The Winter Boy Read online

  Rishana continued to stare into the mirror. If you can see a person’s heart and destiny in her eyes, what did hers reveal about the Allesha she wanted to be? Had the Alleshi changed her so fully that she no longer had any choices that truly came from within her? Or was the woman who stared back at her still the freeborn, independent individual she had always considered herself to be?

  Retreating into her steaming bath, Rishana gave herself fully to the sensual pleasure of it, and used it to clear her mind. As she dressed and prepared a lunch of fruit, cheese and bread, she turned her mind back to the question of her First Boy, and to the Alleshi. Later, she sat among the fallen leaves under the largest of her house-tall apple trees, nibbled at the meal, and considered her choices.

  While her mind tugged her toward rebellion, she had shaped her day according to Dara’s instructions — bath, meditation, lunch under the tree — and she recognized no contradiction in such behavior. Obedience to the Alleshi was deeply ingrained in her, as it was among all people and villages within the Peace borders. Starting in early childhood, all were taught to not give in to anger, but to follow whatever path the Alleshi decreed, until free will, unfettered by destructive emotions. could be restored.

  A child of the Peace, she obeyed.

  The resentment Rishana felt about being manipulated to choose a hard life, one devoted to problem boys, remained strong, but less emotional. She examined that anger, as she had studied her body in the mirror. And there, at the core of her being, where her ire had formed, she found her answers. She was calm and sure by the time Dara returned.

  Chapter 4

  Dara sat beside Rishana under the apple tree between Rishana’s house and barn. A gentle breeze stirred the brown leaves on the ground, tossing them to the cloudless sky. Neither spoke. Nor did they look at each other. Instead, both leaned against the tree’s rough, solid trunk, staring in different directions. Rishana took her time forming the words she wanted to say. They had to be simple, but effective.

  “I was angry with you,” Rishana said quietly.

  “I know,” Dara responded, just as calmly.

  “You and the others have worked hard to form me as you needed me to be.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your chisel chipped at the stone of my being until you whittled me down to my essential self, as if I were a problem boy.”

  Dara turned toward her charge. “I knew you would understand.”

  But Rishana’s sight remained focused outward and elsewhere. “Yes, I understand. But, I wonder, have you ever been wrong? What if, under that stone, you found a softness, a nature that required a gentler touch?”

  “Under the stone is always a softness, Rishana. It is in such softness that true strength is revealed.”

  “So now I must choose. Do I wish to work with boys on whom I would use a similar chisel? Or do I want to use water on clay?”

  “Yes.”

  “A boy to be chiseled is harder work,” Rishana continued in the same cool apprising tone. “But the result is a stone-core strength, a man of unusual power.”

  “A man not unlike the woman you are.”

  Rishana was surprised to hear it, but still didn’t turn toward Dara. Instead, she allowed her eyes to glaze over, hearing the meaning under the rhythm of their words, finding the truth that had been there all along.

  Dara leaned back against the tree.

  “The other kind of boy would shape under my hands with little resistance,” Rishana continued, “and with a great deal of joy and pleasure. Yet you have known that I would choose stress and conflict.”

  “Because it is what will give you the greater joy and pleasure in the end.”

  “No, because you knew the kind of woman you had shaped.”

  “The kind of woman you’ve always been.”

  “You assume much.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now, I am the same as you.”

  “Yes.”

  “How will I know that I’m making the right choices for my boys?”

  “You will know or you will come to those of us who know. It is in your blood, as well as in your training.”

  “So I will take this boy whom you have chosen.”

  “Only if you wish it. Your will has always been your own to command.”

  “A free will shaped by you.”

  “No. One unearthed by us, Rishana. It is your essential self that will be doing the choosing. We only helped you understand the shape of that self.”

  “Yet, before I make my choice, you already know what it will be.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you know me even more intimately than I have known myself.”

  “Because I recognized you as my successor before anyone else. And I had been waiting long for you.”

  “Perhaps too long, Dara. Perhaps you have seen in me what you needed and wanted to see.”

  “No. I saw in you what you needed and wanted to be.”

  “I understand, but a part of me is still angry with you.”

  “Yes.”

  “What am I to do with that anger?”

  “Accept it and use it. Without it, you would not have the free will we cherish and need. It is the inner conflict that will prepare you for the many conflicts ahead.”

  “So it is already decided.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it is my decision.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.” Rishana looked up at the blue sky framed by the Sentinel Mountains. A solitary small white cloud drifted in the wind. It was a sharp, clean day, with summer a long-ago memory; winter wouldn’t be held at bay much longer.

  Chapter 5

  Ryl cautiously pushed open the heavy oak door and peered outside. One of the serving girls was scurrying through the kitchen garden back toward the inn. Returning from an illicit rendezvous with a caravan lover, Ryl supposed. No need to fear her snitching on them. She’d have too much explaining of her own to do.

  “It’s clear. Let’s go,” he whispered to Sim, who hovered in the hallway.

  Sim moved as though he never had to be wary of anything. Larger than Ryl in height and girth, with broad muscular shoulders, and much blacker than Ryl’s swarthy coloring, Sim was, at nineteen, a year older. However, Ryl assumed the lead, running toward the trees surrounding the garden. It was the longer way around, but they’d be less likely to be seen and stopped.

  Behind him, Sim stomped noisily and tripped over some roots. Didn’t he know how to run in a wood? But Sim was okay. Not like most of the other Petitioners he’d met so far.

  At first, Ryl hadn’t known what to make of him. When Sim’s family had joined the trade caravan that Ryl and his folks had traveled with for the last leg of their journey to The Valley, Sim had quickly become everyone’s pal. Everyone but Ryl, that is.

  No one ever had anything disparaging to say about Sim, which made Ryl look bad by comparison. Of course, Ryl’s parents were used to having to explain away their son’s behavior. But to Ryl’s ears, Shria’s sighs and Mistral’s corrections had seemed more frequent after Sim had shown up.

  Ryl had tried to egg Sim on, but nothing would rile him. Too damned easygoing, Ryl had decided. Regardless of how well-aimed the insult or well-contrived the difficulty that Ryl had cast at the other lad, it was like throwing feathers at a brook. No effect whatever.

  Then one evening after supper, when everyone was relaxing around their campfires, soothing aching feet and backs, repairing gear and clothes, sharing stories, Ryl had wandered off. He preferred being alone to feeling so alone in the middle of everything.

  Sim had followed, noisy as always. No way that boy could ever sneak up on anyone. As Ryl turned a corner around a wagon piled high with trunks of goods, he quickly pivoted. Sim almost ran into him.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ryl demanded.

  Sim shrugged. “We should talk, Ryl.”

  “What do we have to talk about?”

  “I don’t know. But we sh
ould get to know each other, don’t you think? We’re both going to be Allemen from the same Season if we’re lucky.”

  Ryl figured his chances of being Blessed were as good as those of a fish learning to fly.

  “You think I want to know you, huh? Okay. I heard your pa bragging what a good fighter you are.” Ryl crouched with his fists in front of his face. “Show me what you’re made of.”

  Sim shook his head. “I don’t want to fight you, Ryl. I just want to talk.”

  “Talk with your fists. Maybe I’ll hear you better.”

  “But Ryl, you don’t have anything to prove to me. I’m sure I’m not as good as you.”

  “You’ve a lot to prove to me, though.”

  Ryl jabbed at Sim’s stomach, but Sim blocked it. Then Ryl aimed for the chest with his right, and while Sim parried with his forearm, Ryl came in with a left undercut that connected solidly with Sim’s face, felling him like a tree. Sim pushed himself up into a sitting position and wiped the blood gushing from his nostrils.

  Ryl waited, knowing the yelling would start any moment.

  Instead, Sim grinned at Ryl and asked, “How’d you do that?”

  “You left yourself wide open.”

  “Could you show me?”

  Ryl held out a hand to Sim to help him off the ground.

  Soon after, they strolled back to the campfire, both bleeding and bruised, and laughing so hard that everyone turned toward the disheveled pair.

  Mistral leapt up. “Skies! Ryl, what have you done now?”

  Before Ryl could say anything or stalk away, Sim stepped between them. “Sir, I asked Ryl to help me improve my fighting skills. It’s one of my weak points. He’s really very good, you know.” Then he turned to Ryl and winked. “Tomorrow night, I want you to show me that sneak attack again. Okay?”

  Mistral sat down without another word. The boys’ mothers bathed their wounds.

  From then on, Ryl and Sim became close companions. Ryl didn’t even blame Sim when he overheard Mistral say to Sim’s father, “You’ve got a good boy there. He’ll be a solid Alleman.”

  “If he’s Blessed,” Sim’s father countered.

  “Oh, he’ll be Blessed. The Alleshi never let ones like him get away.”

  Ryl understood that it wasn’t Sim’s fault that Mistral liked him better than his own son. After all, Pa probably knew as well as Ryl what a fruitless journey this would be. Whatever powers the Alleshi possessed, Ryl was convinced that they’d be able to see right through him. Once that happened, no Allesha would be willing to select him. Ryl had long ago realized that not even Mistral would have picked him, if he’d had a choice in the matter.

  Things got easier when they finally arrived at the Southwest Inn above The Valley, and the boys were housed in the Petitioners Wing, far from their parents’ private rooms. What Mistral couldn’t see, he couldn’t complain about.

  Not that the inn was that great. Ryl had to endure the Battai’s endless questions during the interminable official interviews. But it didn’t end there. The old busybody found Ryl wherever he was: in a corner by himself, wandering a garden, or even at supper with his parents.

  Then there was the Healer examination — much more extensive and invasive than anything he had ever known. She probed and listened to his body so intimately that Ryl wondered once again at the propriety of a woman being a Healer. Among his people, only men took such roles. However, he tried to be charitable; she was so old and shriveled it was probably the only chance she had to touch a man.

  The announcements began almost as soon as Ryl had settled into the Petitioners’ wing. Arn, Jack and Mannockin were the first to be Blessed. Hanton, Yan, Daylor, and Staf were next. It didn’t help when Sim reminded Ryl that those seven had arrived earlier and so had a head start. Each boy chosen represented one less Allesha available for the coming Season.

  Ryl found himself eying the others, weighing his worth against each one. With little more than one hundred Alleshi planning to share the Winter Season, and scores of petitioning boys in each of the eight inns ringing The Valley, Ryl struggled to find reason to hope, to believe that any Allesha might actually want him.

  What would happen if he were turned away, as most Petitioners were? Would Lilla go against her mother? Would he dare ask? Ryl couldn’t bear the idea of putting Lilla through a council shunning. But what if it were the only way they could be together?

  Hanging around the inn quickly got on Ryl’s nerves. That’s when he came up with the idea of stealing away to the tradegrounds. Anything would be better than sitting around doing nothing, listening to the other boys gossiping about the wondrous Alleshi and their damned Allemen, being cornered once more by the Battai, or running into Mistral.

  Ryl had no problem convincing Sim to join him; all he had to do was mention Emmy. The daughter of Schul, the leader of their caravan, Emmy was a tease who had set her sights on Sim, but didn’t give him any satisfaction. Then again, Sim hadn’t pressed for it.

  “She’s not like that,” Sim had insisted. “She’s a nice girl who dreams of marrying an Alleman.”

  “She’s not so nice, Sim. All you have to do is ask; you’ll see.”

  Sim had refused to discuss it any further. But Ryl had noticed that Sim couldn’t keep his eyes off Emmy during the entire trip, and he jumped at the chance of seeing her one more time.

  Ryl and Sim cut through the woods, hoping to avoid people until they could lose themselves in the crowds at the tradegrounds. Not that they were doing anything expressly forbidden. No one had told them they had to stay put; just that they couldn’t go below into The Valley unescorted. Besides, what harm could it do to spend some time among the caravans?

  The day was balmy, with bright sunlight streaking through the trees. It was almost spring-like, except that newly fallen leaves crunched underfoot and the only green in the woods were old-growth pine and spruce. Sounds from the tradegrounds permeated the forest, an almost subliminal buzz which coalesced into a thumping, like faraway drums. The closer they got, the more clearly Ryl could discern competing strains of music and a cacophony of voices shouting out their wares.

  As Ryl and Sim approached the edge of the woods, so many paths wove through the increasingly sparse trees, they no longer bothered trekking off trail. Sim spotted a young man in brown trousers and a black wool cloak walking on a parallel path. “Look, Ryl, an Autumn Boy.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “From the way he carries himself. Don’t you see it?”

  “Looks no different from any of the other guys we’ve seen.”

  “No, Ryl, I’m sure.”

  Ryl was irritated at the fuss Sim was making, but mostly at the idea that it was over a boy who had received what he probably would never have — the mysteries and magic of an Alleshine Season.

  “Hey, you!” Ryl called out as he cut through the trees to the other path. Catching up to the young man, Ryl grabbed his elbow and spun him around. “Didn’t you hear me calling you!?”

  About the same age as any of the Petitioners, the fellow was really pretty average, not very tall or broad, with muddy brown hair and a washed-out complexion. But something about him made Ryl feel small and clumsy.

  “I didn’t realize you were calling me,” he said in a quiet, dignified voice. “How may I help you?”

  “Well, my friend and I were having a disagreement, and I was wondering if you could help us resolve it.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “He thinks you’re an Autumn Boy. I said you’re probably caravan trash. Which is it?”

  “Ryl!” Sim had finally caught up, brushing dry leaves from his clothes; he’d stumbled yet again in his rush to stop Ryl. Composing himself, Sim said in that conciliatory tone that Ryl hated, “Please excuse us, sir. My friend meant no harm.” Then he pulled on Ryl’s arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

  The Autumn Boy started to walk away.

  Shrugging Sim off him, Ryl hissed, “Don’t you apologize for me!” He stormed after
the Autumn Boy, and shoving against his shoulder, demanded, “I still want to know what you think you are.”

  The young man looked Ryl up and down, studying him. “I don’t believe you want to do this, but you can’t figure out how to get out of it without being embarrassed. Let me help you. Yes, your friend is correct, I am just finishing my Season as a Blessed Boy. But you are also correct, I am Vetram, son of Vexam, the caravan leader. Now, I’m headed to the Southwest Battai’s with a message from the Alleshi. I believe you were planning to enjoy yourselves at the tradegrounds. Let us continue on our way with no further unpleasantness.”

  “What is the problem here?”

  Ryl hadn’t heard the woman approach and nearly jumped at the sound of her commanding voice. One look at her and he knew he was in trouble. A tall, buxom old woman, with unruly grey hair that still had remnants of red, she needed no insignia or robe to declare who and what she was.

  “No problem, Allesha,” Vetram said. “My companions and I were simply having a… spirited discussion.”

  Her eyes glided over Ryl and Sim until Ryl felt there was nothing about them she didn’t absorb and understand. “Tell me your names.”

  Sim bowed his head and turned his hands upward at waist level, in the appropriate traditional greeting accorded Alleshi. “I am honored, Allesha. I am Sim of the Emet.”

  The Allesha grazed his hands with hers, in perfunctory response to the ritual. “Welcome to our Valley, Sim of the Emet,” she said, though she was looking at Ryl. “And you?”

  “I’m Ryl of the Birani.” Under the pressure of her unflinching gaze, Ryl belatedly bowed and opened his hands. “And I am honored, Allesha.”

  Filling his hands fully with hers, she responded “Welcome to our Valley, Ryl of the Birani.” But she didn’t move her hands away, staring almost transfixed into his eyes, reading his face. “Mistral’s son,” she added.