Disclaimer : I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.
A/N : This story is dedicated to Restrained Freedom, my favorite writer. But I think that he wouldn't mind, if I dedicate this particular chapter to a very special man, who has been my Tornac. He found me when I was lost and taught me that freedom has its own price. To Père-Germain, who believes that none can cage an eagle.
Père-Germain, l'aigle est libre et paie sa liberté au quotidien.
Behind Urû'baen's mighty walls, lives a young, caged eagle, who eagerly awaits for the chains of his cage to be broken. He craves for the day he will spread out his strong wings, and taste the freedom in the sky. He longs to survey the wide land with his fiery eye, to nest on the highest top of the world. But freedom has a price that always must be paid. Always!
The Friend and The Swordmaster.
… The flame was burning earnestly. It had already circled the back left foot of the Lion and was slowly and steadily devouring it. The Lion's tail, already aflame, lashed weakly against his enemy, not managing to threaten him. With a firm grip on his stretched bow, the Warrior unleashed another flammable arrow, barely missing the Lion's body. From the opposite side of the universe the Dragon roared, his burning eyes turning brighter, his long tongue ejected, launching an incredible amount of flames, filling the space between …
With a sweat drenched brow and chest, the King sat up on his bed, gasping. This nightmare dominated his sleep whenever he tried to close his eyes. After so many years of living and ruling, the King of Alagaësia had the least need of sleep; but the rare times he would have his rest, the Warrior was always there to threaten his essence. Let alone the Dragon. The King sprang off his bed and with determined movements put his garments on and approached a carved, wooden table in the middle of the chamber. But before even reaching it, a sudden, ferocious roar, much like the one in his dreams filled his mind.
Shruikan! The King felt the sudden need for destruction, influenced by the nightmare that filled his magic-bonded Dragon's whole being. What do you want, o mighty one?
The harsh roar was repeated, flooding the King's mind with pictures of burning fields and forests, of mangled bodies and shed blood, of destroyed villages and cities.
These dreams! The voice thundered once again in his mind. Burn! Destroy! Death, death! Put them all to death!
At the same instant the King felt hard claws slashing at his back, and a mental stab causing him to grab the edges of the table to prevent falling.
Kill, kill! The Dragon yelled in his mind.
Go back to rest! The King commanded clenching his teeth, and as soon as he caught his breath again he voiced strong, black-magic words and the Dragon's true name compelling him to release him.
The Dragon's rage abated a little since his being filled with more pain than anger. Galbatorix! The Dragon groaned within his mind. Bonded with you to endure! For ever! And then the feeling subsided and the King stood again before the table, panting.
Determinedly, he gripped a silver jug filled with water and emptied it inside a matching basin which rested on the table, creating at the next moment a lazulitic werelight on its wooden top. He left the urn aside and stood stiff.
'Draumr Kópa!'
The next instant, the water in the basin swirled, and once the surface relaxed and became still like a silver mirror, the face of a sleeping youth was revealed. The King bent over the basin, watching him with interest.
'My Warrior …' he whispered sarcastically. 'Are you or are you not the one, son of Morzan?'
The face of the young man and his breath were calm. He had fallen into a deep sleep, his dark brown locks spread on his pillow, his lips slightly opened.
The King relaxed a bit from the previous nightmare and the mental attack of his Dragon. How could this boy be the enemy, threatening to destroy him? The youth had lived for the previous twelve years in his court, had been raised by his most faithful servants, associated only with a few and trustworthy people. After the double loss of his parents, the King had brought him to the palace and arranged for his upbringing; the best of the rooms and servants, the best quality of his garments and meals, the best of the teachers. All these things rightfully belonged to the young noble he was. And not just any noble, but the son of a Rider.
And the young man had proved to be a temperate and undemanding one in his ways of living, but prolific in his mind and skills' improvement. Both were things the King approved of. He devoured the knowledge offered by his teachers and he was eager to study more and become even better. And the King had provided not only the scholars and the volumes of books from the rich library of the palace, but the appropriate weapon masters to train him in the best of the war arts. And the young one had evolved to be a very capable and promising fighter.
The King, wanting to favor him, bestowed occasionally valuable offerings, like the gray foal he had gifted him with on his last birthday, one of the best breeds in the country. Or the fine long bow, of a rare construction and strength and the white horn, bound with silver fittings, the year before. He either organized hunts, where the youth was given the opportunity to stay for a while away from the citadel and be inured to nature, or sent him to a short distant excursion with his most loyal guards. Other than these occasional exits, the youth was never permitted to go out of the castle unattended. And the son of Morzan, even so young, was one of the most capable riders, archers and hunters the King had ever seen, with the potential to become even better.
The king leaned over the basin and concentrated once again on the face of the sleeping youth. The lit candle on his bedside table illuminated him, pouring on his cheeks a pale sheen of light. Ever since he was a tiny child and had been brought to the palace, the King had instructed his servants to leave a light in his bedroom at night. And the boy had got accustomed to the night light and never questioned it, so the King was able to scry on him whenever he liked, day or night.
The monarch observed the face lines of the young man. He held resemblance to his mother, same colour of the eyes, same nose and cheekbones, same shape of his lips. He had inherited part of the woman's striking beauty.
Selena, Morzan's Black Hand, had been one of his most faithful servants. Even though there was a whole team established in her memory and after her appellation, the King had missed her service. Morzan had met her in one of the northern villages of the empire and they had travelled together for quite some time. Obviously, the village girl had fallen for him and the Rider had not missed the opportunity. He had enlisted her in his life and service. This sapling was the fruit of this relation.
His features may have resembled his mother's but when he moved and spoke, the King thought that it was Morzan himself there, returning from the grave. Especially his voice reminded him so much of his father's, at about the same age that the King sometimes felt that the years had turned back and he was still young, starting once again his great adventures with his lost friend and ally.
And the King had kept the boy's parentage mostly a secret, to protect his life. Morzan had hurt a lot of people in his long life and many would like to get revenge on his son. The King had other plans for the son of Morzan. Whether he was the mysterious 'Warrior' or not, he was going to serve his Majesty, in every way he would see fit.
The King ended the spell, and the surface of the water in the silver basin became once again wavy and empty. If the son of Morzan was the 'Warrior', then, who was the 'Dragon'?
The King exited his chambers, and gesturing at four out of the six fully armored guards who kept watch outside his doors to escort him, he started walking the dark, empty corridors of the castle at a brisk pace. Soon he ascended the narrow stairs to the tallest tower of the citadel and stood outside the blackened, oaken doors of his Astrologist's. Using an iron-clad fist, one of his guards banged heavily the doors thrice, before he opened them to let his King pass. Always awake at this hour of the night, the Astrologist stooped over the table with his map spread open on it. The room was dark and the only light, shining on the old man's face and leaving obscure the surrounding walls, was derived from the same map. Seeing the King, the Astrologist rose and then bowed respectfully to him.
'Your Majesty, I was expecting your visit.'
Leaving his guards outside the oaken doors, the King stepped inside and closed them behind him, his eyes fixed on the table. And there, in the middle of the darkened room of the highest tower, on the ancient astrological map, there were standing one against the other, all his nightmares.
For so many years he had watched the two shadows growing, spreading around and covering, obscuring the constellations, represented by the 'Warrior' and the 'Dragon'. But lately, both shadows had begun to acquire a much brighter colour, resembling two luminous clouds. And presently, the diffuse nebulae had condensed into two shiny flames, the first one, the Warrior's, more glowing than the other.
With wary, narrowed eyes the King watched the Warrior's flame throwing flashes against the great, roaring Lion's constellation, the one symbolizing his own dominance. Could the son of Morzan be this flickering flame? And if he was indeed, how could it be possible for the boy to threaten him? Him, the powerful king, the strong fighter, the greatest magician ever existed, a Dragon Rider. The Dragon Rider.
From the first moment he came to his palace, he had granted the boy all the care he deserved as the son of Morzan, as well as his protection. The King had kept the boy's existence a secret. The Captain who had brought him to Urû'baen and all the men of his squad had been obliged to swear oaths in the ancient language that they would never reveal anything to anyone about him. As for the Twin magicians the King had another mission for them. A few weeks after they had returned, he had ordered them to make contact with his enemies, gain their trust and spy on them.
However, all the indications were leading to the son of Morzan. The young man had been born about the same time the first shadow had made its appearance, he had come to the palace at the same time as with the approaching of the shadow, according to the indications of the map and his Astrologist's interpretation. The said shadow had begun to shine at about the same time that the son of Morzan had entered pubescence. And there was always the unanswered question. Who was the 'Dragon'?
With careful eyes the Astrologist watched the King frown at the map on his table. He was very well aware of the suspicions that had caused him to take extra precautions for his own protection, more powerful magical words. And the King might not have been convinced of the Warrior's identity yet, but he, himself was sure about him.
'My King,' the man's certain voice interrupted the King's doubtful thoughts 'those two cannot threaten you, I can assure you of it, as long as they remain separated.'
There had been many times, through all these years, the Astrologist had to reassure his King, but he always returned stubbornly to the same dangerous point, a point that the old man could sense, and disagree with. How could the 'Warrior' be useful to him? How could the 'Dragon' be?
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
The soft pre dawn light, coming from the open window fell on the youth's face, causing his eyelashes to tremble. He woke and sat up on his bed stretching and yawning. The gentle breeze of the last days of summer came along with the first sounds of the courtyard, the first cries of men, the first clang of the swords.
He hurriedly stood, put on his pants and boots and washed his hands and face into the basin, to clear away the remnants of sleep. The Swordmaster would be waiting for him; he wouldn't like to be late. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked for an instant at the silver framed mirror hung on the wall, the only luxury he permitted inside his room.
While growing up, he had instructed his servants to remove one by one all the luxurious items from his quarters, and allowed only fundamental comforts. He knew very well that the King himself welcomed such practices, as he had been brought up in the old ways of the Riders, who highly appreciated the knowledge and magic, but condemned luxurious amenities.
Everyone in the castle knew that the King was in possession of priceless treasures, which were guarded locked in his royal treasury. Most of them were valuable items of the old Kings and Queens; many others, donated by various nobles, to curry favor. But the King himself, never used any. Years ago, the young man had happened to find himself in the King's personal office and he had been taken aback by the monastic simplicity of the room.
Nevertheless, it was not for the King's favor he chose to be plain, but influenced by his Swordmaster's military austerity and the man's simple ways of living, he tried in every occasion to imitate him. Tornac was one of his teachers, his personal trainer, but in the years they had spent together a more special relationship had been established between them. Tornac was his mentor, his advisor, his trusted older friend who always would be there, to discuss any matter with him.
With a critical eye he examined his lean, well built form, the muscles having started to appear on his arms, chest and belly, some extra height, new hairs here and there. His body had already begun to change, the boy giving way to a young man. He turned and examined the scar which separated his back in two.
Did you want me dead, Father?
He clenched his right fist and shrugged several times, then stretched and windmilled his arm, so as to test the muscles of his back. He was lucky; he felt no pain today caused by the previous day's hard training. He put on his shirt and tunic, then sheathed his training sword and grabbed his dagger with the carved, silver hilt; the same dagger the King himself had given him the first day he came to Urû'baen, so many years ago. He still remembered that day very clearly.
The King had stood upright before the dais of his throne and was looking at him with rising interest. The Captain who had brought him there, had instructed him to bend his knee and stay still. So had he done. But he couldn't help observing the monarch carefully with a similar interest himself. The King had approached, had raised him on his feet and, friendly, he had welcomed him to his domain. At the moment the tasked servants were getting ready to escort him to his new quarters, the King had stopped them and handed him this very dagger, as a first gift of many. 'Have this dagger, o son of Morzan' the King had said, giving him this one with the silver handle 'and keep it always with you. It belonged to your father.'
A half ironic smile bloomed on his lips.
Father, at least I have something from you, more than my scar.
Skillfully, he tossed up the knife into the air and grabbed its handle again. And then, he could not but remember about the sword, Morzan's other weapon and he unintentionally shivered. Normally, he would have never expected to receive his father's blade as an inheritance, since his father was a Rider who would have had long years to live in front of him, but as the things had turned out and Morzan was dead, he had sometimes entertained the idea of having this sword; the very instrument that had been the cause of such pain to him, the one that had marked him for life, deforming his back. Having possession of it, handling this blade with his own hands, conquering it. But the sword had been lost, stolen from his father's corpse. And if the killer had not taken it with him, the most probable thing is that Zar'roc would be in Morzan's grave now, or in the King's treasury.
He shoved the dagger into his boot, leaving the hilt protrude and turned to the exit, to face the new day.
In the front chamber he was met with an incoming servant who was carrying the large disc with his breakfast.
'So early, my Lord …'
'Good morning Joacum' he said to the old man jovially. 'I'm afraid that you will have to take all this back to the kitchens. Or if you don't want to take the trouble, you had better sit here and finish it yourself. I am in a hurry!'
The servant placed the heavy disc on a table and tried to stop the young man, before he exited the room. He was well aware of his master's habits, but as far as breakfast was concerned, he had his own views.
'Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. If you want to keep on being strong, never miss it. Now, excuse your haste and …'
'Not now, please!' the youth abruptly cut the old man's speech and made for the exit, his nose already having caught the sweet smell of fresh-baked almond biscuits, emanating from the disc. His servant was well aware of his weaknesses too.
'My Lord, have at least some milk' protested the old man and started to pour from the milk jug into a glass. Finally the youth turned round.
'In here, in here!' He grabbed a plain, silver cup with a copper maple leaf inlaid on it which rested on the table and emptying the water into the flower vase, he tended it to the servant. This cup was Swordmaster Tornac's personal present for his last birthday. The youth favored this particular gift and used it on an everyday basis.
Smiling the old servant watched his young master swallow his milk greedily and, not being able to resist, grab two almond biscuits from the plate and run to the exit.
'Have a nice day, my Lord,' he wished him.
Down in the yard, the youth noticed his Swordmaster stand upright, his right hand on his hip, his left grabbing the hilt of his longsword with experienced confidence. The man was wearing only his shirt, his tunic thrown next to the training weapons.
Tornac was facing the east where the sun was about to rise. The youth knew very well that his trainer was exercising the strength of his eyes. Sometimes a warrior had to face his opponent from an inconvenient angle such as sun-wards, so one had better be prepared to cope with it.
'Good morning Swordmaster.'
Without turning to him the man commented with a harsh voice.
'It took you so long to appear. Was this old servant of yours feeding you again?' he turned abruptly and faced his young trainee. 'I've told you – how many times? – I want you with a light stomach, you could eat later.'
'Just a cup of milk, Tornac!' He dared not mention the cookies.
'Milk! I want to see now, how you will be able to fight with your belly full of milk, like some soft-belly kitten.'
The young man pursed his lips and frowned, anger already beginning to stir in his core. The Swordmaster lifted an eyebrow. He liked provoking this young fighter. With his anger to guide him, he was becoming vigorously aggressive, so he fought even more strongly. And once he had pulled the anger out of him, then he had to teach him how to use it wisely, for his own advantage.
'I most definitely am not!' the youth said with dark shinny eyes.
The Swordmaster gave him a crooked smile.
'At least, try not to throw up on my face. Now, attack me!' He was standing with his hands crossed on his chest, his feet slightly open on the ground, his sword hanging from his belt inside its sheath. 'Murtagh! I said, attack me!'
The young man reluctantly attacked him. Tornac was not even touching the hilt of his sword. In an instant his trainer's blade was in his hand and he had repelled the attack. The youth had to admire the man's style, a style that as much as he tried, he had not managed to achieve so far.
'What is this?' Tornac said with a strict voice. 'Are you playing? I said, attack me. Come on, soft-belly, I've just insulted you.'
With much more careful movements this time, the youth drew and attacked. Moments later he found himself with his back against his trainer's chest, Tornac's long blade stuck on his neck, his own sword thrown to the ground.
'How were you able to do this?' he asked with astonishment.
The man chuckled and released him.
'This is what we have to practice today' he said. 'An opponent may attack you in a moment when you are not ready. You must learn how to survive it.' Tornac sheathed his sword and took his previous posture once again. 'Now, attack me again, more slowly, and watch my movements.'
During the next two hours, they practiced this again and again and they changed positions, until the Swordmaster sheathed his sword for good.
'Not bad for the first time' he commented. 'We will have to do it again tomorrow, until you master it. But we are not over for today. I want you again in the yard before the afternoon comes, after you have finished with all those fat scholars of yours. I have arranged something for you.' Tornac smiled, then turned his back and left towards the barracks.
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
The Astrologist was silently passing through the corridors of the castle. He had spent his night watching the stars, he had rested the whole morning and now, early in the afternoon, it was his time of descending from his den. The old man was heading towards the kitchens when his eye caught a gathering in one of the eastern porches facing the courtyard. As he approached the wide, opened doors, he heard men shouting and the clang of swords. He knew very well that this hour of the day the usual occupants of the yard had long finished their training and had gone to the barracks and as his curiosity took the best of him, he exited to have a better look.
Among his fully armored guards and the many bystanders of various nobles, who never lost the opportunity to be around his Majesty, there stood the King of Alagaësia himself.
The sun must have recently abandoned the porch, for a sweet heat, emanating from the marble floor slabs, warmed pleasantly his old body; a thing that the Astrologist found very agreeable. He came closer to his King bowing deferentially and stood beside him. Down in the yard some of the most talented fighters demonstrated their skills in sword-play. There were several of them, but the King's eyes were fixed upon a couple of young men, not more than fifteen. The old man looked carefully and recognized the 'Warrior' as the one of the youths. The King stood silent, the usual calculating gaze on his face. He sensed his Astrologist beside him and seeing that the old man had spotted the object of his attention, he spoke in a low voice only for him to hear.
'He is promising. He could make a perfect Rider.'
The Astrologist was well aware that his Majesty was eagerly looking for a new Rider for one of the last two Dragon eggs he possessed. The old man knew that the King was testing strong warriors and loyal nobles, but until this day neither of the eggs had hatched.
'Your Majesty, you cannot grand him this power!'
The King gave him a sideways glance.
'His teachers inform me that he is brilliant, diligent, studious and zealous in learning and self-improvement.'
'But what about the first flame, your Majesty?' the Astrologist dared to object. As the King did not answer, the old man went on. 'May the son of …'
Rising his hand abruptly, the King cut short his Astrologist.
'It is not my wish for the many to learn his identity.' He nodded towards the guards and a few of minor courtiers, present at a short distance.
The astrologist bowed with submission.
'As you wish my King.'
The King remained silent for a long while, watching with scheming eyes the youths in the yard, fighting each other. The Astrologist could understand that he was measuring the boy of Morzan; in which way he could possibly use the young man better. However, he, himself was totally opposed to this idea. He disapproved of any use he could have, and considered the youth as a potential threat against his King.
After a while the King spoke again.
'He may not be the 'Warrior'.'
'He may be.'
Down in the yard the adolescents went on demonstrating their skills, the Swordmaster shouting instructions to them, about their moves and footing.
'Watch your step Aldon, if you do not wish to find yourself with your back on the dirt' the first one said with conceit.
'I was pretending to be the loser. After all, it is the King on the porch watching you.' The other laughed and thrust, only to be pushed back.
The first youth turned abruptly towards the buildings behind him. Indeed, his Majesty had come to the edge of the porch watching the soldiers sparring into the inner yard. He felt, more than saw the King's dark eyes fixed on him and filled with pride. Tightening his grip on the handle of his sword with both hands he greeted the King, touching the blade to his forehead. At the same moment he sensed his opponent's attack and turned to face him. The youth who was called Aldon thrust against his back, but at the last moment the other managed to parry.
'Show off Murtagh?' Aldon scoffed. 'I will not make it so easy for you this time, King watching or not.'
He appeared to be several months, maybe a year or so older than the other and a fierce opponent. But the younger one looked more flexible, ingenious in his movement and confident about himself. The sparring went on for some more minutes. The winners had already been proved in all the other couples, so the two youths attracted all gazes on them.
'Who is the other, your Majesty?' the Astrologist asked with interest.
'The son of a soldier, serving presently on Gil'ead. His father is a loyal servant of mine.' The King's voice rose a bit. 'A loyal servant himself.'
'He is good' the Astrologist commented, 'but he stands no chance against the other.'
The King half smiled pleased.
'So I can see.'
In a short while, as was expected, the older youth lost. The King and the Astrologist watched the adolescents talking for a while, then separating, the older following the Swordmaster and the younger one heading towards the back of the palace.
'I would like to know him better, your Majesty' the Astrologist stated. 'Perhaps it could be arranged to teach him.'
The King pressed his lips thoughtfully. Should the boy of Morzan be the first flame on his map, the Astrologist might find it out.
'That could be arranged.'
His gaze was still fixed at the back of the youth. The King could imagine where he was going and frowned. He would probably visit the graveyard of the palace, where both his parents had been buried in the same grave. Morzan's grave. His Majesty disapproved of these visits, though he had never forbidden them so far. He didn't like the fact that anyone could see the boy there and suspect his parentage, but the young one had got accustomed to this habit since he was a little child and used to decorate the grave with flowers, notes for his mother, even toys.
The youth turned the corner of the dark stone castle and walked through the gardens to the backside, where a small, graveyard was located, well hidden behind the foliage, with the graves of the past Kings, Queens and of a few senior nobles.
Morzan's grave stood at a conspicuous place of the graveyard, where the King had decreed it be built. He stopped for a while keeping his distance, and looked around him. Tornac would probably scold him for being here and the King would definitely be displeased. The Swordmaster used to motivate him to forget all about his past and focus on his future. With Morzan as his father and Selena the Black Hand as his mother, he was lucky that not many knew about his existence and Tornac preferred the facts to stay like this. His father had many enemies, so had his mother. He knew very well that too. But he was alone there, not a single soul could be seen around, so he came close and placed a rose on the marble; a rose he had earlier picked, as he was passing in front of a flowerbed.
'Mother …' he touched with his palm the cold surface, caressing with his fingers her name. 'Tomorrow I'm becoming fifteen.'
He shifted a small twig, some fallen leaves the wind had stuck there, some dirt covering part of her name.
'Mother, I do remember, I never forget you.'
'Well met, my young Lord!'
The voice ground his ears distracting him from his thoughts. He winced, and annoyed, turned to see the speaker. He had hoped he was alone in there. Where was this man standing a few minutes ago? He recognized him immediately. Lord Sobel was one of his Majesty's loyal servants, one of the minor nobles who surrounded the King, all the time begging for privileges. How, by Gods above, had he learned about him?
Dressed in rich, ostentatious garments and with a gracious movement, the noble approached and bowed to him.
'Young Lord, I was with his Majesty the King presently, watching your achievements in swordplay and I dare say, your Great Father would be very proud of his son.'
He didn't like this man's voice, full of empty flattery, nor the fact that he had mentioned Morzan. All he liked was to be left alone for a few moments with the memories of his mother. But he returned the courtesy and then he stood still.
'The reason of this meeting, my young Lord, is to give you my best wishes for your coming birthday,' lord Sobel said, waving a scented, lace trimmed handkerchief. 'And to invite you to my estate' he went on. 'My dear son, who happens to be just a few years older than Your Grace, would be very pleased to entertain you.'
The youth was ready to thank him, refuse the invitation and just leave this place. It seemed that the few peaceful moments near the grave of his mother, he was craving for, were not meant to be this day. But Lord Sobel grabbed his shoulder and persistently led him to walk with him.
'Of course my invitation is not mentioned for tomorrow, I'm sure a young Lord like you would have too much to do on his birthday. But any other day you wish, my Lord, my humble home is yours. My son would be delighted to show you our horses.' He touched his scented handkerchief on his nose, as if the strong smell of the horsed affected him from so far.
'Horses?' For the first time since their meeting, the youth paid him a bit of attention. His eyes glittered full of interest.
'Of a special breed, my Lord. Much alike the one of Your Grace, I would say.'
Lord Sobel had made a point. He was well aware about this young man's love for horses. With his previous long experience as a courtier, he could sense the rising interest inside him. The youth turned and faced him, his voice full of spirit.
'I would like to come to your estate; I would like to see the horses.' He said with an excited voice, but then he thought better. 'But only if his Majesty approves of this.'
'Oh, but he will. All you have to do, is just ask him.' Lord Sobel advised.
'Ask him? I do not keep meetings with his Majesty very often.' The youth voiced doubtfully.
'Oh! Come now, my young Lord, you should be much closer to the King.' The laced, scented handkerchief waved once again towards the youth's chest. 'After all you are his best friend's son.'
'Am I interrupting something?' Tornac with his strict, military style cut short the noble's bubbling. Both of them turned to see the man standing behind them at a distance, his hands crossed on his chest, a menacing glare in his eyes. With long strides he came closer, his left hand holding the pommel of his longsword still hanging from his belt. Lord Sobel repeated his wishes, bowed again and hurriedly left. Tornac's eyes followed the man, a contemptuous frown on his face. He was well aware of this lord Sobel. His son, a young man of moderate ability, had not a chance of possessing any major position in the Kings court. His father would do anything to promote his case. But the Swordmaster disapproved and disliked the fact that someone had tried to use and manipulate his young trainee who had none to advise and guide him through life.
When the noble disappeared from sight, the Swordmaster turned to his young trainee.
'What did he want?'
'To pay his respect and give his good wishes about my birthday. I wonder … How did he know about me?'
'Oh, he has probably bribed someone who knows. Most of those nobles would sell their own mother for a few coins, let alone some information' the Swordmaster spat. Both of them started walking back towards the monument.
'He has just invited me to his estate' the youth said. 'And you know what? I would like to go. I want to see the horses.'
Tornac chuckled.
'Young man, you know very well about the King's views. It is useless to entertain such wishes.'
The youth sighed bitterly.
'Aye, he keeps me locked inside. As my father did once …' they had reached again the grave of Morzan. 'He did not permit my mother to visit me, but occasionally.' His eyes were shining as he whispered the last sentence. He sat on the cold marble, touching once again her engraved name. 'We craved for each other, but he never cared. He was keeping me locked in his castle.'
Tornac hold firmly his shoulder.
'Lad, there was a reason for it. There is always a reason for everything. By keeping you locked in the castle and secretly visiting you, they probably saved your life. You must be grateful for this.'
The young man turned abruptly and pierced the Swordmaster with his gaze.
'You say that? You? Who know very well what he has done to me? Should I be grateful for this too? For such pain?'
Tornac nodded in understanding.
'I've heard that he was drunk.'
The young man shivered.
'That was not an excuse,' he stated angrily. 'And this fool of a noble earlier said that my father would be proud of me.'
'No' the Swordmaster agreed. 'It wasn't. And, yes, he would be proud. Any man would be proud to have you as a son.' He sat beside his trainee. 'Murtagh, your father was a significant man. Not only because he was the King's right hand man and his personal friend. But he was a Rider and being one he possessed such power a commoner cannot imagine. You should be proud of your parentage.'
The youth's eyes shone, his anger starting to stir inside him.
'What are you talking about? Do not pretend that you've never heard about Morzan's terrible deeds!'
'I said that you should be proud of being a son to a Rider who possessed such power. Using this power … that is another matter' Tornac said. He looked the young man straight in the eye, slightly lowering his voice. 'I am very well aware of your father's deeds, as is everyone else. But, you know, everything depends on the perspective. You, my young man, live in the palace, in the King's court, plus you cannot do something to change the past. So, stop thinking about Morzan's deeds and focus on your own. As for the visit to lord Sobel's estate, you had better forget it. Neither the King will approve of it, nor will I. Period.'
Tornac stood and gestured at his young trainee to follow him. The youth would like to stay a little longer, but it seemed that the Swordmaster was determined to drag him out of there. So he stood and followed.
'It is time to start appraising the people approaching you, Murtagh.' The Swordmaster advised. 'Not all of them will be your friends. Most of them will try to lure you, to gain through you favor of the King.'
'But, you know what, Tornac? This noble was right about one thing. I should be closer to the King.'
The Swordmaster laughed heartily.
'You are too young to be involved into politics yet' he said, understanding the youth's ambitious character, 'but one day you will be in the King's council.'
'How do you know?'
'It is obvious. The King is training you to be one of his generals one day. If not something even more.'
They had already passed the gardens and stood in front of the back entrance of the castle.
'Tomorrow morning I'm not expecting you in the yard' Tornac said. 'Have a day off.' And the Swordmaster turned abruptly and with a quick pace he disappeared, leaving him standing alone.
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
The late afternoon sun was falling on the terrace, warming the stone slabs of the floor with its golden rays. Both the young men had climbed up there – as they used to do very often, looking at the city spreading beneath the castle.
'Tomorrow it is my birthday and my intention is to spend my morning doing something very special' the younger one said and paused waiting for the other's comment.
His friend watched him with rising curiosity, but as he didn't say anything and just nodded, the first one continued with an excited voice.
'I intend to go out, into the city.'
This statement caused the other's chuckle.
'You know very well that the King forbids it. No! You wouldn't dare do this, ever.'
The implied timidity at these ironically said words, made the other stubbornly declare, 'Of course I shall do it.' The youth determinedly fixed his eyes on his friend's, a bold half-smile hanging from his lips. 'Are you coming?'
The other was taken aback, his previous ironic tone already discarded.
'Have you lost your mind? If I ever do something like that, I'm dead!'
'Are you afraid of the King?'
'Aren't you?'
The sharp tones ceased, but both stayed facing each other. At last, the older one whispered with a carefully controlled voice.
'It won't be the King the one who will impale me because he won't have the opportunity. The Swordmaster will do it himself.'
His younger friend gave him an understanding look.
'Very well! If you feel like that, then I'll have to go alone. But that won't be much fun.'
He crossed his hands on his chest and turned his back to his friend, leaning against a battlement of the wall. The setting sun illuminated the city, shedding a red-golden magical color on the roofs, the wide streets and squares of the market under the citadel giving a captivating liveliness. The upcoming night would follow and the city would be covered by an inviting mantle of mystery, a tinge of intrigue the day deprived it of.
He felt a firm hand on his shoulder, his friend's hand, and turned to him again.
'Fine! I'll be there with you,' he said. 'I'm supposed to take care of you. Am I, or am I not your faithful servant?'
The first youth pursed his lips, discontented.
'You know very well that I consider you as a friend.' He turned again to look at the afternoon, sun-flooded city, the gold of the sky taking darker tones of red. 'My best friend!' he whispered softly, as if he was talking to himself. His hands griped hard the stony battlements and he leaned outwards the wall, pretending that the changing of the evening guard - happening at this time by the squad at the entrance of the castle - was the object of his interest, and thus preventing the other seeing the emotion on his face.
The other youth pulled him inside.
'Murtagh, I know that you do not want to be considered a master,' he said with an earnest voice. 'But your intentions won't change the facts!'
The younger sighed.
'I'm going anyway. Tomorrow I'll be fifteen years old. I've lived isolated in the castle almost all the days of my life. It is time for me to go out.'
The other one held both his shoulders amicably and looked at him in the eye.
'You have decided upon it. You are not going to change your mind, are you?'
His friend smiled at him with shiny eyes.
'Just a stroll around the market, Aldon' he voiced with enthusiasm. 'We will put on common clothes, cloaks with hoods. We will look like palace-servants; no one is going to identify us.'
'Won't you think again? If the Swordmaster …'
'Oh, come on now! Swordmaster Tornac is not going to find out. Just for a while, and back again. Do me this favor! It is not that I become fifteen every day. And we are going to see so many things!'
The other seemed to subside.
'I'll escort you if you promise me not to be involved in any trouble.'
His friend grabbed him from the shoulders excited.
'Tomorrow the city and the market belong to us! And have no worry, we are not going to be in any trouble. We are not going to bring with us any weapon, not even a dagger.'
Next morning, the two guards watching the servant's exit of the palace were probably occupied in such a serious discussion between them that neither noticed two young men passing the gates, stooping under the weight of the heavy basket they carried. The two servants, covered in plain mantles, a dark gray the one and a light brown the other, hurriedly turned the nearest corner out of the castle. The day was warm and sunny and nothing could excuse the hood which was lowered to the eyes, worn by one of them. Going for a little while parallel to the walls without being seen, they spirited away among the first trees of the square and there, hidden inside the bushes, they got rid of the 'heavy' basket. The one, wearing the light brown mantle, making some steps towards the paved road, scrutinized the district around him. They were in the most prestigious area of the city and it was early in the morning; the nobles were still in their beds. Seeing no one around, he nodded to his companion that all was clear. The dark hood was lifted, unveiling shiny eyes and a triumphant smile on a happy face. The mantle was opened, revealing simple but expensive clothes. Both young men directed towards the market at a brisk pace.
'We are out!' Murtagh was excited. He let the hood of his mantle fall backwards and lifted his face to the bright, sunny, blue sky.
'Perhaps you shouldn't … ' Aldon started, to be cut short by his friend.
'No! please, do not spoil it.'
The morning influx of the city had already started; soon the young men were united with the multitude of people at the market. The traffic there had already begun, people selling and buying all around them. The trade and the gathering of too many people, made Murtagh feel excited. Aldon was more cautious over his friend's and master's safety. At the beginning the young man was worried and threw cautious glances around them, but soon enough, the constant passage of people and commodities made him relax a bit. There were so many around that it was hard to be spotted. The anonymity of the market offered them adequate coverage for their bold adventure, so he decided to relax and enjoy himself as well.
They looked around them with enthusiasm. Benches full of vegetables, fruits, flowers, meat, grain, leather, clothes, cotton and linen, tools, weapons, jewels, anything a man could need or have in mind were laid in front of them. Finally, what caught their attention was a small group of people gathered around two mimes, folly dressed and climbed on empty, overturned barrels, imitating everyday characters. The youths approached and stood there among the others, laughing at the funny, excessive movements of the old men.
Pleasant time passed for them quickly. They watched the mimes giving a performance. When they got hungry, they tasted the delicious sweets they bought from a confectioner's bench, licking soon after the dripping syrup from their fingers. Then, they satisfied their thirst with the juicy fruits from the bench of a greengrocer, peeking at the girls selling flowers. They noticed them smiling at them as they passed by, and whispering to each other with flushed cheeks. And finally, their attention was elicited by a knife salesman and they stood in front of his bench peering at the merchandise.
Soon, their eyes were attracted by a dagger, placed prominently compared to the rest. It seemed very old and extremely used, its shining hilt confirming the use of the previous owner's hand. But it appeared to be a piece of fine art, with beautiful carvings on the lustrous brass handle.
'Look at this!' Murtagh's eyes glittered, mirroring the metallic gleam of the object of his interest. 'May I?' he addressed the seller, stretching his hand.
The old man held the dagger with utmost care, and placed it on the open palm of the potential customer.
'How exquisite!' the young man admired, looking at the handle and testing the balance between hilt and blade.
'Of the finest quality of steel and craftsmanship' said the seller. 'My dear sir, you have never used a blade like this before, I can assure you.'
'I doubt it' Aldon laughed, gaining an annoyed look from the old man, for his interference.
They were so preoccupied with the dagger-seller that neither one of them noticed a man, dressed as a palace servant, talking to a tall, burly woman at a short distance; neither the menacing glares she gave them both nor that soon after the man left, she nodded to two others, exchanging meaningful whispers with them.
'Who is he? There are two of them,' one of her companions asked.
'The one with the dark mantle, I was told' the woman indicated.
The man looked at the youth with a murderous gaze.
'Stay here and be ready' he said to the woman. 'I'll give you a sign when everything is about to start. He is not going to escape.' He lifted his hood and with hasty steps he approached the youths. As he was bypassing the bench of the dagger-seller, he hit with his shoulder, seemingly by chance, the young man wearing the dark cloak, making him turn abruptly in alarm to face him.
'Hey, watch your step!' Aldon scolded him, but the man was already lost among the passing crowd and they didn't even get the opportunity to see his face. Murtagh paid no more attention to this incident and his interest was once again turned to the dagger he was holding.
'I think I'll give it a chance' he smiled to his friend, testing the edge of the blade. 'I'll buy this.'
The seller was following his customer's interest in the unique object with hidden joy, moving his head in agreement. With his experience, gained out of long years in selling, he had sensed that this young man was not what his plain clothes indicated – plain, but of the finest quality – and assumed a generous payment. No servant's interest would be caught by such an expensive and delicate item, for the simplest reason, he could not appraise or afford it.
The youths exchanged between them a few more comments about the hilt, and the younger one was about to pay for it and gain possession of the dagger when a rancorous, accusatory voice rose above all the other noises of the market, like a menacing cloud obscuring the bright sun above.
'Son of Morzan!'
A/N : I want to assure all the readers that I work on my story on an everyday basis. And not just on this one chapter, but simultaneously on all the others to follow (It seems that the ideas flow). All that I need is your encouragement.
I thank all of you who have read and reviewed, as well as all those who have just read this story, but they had not the time to inform me about their opinion. And I want to remind you that it is your opinion that matters to me. So, please, review.