Of Aaron: The Age of Rites

The Age of Rites

Alias, circa year 1696 of the Archmage's Grace </i>



"Today is a big day for you lads," Jahan Daryan announced with smug pride as he picked up the goblet full of sweet morning wine.

Aaron shut his eyes, weathering the feeling of dread washing over him as his younger brother grinned with nervous delight.
"That's wonderful, father!" Aren said, elbowing Aaron to nod, comment, or do something to show he shared the sentiment. "Why?"
"Because Aaron here is becoming twelve years old – the age of Rites," Jahan nodded with a cold smile to his eldest son. "And we cannot oversee that, now can we?"
"Why not?" Aaron could not help asking, his voice tight and tense. "You oversee everything else about me."
"Aaron," the boys' mother spoke the name in a warning tone as she quietly worked lard upon her bread with small, elegant movements.
"Cessile already held the ceremony for me, in her Domain, back in Spring, when it is actually my birthday. There is really nothing for you to do now," Aaron ignored his mother, exactly like his father was doing, with Aren glancing quickly between the two.

In truth, they were nothing alike, Jahan and his eldest son, although they shared their raven black hair, austere straight nose and steely, diamond glance. Jahan Daryan was a Paladin- the Paladin, the very definition of warrior heading formidable, seasoned soldiers into any sort of battle to protect Alias and the Tripatria against any and every foe. He was tall, broad shouldered, exercised. The picture of prowess and battle virtue, he was proud to the point of arrogant and strength just poured out of him in concentric waves. Though Jahan had not had the chance to face battle at all in his career- the Tripatrian Nations had been at peace with the Outer Rim for at least two centuries, barring the odd skirmish here and there- he looked as battle worthy as the Leaders of old, the Tripatrian Forefathers, who had faced hoards of enemies from every side.

Aaron, on the other hand, had elegance. Aren had noticed it since he could put words to his thoughts, that Aaron had everything their father did, but in a way that was completely different- maybe even stronger. But Aren would never voice that thought to anyone, not to Aaron and certainly not to their father, because Jahan would beat the thought out of his mind, exactly like he did whenever he heard something he did not like from the lips of anyone within his household, be they servants or family members. Aren sighed, watching father and brother locked in a battle of stares, with the silence that fell upon the morning table broken only by the monotone of the cicadas bursting on the heat of mid-Summer.

Aaron had elegance, because Aaron was a Sorcerer- or was going to be very soon. He, too, was showing that he was going to be tall like their father, but where Jahan was broad shouldered and well built, Aaron was thin. Lithe and whiplash strong, but not the war figure his father demanded his progeny to have, since they were born male. And Aaron, while good at the sword and obedient in all the lessons that Jahan ordered for him up until his magic had been triggered, was not one who thrived on violence or the art of war. Aren knew that this was the true trouble, and where the rift between him and Aaron had begun. Aaron would not enthuse over hunting, would not thrive on any of the arts of war, would not consider the exercises or the acquired skills as anything more than tools, means and not an end.

But he would enthuse over flowers.

Jahan had even frightened their mother, who always obeyed her husband in every demand and wish, the day he had discovered their eldest son potting little lentil seeds in neat rows on his room's window sill, because he literally tried to kick the urge to 'farm' and 'cowardice' out of his son. Aren himself did not remember it, but Deacon had narrated the whole thing to a Healer much later, when Aren was old enough to listen in and understand. It put the fear of death in Aren too, to hear that story told to the Healer come to heal strain tears in his older brother's legs quite a few years later, and a weakness of his lower ribs, and he vowed never to be on the receiving end of his father's great temper, even if that meant to have to hunt deer instead of pet them. It bewildered Aren that Aaron had not at all tried to humour his father, not at all tried to be what his father wanted, except impeccable in his studies, and very, very scarce when Jahan was around.

When Aaron's magic was triggered and the Tower précised Cessile Shriftyn, the Necromancer of Northern Woods, as his Mentor, it was as if the whole household breathed in relief, because the Sorceress took Aaron with her, and did not let him return except for when his parents explicitly asked for the presence of their eldest son.

That was not often.

The goblet dropped on the table with a firm rap, making Aren jump in his seat.
"That woman is teaching you insolence towards your father, towards your betters, boy. She had better watch her steps, lest Jahan Daryan decides to do something about it," his father was saying, and Aren bit his lip, snapping back to attention. His mother bit into her bread slice.

Aaron's teeth clenched so tightly that to Aren it seemed they'd break, or his jaw dislocate. He sat back in choppy, tense movements and broke the lock of glances first. Jahan smirked in superiority.
"Mistress Cessile is my Mentor," still, even with his eyes cast downward, Aaron found it in him to say. "You know what that means, father."
"Fancy Sorcery Tower talk- all it takes is for me to claim she's driving one of my sons insane, and I will have you pulled from her eager little fingers, the horrible spinster that she is," he leered, and Aaron's face turned red in anger.
"She's not a spinster! Or –or driving me insane! And-and I know that you're just- just saying all this to frighten me, because if you really could do it, you'd have already done it!"

The challenge spilled from Aaron's mouth in a tumble, but its words- some near-quotes no doubt, some spontaneous from his swelling emotions drove the point effectively, making their mother stop chewing, and Jahan's smile freeze upon his face. Aren thought his heart would pound out of his ribcage. Would this mean that what… what had happened before, would happen again? Would there be a blur of- of anger, and Aaron would be hurt, and the Archmage's Council would intervene, just like the accident that got Aren's own magic Blocked, like his father's had been? Aren direly wished not, because if it happened when everyone was Blocked, then the disaster would be greater, far greater- what exactly Aren didn't know, and never wanted to find out. But he felt just how vast a disaster would befall the Daryan family then.
"Well," Jahan broke the silence again and snapped his fingers for the servants to clear away the table, "thank you for reminding us, Aaron, why the house is so much brighter when you are not in it."
Aaron's shoulders slumped, but he said nothing, sitting back as the servant cleared away his plate, even though he had not eaten the food in it.  Jahan looked at his wife for the fist time since the morning.
"Sanaz, leave us, and see to it that the practice room is not disturbed until I call for anyone."
"Yes, husband," she nodded gracefully, and got up to leave with slow, languish movements.

Aren felt the thrill of battle- though he was only ten years old yet, and still considered a child, his advancement in the art of fighting was so impressive that his father had taken him to the barracks, to show off to his recruits and deliver a speech about prowess that Aren could not remember and never tried to. The call for the practice room meant that there would be chances for spars, or fights, or lessons where Aren felt he excelled, and where he appeased his father. Maybe a good work out would make Jahan forget about Aaron, his insolence, and his female mentor.

He shot up from his seat as Jahan was also getting up. Aaron remained seated, staring somewhere ahead in a middle distance. Aren tried to catch his glance, but his older brother was not responding, and his father was quickly leaving the room- it wouldn't do for Aren to linger. But then, Jahan stopped, just before crossing the door, and turned towards the table, where Aaron was still sitting, somber faced and thoughtful.
"Follow, boy, just like your brother is doing. I said this was a big day for you- the day where you prove just how much of a man that… woman can possibly make you."

Aaron frowned, but he did get up in that silent, fluent way he had- another element that enervated his father, that he would make no noise, be lightfooted and careful and never cause havoc or brawls as Jahan believed 'real boys should do'. Aren himself believed that it was an amazing capacity, one that would aid any fighter in a fight. When he was old enough, he would ask Aaron to teach him- if Aaron would concede to it. Aren was pretty certain he would, as his older brother liked nothing better than play teacher and act all-knowing.

Jahan clicked his tongue in irritation and walked out quickly in a huff, leaving the two boys in the morning room alone.
"Why d'you do that all the time?" Aren whined at his older brother. Aaron's eyes- that strong deep green that was nothing like the brown of their parents'- glared at him though the rest of his face was impassive.
"Do what?" he snapped.
"Make him growl at you all the time. Why do you make him be so cross every time?"
Aaron rolled his eyes and shook his head.
"Well, he already has you wagging your tail for him all the time. I guess I must find some other trick."
Aren frowned. He wasn't certain what his brother was saying, but he knew it was not flattering for him. He sighed and tried to say something goading to at least try and infer what his brother had meant, but Aaron straightened up and yanked Aren from the front of his tunic.
"Come on, little Aren- you don't want father to wait for his prize son, do you?"

Aren side glanced at his older brother again, just sensing that there was more meaning and weight in his words than what he understood, but yet again feeling sorely lacking the skills to decipher it- and part of him did not want to, because that would make him angry at his brother, and Aaron didn't need anyone else angry at him when Jahan was already mad. Aren would never do that to his brother, would never team up on him with anyone, even if that meant he wouldn't do what Jahan ordered. He had vowed that after… after the accident.

He sighed heavily as he followed the straight-as-a-rod gait of his brother. He walked in the manner Sorcerers did, nowdays: a calm, controlled and rather medium-speed pace that spoke of tranquility and power. It was enough to drive anyone but other Sorcerers mad, and Aaron seemed to know no other way to walk anymore.
"Aaron…"
"Mmm."
"You talk like she does, now," Aren whispered. Aaron turned, and his expression was that of pleasant surprise.
"Thanks," he said, and his voice was also softer, more like… Aren wasn't sure, but he liked it better on his brother. He smiled back a little thinly.
"It makes father mad. Can't you… not talk that way, when he's around?"
"No," was the curt reply, and Aaron's scowl was back- and Aren knew that the conversation was over, too.

The practice room was a vast, empty room with wooden floor, wide windows and just one seat at a corner. It was well lit and cheerful, but with Jahan towering in the middle, sword in hand in a menacing manner as the two boys entered, it was too hard for anyone to enjoy the openness.
"Your tardiness is affecting my son," his voice serrated the atmosphere as his eyes bore into Aaron. "But as this is your big day, I will not act on it."
Aaron simply stared, Aren hesitated- until Jahan's eyes ordered him with one curt glance to go stand in the corner to the left, and wait.

Jahan lifted his sword- it was a magnificent scimitar, with a soft deadly arc that made the light glint off the edge. In Jahan's hands it always looked thirsty for blood, but Aren had learned not to fear it, after far too many years of cowering before it and angering his father. Aaron stayed where he was, just inside the practice room, straight and somber-faced. His eyes, however, seemed fixed on that blade just like Aren's often were. Jahan smiled.
"That woman promised to keep teaching you the sword, boy. Does she even keep that promise?"
"Yes," Aaron frowned, straightening up some more in indignation. "She does. She's a very hard opponent- everyone in the Vanguarde says so. Some say that not even the Archmage can beat her."
"Nonsense, a woman's prattle no doubt, filling up your mind with idiocies," Jahan laughed, but the sound was ugly, and Aren looked at Aaron fearfully. He was a Sorcerer's Apprentice now, he could channel magic. Would he attack his father? No, he won't. Aaron would never do that. Aaron doesn't want to be blocked, he'll take death rather than a Block, Aren's thoughts were rushing to reassure him, but his heart still pounded.

Aaron's face reddened again, but this time he held his silence. Jahan didn't allow for interruptions as he continued to talk:
"The Rites, if that woman at all bothered to tell you in that sorry place she has you stashed, is not just to acknowledge that you are nearly adult. It's to announce to the world your position in society, your stature- and your possessions."
He started pacing, waving the deadly scimitar around in lazy half circles that were progressively becoming more threatening as he smoothly went on:
"I am to bequeath upon you your share of our great family's fortune, Aaron, and to do that, I have to be able to tell who is the worthy son, and who is the one I simply have been saddled with."
Aaron's gaze dropped to the polished floor, but yet again he did not speak.
"Now, as first born, you are entitled to this manor, and your brother is to have your mother's. That is the Law- unless you are not worthy. That is also the Law. And here, is what I must determine. After all, I cannot let myself be unfair to either of you, can I?"

It all went over Aren's head, but he could see that Aaron understood it well- or at least better than Aren.
"The Rites are complete, father," Aaron said in a low tone voice. "I am going to be a Sorcerer- that's my Apprenticeship, and that ranks me in the highest caste in Alias. I don't care for the manor, you can give it to whomever you wish."
"I do not recall asking for your permission!" thundered Jahan, slicing the air with the scimitar, the sword tip coming quite close to where Aaron was standing. "Insolent brat, is that what you are taught, how to usurp what isn't yours? I expect no less from a woman teacher, Sorceress or not. Come stand opposite me. Aren! Fetch me my second sword!"

Aren bolted thankfully, but not before he saw how Aaron's fists at his sides began to tremble. That his older brother was angry was no secret- he'd been angry since the moment he had set foot in the house the day before. But now he was also frightened. And when Aaron was frightened, Aren was, too.

Running to the weapons room, where Jahan kept his vast array of weapons, shields and armour parts, he tried to sort his thoughts. Was he going to kill Aaron, because of the Rites? Or was he going to just beat him, or ridicule him before he would be sent away to stay with his mentor once again?

A hand grabbed his arm just as he was about to get into the weapons room. He gasped and looked up.
"Mother!"
"Shhhh! What is your father doing in there, with Aaron?"
"He.. he wants his second sword," stammered Aren, eyes a little wider. If his mother was whispering, it meant she didn't want to risk being heard by Jahan- and it that was the case, then truly, this day was big. Sanaz's face paled and she glanced nervously towards where the practice room was, but then she said nothing, and released Aren's arm.
"Go quickly," she said and left. Aren was left wondering for a moment, but then he quickly picked up the second sword and ran back to the practice room.

The second sword was the scimitar's twin, and Jahan often said how they were made together by the same sword maker. One of the two- the one Jahan favoured- was supposed to be the strongest blade, but both were exquisite, coveted by any prime fighter, even a Dragon fighter who had the best sword in the Tripatria. Aren only just remembered not to skid into the practice room- something his father detested. He paused, took a breath, and walked in respectfully, holding the sword appropriately- he didn't need to think to do it, a sword hilt seemed a natural thing for his palm by now.
"I have it, father," he said, trying to make his voice as steady as possible.

Aaron's eyes seemed a little too bright, and there was red in the rims- whatever Jahan had told him, it was harsh, Aren knew. Aaron glared at Aren almost menacingly. Aren avoided his glance, unsure why he felt guilty- but he did. He was thankful the glance was only for a moment, as Aaron approached Aren quickly and swiped the sword from his grasp. Then he about turned to walk back to his spot opposite Jahan, all without a word, all with that fluid silence that did not even let footfalls be heard. Jahan sneered.
"Come, boy. If you are this angered now, you will be far too easy."
Aaron again did not reply, and just kept blinking his eyes and pressing his lips into a hard line, as if stubbornly willing himself not to cry, not to react, and just be somber faced and silent. Jahan looked satisfied.

"Now, as I told you, Aren has grown skilled enough to best some of my trainees at the barracks, even if they are quite older than he is. He is an appropriate match for you. Aren, take my sword, and fight your brother."
Something in the way Jahan said it made Aren's heart feel ill and his gut chill painfully. He had often wanted a spar with his older brother as he, too, became skilled with the sword, but not like this. Not with Aaron glowering and their father watching. This… this is wrong. Aren swallowed and meekly reached out for the sword.
"Man up, boy! Don't make me snap at you," Jahan's voice cracked and Aren straightened too, and took the sword properly. He nodded to his father as the army protocol demanded- something that Aaron never did.

"Now, I should not have to spell out rules, but I never know if someone will cross lines they will regret," Jahan said arbitrarily, "so here they are: you boys will fight to the death."
This time, both Aaron and Aren gaped at their father, and for a moment Jahan kept a straight, menacing face. But then he sneered and shook his head. "The first one to land a nick on the other where the blow would be fatal, wins. No first blood rule- that is for the wimps, and I care not for them."

Aren turned to glance at his brother. He had straightened up again, sword held loosely at his side, and his expression was closed. His green eyes were flashing angrily, but he also looked uncertain, ambivalent… frightened. Was he frightened of Jahan or of Aren? After all, it was Aren that had caused… that accident. Aren's heart sank. He really didn't want a fight with his brother. He wanted a spar, like those he shared with friends that were invited at times for practice sessions, which were fun and light. This felt like a real fight to the death, and it had not yet even begun.

"Boy, take a ready stance," snapped Jahan's voice again, and Aaron flinched, but did not move.
"I have, father," he said, his voice empty of all emotion.
"Pitiful," commented Jahan, but then barked one single word: "Begin!"

Aren's body moved of its own accord, so well practiced he had become, bringing the sword upwards from below to his brother's neck.

Aaron simply side-stepped and blocked, the swords making a strident note of strain as they clashed. Aren blinked in amazement- he was fast, but his brother seemed to possess another level of speed entirely. He attacked again, this time with a feint, as his father had taught him. Yet again Aaron side-stepped and blocked, his movements economical and efficient, smooth and to the point. Their eyes met over their swords, and though Aaron's were serious, he did wink once at his younger brother, as if to reassure him- and Aren realized that he was feeling already outclassed.

He wasn't wrong.

The next attack he tried, a swift arc to the ribcage, Aaron kicked his sword hand aside with a deft side kick, opening him up for that one split second needed to whip his sword in momentum in an upward swoop, and place a light nick at the side of Aren's neck, exactly where his blood was pumping.

The match was done barely into its first paces, and Aren was thrilled- he wanted a rematch, he wanted to ask Aaron a ton of questions, and he wanted to learn how his brother could move so little and yet win so much-
"Stop! Idiot boy! Did I teach you nothing?" thundered Jahan's voice over him, and the sword was yanked from his hand as painfully as possible. Aren winced, not from the pain, but for the knowledge that there would be horror waiting for him the next time his father took him for a class- or even worse, he'd pick another sword master to teach him from now on.  

Aaron looked satisfied, smug and superior as he turned to his father again, not giving Aren another glance. He looked as if he had known all along how easily he would be able to take the match.
"Aren's too young, father. I've been learning my style two years more than him." Aaron's voice was almost challenging, an odd bounce in it that seemed to make Jahan madder than the fact that Aren had lost the match. He grit his teeth.
"That's right. You weren't evenly matched. I was being unfair in my test for your Rites, but I won't be again. We will repeat this immediately- and since you are a Sorcerer's apprentice, I really should expect and treat you as a full fledged fighter."
Aaron's face paled only then, as realization seemed to overcome him. He backstepped once, and Aren didn't understand what was going on, simply happy to be apparently excused for his failure- until Jahan's voice announced:
"Boy, you fight me for this manor."
"You can have the manor!" Aaron said anxiously, taking another step back. "I don't want to fight over it!"
Aren bit his lip, knowing that Aaron had good reason to fear Jahan- those stories the key servant, Deacon, was saying. Aren wasn't afraid to face Jahan in a spar, not really afraid, but then Aren had never been beaten by him, whereas Aaron had been, back when Aren was too young to remember, and before he got Mistress Cessile for a mentor. Aren had seen how servants were beaten at times- not often, but some times- and if it was anything like that, Aren would never blame Aaron for his terror of facing Jahan in any kind of setting where physical force was involved. He stepped backwards, his stomach roiling with nausea, but he felt helpless as to what to do. In this manor, Aaron's only real ally was Deacon, and Deacon had no power over Jahan.

Jahan sneered again.
"Like I said, I am not looking for your permission, but for justice in the split," he nearly purred as he gestured for Aaron to approach. "You will fight me boy, and you will fight me now. Or are you a coward?"
The word always put fire in both brothers- it was the very word that had caused… the accident. Aaron's jaw set and he straightened once more, then took two very deliberate steps forward, keeping his blade to the side again.
"Same rules?" he asked.
"No. You fight me to yield," Jahan said. "Much safer way to determine what I want, without chance factoring in. I am sure your mentor would agree."
For a moment, Aaron looked as if he weren't breathing. But then he just gripped the sword hilt again, and waited, exactly as he had done for Aren.

Aren's stomach was doing flip flops at the pace of his heart. Why was their father doing this? He didn't want to know, and yet in his heart he knew it was a violation of some sort, something dreadful that would never let Aren be rid of this horrible, horrible feeling of guilt.

It began without warning.

Jahan simply swiped forward with an angry yell, and Aaron gasped, jumping backwards. He nearly did not block his father in an overhead attack that looked like it would tear him in two neat pieces- the scimitar was so terrifyingly shiny- but in the nick of time he managed to bring up the blade, with a loud, sickening keeeen as the contact made them spark. Aaron grunted, and raced to block another attack, this time from the side, and then again overhead- Jahan was too big, too strong and too fast for Aaron yet, and he was using it to make his eldest son backstep all around the practice room.

Aren was too young and too inexperienced yet, but even he could see that this was not a real spar. This was a beating once again, and Jahan was making sure his son would get no opening, and be forced to block powerful swings that jarred his arms painfully, strained his pelvis and endangered his knees. And he kept coming and coming, certain that there was no way for Aaron to beat him- and there wasn't. Why isn't he evading like I know he can? Why does he block every swing? Aren's mind raced for an answer but he couldn't provide it- it seemed to be a dare, a challenge, a different fight than the one proclaimed, and Aaron kept blocking even though his eyes had smarted from the pain, even though he risked his father's blade cutting him as it was stopped closer and closer to his flesh each time.

In the end, however, Aaron let out a big cry and side-stepped his father's swing, the sword singing menacingly in the air. He was panting, as sweaty as Jahan, who grinned.
"Yield yet, boy?"
"No," Aaron grit his teeth. "Never to you!"
"Then block! Evade me once more, and you forfeit!" Jahan attacked, once more with that frightful overhead swing, bearing, no doubt Aren thought, the entire weight of his muscular upper body. Aaron yelled angrily as he raised his blade to block it, but as the swords impacted the yell turned to one of pain. Jahan swept his son's feet, and Aaron toppled backwards, the sword clattering away from his grasp, useless.
"Now, you yield," Jahan spat and raised his sword, back-stepping. "Your brother takes the manor, and you can keep whatever your mother will relinquish unto you."

Aaron was panting on the floor, and he could no longer keep his straight face, or the tears from flowing as he folded his arms in front of his chest, his long fingers cramped around imaginary candlesticks. Aren could see something was wrong with them, and he knew that his brother was in real pain- of all sorts, but pain from his arms as well.
"You can have your stupid house," he was whispering under his sobs, but Jahan had swept from the room, leaving the two boys alone, once again. Aren approached tentatively, feeling horrible and frightened in the same time.
"Aaron…" he ventured, but Aaron simply yelled:
"Get- away from me! Get away from me, I hate you! I just hate you all!"
Aren recoiled, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to leave like his brother was shouting at him and part of him wanted. His fists were clenching and unclenching, and quietly, he approached once more as Aaron was crying, curled up around his arms, eyes closed tightly as if to shut out the whole room and everyone in it.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, he knelt next to Aaron's head and then very carefully sat cross-legged. Aaron flinched, a sign that he knew where his brother was, but did not move. Aren swallowed again, and edged a little closer, and put out a tentative hand on his brother's head, stroking the sweat-damp hair. It didn't take long for Aaron's sobbing to diminish to heavy breathing. Aren smiled, glad it still worked, glad that his brother didn't really hate him and was still comforted by his touch. Then he remembered that their father had taken something important from Aaron with the fight, and his heart sank.
"Aaron, I'm… I'm so sorry," he murmured as his brother breathed curled up around his yet unmoving arms against his chest, back still turned to Aren.
"Help… help me up," was the hoarse response. "And don't be stupid like him."
Aren almost grinned in relief and rushed to help him. As he touched Aaron he felt the shudders of pain within the muscles, and he took extra care to help his brother in a sitting position. The wrists had swollen, he saw now.
"Your wrists!" Aren exclaimed, but Aaron recoiled.
"I'm fine. Not a word of this to him, you understand? Or I'll… I'll…"
"I won't say anything," Aren rushed to say. He didn't want to make his brother threaten him.

"I came as soon as I could, Master Aaron!"
Aaron's eyes opened in hopeful relief at the voice of the key servant, Deacon, as he quickly entered the practice room. Deacon was a young man himself, but extremely well trained as key servant, running Jahan's household like his father had before him. He nodded to Aren respectfully as was demanded of him, then took Aaron in his half-support of an embrace.
"Look," Aaron said quietly, tending his wrists to the man. Deacon hissed with concern.
"I will look to it immediately, Master," he said reassuringly. "Just let me help you to your room."
Aren pulled back, knowing not to intervene or interfere, knowing that Aaron would snap at him to leave if he so much as made a sound. When Deacon entered the room after encounters such as these, Aren knew he was to remain silent, or go. So he watched with guilty eyes mixed with relief as Deacon gently, tenderly helped his older brother out of the practice room, knowing that he would be all right now.

He knew that even when the dinner bell was called, and Aaron did not come down to the table, even when Jahan said they did not need him to begin to eat, even when he ordered their mother to stay put and eat, and Aren to get on with it and not look morose. Aren told himself that Deacon would take dinner to Aaron and if his hands were hurting feed him every bit, and that Aaron would be happier to have Deacon opposite him rather than their parents- and that made the knot in his throat loosen up enough to allow him to swallow food.

Dinners for the Daryans were always in silence when Jahan was not making announcements, and even when visitors were to happen by at that time, they were told to wait by the key servant. So Aren was very much surprised when a door was heard banging, something crashed in the hallway and the door to the ornate dining room with the tapestries swung open wide.

Not a servant was in sight. No tray with food was waiting in the aisle to be served when they were done with their first course. Nobody was in the aisle but Cessile Shriftyn, the Necromancer of the Northern Woods- Aaron's mentor.

Aren gasped fearfully, and felt himself becoming very small upon his chair. Cessile Shriftyn was not tall, but still she managed to tower in the room, filling it with her presence so much that everyone else seemed dwarfed. Her dark brown hair was high up in a ponytail that fanned out in energy Aren could not understand, but witnessed. Her eyes- those large grey eyes- were terrible to behold, as if holding lightning and damnation in them, her magic power barely harnessed enough not to make all of her surroundings blow up around her. She was wearing a travel cloak, but that too had slipped behind her like a mantle, and her tight fighter's overcoat reminiscent of the Vanguard soldiers' dark tunics seemed to sway menacingly. To Aren it looked that every bit of what was Cessile Shriftyn was deadly, and even a touch of her hem would be equal to a bite from a black viper.
"Jahan Daryan!" she called- not shouted. She did not shout and Aren simply wished she had, because that controlled appellation was so much more dreadful in its significance than an out-of-control yell. His father frowned as he looked at her.
"You dare barge into my home in this most intimate of times, Sorceress?" he snarled, but it was nothing like the snarl he had shown Aaron.

Cessile's eyes were narrowed. With one curt gesture of determination and order, she pointed to the door.
"Sanaz- out of my sight, now."
Aren's mother left without waiting to see if her husband permitted her. Aren realized he was now under the table, witnessing it all with the chair's protection. She knows I'm here. Aaron says she can tell everything.
"Now, Jahan. I believe the Rites are over regarding Aaron."
"The Law gives me three days," Jahan ventured. "Mentor or not, you'll do well to stay out of it. You've no right-"

There was a gasp. Aren flinched. That was his father that was stopped from his speech, and though Aren tried peering around the chair's frills and the table cloth, he still only saw feet- his father's boots and Cessile's cloth shoes peeping from under her cloak. He ventured a little further out of the table, not resisting trying a vantage point that would let him know what was going on better.

Jahan was standing up now, and though he was well taller than Cessile, it was obvious even to Aren just who was the one giving the orders and controlling the interaction. Aaron had once bragged to Aren about how their father feared his mentor, but it was only now that Aren was forced to believe it- not when Jahan seemed so unfearing when Mistress Shriftyn was not in the vicinity. His heart sank again at the last thought, though he couldn't tell exactly what it was that gave him the disappointment.
"Do you think you are so smart, soldier, or so cunning, that I will not understand what it is you are trying to do? Do you think that I will not come to defend my charge?"
"My property is mine to give as I like! And make my decisions as I like!" Jahan yelped, and backstepped, making the chair he had been sitting in scrape against the wooden floor.

Cessile advanced a step.
"The Law does grant you this… atrocious right- it is exactly that which renders it against the Balance, and all the vows of the Tripatria. I care not about any corrupt legislation that crosses those vows and stipulations, Jahan- I only care for and heed the Law of the Balance, and you have overstepped it once too many. Now is my time to follow the Law that Sorcerers ascribe to."
"No!" The exclamation seemed to be extracted from Jahan as painfully as if drawing hairs out of his body. Aren winced.
"No?" Cessile's voice was belligerently amused now. "Are you afraid, Jahan Daryan, Paladin of Renome? What have you to be afraid if you have done nothing wrong?"
"Keep away from me, get out of my house, you're not welcome here!" Jahan kept backstepping around the table, trying to futilely put it between him and Cessile.

Cessile did not move. Aren saw her watching his father's movements with her eyes, seemingly listening to his continuous, rather haphazard attempts to justify his actions with the Alian law- and the more his father spoke, the more Aren knew for sure, that what happened in the practice room was not just wrong. It was evil. He burst into tears then. He didn't want… what didn't he want? Aren's mind was addled with thoughts he had trouble putting into words, but he knew he wanted a new swords master, and not his father any longer- even when only moments earlier that had seemed an unthinkable sentence.

Then his father screamed and leaned heavily against the table, making cutlery and bottles topple in the process. Aren shrank under the chair instead, and felt safe that though he was much closer to Cessile now, she would not step on him or harm him in any way, just like Aaron had so many times said. Aren had a specific sensation that he also was not being overlooked, that Cessile was taking into account the fact that he was listening in. It seemed to voice a lot of things that Jahan already knew, but Aren never did. It's because she knows I'm here. She wants me to know. Aren didn't dare not pay attention.

"You deliberately harrowed Aaron into a fight that broke his wrists- do you think I would not instantly know? Do you think I was bluffing when I warned you of the fact? Or do you think that I will not dare go once more to the Sorcery Tower and plead that you be removed from office?"
"What are you doing to me?" Aren could hear his father writhe on the table in pain. "Stop it, please stop it! Please!"
"You disgust me," Cessile said in that quiet yet condemning manner she had. "I am only giving you what you gave your son, in hope against all hope that you will feel sorry about it while you feel it- because I know you well, Jahan, and don't expect you to have memory of your sniveling after your arms heal."

Jahan yelled in agony again- Aren wondered what it was Cessile was doing. She was waving her hand slightly, as if swatting away a tiny, non significant fly. Aren's hairs stood at the sensation of the magic being used. Block or not, Aren could always feel it when a Sorcerer channeled the Flow- it made his heart skip with a flip of longing.
"Stop! Anything, just stop!" Jahan sobbed, and Aren felt so overwhelmed he could do nothing but watch- without feeling, without emotion, just with wide eyes he felt he could not blink. He knew he should plead with Cessile to stop hurting his father, but Aren was surprised to find that he didn't want to. The thought both freed and disturbed him.

"All right, Jahan. I will do that, since you ask me so nicely. After all, I came to collect my Apprentice, not to talk with you. I would advise calling a Healer for those wrists of yours- they will need time to mend well enough for you to hold your sword again," she said in a calm, controlled voice. "Plenty of time for you to think about what lines you must never again dare cross. Also, Jahan, your younger boy needs a new task master. See that you get one, now that you will not be able to teach him. We don't want to make your injury permanent with overzealous teaching of your son. I will aid you in choosing the right person for this task. You want to be sure Aren will also be in expert hands, like Aaron is, correct?"

Jahan just panted, and Aren's heart pounded with hope again.
"Jahan, correct?" Cessile asked again as if simply his father had not listened, but her voice took a sharper, more menacing hue.
"C-correct," Jahan sobbed- and the moment he said it, Cessile was out of the door, and going up the stairs to get Aaron. Aren knew that his brother would have good wrists far sooner than his father would. He stayed under the chair while Jahan moved, and only crept out when he was sure nobody was left in the now messy dining room. He stole to his own room and didn't wait for a servant to help him into his night clothes.

Burrowing deep in the soft covers, Aren thought of the Balance for the first time in his life- and that it was definitely stronger than his father.

I will pay attention to the Balance's Law more, from now on.

He smiled, stretching like a kitten in the bed, then thought about the new swords master he was going to get. Would he teach him how to fight like Aaron today did? If Cessile will pick him, I am sure of it! Aren giggled to himself.

And with that, the sweetest sleep ever took him.