Year: 3045 AGD

Month: New Life

Third Sixthday

Siniquity

Cyrian Dreadmeir’s Estate

“Enter.”

Shade opened the door to the room that Cyrian Dreadmeir, Blood Mage and First Among Equals of the Council of Nine, used as a study.

Evening light filtered in through the large paneled window. Winter had given up its grasp on Terrazil, and spring was establishing its dominance. New growth was evident throughout the city, but nowhere in the city was this more apparent than in the courtyard below. Cyrian had acquired an impressive collection of flora that was on display, somehow grand and beautiful without being ostentatious.

That was the way that Cyrian’s entire estate seemed to Shade, after having spent the last few eightdays traveling around the city of Siniquity learning about the people that inhabited it. Everywhere in this massive husk of a city was hopelessness and oppression, but once you crossed the perimeter of the Dreadmeir estate, it was like a completely different world.

At first, he had thought that Cyrian was simply putting up a good facade in order to try to earn their trust. As time passed, he realized that if it was all an act, the man must have hired several troops of actors to pull it off. The diverse set of men and women who worked in the compound were, while perhaps not happy, at least content with their lot. From everything he had seen of the rest of the city, the same could not be said for most of its other inhabitants. If he had been touring the city alone, he might have missed a lot of the differences, but he was not alone, ever.

Stewart Cantel, ex-High Commander of the Protectorate, was firmly entrenched inside his mind. While at times it was disconcerting to have every thought and action judged by a middle-aged man who was used to commanding armies, he found that Cantel gave him insights that he would not have picked up on by himself.

That was not the only company that he kept of late, however. Cyrian had assigned a cadre of guards to “protect” his newly acquired charges. There were at least two sets of these men and women on duty watching the princess and himself at all times.

“Master Dreadmeir,” Shade said, after closing the door.

“Please, we are alone. Call me Cyrian.”

Shade knew the Blood Mage would say that, but he also knew how important it was to show the proper amount of respect. He had made a pact with himself that even in private he would refer to Cyrian as Master Dreadmeir the first time he spoke so that he didn’t develop a habit and use the improper title at some inopportune time.

“Of course, Cyrian.” Shade moved towards the chair that Cyrian had motioned towards and took a seat with a cautious grin. “Have I done something to displease you?”

“Displease me?” Cyrian laughed. “No, in fact, quite the opposite. I’m rather impressed with your ability to assimilate into my household, for the most part at least.” Cyrian pulled a stack of papers out of the top drawer of his desk. “Let’s see here. Your language instructors are highly impressed with the rate at which you are picking up new languages. Here’s a direct quote from Mrs. Taryium. ‘I show him something once and he has it. It is almost like he’s already learned it somewhere before and I’m just jogging his memory.’ Isn’t that interesting?”

“Yes sir, that is about how I would describe it as well.” That wasn’t entirely true. Some things he felt like he had already known, but other things had been filled in by the High Commander’s thorough education. As soon as a Protectorate Knight was considered skilled enough to be possible officer material, they were given a rigorous education. Once it was clear that a potential officer candidate was indeed going places, they were then schooled in advanced tactics, game theory, languages, and etiquette. Stewart Cantel had excelled in everything except the last.

“Indeed.” Cyrian smiled as he removed the first piece of paper from the stack. “According to the exams I’ve had you and Tatiana take since your arrival, you both have a firm grasp of all of the basic knowledge that is expected of children your age.” Setting the stack of papers on the table, he turned towards the window to look out at the bustling garden below.

“That is, of course, if this were the Protectorate, which it isn’t. You are both far ahead of almost all of the children your age on this end of Terroval. Educations of the quality that you and the Princess have received are reserved for those with wealth and privilege.” Cyrian sighed. “Do you know what those without wealth and privilege have to do to earn an education?”

“No sir.”

“They have to prove their mettle in contests of martial prowess or willpower.” Turning from the window, Cyrian pressed a finger into the stack of papers. “For the type of education that you have had, one would have to make it through several such competitions and catch the eye of someone who can sponsor them. Sponsoring a victor from these advanced competitions is not only good for bragging rights, but it is also indicative of one’s ability to recognize and nurture talent.”

I’m not sure I like where this is going. Stewart Cantel’s discomfort bled through his words, causing a slight chill to travel up Shade’s back.

Glad I’m not the only one. Shade replied.

Cyrian Dreadmeir’s eyes bored into Shade’s. “The council has their own competition for such things, and each member is expected to sponsor a promising individual to compete.”

Shade was comforted by the fact that even Stewart Cantel felt uncomfortable under the Blood Mage’s silver-eyed stare. He couldn’t help but squirm in his chair as the silence grew.

Cyrian smiled. “I can see that you know where I’m going with this.” He sat down and leaned back, steepling his fingers over his chest. “I have sponsored winners in three out of the last five martial competitions, and two out of the last four Shaping competitions. While these victories have earned me much acclaim throughout the city, there is one competition that the public is not privy to that I have yet to sponsor a winner for.”

Moving several more of the papers aside until he found the one he wanted, Cyrian began to read from the page. “Several days after your arrival, you asked some of your guards to spar with you. It took several more days for you to convince one of them to take you up on the offer. The first round ended fairly quickly, and while you showed some skill with a blade, you were beaten handily, as one would expect.”

He moved several more pieces of paper aside one at a time. “The second time you sparred, however, the contest was much closer, the guard only gaining the victory by a slight margin. Since then you have moved through every single one of my guards, losing the first match, and sometimes the second, but always coming out victorious by the third.” Cyrian raised an eyebrow.

Seeing that the Blood Mage expected some sort of response, Shade replied. “Um, yes sir.”

“Shade,” Cyrian frowned. “Do you realize how bad for morale that is?”

I do. Stewart Cantel’s mirth flowed through him. I would have put a stop to it after the second guard lost.

“Now, I probably should have stopped this kind of thing after the second guard lost,-“

Shade couldn’t help but grin as a wave of discomfort writhed its way through him as the previous High Commander of the Protectorate discovered that he and one of the Council of Nine agreed on something.

“-but unfortunately, rumors abound and have created a situation that I’m afraid neither of us will be able to get out of.” Cyrian moved his hand over the last several sheets of paper on his desk, turning them to cinders with what appeared to be little effort. A miniature tornado of ash moved its way across the desk and deposited the debris into a small bin on the floor. “Instead of being ashamed that they were beaten by a child, my guards took it as a sign that I had somehow known that you were some sort of prodigy. The half dozen dead Dracairei that were found along with you and the body of the High Commander didn’t help those rumors, I’m afraid.”

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“I didn’t kill those Dracairei though…”

Cyrian raised an eyebrow.

“Stewart Cantel killed most of them.”

“Killing even one Dracairei is a feat that would be respectable even for a well-trained man. Killing two Dracairei without even using a blade is even more impressive.” Cyrian held his hand up as Shade began to make a denial. “Hypothetically, of course. Unfortunately, your speed and prowess with a blade gave my men the impression that you just might have taken out one or two of those assassins yourself, and so we have the predicament that you and I now find ourselves in.”

“So what exactly is this competition that I’m guessing I’m going to have to take part in?”

“Well, that’s the sticky part.” Cyrian stood, handing the only surviving piece of paper on his desk to Shade. “It is a competition between the top flight of Dracairei. The bad news is, it is a purely physical competition, and we’ll have to work to make sure no one suspects that you possess any sort of Shaping ability. The good news is that this year’s competitors have already been decided, and you will only be a year younger than the rest of the competitors when the contest rolls around next year.”

A competition for Dracairei? He wants you to become an Assassin? How does that kind of thing even work? Stewart Cantel seemed more intrigued than Shade thought he had a right to be.

You know I’m going to be the one in danger, right? Shade replied to his mental passenger.

Oh, right, well… I’m sure Cyrian has a plan.

Something that interests you happens, and all the sudden he’s Cyrian instead of The Blood Mage?

“What’s in it for me?” Shade asked.

“Good lad.” Cyrian chuckled. “First, I’ve asked an old friend to take on your training, and he’s agreed, on the condition that I leave you to him. I believe that you will find his instruction tough but inspiring.” Cyrian arched an eyebrow. “Assuming, of course, that you are able to survive. Second, I will introduce you to my research, and should you have a knack for it, I will teach you what I can about Anatomy and Physiology and their applications in Shaping. There is a third thing, but I think we’ll wait until right before the competition before I dangle that particular carrot.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“There is always a choice, Shade, it just depends on if you are willing to accept the consequences or not.”

I’d say that’s a no. Stewart Cantel sighed, but Shade could tell that the man was excited at what was to come, even if he was trying to hide it.

“Alright then, when do we start?”

“As soon as Jason returns, I’ll introduce the two of you, though I believe you’ve already met once in the forest. In the meantime, your guardians can show you to my workspace on Firstday, and I’ll acquaint you with some of my work.”

Year: 3045 AGD

Month: New Life

Third Eighthday

Serenity Valley

Institute of Learning

The now-familiar hum permeated his body, but unlike every other day he had spent at the Institute, Shawnrik didn’t immediately move in order to stop the noise and start his day. Not only was it the last day of the term, but he had also decided to return home to his mother’s village of Tranquility Mist for the short break between classes. At the end of each term, the Institute gave the students an eightday of rest to recuperate. It was up to the students as to where they would spend that time. Many chose to return home, or maybe even visit a friend’s home during that time, but there were a lot of students who decided to stay at the Institute and enjoy all that it provided.

Shawnrik had been very tempted to stay at the Institute during his break, but as each of his friends let it be known that they were going home, his excuses not to go evaporated. The final straw was when Verrian had told him that his father had planned a trip for them during the time off. Verrian asked Shawnrik if he wanted to go, but Shawnrik knew how little time his roommate spent with his father, so he had made the decision then and there to go home and face his grandfather.

As the hum grew to the point that he could feel his fingers and toes vibrating, he decided it was time to move. Swinging his body into a sitting position on his bed, Shawnrik couldn’t help but grin as Verrian was still stubbornly lying there ignoring the sensation.

“I don’t understand how you can tolerate that,” Shawnrik said, before throwing his pillow across the room at his unmoving neighbor.

Verrian managed to surprise them both as he grabbed the projectile out of the air right before it would have connected with his chest. In one smooth motion, he sent the pillow flying end-over-end back towards Shawnrik, who plucked the fluffy missile out of the air and placed it back on his bed.

“Well, I don’t understand how you can be so blighted cheerful every morning,” Verrian groused as he finally began to stir.

Shawnrik had managed to help his roommate change a lot of things over the last four months, but he was beginning to think that trying to get Verrian to be lively before breakfast was a lost cause. Verrian had not only begun to fill out well, but he had grown several inches since their first meeting.

He isn’t the only one who has grown though, Shawnrik thought as he had to duck slightly to exit his room on his way to the showers.

Several dozen other students had taken to joining them for their training sessions that they held nearly every day. The changes in Verrian had been noticed by more than just the girls, and the boys wanted some of that attention for themselves. There had been some fallouts and fights amongst the group, but by the middle of Winter’s End, the group had solidified into a core of twenty-eight boys and seven girls.

Olivia thought that more girls and boys would join them over time, but she said they had to get a little more used to the idea first. Shawnrik didn’t mind, though he wasn’t quite used to having people look to him for leadership.

Part of him was glad that he would be away from those intense eyes for an eightday, but another part of him was beginning to enjoy the attention. The little bit of relief he gained from not having people looking up to him for an eightday was eclipsed by how nervous he felt about confronting his grandfather, however.

During the year and a half that he had spent with Pedrial Lightfoot, Shawnrik had considered the idea that the old Giant was in some way related to him, but it had never even entered his mind that the man was his grandfather. It wasn’t until he had come to the Institute that he found out he had been living with his mother’s father for eighteen months. He still didn’t understand how Pedrial could have withheld that information from him for so long, but the longer he had to think about the coming confrontation, the more he realized how difficult of a conversation it would be.

How would he have started the conversation up if he was meeting his grandson for the first time? “Hey, you know how your mother and father were murdered in Safeharbor. Yeah, well she was my daughter.” There is no easy way to start that kind of a conversation, but it being difficult, wasn’t reason enough for Shawnrik to forgive Pedrial completely.

Anger coursed through Shawnrik when he thought about all of the wasted time that they could have talked about his mother, and all of the things he could have learned. Shawnrik turned the hot water off, letting the cold water envelop his body. He visualized all his anger being expelled with the retreating warmth. A few moments later he turned the cold water off and grabbed a towel. As he headed for the exit he carefully whipped his towel at the shower curtain of the stall that Verrian had gone in.

“In the name of all that is good and holy, Shawnrik! Let a man wake up before scaring him to death!” Verrian growled as he pulled the barrier back enough to stick his head out.

“Sorry, just wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen asleep in there,” Shawnrik laughed. “Too much longer and you are going to look like a raisin though.”

“I can look like a raisin if I damn well please,” Verrian said a few moments later as he exited the stall wrapped in his towel.

“Of course, Mr. Smith; forgive me my impertinence.”

A few minutes of silence passed as they prepared for the day ahead. When they were fully groomed, they returned to their room to dress and grab the bags they had packed the night before. As they turned to go out the door, they both stopped and looked around the room.

“It is going to be weird not starting the day with your cheerful face annoying me.” Verrian grinned.

Shawnrik smiled. “Yeah, it’s going to be odd working out by myself as well. I’ve gotten used to you mimicking me like some sort of broken puppet.”

Verrian punched him in the arm. It was a testament to all of the work his friend had been putting in that it actually hurt. Four months earlier, and Verrian would have been more likely to hurt himself if he had tried swinging at someone that hard.

“See you in a week?” Verrian said as he reached for the door.

“Eight days,” Shawnrik agreed as they left the room. They still had breakfast to make it through, but knowing that they would have company until they all went their separate ways, it was better to say a private farewell now. As the door clicked shut, a tingle coursed through Shawnrik’s body. He tried to reassure himself that everything would return to normal in a week, but something deep inside told him that things would never be the same. The comforting squeeze of his shoulder from the ever-present hand of Cypheria did nothing to assuage the sudden cold certainty that they would never be this carefree again.