Roen had overheard some of Hadrien’s men mention it as their destination, but none of them spoke of it in any way that made it sound like home, and no wonder. As the roller approached on the keep’s stony access road, she had a hard time imagining anyone would feel at home here. It was a frightful edifice—the seeming antithesis of Dorn Keep, whose soaring towers, mossy walls, and noble parapets seemed as large and grand as anything in the world. No, this Blackstone was well-named, for it was a squat, ugly, sprawling construct, built upon a foundation of rough stone so dark it seemed to drain its surroundings of any ambient light. Even the setting sun was a muted orange ball limned in gray clouds, and here felt distant and cold.

Roen’s first thought, upon seeing the keep’s low walls through the roller’s barred window, was that it should be easy to scale. But any attempt at climbing would be made much more difficult by the twenty-pace moat that surrounded the bailey. Roen could not see how deep the moat was dug, but did see a veritable forest of spikes—all sorts, from rough-hewn iron to sharpened wood—jutting up from the depths at varied angles. The moat wound around the castle’s exterior, as far as her eye could see; the spikes seemed like the spines of a sleeping dragon, lethargic and old, and horrifying if roused. She was not even certain the trench contained any water, but that likely did not matter.

On the walls themselves, sharp iron spikes stood in place of flagstaffs, and old, rusted manacles hung from different points, driven into the stone, as though the habitual display of shackled prisoners was the norm here. This seemed the sort of place that would openly welcome captured children. It was like something fashioned after a child’s nightmare.

And though its parapets and towers were half the height of Dorn’s, the keep itself sprawled across twice the ground, a black morass of oddly inconsistent construction. Dark walls rose up beyond the battlement, seemingly built too close to offer more than a footpath between, and it looked that way throughout the keep—walls within walls, with little reason for them. It was hard to make sense of the hold’s interior on approach.

The men who stood upon the stunted black parapets seemed as grim as the keep. Their mail was steel ring and grimy leather, their faces devoid of care. They were armed with longswords and dirks, and many had spears or halberds in hands girded by metal-plated gauntlets. Most wore small steel bassinets on their heads; one in three had noseplates, and a small few sported earguards over leather coifs as well. They all looked capable. Surely not as stout as Zhadran footmen, Roen thought. But stout enough. Stout enough to bring children to heel.

Their livery bore the black hammer of Gault on gray, quartered with a gray fist on black—a new standard, likely the Blackstone’s own. A fist of tyranny, Roen thought. They would do as well flying a standard with manacles sewn on.

A seeming lifetime ago, Doryan the Elder had told Roen she was bound for Malacai’s “academy”, and even then the notion disquieted her. Now, she had no illusions that this was any sort of school. What would be taught here? Andric had once jested that the Zhadran academy at Bastion “specialized in teaching the art of torture.” Here, at the Blackstone, such a thing seemed a real possibility. Roen clutched her queasy stomach. The feel of Andric’s letter beneath her tunic brought little comfort.

The roller crossed a rickety, makeshift oak-and-iron drawbridge that was not even affixed to the castle; the bridge was closer to an oversized plank than anything else, and so cumbersome it had to be pushed across the moat’s expanse by no less than seven men. Roen saw one of the planks come loose even as they pushed the drawbridge out.

Passing beneath an immense portcullis, the roller trundled through a long, cramped entry. Through the small window, Roen spied at least two murder holes in the ceiling above, with multiple narrow apertures carved into the entry walls. Crossbowmen peered out disdainfully from three of them, weapons at the ready; most of the men, in fact, seemed wary of the arrival.

A second, equally large portcullis was passed beneath, as many wary eyes on them as before, and the two cages were led into the Blackstone courtyard.

If the exterior bespoke severity and misuse, the central courtyard did nothing to contradict it. Mud-covered cobble was the norm, rife with weeds. Loose flagstones were piled in various corners of the courtyard next to strides of uncovered dirt, mud, and grass, as though someone had thought to cover the whole of the courtyard with stone but then simply declined to finish laying them to ground. There was little, if any, care in appearance here.

Orders were barked. The roller was opened and Roen and the others were ushered out. Filch, Chayand, and Vheret were all crowded close to her, shoved in place by two of the guards, while another guard, on Hadrien’s order, grabbed skinny Mara by the arm and pulled her away from the group. Mara’s eyes were as wide as saucers; this new terror was the first emotion, short of grief, Roen had seen from the girl since her brother’s murder. The guard took Mara without a word and disappeared around a corner. Roen had no idea why she should be different, but for some reason feared for any person removed from the rest.

More orders were bellowed. Roen heard the drawbridge being moved; heard both portcullises slam down. It sent a shiver down her spine. They were trapped here for good now.

“It’s supposed to get warmer in the spring months,” Filch groused, rubbing his arms and stamping his feet. Unlike Chayand, Filch apparently preferred the flies that came with an actual spring over this Gaultic cold. As usual, he appeared to be the least concerned about their current predicament.

“It is cold in Zhadra,” Roen said quietly. “This is not cold.” Her bravado felt like a lie, however. This Blackstone cold was a deeper, wetter cold than she was accustomed to, the kind of cold that caught in the lungs and stayed, weighing heavily.

And I should not speak so blithely of the cold, she thought, glancing past Filch…

Lacking walls, and with only iron bars for protection, the children in the other wheeled transport had not been given an easier journey. Not only were they forced to persist through it all with an alarming lack of privacy, they were likely battered by overland winds throughout it all, exposed to the uncaring elements by equally uncaring captors. Roen smothered the instinct to be grateful for the wagon she had been stuffed in. The other group was ushered out of their cage in due time, and all huddled together, teeth chattering in the courtyard’s twilit shadows. There were five of them—three girls and two boys. Two of the girls were blond-haired twins; the other a stout girl with unruly auburn hair and a pug nose. One boy was rail-thin, with dark circles under his large eyes, sullen and quiet. Filch claimed to know him, saying, “He ain’t usually quiet.”

The last boy was not quiet at all. He sobbed continually, his high-pitched voice whining about the cold. He was severely rotund, with a round pink face, and an upturned nose that was red and swollen. Roen had never seen a boy so fat—children at Dorn who spent comfortable winters by the hearth were usually given tasks that forced them to become much less sluggish, lest they be subjected to beatings by the other children. Most parents would see to it themselves; even Talcey was worked hard enough by his father to be merely plump, and Talcey had been exceedingly adept at avoiding work. Roen forcibly pushed thoughts of Haered and Talcey from her mind.

This new boy seemed thoroughly unused to the outdoors. Even his clothes, though finely made, were rumpled and worn from the many days spent in overland travel; velvet and silk brocade were ill-suited for extended time out-of-doors—or any time spent stuffed in a cage. Roen wondered if he was a nobleman’s child. Whatever he was, she pitied him; she had hated traveling in the filthy roller but would not have willingly traded places with anyone in that open cage.

They were not given any pause to socialize further. The nine remaining children were led as one across the gloomy courtyard towards a central keep that, like the outer walls, had seen far better days. The chubby boy continued crying, loudly, and did not stop even when a guard thumped him between the shoulders with the butt of his spear. The boy stumbled, almost fell, righted himself, and kept on walking, sobbing all the way.

They passed two more separate walls just to get there, winding through a short maze of dark stone, and brought to the keep’s small yard. A wide expanse of stone steps led up to ancient double doors of iron-bound wood, before which stood two men, both watching the procession with interest.

One was a man as short as he was fat—even fatter than the sobbing boy. He wore a surcoat of garish red stretched over an expansive belly, with the gray fist of the Blackstone pinned to his breast. His beard was graying, but lavishly oiled, his moustaches curled. Numerous rings were stuffed onto sausagelike fingers, which he twiddled, seemingly pleased with the procession, on his broad belt.

“A fine lot,” Roen heard the fat man murmur. “A healthy lot, it seems.” His exclamation was not answered, however.

The other man was Malacai. I will not call him Master, ever, Roen swore. She wondered if the obese lord called him that. She doubted it was the other way around. Malacai wore a different vestment than the gentlemanly wardrobe he had presented himself in at Dorn Keep; gone were the top hat and laced cuffs and collar, replaced by a dark layman’s tunic and cloak, as spare as the Blackstone’s dark gray flagstones.

Surprisingly, the nine children were not brought to the stairs—they were not brought before the two men at all, in fact. Rather, they were paraded by and ushered past, around the corner. Roen felt Malacai’s eyes on her all the while.

The guards prodded the children down along the main keep’s long wall, past more guards, herding them towards the back of the keep. The children shuffled along, heads lowered but eyes wide.

The whicker of a horse turned Roen’s head. They have a stable. It was absurd to be surprised by the sight of it, seeing as how half the men were horsed, but she was, nonetheless. The distant but familiar glimpse of a foal nuzzling a bale of hay brought a pang to her heart. She wondered if the Blackstone men treated their horses as they treated children.

Any further musings were shoved from her mind when the butt of a guard’s halberd shoved her forward to keep her walking. Roen did so, head down.

They were brought to the backside of the keep, and to what seemed a cellar stair, six steps deep, that led down to a dark iron door. She realized they were being taken underground, a sudden rush of fear clutching at her heart. She did not want to leave the light. Not here.

But she did not have a choice. None of them did. The iron door opened, loudly, its rusted hinges growling in protest, and another spear-butt prodded Roen, forcing her to go first.

Torches were lit. It took more than a few moments to see anything at all, besides the flare of firelight through the gloom, but it soon became apparent there were more stairs to descend. Descend they all did, slowly and carefully, which the guards for once allowed.

They stepped into a low hall, ten paces wide, stretching on into darkness. Doors lined both sides, staggered; no door was directly across from any other. Like the outer door, these were made of aged iron, not wood, and extremely heavy-looking. Each door had a single small window, high up and barred in iron, with a hinged locking plate on the outside. Some of the nearer doors were closed. Further off, others stood open. It felt as though they had been readied for the children’s arrival.

They’re dungeon cells, Roen realized. As guards moved down the hall with torches, she saw more and more doors. And more, and more, and more. The hall seemed to go on forever.

“We call this the Hollow Hall,” Hadrien said cheerfully, as though he led children down into dungeons every day. “This is due, in part, because it has been mostly empty up until now. That will soon change.”

Roen was the first to step cautiously into the hall. To her right, a guardroom sat unmanned and empty. A passing torch glimmered off the tip of an unattended spear sitting in a rack, but thoughts of leaping in and grabbing it were quashed immediately; more children were being ushered in behind her, forcing her to move forward. It would have been a fool’s notion anyway.

The first door on her left was closed, though she thought she heard movement within. The closed rooms are already occupied, she realized. But by who? Past that, the next three doors were open and waiting. On the right, the first three chamber doors were closed as well. Four occupied rooms, then, she thought. Four children, probably, and now nine more added today. She wondered how many children would be added in the days and weeks to come.

Roen moved past the first open door, but one of the guards barred her way, tapping her leg with his spear butt, motioning her into that first chamber. She stepped into the dark room but lingered by the doorway, for very little light eked in. As far as she could tell, the chamber was small, and empty.

“I won’t leave my sister,” a girl in the hall said stubbornly. Roen poked her head back out. One of the twin girls was clutching her sister as one of the guards was attempting to pry them apart. The guard looked ready to cuff both girls with a steel-mailed backhand, but Hadrien stepped in.

“Leave them together,” the leftenant said, “for now.”

“Master said one to a room,” the guard retorted with a curled lip. Roen knew Hadrien commanded little respect amongst the Gaulten.

Hadrien just smiled his smile at both girls. The one with the pink streaks in her hair smiled back; the other just watched him with dark, discerning eyes.

“We will let the Master determine where they should sleep,” Hadrien said primly. “There is no harm in letting them take comfort in one another’s company for one night, at least.” His smile was disarming. The guard made no further fuss of it. Both girls looked grateful, though one more cautiously than the other. They both shuffled into the open room adjacent to Roen’s.

“Step back, girl,” a guard said to Roen gruffly, his hand on her chamber door. He loomed over her. She stepped back in. He closed it.

Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, finally; even though much of the torchlight had been stolen, the door’s barred window was open, and it allowed a little light to eke in. Roen glanced about to see what her living conditions were going to be.

The cell was maybe ten paces wide and fifteen deep. Oddly, the ceilings here were taller than the low hall, possibly eight or nine paces in height. To her surprise, the chamber was furnished—at least to a point. One bed, one desk, one chair, one chamber pot. The bed had a stuffed straw mattress and a thin blanket; the desk had nothing.

Roen sat on the bed, in the dark, for an indeterminate amount of time. The silence was periodically broken by the distant screech of door hinges, or the heavy tread of a passing boot and the jangle of mail, or even the occasional wooden thump of a spear butt on stone. Once, it was broken by the scream of a girl that sounded both angry and terrified. Roen shivered, and not from the cold. The girl screamed three more times, each more furious than the last…before being muffled and then silenced. Roen could not say what had silenced her.

Roen pulled Andric’s letter from within her tunic, turning it over in her hand, peering at it in the near dark. She could not read it here, but had already memorized the words. She held it to her heart for a moment, then rose, and slipped it beneath her mattress. There was no telling if it would be discovered on her. She had dropped it once already; she would not risk it again. Andric’s words were all she had left of her life before.

She had no idea how long she would be here. Until death, perhaps, however long that took. For eternity and a day, she thought bleakly.

A sudden rap came upon her iron door, and she flinched at the sound. “Girl,” Hadrien’s voice called out softly. “We are entering.” And he did.

Two guards came in with the leftenant. One was the burly guard Filch had painfully nicknamed Moustache; the other one Roen had not yet seen, tall and lean but stoop-shouldered, with nervous eyes and a protruding throat-knot. The guards carried a large barrel between them, as well as a smaller bucket and a wire brush. Water slopped out of the barrel.

“Right then,” Hadrien said briskly. “Off with your clothes. You’ll need to be washed.”

Roen took a step back and stared.

“I—I can bathe myself,” she said quickly, forcing words past the shock. Dorn girls did not let men bathe them. She did not even let Amia bathe her any more. She was twelve winters!

“I am quite certain you can,” Hadrien said smoothly, “being as well-bred a noble Zhadran girl can be. However,” the leftenant glanced at the water barrel. “Most children your age are not thorough. The Blackstone requires thorough. We have standards, you see.”

“I assure you I can be thorough.” Her hand was clutching her tunic as though they might attempt to rip it from her bodily. She had no idea how to combat this situation. Dam Dirch never taught lessons on How to properly convince strange men not to bathe you.

Hadrien sighed. “No.” He looked to the men. “Remove her rags, please,” he said, sounding just a bit pleased when he did so.

Roen remembered the screaming girl, and remembered how quickly her screams had ceased. “No—!” She held out one hand, stepping back away, and began undoing her tunic with the other. Both hands were shaking.

It is better to live, she reminded herself harshly. Do as they say. But it took every piece of will to remove every piece of clothing she had. And Hadrien ensured it was all removed.

Moments later, Roen was standing naked and hip-deep in a barrel of cold water, whilst two men scoured her clean with large chunks of lye soap. She held one arm tight to her bosom, such as it was, but even that was eventually pried away. The men were brutally thorough; soon her skin was pink and sore. The lye was pungent, and it burned a little, though she knew the smell and had expected it, having used lye soap before. On horses, she thought darkly.

The men were businesslike about it, and in fact seemed weary of it all, stoically disinterested in the features of a naked twelve-winter old. Hadrien’s gaze was more discerning. She could not help but feel as though he was weighing her in some way. She did not like his eyes at all.

Her clothes were placed in a bucket and declared unsuitable for reclamation. Moustache left with them. “You will be wearing a tugo,” Hadrien said, producing a small folded pile of gray cloth. “I will show you how it should be worn, if you wish.”

Roen shook her head. She was relatively certain she could dress herself, even in strange clothing.

“Very well,” Hadrien said, clipped. “Note that it comes with a loincloth and a chest-wrap. Loincloths will be replaced daily. Please wear them both.” Roen was not certain she needed a chest-wrap, but nodded. She stepped out of the barrel, shivering and wet. Her eyes went to the pile of new clothes, but Hadrien motioned the thin guard back over to her, clucking his tongue.

“Check for lice, please, Duris,” the leftenant said. The guard looked irritated, but did his task nonetheless, picking through Roen’s hair, squinting, his torch held alarmingly close to her head. She just stood there shivering, shoulders hunched forward, her hands and arms covering what bits of her that she could.

Having satisfied Hadrien that she was louse-free, Duris the guard shuffled off, dragging the water barrel by himself, leaving Roen alone with the leftenant. It did not make her feel more comfortable.

She quickly went to dress, her back turned. “I’m certain you have questions,” Hadrien said cheerfully. She did not answer, shrugging her shoulders through the tight, tubular chest-wrap. He continued, “They will all be answered in time, of course. In fact, the Master will be speaking to each of you, privately, this very day. Be ready to accept him into your sleeping chamber.”

She yanked on a loose pair of gray leggings over her new loincloth; the trousers were barely thicker than pantaloons, and scratchy, falling only just past the knee. She cinched them with a thin drawstring, then pulled on the top part of the tugo, which seemed weirdly loose—a sort of short, odd, backwards robe…

“Other way, dear.” Hadrien sniggered.

Short, odd, frontwards robe, she amended, a little angrily. She yanked it off and turned it around quickly, hating the fact that he was still there, watching her. “Gentlemen do not stare at girls,” she remembered Dam Dirch once reproved Ralton. Roen gave the leftenant an angry glare over her shoulder. If Hadrien was a “gentleman”, he was only playing the part. She suspected he enjoyed her discomfort.

“Now tie the rope. Yes, like a belt,” he said, twirling his finger. Hadrien stepped back and appraised her. He sighed. “I suppose that will do. You’ve good shoulders,” he added. “That will surely be to your benefit in the ring. Some of these other girls, such tiny creatures….” He trailed off, seeming saddened by a thought.

The ring? She had no idea what he meant. Roen was not sure which of his emotions were real and which were feigned. Filch does not trust him at all, she remembered. She wondered how Filch was handling all this. Roen could not imagine he was taking being bathed very well, though she was relatively certain the screaming girl had not been him.

Roen finally turned to face Hadrien. Being clothed felt like being armored now. “What if we do not want to?” she asked.

Hadrien blinked. “Want to what?”

“Want to anything. What if we refuse?”

Hadrien’s look was odd; one part discerning, one part cautious. “You can,” he said carefully. “Some tests are to see what you will not do. Most, however, are simply there to make sure you obey. I suppose it will depend on how smart each student is. One must pick one’s fights with care.”

“Student,” she repeated. “This is a school.” For some reason the thought made her more angry than relieved. She had put Filch’s prediction of coal mines out of her head a long time back.

“Of course it is.” He lifted an eyebrow. “What else would it be?”

“What does Malacai intend to teach us?” she demanded.

“Everything you can learn.” By Hadrien’s expression he was not enjoying Roen’s surly company any longer. He made his way to the door. “And do not call him that,” he added as he opened it.

“Is it not his name?” She was still angry. Her fears were buried by her infuriation.

“We all have different names, here at the Blackstone. You, Zhadra, whatever your name is…you may as well leave it behind. It is as your clothing, old and discarded and, likely now, burning in a bucket. You no longer need it.”

“Then what am I to be called?” She ground her teeth in frustration.

“Whatever he deems to call you,” Hadrien said. He looked at her and added, “But he will always be the Master. Never forget that.” He left, shutting the door behind him with a definitive click. Keys turned in the lock, the window latch was shut, and Roen was left in the dark.

More time passed, there in the quiet black. Alone again, but for how long? Roen realized the tugo did not come with boots, or shoes of any sort, and the floor was quite cold. She tucked her bare feet under her legs, on the bed, and waited.

Her door opened again, this time without warning and without keys.

It was Malacai, alone. A distant torch down the hall was all that illuminated him, but she knew him by silhouette.

She stood as he entered her room out of habit, as Doryan the Elder had taught all his children to do, though she immediately regretted giving even that pinch of respect. Malacai had watched Talcey die in her arms—had done nothing to save her friend, even when he could have. In her eyes it was nearly the same as having killed him.

“This is no academy,” she accused, her anger lashed tight in her words.

“It is,” he insisted quietly. He walked past her and went straight to her desk, an odd sort of disc held in his hand.

“I do not want to learn what you teach.”

“But you will.” He hung the disc on a nail that had been driven into the wall above her desk. “The first lesson is this: the illumination ring.” He brushed his fingers lightly over it.

“Imuru.”

The disc flickered to light, as though lit by a dim flame. It did not look like fire, nor did it burn his hand. She wondered if it was akin to phosphor. Stablemaster Haered had studied alchemy in his youth, and had shown her bits of the glowing substance once. She pushed thoughts of Talcey’s father from her mind, fearing they would undo her here.

Her eyes went to the disc; it was indeed a ring, half a stride in width, seemingly made of iron. She could barely make out runes etched onto the ring’s surface, and it was from the runes that the light came. They glowed softly yet steadily, illuminating the confines of her small cell with what seemed a cool, pale light.

“Imuru to bring light,” Malacai intoned. “Etu to negate. Your hand must touch it to complete the spell.”

“You…you are going to teach us magic?” As incredible as it sounded coming from her lips, it was the only thing that made sense now.

“Magic is only a word,” he said quietly. “I am going to teach you power.”

“Can you not teach anyone power? Why take us? What makes us special?” Her words were demanding, and more strident than she would have liked, her voice cracking on the last word.

“I could teach anyone,” he admitted. “But not as much. You and the others will learn much more quickly than a banali might. It is embedded within each of you; some hidden in blood, some tucked within the mind. I will find it, and together we will move forward, and swiftly. Time turns eternal, and gives little pause.”

He spoke with words she knew, but in terms she still did not understand. She said nothing, watching Malacai. He seemed to be studying the stone of her back wall, as though trying to see something that was not there.

“As to you, personally…” He finally looked at her, and for the first time she thought she saw something different in his dark eyes. She could not say what it was though. “I still cannot see the source,” he said, which sounded like a grudging admission. “There may be a conflict of power within you, which is rare, but not unheard of. Much as we have different sources of energy at our disposal, so too do we have different paths—channels—with which to find them. Unlocking the secrets to these will help to show me the path your blood has traveled, for that is the path that led you here to the Blackstone. And here is where you begin, again.”

“What if we do not want to begin again?” It was an absurd question, she knew. She had to begin again. There was no other path for her now. But she would not forget that he had forced much of that path himself.

“The end of an era,” he murmured, “always heralds the next.” He went to the door again. “Rest, student. Within the week I hope to learn your bloodline. And then, willing, I will grant you a name. But before that even begins, there is fighting to be done.”

Roen was silent. She was not afraid of fighting. It was perhaps the one thing she was good at. But that does not mean I will fight for you, she thought. I may refuse. And what then?

“Everyone fights,” the Master replied. And then he was out the door, and it closed without him touching it, shutting her in her cell with a conclusive clang.