Calisenthe Fiction

[Acrimone]

I've got a few pieces of Calisenthe Fiction that I'm working on.  I thought I'd take the opportunity to share them.  Please don't feel the need to give feedback... I'm just putting these up for your amusement.  But if you do have thoughts and critiques, by all means I would love to hear them.

[Acrimone]

Tev, Chapter 1.1

It was three hours past sunrise in the city of Betheyllsin when Tevrenel woke up, pushed aside his silk sheet, and pulled himself out of bed.  The polished wood floor was warm, and the sun shone through the thin curtains.  For several moments he stood, naked, looking down on the woven vines and the girl who lay upon it still sleeping.  Her honey-brown hair shone lighter in the indirect light of day; by magelight, amidst the shadows and flickers of the feast, Tev had thought it more golden.  Still, she had accomplished her objective in coming to the heart of the city, this daughter of a weaver.  She would be well-rewarded for her service to the Eflentarim; Tev would see her family was given some minor enchantment for their loom.

Tev reached for the leather strap that sat on a small table and quickly bound his long silver hair behind his head.  Then he walked to the row of hooks on which hung his favorite robes, set out that morning as he slept by one of the servants.  He selected the light grey one, wrapping it about his body and cinching it tight.  He looked back on the girl and smiled.  She should be allowed to rest as long as she wished.  He closed his eyes and, as he had every morning in the twenty-eight years since he had first experienced his power at the age of nine.  He felt his heart beat in his ears, his skin tingle, and his hands grow warm as the raw inner fire began to course.  Turning his mind towards a simple, uncomplicated formula that he had used dozens if not scores of times, he extended his hand towards the girl and whispered a short incantation, feeling the words shape his thoughts, feeling his thoughts shape the power within him and direct it towards the girl.  

The beating ceased.  The tingling faded.  And satisfied that she would not awake till he was finished with his morning preparations, he pushed aside the curtain and stepped out onto the balcony of his room, which looked down on the courtyard of the canemar.  Most of the courtyard was still in morning's shadow, though it was already quite warm outside.  The still, hot, wet air made Tev think of his cousin, Artres, who had gone to Avalashante to be a sailor.  

"I can't take another day of this humidity," Artes had complained one morning just three months past, his good nature showing through even in his exasperation.  "I'm going to go to Irivesh and see if he needs any help moving those goods to the coast.  After that, I'm signing up on a ship and saying goodbye to the jungle."
Of course, Artes being Artes, he had done just that and was gone by nightfall.  He had been just a carpenter here in Betheyllsin.  His labor was easily replaced.  Tevrenel could not leave so lightly.  As one of the Eflentarim, Tev was part of the fabric of the community.  He taught classes here at the canemar, presided over the Court twice a moon, and sat at the City Council where his voice was one of the voices of the city itself.  As much as he might wish to leave, Tevrenel was in no position to simply follow his impulses the way his cousin was.

Down below, coming and going through the intricately carved archways of the canemar, the younger students and some of the minor officials who served the council were already going about their business, and Tev laughed quietly to himself as he heard two apprentices arguing about which of their teachers was more powerful.  Tevrenel remembered such discussions from when he was a student; the debate would never be settled, for open conflict among the Eflentarim had ended centuries past.  He thought of what he had to do today, creating a mental list.  He had to meet with Hemreth the Butcher to see what meats had been brought out of the jungle and could be brought to the canemarthis evening.  He had to review the petitions that had been made for this week's Court, and begin considering his opinions.  He had a handwriting class in two hours for the general students '" the sons and daughters of the city's learned classes -- and a basic divination class just before sunfall for the older apprentices among the future Eflentarim.  

The thought of the class made Tevrenel sigh.  The wraiths, he cursed silently, but I don't know why Prevelfior cannot take the time to teach his own classes.  But, despite being an elementalist and not a seer, he had agreed to do it.  It had to go on the list.

Two meetings with various numbers among his fellow Councillors to address waste disposal and a proposal from the Dyer Concert, and a promised lunch with his sister in a small tavern near the Periphery rounded out his day.  It was going to be busy.  He turned back to his room, stepped through the curtain, and called out to a servant for his basin and a towel.  The girl slept on.

[Acrimone]

Gavin

     It always begins with a vision.  A Syran of the Legion  may receive this in a dream, or over porridge.  Whatever the circumstances. they turn aside from all other tasks, and begin a quest.  Inexorably, the Syran is drawn to a child '" sometimes close at hand, sometimes across hundreds of miles.  Occasionally the child will be found in one of the neighboring kingdoms, Imrign or Earlith. Once the child is found, the child is taken.  No one is sure whether a member of the Holy Legion would force a child from its home, but none have ever had cause to find out, for parents have never refused the calling.

     The child is then taken by the Syran, who begins their instruction on dedication and faith during the journey, to the Holy Isle, where they are formally trained.  One might say "they are trained" the same way one says "they eat breakfast," but it would be dishonest.  For no less than eight winters, and often more, the boys become stronger and faster, faithful and more deadly.  They are educated and taught the mysteries of the church.  They exercise, and they learn the arts of war.  They pray.  They form bonds with their fellows and their faith that few could understand.

     And then, at the end, when they have completed their training and are each and all of them ready to pledge their lives to the Legion, they are asked to leave.

     This might seem strange, to one who sees the Legion only as a collection of soldiers fighting on behalf of their god.  But they are more than soldiers, more than an army.  At the heart of the Legion is a spirit of individual faith, of personal dedication.  At the heart of the Legion is the Syran.  While a Syran will always follow the orders of his commander, it is only because those orders coincide with the will of Elleleth.   Unto the great light itself is each man accountable, and only on behalf of that light will a Syran undertake to fight, or pray, or travel.

     So, when the training is done, the candidates are asked to depart the Holy Isle and return to their homes for two summers.  Then, and only then, are they allowed to return to the Isle and join their brothers in the order.  

     The curious practice was started by the founder of the Legion, Patriarch Xavallin.  He knew well that it was far too easy, far too destructive to the mind of a human being, to agree to something when one knows little else.  He sought a way to avoid that, to avoid having a Syran reconsider his oaths and faith on the battlefield or in another crisis.  So he faced each Syran with the hardest of choices: home or the legion, his family of blood or his family of faith.

     More often than not, the Legionaries return home only to discover that they no longer fit into their small worlds, that their knowledge of history and warfare have placed them outside the conversations which fill the taverns and halls where they grew up.  The choice is easy, a return to the recently familiar.  An escape from the dreary day-to-day tedium of subsistence.

     Sometimes the choice is heart-wrenching.  Sometimes there is much crying, and even hesitation as the candidate steps on board the boat which will return him to the Holy Isle for the graduation ceremony.  

     It is rare, but not unheard of, that the candidate does not return.  In the past fifty years, it has happened but a dozen times.  Five of those twelve met with death in accidents or combat before they could return.  Two, who had never been terribly enthusiastic about the training, became priests and followed Elleleth in their own way.   Three of those twelve went on to become great captains in the armies of the Empire -- few generals miss the chance to capitalize on the training which a wayward member of the Legion possesses.  One found his life as a basketweaver more fulfilling, and did good where he could while living a humble existence.  The twelfth . . . was busy at the time.

~ ~ ~

     Gavin remembered that day.  

     The sun rose on the Holy Isle, the racing edge of light pushing darkness from hill and plain.  As it struck the edges of the great temple, the morning's chanting began.  The sound was deep, and hollow, beautiful.  Dawnwatch was observed by every person on the Isle, priest, warrior, acolyte, and artisan alike.

     It was the seventh day of autumn.  Today was the celebration of Xavallin's Host, when the greatest of the patriarchs and the founder of the Legion passed into Elleleth's embrace for the last time in his long journey.  And today, on this morning clear and balmy, standing upon the crest of the temple, the first to greet the sun, were seven young men, heads shaved, dressed in deep blue robes and kneeling in silent prayer.  Behind them, as within them, sounded the chant of morning prayers.

     Krevin Sho-Ta was among the eight who knelt in their robes.  Everyone knew which one he was, and most, in a frightful display of insincerity and misplaced kindness, pretended not to be able to tell.  He was the dark one, the Ashani.  That he had taken the name Gavin when he came to his new home meant little.  He was an outsider.  One of the desert people.

     Gavin remembered that day.      

     The Legion was part and parcel of the church, and the church was closely aligned with the Empire.  "For God and the Empire, from this day till death," was their cry.  Almost to a man the priests were from families of the Empire -- great or peasant it mattered not.  They were a sea of pale faces, tall and serene, the square-jawed features of the Sethreki who had spilled out onto the rest of the world.  Occasionally one could see a Tariad priest amid the congregation.  There was no mistaking the Islanders, with their ebony skin and lanky frames.  The Tariadu had joined the Empire not thirty years prior, but unlike the Ashani, they were accepted, part of the society, traders and captains in the Imperial fleets.  The Ashani were none of these things.  The Ashani were feared.  Feared and reviled.

     Thousands of years ago, the Ashani had ruled vast expanses of what was now the eastern half of the Empire.  In time, their kingdoms waned, and the Empire began pushing them back.  Farther and farther into the Vulturn Desert they were driven -- their cities razed, their peoples killed or scattered.  Emperor Moroson the Bloodthirsty had slaughtered thousands of them, and the Ashani had fought back.
It had not been a pleasant time to live on the Imperial frontiers.  But the Empire had won, and all that remained of the great kingdoms of the Ashani were the desert tribes, a few rumours of great cities still hidden on the far side of the desert, and the human flotsam which dotted the frontier, congregating in the poorer areas of the town and living in desolate rural villages.  The Ashani who lived in the Empire were hated, despised, and ostracized, even as they paid their taxes and fashioned their goods.  Quite a few were mercenaries, working where they could and scraping by on half the wages paid to Imperials, unless the caravan was travelling the desert, where their expertise drew more equal pay.  Of course, here and there was an Ashani member of a city council, merchant, or even a minstrel.  These were the exceptional ones, the ones that were allowed to prosper, though only so far, in the name of the Emperor's great society.  But they knew their place.  None were nobility, none were scholars, none were priests.  And certainly none were ever members of the Legion.  The Legion had made its name fighting the Ashani.

     Gavin remembered that day.

     The Ashani were a proud people -- and a patient one.  They bore the hatred and the distrust with the serenity which marked their culture's faith.  Those that lived in the Empire were, despite their status as second-class citizens, loyal to the crown.  Krevin Sho-Ta was one of those Ashani.  His family lived in the small village of Pevleche, a few days outside of the city of Hillshire in the Duchy of Amronar.  They, like most of the inhabitants of the village, were goat farmers.  From the time he could walk till he was ten Sho-Ta had tended the goats with his father.  His mother would stay at home weaving -- part of a local guild of house-weavers.  His brother, Krevin Mer-Rin, who was far younger than he, would help about the house and spend the rest of his time at the apothecary, making a nuisance of himself and helping as able.  

     When Sho-Ta was eight, just two years before his life was to change forever, a man came into town and said that he was going to build a tavern.  Everyone had said this man, Iago he called himself, was crazy.  But everyone knew that the Tariad Islanders were crazy.  True to his word, he had built a tavern and the Drydock, as it was called, had become one of the most successful businesses in Pevleche.  Pevleche even started becoming a way station for merchants and mercenaries.  Sho-Ta had begun to spend a great deal of time with Iago, listening to stories.  The old Tariadu had been a sailor, a man who had seen lands at the farthest reaches of the Empire.  He even claimed to have gone into Halglade once or twice and to have seen the city of Ahn.  

     Sho-Ta had been quite taken with the wrinkled sailor and his stories.  He had conspired to spend as much time as he could at the tavern, sometimes picking up the odd bit of food or even money for helping out with the provisioning.    Sho-Ta had been a happy child, bursting over with enthusiasm and very, very satisfied with his life.  He wanted to be a sailor someday, and to see the world.  He was still too young to have learned that an Ashani boy from a goat-farming village would likely never see the sea, much less sail it.  

     But when Sho-Ta was ten, another stranger came to town.  This one rode a huge red horse, and had been seen coming from over ten miles away.  The sun shone off the great eye in the center of his royal blue tabard, flashing silver in the distance.  As he came closer the curious boys of the village, arranged on the ridge like guardians, could make out that he was armed -- he had a sword.  And a shield.  Upon that shield was another great eye, shining gold and silver.  Several of the boys recognized it as the symbol of the church.  But if it was Elleleth's eye that this warrior carried, then . . .

     Gavin remembered that day, too.

     The boys had run back to the town crying out that the Legion was coming.  One of the almost mythical warriors of the church of Elleleth -- the god of the Empire -- was coming to their village.  Word spread like anthrax, disturbing household after household.  No one was sure what this meant.  The village itself was not a particularly religious place.  Although a few families, including the Krevin family, practiced the Imperial religion in the name of assimilation and peace, most were adherents to the Apithorian creeds of the Ashani, philosophy more than a religion.  It was uncommon for a wandering Apithorian monk to come to Pevleche.  It was almost unheard of for a priest of Elleleth to do so.  

     The paths which led from building to building in Pevleche were lined with people as the man rode up to the stone marker which proclaimed this village an Imperial settlement.  He dismounted, and led his horse past the first hut.  Ashani children, in bare feet and dirty wollen shirts, watched as his thick leather boots sent little whirls of dust into the air.  He was magnificent, with a dusty but thick cape of blue, heavy war boots, and his ivory scabbard.  Upon the back of his horse lay a bag in which the children could discern his armour, removed for the hot journey through the Duchy of Amronar.  He walked past the blacksmith, past the herbalist.  He strode past family after family, the crowds parting for him as he made his way to the northwestern corner of the village.  Through a field of silent villagers he passed the wool market, the dye vats, and Iago's inn.  Then he stopped.

     "People of the village of Pevleche!" he called out in the Imperial tongue, his powerful voice carrying across the dry air and to the ear of every citizen of the village.  "My name is Syran Virza, of the Holy Legion.  I have come for'¦' Syran Virza looked around, scanning the crowd.  ''¦Him."

     Gavin remembered that day.

     The finger had nearly killed him -- as if it had been a spear of pure terror thrown at his heart.  Everyone in the village was looking at the boy, following Virza's finger across the market to Sho-Ta's chest.  His friends moved away from him, as if afraid to be caught in the blistering attention.  

     "He is to be one of us.  I will take him and he will be trained at the Holy Isle."  There was a look of grim determination on Virza's face, as if he was arguing the point with someone.  Only later would Sho-Ta understand the immense courage it had taken for Virza to complete his quest, and to bring back to the Holy Isle an Ashani.  Only later would Sho-Ta understand Virza's reticence to speak on the journey, when all the other boys had been instructed in faith.

     Gavin remembered other days as well.

     There was the day he first saw an Imperial city -- not the familiar, worn ancient streets of Hillshire with its plazas and brick buildings, but the great metropolis of Perstus, one of the cities named after the Kings of the Blood.  The great Imperial Theatre stood amidst a huge green park with trees larger than any Sho-Ta had ever seen.  The Theatre itself was enormous, stretching dozens of feet into the sky.  People, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, milled about in the streets dressed in clothes that would pay for the entire town of Pevleche, except perhaps for Iago's tavern.  They walked in and out of merchant's pavilions, in and out of stores, stores selling more goods in a day than the village of Pevleche saw in a year.

     There was the day he first saw the sea.  That magnificent stretch of water went on forever.  There were boats on it, and he understood what he was seeing, but only enough to keep from going mad.  

     "Where does all the water go?" he had asked Virza, who had been a laconic companion at best.

     "Hmmmm?  Make sense boy."

     "When it falls off the edge, where does it go?"  Sho-Ta pointed to the horizon.

     "The world, boy, floats in a pool in the great hall of Elleleth.  The sea is there . . . just like a bowl.  It doesn't go anywhere."

     'Could you sail to the edge?'

     'Only if Elleleth wishes it.  Now be silent.'

     There was the day he first rode in a boat, which had only been one day after seeing the sea.  The boat rocked and tilted, he felt ill.  But after a few days he began to enjoy it.  He was sailing, sailing to someplace he'd never seen before.  It was everything he had ever wanted.  

     There was the first day he held a book '" a real book!, the first day he held a sword, the first day he wore armour, the first day he went swimming.  

     Gavin remembered other days as well.

     There was the first day his chair had been sabotaged, the day he had fallen to the floor to the laughter of his classmates.  There was the day he was locked in the privy and not discovered until breakfast.  There was the day he realized that his classmates were hitting him at practice harder than they were hitting each other.  His classmates were neither evil nor spiteful, but simply acting in the tribalistic way that growing youth will act.  They would grow to become great men, but that did not make them wiser now, nor their actions any less hurtful.  He remembered the day his prayer book had the pages torn from it.  There was the day he had been forced to carry his table, because there had been an obscene picture carved into it.

     Yes, Gavin remembered many days.

     The fourteenth day of spring, in his fifth year of training, when Krevin Sho-Ta finally decided to win the melee.  The day he showed the riding instructor how to tie an Ashani saddle-bow and adjust it with the left foot.  The day he realized that, although he was shorter than most of his classmates, he was undeniably the strongest of them, and by no small margin.  As he grew, out more than up, his strength increased.  He was, without blessings or divine endowments, nearly as strong as his instructors, who were battle-hardened veterans in their early thirties.  

     The forty-first day of winter in his seventh year, when Krevin Sho-Ta was caught meditating in his chamber in the evening.  The priest had wanted to know what he was doing.  

     "Meditating."

     "You've not lost your heretic ways, then, have you Gavin?"  They called him by no other name, save the two boys who still, at the age of 17, still made fun of the similarity of his true family name to 'craven.'  

     "Pardon, father?" Sho-Ta had replied to the priest.

     "The Ashani meditate to achieve spiritual peace.  We of the church pray, and when we pray, we kneel.  To do otherwise is to laugh in the face of Elleleth himself, to assume to much and display unwarranted pride."  Sho-Ta had understood at the word 'laugh.'  He thought that the priest was wasting his breath.

     "Father, with all respect, I'm not asking Elleleth anything.  I have said my prayers for the evening, and I am relaxing before going to sleep."

     The priest had been in no mood for sarcasm, and was sure that he had found Gavin meditating instead of praying.  The penalty had been severe -- fourteen days without  speech, food, or company.  Alone in a dark chamber with naught but water Gavin sat for two weeks.  Alternately meditating and praying, he managed.  Still more surprising was when, two weeks later, he walked out of the room upright and up to the priest who had punished him.

     "You were wrong to punish me, but I forgive you," he had told the priest.

     Gavin remembered that day, and many others.   But on this day, he remembered one day more than any other.

     The day he remembered so well, it had been he, not Syran Virza who rode up the path into Pevleche.  That day it had been he, not Vizra, whom the children watched with eager anticipation mixed with dread '" would this new Syran take them away from their families?  The children had pointed to his armour in the saddlebag, the hammer hanging at his side.  They pointed to his cape and tabard, his boots, his spurs.  They pointed to his great black horse -- not one of the swift Ashani horses but a great Imperial charger.  The children followed him down the roads, past the blacksmith, past the herbalist, wondering what he looked like beneath his helm.  

     And that day, he had stopped at the market, just as Virza had, removed his helm to the gasp of the crowd, and called out in the tongue of the Ashani, a tongue he had not spoken for nine years, and which sounded for all the world like redemption on his lips,  

     "People of the village of Pevleche, I have returned!"

[Steerpike]

I just read the first one and enjoyed it quite a lot.  A lot of italicised words, but I understand why you're using them and they do lend the piece a real feeling of authenticity and verismilitude.  Certainly this sort of thing supplies more of the "imagery" I was thirsting for in Calisenthe.  I'm also very pleased that the social structures and power-relations you've worked so hard to create a distinct impression of in the setting proper (as opposed to fictional pieces set in the setting) aren't lost or subsumed in your writing, nor are they displayed in giant info-dumps.

One word that struck me as odd was "sunfall."  Is this deliberately different from sundown?  I might have named the tavern at which Tev is going to lunch to further stress a sense of a living world, but that's really a miniscule detail and coming up with tavern names that aren't cliched, bawdy-sounding, or silly can be really hard, so I can see why you might leave it intentionally vague.

[Acrimone]

Amris, Part I

Mud splattered across the horse's flanks as Amris Toridan, second son to the Baron of Feldras, chased the hart across a stream.  Low branches whipped across his face and arms, nearly causing him to lose his grip on both his reins and javelin.  He saw the hart leap over a large rock, and hoped his mare could make the jump.  He leaned forward, to take the weight from the hindquarters.  

As the rock passed beneath his feet, Amris felt his mount's breathing become labored.  Her neck was already shining with sweat and her mouth was splattering foam, which caught in the air and sprayed across his face.  He wondered how much longer she could keep this up -- how much longer he could keep this up.  The chase had gone on for over twenty five minutes now, and most of that at full speed.  The arrow wound his brother had put in the hart's side did not seemed to slow it the slightest.

We'll do it quickly, girl.  Just a little bit faster, then you can rest.  He urged his mare, a beautiful bay named Meg, closer to the fleeing hart.  He raised the javelin up behind his shoulder, trying to keep his eye on the hart darting in and out among trees.  Squinting into the wind, he let the shaft fly, just a little to the right.  At the same time, he brought Meg slightly left, trying to force the hart's motion into the javelin.

He tried to will the shaft to fly true.  It would be far too much of an embarrassment to win the Principality's Honor-Tourney one week, and then come home the next from the hunt without so much as a bird in hand.  But his aim was true, and the muted cry of pain escaping from the falling hart was perhaps the most beautiful thing he'd heard since Prince Imrosiar's declaring him. . .
 
"The winner, in tests of arms and skill, by virtue of his superior abilities and triumph over his opponents, Honor-Champion of the Principality of Sethrek and First Knight of Feldras, Sir Amris of House Toridan!"

All the people cheered.  Even nara-count Kyel raised his sword with his left hand in a sincere salute.  Kyel's right hand would never recover from the blow which Amris had dealt it, cleaving the nara-count's sword in two and slashing through the quillions, then halfway through his palm.  Accidental injuries were no less painful for their circumstances.

Amris brought Meg in a wide arc around the tourney-field, which lay outside the ancient town of Rym, and paraded before the Prince's platform to receive his prize.  He dismounted and knelt before his Lord.  Anxiety filled him; he wondered what the prize was.  Honor-tourneys always had two prizes -- the title of honor-champion for whichever Duchy or Principality was holding it, and something else which was never revealed until the tournament was completed.  Custom dictated that it be something impressive, and many a Lord had lost respect in the past for offering up insufficient reward.

Prince Imrosiar reached into his tunic and removed a letter.  Amris' eyes went wide as he realized that it bore an Imperial Seal.  The red wax was clearly impressed with the a Dragon, and the entire seal was done over in gold leaf as was Imperial custom.  His anticipation grew as the Prince walked down to him and held out the paper.

"As reward to our new honor-champion, I grant him this appointment, mine by right as a peer of the Empire, to the court of his Imperial Excellency Alfthazhad V.  May you represent your house and your Prince well before the eyes of his Majesty and the rest of the Imperial Court. . .'

Amris blinked, and withdrew from the memory just in time to see the hart fall to the ground.  He brought Meg to a sharp halt and jumped off, drawing his knife from his waist as he did so.  He wasn't due to depart for Kapalturin for another two weeks, and he intended to get the most from his remaining time in the country -- starting with fresh venison.

After dispatching the fallen beast, he slung the creature in a tree and set about walking Meg, to cool her down.  The hunting party, including his brother and father, would catch up to him in about fifteen minutes.  He decided to let them.  Meg needed the rest.  He walked her for a bit, then reached into one of his saddlebags.

"Here you are, Meg," he said, bringing out a wad of grass stuck together with honey.  They were Meg's favorite treats, and he had horsemaster Lyn make at least one every day for Meg.   He held the bundle up to Meg's mouth, and watched it quickly disappear.  Rubbing Meg's head, he kissed her nose.  "You're a wonderful girl."  He gave her a little water from his waterskin, and then sat himself down beneath a large maple tree to enjoy the few minutes of solitude that he had left before his brother and the rest arrived. Meg wandered here and there, not quite ready to settle down just yet.

While he sat there, Amris contemplated his future.  Before winning the tournament, things had seemed bleak indeed.  Baron-Naree Jan, Amris' brother, was going to be Baron of Feldras.  Primogeniture assured that.  But Amris was first in his father's heart, first in his mother's heart, and one of the most accomplished young nobles of the entire Principality of Sethrek.  At twenty-four, he had already traveled to Calshire, won the Sethrek honor-tourney, served as a companion to the Prince on a visit to Imrign, and written a short treatise on horsemanship which was widely acclaimed by those who knew the subject, and idly talked about by those who didn't.

What is such an accomplished young First Knight to do in such straits?  One typical road of second sons, the Church of Elleleth the Lightbringer, was clearly a waste of his talents.  Amris had decided that before his fifteenth birthday.  Although Priests led interesting and comfortable lives, such a world could never compare with sitting beneath a tree, your horse wandering close at hand, a freshly-killed deer hanging near, and the anticipation of roast venison upon return to your castle manor.
 
In a more martial vein, he could continue his post as first-knight of Feldras, and rule the lands which would accompany it; but Amris did not like the idea of playing second fiddle to his brother.  Call it a sense of injustice, but if there had been any chance that the primogeniture could have been overruled, his father would have named Amris heir in a moment.  Being relegated to first-knight, shoved aside like that impotent fool '" First Count Reery, the brother to the Prince -- did not appeal to Amris in the slightest.  There had to be something better.  Amris had sustained himself on that hope for years now.

There was always the possibility of a career in the Imperial Army.   He knew he would make a fine officer, and that it would certainly give him access to the halls of power in time.  Yet there was something too predictable about the military life.  More than likely he'd end up in charge of some honor guard, serving as nothing more than glorified nursemaid for some noble who liked his pomp.

For  years Amris Toridan had mulled over the possibilities.  And for years he had put off making a decision.  But decision cannot be put off forever.

Perhaps this appointment to court will bring something, he thought, running his hand through his auburn hair.  Perhaps I could become a member of one of the orders . . . joining the order of the Bear would be a tremendous accomplishment, and it would not be boring.  Any of the orders, really, would do.  Maybe even the Order of the Tome -- I've never seen Coven, and serving with Prince Ubitur would no doubt be an adventure.  Maybe I could even visit the Wizard's Coll . . .

A nervous neigh from Meg stopped Amris' ruminations instantly.  The mare stamped her foot and shuffled about, her training and affection for Amris fighting a battle with what Amris recognized as the will to flight.  Amris stood up slowly, quietly, muttering within his head but no louder, Fool.  Leaving a bloody carcass out while you're resting.  Going to bring every bear in the damn forest down on your head. He started walking across to Meg, and more importantly to his sword which hung on the saddle, as quietly as he could.
 
His hand was less than a foot from the hilt when it sprung.

At first it was impossible for Amris to see what was happening.  A dozen sensations hit him all at once: a huge weight striking his back, the heat of breath on his neck, a rank smell like rotting meat that made him want to vomit, the sensation of falling.  A roar sounded inches from his ear as his face was crushed against the soft earth.   Laying on his belly, the creature '" whatever it was -- pinning him down with its weight, Amris laid flat, trying to protect his vital organs while he took a few fractions of a second to assess and think.  He blocked out the pain as claws tore into his back, shredding through the light hunting jerkin he was wearing.  But soon his instincts took over.
 
Knife.

He reached down and drew his knife again from his belt, trying to turn himself over so he could get a decent strike at the creature.  As he craned his neck, he saw that it was a wolf, a huge wolf, impossibly large.  But there was something else wrong, something else surreal about his struggle.  Some part of his mind, some part not occupied with getting a clear stab at the creature, hit upon it.
 
A wolf attacking me by itself?  That's not right.

He didn't have time to ponder the implications of his subconscious epiphany as he wrenched his shoulders over, trying get to his back so that he could fight.  He could feel blood flowing down his skin, and there was a dead feeling about the nape of his neck.  It was taking a tremendous effort simply to breathe with the massive weight on his ribs.  Rocks bit into his wounded side as he rolled over, little insignificant pinpricks of pain.  With a shout, he drove the knife into the beast's neck till he felt it hit bone, then pulled it out quickly, intent on making another wound '" as many as it would take to kill this thing.
   
But as he drew back the knife to strike again, the wolf locked its jaws onto his wrist, immobilizing his hand.  Amris cried out in pain as the teeth sunk into his muscle, and he felt something snap.  That's when he heard it, or thought he heard it.

"Die..."

The voice spoke with a deep growl, primal.  It was, he'd swear on the grave of his grandmother, the wolf that growled those words from its own throat.  The impossibility, the lunacy  of it, stunned him, and it was all he could do to stare as the wolf's jaws went for his exposed throat.  He was caught off-balance and dumbfounded, lost between those bloodstained rows of teeth, down the massive throat from which he had just heard . . .  the impossible.

He was only distracted for an instant, but it was already too late as he snapped back to his senses.  The wolf had him, and there was little to be done.  He asked for Elleleth's blessing  and closed his eyes, bracing for the pain.  But it never came, for there was a furious neigh, and a wet, sodden thunk as Meg planted a hoof directly into the wolf's head.  The creature flew several yards before scrambling to its feet.

Amris jumped up to his saddle to draw his sword.  His own blood splattered along Meg's flanks as he moved, and there was a puddle of red beneath his feet.  "Thank you Meg!" he thought he heard himself say, though he wasn't sure.  It was important to talk to warhorses in battle, if for no other reason that it kept them receptive to commands when it really counted.

The blade, his family's blade which should be all rights belong to his older brother, came out with a ring which Amris was in no mood to appreciate.  His feet turned quicker than his mind could follow, his body alive with panic.  Instinct saw to it that he had the sword over his head before he finished turning, blindly slashing in the direction from which he expected attack.  His luck held, and he cut into the Wolf's shoulder as it jumped at him.  They both fell back, the wolf in pain, Amris beyond pain -- trying to collect his wits and footing.

Amris and the wolf looked at each other, and the first-knight of Feldras found himself frightened beyond what was seemly, or even beyond what he thought was possible.  The wolf's eyes seemed as they should be -- hazel and dark.  But they focused on him with an intelligence that he had never seen before in any creature of four legs, not even Meg.  And he would swear he saw the wolf's brow narrow.  Meg's blow should have killed or crippled a wolf'¦ he found himself wondering in the back of his head.  But there was no time for deep thought.  Amris' breath came in strained pants as he tried to forget the pain in his wrist, the blood pouring down his back and sides.  He brought the blade up, and took a step towards the wolf.  Advance.  Attack.  End this soon, he repeated to himself.

It jumped with a maddened howl, teeth bared.  Amris had never had a wild beast attack him with such ferocity, not even boars.  But this time Amris, though still afraid and though grievously wounded, was ready and on his guard.  A quick, expert slice across the neck nearly decapitated the beast, and it fell to the ground, dead.  That wet, soft heavy thud was Amris' new favorite sound.  Forgetting decorum and using his family's sword as a cane, he took a few wavering steps towards the great black carcass, intent on investigation.  He passed out and fell, with his cheek in the bloody mud.

[Acrimone]

Tev, Ch. 1.2

Tevrenel walked easily along the wide dirt path, winding his way through the eastern Periphery towards the Shining Leaf.  From here, he could see the beginning of the Clearing that stood between the city's outermost buildings and the start of the deep, seemingly endless jungle of the Forest of Souls.  Betheyllsin, like most other Valdethan city-states, sat in the midst of cleared land in the jungle, and constantly fought off the encroaching plant life.  Built in a pattern of cocentric rings surrounding the canemar, its open design and lack of walls was a testament to the power of the Eflentarim who for so many centuries had stood at the heart of the city, ruling as god-kings.  

Low-lying structures of shaped, carved, lacquered Heartwood made up the vast majority of the buildings in the city, and when a breeze would catch, the windows and doorways of every building would ripple with shimmering silk, and the city would sound like a great flock of birds taking flight.  The center of the city, where in days of old the Eflentarim ruled like gods from the canemar, held the largest and most orately carved buildings.   Now, the canemar's impressive architecture held the schools and civic centers of the Valdethan people, and the Eflentarim were, at least in time of peace, no more than respected and honored members of the City Council, which met in a chamber at the highest point of the city: the top of the canemar tower.  But the Valdethan skill at woodworking was in evidence everywhere.  

Here on the Periphery, the buildings were smaller, plainer, but no less well-made.  Like all other buildings, their floors and balconies stood well-above the soft earth, allowing waste to collect beneath them and be carted out across the Clearing to be deposited into the jungle.  Tev was sure there was a more efficient system, but it had worked for thousands of years and he was in no mood to start an argument now, not when the wasteworkers were complaining that they were not receiving a proper ration of meat.  There had been talk for years of covering at least the main streets with treated Heartwood, making long winding wooden promenades.  But though the Eflentarim could ward against the rot that came with rain, they could not make the surface less slippery in the rain, and it was decided that the dirt paths that had served the Valdethan people for centuries would remain.

A brightly-colored bird with a large beak '" Tev had never taken his taxonomy very seriously '" settled onto a nearby railing and looked eagerly around as Tevrenel walked past.   Several other people '" mostly woodworkers and merchants '" were out in the street as well, though they all gave the Eflentara plenty of room as he walked towards his destination.  As he stepped around a waste-carrier who was slow to move his load from the center of the path, Tev realized he had arrived at his destination.

The Shining Leaf would never be considered a fancy or well-to-do establishment.  It was a place for the carpenters and hunters and cooks to come and enjoy a cup of whatever wine had been brought down from the second floor to be served that day.  There were as many types of wine to be had in Betheyllsin as there were sweet fruits in the jungle, though banana wine was the most common.

After walking up the wide steps to the front balcony and taking a moment to appreciate the leaf designs incorporated into the railings, Tev stepped through the threadbare silk cloth that was draped over the entraceway and slid off his shoes, pushing them into one of the tiny alcoves.  He looked about and saw Opri already sitting on a cushion, sipping at something orange.  She waved him over eagerly and set down her drink.  Opri shared her brother's silver hair, though at shoulder length hers was considerably shorter than Tevrenel's.  She seemed at ease in her buckskin skirt and blouse, and smiled widely as her brother approached.

"Tev, it's good to see you."

"And you, sister," he said as he settled down onto one of the cushions around the table.

"Premelin misses you.  She says you should visit more often."

"I'm a'¦"

"Very busy man.  Yes, we all know that Tev.  I wasn't meaning to criticize.  I simply wanted you to know that your niece misses you."

"I should come by more often."

"Quite.  So how is my big brother these days?  I heard that you were given another cycle of Courts last month."

"Yes.  More work."

"More privileges."

"That, too.  Is there something you needed me to get for you?"

"Oh don't be silly.  I didn't come to ask you for a portion of that which you've only barely received yourself."

"I did not mean to say'¦"

"Of course you didn't.  You know Therimmal takes excellent care of us."

"He is a good man."

"Better than Keflevan."

"Our sister made her own choice when she married a warrior."

"She didn't marry a warrior.  She married a warrior's empty house."

"He is home three days in eight."

"My youngest could tell you that means he is gone five days in eight."

"It is the burden that they accept for their role.  Just as I accept mine."  Tev turned his head as he realized there was someone standing quietly off to his left side.  He turned his head to acknowledge the young lady.  

"Pardon my interrption, Eflentara," said the tavernmistress, her head bowed as she approached the  low table.  "The proprietor thought perhaps you would honor him by accepting a cup of his apricot wine."  She held a tray upon which sat a cup filled with the sweet, yellow-clear liquid.   Tev bowed his head in return and removed the cup from the tray.  Taking a small sip, he bowed his head again.

"Tell your employer his wares would be appreciated at the canemar, and that Sefrenthel the overseer will accept one barrel within the week."

The lady backed away, with her head bowed, and then turned to attend to other customers and bring the good news to her employer.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that," Opri said quietly, holding her own glass in front of her chin.

"I don't wish to discuss this again, sister."

"I don't mean that."

"Then what do you mean?"

"It's not the deference everyone shows you'¦"

"Then what is it?"

"It's the way you are so casual about it.  You didn't used to be like that."

"People act in ways they find comfortable, Opri.  It would cause people a great deal of anxiety if I pretended to be their labormate."

"Is it like that for you everywhere in the city?"

"You live here, too, sister."

"I don't get around as much as you do."

"It's like this everywhere except sometimes in the canemar, and wherever I can find my own family."

Tevrenel's grin caught Opri offguard, and she let out a nervous laugh.  "I'm sorry," she said.  "I was just explaining to Premelin yesterday that her uncle is not one of the Eflentarim out of the old poems.  I found myself telling her that you were just like me."  Her voice trailed off.

"And?" Tev asked.

"And she said, 'No he's not.'"  Opri shrugged.  "I told her you were just very busy and had a lot of responsibility."

"True."

"And she said, 'He's scary.  But I still like him.  Tell him to come bring me presents.'"  Of course I scolded her for being greedy, but she's still young.

"We must teach the young, sister.  But I will bring her presents.  Perhaps something from the smith, if he can be bothered."

"Tevrenel Creshinara!  Don't you dare spoil that girl like that.  She'd brag to all of her friends and be insufferable for weeks."

"Wood then," Tev yielded.  "But something nice."

"It would be nice enough if you just brought yourself."

"Wraiths, Opri!  Let me be!"  

"I've been marinating the monkeys for two days."

"I relent," Tev said, shaking his head.  "Tell Therimmal I will come for dinner."

[Acrimone]

Tev, Ch. 1.3

Tev turned from the hide stretched across the large wooden frame and back to his students.  The diagram was a complicated one, and he had no doubt that few of the five students had understood it in its entirety.

"It has been our experience that the fifth and third harmonics, when used in sequence, produce the proper type of resonance in the pattern for this type of basic seeking, unless one is using Marcrior's condensed forms, in which case the seventh seems more accessible and effective."  Tev waited a moment to see if there were any questions, but the five students knelt behind their tables in silence, their eyes focused on him.  The learning hall stretched its roof above them, exposed beams carved with a variety of wardings and protections.  All of the instructional and laboratory portions of the canemar were heavily warded and shielded.  To be an Eflentara was to wield terrible power, power that could very easily get out of control if it were not carefully regulated.  

The evening sun shone through the silk curtains on the western wall, and refracted into a rainbow when it hit the crystal decanter of water sitting beside Tev.  He could tell the students were tired.  It was the end of a long day, and they had already been at this for an hour.  Just a little more theory, then we'll see what they can do.  A little hide and seek always raises the spirits.

"None of you have practiced Marcrior's forms, so for now you should use the fifth and the third. So'¦" He scanned the students and came to rest his eyes on Faltevar, the son of Jevian.  The boy had the father's golden hair, and both had the distinction of being the son of a warrior, yet Faltevar's own path had lay with the Eflentarim.  At fourteen years, he was the eldest of the five students.  

"What can we expect the range on such a casting to be?  Faltevar?"

"Eight leagues," the boy answered quickly and confidently, his head bowing slightly as he did.  "Although the distance might be increased threefold if the diagram is placed within a fixed augmentation matrix."

"Very good.  And what must be done before such an instantiation?"

"The matrix must be attuned to the'¦" The boy hesitated, bowing his head lower in shame.  "The matrix must be attuned to initial pattern resonance, using the Lefavor mnemonic."

"Excellent."  Tev was quite impressed.  Faltevar wasn't the most talented or powerful of the students in this class, but he was likely the best study of the group.  Smarter than I was, but unsubtle, Tev thought.  He'll make a fine elementalist if he possesses patience to go with his wit.  "Let us adjourn to the Oculysia and put our newfound knowledge to work."

As the students rose from their small tables, Tev watched to see that they all remembered to pick up their scrolls and wind the thin leather panels tightly shut.  Outside of the Forest of Souls, the Collegium enforced its harshest rule on magic: none outside the Collegium shall know the arts.  Within the Forest, the Valdetha held to their own rule: none but the Eflentarim shall know of the arts.

Tev followed the students into the Oculysia, releasing the leather to cover the door behind him and moving quickly to the far end of the windowless room, on the other side of the bright silver ring set into the floor.  Within the ring, prepared by one of the servants, was a wide but shallow clay bowl filled with water.  The ring surrounded, and the bowl was surrounded by, a pattern identical to the one he had shown the students on the skin outside.

"Gather round.  We'll not be looking for each other.  We've a special treat today.  Galforavan has gone hunting deep in the jungle.  He agreed to stay out past sundown so that we could play at finding him.  Who will go first?"

There was silence from the students.

"No one?"

"Eflentara," one of them spoke, bowing his head.  It was Crevinem, the son of Tuliya, the Mistress of the Betheyllsin Silkery.  He was the second-youngest at nine years, and though he was inconstant in his studies, he had a greater sensitivity to the currents of magic than his canemar brothers.

"Yes?"

"What is the focus, Eflentara?"  The boys tone bespoke confusion.  Tev laughed inwardly, and decided to have a bit of fun.  It was a basic level class, after all.
"Do you know Galforavan, Crev?"

"Yes, Eflentara."

"Then why not use your memory of his essence as the focus?"  It was possible, of course, but a difficult feat more suited to one of the senior students, if not the Eflentarim themselves.  

"I'¦ I will try, Eflentara.  I apologize for my ignorance."

"I jest, Crev.  I have Galfor's cloak clasp.  You will use this."  He held it out to the student, who took it carefully.  The clasp itself was a simple affair '" a polished hardwood broach carved with a large constrictor.

"Now position yourself, Crev.  Put the focus in the center of the bowl."

Tev continued to walk the boy through the exercise, talking him through the harmonics, and the turning of the resonance.  At one point, Tev caught him thinking rather than speaking the words.

"Out loud, Crev," he chided softly.  "This is no time for bragging or showing off.  Your peers are here to learn with you, not watch you make mistakes because you think you can go through this silently."  The boy's face reddened slightly, his lips forming the words of the technical language of magic, every syllable fraught with terrible significance, corresponding to some state of the will, the imagination, or some pattern of energy.  The words were just words, but they were, for the novice, the single best way to train the brain into the patterns that it needed to remember to work magic quickly and silently.  Hours and days and weeks were spent in memorization and training so that the mere utterance of the words would set the will in the proper shape to manipulate the inner fire and to draw the fires without to join in their power.  After a time, Tev could feel the energies sliding into the proper arrangement; Crev was doing well.  A few heartbeats later the boy spoke with restrained excitement.

"Eflentara, I believe I see him."

"Excellent.  What color is his hat?"

"Purple."

"And his tunic, is it bound or loose?"

"It is loose, Eflentara."

"And what el'¦"  Tev's words were interrupted by a sudden bright flash, brighter than the sun, it seemed.  He threw his arm to his eyes, but too late.  He could see nothing.  He instantly and instinctively recognized this as some form of attack, although his mind would not still long enough to let him actually form the words of that thought.  Eflentarim did not need to think in words, however, and simultaneously with the realization of the attack he began reciting the condensed version of a sense-shielding spell.  But as fast as Tev was, he was caught off-guard, and his thoughts were interrupted by the start of a horrible, gurgling scream.  He lost focus, and let the pattern dissipate.  A full second had gone by.  Later, with the benefit of reflection, Tev would lament his lack of concentration.  But there was no time for such things now.
 
Terrible heat radiated out from the circle, and the smell of burning flesh, silk, and hair filled the room.  With his eyes still closed, Tev pushed out in all directions, trying to get his bearings in what had become a swirling chaos of raw elemental power.  The warding runes carved into the walls of the Oculysia were screaming in the ether, their power bleeding into the terrible fire that had consumed the scrying pool.  The power from the circle mixed with the power streaming from and into Crevinvem, and below it all, in the center of the white-hot maelstrom that had invaded the chamber, there was the faintest hint of will directing it.  

He could hear Crevinem's scream continue, and as Tev's mind sorted through all the various magic energies he realized that he had but an instant to make a choice; it came to him in a single wordless imperative, but no less intelligible for that: he could trace the source of this assault or he could save the boy.  He could not do both.  There was too much heat, too much power, and it was all happening too quickly.  It wasn't a choice at all.

Around him, the other students began to scream and whimper, and many began to run from the room.  Part of Tev's consciousness erected a barrier against the heat, sealing it into the circle; he might only know the rudimentary lessons of scrying, but Tev was an Elementalist and had little to fear from fire.  He might have put the fire out with his full attention and power, but the shield was all that was necessary to stay alive, and putting out the fire entire would keep him from his task.  So he let it burn, let Crevinem burn as the main thrust of his attention pushed into the conflagration, picking up traces of the pattern that lay below the disruption.  Three seconds had passed.   He could feel it, pulling apart the wardings and pushing pure flame, using the scrying pool as its conduit.  Crevinem's screams began to die off as Tev raced along the line of power.  It carried him far'¦ far past the Zeferajahnil that shielded the Forest of Souls from the world beyond.  If Tev had the attention to spare, he might have thought that by pushing his power beyond the Forest's boundaries, he was violating the compact between the Eflentarim and the Collegium, but there was no time for such thoughts; there was only the quiet tracing of the power back from whence it came.  He grew closer to the source, close enough to sense its malice.  Five seconds.  Crevinem's screams were softening.  Close enough to feel the relentless focus of'¦ No, not one.  Three.  There are three wills at the source of this.  With the benefit of years of practice, he quickly worked a telling of the mind, pulling out the thoughts of the weakest of the three wills.  There was so much raw, ambient power in the room where they were that even at this great distance '" and it was at least thousands of miles '" Tev had ample energies to work with.  

He recognized the language, and he recognized the thoughts.  He knew who it was that had done this.  And just like that, the attack was over: nine seconds in total from the moment of the first flash.  The tendrils of power that he had followed were cut and he staggered.  His vision began to clear.  He alone stood in the Oculysia: the four students who had not run were cowering against the far wall.  And in the center of the room, the charred remains of Crevinem's corpse were smoking on the ground before him, surrounded by ash and molten silver.

[Steerpike]

[blockquote=Acrimone]"What is the focus, Eflentara?" The boys tone bespoke confusion. Tev laughed inwardly, and decided to have a bit of fun. It was a basic level class, after all.
"Do you know Galforavan, Crev?"[/blockquote]Shouldn't Eflentara be italicized here? [blockquote=ibid.]"Eflentara, I believe I see him."[/blockquote] And here? [blockquote=ibid.]"It is loose, Eflentara."[/blockquote] And here?  
[blockquote=ibid.]"Then why not use your memory of his essence as the focus?" It was possible, of course, but a difficult feat more suited to one of the senior students, if not the Eflentarim themselves.[/blockquote]And here?  Also,  [blockquote=ibid.]The boys tone bespoke confusion. [/blockquote] "boys" should be "boy's," I think.

So, apart from those admittedly minor, very petty edits, a very well written piece.  I like that you assiduously avoid info-dumping at any cost; I feel slightly bewildered by the depth of references, but its a good sort of bewilderment, a good sort of alienation.  You use incluing very effectively.

My major criticism would be at the opening.  You do a superb job of creating what seems like a very real, very believable magical system, internally consistent and hinting at great complexity.  However, I begin to feel the students' boredom in the opening scenes, and this might not entirely be a good thing.  I think the inclusion of an anecdote, joke, or Star-Trek style analogy might not be amiss here.  I felt my attention starting to sag as Tev and his pupils started talking about matrices and harmoncis.  Something a little more accessible that would really grab the reader (and maybe make them chuckle) would make the piece perfect.

Loved the ending sequence's emphasis on time.

[Acrimone]

Yah... I have to go through and re-introduce all the italics one by one because of the bbpost code.  I missed a few.  My bad.

And good catch on the possessive.

I'll see what I can do to spark things up a bit in the lecture passage.

Thanks!