Convergence (The Dragon Within Saga Book 1)

by Roberto Vecchi

  The line moved more quickly than I had anticipated. We were inside the building within the half hour. However quickly the line progressed, it was still slow enough to give me the opportunity to observe the city and its comings and goings. The gate had a steady stream of people entering and leaving, apparently for business as most of the travel was from caravans of various lengths. It was difficult to distinguish between individuals who were members of a larger group and those who were not because the line was very densely organized. Once inside the gates, there was a natural entropy to the flow of people. At one particular time, a lone person was seen running toward the gate, screaming something I could not distinguish, but he was clearly panicked. As he was about to reach the guards, he tripped on something and went sprawling into one of the guard's arms, plummeting both of them to the ground. There was a large amount of commotion that ensued. People backed away, guards drew their swords, and more guards came rushing toward the scene. Yet through the commotion, I thought I saw one figure, only for the briefest of moments, disappear over one of the roof tops. I dismissed it as a shadow caused by the angle of the declining sun and my exhaustion. Moments later, progressed so quickly.

  The entrance spilled into a very large room with four distinct lines. One was leading to a table at the end of the room and the other three were each going up a separate set of stairs. "What is your name?" asked a small lady the moment we walked through the door.

  "Drin Martos, Ma'am," I answered.

  "And who is representing you? A parent?" she asked again.

  Vennesulte spoke up as my eyes again began to wet beyond the scope of their holding, "He is here by himself. His father was slain by wolves during his journey."

  The small lady looked up from her papers and placed one of her small hands upon my shoulder, "Your sacrifice will be to the benefit of the Silver Empire. Though you do not see it yet, you will come to know, as we all have, that you are doing a great service." Unable to speak, I nodded in affirmation. "You are on the second floor. Please proceed up these stairs." She then handed me a small paper and said, "Please keep this and present it to the assistant when you get to the top of your stairs. Without it, you will not be allowed to progress and get your assignment." As she concluded she offered me a faint smile through pity filled eyes and turned to the next person in line.

  When my eyes began to dry, I could more readily appreciate the magnitude of the Selection Process for my region of the Silver Empire and how much planning must have gone into it. There were several hundred of us standing in the four lines and there was a lot of commotion going on all around us. People speaking loudly, asking short, precise questions with their only goal to expedite the process while making sure no one was misdirected. However much the scene portrayed chaos, there was a very strong underlying dynamic of order holding everything together. Because of the sheer number of us, the logistical undertaking from the moment of its initial organizational steps must have been daunting. My mind could not comprehend all of the necessary logistics that must be perfected to create and implement the newly formed process let alone as it grew and evolved. The lines of communication between all aspects of the Empire, at least in regards to the Office of Skills and Trades, must be seamless for it to be effective.

  As I contemplated the planning process, thankful for the distraction for my mind, Vennesulte and I again progressed up the stairs more quickly than I had anticipated. In a few short minutes we found ourselves at the top of our designated flight which led us to a similarly sized and arranged room as the one on the first floor; however, now the line was split into four additional lines each leading to a table with three people behind each one.

  "Do you have your confirmation card?" Still momentarily lost in my own thoughts, I did not readily hear the voice extend its question. A loud coughing burst penetrated my concentration and drew my attention to the assistant now addressing myself and Vennesulte. When she was clear she held my intent, she asked again in a calm voice, "Do you have your confirmation card to show me?"

  I silently handed her my card for her inspection. A moment later, she looked back up to me and told me to progress to the second line from the left. She handed me yet another card, different from the first I had received from the attendant on the previous floor, and indicated I should be ready to give this to one of the attendants at the table at the front of my new line. Just with the two previous lines, this one progressed with the same chaotic efficiency Vennesulte and I had come to expect. I was growing in appreciation for his presence and wanted to make sure I told him of my gratitude before we parted ways. I was still unclear as to his reasons for accompanying me through this part of my journey, but I decided not to ask him fearing he may be away sooner than I was ready for. He had not said anything since speaking to the first attendant for me, but his silent presence was comforting in the same way a long time friend's would be. Perhaps, in this moment, I was projecting on to him the steadfast certainty I always received from my father. And as possible as it was, it did not matter. What I needed in this moment was something to cling to that presented with even a small, however self-projected it was, amount of familiarity and solidarity. And if it meant I was transferring something from my mind onto this young monk, then so be it.

  As we approached our table, I saw each selectee hand their card over to one of the three people behind the desk, but not at random. They were being sorted by a fourth attendant standing to the side of each table I had not seen until now because of the throng of people between where this floor's attendant was, and the tables. When it was my turn, she asked for my card, examined it briefly and directed me to hand it to the center attendant at the table. He took it, flipped through a few sheets of papers in front of him and handed me yet another card while dispensing the one I handed to him into a box at his feet. "Make sure you proceed to this Selection Station no later than nine on the morrow. It will be imperative for you to be there on time. The process does not wait for anyone, and if you miss the call for attendance, you will not be allowed to participate in the selection and you will be branded an outlaw. Do you understand these instructions?"

  I nodded in understanding, but the attendant, unlike the other three who were content to accept my silent acknowledgement, pressed me for a verbal response by saying, "No. You misunderstand. I need you to tell me you understand and repeat what I told you so I know you appreciate the severity of the situation."

  "Yes sir. Sorry sir. I am to go to Selection Station fifteen by no later than nine in the morning tomorrow. If I am late and do not appear for the attendance call, I will not be able to participate and will be branded as an outlaw," I said as I recalled his instructions to the best of my ability.

  "Very good. You speak well. Do you write as well as you speak?"

  "Thank you sir. I do write, but I do not have a measure to judge whether it is good or not, so I cannot answer your question," I answered as truthfully as I could. I had never had anyone tell me I speak well, nor ask me if I wrote well. And my answer was as complete as it could be. My only example of speaking and writing for the duration of my still young life was my father and mother. My father was not a man of long winded speeches, but when he did speak, he was very fluent and contained very few mistakes. I would not call him eloquent, but neither would I call him incapable. Though my father knew how to write, it was my mother who taught me and my sisters. Hers was a patience extending far beyond my own limited, youthful impatience.

  "Indeed, young man. Perhaps you will consider a selection in the written arts. A mind such as yours would be wasted within the ranks of His Highness's Legions. Make sure you do not miss the attendance call, or your mind will not be able to save you from your troubles," he finished as he gestured me to exit through a back stairway.

  All of the Selectees from this floor were exiting the same way. Vennesulte continued his silent companionship and walked with me until we reached the slowly dimming sunlight from a direct exit from the stairs. As many other Selecte
es were spilling into the street behind the large office building, each holding onto an identical card as my own, he stopped, turned abruptly toward me and spoke, "It is time for Vennesulte to part ways with you. I must now go to the Monastery of Detached Enlightenment. I will see you again. We are not complete in our journey. Farewell and become all things detached. Become and be free." As he finished his sentence, he turned and walked briskly down the street soon to be lost in the large amount of mortal traffic progressing in various directions. I was able to see his long staff in the air for a few seconds after his body was engulfed by the throng. But after his staff dissolved away, I felt the return of loneliness. It did not occur to me until much later in my life that I never adequately expressed my gratitude for his presence in my life on this day.

  The rest of the evening progressed in a haze of alternating wonderment and grief. Like two combating warriors fighting to gain the field of my mind and emotions, the awe producing effects of the city resulting from its overwhelming magnitude in all things was pitted against the all-consuming sadness resulting from the death of my father. It was a battle ground I was not capable of fighting on my own and one that exhausted me completely. It would have been better had I been completely consumed by one or the other than to be pulled from the brink of that consumption only to be consumed again, or at least almost consumed again. The continued exhausting altercation between the two attention commanding entities drew all of my faculties so much, that it was not until the light of the moon illuminated my aimless wandering that I realized I had yet to secure a place to stay for the night.

  I was familiar with the dangers of the farm and knew the precautions to take to minimize them during the dark hours; however, I had no familiarity with the complexities of city life. Because of the uncertainty at how to manage the threats night would undoubtedly bring, my wonderment at the city began to slowly change to fear. I became intensely aware of the dwindling number of people in its streets, now lined with only the occasional torch lights. I could hear the sounds still, but those changed as well from bartering markets and haggling merchants to loud music emanating from all of the taverns.

  As the night grew darker, the streets became emptier and quieter now being occupied only by the occasional guard or civilian traveling to either their home or late night destination. As I was passing a particular tavern, I caught sight of two cloaked figures walking toward me on the same side of the lane. They were both tall and walked with their hoods up. They did not seem to be on a casual walk. They walked with purpose, and whether it as propagated from my own subjective fear or somewhere divinely inspired, I was sure they were walking intentionally toward me.

  I froze from panic. The city shrank in size the same way my journey with my father shrank in size when we were attacked by the mountain wolves. Everything existed in the short distance separating us, a distance continuing to diminish with each of their ominous steps. I looked around for somewhere to go, anywhere to go. But because of the late hour, the closest door I tried was locked and there was no time to check another. I looked around for the guards patrolling the streets, but I did not see any. An eerie stillness had overtaken the short corridor within which I was walking. I could go nowhere. I stood and faced the two cloaked figures to whatever end was going to happen in the next few seconds.

  When they were within ten feet of me, one of the cloaked figures, the one farthest from the stone and masonry of the buildings, made a quick turn, and began scaling the walls with no more assistance except that which his body could provide. I was fixated upon him and probably would have stood there to see him complete what looked like an impossible task when I heard a voice say a single word, "Go." I turned my head and barely noticed the other cloaked figure pass silently by me and dissolve into the shadows created by the glow of the street light. Not two seconds later, I heard the voice say a single word again, but this time, I could not distinguish from which direction it came, “Go.” It was as if it came from no direction and all directions all at once.

  But before I could heed its advice, or maybe it was a command, and leave the area, I heard the addition of two loud voices breaking the eerie silence. They were all but indistinguishable with short bursts of laughter, clearly indicating their return from a night of revelry. As the ruckus became louder, standing in stark contrast to the silence of the city streets, and as they approached my location, I could see they were not walking alone. Following behind them were three armed guards dressed as the other guards of the city except for the yellow stripes on their shoulders. I happened to notice an alley a short distance farther down the street in the original direction the cloaked figures came from. I walked quickly and turned to the right, attempting to cease my existence for a few short moments until the conclusion of the coming scene.

  As the five men, three obviously city sanctioned guards, and two much more finely dressed, progressed closer, I could see that even without their guarded escort, the finery of jewels they wore on their fingers and around their necks indicated they were of wealth and importance. The two hooded figures must have the intentions of robbing these men of their jewelry and as fearful as I was, I was also curiously drawn to wait and observe the unfolding events.

  As they passed, I saw one of the hooded figures approaching them from behind as silently as a creeping fog. His cloak seemed to envelop him, hiding all sound in wisps of black smoke. He sped up his walking, but still his footfalls were muffled in silence. When he was within feet of the trailing guards, he drew two small blades from hidden areas in his cloak. In three quick steps matched with three quick strikes, the guards feel to the ground without a single notice from the two men they were protecting. Instead of finishing the task on the final two men, he stopped and allowed them to continue walking. But before they could take any further steps, descending from the darkness of the night sky and landing not two paces in front of them was the other cloaked figure.

  The two men were collectively startled and stunned into inaction for several heartbeats. The figure stood there, entirely motionless except for the slight rippling of his cloak in the cool night breeze. He slowly drew a single blade and held it in front of himself pointing it downward. It hung in his hand a mere inch from the ground. I struggled not to blink and felt my eyes drying out. I did not want to miss a moment of what was going to happen next. It was horrible in its anticipation, but strangely drew me closer. When I was forced to blink, the cloaked figure made two precise movements toward each of the wealthy men. Continuing the fluidity of his strikes, he turned and walked back into the night. Not three steps later, the wealthy men fell motionless to the ground. The second hooded man, the one who killed the three guards, fell in stride with the other just before they seemed to dissolve away in the dark mist of their cloaks.

  As I still hid, horrified at what I had just witnessed, I realized the two hooded men were not there to steal from those they were hunted. Their purpose was to kill them. They did not take any of the jewelry still plainly visible on the dead men's bodies, nor did they take any weapons from the fallen guards. They wanted only to kill the two men. But it must have been more than a random act of violence. The destruction of these five lives was too well planned out and contained a ritualistic nature suggesting something larger was behind the carnage I had just witnessed.

  Assassins. They were Assassins. But not the randomly hired thugs with little or no training who were hired by people after erroneously claiming to belong to a local assassin's guild, these were the Assassins of legend whose existence was as long lived as the race of mortal creatures who walked the lands of Avendia.

  Like most bedtime and campfire stories told by parents to their children, no matter how fantastical the story had become as it evolved over time from the first telling to the last telling, it found its genesis in the realm of truth. All of the races, even the noble Elves, had stories of its inhabitants enlisting the assistance of The Guild to rid themselves of problems requiring death as its only possible resolution. But T
he Guild accepted only those contracts said to be sealed by a magical bond requiring its completion or forfeiture of the life enlisted to complete it. Very few, and only the most powerful knew the means to contact The Guild, and fewer yet possessed the means of compensation necessary for The Guild to become active. And certainly no-one knew where they were.

  Why had they allowed me to live when their reputation was built upon the foundation of secrecy? Of course I could not be sure that this was indeed the work of the assassins of The Guild, but their display of prowess and skill aligned with both the stories I had been told by my parents as well as those rumors I heard throughout the years. How could a man survive a jump from that height let alone land on his feet with the wherewithal to remain unfaltering in his countenance?

  But what struck me more fully as I still sat, huddled against the wall contemplating what I had just seen was their lack of fear. There was no fear of death, no fear of failure, and certainly no fear of being apprehended either during or after the execution of their intent. They progressed, from their first steps until they dissolved into the night, with the uncompromising confidence that they would succeed, and succeed well, all in accordance to their predetermined plan. They were flawless.

  In contrast, I was aware of all the fears I had been plagued with my entire life. I remembered being afraid to shoot my first bow when I was still a child, worried that I would miss the target. I remembered being afraid to do all of my chores incorrectly while I was still learning them. I remembered the fear I possessed at leaving my family, at journeying to the city for The Selection, and certainly the consuming fear of the mountain wolves. In fact, now that the Assassins had drawn my attention to it with nothing more than their fearless confidence, I was always afraid. Perhaps not consciously fearful all the time; however, there was certainly no denying at least a part of my subconscious undercurrent was anxious whenever something unfamiliar was introduced to my world. And now, the two greatest unknowns that had ever been introduced to me and my small world were threatening to paralyze me altogether.