“They’re not going to ask him about the farting brother,” Caenis said in disgust.

“They might,” Barkus replied. “It’s still history isn’t it?”

Surprisingly Nortah proved the most able teacher, his story telling technique straightforward but effective. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to make Dentos remember more. Instead of simply telling the tale and expecting Dentos to repeat it word for word he would pause to ask questions, encouraging Dentos to think about the meaning of the story. His usual taste for ridicule was also put aside and he ignored numerous opportunities to laugh at the ignorance of his pupil. Vaelin normally found much to criticise in Nortah but he had to admit he was as determined as the rest of them to ensure the continuance of their group; life in the Order was hard enough, without his friends he might find it unbearable. Although his methods bore fruit, Nortah’s choice of tale was fairly narrow, whilst Barkus favoured humour and Caenis liked parables illustrating the virtues of the Faith, Nortah had a taste for tragedy. He related the Order’s defeats with relish, the fall of the citadel of Ulnar, the death of great Lesander, considered by many the finest warrior ever to serve in the Order, fatally flawed by his forbidden love for a woman who betrayed him to his enemies. Nortah’s tales of woe seemed endless, some of them were new to Vaelin and he occasionally wondered if the blond brother wasn't just making them up

Vaelin, with his added duties of seeing to Scratch in the kennels every evening, took on the task of testing Dentos’s acquired knowledge at the end of each week, firing questions at him with increasing rapidity. It was often frustrating, Dentos’s knowledge was growing but he was fighting years of happy ignorance with a few week’s effort. Nevertheless he did manage to earn some rewards from Master Grealin who confined his surprise to a raised eyebrow.

With the month of Prensur the remaining time narrowed to a few days and Master Grealin informed them their lessons were over.

“Knowledge is what shapes us, little brothers,” he told them, for once his smile was absent, his tone entirely serious. “It makes us who we are. What we know informs everything we do and every decision we make. In the next few days think hard on what you have learned here, not just the names and the dates, think on the reasons, think on the meaning. All I have told you is the sum of our Order, what it means, what it does. The test of knowledge is the hardest many of you will face, no other test bares a boy’s soul.” He smiled again, gravely this time, then brightened into his habitual humour. “Now then, final rewards for my little warriors.” He produced a large bag of sweets, moving down the line and dropping a selection into their upturned hands. “Enjoy little men. Sweetness is a rare thing in a brother’s life.” Sighing heavily he turned and waddled slowly back to the store room, closing the door softly behind him.

“What was that about?” Nortah wondered.

“Brother Grealin is a very strange man,” Caenis said with a shrug. “Swap you a honey drop for a sugar bean.”

Nortah snorted. “A sugar bean is worth three honey drops at least…”

Vaelin resisted the temptation to barter his sweets and took them to the kennels where Scratch rolled and yelped with delight as he tossed the treats into the air for him to catch. He didn’t miss a single one.

The Test began on a Feldrian morning, two days before Summertide. Those boys who passed would be rewarded not only with the right to stay in the Order but also a pass for the great Summertide fair at Varinshold, the first time they would be allowed out of the Order’s care since the day of their joining. Those who failed would be given their gold coins and told to leave. For once the older boys had no dire warnings or ridicule to offer. Vaelin noted that mention of the Test of Knowledge around their peers provoked only sullen looks and vicious cuffs. He wondered what made them so angry, it was only a few questions after all.

“The only brother to journey through the great northern forest,” he demanded of Dentos as they made their way to the dining hall.

“Lesander,” Dentos replied smugly. “That was too easy by half.”

“Third Aspect of the Order?”

Dentos paused, brow furrowed as he searched his memory for the answer. “Kinlial?”

“Are you asking or telling?”

“Telling.”

“Good. You’re right.” Vaelin clapped him on the back as they continued across the courtyard. “Dentos, my brother, I think you may pass this test today.”

They were called to the Test in the afternoon, lining up outside a chamber in the south wall. Master Sollis gave them a stern warning to behave themselves and told Barkus he was first. Barkus seemed about to make a joke but the gravity on Sollis’s face stopped him and he gave them only a brief bow before entering the chamber. Sollis closed the door behind him.

“Wait here,” he ordered. “When you’re done get to the dining hall.” He stalked off leaving them staring at the solid oak door to the chamber.

“I thought he’d be doing this,” Dentos said, a little weakly.

“Doesn’t look like it does it?” Nortah said. He went to the door, leaning down to put his ear to the wood.

“Hear anything?” Dentos whispered.

Nortah shook his head, straightening. “Just mumbles, the door’s too thick.” He reached inside his cloak and came out with a board of pine wood about a foot square with numerous scars on its surface and an inch wide circle of black paint in the centre. “Knives anyone?”

Knives had become their principal game in recent months, a simple enough contest of skill where they would take turns trying to get their throwing knives as close to the centre of the board as possible. The winner would keep all the other knives in the board. There were variations on the basic game where a board was propped against a convenient wall, sometimes it would be suspended from a rope tied to a roof beam and the object was to hit it as it swung back and forth, in other games it would be thrown in the air, occasionally set spinning end over end. Throwing knives were a kind of surrogate currency in the Order, they could be swapped for treats or favours and a brother’s popularity was invariably enhanced if he managed to amass a large stock. The weapons themselves were plain, cheaply made items, triangular six inch blades with a stubby handle, little larger than an arrowhead. Master Grealin had begun to hand them out at the start of their third year, ten for each boy, the supply to be renewed every six months. There was no formal instruction in how to use them, they simply watched the older boys and learnt as they played. Predictably the best archers turned out to be the most successful players, Dentos and Nortah had the largest knife collection with Caenis a close third. Vaelin won only one game in ten but knew he was consistently improving, unlike Barkus who seemed incapable of winning a single match, making him guard his knives jealously, although he became skilled at bartering for more with the spoils of his many thieving expeditions.

“Shitting, stupid, sodding thing!” Dentos fumed as his knife struck sparks on the wall behind the board. Evidently his nerves were throwing his aim.

“You’re out,” Nortah informed him. If a player missed the board they were out of the game and their knife was forfeit.

Vaelin went next, sinking the knife into the outer edge of the circle, a better throw than he usually managed. Caenis’s knife was a little further in but Nortah took the game with a blade only a finger width from the centre.

“I’m just too good at this,” he commented, retrieving his knives. “I really should stop playing, it’s not fair on everyone else.”