Once in­side, the door shut, he turned on me. ‘I can take care of the pup for you,’ he told me dryly. ‘But I can’t take care of you. Use your head, boy. What can you pos­sibly learn from what he’s do­ing to you?’

  I shrugged, then winced. ‘It’s just to toughen us. I don’t think it will go on much longer be­fore he gets down to ac­tu­ally teach­ing us. I can take it.’ Then, ‘Wait,’ I said, as he fed bits of meat to Smithy from the pail. ‘How do you know what Ga­len’s been put­ting us through?’

  ‘Ah, that would be telling,’ he said blithely. ‘And I can’t do that. Tell, that is.’ He dumped the rest of the pail out for Smithy, re­plen­ished his wa­ter, and stood.

  ‘I’ll feed the puppy,’ he told me. ‘I’ll even try to take him out­side for a bit each day. But I won’t clean up his messes.’ He paused at the door. ‘That’s where I draw the line. You’d bet­ter de­cide where you will draw the line. And soon. Very soon. The danger is greater than you know.’

  And then he was gone, tak­ing his candle and warn­ings with him. I lay down and fell asleep to the sounds of Smithy wor­ry­ing a bone and mak­ing puppy growls to him­self.

  FIF­TEEN

  The Wit­ness Stones

  The Skill, at its simplest, is the bridging of thought from per­son to per­son. It can be used a num­ber of ways. Dur­ing battle, for in­stance, a com­mander can re­lay simple in­form­a­tion and com­mands dir­ectly to those of­ficers un­der him, if those of­ficers have been trained to re­ceive it. One power­fully Skilled can use his tal­ent to in­flu­ence even un­trained minds or the minds of his en­emies, in­spir­ing them with fear or con­fu­sion or doubt. Men so tal­en­ted are rare. But, if in­cred­ibly gif­ted with the Skill, a man can as­pire to speak dir­ectly to the Eld­er­lings, those who are be­low only the gods them­selves. Few have ever dared to do so, and of those who did, even fewer at­tained what they asked. For it is said, one may ask of the Eld­er­lings, but the an­swer they give may not be to the ques­tion you ask, but to the one you should have asked. And the an­swer to that ques­tion may be one a man can­not hear and live. For when one speaks to the Eld­er­lings, then is the sweet­ness of us­ing the Skill strongest and most per­il­ous. And this is the thing that every prac­ti­tioner of the Skill, weak or strong, must al­ways guard against. For in us­ing the Skill, the user feels a keen­ness of life, an up­lift­ing of be­ing, that can dis­tract a man from tak­ing his next breath. Com­pel­ling is this feel­ing, even in the com­mon uses of the Skill, and ad­dict­ive to any not hardened of pur­pose. But the in­tens­ity of this ex­ulta­tion when speak­ing to the Eld­er­lings is a thing for which we have no com­par­ison. Both senses and sense may be blas­ted forever from a man who uses the Skill to speak to an Eld­er­ling. Such a man dies rav­ing, but it is also true he dies rav­ing of his joy.

  The Fool was right. I had no idea of the peril I faced. I plunged on dog­gedly. I have no heart to de­tail the weeks that fol­lowed. Suf­fice to say that with each day Ga­len had us more un­der his sway, and that he also be­came more cruel and ma­nip­u­lat­ive. Some few pu­pils dis­ap­peared early on. Merry was one. She stopped com­ing after the fourth day. I saw her only once after that, creep­ing about the keep with a face both woe­be­gone and shamed. I learned later that Se­rene and the other wo­men had shunned her after she had dropped the train­ing, and when they later spoke of her, it was not as if she had failed at a test, but rather had com­mit­ted some low and loath­some act for which she could never be for­given. I know not where she went, only that she left Buck­keep and never re­turned.

  As the ocean sorts pebbles from sand on a beach and strat­i­fies them at the tide mark, so did the pound­ings and caress­ings of Ga­len sep­ar­ate his stu­dents. Ini­tially, all of us strove to be his best. It was not be­cause we liked or ad­mired him. I do not know what the oth­ers felt, but there was noth­ing in my heart but hate for him, a hatred so strong that it spawned a res­ol­u­tion not to be broken by such a man. After days of his ab­use, to wring a single grudging word of ac­know­ledge­ment from him was like a tor­rent of praise from any other mas­ter. Days of his be­littling should have made me numb to his mock­ery. In­stead, I came to be­lieve much of what he said, and tried fu­tilely to change.

  We vied con­stantly with one an­other to come to his at­ten­tion. Some emerged clearly as his fa­vour­ites. Au­gust was one, and we were of­ten urged to im­it­ate him. I was clearly his most des­pised. And yet this did not stop me from burn­ing to dis­tin­guish my­self be­fore him. After the first time, I was never last on the tower top. I never wavered from his blows. Nor did Se­rene, who shared my dis­tinc­tion of be­ing des­pised. Se­rene be­came Ga­len’s grov­el­ling fol­lower, never breath­ing a word of cri­ti­cism about him after that first lash­ing. Yet he con­stantly found fault with her, be­rated and re­viled her, and struck her far more of­ten than he struck any of the other wo­men. This, how­ever, made her only more de­term­ined to prove she could with­stand his ab­use, and she, after Ga­len, was the most in­tol­er­ant of any who wavered or doubted in our teach­ing.

  Winter deepened. It was cold and dark on the tower top, save for what light came from the stair­well. It was the most isol­ated place in the world, and Ga­len was its god. He forged us into a unit. We be­lieved ourselves él­ite, su­per­ior and priv­ileged to be in­struc­ted in the Skill. Even I, who en­dured mock­ery and beat­ings, be­lieved this to be so. Those of us he broke, we des­pised. We saw only one an­other for this time, we heard only Ga­len. At first I missed Chade. I wondered what Burrich and Lady Pa­tience were do­ing. But as months went by, such lesser oc­cu­pa­tions no longer seemed in­ter­est­ing. Even the Fool and Smithy came to be al­most an­noy­ances to me, so single-mindedly did I pur­sue Ga­len’s ap­proval. The Fool came and went si­lently then. There were times, though, when I was sorest and wear­i­est, when the touch of Smithy’s nose against my cheek was the only com­fort I had, and times when I felt shamed by how little time I was giv­ing to my grow­ing puppy.

  After three months of cold and cruelty, Ga­len had whittled us down to eight can­did­ates. The real train­ing fi­nally began then, and also he re­turned to us a small meas­ure of com­fort and dig­nity. These seemed by then not only great lux­ur­ies, but gifts from Ga­len to be grate­ful for. A bit of dried fruit with our meals, per­mis­sion to wear shoes, brief con­ver­sa­tion al­lowed at the table – that was all, and yet we were grov­el­lingly grate­ful for it. But the changes were only be­gin­ning.

  It comes back in crys­tal glimpses. I re­mem­ber the first time he touched me with the Skill. We were on the tower top, spaced even fur­ther now that there were fewer of us, and he went from one of us to the next, paus­ing a mo­ment be­fore each, while the rest of us waited in rev­er­ent si­lence. ‘Ready your minds for the touch. Be open to it, but do not in­dulge in the pleas­ure of it. The pur­pose of the Skill is not pleas­ure.’

  He wen­ded his way among us, in no par­tic­u­lar or­der. Spaced as we were, we could not see one an­other’s faces, nor did it ever please Ga­len that our eyes fol­low his move­ments. And so we heard only his brief, stern words, then heard the in-drawn gasp of each touched one. To Se­rene he said in dis­gust, ‘Be open to it, I said. Not cower like a beaten dog.’

  And last he came to me. I listened to his words, and as he had coun­selled us earlier, I tried to let go of every sens­ory aware­ness I had, and be open only to him. I felt the brush of his mind against mine, like a soft tickle on my fore­head. I stood firm be­fore it. It grew stronger, a warmth, a light, but I re­fused to be drawn into it. I felt Ga­len stood within my mind, sternly re­gard­ing me, and us­ing the fo­cus­ing tech­niques he had taught us (ima­gine a pail of purest white wood, and pour your­self into it) I was able to stand be­fore him, wait­ing, aware of the Skill’s ela­tion, but not giv­ing in to it. Thrice the warmth rushed through me, and thrice I stood be­fore it. And then he with­drew. He gave me a grudging nod, but in his eyes I saw not ap­proval but a trace of fear.

  That first touch was like the spark that fi­nally kindles the tinder. I grasped what it was. I could not do it yet; I could not send my thoughts out from me, but I had a know­ledge that would not fit into words. I would be able to Skill. And with that know­ing my re­solve hardened, and there was noth­ing, noth­ing Ga­len could have done that would stop me learn­ing it.

  I think he knew it, for he turned on me in the days that fol­lowed with a cruelty that I now find in­cred­ible. Hard words and blows he dealt me, but none could turn me aside. He struck me once in the face with his quirt. It left a vis­ible welt, and it chanced that when I was com­ing into the din­ing hall, Burrich was also there. I saw his eyes widen. He star­ted up from his place at table, his jaw clenched in a way I knew too well. But I looked aside from him and down. He stood a mo­ment, glar­ing at Ga­len, who re­turned his look with a su­per­cili­ous stare. Then, fists clenched, Burrich turned his back and left the room. I re­laxed, re­lieved there would be no con­front­a­tion. But then Ga­len looked at me, and the tri­umph in his face made my heart cold. I was his now, and he knew it.

  Pain and vic­tor­ies mixed for me in the next week. He never lost an op­por­tun­ity to be­little me. And yet, I knew I ex­celled at each ex­er­cise he gave us. I sensed the oth­ers grop­ing after his touch of Skill, but for me it was as simple as open­ing my eyes. I knew one mo­ment of in­tense fear. He had entered my mind with the Skill, and given me a sen­tence to re­peat aloud. ‘I am a bas­tard, and I shame my father’s name,’ I said aloud, calmly. And then he spoke again within my mind. You draw strength from some­where, bas­tard. This is not your Skill. Do you think I will not find the source? And then I quailed be­fore him, and drew back from his touch, hid­ing Smithy within my mind. His smile showed all his teeth to me.

  In the days that fol­lowed, we played a game of hide and seek. I must let him into my mind, to learn the Skill. Once there, I danced on coals to keep my secrets from him. Not just Smithy, but Chade and the Fool did I hide, and Molly and Kerry and Dirk, and other, older secrets I would not re­veal even to my­self. He sought them all, and I juggled them des­per­ately out of his reach. But des­pite all that, or per­haps be­cause of it, I felt my­self grow­ing stronger in the Skill. ‘Don’t mock me!’ he roared after one ses­sion, and then grew in­furi­ated as the other stu­dents ex­changed shocked glances. ‘At­tend to your own ex­er­cises!’ he roared at them. He paced away from me, then spun sud­denly and flung him­self at me. Fist and boot, he at­tacked me and, as Molly once had, I had no more thought than to shield my face and belly. The blows he rained on me were more like a child’s tan­trum than a man’s at­tack. I felt their in­ef­fect­ive­ness and then real­ized with a chill that I was re­pelling at him. Not so much that he would sense it, just enough that not one of his blows fell ex­actly as he had in­ten­ded. I knew, more, that he had no idea what I was do­ing. When at last he dropped his fists and I dared to lift my eyes, I felt mo­ment­ar­ily that I had won, for all the oth­ers on the tower top were look­ing at him with gazes mingled of dis­gust and fear. He had gone too far for even Se­rene to stom­ach. White-faced, he turned aside from me. In that mo­ment, I felt him reach a de­cision.

  That even­ing in my room, I was hor­ribly tired, but too en­er­vated to sleep. The Fool had left food for Smithy, and I was teas­ing him with a large beef knuckle. He had set his teeth in my sleeve and was wor­ry­ing it while I held the bone just out of his reach. It was the sort of game he loved, and he snarled with mock fe­ro­city as he shook my arm. He was near as big as he would get, and I felt with pride the muscles in his thick little neck. With my free hand, I pinched his tail and he spun snarling to this new at­tack. From hand to hand I juggled his bone, and his eyes dar­ted back and forth as he snapped after it. ‘No brain,’ I teased him. ‘All you can think of is what you want. No brain, no brain.’

  ‘Just like his owner.’

  I startled, and in that second Smithy had his bone. He flopped down with it, giv­ing the Fool no more than a per­func­tory wag of his tail. I sat down, out of breath. ‘I never even heard the door open. Or shut.’

  He ig­nored that and went straight to his topic. ‘Do you think Ga­len will al­low you to suc­ceed?’

  I grinned smugly. ‘Do you think he can pre­vent it?’

  The Fool sat down be­side me with a sigh. ‘I know he can. So does he. What I can­not de­cide is if he is ruth­less enough. But I sus­pect he is.’

  ‘So let him try,’ I said flip­pantly.

  ‘I have no choice in that.’ The Fool was adam­antly ser­i­ous. ‘What I had hoped to do was dis­suade you from try­ing.’

  ‘You’d ask me to give up? Now?’ I was in­cred­u­lous.

  ‘I would.’

  ‘Why?’ I de­man­ded.

  ‘Be­cause,’ he began, and then stopped in frus­tra­tion. ‘I don’t know. Too many things con­verge. Per­haps if I pluck one thread loose, the knot will not form.’

  I was sud­denly tired, and the earlier ela­tion of my tri­umph col­lapsed be­fore his dour warn­ings. My ir­rit­ab­il­ity won and I snapped, ‘If you can­not speak clearly, why do you speak at all?’

  He was as si­lent as if I had struck him. ‘That’s an­other thing I don’t know,’ he said at last. He rose to go.

  ‘Fool,’ I began.

  ‘Yes. I am that,’ he said, and left.

  And so I per­severed, grow­ing stronger. I grew im­pa­tient with our slow pace of in­struc­tion. We went over the same prac­tices each day, and gradu­ally the oth­ers began to mas­ter what seemed so nat­ural to me. How could they have been so closed off from the rest of the world, I wondered? How could it be so hard for them to open their minds to Ga­len’s Skill? My own task was not to open, but rather to keep closed to him what I did not wish to share. Of­ten, as he gave me a per­func­tory touch of the Skill, I sensed a tendril of seek­ing slink­ing into my mind. But I evaded it.

  ‘You are ready,’ he an­nounced one chill day. It was af­ter­noon, but the bright­est stars were already show­ing in the blue dark­ness of the sky. I missed the clouds that had yes­ter­day snowed upon us, but had at least kept this deeper cold at bay. I flexed my toes in­side the leather shoes that Ga­len per­mit­ted us, try­ing to warm them to life again. ‘Be­fore I have touched you with the Skill, to ac­cus­tom you to it. Now, today, we will at­tempt a full join­ing. You will each reach out to me as I reach out to you. But be­ware! Most of you have coped with res­ist­ing the dis­trac­tions of the Skill touch, but the power of what you felt was the light­est brush. Today will be stronger. Res­ist it, but stay open to the Skill.’

  And again he began his slow cir­cuit amongst us. I waited, en­er­vated but un­afraid. I had looked for­ward to at­tempt­ing this. I was ready.

  Some clearly failed, and were re­buked for lazi­ness or stu­pid­ity. Au­gust was praised. Se­rene was slapped for reach­ing forth too eagerly. And then he came to me.

  I braced as if for a wrest­ling con­test. I felt the brush of his mind against mine, and offered him a cau­tious reach­ing of thought. Like this?

  Yes, bas­tard. Like this.

  And for a mo­ment we were in bal­ance, hov­er­ing like chil­dren on a see-saw. I felt him steady our con­tact. Then, ab­ruptly, he slammed into me. It felt ex­actly as if the air had been knocked out of me, but in a men­tal rather than phys­ical way. In­stead of be­ing un­able to get my breath, I was un­able to mas­ter my thoughts. He rifled through my mind, ran­sack­ing my pri­vacy, and I was power­less be­fore him. He had won and he knew it. But in that mo­ment of his care­less tri­umph I found an open­ing. I grasped at him, try­ing to seize his mind as he had mine. I gripped him and held him, and knew for a dizzy­ing in­stant that I was stronger than he, that I could force into his mind any thought I chose to put there. ‘No!’ he shrieked, and dimly I knew that, at some former time, he had struggled like this with someone he had des­pised. Someone else who had also won as I in­ten­ded to. ‘Yes!’ I in­sisted. ‘Die!’ he com­manded me, but I knew I would not. I knew I would win, and I fo­cused my will and bore down on my grip.

  The Skill does not care who wins. It does not al­low any­one to sur­render to any one thought, even for a mo­ment. But I did. And when I did, I for­got to guard against the ec­stasy that is both the honey and the sting of the Skill. The eu­phoria rushed over me, drown­ing me, and Ga­len, too, sank be­low it, no longer ex­plor­ing my mind, but seek­ing only to re­turn to his.

  I had never felt the like of that mo­ment.

  Ga­len had called it pleas­ure, and I had ex­pec­ted a pleas­ant sen­sa­tion, like warmth in winter, or the fra­grance of a rose or a sweet taste in my mouth. This was none of these. Pleas­ure is too phys­ical a word to de­scribe what I felt. It had noth­ing to do with the skin or body. It suf­fused me, it washed over me in a wave that I could not re­pulse. Ela­tion filled me and flowed through me. I for­got Ga­len and all else. I felt him es­cape me, and knew it mattered, but could not care. I for­got all ex­cept ex­plor­ing this sen­sa­tion.

  ‘Bas­tard!’ Ga­len bel­lowed, and struck me with his fist on the side of my head. I fell, help­less, for the pain was not enough to jolt me from the en­trance­ment of the Skill. I felt him kick me, I knew the cold of the stones un­der me that bruised and scraped me, and yet I felt I was held, smothered in a blanket of eu­phoria that would not let me pay at­ten­tion to the beat­ing. My mind as­sured me, des­pite the pain, that all was well, that there was no need to fight or flee.