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think of was his own exposed back and of
how the lurker had died from a javelin throw.
    Behind
him the men shouted encouragement and called out bets.
    They
were laughing, and Caelan told himself they were only trying to scare him.
Maybe they wouldn’t really spear him in the back for sport. After all, they had
saved his life.
    He
stumbled on his bad leg and glanced back just in time to see the man throw.
    The
javelin came, arcing perfectly through the air. Too late, Caelan tried to
double his speed, tried to zigzag to dodge it.
    Too
late.
    It
hit his shoulder with a glancing blow, bringing a ripping flame across his
back. The impact drove him down, and he was falling, falling in a tumbling dive
that took him off the road and down into the ditch beyond it.
    There
were sticks and briars and stubble from where the bank had been cleared. He
rolled in a bruising tangle,  unable to stop his impetus, and all the while
there was the brutal fire in his back, unquenchable, driving him mad.
    He
landed at the bottom with a jolt. Numbed and shaken, he sank into stagnant mud
and water that was freezing cold. With a groan, he tried once to lift himself,
but the effort proved beyond his strength.
    He
groaned again, hurting so much he couldn’t think. The darkness seemed to tilt
and fold over him. He heard a strange rushing sound, and then there was
nothing, nothing at all.

Chapter Three
    Caelan
awakened in a shaft of sunlight that streamed in over his cot. The air smelled warm and
aromatic with herbs. Dragging open his eyes, he blinked slowly until the room
began to make sense. It smelled like the infirmary at school, only he was
surrounded by screens that blocked his view of the rest of the ward.
    He
felt strangely light-headed and lethargic. A warm blanket of moag wool covered
him, and a little brazier on a stand flickered with a small fire that kept his
area comfortable.
    “You’re
awake.”
    The
voice startled him. Caelan lifted his head slightly, finding the effort
exhausting, and smiled at his cousin’s serious face. “Agel,” he said, his voice
sounding thin.
    Agel
did not smile back. The sleeves of his robe were rolled up above the elbow, and
he was carrying a tray of items that he set upon a small table next to Caelan’s
cot. A lock of his dark hair had fallen over his forehead, and his blue eyes
were as cold as a winter lake.
    In
silence he set out a roll of bandages, small crocks of ointment, and bronze
scissors.
    Frowning,
Caelan tried to make sense of things. He had the feeling of time lost, and his
memories all seemed hazy and confused. “How did I get here?” he asked. “What
happened?”
    “Sit
up, please,” Agel said coldly. “If you’re too weak, I’ll assist you.”
    Caelan
levered himself slowly upright, finding himself absurdly weak. Pain flared
across his back, making him suck in a sharp breath, and with it came clear
recollection of his attempt to join the army, the soldiers who had robbed him
and speared him, leaving him for dead in a ditch.
    Meanwhile
Agel had started undoing his dressings. Caelan tried to catch his cousin’s eye.
    “I
remember,” he said. “The soldiers tried to kill me.”
    Agel’s
hands went on working with gentle skill.
    “How
did I get back?” Caelan asked.
    Agel
said nothing.
    Caelan
sighed, then winced. At once Agel stopped and reached for a damp sponge to soak
a place where the dressing had stuck to skin.
    “I
asked you a question,” Caelan said.
    Agel
evaded his gaze and made no answer.
    Footsteps
outside the screen made both boys look up. Master Grigori entered with his
hands tucked austerely inside his sleeves. His white robe was stained with
blood splatters. His eyes held the cool blankness of severance.
    Agel
stepped aside, and in silence Master Grigori examined Caelan’s back. His
fingers were warm on Caelan’s skin. His probing was gentle, pausing at each
place when Caelan winced. His touch drew away the pain, leaving behind a gentle
tingle. A sense of