Victaus was pushed up to the yawning gate entrance by his parents. Here, by the evil wrought iron gate, they waited in awkward silence. Victaus stood there in the growing darkness, just the three of them with only the naked fingers of the trees scraping together dryly in the cool breeze. Victaus still thought the wrought iron fence looked evil, a wall of spikes ready for bodies to impale. His father, Draeniel, stood just behind Victaus, eyes staring off into space as was his way, refusing to meet Victaus' eyes when Victaus looked up at him. Draeniel did not want to see Victaus gone. Velaine, his mother, was the one who had pushed Victaus out, apprenticing him out without even talking to his father. It was dark now. The sky was a deep blue just being speckled by distant silver dots half-blocked by the lattice of black tree branches.
Victaus jumped: the sound of something moving could be heard coming up the path. A light came towards them from between the clustered trunks of trees. Soon, a figure still only a shadow except for the arm that held the lantern, came into view, boots thumping on tree roots and stones. This must be him: the witch hunter Tredael. Father put a reassuring hand on Victaus's shoulder; Velaine only shifted impatiently. The swinging lantern turned and now the man was like a black spectre moving through the darkness straight towards them, his face masked in shadows. Victaus backed up against his father, nuzzling his head into the fabric of his father's doublet, feeling the rising and falling of his stomach. Draeniel squeezed Victaus' shoulder. The witch hunter stood before them lantern swinging slowly in his hand which, even in the pale orange light, Victaus could see was gnarled and scarred. The hunter wore a black cape of coarse weave and a hood hid his face except his frowning mouth. His waist was crossed by a bandolier containing pouches and slots for wooden stakes; his belt was covered in small and large pouches too, and all manner os small objects and charms Victaus could not even begin to name.
"You the Tairmholts?" the words came rasping out from under the hood so suddenly that Victaus jumped back against his father. The shadows under the cowl shifted; Victaus knew the man's eyes were on him
"Draeniel De' Tairmholt, and this is my wife Velaine–" Victaus felt his father's voice resonant through his head as his father spoke.
"We're here to give you the boy as an apprentice, remember? I sent you a messenger that you most likely received." Velaine cut over father, taking one step towards the grizzled stranger.
The man lowered the lantern so its light fell squarely on Victaus face; he turned away from the light, burying his face deeper into his father.
"Why he looks pale as a town girl." the stranger's voice came wheezing out from under the hood, smacking against Victaus' face hot and smelling of alcohol. "I bet he hasn't done a proper days work in his life. You do realize what your signing your lad up to don't you?"
Draeniel began to say something, Victaus could hear his voice begin to rise in his chest, but Velaine cut him off again with an impetuous flick of her hand.
"The arrangements, master witch hunter, have already been made. It's time the boy was apprenticed out to a master, and what more manly than that of a witch hunter?" Velaine laid a hand suddenly on her stomach, as Victaus had noticed her doing most of the night and the day before; just as quickly, she took it off and continued speaking, "Besides, I would not want to deprive you of training a second, passing on your knowledge. Though I doubt he'll even see much of what you do: this place is very quiet." she finished with a cold look down her nose at Victaus; a face that father tended to miss.
"And why, ma'am, do you think it's so quiet?" the man said leaning forward, the scars around his mouth and on his hands very evident in the lantern light.
This time Velaine began to say something, though better of it, and snapped her mouth closed.
"Well, then, if we're agreed, I need to hurry on. It's nearly the first full moon of autumn, the bugarts'll be out feeding soon. Eight years then? Is that what you said?"
"Yes, eight years apprenticeship should give him enough time too..." Velaine looked down at Victaus from the corners of her eyes, "Mature."
Velaine's hand went around Victaus shoulder, nails digging into his skin as she thrust him toward the glowering man. Victaus recoiled, turning back to face his father. Draeniel still wouldn't meet his eyes. His father knelt down and opened his arms; Victaus fell against his fathers chest and hugged him tight, tears falling off his chin onto his father's fine doublet.
"I'm sorry," His father's whispered voice rumbled in his ear, "we'll meet again, my son."
Victaus stood back from his father, who finally looked at him with a sad smile. The light of the lantern glinted off lines of water running from Draeniel's drooping, brown eyes into his beard.
Words came trembling out of Victaus, "Don't make me go! I don't want to! Let me stay, I promise I'll do all my lessons, I'll fence everyday; I'll be good!"
Velaine pushed her way in between them, shooing Victaus off with her look. The man was standing on the other side of the wrought iron fence waiting. Draeniel stood up behind his wife, still watching as Victaus slowly–ever so slowly–shuffled through the open gateway. Draeniel at last dropped his gaze as Velaine placed a hand on her stomach. She then turned and marched off, gesturing for her husband to follow. Victaus stared for a while at the dark, empty space that his father had left.
"Ya going to stand there all night, boy? Come along!" the man grabbed Victaus by the scruff of his neck, pushing him into the circle of lantern light in front of him, "Let's get going: got an early day 'morrow."
Victaus let the man push him along down the path, leaving the clearing and the gloomy iron fence behind, dark trees surrounded them on all sides now except for the narrow dirt strip of the path. Black fingers and bony limbs with wooden skin reached towards Victaus and only the weak circle of light held them at bay. He was numb. Victaus' mind refused to register exactly what was happening to him: all he knew, all he had known and experienced was behind him now. His bedroom, his books, his toys, and his friends were safe and cozy back in Tairm, but he was marching on gelatin legs towards an unknown future with a complete stranger. Victaus scrunched up his face, water was gathering in his eyes but he refused to cry in front of the man; tears rolled down his cheeks anyway. He felt his chest tighten with an incoming sob. But he clenched his fists and kept his mouth shut. He would be a man; he'd show them. Everyone would see what a man he would be and surly Velaine would allow him back home. Surely she would.
"Well, seeing as we are now going to spend a lot of time together, we might as well–" the stranger began to say in his harsh, rasping voice that made the night wind sound silken. Victaus cut him off with a screeching sob, having been shocked out of his misery. He choked back the cry, tears flooding down his cheeks. He quickly snapped his mouth together and smeared the teardrops with the back of his hand.
"No need to scream, boy. You'll soon be seein' things a lot more scary than I, best get used to it. I was about to say, before yer interruption, that we might as well learn each other's names now... so, what do they call you?"
"V–Vic–Victaus... De' Tairmholt, sir." Victaus jaw was tight as he spoke. It took all his concentration to keep it from quivering.
"Victaus, eh? Good name, good enough at least. A bit strong for a... lad like you, isn't?" the man chuckled, a coarse scraping noise emanating from his throat, "An' my names Tredael. Tredael the witch hunter."
Victaus wiped his nose, "Do–do you have a last name?"
Victaus could immediately feel the pressure of Tredael's gaze even though the cowl still hid his eyes in shadows.
"Tredael will do fine."
They walked in silence for what felt to Victaus an eternity. Though they couldn't have been walking for all that long, the darkness shrouding the path before and behind him made seem the trail was ten times longer than it really was, and the state of shock–that haze that clings to your mind and makes coherent thought impossible– made every minute squeeze by like it was itself a span of astronomical age.
It was not until they were very close that Victaus noticed the lights winking through the tree trunks; a fence, a wooden fence, and a gate blocked the path twenty feet ahead of them. As they got closer to the gate, there was something about the wood that made Victaus hold for a step; the wood looked... different, but he could not exactly–nor did he take the time or energy–think about was bothering him. Tredael was humming a tune to himself as he opened the gate's latch and ushered Victaus through. Still in a daze, Victaus recognized the tune: "All's in Winters Lost". A funerary tune. It furthered the chill that had settled on Victaus' bones. They walked past garden beds housing green stalks and leaves filling the night breeze with sharp scents. A house lay straight ahead. Victaus couldn't see much of it, but he saw more plants in hanging box under the casement windows; smoke issuing from the little chimney and a roof of thatch. It was a small cabin, made of wood and twigs and dirt. And he was going to be living here for the next eight years. Tredael stood by the door, fishing through the pockets on his belt for keys. Victaus stood a little behind him, longing for his four-poster bed and comfortable manor house. But they were gone, weren't they? The sound of Tredael placing the key into the heavy, iron lock and the door swinging open on heavy hinges was the sound of inevitability: the sound of Victaus never going back.
"Come on in, boy, before I close the door an' ya catch cold out there." Tredael said from inside the doorway.
Victaus scurried inside, fearing the dark and the cold more than the derelict cabin. As he passed it, Victaus noticed that the door–a thick slab of wooden planks bound in wide bands of iron–had the same, strange look and feel of the fence gate. It looked as if many, tiny marks had been carved into the door. That door which closed quite suddenly behind him. This was it: no going back, not now. Victaus had to blink as the light in the cabin was very bright compared to Tredael's lantern. Once his eyes had adjusted to the warm light, Victaus beheld a surprisingly cozy room. A fire burned bright and warm in a stone hearth to his right; several candles danced on white wax in several of the windowsills; the floor was of old planks of a reddish wood; several cupboards, cabinets, and a wash bowl marked where a kitchen was to his left in the far corner; several tables, barely visible under mountains of books, papers, pots, quills, and odd scientific-looking instruments, dotted the room; there were several chairs looking towards the fireplace; and two polished doors stood in the right and opposite walls.
"Here it is. Home. Got the kitchen over there, fireplace, other things. You can sleep on the mattress over there near the fire. My study's through there," Tredael threw his arm towards the door on the right wall, "and that leads to the garden out back. 'spose yer hungry. There might be some food left in the pantry."
"S–sir... Tredael, why do the doors going outside look funny?" Victaus stammered. And he din't feel very hungry right now.
"Funny? Ah, yah mean the Compact marks; that's what all the little notches are on the doors. They're on the fence too. It's magic, boy, keeps this place safe from... unwanted visitors."
Suddenly, from out of a pile of junk near the fire, came a black shape leaping through the air. It nimbly landed atop one of the tables, the sheaves of paper barely disturbed by its movement. It was a cat, black as night, with eyes bright as gems. It looked at Victaus with these wide, glittering eyes. Victaus recoiled: he didn't like cats, not after what the Proun's cat had done to him when he was five.
"Her name's Promnot." Tredael chuckled, "She's a damn smart cat and a repellent against many... nasty things. Can smell out fey magic. And I always stroke her spine fer good luck." the black cat arched its back at this, green lamp-eyes set solidly on Victaus. "So you might as well get friendly with her: your life might very soon depend on her." Tredael scratched Promnot behind the ears, "She'll look after ya, like a mother almost."
Victaus stepped away from the cat as if it was poisonous, stumbled on one of the legs of the chairs, and fell flat on his back. That was it. Tears gushed from his eyes and he started to sob uncontrollably. He had had enough of mothers. He had had more than he could handle. The numbness of his mind gave way to unthinkable tiredness the crying draining him of all strength he had left. He curled up into a ball by the fire, tears falling down his cheeks onto the floor, shaking with every whimper. Soon Victaus was asleep, still curled up in a tight ball. Tredael took his cape off and placed it over Victaus, then sat down in one of the chairs as quiet as he could, pipe out and lit. He sat, smoking and stroking his coarse chin, Promnot by his side.
"I hope he lasts longer than the last one, Promnie, fer his sake."
Victaus jumped: the sound of something moving could be heard coming up the path. A light came towards them from between the clustered trunks of trees. Soon, a figure still only a shadow except for the arm that held the lantern, came into view, boots thumping on tree roots and stones. This must be him: the witch hunter Tredael. Father put a reassuring hand on Victaus's shoulder; Velaine only shifted impatiently. The swinging lantern turned and now the man was like a black spectre moving through the darkness straight towards them, his face masked in shadows. Victaus backed up against his father, nuzzling his head into the fabric of his father's doublet, feeling the rising and falling of his stomach. Draeniel squeezed Victaus' shoulder. The witch hunter stood before them lantern swinging slowly in his hand which, even in the pale orange light, Victaus could see was gnarled and scarred. The hunter wore a black cape of coarse weave and a hood hid his face except his frowning mouth. His waist was crossed by a bandolier containing pouches and slots for wooden stakes; his belt was covered in small and large pouches too, and all manner os small objects and charms Victaus could not even begin to name.
"You the Tairmholts?" the words came rasping out from under the hood so suddenly that Victaus jumped back against his father. The shadows under the cowl shifted; Victaus knew the man's eyes were on him
"Draeniel De' Tairmholt, and this is my wife Velaine–" Victaus felt his father's voice resonant through his head as his father spoke.
"We're here to give you the boy as an apprentice, remember? I sent you a messenger that you most likely received." Velaine cut over father, taking one step towards the grizzled stranger.
The man lowered the lantern so its light fell squarely on Victaus face; he turned away from the light, burying his face deeper into his father.
"Why he looks pale as a town girl." the stranger's voice came wheezing out from under the hood, smacking against Victaus' face hot and smelling of alcohol. "I bet he hasn't done a proper days work in his life. You do realize what your signing your lad up to don't you?"
Draeniel began to say something, Victaus could hear his voice begin to rise in his chest, but Velaine cut him off again with an impetuous flick of her hand.
"The arrangements, master witch hunter, have already been made. It's time the boy was apprenticed out to a master, and what more manly than that of a witch hunter?" Velaine laid a hand suddenly on her stomach, as Victaus had noticed her doing most of the night and the day before; just as quickly, she took it off and continued speaking, "Besides, I would not want to deprive you of training a second, passing on your knowledge. Though I doubt he'll even see much of what you do: this place is very quiet." she finished with a cold look down her nose at Victaus; a face that father tended to miss.
"And why, ma'am, do you think it's so quiet?" the man said leaning forward, the scars around his mouth and on his hands very evident in the lantern light.
This time Velaine began to say something, though better of it, and snapped her mouth closed.
"Well, then, if we're agreed, I need to hurry on. It's nearly the first full moon of autumn, the bugarts'll be out feeding soon. Eight years then? Is that what you said?"
"Yes, eight years apprenticeship should give him enough time too..." Velaine looked down at Victaus from the corners of her eyes, "Mature."
Velaine's hand went around Victaus shoulder, nails digging into his skin as she thrust him toward the glowering man. Victaus recoiled, turning back to face his father. Draeniel still wouldn't meet his eyes. His father knelt down and opened his arms; Victaus fell against his fathers chest and hugged him tight, tears falling off his chin onto his father's fine doublet.
"I'm sorry," His father's whispered voice rumbled in his ear, "we'll meet again, my son."
Victaus stood back from his father, who finally looked at him with a sad smile. The light of the lantern glinted off lines of water running from Draeniel's drooping, brown eyes into his beard.
Words came trembling out of Victaus, "Don't make me go! I don't want to! Let me stay, I promise I'll do all my lessons, I'll fence everyday; I'll be good!"
Velaine pushed her way in between them, shooing Victaus off with her look. The man was standing on the other side of the wrought iron fence waiting. Draeniel stood up behind his wife, still watching as Victaus slowly–ever so slowly–shuffled through the open gateway. Draeniel at last dropped his gaze as Velaine placed a hand on her stomach. She then turned and marched off, gesturing for her husband to follow. Victaus stared for a while at the dark, empty space that his father had left.
"Ya going to stand there all night, boy? Come along!" the man grabbed Victaus by the scruff of his neck, pushing him into the circle of lantern light in front of him, "Let's get going: got an early day 'morrow."
Victaus let the man push him along down the path, leaving the clearing and the gloomy iron fence behind, dark trees surrounded them on all sides now except for the narrow dirt strip of the path. Black fingers and bony limbs with wooden skin reached towards Victaus and only the weak circle of light held them at bay. He was numb. Victaus' mind refused to register exactly what was happening to him: all he knew, all he had known and experienced was behind him now. His bedroom, his books, his toys, and his friends were safe and cozy back in Tairm, but he was marching on gelatin legs towards an unknown future with a complete stranger. Victaus scrunched up his face, water was gathering in his eyes but he refused to cry in front of the man; tears rolled down his cheeks anyway. He felt his chest tighten with an incoming sob. But he clenched his fists and kept his mouth shut. He would be a man; he'd show them. Everyone would see what a man he would be and surly Velaine would allow him back home. Surely she would.
"Well, seeing as we are now going to spend a lot of time together, we might as well–" the stranger began to say in his harsh, rasping voice that made the night wind sound silken. Victaus cut him off with a screeching sob, having been shocked out of his misery. He choked back the cry, tears flooding down his cheeks. He quickly snapped his mouth together and smeared the teardrops with the back of his hand.
"No need to scream, boy. You'll soon be seein' things a lot more scary than I, best get used to it. I was about to say, before yer interruption, that we might as well learn each other's names now... so, what do they call you?"
"V–Vic–Victaus... De' Tairmholt, sir." Victaus jaw was tight as he spoke. It took all his concentration to keep it from quivering.
"Victaus, eh? Good name, good enough at least. A bit strong for a... lad like you, isn't?" the man chuckled, a coarse scraping noise emanating from his throat, "An' my names Tredael. Tredael the witch hunter."
Victaus wiped his nose, "Do–do you have a last name?"
Victaus could immediately feel the pressure of Tredael's gaze even though the cowl still hid his eyes in shadows.
"Tredael will do fine."
They walked in silence for what felt to Victaus an eternity. Though they couldn't have been walking for all that long, the darkness shrouding the path before and behind him made seem the trail was ten times longer than it really was, and the state of shock–that haze that clings to your mind and makes coherent thought impossible– made every minute squeeze by like it was itself a span of astronomical age.
It was not until they were very close that Victaus noticed the lights winking through the tree trunks; a fence, a wooden fence, and a gate blocked the path twenty feet ahead of them. As they got closer to the gate, there was something about the wood that made Victaus hold for a step; the wood looked... different, but he could not exactly–nor did he take the time or energy–think about was bothering him. Tredael was humming a tune to himself as he opened the gate's latch and ushered Victaus through. Still in a daze, Victaus recognized the tune: "All's in Winters Lost". A funerary tune. It furthered the chill that had settled on Victaus' bones. They walked past garden beds housing green stalks and leaves filling the night breeze with sharp scents. A house lay straight ahead. Victaus couldn't see much of it, but he saw more plants in hanging box under the casement windows; smoke issuing from the little chimney and a roof of thatch. It was a small cabin, made of wood and twigs and dirt. And he was going to be living here for the next eight years. Tredael stood by the door, fishing through the pockets on his belt for keys. Victaus stood a little behind him, longing for his four-poster bed and comfortable manor house. But they were gone, weren't they? The sound of Tredael placing the key into the heavy, iron lock and the door swinging open on heavy hinges was the sound of inevitability: the sound of Victaus never going back.
"Come on in, boy, before I close the door an' ya catch cold out there." Tredael said from inside the doorway.
Victaus scurried inside, fearing the dark and the cold more than the derelict cabin. As he passed it, Victaus noticed that the door–a thick slab of wooden planks bound in wide bands of iron–had the same, strange look and feel of the fence gate. It looked as if many, tiny marks had been carved into the door. That door which closed quite suddenly behind him. This was it: no going back, not now. Victaus had to blink as the light in the cabin was very bright compared to Tredael's lantern. Once his eyes had adjusted to the warm light, Victaus beheld a surprisingly cozy room. A fire burned bright and warm in a stone hearth to his right; several candles danced on white wax in several of the windowsills; the floor was of old planks of a reddish wood; several cupboards, cabinets, and a wash bowl marked where a kitchen was to his left in the far corner; several tables, barely visible under mountains of books, papers, pots, quills, and odd scientific-looking instruments, dotted the room; there were several chairs looking towards the fireplace; and two polished doors stood in the right and opposite walls.
"Here it is. Home. Got the kitchen over there, fireplace, other things. You can sleep on the mattress over there near the fire. My study's through there," Tredael threw his arm towards the door on the right wall, "and that leads to the garden out back. 'spose yer hungry. There might be some food left in the pantry."
"S–sir... Tredael, why do the doors going outside look funny?" Victaus stammered. And he din't feel very hungry right now.
"Funny? Ah, yah mean the Compact marks; that's what all the little notches are on the doors. They're on the fence too. It's magic, boy, keeps this place safe from... unwanted visitors."
Suddenly, from out of a pile of junk near the fire, came a black shape leaping through the air. It nimbly landed atop one of the tables, the sheaves of paper barely disturbed by its movement. It was a cat, black as night, with eyes bright as gems. It looked at Victaus with these wide, glittering eyes. Victaus recoiled: he didn't like cats, not after what the Proun's cat had done to him when he was five.
"Her name's Promnot." Tredael chuckled, "She's a damn smart cat and a repellent against many... nasty things. Can smell out fey magic. And I always stroke her spine fer good luck." the black cat arched its back at this, green lamp-eyes set solidly on Victaus. "So you might as well get friendly with her: your life might very soon depend on her." Tredael scratched Promnot behind the ears, "She'll look after ya, like a mother almost."
Victaus stepped away from the cat as if it was poisonous, stumbled on one of the legs of the chairs, and fell flat on his back. That was it. Tears gushed from his eyes and he started to sob uncontrollably. He had had enough of mothers. He had had more than he could handle. The numbness of his mind gave way to unthinkable tiredness the crying draining him of all strength he had left. He curled up into a ball by the fire, tears falling down his cheeks onto the floor, shaking with every whimper. Soon Victaus was asleep, still curled up in a tight ball. Tredael took his cape off and placed it over Victaus, then sat down in one of the chairs as quiet as he could, pipe out and lit. He sat, smoking and stroking his coarse chin, Promnot by his side.
"I hope he lasts longer than the last one, Promnie, fer his sake."
