The boy was like a ghost, with his pale, blind looking eyes, his almost practiced sneaking. He always woke up earlier than him, even if Fedrahn was a former military man, trained and disciplined. Today was no different, the boy opening his bedroom door just when Fedrahn had opened his eyes. It was unfair, the boy didn't even know they were competing, and he looked no older than four.

He acknowledged the boy with a nod, but he still frowned when he'd turned away from him. They must have sent the boy there to spy on him, otherwise why would he pretend he could see, or pretend he couldn't see?

He grabbed his quill and started on the day's batch of records once he was finished barely cleaning himself. The boy had already brought him his breakfast, so he ate while he worked, all the while thinking up ways to defeat his unwitting competitor.

He'd found that this one sided competition was the only way he was like to have fun in this place. But he'd already known what he was getting himself into when Alaric had offered him this mission. He still had time though. A few years at best.

The ascetics were a very suspicious bunch. They had offered him a wonderful cottage and all kinds of creature comforts their floating island could afford. They'd made absolutely sure he had no need to go deeper into their town than necessary.

Still, he could see from where he stood the downwardly curving tiled roofs of buildings. A few storied buildings here and there although they tapered the higher you went. He could see, and at times hear the bustle of activity of a living human settlement.

Too bad the trees were as tall as any of the tallest buildings, so he saw less than he would have wanted. Still, these people with their rare discipline and huge robes and bold heads were just as legend described.

There were times during the day when all that could be heard was the movement and squeaky voices of the youngest apprentices as they moved around performing various tasks to keep the island afloat. Even most of the other servants would take part in training. Fedrahn suspected they had different training compounds for different groups, perhaps according to skill or age.

The problem was that he'd gotten himself stuck with perhaps the only useless acolyte of the light. They must have done it for a purpose, but Fedrahn had a hard time seeing the boy as a spy.

Even at times, like now for instance, he'd catch the boy frowning in his direction in deep concentration. It was impossible that he could see, or so Fedrahn thought.

He was a small boy, brown skin that showed a mixed descent. Perhaps he was half Morangese and half Thessalian. Or maybe he was from Myasaland originally. His eyes were pale, no colour to be found in there any where. Yet when he stared like that, Fedrahn got chills. It was like he could see to his very soul.

Fedrahn tried to shrug the eery feeling off. He couldn't, though. One didn't last long in this sort of business without a healthy dose of paranoia, did they?

And everything so far had been suspicious as hell. The fact that they didn't just host him inside the library, even though he was there to transcribe their oldest texts was just one of many warning signals.

He remembered the first thing that distinguished man in a robe that might have once been pure white told him.

"Some people try to learn the dances, theoretically, but it never ends well. You are one of those who shouldn't try. The gods created the dances so that individuals with smaller sources could access the powers of the spheres as well. People with large sources like yours cannot access the dances."

Fedrahn had tried for a probing query, smiling lightheartedly and asking, "how do you know I have a large source? For all you know, I maybe a talented future master of the dances."

The man had only stared at him with his composed face, not showing any visible reactions.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"We can tell. How do you think we are able to buy boys that are perfect for the dance?"

Fedrahn had winced then, remembering just what he'd sacrificed to come here. The island of ascetics was going to force him into celibacy for the next few years at the very least. And that was assuming he could even get out alive. But Alaric was like a father to him, and once he'd asked for this favour, Fedrahn could hardly refuse.

He was starting to wonder why the ascetics hated the shadow weavers so much though, and the other way around. Wasn't it that shadow couldn't exist without light?

In fact ancient lore said the two primordial spheres of light and darkness were fused, and where they met they formed the Azath of shadows, the home of all the dead.

The light dancers so far had treated him with such caution, Fedrahn would have suspected them of having experience using the shadow weaver's techniques. Not their dancing techniques, more like their espionage techniques.

Fedrahn lost himself in his work as he usually did for the few weeks he'd been here. It was always good to show at least a little bit of dedication. The next thing he knew, the boy was holding out a plate of food for him.

Another seven hours had blended into each other before he knew it.

Fedrahn noticed that the boy's stick was on the ground, so he hadn't needed it to get to the kitchens. He tried to ignore the anomaly, but so many such incidents had occurred since his arrival. It was one of the reasons he didn't think the boy to be a spy. He was far too careless with his cover.

Somehow he could see. Even with eyes as dead as his looked, he knew the island like the back of his head. Fedrahn found that he couldn't concentrate on his work after lunch.

"Um...?" he kept trying to start, but after the two had been ignoring each other for a few weeks now, conversation was proving to be a tad awkward.

Fedrahn followed the boy's line of sight one time, and he thought the boy might have been staring at his bow, if he was not mistaken.

Maybe he could use that as a bit of an ice breaker. After all, the boy was just that. Fedrahn had forgotten his name the moment he'd met him, so he'd stuck to calling him boy.

'If the boy can see, then I might as well make better use of him in trying to fulfil my objective,' Fedrahn said even as a grin formed on his mouth.

"Come with me, boy," he said as he stood up and grabbed his bow and a quiver of arrows. "Don't bother with the stick, it's just a waste of time."

His voice was gruff, and he couldn't help a sort of childish glee when the boy followed without many questions. He'd tried to complain and say he needed his stick, but Fedrahn had just ignored him and walked anyway.

They went to the beach. Going into the woods would have meant going through the town. Something the ascetics were not one bit comfortable with. There was something about those woods though, the heart woods as they called them. He had never seen them, but he could feel it whenever he looked as far as he could to the center of the island.

The dancers might have been paranoid, but they were secure enough in their strength that they hadn't batted an eye to letting Fedrahn keep his weapons.

First, Fedrahn notched an arrow, sent it flying into the water. He didn't hit anything. He'd never been good at fishing, and fishing with a bow was hard because he had to account for the bending of the light to make the fish appear in a different position.

He wasn't here to fish though, just for a bit of team building.

"You want to learn?" he asked the boy, once he saw his head follow the arrow's flight. The boy replied with a small nod.

"Okay, here, show me what you can do first."

The bow was almost as tall as him, but he seemed to have no trouble with it's weight. Fedrahn frowned, noticing how the boy was trying to copy his stance, and how well he'd managed to.

He shot an arrow, it flew even faster than Fedrahn's had done. What's more, it didn't miss at all.

"Wha-What was that? Have you done this before?"

Most dancer techniques didn't involve the use of weapons, at least at the early stages. Except if one were a sword acolyte, the first few years were for foundations. Fedrahn knew. He'd just finished transcribing the scroll that said just that.

"I've not," the boy replied in his reserved manner.

Fedrahn stared at him for a long time.

"How old are you kid? When do you start your training?"

"I'm almost six," the boy replied, his face falling, "I've been informed I'm not going to train."

"What?! Everyone on the island is supposed to train!"

"But you're not," said the boy with a shrug.

A lot didn't make sense. Like how a boy of six, especially if he was fed as well as Fedrahn himself was being fed, could look that small and deathly.

"But you were chosen, weren't you? They brought here when you were younger because they tested you and saw you had the potential to learn?"

"Yes, but when I turned five earlier this year, I couldn't carry the water barrels with my shoulders like every one does. They are extremely light, mind you, but the shape and size just couldn't fit my body. And the Arch masters think I'll be fully blind in a few years."

"So your eyes have been degrading over time?"

The boy shrugged. "So they say. Personally, I think my eyes work much better than before. I can see a lot more, but they don't believe me. Which is why they gave me the stick."

Fedrahn stared at the boy, but his mind wandered elsewhere. Back to his first day on the beach when he'd been warned not to practice, for his own good. The boy might just have been the answer to all his problems. He held out his hand.

"My name is Fedrahn," he said.

The boy stared at it hesitantly for an instant, then he proffered his as well.

"My name is Garin."