The Brotherhood: Blood (24 page)

Of course I don’t,
Odin thought, clamping his jaw together to keep from speaking out.
I didn’t do anything wrong.

Choosing not to reply, Odin once more turned his attention to the group of pages after they passed the T-shaped entryway that led up to the fifth, forbidden tower, eyes scanning the battlefield as first they arranged themselves into groups of two, then barreled toward one another with swords and staffs at the ready. The visage alone was enough to make him tremble, as it seemed no more than yesterday that he had been dueling one of the boys with one of the very swords one of those pages now held.

How desperately he wanted to say that one could not lose their art with the sword—that, like a quill on a piece of parchment, such an act was never forgotten, merely unpracticed—but decided to remain silent for fear of bringing up any further sentimental moments. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, watched as a page’s sword went flying into the air, then as the boy was pushed to the ground, symbolic of one’s testament to military life and the death that would eventually follow.

“We should go,” Jordan said, patting his back one last time. “There’s men to be seen today. We don’t want to keep them waiting.”

No,
Odin thought, but said nothing in response.
We don’t.

The courtyard was bursting with activity. Squires rushing back and forth to carry supplies for knights; pages skirting through the crowds hoping to be noticed by the men they so believed were heroes; women, children and royal men making their way along the sides of the streets, some with heads bowed and others giving the men their full recognition—to look upon such a sight and try to dissect its intent from an initial perspective was enough to give Odin a headache, but his trifles were soon gone as Jordan beckoned him forward and into the slowly-growing crowd.

This may be your only chance,
Odin thought, nodding, pushing himself forward and up to Master Jordan’s side.
You can’t blow it now.

Were he to lose this opportunity, he may never be conscripted into a knight’s service as a squire. Only the tower would remain.

Brushing the thoughts from his head as if it were mere dandruff on his shoulders, Odin continued to follow Jordan through the crowd, navigating the long streets lined with vendors and shopkeepers until, eventually, they began to make their way toward the furthest parts of the eastern expanse, where the stables stood in all their glory—tall, massive buildings that seemed to be equipped with each and every personal care device that could possibly be imagined.

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re about as sharp as they come, and besides—you
are
a mage after all.”

But does that really give me special treatment?

Without the knowledge on just how the men would respond to someone like him—he, a boy of only sixteen, locked in a tower and deprived of most, if not all of his weapons training but possessing an innate Gift of magic—he couldn’t necessarily be sure just how the men would react, thus forcing him into a slight panic attack that began with a heat in the chest and eventually spelled into a ringing within both of his ears.

For a long while, it seemed as though that constant chiming within his head would never stop. However—shortly thereafter, all sound ceased to exist within not only his head, but in the world around him.

Calm down,
the voice in his head said.
Everything will be just fine.

The world, which had since blurred into a variety of grey and moody colors, returned to full focus.

Directly before the two of them no more than a few feet away stood a series of men garbed in flush royal colors—including, but not limited to, men of different colors, but particularly Kadarians.

The situation in Germa had grown increasingly tense. Through the grapevine, and beyond the door in front of which guards often stood and discussed the daily happenings, he’d heard rumors, true or not, that the Germanian population was gathering near one of the other desert towns for what seemed like a grand meeting. It could not be determined from a vast distance whether or not this meeting was actually war, as Ornalan scouts pressed into the area could not actually force their way into such meeting halls, but for every reason possible it seemed as though something grand were about to happen. War, it seemed, lingered close, and for that alone a rumor had begun, between what Odin could only assume were the guards, that the draft would soon take place. They would obviously strike Bohren first, they said, for it was the closest to their bordering country itself, before spreading out and taking Sylina and eventually the farming down of Lianasa and military outpost Ke’Tarka, though whether or not that was true he couldn’t be sure. However, in staring at the black men beyond him, and in taking in each of their features from as vast a distance as he could imagine, Odin found himself trembling not in fear, but excitement.

These are men who joined our country to liberate themselves from Germa,
he thought, biting down upon, then slicking his lips.

Could they possibly be the men who would take him from his petty existence and whisk him off into a grand adventure?

No longer able to contain the excitement that lay dormant within his chest, Odin nodded, took a deep breath, then advanced forward with Jordan at his side.

Almost immediately upon arriving, the men turned their heads up.

“Hello gentlemen,” Jordan said, lacing his hands behind his back and assuming the straightest posture he could possibly bear. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to meet with myself. This is the young man I’ve personally written to you about.”

Personally?
Odin frowned, then said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” hoping at the same time that his tone hadn’t sounded too condescending or immortal.

The men said nothing, instead opting from silence. They glanced him up and down, from head to toe, before giving him indecisive looks of either appreciation or disdain. One of the Kadarians—a tall, somewhere-near six-and-a-half-foot man with an impressive physique and a pair of dark, nearly black eyes—stepped forward and lifted Odins arm, flexing the muscle and poking it with a forefinger. “He’s very well structured,” this man said, turning his eyes up and at Jordan. “Did you train him yourself?”

“He’s very well-read,” Jordan added, cutting Odin off before he could finish. “He can also write quite well as from what I’ve understand.”

“My only concern is that you might not be able to help me on my journeys to the deserts,” the Kadarian said.

The deserts?
Odin thought, casting a look in Jordan’s directions.
But I—

“Odin’s very strong,” Jordan added.

“I can tell,” the black man said, pressing his hands atop Odin’s shoulders. “He’s very well-built, but I’m concerned for his size.”

“That shouldn’t be—”

“I will be handling giant horses, Sir Jordan. It doesn’t matter how strong a boy is if he can’t handle the reins.”

When the black man stepped back and into the short crowd of men, Odin gave the man a slight nod and a bow of his head to signify his thanks before falling back and at Jordan’s side.

In the several moments that passed, those of which seemed all the crueler despite their intentions, Odin couldn’t help but feel as though the entire world was watching him.

It’s ok. They’re just watching you.

Watching him or not, each and every one of those eyes that lay upon him appeared to be sticks—harsh, jagged ones, meant only to harm instead of ultimately offer him something good.

“Does anyone else here want to ask the young man any questions?” Jordan asked, setting an arm across Odin’s shoulders. “We’re in no rush.”

After giving the other men a nod of thanks, Odin turned, shoved his hands into his pockets, then made his way to the end of the road—where, at the corner, he settled down and crossed his legs before settling his arms over his chest.

Immediately, the emotions began to flood in.

Jordan brings me out of the tower and all I get are cold shoulders.

Could he necessarily blame them though? They had, of course, questioned the reasoning beyond him being in the fifth tower, and had received no answer in response, so it was any wonder why they chose to disregard him with little more than a look. Even the men who had seemed to be paying attention to him—the Kadarian and the olive-skinned man in general—appeared disinterested in the utmost degree, but could they have been just for one simple slight of hand?

It’s ok,
he thought, sighing.
It’s only the first day.

So what, he wondered—some of the knights had already picked their squires, were already moving into the castle for their extended duration in the time of which they would prepare the teenage boys for their ascent into knighthood. Did it, in the end, really come down to how small you were or how you ‘looked?’ How could they know if he could or couldn’t do something just by looking at him?

They can’t
he decided,
because they
don’t
know what I can do.

What seemed like hours later, during a time in which Odin remained on the corner of the road with his legs crossed and his head bowed, Jordan returned bearing what appeared to be bad news. Face somber, expression plain and lips painted in a half-scowl, half-frown which seemed to make him hellish and entirely unpredictable, he let a sigh pass from his lips, crouched down beside Odin, then set a hand on his shoulder before he leaned forward and said the few telling words. “None of them were interested,” he said.

Why, Odin couldn’t be sure, for he knew himself to be a young man talented beyond the respects of most of his peers. His swordsmanship, his intuition, the intelligence gained from an uncanny memory that seemed never to forget a single word, letter or drawing and his magic for which he could be considered something of a God—for what reason did the men not want him under their jurisdiction? Did they feel as though he was dangerous, unruly, and for that was imprisoned within the forbidden fifth tower, or did they honestly and truthfully see only his size as a major issue when looking upon him and imagining a future with him in tow?

Does it matter?
he thought.

It seemed not to, considering the fact that no man would be enlisting him today, and for that alone Odin found himself depressed considerably far beyond the levels he should have been.