I didn’t want to look. I thought of racing across the room and jumping up on my bed and simply forcing myself to stay there. Perhaps there was nothing at all under my bed. Perhaps I was being foolish. I could stay awake all night. If anything did emerge to attack me, I could shout for help then. I didn’t have to confront it now.

Except that I did. My father had ordered me to do so. It was what a soldier would do. And I was a second son, born to be a soldier. I could be nothing else. And I could do no less than my duty.

But it did not mean that I had to be a fool in doing it.

I slipped quietly away from my room and hurried through the deserted corridors down to a parlor. My home was quiet and almost unfamiliar at that late hour. There was no bustle of servants, no opening and closing of doors or snatches of voices. I heard only the padding of my own bare feet and my panting breath. When I entered the parlor, it was deserted, lit only by the dying flames in the fireplace. Spooky. I went to the rack of fire irons and selected the poker. It was heavy, much heavier than my practice sword. I hefted it in both my hands and decided it would have to do.

It was awkward to carry it back to my room. The end of it seemed magnetically drawn to the floor, but I gritted my teeth, gripped it firmly with both hands, and marched back to my room with it.

The door was ajar as I had left it. I did not give myself time to think or hesitate. I charged into the room, dropped to one knee, and swept the heavy poker under my bed. It encountered no resistance. Emboldened, I used the log hook to flip up the bedclothes. Poker at the ready, I ducked down for a quick glance. The dim light from the hallway showed me nothing was there.

I staggered back to my feet, the heavy poker at the ready, and stalked over to the blowing curtains. Again, I swung the heavy poker, hooking the thick fabric and pulling it out from the wall. Nothing there.

But my imagination had already discerned my diabolic opponent’s likely strategy. The creature would be in my wardrobe by now. Heart hammering, I gripped the poker in one hand and with the other jerked the wardrobe door open. I gave an incoherent gasp of terror as the motion caused the clothing inside it to stir. Then I struck, jabbing the poker so firmly into the closet that the heavy tip of it struck and scored the wooden backing.

A shadow loomed suddenly over me from behind. I spun, my poker at the ready. My father caught the end of it in a firm grasp and, with a quick twist, disarmed me. I stood, looking up at him in dread.

He smiled down on me. “Well, what is your report, soldier?”

“There’s nothing there, sir.” My voice shook. I’d made a fool of myself before my father. He’d seen how scared I was.

He nodded at me. “I agree. Nothing to be frightened of. And I’m proud of you, son. Very proud. If there had been anything there for you to fear, you would have vanquished it. And now you know that you can face what scares you. You don’t have to run wailing for your mother or nanny or even me. You’re a brave boy, Nevare. Someday you’ll make a fine soldier.”

He leaned the heavy poker against the wall near the head of my bed. “I think I’ll just leave that here for the night. In case you should think you need it again. Now. Into bed with you and go to sleep. We’ve a busy day tomorrow.”

I climbed up onto my bed, and he spread over me the covers that I’d half dragged onto the floor. He leaned down and set his palm on my brow for a moment. “Good night, son,” he’d said, and then gone out of the room, leaving the door ajar so that a slice of dim light fell on my trusty poker.

The memory had come back to me in a wild rush, triggered by the boy’s trembling body pressed up against my back. It was a child’s memory and now, as a man, I reordered it. My father had waited and watched to see what I would do. He hadn’t interfered, but he had been watching over me. And he’d been proud of me, his soldier son. Proud of my courage, and he’d told me so. I don’t remember how many nights the poker had remained in my room by my bed. But I don’t recall that I ever felt a night terror after that.

Whatever might have happened in the years that followed, regardless of how we had parted, my father had given me something then. Given me something far more important than if he had carried me back to my bed and checked my room for imaginary threats himself. When had I lost that father?

When had he lost his soldier son?

I tried to lift my hand. I could not. Soldier’s Boy’s control of the body was complete. I could not even open my eyes. Instead, I poked at his awareness. It burned low. He was physically exhausted from battling his self-induced fever. It took all the focus I could muster to break through his stupor. I offered him my memory of my father and my current awareness of Likari’s fear. He received it but did not rouse from his torpor.

“Do something.” I pushed at him relentlessly. “Do something for the boy. Now.”

“Go away. Let me rest.”

I would not. I was a thorn in his legging, a pebble in his bed. He finally gave in.

“Water?” he croaked. “Likari?”

“I’m here,” the boy instantly replied in a shaky voice. “I have the water skin.”

“Help me drink.”

The darkness pressed close around us. Likari fed the fire a small bit of wood, and as a flame licked at it, he used the brief bit of light to offer me water. He was not adept at it. The skin fountained water, and wet my chin and chest before Soldier’s Boy was able to catch it in my mouth. Then it was wonderful, cool and sweet and soothing. He had not realized how thirsty he was. Likari stoppered the skin. Soldier’s Boy rubbed his hand over my wet chin and scrubbed at my crusty eyes with it. Even the dim light of the fire seemed too bright for his fever-stricken eyes.

“Where’s Olikea?” Soldier’s Boy asked Likari.

“She went ahead, to see if there was any fish caught in the next fish trap.” The boy hesitated and then added, “She’s been gone a long time.”

“I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” It was hard to talk. Soldier’s Boy’s head hurt so badly. To press my ideas on Soldier’s Boy, I had to share his sensations. I steeled my will and pushed at him. He spoke grudgingly. The act took effort and hurt his head. “But you’ve stayed here by my side in the darkness. To watch over me.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for the water, Likari. It’s good to know you are here.”

The boy had stopped shaking. His voice was steady when he said, “Olikea said it was part of being a feeder. I’m proud to be a feeder for you, Nevare.”

“I’m glad you are here,” and for that brief instant, I was truly the one who spoke. Soldier’s Boy was sinking back into his stupor. His weariness dragged at me. I’d tangled my awareness too completely with his, and now as he sank into sleep, I went with him. But dimly I was aware that the boy resettled against my back, and that he trembled no longer. I let myself sink into the darkness with Soldier’s Boy.