Chapter 1
Chesta Allushe learned early on in life that independence was more important than anything else. He gained knowledge through trial and error: if you were late for dinner, you weren’t fed; if you were caught in the Master’s workrooms, you were thrown out; if you showed yourself when company was around, again you weren’t fed. This was not a house meant for children, and it was his privilege to be there--he had no right to question the master’s rules. He didn’t even have the right to ask what the rules were. But he soon discovered that as long as he stayed hidden until mealtime, he would be fed. As long as he stayed invisible, as long as he didn’t go where he was not wanted, the master would continue to ignore him steadily, and no harm would come to him.
The master of the grand house was, in fact, Chesta’s uncle, Duke Westner. When Chesta’s parents died, there was nowhere else for him to go. He had been abandoned in this mansion of tall marble corridors and seamless silk drapes. The master had never once spoken a word to him, or of him, and had only glanced in his direction once that Chesta remembered. The servants were similarly not permitted to talk to him--they merely shoveled food onto his plate, or dragged him out of places he was not meant to be. Everything within the house resented him, and he felt that hatred, wore it like a skin. Sometimes he felt that it was suffocating him, and he tossed in the large bed, crying softly into the thick pillows.
His life continued this way until he was eight years old--when the Sorcerers came.
Folken drew the thick black cloak more tightly around him. The wind was only mild that evening, but it tugged at the fabric like the pull of curious, searching eyes. It had been a long time since he’d been outside the Sorcerer’s sanctum, and in the open he felt bare and self-conscious despite the stifling cloaks. He was dimly aware of his metal appendage tightening in anxiety; it made a soft squealing noise.
Several steps ahead of him, another cloaked figure glanced over his shoulder. “Relax, boy,” he grunted, though his pale gray eyes were crinkled with amusement.
“Yes, sir.” Folken inhaled deeply and held it, attempting to clear his mind as he’d been taught. Slowly he released his breath, and then hurried to catch up to his master. They were among only a few travelers on that sun-bathed street, on their way to Westner Manor. The air here tasted stale. Folken was only vaguely sure of their business to be conducted: they were visiting the Duke in order to meet his young nephew. For what purpose, he didn’t yet know. But he assumed that its importance was great, as his company, Nolld, left the Sorcerers’ Sanctum even less frequently than Folken. He was, after all, the Grand Steward.
They reached the manor and were shown inside with great courtesy. Folken was internally relieved that they were so well accepted, as he’d anticipated some uneasiness on the part of their hosts due to the fact that they were Sorcerers. But the servants showed no wariness or even surprise at their unannounced visit. He wondered if he perhaps had misjudged his own status in this twisted city.
The Duke received them in his drawing room; Folken disliked the man immediately. There was an air of arrogance and indifference about him, despite how pleasantly he greeted his guests. His dark eyes were sharp and cold. “Now, how may I help you, Gentlemen?”
Nolld raised his head slightly. “In truth, it’s not you whom we have business with,” he said, the deep tones of his voice dwarfing Duke Westner’s airy muttering. “We’ve come to see your nephew.”
The Duke frowned in barely concealed displeasure. “My…nephew, Sir Nolld?”
“Yes. The boy, Chesta Allushe.” He explained no further, waiting for his request to be carried out.
The frown deepened. All the same the Duke called for a servant, and whispered in her ear, “Bring that boy here.” The young woman blinked in confusion but was quick in her task. She returned shortly with the boy in tow.
Folken was surprised when the boy entered, as he was far younger than expected--no more than nine years old, surely. He was thin and somewhat gangly, with limp blond hair that partially covered his ears--it hadn’t been cut properly in some time. His wide blue eyes were surprisingly dull for someone that young. Folken felt a faint pang in his chest: his own youthful brother, Van, would be about this age by now.
“Ah, young Allushe,” Nolld murmured, smiling as if he were greeting an old friend. “Come here.”
Chesta stared at him, blinking slowly, as if he didn’t understand. Even when the Sorcerer repeated his instruction with a gesture, the boy hesitated. He kept glancing at Duke Westner, who did not return that attention.
He’s not supposed to speak, Folken realized, then frowned at himself for having discovered the reason. A memory surfaced, one long since repressed: sitting beside his father’s throne, his young brother in his lap. Van was fidgeting, suppressing a yawn as the endless parade of visitors passed through the royal hall. Both brothers had been instructed not to speak during the assembly. But at some point one of the delegates addressed them. Folken remembered Van’s shifting movements and questioning stare, confused as to whom he should comply with.
Folken smiled ruefully. “It’s all right, Chesta,” he said softly. “I’m sure Duke Westner won’t mind if you speak to us.”
Chesta glanced at his uncle, who was still ignoring the exchange, then looked back to Folken. “Yes, sir,” he said timidly.
Nolld appraised his apprentice with a pleased eye. “Come here, Chesta,” he told the boy once more.
At last Chesta did come forward, quickly and obediently. Nolld lifted his hand out of his cloak, gently touching his palm to the boy’s forehead. His brow knit in concentration. After a moment he recoiled and motioned for Folken to do has he had. “Tell me what you see.”
Folken gulped, strangely unnerved by his master’s quiet, serious tone. Though he’d spent nearly two years studying the Destiny Arts from this man and others, he had never experienced a successful reading. Was this the reason Nolld had brought him here? To read the fate of such a young boy? Certainly whatever destiny had in store for this boy, it would not take effect for many years. From what he’d been taught, to gain an accurate reading would be nearly impossible.
But Nolld was waiting patiently--he had no choice. Folken stepped forward and placed his hand on the boy’s forehead. He felt nothing, even when he concentrated with all his power. He was too distracted by the image of his brother that had come to him earlier. After a moment he slipped his hand back into his cloak. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t see anything.”
Nolld hmphed in a way that seemed to say “thought so.” Folken was expecting him to signal their departure, when abruptly he turned to the Duke and said, “We’re taking the boy.”
Duke Westner didn’t bat an eye. “Good riddance,” was all he muttered.
Folken stared at the man in poorly concealed shock. Though from the moment he’d laid eyes on the man he knew he lacked any concern for his young nephew, to abandon him instantly to total strangers….
He looked to the boy. Chesta did not look hurt or surprised--not even pleased. Folken thought perhaps he didn’t understand, but corrected this assumption when he saw the boy’s eyes. Their blue shade was sharp and attentive; he simply did not care that his owners had switched. He watched Folken expectantly.
Nolld nodded his appreciation to the Duke, and then stood. “Chesta Allushe, you’ll be coming with us. You won’t return here for a very long time, if ever. You don’t need your clothing, books, or any toys you might have; we will provide everything you need. Do you have anything else that you would like to bring?”
“No, sir,” the boy answered without even a thought. Folken’s frown deepened.
“Good. Come with us.” Without waiting a moment longer he turned and began to leave, and Chesta fell instantly into step behind him. Folken quickly followed, without giving the Duke another glance. He stared fixedly at his master’s turned back. What was it? he thought, again feeling the grind of his metal joints. What did he see in that young boy?
Chesta wiped his brow with the back of his hand. It was a meaningless act--his palms were already soaked with sweat. His entire body was covered by its thick stench. His hair stuck to his scalp just as his trousers clung like honey to his legs. All other clothing, including his shoes, had been shed during the battle. The concrete floor was harsh against the soles of his bare, blistered feet. His lugs burned for oxygen, as his muscles were in short supply, and he gasped desperately for air.
Across from him, the captain sipped patiently from a tall glass of clear water. He was two heads taller than his young opponent and perhaps twice his weight--three times his age. Only a thin layer of sweat gleamed on his tanned, leather skin. Chesta didn’t know how long he’d stood here, sword quaking in his grip, facing the man. Hours, most likely. He was far outclassed and without any chance for victory, but he refused to submit. He hadn’t finished his task yet.
“Aren’t you going to attack?”
Chesta swallowed, though his mouth had long since gone dry. “No, sir.”
“Why not?” The captain, whom he had never seen before this meeting and would never see again, raised the glass to his lips once more. He even closed his eyes as he savored the cool liquid. Once he was finished he looked back to his pupil, and found him not an inch moved. “I was giving you an opening.”
“I couldn’t…have taken it…sir,” Chesta huffed, shifting his grip on his weapon. “Not yet…ready.”
The captain laughed, placing the glass aside. “You’ve got a clear head, given your situation,” he remarked, sounding pleased. “But I could end you any time I want. I think you have to assume that every chance the enemy gives you will be the last, and take it.”
“But it wasn’t…a big enough chance. I knew…I couldn’t beat you. It’s only a chance…if I know I can win.”
The captain stared at him, genuinely surprised by his response. “I suppose you’re right, boy. Quite a gambler you are. I’ve seen enough.”
Chesta readied his sword in preparation of the coming attack, even knowing that he was in no condition to defend. As he’d expected, the captain swept through his counters effortlessly. He didn’t yield, though, even when the blow to the back of his neck pulled darkness over his eyes.
--
“Hey, the kid’s waking up.”
“Hey, let me see.”
“Stop pushing.”
“Shut up--he’s trying to rest.”
Chesta’s eyes fluttered open, exposing his eyes to harsh white light. He squinted against the brilliance. “Who’s there?” he called weakly, hoping that the voices would stop or at least lower in volume. His head was pounding.
“It’s Dallet,” a voice on his left said, as someone else hushed the other boys silent. “Are you okay? You look like shit, man.”
Chesta rubbed his eyes, then opened them fully. Half a dozen trainees were crowded around his bunk, watching him with wide, fascinated eyes. He frowned at their enthusiasm. “What’s going on?”
“You made it!” and exceptionally skinny youngster exploded beside him. “Look--look at your name!” He held up the nameplate that usually hung from his bed. There was a red line beneath the lettering. “You made it!”
Chesta sighed, relaxing far more easily now. The excited murmur that spread through the boys didn’t bother him. I made it. I’m going. His lips turned in a smile--a faint, satisfied smile. He glanced up at Dallet--the only really familiar face among them. “Who else?”
“Just you and the Muro brothers,” he replied, grinning in congratulations. “My test isn’t for a while yet. How was it?”
“Not as bad as I thought,” Chesta admitted, though his memory was somewhat blurred. He was too tired to think properly at the moment. But the boys pressed in around him, demanding to know what had transpired within the sealed room. As he’d been sworn to silence before the test, he couldn’t say much. He was starting to feel dizzy from their constant inquiries, when at last a distraction saved him: the door at the end of the barracks opened. Everyone looked up, as if it was a superior officer they’d be forced to attention. Chesta craned his neck to get a better look.
What stepped inside, however, was not a soldier, but a young man similar to themselves--tall, about fourteen, with unkempt sandy blond hair. His blue eyes were shining with defiance as he glared at the man who’d brought him: a Sorcerer.
Chesta sat up so fast that his head spun; he braced himself against Dallet’s arm to stay steady. He recognized that Sorcerer. Though it was only an encounter shared once, years ago, he remembered the sharp eyes. He wanted to speak but his voice failed him.
The Sorcerer spoke a few short words to the youth at his side, then left suddenly. Chesta’s lips moved. He didn’t even know the man’s name, who he was or his position, but he had wanted to thank him. He did so silently, inside himself, expressing his gratitude for having been brought to this place.
“Hey.” Dallet eyed him with curiosity. “Do you know that guy?”
“No, not really,” he replied. He lay back down on his back, smiling almost secretively. “He…took care of me once.”
The other trainee didn’t quite understand, but he didn’t question. He glanced at the new boy. “I wonder where he came from?”
Chesta closed his eyes. “You can ask him, okay? I’m still exhausted.”
“Yeah, sure. Get some sleep--you’ll leave tomorrow.”
“You’ll be with me.” He smiled, knowing that the other boys were watching. “We’ll all go together.”
Twenty-four hours later Chesta was sitting in a small, cramped chair at a table that was too big for him, dressed in full uniform and eating the chef’s rendition of beef stew. Whether or not any form of meat was present in the dinner concoction had been called into question all along the banquet tables. Chesta didn’t care. He was still mildly recuperating from his testing the day before, and all the procedures and questions hours earlier. Even the foulest meal-substitute was welcomed nourishment for his every-growing body.
All around him the other boys shoveled the stew into their mouths in a similar, cringing fashion. They chatted excitedly around mouthfuls. The banquet that evening was in reality a graduation ceremony--the testing the day before a type of placement exam. Most of the 100 boys would stay for another year of drills, workouts, and tests. A few, like Chesta, would be admitted into the army under General Adelphos as active troops. After four years, Chesta was moving on. It wasn’t that he wanted to be a soldier, or that he disliked the Junior Training Facility he’d been living in. He was simply looking; for what, he had no idea. New faces, maybe. New people to see, to watch. New voices to listen to.
Chesta looked down the table, smiling at the enthusiasm on the faces of the other boys. They were talking and laughing; it was odd, watching them act their age. Or, he assumed that was how they should be acting. Simply, like this. He was glad to see them all at ease.
A boy seated himself across from him at the table. Chesta gazed at him in mild surprise, as he hadn’t known the space to be unoccupied previously. It’s that the boy the Sorcerer brought in yesterday, he realized. The blond teen was gulping down the stew as quickly as his hand could raise the spoon to his mouth. Despite this frantic pace Chesta noticed that not a drop marred his face or the table; he was taking care not for the sake of his appearance, but so that none would be wasted.
Chesta couldn’t help but stare. He’d never seen anyone enjoy a cafeteria meal with such voracity. The boy couldn’t have been part of the squadron; though Chesta admitted he didn’t know many of the others, somehow he seemed different. The boy didn’t look up as he ate, as if oblivious to the commotion surrounding them.
“Attention.” The stiff voice halted all conversation along the tables, as the soldiers quickly turned their focus toward the hall’s end. All except for the blonde across from Chesta. He continued to eat--loudly, as he was now the only one in the hall moving. Without thinking Chesta reached out and took the boy’s wrist to halt him. The boy glared at him in bewilderment, but quickly sobered when he finally noticed the fallen silence. He also turned his gaze.
Standing on a small pedestal at the mess hall’s furthest edge was a tall, burly man dressed in full armor, sporting a dark mustache and beard. Chesta recognized him instantly as General Adelphos, commander of one fourth of the Emperor’s army. It was into this man’s troops that he was transferring.
“Congratulations on another year,” the general declared, his voice filling the immense room. “I’ve been told that you all fought well during the testing. I look forward to commanding those of you that passed.” He paused, looking as if he were about to eat something distasteful. “I’d like to introduce to you Sir Nolld. He and his people will be assigning you to a transport.”
From a shadowed corner stepped a man bound in black cloaks--a Sorcerer, with silvery gray hair and pale, gleaming eyes. Chesta recognized this man, too. What’s going on? he wondered as a dull murmur spread along the table. What is a Sorcerer doing here? They usually don’t have anything to do with the army.
“Each of you will gather your personal things and meet at the transports,” the general continued. “You will receive a card that will tell you which to take. If you attempt to switch cards, you will be severely punished,” he added seriously. “Now get yourselves cleaned up.”
The boys wiped their faces on sleeves and napkins and stood from the table. Except for the new blond kid: he continued to eat until every last drop of stew had been devoured. He returned Chesta’s bewildered stare with one of his own. “What?”
“Oh, uh, nothing,” Chesta stuttered out. He ducked his head and joined the crowd that was surging for the door.
