Strayborn

by E E Rawls

  Aken visibly cringed, blood draining from his face.

  “Aken-Shooou.”

  With a yelp Aken dove behind a sofa for protection. Nephryte’s gaze quivered like a boiling river that would soon melt him, and the floor along with him.

  “You are a brat, indeed.” Nephryte lifted a finger.

  “Uwah—!”

  Aken found himself hanging upside down in the air. “Gah! Lemme go—lemme go!” Limbs flailing, he tried in vain to right himself.

  “I am not a ballerina.” Nephryte’s brow twitched. “And I am not some love-sick character from a romance drama. I and Master Seren-Rose are childhood friends. Friends.”

  “Sure, sure.” Aken folded his arms and grinned deviously—an odd feat upside down.

  “And furthermore,” Nephryte fixed his rebuke on the entire room, “I hope that each of you realizes the seriousness of what could have happened today, that Cyrus could have been killed. You should have come to me, and let me resolve the matter, instead of letting Cyrus risk his life.”

  Every head hung, reprimanded, and Aken resorted to swimming through the air like a belly-up fish.

  “I know you felt there was no other choice. But never do something like that again. Ever. Instead, you come talk to me—that’s what I’m here for.”

  HERCULE ROLLED HIS eyes, while leaning against the door frame outside the study room, eavesdropping. Normally he would go in, find a spot on the rug for his school work, and brood while tuning out everyone as they whined and bickered over the lamest of things. But now things were different. Cyrus was in there, and it was too obvious he was the one who’d let the half-human’s secret out.

  Cyrus had lied to them, which was wrong, but putting Cyrus’s life at risk was also wrong—and all so Hercule could hide his own dark secret. The gravity of what he’d done hadn’t fully hit home until he saw the redhead fighting for his life. He hadn’t wanted Cyrus to die—he wanted him thrown out of the school, but not to die...

  Hercule sucked in a breath before daring to creak open the door, just wide enough to poke his head through.

  Students were required to let their Master know before spending the night some place other than the dorms. He didn’t want to break a rule on top of the trouble he’d already caused.

  “Master Nephryte.” He tried to keep his tone passive and out of earshot from the others.

  It failed. All heads turned in his direction, a mix of condemning frowns.

  “I’ll be at Dragonsbane Mansion for the night,” Hercule said more clearly. “My father wishes to see my latest grade report.”

  “Again, hm?” Master Nephryte considered, tapping his chin. “Why the man won’t simply let me mail the reports to him, I’ll never understand. Such an overbearing and controlling—” He stopped himself short, and shook his head. “Very well,” he dismissed with a gesture, “Be on your way.”

  With a slight bow of the head, Hercule withdrew.

  CYRUS TRIED NOT TO grin as Aken continued dancing upside down around the ceiling, once Hercule had left.

  She decided to take this relatively quiet moment to ask Master Nephryte something that had been bothering her for a long while now, since she’d first walked the city’s streets. “Master, why is slavery allowed here?”

  She noticed the others pause to listen.

  Master Nephryte inhaled as if it were a heavy subject. “As you know, Draev squads are sent out each week to harvest—gathering essence from whoever they can, in order to keep the Vemparic Kingdom alive,” he began.

  His fingers laced together upon his crossed knees. “While searching for people to harvest from, if those they find resist and pose a danger, then Draevs are allowed to use different measures.”

  Cyrus cocked her head.

  “It can become a serious problem if too many escape before essence can be collected. For this reason, those who resist or flee can be brought back here as captives to make up for the loss.”

  Cyrus shook her head. “So you’re saying that non-vempars are supposed to obey, not run away or fight, or they’ll be taken as slaves?”

  “Basically, yes. And personally, I hate the method. It breeds hatred between our race and others. But we have no other solution, and it’s getting harder and harder to harvest essence. Towns are stronger, and not as many people venture far from their homes; and when they do, they hire Argos for protection.”

  Master Nephryte bent a finger against his chin. “I don’t blame them for wanting to protect themselves, but the less we harvest, the less essence we have to share around, and the more danger the civilized world will be in.

  “A famine in Draeth would spell disaster across the continents. It would force vempars to abandon the kingdom and harvest for themselves. Vempars would go back to the old way of living, to the Time of Wandering. Imagine desperate Ability users and starving vempars running rampant—no more laws or boundaries or a king to hold them back? A nightmare, that’s what it’d be. All of the progress we’ve made up to now would be for nothing.”

  Cyrus gripped her arm, Bakoa clasped his feet, and Zartanian huddled further inside the shelter of his blue coat.

  “Those are the worries of the future we face,” Master Nephryte surmised. “So, to answer your question on slavery, Cyrus: Because it is harder to collect essence today, many feel it’s easier and more efficient to bring back captives—some to sell as slaves, and most to keep for the city’s essence reservoirs.”

  Cyrus’s fingers left red marks on her arm as she considered the problem. “But, you said they only take captives if too many escape or resist, right?”

  “Yes, that’s supposed to be the case. But that rule is abused,” he acknowledged. “I’ve tried gathering evidence for the Grandmaster and king to take notice, but the problem of possible famine is not the only one.

  “The upper classes want slaves, simple as that. I don’t know of a single lord, lady or moneybag whose house doesn’t have a handful.” He massaged the lines creasing his forehead. “No, that’s not entirely true. House Cuore doesn’t have slaves, but that is only because of the kind nature of Professor Kotetsu and his little sister. They hire their servants. Other than them, though, I don’t know of anyone.”

  Master Nephryte closed his eyes for a brief moment. “There are Draevs who make false accusations, claiming a faeryn tried to attack them or a human posed a danger—lies, all of it. Only Argos pose a real danger. Not these children and young people they keep dragging in. As if a child could be dangerous, tch! How many have been made into slaves purely for the rich and powerful’s greed?”

  The Master let his hand fall from his forehead, gaze fixed on the fireplace embers. “Aristocrats are bribing certain Draevs into capturing slaves for them—giving them their shopping list. I know it’s happening, even if I can’t prove it.”

  A sad heaviness permeated the air. Zartanian gripped his hat in his pale hands, and timidly murmured, “But I thought Draev Guardians were supposed to be the good guys?”

  Master Nephryte smoothed away any trace of anger from his voice before reassuring him. “Draevs are heroes to their own kind, willing to sacrifice their lives so that our kingdom can live in peace. But not many care for the well-being of non-vempars.”

  Cyrus drew her knees up to her chin.

  He continued, “Hating a person for no reason but that they’re born in a different place and race from you...in the end, you hurt yourself with that way of thinking. We are all Lord God’s creation, and He will punish those who hate.”

  There was a thud as Aken dropped from the ceiling. “I’ve got my work cut out for me, then!” Aken straightened, now free. He jabbed a thumb at his chest, “Once I become the greatest Draev Guardian, I’m gonna change people’s way of thinking, and solve this harvest problem.”

  The group looked at him, full of skepticism.

  He pointed to Cyrus, “But I’ll need the greatest Half-human Draev’s help to pull it off.”

  A laugh bubbled out of her. “Sure thing, if
I survive that long. Changing the world sounds so easy.” She made a face.

  DEAR DIARY,

  It’s been a crazy day. I still can’t believe I won the Festival Duel. Maybe I can be brave enough to become a Draev Guardian, after all? Lord God has given me an Ability that I know I should use, and I want to help others.

  I haven’t had much confidence in myself, in who I am. I’ve been hiding behind a mask without realizing it. It’s hard to change, it’s hard to break out and just be me. I was never allowed to be me back in Elvenstone.

  The pen paused as Cyrus thought.

  Did Dad or Heily miss her, stop to think of her? What were they doing at this moment?

  She didn’t forgive them for their cruelty, but she realized that the anger—the hate she’d held inside—was fading.

  If Aken could let go of his resentment toward his parents, then so could she. She made the choice to let the anger go, and be open to forgiveness if a day ever came when they regreted their actions.

  Let’s see, what else has happened? Oh, Dr. Zushil offered to prescribe me medicine that would help me look and sound more like a boy. But I said no. I gave myself a chance, and now I like the boyish girl that I am.

  I don’t need to change—I’m a girl that’s not very girly, and that’s okay. I can be that. Even as I grow up and physically change more and more, it doesn’t mean who I am has to change with it. I’ll always be me.

  My body is fine the way God designed it, even if I complain—everybody complains about themselves a little bit, right? I think it just takes time to grow comfortable with yourself.

  That said, I wish I could stop pretending to be a boy altogether, but something keeps warning me to stay quiet. A voice in my head telling me it’s very important I keep pretending.

  I don’t know why...but for now, I’ll listen.

  I just hope I’ll get the chance to reach adulthood and make a difference here. I don’t understand this strange energy that’s eating away at my body, but at least I have an answer for what’s been causing the pain.

  Simply knowing that, is a relief.

  Chapter 40

  Hercule buttoned up his finely cut ochre coat against the rain as he exited the school’s main doors, out to the drive where a motor carriage hummed, waiting for him.

  Father insisted the son of a nobleman should always look the part, wearing the best of attire at all times. Even during E.M. training, no matter how hot it was or how much he sweated, he must always look his best.

  Seated inside the carriage, Hercule flipped out a hand mirror to check that his pearl-gray hair and countenance was presentable. He didn’t want a repeat of last time, when a windy day had tousled him messily and Father gave a lecture on how his son’s appearance reflected on the family House name. Hercule exhaled sharply, and watched as the streets glided by.

  It wasn’t long before the carriage pulled up to Dragonsbane Mansion: an impressive structure adorned with balconies, balustrades, fluted columns and intricate windows. A beauty that smelled of wealth, complete with a wide driveway circling round the front yard pond—a round, marble-lined pool speckled with lilypads, pink lotuses, and colorful fish. A fountain of green marble rose in the pond’s proud center, carved in the image of a woman running a dragon through with her blade—the respresentation of their Dragonsbane ancestor, one of the Twelve Legendary Knights.

  The back yard sprawled beyond: part garden paradise, and the rest lush field and a natural pond, running to meet with Cherryblossom Park’s forest off in the distance. The mansion was a lovely place to behold on the outside. But the inside was cold, the people indifferent. Very un-home like, not that Hercule knew what home like should be.

  Hercule waited until the footman opened the carriage door, holding high an umbrella for him to duck beneath. “Greetings, Milord,” spoke the suited servant. “His Grace Dragonsbane awaits in his study, when you are ready.”

  “Understood, Footman Vayn.” Hercule followed under the umbrella, careful to keep his hair from frizzing.

  Once through the main doors, embellished with the Dragonsbane crest, in the entrance hall he handed over his coat to the waiting head butler. “Good evening, Milord.”

  Without a reply, Hercule stalked up the grand staircase. When Father called, you didn’t waste time; the Head of the House must never be kept waiting.

  Sliding the grade report from an inside pocket, he stopped before the gilt-framed doors. He knocked, then entered at a stiff “Come in.”

  “My grade report for this month, sir.” Hercule walked the length of the study, lined high with books on one side, old family portraits and tall windows on the other. He halted at the grand desk, whose legs were dragon limbs and sides chiseled scales.

  Hercule plopped the envelope down, opposite the looming red-velvet chair that was not unlike a throne.

  Lord Renald of Dragonsbane lifted his chin to regard his son. Everything about the man was pristine and precise: The Dragonsbane crest pinned to a freshly pressed suit, his pearly beard trimmed to a sharp point below a thin mustache, hair combed neatly to one side, with nothing to show his age but a few darker lines under the eyes. He was in every way the perfect, stark image of a Head Noble. He opened the envelope and inspected each inch of the report.

  “Mm-hm. Hmph.” The nobleman grunted as he scanned the grades of every test, every quiz. “Right here.”

  Hercule looked as Father tapped a finger on one of the scores, frowning as if it were a squashed bug on the paper. “Merely an A?” he said, “Not an A+?”

  Hercule’s brow crinkled slightly. “It was a pop quiz, sir. But you do see that my results for everything else is A+?”

  “Not the Harlow Missions grade. You still have a C.”

  Hercule sucked in a breath. “I cannot control the actions of others during missions. It’s a group grade, unfortunately, sir.”

  “A blemish on the grade of a nobleson, no matter how small it may seem to you, is still unacceptable.”

  Hercule held his tongue. There was no reasoning with Father; his ideals as to how things should be were set in stone. Being the only son, much was expected of Hercule. He was to be a model member of high society in every way, and surpass the other Noble Houses’ heirs.

  Rivalry between the twelve Houses of the Vemparic Kingdom had been playing out since the founding of Draethvyle. And Hercule was the only heir to Dragonsbane, the only one who could uphold their House’s future—a more than heavy burden.

  “I will try for better next month, sir,” said Hercule, straight-backed.

  “There is no try. You will do better,” Lord Renald stated matter-of-factly. Hercule tried not to look skyward at Father’s favorite saying: “There is no try to do, but only will do.” A decent saying, perhaps. But a person must also accept that there will be times when they fail to do no matter how hard they only will do.

  Hercule turned to leave. There would be no speaking with Father until next month’s report, too busy and wrapped up in his Head position to spend time with his son. And when there was any time spent together, it was only to lecture.

  Back out in the hallway, Hercule exhaled through his nose. Why dwell on it? He shouldn’t. It wouldn’t change anything, except fuel his anger further—and he didn’t need a repeat of rage like the night before in the Outer Woods, after which Cyrus had found him. He had to keep a firmer leash on his anger, or else the curse would...

  “Hercule, daaarling.”

  His shoulders tensed as the swishing sound of a dress approached, announcing Mother.

  Her lips puckered in a smile, her body swathed in layers of periwinkle silk, trimmed in black lace and pearls. Her long dark hair was done up in silver pins and combs. She breathed of wealth, to the point where she could barely breathe air.

  Mother took him in with her acorn-brown eyes. “How is everything at school? Is my little growing sprout popular with the ladies? Oh, silly me, I forgot it’s mostly boys at your school. Hahaha,” she giggled to herself. “But you must have ma
ny friends, yes? Do tell me, daaarling. You never say much—at least, not enough for your loving mother’s ears.”

  Hercule stared blankly forward. How could he say much when she talked non-stop, blabbing on and on until his ears fell off? Mother wasn’t one to hear what others had to say. She simply wanted someone to share gossip with, while jumping from topic to topic like a grasshopper.

  “How is Master Nephryte? Such a handsome young man. If only he’d been the same age as me, and of wealthy descent, when I was a youth!” She fanned her face with a hand. “I might’ve married him instead, hahaha.”

  Hercule’s insides cringed. That brought up a bad memory, the day Master Nephryte first met his parents: Mother couldn’t take her eyes off him, standing there talking his ears off for a good three hours, winking and giggling, before he managed to come up with an excuse to leave.

  The poor Master never came back. Most men never did, not if they could help it, fearing the ridiculous flirtatious attempts she made: Pretending to brush a dust-speck off their shirt while feeling their shoulder muscles and chest, clinging to their arm like some playful baby monkey for an excuse to inch closer... It was enough to drive any sane man running. Not to mention her way of speech, drawing out daaarling and other such words in a sultry voice. Hercule had to banish the memory for a moment and cool his heating face.

  As if that list of embarrassing things wasn’t enough, Mother had a reputation for the most wild, outlandish hairstyles in the kingdom; the renowned hair of aristocracy. Every day it was done-up to resemble some fantastical creature, flower, or structure. Mother’s hairdo today resembled a giant lotus flower. Huge swoops of hair wrapped in the shape of floppy petals, ribbons woven through for added pops of color, pins and combs with giant pearls on the ends for a flowery center—a massive creation that dwarfed the woman’s head.

  ‘How does her neck move under that?’ A sweatdrop beaded Hercule’s temple as he stood facing it, and Mother continued chatting about who-knew-what. His head ached, and it was well past dinner. He was used to the dorm’s schedule, not the mansion’s anymore.