And they must know fear-the terror of the unknown, rumors enhanced by whispers, imagination multiplying dire fancies. They knew it as he had known it, now so long ago. Then, as they did now, he had stood trembling on the brink of mysteries, half-tempted to run, only the shame of displaying his fear holding him fast.
Others had not been as strong. They had worn the yellow until they had been given a second chance. And even then-
Vestaler mentally shook himself, recognizing the trend his thoughts were taking. To brood was useless, to regret the same. None had accused him, yet he felt his guilt. He should have known. To him the responsibility-to him the blame.
"Master!"
A junior was at his side, the carved bowl filled with water in his hands. A discreet reminder that time was passing and there was still much to do. The instruction, the warning, the blessing. And, afterwards, the journey to the place of ordeal. His voice held the tones of an organ.
"You are at the threshold of becoming men. To be a man is not simply to grow. A man is not a large child. He is a person who has proven his right to exist, to help, to serve. He has gained the right to perpetuate his line in the production of children. Yet, how to prove that you have reached the state of manhood? To take your rightful place among us? To share as all share in the fruits of the soil, the common labor?"
A pause as a gong throbbed, soft thunder accentuating his words, engraving them on memory.
"You are to be taken to the high places. There, yon will be left in solitude for the duration of the night. Those who are weak of will, have guilt in their hearts, are unfitted to join the community as men, will not return. If any of you hold doubt as to your fitness, now is the time to speak."
Another pause, another beat of the gong. Those who spoke would be removed, given further instruction, another chance. Men grew old at different speeds-sometimes they never achieved true maturity.
Now it was time for the blessing. He gave it, dipping his hands in the scented water, scattering limp droplets. A symbolic rain coupled with an actual washing, an act which absolved him and all from any taint of guilt.
Should any fail they would be innocent of blood. And some would fail. Always, there were some who failed.
The gong throbbed for the last time, soft thunder echoing within the chamber, dying in murmurs as it was muted by the artifacts, the walls. In answer to the signal the doors opened, armed men standing outside, the escort waiting to conduct the initiates.
Vestaler watched them go, looking from a secluded window. The parents also would be watching, remaining equally unseen, but others had no reason to hide. Men grown old and others new to the estate. Boys almost touching the age of selection, and others with still many years to go.
Boys and men, but no women, no girls. They had their own ways, and each at such times remained apart.
At the side of the column Varg Eidhal set the pace. He was a big man, prone to easy laughter, one fond of sport and wine. The ceremonies irked him, and he was bad in the fields-two things which had persuaded the Council to grant his request to patrol the far slopes.
It was a job he liked. There was opportunity to hunt and to escape routine duty. Time had given him command and mostly, he enjoyed the life. Only at times like this did he tend to become short with his men.
"Keep in step there!" he rapped. "Armand, lengthen your stride! Lambert, shorten yours! That's better. Left! Left! Left, right, left!"
One of the boys stumbled.
"Easy, lad." Eidhal was unexpectedly gentle. "Just keep your head up and your eyes straight ahead. Just remember that tomorrow, you'll be a man."
A man or a memory-a tear in a woman's eye, a hardness in a man's expression. Eidhal didn't like to think about it.
The houses fell behind as they marched through fields thick with well-tended crops. A figure rose to stare towards them, a man dressed in gray, his face blank, his hands hanging limply at his sides. A ghost, a thing Eidhal didn't like to look at or think about. He ignored the call from the figure which came shambling towards the column.
"Wait! I wanna come. I wanna…"
The gray figure stopped, one hand lifting to finger its mouth. The hand fell as, like an automarum, it turned away to resume the endless task of weeding.
"Sir!" One of the boys had heard the call. "Why can't he-"
"Keep moving, boy!" Eidhal snapped the command. "Later, you will understand."
The fields passed and now the end of the valley could be seen in greater detail. Slopes narrowing, rising, the ruby of thorn thick at the crests. A path led upwards toward the high places, kept clear by continual labor, another of the gray ghosts vanishing as they approached.
The pace was slower now. The sun, while low, was still high enough to grant a little slack and Eidhal was not a man who took pleasure in the discomfort of others.
Armand came towards Eidhal as he called a halt on a level space.
"You want me to go ahead Varg? Just in case?"
The lift of his spear was eloquent. There could be predators lying in wait-the boys had to have the best chance they could get.
"Go ahead. Take half the men with you and be careful. Yell if you see anything." Eidhal glanced at the sun. "I can give you the best part of an hour. Move ahead, but don't go past the crescent."
He sighed as they raced up the path to the crest, wishing he were with them, but command held duties and they could not be ignored.
"Sir! Could you tell us what to expect? Give us a hint?"
"What's your name, boy?"
"Clem Marish, sir. I-"
"You should have known better than to ask." Eidhal remembered him now. He had worn the yellow for a period, no blame in that, but blame enough now that he had broken the rule.
"Yes, sir. I know, sir. I'm sorry." Terrified, afraid of what was to come.
"Just stay calm," said Eidhal, quietly. Safe advice which he must have received already. No father would remain wholly silent, despite the tradition. "Keep your head, stay where we put you and be resolute."
The boy nodded, unconvinced, and Eidhal remembered something else. An older brother who had failed to return-no wonder the lad was scared.
"Up," he ordered briskly. To delay now would be cruel. Fear was contagious. "Up and on our way!"
Beyond the crest, a fan of cleared thorn ran up a gentle slope which rose abruptly into a mass of slender pinnacles of jagged stone. They ran in an uneven curve for the distance of a mile, the remains of an old ridge which had been shattered and eroded in eons past. Rocks were heaped at the foot of the spires, clumps of grass and scrub clinging to the detritus. A section had been cleared-the high places of the ordeal.
Eidhal led the way towards them, walking straight, seeing the figures of Armand and his men looking small as they quested among the rocks.
Dumarest watched them come. He leaned against a pinnacle, the woman slumped at his feet. Iduna was close to exhaustion, her hair soiled, her clothing grimed, her eyes bruised hollows in the pallor of her face.
"Earl!" she muttered. "Earl?"
"Men," he said. "Men and boys." He added, comfortingly, "It's all right, Iduna. We're safe now."
"Safe? With animals like the Candarish?"
"With people."
He moved, feeling the nagging ache of bruises, of muscles overstrained. The laceration on his scalp was a festering burn. Despite his reassurance, he was being cautious. If these men were from the valley he had searched for, they could have a short way with strangers. A people who wanted to remain secret could not afford to arouse curiosity. He stepped behind the pinnacle as Iduna rose to stand beside him.
"Boys," she said wonderingly. "Why are they here, Earl? What are they doing?"
The party had halted before one of the cleared fingers of stone. As they watched a boy climbed it, reaching the top to cling awkwardly to the jagged summit. Once settled, the others moved away to another pinnacle well away from the first.