“Young Master,” a voice called over the pounding of a door. “You must be ready before the guest arrives.”
Valentin groaned and sat up in bed. He stretched his arms above his head and stared blankly at the door. His body felt wonderful but his mind remained fatigued. He had fought a long battle of attrition with sleep, kept awake by the thoughts of inspecting the paintings on the floor the next morning.
That desire is what pulled him out of bed and got him dressed with a sense of urgency. He departed his room at speed, moving quickly past the servants that lined the halls to stir the clansmen that rested within. The surprised servants watched Valentin rush down the hallway and down the stairs and whispered conjecture to each other.
The main floor bustled with the activity of people scrambling around to complete their morning preparations. The boy viewed the organized chaos as a boon to move through the group mostly unnoticed.
He shuffled to the entryway of the painting room and reached for the doorknob in an attempt for a subtle entry. The reality of the situation was not inclined to cooperate with the boy’s schemes. A dull clunk informed Valentin that his passage would be barred. He cursed under his breath at the barrier before giving the door another tug. The second clunk mocked the boy’s foolishness to try again.
Valentin looked around and none of the servants seemed to notice him or, at the very least, acknowledge his presence. He wondered if any of the people hustling around him had the key required to purchase him entrance into this gallery.
“Young Master,” a man’s voice spoke from Valentin’s right. “What are you doing outside Master Arlo’s workroom?”
“Oh, Jerome,” Valentin greeted the familiar man. “There was a painting of Arlo’s I saw last night that I wish to view again. He is a very skilled painter, isn’t he?”
Jerome’s eyes narrowed as he assessed the boy. “He has that level of mastery because he has an obsessive personality that will not let him cease until he does it in a way that makes him happy. Apparently, it is a desirable trait in successful artists.”
“I’m interested in the one that he has yet to perfect,” Valentin explained. “Do you, by chance, have the key?”
“I do not,” Jerome answered. “You will have to wait or ask Master Arlo at breakfast if he will allow you in. Why is it that painting in particular that interests you? It isn’t even hung on the walls.”
“I was curious about his inspiration,” Valentin attempted to answer innocuously. “I caught a glimpse of the piece last night and something about it felt familiar.”
Jerome leaned forwards and spoke quietly into Valentin’s ear. “Young Master, I must question your motivations in uncovering this person. I am uncertain if you feel some guilt from what transpired at your bath or if you are also enraptured by the subject of the portrait. Yet I must implore you, if you are a boy of respect that I believe you to be, not to pursue this matter further. It will not be of any benefit to the inspiration.”
“Then is there nothing I can do to help?” Valentin asked dejectedly. “It will be difficult to be a simple bystander.”
“I can assure you that there are bigger threats to an inspiration’s safety than the reverence of Master Arlo,” Jerome argued. “Let us worry about our own, Young Master. All you must do is be kind, and we will appreciate it. Now run along, it may benefit you to eat.”
“I’m not sure that I will wish to dine with a person like that,” Valentin admitted.
Jerome smiled. “Then it is fortunate for you that they never eat with the rest.”
As the servant claimed, the painter was nowhere to be seen. Despite his detour, Valentin was still among the first to arrive, even beating the Matriarch to the esteemed table. He nibbled idly on day old bread he dunked into wine as he was still not hungry for much else.
“Good morning, Valentin,” his Aunt greeted the boy as she neared the boy. “I hope that your arrangements were to your liking.”
“I liked the room but sleep did not find me, Aunt Yvonne,” the boy admitted.
The Matriarch offered her nephew a sympathetic look. “Sometimes it takes a few nights to adjust to a new sleeping surface. Not to mention you retired last night in an unwell state. Perhaps you should eat some more to get your energy up.”
“This is all that I wish to eat,” Valentin assured, raising his hand. “I will just have to excuse myself early from the guest. I hope that it won’t be considered rude.”
“In this case, it would be very rude,” Yvonne responded humorously. “The guest is here specifically for you?”
Valentin tilted his head to the side and accidentally dropped his bread into his wine cup. “They’re here for me?”
An undecorated carriage rolled up to the gates during the late hours of the morning. A stout man in fine clothes exited the vehicle with a couple assistants and strolled confidently towards the Guerros clan servants that scrambled to greet him. Valentin joined his aunt upon her orders and observed the visitor with a curious gaze. He was uncertain who would wish to meet him specifically out of all the important people that resided within these walls.
“Cuinn, it is lovely to see you,” Yvonne called out to the guest. “I hope you had no difficulties in getting here.”
“Mistress Yvonne,” the man greeted back with a respectful bow. “There was no trouble at all in arriving. Though my other students were less than pleased that I took a private request for tutelage. However, who could possibly turn down an offer from such an esteemed member of the community like yourself?”
“Introduce yourself,” Yvonne instructed Valentin. “This man is a respected mind from the capital.”
“I’m Valentin,” the boy spoke, offering a short tilt of his head. He was wary of the man that had suddenly visited him and wondered if this was Yvonne’s or Ferron’s idea.
“My name is Cuinn Foglam, scholar of Jervin and acolyte of Morven Ghadrinaix. I am here to educate you, Young Master Valentin Guerros, to be an exemplary man of knowledge and culture. If you are ready, I wish to begin our lessons immediately.”
A servant led Valentin, Cuinn, and his assistants to a study near the painting room. A wooden desk was nestled in the corner of the room along with some quills and ink bottles. A painting of a man that Valentin did not know hung above the desk. He had a sharp featured face and a gravely serious expression.
“Allow us to bring some extra chairs in for your assistants,” the servant offered, motioning towards the other servants.
“Thank you,” Cuinn replied graciously. “I neglected to mention them to the Marshal.”
While they waited for the chairs, the scholar paced back and forth on an invisible line that divided the room in half. He would walk ten paces, rotate on his right foot, place his feet together, and walk ten steps in the opposite direction. He repeated this process endlessly until the chairs were brought in and the lesson would no longer be disturbed.
“I cannot stand distractions,” Cuinn said with a dismissive hand motion after the servants had left. “They always make me lose my thoughts and my pupil’s learning grinds to a halt. Do you agree?”
“I suppose,” Valentin responded without any strong feelings on the topic. He agreed only to achieve the purpose of avoiding further lecture on the topic.
“Hmm, a poor answer,” the scholar muttered to himself. “I need to get an idea of what sort of mind I’m dealing with so answer honestly in the future. How are your letters and numbers?”
“Good?” Valentin responded without much conviction. He had not held a quill in almost an entire cycle.
Cuinn tutted while he opened a bound book to a random page and slid a blank piece of paper next to it. “Show me. Copy this passage word for word, letter for letter,” he ordered.
Valentin wrote slowly, meticulously placing every stroke of ink to replicate the words that he saw before them. He ignored the piercing gaze of Cuinn burning from over his shoulder and continued to write. His hand cramped and the meaning of the words melted away in his mind over time. There was only the matching of symbols to their counterparts.
The boy handed his page to Cuinn once he reached the ordered stopping point. The scholar held the paper and inspected it closely, hovering his finger over each character. His eyes darted back and forth endlessly as he compared the work.
“Competent,” Cuinn commented neutrally. “Now for your numbers.”
Pages of arithmetic and purchase orders and ledgers were placed in front of Valentin. Problems that he had been shown before. He may have been less motivated in much of his learning in favor of different fanciful endeavors, matters of money was something that Roland would not allow to be neglected. Miscalculating your money was equivalent to miscalculating your life. While Valentin solved many of the problems with familiar ease, a pit of stress formed in his stomach with the old fear of failure.
Cuinn took a considerable amount of time reviewing Valentin’s answers compared to his transcribed passage. The longer that he took, the more nervous Valentin felt. Whenever Cuinn’s finger stopped at a particular passage, the boy’s heart would temporarily stop. He could not fail in this.
“Most impressive,” Cuinn complimented, handing the completed work to one of his assistants. “Your grasp of numbers rivals many that I met in the colleges. Have you had formal training in the past?”
“I have, Instructor,” Valentin confirmed.
“Phenomenal,” Cuinn said, clasping his hands together and creating a soft clapping noise. “I have very little to teach you outside of the arithmetic of architecture. I will continue to provide you selections such as these to keep you sharp.”
Valentin sighed, it seemed that even a mercenary had to be skilled at numbers. “Thank you, Instructor.”
“Now that I have fulfilled those obligations, what can you tell me of philosophy?”
“Philosophy?” Valentin repeated the word back to Cuinn. “I know very little about such things. It is the ideas of famous thinkers?”
“Ah,” Cuinn groaned in disappointment. “What a myopic view of our greatest study. Philosophy is the study of the nature of our very world itself. My fears of the outlook of my southern brethren are confirmed by the day. Your scholars are too esoteric, locked away in the regional capitals and only conferring amongst themselves. That is no philosophy! When they depart from their studies and declare their findings, they will find that the citizenry has drawn their own conclusions about the world.”
“Alright,” Valentin responded while the assistants clapped in affirmation. The boy felt that Cuinn’s diatribe had little to do with him.
“Allow me to ask another question,” Cuinn continued after composing himself. He wiped the sweat that had beaded on his forehead with a cloth. “What education have you received to this point? What stories or lessons have you been exposed to?”
Valentin put a hand to his chin. “I’ve been told the stories of the First Rilleon, the Warriors of Grethin, the Battle of Trimont-”
“Which version?” Cuinn interrupted. “Who authored that story?”
“I don’t know who wrote it,” Valentin admitted. “It centered on the Druid King Brennor’s final stand against the unified Ampoli forces and the blessing the Great Spirit imbued them with.”
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Cuinn did not seem pleased with the response. “No good, no good at all. Such fanciful stories are excellent to spark patriotic zeal in our youth. However, if that is all you have read, you may find that real battle will betray your expectations in many regards. It is not suitable for a leader.”
There was nothing Valentin could say in response to that. Such a reaction had already happened to him. He didn’t believe he would have so ardently wished to become a warrior if he had known the truth from the beginning. He now knew that those stories were exceptionally rare at best and complete fabrications at their worst.
“I have also learned some Hetecian stories through my teacher in the Overtongue,” Valentin added in the hopes that it would raise his cultural standing to his teacher.
His teacher made a face as though he was just told that Valentin had kicked the man's mother. “Hetecis?” Cuinn blustered. “Overtongue? You are dabbling in the words of the rivermen before completing your understanding of our own values? You will learn nothing but decadence and corruption in the texts of those that turn their soil with favor and pray to a river whenever their lives go slightly astray. They have forgotten the struggles of their forebears and now play the role of the Siloran behemoth that once placed a mighty boot on their neck. The rulers of Kohasa act no differently than those that sat upon the Ortus Throne in Antellis, only they lack the same authority as their predecessors.”
Valentin sat politely and allowed for his teacher to continue his rant. Perhaps this, in its own way, was another lesson from Ferron. The only issue in his idea was that he had no clue what lesson he was meant to be learning. Ferron would not have allowed Jaela to teach him if he believed it would be bad for his growth. Yet this man was hired, rebuking the lessons that he had learned over the previous cycle.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you Southerners are drawn to these texts,” Cuinn continued. “The courts of Briste and Taurco and Mulliti all accepted Siloran refugees in droves. You let them dictate your cultures and morph your names into something that is unrecognizable to traditional Strettian. It is an insipid way of life that has dug its roots further and further northwards, eroding at our way of life and national identity.”
“I see,” Valentin responded, uncertain about anything that this scholar spoke. However, he could not help but feel offended at the man’s grating words.
“No matter,” Cuinn sighed dismissively. “I will be sure to provide you with some more suitable texts to learn from. You are fortunate that you are still young. Those that are corrected too late show a frustrating amount of stubbornness and inflexibility.”
The scholar dug his plump fingers through the materials his assistants had carried in. He inspected the pages thoughtfully, muttering to himself whether or not they were suitable. He procured scrolls and books that had passed his quieted deliberation and placed them on Valentin’s desk.
“Be sure to read all of these materials and transcribe at least 5 pages of this book,” Cuinn instructed. “There is little else I can do for you at the moment until you have a stronger foundation of knowledge.”
“Yes instructor,” Valentin responded, trying his best not to sound unenthused. He was already dreading the transcription. His hands would always cramp and he would be miserable for much of the rest of the day. He would have to make sure to finish his martial practice before writing.
“Before we finish for the day, let me see your skills in the Diplomat’s Tongue to see just how far astray you’ve been led,” the scholar brusquely ordered before placing a hand on his reddened forehead and shaking his head. “A Hetecian tutor of all things.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to educate me,” Valentin spoke in the shared language of humanity. “I will work my hardest to learn as much from you as possible.”
Cuinn nodded at the words, but he made a slight face at what was being spoken like he had eaten a sour cheese.
“That was well spoken, but what is that accent?” Cuinn questioned.
The boy leaned his chair and placed his hands over his eyes. He did not hold much regard for this instructor that offered no respect. To Valentin, it was everyone else that had the accent. Cuinn spoke so harshly in his words and it lacked that same playfulness that much of Valentin’s home region possessed. If anything, others should be taking notes from his pronunciations. He puffed his chest over his heritage but knew that it would never happen.
What did it matter? He already noticed that his words were already subtly changing after his exposure to the predominantly Central Strettian warband. He wondered if he would be teased if he spoke as he does now back in Orsulie or if his family and friends would suddenly sound foreign to his ears.
“Instructor, if I may ask, why have you chosen Verbosc out of all the places to travel to?” Valentin asked, hoping there was something interesting Cuinn could say.
“There is nothing wrong with that question,” Cuinn assured. “I learned many things under my instructor, the great Morven Ghadrinaix. It was his hope that his acolytes leave the confines of Jervin and spread the teachings throughout Strettia. We were challenged to make these thoughts more than a cloistered ideology.”
Cuinn reached in his belongings and unfurled a map of Strettia. He traced his finger from Jervin down towards Corvello with emphasis. “I chose Martelle due to its history of struggle and conflict. Historically, it is a realm surrounded on all sides by larger and wealthier neighbors, yet its borders have never shrunk. I couldn’t help but think to myself, ‘here is a realm that should remember the tenets by which we achieved freedom.’ Only through struggle and strife did we hone our bodies and spirits to become indomitable.”
The instructor then shook his head with disappointment. “Corvello did not live up to my expectations. The High Tiarna feels insecure with the traditions and attempts to model himself in the form of his contemporaries to curry favor. Their scholars would not meet with me and I left the city disheartened. But, I forgot such feelings when I arrived in Verbosc.”
“What was it about Verbosc that excited you?” Valentin reiterated his previous question, feeling that it hasn’t been truly answered yet.
“Do you not feel the energy that coats every fabric of this city?” Cuinn asked with a face full of surprise. “The animosity is so thick that it suffocates everything else. Surely, you’ve seen it.”
Valentin’s vacant expression was all that Cuinn needed to say before continuing. “This is the fundamental issue with those born to the aristocracy, they are too busy playing with themselves to ever feel the pulse of the domain they preside over. Come with me, I will make you understand what I am trying to say.”
Valentin followed the scholar out with uncertain steps. He would have to feign being the fool to avoid revealing that he had barely lived within the walls of the city. If anything, he was relieved for an opportunity to take in some fresh air. After having his lessons in the camps, he had less patience for such classical teaching styles.
“Please provide the Young Master with a servant’s cloak. I must provide him with a practical lesson.” Cuinn ordered the first servant that he laid his eyes on.
“Excuse me?” The servant blinked their eyes a couple times while they absorbed the order. “Has the Matriarch given the Young Master leave?”
“We will not be gone long,” Cuinn reassured plainly.
The lack of confirmation made the servant narrow their eyes. “I’m sorry, but-”
“It is fine,” a voice cut in from behind the boy and his instructor. “Mother would not care if it is for a lesson, planned or not.”
Valentin turned to see the amicable smile of his cousin. The man stood with arms full of parchment. His presence made Valentin take a step away from the reclusive man.
“Master Arlo,” the servant replied with a bow. “If you say so, then it shouldn’t be an issue.”
“Be sure to fetch Valentin’s sword as well,” Arlo requested. “I imagine it is not the sort of lesson that would allow for an escort, is it?”
“You have a sharp mind, Master Arlo,” Cuinn complimented the scion of Guerros. “You understand the importance of a firsthand education. Though I must question if it is wise to give a child such a weapon.”
Arlo laughed. “Do not forget what the primary business of our clan is, scholar.”
Valentin did not wish to stay in the hallway much longer. Once a gray cloak and Killihan’s blade were procured for him, he eagerly departed from the estate and into the streets of Verbosc. The latter stages of the day had already begun and people who toiled the fields and estates in the periphery of the city were returning in droves to prepare for the evening.
In such a crowd, it was not difficult for four people in nondescript clothing to blend in. Many cloaked travelers passed southwards down the streets to reach their destinations before the snows of Faur trapped many in frost and snow until the warm days of the next cycle.
The scholar did not linger on the busy streets for very long. At his first true opportunity, Cuinn led his students down a narrower side street. They were still in the Aranelle Quarter. The stone structures were adorned in the colors of Guerros and the clan’s coat of arms could be seen everywhere.
“What is it that you intend to show me?” Valentin asked, licking his dry lips.
“I am already showing you,” Cuinn responded. “Look around and tell me what you see.”
“A street?” Valentin offered, not detecting anything outwardly concerning to him.
Cuinn sighed and took the group to the next street. The appearance was very similar to the one they had just left. A few people walked down this street and regarded the cloaked outsiders with eyes of suspicion.
“How about now?” Cuinn asked expectantly.
“It looks almost identical to the last street,” Valentin answered.
Cuinn raised his eyebrow and continued to pass more streets that displayed different levels of affluence from the inhabitants. Some were better maintained than others. Their stone walls were cleaned of moss and the wood of their shutters painted and lacquered. However, all these streets were flying the same colors of the rulers of the Aranelle Quarter.
The stone buildings were replaced by huts made of wood and wattle and daub. Only some of these structures possessed any decoration while the rest had small symbols carved into their walls. The mossy wall that protected the dilapidated eastern district was now clearly in view. It was clear that they stood on the border between districts.
“How about now?” Cuinn asked again.
“We are out of the Aranelle Quarter. The buildings have changed and the decorations are gone,” Valentin remarked.
Cuinn raised an eyebrow. “So you did notice all the symbols of Guerros plastered on the walls of all the buildings?”
“How could I not?” Valentin asked with concern for the health of his instructor’s eyes. “I will say that these buildings are far worse for wear compared to even the more modest buildings of the Aranelle Quarter.”
“Of course!” Cuinn exclaimed with a revelation, causing Valentin to jump slightly in surprise. “A forester who has lived amongst diseased trees all his life would have no idea that there was anything wrong with his timber. You would have no idea how atypical all of this truly is. You cannot develop any proper evaluation of your situation because you lack worldliness.”
“What do you mean?” Valentin inquired, relieved that his ignorance was not attributed to the potential he was not from Verbosc.
“What I mean to say is that it is highly peculiar for the population of a city to sport any heraldry but that of the ruling clan. Proclaiming your loyalty to a Marshal or any other prominent non-ruling clan so openly is almost unheard of.”
“Is it so peculiar? The Guerros clan were the liege lords of the people of the Aranelle Quarter at one point,” Valentin countered, trying to fortify his image as a true son of Guerros.
“It would be a valid comment if such a phenomena was exclusive to the Aranelle Quarter,” Cuinn conceded. “That is not so. There are mismatching coats of arms displayed all over the city from the docks to the temples to the Tiarna’s pavilion. The people are following the division shown by those that rule their districts.”
Cuinn pointed at the symbols on the walls of the huts beside him. “Even these streets have displayed a preference. Do you have any idea what this represents?”
Valentin shook his head. “I have never seen such a symbol before.”
“Of course you haven’t. What attention can you offer to the people that dwell in these hovels?” Cuinn asked without accusation in his voice. “You could never see such a small thing on your own. But such details in allegiances are spread all over this city. Sometimes a street will have split loyalties. Can you imagine the fighting when tensions above finally boil over? These streets can be so narrow and the fighting can become so personal. Can you picture the desperate warfare such conditions could create?”
Valentin tried to envision full scale combat within the narrow streets and alleys of Verbosc. How many bodies could be packed in tight spaces? All poorly armed and armored, fighting to the death in the hidden nooks and crannies of the city. It would be a sickening sight, no doubt. A future created by the actions of his ancestors and solidified by his very existence when he arrived at his aunt’s doorstep last cycle.
A strange feeling of guilt sprung to life in Valentin’s heart while Cuinn walked further into the eastern district. They walked by the open air market that was packed with people looking to purchase a hot meal before supply ran out or darkness fell.
Some of the denizens offered hostile looks towards the traveling group. Valentin ensured that his scabbard was visible from underneath the cloak in an attempt to peacefully dissuade any from harassing the passing group. Child or no, facing off against someone with a true blade when all you can possess are rudimentary clubs runs too great a risk.
Smoke billowed over the tops of the building and into view. Valentin took a quick step backwards but noticed that neither Cuinn nor his students nor the villagers took any action against the fire. There were no guards rushing the district to try to extinguish the flames or the ringing of any bells to alert the citizens to collect water.
Cuinn walked in the direction of the smoke until a shoddily built temple came into view. He stopped a short distance away so as to not interrupt the ceremony that was ongoing. A group of people stood around a pyre and intoned words that Valentin could not yet hear into the flames. Whatever souls trapped within the flames would travel upwards and back towards the Great Spirit.
The tone of the ceremony did not feel like a somber send off to a loved one. The air reeked of malice and the faces of those that spoke to the flame were twisted in scowls. Simple hand weapons hung from the belts of several of the attendees.
“What happened?”
“A fight at the docks,” Cuinn responded casually. “There are heated disagreements over what started it. In truth, it matters little what the inciting event was. The important part is that they did not support the same clan and that division caused things to end violently. There is no doubt a similar ceremony occurring at a different temple in a different district.”
Valentin was taken aback by the explanation that Cuinn provided. It didn’t make sense to the boy given what he knew about the politics at the highest echelons of Verbosc. “Why are they so hostile? The city is not at war.”
“Just as a dog feels anxious or angry whenever its owner displays those emotions, the common folk feel the tension that gathers amongst the nobility. They have made their own goals and allegiances here at the bottom and are acting according to those smaller wants and needs. Even though peace is maintained at the top by the strained threads of life clung to by an elderly man, war has already started in Verbosc. The spark that lights the entire city ablaze will be found down here, where my pupils are watching closely.”
Cuinn turned away to return from whence they came. The two students and Valentin followed suit. The boy offered one last glance towards the congregation gathered around the fire and knew that retaliation would not be too far away.
“If the philosophies I cling to are true, the victor will be the one that most closely follows my ideals.”