Shaman's Crossing

“No, sir. I shall not neglect my books.” Spink’s pleasure at the thought of two days away from the routine of the Academy shone in his face. He beamed as I had not ever seen him smile before.



I think that such an honest display of warm anticipation pleased my uncle, for he gruffly ordered us to “put my nephew’s bag in the boot, and then hurry off to fetch Kester’s pack. Epiny, wait in the carriage. I will not be long.”



“But I want to go with them, to see Nevare’s dormitory, Papa!”



For one horrifying moment, I thought my uncle would accede to this also. Instead, he held out his arm to her and patted it firmly with the fingers of his other hand. After a moment she sighed in resignation, and obediently set her hand atop his arm. He escorted her back to the carriage, and then he himself went up the steps of the administration building. As the door closed behind him, she scowled at us from the window of the carriage and gestured imperiously that we should be on our way.



I loaded my bag into the boot and then Spink and I risked a demerit by running full tilt back to Carneston House. As Epiny had predicted, it took very little time for him to stuff his necessities into a small bag, and then we were off, again at a run. Although we had hurried, my uncle and Epiny were both waiting beside the carriage when we returned. Young Caulder was there, and despite my uncle’s disapproving grimace, he seemed to be trying to strike up a conversation with Epiny. At that moment it dawned on me that it was very likely that my cousin knew Caulder if her mother and his mother were actually friends.



We caught the end of some admonition Epiny was delivering to him as we hurried up, out of breath. “…just tell him you won’t wear it, Caulder. Has your father no idea of how silly you look, all dressed up as a cadet when it will be years and years until you are really old enough to be one? It’s like you are playing dress-up in your nursery! Look at me, now. I’myears older than you are, and yet you don’t see me all dressed up as if I were already a lady of the court or a married woman!”



Caulder’s cheeks were very pink. He sucked in his lower lip, almost as if he feared it would tremble, and glared at Spink and me as if it were our fault we had overheard his friend’s remonstrance. He brought his heels together and bowed to Epiny, saying only, “I shall look forward to seeing you at Lake Foror for the spring holiday.”



“Perhaps,” she said vaguely, and then, turning aside from him, she lifted her whistle to her lips and tweeted it at us inquiringly.



“We’re ready,” I told her, almost defensively. The way Caulder was staring at us promised trouble for Spink and me later. I felt it unwise to completely ignore the boy, so I bid him a stiff farewell, as did Spink. I suddenly wanted, more than ever, to be away from the Academy.



On the long ride to my uncle’s home, he and I dominated the conversation. I do not think Spink had ever been in so fine a carriage. He touched the leather of the seat, fingered the tassel on the cushion, and then abruptly folded his hands on his lap. He looked out the window for most of the journey, and I did not blame him, for Epiny stared at him frankly, breathing lightly and speculatively through her whistle. I thought her behavior quite childish for her years and wondered that her father tolerated it, but he seemed caught up in quizzing me about my studies, routine, classmates, and teachers, and ignored his wayward daughter.



At one point, in the midst of my uncle telling me a story about his days at boarding school, she took the whistle out of her mouth, pointed it at Spink, and said accusingly, “Kellon Spinrek Kester. Am I right?”



Spink, startled, only replied with a sharp nod. When my uncle looked at me quizzically, I said, “Spink’s father was a war hero. He was tortured to death by Plainsmen.”



“He lasted over six hours,” Epiny enlightened us, and then added for our benefit, “I adore history. I much prefer our family’s soldier son journals to the watered-down places-and-dates history in the schoolbooks. Your father’s journal mentions Spink’s father, Nevare. Did you know that?”



“Not until now,Epiny, ” I said, deliberately using her first name, as she had made so free with Spink’s nickname. Then I inwardly winced, wondering if my uncle would think me ill mannered, but in truth, I do not think he even noticed. I was shocked when Spink said, very quietly, “I should like to read those entries if I might, Lord Burvelle.”



“Of course you may, Cadet Kester,” my uncle replied warmly. “But I fear that we shall have to rely on Epiny to find them for us. My brother, Nevare’s father, sent us more than twenty-five volumes during the course of his service for the king. He was a very prolific writer in his soldier son days.”