The next morning Hazar woke up shivering.
It wasn't the bell that pulled him from sleep, it was the cold. The blanket had slipped off somewhere in the night, leaving his back exposed. For a while he watched the ceiling without moving.
There was the residue of a pleasant dream in his mind; the harder he tried to hold it, the more it slipped through his fingers. All that remained was the warmth of that brief peace—and the cold swallowed even that.
The bell rang a few more times, then fell silent.
The beds beside him were empty. Yavuz and Tekin had already gotten up. That they adapted to this world faster than he did deepened the strangeness inside him a little more each morning.
He clenched his teeth and rose. Leaving the warm bed was like stepping into cold water.
But there was nothing he could do. As the first cold light of morning lit the village, he left the house.
The chill hadn't left him.
He didn't stop, he pressed on.
He had to get used to it.
From the women handing out food in the square he took a stale piece of bread and a pinch of dried meat. He neither tasted it nor asked what it was; if it was edible now, it got eaten.
Up ahead Aylin, Tekin, and Sevda had hunched over a table, their heads bent over a single book. Before Hazar could even get close, Sevda's voice cut across half the square.
"You idiot! How many more times do I have to say it—this word isn't 'history,' it's 'tree'!"
Hazar settled at the table and tore a bite from the hard bread. It was one of the loaves left over from the tunnel; from its warm, soft state nothing remained but a crust hard as stone.
Tekin pointed his finger at the mark on the page. "So this is 'sapling,' and this is 'history'? There's no difference between them."
"What do you mean NO difference! There's an extra line right here, don't you see it?"
Aylin said with a chuckle, "Okay, okay, calm down. I don't really see the difference between them either. Don't get so mad at Tekin."
"But—" Sevda didn't finish her sentence. When she noticed Hazar trying to make sense of them, she went on.
"This 'idiot' and Aylin"—as she said 'idiot' she shot a glance at Tekin—"said they wanted to learn the Old Common alphabet from me. BUT THEY'RE NOT VERY KEEN."
Hazar looked at the yellowed pages of the book but couldn't make out a thing. "What book is this?"
Sevda coughed. "When these two said they wanted to learn to read from the old man, he gave them this book. It has children's tales in it."
"Tales?" he asked, biting into the dried meat. But the bitter, salty taste of the meat made it hard to swallow.
"Yes. It's got all sorts of tales in it." As she explained, Sevda pointed to the open page. "This one's about a sapling on the verge of death growing into a giant tree that covers the heavens."
"Strange…" was all he could manage. Hazar wasn't much interested in tales. After all, they were there for children to read.
What pulled them away from their conversation again was the metallic ring of the bell.
'Training time…'
As the four split into two, Hazar and Sevda arrived at the training ground where they'd run for hours the day before.
When Hazar and Sevda reached the training ground, Garrun and Yalaz were waiting for them with their usual stern bearing.
Garrun and Yalaz had them running all morning. The running at least warmed Hazar up a little, freezing as he'd been.
Then, with the "Enough!" that followed, everyone scattered—but today they were a little livelier, a little better off than the day before.
They were getting used to this ill-omened world.
Garrun approached them and stopped. Everyone shot to their feet in a sudden rush.
Hazar, Sevda, Yavuz, and Devran waited before him in a row. Garrun looked at them—a long while, one by one. He lingered a bit longer in front of Devran. Devran didn't move but was clearly uncomfortable.
Then, without a word, Garrun opened the door of a small storehouse. When he came back out, he held four weapons in his hands.
"Take them," he said. "First just hold them."
The four each took a sword. Garrun stepped back and watched. He said nothing.
The moment Sevda gripped the sword, it showed—her wrist firmed, her elbow turned slightly outward. She wasn't like someone who'd never held one. Garrun's eyes lingered there for a moment, then moved on.
Yavuz took the sword more carefully. He weighed it, swung it lightly from right to left. He stopped. He tried again. He was measuring something.
Hazar held it. His wrist was at the right angle, his grip not wrong. But Garrun looked at him for a while—then turned his eyes elsewhere. He said nothing.
Devran held the sword with both hands. Carrying it one-handed must have been hard.
"Give it a swing," said Garrun.
Sevda moved first. A hard, direct strike—it cut the air, but her whole body went into it, not just her arm.
Yavuz swung slowly. As if watching the motion.
Hazar swung. It looked normal. Nothing changed on Garrun's face.
When Devran swung, the sword went flying—his wrist couldn't hold it, the weapon spun in the air and nearly dropped. He caught it, but barely.
Garrun walked over. He came up to Devran and took the sword.
He looked at Devran. "Run over there," he said. He pointed to a stone thirty paces away. "And come back."
Devran ran. He went, he came back.
Garrun watched. Devran had noticed the holes in the ground and jumped them, and on the way back he'd shifted right without stepping in them. Without hesitating at all.
Garrun went back into the storehouse. He stayed inside longer this time. When he came out, he held two short knives. Their grips were leather, their weight very slight.
He held them out to Devran.
Devran took them. One in each hand. Holding them felt natural.
"Why these?" he asked.
"You don't have the strength to carry a sword," said Garrun. His voice didn't wound; he was just saying it. "But you're not slow either. These two together are good for something else."
Devran looked at the knives. He said nothing.
Until the afternoon, Garrun told them no techniques.
He just said, practice.
From the very first minute, Sevda had set on a tree. Her strikes were powerful but hasty. As long as the sword went into the tree it was fine, but then she struggled to pull it out. Each time she forced it with her whole body too.
Yavuz practiced more quietly. From the same angle, top to bottom, over and over. He'd pause in between. As if watching the motion from outside. Then he'd start again.
Hazar held the sword and realized for the first time how much he didn't know. Not just how to hold it. Where his arm should be, where to plant his foot. He swung. It cut the air.
'Is this how it's done?'
Devran looked at the knives a while longer, then raised one. It was light. He took the other too. Both were light. He took a step, then another. Then he began to run. He was testing things out on his own.
When the sun began to slip behind the mountains, Garrun stopped them.
"Sit."
Everyone sat. Hazar rubbed his wrist; it had gone numb from holding the sword.
Garrun walked among them. He stopped.
"Hold your swords." He looked at Devran. "You hold your knives too."
Everyone held them.
"Now that you've gotten used to the weapons. You remember what you accumulated yesterday," said Garrun. "In your belly."
Hazar remembered. He remembered two things, in fact, but he didn't mention that.
"Push the Erk toward your hand, your wrist. As if passing it through a channel."
There was silence. He said nothing more.
Hazar closed his eyes. He searched for the warmth in his belly. It was there, fainter than yesterday but it hadn't left.
He tried to push it.
In the first few attempts nothing happened. He just strained, clenched.
Then something sharp happened in his left side.
It wasn't exactly a burning—more like something forcing its way through. For a moment his breath caught. His wrist loosened, he wanted to drop the sword.
He didn't drop it.
Garrun was already beside him. He waited.
"It hurt," said Hazar.
"I know," said Garrun. "Keep going."
His voice hadn't changed. There was neither pity in it nor harshness.
Hazar tried again. The same burning rose this time up to his elbow. He clenched his teeth. He kept holding the sword.
Beside him Sevda's voice came: "This—"
"Normal," said Garrun without turning.
The group went on trying to direct the Erk for a while, but the pain wouldn't stop.
Hazar tried to ignore the pain and kept going until nothing happened at all anymore. Of the small sparks within him, the one in his belly had gone out, it was no longer there.
In a faint voice he managed, "The Erk… The Erk inside me is gone…" fearing he might have done something wrong.
Garrun came to his side, looked for a few seconds, and spoke.
"Normal. The Erk you can accumulate in a few hours with the breathing technique has naturally run out." With the spear in his hand he pointed to the ground.
"You remember the breathing technique. Sit cross-legged and start accumulating Erk. Then direct it again."
As he moved away, he called out to everyone.
"Apply the breathing technique whenever you find a gap. Accumulating energy is hard; spending it is easy."
Hazar sat cross-legged. Placing his left hand on his knee and his right hand on his belly, he breathed and began to count.
Five, seven, stop.
Five, seven, stop.
Five, seven, stop.
He accumulated, he directed, it ran out. He started again.
When the sun set and only two stars and countless moons were left in the sky, Garrun stopped them.
No one spoke much. Sevda was breathing in a hard rasp. Devran stared at the ground.
Yavuz stood up quietly.
Hazar was holding his left arm; it had gone numb.
Before leaving, Garrun turned once. His eyes passed over the group.
"Again tomorrow," he said, then added, "Don't forget to apply the breathing technique."