Then Ga­len came.

  He let the door of the stair­well slam shut be­hind him. Sev­eral of the oth­ers jumped. He stood re­gard­ing us, and we in turn looked at him in si­lence.

  There is some­thing I have ob­served about skinny men. Some, like Chade, seem so pre­oc­cu­pied with their lives that they either for­get to eat, or burn every bit of susten­ance they take in the fires of their pas­sion­ate fas­cin­a­tion with life. But there is an­other type, one who goes about the world ca­da­ver­ously, cheeks sunken, bones jut­ting, and one senses that he so dis­ap­proves of the whole of the world that he be­grudges every bit of it that he takes in­side him­self. At that mo­ment, I would have wagered that Ga­len had never truly en­joyed one bite of food or one swal­low of drink in his life.

  His dress puzzled me. It was op­u­lently rich, with fur at his col­lar and neck, and am­ber bead­ing so thick on his tu­nic it would have turned a sword. But the rich fab­rics strained over him, the cloth­ing tailored so snugly to him that one wondered if the maker had lacked suf­fi­cient fab­ric to fin­ish the suit. At a time when full sleeves slashed with col­ours were the mark of a wealthy man, he wore his shirt as tight as a cat’s skin. His boots were high and fit­ted to his calves, and he car­ried a little quirt, as if come straight from rid­ing. His cloth­ing looked un­com­fort­able and com­bined with his thin­ness to give an im­pres­sion of stingi­ness.

  His pale eyes swept the Queen’s Garden dis­pas­sion­ately. He con­sidered us, and im­me­di­ately dis­missed us as want­ing. He breathed out through his hawk’s nose, as does a man fa­cing an un­pleas­ant chore. ‘Clear a space,’ he dir­ec­ted us. ‘Push all this rub­bish to one side. Stack it there, against that wall. Quickly, now. I have no pa­tience with slug­gards.’

  And so the last lines of the garden were des­troyed. The ar­range­ments of the pots and beds that had been shad­ows of the little walks and ar­bours that had once ex­is­ted here were swept aside. The pots were moved to one side, the lovely little statues stacked crookedly on top of them. Ga­len spoke only once, to me. ‘Hurry up, bas­tard,’ he ordered me as I struggled with a heavy pot of earth, and he brought down his rid­ing crop across my shoulders. It was not much of a blow, more a tap, but it seemed so con­trived that I stopped in my ef­forts and looked at him. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he de­man­ded. I nod­ded, and went back to mov­ing the pot. From the corner of my eye, I saw his odd look of sat­is­fac­tion. The blow, I felt, had been a test, but I was not sure if I had passed or failed it.

  The tower roof be­came a bare space, with only the green lines of moss and old run­nels of dirt to in­dic­ate the garden that had been. He dir­ec­ted us to form ourselves into two lines. He ordered us by age and size, and then sep­ar­ated us by sex, put­ting the girls be­hind the boys and off to the right. ‘I will tol­er­ate no dis­trac­tions or dis­rupt­ive be­ha­viour. You are here to learn, not dally,’ he warned us. He then spaced us out, hav­ing us stretch our arms in all dir­ec­tions to show that there we could not touch one an­other, not even so much as a fin­ger­tip. From this, I ex­pec­ted phys­ical ex­er­cises would fol­low, but in­stead he dir­ec­ted us to stand still, hands at our sides, and at­tend to him. So as we stood on the cold tower-top he lec­tured us.

  ‘For sev­en­teen years, I have been Skill­mas­ter of this keep. Be­fore this, my les­sons were given to small groups, dis­creetly. Those who failed to show prom­ise were turned away quietly. Dur­ing that time the Six Duch­ies had no need for more than a hand­ful to be trained. I trained only the most prom­ising, wast­ing no time on those without tal­ent or dis­cip­line. And, for the last fif­teen years, I have not ini­ti­ated any into the Skill.

  ‘But evil times are upon us. The Outis­landers rav­age our shores and Forge our people. King Shrewd and Prince Ver­ity turn their Skills to pro­tect­ing us. Great are their ef­forts and many their suc­cesses, though the com­mon folk never even guess at what they do. I as­sure you, against the minds I have trained, the Outis­landers stand small chance. A few paltry vic­tor­ies they may have won, com­ing upon us un­pre­pared, but the forces I have cre­ated to op­pose them will pre­vail!’

  His pale eyes burned and he lif­ted his hands to the heav­ens as he spoke. He held a long si­lence, star­ing up­ward, his arms stretched out above his head, as if he clawed down power from the sky it­self. Then he let his arms slowly fall.

  ‘This I know,’ he went on in a calmer voice. ‘This I know. The forces I have cre­ated will pre­vail. But our king, may all gods hon­our and bless him, doubts me. And as he is my king, I bow to his will. He re­quires that I seek amongst you of lesser blood, to see if there are any with the tal­ent and will, the pur­ity of pur­pose and stern­ness of soul, to be trained in the Skill. This I will do, for my king has com­manded. Le­gends say in days of old there were many trained in the Skill, who worked along­side their kings to avert dangers from the land. Per­haps it was truly so; per­haps the old le­gends ex­ag­ger­ate. In any case, my king has com­manded me to at­tempt to cre­ate such a sur­plus of Skilled ones, and so I will try.’

  He totally ig­nored the five or so wo­men of our group. Not once did his eyes turn to­ward them. The ex­clu­sion was so ob­vi­ous that I wondered how they had of­fen­ded him. I knew Se­rene slightly, for she also had been an apt pu­pil of Fed­wren. I could al­most feel the warmth of her dis­pleas­ure. In the row be­side me, one of the boys shif­ted. In a flash Ga­len had leaped in front of him.

  ‘Bored, are we? Rest­less with an old man’s talk?’

  ‘Just a cramp in my calf, sir,’ the boy re­joined, fool­ishly.

  Ga­len slapped him, a back­hand that rocked the boy’s head. ‘Be quiet, and stand still. Or leave. It’s all one to me. It’s already ob­vi­ous that you lack the stam­ina to achieve the Skill. But the King has found you worthy to be here, and so I will at­tempt to teach you.’

  I trembled in­side. For when Ga­len spoke to the boy, it was me he stared at. As if the boy’s move­ment had been my fault, some­how. A strong dis­taste for Ga­len flooded through me. I had taken blows from Hod in the course of my in­struc­tion in staves and swords, and en­dured dis­com­fort even from Chade as he demon­strated touch-spots and strangling tech­niques, and ways to si­lence a man without dis­abling him. I’d had my share of cuffs, boots and swats from Burrich, some jus­ti­fied, some the ven­ted frus­tra­tion of a busy man. But I’d never seen a man strike a boy with such ap­par­ent rel­ish as Ga­len had. I strove to keep my face im­pass­ive, and to look at him without ap­pear­ing to stare. For I knew that if I glanced away I’d be ac­cused of not pay­ing at­ten­tion.

  Sat­is­fied, Ga­len nod­ded to him­self, and then re­sumed his lec­ture. To mas­ter the Skill, he must first teach us to mas­ter ourselves. Phys­ical depriva­tion was his key. To­mor­row, we were to ar­rive be­fore the sun was over the ho­ri­zon. We were not to wear shoes, socks, cloaks, nor any wool­len gar­ment. Heads were to be un­covered. The body must be scru­pu­lously clean. He ex­hor­ted us to im­it­ate him in his eat­ing and liv­ing habits. We would avoid meat, sweet fruit, seasoned dishes, milk, and ‘frivol­ous foods’. He ad­voc­ated por­ridges and cold wa­ter, plain breads and stewed root ve­get­ables. We would avoid all un­ne­ces­sary con­ver­sa­tion, es­pe­cially with those of the other sex. He coun­selled us long against any sort of ‘sen­sual’ long­ings, in which he in­cluded de­sir­ing food, sleep or warmth. And he ad­vised us that he had ar­ranged for a sep­ar­ate table to be set for us in the hall, where we might eat ap­pro­pri­ate food and not be dis­trac­ted by idle talk. Or ques­tions. The last phrase he ad­ded al­most like a threat.

  He then put us through a series of ex­er­cises. Close the eyes and roll your eye­balls up as far as they would go. Strive to roll them all the way around to look into the back of one’s own skull. Feel the pres­sure this cre­ated. Ima­gine what you might see if you could roll your eyes that far. Was what you saw worthy and cor­rect? Eyes still closed, stand on one leg. Strive to re­main per­fectly still. Find a bal­ance, not just of body, but of spirit. Drive from the mind all un­worthy thoughts, and you could re­main like this in­def­in­itely.

  As we stood, eyes al­ways closed, go­ing through these vari­ous ex­er­cises, he moved amongst us. I could track him by the sound of the rid­ing crop. ‘Con­cen­trate!’ he would com­mand us, or ‘Try, at least try!’ I my­self felt the crop at least four times that day. It was a tri­fling thing, little more than a tap, but it was un­nerv­ing to be touched with a lash, even without pain. Then the last time it fell, it was high on my shoulder, and the lash of it coiled against my bare neck while the tip caught me on the chin. I winced, but man­aged to keep my eyes closed and my pre­cari­ous bal­ance on one aching knee. As he walked away, I felt a slow drip of warm blood form on my chin.

  He kept us all day, re­leas­ing us when the sun was a half-cop­per on the ho­ri­zon and the winds of night were rising. Not once had he ex­cused us for food, wa­ter, or any other ne­ces­sity. He watched us file past him, a grim smile on his face, and only when we were through the door did we feel free to stag­ger and flee down the stair­case.

  I was fam­ished, my hands swollen red with the chill, and my mouth so dry I couldn’t have spoken if I had wished to. The oth­ers seemed much the same, though some had suffered more acutely than I. I at least was used to long hours, many of them out­doors. Merry, a year or so older than I, was ac­cus­tomed to help­ing Mis­tress Hasty with the weav­ing. Her round face was more white than red with the cold, and I heard her whis­per some­thing to Se­rene, who took her hand as we went down the stairs. ‘It wouldn’t have been so bad, if he had paid any at­ten­tion to us at all,’ Se­rene whispered back. And then I had the un­pleas­ant ex­per­i­ence of see­ing them both glance back fear­fully, to see if Ga­len had seen them speak to one an­other.

  Din­ner that night was the most cheer­less meal I had ever en­dured at Buck­keep. There was a cold por­ridge of boiled grain, bread, wa­ter and boiled, mashed turnips. Ga­len, un­eat­ing, presided over our meal. There was no con­ver­sa­tion; I don’t think we even looked at one an­other. I ate my al­lot­ted por­tions, and left the table al­most as hungry as I had ar­rived.

  Halfway up the stairs I re­membered Smithy. I re­turned to the kit­chen to get the bones and scraps Cook saved for me, and a pitcher of wa­ter to re­fill his dish. They seemed an aw­ful weight as I climbed the stairs. It struck me as strange that a day of re­l­at­ive in­activ­ity out in the cold had wear­ied me as much as a day of strenu­ous work.

  Once in­side my room, Smithy’s warm greet­ing and eager con­sump­tion of the meat was like a heal­ing balm. As soon as he had fin­ished eat­ing, we snuggled into bed. He wanted to bite and tussle, but soon gave up on me. I let sleep claim me.

  And woke with a jolt to dark­ness, fear­ing that I had slept too long. A glance at the sky told me I could beat the sun to the rooftop, but just barely. No time to wash my­self or eat or clean up after Smithy, and it was just as well Ga­len had for­bid­den shoes and socks, for I had no time to put mine on. I was too tired even to feel a fool as I raced through the keep and up the stairs of the tower. I could see oth­ers hur­ry­ing be­fore me by waver­ing torch­light, and when I emerged from the stair­well, Ga­len’s quirt fell on my back.

  It bit un­ex­pec­tedly sharp through my thin shirt. I cried out in sur­prise as much as pain. ‘Stand like a man and mas­ter your­self, bas­tard,’ Ga­len told me harshly, and the quirt fell again. Every­one else had re­sumed their places of the day be­fore. They looked as weary as I, and most, too, looked as shocked as I felt by Ga­len’s treat­ment of me. To this day I don’t know why, but I went si­lently to my place and stood there fa­cing Ga­len.

  ‘Who­ever comes last, is late, and will be treated so,’ he warned us. It struck me as a cruel rule, for the only way to avoid his quirt to­mor­row was to ar­rive early enough to see it fall on one of my fel­lows.

  There fol­lowed an­other day of dis­com­fort and ran­dom ab­use. So I see it now. So I think I knew it then, in my heart of hearts. But ever he spoke of prov­ing us worthy, of mak­ing us tough and strong. He made it an hon­our to be stand­ing out in the cold, bare feet go­ing numb against the chill stone. He roused in us a com­pet­i­tion, not just against each other, but against his shabby im­ages of us. ‘Prove me wrong,’ he said over and over again. ‘I beg you, prove me wrong, that I may show the King at least one pu­pil worthy of my time.’ And so we tried. How strange now to look back on it all and won­der at my­self. But in the space of one day, he had suc­ceeded in isol­at­ing us and plunging us into an­other real­ity, where all rules of cour­tesy and com­mon sense were sus­pen­ded. We stood si­lently in the cold, in vari­ous un­com­fort­able po­s­i­tions, eyes closed, wear­ing little more than our un­der­gar­ments. And he walked among us, deal­ing out cuts from his silly little whip, and in­sults from his nasty little tongue. He cuffed oc­ca­sion­ally, or shoved, some­thing that is much more pain­ful when one is chilled to the bone.

  Those who flinched or wavered were ac­cused of weak­ness. Dur­ing the day he be­rated us with our un­wor­thi­ness and re­peated that he had only con­sen­ted to try to teach us at the King’s be­hest. The wo­men he ig­nored, and though he of­ten spoke of past princes and kings who had wiel­ded the Skill in de­fence of the realm, he never once men­tioned the queens and prin­cesses who had done like­wise. Nor did he ever once give us an over­view of what he was at­tempt­ing to teach us. There was only the cold and the dis­com­fort of his ex­er­cises, and the un­cer­tainty of when we would be struck. Why we struggled to en­dure it, I don’t know. So quickly were we all made ac­com­plices in our own de­grad­a­tion.

  The sun fi­nally ven­tured once again to­ward the ho­ri­zon. But Ga­len had saved two fi­nal sur­prises for us that day. He let us stand, open our eyes and stretch freely for a few mo­ments. Then he gave us a fi­nal lec­ture, this one to warn us against those among us who would un­der­mine the train­ing of all by fool­ish self-in­dul­gences. He walked slowly among us as he spoke, wend­ing his way in and out of our rows, and I saw many a rolling eye and in­take of breath as he passed. Then, for the first time that day, he ven­tured over to the wo­men’s corner of the court.

  ‘Some,’ he cau­tioned us as he strolled, ‘think them­selves above rules. They think them­selves worthy of spe­cial at­ten­tion and in­dul­gences. Such il­lu­sions of su­peri­or­ity must be driven from you be­fore you can learn any­thing. It is hardly worthy of my time for me to have to teach these les­sons to such lag­gards and dolts as need them. It is a shame that they have even found their way into our gath­er­ing. But they are among us, and I will hon­our the will of my king, and at­tempt to teach them. Even though there is only one way I know to waken such lazy minds.’

  To Merry he gave two quick cuts with the quirt. But Se­rene he shoved down onto one knee, and struck four times. To my shame, I stood there with the rest, as each cut fell, and hoped only that she would not cry out and bring more pun­ish­ment on her­self.

  But Se­rene rose, swayed once, and then stood again, still, look­ing out over the heads of the girls be­fore her. I breathed a sigh of re­lief. But then Ga­len was back, circ­ling like a shark around a fish­ing-boat, speak­ing now of those who thought them­selves too good to share the dis­cip­line of the group, of ones who in­dulged in meat in plenty while the rest lim­ited ourselves to whole­some grains and pure foods. I wondered un­eas­ily who had been so fool­ish as to visit the kit­chen after hours.

  Then I felt the hot lick of the whip on my shoulders. If I had thought he was us­ing the lash to his full cap­ab­il­ity be­fore, he proved me wrong now.

  ‘You thought to de­ceive me. You thought I would never know if Cook saved her pre­cious pet a plate of tid­bits, didn’t you? But I know all that hap­pens in Buck­keep. Don’t de­ceive your­self about that.’

  It dawned on me that he was speak­ing of the meat scraps I’d taken up to Smithy.

  ‘That food wasn’t for me,’ I pro­tested, and then could have bit­ten my tongue out.

  His eyes glittered coldly. ‘You’d lie to save your­self a little just pain. You’ll never mas­ter the Skill. You’ll never be worthy of it. But the King has com­manded that I try to teach, and so I will try. Des­pite you or your low birth.’

  In hu­mi­li­ation I took the welts he dealt me. He be­rated me as each fell, telling the oth­ers that the old rules against teach­ing the Skill to a bas­tard had been to pre­vent just such a thing as this.

  Af­ter­wards, I stood, si­lent and shamed, as he went down the rows, deal­ing a per­func­tory swat with the quirt to each of my fel­lows, ex­plain­ing as he did so that we all must pay for the fail­ures of the in­di­vidu­als. It did not mat­ter that this state­ment made no sense, or that the whip fell lightly com­pared to what Ga­len had just in­flic­ted on me. It was the idea that they were all pay­ing for my trans­gres­sion. I had never felt so shamed in my life.

  Then he re­leased us, to go down to an­other cheer­less meal, much the same as yes­ter­day’s. This time no one spoke on the stairs or at the meal. And af­ter­wards, I went straight up to my room.

  Meat soon, I prom­ised the hungry pup that waited for me. Des­pite my aching back and muscles, I forced my­self to clean up the room, scrub­bing up Smithy’s messes, and then mak­ing a trip for fresh strew­ing reeds. Smithy was a bit sulky at be­ing left alone all day, and I was troubled when I real­ized I had no idea how long this miser­able train­ing would last.

  I waited un­til late, when all or­din­ary folk of the keep were in their beds, be­fore ven­tur­ing down to get Smithy’s food for him. I dreaded that Ga­len would find out, but what else was I to do? I was halfway down the big stair­case when I saw the glim­mer­ing of a single candle be­ing borne to­ward me. I shrank against the wall, sud­denly sure it was Ga­len. But it was the Fool who came to­ward me, glow­ing as white and pale as the wax candle he car­ried. In his other hand was a pail of food and a beaker of wa­ter bal­anced on top of it. Sound­lessly he waved me back to my room.