by Paul Latham
The Chalice
Paul Latham
http://www.xendragon.com
© 2018 Paul Latham
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For permissions contact: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Paul Latham.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
"You're struggling," Teacher said sternly.
"I can't help it," Velar answered.
"Yes, you can."
Velar stared at the silver platter on the ground before him and concentrated.
"The powers of command and creation are the most difficult to master," Teacher said. "They require order and clear thought."
Velar could see his reflection in the platter and tried to relax his expression and fought down an urge to push away long blond hair from his face.
"I warned you that it would become a distraction," Teacher gloated.
Velar looked up at the grinning old man who sat perched atop a fallen log on the far side of the fire. "What?"
"Your hair."
Frowning, Velar cast his gaze once more at his reflection. As far as he could tell his hair was his only admirable feature. His nose had been broken twice during training and a rippling patch of scar, a remnant of the fire that had orphaned him, covered the left side of his face from cheekbone to chin. His shoulder-length golden mane seemed his only means of redemption as far as his appearance and he was determined to keep it long and distracting.
Teacher clapped his hands sharply. "Pay attention! Concentrate!"
Velar sighed and once again focused.
"The powers of creation," Teacher quoted, "gather the substance. The powers of destruction dispel the substance. You can control the forms of substance and bend them to your will through deliberate thought and setting your mind to different states that, when focused, create the desired effect. Destruction is simple. Creation is more of a challenge."
Velar rolled his eyes. "Easy to say all-"
"You’re not concentrating!"
Anger washed over Velar and then he "released", as Teacher would say and felt nothing. The image formed and space above the silver platter twisted, solidified and became a torca.
"Why must I provoke you to wrath to get results," Teacher said, throwing up his hand in exasperation. Velar, beaming proudly, pointed at the oblong, orangish-red fruit that lay on the platter.
"I did it," he said, smiling.
"Of course, you did." Teacher's shoulders slumped as if the entire exercise had drained him. "You have mastered destruction. Creation would be the next logical step."
"I really did it." Velar knelt and reached down to pick up the torca. At his touch, the velvety skin of the fruit collapsed to a shrunken husk. Velar's mouth fell open in shock. Teacher chuckled.
"Next time image the meat of the torca as well," he said and chuckled again.
"But . . . but I got something," Velar said, scooping up the shriveled remnants into the palm of his hand.
Teacher nodded, but his eyes still laughed. "True enough. Which is better than most do their first time. But it takes time. Perhaps even a lifetime."
Velar looked forlornly at his tangible image, then let it slip from his hand and drift lazily into the low fire where it flared briefly and vanished.
"Oh, chin up, Velar," Teacher said. "As I said, most get nothing on their first attempt. "Now," he pointed at the platter, "return that to my pack and retrieve the wineskin."
"Yes, Teacher," Velar replied in a low voice and snatched up the silver dish and walked to the edge of the firelight where the horses stood tethered and the packs hung from limbs of trees. He shoved the platter into Teacher's pack and grabbed the wineskin. After a quick scan of the dark forest, paying heed to all his senses, he returned to the fire and presented the bulging skin to Teacher, then slumped down against the same log that Teacher sat upon. Velar's gaze fell to the fire. He heard the wine being poured into one of the cups they had used for water at the evening meal.
"How long have you been with me, Velar?" Teacher asked.
Velar frowned in thought. "Four years come this harvest." He looked to Teacher to ask why and stopped. Teacher held out the poured cup of wine.
"Take it," he said.
In four years Velar had not tasted wine. Never once even a sip to ease an ache or entice sleep. Teacher would not allow it. Now, Teacher offered him a cup and his expression unreadable. It could be a test.
"I think not, Teacher."
"It's not a test, Velar," Teacher said. "You've earned it."
Velar arched his eyebrows. An outright compliment?
"Take it," Teacher repeated.
Cautiously, Velar accepted the cup. Teacher retrieved the other and began filling it.
"The time draws near, Velar, for you to take you place in the Order."
Velar took a sip of wine and winced as the bitterness bit his tongue then warmed his stomach.
"I want," Teacher continued. "to ask you what you've learned in this apprenticeship."
"The ways and means of the Knights of Anocren," Velar answered automatically.
"What else," Teacher asked, and gulped his wine.
Velar blinked. "I don't-"
His mentor held up a hand.
"Do not answer with the condition of your warrior abilities. You are truly one of the best I have seen but any idiot can be taught to fight."
Velar's brow wrinkled in confusion.
Was that another compliment?
"Think on it," Teacher said and emptied his cup as he reached for the skin. Velar frowned at the dark liquid swirling in his own vessel.
What have I learned?
I have learned to be a Knight of Anocren.
But Teacher would want to know what it was to be a Knight of Anocren.
More than a warrior. More than a spellcaster. The Knights of Anocren were the elite of the elite.
But why?
From the ranks of the Order came not only warriors but liaisons, diplomats, couriers and the like. They served sometimes as a military force but otherwise always served the highest bidder. Every political army across the continent envied the Order's organization, security and efficiency.
At the moment, the Knights of Anocren served the Chancellor of Aylos. Velar looked to the stars, found two constellations and determined they were only a day's ride from Sareon, the capital of Aylos where the main body of the Order would be encamped.
I have learned what? What have I learned?
Amidst four years of lectures, discussions, training with weapons, training with horse, traveling across the continent and discovering lessons in all things from village and city politics to the way a leaf abandoned a tree and fell to the mud of the road . . .
"I've learned how to think . . . but- " Velar could see Teacher from the corner of his eye watching expectantly
.
My duty to the Knights of Anocren.
My duty.
The lessons always ended with a reference to duty and honor.
"Duty," Velar said to the fire, "and honor. Dedication to the cause of the Order. The Knights of Anocren serve these principles above all else and that is why they succeed where others fail. That is why they are the elite."
"That is why you are the elite, Velar," Teacher said. "You more than simply understand these principles. They are a part of your being." Teacher's tone became harsh, almost bitter. "Deny your duty, forsake your honor and you will fail."
Teacher stood, drained his cup once again and began pacing beside the fire. Velar watched carefully, listening.
"The Order has given you much already," Teacher said. "It's given you a chance to rise above your station and for that you should be grateful." Teacher pointed at Velar with the hand that held the cup and squinted one eye. "I could have left you in the street where I found you."
Velar blinked and remembered the darkness, dripping water, the stench of the alleys where he made his bed and the hunger. The constant, gnawing, endless hunger.
Teacher nodded. "I could have left you there. But I didn't. And now I've given you all I can. The responsibility is yours to take the opportunity and make use of it or throw it away." Returning to the log, he sat and reached for the wineskin. "The choice, of course, is yours." Teacher looked into the cup, snarled and tossed it aside. Hefting the skin over his head, he aimed the stream of wine to his open mouth and drank.
"Where will you go?" Velar asked as Teacher lowered the wineskin and dabbed his lips with the sleeve of his robes.
"It doesn't matter," Teacher answered. "My task is complete. My duty is done. I've trained another Knight of Anocren and he is my last. And perhaps my best."
Velar screwed his face into an expression of skepticism and cast a quick glance at his mentor.
Teacher was drunk.
"Never betray your faith, Velar," he said boisterously. "At times it will be all you can rely on." His eyes lost their focus and reflected the fire that popped and cackled before them. “I lost my faith Velar, and look at me. Born to rule I was. And look at me. This close to the end and what do I have? No lands. Nothing. A Teacher. And what is that?” He blinked and fixed Velar with a harsh glare. “Never betray your faith.”
The words seemed to echo, and the last four years flashed across his mind and, as always, Velar wondered how it came to be. How did a street-bound urchin discover a faith of honor and duty he would now die defending? Teacher had a sly way of instruction. He did not lecture facts. He presented and revealed truths so plainly that there could be no denial. Velar had many times been left to his own devices to determine the truth guided gently yet sternly by Teacher. How could a head-strong youth rebel against his own discoveries?
There were times though when Teacher threw in contradictions to force Velar into a different realm of thinking and Velar was beginning to think this was one of those times. Honor and duty provided a sort of guidance in even the most abstract dilemmas, but nothing should ever be followed blindly. Each situation has its own merit that must be explored.
But now Teacher said never betray your faith. So, which was the truth? Honor and duty as guidance? Or honor and duty as absolutes?
As absolutes, the principles offered no deviance and as long as one was willing to accept casualties, literal or otherwise, life remained rather simple.
But what if casualties in any form were unacceptable?
As guidance, the principles, in reality, offered little. The question would always remain; serve duty and honor or the situation?
He needed clarification and opened his mouth to speak but felt the old man's hand clap his shoulder.
"Sleep," Teacher said and Velar knew all training and discussion had ended for the day. Frustrated, he pushed to his feet and moved to where his pallet of wool blankets and skins lay a safe distance from the fire. Velar collapsed on the makeshift bed and folded his arm underneath his head for a pillow. He heard Teacher laugh softly.
"Remember, Velar," he said, "and remember well. The only place truth can truly exist is unchallenged in a perfect void."
Sleep fell over him like a heavy blanket, tugging his eyes shut and shielding his mind from waking thoughts. Teacher had brought unnatural sleep on him and Velar resisted for a moment then relaxed. Teacher wanted him to sleep . . . so he would sleep.
"Remember, Velar." Teacher sounded far off. Distant. A whisper almost. "Remember nothing else if you only remember this. Truth, even the truest truth, can only-"
The darkness and silence suddenly became complete.
* * *
Velar rolled to his feet and blinked in the morning sunlight. Staggering slightly, he rubbed his eyes and scanned the clearing. Nothing remained of the fire but white ash and a thin stream of smoke.
"Teacher?"
His head hurt.
"Teacher?"
He had a medicinal tea in his pack. Massaging his temple with the heel of his hand, Velar turned to the tree where the packs hung and the horses-
-were gone. The packs, the horses, everything.
Gone.
Panic seized Velar's chest as he spun in a tight circle, once again searching the clearing. Everything. Gone. He was alone with his bedroll.
He fought against the terror that clouded his thoughts. A familiar terror, bitter and tangible, of abandonment, hopelessness, sickly wet streets, cackling, haggard men, sobbing, mournful women, the stink of sewers, the screech and scurry of rats Gods! the hunger, the pain!
His weapon. He had to find his weapon.
He dove for the pallet flinging aside the furs and blankets.
Gone. He always kept it near his hand beneath the blankets when he slept, and it was gone. Twisting away he pounded the earth and grass with his fists and sobbed.
I wasn't good enough! I didn't try hard enough!
A horse nickered. Velar's head snapped up, eyes fixed on the forest.
The stream.
Launching to his feet, Velar stormed into the woods, easily dodging trees, ignoring hanging moss and clinging tanglefoot.
Another test. Teacher moved the camp to the stream as a test. He could hear the water splashing across smooth stones. Teacher would have a new fire burning and food cooking, admonish him for over-reacting.
The forest ended abruptly, and Velar slid to a stop, hung suspended briefly over the stream's edge, then fell face first into the icy water. Bounding to his feet, he sucked in a deep, harsh breath and coughed.
"Teacher." he wheezed. Water streamed from his woolen tunic as he stumbled to the bank. "Teacher?"
The horse nickered again, and Velar looked up, pulling wet hair from his eyes. The massive straw-colored steed stood secured by the reins to a nearby tree and gazed at Velar expectantly. The mount was saddled with black leather tack that was marked at several points with an emblem of a perfect circle crossed diagonally with a sword. The symbol represented the Knights of Anocren.
Velar's eyes slowly drifted to the base of the tree. There, in an ordered pile, lay the armor. His armor.
It was beautiful, shining steel polished to the point of reflection and it was his.
Teacher thought he was ready.
Reverently, Velar crawled from the stream and across the short distance to his armor. The arm pieces, the leg pieces were stacked on either side of the smooth, mirrored breast plate. He held his hands over the metal, eager to touch it, to feel its weight and strength, but at the same time hesitant.
Teacher is gone. The armor is here.
He gripped the edges of the breast plate and lifted it. Beneath the plate, a cloak pin fashioned as the Order's symbol rested on a dark red cape.
He was ready.
His reflection gazed back, wet and dripping. Replacing the armor, Velar stood and looked himself over.
A bath was in order.
Turning, he stepped back into the stream pulling his tunic off over h
is head.
* * *
His skin was tinted blue and his fingers and toes were numb, but he was clean, and his hair was swept back away from his face, more or less combed.
With quick precision impeded only by cold fingers he buckled on the armor beginning with his legs and working his way up to the breast plate, and pauldrons. Velar wondered at the fit which seemed a bit loose especially in the chest and shoulders. The armor he had trained in seemed snugger. Bracing against the tree, he stooped and retrieved the cloak pin and cape.
The cloak pin was beautiful. The circle shone silver and the crossing sword appeared to be gold. Velar held the brooch up between a thumb and forefinger marveling at the way the light played on the details. It seemed to almost glow. Or was it glowing? A pulsating blue glow that slowly intensified then danced down his arm and enveloped his body. A blizzard of sound rushed in his ears the light twisted and swirled around pressing towards him. He heard metal wrench, felt the armor molding to his skin, conforming to the ripple of his abdomen and curve of his chest.
"Gods," Velar muttered and watched the gauntlets and greaves melt to the shape of his limbs. Slowly, the whirlpool of lights and stars faded and ebbed away. Panting, Velar staggered slightly, regained his balance, then fell against the tree.
The horse still watched expectantly.
Velar laughed. "You'd think," he breathed, "they would tell you about something like that."
The horse snorted and pawed the ground.
"Right," Velar said, swirling the cape to his shoulders and fixing the cloak pin. It still felt strangely warm to the touch. "We should be going."
A sword and two daggers hung from the saddle. Velar put one dagger in his boot and attached the other which was the longest to his belt. The sword he left secured to the saddle. Then, gathering the reins from the tree, Velar mounted.
"I have to think of a name," he said, giving the stallion a length of rein and patting his thick neck. The horse tossed his head.
Velar nodded. "I think we're ready," he said and started his mount off along the easiest path through the forest that followed the stream north.
Velar smiled, excitement thick in his chest.