Esar, Age 14

23 Years Ago

"You didn't explain to him at all?" the dispensator asked Esar's mother dryly.

"What does it matter? He's still my son. I'm the one adopting you, Esar, so don't look like that."

"Why are you adopting me?"

"Because you were not born within a sanctioned marriage or adopted into the faith," Darveth explained. "I realize that the law may seem antiquated, but there are some places in a Sanctuary that a person of illegitimate birth may not enter."

"Like the archives," Alzyn added. "It's just a formality, all right? Come on."

Esar swallowed. He didn't like the idea of signing forms that he hadn't read, but with his mother breathing down his neck, he couldn't do much more than skim the papers laid out in front of him.

"What if I don't sign this?" Esar asked.

"You will still be able to attend the school and all other public spaces in this and every other Sanctuary," Darveth said. "Do you have a concern?"

Esar's cheeks grew warm, and he shook his head. For a moment he'd imagined that somehow, if he didn't sign the adoption forms, it would mean Alzyn wasn't really his mother. That he could turn around and walk away from being a Tresuan. It was a stupid thought. There was no document that could set him free from who he was.

Esar signed his name and murmured his thanks to Darveth before his mother swept away again, and he was caught up in her wake.

His mother greeted the archivist with overblown courtesy. "I was so disappointed to receive your last letter, and I hoped that I might apply to you in person to reconsider."

"I understand your wishes, but your esteemed ancestor entrusted her documents to us. You are more than welcome to use the reading room here at any time, and to request copies of any materials you desire," the archivist replied with equal grace and civility. He was a middle-aged man who spoke with an eastern accent.

"But you see, as Tresuan we depend on the documentation of our predecessors to better understand their visions and our own. I know well the importance of preserving these priceless materials. I am the direct descendant and heir of Triana Semfrey, not only in name and in house, but also as the inheritor of her gift. And by extension, then, of both Sagrivar Semfrey and Lida as well."

Who was his mother talking about? Esar knew about Triana—everybody knew about Triana, whose miraculous escape from Bhadrat made her the first free Tresuan—but Esar had never even heard the other names before.

"To be frank, Lady Tresuan, I doubt if some of these documents you have requested are still extant. We generally do not retain patient records from the hospital for hundreds of years."

"I have reason to believe they do still exist, and I trust that you will do everything in your power to locate them. If you think that the compensation is inadequate, I am willing to negotiate."

"It has nothing to do with the compensation! No matter how much money you donate, you can't expect us to perform miracles for you."

"I'm really hungry. Can we go and eat now?" Esar interrupted, hoping to put an end to the argument before it escalated further.

Alzyn scowled at him, but quickly turned her disapproval on the archivist. "I will speak to the abbess about this."

***

The next day was Esar's first day of school. A roomful of strangers all fixed their eyes on him while the teacher made an introduction. He could guess what they were thinking. There he is, bastard son of the scandalous Tresuan, the boy who can't even dream right. The biggest disappointment in Thaliron.

He couldn't even worry about the right thing. It turned out no one at his school knew about Thaliron gossip—or if they did know, they didn't care. They'd heard the word "Tresuan," and now everyone wanted him to tell them their fortunes.

Students swarmed around him at lunchtime. Esar tried to get in line to take a plate, but a boy grabbed his arm from behind.

"What?"

"Can you really see the future?" the boy asked.

"Yeah..."

"Can you see my future?"

"No." Esar yanked his arm away and tried to get away from him, but there were too many people crowding him in.

"Come on, please, just a little bit," the boy called, trying to catch him. Someone else slipped between them.

"Tell me mine," she said. "I just want to know if I'll make the circuit team this fall."

"Is Princess Irezan gonna die?"

More questions. Why did every student at this school want him to answer their stupid questions? He kept his temper under control until he finally reached the front of the line and took a plate of steamed buns from a devoted man who asked,

"Any idea if my son's ever going to get his act together?"

Esar exploded.

"It doesn't work that way! I'm not a fortune teller, all right? I don't know anything about your stupid futures and I don't care either!"

Silence. But it didn't last long.

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

"You don't have to be such a jerk about it," said the first boy who had pestered him.

"So you're a fraud?"

"Not exactly a fraud. I've heard he's just really bad at it. In fact, I heard he's a failure."

That voice belonged to a girl who hadn't been clamoring to hear her future. She sauntered up to stand opposite Esar, and the other students backed away, giving them space. Noble rank wasn't supposed to matter in a Sanctuary, but it was obvious that this girl believed herself to be a cut above everyone else in her orbit. And there was something familiar about her—Esar recognized that wavy, red-black hair, and that smirk that implied she knew a secret that would devastate you. Guennet Gabarias bore a strong resemblance to her older sister Saiglen.

Esar glared at her in silence. He would have liked to throw his plate at her, but he couldn't just lash out at random. He'd have to aim his blow carefully if he wanted it to hurt, and that meant he needed a moment to think.

When it became clear that he wasn't going to speak, Guennet went on, “Did I hit a nerve? It's not your fault, Esar. With that manipulative harlot for a mother it's no wonder you're . . . inferior. Truly, I feel sorry for you.”

“Congratulations.”

The word threw her off, but she recovered quickly. “Congratulations for what? For seeing through your mother's machinations? Everyone will know soon enough—”

“No, not at all,” Esar interrupted. “I only meant to offer my congratulations on the occasion of your sister's wedding. I know you and your family must be very happy for—”

Someone laughed off to Esar's right, distracting him just long enough that he didn't have time to brace himself before Lady Saiglen's sister lunged at him. He barely managed to keep his footing, and he did lose his lunch, the steam buns sliding from the plate to tumble to the floor. He wasn't hurt, or even upset—it felt good to know he'd struck a nerve.

“Don't bring my sister into this,” Guennet fumed.

“Just like you left his mother out of it?” The girl who'd laughed a moment earlier now stepped between Esar and Guennet, her dark brown plait still swaying from the motion. “What's the matter? Can't handle it when another big fish swims into your little pond?” she went on, speaking with the thick, muddy accent of the lakelands.

“I can handle this,” Esar tried to tell her. She was as tall as Esar himself, and planted herself firmly and ignored him.

Guennet laughed. “Aw, you've got a new boyfriend! Poor Kels is gonna be so jealous.”

“Shut your trap, you decadent snake.” The girl pulled back a fist, and Guennet laughed again, with narrowed eyes.

“Do it. I'd love to see you expelled, you overgrown backwater mudrat.”

Esar's own rage burned, but not because of Guennet's petty bullying. Compared to her sister, she was only a bratty child, worthy only of his disdain. Saiglen Gabarias had abandoned Vaclan once it became clear that he would never become king. Her recent marriage to Grais Yasoh seemed calculated to deal a blow to her former lover. It certainly held no other advantages that anyone could see.

“You're not worth my time,” Esar said, turning his back on the two girls. He had been the center of attention, as both students and adults stopped what they were doing to observe the face-off between a daughter of a lord and the son of a Tresuan. Now that the event seemed to be over, they dispersed, and Esar went back to take a second plate and finally eat some lunch.

The tall girl with the long braid followed him to a table. He had been afraid she was going to do that.

"You should've hit her. She deserves it." The girl sat down next to him.

"I hurt her. You don't have to hit someone to hurt them."

"She still needs somebody to punch her in her smug little face. It's been too long."

"Why do they let her get away with provoking people like that?" Esar asked.

The girl laughed. "Because her parents give the Sanctuary more money and gifts than anybody else. It's not cheap to keep the fountains flowing and the gardens blooming—not to mention run the hospital and give broke nobodies like me an education. It's a pretty good deal, I guess. Worth putting up with the normal level of Guennet."

"The normal level?" Esar repeated.

The girl rolled her eyes. "Ugh, she's been insufferable ever since her sister married Grais Yasoh. She thought Saiglen was gonna be queen, and that would leave Guennet to inherit Weslesca, and that wasn't my problem, at least. Now she's out for blood. She's been picking on my friends—oh! I'm Meliand, by the way. Meliand Caidry. You don't have to tell me your name. Everybody knows who you are."

“And everything else about my life,” Esar sighed.

“Hey, I didn't know about any of that stuff Guennet said. Nobody else is gonna care, either, so I wouldn't worry about it too much. You're a prime topic now, but everybody will forget all about it in a day or two.”

Esar found that he didn't need to talk much, because Meliand could carry on the conversation all by herself. That gave him time to eat. Unfortunately, the food was terrible—bland, gummy buns filled with some kind of tasteless mincemeat.

“Once everybody else gets used to you things probably won't be so different than they were at your old school.”

“I've never gone to school before,” Esar admitted.

Meliand gasped. “Really?”

“I had tutors.”

“Oh! That makes more sense. I mean, you seemed so smart for somebody who's never gone to school. How do you like it? Never mind, don't answer me yet. Give it time. You look like you want to go hide under a rock right now, but it's gonna get better. I'll make sure it does. Believe me, I've got your back.”

Esar did believe her. Not that he needed someone to look out for him, but he didn't mind. And with Meliand sitting next to him, talking at him . . . it was almost like having a real friend.

***

Meliand introduced Esar to her circle of friends, who seemed nice enough, but Esar knew he didn't belong among them. They had their own dynamics, their inside jokes, a whole pattern and routine into which he was an interloper. So he hovered on the edge, listening quietly, answering politely when Meliand went out of her way to include him, but he couldn't relate when they griped about grades or fretted about crushes.

After school, Esar went down to the Sanctuary archives to study the records his mother had requested. Reading, studying, unraveling—these were familiar challenges, unlike the ones that his fellow students complained about. He liked holding the hand-written notes of people who were long dead, reading their words and imagining their world. Triana Semfrey had been a prolific writer, as interested in the past as she was in the future, and reading her work gave Esar glimpses of the world before the unification. The first night's reading left him with more questions than answers. Esar had yet to come across any mention of a "Lida," but he knew now that Sagrivar Semfrey had been a Devoted philosopher and Triana's adoptive father. She wrote about him as if everyone knew who he was, but if he was so wise and respected back then, why did no one remember him now?

Triana wrote a great deal about meditation, and Esar decided to try her methods for himself before school the next morning. He went out to the garden and found a quiet spot in the midst of some small trees and tried to clear his mind. Thinking of nothing was the opposite of his usual exercises, when he focused all his attention on one specific target, and it didn't feel natural. But it should have been easy. All he had to do was just . . . just be, and let the world flow through him.

Instead, Esar found himself thinking hard about not thinking. And now he was thinking about thinking about not thinking. Why did he think this would be easy? It wasn't like he could turn his brain off like he would a lamp.

He gave it his best for half an hour, becoming more and more frustrated, when voices and music made it impossible to even try. A wedding procession was coming through the garden, one of the largest Esar had ever seen, the women at its head radiant with joy. Esar couldn't bear to see them, to hear the celebration. That sort of feeling was as alien to him as the worries of his classmates.

It was too early to head for school, so Esar simply walked, without any plan or destination. What was the matter with him, that he couldn't even clear his mind and do nothing? What sort of twisted creature was he, to lack the ability to feel joy or love or anything like other people? He didn't belong here, but he didn't belong at home, either. Maybe he didn't belong anywhere.

It was the boy's mop of brown, curly hair that first drew Esar's eyes, but it was the expression on his face that held his attention. That lost, distant look in his eyes as he sat hugging his knees on one of the rocks by the stream, that was a feeling that Esar could understand. Esar had never seen him at school—he would have remembered if he had—though he looked about the same age, with skin of a rich brown shade and dark eyes. He stared a bit longer than he should have, and even after he walked on, the boy's far-off look continued to haunt him.