Jarnulf hardly ever saw the children of the Recognized, who were raised and educated in the castle’s great keep, but the young sons and daughters of the Pledged came every day to a fallow field near the slave barns, a place put aside for the purpose of training them in the arts of war, since all Hikeda’ya except the Bound were taught to fight.

At first Jarnulf only watched them when he could snatch a moment of freedom. He was especially fascinated by the old, sharp-faced Hikeda’ya who supervised them. It was hard to guess the years of Jarnulf’s masters, who did not age as mortals did, but this teacher moved with a certain lack of hurry that suggested experience, and he did not leave his hair white as most of the other men did, but colored it a shade of witchwood gray that had fallen from fashion long before Jarnulf or even his grandparents had been born.

He learned that the old man was a famous swordsman and one-time Sacrifice commander named Denabi sey-Xoka. None of the other slaves knew much more than that about him, but everyone on the estate could hear his piercing voice as he shouted at, directed, and mocked his students, Hikeda’ya youth only a little older and bigger than Jarnulf himself. The young slave was grateful for that voice, which he could hear even at a distance, and which allowed him to memorize most of what the old warrior was telling his charges.

Soon Jarnulf had begun hurrying through whatever work he was given so that he could steal a few moments near the edge of the training field, watching the young Hikeda’ya learn to wield sword and spear and shoot a bow. After a while, frustrated by having no weapon of his own, Jarnulf sat up nights after his sister had fallen asleep and made himself a wooden sword from scraps, tying stones to it with stolen twine to give it enough weight for proper practice. He kept it hidden in a stand of birch trees near the training ground, and would lurk in their shade, blocked (as he thought) from the view of the young warriors at work, and imitate what they were being taught.

When the keen-eyed Hikeda’ya students finally noticed him, as had been more or less inevitable, retribution was swift and painful. A half dozen of them broke away from the main group and ran toward him. Before Jarnulf could get away, they vaulted the fence and surrounded him. For a few moments he held them at bay, whirling his wooden blade and dodging their first attacks, but before long they moved in close and overwhelmed him with numbers. They beat him with the flats of their swords until he fell to the ground, then beat him some more, and ended by kicking his limp form until he thought he would die from pain and lack of breath. At last they lost interest. After breaking his wooden sword and scattering the pieces over him like funeral flowers, the children of his masters wandered back to their practice.

Jarnulf lay for a long time with his belly against the ground and his face in the cold, wet dirt, wanting to get up, or at least to crawl off and hide his shame, but his ribs were aching so badly he could not push himself upright. He felt the sun move across the sky, and knew that if he could not climb to his feet he would lie out all night, and that would mean death. But every movement seemed to grind something broken inside of him against something else equally damaged. He wept silently as the wind began to increase.

“By the Garden, what is lying here?” The voice was cheerful but mocking. “Is it a little mouse that the cat has played with? Poor mouse. Happy cat.”

Jarnulf tried to roll over to see who was talking, but the pain was too great.

“Or is it a fish that has climbed out of Lake Rumiya and tried to walk like an animal? How strange, to find a fish so far from water.”

It was maddening. Jarnulf pulled his knees underneath himself, letting out a gasp of agony as he felt all the bruised places, the cracked places. He choked down a cry—it came out as a gurgle from behind his clenched teeth—and at last managed to push himself up to where he could see who was talking. It was Xoka himself, the old warrior who trained the Pledged, staring down at him with an amused look. Older Hikeda’ya had much the same appearance as younger, but the effect of centuries of sun and wind showed up at last even on their near-ageless faces. Xoka was less fine-featured than younger male Hikeda’ya, as though his face had been carved with blunt, crude tools.

Jarnulf crouched on his hands and knees. It was hard to hold his head up.

“Do you have a name, little mouse, little fish?” the weapons master asked. “Or are you a dog? You look like a dog, down on all fours that way.”

Why should this important fellow go out of his way to mock a dying slave? Jarnulf kept his mouth closed.

“But your tail is not wagging,” said Xoka. “I will call you San’nakuno—Sad Little Dog.” He walked closer. The swordsman wore the loose black garb of a soldier, but with no signs of rank, and his white feet were bare. One of his slender, callused hands probed along Jarnulf’s side, feeling the damage where the students had kicked him over and over again. “I like dogs,” Xoka said, “especially dogs with spirit. I will offer you a bargain. If you can get yourself back to the slave quarters tonight, and come to me tomorrow after your work is finished, I will teach you how to bite the way a dog should. Would you like that?”

Jarnulf did not understand him—bite? He kept silent.

“Or you may stay here. Nobody else will help you, as you should know—here strays are left to die.” And so saying, the old Hikeda’ya turned and walked back toward the practice field.

The sun was long gone behind the great mountain by the time Jarnulf finally managed to get onto his feet and began staggering back to the slave barracks. He shivered through the night, the cold so fierce that when he finally slept he dreamed that he had died, that he lay beside his brother Jarngrimnur on a burning funeral boat like their ancient ancestors. But the next day he dragged himself up from bed when the summoning bell rang and limped out to his work.

Z’ue Xoka was waiting for him as he’d said he would be. The old master said nothing, only threw Jarnulf a practice sword and commanded, “Show me the twelve starting positions, San’nakuno.”

From that hour forward Jarnulf had a teacher. The lessons were only when the old swordsman was in the mood, and did not happen every day, at least at first, but often enough that Jarnulf always had something new to practice at night when the other slaves were asleep. He again took to sneaking from the barracks so he could practice his movements with the wooden sword he hid in the trees near the slave barn. Even the coldest weather would find him out of doors working through the silent dance of attack and defense, his feet and hands turning blue from the chill. Some nights he barely made it back into his bed before the bell rang, summoning him out to work once more.

Xoka never said so, but he seemed impressed by the boy’s capacity to learn and the diligence with which he worked. Still, he treated Jarnulf at least as roughly as he did the children of the masters: he hardly ever spoke, and made most of his corrections with the flat of his own blade, swift, painful blows to Jarnulf’s exposed wrist or undefended skull, but he gave fewer and fewer of these as time passed.

As he grew out of childhood and toward manhood, Jarnulf felt himself to be living two lives, the dream life of his working hours and his true life, those hours spent defending himself against Xoka with Shadow Form and Water Form, then countering with one of the intricacies of attack. When he did well enough that the master would retreat from him with a slight smile, Jarnulf felt that he had found his true purpose in the world.

What he only understood later was that Denabi sey-Xoka had not taken an interest in him as a person, but as an object to be trained. The old Hikeda’ya found great satisfaction in knowing that he could train even a mongrel pup—a mortal!—to fight as well as the highborn children of his race. In a way, Jarnulf eventually came to realize, he was no more real to the weapons-master than a chunk of soapstone that a bored man whose great days had passed might carve into a fetish of a god or a likeness of a beloved hound. Jarnulf was not a person to Xoka, he was a pastime.