14 Years Ago…

A darkseason was coming. You could tell by the way the sky was turning red, colors flowing from the horizon, more and more of them each day, as if the heavens were bleeding out. It was growing colder, too; Perelor’s school had allowed him to wear his thick, velvet uniform rather than the usual thin, breathable nylon one. Soon, the entire city would descend into blackness, for weeks on end, until finally, the planet finished its rotation and they were back in the light of Ethea’s three stars.

Perelor hated darkseasons. It wasn’t so much the darkness itself; the night lights of the city made life bearable, at least. It was more the feeling of the sky, the time it took for things to finally grow bright again. Irrational though it was, he sometimes worried the suns simply wouldn’t return.

He found himself staring out the classroom window, out at the busy hover lanes and streets below. And at the unending sunset. It was bright still, and he had to squint to see, but the sight completely distracted him.

“Krot?”

It took Perelor a moment to register his name. He turned, blinking. “Yes?”

His teacher, a lanky man by the name of Jelador Varik, nodded. “Just checking you were still paying attention. Swordplay is an important subject, if you still plan on joining the militia.”

Perelor blinked. “We’re doing swordplay?” The words slipped out almost involuntarily. How had he missed this? A few of his classmates chuckled -- in particular, Sekhen, a tall, powerfully built kid near the back of the room. Sekhen had always disliked Perelor. He’d never gotten physical about it, though, so there was that.

Varik shook his head. “Always preoccupied, young Krot. I’m afraid that’s another strike. Please tell me you were at least listening to the safety protocols for our outing to the arenas today.”

Perelor paused. “I…wasn’t,” he admitted. “But I know how to be safe with a sword. My father taught me that.”

Varik shrugged. “I suppose that checks out, knowing old Rion. You are free to go, though there will be extra strikes against you if you do anything stupid.” He turned to the rest of the class, sighing. “Anyone else need me to repeat myself?” No one answered, and he nodded. “Good. Saretha will take you to the arena. I’ve never had the stomach for swordplay, and she’ll be a far better teacher. Dismissed.”

Perelor’s classmates began rising to their feet, and excited chatter filled the room. Even Perelor, who was probably the only one here who had ever touched a blade, found himself enthused. Sekhen was going to hate it when Perelor beat him.

And, there was Sekhen walking toward him now. Piece of vret. Predictable piece of vret, though.

“So,” he said. “I finally get a chance to beat you properly.”

Perelor sighed, folding his arms. “This isn’t going to fix anything, Sekhen. My father said…”

“Sear your father,” Sekhen hissed. “I’m going to beat you, right and honorably. Whether or not it gets my family any Worthiness.”

Perelor rolled his eyes. Sekhen’s family was considered Stained by the Church, because of an event that had happened centuries ago, involving one of Perelor’s own ancestors, Tereth Krot. It should have been easy for the family to regain their Honor, but, unfortunately, the Church required a very specific condition for that: losing blood in battle. Ethea hadn’t fought an actual war in years. Technically, Perelor’s own family was considered downright Unworthy by the priests, though he ignored that, as his father had asked him to. Most people did, really. The Church held little weight on Ethea anymore. But, there were still loyalists, people like Sekhen’s parents who liked to stir up trouble over nothing.

“You couldn’t beat me if you tried,” Perelor muttered. “I’ve been taking dueling lessons since I was six. The moment they hand me a sword, you’re done for.”

Sekhen leaned in close. “Then fight me here, you little Voidling. A fair contest, for our Honor.”

For a moment, Perelor was actually tempted, staring into Sekhen’s disgusted face. Fighting would get him into trouble, but a part of him wanted that. He could use a little trouble, instead of sitting in this char-blasted class all day. His hand tightened into a fist.

It’s not Sekhen’s fault he acts the way he does. His parents are the ones who taught him, and their parents before them. Fists do not change minds.

His father’s voice. He let his fist relax. “Strike first if you want,” he said coolly. “Lose your Honor, if you wish. I will retain mine.”

Sekhen’s eyes actually widened in surprise, though that surprise quickly faded, and he snorted. “Well then. I’ll beat you with a sword, no matter how cocky you are.”

He drifted away as they were herded out the door by Varik. Perelor shook his head. Honor. Strange, how something supposed to be so pure, could drive men so mad.

***

An hour later, Perelor stood in a practice arena, covered in a thin layer of packed dirt, surrounded by slanted walls of thick metal on all sides. Seats waited on the left and right, filled sparsely by Perelor’s class. A dulled blade waited for him in his instructor’s hands, full-size, even though he was still a little too short to wield it well. A thin sheet of carbon fiber lay draped across his body, with shock absorbers woven in. It wouldn’t be enough to stop a real blade, but it would minimize the pain of the blows from the practice swords.

Sekhen waited across from him, covered in a similar piece of cloth. He was bulkier than Perelor; classes lasted several years on Ethea, and Sekhen was almost seventeen. An even longer sword waited for him, one designed especially for people of his height. He scowled as the instructor, Saretha, handed Perelor his own weapon.

“His family is Unworthy. He’s not supposed to wield swords.” Sekhen’s lips were pursed so tight Perelor was surprised he hadn’t pulled a muscle.

Saretha frowned, then shrugged. “This is practice. It’s not even a real sword.” An excuse, really. By the Codes, Perelor shouldn’t be able to wield a sword. But, if there was one thing his father and the Governor could agree on, it was that the Codes were irrelevant.

The only real Honor, his father told him often, is in keeping your promises. In doing everything you can to succeed where it counts.

Sekhen’s scowl deepened, but he did not protest any further — likely because he was now stewing on the idea of beating Perelor into the dirt. Sure enough, he fell into an offensive stance as Saretha counted down, painfully obvious in his aggressiveness. Perelor fell into a neutral stance, feet spread apart, sword held at an angle near his chest in both hands, so that he could adapt as Sekhen attacked.

Which he did as soon as the start tone rang. He swung with the shear force only an amateur would use, and nearly fell when Perelor ducked away. As he recovered, he tried again, a little less force behind it this time, but he was dazed, and Perelor batted away the blow easily.

“I wasn’t kidding,” Perelor said. “I’ve been taking lessons for a while.”

He got attacked with a fist in reply. He dodged that, too, almost reflexively; Yaenke was an excellent teacher.

“I don’t want to humiliate you,” Perelor said, soft enough only Sekhen could hear. “You’re not going to win. Stop attacking like a boar, and maybe we can make a decent show of it.”

As Perelor had expected, this didn’t land well with Sekhen. He swung again, and this time Perelor actually parried, twisting his blade at an angle to absorb the blow. Sekhen attacked again, and again, and again, and Perelor swatted the blows away each time with ease, until finally, annoyed, he twisted his blade, disarmed Sekhen, then pointed his blade at his chest.

“Do you yield?”

Sekhen’s eyes widened, and he stepped back, brandishing fists. Sighing, Perelor stepped forward and thrust the blade into Sekhen’s chest. It didn’t harm him, thanks to the carbon fiber and the dulled point, but it did knock the breath out of him.

“Krot wins the match,” Saretha said. She stepped onto the field, collecting Perelor’s blade, then helping Sekhen to his feet. “Next!”

Sekhen and Perelor stepped off the field as they were replaced by a pair of girls. Sekhen shot Perelor a glare, but Perelor just rolled his eyes and walked away. He paused before selecting a seat next to his friend Dina.

She turned to him, smiling. “That was fun.”

Perelor frowned. “I thought you lost your match.”

“Not that. Watching you beat the vret out of Sek.”

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Perelor just shrugged. “I probably should have let him win, honestly.”

“What? Why? The look on his face was priceless.”

“Yeah, but beating him is just going to make him more angry. Dad says I shouldn’t do that.”

Dina snorted. “Your father’s stuffy.”

Perelor met her eyes. “Please don’t insult my father, Dina.”

Dina sighed. “Fine, I’m sorry. Still, he’s more diplomat than general these days. It’s boring.”

“There’s no glory in war. Torment is the only victor.”

“There you go quoting him again. Can we just watch for a minute? Sword fighting is fun to watch.”

Perelor obliged, and turned his eyes back to the arena, where two of the largest boys in the class were dueling now. He couldn’t help but feel a little jealous at the way Dina stared at them. They were just friends, supposedly, but that didn’t mean he didn’t like her a little.

They watched three or four duels, mostly silent, until finally Perelor’s holoscreen buzzed in his pocket. He retrieved it — praying Saretha wasn’t looking — and smiled, rising.

“Father’s here. I’ll see you later.”

Dina sighed. “That is one benefit of having a general for a father. Getting school off.”

“It’s my sister’s Naming.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You still get out of here way too much.” Dina smiled, her expression showing it was just a joke. “Have a good time.”

“Thanks. You have a good day, too.” He turned and left; Saretha would know why he’d gone. Making his way out of the arena, he found his father, Rion Krot, standing in a hallway just outside.

He was a tall man, powerfully built, and muscular — though he was in his late forties now, and hadn’t fought in years, he made it a priority to stay battle ready, just in case. His hair, like all pure-blooded Etheans, was shock white, and his skin was tan and weathered from long years spent at war. He wore a silver suit, with blue trim, which was well pressed and shone even brighter than his usual diplomat’s uniform. He grinned as Perelor approached, and they began walking side by side to the hovercar lot of the building.

“So. How was school today?”

“Good.”

“How did things go with Sekhen?”

“I beat him.”

Rion frowned. “How badly?”

“Well… badly. But he kinda asked for it.”

Rion sighed. “Knowing his parents, he probably did. Even so, you shouldn’t be hard on him, son. If we want families like him to stop hating us, we need to be honorable. Really honorable, not traditionally honorable.”

Perelor frowned. “Father, I don’t see how it’s honorable to let him treat me like tar.”

“That,” Rion replied, “is not what I want. And it’s why I’m not upset that you beat him. But you need to give him a chance. That’s what unity means, I think. Giving others a real chance, and giving them any help to change that you can.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“It needs to do more than make sense. It needs to become part of you. But that will come in time, I suppose.” They were at the hovercar pad now, standing in front of Rion’s vehicle. Though most nearby were glistening, chrome-covered models, Rion’s was made of simple steel, well-painted, but cheap: Perelor’s father, in his own words, liked to look as nice as he could on as little of a budget as he could manage. They stepped inside, then closed the doors. Perelor’s father could have used a chauffeur, yet he drove alone, monitoring the automated car himself. Perelor sat beside him.

“Where’s the Naming ceremony at?”

“North Temple,” his father replied.

Perelor grimaced. “So Cherria?”

“Priestess Cherria,” his father said. “Don’t forget the title.” He grinned. “At least, not in front of her.”

“Trust me, I know,” Perelor grumbled. “Why are we having her do Eliel’s ceremony?”

“Same reason I told you not to beat Sekhen,” his father replied. “We need to get it across to people like Cherria that we’re not trying to defy the Church. We’re just asking to live our lives.”

“Just seems to me like we should do that a little more aggressively,” Perelor muttered. “Take what we want, rather than ask for it, you know?”

His father was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. “Have I ever told you the story of the man who threw his spear?”

“His what?”

“It’s like a lasertip,” his father explained. “Just only the blade, and no blaster.”

“Oh. I don’t think you ever have.”

“I think it’s a tale that fits this,” his father said. He pursed his lips, then nodded. “Yes, I think now’s a perfect time.”

Perelor leaned back against his seat. Knowing his father, he’d probably be listening to this for the next half hour. Not that he was opposed to that. Rion told excellent stories, even though they were a little preachy.

“Once,” he began, “there was a boy. He had a good life, a simple life. Until one day, the stardrake came.”

His father paused. Perelor raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you want me to ask what a stardrake is?”

Rion shrugged. “I suppose. A stardrake is a mythical creature, a giant, fire-breathing lizard with wings, the size of a tower. It’s said that they can dive into the hearts of stars, and absorb their light, which is what allows them to breathe fire.”

“Sounds exciting.”

His father chuckled. “Indeed. But one day, a stardrake soared above the house of the boy, and breathed fire all over his home. In an instant, everything he knew was consumed by flame, his mother, his father, his sister. But the boy survived.”

“Huh. How?”

“I’m… not sure, actually. But that’s not the point of the story. You see, the boy found out that an evil man had taken control of the stardrake, and was using it to burn more planets. And so, the boy set out on a quest: to find that man, and kill him, and the stardrake, and free the galaxy from his tyranny.”

“Ambitious.”

“Well, he is the main character. But, he only had one weapon: his father’s spear, forged in the heart of a planet’s core, the only weapon strong enough to survive the heat of the dragon. He took that spear, and made four marks: one for his mother, one for his sister, one for his brother, and one for his father. Then he began his journey.

“It was not easy. He faced many enemies, men who had given in and knelt before the stardrake rider’s powers. He made friends, and he lost friends. And every time someone died, he made another mark on that staff. One mark, for every person he’d lost. The grief nearly consumed him.

“But he went on. And on, and on, until the staff was covered in marks, and he wondered how he was still alive.”

“I’m wondering that, too,” Perelor muttered.

“He’s the main character, that’s why. But anyway, one day he came to the palace of the stardrake rider. He defeated the guards, with skills he’d gained over long decades of fighting, then found his way to the throne room.

“In it was the stardrake, towering above him, its rider perched atop its back, driving it forward with a whip and a bit. It breathed upon him, and it was all he could do just to avoid the flames.”

“Still don’t get how he’s doing that.”

“He’s a memory burner, or something. It’s not important. Again and again, the drake breathed, forcing the man backward. He could barely manage to get away each time. He thought of his sister, and tried to press through the fire with Ever. It failed. He remembered his mother, and tried to use Purity. That, too, failed. Finally, he burned Eternity — for this was before the Erak’sai — and tried once more, thinking of his brother. Even then, he failed. The drake rider laughed at this.

“‘You have fought long and hard,’ he said. ‘Now come out, and kneel, lest you lose yourself as well as that which you love.’

“Finally, listening to the taunts, and huddled behind a pillar, our hero closed his eyes and thought of his father. Of all the marks, covering that spear. He loved that spear. It was all he had left of the ones he had lost.

“But he knew what he had to do. And so, he stepped around the pillar, cocked back his arm, and threw it.

“It soared through the air, and slammed into the rider’s chest. The rider’s eyes widened, but it was already too late. He fell off the drake, and tumbled to the floor, dead. And then, the drake, now freed, knelt in gratitude. And he rode that drake, and united all of Delti.” He finished just as the hovercar began descending, toward a domed temple below. The Grand Shrine of Ethea, home to the Altar of Naming.

“Huh. Cool story, I guess.”

“Not very well told,” Rion sighed. “Never been a good storyteller. But, it has a meaning.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of projectiles?”

Rion smiled. “Don’t be too flippant about it. You see, the man could only win by letting go of the thing he thought was important. By taking a chance, for his father’s memory, rather than clinging to what he still had left.”

Perelor frowned. “I guess.”

Rion leaned forward, and his eyes were suddenly intense. “There will come a day when you will have to throw your own spear, Perelor. I… well, I’ve seen things. I can’t say much yet, but soon, very soon, life is going to get hard. When that time comes, you must promise me you will throw your spear. Let go of what you must, no matter how much it hurts, so that you can focus on what matters.”

Perelor felt a chill run down his spine. “What do you mean things are going to get hard?”

His father smiled sadly. “I wish I could tell you. But,” he said, swinging open the door of the car, “sometimes we must go on, regardless of what we know will come.” He met Perelor’s eyes. “Can you promise me? That you’ll do what you have to?”

Perelor gulped. “I… I’ll try to.” What was this about? He wished he could believe it was some elaborate prank, but the intensity in his father’s expression told him something was about to happen. Something important.

“Good enough. Good enough, for now.” His father smiled, then briefly squeezed Perelor’s hand as they exited the car. “I love you, son.”

“I love you too,” Perelor whispered.

His father straightened. “Well. On to the Naming then.”

They strode forward together into the crowd around the Grand Shrine, though the sinking feeling in Perelor’s gut did not fade.