Dragonhero, pt. 4

Raspan’s eyes flashed open, the echoing roar leaving his mind at last.  It was then he felt the incredible pain in his head.  Lifting a hand to place on his buzzing forehead, he realized that he was now on his back, and no longer on the wet grass of the clearing but on a soft bed mattress.  His eyes blurrily surveyed his surroundings, taking in what was clearly supposed to be a bedroom, but felt more like a prison cell.  The claustrophobic walls, gray and stony, held up a lightless vaulted ceiling.  A flickering candle on a nearby bed stand was the only reason Raspan could see anything. 

He sat up on the bed, suddenly feeling cold and hungry.  How long had it been since he touched the sword?  There was a window, shutters closed and rattling with the wind, which blocked his view of the outside.  He stood from the bed, landing his bare feet on a freezing stone floor.  He made his way weakly to the window, unlatching the shutters and flinging them open.

The view made him shiver more than the cold.  He was up high, in a tower of some kind.  Below him stretched vast plains, sparse and stony.  Tall spires of rock pierced the blanket of grass in some places, giving the landscape a treacherous feel, as though these protruding rocks could spring up at any time.  The forest was but a scratch on the horizon, slashing out to his left from beyond the window.  To his distant right, he could make out the wavy mass of hills, stark and barren.  That put him north of the tree line, a dangerous part of the valley where the orc tribes held, and where the mysterious beastmen of Lyrakan kept their halls. The sky remained cloudy, as it had been earlier, but it still seemed to be daytime.  The mist that had choked the valley earlier seemed to have burned off, making it sometime in the late afternoon.

Something brushed against his legs, and the poor elf nearly jumped a foot off the ground.  Looking down around his ankles, he spied a sleek black cat whose curious blue gaze locked on to Raspan’s eyes, giving him the feeling the cat wanted something from him.    He leaned over to pet the cat’s shiny coat, and it leaped up on to the bed.  There it sat, watching him intently with sly blue eyes.  Raspan tentatively reached out for the animal again, slowly this time, and it watched his hand as it closed in.  As his hand just reached its fur, the wily feline turned away and bounded over to the open door on the other side of the room.  There it meowed plaintively, its tail flicking back and forth.

Keen to the cat’s game, Raspan walked over to the doorway, his hands at his side.  The cat’s eyes remained on him the whole time and when Raspan was close, the cat began to trot away down the hall outside the room.  Quick as he could, he snapped down toward the cat, trying to scoop it up off the floor.  He was just a moment too late, and the spry beast slithered out of his grasp, casting a smarmy glance back at the elf as it sashayed away.

“You win this round, cat,” Raspan grudgingly admitted.  “You shall not always be so lucky.”

Raspan followed the cat down the hall, trailing a scant few feet behind it.  The hall was lit every few feet by candles in sconces, set in pairs down the hall.   Every other candle marked a plain wooden door below it, in a staggered pattern, left and right.  The arched ceiling kept shadows at its peak, mysterious and forbidding.  The elf found himself wary of the darkness above, as though something dreadful lurked on the ceiling, waiting for him to misstep but once to drop down and devour him.  He realized soon that the shadows were made by the design of the torch sconces; they blocked the light from reaching the ceiling and directed the light to a more angle.  Regardless, the inky darkness above him made his mind restless.

At the end of the hall stood a door of darkwood bound in iron, a light flickering behind it menacingly.  No knob or handle could be found, adding to the feeling of foreboding already at the door.  Unsure of what to do, Raspan looked expectantly at the cat, which blinked lazily at him.  Steeling his mind for what might lie beyond, he knocked twice, in trepidation, and once more with a little more confidence.

Raspan heard a click.  He had heard the tales of adventurers before, and clicks were never the sign of anything good.  He did not think he was actually in any danger, but nonetheless took a step back as the door swung inward.

Beyond the door was row after row of meticulously stocked shelves, brimming with books.  Some were old and weathered, showing age and wear, while some were eerily immaculate, as though they had never been opened.  Raspan walked slowly through the forest of pages and bindings, his curiosity rising with every step.  He would have loved dearly to read through these shelves of tomes, but not even an elf could possibly read all of the books in this place, even with an extra two hundred years.

The source of the flickering light came from a pedestal with two candles burning upon it, positioned on either side of a strange tome.  It seemed to call his name, and the elven prince was helpless against its tug.  As he came to stand beside it, he examined the book that held his attention so utterly.  The leather of the covers held a swirled pattern that shifted with each flicker of the candles.  The corners of the book were capped with triangular pieces of silver, cold blue gems set on their centers.  A white crest shaped like a dragon was inlaid on the center of the cover, and that was where Raspan’s hand fell first. 

A tremor came from within the book.  Raspan took his hand away, a feeling of dread and awe overcoming him.  The book opened itself, and from its pages seeped an icy mist, glowing with magical ire.  The unnatural cold sliced through him, prompting his hands and feet to lose almost all their feeling.  Raspan started to back away, feeling as though he never should have come in here.

The mist grew in size, and soon Raspan could make out a shape emerging from formless ether, something almost like a demon of ice.  It began to look more solid and more dangerous, until a leering face began to appear in the cloud above, its eyes centered on the poor elf. 

Thinking quickly, Raspan turned to the door, but it had long since shut without him hearing it.  He spun back to the book, sticking his senseless hands into the chilling miasma.  He tried to close the book, but it refused his efforts, as though the covers were nailed to the pedestal.  His arms were beginning to lose their feeling when he noticed that the candles were untouched by the cold.  Rapidly losing control of his fingers, he desperately knocked one of the candles into the pages of the book.

Almost instantly, the pages were alight, and the mist lost much of its form.  The frozen face glared at him before its source was melted away.  Fire burned brightly, and the mist dissolved with an angry hiss.  Soon all that was left was a burnt out cover, the candlestick resting on top of it. 

From across the room Raspan could hear the purring of the cat as the door opened back up.  It trotted up to him, seemingly pleased as could be.  The elf dropped down and let his still numb hands rest on the cat’s back, the warm fur easing the warmth back into them. 

After the cat, Raspan noticed another figure.  Janus stood in the doorway, applauding slowly and solemnly.  His eyes were as piercing and unreadable as always, but a slight smile curved his lips.

“Lesson one,” the mage said to the elf on the floor as he approached, “Curiosity can be dangerous, but without it, nothing can be learned.”

“That was a test?” Raspan gasped, standing up and rubbing his arms to get feeling back to them.

Janus waved a warding hand.  “Testing implies I would judge you on your actions.  This was less a test than a demonstration.”

“Oh, I see,” Raspan said dryly.  “You just wanted to show me that you don’t have to kill me, you can make your books kill me instead.”

The mage raised an eyebrow.  “That, dear boy, is but a fragment of the dangers you will face under my tutelage.  You will need to acclimate yourself to such thoughts if we are to succeed here.” 

Raspan looked back over to the book, digesting that bit of information.  “So that was a simple lesson?  I don’t think it had the results you were hoping for.”

“No, you performed quite as I had expected,” Janus said as he walked over to the pedestal and collected the book’s cover.  “Indeed, your reaction time was most exceptional.  However, I didn’t think you would plunge your unprotected hand into raw elemental ice.  But now, you know not to do that, don’t you?”

Raspan nodded, flexing his fingers and feeling how cold they still were.  “I guess you learn quickly when your life is at stake.”

Janus grinned.  “There was no true danger this time; the simple elemental the book summoned was under my direction and would not have permanently harmed you.  In the future, such lessons will be just as unexpected, but much less … controlled.”

Raspan felt the weight of his next few months on his back.  This would not be the magic he expected to learn.

After his lesson, Raspan was told to return to his room, where his studying could begin.  He returned to the room to find a tome on a desk near the window that had not been there before, entitled “Theories of Arcane Forms and Their Practical Applications.”  A marker had been in it denoting the beginning of a section on elven practices.  Despite the stodgy title, Raspan found the text to be descriptive and intuitive, using examples and comparisons for many of the ideas presented.

So engrossed was he in the book that he did not realize how hungry he had grown until much later when his stomach growled angrily.  He was about to place the marker on his page to seek out sustenance when he heard a knock at the door.  He figured it was his new teacher; he promptly hurried to the door and pulled it open. 

His greeting was caught in his throat as he realized his guest was only four feet tall.

Standing at the door to Raspan’s room was a young human boy who looked to be barely past his tenth winter.  He was dressed in simple, loose clothing of bright blue, a joyful look that was completely at odds with his surroundings.  The top of his head was wrapped in a red bandana in the style of street children, but his eyes held an innocent cheerfulness that only the young seem to have.  In his hands he held a platter laden with food.

“Hello!” the young lad said with a smile that could have disarmed a chained gauntlet.  “You must be the new student!  I bet you’re hungry, right?  This is for you.”

Raspan looked down at the contents of the platter.  It contained a bowl of rich, fragrant stew, a small loaf of fresh bread, and a crystal pitcher of clear water with a small clay cup.  He nodded his affirmation, he was still stunned by the surprising guest.  The boy lifted the platter toward him, and Raspan took it from him gently and placed it on his desk.

“If that’s not enough for you, I’ll show you where to get some more,” the boy said.  “I’m not sure how much elves eat, so I brought a fair helping.”

“That’s very generous,” Raspan said, finally finding his tongue.  “I wasn’t aware of any other students in Janus’ care.”

“Oh, I’m not a student anymore, really,” the boy said.  “I’m more of an assistant.”

“I see,” Raspan answered, unsure of why anyone would willingly expose themselves to Janus for longer than was needed. 

“By the way, my name’s Merrin,” the boy said.  “I’ve been here for a while, so if you have any questions, I’ll be glad to help.”

Raspan nodded appreciatively.  It was good to know that there was a friendly face sharing the tower with him.

A thought occurred to the elf as he poured from the water pitcher into the cup.  “You say you’re Janus’ assistant, and no longer a student,”

Merrin nodded.  “For at least a year.”

Raspan arched an eyebrow.  “You seem awfully young for a journeyman wizard.”

The boy grinned taking a seat at the foot of the bed.  “Janus doesn’t normally take pupils.  I was an exception, he made that very clear.  You’re lucky too, in that regard.”  He leaned forward, a curious wonder in his eyes.  “What kind of practice do you have with spells?  Illusion?  Enchantment?  Or do you have a connection to the fey?”

Raspan cleared his throat.  “I … don’t actually know any spells,” he admitted sheepishly.

Merrin’s expression started to sour with disappointment.  Raspan actually felt bad about saying as much; the young mage was clearly excited to meet another magically gifted person.  However, a moment later Merrin’s features became quizzical and introspective, a look that was completely foreign to the beaming bright face he had on not a minute ago.

“Are you cursed, or maybe under some other spell?” the boy asked suddenly.

Taken aback, Raspan merely shook his head.

“Did you display any kind of tendency toward innate sorcery?”

“No, I’m just …”

Merrin’s face lit up.  “Then you’re here to study forgotten magic!”

Raspan nearly fell out of his chair.  How perceptive could a child be?

“What is it you’re here for?  Time magic?  A warlock pact?”  Raspan was about to answer when the boy threw up his hand.  “No wait!  You must be here to learn sword magic!”

“… Yes.  That’s exactly right,” Raspan said, a smile born of the ludicrous situation tugging at his lips. 

“That’s amazing!” Merrin beamed.  “Sword magic has almost disappeared from magical practice in the past hundred years, it’s rare that even elves choose that path nowadays.”

“Just a second,” Raspan said, still smiling in disbelief.  “How in the name of the court of Latherean did you guess that?”

Merrin folded his arms.  “Well, you said you didn’t know any spells.  There’s more than one way to use magic, right?  Some curses indirectly bestow magical talent, and many sorcerers manifest there talents without knowing what it is.  But you still might have recognized that as magic.  I asked those just to be sure.”

“However, there are still lost and rare magic schools to be accounted for, you might have shown interest or promise in those.  These are really the only things I thought Janus would take someone in for.  That’s when I realized that before a hundred years ago, elves were talented in the blending of martial and magical combat.  I just put two and two together.”

It seemed to Raspan that this boy’s version of simple was more complex than what most other people would call complex. 

“But a real swordmage!” Merrin continued.  “That’s far more interesting than just having another wizard around.  I’d like to see what it’s like when your practice begins; I’ve heard it’s quite a sight and no mistake!”

Raspan chuckled.  “As long as Janus doesn’t mind, I would like that, if you don’t mind showing me a bit of what you’ve picked up.  I’ve read a lot of magical theory, and I wouldn’t mind having some of the theses I’ve read up on backed up by a real mage.”

“You have a deal, then,” Merrin smiled.  He slid off the bed, and waved over to the door.  “Why don’t I show you around?  Despite appearances, this place isn’t that big, and you’ll have plenty of time to study later.”

Raspan nodded, but remained seated.  “That sounds good,” he said, tearing off a hunk of the bread on the tray and dipping it in the stew, “but I’d rather not waste this food you brought me.”

“Oh, right,” Merrin said sheepishly.  “Forgot about that.”

Photass stared lazily past the target across the yard that he was supposed to be aiming at.  For some reason the wall behind the target was far more interesting to him.  His eyes drifted along, taking in its details, dimensions, and particulars in idle thought.  He had never noticed before how tall it was.  As he drew back on his bow, he wondered how many arrows it would take to break through the stone.  He never considered how insurmountable that wall was, and he never knew how he would feel if that wall stood between him and his brother.

He had watched as the cloaked man had taken his brother away.  He did not know why, he did not even feel angry or confused.  His mother and father had explained very little, and only assured him that Raspan would be fine. 

Of course he would be fine!  Photass clenched his teeth and snapped his gaze on the target, imagining his brother's captor.  There was nothing Raspan couldn't handle, and there was certainly nothing that could keep Photass from finding him!

He released the shaft, and it sailed through the air and plonked down into the ground beside the target.  His first shot of the day was his worst shot all week.

A moment later he felt a stinging slap to the back of his head, delivered by his trainer. 

"Awful!" Fynder exclaimed.  "I've seen one-eyed orcs with three fingers throw rocks with more accuracy!"

"Sorry," Photass mumbled half-heartedly.  He began nocking and drawing another arrow, trying to clear his head of thoughts of his brother.  Instead, he remembered their conversation several days ago over breakfast.  The very words he had spoken on his brother's dream echoed in his skull.

I wish I could help you.

Photass' fingers slipped and his arrow soared into the sky, past the wall and into the trees.  He cringed, expecting another rattling slap from his teacher.  After a moment of tense anticipation, all he heard was an exasperated sigh. 

"If you're going to lose arrows, boy, at least have the decency to lose your own," Finder said, shaking his head disgracefully.  "If rumors are to be true, we'll need every last flint arrow and wooden sword at our disposal in the coming months."

"I'm really sorry," Photass said.

Fynder's backhanded slap caught him squarely in the face, knocking him to the ground.  "You don't even know what's coming, do you?"  he shouted.  "If you've got time to apologize, there's time to put ten arrows in someone's knee!"

"Ten arrows?" Photass asked dumbly.  "In one knee?"

"Not all in one, featherbrain!" Fynder snapped.  "You're a long ways off from that trick anyhow.  Just keep shooting until you can hit five in a row, and then we'll see about knees and arrows in many numbers."

"Right."  Photass picked himself up off the ground and restrung an arrow.  However, he lost his grip before the bow was fully tensed, and the shaft drifted lightly into the air before gliding to the ground in front of the target.

"Okay, something seems wrong," Fynder said, the harshness in his tone dwindling.  "Normally you respond well to a good smack first thing in the morning.  Something really is bothering you today."

Photass nodded, lowering his bow.  "I keep thinking about Ras."

Fynder's eyes became sympathetic.  "You two are very close.  I'm sorry that he is gone, but you must focus on your training.  The valley will need both it's princes in the coming days."

"But what if he's not ready?  What if Ras is still gone when this war or whatever comes?"

Fynder waggled a finger at the younger elf.  "You need to have more faith in him than that.  He'll do fine, just worry about yourself."

"It's not Ras I'm worried about," Photass said, remembering the cloaked man.  "Who was it that took him, really?"

Fynder crossed his arms sternly.  "Is that what you're worried about, princeling?  The scary human?"

"Mother said he's a mage," Photass retorted.  "I know Ras was studying magic, but I never thought he'd wanna learn from such a bad lookin' guy."

"Looks can be decieving ..." Fynder started, but was interrupted as a dagger lanced through the air and struck the target Photass had been trying feebly to hit.  Teacher and student turned to see who had thrown it, and were greeted by the sight of a tall human wearing green leathers and a tricorn hat.  Every inch of him spoke of life in the wild, from his worn and ragged boots to his scruffy blonde beard.

"In this case," the man said, flipping another dagger up in the air before snatching it back and flinging it into the target right next to the first, "There ain't nothin' deceiving about that sick bastard."

"Who the hell are you?" Photass asked angrilly. Not only had he been evesdropping, but he had just shown him up.

The man's grin flared, showing perfect pearly teath that seemed out of place on his rugged face.  "You mad, kiddo?  Tell me why you mad."

"I'm mad because you're butting into my business," Photass said, though Fynder appeared to be trying to dissuade him.  He would rather it came to a fight at this point, he had a lot of pent up aggravation looking for a way out.  Maybe once he got his face beaten in he could finally shoot straight ... after he regained consciousness, at least.

"You're talking about Janus," the man stated simply.  "That makes it my business."

"Doesn't mean you gotta be rude," Photass said.  "Throwing stuff at me didn't help either."

The man spread his hands wide.  "Didn't hit you, did I?  In fact, I hit the target.  You improve your mood, I'll give you some pointers."

"Photass, back down," Fynder said in a low tone.  "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"I'm pretty sure I don't care," Photass said, already leaning forward into a run.  His focus never wavered from the insolent man in front of him, who still stood with his arms wide.

At the very last moment, just as he was upon the strange man, he dove to the left, rolling past the upstart.  He sprang back up, turning as he leapt up from the ground, his left fist leading.

Photass was first surprised to find that his hand found only air.  The elf's gut was pushed up to where his lungs should be as the man's elbow ghosted up from below him and came up with full force.

That had gone completely wrong, was all Photass could think as he dropped to his knees searching for the air that had been forced out.  He found it again, but was soon on his back with a boot print on his jaw.

"You're not as dumb as you seem, kiddo," the man said in between the ringing in the elf's head.  "That was a clever move, well done.  You think of it all by yourself, or your brother hand you that piece of genius?"

Photass tried to curse, but his words came out in a cough.

"This the best you can do, Fynder?" The man said.  "You've got to be kidding me."

"He's an exceptional student, actually," Fynder said, seeming so far from the grounded elf.  "He just needs motivation."

"Motivation, you say?"  The man knelt down next to Photass as he struggled to make the sky stop spinning.  His face was clear to him, dire and dark. 

"Your brother is going to die because of you."

Photass' heart stopped for a moment, and pain of a different kind lingered in his chest.  It was all he could do to not pass out then and there.

"Master Thorn!" Fynder shouted.  "What is the meaning of such a threat?"

"Look at me, kid," he forced Photass' face to align with his, albeit more gently than he was a moment ago.  "You got a name?"

"Photass," he said.  "How do you know my brother?"

The man grinned again.  "I got my sources.  I know he's with Janus now.  But that's not the point.  You can handle a bow, and judging from your maneauvers I'd say you're not bad in a stand up brawl.  But we're talking about war coming, to all the valley."

"Why?" Photass asked, as if no one had ever thought to ask it.

The man's eyes narrowed.  "There's a guy out there who thinks this place is his by right.  He wants this land and will do anything to make it his.  He has dangerous allies, and some pretty nasty power at his command.  He's already started to move, and we don't have time to figure out how long we have."

"What about my brother?" Photass said, getting some clarity back.  "Why am I going to kill him?"

"He's chosen to take up a difficult path, but it might save us all."  The man leaned in closer, and spoke with lower tones.  "This is not the kind of thing that anyone can do.  Even if he survives it, he ain't gonna come out smellin' like roses at the other end.  When he gets there, he's gonna need every last bit of support even to stand up.  Dragonheroes are nothing without those who stand with them."

Photass had not heard that word before, but it sounded like something his brother would do.  The man stood back up, placing his hands on his sides, saying in a much louder tone, "You wanna just lie there, or can you stand?"

Photass turned over onto his chest and pushed up off the ground, getting his legs underneath him even as the ground seemed to wobble below him.  Slowly he forced himself to stand, and soon he stood upright before the man, wobbling back and forth as the world tilted to and fro.

"I'm up," he stated wearily, "What now?"

"You go and fire an arrow into that target," the man said pointing at the target with two daggers sticking out of the bullseye. 

Photass stumbled over to his bow, next to Fynder who watched wordlessly as the young elf picked it up, nocked an arrow and drew back. 

"This one's for you, bro," he whispered as he took aim.  "I won't let you down." 

His fingers let go of the arrow just as a wave of nausea came over him and he doubled over.  He tumbled to the ground dizzy and sick.  Fynder was over him immediately, checking to see if he was alright. 

He could make out the voice of the man through his world melting away.

"Hot damn, nice shot."

The last thing Photass saw as he passed out was the target, and his arrow sticking out from between the man's daggers.

Photass awoke to the sound of trickling water.  It must have started raining, he reasoned.  He already hated mornings as they were, rain just made things worse.  The only thing that could salvage a morning like this was more sleep.  He kept his eyes shut as he fumbled around him for his covers, which he must have kicked off in his sleep. 

Strangely, his hands found no covers, or bed.  Had he fell out of bed and not noticed?  Warily he cracked open his eyes to spy his situation.  The moment light touched his eyes he felt the pain in his head flood to the forefront of his consciousness.  He must have fallen harder than he thought. 

Wait, where did he fall from?  His bed was nowhere to be found.  Glancing around painfully, he realized that he was not even in his room.  The small room around him was made of wood, not stone, and the trickle of water he heard was not from the rain outside the room's tiny window, but from a tiny leak in the ceiling, under which a clay bowl had been placed.  At least he had been right about one thing. 

Underneath him was a pile of furs, stacked to create the illusion of bedding.  He would have grumbled about that but as it turned out they were oddly relaxing.  He would have laid himself back down to sleep away the pain in his head, when the door to the room was flung open.  The shadow in the doorway was familiar, but distantly so.  He could not place it until he finally noticed the tricorn hat, and the whole scene flooded back into his memory.

"Hey, you're awake.  That's a shocker." The mysterious man entered the room with a bowl in his hands much like the one on the floor gathering rainwater.  "I thought you'd be out for another few hours."

"You did hit me pretty hard," Photass said.  "I'm not sure I've ever had a headache from being hit in the stomach."

"You're just dehydrated," the man said, scooping the bowl off the floor and replacing it with the one in his hands.  He offered it to the elf, who gladly took it and sat up.  He took a refreshing gulp from the bowl, then leaned forward and dumped the bowl over his head.  He leaned back feeling the icy cold water drip down his shirt, cooling his body. 

The man laughed, a great and stirring sound that came up from his feet.  "Not what I would have done, but alright."

"That felt pretty good," Photass said as he pushed his dripping bangs out of his eyes.

"I'm so glad that was worth it," the man chuckled.  "Do you actually want a drink now?"  Photass nodded, and the man offered his hand.  "You're lucky I keep jugs fresh from the stream everyday.  Come with me, I'll give you the tour."

"Where am I, anyway?" Photass asked, grabbing the man's hand and hoisting himself to his feet.

"My home, not too far from R'mass Castle."  The man flashed a grin, once again displaying his excellent teeth.  "You'll be here for a while, while you train."

Photass looked at him incredulously.  "I already have a teacher."

"Sadly, The captain of the Stormcutters has his hands full with preparing his soldiers for war.  I was called in -- albeit reluctantly -- by your father to handle your training.  Since all my preparations are made, I was free to do as my king asked." 

He lead Photass into the next room, a combination of kitchen, sitting room, and shrine.  On his right, a small, square table and pair of chairs sat beside a large window that let in a good deal of light.  Across the room from that was a smaller preparatory area with a cooking fire and a large set shelves stocked with all manner of meats and vegetables, along with several clay jugs of varying size.  Opposite the door was the door to the outside, and next to it was a stone sculpture set on the floor flanked by candles, with a sitting mat in front of it. The room smelled faintly of spice mixed with a curious incense that reminded the elf of summer.

"Cozy," Photass remarked.  "I kinda like it."

"This isn't everything really," the man said.  "The rest of the rooms are on other branches."

The phrase gave Photass pause for thought.  Wordlessly, he walked over to the window, peering outside.  He could see the forest, but it was as though he peered out from a tall tower.

Looking down, the elf nearly lost his breath.  Beneath him were the branches of a great tree, the forest floor sitting frighteningly far away.  Looking out to the horizon he could see the Sprite Forest displayed before him.  He could vaguely make out the silhouette of the castle in the distance, looking so much smaller than he always thought.

"We're up in a tree," Photass said, sitting down at the table.

"You catch on quickly," the man said dryly moving over to the shelves and selecting a jug. 

"Why do you live in a tree?" Photass asked.

"Why don't you, Bowslinger McPointyears?" the man jested.  "It's nice and quiet up here.  No predators, plenty of fresh air, and no unwanted visitors."

 "How did you get me up here?" Photass asked.

"I just jumped up," the man said.  Photass' eyes went wide, and the man grinned.  "There's a rope ladder and a lift, dipshit.  Do you know what the word 'gullibility' means?"

Photass frowned.  "Hey, you never know, alright?"

The man laughed again.  "I'm gonna have so much fun with you, kid."

"You can call me Photass," he said sharply.  "I'm not a kid."

"Well, you can call me Thorn," the man replied.  "I just happen to be the best damn ranger in the valley."

"Is that so?"

"Do you need me to prove it again?"

"No," Photass said, "But I would like to know why you're training me."

Thorn nodded.  "Fair enough.  Your brother is getting a significant amount of special training, because of who he is.  We've discussed this much, right?"

Photass nodded, remembering the whole conversation now.

"Well, some friends and I don't really think we should leave this kind of thing up to chance," Thorn went on.  "We want to have the best chance we can get to defend ourselves.  It takes a lot more than a few above-average soldiers to win a war, but those same soldiers in the right place at the right time can make all the difference."

Photass was not sure he understood, but the man's meaning was clear.

"In order to make sure we live through this -- maybe even win -- those who have talent are going to need to make that talent real ability." Thorn poured some water from the jug into a pair of pewter cups.  He sat down with Photass at the table.  "Your brother was born for this, make no mistake.  But you've got something different, something just as important."

Photass shrugged, at a loss for words.

Thorn placed a hand on his arm.  "You want to help, to make a difference."

"Most people do, I think," Photass responded.

"But most don't have the will or ability to do anything about it," the ranger said.  "They don't think they have what it takes, so they don't even try, like horses penned in by a fence.  But others can see the world outside their pen, and watch as birds fly freely in the fields beyond.  These ones just see the fence as a test, and know if they can make that jump they have a world of possibility just waiting for them.  Even if they don't make it the first time, they keep trying, practicing for that one day when they make it over, and run as freely as birds fly."  Thorn paused to let his words sink in.  "Are you willing to work on jumping that fence your brother just flew over?"

Photass found himself stirred by the analogy.  Raspan had always seemed to take to his practices and study so much easier than Photass.  He never truly cared, because his brother had always encouraged him to do his best.  But now, when he was so far behind, he felt more than a little lost and forgotten.  He remembered his thoughts on the wall back in the training ground, how insurmountable it was.  It stood tall and ominous in his mind still, and he imagined it was the only thing stopping him from helping his brother and helping his people.

He smiled despite himself.  It was just a wall, after all, and it was only in his way if he gave up.  He knew what side his brother was on, and where Raspan went, he would follow one step behind, to the ends of the world or even into the sky.  Raspan was going to need help, and Photass could never live with himself if he was not strong enough to be there for him.

"I'm with you, crazy tree-dwelling man," Photass said.  "I'll learn whatever you can teach me."

"Good to know," Thorn grinned.  "We'll start tomorrow."

"I still don't know why it's you training me," Photass said.

"Because I'm the only other guy in the valley besides Fynder that knows anything about that," he pointed to Photass' bladebow in the corner, next to the shrine.  "When I'm done with you, it won't matter if their near, far, or flying at you, you'll be able to handle anything."

Photass liked the sound of that.  He took a swig of the water in his cup.  "Now if you could teach me how to fly as well, I'd be set for life."

Thorn shook his head, chuckling.  "We'll see, kid."

Dragonhero, pt. 3

The wind howled sorrowfully outside Janus’ chamber window.  Muttering to himself about the noise, he remained seated at his desk, stubbornly refusing to admit defeat to the intrusions of the outside world.  He ground the tip of his quill into the page of his book, spreading a blue-black splotch out from the corner of the page.  Had he realized what he was doing, he would have been even more irritated at the loss of the expensive ink. 

He had grown quite accustomed to the quiet and solitude of his tower, and was not prepared to deal with annoyances outside his control.  However, minor irritations like the wind, the rain, and the occasional bird or confused traveler did not usually get his hackles up.  Tonight was different, as he felt all things as though they were scratching the back of his neck. 

Finally fed up with the wind, he faced the window and lifted his hand, palm up.  His fingers together, he brought them back to his palm.  The shutters slammed closed, the wailing of the wind diminished, and he sighed.  Looking back to his book, he noticed the blotch of ink he had made, and felt a vein throb in his forehead.  Truly this night was going to drive him insane if there was just one more interruption. 

The mage nearly lost his composure when a low hum and a glow emanated from behind him.  He forced himself to stand up slowly from his desk and take a deep breath.  He faced the latest obstacle to his sanity, his scrying crystal.  He scrutinized the warmly glowing orb for a moment; he knew very few people with the aptitude to call on him through this method.  There was a chance it could be a malicious entity he had managed to anger in his travels, but equally it was a cry for aid or important bit of news from a friend. 

Normally he would have let it be and covered the orb with a sack; such troubles were not worth his time and he had much left to do.  Something was clawing at his consciousness from the edge of his mnd, and had been all night long.  Maybe this call would shed some light on the nebulous irritability that consumed him.

Striding up to the crystal, he placed his hands upon it and closed his eyes in concentration.  The hum faded and the light dimmed to a glimmer, and an image began to coalesce within.

“Janus dear, I hope you weren’t thinking of ignoring me.”

The mage felt his heart skip at the warm, pleasant female voice in his mind.  A moment of shock made way for an instance of elation as he recalled the voice.

           

“You are awake?” he said out loud, only half aware that he was speaking to an empty room.  “Is everything alright?  Do the others know?”

           

“Relax, old friend,” the voice reassured him.  “I am not ready yet, but yes, I sleep no more.  You were the first I chose to contact, because in an hour, you are about to receive a courier with a message from R’mass Castle.”

His face scrunched up in confusion.  “The castle?  Whatever for?”

“I will let you read the message yourself, but I need to know that you will accept Kaneira’s request to tutor her son.”

“You are speaking nonsense,” Janus said, his finger on his temple.  Despite his words, his face was vexed as he took in her every word and tried to make it sane in his mind.  “You must be able to tell me more.”

“It is only important to me that you would do it without knowing any other circumstances.  If the queen of R’mass asked you to teach your craft to her eldest son, would you help?”

Janus frowned as his mind covered the assertion she was making.  After the last incident with a student he claimed vocally that there would be no others after his current apprentice.  She must have known somehow, but there was something to her plea he could not identify.  Why did she care that this one was taught by him?  Surely there were better, more patient teachers, even within the valley.  There was no reason for him to be bothered with another pupil, even one as prominent as the prince of the R’mass clan. 

Even so, there were some rumors surrounding his birth, and even as an old friend of the family he was never made sure of their veracity.  He had never met the boy, but word of his talent and interests were well known to him.

Finally, he said, “If her request is reasonable it does not matter.”

“It does to me,” she insisted.  “I need to know that you want to take the time to teach this one.”

He sighed.  She could be so sentimental.  “Well, seeing as he is the grandson of my best friend, I would abhor the thought of him squandering his talent due to poor instruction, or bardic nonsense.”

There was a slight laugh from the other end of the magical connection.  “Prideful as always.  But loyal, as well.  Thank you, Janus, for humoring a silly fool.”

He could not help but stifle the slight smile brought on by her praise.  “A fool indeed,” he said, “to worry about such things after so many years asleep.”

“Asleep I may have been,” she mentioned, “but neglectful I was not.  For several years I have been kept aware by a soul kind enough to let me know what was happening in the valley, and I might add that it was not one of my guardians.”

The mage scoffed.  “You’d have gotten nothing useful out of those that remain, anyway.  We’ve become focused on our own endeavors, not caring an imp’s tail for the valley.  I do not believe you so naïve to think that we would wait for you forever.”

He could almost hear her smiling from her end.  “I am glad that you are one of the few who did.  Goodnight, Black Wizard of the White Star.”

The glow and hum of the crystal faded to quiet again, and the silence of her absence filled the old mage with regret.  He could have just once told her how much he missed her.  There would be little time for such frivolity with a new student around.

An hour later an elven courier arrived on his doorstep, with a missive from the royal house.  After giving the messenger his leave, he returned to his study.  Sitting back down at his desk, he opened and read the letter. 

His hand trembled as he finished the reading, a mixture of fear and rage causing his cold composure to slip drastically.  Nothing about his earlier communication prepared him for the news from R’mass Castle.

“So there was no room even in all the hells for your betrayal, Kelek?” he said to the empty room.  “It sickens me that I had the chance to end you back then, and now you have returned to throw that wasted opportunity in my face.”  A dark grin filled his lips.  “Death is too good for you, after all.  Mark my words; your downfall will be thrice as painful as you made our lives before.”

He seethed a moment longer, until his gaze happened upon the crystal ball.  He sighed, some of his furor lost.  “You were right to ask me, my dear.  I know what you meant now.  I shall not do this for myself, but for you as well.” 

He reached within his cloak, and produced a pair of gloves.  Sliding them onto his hands, he felt the power within them react to his touch.  “There will be much to discuss at the House of R’mass tomorrow,” he said out loud.  “See to it that my pupil keeps to his studies.”

A soft meow echoed from below his desk. 

Satisfied, he flipped the hood of his cloak up and closed the door to his study.  The mage made his way out of the tower that night, for he would be the son of an orc if he did not respond faster than the other proposed tutor in the letter.  He would not let his future student get a head full of idealistic nonsense before he had to have it beaten out of him.

Raspan gazed into the courtyard, empty of the traders and merchants that had thrived there the day before.  The only sounds to his ears were the chirps of the morning birds and the bustle of the cadets doing their drills on the other side of the compound.  The gray sky was made more oppressive still by the mist that covered the forest; a shroud he thought would pass yesterday but remained … like the dream.

He winced as he thought of the dream.  The stone that threatened him there frightened him more than ever now.  He felt that if he left it there could only be wicked things to come, but he knew that destroying it meant something horrible would happen.  He felt sick; far more that just afraid, he was doomed. 

But the voice, sweeter still this time around, let him know that even in his hopeless hour he would not be without its presence.  And indeed, this past night he had felt that it was there with him still, diminished but persistent.  It would never fade completely, he knew now.  It would be with him until the last note of his song, no matter how it ended.

He watched as a guard hurried across the courtyard from the main gate toward the keep, as though harried by unseen pursuers.  All the guards were like that now, cringing at flickering torches and making fearful glances over their shoulders.  He guessed that it had something to do with his mother’s council she held shortly after his lesson with all the guard officers and other heads of staff.  Everyone seemed ill at ease after that session, and he could not help but feel guilty over the sudden change.  It was surely not his fault, but he only wished he never dreamed such darkness or found the raven in the market.  It would have been preferable to him that his home got to keep its peace, even if it meant he never got to leave.

At dinner with his family that night, there was a quiet that was only punctuated by Photass relating his daily antics with the irrepressible Captain Fynder of the watch.  During the whole of his brother’s ramblings, Raspan had felt his father’s eyes on him.  King Valiant was normally a jovial person around his family, and delighted in the stories Raspan and his brother had to tell during their family meal.  But he was subdued last night, and tried not to look Raspan in the eye.  On the few occasions their eyes had met, Raspan saw a pain there that did not subside even in a smile. 

A few minutes later, he saw his father walk out into the misty courtyard, led by the guard that had gone in earlier.  The guard signaled to the gate tower, at which time the gate opened wide enough to allow the ingress of a figure draped in a cloak of dark violet, with long silver hair spilling out from the sides of the hood.  He could not have been much taller than his father, but his authoritative air could be felt by Raspan, even from a distance.  King Valiant bowed curtly to the stranger, as though he knew him, and motioned toward the keep.  The figure nodded, and they both walked back across the courtyard.  Raspan watched them as they walked certain that he was not noticed from so high up. 

He was apparently wrong, as the cloaked figure looked at him directly as the made his way to the keep.  The red eyes beneath the hood were narrow and sharp, as though they cut right into Raspan’s mind.  Raspan searched his gaze for intent, and found a cold will that stood like a wall of ice between him and the emotions of the man far below him.  The figure seemed to sneer arrogantly for a moment before turning back to the king and the keep. 

Raspan considered the interaction for a minute, barely aware that it had begun to rain.  He retreated from the balcony to his tower, unsure of his future and troubled by the present.  Back in his room, he sat down at his desk, his flute and a pile of empty score pages ready for another futile session of half remembered melodies.

It was not that he was a poor musician, but his ability to write the music and remember the notes brought him down.  Whenever he came up with something he liked while playing, he would try to capture it on paper, only to find half the notes in the wrong order and many more passing from memory as he tried to write them.  His mother told him often that he should not worry on his scribing of songs and just enjoy the music; there would be plenty of time to write the songs after he experimented enough. 

But that was not enough for him.  He wanted to learn now what made his music sound so good to him, and for all his experimenting he was not yet happy with his attempts.  If he could just get one song, one full melody, or even just one chorus written down he could learn from his work and learn even faster.  When he tried to explain that to his mother, she had smiled, shook her head, and told him that time is a luxury that all elves had in surplus, and that one day he would understand that. 

With the way things were going for him, Raspan felt that time was something he would have in short supply very soon.  Even if that was not the case, he wanted nothing more than to further his crafts, be they music, magic, or swordplay.  In the end, his accomplishments in those fields would be the legacy that he wanted to leave behind.  The faster he could learn the closer his goal would become.

The elven prince picked his flute back up to practice, employing a new method of capturing his notes.  He started by playing a few notes at a time and jotting them down on the page, listening for stirring combinations.  When he felt he had enough, he replayed the initial strings, one by one, starting to build on them.  He wrote in a handful more notes to each one, but eventually he crossed out the majority of his lines, unsatisfied with the outcome of those strings.  He still had faith in the method, but this was clearly an off day for him.

He tried to push through his stagnation once more, searching his mind for whatever he could think of to inspire.  He was getting to the point in his playing that everything was starting to sound dull.  In frustration he blew a single long high pitched note.

He could swear he heard someone’s voice match the tone of his flute perfectly.

Startled at first, he looked around his room, even though he was alone.  Tentatively, he tried the note again but gentler. 

The voice rang in his mind again, perfect, clear, and perfectly in time with his song.  He found several notes afterward, and soon a long string of melody was playing in his head and through his flute.  The voice matched his every musical movement, as though guiding him through the progression. 

He was certain the voice was only in his head, but equally positive that he had heard the voice from somewhere else.

He halted suddenly, realizing that all this great music was getting out and not getting written down.  He crumpled up his old sheet and grabbed a fresh one, quickly dipping his pen into the inkwell and setting down what he remembered.  The notes started to fade again as he wrote, to his horror.  He shut his eyes tight, focusing on the song, focusing on the voice that had shown him the way. 

“What do I do?” he said out loud.  “Help me!”

He could almost hear the voice in his head again, “But I just did!”

That’s when he recognized the voice.  It was the mysterious voice from his dream.

He dropped the quill, setting his elbows on his desk and placing his head in his hands.  What was going on?  Was this his imagination?  With everything that had happened recently, was he starting to go insane? 

As he leaned on his desk, he surveyed the notes he was able to ink on the paper.  It was a good start, regardless of his mental state, and he could see many ways that it could develop.  He picked up his flute and played the notes as he read them from the page, and slowly came to realize that he had not missed scribing a single part.  He picked up the page again, and smiled.  A good start, indeed.  This might be the best he’d written in quite a while.

A sudden knock at his door brought him back down to reality.  Unbidden, the door opened to reveal his mother. 

“Are you well, son of mine?” she asked, curiosity on her face.

“I’m fine,” he answered.  “I’ve just been practicing.”

“Where did you hear that song?” she asked, stepping in and placing a hand on his arm.

He shrugged.  “I didn’t, it just came to me.”

She gave him another strange look.  “Are you certain?  It sounds like a song I’ve heard before.”

“Well, maybe you played it for me before,” Raspan said, starting to feel like the song he made was not so original.  “I thought I was on to something.”

“No, I’ve never played a song like that,” his mother said, looking over to his desk.  “Is this it?”  He nodded, and she looked at what he had.  Finally she shook her head, smiling.  “I’m sorry.  You’re quite right.  I must have been mistaken.  It’s quite good, but why didn’t you finish it?”

“I wanted to make sure I wrote down what I already had, and I very nearly lost that.”

She folded her arms.  “You have a very human notion of music, you know.  This shouldn’t be important yet, just enjoy the music you make for what it is!  The important songs are the ones you will remember years from now, and those are the ones worth writing down.”

“I know,” Raspan sighed, sitting down on his bed.  “But I always feel like I’m writing that song right now!  I cannot help but preserve what I have found and try to learn from it.”

She nodded, walking over to him.  “This all will come to pass.  You will see in time that this is the perfect time to just experiment and live in the passion of music.  Only once you have reached a deeper understanding of the way music works will you start to be able to make the song on the page as beautiful as the one in your heart.”

He sighed again, and she put her hand on his shoulder.  “You can keep practicing like this if you want.  But don’t try to simply make music; you need to feel it deep down.”

“I do,” he said, smiling.  “That’s why I want to write it down so badly.”

“You may not be afforded such a luxury,” she said guardedly.  “Your tutor is insisting on a short and strict apprenticeship.”

He looked up at her as she tried to mask her pity.  “My tutor has sent word?”

She gave him a sincere look.  “He is here now.  He means to take you with him when he leaves today.”

His heart froze with dread.  “Is he the visitor I saw father with in the courtyard?”

She nodded.  “He is a very old friend of the R’mass family, and you are fortunate indeed to be accepted as his student.” 

Raspan considered the situation momentarily.  “I did not like the look of him.  He seems dangerous and of unfathomable intentions.”

She nodded again, a half smile on her face.  “That is how he seems at first.  He is in fact of noble mind and a man of reserved power, though his demeanor lies forever under a raincloud.”

“You know him well then?” Raspan asked.

“He is the greatest practitioner of magical craft in the valley, perhaps the most potent spellcaster to ever pass through our land,” she told him, then adding, “including your older sister.”

Raspan perked up at the mention of Adelle.  She had left the castle long ago to pursue her own interests, but he had fond memories of her.  She had stoked his burgeoning interest in magic with her own considerable talent, always showing off minor magical tricks to amaze him.  She left on good terms with the family, promising to send word of her travels, but in ten years nothing had been heard of her.  Still he admired her, and if this mage was trusted by his family and was comparable to his sister, he did not think too little of him.

“In fact, I came up to bring you down to meet him,” his mother said.  “I think he wants to explain what will be expected of you during your time with him.”

Raspan nodded, standing up from his bed.  The two of them made their way from the tower to the balcony, and then into the door that led to the second floor of the keep.  Raspan’s mother escorted him into his father’s private meeting room where King Valiant and the stranger sat speaking in low tones. 

The strange mage noticed him, and half smiled.  “You are the one I caught sight of on the balcony,” he said sharply.  “I had not realized that you were the prince; you dress like a street urchin.  I thought you one of the servants.”

The king and queen both started to protest but Raspan smiled and cut them off.  “Nobility is not worn on a sleeve, it is carried in the heart,” he said to the man’s icy eyes.  “People who dress up try to hide something.  I dress plainly so everyone can see who I am, regardless of station.” 

His father tried to hide a frown, and his mother stifled a surprised smile.  An almost terrible grin appeared on the man’s lips.  “So you aren’t without your own mind.  Magical study requires independent thought, and your craft itself requires an especially free mind.”  His smile widened.  “You will be an especially interesting student.  Most react poorly when I insult them.  You kept your head and answered intelligently.”  He leaned forward.  “I wonder just how much abuse you can take.”

Raspan did not waver under his gaze.  If this was what it took for him to further his craft, then so be it.  He had to trust in his parents’ judgement.

“I am Janus,” the mage said, drawing back his hood.  His complexion was pale, and his hair was silvery blue.  His angular features made Raspan think of the vampires he had read about, and half expected him to have long claws underneath his thick brown gloves.  “It is my pleasure to meet you, Prince Raspan.  The king and queen have asked me to teach you in the craft of magic, but the way I see it, you don’t want mere magical training.  You seek the powers of a Swordmage, much like your grandfather practiced.”

Raspan looked to his mother, who nodded.  “I do,” Raspan answered.

“You are in luck, then.  I learned something of the ways of elven blademagic from my time spent with him.”  His face darkened.  “But you must first learn the ways of a battlemage if I am to teach you those arts.”

“I know what is at stake,” Raspan told him firmly, standing across from him at the table. 

“You know nothing,” Janus told him bluntly.  “This is why I am going to teach you.”

“I will become a swordmage,” Raspan proclaimed, “and I will defend my land from this foe.”

“That is not enough!” Janus said sharply, jarring Raspan for the first time.  “This land doesn’t need just another swordsman with a talent for magic who thinks he is the master of both.  You will not be a mere warrior, but a master of the blade you wield.  Your magic will not be the incantations of a wizard, but the invocations of powers older and wiser than what a book can teach.  To save your beloved valley, boy, you will need to become worthy of the sword that is your birthright – Glaptrica, the sword of the Dragonhero.”

Raspan’s heart pounded as he tried to keep his composure.  These words were familiar to him, explained just yesterday by his mother. 

“What is a Dragonhero?” he asked.  “And what is this sword you speak of, that I am to wield?”

Janus looked to the king and queen.  “No stories of grandfather for his heir?”

“He was not ready to hear such dire tales,” King Valiant retorted.  “This is too much of a burden for him, even now.”

“It is his right, and it is not your decision to make, my liege,” Janus said firmly, leaving no room for argument.  Valiant shut his mouth, biting back his words in the face of a master wizard.  Satisfied, Janus turned to the prince.  “Your legacy is upon your shoulder, am I right?”

Raspan grasped at his shoulder where the eight pointed star was imprinted on his skin. 

“The Dragonstar is linked inexorably to a treasure of this family known as the Glaptrica, the Tragic Blade of Dragon’s Heart,” Janus explained, sitting back in his chair.  “It is a sword both blessed and cursed with the power to change the future; a sword that both heralds catastrophe and gives hope.  It chooses its wielder through some unknown scheme, selecting those who will be central to important events.  But those who are born with the Dragonstar on their shoulder are much more than the wielders of this blade.  They unlock the true strength of the sword’s magic, able to borrow and channel the power of dragons.”

Dragons!  The word made Raspan’s heart skip.  Creatures of legend and power, they were beings that would have stories to beat all stories.  Living for centuries or even millennia, the oldest dragons could easily be a master of many arts.  For so long he wanted to meet a dragon, for good or ill, and that opportunity was getting much closer now than he ever thought it would. 

“But even these chosen must prove their worth,” Janus went on, seemingly oblivious to Raspan’s excitement.  “You must show promise beyond the norm, able to grasp concepts beyond what even the exceptional can come to terms with.  This must apply to all of your crafts, whether they are for war or peace.

“In other words, you must pass tests put forth by the sword when you claim it.  Since your art constitutes two fields, you may need to take two tests.  I shall prepare you for the test of magic.  Another will be selected to teach you in the ways of the sword.  Finally, you must win the sponsorship if a living dragon who knows of Glaptrica before you can call it your own.  At such a point you will be considered a fully fledged Dragonhero.”

Raspan nodded his understanding.  To him, this was the ultimate right of passage.  If he could master these tests and claim this sword, his dream of adventure was well within his grasp.  “I will do whatever I can to save Dragon Valley.  I don’t care how many years it takes to master this test, I will do it.”

“Years?” Janus looked at him severely.  “In case you were not aware, war is almost upon your doorstep.  We do not have time on our side.  You must succeed at this in months, likely not even half a year.”

“Less than half a year?” Valiant roared, standing up.  “You can’t be serious, Master Janus!  Not even my father did it in such time, or anyone else for that matter!  Such an endeavor would certainly …”

“Destroy him?” Janus shot back, sending a withering glare at the king.  “We will all be destroyed if nothing is done.  Kelek has power now that is beyond all of us.  Even if we defeat whatever forces he has amassed, he alone has the power to take this castle by force.  The dragons are not going to be here in time, and even if they did, they would only delay him.  Only a Dragonhero is capable of doing what must be done now.”

Valiant calmed, and glanced at his son.  Raspan found only sorrow in that gaze.

Janus stood up from the table.  “Come with me, prince Raspan.  It is time you saw what it is will guide the fate of your world.”  He made his way around the table and out of the meeting room.  As an afterthought, he added, “You may say your goodbyes now, we are bound for the road very soon.”

Raspan stood up from his chair, standing before both of his parents.  Both had a mix of emotions displayed on their face.  His father’s face was long with sorrow, but his eyes shown of the pride he had for his son.  His mother wore tears on her face with a smile, but he could feel the dread in her heart.  He embraced them both, saying, “I will do this, for all of us.  I promise never to fail you.”

“It is enough for me that you even try,” King Valiant said, his voice trembling with emotion.  “I will tell your brother everything.  He will be just as important in the days to come, I feel, and I know someone who can teach him even better than Fynder.”

His mother took him by the shoulders.  “We love you, no matter if you were blessed or cursed.  There are many adventures to come for you, with meetings, partings, and reunions with the most incredible of folks.  One day, I will sing a saga for you and your companions, much like the song we played yesterday by the shrine, my tribute to Rauvin’s legend.”

Raspan’s eyes widened.  “That’s what that was?  A song for my grandfather?”  His mother nodded, and he smiled.  “I am glad I got to hear it at least.  The tale must be just as grand.”

“My father was a great person,” Valiant said, “not only through his deeds, but his strength of soul and his accepting, loving mind.  There was nothing impossible to him, all things were laid bare before his path.  You would do well to think as he did, my son.  Give everyone a chance, even the most wicked can be redeemed.”

Raspan gave a quick nod, his heart becoming heavy.  It seemed that he had much to prove in order to live up to Rauvin R’mass.

“Go now, before Janus grows impatient,” his mother said.  “Live well, son of mine.”

“Remember me fondly, dearest mother,” Raspan responded, hugging her one last time.

He left the room, closing the door behind him.  Janus barely acknowledged his presence before heading in the direction of the stairs.  Raspan followed him out, every step heavy with thoughts of what he was leaving behind.

Janus led him outside into the rain and fog behind the castle.  There they walked a path very familiar to Raspan; he walked it yesterday to find his mother.  The shrine was empty when they came upon it, the dragon holding its vigil over the clearing.  Janus walked clear past the effigy, but Raspan could barely detect through the mage’s hood his nod to the icon, almost as if it was alive.  Raspan felt only a little put off by the fact that an inanimate object garnered more respect from this man than he did.

Beyond the shrine was a path that Raspan had never noticed.  It was overgrown with weeds and obscured by branches, clearly not used in many years, but there was still some semblance of a direction it retained in its disuse.  The path wound on for what felt like hours, the forest fighting their every step.  Just when Raspan began to suspect that Janus had brought him out here to kill him and take his eyes, the path opened into a verdant clearing, with beautiful flowers muted by the fog and trees that stood taller than any the elven prince had seen near the castle. 

At the center of this wild garden was a shrine of silver and gold, stately and sturdy.  Housed within the shrine was a statue of an elf male that reminded Raspan of his father, but held more life in his smile than the whole of his family.  There was only one person this could be a tribute to.

“This is the Dragonhero’s Shrine, where Glaptrica returns after its last wielder passes on,” Janus proclaimed, stretching his arm out toward the statue.  “And that,” he said, pointing to the sword that stood beneath the statues hands, “is the Tragic Blade of Dragon’s Heart.”

The sword was of amazing craft.  The hilt was glimmering gold, etched in flowing patterns with an eight pointed star in the middle of the crosspiece.  The handle was wrapped in cloth, and the pommel resembled a four-taloned claw that held a perfectly smooth and round red stone – Raspan believed it to be a garnet.  The blade was elegant and straight, tapering sharply at the tip.  It was of a metal that he did not recognize, white and gleaming, almost appearing soft.

“You can examine it more closely, if you like,” Janus said. 

Raspan apprehensively approached at his words, coming to stand before the treasure in the shrine.  He reached for it, tentatively, resting a hand on the crosspiece.  It felt surprisingly warm, almost as warm as the touch of a person.  He slid his hand up to the handle, which had a comfortable grip.  He worked his way up to the garnet bearing pommel, which prompted a surprised sound from the mage behind him. 

Too late, it seemed, for the moment he touched the gem his body froze and he could hear nothing but the roar of a dragon, pounding in his head.  The raw emotion and ecstasy of the primal howl drove Raspan to his knees.  For a moment he felt as though his body was not his own, and then a void of white opened up before him.  Before the white faded to black, a voice like a song rang inside his head.

“I have found you, but you have not found me. You cannot keep me yet, but I am always with you, in your empty hand.  Before your hand can hold the stars, they must first touch the ground.  Find me, I am closer than you think.”