Alterith placed the cane upon the desktop, straightened his threadbare white horsehair wig, and clasped his hands behind his back. The youth remained where he was, his hands now at his sides. It was a shame that he’d been forced to draw blood, but these clan youngsters were not like Varlish boys. They were savages who did not feel pain in the same way. Not once did any of them make a sound while being thrashed. Alterith was of the opinion that the ability to feel pain was linked to intelligence – ‘No sense no feeling’, as his old tutor, Mr Brandryth, was apt to say regarding clan folk.
The schoolmaster looked into the youth’s dark eyes. ‘You understand why I punished you?’
‘No, I do not.’
Alterith’s hand lashed out, slapping the boy hard upon the cheek. The sound hung in the air. ‘You will call me sir when you respond to me. Do you understand that?’
‘I do … sir,’ answered the youth, his voice steady, but his eyes blazing with anger.
Alterith was tempted to slap him again for the look alone – and would have, had the distant ringing of Dusk Bell not sounded from the St Persis Albitane School. Alterith glanced to his right, gazing through the open window and across the old parade square to the main school building. Already Varlish youngsters were emerging from the great doors, carrying their books. One of the masters came in sight, his midnight blue academic cape shimmering in the afternoon sunshine. Alterith looked with longing at the old building. Within it were libraries, filled with historical tomes, fine works of philosophy, diaries of famous Varlish soldiers and statesmen. There were three halls, and even a small theatre set aside for great plays. The teacher sighed, and returned his gaze to the cold stone walls of his own classroom. It was a former stable, the stalls ripped out and replaced with twenty ancient desks and chairs. Twenty chairs and fifty students, the unlucky ones sitting on the floor in ranks around the walls. There were no books here, the children using slate boards and chalk for their work. The walls were bare but for a single map of the Moidart’s domain, and beside it the daily prayer for the Moidart’s continued health.
What a waste of my talents, he thought.
‘We will recite the prayer,’ he said, offering the customary short bow. The fifty pupils in the class rose, and – as they had been taught – returned the bow. Then the chant began.
‘May the Source bless the Moidart, and keep him in good health. May his lands be fertile, his people fed, his honour magnified, his laws be known, his word be obeyed, for the good of the faithful.’
‘Good day to you all,’ said Alterith.
‘Good day, sir,’ they chanted.
Alterith looked down into the eyes of the black-haired youth.
‘Begone, Master Ring. And bring a better attitude with you tomorrow.’
The lad said nothing. He took one backward step then spun on his heel and walked away.
One day, thought Alterith Shaddler, Kaelin Ring will hang. He has no respect for his betters.
The master sighed again, then moved swiftly across the room, lifting his greatcoat from its hook on the wall and swinging it across his thin shoulders. Despite the promise of spring the highland air was still icy cold. Wrapping a long woollen scarf around his neck Alterith left the old stable and walked across the parade ground into the school proper, striding down the now silent corridor leading to the outer grounds. Several of the other teachers were sitting in the Academic Chamber as he passed. A fire was blazing in the hearth and Alterith could smell the spices used in the mulled wine. It would have been pleasant to sit in one of those deep armchairs, his feet extended towards the fire. But then, unlike the other members of staff at Persis Albitane, teaching was Alterith’s only source of income, and he could not afford the Chamber membership fee. Pushing thoughts of mulled wine and warm fires from his mind he strode out into the cold air. The sun was shining in a clear, bright sky. Immediately his eyes began to water. Alterith squinted towards the road and the lake beyond.