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overreacting like everyone else around here. Running away was a worse offense
than most, but it was hardly a calamity.
    A
faint rustle of sound made him look up. Me saw a proctor standing in the open
doorway.
    Warily
Caelan faced it. “What do you want?” he asked rudely.
    The
proctor said nothing, but only closed and bolted the door. The sound of the
lock shooting home made Caelan bite his lip.
    His
temper heated up, and he paced slowly around his small room twice before
plopping down on his cot. He didn’t care what kind of punishment they handed
out this time, he told himself. As soon as he got the chance, he was running
away again. And this time he would be properly prepared.
    In
the morning Caelan awakened to the sound of silence. The usual dawn bell was
not ringing. He listened a long while, his body attuned to the regimen of
Rieschelhold.
    Silence.
No work in the courtyard. No shuffling of sleepy boys along to the washrooms.
No bell of assembly. No smell of breakfast cooking.
    Getting
up, Caelan dressed and paced the floor hungrily. He felt stiff and sore this
morning, but when he flexed his right shoulder there was no discomfort from his
wound.
    The
continued quiet made him nervous and uneasy. So what were the proctors doing,
punishing all the boys for his infraction?
    Defiance
and resentment hardened in Caelan. If they thought to make him penitent, they
had misjudged him. Caelan could be persuaded, but he did not like to be pushed.
The more they tried to break him, the more he vowed to defy them.
    Outside
in the corridor, he heard doors opening slowly, the hinges creaking with
hesitation. Boys shuffled out, their queries to each other low and
apprehensive.
    Caelan
listened at his door with derision. No bell, he thought. Without a bell to tell
them what to do, the novices were stupid and helpless.
    That’s
what the masters wanted them to be. But he wasn’t ever going to become mindless
and blindly obedient. Rote learning, cruelty, and fear were the tools of lazy
teachers. They didn’t want the novices to think or grow. They considered
inquiring minds dangerous. Instead, the masters wanted trained monkeys, silent
and respectful monkeys, who would heal only the simple cases and be baffled by
anything requiring innovation.
    He
hated them, hated them all.
    “Watch
out! Proctor on the floor!” called someone in warning.
    The
voices and footsteps outside hushed immediately as though everyone had frozen
in place. Caelan pressed his ear to his door gain.
    “No
bell. No breakfast,” a proctor’s hollow, unnatural voice said into the quiet.
    Voices
broke out in consternation and protest.
    “Silence!”
the proctor ordered, and they quieted at once. “No classes are held. You will
remain in quarters until further notification. That is all.”
    There
came the repeated slam of doors up and down the corridor. Caelan heard the bolt
to his own door slide back, and he stepped away from it just as the door was
pushed open.
    Two
proctors stood looking in, their faces hidden deep within their cerulean hoods.
    One
of them pointed at Caelan with his carved staff.
    “Come.”
    Wary,
expecting a beating, Caelan made no move to obey.
    “You
have been summoned to the chambers of Elder Sobna. Come.”
    Caelan’s
mouth went dry, and for a moment he was frightened. He’d actually spoke to
Elder Sobna only once, on the day he first came to be enrolled. The Elder had
eyes like glaciers, a white beard, and a soft voice as quiet as falling snow.
He had made a dry little speech about welcoming the son of Master Beva. Caelan,
anxious to avoid favoritism, had said all the wrong things. Since then, the
Elder had not acknowledged his presence again.
    Caelan
straightened his shoulders and told himself not to worry. There was no
punishment worse than what he’d already faced. Maybe he was going to be
expelled. But as soon as that hope was born in Caelan, it died. No one was ever
disrobed from Rieschelhold. He’d probably have to