A/N: Written for a Sean Challenge at the Dove.
/blah blah/ Chamber speaking
Summary: "Once they were squires, the temptation to see the place where they would be tested for knighthood was irresitible." - Squire On a drunken night, Squire Joren of Stone Mountain makes the visit to challenge the Chamber that would break him.
Stay Away From that Turpentine, Stone Mountain
by meghna
Normally graceful footsteps thumped heavily on the flagstones as Squire Joren of Stone Mountain stumbled into the Chapel of the Ordeal. It was lucky for the priests that the dark benches were bolted to the swept floor, but unfortunate for Joren, whose dark bruises would show easily on pale skin where he knocked into wooden edges.
His bumbling steps, so uncharacteristic, did not aim for the altar at the head of the chapel. No, they veered to the right, as if drawn to the iron door that took in squires and spit out knights.
He stopped with sober control just inches from touching the Chamber door and stared at his final obstacle through flaxen blond hair. Why did so many fear this ancient contraption? What could a room do to him?
Vaguely he remembered a conversation with Lord Wyldon, but what had the old man been talking about? His mind a drunken haze, Joren had trouble recalling his training master's warning.
Warning, that was it! Wyldon had called him to his office study shortly after Joren had been chosen by Paxton of Nond.
"You have the potential and ability to be a great knight, Joren, but you must learn respect."
"Respect, my lord? If this is about Mindelan, that—"
"Watch your tongue, Squire Joren, for you are still under my jurisdiction. But yes, respect for women warriors. Respect for other people, no matter how old or wealthy their families. Respect for chivalry and the law, even the changes occurring within it. And respect for yourself, your own fears and limits."
Joren scoffed at the memory; his idol, Wyldon, had been ruined by these radically progressive coercions of the Crown. Without another moment's thoughts, he stepped forward and placed his hand on the omniscient iron.
Throw me your worst, you bedtime terror, for I, Joren of Stone Mountain, fear nothing!
/Oh, really?/
He was on a market street in his home-fief. None of his usual silks caressed his fair skin; he wore the rough undyed materials of the peasants and carried a woven basket of rotten potatoes in his hands.
An aging man bustled by him, eager to reach the fruit stalls, knocking Joren's basket from his careless, noble's grip. Joren was outraged. How dare that pauper touch him, much less knock his belongings—no matter how worthless they seemed, they were still his.
He found the man buying apples, grabbing hold of his thin shoulder and whirling him around. "Pick up my potatoes, cur, and apologize!" Joren ordered in a demeaning tone well-used.
Instead of cowering and rushing to obey as he should, the man met Joren glare for glare. "Says who?"
"Joren of Stone Mountain, heir to Burchard of Stone Mountain and of noble blood."
Still no cowering or hurrying to pick up potatoes. "Maybe that meant something twenty years ago."
Joren didn't understand; nobles controlled the peasants, always. Nothing could change that. Maybe this man needed some encouragement. He grabbed the peasant's arm in a crushing grip, fisting his other hand menacingly. "What–"
Immediately hands were upon him, yanking him back roughly. A small woman, holding a knight's shield on one arm and Joren's shoulder in her other mailed grip. "Yeh'd betta leave this man here be, or I'll nab ya as a knight o'ter realm."
A woman commoner as a knight? Joren thought, bewildered. Damn that Mindelan, but no matter about being arrested, he could just pay the fine and be off.
As if hearing his dismissing thoughts, the woman jeered. "Thank the Goddess tha' they got ridda them fines fer nobles hurtin' normal folk. Straight ter mines, equal as babes before law. Dem noble-folk ain't got no power over us, no more. None."
Joren stared at the woman knight, horrified. Surely she was crazy; there was no other explanation. The nobles would always have power over commoners. Because we are better—in blood and civility. It is our divine favor.
Joren lost his balance and fell on the cold ground, back in the Chapel of the Ordeal. His head ached, a result of Vinson's newest concoction—soldier's ale, parsley, paint-thinner, and a dash of spiced wine to "make it civilized."
Last time I take one of his drinks, he vowed, rubbing his temples.
He spared a moment's thought for his vision but immediately dismissed it as a drunken fantasy. The Chamber is supposed to show us things we fear, and I'm sure as hell not frightened of that, because it's never going to happen.
Rising to leave with his head spinning, Joren told himself, Next time, stay away from that turpentine, Stone Mountain, if it makes you think a door is giving you visions.
Still, just as he was about to shut the Chapel door for the night, a faint whisper echoed through him.
/You have been warned./