Shaman's Crossing (The Soldier Son Trilogy #1)

Shaman's Crossing (The Soldier Son Trilogy #1) Page 126

However stoically Gord might endure his torment, Spink betrayed his anger at every taunt. Usually it was subtle, a scowl or a tightening of his shoulders or fists. When it happened within our own chambers, he would sometimes speak out angrily, bidding the teaser to shut his mouth. A number of times he and Trist almost came to blows over it. Slowly it became obvious to me that when Trist needled Gord, Spink was the actual target. When I spoke to Spink about it, he admitted he was aware of that, but could not control his reaction. If Trist had attacked him directly, I think Spink might have been a better master of himself. Somehow he had become Gord’s protector, and every time he failed in that role, it ate at him. I feared that if it ever led to blows, one of us would be expelled from the Academy.

Each day seemed longer than the last in that final week before our holiday. The cold and the wet and the early dark of afternoon seemed to stretch our class hours and even our drill times to infinity. The weather always seemed to flux between drizzle and snow when we were drilling. Our wool uniforms grew heavy with damp and our ears and noses burned with cold. When we returned to our dormitories after our evening soup, our uniforms would steam and stink until the air of our rooms seemed thick with memories of sheep. We would take our places around the study table and try to keep our eyes open as our bodies slowly warmed in the ever-chilly room. Our study mentors regularly prodded us to stay awake and do our lessons, but more than one pencil went rolling out of a lax hand, and more than one head would nod and then abruptly jerk upright. It was a slow and headachy torture to sit there. I was burdened with the knowledge that the work must be done but unable to rouse any interest or energy to do it. It left tempers frayed, and sharp words flew more than once because of spilled ink or someone wobbling the table when someone else was writing.

It began that night with just such an incident. In moving his book, Spink had nudged Trist’s inkwell. “Careful!” Trist sharply rebuked him.

“I did you no harm!” Spink retorted.

A simple thing but it set all our nerves on edge. We tried to settle back into our studies, but there was the feel of a storm in the air, a hanging tension between Spink and Trist. Trist had spoken glowingly several times that day of the carriage that would come for him early tomorrow morning, and of the days off he expected to enjoy with his father and elder brother. He had mentioned dinner parties they would attend, a play they were going to, and the wellborn girls he would escort on his various outings. All of us had envied him, but Spink had seemed the most down-hearted at Trist’s crowing.

Then Spink, vigorously rubbing out some errors in his calculations, vibrated our table. Several heads lifted to glare at him, but he was furiously intent on his work and unaware of them. He sighed as he began his calculations again, and when Gord leaned over to point out a mistake, Trist growled, “Bessom, can’t you teach catechism elsewhere? Your acolyte is quite noisy.”

It was no worse than any of his usual remarks, save that he had included Spink in his name-calling. It won him a general laugh from those of us around the table, and for a moment it seemed as if he had defused the tension that had gathered. Even Gord only shrugged and said quietly, “Sorry about the noise.”

Spink spoke in a flatly furious voice. “I am not an acolyte. Gord is not a Bessom. This is not a catechism. And we have as much right to study at this table as you do, Cadet Trist. If you don’t like it, leave.”

It was the last phrase that did it. I happened to know that Trist himself was struggling with his math proof and I am certain he was every bit as weary as the rest of us. Perhaps he secretly wished he could ask Gord’s advice, for Gord had swiftly and tidily completed his math assignment an hour ago. Trist rose from his bench and leaned his palms on the study table to thrust his face toward Spink. “Would you care to make me leave, Cadet Acolyte?”

At that point our study mentor should have intervened. Perhaps both Spink and Trist were relying on him to do so. Certainly they both knew that the penalty for fighting in quarters ranged from suspension to expulsion. Our mentor that night was a tall, freckly second-year with large ears and knobby wrists that protruded from his jacket cuffs. I do not know if he swallowed a great deal or if his long neck only made it seem so. He stood quickly, and both combatants froze, expecting to be ordered back to their studies. Instead, he announced, “I’ve left my book!” and abruptly departed from the room. To this day I do not know if he feared to be caught in the middle of a physical encounter or if he hoped that his leaving would encourage Trist and Spink to come to blows.

Bereft of that governor, they glowered at one another across the table, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Spink had come to his feet to face Trist across the table, and the differences between the two could not be more apparent. Trist was tall and golden, his face as classic as a sculpted idol.