by B.J. Keeton
Chapter fourteen
Damien Vennar walked around the house he had once shared with his grandson. After the intrusion—the attack—earlier that evening, he had to check to see if anything had been stolen besides his book. It was the middle of the night, and even though his old bones were tired and his joints ached, he could not settle in for sleep. There was too much to do; his mind raced with plans.
From what he could see picking through the clutter, his belongings all remained intact except for the book containing the history he had been recording. Of course, he thought, they take the one thing in the house I can’t bear to part with. His mind moved to Ceril, and he thought, They have a tendency to do that.
Just because the intruders did not take anything besides the book, it did not mean that the house was okay. It was in shambles. In just the short time they were there, furniture had been overturned, shelves had been swiped clean, even his refrigerator had been ransacked—two shelves with perfectly good food had been thrown aside and were now lying directly on the floor.
Angry as he was, the old man marveled at the intruders’ efficiency. Even in his prime, he doubted he would have been able to do better work. What was worse, though, is that he let this happen. He ran. He got scared. He Conjured himself a veil and sat idly while those pretenders took whatever they wanted.
He didn't fight, and that wasn’t like him. It had never been like him until recently.
It had been too long, and he was taken completely by surprise. And on top of that, he hadn't Conjured in about four hundred years. That is, until just a few hours ago. When he had vowed to never Conjure again, he had meant it. He had put the nanites that made up his bloodstream on what amounted to a standby setting, and he had begun to age. He had expected to die within fifty to seventy years from that moment, like a normal person.
Obviously, he had miscalculated. In the give-or-take four centuries since he had distanced himself from the Charonic Archive, Damien Vennar had aged at an extremely decelerated rate. There was no way to shut off the nanites in his body completely, and apparently, even their peripheral energy had been enough to preserve him six or seven times longer than he had wished.
Four hundred years ago, he had wanted to die. But when the opportunity presented itself, he had run like a scared child. When he reactivated the tiny machines that comprised his bloodstream, he felt them go to work within his body immediately, repairing damaged tissue and giving him back the youth he had so willingly and fervently left behind.
The next time he saw Ceril, he doubted that the boy would recognize him, and he was disgusted at the thought. Raising Ceril was the one good thing that Damien had ever done in his life. Ceril was a good boy, a good person. Then the Charons got their hands on him, and there wasn't a damned thing Damien could do about it.
Now, looking at his scattered and violated home, he knew that he would not be able to stay here any longer. Someone had known how to find him. The only people who should have had access to that information were either at Ennd's or aboard the Inkwell Sigil. He doubted, as much as he despised them, that the Charons there would have gone to this much trouble over him, over the book. If they had wanted him to stop writing, they would have destroyed the volume. They would not have stolen it.
Besides, the Charons had what they wanted. They had his grandson, and they had been indoctrinating him for six years.
No, this was someone else, someone different. Someone with a new and different agenda. A cold knot developed in Damien’s stomach, and he knew that he was going to have to start fighting again. There was no doubt that if he hadn’t Conjured when he did, he would have been killed.
To fight, though, he would need a weapon, and Ceril had his sword, a fact that should not have been a surprise to him, but was. The Flameblade had bonded to Damien millennia ago. It had been the first of the weapons to bond with a person. After years of study, Damien and his researchers had discovered how it had happened. The nanites that formed the swords bonded at a quantum level to the unique physical signals his body put out when he was in a heightened emotional state. By learning to control those states, Damien had been able to wield the sword in ways the weaponsmiths had never intended. It was no longer just a well-made sword, a balanced blade that didn’t dull or nick; it became an extension of his body.
And, against his better judgment, he had taught the other Charons the trick.
Deep down, he had known it was just a matter of time before Ceril would bond with the sword, though. There had been the slightest hope that Ceril would go his entire life without ever seeing a Flameblade, ever hearing anything more than a few legends about the Charons in school, that he would live his life in happy ignorance of the life his Gramps had once lived. There was no chance of that now. Nor had there ever been, really, Damien admitted to himself. There was no need for self-delusion, after all. Of course, Ceril would bond with the same Flameblade he had.
Damien had been relieved that the weapon had not just materialized at his grandson’s feet one day, or in his hand, maybe at the market or in the bath. Instead, Ceril had been working in the garden and enjoying himself. The sword was apparently drawn to the boy’s strong emotions and buried itself into the soil near him.
And Ceril had been so young, then, too. Far too young for a Flameblade. Damien had been able to cover up the discovery, telling the boy a hodge-podge of legends and myths that halfway explained how the sword had come to be buried in their garden.
The truth—that the sword belonged to his Gramps, who was really over ten thousand years old and had been kept alive by microscopic machines in his blood—was probably a bit much to handle.
Damien had never felt guiltier about lying to anyone in his life.
These days, Flameblades were hard to come by. Impossible, in fact. He had hidden his long ago—a lot of good that did with Ceril being able to call it—and was sure almost every other weapon of its kind was tucked away safely inside another Instance or aboard the Inkwell Sigil. New swords hadn’t been manufactured for centuries, unless the Charons aboard the Sigil had begun teaching newly Rited technomages how to Conjure them again. He had done what he could to stop that practice before he left. His last act of defiance before being exiled was selectively wiping all knowledge about the Conjuring of Flameblades from the memories of his colleagues. It was as though they had never known how to do it in the first place.
Damien didn’t have a lot of options since Ceril had bonded with his old sword. He could Conjure himself a new one, but after four hundred years of Conjuring nothing at all, he doubted that he would have the dexterity or concentration required for the task.
And then it hit him. Gilbert Squalt. The new headmaster at Ennd's. That prickly bastard would have one. Of course, he would. Ennd's wasn’t the only place on Erlon where Charons recruited, but it was the closest—but not by much.
The Archive always had to have one of their own in the big chair at the end of the table. He knew Gilbert Squalt well enough to know that, Charon puppet or not, he would never give Damien his Flameblade willingly. Damien doubted that the man would even let him into Ennd's Academy in the first place.
But he had to try, and at least now, he had a plan. He was no closer to finding out who had violated his home, or how they found him, or why. But he had a place to start.
Sometimes, when there are too many variables, having one concrete idea means everything.
So Damien Vennar made one last circuit around his house, packed up a few necessities as he ran across them, and walked through the back door of his home. The moon was bright, and the ground was soft from the storm that had left as quickly as it had come. The old man sighed as he looked back toward the garden in front of his house. He felt a twinge of regret for the life he built for himself that he was now leaving behind. He threw a hand up and waved at the house. The neighbors might have mocked it—and him—for being old fashioned, but it had been home for a long time. He was going to miss it here.
His days of
hiding from something he helped start were over. He said his silent goodbyes to the man he had tried so hard to be, and he set out toward Ennd's Academy to relearn how to be the man he once was.