ONE YEAR LATER . . . IMPERIAL CAPITAL OF PERCEPLIQUIS, SPRING, 2107 IR
Jerish Grelad walked across the checkerboard tiles of the Teshlor Guild’s four story grand foyer when his eyes once more spotted the giant fresco on the wall. He always paused to look at the image finding it a spiritual touchstone, a sacred thing that demanded he pay reverence. The painting was huge taking up most of the wall and depicted the gilarabrywn rising up on its leathery wings poised to attack the three small figures on the hill: the emperor Novron, who stood on the hill’s crest dazzling in the setting sun, and on either side the Cenzlyor—Swift of Mind, in his robes, and the Techylor—Swift of Hand, in armor, the founders of the two organizations that advised and protected the emperor. This one image illustrated everything Jerish needed to know about the world. Here was his truth, his soul, his only calling. This was the reason for Jerish’s existence—to stand on that hill beside the emperor—the direct descendant of Novron—and bravely face the monster as the last light of day went out. Standing in the middle of the active entrance hall filled with the echoing boot heels of dashing knights as they walked by in their uniforms marked by the Imperial Dragon crest, Jerish began to cry.
I might never see this again. I surely will never be this again.
If he kept staring, Jerish knew he would breakdown. He couldn’t do that.
A knight takes his punishment bravely.
Jerish wasn’t a knight. He was only ten, but that didn’t matter. In his heart he had always been a Knight of Novron, devoted to him as charged by the dying wish of his mother. But he had stumbled, and now would lose the only purpose he’d ever had.
Returning to the Academy side of the building, Jerish knocked on the door to Master Rawling’s office.
“Come,” Rawling’s voice barked from inside.
With a deep breath, Jerish lifted the latch and entered the familiar stone room.
None of the chambers in the guildhall were luxurious. They were hard, cold, unyielding places—the perfect gardens to grow a crop of invincible men. Still, Jerish always found the size surprising. Master Rawlings was the chief trainer of Teshlors, and yet his room was tiny. The office did have its own little fireplace, with a great sword mounted above. The rest of the space was taken up by the simple desk and the bed, mostly hidden behind a drape of red cloth.
Master Rawlings was seated. His focus remained on the surface of the desk where he studied a handful of pages scrawled with poor penmanship.
Jerish closed the door behind him, stood straight, and waited. He would wait until he died, if necessary.
“You have been in another fight,” Rawlings said, still not looking up.
“Yes, sir.”
“You started it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Master Rawlings wasn’t asking questions, these were statements of fact, but Jerish wanted to express his understanding that he accepted the accusations as truth. He would hide nothing, seek no mercy. He was guilty and prepared for the punishment.
Rawlings pushed back his chair and stood up, but he refused to look at Jerish. Instead he focused on the fire. “To say you have been a great disappointment would be an understatement. Your dedication to this institution, your martial ability, and devotion to the principles of Teshlor, have all been exemplary.” He clasped his hands behind his back and sighed. “But you need to understand, Jerish, that I cannot train a man—I cannot grant anyone the skills of the Teshlor—who is incapable of restraint. If you were to stay with us, if you completed your training, you would be exceptionally dangerous. More importantly, you would become a knight, a representative of the emperor. For many, you would be the very face of his eminence. You therefore must be a breathing symbol not only of strength, but of understanding, compassion, and, above all, restraint—especially when you know you can defeat your adversary. We here at this Academy are bestowing upon you the power of life and death, and I will not grant it to one who is so easily provoked.”
Rawlings finally faced him. “I have a decision to make. Until I do, you will no longer report to any training sessions. You will not touch a weapon. You will not observe combat. You will confine yourself to the dormitory, leaving only for meals and to complete your routine chores. I may add more tasks to your itinerary if only to keep you busy and out of trouble.”
Rawling’s face was hard. His jaw stiff, but his eyes softened. “You have…” he paused. “You have disappointed me, Jerish. I cannot express how much. Dismissed.”
When Jerish left the office he once more had tears in his eyes. The rebuke had hurt, and he was scared of losing his place at the guild, he also hated letting Master Rawlings down. Jerish sincerely respected him. All the boys did. Yet what brought the tears was that until that moment Jerish never knew how much Master Rawlings cared about him. He had seen it just then in his eyes, and heard it in that dreadful silent pause as if he were about to say something, but didn’t.
The rock cracked, and it was Jerish’s fault.
###
“His father is the governor of Alburnia,” someone said loudly. “And the boy has dreamed of nothing else other than to become a Teshlor Knight.”
Jerish had never heard the voice before. The flourishing tenor, and profusion of discourse did not sound like it belonged in the guildhall. Knights found an economy of words to be a virtue, and their tone was always sharp whether in seriousness or jest. This sounded like an actor in a play doing his best to add life to dull words.
“You know, the boy’s great, great, great, grandfather—for whom he is named—met the Princess Farilane. He witnessed the legendary Battle of Rochelle where Kolby Fiske and Cedric Oslow defeated the Fourth Legion. That’s where the family adopted their lust for the Teshlor Order. The child wishes so deeply to repay the family debt, and it would so please his father if you could see yourself clear to giving him a chance.”
Defiantly not a knight.
Jerish, who was supposed to be sweeping the stairs paused long enough to climb back and look down the hall. Master Rawlings and Master Lynch were both speaking to an older fellow in simple white robes. Behind him stood a well-dressed youth, wearing a traveling cloak and a side sword.
“I’m not asking that you instate him, only that you provide the boy with the opportunity to prove himself,” the stranger said.
“That’s what we just did,” Master Rawlings explained. “That’s what the entrance exam is for, bishop.”
Bishop? Jerish knew of only one bishop in the city—the Bishop—Venlin, the leader of the Church of Novron. At seminary the name of Venlin was second only to Novron himself. They were in fact the holy trio: Maribor, Novron, and Venlin—the father, the son, and their prophet.
Is that really him? The simple white robes fit the picture Jerish had in his head, but the man himself was not at all what he imagined. This fellow was…even in his own head Jerish resisted using the word creepy, but that summed him up. The slight hunch, the deep set eyes, the leering smile did not at first proclaim Holy Living Representative of the Great Savior.
“I understand, but surely you can’t judge a person’s whole character from a single interview.” The bishop argued. “Besides, I was of the impression that the academy prides itself on shaping the boys that come here into the men they will be. What point is there to correct the perfect? All I ask is that you give him—and yourselves—a fair opportunity to evaluate him.”
“The lad is thirteen,” Rawlings said. “The training takes a minimum of ten years. Knights graduate at age eighteen. You ought to be capable of the math, Bishop. Also, the character of a man is like clay, malleable when young, but once it hardens one needs to break it to change it’s shape. If he had come here when he was younger, something might be done, but altering attitudes when the boy is a man, is—“
“Just one more chance, please.”
Rawlings spotted Jerish watching and frowned.
“Jerish!” Rawling barked.
His heart sinking, Jerish approached and presented himself still holding the broom at his side like a proper pikeman.
“Jerish, this young man is Darius Seret of Alburnia. Darius will be attending here, on a provisional status.” He looked hard at the bishop. “Darius has a mark against him. If he gains another, he will be barred from any chance of being a knight. I want you to be his orientation guide.”
“Yes, sir,” Jerish said. Understanding much and yet feeling he was missing more. The task of orientation guide was given to those in good standing, the most knowledgeable, amiable, and usually the oldest in the age group. Jerish was none of these. Rawlings was granting it to him for another reason, that Jerish suspected had something to do with his and Darius’s shared situation. Both had equally tenuous futures and faced the same fate if a mistake was made. All of this was clear, but the point, the question of why, eluded him. “Which bed, sir?”
“Yours.”
Jerish felt as if he’d been stab. “Yes, sir.”
Holding tight to the broom handle, he stepped to face Darius. To Jerish the “boy” looked every bit a man. He was tall, and had the start of a beard and thin mustache. “Follow me, please.”
Jerish walked up the corridor toward the dormitory stairs leaving the others behind.
“I’m certain that you’ll find Darius Seret to be a wonderful asset to your institution,” the bishop said as they walked away. “He merely needs some time to get settled, and find his feet.”
“We teach balance here,” Rawling said. “Finding ones feet is everything.”
###
“What do they call you, boy?” Darius asked as soon as they were out of sight of the others.
“My name is Jerish Grelad.”
“Grelad? Don’t know it. What standing does your father have?”
“Standing?”
“What rank?”
“My father was a moneylender. He died over a year ago. I’m not aware of him having held any rank.”
“So you’re a peasant, are you?” his tone dropped considerably. “A servant here? I suppose that makes sense. Teshlor Knights deserve servants. Although I would expect someone better than you. You’re a pitiful little thing. Oh, well. I have a number of bags waiting in the entrance hall. I’ll expect you to bring them to my room. I hope you know how to shine boots properly. If you damage my things, I take it out of your hide, trust me. We know how too deal with peasants in Alburnia. A firm hand, is what’s needed. And I have one. So watch yourself.”
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“You don’t have a room. You’ll be bunking in the dormitory along with everyone else. I’m not your servant. I am your orientation guide, which means you’ll do as I say until such time as I am done orienting you.”
“The imprudence!” Darius stopped walking. “I will do no such thing.”
Jerish stopped as well. Standing in the corridor leading to the dormitory stair, Jerish could see the steps just ahead. The hallway was empty. They were alone.
“I have a job to do,” Jerish said. “Very likely this will be my last task here, as it seems you’ll be taking my place. The Academy has limited beds, so you’re getting mine. Given my father is dead and left me nothing but debt, this means I’ll be out on the street. It’s cold out there. I’ll need time to find a place to sleep for the night—assuming I can find anything at all—and I’d like to do that before the sun sets and it gets seriously cold. So, if you don’t mind, I would like to—“
“Awww,” Darius whined. “Please save the sob story, child. I don’t care. It is abundantly obvious that you don’t belong here. The son of a moneylender, a Teshlor Knight? What madness! I’d heard such wonderful things about this place, but clearly I see now it was all lies.” He craned his neck looking about. He spotted the overhead rafter beams from which hung the noble banners of past knights who had served the empire with distinction. At that moment they stood directly under the colors of Jerel De Mardefeld.
Darius slapped the wall. “This place is pathetic. Cold, drafty, damp, I can’t be expected to live here, going elbow to elbow with moneylender sons. And if you aren’t my servant, where is he?”
“There are no servants here.” Jerish held up the broom as evidence. “We all pitch in and do chores.”
Darius stared at the broom like it were a snake. “Never.”
Jerish nodded. “Okay. That was easy. Why don’t we go back and explain to Master Rawlings that you changed your mind about your dream of becoming a Teshlor Knight. It might not get my bed back, but it will save me time needlessly orienting you.” Jerish started back. “If I hurry I might find a bed with the Church of Novron. I’ve heard they take in—”
Darius came up from behind Jerish, tripped and shoved him. Jerish fell on his face sprawling across the tile.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” the older boy threatened.
Jerish rolled, but remained on the floor glaring at the governor’s son.
“This whole place stinks.” Darius wrung his hands together. “You stink, this hallway stinks, and that fellow—that Master Rawlings—stinks. Him and his test. He told me to kill the kid. Gave me the blade! Explained it as kill or be killed. What did he expect me to do? Let the other brat have a free go at me? Does he think I’m an idiot? But it was all a rues, a lie because he stopped me. Did some sort of trick. Caught me off my guard. Bastard.”
“Don’t speak of Master Rawlings like that,” Jerish warned. “It’s disrespectful.”
“The man is a liar and a cheat.”
“No.” Jerish slowly got to his feet. “Master Rawlings is a great man, but you, sir, are a spoiled, selfish, egotistical, coward.”
Darius laid a hand on his sword. “Take that back.”
“Which one?” Jerish quickly shook his head. “Never mind, they’re all true, and I can’t take back the truth.”
Sounds of movement came up the corridor.
Jerish took his eyes off Darius to look, and the governor’s son took that moment to strike him hard across the face. The punch was poorly thrown and did little more than jar Jerish with a short-lived moment of pain.
An instant later, Master Rawlings, Master Lynch and the Bishop Venlin appeared.
“Darius what are you doing?” the bishop asked.
“This disrespectfully brat insulted me. Called me a coward. I am putting him in his place, teaching a lesson. Isn’t that right, boy? This is a school after all.”
Jerish didn’t answer. He wiped his face. His nose was bleeding. He felt it. Didn’t seem broken. Didn’t feel good though, but he’d suffered far worse.
After three years in the Academy, he still hadn’t made a friend, but his enemies were still multiplying. Nearly everyone reacted to him the way Logan had: initially friendly, then came that moment when Jerish said, or did, something that caused The Face—the expression of shock, fear, or disappointment that always resulted in an excuse to get away and never speak to him again. And then of course there were the fights, which he started. Being the new comer at a school for combat, Jerish lost a lot.
“Now take it back, or I shall strike you again,” Darius demanded.
“Stop it Darius,” the bishop demanded. “This doesn’t look good. He’s nothing but a child.”
“He’s old enough to mouth-off to the provincial governor’s son, he’s old enough to learn a hard lesson.” Darius looked at the men in the corridor. “Or will Master Rawlings interfere again.”
Rawlings shook his head. “This is between you two. Settle it as you will.” His words were so harsh that even Lynch looked concerned.
“Hear that?” Darius said. “They’re not going to save you. You’re all mine. Now, withdraw the insult. Apologize this instant for pretending you are equal to me, and I’ll let you leave my presence.”
Jerish stood straight and in a loud voice said, “For the record, for those who came late. Darius Seret has accused Master Rawlings of being a liar and a cheat. He has also maligned the Teshlor Guild, and indicated he has no intention of following its rules.”
“I have done no such—“
“And he has thrown me to the ground and struck me for denouncing his false accusations.” Jerish looked square at Rawlings. “I have done nothing.”
“Nothing?” Darius laughed. “You continue to assault me with your words and disrespectful tone. This boy, this common moneylender’s son, is so pathetic he can’t even cut it in this Academy.” Darius looked at the bishop. “He’s being expelled, you know, told me himself.”
Darius took a step closer forcing Jerish to look up at him. He raised a gloved fist. “Take it back.”
“No.”
Darius struck him again. The blow was harder this time, and landed square as Jerish made no attempt to move. The weight of the bigger boy drove him back against the wall, more blood sprayed, but he did not fall.
“Darius, please,” Venlin begged.
“Do it, boy.” Darius didn’t even give him time to speak before striking again.
There was a crack. Pain jolted Jerish’s face. The corridor spun once, tilted a bit, and remained out of focus for a time. Nose has to be broken now. There was something on the wall behind Jerish that wasn’t there before. Looking he saw a spray of his own blood painting the image of a rooster’s tail.
“I won’t ask again.” Darius slowly drew the sword from his scabbard.
Eyes still blurry, the corridor swimming, the taste of blood in his mouth, Jerish heard rather than saw the blade come free.
“Darius, this has gone too far!” the bishop snapped.
Lynch took a step forward. Rawlings put up a hand stopping him.
Darius placed the tip of his blade to Jerish’s cheek. “Take it back, now.”
“No.” Jerish remained firm, back straight, arms at his sides.
With a slash he cut a red line down Jerish’s face causing him to hiss and retreat until his back was against the wall.
“No wonder you’re being expelled.” Darius said. “You’re a terrible student. Can’t seem to learn a thing, can you? Take back the insult, or by the beard of Novron I will kill you.”
Jerish who had his palm pressed to his cheek trying to slow the spill of his blood, looked up. “What did you say?”
“I said,” Darius spoke in exaggerated precision. “Take back what you said, or by the beard of Novron I will kill you.” To emphasis this, he raised his blade over his head.
“That’s what I thought you said.” Jerish looked at Rawlings, frowned, and sighed. “I’m sorry.”
This made Darius smile, but only briefly.
“I cannot allow you to take the lord’s name in vain,” Jerish declared with the usual tone of regret.
“What? You foolish little mongrel. You deserve this.”
“Darius, no!” Venlin shouted as the older boy swung.
This time, Jerish stepped aside allowing the sword’s tip to spark across the wall. He stomped on Darius’s foot as hard as he could with the sharp heel of his boot, making the older boy cry out, then cracked the broom handle across his knuckles. The sword came free and clattered on the floor. With Darius off balance, shocked, and now unarmed, Jerish took the extra time afforded to him by a bewildered governor’s son to wind-up before breaking the broom handle across the older boy’s face. Darius went down, clapping his head hard against the floor and uttering a grunt that was quickly followed by a cry and a series of moans.
Jerish stared at Darius’s bleeding face remembering Gibson Sikes and thinking how similar the scene looked, how history repeated itself, and wondered why only the bad things seemed destined to reoccur. This time I was on my way out anyway, he consoled himself. He dropped the splintered end of the broom, wiped blood from his eyes, then turned to face Master Rawlings.
None of the men in the corridor had moved. Lynch, Rawlings, and even the bishop continued to stare but not one with the expression Jerish would have expected. Lynch wore a smirk, Venlin stared at Jerish with studious interest, and Rawling, who Jerish expected to show anger, revealed only his familiar stone-face.
“I need to wash,” Jerish said, as he moved to the stairs. “I’ll clear out my things right afterwards. Do I have permission to use the needle and thread?” He put a hand to his cheek, where he felt the cut.
“You have nothing to clear out,” Rawling said.
“I have my blanket, sir. I brought it with me. I will take it as I leave.”
“You will not,” Rawlings said.
“Please, sir. It was given to me by Deacon Kile. It’s mine.”
“I don’t care who gave it to you. It stays here.”
Jerish struggled to breathe air as his nose was clogged with blood, and his throat closing with misery. Why is he being so cruel? Did I hurt him that much? Will he send me out into the winter snows naked?
Jerish let his shoulders drop. “Then…I’ll just go.” He bowed his head and walked toward the forward stairs.
“You do not have leave to go,” Rawling said. “You made a mess, and you will clean it. I do not wish to see your blood on this wall.”
Other members of the Academy, other boys, had arrived and stood in the rear watching the event, whispering among themselves.
Jerish stood feeling tears rising, and fought them. Looking down, he saw the front of his tunic was stained. Droplets were still falling from his nose leaving a tiny trail on his chest and on the floor. He nodded. “Yes, sir.” He said. “And…” he struggled to get the words out. “And I’m sorry, sir. You were right about me. I’m incapable of restraint.”
Rawlings crossed the distance between them.
With his head bowed, Jerish watched his boots. The speed of the approach made Jerish suspect he’d done something else wrong and now the master himself would administer punishment. He waited, not knowing what a blow from Rawlings would be like—instant death, he imagined.
Rawlings halted before him, took a deep breath and sighed. Jerish looked up letting the blood drip down his chin.
“Jerish,” Rawling’s face retained its indifference, but his eyes lacked the familiar cold enamel. Something else was there, something Jerish hadn’t ever seen before in eyes that stared at him. “A Teshlor needs discipline, control, and a firm grip on his temper. I explained that to you.” The master stepped around Jerish to better inspect the older boy who remained on the floor rocking side to side moaning through hands that clutched his face.
Rawlings shook his head in disgust. Then faced Jerish once more. “This institution means everything to you, yet Darius cares nothing for it. You feel unworthy of the Teshlor Guild, while he feels the guild unworthy of him. He is rich and can prosper in any number of endeavors, but when you leave here you will have only an old blanket. You were aware that Darius Seret failed his entrance exam—a test you passed—and yet he was being admitted while you were being expelled to make room for him. Jerish you were ordered to escort and educate Darius, to help him replace you, to give him everything you had, or ever dreamed of having. None of which he cared about, none of which he wanted or deserved. He insulted you and maligned everything you hold dear. Then he beat and cut you, yet you restrained yourself.”
Jerish glanced at Darius. “Doesn’t look like restraint to me, sir.”
“A knight does not inflict pain out of revenge, or in response to a slight, but in the service of truth, the protection of the weak, and defense against cruelty. Truth is, Darius was being cruel to one he believed was weak. Discipline is one thing, son.” Rawlings approached Jerish and laid a hand on his shoulder. “But if you showed any more restraint, you’d be dead. ”
Go get cleaned up. Report for the midday’s meal. Then come back here and scrub this wall and floor. Mind you, I want no stain left reminding anyone of this unpleasant affair. But leave your blanket where it lies. Your bed is still your bed. You’re staying here. It is Darius Seret who will be leaving.”
“You can’t do that,” the bishop declared.
Rawlings faced him. “Oh, I assure you I can. As Marital Master and Recruitment Officer for the Imperial Academy of Teshlor Knights, I have absolute authority over who is admitted and who isn’t. Only the emperor himself can overrule me.”
Venlin frowned as he produced a scroll from within the folds of his robe. “I didn’t want to start things on the wrong foot, you understand. I had hoped Darius would be admitted on his own merit. Even after failing the exam, I still held out hope that he would prove himself worthy.” Venlin handed the paper to Rawlings, who noted the imperial seal, cracked it, and read.
The note was short. A moment later, Rawlings looked up at Venlin, and nodded. “Very well. Novice Darius, welcome to the Academy.”
Jerish took a breath. “I guess I’ll get my blanket after all, sir. But thank you for—for what you said.”
“What I said is that as recruitment officer for the Academy, I have absolute authority over who is admitted and who isn’t. I also have the same authority over who is expelled. Now unless the bishop is hiding another note from his eminence requiring me to banish you…”
Venlin shook his head.
“Good, then Jerish Grelad will remain a member of this school.”
“But you only have so many beds,” Jerish pointed out. “And you said—”
“Who’s side are you on, boy?” Lynch asked. The Master of Arms was holding back a chuckle as he rolled his eyes and smiled. “Do you want to be breaking ice in the alley crates as you search the garbage for old bones to gnaw on?”
“No, sir.” Jerish wiped his nose painting his index finger with a bright red line. You’d think it would stop by now.
“Do you suspect this guild, that has successfully defended this empire for over a thousand years against a multitude of invaders, and ambitious generals, to be incapable of adding an additional bed to the Acedemy’s dormitory?”
“No, sir.”
“Then be quiet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And for the love of Elan, get a rag, put your head up, and go to the infirmary. Make sure your nose is set straight. Women don’t like men with crooked noses.” Lynch winked.
Jerish nodded and as others began to help Darius up, Jerish headed back toward the main hall. As he did, he heard Bishop Venlin’s voice.
“Are you telling me that boy is only ten?”