This was the quad, where his friends and he spent many hours lounging when chores, adepts, and other students failed to beckon.
The quad was also where the Spring and Fall Festivals were held each year. The Spring Festival had only been a moon ago, the square decorated with all the new blossoms the students could gather. He could still remember the exhibitions of martial prowess by the adepts, reenacting the great battles of the land. They heard tales of the Crystal Mountains and the dragon Rai’kesh, of the Battle of Ice at Dawnlight, and of Argus the Sunlord and the Rending of Shornhelm.
The adepts performed feats of strength, speed, and agility that would have left most in stunned silence. They reduced a boulder to a pile of rubble, shattered by an adept’s withering palm, or leapt through rings of fire while extinguishing candle flames with thrown darts at fifty paces. It seemed nothing lay beyond their honed expertise. They were forged by their training to be weapons of the most lethal sort: ones that could think.
He cursed himself for daydreaming, then ran across the green expanse and made his way up the many levels to his master’s chambers without breathing hard. He took his stamina for granted, a luxury only the young did not fully appreciate. He found his master’s door ajar and after knocking discreetly, he entered. He bowed as his master turned from the open window.
The sun was setting over the Shattered Sea, spilling red-orange light into the room. Arek could feel a strong breeze whip through, ruffling some of the dry parchment held down by a weight on the desk. He had forgotten how high up his master’s quarters were. Somewhere the sound of a gull cawing added to the serenity of the scene. Arek drank in the sea air, its coolness slowly easing the anger he had held at Piter.
Silbane moved to a chair, motioning for him to sit across from him. “Tell me, Apprentice, what do you know of Bara’cor?”
Arek, not surprised by the question, raced to dredge up all he could from the name. His master often tested him this way, pulling something from a lesson taught many years ago. His frustrations at the many events of this day were forgotten as the information came flooding into his mind. That seemed another of his peculiar talents. He could remember anything he saw or heard with perfect clarity.
Clearing his throat he began, “It is a fortress on the western edge of the Altan Wastes. Legend has that it was built by the dwarven lords. It defends the pass to the lower plains and the capital city of Haven.
“It is currently held by King Bernal Galadine, with an unbroken lineage that can trace its ancestors back more than two hundred years, to the summoning and defeat of the demonlord, Lilyth. Mikal Galadine enacted the King’s Law then, which put people with Talent, people like us, to death.”
He paused for a moment, thinking if there was anything else he knew. “It is said the Galadine line runs strong in the Way, and every Galadine has magic to some degree, whether or not they choose to acknowledge it. I doubt this, however.” Arek watched his master, waiting for any remark.
“Really? Why?” countered Silbane.
“If you have power, why not use it? I cannot believe the Galadines could be so strong in the Way and still reject its might. More likely they are mundane.”
Silbane looked out over the Shattered Sea before replying. “Having power doesn’t require its use.”
“Easy to say, for those
with
power,” countered the younger apprentice. He knew his master encouraged debate as a way of learning, and therefore said what was on his mind.
“Perhaps,” Silbane said, looking sidelong at his apprentice, “but forbearance is also a sign of strength.” He sighed, then stood up. “Bara’cor stands as you said, guarding the pass to the lowlands and though no longer inhabited by dwarves, still contains many mysteries.”
Silbane moved over and picked up the book on his desk, opening it to a
The quad was also where the Spring and Fall Festivals were held each year. The Spring Festival had only been a moon ago, the square decorated with all the new blossoms the students could gather. He could still remember the exhibitions of martial prowess by the adepts, reenacting the great battles of the land. They heard tales of the Crystal Mountains and the dragon Rai’kesh, of the Battle of Ice at Dawnlight, and of Argus the Sunlord and the Rending of Shornhelm.
The adepts performed feats of strength, speed, and agility that would have left most in stunned silence. They reduced a boulder to a pile of rubble, shattered by an adept’s withering palm, or leapt through rings of fire while extinguishing candle flames with thrown darts at fifty paces. It seemed nothing lay beyond their honed expertise. They were forged by their training to be weapons of the most lethal sort: ones that could think.
He cursed himself for daydreaming, then ran across the green expanse and made his way up the many levels to his master’s chambers without breathing hard. He took his stamina for granted, a luxury only the young did not fully appreciate. He found his master’s door ajar and after knocking discreetly, he entered. He bowed as his master turned from the open window.
The sun was setting over the Shattered Sea, spilling red-orange light into the room. Arek could feel a strong breeze whip through, ruffling some of the dry parchment held down by a weight on the desk. He had forgotten how high up his master’s quarters were. Somewhere the sound of a gull cawing added to the serenity of the scene. Arek drank in the sea air, its coolness slowly easing the anger he had held at Piter.
Silbane moved to a chair, motioning for him to sit across from him. “Tell me, Apprentice, what do you know of Bara’cor?”
Arek, not surprised by the question, raced to dredge up all he could from the name. His master often tested him this way, pulling something from a lesson taught many years ago. His frustrations at the many events of this day were forgotten as the information came flooding into his mind. That seemed another of his peculiar talents. He could remember anything he saw or heard with perfect clarity.
Clearing his throat he began, “It is a fortress on the western edge of the Altan Wastes. Legend has that it was built by the dwarven lords. It defends the pass to the lower plains and the capital city of Haven.
“It is currently held by King Bernal Galadine, with an unbroken lineage that can trace its ancestors back more than two hundred years, to the summoning and defeat of the demonlord, Lilyth. Mikal Galadine enacted the King’s Law then, which put people with Talent, people like us, to death.”
He paused for a moment, thinking if there was anything else he knew. “It is said the Galadine line runs strong in the Way, and every Galadine has magic to some degree, whether or not they choose to acknowledge it. I doubt this, however.” Arek watched his master, waiting for any remark.
“Really? Why?” countered Silbane.
“If you have power, why not use it? I cannot believe the Galadines could be so strong in the Way and still reject its might. More likely they are mundane.”
Silbane looked out over the Shattered Sea before replying. “Having power doesn’t require its use.”
“Easy to say, for those
with
power,” countered the younger apprentice. He knew his master encouraged debate as a way of learning, and therefore said what was on his mind.
“Perhaps,” Silbane said, looking sidelong at his apprentice, “but forbearance is also a sign of strength.” He sighed, then stood up. “Bara’cor stands as you said, guarding the pass to the lowlands and though no longer inhabited by dwarves, still contains many mysteries.”
Silbane moved over and picked up the book on his desk, opening it to a
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