Although he spent most of his time making blades, weaponsmithing was not the only thing Cassien learned from Nikos. After catching him many times pretend-fighting with the weapons he worked on, one fall morning Nikos requested his presence on the practice grounds and gave him first official sword fighting lesson. Since then, few were the days when Cassien did not practice the art of battle, either under Nikos’s direct supervision or with the royal guards during their daily training. From time to time, he even trained with Baley or Jem, though they were not very good.
But long before Nikos became Cassien’s teacher, Master Baccus had been his mentor. And where the weapon master taught him how to master battlefields, the temple runner taught him how to master himself.
Like most orphans in Syndjya, Cassien spent most of his youth at the Great Temple where he first met the temple runner and Princess Aria. In Alymphia the teachings of Hethens were considered a crucial part of the education of any child of significant standing, including the heirs to the throne. As such, the children of lords, nobles, and merchants attended weekly lessons on the Words of Hethens at the Great Temple.
The children yielding from humbler families rarely attended those, mostly because their family could not afford it. Time spent at the temple was not spent in fields or in shops earning coin after all. However, for the orphans living at the temple things were different. Despite being the most destitute children of Alymphia, or maybe because of it, they were required to attend those lectures. It had been the will of King Hedgard when, still a prince, he first set up the orphanages around Alymphia by royal decree. And so it was at the Great Temple that, one summer, Cassien the orphan met Aria the princess. In one of the temple’s side yards, together among other children, they sat in the cool shades of large fruit-trees and listened to Master Baccus ceremoniously recite the Ode of the Making, the first text in Hethens’s Canon.
“In the beginning,” the temple runner said, his voice gentle and level, “the earth was a moving mass of tainted mud.
The Heavens were dark, shrouded in corruption,
And Life was trapped in between and could not seed itself.
Hethens came and spoke to the Earth.
And the Earth stilled itself.
He dipped fiery hands in the mud.
And the mud parted into land and sea.
Hethens turned to the Heavens.
He breathed in three times.
He exhaled three times.
The first Breath purified the Skies.
The second Breath parted the Veil.
The third breath revealed the Gems.
Hethens freed Life.
And Life spread to the Earth and to the Heavens.
Praise Hethens.”
“Praise Hethens,” the children echoed him as they would for myriad of times to come.
Each time, Master Baccus followed with, “Now, we close our eyes and open our hearts to Him.”
And they closed their eyes, children that they were, and struggled not to peek around or simply stand up and chase each other. Most of them quickly grew bored of hearing the same stories over and over again and just sat there thinking about one thing or another. But to Cassien, Master Baccus’s lessons were more than mere storytelling and bland repetitive prayer. They spoke to him on a deeper level, one his young age struggled to understand. There was something essential behind the stories, a knowledge that begged to be uncovered, something the silence hinted at, just out of his grasp, something very real. Baccus understood Cassien’s inclinations early on and took him under his wing. And whenever time permitted he would teach him of the art of sitting.
“Stillness of the mind is mother of all true movement,” the old temple runner would repeat every time they sat, cross-legged, to dive inward.
In the beginning, sitting had been challenging. A few seconds felt like drawn-out minutes and for the longest time the silence was an uncomfortable and foreign presence which unleashed a whirlwind in his head. At first, seemingly random thoughts raced through his mind, thoughts that carried him away with them and scattered him to their will. With time, deeper and darker thoughts, and then emotions arose from the bottomless well his practice slowly opened, thoughts and feelings of a surprising and confusing intensity. Quite a few times, suddenly pretending that he had forgotten to do one chore or another, Cassien literally ran away. Master Baccus had been patient and comforting, and when Cassien finally shared the frightening emotions that arose from the silence within him, Baccus taught him ancient phrases to repeat over and over again in order to steel his mind against itself. It was on occasions when the repetitions did not prove enough to still him that Master Baccus started teaching him series of specific movements he called Gi-Yu. Through physical focusing Cassien learned to channel his emotions into effort, lessening their intensity. More demanding aspects of the practice would exhaust him into an almost thoughtless state, keeping at bay whatever was threatening to come to the surface.
Eventually, Cassien was able to deal with his black dogs, as Master Baccus called them, and he slowly came to face deeply rooted loneliness and fear of abandonment. Like most orphans, he never got to know his parents but he also did not know where he came from. Passed from one family to the next during his younger years, there was no record of his life until, at the age of four, he was brought to the First Orphanage, the first establishment of its kind in Alymphia, and under the care of Master Baccus and the brothers of Hethens.
Years after years Cassien trained with Master Baccus. He sat silently every morning, becoming stiller with every passing day. And he moved through increasingly complex Gi-Yus. Through those years of rigorous physical training and meditative exercises, Cassien learned the art of being in two different states at once: tensed and relaxed, focused and permeable, aware at the same time of himself and of the world around him.
The first daylight was slowly rising across the workstations when behind Cassien the steps leading down to the weapon barn creaked softly.
“That’d be Nikos,” Cassien thought as he turned around.
“Morning, there Cass’,” a loud voice greeted him.
The weapon master, his great beard highlighting a wicked smile, stood in full combat gear at the other end of the barn. The leather-strapped steel plates over his chest, arms and legs gave his already impressive frame a rather disquieting volume. A large double axe rested over one of his shoulder.
“Morning, Nikos. What’s the get up for?” Cassien asked.
“Arh, the festival,” Nikos said as he made his way toward him. “We’re going to rehearse the ceremonies with the new recruits this mornin’.”
He dropped his axe loudly on Cassien’s workstation.
“Some of ’em are pretty green, I tell ya. It’s gonna take some work.”
The weapon master bent down by a pile of torches, picked up a few, and handed a couple to Cassien.
“Help me put those up, would ya.”
They lit them to the flame of the torches by Cassien’s workstation and proceeded to secure them to the torch-stands around the barn.
“You always work in such darkness. I’m still not sure how you do such good work when you can’t see the blade in front’o’ya.”
Once they had affixed the last torch, Nikos turned to the weapon wall and spotted the sword Cassien had just finished.
“Arh, you’re done with that one!”
He grabbed it off its hook and sliced the air in front of him, the steel plates on his arm and shoulder rattling against each other.
“Very nice,” he said.
He tested the edge against his thumb.
“Good work, there, Cass’.”
Cassien scratched at the back of his head.
“Say, are you gonna join us this year?” the weapon master asked. “I mean, for the festival? Maybe with His Highness, for the Passing Procession?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not much for parades. You know, the attention and all; it’s just not my thing.”
Nikos’s roar of a lau
gh boomed through the barn.
“Oh, Hethens be good! The attention?”
The weapon master hit his fist to his plated chest a couple of times.
“That’s a good one, Cass’, from the boy who runs around with Princess Aria!”
Nikos’s armor rattled some more as he let out another laugh.
“I… well…, it’s just…”
Cassien just stood there, shuffling dirt with his feet, not knowing what to say.
“I’m just teasing, Cass’. No need to turn into a tomato.”
The confusion on Cassien’s face sent Nikos into another laughing fit and Cassien suddenly became awfully aware of the heat that had taken over his face.
“Oh, great, Nikos, just great.”
His embarrassment must have been quite plain to see because the weapon master stopped hitting his chest and tried to suppress more laughs. For a few seconds it sounded as if a duck had gotten stuck in his throat.
“A-ny-way,” Nikos finally managed to say. “Aren’t you gonna be late for your training with His Highness?”
“Not this morning, he’s at the castle. King Hedgard requested his presence. All the trusteds have assembled for the festival.”
“Right, right. Well, I’d better go round up the recruits. It’s gonna be a while before they’re ready.”
On that, he turned around, grabbed his axe, and headed out. He was barely out of sight when another not-so-suppressed laugh reached Cassien.
“Oh, for Hethens’s Grace, Nikos!” Cassien sighed heavily.
He picked up the sword the weapon master had left on one of the tables and replaced it on its hook. He didn’t know what to make of Nikos knowing about Aria and he spending time together. It worried him. He would have to talk to her about it.
“Well, what do I do now?” he wondered.
The ceremonial weapons had not been delivered yet, so there were no more weapons to work on for now. Nikos was off training recruits and Master Baccus was at the castle, so no practicing with either of them.
“Looks like I have the whole day to myself. I guess I could run to the temple, see if I can help with the preparations.”
Every festival, the brothers enrolled the orphans to help decorate the temple and set up the main square for the celebrations.
“Too bad Aria is stuck at the castle. It’s going to be a beautiful day. Hopefully I’ll get to see her this evening.”
Cassien leaned against his work station, and, lost in thoughts of Aria, he watched the first rays of sunlight illuminate the plumes of smoke escaping his hearth.
Dawn had barely broken night into day and already he could not wait to see her.
Chapter Three
Syndjya, Capital City of Alymphia.
Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age
Fall Passing Festival, Two days prior.
“The festival is in two days,” Hob kept reminding himself.
He was sitting on a stool among the flowers of the eastern garden. His cittern in hand, he sighed heavily and looked up. The sun had just risen past the crenellations of the curtain wall and he had already been practicing for the better part of an hour.
He was working on a difficult minuet in E minor by Ebron Duclave, an obscure composer from the Hoja province, known by cittern aficionados for his rather challenging fingerings and use of uncommon chords.
Hob often cursed Horm Earlong, the Horrum Province’s trusted, for giving him that bloody instrument for his eighth birthday. Courtesy, and his queen of a mother, had demanded that he take it up, wasting, in Hob’s opinion, countless hours in a mostly pointless endeavor.
“Well, not completely pointless,” he reminded himself.
Once he had become proficient at it, he found out that it was an effective way to garner praise, especially from the noble ladies of the court. He had taken up the habit of performing at balls and other official gatherings. It was a handy conversation starter that provided attendees with a reason to approach him. Being heir to the throne, he had discovered early on, was intimidating to most girls his age, regardless of their station. His playing had been a welcomed remedy to this problem. However, repetition had led to habit, which led to expectation and now his playing was a staple of celebration Syndjya, apparently, could not do without. Well, according to his mother anyway.
“The trusteds are all here, and I have to waste my time on this. I should be in the tower,” Hob thought bitterly.
He was fifteen, a year younger than his sister, and first born son. As heir to the throne he felt his place was at his father’s side, learning the intricacies of ruling.
“It is my birth right and duty, for Hethens’s sake!”
He kicked angrily at the trunk of a nearby tree sparse with leaves but full of large, purple flowers and was showered him with dew.
“Cythra damns it all!” he let out.
He stood up in a rush. The stool toppled over and he almost dropped his cittern. With his free hand he angrily wiped at the dew on his vest, spreading it into the fabric more than anything else. He cursed some more and started trying to kick the wetness off his pants. He was wearing his formal suit and was loath to see it ruined by a plant. For a handful of seconds he jumped on one foot, cittern in hand and kicked at an invisible assailant while slapping his chest. Then he suddenly became aware of how ridiculous he must have looked and froze in place. He peaked around and was relieved to see that no one was in the garden. There were no guards on the wall walk either.
He closed his eyes to the rising sun and tapped nervously at his forehead with two fingers.
“I shouldn’t have to play this STUPID instrument,” he lamented to himself.
This whole situation was getting to him more than it should have. He tried to slow down his breathing like his sister had showed him a few times, even though it never seemed to help. For a while he just stood there, in the middle of the colorful greenery, tapping at his forehead. He eventually stopped, picked up the stool, and slouched back down onto it.
To tell the truth, despite his resenting the instrument, Hob was a good cittern player. The problem was that he simply could not suffer his playing to be flawed in any way. Anything short of amazing always left him feeling mediocre. Being in this position was utterly frustrating since he punished himself into spending an excessive amount of time practicing.
“Stupid instrument,” he muttered under his breath.
He plucked angrily at one of the metal strings. The harsh sound reverberated loudly through the courtyard.
“Breakfast’s going to be served soon,” he thought. “I’d better get this passage down before then.”
He let out a slow breath and resumed playing.
Thirty minutes later, he had almost mastered a difficult phrase combining tremolos and arpeggios.
“Another hour or two and I should have it about right,” he thought.
He looked up. The sun was now well advanced in its course across the sky. He probably was already late for breakfast; not that he cared.
“If I’m late, it’s on dad. He should have included me last night. How am I supposed to learn anything if I don’t attend those meetings?”
He stood up and headed out of the gardens through the northern colonnades. Going through the southern colonnades and the main entrance would have been a faster way back into the keep, but there would be dignitaries and lords in the front courtyard and he was in no mood to mingle. So, although he was already late for breakfast, he decided he would take his time and take the long way in through the back entrance.
Still rummaging about the previous night’s assembly of the trusted, he walked leisurely along the inner curtain. The wall immediately surrounding the main keep was thick and well over fifteen feet high and in its early days would surely have broken assaults by assailants who had infiltrated the outer yards. However, decades ago, long before Hob’s birth, large sections of the wall had been removed to create numerous arcades and connect the inner ward to the outer courtyard. Hob came out of
the gardens and into view of the northern yards and of his favorite part of the castle. Nestled between the vegetable garden in the eastern corner and the servants’ barrack next to the north gate, against the outer curtain was the laundry area. There, dozens of lines were stretched between poles stuck in the bare earth and in a sea of sheets and clothes, often bent over buckets of soapy water, were the laundry girls. Hob had a weakness for the laundry girls. They were always so pleasant, so attentive.
“Prince Hobgard!” they would greet him with excitement. “How’d my lordship be this fine morning?”
“He’s looking princely as always, he is!”
“He’ll be the finest looking king one day, that’s for sure!”
They’d rush between the lines to see him or they’d squint up at him against the sun, their generously opened blouse drenched in soapy water. They were so lovely, although they were not properly pretty. They were usually suppler than the girls and women of the court. Their movements were brusque and lacked refinement. And for girls who spent their time washing laundry, they had a pointedly remarkable disinterest in their own hygiene. Their hair was often a dirty mess and their faces were never made up. But they were uninhibited and respectful at the same time, and, more importantly, with them he never felt… well, he felt at ease. There was no performing, no pretending around them. He was so above their station that in their company he never felt any of the pressure he usually felt when at court. Simply put, they made him feel like the prince he was. And sometimes, when their workload was not too heavy, he seduced them up to the long-term storage levels of the storage tower, where no one would disturb them, and he would lay with them.
Hob stopped by one of the inner curtain’s arch. He propped his cittern against the wall and peaked around the column. The triage area, west of the north gate, next to the storage tower, was as busy as ever in advance of the upcoming celebration. Merchants and peasants streamed in and out of the postern-gate while guards on either side of the gate directed them to different sections of the triage area. Luis Rofel, the castle superintendent, a squat little man with the energy of a twelve-year old boy, could be seen walking hastily from carts to carts, waving his arms around as he commanded servants to carry grains to the storage tower, wood to the kitchens, and meats to the lower floors of the keep, below the kitchens, to be stored in large salt tanks. Retainers rushed back and forth between the servants’ barrack, the storage tower, and the main keep.
The WorldMight Page 3