There had been almost nothing left of Groups by the time Hal and Dominicus returned. Some reassurance could be found in that their ollamh didn’t seem surprised at their return or condition, and he had merely pointed to a spot off to the side for them to wait to have his attention. Content to wait in silence, Hal leaned against a tree and picked his teeth with a long strand of grass while Dominicus eventually sat cross-legged on the ground and watched the class proceed without seeing what anyone was doing.
A new set of rules had been revealed to him, but he wasn’t precisely sure how to take it. He wasn’t precisely sure he wanted to take it. Hal’s proposition disturbed him. He didn’t want to get any better at fighting. He also didn’t want to get killed by a bunch of grudge-carrying animals twice his size. His attempts to maintain minimum competency and fade into the background of average cadets were failing, and he seemed unable to convince anyone to let them succeed.
Humility was a virtue. Maybe he should have let Brahn beat him up.
He twisted up a piece of grass, crushing it between his fingers before flinging it away.
The wait was both interminable and short. The ollamh dismissed class (Feichín did catch his eye, holding his bag aloft to signal that they would take it back to the dorms for him) and jogged over to where Hal and Dominicus waited. They pulled themselves to attention, and Hal gave a report on the events at the Medical hall as succinct and to the point as his earlier summary of what had earned them their trip there.
The ollamh nodded, no commentary to add.
“Dismissed,” he said, pointing to Hal, then to Dominicus, “Take a lap around the track and then dismissed.”
This task, which Dominicus was expected to complete, unobserved, was so light it could hardly count as punishment, and by the end he barely thought of it as such. Rather, it calmed the odd little spikes of fury certain thoughts seemed to bring on, and smoothed away some of his tendency to dwell in favor of a kind of blank expectation of what was next. An officer was sitting at the track, observing several cadets of various classes complete variably gruelling sets of laps, so Dominicus was only alone in that none of what these other were doing had anything to do with him. The ollamh lazily observed Dominicus complete his lap and start walking back to the dormitories, eyes sliding back to the others without the slightest curiosity.
Dominicus wanted to shower – a single lap could still raise a good sweat in his full uniform – but also wanted to get back to the safety of the dorms. And, if he was honest, he wanted to hear what Feichín and Ruaridh thought of the events of the afternoon. Neither of them had been punished by the Quartermasters, or had to go to Medical hall, as far as he knew, so descriptions of both would be useful information to share.
Cadets either slumped in or bolted out of the dorms; as with all free time, the period between the end of classes and dinner was too precious to be casually wasted. Cadets were frantic to rest, or frantic to work before dinner commanded them to be in company again. Dozens of feet made a squeaking, thumping symphony of the wooden floors – changing, washing, gathering, packing more rustling movement than a forest in a gale. The thick wattle and daub walls and their seventy-odd slatherings of scaling whitewash made tinny the muffled voices in rooms more than dampened them.
Dominicus wold not have registered it, his thoughts bent on reviewing the precise paths they walked today, and reviewing overheard conversations for odd bits that might have deeper meaning than he first assumed, except that another cadet was pushing his way downstairs white putting his jacket on. They had to squeeze past one another, and being at leisure, Dominicus paused and pushed up against the wall to let him pass, reminding himself to dust the back of his uniform when he got the room.
“...what do you mean by ‘what’s appropriate’...?”
It was Feichín’s voice, remarkably loud, even more remarkably un-jovial.
It had to Ruaridh responding, though the first part was an incomprehensible muddle; he must have been turned away, and rounded back to face the door.
“...seem like, feel like, the right thing to do!”
Dominicus stared up at their door, unstuck himself from the steps, and pushed his way in.
Feichín saw him come in and turned away immediately, face red, arms crossed over his chest. Ruaridh – for whom red-facedness was a far more regular occurrence – also looked away, but only briefly, forcing himself to put on a proud – or at least unashamed – facade to greet Dominicus.
They would not survive a day in Dominicus’ household.
“Hey, Dominicus,” Ruaridh said with all the wooden grace of a toy dancer.
Feichín glared at him as if even this was a step too far, but quickly tried to mend his expression by pretending he needed to... do something to the blankets on his bed.
“We brought your bag...” Feichín choked out. “How’s your back?”
“Fine. I was not beaten.”
Dominicus walked over to his own bed, where his pack lay on the shamefully only half-tidied blankets. He didn’t know what to do once he was over there though. This odd scene had driven all plans out of his head.
Ruaridh let out a little sputtering noise. “Not beaten?”
Dominicus watched him carefully as he shook his head in response.
Ruaridh stared in silence a moment, then looked at Feichín, who appeared determinedly happy – much to Ruaridh’s displeasure.
“He wouldn’t have deserved it,” Feichín said, proudly.
“Well, of course not, that...” Ruaridh shut his mouth as if to trap his own breath, visibly fighting the urge to say whatever he had meant to say.
“Maybe not,” Dominicus said, “maybe so. I learned much.”
“It’s not that I’m not glad you weren’t beaten,” Ruaridh said, more to Feichín than to Dominicus, though what good this number of negatives in a sentence could do for Dominicus’ comprehension was entirely mysterious. “It’s just–”
“Good,” Feichín said loudly.
Ruaridh’s face screwed up (and turned red) in anger. “It’s not rude to want to know.”
“Could it perhaps be stupid, though?” Feichín replied hotly.
This, of course, was an error. Implying Ruaridh was stupid was the best way to get him to prove it with greater vigor.
He turned to Dominicus, paling by force of will to support the faux-casualness of his question. “What did you mean, when you said your place was the top?”
Feichín threw his hands up, turning away from them both in frustration, a reaction wildly out of proportion to the question, in Dominicus’ opinion.
“I meant nothing,” Dominicus said, because that was true. “I was trying... it was his words, back at him. Trying to be... clever?”
Well, he wasn’t sure that was true. Or ‘clever’ wasn’t quite the word. He knew what he would have liked to say and the way he would have said in Midraeic, but that somehow didn’t make any sense as a response – or he didn’t trust it to. In Midraeic he was very clever. Cutting. He could be cutting and clever and Ainjir was a stupid language and he sounded stupid in it.
“See,” Ruaridh said triumphantly. “I knew he meant nothing by it.”
“That’s not the issue,” Feichín said, his displeasure both calm and almost sad.
“Should I mean something by it?” Dominicus asked, fixing his gaze on Ruaridh.
The redhead paled again, this time entirely naturally. “No – I just – I mean, you can mean whatever you want. It’s just...”
Feichín covered his face with a hand, which seemed to provoke Ruaridh.
“Well – you shouldn’t, you know?” Ruaridh said, scowling more at Feichín than Dominicus.
He probably wouldn’t dare scowl at Dominicus.
“Shouldn’t what?” Dominicus asked, fixing his whole attention on Ruaridh now.
Ruaridh seemed not to notice – or, perhaps, had simply stopped his caution at being proved right in whatever argument he had with Feichín. He had turned back to his own bed, retrieving the books he meant to study from the improvised shelf beside it.
“What’s the point of you aiming for the top of the class? It’s just a waste of time.”
Dominicus felt his body stiffen, becoming one piece of slowly growing, radiant heat, like an iron in a fire.
“Is it?” he asked, surprised he could find the words, much less the mobility to speak them.
“Not that you couldn’t,” Ruaridh said, casting casual glances back to the other two as he tossed books into his bag as if he could hold them in the ridges of his back like a turtle, instead of needing them at least somewhat flat. “I mean – theoretically, maybe you could get good enough to get to the top of at least one of the lists. Anybody could do that. But like – what’s the point? You’ll have to take the oath at the end, if you even make it that far.”
Feichín had sunk down to sit on his bed, looking mournfully at Ruaridh. Maybe this was because he knew Dominicus could kill him. In class, perhaps, Dominicus didn’t always come out the sure winner over Ruaridh, but that was only because Dominicus saw no point in, and had no desire to, beat Ruaridh. If they really fought – even in the confines of class rules – Dominicus held no doubt he would wipe the floor with Ruaridh.
To do so would be counter-productive, both to his peace and to Ruaridh’s well-being. But there was no doubt in his mind, nor in Feichín’s.
“And what’s the point of that?” Ruaridh was asking the room, speculatively. “Even if they let you, it’s not like anyone will believe the oath means anything to you. I guess your God would let you – there’s nothing keeping Midraeics from swearing false oaths to non-believers, I would guess – at least there’s several places in the city whose good business depends upon it. But everyone would know, and nobody wants that. It would be embarrassing to all involved. I don’t even think in the end that the Council would let you. It would be a farce.”
He finally turned to face them both, hauling his ungainly bag up onto his back.
“So what’s the point? Just get by and you’re proving your point. Aiming for the top is silly, and it’s stupid of those Prep cadets to hassle you at all, much less for thinking you would be dumb enough to do it.”
Ruaridh stared at them both.
Dominicus slid his backpack up on his shoulder and left the room. Halfway down the stairs he could hear Feichín’s unusually clear voice:
“Ruaridh, you dumb cunt.”
Dominicus stomped out of the dorm and surveyed the horizon, shortened as it was to all within the Academy walls: on one side, the forbidden darkness of other territories, the main gates and distant twinkling lights of gatehouses and other dormitories; the center, past a sea of grasses and pockets of bushes and tress, the great grey blocks of the Acaemy’s main buildings, irregularly stacked against one another by the low perspective; on the other side, the dark green and brown blob of forests and fields, the white lump of the First Year dormitories against the gently curving walls, cradling all the rest.
He turned himself towards the gap between the main buildings, the windows of the Long Hall ever more glowing as darkness fell, and the buildings curving along the wall, and walked fast. There was no path here – he pushed into the grass towards the purpling-dark trees, the scurrying cadets growing more and more sparse, the greens growing more and more black.
For a long time, he didn’t think – or didn’t think he was thinking – his thoughts were a dense and unmoving cloud of white steam, like hangs over a hot spring on a still, cold day. He just walked, which, thankfully, was something the grounds were excellent for. Only occasionally did a change in grade, a pit in the ground, an abrupt drop in the resistance to his steps as long grass gave away to trimmed spaces caused him to stumble.
But also, he couldn’t walk forever. If he ended up in the trees, it was actually entirely possible he would get lost (not forever, but at least inconveniently long). So he started to moderate, taking a turn towards the walls, or towards the forest, or even towards the buildings to keep himself walking into something like open space, where he could get his bearings by the Tower.
And eventually – because he was carrying his entire backpack of class materials – his breath was puffing enough the fog in his brain had lightened enough that he cast his eyes up to see where he was. This was a pleasant enough clearing – some trees had been cut, and there was a nice, prominent stump at a high point he could sit on. Three-quarters surrounded by forest, he couldn’t have wandered much farther without going in, or walking literally along the walls, but when he looked in the one clear direction he could see straight down into most of the open area he had crossed, including the main buildings. These finally looked far enough away he could run, if they pounced, so he sat.
Dominicus wasn’t actually very good at sitting. Sitting quietly, at least. Thank God and the Prophet that They had seen fit to largely demand rituals with utterances or movement. He was miserable at silent contemplation, unless very, very keen on some thought, which was exactly what one was not supposed to do. Let him bow, or gesture, or dance – rituals he could get behind.
But just right now, he didn’t want to think about rituals.
But also, meditation – quiet, thoughtful silence – was a large part of his father’s practice, something which his mother, usually unwilling to imply any difference of religion between them, roundly cursed as torment.
Dominicus dug through the bag at his side and retrieved the letter from his father, still folded – pregnant with possibilities – in his bag. Again, he held it, and was comforted and distressed. He imagined his father, his father’s voice, and the bottoms of his eyes prickled.
“Cadet!”
Dominicus startled – but despair made him settle back into his seat when he realized it was just an officer and neither his actual father nor the physical manifestation of the weight of his sins come to crush him to death – but also, an officer – (glad he hadn’t dropped the letter) he belatedly started to rise to stand at attention.
“Nah, don’t worry about it, boy,” the officer said in rough grumble, like he needed to cough but doubted it would do any good, indicating with one hand that Dominicus could remain seated.
He carried a lantern, and it was still light enough the halo of it hadn’t given him away so he set it on the ground as unnecessary. This officer was a broad man, but also, old and fat, a rough growth of grey-brown stubble on his face indicated he either had seniority by office or seniority by age to participate neither in the fashion for facial hair upper-level officers indulged in nor the rigidly enforced cleanliness standards of lower-level officers. This was rendered doubly odd because he also wore the uniform of the Quartermaster’s office, albeit, not in a particularly well-maintained state.
Like Dominicus, he looked down the rolling hills towards the buildings, the people running every which way between them.
He said nothing. Dominicus said nothing back. Eventually, when convinced there wasn’t some horrific surprise coming because Dominicus hadn’t immediately saluted or stood at attention, he, too, returned to watching the people run in the distance.
This lasted some time, and had a strangely calming effect – or, at least, was unusual enough Dominicus found some of the tightness around his heart easing, the bend in his back straightening.
“So,” the officer said, shifting his weight stiff-legged, as if his knees didn’t bend properly, so that he could face Dominicus again.
Dominicus looked at him. The officer seemed to be expecting him to say something, but even if Dominicus had known what to say, he would rather be beaten for silence than for getting it wrong.
Faced with Dominicus’ silence, the officer looked down, then up to a corner of the sky, then re-settled himself, hands on his hips.
“So, were the Days in the Desert an ecstatic or ascetic experience?”
Dominicus blinked very hard. The officer shrugged, silently offering the question again. Dominicus blinked again, opened his mouth – shut it, cocked his head. Opened his mouth... shut it.
The officer laughed, ending Dominicus-the-fish’s suffering, and started looking for a stump tall enough to lean on, bringing his lantern with him.
“I used to have a soldier,” the officer said, “half-Midraeic, who said he could tell who were refugees and who were bandits by asking that question. Never could get the right of it myself – in the answers – seemed like there was always some long debate, nobody seemed to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or one or t’other, but then he would come out and tell us and fuck, but at least... eight out of ten times he was right.”
“That is...” Dominicus ventured, and seeing nothing bad seemed to be coming, went on, “...a deep theological debate. Some would say there is not a right answer, but it goes one way for the Geronese Midraeic, and the other for the Midraeics of Ainjir – usually. Much of the time...” Dominicus felt himself on the verge of a thousand qualifications to his statement, which, really, he ought not be commenting on with any authority, not being a teacher – that was a question for his father.
“‘Theological’ – there’s a word you don’t hear much these days. It might have mattered to them, a’course none of that really mattered to us–”
This time the officer interrupted himself with a wet, hacking cough, enough to make Dominicus reflexively want to get up to offer his elder a sip of water or something, but the officer turned to violently spit something out and returned to talking before Dominicus’ urge got too strong.
“The Midraeics fleeing weren’t none of our business, except on a practical level, that we couldn’t just let people pass, being a border guard force – and then there were the odd Midraeic bandit, who if we let pass would kick up shit and get us yelled at but...” the old man shrugged, “who gave a shit about their yelling.”
Silence fell again. Honestly, Dominicus wasn’t sure what to do – officers invited cadets to speak, or cadets kept their mouths shut. Still, he felt as if he should – or rather could – say, “We are supposed to give many shits about yelling here.”
The officer laughed.
“True enough, that – but then, is it really the yelling that matters? What you got there?” the officer pointed to the envelope, still held lightly in Dominicus’ hands.
“A letter.”
“Oh, is it now?”
Dominicus was not used to Ainjir tones or Ainjir humor, but he knew when he was being mocked.
“A letter from my father.”
The old man grunted, satisfied. “And what’s your father got to say to you?”
Dominicus found this an invasive question, but he supposed it wasn’t like they had much else to talk about. The old man had returned his gaze to surveying the grounds, and Dominicus turned the letter over, so the fold that locked the letter closed was visible when he glanced back.
“...I don’t know yet. I have not opened it.”
The old man grunted again. “Is that yelling then? Worried about what your dad’s got to say?”
Dominicus shook his head, but slowly, feeling his own resistance. “It is a matter of doctrine.”
“What’s that?”
This seemed like a trap. “Doctrine is a set of teach-.”
“No, no – I know what doctrine is, you literal little bastard – what’s the matter of doctrine it’s over?”
Dominicus wasn’t sure whether he was more overwhelmed by being called a bastard in what seemed to be a friendly manner by an officer or by the supreme doubt that this old Ainjir man knew anything about Midraeic doctrine.
“Well,” Dominicus said, testing the waters, “there are a set of questions typically asked of young men at certain stages of their life that are supposed to derive from the teachings of the Prophet, but which more derive from His life...”
“Like my question?”
“No, that’s not one of them.”
“Then what’s my question?”
Dominicus had to think. “A trap. A clever one.”
“Is it now?” but this time, the old man wasn’t mocking him – or, the question wasn’t serious, but he wasn’t making fun of Dominicus’ answer, just raising doubts. He raised enough doubt to get Dominicus’ thoughtful silence.
“What happened to the Midraeics we caught versus the ones we let pass?” the officer asked – or more ‘said’.
“I don’t know,” Dominicus said, because it was true and also because this felt very much like it was something important for him to say at this juncture – like the questions asked of young men at certain stages of their life, he felt he was learning something however roundabout the fashion of it.
“Nothing,” the old man said, like a grunt. He looked again over the fields. “Only true assholes chased those people back to Geron. That’s not what we were there for, anyway. We turned them around and tried our best not to find them again. If they were lucky they got a day or two of good rations out of it and just went around.”
He walked his fingers in a long arc in front of him.
“Unfortunately, there were a lot of true assholes out there. But we had no reason to join them, and were better at what we did for it. Why aren’t you reading your father’s letter?”
Dominicus again looked down at the fat paper packet in his hands. “I’m... concerned.”
“Concerned about what?”
Oh, so many things. And now some new things, he hadn’t thought to be concerned about. And rather than his dogged work pushing him forward towards answers, he only felt himself getting further and further away.
But what good was saying that? How could he say it? And was that really what this officer was talking to him about?
Why was this officer talking to him at all?
The question was on the tip of his tongue – but Dominicus turned the letter in his hands and couldn’t seem to find words to say – at least, ones that didn’t seem like a bad idea and ‘why the hell are you even talking to me’ seemed very bad indeed.
The officer sighed. “You letting him down? You not doing well at your work? You got a mistress you’ve got pregnant back home and he’s only now finding out he’s got to take care of a Fate-Fucked grandchild? That was a shitty thing to do, you know, leaving a girl and baby behind.”
“I did not do that!”
“Well,” the old man shrugged, “not saying I haven’t heard it before. So many little bastard babies around these parts – are you the bastard your Fate-Fucked grandfather had to raise?”
“That is not what happened!”
“Something did happen?” the officer raised bushy brows at him. “So – what? Can’t be babies, got to be something.”
“I am...” but Dominicus wasn’t sure what to say.
“Letting him down?”
“No,” Dominicus insisted, but felt his whole body say ‘yes.’
“So, what – you’re doing great at your lessons?”
“Yes,” Dominicus said, but even he could feel his face doing something much more like saying ‘no’.
“That’s not what I heard,” the old man said, looking away, a little frown on his face.
“What do you mean?!”
“Got into a bit of a scrap today, didn’t you?”
Dominicus looked up sharply. “Do the Quartermaster’s officers gossip?”
“To the Quartermaster they do.” The old man laughed.
“FUCK” came out of Dominicus’ mouth well before he had presence of mind to clap it shut, his body rolling awkwardly as his knees straightened to attention as if they had decided to stand without the rest of his body knowing about it. He nearly slapped himself in the face with his father’s letter trying to salute, and by the time this whole farce had played out, the old man had laughed so hard he spent the next few minutes hacking into the grass beside the stump he leaned on.
“Charity’s Sweet Cheeks, boy,” he finally said as if his lungs were full of boulders, indicating Dominicus – who very much didn’t want to – could sit back down. “Calm down – you’re terrible at this.”
“Terrible at what?” Dominicus asked, a wave of cold passing through him as he realized that was also probably not a thing to say to the Quartermaster.
“Fire and Blood,” the Quartermaster said, “you’ve either got to get more deferential – a thing I never expected to say to a Midraeic – or more suspicious.” He pulled a face. “Well, actually, the Midraeics I know have all been trouble. That officer who had the question – he was a Fate-Fucked handful. Maybe I’m wrong there.”
“We are not... a handful, always,” Dominicus said, distinctly aware that in his account of even just his families members, handfuls outweighed non-handfuls by a significant margin.
“Well, boy, according to reports, you were handful today. One of those piss-baby Prep cadets got a hair up his ass about you, so you fixed it for him.”
Dominicus did not want to comment, being uncertain of the specific connotations of these phrases, having only ever heard such conjunctions of filth when unobserved nearby his particularly angry mother.
“Those little shits may have the big dicks on the grounds now, but it won’t last, and if they’re not careful, they’re the ones who’ll end up fucked right out.”
Dominicus especially did not want to comment now.
“So what were you trying to show them? Trying to prove you’re tough?”
“No,” Dominicus said, and even he could hear the slight pout to his voice at having to defend himself yet again, “they have a grudge. I am defending myself. Always.”
“Always?” The Quartermaster grunted. “So why don’t you want to prove that you’re tougher than them?”
“Who cares?” Dominicus spat. “There is no virtue in being toughest – it teaches nothing, brings us no closer to God. That is all I care about.”
“Shit, that must be right or Ainjir would be stuffed with saints. But this is also not the place to get closer to God in. Toughness is a virtue here.”
“So many have their spoons for tea,” Dominicus said, throwing his hands up.
“...I may have some knowledge outside your average Ainjir, but I don’t know tea spoons, boy.”
“It is the same everywhere,” Dominicus said, turning on his stump and chopping one hand against the palm of the other, as if separating pieces of dough for rolling, “every place has its own standards. It is not the business of the followers of Midras to seek virtues not laid out in the words of the Prophet, or we would be no people at all.”
“Sure,” said the officer, crossing one leg over the other laboriously and thoughtfully, “but the people also do – or what would the question about the Days in the Desert mean?”
“That is not a one people in one place versus another place thing – that is a theological conundrum.”
“But the conundrum reflects a divide, and the divide reflects a border, or the question wouldn’t work.”
Dominicus, who had not been looking at the Quartermaster, resisted the urge to give him a narrow-eyed glare. He WANTED to ask what business this faithless Ainjir had speculating about matters of Midraeic theology, but he also, infuriatingly, recognized that to do would be weaseling out of a debate. Regardless of the faith of the Ainjir, weaseling out of a debate was very much not the way of Midras.
“Regardless,” the Quartermaster said, as Dominicus’ silence dragged on, “you can’t always be defending yourself. For one, fighting simply doesn’t work that way, especially not here, but in general – to only act in self-defense is to be always at war – and for two, it is a losing strategy. You’ll wear yourself out, for nothing.”
He paused, waiting for Dominicus to look up, so their eyes could meet.
“For a third, I doubt that’s why your father sent you here. I doubt you’re here to defend yourself, and do nothing else. Him being a smart man – and I don’t know him but I assume he was – I doubt that’s what he thought you would be doing.”
Dominicus’ cheeks grew hot, his throat full as if with sludge. He looked down at the letter in his hand which his cowardice left unopened, though it had nothing to do with this. It had nothing to do with the Academy, with his mission here, with whether or not he was fulfilling his duty to his father. He knew it didn’t, and he knew it wouldn’t be in there, hidden or otherwise; his father would have answered his question, responded to his challenge in good faith, laying out the intricacies of the doctrine, of the faith, of the beliefs they both loved and adhered to. There would be no hidden message, except what Dominicus read into it.
And what Dominicus had meant by it. Had he not meant to somehow prove with his challenge that his place was back home, his place was in his faith, by father’s side, learning to teach, to be a teacher? Was that not why he had so thoroughly preoccupied himself with this matter, so small, and so intricately argued? To ask and to prove he should be taken home? By doing so, was he not refusing the mission his father had given him, the faith that had been placed in him to fulfil it?
A fat drop landed on the locked letter.
“Shit,” said the Quartermaster, digging in his uniform jacket for a clean cloth.
“Shit,” Dominicus agreed.