Gamble King Chapter 32. The Proving Year - Part II

The hermit system was, when you really thought about it, a remarkably practical solution to an age-old problem. What do you do with people w

The hermit system was, when you really thought about it, a remarkably practical solution to an age-old problem.

What do you do with people who are too dangerous to keep around but too valuable to simply execute?

In the south, they had complicated legal systems and lengthy prison sentences. In the east, they favored public shame and exile with the possibility of eventual redemption. But here in the north, where winter could kill you just as efficiently as a headsman's axe, they'd developed something rather more elegant.

You gave the condemned a choice.

Death, clean and quick, administered by professionals who'd make sure it didn't hurt too much. Or exile. Permanent, irrevocable exile to some godforsaken corner of the wilderness, where you'd live alone until you died or went mad or both. The northerners called it "taking the hermit's path," and it had been standard practice for over two centuries.

Most chose exile. People were remarkably optimistic about their ability to survive in conditions that had killed better men.

The crimes that led to this choice were a particular category of offense - serious enough to demand permanent removal from society, but not quite serious enough to justify wasting a perfectly good expert. A knight who'd killed his lord's wife in a fit of jealous rage but had also won three major battles and saved countless lives. A mage who'd experimented on unwilling subjects but whose research had advanced healing magic by decades. A master smith who'd sold weapons to enemies of the realm but whose techniques were irreplaceable.

Valuable people who'd done unforgivable things.

The system worked because it served everyone's interests. Society got rid of dangerous individuals without losing their expertise entirely. The condemned got to live, technically speaking. And the crown got a network of scattered, highly skilled individuals who could be called upon for specific purposes when needed.

Like training the next generation of knights.

Max had heard stories about most of the hermits over the past few weeks during his research on the Proving year.

Bloodaxe Kavon had been a legendary warrior before he'd massacred an entire village in a drunken rage. Sylas the Mad had been the realm's finest siege engineer until he'd tried to blow up a rival's castle with the rival's family still inside. Mara the Trickster had been a court mage who'd used her position to blackmail half the nobility before getting caught.

These were people with reputations. Their crimes were famous, their skills legendary, their current locations roughly known to anyone who paid attention to such things.

But Grimjaw the Render?

Max had never heard that name before in his life.

Which was... odd.

Because clearly everyone else had. The gasps, the stepping backward, the invocation of deities that apparently outranked the usual Aspects in terms of seriousness - these were not the reactions of people hearing an unfamiliar name.

These were the reactions of people who knew exactly who Grimjaw was and found the prospect of meeting him approximately as appealing as juggling lit torches while standing in a puddle of oil.

So either Max had somehow missed learning about one of the north's most notorious hermits, or Grimjaw was the sort of person whose reputation was deliberately not discussed in polite company.

Neither possibility was particularly encouraging.

Max looked around the clearing, cataloging reactions.

His father's expression had shifted from neutral ceremony-face to something that looked distinctly like concern. Not panic, exactly - Tredor was too controlled for that - but definitely the expression of a man who'd just watched his son draw the short straw in a very high-stakes lottery.

Sir Gregory looked like he'd bitten into something sour.

Even the mages were reacting. Baldwin, naturally, was smiling for what was probably the first time all day.

What an asshole.

Max caught sight of the other squires in his peripheral vision. Most were carefully not looking at him, which was somehow worse than outright staring. It was the social equivalent of stepping away from someone who'd just announced they had plague.

Bubbles was examining his boots with sudden, intense interest.

"Return to your position," Sir Borgen said finally.

Max walked back to his spot in the formation, his boots crunching through the snow with what felt like unnecessary loudness. The silence that followed him was thick enough to cut with a sword.

He took his place and waited for whatever came next.

"Well," Bubbles said quietly, still looking at his boots, "you're taking it pretty well."

Max decided not to ask.

Obviously, Grimjaw was dangerous. The collective reaction had made that clear enough. Whatever specific flavor of dangerous he represented, Max would find out soon enough.

The ceremony continued. The remaining squires stepped forward one by one, drew their slips, and announced their assigned hermits. More names Max had heard of - Korven the Silent, Thessa Bloodhand, Erik the Exile. A few he hadn't, but none generated the same level of horrified fascination as his own draw.

The last squire drew his name - "Sartre the Smith" - and stepped back into formation. A collective exhale went up from the assembled group. The worst part was over, at least for everyone who wasn't Max.

Sir Borgen stepped forward again, this time gesturing to several men who'd been standing at the edge of the clearing. They moved through the ranks of squires, each carrying leather scroll cases - dozens of them, one for each young man present.

"Your assignments have been determined," Borgen announced. "Now you must learn how to reach them."

A man handed Max a scroll case. The leather was well-oiled and sealed with wax, designed to survive whatever weather the north might throw at it. Max broke the seal and unrolled the parchment inside.

The map was beautifully detailed, far more elaborate than anything he'd expected.

It showed not just the major landmarks and rivers, but dozens of smaller notations. Symbols that looked like they meant something specific, routes marked in different colors, areas shaded with various patterns. Around him, other squires were examining their own maps - each one different, each one leading to a different corner of the vast northern wilderness.

"These maps contain everything you need to survive your journeys," Borgen continued, his voice carrying easily across the clearing. "The north is vast, and you will be scattered across it like seeds on the wind. Some of you will travel east to the Frozen Reaches. Others west to the Ironwood. Still others north to lands where winter never ends."

Max found himself studying the route marked on his map. It led north. Very far north, to regions he'd only heard described in whispered stories.

"Safe zones are marked with the rune of Hedrig the Hunter - caves, ancient trees, abandoned shelters that have been blessed and warded. You may spend your nights in these places without fear."

Max found the rune Borgen was describing scattered across his map. There seemed to be a reasonable number of them, at least for the first part of his journey. Further north, they became noticeably scarcer.

"Safe routes are marked in green. Villages that will trade with you fairly are marked with Mellara's sign. Danger zones, areas where even experienced warriors fear to tread, are shaded in red."

Max noticed his map had quite a few red areas. More than seemed entirely fair, really. Bubbles, peering over at his own chart, looked significantly more fortunate in that regard.

"Follow the marked paths, use the safe zones, and you will eventually reach your assigned hermit. Deviate from these guidelines, and you significantly increase your chances of never reaching anything again."

Borgen's voice took on a more serious tone.

"Now hear well the laws that will keep you breathing."

The clearing went completely silent. Even the wind seemed to pause.

"Do not enter any cave that is not marked with Hedrig's rune. If you absolutely must seek shelter in an unmarked cave, ask permission before entering. Speak clearly and wait for an answer. If you receive any response - words, sounds, anything at all - leave immediately. If there is no answer, you may enter, but do so with great care and be prepared to flee."

Max and Bubbles exchanged a look. The expression on his face suggested they were both thinking the same thing.

What the fuck lived in unmarked caves that you had to ask permission from?

"Do not," Borgen continued, "under any circumstances, allow sunset to find you outside a safe zone. This becomes law as you venture deeper into the true north. If night falls and you are caught in the open, climb the tallest tree you can find or dig yourself into the earth and cover yourself completely. Do not travel at night. Do not make fires at night unless you are in a marked safe zone. Do not respond to voices in the darkness."

The knight paused, scanning the faces of the assembled squires.

"In the hours of darkness, you shall not answer to your name. Even if the voice calling sounds familiar. Even if it sounds like someone you know and trust. Especially if it sounds like someone you know and trust."

Max felt Bro shift slightly on his shoulder. The spider had been unusually still during the entire ceremony, but something about these rules seemed to have caught his attention.

"Should you hunt for your supper, take not the lives of dire wolves, shadow cats, winter bears, ice drakes, or any beast that speaks in words you understand. Let such creatures be, and pray to whatever gods you favor that they grant you the same mercy."

More exchanged glances around the formation. The list of things not to hunt was getting uncomfortably long.

"Last and not least," Borgen said, "should you receive visitors whilst sheltering in blessed ground, you will show courtesy to any stranger, be they fair or foul to look upon, be their speech sweet or strange. If they reveal themselves to you, do not ask them to leave. Share your bread if they ask it. Show respect in all your dealings."

He paused again, letting that sink in.

"You are knight aspirants, be chivalrous. Courtesy costs nothing and may save your life."

Max decided to empty his head. The rules, the warnings, the implications of everything Borgen had just said - he could process all of that later. Right now, thinking too hard about what lay ahead would probably just make him panic.

"Today is the fifteenth day of Goldmoon, in the thirty-third year of King Einar's reign," Borgen announced. "You will return to this place on the fifteenth day of Goldmoon next year. You will bring with you the tokens your hermits provide as proof of your training. Those who return will be advance in their path to knighthood. Those who do not..."

He left that hanging in the cold air.

"Bid your farewells now. Be ready to depart soon. May the gods watch over you all."

And that was it. A year of their lives, possibly the last year of their lives, decided with less ceremony than it took to order breakfast.

The clearing immediately erupted into conversation. Squires clustered together, some examining each other's maps, others making last-minute plans. A few looked like they were trying very hard not to cry.

Max turned and saw his father and Prince Keiran approaching. He walked toward them, meeting them halfway across the clearing.

The prince spoke first.

"An interesting draw," Prince Keiran said. "For a moment there, I thought you were all but forfeit. But perhaps this will prove... educational."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Max said. "I'll do my best to make the most of whatever lessons he has to offer."

"See that you do."

Keiran nodded once and moved away, probably to deliver similarly inspiring words to other squires.

Max turned to his father, who had been silent throughout the exchange.

"Your bow," Tredor said without preamble. "The strings are in good condition?"

"Yes, sir. I have spares as well."

"Arrows?"

"A full quiver, plus materials to make more if needed."

"Your swords?"

"Sharp and oiled."

"Armor?"

"Clean and fitted properly."

Tredor nodded, then continued the inventory. Food supplies, winter gear, basic tools, emergency equipment.

"Remember," his father said when they'd finished, "you are Bjorn, son of Ragnar the butcher of Frosthold. A squire candidate trying to make a better life for himself. Nothing more. Especially not to anyone calling themselves White Hands or claiming to serve them. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Tredor paused. "Stay on the marked paths. Trust the safe zones. Be polite to anything that talks to you, whether it looks human or not."

"I will."

They stood in silence for a few moments, watching the other squires say their goodbyes. Then Tredor stepped forward and pulled Max into a firm hug, patting his back twice.

"I believe in you," he said quietly. "I'll see you in a year."

"Of course you will," Max said.

His father released him and stepped back, his expression neutral again.

"How sentimental you've become, Tredor," Prince Aldwin observed, having apparently finished his rounds. "I remember when you wouldn't even pat your horse."

"It is the duty of a father to believe in his offspring," Tredor said.

Keiran glanced across the clearing, where Aelara was making her way toward them through the crowd of squires and their parents who joined not long ago.

"Speaking of offspring," Keiran said, "come, old friend. Help me moralize the others. I'm sure they could benefit from your wisdom about parental duty."

It wasn't really a request.

Tredor nodded once to Max and followed the prince toward a cluster of nervous-looking fathers who were probably in desperate need of someone to tell them how to feel about sending their sons into the wilderness.

Aelara stopped directly in front of Max, close enough that he could see the intricate embroidery on her cloak.

"Hey," Max said.

"...Hey?" She raised an eyebrow. "What manner of greeting is that exactly?"

"Simple. Effective. Straight to the point."

"I suppose I find myself in agreement with that assessment." She paused. "Hey."

Max found himself smiling despite everything. "You too."

"You had quite ill fortune up there," she said.

"What, that Grimjaw fellow?"

"Yes. He is famed for never losing his token to a squire. Has been at it for twenty years straight. A former knight, they say." She studied his face. "I confess myself surprised you are not more disturbed by this."

Max felt something deflate in his chest, but he kept his expression steady. Twenty years. No successful students. Former knight, which meant he'd probably been good at killing people before he became a hermit.

Fuuuuuuuck.

He regained his composure and looked at Aelara. "So, why did you come here? Shall you miss me so terribly that you came to bid me farewell?"

"In truth, I am most pleased to have respite from you for a year. I came to ensure you would truly be gone."

"Must you be so cruel?"

She laughed, a sound that made something warm settle in his chest despite the circumstances. Then she reached into her cloak and pulled out a small square of fabric - a handkerchief, embroidered with careful precision.

"'Tis tradition," she said, holding it out to him. "Lovers are meant to give their beloved a personal token for fortune. I wrought this myself."

Max took the handkerchief and examined it. The roaring bear of House Vanheim was stitched in the center, surrounded by intricate knotwork. The craftsmanship was excellent.

"Thanks," he said. "This is pretty well done."

"I have many talents."

"But I didn't forget what you just said though. Lovers, huh? So we're lovers?"

She rolled her eyes. "It was a figure of speech."

Max looked at Aelara. He liked her. A lot, actually. But this whole thing felt forced, like something she didn't really want but was going along with because it was expected. The idea of begging for a relationship that she might not even want made his skin crawl.

He opened his mouth to address it directly, to ask her if she actually wanted this betrothal or if they were both just playing along with their fathers' plans.

"When you return," she said, cutting him off, "we'll talk about it."

Max frowned. Was she some kind of mentalist or something? He wasn't entirely sure she was thinking about the same conversation he was planning to have. He'd been ready to ask if she really wanted this whole betrothal arrangement, expecting her to say no. But maybe she was thinking about something else entirely.

It didn't matter right now.

"Sure," he said. "Thank you. I'll keep this on me for the luck."

"See that you do," she said, sounding remarkably like her father.

They stood facing each other again for a moment, and Max found himself looking into her eyes. With the sun catching them just right, they took on a particular shade of green.

"Phthalo green."

"What?" she asked.

"Your eyes. The shade of green they have in the sun. It's the best shade of green. Well, according to me. I love green. Favorite color."

Aelara went very still, just looking at him.

The sound of hoofbeats and shouting interrupted whatever moment they might have been having.

"Harek! Wait!"

Max turned to see Gerth riding toward them, his horse lathered with sweat and his face flushed from hard riding.

Gerth dismounted with all the grace of a sack of grain falling off a cart. He was gasping for breath, one hand pressed to his chest, the other still gripping the reins.

"Forgive me," Max said to Aelara, then walked over to greet the old healer. "What's gotten into you this morning?"

"You were leaving," Gerth wheezed, "without telling me?"

Jormund appeared from behind the horse, looking considerably less winded. He was grinning wide.

"I guided our intrepid healer here," Jormund said. "Though I suspect my horse could have found the way without me, given how loudly he was shouting your name."

Gerth finally caught enough breath to properly glare at Max. "Nineteen years I've been patching you up, boy. Nineteen years of setting your broken bones and stitching your cuts and listening to your complaints about training. And you think to just wander off into the wilderness without so much as a farewell?"

"You haven't slept much these past few days," Max said. "I wanted to let you rest."

"Rest? Hah!" Gerth's voice cracked with indignation. "I'll have plenty of time to rest when you're dead in some godforsaken cave."

"Cheerful as always," Jormund observed.

Gerth ignored him and reached into his saddlebag, pulling out a small glass vial filled with clear liquid. "Anyway. I had to get this from those Sentinels we traveled with from Dragonmeet."

Max remembered them vaguely. Their names escaped him, but they'd had that particular aura of people who were very good at killing things.

"They gave me this for you," Gerth said, holding out the vial.

It was the Heightening.

Max's eyes lit up. This changed things. Not dramatically, but enough to matter. The Heightening could be the difference between surviving an encounter and becoming something's dinner.

"Seriously?" He took the vial with considerably more enthusiasm than he'd shown for anything else that morning. "They actually gave you this?"

Jormund whistled low. "That's powerful stuff. Be very careful with it, boy. One wrong move and you'll either be seeing things that aren't there or your heart will explode. Possibly both."

"Worth the risk," Max said, examining the vial more closely.

"Store it properly," Gerth said. "Use it only when you absolutely must. And for the love of all the gods, don't drink the whole thing at once."

"I won't. This is... this is actually really good news."

"Good." Gerth studied his face as if he was checking him for injuries. "You look tired. Are you eating properly?"

"Yes, Gerth."

"Sleeping?"

"When I can."

"That's not an answer." The old man frowned. "You need to take care of yourself out there. No one else is going to do it for you. Keep your weapons sharp, your armor clean, and your wits about you. Trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, it probably is."

Max nodded. This was as close to sentiment as Gerth ever got.

"Which hermit did you draw?" Gerth asked.

"Grimjaw the Render."

"Oh." Gerth' frowned. "You're fucked."

Jormund burst out laughing, a sound that carried across the clearing and drew several curious looks.

"Thank you for the confidence," Max said dryly.

Gerth's shoulders sagged slightly. The fight seemed to go out of him all at once, leaving behind just a tired old man.

Jormund's laughter faded, and he studied both of them with those sharp eyes that missed absolutely nothing. "You know," he said slowly, "I heard something deliciously ironic during my military days."

"What's that?" Max asked.

"About our friend Grimjaw. The circumstances of his arrest, specifically." Jormund's expression grew calculating. "Twenty-one years ago, when they finally caught up with him after whatever crime he'd committed, he was actually defeated. Not by a group of knights, not by overwhelming numbers. By a single squire."

Both Gerth and Max stared at him.

"A squire?" Gerth said. "You're telling me a boy defeated one of the realm's most feared knights?"

"A clever lad named Aldric the Wise. Though 'wise' might be generous, considering he died in the process." Jormund stroked his beard. "The details are... peculiar. From what I heard, young Aldric didn't plan anything at all. Pure desperation."

"What happened?" Max asked.

"They found Grimjaw unconscious, foaming at the mouth like a mad dog. And poor Aldric was quite dead." Jormund paused. "The boy's body showed the strangest signs. Hair standing on end, singed at the tips. Clothes burned in odd patterns. There was a smell, they said - like the air after lightning, but wrong somehow. Sweet and metallic."

"Magic?" Gerth asked, frowning.

"That was the theory. His fingernails were blackened, and witnesses said his eyes had burst blood vessels completely. Like rubies."

"And it killed him?"

"burnt out from the inside. Quite literally." Jormund's tone was matter-of-fact. "But it worked. Whatever he did, Grimjaw was unconscious for three days."

"Interesting story," Max said. "Though I'm not sure how it helps me."

"Perhaps it doesn't. Or perhaps it tells us something about the man you're facing. Someone who's experienced magic used against him." Jormund smiled slightly. "Which brings me to a proposition."

"What kind of proposition?"

"A wager. I've heard they call you the Gamble King around here. Surely you won't refuse a proper bet?"

Max raised an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

"Simple terms. I say you'll fail completely. You'll reach Grimjaw's domain, realize you're in over your head, and come running back. If you even make it that far."

"And if I prove you wrong?"

"If you return in one year with Grimjaw's token, I'll pay you fifty gold dragons."

Gerth nearly choked. "Fifty?"

"But when you fail," Jormund continued smoothly, "you owe me a favor. To be called in at my discretion. No questions asked."

Max felt his competitive instincts stir. The way Jormund phrased it - casual dismissal of his chances - hit exactly the right nerve.

"You're assuming I'll fail," Max said.

"I'm observing reality. Grimjaw has turned away every challenger for twenty years. You think a few months of training makes you special?"

"I think you're underestimating me."

"Perhaps. Prove it then. Take the wager."

Gerth shook his head. "Boy, don't listen to him. He's baiting you."

"Of course I am," Jormund said mildly. "The question is whether he's smart enough to recognize it and walk away, or whether his pride will decide for him."

"Counter-offer," Max said. "When I return with Grimjaw's token, you pay me fifty dragons and publicly admit you were wrong."

"And when you fail?"

Max smiled. "I won't fail."

"Everyone says that."

"I'm not everyone."

Jormund studied him for a long moment. "No, perhaps you're not. Very well. Fifty dragons and a public apology against one future favor."

"Agreed," Max said.

They clasped hands, and Jormund's smile turned satisfied.

"This should be interesting."

A deep horn sounded from somewhere up the hill, its low note rolling across the camp like distant thunder. The sound seemed to hang in the cold air longer than it should have, marking the official beginning of the trials.

Gerth's frown deepened until it looked like it might become permanent.

"Well," he said gruffly, "I suppose this is it then."

"Stop frowning," Max said, adjusting his pack straps. "Maybe when I get back, I'll find you a woman who can love that perpetually sour face of yours."

Jormund burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the trees. "Any woman brave enough to take on the healer would have to be either remarkably desperate or completely blind."

Gerth's expression somehow managed to grow even more sour. "Very funny. Both of you."

"I'm leaving now," Gerth announced flatly.

Max clapped him on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, old man."

"You take care of yourself. I'm not the one walking into the wilderness to find a hermit who may or may not try to kill me."

"He won't kill me."

"We'll see."

The trials began from the northern edge of the camp, where a small crowd had gathered despite the early hour. Max spotted his father near one of the larger tents, standing with Sir Gregory and several other knights. Gregory gave him a solemn nod.

Aelara stood with her father near the edge of the clearing, her expression unreadable. She raised her hand slightly when she saw him looking.

Baldwin was there too, positioned where he'd be sure to catch Max's attention. When their eyes met, Max raised his hand and extended his middle finger.

Baldwin's face went through several expressions in rapid succession - confusion, dawning comprehension, and finally outrage. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, though Max wasn't entirely sure the mage understood what the gesture meant. It was satisfying regardless.

"Subtle," Bubbles said, appearing at Max's elbow with his own pack slung over his shoulder.

"I thought so." Max glanced at him. "Which direction are you headed?"

"Northeast. Following the river until it splits, then east toward the hills. You?"

"Straight north through the pine stands toward the stone ridge." Max felt something ease in his chest. "We'll be traveling together for a while then."

"Good. I was hoping I wouldn't have to start this alone."

They walked toward the departure point together. Two other squires fell into step with them - Marcus Ironhold and Dan of the Westmarch, both heading in similar directions according to their maps.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a proper traveling party," Willem said, hefting his pack higher on his shoulders.

"At least for the first few days," Marcus added. "Strength in numbers and all that."

They reached the camp's edge, where the marshal of the trials waited with a ledger and several officials Max didn't recognize. The formalities were brief - names recorded, destinations noted, expected return date marked down with the understanding that it was more hope than certainty.

"You know the way to the northern paths?" the marshal asked.

"North through the pine stands until the old lightning-struck oak, then follow the river," Bubbles recited.

"Good. Try not to die stupidly."

"We'll do our best."

They passed beyond the last of the white trees and onto the path that led away from the White Woods. Behind them, voices rose in what might have been a prayer or might have been a song.

The four of them walked in comfortable silence for a while, adjusting to the rhythm of travel, the weight of their packs, the crunch of snow beneath their boots.

"So," Willem said eventually, "Grimjaw, huh?"

Marcus whistled low. "You're so fucked, Harek."

"Shut up," Bubbles said firmly. "He'll be fine."

Max felt Bro shift against his shoulder, the spider's temperature rising noticeably even through the layers of clothing.

"No," Max said quietly. "Don't burn people."

The other three squires stopped walking and stared at him.

"Who were you talking to?" Marcus asked, looking around as if expecting to see someone else on the path with them.

Max didn't answer. Instead, he adjusted his pack straps and continued walking north, taking the lead as the frozen horizon stretched endlessly ahead of them.