Rafe: The Gilded Rite
At dawn the following day, Rafe made his way to the dimly lit dining hall in the center of the mountain maze. He was to meet Christopher there, one of his Watchmen who had come to assist him in escorting the new members home.
The Commander had changed his clothes earlier, eager to be free of the sweat laden cloak and garments he'd had to wear during the ritual. Now, he wore the brown leather jerkin with riding pants and boots provided to him by the mountain men. The other clothes, he had shoved into a pack and tied it to Lightly's saddle. When he returned to the castle, he would take them straight home and scrub them clean. First, he had to make it through the meal provided for them.
Rafe turned into a narrow corridor, his fingers running along the rough wall. He emerged at the end of the hall into a rounded dining room. There was a crooked chandelier dangling from above that provided little light, but it was enough to see how to move around. A long wooden table was lined with cushioned chairs in the center of the room. Four pitchers containing sweet honeyed wine sat on the table. Each one was evenly spaced out so that the men would have easy access to them. A small plate of stale bread sat off to the right side of the table.
His eyes focused, instead, on the chair at the head of the table, his place. He was expected to make a speech, to praise the men for their honor and bravery. As it was his duty, Rafe found it easy enough to procure the words. He always kept it short and simple, believing that blunt comments were far more direct than lavishly composed words. As he reached for a goblet on a bare side table, he heard someone come into the room behind him.
"How was it?" Christopher asked. Rafe took a long sip before replying.
"Punishing," he said pointedly. He walked to his chair and stood behind it; Christopher's eyes watching him the whole time.
"I stayed at the church at the base of the mountain," Christopher said, sucking in a deep breath. A sense of defeated heaviness hung about him, cramming itself into the already dimly lit room. "Spent the night there with a holy sister." Now, it was his turn to drink. He sipped the wine greedily, barely getting a drop in his mouth.
"You're not supposed to bed any of the holy sisters," Rafe muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Better that than going to bed alone," Christopher pointed out, taking another, deeper drink. He added a chuckle to try and keep the tone of their meeting light. The chair beside Rafe's was pulled out, chaffing the uneven wood underneath. Christopher sat down in a labored huff. Rafe studied him.
He was younger than the Commander but the streaks of grey in his orange, stringy hair made him appear five or seven years older than he was. He was skinny as a pole with lean, hard muscles that only emerged when he was lifting something heavy or using his sword. He had been a member of the Watch for as long as Rafe had. He remembered coming here for his own christening, Christopher in tow as well, skinner than he was now. That was ten years ago, and so much had changed since their initial meeting at Red Cliff.
"They'll be getting them up now," Rafe remarked, setting down uneasily now.
"If they slept at all," Christopher whispered, hugging his goblet with both of his hands. A low rumbled echoed in the space around them. Dust even seemed to stir at the startled sound.
"Eat," Rafe commanded, raising his elbow up and resting it on the back of the chair so that he could see the door fully. "The food will go to waste. They will not be able to stomach it."
"Will you?" Christopher asked, relenting and stretching a pointed elbow out to retrieve the hard bread before him.
"I don't have much of an appetite." Rafe looked down sharply. Hopefully Christopher would get the hint and not ask anymore. The younger man didn't press, and Rafe was grateful. Christopher had accompanied Rafe to the Gilded Rite for two years now, and it was mainly because of his relaxed compliance and easy conversations with the new recruits. He could calm them and make them laugh while drawing them, unknowingly, to their impending brutal task.
"Did they all make it?" Christopher asked seriously, changing the subject. Rafe ran his tongue over his front teeth, staring harshly at the floor. He crossed his arms.
"No." His mouth then set into a firm line, and Christopher leaned back, exhaling.
"By Ryker," he said, running a hand through his hair. He chewed on the bread for a long time before the door opened once more. Two of the new recruits were shoved crudely inside, nearly tripping over each other. Rafe stood and ran his eyes over them, taking in their injuries and cuts; the dried blood still staining their faces and arms.
"Can't we clean this off, Sir?" Freddie asked, pushing his flattened hair back from his face. Nearly all his long blond hair had been drenched in deep maroon. He had had quite the ordeal last night.
"You will wear the blood of your enemies until you arrive back at the castle." He removed himself from the table and came around to stand directly in front of them, head raised, and chin held high. "So that the king may see you." In response, the two boys in front of Freddie both itched their faces.
The door lunged open once more and Redwyn appeared, eyes downcast. His hands were still shaking. Dirt and blood were crusted under his nails. He licked his lips but stopped halfway when he realized blood coated them as well. Sergio was with him, an amused expression plastered across his ugly face.
Rafe stared at Redwyn with harsh eyes. This is the reality of the situation. This is what is demanded of you. He did not minimize the situation or lay the blame of it at anyone's feet. The tradition of the Gilded Rite went back centuries, and his personal afflictions with it did not matter. It was his duty to uphold the brutality of it, not because he enjoyed it, but because it was his job and he was expected to do it. He would not complain to the king. He would not be weak, and neither would these men.
"The others?" Rafe asked Sergio when Redwyn would not look at him. Sergio shook his lopsided head, twisting his neck even more. Shocked murmurs blazed through the crowd before him. Rafe kept his expression indifferent.
"Three men, Rafe-Sir," Christopher exclaimed. "Three men stand before you where seven stood yesterday."
"And?" Rafe challenged. His throat tightened, but he rotated his head to glare at him levelly. Christopher bowed his head, tears beginning to sting his eyes. Rafe pushed off the table and began walking around the seven before him, his hands pulled tightly behind his back. Sergio cleared his throat and produced a folded piece of parchment from his robes.
"Here is the list, Commander." He unfolded it and held it out, but Rafe did not move to take it. Unaffected, the man coughed once more. "One took his own life in his room before day broke, unable to accept what he had done. We found them this morning." More shallow whispers. Rafe chose to ignore their disrespect. They are in shock. They are grieving. Let them grieve.
"Go on," he told Sergio.
"Two more could not continue." Sergio calmly refolded the paper and placed it back inside his large robes. "One chose the path of shame."
"Tell them," Rafe said evenly. He had stopped pacing.
"We sent those who could not complete the task out to meet their makers. The Commander gave them a final warning, and then..." His black, wide eyes traveled back to Rafe, "they were gone. Never to enter this world again." Disgraced recruits were either maimed for dishonor and banished to the Wastelands or killed. The choice was theirs. Most chose death as an escape from the taunting life that would follow their defeat. There was no honor in living life as a disgraced failure. Men were prideful beings, Rafe found.
He had warned them of the choice, and each one had entered the tunnel, confident that they would complete their training. Now only three remained.
He looked at each man before him in turn, watching their expressions. Before they had even started the long trek to Red Cliff, he had told them that, once the ritual was over, he would study them for a long time to gauge their reaction. He wanted to see it in their eyes once the deed was done. Were they at peace with their decision? Or was their regret lurking just below the surface? Pity he could tolerate, sculp into something harder and cooler. Regret often turned to hatred, rebellion. A choice. As if they had one now.