| Story |
 
|
(Page 2 of 13) Ivaris - Prologue and Chapter 1 by Jennifer Raney
 (4 ratings)
|
I had hoped you were mature enough to be here. I cannot punish you for what you did, and yes, I know it was you. It must have been, I saw your face last night at supper, I knew you would cause an incident," the General was gentle in voice, but his eyes held only steel for his son, whom had disappointed him so completely. After everything he thought he had taught him, the boy would not be altered.
His son merely stared at him, and did not speak, "As it were, if you were to remain, the troops would become dangerous toward you, I am certain. Even their general cannot prevent them from harming you. And as you are my son, I cannot allow you to remain in such obvious peril."
The General had taken his eyes from the boy now, and was pacing his tent, slapping his gloves into his palm, "You will return home immediately," he said finally, still not looking up. He turned his back on the boy as a dismissal, and began shuffling some papers on the field desk.
It was the last time the boy's father spoke directly to him.
Upon his return home, his lessons became dull, and instead he turned to combat arts, in which he excelled. One particular moment with his most respected teacher unlocked the final path to his mind. It was the middle of summer, hot and muggy, even in the foothills where he lived, at the school of combat arts. He knew his mother disapproved, but she said nothing. He was the youngest of three children, and therefore not the heir apparent, so she did not insist on his education in philosophy, economy, or politics.
And so he was left to his own devices, more or less, at only the cost of his mother's disapproval. On this one particular day, thunderstorms rolled in from the sea beyond the foothills, and enveloped the school in an oppressive sauna for several hours before the rains came. He sat meditating quietly on the veranda facing the mountains. His eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly open, tasting the air. He could not see the darkness obscuring the summit, but he could feel it. Perspiration dampened his thin summer clothing, but his meditation was focused on the approaching tempest.
"Apprentice," an elderly man stood at the door, "young apprentice," he called. The boy did not respond, only turned his head slightly to acknowledge his revered teacher. The man was at least seventy, but still robust, clearly an athlete even in his old age.
"The rain will wash you away, please come inside so we can close the door."
The student heard the advice, but said nothing. He turned his head back to the mountains.
"If you wish to remain, you may, but I must lock these doors against the wind," the mentor warned. The bushy eyebrows folded together in consternation and he suddenly comprehended his student's profound silence, "If you wish to take that path, these doors will be locked to you forever," he insisted. Though he was a master of the physical arts, the teacher was not unskilled in the sensation of others' minds. The emotions he sensed from this particular student filled him with dread.
The boy remained silent.
| |
