Red Bearers Blood: Chapter 2

        Vahren wiped the sweat from his brow with a hand that shook from exhaustion. The spell was not a complicated one, but he concentrated on it as if his life depended on it. In a way, it did. The prolonged intense focus and his nerves were beginning to take their toll on him, though.

         “Perhaps you should take a break?” Athelyte Dhoma's nasally voice broke through his concentration making him momentarily lose his connection with the Sidhe. “You're starting to look pale.”

         “No!” Vahren's own voice sounded harsher than he intended, but he could not stand the pitying tone in his instructor's voice. It was the same one he had endured for most of his life. “No, I'm fine. I can do this. I just need to concentrate.”

         Vahren stood in the middle of the ashefore ring, and straightened himself up to his full five feet and eleven inches. Even then, he was nearly a full foot shorter than the man standing across from him. The other man had close-cropped hair while Vahren's was shaggy and in need of a cut. While his instructor wore well-made linen robes, Vahren made due with the burlap and wool given to Keep servants. Even the older man's demeanor seemed more worldly and authoritarian than Vahren could muster with his limited seventeen years of life. Even still, Vahren's pale blue eyes stared back without flinching. This was not something he could be dissuaded from.

         “I know you can, son. Is it really worth your health, though?”

         Vahren did not answer. There was no answer he could have given that would have wiped the look of doubt and sympathy off of the man's face anyway. The simple truth was that it was worth his health and more if passing this test finally got people to see him as more than someone to feel sorry for. In replace of an answer, he refocused on the spell.

         “Okay, Vahren. Okay. If you are determined, then do it right. Clear your mind of everything. Only when it is empty will you be able to sense the Sidhe.”

         Vahren did as his instructor said, and forced all thought out of his mind. It was not an easy thing to do with so much riding on this test, but he managed it anyway. The dimly lit interior of Athelyte Dhoma's workroom faded from his sight as he closed his eyes. The rich, pungent scent of the ashefore tickled his nose until he forced it out of his mind. Even the bustling sounds of the town market outside eventually vanished as he blocked it all out. When there was nothing left; not even the thought that he had to block out everything; the connection to the Sidhe came to him.

         Holding onto that connection was like trying to move fog or unravel a spider web; it could be done, but only with the most careful and precise of actions. With the connection made, Vahren could tell there was enough Sidhe energy present to work the spell. The disconnected part of him that could still think knew it was because of the ashefore circle he was standing in the middle of. No one knew why the ground up herb drew Sidhe energy to it, but every practitioner of magic took advantage of it.

         Carefully, Vahren began to exert his will upon the gathered Sidhe. It was a delicate process. The Sidhe could be influenced to create or do almost anything, but it was not as simple as telling it to make a ball of fire or levitate a chair. The Sidhe could only follow simple commands; move this way, form into this shape, gather here, heat up or cool down. To do anything complicated, the practitioner had to break it down into simple steps, forcing their will onto the Sidhe the entire time. Doing it carelessly could cause just about anything to happen, and had been the cause of more than a few catastrophes.

         The Patronage believed the Sidhe was a divine gift from the High God; the leftover ethereal force he had used to create the universe. Others, like Athelyte Dhoma, were not so sure of that explanation. Those willing, and foolish enough, to go against the Patronage's official stance usually claimed it was some natural energy source produced by the planet itself. After all, even the Patronage admitted that Sidhe and magic had not existed until man had made the exodus from Nemesis to Nirvana.

         With the Sidhe ready to follow his commands, Vahren began to shape it into the form he needed. He could have chosen any form; just about anything would have been considered complex enough to pass the test. He had more to prove than others, though. Especially to himself.

         Once he had the Sidhe into the form he wanted, he began the more difficult task of forcing it into a frequency that could be observed. Normally, Sidhe was invisible to the human eye. Effects caused by it could be seen just fine; a roaring fire brought to life by having the Sidhe heat up, or ice forming on water as it super-cooled; but the Sidhe itself remained unobserved in its natural state. The energy existed almost everywhere on Nirvana in varying concentrations, but most humans were oblivious to its presence. Making it visible was one of the basic tests for anyone wishing to be admitted into the Collegiate of Holy Study.

         With disciplined concentration, Vahren manipulated the Sidhe into becoming visible. It required him to will the Sidhe into changing its frequency into a spectrum that could be observed. The test was in breaking down such a complex action into simple commands the Sidhe could follow. Even with having studied the appropriate commands, the spell was more intuition than simply following steps. Commanding the Sidhe was not as easy as speaking to it. It did not understand words, or really even thoughts. It reacted to will alone. Those with strong will and sharp intuition were the only ones who could perform magic.

         Slowly, the form Vahren had instructed the Sidhe to take began to materialize in front of him and Athelyte Dhoma. At first, there was just the barest hint of an outline; like the ghost of a bright spot one has after looking away from a powerful light. With growing intensity, though, the form quickly took full shape. Eventually, the glowing form of an ornate phoenix floated four feet in the air. The shape was graceful and full of detail. Vahren had even gone so far as to color the plumage differently from the rest of the bird.

         “Ah, very good, son. Many novices have trouble getting it right on their second or third try, and here you are on your first...” Athelyte Dhoma's words trailed off as the image of the phoenix began to unfurl and stretch its wings. It gave a few testing flaps before alighting into the air. Vahren was able to hold command over the Sidhe long enough for the image to make one full lap around the workshop before it all broke apart and faded away. “Well, I do say. You are full of surprises, aren't you, Vahren? Making a construct move; that is often beyond many senior students.”

         Vahren could barely hear his instructor's words. His heart was beating so loudly and so fast, it blocked out most other sounds. He had to fight to take in breath, and the edges of his vision were lined with encroaching darkness. He felt faint, heavy, and sick all at the same time. It was, unfortunately, a sensation he was all too familiar with. His ailment had caught up with him, after all.

         “Son, are you alright? You overdid it, didn't you?” Athelyte Dhoma's hand rested upon Vahren's shoulder, directing him to a nearby chair. Vahren hated the pitying tone in the older man's voice, but gladly accepted the chair anyway. “You push yourself too far, Vahren. Any shape would have done, and animating it was not part of the test. Why go so far, when you know what heavy exertion does to you?”

         “Because... I... could.”

         “Those fortunate enough to live long enough to gain some wisdom quickly realize that just because you can do something does not mean you should, Vahren. I pray you are blessed with such an epiphany one day. Now, let's see about getting you some water, and you need to rest.”

         “Don't... don't try to... distract me.” Vahren's words came out between shuddering breaths. He knew his instructor was right. He needed to rest. Even the exertion of speaking could exacerbate his condition making it much worse. He had to know, though. Passing into a comma for a few days would almost be worth finding out. “Did I... pass... or not?”

         Athelyte Dhoma stood up straight, and looked down at where Vahren sat for a minute. He could see the older man weighing his options, and knew that his instructor would have much rather fail him than admit to his passing; for more reasons than the obvious. Whatever else the aging mage was, though, dishonest was not one of them. His pursuit of truth is what had lead him to the difficult life of an Athelyte to begin with.

         “Yes, you passed. Admirably so. Making a construct that was not only visible but also able to move proves your aptitude. Although, the image was faded a bit and you were only able to hold it for half a minute. To your benefit, however, the test only requires it to be observable to the naked eye for at least 10 seconds. Whatever my feelings towards your foolish goals, I have to admit that you passed.”

         “Then... then you will write my recommendation?” With his breath starting to come easier, Vahren straightened up in the chair. He was not quite ready to stand up, just yet, though. Every muscle in his body still felt weak and shaky. “You will write to the Collegiate informing them I was able to pass the admittance test?”

         “Son, I mean this with the utmost fondness, but I do not think that would be wise.” Athelyte Dhoma once again placed his hand upon Vahren's shoulder; this time more as a gesture of comfort than to steady him. To Vahren, it felt more condescending than anything else, though. “I am just an Athelyte, after all. My word is not very fondly thought-of in the Collegiate, and especially not with the Patronage.”

         “You know that doesn't matter. Any practicing mage may administer the test, be they a Patron mage or an Athelyte.”

         “Why not get Patron Ignar up at the Keep to do it? I think you should ask him, as his word would surely carry more weight.”

         Vahren could not help but wrinkle his face in disgust at the mere mention of the man's name. Patron Ignar had never been anything other than critical and dismissive of him ever since he was a child, and had been very vocal of his low opinion of Vahren. Asking him to administer the test would have been an effort in futility, and even if the man had agreed he almost certainly would have denied writing the recommendation regardless of whether Vahren passed or not. There was very little the man would ever willingly do to help Vahren out, and a great deal he would do to hold him back.

         Athelyte Dhoma knew Patron Ignar well, and also knew the state of his and Vahren's relationship. The Athelyte and the good Patron had no love for each other, either, come to that. His instructor only suggested it as a way of denying Vahren by proxy. Something Vahren was not about to allow.

         “That is not an option, and you know it. Look, you said I passed the test. You know any mage's word is good enough to at least get me seen by the Collegiate admittance staff. That is all I need.”

         “No, that is just what you think you need.” With a heavy sigh, Athelyte Dhoma lowered himself down into a second chair. When he finally looked at Vahren, his face held that same sickening mix of sympathy and doubt that made Vahren want to scream at the man. Years of practice had tempered him against such actions, however. “I know you think you can do this, and I know why you think you need to. The truth is that you have no idea how hard study in the Collegiate is, though. They will give no special treatment to you just because of your condition.”

         “And I have asked for none.”

         “Ask or not, without it we both know how you will struggle to keep up. The Collegiate and its rigorous training simply isn't suited for you. I know what it is like there first hand.” Athelyte Dhoma had, of course, studied there himself. Almost all mages upon Nirvana had. The Collegiate was run by the Holy Patronage, and the Patronage liked to claim full dominion over all things pertaining to magic and the Sidhe. There were no other institutes of study for magic. The Patronage would never allow it. You could break from the Patronage once you had completed your study, if you truly wished a life of ostracization and being a pariah. If you wanted to learn magic in the first place, though, it had to be from the Collegiate of Holy Study. “There is no breaking from their rigid structure, and no consideration given for anything that does not fall directly in line with their beliefs. Are you really sure you want a lifetime worth of that?”

         “Is there any other alternative open to me? Can I learn all I need to know to become a respectable mage from you? From anywhere else other than the Collegiate?” The older man simply shook his head. The answer was obvious to both of them. “Then I am absolutely sure that this is what I want. Look, I know that you think I cannot do it. I've known my whole life how much people doubt me. I'm not asking you to believe in me. I'm just asking you to write me a recommendation, and let me worry about whether or not I can do it.”

         Vahren stood up and looked straight into his instructor's eyes. He willed all of his determination, commitment, passion, and desire to show in his own pale blue gaze. His entire future depended upon what this one man decided right here and now, and Vahren had worked far too hard for this opportunity to let it pass him by now.

         The two of them stayed that way for several minutes, neither of them looking away. Athelyte Dhoma sat there, studying his pupil; trying to find either proof that he was right in his assessment of the young man before him or evidence that he had underestimated Vahren's potential. Vahren stood there, letting him; determined to give the older man as much time as he needed to make the right choice.

*{*}*

         Vahren stood outside the door to Athelyte Dhoma's shop, gazing absently at the darkening evening sky. At this time of day, most of the servants and workers who would have been out shopping earlier had already made their purchases and headed home. There were a few stragglers and the shopkeepers themselves closing up, but for the most part he had the street to himself. The solitude was welcome, given his current mood.

         He absently chewed on a bit of straw he had found somewhere while letting his mind wander over the days events. The morning had dawned with such promise, only for it to be ending on such a low note. There were still hours left before his day would truly be over, but he held little hope that things would change for the better. On the contrary, if the day kept up its current trend, things would only continue to get worse.

         “Hey, Ren! Hey, you ugly bastard! It's about time you finished up!” Vahren managed a smile as the young man yelling at him from across the street ran up. Tall, long-haired, and muscular in a lean sort of way, few would have guessed the two as friends. In truth, Arman was easily Vahren's oldest and dearest friend. Despite seemingly cut from different cloth, the two had forged a bond back when they were but toddlers running around the Keep as their mother's went about their servant duties.  Arman had always been the roguishly charming one, even when they were younger; a tradition he had kept up well into their current age. “It feels like I've been waiting for your sorry ass for hours! I've had to start entertaining myself to keep from dying of  boredom.”

         “And I feel for every female in a three block radius.”

         “Oh, they liked it. Only about half of them tried to knee me in the crotch this time.”

         “Only half? Must be losing your touch, Arman.” Vahren walked out to meet his friend in the middle of the road. There was nothing more at Athelyte Dhoma's shop that he could do to improve his situation, and he suddenly had a strong urge to be as far away from it as he could. “Come on. Let's get out of here before the other half come to their senses and return to get in their shot.”

         “Woah, woah, woah. We're not going anywhere until my friend and future master mage fills me in on the details.” Arman stood in front of Vahren; his hands out in front of him in a dramatic pose as if he was trying to stop a run-away bull. “So, did you pass or not? You did, didn't you? I know you did! Probably aced that test so hard that old bastard wants to start paying you for lessons.”

         “Yeah, I passed.”

         “Wait. What do you mean 'Yeah, I passed'. That's it?” The two of them had been friends for as long as either could remember. Long enough for Arman to quickly pick up on Vahren's black mood. “You've been spending every free moment with that kook of a mage studying for this test. Every word out of your mouth for months has been about passing it! When regular, healthy, well-endowed men are having dreams of women, you have devoted all of yours to just one thing; this test. Now, you say 'Yeah, I passed' like it's suddenly nothing? What gives?”

         “Look, I don't want to talk about it right now. Can we just get up to the Keep before we're late?”

         “Oh, no. You're not getting out of it that easily. It's something that wannabe mage did, isn't it? Did he make a pass at you? Oh, by Sainted Teekan, did he touch you in a naughty place, because I knew he had a distinct feel of pervert about him.”

         “You would know.”

         “I would. I thought I saw him at our weekly meetings at the perverts guild.” The two young men had started walking down the road towards the Keep, and the way was mostly empty for them. All save for an old woman who looked up from putting away her wares and stared at them scandalized. Arman simply winked at her in his usual carefree manner. “Which reminds me, I need to pay my dues.”

         “Is it scary that I actually believe you would belong to such a guild, if it existed?”

         “No more so than how you keep dodging the question. Come on, for real. What happened?” Stopping in front of his friend, Arman once again put out a hand to stall Vahren. Many years in his presence had long since taught Vahren that it would sooner be easier to get Arman to swear off women and join the Patronage than it would be to get him to stop prying. In the end, it was almost always easier to just give in and spare himself the hours of annoying questions.

         “It's nothing. Athelyte Dhoma just hasn't agreed to send the recommendation to the Collegiate.”

         “It's... it's nothing?! Are you kidding me? By Behinder Levi's left testicle, that is not nothing!” Arman's voice easily carried back to the old woman, who once again stared at the two young men as if she was hoping both of them would catch on fire for their blasphemy. “What, old lady? Never seen or heard of a testicle before? If you want, I can show you mine.”

         “Arman, leave her alone, and stop making such a big deal out of this!”

         “Ren, don't tell me not to make a big deal out of this. We both know how much this meant to you, so don't go acting like this is nothing.” Arman put both of his hands upon Vahren's shoulders, and looked him directly in the eyes. There was sympathy there, but not the usual kind that made Vahren sick to his core. Just the sympathy of a friend worried for another. “That old bastard really said no to sending the recommendation, even after you passed? Can he even do that?”

         “He didn't exactly say no; just that he would think about it. And he can do whatever he likes, considering he is an Athelyte.”

         “Non-believing, heretical bastard is what he is. Not sure what there is to think about. You pass the test, he writes the recommendation. Nothing more simple than that.” Arman looked from his friend back down the road the way they had come. Athelyte Dhoma's shop was still only a few buildings away. “Actually, I take that back. Beating him until he writes the recommendation is simpler.”

         Vahren managed to grab his friend by the shoulder and spin him around to face away from the mage's shop. He had no doubts over his friend's courage and more than a few of the other serving boys had learned Arman knew his way around a fight, but no sane man tried to get into a boxing match with a trained mage. The Sidhe could be made to do almost anything, if given a strong enough will; including turn a man inside out and leave him to dry before the first punch could even be thrown.

         “Leave it be, Arman. You going get yourself killed won't help my case any. In the end, it is up to the High God's will and fate... and I trust in my fate.”

         “Fate's all fine and good, but sometimes a good beating helps.” Despite his words, Arman reluctantly started walking down the road towards the Keep again. The two of them had already spent far longer at the market than they should have, and being late for their serving duties would get them both a beating of their own. “Don't know why you ever paid that charlatan for lessons, anyway. What's the best you could hope to get from it? Years of more study locked up with a bunch of celibate Patronage mages just so you could become one of them?”

         “Not all Patron mages are celibate, you know? Besides, what else is there for me? A lifetime of drudging in the Keep? Spend my years as nothing more than a servant boy for people who look down on me? No thanks.”

         “And what's wrong with the life of a servant? Our parents were servants, and their parents before them. It may not be paradise, but regular folk like us can't ask for much better. It beats trying to scrape a living out here in the town, after all.”

         “Yeah, because being a servant worked out real well for my mother, didn't it?” As soon as he said the words, Vahren regretted it. Most times, Arman treated him as just another guy; as a friend and an equal. Any time he brought up his mother and the past, though, that same look of sickening sympathy everyone else had shone in his friend's eyes. “Look, I just... I just know I'm meant for something more than... than this! Than just being yet another nameless servant destined to die as meaningless and forgettable as the day I was born. Haven't you ever felt like you could be something more, Arman? Like you could be great, if just given a chance? That you have a destiny, if others would just let you fulfill it?”

         “I feel that way every time I look at Ashlay down in the kitchen. Like I could fill her, if she would just let me.”

         “I said fulfill, you idiot.”

         “Oh, don't you worry about that. She would be plenty full, I can promise you. Arman, the magnificent, has no problems in that department.” Vahren shoved his friend away with a disgusted sound, even as he fought to keep from laughing. Despite himself, he always managed to be cheered up by his friend's antics. Those first few months after the tragedy of his mother's death had been the darkest of his life, and there was a very real possibility he would not have made it through them without Arman there to cheer him up when he was at his lowest. “Don't go getting all pious on me, Ren. You talk of destiny, but we both know what this is about. It's about her, isn't it?”

         “Now you really are being an idiot.”

         “I could say the same of you; fawning after a Setyr's daughter like that. Setyr Brakken would have you flayed alive if he knew how you two keep making eyes at each other.” Arman batted his eyelashes at his friend, receiving another shove for his efforts. “It would almost be worth it, too, if you could actually get that ice queen to let you sample her goods. Five thieves and a rampaging dracolith couldn't get into her undergarments, though. Frigid and shallow as a puddle in the dead of winter, that one.”

         “Don't talk about her, that way. You know nothing about her.”

         “No, my friend, and neither do you. That's my point. She lives in an entirely different world than us. No matter how high you rise in the ranks of the Patronage mages, nothing is going to change that. She will always be nobility, and you will always be...”

         “What? I will always be what?”

         “I love you, Ren. Sainted Teekan knows why, but I do. You need to come down to reality, though. You are always going to be just another child of a peasant serving girl with a tragic past and an unfortunate health impairment. Nothing's ever going to change that. Not to those in charge and definitely not to her.”

         Vahren stood still for a moment, glaring at his friend. The words stung, all the more for them being true. Talent and ability counted, but only so far as it could get you within your own social circle. Nothing counted more than birth, however. For a man born of a peasant woman, his prospects for rising were limited. For one inflicted with a condition that barred him from any strenuous activity, they were even worse. Even if Athelyte Dhoma wrote the recommendation, there was only so far he could go within the Patronage. For his whole life there always seemed to be boundaries holding him back; deciding just how far he could go no matter how hard he tried.

         “I'll walk the rest of the way by myself.” Vahren pushed his friend away again; this time with force and conviction. Without looking back, he quickened his pace towards the Keep. He knew his friend would follow; after all, they both were expected for their nightly chores; but he wanted as much distance between them as possible.

         “Ren! Come on, Ren. I didn't mean it like that! Damn it, Ren, slow down!”

         Vahren kept his pace up, despite the feeling of faintness that began to creep in around the edges. He had already exerted himself far more than was wise today, but at that moment he would have rather pass into a coma than give his friend the chance to see the angry tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Luckily, the Keep was not far up the road, and he was able to pass through the outer doors before his friend ever caught up.

         So far, the day had kept up its downward trend. The night would likely be no better, as far as Vahren could see. In the distance he could see growing black clouds, promising a torrent of rain to make things even more miserable than they already were. With determined resignation, he steeled himself for an evening of demeaning chores; hoping against hope that something would come to change his world for the better.