Antuas led Sethlzaar into an entrance beneath the keep. They walked an arched hallway, each arch in a way marking a distance travelled with wooden torches rested against the walls. They cast a golden light to expel the darkness. This left Sethlzaar marveled at how ancient the place seemed.
The hallways were fashioned from stones so old he could smell it. On different parts of its walls cracks crawled like failed spider webs. They passed hallways leading to unknown parts shrouded in darkness. Each one claimed a part of his childish curiosity. The darkness of those unlit beckoned to him and he stared with a wanderlust.
His mind demanded he explore it. He reached out his hand, curiosity outweighing caution and...
"Vi Sorlan."
He turned.
Antuas stood ahead of him with a gaze strong enough to dissuade him of his compulsion.
When had he stopped walking? he wondered. What had he seen?
Time gave no lucidity to ponder. Antuas stood waiting so Sethlzaar hurried to his side. They continued their journey while he battled the residue of wanderlust to the recesses of his mind.
They came to a rest before a vault the priest pounded against. A noise came from within, a shuffle, a clatter, a clink, then a roar. The door opened outwardly. It revealed a slightly portly man at the entrance of a room drowned in endless darkness save the light in his hand.
This man wore no cassock. He was clad only in a shirt that covered his arms, and a simple trouser the color of which Sethlzaar could not discern. The man studied him briefly before casting his eyes to Father Antuas.
"What makes him special?" The man's voice was a mild soprano. A singer's voice.
Antuas still bore a frown, but somehow Sethlzaar felt this one was not for him. He found himself wondering if the man liked anybody at all.
"He just came," Antuas answered. "Taken him from the mist."
The portly man scratched his head. "The mist, you say." He studied Sethlzaar again. This time his eyes lingered, looking for something, perhaps a priestly qualification he hadn't thought to look for the first time. "Which rich family did he crawl out of?"
Antuas bit his lip. "His name is Sethlzaar Vi Sorlan, Father Nurudin." He spoke the words with the disgust children kept for only the vilest of things and Sethlzaar winced.
An uncomfortable silence settled upon them. In it both men exchanged a brief look. A communication had taken place in that short moment. Sethlzaar was aware of it but knew nothing of what it was save the fact that Valerik Sorlan was not a name looked upon nicely in the seminary.
"Here for his things," Nurudin spoke with a graveness, then turned, retreating into the vault.
When he returned, he held a muslin sack in his hand swinging without care. He settled it gently on the floor before Sethlzaar and smiled.
Where Father Antuas showed disgust and the Monsignor showed joviality, this man's face displayed pity as he stepped away from the sack. Sethlzaar, deeming it a form of beckoning, stepped forward to assess what was now his.
"These are the only things you will own in the seminary," Nurudin said.
Amongst its contents were a wooden sword of Maeldunian design, a knife three hands in length from hilt to point, two slacks of a greying fabric Sethlzaar could not identify, two grey colored shirts of cotton, a pair of boots reinforced with leather fasteners, a grey cloak with clasps sown in, a leather girth, a leather pouch which he opened to find empty, and lastly, a medallion bearing a striking insignia of an old man on his knees hunched over a massive animal and kept from falling by a broadsword running him through from the back, embedding itself into the floor where the animal lay. To Sethlzaar, it was a captivating sight.
"The insignia of the seminary," Nurudin noted, reverence audible in his tone. "The last moment of Ingrad Ner Shalhaar, friend of the Lire, and his Lire wolf, Shat'lzaar. Witnessed by Dregor Ner Nurel, founder of the seminary, and first Monsignor. A reminder that a man is remembered by his deeds but, he only sees the color of his soul at the moment of his death." The words flowed like a mantra recited in times of trial. "It is said that he had mastery over shadow fire."
Sethlzaar wondered if it was actually true. If someone did once wield the fire of shadows.
"Take care not to wander off," Nurudin joked as they left. "The darkness of the vault is friendly to no child."
Outside the day broke, and the light slowly returned to the sky on Sethlzaar carrying his sack over his shoulder.
Father Antuas, keeping his head straight, broke the silence that had been their company since leaving.
"He didn't just command shadow fire," he said, "he drew it from nothing. They say he was a touched and could speak to a Lire, choosing to die alongside Shat'lzaar."
It took only a moment for Sethlzaar to realize the priest wasn't talking to anyone specific, and he noted the man's tone held a similar reverence as Nurudin's.
Sethlzaar was led to one of the top rooms in what was called Drael's Tower, a tall stone building. Climbing the stairs proved a task of its own, having never climbed more than two flights in his life. He positioned his sack on the floor between two beds of bamboo. All the while Antuas watched from his place at the entrance. When Sethlzaar was done Antuas led him down the stairs.
They left the tower. The light of dawn spilled fully into the compound and Sethlzaar was regaled with the sight of two groups of boys sparring with wooden swords under the tutelage of priests. The atmosphere was pregnant with the sounds of wood clashing, boys panting, and the occasional cracks of canes as they crossed distances to meet the sweat covered flesh of children who made errors Sethlzaar could not begin to understand.
One of the priests proved more than generous with the piece of stick, spewing profanities as he made a show of flogging a child who had gone down from the strength of his opponent's blow.
"Oaf! Shit skin!"
The cane cracked through the air with each rise and fall.
"Would you rather be ridden by the stables?!" the priest barked. "I can have yer flogged to the caster's furnace an' back. Make good use out of yer in the forge."
Sethlzaar was of the sense that the man's threat implied nothing of putting the boy to work.
The beaten boy rose, his pale skin reddened by bruises. He took his stance, and the flogging ceased. He seemed to fear that the next time he falls the priest just might make good on his threat.
They passed the boys, headed deeper into the compound, and ended at a group of boys who loitered about the front of a building. As they pulled close, the children scampered to an arrangement, forming a line as straight as they could manage.
They stopped a distance away and Antuas turned to him. "You will wait for your instructor here," he said. "He will introduce you to your mates."
Sethlzaar was left alone, standing in place as he had done in the mist. He didn't care for the morning cold. It blew against his skin while he watched those that he would soon come to call brothers.
All loitered, exchanging glances, engaging in very miniscule discussions. One of them sat propped against the building wall, his knees drawn up to his face and held in comfort.
While Sethlzaar watched them, a few watched him. Studying. Assessing.
They all lived within his age group. The oldest was not more than two years older than himself. The boy talked to no one and kicked the sand in the clearing riddled with practice dummies worn out from use.
"Sethlzaar Vi Sorlan."
The voice startled Sethlzaar. He turned to find a priest standing behind him. He had not heard the man approach and found his presence perturbing. He held his composure regardless, unwilling to fault his stand.
The man was elderly, almost as much as the Monsignor. His head was shaven, and not a strand of hair stained even his jaw. His eyes, a simple brown not very common within the realm, spoke of the experience that came with age. Yet it paled in comparison to Valerik's. It was an observation he was beginning to wonder would be present in all the priests.
Sethlzaar realized the man was waiting for him. He mastered his voice and replied, "Yes, sir."
The man's shoulder twitched. His arm blurred. The cane cracked the air as it came down.
Sethlzaar fought the urge to cry out against the sting on the flesh of his forearm as he clutched it in pain. Where it not for the arm, the blow would have taken him on the head.
"Yer will address me as Father, as all priests are addressed," the man told him, returning the cane to his side. "Father Ordan."
Sethlzaar did his best to keep his hate from his eyes as he looked up at the priest. He remembered the man. He had been the one flogging the fallen boy. "Yes, Father."
"Good." Father Ordan spared him an assessing look then walked away towards the other boys. "Now, come along."
They stood in a line with no order to its formation; just a group of children arranging themselves the best they could in a hurry.
Sethlzaar counted eleven of them standing, himself included. As he arrived with Ordan, the children retrieved wooden swords the length of which Sethlzaar had in his sack. He spotted one of the same design leaned against a wall and sighed in relief. He picked it and hurried along, taking his place at one end of the line beside children who all bore a varying range of expressions: fear, curiosity, excitement, rage, even disgust.
One of the boys, it seemed, had been crying.
"We have a new recruit today," Ordan announced. "This one begins his time in the seminary late. A good start to his time here. He will introduce himself."
Ordan gave Sethlzaar a glance and he saw it as his cue.
"Sethlzaar Vi Sorlan." Somehow he called the name with pride. It drew a look of disgust from at least two boys.
"Hate him all yer want," Ordan said. "He could be an orphan or a bastard. What remains is that there are no such people in the seminary." Ordan took a moment to survey them before continuing. "Be yer whatever yer choose. A merchant's son. A bastard. If yer choose, the heir to the crown. Within these walls, yer are properties of the seminary. Some people may have told yer sweet glories of how yer were brought here as a dedication to Truth. An honor, if yer may. Perhaps yer parents as they gave yer over, to mask their guilt, or some other soft hearted person. The truth remains, they gave yer up because they did not wan' yer, abandoned to the seminary where use may be foun' of yer. From this day, this is yer family." He spread his arms out. "The boy beside yer, be he a bastard, a noble, or a commoner, he is now yer only family. Yer are no better than he, an' he is no better than yer." He smiled. "Yer have failed as children of Truth because yer were never inten'ed to be. Now yer will begin yer life as a Blessed of Truth that yer are." His voice took on a graveness as he said his next words. "Do not fail as this."
"Today yer maggots will begin learnin' how not to die in a swordfight," Ordan continued as they moved to the dummies under he's instruction.
What followed was a tasking series of continuous strikes. Father Ordan called out body parts at random and they were required to strike as was called.
Sethlzaar had no challenge striking. But after a series of strikes, he found his hand heavy with each assault. Each time the wood struck the intended part, the impact jarred against his hand. So he lightened each blow, suspending his practice sword an instant before it hit its target.
Ordan's cane came down with a fury. It struck true. Sethlzaar's lips cracked in a painful sob. His weapon fell from his aching grip. He felt the welt on his back as it swelled.
"Pick it up yer bastard child of a thousan' fathers!"
Another strike followed as Sethlzaar scrambled for the weapon.
"That is clearly no way to strike an' yer know that," Ordan cursed. The cane continued, repeating its descent, subsiding only when Sethlzaar's sword was back in his hand.
Ordan left him then, and moved on to torment his next prey. Sethlzaar continued to hit the dummy, fueled by a new found power stemming from his disdain towards his instructor. Enduring the ache in his arm and hand, he struck each limb as it was called, inflicting as much damage upon them as he did his arm.
A while after, Ordan had them switch hands, and the event played on. Sethlzaar understood the intent behind it as the sound of thumping and the occasional twak of cane on flesh filled the atmosphere....
....There will be no excuse for not being able to fight on the battle field.