INTERLUDE 4B: HIS BEST
“Ah yes. The returner rewarded for their efforts. You shall have to read me twice if you wish to approach me from my author’s angle. There is no unedited experience. There is no untrue interpretation. There is only the memory of words.”
– from ‘The Notes of Timesnatcher’, recovered after the Fall
10th Belara, 992 NE
“The Daughter of Love and Laughter blesses thee as ye part ways. Now, Theoras Vernays, son of Yular and Otra, thou art a man in the making, and must put aside the toys of children. It is for thee to sire sons and daughters in thine own time, and bring them here upon the day of their tenth year, as thou hast been brought. So may it be.”
The priestess lowered the chalice of water and poured it onto the crown of the boy’s head; it was transformed into liquid fire as it fell from the silver rim, a flame that warmed but did not burn him, flowing orange-blue over his hair and into the basin beneath his chin.
The crowd applauded. Mother and Father, at the front, applauded. He could tell their claps apart from the others’. He had heard them so rarely he felt like he had the memories of each distinct clap imprinted upon his mind.
Aladros and Fentor were sniggering. They knew there was nothing manlike about their youngest brother.
Theoras, his head hanging over the basin, kept his eyes shut. He could recall a time when Fentor, the middle brother of the three, had been kind to him, despite Aladros’s goading. Once Fentor reached his tenth year, however, he had switched allegiances, siding with their eldest brother in all things. Including tormenting him.
By now it felt as though things had always been this way.
The fire-water stopped dripping. He raised his head, allowing the servants to dry his face.
Holding back a sigh, he opened his eyes. He thanked the priestess courteously as he’d been taught, before turning aside, following the short terracotta stair down from the altar at the centre of the temple.
He walked with his feet bare, treading the petals strewn across the aisle of the open-air structure, and went to wait with the other children. He still felt like a child; certainly he was over a foot shorter than both his brothers, who were just two and four years his elder. He had neither their sinews nor their proclivity for the arts of magic. Theor’s favourite thing was visiting their farms, which they hadn’t done since last autumn, even though it was the season – Mother said Father was an awful drunk, and it seemed she didn’t want to let him go within ten miles of the vineyards any longer.
He caught Aladros’s sneering face out of the corner of his eye and straightened up, resolving himself to look directly at the priestess and the next ten-year-old, the girl being prepared for the burdens of the adulthood that would be thrust upon her five years from this day.
He welcomed those looming burdens, and the freedoms that would come with them. Five years couldn’t pass quickly enough for Theor. He would be away from this place, these people. He would be far from Mund, working for a living with his hands, sleeping in the fields under the stars…
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
He clung to the dream and prayed to Enye, in whose sacred space he stood, that it would sustain him.
“The Daughter of Love and Laughter blesses thee as ye part ways. Now, Setema Pharzun, daughter of Zelikus and Gharma, thou art a woman in the making, and must put aside the toys of children. It is for thee to bear sons and daughters in thine own time, and bring them here upon the day of their tenth year, as thou hast been brought. So may it be.”
He waited, and waited, until almost an hour later the last ten-year-old was cleansed.
After the ceremony was over, the five of them walked along the path through the meadow towards the coach-station. Father laid his hand on Theor’s shoulder and, letting Mother, Aladros and Fentor walk ahead, took a more leisurely pace.
Theor looked up at Father with surprise. He had always been half-afraid of the man. He could see himself in Father’s (only somewhat-aged) visage, his future staring back at him. Despite his advanced years the refined features were still mostly wrinkle-free, the fine blond hair still showing in parts through the grey – his brothers had the curly brown hair and Amranian nose of Mother; Theor barely looked like them. But Father…
Still, the tall, slim man had always favoured the others, Aladros in particular. Ginneve, the old Onlorian maid who cleaned Theor’s room and emptied his bedpan, had once explained that it was because Father, the Lord Justice Yular Vernays, had once upon a time detested his own father – the late grandfather the boy had never met.
Do I remind him of his past? Theor wondered, luxuriating in the feel of Father’s hand on his shoulder, the weight of it.
“You’re becoming a man, now, Theoras,” Father said in his level, dispassionate voice. He didn’t look down at Theor, or even at the fields of flowers on either side of the path – he kept his iron gaze on the coach-station in the distance as he spoke. “It’s time we got you a tutor, in preparation for the tests to come. The priestess wasn’t lying about putting aside the toys of childhood. You understand what it is to be a man, Theoras?”
I haven’t the faintest notion, the boy thought.
“Yes sir,” he said.
“Duty,” Father said, nodding to himself as though satisfied, cutting through all the other nonsense options that flitted through Theor’s mind at the question. “Being a man is about duty, Theoras. If there is only one lesson I teach you, let it be this: listen to your spirit. There is a voice inside you which tells you right from wrong. You must learn to train the ear which attends this voice. There are always two roads, and it is always the more difficult of the two you will be asked to follow. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“You must.” Father suddenly sounded tired. “This is a dangerous world. There are many skills you must learn. Magic is only one of them.” Now he turned his face towards his son, trying his best to smile benignly. “Have you taken thought to which discipline you’d choose?”
Theor thought it through as they walked on.
Listen to my spirit… My ‘spirit’ is telling me that Father’s an intelligent man – this question didn’t just come out of nowhere. He wants me to understand duty… doing the right thing… the difficult thing…
Theor swallowed down his true desires.
He knew the right thing to say.
“Yes sir. I want to be a wizard, like you, sir.”
Aladros was learning enchantment; Fentor, divination. Theor knew he could stand out in this, build a stronger connection between himself and Father – something the others would never have, unless they tried taking secondary qualifications.
If he’d been expecting praise for his decision, that hope quickly faded. It was with a disappointed expression on his face that Father looked away, casting his gaze back to the coach-station.
“Very well, Theoras.” The voice was cold. “It will be arranged.”
All the way home, he sat in his coach seat alongside his family but he felt alone, going unmolested by the others. It was as though being alone in Father’s presence had settled a sorcerer’s shield about him that still lingered. It wasn’t until he was back in the wing of the house he shared with his brothers that they began to mock him once more, for the way he choked when speaking in front of the priestess, how stupid he looked on his tiptoes over the basin while she poured the holy water over his head.
And it wasn’t until he spoke to Ginneve the next day that he confirmed his mistake. He should have remembered, but there was no taking it back now.
Of course… his grandfather had been a wizard too.
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