully of course, but… disbelief.” Smirking as if agreeing with those first doubts, “You have been an interesting challenge, testing my methods and convictions.” The quiet husky voice was personal in what he was offering.
Hanor did not move, this was completely unexpected.
“I have pushed you hard, some might say too hard,” Rainer said, coughing as if the difficult words were tickling his throat.
Hanor wondered if his father’s closest aide was working towards an apology for his brutal techniques. So unlike him, he could not help but look for the mischief.
“Come,” Rainer said, motioning for Hanor to join him.
Shocked at the invite, Hanor hesitated, still scarred by the many tricks this man had pulled.
“It is not everyday that I talk…, so please, come and sit.”
Rubbing dry eyes, as if his body was purposely placing obstacles to stop him going, Hanor checked for Rainer’s motives, surprised at his sincerity. Rising, he stretched, a painful reminder of what he had endured at the hands of this man. Cautious, he strolled over and sat opposite, undecided where this might lead. Requiring strength just to stay put, he waited, ignoring his own suffering.
“You have proven to be a worthy student,” Rainer began, thoughtful. “Up until now, you were someone for whom work and life had limited value and purpose. Even so, you have met my trials with courage and passion. Raising my tempo to increase your skills, you have survived the hardest of what I could demand from you. Your bite, thankfully, is not as vicious as it sounds, and there is fire in you that I like. I was expecting you to sulk more than you did; a credit to you Hanor. It appears you are made of tough iron rather than fragmented wood, something your father will be proud of.” Growing fond of the lad, but pain had a terrible way of scarring people. Waiting for a possible outburst, at least the boy now had a fighting chance.
Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, half-expecting Rainer to jump up mocking him for falling for this trickery, words failed Hanor. Anticipating further challenges, he was so used to the constant hammering at his will that nothing would surprise him more. Hope floated close, swaying like treasure set in a trap. Exhausted, he was unable to respond. Body tender, he was mentally worn out. What could he say? This man was doing the will of his father, how could he be blamed?
Glancing down at the hilted swords beside Rainer, he recalled the many short-turns spent training at ridiculous times of the day. Thrashing them around as if his life depended on it, conceding one day it just might, on the second night of his training, this creature had attacked in the dark, sword in hand, testing him on what he had learnt. Convinced the other was trying to kill him, only Brandor’s encouragement to learn as much as he could had reminded him of the real reason behind it. Those potent words had saved him many times whilst in the throws of misery, and only now could he appreciate the benefits.
One question now sprung to mind. For his own sanity, to make sure he was not misinterpreting this situation, he stared hard at Rainer, daring him to say otherwise. “Are we done with this training?”
Furious at his parents for still not sharing details about Hanor’s whereabouts, Nole rubbed his throbbing temples, sitting moodily on the small hillock where he had found his bewildered brother five turns of the day ago. A vague hope of finding a clue, he had searched the area every day since. Bane had been helpful, eager to find out too, but had been no less successful.
Gazing out across the lake, it was a glorious turn of the day, and one usually spent swimming under the sun’s energising rays. But not since Hanor’s disappearance had any of them had the heart to swim or play. As if an invisible cloud had descended over their world, the fact of not knowing seemed harder than what the actual details might be. Alienating himself from his parents, frustrations had hit out at his friends too. No one was eager to tolerate his company, and he was in no frame of mind to talk pleasantries. Just wanting to know what was going on, why would they not trust him?
Casting a stick into the lake, he stood and then made his way back. Trapped, he did not want to be alone, yet could not bear being around anyone. Seeking out Bane, the faint hope of his friend finding something spurred him to put one foot in front of the other.
Lizan stroked her beloved son’s head tenderly as he lay asleep. Travel-stained and weary, Hanor was oblivious to the love pouring over him by his dedicated mother. Teardrops cascaded, knowing she was about to lose him.
Enduring Rainer’s harsh training, it both alarmed and appeased her. To think he had suffered panged her as if failing him, falling short of what a protective parent should do. But deep down, she knew better. Respecting it was for his own good, Rainer had said how well he had done. Now, all she had to do was let go, to grant the freedom all children deserved. But try as she might, that strange experience when giving birth kept repeating itself, forcing her to hold on.
Notified by the guards of his return just after dusk, they had all been eager to see him, Nole especially. But upon reaching his room, he was already asleep, Manon wisely motioning them back. Nole of course had stormed off, still in the dark about what was going on. A lingering problem, she had considered whether to send him as well for support, but her heart would not take it.
Rising, she left the room. Kifter, the Fife, the one Brandor promised would come, had arrived the previous evening. Checking his strengths and character, to her relief, he had proven to have a deep understanding of life and The Freelands. Despite that, the notion of just one person escorting their son to Tarden was worrying. Others were joining them later, but it was a grave risk. Sighing, she went back to bed to get what sleep she could.
Attempting to rise, Hanor’s stiff neck jolted him, resting his head back on the tiled floor to ease the pain. Presuming he must have fallen out of bed, just lying there felt good. Cool and safe, absorbing the moment of refuge when realising where he was, familiar noises drifted up from elsewhere in the High-house, adding a sense of security. Soothing sensations in his heart calmed him further. Tempted to stay put, but family ties urged him to get up. Vacating his room, he made for the kitchens, hunger calling.
Entering the Cook-house, with its dusty beams of sunlight angling through the windows, the half-day mealtime had passed, now empty and ready for Hanor’s pleasure. Needing to eat before addressing his family, he went to one of the huge store-larders, the aroma of freshly baked quaner fuelling his appetite. Grabbing one, some fruit and a lump of spicy datter-milk, he turned back towards one of the large black stone tables to sit down, but stopped. He was not alone.
Sitting across the Kitchen, keen narrow eyes were staring at him from beneath a hood of the deepest blue. Not hearing the newcomer enter, recognising him to be a Fifanian from the south, he felt unsettled, unknowing what to do. Gaining strength at being in his own home, he sat down, placing the food on the table.
“I… have not seen you… around here before,” he managed, politely. The Fife did not move or acknowledge his greeting. “Are you a guest?” Hanor added, biting into the quaner and waiting for a response. The sly looking figure still did not respond. Awkward, hoping a kitchen hand would enter, Hanor continued eating. Presuming good manners would persuade the newcomer to speak, but he could only wait for so long.
Halfway through his food, he stopped eating. Suspicious of the outlandish figure, who rudely kept staring, Hanor thought about leaving, but to eat somewhere else would be like running, and it seemed inappropriate to do that. Out in the wild, things would be different, but here was unacceptable.
“Do you want to say something?” he asked, apprehensive. The Fife remained motionless. “Not a polite way to greet somebody; I thought Fifanians were friendly.”
The Fife’s sudden, unprovoked response staggered the young lad. Leaping from his stool onto the table with the deftness of a Seeker, it shocked the unsuspecting heir, the nimble figure landing on the table directly in front of him.
Lurching backwards, powerless to retain his balance, Hanor fell from his stool. Expecting to be jumped on from behind, hoping Rainer’s training would kick in, aches were forgotten when struggling to get up on the cleansed tiled floor. Slipping, when his feet did grip, the bout of laughter from behind was most unexpected. Unsure if it was the mocking of a friend or foe, Hanor clambered to his feet and faced the challenger.
Dry, humorous eyes and an outstretched hand stressed there were no ill feelings as far as the Fifanian was concerned.
Snapped from his lethargy, body pulsing with adrenalin, Hanor held his ground, unsure what might follow. Angry that he could not eat in peace, was this his future, his doom? Pleased at his initial reaction, confident he could put up a fight, it did not occur to him to call for aid, Rainer’s training giving him the self-belief to confront his aggressor.
Sincere eyes soon sought forgiveness, the Fife springing from the table as quickly as he had climbed it. Hand still outstretched, Hanor was still coming to terms with this intrusion to do anything. To move that quick, only The Sacred knew what this newcomer was capable of. What could he do against such speed anyway? Not ready to commit, he declined the handshake, bending to pick up the fallen stool.
“I apologise for my methods and rudeness,” the Fifanian tried.
Detecting a degree of mirth, Hanor sensed the stranger still enjoyed the encounter.
“My name is Kifter,” the slender figure greeted.
Frowning, Hanor still felt rattled. “Is this the way you greet people?” he asked. The peace in his heart had gone.
“Is it not reasonable to enquire after the person one will be travelling with?” The Fife offered, to justify his actions.
Hanor stopped, recalling Brandor mentioning that someone would come for him. “What did you say your name was?”
“Kifter.”
Half a head shorter, it seemed preposterous that this small Fife was a worthy guide and protectorate. Deciding this fellow was not having it all his own way, “No…, I have decided to go with someone else.”
Unprepared for that response, “Oh…,” he said, scanning for the deception.
“Rainer…, Manson’s second in command is taking me,” Hanor said. Still irritated, a battle of wills with Rainer had clearly developed a sharpness he never had before.
“Rainer…! I think not,” Kifter said, uncertain of the exact details the boy had agreed with Brandor.
“He is responsible, and more than capable of the task. I do not need a fool to take me.” Maintaining an even gaze, Hanor felt the narrow eyes scan him again.
After a brief pause, “I detect a trickster before me,” Kifter said. Tight lips pursing, he started chuckling. “You nearly convinced me there.” A glint in his eyes had given the boy away. “Clever. Brandor said he was surprised by you. You have a quick wit, which means I had better watch my tail.”
Shaken by the incident, Hanor was still far from impressed.
Lying on his bed, Hanor felt exhausted. Why had his life become so complex? On leaving the Kitchens earlier, he had found his parents waiting in their Leisure Room waiting for him. Surprised by the subdued atmosphere, they had kept their distance like formal visitors from another region. When explaining that he had grown into a young man they could be proud of, their detachment had been as shocking as it was confusing. The fact he was getting involved in The Freelands’ plight had not moved them at all. Brandor must have told them about the incident by the lake, so why had they not reacted to it? Tolerating the strained atmosphere for as long as he could, when leaving, his mother’s sad gaze had shown that they did care, but were too upset to show it.
Needing to clear his thoughts, he had strayed into the gardens awaiting his brother’s turn. ‘Could he really go without Nole and Bane?’ was the question that kept repeating itself. Hypocritical, there was no way he would let Nole go on his own.
When his younger brother did arrive, two concerned eyes had demanded justification for the secrecy. Spluttering his way through frail answers, he had let slip that he was to go on an errand for Brandor. The lack of details had not been good enough for his brother, who demanded more. Avoiding where he had to go by talking about his training in preparation for the trip, they had tossed back and forth before tiredness had got the better of him. Promising to talk tomorrow, he had left his brother in the garden, guilt weighing him down. Meaning what he said, Kifter’s sudden appearance on returning to his room was what troubled him now. Filling him with dread and a sense of betrayal if he were to carry it out, the Fife’s piercing tone meant the easy life was over. “I will call you before sun-up, be ready for an early start,” he had said, unconcerned by the emotional baggage Hanor had to deal with.
Tears rolling, the child in him returning, what was he getting into?