Chapter 1 - Chi

The village was burning.

Zachary’s eyes watered as an acrid haze drifted into his cage.  He blinked away tears, trying to focus.  Thick black smoke flowed from the thatched roofs of several nearby houses.   The caustic smell of smoking thatch assaulted his senses.  He could see a few dwellings fully on fire.  

Lying on his side he checked his immediate surroundings.  He was in a wooden cage, set atop a wagon bed.  The cage bars were lashed to the wagon with strong hemp rope.  The back of the cage was a door of sorts, strongly tied on the top to provide hinges.  Only a thin rope made for a clasp on the bottom.  But he could not hope to open that clasp and escape whilst his wrists were tied behind his back.

Dressed in simple, shabby cotton clothing, not much more than rags, Zachary was a typical peasant boy.  A dirty face, dirty hands and mud-caked bare feet did nothing to distinguish him from any other peasant boy in the Dragon Province.  But his blond hair, matted with clay and blood, did differentiate him.  It marked him as from across the border, in the Kingdom of Albion.  An outsider.  A gaijin.

He looked around and saw there were no raiders near the wagon.  His knowledge of the Feral was limited but even he, at the age of six, had heard the tails of the wild men of the north.  They were portrayed as man-eating monsters, as terrifying raiders who wore the bones of their enemies and revelled in blood and carnage.  His first experience of them in the flesh did nothing to dispel that impression.

Wriggling his fingers behind his back, he flexed and squirmed, twisted and writhed.  He felt he could eventually get the rope bonds from his wrists, he just wasn’t sure how long it would take.  Right now the Feral appeared more concerned with pillaging this village than with him.  He was determined to be gone before his captors returned.

Looking out onto the desolation and destruction of the village, Zachary saw pure havoc.  Many villagers were dead, struck down by the vicious axes and cudgels the raiders wielded.  The Feral clearly did not plan to take too many prisoners tonight.  Screams rent the air as the Feral took their pleasures on the women.  Everywhere fires raged.

The Dragon Province of Honshu was a civilized land.  The villagers built their houses primarily from wood, slightly raised from the floor. The walls were made of paper and the roofs were mostly thatched.  A few important buildings in the village had tile roofs but these were rare.  The style of each dwelling was broadly similar, whereas individual designs were uncommon.  Gently curving roofs were the most visually impressive component, often constituting half the size of the whole building.  The slightly curved eaves extended far beyond the walls, covering wooden verandas.  It was High Summer and the weather had been hot and dry.  The whole place was a bonfire waiting to be sparked.  The Feral had lit it.

Grey and black smoke drifted through the evening twilight as the brigands ransacked the place.  The fur-clad figures of the north men could be seen rampaging through the settlement, laying about them with wild abandon.  Nothing seemed to stand in their way.  Then the smoke cleared and Zachary could make out a solitary figure. 

Standing alone in the centre of the village, in what Zachary took to be some sort of market square, was a man.  Tall and thin, this figure was ancient to Zachary’s young eyes.  The man had the black hair common to most Easterners, but his hair was faded to silver which seemed to glint in the moonlight.  He wore the traditional kimono favoured by most in the region.  His was a dark colour, plain and unadorned.  However, Zachary’s eyes saw none of this.  His eyes were drawn to the man’s weapon and the way he wielded it.

The man held a naginata in his hands.   The weapon was a spear-like polearm, a bit longer than the man himself, with a gleaming metal blade at the tip, slightly curved.  The moonlight caught the razor-sharp blade and sparkled.  The old warrior spun that spear in place faster than Zachery’s watering eyes could follow, and where the blade slashed, Feral died.  Zachary saw a fabled weapon in the hands of a legendary fighter. 

There was a circle of dead raiders around the man.  He was an island of calm in the maelstrom of devastation that engulfed the rest of the settlement.  Any Feral who dared to try and approach him was cut down, mercilessly.  But the old man appeared content to hold his place in the centre of the open market square.  He was not chasing the raiders or trying to stop them from plundering the rest of the village.  Quickly the Feral learned simply to avoid his deadly reach and take their pleasures elsewhere.

With a wrench of his arm and a lance of pain that shot up his right arm from thumb to shoulder, Zachary was free.  He’d slipped out of the bonds that tied his hands.  His next obstacle was the cage door.  The clasp at the bottom was simple enough for his small, agile fingers to unhook.  But the wooden cage door itself was a heavy thing.  He was malnourished, half-starved and dehydrated.  Even fully fit, he was only small and the heavy larch wood door would have been a struggle to shift.  But he was also desperate.  He knew that to stay was to remain a prisoner of the Feral.  And they were a nightmare come to life. 

He pushed on the door with every muscle in his body.  He drew on every fear and every story to give him strength.  His terror overcame his plight.  The cage door opened enough for him to squeeze through.  He rolled out, fell three feet to the soft earth floor and scrambled under the wagon.  He was out of the cage.  But all around him, the storm of violence raged.

Looking to the old legend standing in the middle of the village for solace and encouragement, Zachary noted that a group of Feral were now surrounding him.  Amid them stood a hulking figure, who must have been close to seven feet tall.  The leader carried a huge double-bladed axe across his shoulder and looked like he could wield it with one hand.  He was clearly commanding the others and organising them.  Zachary instinctively knew what it meant – they planned to deal with the one remaining pocket of resistance, permanently. 

The old man stood still, naginata poised in a defensive but ready position.  There was no expression on his face.  He was calm and passive, waiting.  The huge Feral gestured and suddenly the half dozen or so raiders surrounding the old man rushed forward.  The naginata swung, spun and slashed, faster than Zachary could follow.  Feral died.  But there were too many, especially when the leader took his axe from his shoulders and stepped into the fray. 

As Zachary watched from the safety of the shadows under the wagon, the old legend fell, swamped by the raiders.  He couldn’t see properly through the dim light and smoke, but he saw the huge barbarian’s axe rise and fall.  Seconds later the big man stepped back and lofted something into the air with a shout of triumph.  Zachary turned and looked away.  He didn’t need to watch to know it was the elder’s severed head.

Looking in the opposite direction the young boy spotted the silhouettes of trees on the edge of the village.  He knew the village itself wasn’t safe.  His only chance for rescue, the man with the naginata, was gone.  All that was left was to get out of there.  Moving quietly and carefully as he could Zachary set off in the direction of the trees; in the direction of safety.

He crouched low as he half-ran, half-walked to the veranda of a nearby dwelling. The roof was smouldering but it seemed like it was safe enough to traverse the wooden decking outside.  Sliding carefully along he reached the corner of the building and dipped into the shadows of the wooden support post that held up this edge of the structure.  He peeked carefully around the corner.

On the veranda around the side of the house, a Feral warrior was lying face down, supporting himself with his arms.  Zachary could only see the rough shaggy furs of the cloak on his back and the man’s wild brown hair.  The Feral was laughing wickedly and Zachary’s good ears just caught the sound of a whimper coming from under the cloak.  Too young to really appreciate what was happening, Zachary took the opportunity to scamper past the raider whilst he was distracted.

He ducked into the shelter of another veranda and looked at the trees.  This was the last house before the copse.  A distance of perhaps forty short paces separated him from the wood and safety, but it was open ground with virtually no cover. 

Between him and the wood lay a decorative garden.  Small bushes and tiny trees, all sculpted and tended into impressive and precise shapes, were set around a garden of white stones.  A low stone bench sat to one side, overlooking the space.  Across the middle of the garden, a path of grey flagstones was laid, leading to a tiny arched bridge which spanned a stream.  The stream was man-made, simply a line of water which ran from one side of the garden to another.  In another time the place would have been idyllic.  Now it was dangerous. 

There was no real cover for even a six-year-old to exploit.  Zachary could try and skirt the edge but that would add precious yards and seconds to his exposure.  He could creep through the garden of stones, but that would risk the sounds of the pebbles crunching under his feet.  He could rush straight across the paved path, but that led up and over the bridge, exposing him more.  None of the options looked great.  Deciding that staying put was the worst option of all, Zachary sprinted for the bridge.

He had gone no more than five paces when he was suddenly pulled off his feet into the air and smothered by warm furs.  The smell of sweat and animal pelts engulfed him.  The grasp on his small frame was crushing, squeezing the breath from his lungs.  The Feral leader had caught him.

“Going somewhere?” the giant asked in a deep voice that vibrated right through Zachary’s chest.  The man had a large face that fit his huge body. A scraggly and full brown beard filled Zachary’s vision and the grin that came his way was missing many teeth.  Those teeth that were still there were filed to points.  If the stench of his furs was bad, his breath was worse.

Zachary couldn’t speak.  The man was crushing his lungs and the terror the man’s aura exuded was paralyzing.  He looked up into merciless eyes and knew he would be punished for trying to escape.  All the stories came flooding back to him then.  The Feral were man-eaters.  He would likely find himself the man’s supper tonight.

Zachary looked up into the Feral’s uncaring eyes and felt what little hope he had left die.  The man was studying him as if making a decision.  He opened his mouth to say something and then Zachary felt the man’s body twitch violently.  The expression on the Feral’s face changed to one of surprise and questioning and then he twitched again.  This time the man’s eyes rolled up into his head and Zachary felt himself falling.  Still clutched tightly in the barbarian’s arms Zachary hit the floor hard.  It took him a moment to understand what had happened.  Then he realised the man had fallen over.

As the man fell and rolled, his back came into Zachary’s view.  Sticking out of the man’s thick fur cloak were two arrows with bright red fletching.  A pool of blood was seeping out from where the arrows had struck and was spilling onto the ground.  The barbarian leader was dead.

The ground thundered and Zachary felt shaken where he lay in the dead man’s arms.  Suddenly a group of horses galloped past his position, the noise of their hooves deafening.  Craning his neck to see out from under the Feral’s corpse, Zachary studied the riders.

They were clad in armour, cuirasses of overlapping leathers, lacquered to give strength and coloured a deep crimson.  On their heads were simple helms with upswept wings on the sides.  They rode their horses without holding the reins, even though they were at a flat-out gallop.  In their hands, they held short bows which they were firing whilst they rode.  The men were Easterners, Zachary knew.  Even though the Easterners were the enemy of his people, at least they were civilized.  And they were bringing retribution down upon the Feral.

A surprisingly short time later it was over.  The raiders were all dead or fled into the night.  The armoured horsemen were gathering the villagers together to organize putting out the fires and had begun the grizzly task of collecting the dead, both Feral and local.

Zachary sat on the floor alone, a soft woollen blanket wrapped around his shoulders.  As he sat there wondering what was to become of him a man in crimson armour approached.  He had a pair of swords crossed at his belt, one long and the other short.  Each was slightly curved and held in an ornate lacquered, crimson scabbard.  Zachary noticed that he was the only one with two such swords.  The others in the group had single swords or other weapons.

Squatting down next to him so that his eyes were on the same level as Zachery’s the man spoke in the short, clipped tones of the Easterners.  Zachary didn’t understand a word he was saying.

“Not from around here, are you?” the man said in accented but clear Albion, the language of Zachary’s home.

Zachary shook his head, but kept his eyes on the man, sensing he was in charge of this group of horsemen.  The man nodded curtly and stared thoughtfully into Zachary’s eyes for a moment.

“My name is Tanaka Keinosuke, the patrol leader for Lord Nakamura, ruler of Sapporo.”  Zachary blinked, clearly not understanding.  The man tried again.  “Where are you from?”, he continued with a smile. 

“Craig-coed, in the mountains,” Zachary managed, speaking strongly as he could.

The man looked sideways as if pondering this name, then shook his head.

“Never heard of it,” he replied, “but I assume it’s across the border in the Kingdom of Albion?”

Zachary nodded.  Tanaka seemed to consider this for a moment.

“I’m sorry, boy.  I cannot return you home.  It is simply too dangerous for us to cross the border into your lands.  We’d be attacked by the soldiers there on sight.  And I can’t leave you here, the villagers have enough to deal with after that raid.  If I let you wander free, you’ll be back in the hands of the Feral before summer is out.  There’s only one thing for it.  You’re going to have to come with us, back to Sapporo.  I will hand you over to the temple of the Way there.  They will know what to do with you.

“Oh, and another thing,” Tanaka continued.  “If you are to come with us to the heart of the Dragon Province, you need to fit in.  I am sure you had a name, boy, but it is gone now.  You will have a new name, a Honshu name.  From this moment on you are known as Chi.”

Zachary looked at the man questioningly and the warrior answered the unspoken question in his eyes.

“It means Spirit,” he said.  “And by the Seven Celestial Dragons, it suits you.” 

Chapter 2 - Jaeden

Jaeden’s mind was wandering.  The market invariably had that effect on him.  The place was always a riot of colours and sounds, of smells and experiences.  Today’s had been exceptional.  He’d spent longer there than he should have and would most likely return home late.  It was a fair stroll across the city of Littlebrook from the market square to the Cathedral quarter where he lived.  The sun had nearly set and twilight was creeping across the city.  But Jaeden wasn’t overly concerned.  The day had been warm and bright and the evening was still pleasant.  What was wrong with a nice stroll through the streets of his home town on a summer’s eve?

His mind drifted back to the market and to the exotic traders he had spoken to.  One claimed to be from far-off Hishan, all the way across the Great Desert.  He was selling spices and intricately woven rugs of a strange material.  Another was clearly from the east.  The Easterner traded in silks and Jaeden had asked for news from that empire.  The merchant had humoured the young man, spinning a tale of the great Lord Nakamura of Sapporo and his thousand-man crimson army.  Jaeden lapped it all up.

The youngest son of a minor noble from the city, Jaeden had enjoyed a privileged upbringing.  He had private tutors and could already read and write, at the age of eight.  He was learning history and the teachings of the Church of the Light.  Though he was diligent and hardworking, he knew his tutors were disappointed with his progress.  Academic lessons were not his forte.  Where he excelled by far was the weapons training.

Already tall and filling out, Jaeden was bigger than his older brother Michael.  They were both on par in terms of strength but Michael was the faster.  Yet put a practice sword in Jaeden’s hands and there was no competition.  He seemed to pick up the techniques taught by his father’s sword master in moments, where it would take Michael considerably longer.  And Jaeden was never slow to press this advantage home in their sparring.

Smiling to himself as he recalled their last melee, where he had disarmed Michael with a new trick the teacher had shown them the day before, he stopped mid-step.  He didn’t recognise this place. 

He was supposed to be on the main road which led through the edge of the tenements.  Though a bit rough, this was the safest route back to the expensive part of the city from the market square.  But he’d somehow drifted off that route and onto a road which he didn’t recognise.  Oh well, not to worry, he could simply make a left at the next corner and he was sure that route would take him back in the direction he wanted to go, to the west, towards home.

Striding forward purposefully he noticed that the houses were a little taller here.  No, that was not it, the roads were thinner, the houses closer together which made it feel a little like they were rising above him.  They were blocking more of the fading sunlight out, however.  Reaching the next turning he took it and headed off down the side street, fully confident that he would soon be out on the main road home. 

The road he now traversed was slightly more cramped than the one he had come off.  It looked very similar and all the buildings looked the same.  Tall tenement rises, three or floor stories high crowded in on all sides.  The smell of human filth here was disgusting and it almost made him stop.  But stopping and turning around would have meant admitting he’d made a mistake and Jaeden was not about to do that.   So, taking a kerchief from the pocket of his well-made cotton trousers and covering his nose, he pressed ahead.

Rounding the next corner, the street narrowed considerably.  Up ahead Jaeden could see an area lit by bright sunlight.  It appeared more open and he figured he would quickly make his way down this short alley and into what was the main road ahead.  Striding forward with confidence and purpose he rapidly approached the end.  As he reached there the setting sun passed behind a cloud and the once-lit area turned as dim as the rest of the alleyways.

The place he had come into was no main road, it was a small plaza of sorts.   High-rising tenements surrounded the square and four thin, dark, alleyways led off in different directions.  Jaeden was considering his options when he heard something from one of the alleys.

The noise sounded like grunting and a moan of pain.  Jaeden was experienced with the sounds of someone getting a beating; he’d given enough of them to his older brother to recognise the noises.  Someone was getting beaten up in one of the darkened alleys.  Jaeden was eight years old, and unarmed, in a dangerous part of the city that he did not know at all.  He didn’t hesitate.  He rushed into the dark entry to the side passage.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light two figures came into focus.  One was a boy about his age, but far smaller.  The waif was thin, painfully so.  Loose, ripped rags, which might once have been clothing, hung off his body.  His face was angular and pointed, his skin grime-covered and grubby.  His unkempt, shoulder-length hair was sticking out at an angle and Jaeden could tell it was matted with blood.

The other was taller, but still thin compared to Jaeden.  He guessed that lad was perhaps twelve or a bit older, and he stood the same height as Jaeden.  The tall one had the small one by the scruff of the neck and was pushing him into the wall.

“You doesn’t belong here, rat, and you ain’t comin’ back again.  Got it?” the taller lad was snarling into the little one’s face.  The small boy didn’t look aside, but stared up into the thug’s eyes, defiance clear on his countenance.

The taller boy slapped the little one across the cheek with a strong left backhand, his right hand keeping the small lad pinned to the wall.  “Got it, Alfred?” the tall boy repeated.  All he got was a growl in return as Alfred would not back down.

“What’s going on here, chaps?” interrupted Jaeden, hands on his hips.  Dressed in the finery of the Cathedral quarter he was aware he stood out like a sore thumb here in the slums.

The thug turned to regard the newcomer who was just a silhouette outlined against the brighter plaza behind him.  “Nothin’ to do wit’ you.  Shove off,” he answered brusquely.

“Oh but I beg to differ, sir,“ responded Jaeden politely.  “Poor... Alfred, is it?” he asked glancing at the small boy still crushed against the alley wall, who nodded slightly.   “Poor Alfred appears mildly indisposed by your fulmination.”

Jaeden saw both boys blink in confusion.  “You’re scaring him,” he simplified, even though he was impressed that the younger boy was being gutsy in the face of the bully.

The thug released his prey and turned to face Jaeden.  “You’re out of yer depth, rich boy,” he declared, pulling a blade from his tunic.  Jaeden’s eyes flicked to the shiv, seeing a blunt and notched edge, then flicked back to the thug’s face.  “Give me yer purse and you can go.”

Jaeden smiled back, still relaxed.  “I think not.”

“Hand it over or I’ll stick ya”.

“I think not,” Jaeden repeated calmly. 

The blade flashed forward towards Jaeden’s stomach.  Jaeden remained still, knowing the closer he let the blade get, the more off-balance the mugger would be.  At the last possible moment, he twisted sideways to his left, his left arm coming up and over the thug’s blade hand, then clamping inwards, trapping the wrist against his left side.  His left hand grasped the assailant’s weapon arm, twisting it and putting the wrist under pressure.  Jaeden’s right hand came up and down quickly, striking the wrist hard.  He heard some of the bones snap.  The boy squealed in pain and dropped the shiv.

Jaeden stepped back and stood with hands-on-hips once more.  The attacker drooped, holding his broken wrist gingerly with the other hand.  The boy’s eyes looked up at Jaeden, dripping with hatred.  “You’re in big trouble now, rich boy.  You’ve messed with the wrong man.”  Jaeden chuckled to himself at the boy’s expression.  That didn’t appear to help.  “The Scorpions will hear about this.  Then you’ll be sorry.”  Turning, the lad ran off into the darkness of the alley. Jaeden did not feel inclined to follow.

He looked around for Alfred, but there was no sign of the small boy.  Slightly disappointed that the boy had fled, but hardly blaming him, Jaeden prepared to return to the plaza and try and work out how to get home.  The sun was gone now and it was getting properly dark in the alley.  He wondered what had happened to the small lad and hoped he would be okay, but quickly realized that Alfred was probably far better equipped to deal with nighttime in the slums than he was.

“Thanks!” came a voice from above.  Jaeden looked up to see a small face peeking over the eaves of the house next to him from the rooftops.  It was Alfred, with a smile of surprisingly straight and white teeth.

“You’re welcome, Alfred.  Think nothing of it.  I would always step in to help someone who was being bullied.”

“Oh, not that,” replied Alfred.  “I meant thanks for this,” he said, holding something out over the alleyway so that Jaeden could see it.  Jaeden looked up and frowned in recognition.  It was his coin purse.   Still smiling, Alfred pulled back from the roof edge and was gone.   Jaeden shook his head and wondered how he was going to explain this to his father.

Chapter 3 - Thia

Thia Moonsong let out a heavy sigh and almost jumped at how loud it sounded in her ears.  The library had been silent as the grave before her outburst and she was relieved to remember she was the only one there.  It was the middle of the night and no one else was around.  She stood and stretched, wondering how long she had been sitting trying to light the fire.  It had probably been a few hours.  It felt like days.

The library was elegant, lavishly appointed with delicate furniture that had been carved by the best sculptors of Sylvandale.  The polished, smooth wooden floors were draped with thick rugs, created by the best weavers in the forest.  The tables and chairs were predominantly of maple, with walnut and cherry being common too.  The bookcases were all of oak, carved from the biggest and stoutest trees in the southern part of the fey realm. 

Each item was a masterpiece in itself.  The fey had centuries to perfect their art and they took great pleasure and pride in their work.  Every piece was covered with intricate and delicate inscriptions.  Scrollwork and flutes decorated the edges of the furniture.  It was detailed and yet subtle all at once.  Thia would have been impressed if she had not been in such a foul mood.  She walked to a sideboard and selected a ripe, red apple from the cedar bowl there.  Biting down hard on it, she pondered her position.

Her master had set her a simple task and she was failing at it.  “Go to the library,” Alandriel had instructed.  “There is a hearth there.  I have had it laid with wood, ready for a fire.  All you need to do is light it.  With your mind.  Return to me when your trial is completed.” 

Light a fire with your mind.  A simple task for a fey archmagi like Alandriel.  A seemingly impossible challenge for Thia.  She understood the theory well enough.  The theory was her strong point.  All she needed to do was to access the simple Cantrip her master had been trying to impart to her.  She just needed to open a tiny portal to the Void and draw through a spark of raw elemental fire to ignite the prepared wood in front of her.  Simple in theory, frustratingly out of reach in practice.

Taking a glance at the bookcase next to the sideboard she saw a familiar title.  ‘History of the First Kingdom of Khemit’.  She knew it was an engrossing account of how the first Keri-heb mage-priests had come to dominate the desert island far to the west.  She yearned to pick it up and delve into its lore-packed velum pages, but she would never complete this test if she allowed herself to be distracted by reading, much as she desired to.

She stretched again, taking another bite from her apple.  Then she returned to the rug before the fire and sat down crossed-legged.  She closed her eyes.  The arcane patterns sprung to life in her mind’s eye.  She knew them well, but as ever they would not stand still.  The mystical weave blurred and stretched, ever-moving, never quite remaining in place long enough for her to unlock them.  All she had to do was hold them in place long enough for her mind to enclose them and control them.  But the more she fought to contain the patterns, the more elusive they became.

She opened her eyes and focussed on the pile of kindling before her.  It was wood.  Simple, non-magical wood.  It was practically waiting for a spark to light it up, wanting to burn.  The gate to the Void was ready to be opened.  The elemental fires raging in the Void were desperate to cross the boundaries of space and time into this world and ignite the heaped kindling.  All she had to do was say the word whilst holding the right arcane runes steady in her head.

Bending all her considerable will to the effort, Thia spoke a word of power, desperately trying to contain the arcane symbols and keep them steady in her mind’s eye.  She was certain she had it this time.  She was going to succeed. 

Nothing happened.

Frustrated beyond her ability to control she leapt to her feet and threw her half-finished apple at the woodpile that would not light.  The apple flew into the hearth, scattering bits of kindling all over the ornate hearth rug she had just vacated.

“Something the matter, bastard?” came an amused-sounding question from the doorway, putting a great accent on the last word.

Galadrethin.  Just what she needed now.  And he’d seen her outburst.  She turned to look and, sure enough, there in the doorway to the library was her rival and nemesis.  Galadrethin was a fey.  Tall, slender and elegant, he reeked of good looks and arrogance.  His clothes were of the finest silk, embroidered with gold threads.  He was in his preferred colour of pale blue today and the look of it made her want to puke.

“It feels cold in here, don’t you think?” the fey enquired.  Before Thia could respond he muttered a simple word of power and the remaining pile of logs and kindling in the hearth burst into flames.  “That’s better,” he mocked.

Thia stood rooted to the spot.  She wanted desperately to lash out at her rival, to smash his face till it looked similar to the kindling she’d been wrestling with for the last few hours.  She was so angry, but there was nothing she could do.  Any sort of violence against a fellow apprentice would get her expelled instantly.  Alandriel was kind and patient with her; far more patient than she deserved, but even he could not protect her if she resorted to common assault.

“Sorry I can’t stop to chat,” Galadrethin continued before Thia had been able to compose a response.  “I have to head off to the Upper Library.  I’m penning my first full Ritual tonight,” he gloated, showing off the myriad of pens, scrolls and ink bottles he was carrying.  He flashed a smug smile and disappeared back into the corridor outside.

Thia felt a surge of anger welling up inside her, forming deep in her core and expanding outwards.  It was hot rage, powerful and primal and it felt good, somehow righteous.  And it was targeted exclusively at Galadrethin. 

Before she had time to consider her actions a word burst from her mouth.  She had never heard it before, she did not know what it meant, but something happened that had never happened before.  She felt something unlock inside her as if a door had been opened.  She knew instantly that she’d accessed the Void, though she had no pattern in her mind, no spell runes contained and controlled to channel the power.  She had only her rage.

Outside in the corridor Thia heard a crash and a loud curse in the crude language of the humans.  Galadrethin.  Moving quietly to the doorway she peered carefully out, being careful not to be seen.  Her rival was sprawled across the floor of the corridor, arms and legs everywhere.  Pieces of parchment and velum were scattered all over the place.  And the bottles that had contained the expensive inks required to pen true Rituals had smashed, leaking their content all over the floor, the scrolls and all over Galarethin’s fine blue outfit. 

Stepping back into the sanctuary of the library, Thia went back to the fruit bowl and selected another apple.  She reached out and pulled the ‘History of the First Kingdom of Khemit’ off the shelf next to her and took a seat on a comfortable divan by the now-blazing fire.  Opening the book and thumbing through to the section on the different styles of magic practised by the keri-heb, Thia wondered what had just occurred.

She had felt a surge of power.  She was sure she had opened a channel to the Void.  But where had the magic gone?  Was she responsible for the surefooted Galadrethin’s fall?  And if so, what did this mean to her and her apprenticeship?

Chapter 4 - Chi

The town of Sapporo was built around one simple premise: defence.  It was a walled town with a high wooden palisade running the entire outside edge of the settlement.  The palisade was double-skinned, with an upper walkway along most of its length.  Every few hundred yards a large wooden tower was built.  Wooden staircases led up to the battlements at regular intervals and soldiers in the daimyo’s army could move around the defences easily and rapidly if needed.  Though the walls were wooden it was every bit as defensible as an equivalent stone construction.

Sat upon Tanaka’s horse in front of the saddle, Chi looked on in wonder as the group passed through the open gates to the town.  Crimson-armoured soldiers stationed there bowed respectfully to Tanaka as he rode past.  He nodded in response.  Chi was instantly aware that the man he sat in front of was important here.  Far more important than he had given credit for.  He was also aware that people were staring at him, the blond-haired gaijin.

Beyond the town gates, a single road led between tightly packed buildings.  The buildings were similar to those Chi had seen on their two-day journey across northern Dragon Province.  They had ubiquitous curving rooflines and wide eaves.  But they were closely spaced, with little room between them.  The roofs were virtually touching.

As the group proceeded down the road Chi could not help but notice that the avenue led them along a single route.  Occasionally side roads led off and these were identical in design, with close-spaced dwellings.  The road twisted and turned in places and it wasn’t long before Chi was completely turned around and disoriented.  Tanaka must have been aware of the youngling’s scrutiny and unasked question.

“It’s for defence,” he explained.  “The roads are like this throughout the whole town.  It makes the place like a maze.  An outsider would find it hard to navigate their way around and would easily get lost.  An attacking army would be forced to fight for every yard of ground.  The rooftops are the perfect place to station archers.  They have a commanding view of the killing grounds that the roads become.  On top of that, the roofs do not connect to form a high-level walkway.  You can only travel so far on them and you have to return to the road to proceed.  No army could take this town without massive casualties.”

Chi looked on silently, expressionless.  He had never seen a place like this before, it was the first big settlement he had ever experienced and he was quite overwhelmed.  He had no idea if this layout was typical for towns, having never visited one in his native Albion.

The group passed on through the town.  Commoners moved aside, bowing low to the ground as the patrol passed.  Chi was more and more aware that the riders he was with were special.  Up ahead in the near distance a hill rose and upon that hill was an incredible structure.

Where every building Chi had seen in Honshu so far had been made of wood and paper, this one was constructed mostly of stone.  It rose hundreds of feet into the air, made of many layers.  Each layer had a roof, in the typical curved, wide-eave style of the region.  It dominated the town and seemed to stand aloof and masterful over the settlement it permitted to bow at its feet.

“The castle and home to Lord Nakamura,” Tanaka explained gesturing to the huge edifice.  “I will be heading there to make my report after I have delivered you.”  Chi had no idea what that meant but remained silent.  He had learnt not to ask questions of Tanaka unless told to.  The warrior had a knack for answering the important ones without being asked anyway.  Riding onwards the group took one of the side roads which sent them away from the castle on the hill. 

A short while later another impressive structure appeared on the horizon.  It was like a smaller version of the castle.  It too was made predominantly of stone which marked it as something special.  The riders approached the gates to the structure and they opened silently in front of them.  Tanaka held up a hand and the others in his patrol reined in outside the building.  He continued to walk his horse into the compound beyond the gate.  They rode into a large courtyard, exposed to the midday sun.  The floor of the courtyard was sand and it was full of people training. 

Rows of brown-uniformed men and boys stood performing routines of kicks and punches, following the moves shown them by a black-clad man at the front.  Chi marvelled at the clothes these men were wearing.  They were bedecked neck to ankle in shimmering robes.  The robes were figure-hugging yet, from the movements the men were performing, they appeared to be utterly unrestrictive.  Chi remembered seeing a bit of cloth like this once back in his home village.  It was called silk and was extremely valuable.  And yet all the men here wore complete uniforms of it.

In another part of the courtyard, a smaller group of men were wearing similar uniforms, but these were crimson, similar in colour to the lacquered armour that Tanaka and his men wore.  They too were being put through a series of moves involving kicks and strikes by a different black-robed man.  Chi noted the routines of these crimson-robed men were more complex than those of the brown-robed students.  They also moved faster and with more power.

The third man in black silks strode between the two classes, correcting a stance here or a technique there.  He seemed to have his full attention on the classes yet somehow Chi knew he had noticed their arrival.  Chi was also painfully aware of his own blond hair.  Every single person in the courtyard was an Easterner, apart from him.  No one turned to look at him, but he felt intensely conspicuous.

Tanaka dismounted and helped Chi down off the horse too.  He handed him the reins.  “Stay put,” he ordered simply.  He moved a little distance away and waited to catch the eye of the third instructor.  When he did so he beckoned him over.  The instructor appeared to ignore the summons.  Chi was surprised.  Everything he had seen in the last two days and especially since arriving in Sapporo made him think Tanaka was an extremely important person, yet this black-clad man appeared to have just ignored him.

A few moments later, when the teacher had completed adjusting a student’s stance to his satisfaction, he came across.  The two men stood a few feet apart.  Each looked straight at the other, not blinking.  Then simultaneously the two bowed deeply to each other.  As far as Chi could tell the depth of the bows was the same and the deference and respect between them were identical.  As soon as the bow was complete the two men stepped forward and embraced.  The hug was genuine and warm, full of affection.

Tanaka began talking to the man.  He gestured at Chi a few times and the man raised an eyebrow once or twice.  Eventually, the man nodded and the two moved over to where Chi was still holding the horse and pretending not to be worried.

“Chi-chan, this is my brother Akihiro.  You will call him Sensei, which means teacher.  Akihiro-san, this is Chi.”

Akihiro bowed a slight bow to Chi who returned it as best he could.  That elicited a tight smile from the teacher.  “Chi-chan, welcome to the temple of the Way,” he greeted, surprising Chi as he spoke to him in Albion, the language of his birthland.  “My brother tells me you have nowhere to go and no home,” the teacher continued.  “I am prepared to offer you a place here if you can merely pass a simple test.  Would you like that?”

Chi nodded, unsure of what he was getting himself into but not wanting to disappoint the formidable but likeable stranger, or his brother Tanaka.

“Good,” Akihiro smiled again.  “The test is this: serve here in the temple for one hundred days.”  That didn’t sound so bad Chi thought.  “For one hundred days,” Akihiro continued, “you will be taught nothing.  You will fetch and sweep and clean and carry.  You will be at the command of all who live and study here.  You will do as you are told and ask no questions.  But if you are smart you will watch and you will learn.  If you have performed these duties to my satisfaction, then one hundred and one days from now you will become a kohai, a junior student, here at the temple and will be given your first training gi.” 

Akihiro turned to the group of brown-robed students who were training not far away.  He quickly caught the eye of one young man about Chi’s age, and with a sharp nod summoned the boy to his side.  The young lad bowed to his instructor and hurried over.  Stopping a respectful distance away he bowed neatly to Akihiro and stood formally at attention.

“This young kohai is my son, Ryo.  He will be your mentor and will look after you for the next one hundred days.  He will start by taking you to the bathhouse to clean up.  Whilst you are there, Ryo will burn your rags and fetch your fresh clothes from the quartermaster.  Once clean and clothed like a civilized child he will take you to the common room where you may eat your fill.  You need to bulk up; I’ve seen fleas with more meat on them than you. Finally, he will take you to your cell where you shall sleep till dawn.  Tomorrow you begin your One Hundred Days.”

Chi was overwhelmed.  He didn’t know what to do or say so he stood mute and stared at the man.  Akihiro turned to his brother.  “He stares straight at my face, brother,” he said in their native tongue, knowing Chi could not understand him.  “You named him well; he certainly has courage.  Let us see if it is enough to survive his initiation.”

Turning back to Chi, Akihiro continued.  “One last thing: you should know that this moment is the last time you will be spoken to in your mother tongue.  If I hear you speaking it you will fail the test and be expelled from the temple immediately.  Ryo does not understand or speak it, so you had best learn to speak our language, and fast.”

With that Chi was dismissed and Ryo led him off to start his new life as an Initiate of the Way.

Chapter 5 - Jaeden

"Go and find your missing coin purse.”

The command was simple, yet impossible.  Find his missing coin purse?  How in the Nine Hells could his father expect him to manage that?  The purse had been stolen two days ago, deep in the slums of the city.  The thief, a young urchin by the name of Alfred, had disappeared off across the rooftops, leaving a perplexed and slightly poorer Jaeden behind.

“Father, I...”, Jaeden began falteringly, but his father raised a hand and he stopped before he could form a reply.

“No questions, son.  You lost the purse; you must recover it.  It’s a matter of principle.  I can’t ask one of the servants to do this.  We shan’t ask the city watch, who would probably just laugh at you anyway.  You lost it; you find it.”

The logic was simple but the seemingly impossible nature of the demand made Jaeden’s shoulders slump.

“Stand up straight, son.  Shoulders back, chest out.  Remember this: it’s not the trials that life throws at us that determine our value, but the way we deal with them.  Take responsibility for your actions and effect a solution.  You may go.”  And as simple as that Jaeden was dismissed. 

Mind whirring, Jaeden wandered the manor house for an hour or so, trying to come up with a way to solve his problem.  When the house provided no answers, he drifted out into the walled gardens.  The sun was just cresting the skyline to the east, rising over the outline of the famous Green Dragon Inn that stood next door to Jaeden’s home.  Strolling to the rose garden he took a seat on the bench he knew to be his mother’s favourite.

How would he go about finding his purse?  The obvious starting place was Alfred, but what did he know about him?  The thug who was warning Alfred off had said he was part of the Scorpions, which Jaeden took to be a local street gang.  Was Alfred one of them?  It seemed unlikely given the warning he was being handed.  Jaeden wasn’t sure that going into the slums looking for a street gang to find an urchin was a great plan anyway.

So, his mind turning to Alfred, he tried to imagine what a young street rat would do with a pouch full of silver coins.  Jaeden realised that he had no idea what a pouch of silver coins would mean to someone in Alfred’s position.  He wasn’t even sure how many coins were in the pouch.  Was it ten?  A dozen?  More?  What could a dozen silver sickles buy a boy of Alfred’s status?

If Alfred bragged of the theft, he could imagine bigger, stronger street brats taking the pouch off him, possibly violently.  Was a dozen silver coins enough to kill someone over?  So, Alfred had probably kept the pouch secret or was dead by now.  If he had kept it secret what would he do with it?  What was the point of a pouch of money you couldn’t spend?

Shaking his head in frustration, Jaeden decided his only course of action was to go and look for Alfred.  And he could think of only one place to go to find him.  He needed to return to the slums.

Later that day as the afternoon drew to a close and evening approached, Jaeden made his way down to the tenement district of Littlebrook.  He left the open, airy Cathedral quarter behind him, the impressive structure of the Cathedral of Light disappearing behind his left shoulder.  He passed by the large Green Dragon Inn on his left and moved towards the palace. 

Littlebrook Palace was huge.  A walled structure that took up perhaps a fifth of the whole square footage of the city.  Surrounded by high stone battlements and with only one large gatehouse, it commanded the centre of the city.  The battlements surrounded the grounds and gardens which were vast and sprawling.  In the very centre rose the ancient, granite keep which held the Royal Family.

Jaeden skirted the palace on the north side, crossing the King’s Road which led from the palace gatehouse straight to the north gate of the city.  Once across the King’s Road, he followed the palace walls around to the east side of the castle and from there struck out into the Trade quarter.  The avenues here were still wide and leafy and the air was fresh.  This part of the city held shops, businesses and the dwellings of the merchant classes.

Before long he’d passed beyond the Trade quarter and was entering the darker, more enclosed part of the city where most of the inhabitants lived.  Tenements began to be more common and the houses were closer together and smaller.  The trees disappeared from the roadside and everything got noticeably dirtier.

He knew that a little distance ahead the tenements opened up into a clear, bright part of the city and one of his favourite places to explore, the market square.  But that was not his destination this day.  He followed the edge of the tenement district to his left; the dark shadows of the many alleyways leading into the slums across the thoroughfare to his right.

He did not want to enter the slums directly, especially not as evening was approaching, but he knew that as evening did fall, many of the less savoury residents of that district would spill out into the others parts of the city, looking for work; looking for targets.  He hoped to spot Alfred among them.

Finding a rare wooden bench by the side of the road, across from a sleazy-looking inn called the Bawdy Mermaid, Jaeden took a seat.  The bench gave him a good view across the main road to four or five dark alleyways and two side streets that led in and out of the slums.  It also gave him a good view of the rooftops of this part of the city.  He knew it was a long shot; knew it was really unlikely that he’d just happen to spot Alfred coming out of the slums at this exact time at this exact spot, but he simply had no other ideas.

The hours dragged by as he sat and watched, the sun setting to his right, back over the nicer parts of the city he had come from.  A few waifs and strays wandered into and out of the alleyways.  People came and went from the Bawdy Mermaid and the lights started to come on in the tenements and houses around.  Jaeden realised that this far to the eastern end of the city the streets were dark at night.  Where he lived, there were street lamps that helped keep the darkness at bay and people were employed to come around through the night changing out the oil and putting in fresh to keep the lights on all night. 

Not so here on the edge of the slums.  Here, as night properly fell, it got dark.  Truly dark.  Jaeden found himself feeling uncomfortable and out of place.  Why had he come here?  What had he expected to achieve?  He was beginning to feel foolish and a little exposed out here alone in the gathering gloom.

“Evening,” a voice said next to him in the dim light, making him jump.  He stood quickly and turned.  Standing behind the bench in the shadows was a small street rat with an angular face.  Alfred.

“What are you doing here?” Jaeden asked, to cover his confusion.  How come Alfred had come to speak to him?

“I live here,” pointed out the waif.  “More to the point, what are you doing here, so far from home?”  There was no threat, no malice in the question.  It appeared to be one of genuine curiosity.

“I came here looking for you.  Well, more specifically I came to get my purse back,” replied Jaeden with a serious frown on his face, trying to make it clear he meant business.

“Interesting,” replied Alfred.  “So you didn’t come to say hello to the Scorpions then?”

“What?” asked Jaeden, utterly confused.

“The Scorpions,” Alfred explained, “You know – the gang who controls the slums.  Word has got out.  They’ve been watching you sitting here for the last few hours.  They know the rich boy who beat up Jake is around.  I heard they were organizing a welcoming party for you,” he finished.

Jaeden blinked.  "The Scorpions control the slums?” he asked.  “What?  All of them?”

Alfred nodded.  “Yup.  They run all the crime in this part of the city.  I heard you made quite an impression on them.  Word is Jake said you were a brutal vigilante hell-bent on taking the gang down.”

“What?” exclaimed Jaeden.  “All I did was stop him beating you up.”

“Jake would have lost face if he’d told them what truly happened,” replied Alfred. “He had to pretend that you were a big thing.” 

Suddenly Alfred looked around them into the darkness.  “Ah, I suppose we shouldn’t have tarried here as long as we have,” he commented.  Jaeden’s eyes followed where the urchin was looking and saw dark shapes in the gloom, moving slowly towards them, surrounding them.  “We have company,” Alfred noted.

“Is that ‘im?” a voice spoke in the dark.

“Yeah.  That’s the rich boy who said he’d take us all on,” replied another voice that Jaeden vaguely recognised.  Jake.

A figure stepped forward close enough to make out a shadowy face.  The man was young, in his early twenties Jaeden guessed, but a man all the same.  Jaeden had naively assumed the Scorpions were a bunch of kids like him and Alfred.  He had no idea he’d gotten mixed up in some serious street crime.

“You the one who hurt my boy?” the figure asked, looking right at Jaeden.

“He was beating up another lad,” Jaeden replied, resolute.  “I merely stepped in and did what was right.”

“Listen to ‘im,” said the man to the shadowy figures around him.  “Only doin’ what was right.”  Nervous chuckles sounded in the darkness.  “Shall we teach ‘im what is right, boys?” the man asked.

“Are you ready for an adventure?” Jaeden heard Alfred whisper into his ear.  The urchin was standing next to him, closer than expected.  Jaeden flicked a glance the boy’s way and saw he had a big grin on his face.  He was enjoying this.

“What do you mean?” Jaeden quickly whispered back.

“Stay here and the Scorpions will beat you to a pulp.  They may even kill you.  Follow my lead and you have a chance.  Are you willing to risk it?”

Jaeden looked at the boy.  This street rat had stolen his purse.  Without him, he’d never be in this mess.  But the boy had come to warn him when he didn’t need to, and something about him resonated with Jaeden’s sense of honour.  Somehow, he trusted Alfred.

“Okay,” Jaeden whispered, “I’ll put my confidence in you.”

Alfred moved quickly, stepping two feet to his left.  He dropped to his hands and knees and, in the moonlight, Jaeden saw he was next to some sort of rusty metallic grate.  With a speed of hand that said he’d done this before a hundred times before the young boy got the grate opened and shifted aside.  He flicked his hips and his legs dropped down into the ground under the grate.  Holding himself up by his arms alone he looked up into Jaeden’s face, smiling his smile of straight white teeth.  With a wink he let go and was gone, dropping into the darkness.

Even before he knew what he was doing, Jaeden followed, stepping to the grate and dropping his feet into it, supporting himself on his hands as he had watched Alfred do moments before.  The stench of human filth hit Jaeden full in the face as he lowered himself and he realised this was a sewer grate.  He glanced down, trying to see what was below him but it was impossible.  It was pitch black below.

“Trust me.  Make the drop,” came a harsh whisper from somewhere below. 

Jaeden let go with his hands and plummeted downwards.

The landing was soft and wet, but without any way to know when he would hit the floor and brace for impact, Jaeden still felt the jarring knife through his whole body.  He was certain he’d sprained something: back, ankle, knee; maybe all of them.  Pain lanced through his body but suddenly a hand grabbed him and started pulling him along in the darkness.

“This way,” Alfred encouraged as the boy set off down what Jaeden assumed was some sort of sewer tunnel.  His boots squelched and the stink made his eyes water.  Saliva pooled in his mouth and he had to spit.  Overhead, back on the surface, Jaeden thought he could hear cursing.  The Scorpions were upset their prey had fled.

“They’ll follow,” Alfred answered before Jaeden could ask the question.  “We just need to get far enough ahead that it’s safe to light a torch.  And no one knows the sewers here better than me.”  Pulling insistently along, Alfred led Jaeden down passage after passage.  Jaeden had no idea how the urchin could find his way in the pitch black but there was no point doing anything but trusting him now.

After a short time and multiple turnings, Jaeden was utterly disoriented and out of breath.  Alfred stopped.  “Shhhh,” he commanded as Jaeden began to speak.  “We need to listen now.”  Quietening down the two strained to hear anything in the darkness.  After a few moments, Alfred decided there was no one around.  “Okay,” he said.  “Wait here till I get back.  I’ll only be a minute or two.”  Without waiting for a response, the boy was gone and Jaeden was alone in the dark, fetid sewer.

After what seemed like an hour or more the darkness was lit by a briefly flaring spark, as someone struck flint on steel.  The spark jumped and caught on a collection of dried twigs and a torch flared to life.  Alfred’s smiling face came into focus and Jaeden blinked in the light.

“Time to take you home, rich boy,” Alfred grinned.  “Ready for a grand tour of the Underbelly?”

Jaeden took a deep breath and wished he hadn’t as the stench assaulted his senses again.  “Lead on,” he shrugged, letting the street boy take the lead.  Alfred hefted his torch high and set off down the passage. 

Jaeden was able to get his first real look around.  The passageways were roughly circular with the walls being rounded and sloping up so there was no discernible place where the walls ended and the roof began.  Equally, this meant there was no clear differentiation between the walls and the floor.  The centre of the passageway was all sludge and slop.  Jaeden tried to walk alongside the muck but it was next to impossible with the deceptively sloping floor and, after nearly falling face down in the filth, he soon resigned himself to simply walking through it.  He'd rather it was on his boots than all over his face and chest.  He just tried not to think about what he was walking through.

They went mostly straight ahead.  Occasionally they passed side turnings, which all looked the same, and periodically Alfred would lead him down one.  They passed numerous ladders up to grates above and Jaeden realised they must have dropped down a similar shaft into the muck when they fled the Scorpions.  He guessed there was a ladder there too, they’d just not bothered to make use of it.

An indeterminate time later Alfred stopped.  “Home, sweet home,” he said performing a passable imitation of a courtly bow and indicating a section of wall which was utterly indistinguishable from everywhere else.

“What are you talking about?” questioned Jaeden, seeing nothing special about their current position.

“My lord, allow me to present to you, the Green Dragon Inn,” Alfred said grandly.  Then, reaching out, he pulled on a previously unnoticed section of the wall.  Putting his shoulder onto the wall nearby he shunted energetically once.  To Jaeden’s surprise, the section of the wall that Alfred was pushing on swung open with a loud creak.  Beyond the torchlight illuminated a mortared, square room with lines of barrels and casks.  A wine cellar.

Alfred stepped in and beckoned Jaeden to follow.  The young noble did so, and sure enough, found himself in a cold but dry room.  The air here was crisp and clean and Jaeden gulped it in like it was fresh water on a scorching day.  Alfred put his shoulder to the wall and shut the concealed door again.  He looked around and saw an unlit torch in a sconce on the wall.  Putting his torch to it he doubled the light in the room.  Alfred put his torch in an empty sconce on the opposite wall.

Perhaps fifteen feet to a side, the square room was full of wooden barrels, casks and wine racks.  Dust covered some but most appeared regularly accessed.  A desk with a ledger of some sort was in one corner.  A brick staircase led up to a heavy-looking wooden trap door, presumably into the inn above.

Alfred went to one of the dusty wine racks and pulled out a cobweb-covered bottle.  Sitting on the floor against the wall opposite the stairs he blew the dust off and pulled at the cork with his teeth.

“What are you doing?” asked Jaeden incredulously.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” responded Alfred.  “Having a drink.  Don’t tell me you don’t want something to take the taste of sewer out of your mouth.  After all these years I still can’t get used to travelling through the Underbelly.”  He spat the cork out on the cellar floor and took a long draught of the bottle.  He then wiped the top on his grimy sleeve and offered it to Jaeden.

Jaeden took a moment to consider it.  This had been such an improbable evening he just shrugged and took it.  He plonked himself down on the floor next to the street rat.  Wiping the bottle on his own, slightly cleaner shirt sleeve he took a long draw himself.  The wine was good and sent a warm glow down his throat straight to his stomach.  It certainly tasted better than the fetid sewer air he’d been breathing for the last hour or two.  He took another deep breath of the clean air and another long pull on the bottle.  Not bothering to wipe the top he passed it back to Alfred.

“Convivial as this is, I need you to give me back my money now,” Jaeden said, not looking at the boy sitting next to him.

Alfred took another swig, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, gave a contented sigh and asked, “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?  Because it’s mine, of course.”

“Is it?  What have you done to earn it?”

“I … umm … well,” stuttered Jaeden.

“You see, nothing,” cut in Alfred before Jaeden could properly answer.  “You’ve done nothing to earn it, you were just given it.”

“My father has demanded I retrieve the money purse.  It wasn’t an option.  I need to get it back.”

Alfred passed the bottle back to Jaeden who took another draught.  The wine pleasantly burned his throat and he felt its effects as it warmed his body and his soul.  He did wonder why he deserved the money any more than the impoverished lad next to him and could come up with no reasonable answer.

After a short while, Alfred asked, “Did your father mention the contents of the purse, or just the purse itself?”

Jaeden thought back to the conversation he’d had in the drawing room after breakfast earlier that day.  ‘Go and find your missing coin purse.’  That had been his father’s order.  “Not specifically, no,” he answered truthfully.

Alfred reached inside his dirt-stained top and pulled out a brown leather purse with rich-looking embroidery.  Jaeden’s purse.  Reaching into his trousers he pulled out a less impressive money bag made of cloth.  Opening both, he deftly poured the contents of the leather purse into the cloth bag with a clicking sound.  A dozen or so silver sickles.

Reaching out Alfred took the bottle of wine back from Jaeden and handed the noble boy his money purse, grinning.  Taking another big gulp of wine, Alfred said, “There you go.  Mission accomplished.  Return to your father the all-conquering knight.”

Despite himself, Jaeden burst into laughter.  Alfred joined him.  The two got carefully to their feet, both a little unsteady having consumed an entire bottle of potent wine between them in a short space of time. 

“And with that, I must bid you, farewell milord, until our paths cross again.”  Alfred bowed his mock bow and offered his hand.  Jaeden took it, grasping the boy by the wrists in a warrior shake he’d seen the soldiers of the city use.  The two boys smiled and Alfred turned to take his leave.  He took his torch from the sconce, opened the concealed door and slipped back into the sewers.  “Good luck with your father!” he called as the door swung shut behind him.

His father.  By the Light.  Now all he had to do was figure out how to get out of the cellar of the Green Dragon Inn and then explain to his father why he was covered in shit and his breath smelt of wine.

Chapter 6 - Thia

"Perhaps it is your demi-fey heritage, Thia,” her mother speculated with a graceful shrug of her shoulders.  “Not all fey magic is the same.  Not even the Sylvarran can match the acts that the archmagi perform and the magi are not capable of the feats of arcane expertise the Sylvarran specialize in.  Everyone is different.”

Sat in her mother’s simple quarters in the city, Thia Moonsong was trying to explain her failures to the one person, except perhaps Alandriel, who listened and tried to understand her; her mother.  The two were close and had been all of Thia’s twenty-seven years. 

Thia rolled up her left sleeve in response, showing a plain forearm with no markings and no blemishes.  “I’m not Sylvarran, mother, look no eagle mark.”

The Sylvarran were an elite unit of fey warriors who were all born with a mystical birthmark on their left forearms.  These people were imbued with magical abilities that were focused on the use of the exceptional longbows the fey fletchers created.  Most fey could use a bow and their average archers were better than the best-trained human bowmen, but the Sylvarran were mystically different.  Their talents enabled them to imbue their arrow strikes with arcane and elemental energies.  They were able to draw on small pockets of power from the Void, letting them do incredible things with their bows, things that even the other fey could not match.  This is why they were the elite guards of the fey woods of Sylvandale and the Royal Household.

Though they were trained to excessive levels, one was not simply enlisted in the Sylvarran; one was born to it.  Only those who were born with the mystical eagle mark would be trained by the masters of that elite group.

“Our magic is strange and inconsistent, Thia,” her mother continued.  “After all, I was stripped of my position as a Sylvarran, yet my mark remains,” she said, rolling up her left sleeve to reveal a purple sigil that bore an uncanny resemblance to an eagle in flight.  “The mark remains, yet my power has gone,” she said, her voice dropping, her eyes unable to hold Thia’s any longer.

Thia knew this was a hard subject for her mother.  Keara Moonsong had been a Sylvarran, and one of the best from what Thia had been able to find out.  She was marked to rise to the top of the group, possibly even to become the Grand Master of the Sylvarran, personally responsible for guarding the queen.  Then she had fallen pregnant.  With her being unmarried this was an awkward situation in fey society.  Unmarried pregnancies were rare in the extreme and it was not certain what to do with her.  When Thia was born and turned out to be half-human the disgrace was complete.  Keara had been stripped of her position in the elite unit and a ceremony had been performed to rip her arcane powers from her.

There were many rumours about who Thia’s father was.  It was a time during the Chaos Wars and things were different then.  The fey had not even returned to these woods at that time – this forest was still known as the Bloodwood and was full of the ghosts of the fey who had been slaughtered in the Time of Troubles a millennium before.  When Thia had been born the fey occupied the forest of Eldaran across the other side of the Kingdom of Albion, and Eldaran had been open to human merchants and visitors.

Most rumours told that Thia’s father was a handsome and popular silk merchant who was often seen in Eldaran and who had been seen spending slightly more-than-respectable amounts of time with the beautiful and exotic Keara.  Her mother had never given any of the rumours any credit and Thia had never pushed her.  Keara would tell her as and when she was ready, if ever.

“The best thing you can do is to speak to Alandriel about it,” her mother suggested.  “Tell him what you told me.  Explain your guess and your concerns over whether you were responsible for Galadrethin’s trip.  He might not know the answer but he is more likely than most to have an idea.  And he is guaranteed to try and help you.”

Thia nodded thoughtfully.  “I think you’re right,” she agreed.  “Alandriel is the right person to tell.”

A couple of days later Thia was in her master’s study.  The place was airy and light and full of the smell of old books.  Thia loved Alandriel’s study and would have happily spent most of her time there.  The place was full of tomes of lore and knowledge.  There was nothing Thia liked better than a good book on history, nature or the study of the arcane.

“And, so I can only surmise that I was somehow responsible for his fall,” she finished, looking slightly embarrassed.

Alandriel sat back in his comfortable chair, behind his big cedar desk and looked straight at her, face a mask.  “That explains it,” he responded after a while. 

Thia looked up, wondering if she would finally have an explanation for her failures in the arcane studies.  “It does?” she asked, not sure if she should dare to hope.

“Yes,” he said, clasping his hands together, making his fingers into a steeple and resting his chin on them.  “Oh, it doesn’t explain why you can’t grasp what I am teaching you,” he explained apologetically.  “But it does explain why Eldar has been so annoyed these last few days.”  The fey archmagi burst out laughing.  “The destruction of so many scrolls and the loss of all that rare ink would have set them back a good year or so in their studies.  I’d heard that Galadrethin had been relegated to menial tasks and low-level chores.  This explains why,” he chortled.

Though Thia was somewhat pleased to hear that her rival was getting a hard time from his ‘slip’, she could not help but be annoyed that Alandriel didn’t have a simple explanation for what had happened and that she appeared to be no closer to making any actual progress in her studies.

Alandriel studied her closely for a moment, deep in thought, then smiled warmly at her.  “I have an idea,” he said.  “I have a new challenge for you, one which might help unlock the secret of why you are struggling so much.”

Thia looked into his eyes, this time controlling her hope, but still eager to hear her next assignment.

“Not far outside the city boundaries, about a league to the west and deeper into the forest, there lies a certain glade.  There you will find a ring of standing stones with a single stone lying in the centre.  The inner sides of the standing stones are inscribed with ancient runes in a mystical language,” he told her.  “Take your grimoire with you and use one of the Rituals I have penned in it to decipher the runes and read the message on the stones.  I hope this will give you more insight into your talents and your struggles.”

A relatively simple task it seemed, but for one who had been unable to light a spark in a hearth, performing a complex Ritual to read an arcane tongue would provide a huge challenge.  Thia only hoped she would do better on this trial than on her last one.

*

Thia pulled on the second strap making sure it was tight as possible.  The two short and slightly curved blades strapped across her back were secure.  She checked the tight leather armour she wore, making sure it was not going to restrict her movements.  Clad in mottled greens and browns she knew it would help her move stealthily through the forest.

“There is no need for this,” an amused Alandriel said as he watched her prepare to leave.  “The forest is safe, at least within the short distance from the city you’ll be travelling.”

Thia pulled out a ripe, red apple from a pouch by her side and bit down hard on it.  “So you say, but I’m taking no chances.  No one can be sure the fey ghosts are all dead.  Or gone.  Or dispelled.  Or whatever happens to ghosts when they become non-ghosts,” she finished lamely.

“The Bloodwood is no more Thia.  This is Sylvandale now.  Home of the fey and under the arcane protection of Queen Alamana and her Sylvarran.  No harm will come to you.”

“Still,” Thia responded.  “I feel better with them on, so I’m wearing them.”

“So be it,” conceded Alandriel with a warm smile.  “Good luck,” he waved her off.

Thia turned and set off directly west towards the edge of the city.  Before she had gone very far she heard her master calling after her.

“One more thing!” he called from the distance.  “You should be aware that Galadrethin was able to read the messages on the stones the first time of asking!”

Thia felt her blood boil.

*

The glade was cool and shady in the High Summer sun.  This part of the forest was open and leafy, with large, spacious oaks mingling with ash and beech.  A small babbling brook ran nearby, adding a sweet background music score to the idyllic scene.  The clearing itself was almost perfectly circular. 

Spaced evenly around the edge of the glade were seven tall, granite standing stones.  Each was about seven feet high and a few feet across.  In the centre of the glade was a single stone, of the same material and size, only this one was about a dozen feet long and lying down.  Perhaps, Thia considered, the stones were all the same size and the standing stones were buried five feet into the ground.

Checking that no creatures appeared to be in the area Thia stepped carefully forward.  She knew groves like this held power, and she wasn’t sure if it was safe to enter uninvited, but her master had given her a task and she would try her best to fulfil it.  Breaking the circle of the stones Thia tensed slightly.  Nothing happened.

Shifting her backpack from her shoulders carefully she placed it on the stone at the centre of the circle and opened it.  She put her hand in and reverently withdrew a leather-bound book.  Flicking carefully through its velum pages she stopped at a particular place and carefully placed a silk bookmark into the page.  The Ritual she would need.

Looking up from her position at the centre of the circle she studied each stone in turn.  As she’d been told, all seven had some sort of runic writing inscribed on the inside edge, on the side facing the centre.  None of it was readable to her.

She turned her attention back to the grimoire and the Ritual therein.  She’d spent days studying this Ritual and knew it inside out.  She knew the words of power, and the precise gesticulations she was supposed to sketch out with her nimble fingers.  These were the easy bits.  She also knew she would struggle with the arcane sigils and locking them in her mind.  That was always the bit she could not control.

Taking a deep breath, she held it for five seconds and then let it out slowly through her mouth, calming her heartbeat.  She took a final look at the spell incantation in the book and began to speak the words of power.  The arcane symbols in her head wavered and shimmered.  She tried to lock them down, to form a mystical barrier around them as Alandriel had taught her, but they continued to blur and weave.  She was close to keeping them contained she knew.  The power was almost hers.

She reached out with a little of her senses, trying to draw from the energy she could feel in the ancient stones around her.  Perhaps that was what Alandriel was hinting at when he sent her here.  She could almost taste the arcane energies bound into the stones, but she could not draw them out, could not dominate them as she wanted.

She heard her voice chanting the last few words of power, and knew her fingers had the intricate gestures exactly perfect.  Everything external was precisely as it should be.  But as was ever the case, just as she completed the very last syllable of the Ritual, the mental cage she had erected around the arcane symbols in her head collapsed and the silver runes she needed to power her spell were lost.  Just like a thousand times before, she finished the Ritual and nothing happened.

Thia slumped forward onto the granite stone, exhausted.  Though she had failed to correctly incant the Ritual, the effort to do so was as hard on her as if she had succeeded.  She was drained to her core and realized she was covered in a sheen of cold sweat.

“I don’t think you are cut out for this sort of thing,” a soft but powerful voice came to her from across the grove.

Leaping to her feet, she had her two short, curved blades in her hands in an instant.  She scanned the trees around the glade, but there was no one where the voice had come from.  Continuing her circle she finally saw the man in the opposite direction from where she had heard him.  There was no way he could have moved that fast.

The stranger was an ancient-looking human, which in itself surprised Thia this deep into Sylvandale.  Since the end of the Chaos Wars, the queen had shut the borders of the fey wood and no humans got past the vigilant Sylvarran wardens.  He was robed in leaf green vestments, tied with a simple brown robe belt at his waist.  In his hand was a gnarled oak staff which was worn smooth from years of use.  His hood was pulled back off his head revealing silver-grey hair and a long silver beard which came to a point and was braided at the end.  His eyes were striking.  They were a piercing grey-blue and almost seemed to glow in the shade of the trees.  Thia’s ever-perceptive eye flicked to a small detail on his robe: up by the left shoulder, there was a tiny symbol embroidered, a striking, hooded snake.  Thia frowned for a moment, thinking she’d seen the symbol before and then the man spoke again, driving the thought from her mind.

“My name is Caerdic,” the man continued, bowing at the waist to her.  “I am the keeper of the grove, and I do not think you are ready to access the knowledge contained herein, Thia.”

“Explain,” she demanded, still not relaxing her stance.

“I am a priest of the Old Faith,” Caerdic began.  “The faith that has been around for millennia.  Longer than the Church of the Light.  It is faith in the old things, of the earth.  We venerate the elements, animals and the power of nature itself.  This grove is a sacred place for the Old Faith.  Alandriel sent you here because he wondered if perhaps this was where your talents lay.  Sadly, it is not, for the stones do not respond to your call.  They have not accepted you.”

Thia snorted in derision.  The idea that a bunch of stones would accept or reject her was ridiculous, yet she could not deny she had felt their power.  What was worse was that she knew Galadrethin had succeeded where she had failed, but perhaps he did not need the power of the stones to use the Ritual which would lead to deciphering their message.

“However, I have another option if you are brave enough to try it,” offered the old man.  Thia cocked her head and looked at him quizzically, inviting him to elaborate.  “You may find it … distressing,” he warned her.

Thia thought back to the vision of Galadrethin reading the stones and said, “Nothing could be more distressing than what I am going through right now, Caerdic.  I am ready.”

He nodded brusquely and beckoned her to follow him.  She quickly gathered her things, stowing her grimoire with great care and stepped closer.  She heard him whisper something and saw him make a very subtle motion with the fingers holding his staff.  As he did she felt the shadows deepen around them.  “A minor incantation to shield us from sight and sound,” he explained.  “Though the forest is mostly safe it will save us from gaining any unwanted attention on the way.”

Caerdic set off through the forest.  Though he appeared an old man, probably in his seventh or eighth decade, he moved with the speed and energy of a young man in his prime.  The tangles and briars of the wood appeared not to hinder him, almost as if they could find no purchase on his robes, and their progress was swift.

Sometime later he slowed them down.  Ahead, through a deep thicket of bushes, Thia could make out a small cliff face.  She could see some movement there, but the thing which most struck her was the noise.  She could hear the bellowing roar of some sort of animal, and it sounded in agony.  They crept up quietly through the thicket and beheld a scene ahead.

In front of the low cliff was a small clearing.  In the clearing grew two tall, thin beech trees.  A large, winged creature was tied by ropes between the two.  At first, Thia thought it was a young dragon.  It was reptilian and scaled, it had huge wings and a lizard-like head.  The teeth certainly looked nasty enough to belong to a dragon.  But Thia was a scholar and quickly spotted a few key signs.  Firstly this winged reptile was a dun brown colour.  True dragons were usually more brightly coloured.  Secondly, this creature had a set of tail spikes, two rows of three each.  Those were a big sign and Thia knew they were coated with deadly poison.  Finally, the eyes of the creature were simply not intelligent enough.  They held raw animal cunning and told of a creature in huge amounts of pain, but there was not the genius intelligence in those eyes that would have marked the creature a True dragon.  No, this creature was not a True dragon.  It was a cousin of the dragons, known as a wyvern, and still a dangerous foe.  But this one was a captive.

Its wings were roped and tied around a tree, meaning the wyvern’s movements were greatly restricted.  It could not turn, could not bring its deadly poisoned tail to bear on the creatures who were tormenting it.

Between Thia and the wyvern, a small group of tiny imp-like creatures flited.  There were perhaps a dozen of them.  They were only two feet or so tall, like tiny fey but with gossamer wings like butterflies.  Each one held a tiny spear in their hands and they were zipping around the wyvern at incredible speeds, flitting in and out of the wyvern’s space, poking and prodding the creature with their tiny weapons.  The wyvern was too slow to catch them.  All the time they kept to the creature’s front, it could not bring its lethal tail spikes to bear.  It could not buffet them with its wings.  All it could do was try and bite the little fey but they were too quick.  The wyvern was trapped, tied to the trees and the fey-like creatures were extracting a terrible toll on it.

The wyvern screamed again, its howls partially pain where the little imps were striking it, partially pure frustration that it could not do anything to defend itself and it could not escape.  Thia felt a pang of sympathy for the poor creature.  It was covered in a thousand cuts.  It might be over ten times bigger than its tormentors, but it was at their mercy.  And they were showing none.

“Sprites,” came the voice of Caerdic at her side.  “Despite what you see, they are not malignant as such, more mischievous and lacking empathy.  The wyvern is a natural predator and enemy of the sprites, and though they do not feel its pain they will torment the dragon until it dies.”

Thia struggled to breathe.  Though she fully understood the fact that the wyvern was dangerous and would be a threat to the sprites if left alone, she could not bring herself to sit back and witness the sprites’ utterly mindless destruction and torture of the large creature.  She felt huge sympathy for the frustration the dragon was experiencing, being tied to the trees and unable to use all its considerable powers to defend itself.  Thia felt a connection to the poor creature and a kindred feeling.  She knew it was not the same thing, but somehow the frustration of this poor impotent monster resonated with the frustrations she was feeling with her inability to progress her studies.  It was desperately unfair.  Somehow the wyvern represented her and how she felt constricted and unable to use the power she could feel inside herself.  Somehow the sprites represented Galadrethin, her rival, and the thousand cuts his barbed comments at her failures represented.  She would not let this continue.  She could not.

Stepping out of the briar she was hidden in, Thia shouted at the top of her lungs.  “STOP!”  But what came out was not the word she had intended to shout.  Instead, some alien phrase left her mouth, exploding with energy.  It was an ancient word of power, one she had never heard before.  As she shouted it, she felt that surge of energy and the familiar connection to the Void.  She knew she was drawing arcane power from the Void and channelling it into her frustration, but she had no idea where it was going.

Looking up she couldn’t understand what her eyes were telling her for a moment.  She blinked and looked again.  There in front of her, the dozen or so sprites had stopped moving.  The act of stopping their wings from flapping meant that many of them had crashed down to the floor.   She instinctively knew that they were stopped and held in place by the power of her connection to the Void and the strength of her rage. 

They’d stopped moving within range of the wyvern’s long, snake-like neck.  The wyvern, not the target of Thia’s rage at all, was not held in place by the power of her word.  It was free to move as it wished.  One of the sprites had fallen to the ground within reach of the wyvern.  It seemed to understand what had happened on some base level.  It stopped howling with pain and frustration and uttered a low, menacing growl.  Then the reptilian head shot forward, quick as a flash, and the sprite was bitten in half.

Unsure quite what she had done, Thia turned to look for Caerdic, wondering if he could provide some insight, some understanding of what had just happened.  Taking her eyes off the scene of the tormented wyvern was enough to break her focus.  She felt the portal to the Void snapping shut, felt the power she’d been channelling cut off in an instant and knew the sprites were no longer being held by her will.

Turning back to regard the sprites she realized they had changed their focus too.  They were all looking at her and the expressions on their faces were not mischievous, they were murderous.  Thia backpedalled a step and rapidly drew her two curved short blades.  Eleven on to one were terrible odds and she knew she was in trouble.

“Begone!” came a command from behind her.  Caerdic.  The voice was full of strength and confidence.  Thia sensed an implied threat in the words too, but could not detect any innate arcane power behind them.  They were, as far as she could tell, just the words of a man in a robe.  But the sprites looked instantly frustrated.  A few snarled at her, but all of them turned as one and launched into the air, flitting quickly into the forest.  Moments later they were gone.

Caerdic then stepped past Thia.  He walked with the aid of his oaken staff but Thia knew he didn’t need it.  He approached the wyvern fearlessly, whispering soothing sounds or words that Thia could not pick up.  The wyvern dipped its neck suspiciously, perhaps fearfully, but it settled.  Caerdic put his left hand on the wyvern’s head and appeared to scratch the ridges behind its eyes.  Thia could have sworn she heard the creature purr and it closed one eye.  The priest muttered a word and flicked a finger at the ropes that tied the wyvern’s wings.  The ropes fell away instantly.  With a growl, the wyvern bunched its legs and dropped its chest to the floor.  Suddenly it sprung up into the air and with a great beat of its leathery wings, it was gone.

Caerdic turned to Thia who was looking on in amazement.  “Well, one thing becomes clear,” he told her.  “I know why you cannot control the runes of the magi.  You do not have that skill and never will.”  Thia looked down at her toes, somehow ashamed at this stranger’s condemnation.  “And that is because your talents lie elsewhere,” Caerdic added, causing Thia to look up in hope.  Did this priest of the Old Faith know where her true potential lay?

“You are an Orator,” Caerdic confirmed.  “And a damn good one.”

Chapter 7 - Chi

The wet rag was getting dirty and Chi knew he would be in trouble if any of the seniors walked in at that exact moment.

He was on his hands and knees in the common room where all the students ate their meals and there was only one of the kohai students left in the room, tarrying overlong with his dinner.  One of Chi’s many tasks was to ensure this room was spotless after each meal, but the nature of the Monastery of the Way was that everything was expected to be clean and tidy all the time; almost as if the masters refused to accept that dirt and mess were even possible.  

Chi was rushing to finish his task because when he was complete here, he could go and meet Ryo who was going to help him with some of the more complex kanji he was trying to learn to read.  Rushing meant that he was not rinsing the floor cloth or emptying the wooden bucket as often as he should have done and that in turn meant the cloth was grimy and the bucket full of dirty water.  So he was risking a senior entering the common room at that time and noticing his sloppy practice.  Such an event would lead to him being given even more work to do and probably missing his lesson with his mentor.  Should one of the masters happen in at this time… well, he dared not think what that would mean.

Suddenly there was a huge clatter behind him as something hard smashed into the floor.  Chi heard a voice say something in the local tongue.  He had no idea what the words were, but the tone was clear.  It was pretended shock and a mock apology.  Chi shut his eyes and took a deep breath, refusing to let himself be upset by what he knew had just happened.  Letting his breath out slowly he opened his eyes and turned to see the lone kohai standing just behind him, hands on hips, with a derisive grin on his face.  Satoshi was about ten years old, Chi guessed.  Tall and slightly plump he had all the hallmarks of a bully.  And he had found his preferred target in the gaijin outsider that was Chi. 

Satoshi shouted something at Chi, clearly a command, whilst gesticulating at the spilt food tray.  The floor nearby which Chi had just spent a long time cleaning was covered with bits of food and broken crockery.  Rice, fish and a sticky pickle sauce were everywhere.  Chi knew his lesson with Ryo had just evaporated as there was no way he would get all that mess cleaned up in the time he had left.  Struggling to maintain his temper, Chi simply nodded to the older kohai and moved to begin cleaning this new mess.  Satoshi looked savagely at Chi, strolled past the kneeling boy and kicked the wooden pail.  The bucket toppled over, spilling grimy water all across the polished wooden floor that Chi had spent the last hour cleaning. 

Chi clambered to his feet, spinning to confront the bully, struggling to maintain his calm, but Satoshi was already passing through the sliding paper door that delineated the kohai quarters – a place Chi knew he was forbidden from entering.  As he moved through the doorway, Satoshi turned and performed a very precise bow to Chi, a bow full of hatred and mockery.  Then he was gone.

Chi closed his eyes again, breathing quickly, trying to slow his rapidly beating heart and get himself under control.  He wanted nothing more than to run into the kohai quarters, find Satoshi and push his face through one of the paper-thin walls, but he knew any such action would get him thrown out of the monastery and that he would not do.

Suddenly a voice cut through Chi’s reverie.  A sharp, taut question that Chi thought he understood.  Certainly, the tone held no ambiguity.  As clearly as if it was in his language, Chi heard the question, “What is going on here?”  Opening his eyes Chi turned slowly to behold Sensei Akihiro, standing in the doorway to the masters’ quarters, his eyes blazing as he took in the scene: a spilt bucket, with grimy water, slowly spreading across the wooden floor, a discarded tray with scattered food and broken bits of clay everywhere.  And Chi stood with a dirt-ridden cloth in his hands and a guilty look on his face.

Chi dropped the dirty cloth to the floor and bowed his most respectful bow to the master.  Raising his eyes he looked at the man and not at the carnage around him and tried to form a reply in his halting Honshu.  “Apologies sensei.  I made mess”.  He bowed again, this time not raising his eyes but waiting to hear a response.

Long moments passed.  Nothing happened.  No response, no revoke, no more questions.  Chi wondered if the master was even now crossing the floor of the common room and about to strike him for the chaos.  Worst still if he was about to be expelled.  But still, nothing happened.  Eventually, Chi raised his head but Akihiro was gone.

Chi did not understand what this meant, but he knew he could not leave the wreckage.  So he quickly reclaimed his damp cloth and began the painstaking task of sponging all the dirty water off the floor, clearing up all the broken crockery and spilt food and then cleaning the entire floor from east to west, following the sun’s path, as was the tradition.  

When he was done, the time for him to meet Ryo had passed and the day was done.  Utterly exhausted and demoralized Chi returned to his cell and dropped onto his hard bed.  He refused to give in to the bullying of this kohai.  He decided that he had two choices: give up or stand his ground.  And Chi had never been one to give up on anything.

Master Akihiro finally moved off from the shadows of the corridor just outside the common room.  He had been there for a long while.  Long enough to see Chi cleaning the floor, and rushing to complete his task so that he could meet Akihiro’s son, Ryo.  Long enough to see Satoshi tease and torment the newcomer to the monastery.  Long enough to see the control Chi managed to maintain under the intimidation from the kohai.  And long enough to ponder the significance that Chi had never for one moment blamed his harasser but had stoically taken responsibility for the state of the room under his care.

These were the actions of someone who fully understood the intricate and complex culture of the Empire of Honshu, expressed by a mere boy who had been here for just a handful of days.  The restraint was remarkable for one so young.  Akihiro was impressed at the lad’s potential.  The question was, would it be maintained?  If so, the master believed this gaijin could be a truly significant addition to the ranks of the Monastery of the Way one day.

*

“You must teach me your words,” Ryo said to Chi earnestly, speaking simplified Honshu to help Chi’s understanding.  “It is how we speak better.”  The two boys sat in Ryo’s cell one evening, Chi’s chores for the day nearly complete.  Chi had a pair of brown silk training trousers on his lap and was expertly fixing a tiny tear in the seam before it grew into a big rip.  Chi looked at his mentor and frowned.  Both lads knew that Ryo’s father had expressly forbidden Chi to speak his native tongue during the one hundred days of his initiation test. 

“Not permitted,” Chi responded in faltering Honshu.

“Only not permitted if found out!” replied Ryo with a mischievous grin on his face.  Chi could not help but smile at the infectious smirk on his mentor’s face.  “If you agree to teach me your words, I will help you learn mine.”

“You already must teach me your words,” Chi responded carefully, pointing out that this was Ryo’s main task as his mentor in the hundred days of his trial.

Ryo appeared to consider this for a moment.  “I will also help you with Satoshi,” he offered, continuing to smile broadly.  As he named Chi’s tormentor he jumped to his feet, puffed out his cheeks and strutted around the small room, doing a passable imitation of the older kohai.

Chi burst out laughing at the performance and conceded.  “Hai,” he said, “Yes.  I will teach you my words to help us speak better.”

Ryo stopped prancing around and faced Chi directly, then performed a small, quick bow.  Chi supposed this was the boy’s way of sealing their pact, so he put the sewing down, stood up from the bed and returned the bow.

The two boys returned to the bed and Chi picked the trousers back up to resume his sewing.

“Who owns those trousers?” asked Ryo, adding mimes and actions to help explain the question.

“Satoshi, of course!” responded Chi with a mock rolling of his eyes.

“Really?” asked Ryo, his hand going to his chin in thought. 

After a moment Ryo continued, “I can help you get fukushu on him,” he told Chi the mischievous grin back on his face once more.

“Fukushu?” asked Chi.

Ryo proceeded to perform a small act, trying to explain the concept.

“Ah!  ‘Revenge’!” exclaimed Chi as he finally understood the idea he was being shown.  “How?”

Ryo took the trousers from Chi and began to mime out how he could stitch the drawstring on the leggings in such a way that they appeared to be tight and secure, but if put under enough pressure – like in a proper training session – the tie would come undone, causing the wearer an embarrassing moment.

Chi’s expression instantly showed Ryo that he was not keen on the idea.  Ryo asked if this was because he was worried about what Satoshi would do in return, but Chi made it clear he was not worried about any reciprocation, but rather was not sure that he wanted to be part of an act that embarrassed anyone in front of all the students.

Ryo pointed out that no one was doing anything to Satoshi that he had not done to others.  Chi asked what he meant.

“Where do you think I learned the stitch from?” asked Ryo.  “I learned it because Satoshi used it on me”. 

*

Ryo’s laughter was loud and contagious and Chi could not help but grin along with it.  “You should have seen him!” Ryo almost shouted.  “It was hilarious!” 

The two boys were in Chi’s cell, spending the evening together as had become a habit for them now.  They spoke equally in Honshu and Albion and both lads were slowly becoming more adept in their new languages.

Chi pressed him for details.  “Tell me what happened?” he pleaded.

“We were in the middle of a complex kata, a new one we’ve only just been taught.  Sensei Akihiro called us up, three at a time to go through it, at full speed and power.  When it was Satoshi’s turn, he was right in the middle of the kata, at a section that requires you to jump in the air as if leaping over a low-swung staff attack.  He leapt up and as he did so the drawstring came undone.  The trousers slipped, tangling his legs, making him land in a crumpled mess and exposing his fat bottom to the class!  It was priceless.  He was utterly shamed!” Ryo finished with a triumphant cheer.

Chi did not share his elation, instead, his face fell into a serious frown.

“What’s wrong?” asked Ryo, suddenly losing his exuberance.

“I don’t know.  It feels, somehow unfair,” responded Chi.

“Unfair?  After what he puts you through virtually every day?” asked Ryo.  “I don’t think so,” he continued, answering his question.  “It is fair and he got what he deserved.  Karma.”

Chi shook his head, unable to agree.

“There is one downside,” retorted Ryo after a moment’s hesitation.

“What?”

“Well, Satoshi’s trousers fell down in front of the whole class.  And who was it that had them just before that…?”

Chi simply groaned. 

*

Weeks later, the monastery was honoured with a visit from a very special guest: Lord Nakamura, ruler of Sapporo and the most powerful man in the region.  The students had been told that the Lord had come to inspect the monastery and see how the students were progressing.  Though they never said as much it was clear the masters were nervous and desired a successful visit.  Lord Nakamura’s approval was important.

Chi found himself mostly detached from the visit.  The lord and his entourage had been in residence for a couple of days.  Even though the lord had a castle in the town, it was clear he was going to stay in the school itself for the time of his sojourn.  During the days, Lord Nakamura mostly spent his time watching the training sessions being undertaken in the primary training grounds; and Chi generally was not invited to watch those.  He had his chores to do.  The lord spent his evenings in the masters’ quarters – which had been completely turned over to him and his attendants.

Chi was chopping wood in a small side garden, a place he enjoyed spending time.  It was a daily job for him and one he relished.  It involved a physical workout that the young lad loved; a chance to use up some of the pent-up energy the frustrations of his near-constant clashes with Satoshi was generating.  He found the repetitive and mindless task of chopping hundreds of logs somehow soothing.  He also found his mind free to wander and ponder some of the more challenging struggles his one-hundred-day trial was posing him.

He was sixty-eight days into his test now.  Thirty-two days remained for him to complete his training and then he would be accepted into the monastery as a kohai – a junior student.  But he was not sure if he would make it another thirty-two hours, let alone thirty-two days.

His constant war with Satoshi had escalated.  The practical jokes they were playing on each other had risen to near-dangerous levels.  Only two days ago Chi had been knocked unconscious by a devilishly rigged trap inside his cell.  Had Ryo not come around a short time later, Chi wondered if he would have bled to death.

The week before Chi had been shamed to his core to find out that a garment belonging to Sensei Akihiro, which Chi had been responsible for cleaning and placing into the master’s chambers, had been covered with rat dung when the master had gone to put it on the next day.

The masters had said nothing.  They stoically avoided commenting on the confrontation between the two young men.  Chi assumed this was part of the test; to see how he dealt with the situation.  For all he knew Satoshi might have the masters’ full blessings to persecute him, to see how he would react.

Ryo was a constant help, however, keeping everything fun and light-hearted.  He grounded Chi with his humour and banter and the two were fast becoming friends.  Ryo proved himself an expert linguist and was picking up the language of Albion much faster than Chi could learn Honshu, but at least that helped him to teach Chi in turn.

Something dragged Chi from his reverie.  He stopped in mid-swing and blinked.  What was amiss?  Something was out of place.  Then it hit him: he could smell smoke. 

Fires were banned from most of the Monastery of the Way.  Only the kitchens were allowed them.  The whole place was heated with an inventive system of pipes which pushed heated water under the floorboards to all the rooms, so fires were not needed.  In a building constructed mostly of wood and paper, fire was deadly.  And Chi could smell it.

Scanning the immediate area Chi looked for signs of any smoke.  He could see nothing, but he thought he could hear something.  Closing his eyes and focusing his mind, he listened intently.  There was a class going on in the nearby training ground and the instructions of the sensei and the shouts of the students were constant background noise, but he worked to block that out and focus instead on what was out of place.  Then he heard it again.  Faint and coming from the direction of the masters’ quarters was a soft cry.  

“Help…” it seemed to plead.

Chi dropped the wood axe and rushed out of the small garden, flinging open the paper door and ignoring all custom he left it wide open and tore into the corridor.  He didn’t even stop to switch from the muddy outdoor shoes he was wearing to the traditional uwabaki, indoor shoes, he should have worn inside.  Trailing a set of muddy footprints across the highly polished and previously spotless wooden floor of the passages that linked this part of the complex with the restricted area where the masters lived – and where Lord Nakamura and his retinue were currently housed – Chi ran at full speed towards where the call for help was coming.

Rounding a corner he came to the outskirts of the masters’ quarters.  Unusually the master’s quarters were separated from the rest of the complex by a wooden door.   It was the only way in and out of the section.  Chi was amazed to see a wooden table pushed up against the door on the outside, jamming the handle and effectively stopping anyone inside from leaving.  Drifting under the door was a plume of thick oily smoke, and he could hear strained coughing coming from beyond the door.  The masters’ quarters were on fire, and someone was trapped there.

Chi didn’t hesitate.  He pulled the maple table aside from the door and wrenched the door open.  A wave of intense heat hit him like a hammer and almost knocked him over.  Beyond the door, the room was ablaze.  Fires licked up the exterior wooden walls and were trying to take hold.  They had already destroyed the paper-thin internal walls of the chamber, leaving the whole place as one large space.  Many small fires were burning in the room, slowly engulfing and consuming the property inside.  Across the far side, lying on his side, looking at Chi, was a figure.  Satoshi.  As Chi blinked to clear smoke from his eyes, Satoshi called out one last time and then his head lolled to the ground and his eyes shut.

Despite his revulsion for the bully, Chi didn’t pause for a moment.  Covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve Chi pushed into the room.  It was even hotter inside and he struggled to make headway into the chamber.  He had to pick his way around a few small fires in the centre of the room but reached the unconscious kohai in short order.  Chi was not strong enough to pick the older lad up.  The only thing for it was to drag Satoshi across to the door.   Taking him by the armpits he began to pull.

A huge crash signalled the collapse of one of the ceiling timbers and half the roof caved in, dropping burning debris into the room.  This opened the area to the sky and allowed a fresh blast of air in to fan the flames.  The room fairly bellowed as the fires roared fiercely. 

Struggling to breathe through the thick smoke and wondering which way was out, Chi began to feel increasingly dizzy.  He backed his way towards the door and endeavoured to get the increasingly heavy boy to safety.  Then he tripped over something and would have fallen but strong arms took him and supported him.

“I’ve got you, Chi-san,” said a voice he vaguely recognised.   Then he was being picked up and thrown over a shoulder.  He recognised the smell of the man carrying him.  It was a smell of leather and horses.  It was the patrol leader, Tanaka Keinosuke.  Another man pushed past him and collected Satoshi, gently hoisting him over a shoulder and carrying him out behind them.   Others rushed into the room carrying buckets of water and began putting out the fire systematically.  Tanaka wiped a damp cloth across Chi’s face which made him swoon.

Moments later, Chi found himself in the common room of the monastery, just outside the masters’ quarters.  He was surrounded by three men, one of whom he knew, and one of whom he recognised.  He had been carried here by Tanaka and placed on the floor.  Nearby one of Tanaka’s men had dropped off the unconscious Satoshi and then left, presumably to aid in the firefighting.

After that two men had come in.  One was Lord Nakamura himself.  Dressed in the finest silk clothing Chi had ever seen, the samurai was short and stocky.  He had black hair which was pulled up into a warrior’s top knot, and the double long and short swords, the daisho, that Chi had only otherwise seen on Tanaka.  His face was fierce and his merciless eyes were boring into Chi.  Chi looked away, knowing he should not hold this man’s gaze.

Behind Lord Nakamura stood a man who seemed almost as out of place as Chi was, yet who appeared utterly at home.  He was ancient-looking and his features made him out to be from Chi’s homeland.  Wearing the leafy green robes of a commoner of Albion, tied with a simple brown rope belt at his waist, he carried a gnarled staff.  His silver-grey hair and long silver beard were well-kept.  His beard came to a point and was braided at the end.  Chi found his eyes torn from Lord Nakamura to this old man from Albion and his gaze was caught by the piercing grey-blue stare he fixed on Chi.

“The Lord asked you a question,” prompted Tanaka sharply.

Chi shook his head and looked at the patrol leader, blankly.

“What were you doing in his quarters?” Tanaka repeated slowly, clearly unsure how much Chi was understanding of what was going on, and aware that he did not speak the language.

Chi did not know how to respond.  He knew that his life was in the balance.  One wrong move, one wrong tone and the samurai could order him executed.  All he knew was that he had best not make a bad situation worse, so he lowered his eyes to the floor and bowed his head, not meeting anyone’s gaze.  He wracked his brain for a suitable answer, also terribly aware that failing to answer could be perceived as just as disrespectful as saying something which would further annoy the upset samurai.

“My lord,” interrupted a fresh voice from the edge of the room.  “What is going on?”  It was Sensei Akihiro’s voice.

“These younglings were in our lord’s chambers, Akihiro-san,” answered Tanaka.  “They should never have been in that restricted area.”

Akihiro took in the scene, having just come from the entrance to his chambers where the fire was getting under control.  “Yes, Tanaka-san,” he answered.  “They are two bright and brave students.  I am sure that they saw that our lord’s rooms were on fire and rushed in there to make sure that no one was trapped.  Then I am sure they stayed to try and save his valuable possessions”.

“Indeed,” responded Tanaka.  “Perhaps they should be rewarded for their brave act”.

“Hmph!” was all that Lord Nakamura had to say on the matter, as he turned on his heel and strode from the common room, his face still an angry visage.

“Perhaps they should,” mused the old man from Albion as he turned to follow the samurai from the room, his staff clicking on the polished wooden floor as he hobbled along.

Tanaka nodded to his brother and followed them out.

*

“I have no idea how the door got blocked, Akihiro-sama,” answered Chi. 

“Well, there was a table in the corridor.  Perhaps that was blocking the way?” asked Akihiro.  The two were alone in a meditation room in a quiet part of the monastery.  Akihiro was quizzing Chi as to the events of the previous day.  Chi had spent the best part of a day and a night in the infirmary, recovering from smoke inhalation.  Satoshi was still in there, but at least had recovered consciousness.

“I don’t recall,” lied Chi directly.

“Indeed.  So you don’t think that someone snuck into Lord Nakamura’s quarters to play a very serious trick, implicating someone else, and then a third party came along and trapped the first person in there, meaning for the trick to backfire?”

Chi blinked.  He knew that was exactly what had happened.  He knew that Satoshi had crept into the masters’ quarters, almost certainly to plant something that would prove to be the ultimate embarrassment for Chi.  And he knew that Ryo had spotted him sneaking in there and had blocked the only way out with a heavy table.  Ryo had confessed as much to Chi when he was in the infirmary.  The fire had been utterly incidental, a complete coincidence.  It seemed one of Lord Nakamura’s men had left a pipe unattended and it had not been fully out.  The combination of a trapped boy and a smouldering pipe had nearly proved fatal.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Chi asserted.

“You are a loyal friend Chi-san.  And you are well named for you showed incredible spirit yesterday.  You risked your life to save someone who is making yours a living hell at the moment.  You could easily have shut the door and walked away.”  Chi began to object but Akihiro held up a hand to stop his protests.  “There is no point in trying to deny it.  Though you are loyal, you are also a terrible liar.  Your eyes give you away.  And anyway, Ryo came to me and confessed all.”

Chi dropped his head in shame.  How would he be punished for lying to the master, he wondered.

“You are sixty-nine days into your trial,” continued Akihiro.  Technically you have thirty-one more days to go, but at this stage, I do not think there is any point in continuing.  You have already proved to me that another month would change nothing.  My mind is made up.”

Chi’s heart sank.  He had failed the test.  What would become of him now?  Would they banish him?  Release him into the wilds?  Send him home to Albion?  Or would they even simply execute him?

“You are herewith promoted to the rank of kohai, junior student,” master Akihiro pronounced, smiling. Chi blinked in disbelief.  “Tomorrow, you shall go to the quartermaster and collect your first training gi.”

Chi could not believe what he was hearing.  He had passed.  He was a fully-fledged student in the Monastery of the Way.  He had a place and a home. He belonged.

“Two more things, Chi-san,” continued Akihiro.  “Firstly, we need to do something about that tell of yours.  When you lie you blink twice in rapid succession.  It didn’t take me long to work it out.  If you are going to progress in our organization the way I would like you to, you are going to have to learn to stop that.  Being able to lie directly to people’s faces is an important skill for a Ghostwalker.”

“A Ghostwalker?” asked Chi, confused.

“Indeed.  Though this is a Monastery of the Way, where students learn to fight without weapons, and with certain select arms, we also train a small cadre of specialist students in a unique set of skills.   We train these students in the arts of espionage.  We teach them to become spies and saboteurs.  And some we teach to become assassins.  Ghostwalkers.   This is the path I wish you to follow, Chi-san.   I have watched you closely since you arrived here and I am convinced that you have what it takes to learn this calling.”

“I am honoured, master,” replied Chi, bowing low.

“Good.  That is settled then.  I will see you tomorrow,” Akihiro replied, rising and preparing to leave.

“Master?” asked Chi before he left the room.

“Yes?”

“You said there were two more things?”

“Oh, yes, I did,” replied Akihiro.  “Secondly,” he continued, “every kohai needs a mentor; someone to look up to and learn from.  Someone they will work with every day.  Someone to help them to master difficult techniques.  Someone they can train with so that both improve.  The junior’s role is to learn but also help the senior to learn because it is in teaching and helping others that we best improve ourselves.”

Chi nodded, expecting that the master would choose Ryo to be his training mentor, as he had been his mentor when Chi had been doing his initiation.

“When he recovers, Satoshi will be your mentor,” Akihiro told him, as he left the room.

Chapter 8 - Jaeden

The excitement of the market square was palpable.  Jaeden shut his eyes for a moment and listened to the hubbub around him.  He heard the cries of the merchants, the shouts of pedlars and the screams of young children at play.  He breathed in deeply and his nose caught the scent of spices and cooked meats, of the press of humanity, and at the end of his senses the aroma of coffee.  He felt the warm High Summer sun on his face and smiled.  This was his favourite place in the world.

Opening his eyes again he looked at the Easterner merchant in front of him.  Haruki was from the neighbouring Dragon Province, Jaeden knew and was a rarity in Littlebrook.  The Kingdom of Albion had long had a hostile relationship with the Empire of Honshu on its eastern border.  Only with the ascension of King Jarrad I to the throne of Albion fifteen years ago, at the end of the Chaos Wars, was the border opened. 

The progressive new king had made a lot of changes.  The borders had opened up, meaning that merchants and visitors from far-off places had begun to arrive.  King Jarrad had lifted the ban on the arcane too.  Previously practising arcane arts would have seen one get burnt alive, but now this law had been rescinded. 

“Would you like to hear a tale of my lands, and yours, little lord?” Haruki asked.

Jaeden realised he was speaking to him and nodded eagerly.  Haruki was a master storyteller as well as a purveyor of rare silks from the east.

“I will tell you the tale of the Knight and the Monk,” Haruki began.  Jaeden knew this tale; it was not one of his favourites as he felt it portrayed the Knights of the Sun in a bad light.  Still, he listened attentively as there was usually a good moral to learn from Haruki’s tales.

“One day, over three hundred years ago, a trader from the east began teaching some local farmers around the Thistledelve region a system of martial arts he called The Way. These arts involved fighting without weapons and the trader claimed a man skilled in these arts could defeat a seasoned warrior. A Knight of the Sun, passing by and seeing this man's lesson in progress, challenged him to ask what he was doing. The easterner explained and the Knight laughed at him. The easterner proposed that he would show the Knight that his plate mail and sword were no match for the trader's bare hands and woollen tunic. The Knight reluctantly agreed. Of course, unknown to the Knight, the trader was no mere merchant.  He was a shidoshi from the Monastery of the Way in Sapporo, and one of the most skilled in the art of the Way in the Dragon Province.  The trader proceeded to easily defeat the Knight in one-on-one combat.

“The knight was magnanimous in defeat and rather than being insulted by his loss, he congratulated the trader and asked him to show him some of his techniques.  The trader went on to teach the knight, and though the warrior was too busy to properly study the Way with the easterner, news of the event soon spread. The future of The Way in Albion was assured. The trader settled down in the area and started the Monastery of the North Winds which still thrives over three hundred years later.”

Jaeden sighed, a deep frown appearing across his face.  Though he liked the exotic tales of the east that Haruki would tell, this one annoyed him.  To Jaeden the Knights of the Sun were paragons of heroism, and no one and nothing could defeat them.  The idea of a man in no armour and with bare hands being able to beat one of his heroes was an anathema to him.

“What’s the matter, little lordling?” the merchant asked, seeing his face.

“I don’t believe your tale,” replied Jaeden.  “I think it’s a fable.  No unarmed man could defeat a knight in full armour.”

“Have you ever been outside of Littlebrook to the Monastery of the West Winds, child?  Have you ever seen the monks train?  Have you seen what they can do?” asked Haruki earnestly.  Jaeden admitted that he had not.  The merchant simply shrugged.

“Perhaps we should go,” piped in a new voice from nearby.

Jaeden turned to see the owner of the voice and beheld a small boy about his age.  The lad was wearing common but clean, new clothes and had a fresh look about him as if he’d just stepped out of a bath.  In his hands, he held one of Haruki’s silk sashes and was holding it up against his outfit as if wondering if it would go with it.  Jaeden knew the lad had good taste as the bright blue sash complimented the simple outfit perfectly.  There was something about the boy that nagged at Jaeden, something about him that was familiar.  Perhaps he was an apprentice to one of the merchants who dealt with his father?  Or perhaps he had just seen the boy around the market square?

“You should go, certainly,” responded Haruki, bringing Jaeden’s attention back to the present.

“Maybe we could take a bottle of wine from the Green Dragon to share whilst we visit the monks?” offered the boy, and instantly Jaeden recognised Alfred.  Jaeden smiled warmly at the young lad.

“I think this is too expensive for me,” commented Alfred as he replaced the sash on the stall.  “Shall we see what other delights the market holds, Jaeden?” he asked.

“Indeed, let’s.”

They thanked Haruki and moved off into the busy square.  The market was packed full of people and they had to squirm and push their way through some parts.

“Shall we find a place to sit where it’s a little quieter?” asked Alfred a few minutes later.

“Aye,” responded Jaeden and Alfred led them to a side street which fed into a quieter plaza.  There was a bench there which was just picking up the morning sunshine and Alfred plopped himself down on it.  Reaching into his tunic he pulled out a fresh loaf of bread.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Where did you get that from?” enquired Jaeden, suspiciously.

“From the baker next to the silk merchants,” replied Alfred.

“And did you pay?”

“Of course.  Not,” answered the lad with a smirk.

Jaeden shook his head ruefully but took the offered hunk of bread anyway.  His stomach was rumbling and the freshly baked loaf smelt delicious.

“So what are you doing here, all dressed up?” asked Jaeden as they shared the meal.

“I’m starting a new life,” replied Alfred solemnly. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I have managed to apprentice to a coffee merchant in the city.  His name is Caerdic and he’s the purveyor of coffee to the crown!”

“The old man with the long silver beard?” enquired Jaeden.

“That’s him, yes.”

“I know him.  My father buys his coffee from him, as do most of the nobility around our part of the city.  I didn’t know he also sold coffee to the royal family.”

“He does, yes.  Can you imagine it?  In a few years, I might be allowed to enter the palace!”

“You best keep your hands to yourself if you do,” admonished Jaeden mockingly as he brandished the stolen bread in Alfred’s face.  Alfred had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“Some habits die hard,” he admitted.  “I’ve started to learn my numbers and my letters, though I find them hard,” Alfred continued.  “I now live in a house in the Trade Quarter.  I only have a small cot in the cellar but it’s warm at night and I have food in my belly and no need to worry about the Scorpions or gangs like them anymore.

“I had to pay the coffee merchant to apprentice with him.  I just had enough silver thanks to you.  Your purse of coins has literally changed my life Jaeden, and I will be forever in your debt,” Alfred looked at Jaeden seriously and Jaeden felt his cheeks redden. 

The boys sat and chatted for the next few hours.  Jaeden began to tell Alfred about life as a noble’s son and about his father’s plans to squire him to one of the Knights of the Sun.  Alfred was seriously impressed with the idea that Jaeden would one day become a knight.  In turn, Alfred told Jaeden about life in the slums, opening the privileged boy’s eyes to some of the more unpleasant truths about life on the streets.

The sun moved on and passed behind a tall building throwing their bench into the shadow.  They decided to head back into the market and Alfred said he had to go as his new master would be expecting him to help shut down the coffee stall shortly.

Soon they were back at Haruki’s stall once more where they prepared to part company.  Alfred told Jaeden where he lived and said that Jaeden would be welcome to visit any time.  Jaeden said that he hoped Alfred would soon get to start visiting the coffee merchant’s clients with him, so perhaps he would visit Jaeden’s house.

As they were about to depart, Jaeden noticed Alfred’s eyes straying longingly to the blue silk staff he’d been trying earlier that morning.  The young noble grabbed the scarf and asked Haruki how much it was worth.

“A silver sickle, my lord,” the merchant replied.  “The best silk from far Sphinx Province on the other side of the empire.  The Sphinx Province is a land of wu-jen, practitioners of the arcane arts, and it is said that every silken garment made there is imbued with traces of the arcane.”

Jaeden put his hand into his tunic and pulled out his coin purse, the very same one Alfred had stolen months before.  He emptied a silver coin into his palm and handed it to the merchant.  Taking the silk scarf he turned to Alfred and wrapped it around his neck.

“May the magic of the Sphinx bring you good fortune, Alfred,” he invoked. 

*

Later that same day Jaeden was back home.  He was sitting in his favourite chair in the drawing room, overlooking the west gardens, watching the sunset.  Other than the market square this was probably his favourite place in the world.  Few vistas were finer than the west end of Littlebrook as the summer sun set.

His contemplation was disturbed as his father strode purposefully into the room.  Jaeden knew that stride.  It meant his father had something ‘important’ to talk to him about.  Rising to his feet as he had been taught he was surprised to see a tall figure striding equally purposefully into the drawing room behind his father.  He knew the man instantly:  Sir Harken, the current Grandmaster of the Knights of the Sun, and probably one of the most important and powerful people in the whole kingdom.  Jaeden stood still, caught off-balance, and waited to see what this was about.

“Sir Harken,” his father began.  “Please allow me to introduce my son, Jaeden,” he finished indicating the lad.  The knight strode forward and squatted down in front of Jaeden, bringing his head down to the same level as the boy.  He squinted as he looked the boy up and down.  Jaeden felt as if he were being measured up for slaughter like a lamb.

“Are you strong?” Sir Harken asked Jaeden.

“Yes, sir,” Jaeden replied immediately.

“Are you brave?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you know how to dress a man in a suit of full plate armour?” came the unexpected query.

Jaeden hesitated for a moment but quickly recovered.  His father owned such a suit of armour and Jaeden had been helping him on and off with it at least once per week for the last year, for reasons Jaeden had never been able to understand and which his father had never deigned to explain.  Jaeden nodded quickly, “Yes, sir.”

“He’s a bit scrawny,” the knight commented, rising to his full height again, “but I can see the potential.”  Jaeden’s father seemed relieved.  Jaeden had no idea if this was a good thing or a bad thing for him.  “When can he start?”

“Immediately, my lord,” replied his father.

“Excellent.  Tomorrow is Godsday.  Bring him to the Cathedral for the sunrise service.  I will take him from you then.”

“Of course, Sir Harken.  We will see you in the morning,” replied his father enthusiastically.

“Indeed,” replied the knight.  “Until the morrow, then.”  And with that the tall, broad knight strode from the room, Jaeden’s father following. 

Jaeden returned to his armchair, uncertain exactly what had just happened but sure he would soon find out.  He had the feeling something truly significant in his life had just occurred but that he had been a mere spectator.

A few moments later his father returned to the drawing room, a broad smile on his face.  “Well son, congratulations are in order.”

“Why, father?”

“That, as I’m sure you are aware, was Sir Harken.  Obviously, he is a Knight of the Sun, but do you realize he is actually the Grandmaster of the order?  The leader of all the knights in Albion?”

“Yes, sir, I did know that.”

“Good, I am glad that you have been paying attention.  And do you realise that to become a Knight of the Sun you need first to become a squire to one of the knights?”

“Yes, sir, you have told me that before.”

“Excellent.  Well, the good news is that starting tomorrow you have been accepted into the Knights of the Sun as a squire.”  Jaeden’s father’s face was beaming.

Jaeden blinked and swallowed hard.  He knew that was his destiny at some stage but he had no idea it would be coming so soon.  He wished he had listened more to what his father had told him when he’d explained the duties of a squire in the past – he had figured he had years to learn these things before he was sent off to become one.  Now he had mere hours.

“And more than that,” his father resumed.  “Not squire to just any old Knight of the Sun.  But squire to the Grandmaster himself!”

Jaeden swallowed again.  He was about to become a squire to Sir Harken, possibly the third most important man in the kingdom. 

Chapter 9 - Thia

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, leaving Thia to reflect on why Alandriel seemed to always want one burning, even in the middle of High Summer.  If she had not known her tutor better she might have believed it was a taunt, reminding her of her failure to be able to light such a fire with a simple Cantrip.  A more positive take on the fire would be to remind her that the same night she failed that test she discovered her true calling as an Orator, even if she did not know it at the time.  Finally, she decided that it might just be that Alandriel was old and that a pleasant fire in the hearth always served to cheer up even a dreary room. 

Moving to a sideboard in Alandriel’s study Thia selected one of his ripe, red apples and crunched down on it.  Juice squirted out of the side and dribbled down her chin causing her to smirk and quickly wipe it aside with her sleeve.

“You know there are simple Cantrips to help with that sort of thing,” Alandriel commented, watching her viewing her now-stained sleeve with disdain.  He muttered a brief incantation and flicked his fingers in a wiping motion and Thia’s shirt and face were both instantly clean again.

“Handy,” Thia remarked sullenly.

“My apologies, my dear,” the old mage replied.  “I did not mean to rub it in.”

“No apology needed, master.  I know you would never do that.”

“So, what have we learned from our trip into the forest, my dear?”

“That I am an Orator.  Though I have little understanding of what that means.  The old druid didn’t explain, other than to say that my powers are not to be found in books and that I’d pretty much have to find my own way.”

“Well, I agree with him,” responded Alandriel.  “Whilst I am pleased that we have finally found out why you are struggling so much with your studies and that you appear to have found your calling, the problem this leaves us with is that I am not sure what more I can teach you.

“I have little or no experience of Orators and their magic.  My magic, as I have tried to explain to you over the years, is all about control.  First, you learn the runes, the command words and the somatic gestures needed to cast a spell.  Then, when the time comes to unleash it, you ‘simply’ summon the runes to your mind, keeping them fixed in place.  Then say the command phrases and make the gestures.  The combination of the three unleashes the effect you were trying to achieve.”

“If only it was that simple,” remarked Thia ruefully.

“Indeed, Thia.  I appreciate I am oversimplifying for the sake of explanation,” Alandriel smiled sympathetically at her.  “So, from what little I know about Orators, none of that applies.  I do not think the magic of the Orators is fey.  I have seen it referenced in some of my books but I do not recall a full explanation of how it works anywhere.  Nor am I aware of any Orators now living who could teach you.”

Thia slumped into a nearby armchair, despondent.   She had finally found out where her power came from and why she could not command the fey-magic that Alandriel was trying to teach her, but it seemed that this information would only lead to a further block; that no one could help her further.

“I offer you access to my library, of course,” continued Alandriel.  “You are welcome to spend as much time as you need in there, searching for answers.  I suggest that you start off researching Callindrill.“

“What is Callindrill?” asked Thia, sitting forward.  At least there was a start, something she could work towards.  The prospect of having free access to all of Alandriel’s library, with no restrictions, thrilled her.  Even if she could find nothing about Orators and her potential in Alandriel’s books, that place was a fountain of knowledge and there was nothing Thia liked more in the world than reading and learning lore.

“Not what, but rather who.” retorted Alandriel.  “I cannot believe you have lived twenty-seven years and have an almost insatiable appetite for lore, and yet have never heard of Callindrill.  He was by far the most powerful practitioner of the arcane arts ever to have walked this continent – though some might contest he had rivals across the ages I concede.  Callindrill was a human who lived many hundreds of years ago.  He was a companion and advisor to Eldred, the chieftain who conquered the tribes of Albion and first formed them into a unified kingdom, around fourteen hundred years ago.  He had an ancient base somewhere in the Great Desert where he researched and created many strange magical creatures and arcane items and trinkets.  It is said his great power is what helped Eldred forge the kingdom, and that he personally crafted Eldred's magical sword.

“Callindrill was unique in that it appears he was able to understand and control many forms of arcane magic.  By all accounts, he studied with the Keri-heb, the archmagi of far-off Khemit, back in the days when their power was unrivalled.  He trained with the wu-jen of Honshu before the empire there was formed.  He took it upon himself to research more about magic and the arts of accessing the Void than any other mortal.  So, if anyone knew about Orators, he would.  He may well have been one too; in fact, I would be surprised if that was not the case.”

“What happened to him?” asked Thia, intrigued.

“The great dragon, Ashardalon,” Alandriel answered.  “Legend tells that when Eldred strove to unite the tribes before he was crowned as the first king of Albion, the dragon awoke.  He left his lair in the volcano now known as Dragon’s Perch and menaced the new kingdom, demanding tribute and treasure.  Callindrill went to the king and promised he would deal with the threat.  He headed into the Jagged Peaks and to the depths of the volcano itself. 

“The story goes that never has a more powerful and dramatic battle been waged.  The sky was lit up with dragon breath and arcane sorcery, visible as far away as the settlement of Thistledelve.  Finally, Callindrill was able to subdue the dragon and bring Ashardalon to submission.  The mage demanded that the dragon serve him, but even though Callindrill had defeated him, the mighty Ashardalon was too proud to bend the knee to a mortal, no matter how powerful.  The dragon launched one final, desperate attack on Callindrill and the wizard smote the wyrm with his most potent magic.  Part of the mountain was broken, so great was their struggle.   The dragon was slain, deep in the bowels of the mountain.  The mountainside broke into the shape of a huge ledge, which came to be called Dragon’s Perch.  The toll on Callindrill was too great for his mortal body and he died that day, still on the mountainside. 

“The tale tells that followers of Callindrill, led by the queen herself, made their way to the mountain and recovered Callindrill’s body.  They brought it to the Great Desert, to Callindrill’s base and entombed it there.

“Here the legend grows dark.  Some reports tell that the Cult of Callindrill, led by the queen, then sealed the tomb with themselves still inside.  They then enacted forbidden rites that Callindrill had taught them, and as part of those rites, they killed themselves.  This caused Callindrill to rise as a powerful and deadly lich.  A creature of the night who kept all the powers he had in life, but now had an infinite period to work his evil as he was the living dead.  If this legend is to be believed Callindrill still exists, deep in the Great Desert.  I understand he is a bit of a figure told to frighten the children in Albion into behaviour,” remarked Alandriel.  “Certainly the queen of Albion never returned from the Great Desert and Eldred lived alone until he passed away.  Some believe he died from a broken heart.  Others that Callindrill came and took him to live with him in the Great Desert to be reunited with his wife.

"Eldred's magical sword passed into legend and is now a hereditary blade wielded by the Grandmaster of the Knights of the Sun, a title currently held by a man called Sir Harken."

Thia shuddered at the conclusion of the tale.  It gripped her imagination and drove her to want to find out more.  She knew what she would be doing first thing tomorrow morning:  going to the library to find out more about the legendary Callindrill.

“So, my dear,” Alandriel continued.  “I cannot teach you how to improve and master your arcane skills.  But I will help you to explore them in any way I can.  And, as I have said, you may have full access to my library to help in your search for knowledge about Orators.  But in the meantime, we have a practical problem to solve.”

“What is that?” asked Thia sitting back in her armchair, trying to absorb all this information at once.

“We will need to hide this fact from the other archmagi in Sylvandale.  Should they discover that you have no talent for our fey-magic and that you have no chance to develop it, they will send you away.”

“That might not be so bad,” responded Thia, her mind flicking to her rival Galadrethin and his arrogant bragging and teasing of her.  Looking up she saw the disappointed look cross her master’s face.  “Well, apart from leaving you, of course, master,” she added hastily.

“Well, that’s as maybe,” replied Alandriel, “but at least here you are safe to experiment and try things out.  You can research with no restrictions.  You can try accessing and understanding your new talents without fear of reprisal or persecution.  I’m not sure that you would have such a thing if you left Sylvandale and I could not bear it to imagine you at risk.”

Thia considered this.  Sylvandale had been her home her whole life.  Her family was here, by which she realised she meant both her mother and her tutor.  She was happy and content here.  Sure, there were issues she had to struggle with: her inability to conquer the challenge of fey-magic and her annoying rival.  But overall there were far more pluses to living here than there were downsides.  And now Alandriel had opened his library to her, the potential to learn had exploded.

“The Chaos Wars are not long ended,” continued Alandriel.  “The lands of Albion to the east and the Wildlands to the west of Sylvandale are unstable and dangerous.  As you know the queen has decreed that the borders to the forest are to remain shut.  Though the new king of Albion has sent messengers and envoys of peace and trade, so far the queen has rebuffed him.  She is never swift to change her mind, so do not expect that you would have the choice to leave the forest in the short term anyway.

“For now you will remain my apprentice.  I will continue to teach you about the magic of the fey.  The knowledge surely can’t hurt you, and who knows, perhaps one day you will even manage to unlock its power and control it.  We will continue as if nothing has happened.  The fey are long-lived and will not care that it is taking you longer than others to master these powers – as long as you continue to try.”

“I will do as you bid, master, of course, and as always,” replied Thia formally.

“There is only one problem as I see it,” responded Alandriel with a wry look on his face.

“What’s that?” she inquired.

“I’m afraid this means you’ll have to continue to fail in front of Galadrethin.”

“Well,” she said, “perhaps I can use that as a source of power to drive my explorations of the power of the Orators.  It certainly seemed to work in the past.”

Alandriel grinned.