Chapter Four
The Fledgling and The Spy
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Dracyg Dominion, Zarynth.
Gedeon.
The dark of night had been plagued by a heavy blanket of thick angry clouds, alight with the reflection of the heightened fiery river north of the great city of Dracyg Dominion.
The colossal Mount Morkun had been threatening an eruption for almost two centuries and had finally followed through, leaving behind the distinct smell of brimstone and a continuous stream of floating ash that clung to the clothes of any fireling who stepped outside their home.
It was Zarynth’s own version of snow, something the southernmost continent of Droria had never experienced. Many believed the volcano’s eruption to be an omen, a clear sign from the Fire Mother that she was displeased with her subjects.
Mystic musings from the townsfolk in Gedeon Dewmaul’s opinion. If Eraura were angry with them, if the Goddess truly was sending the people of Zarynth a sign to demand change, wouldn’t he, the Fire Warden, have been the first to know?
Irritated, he brushed ash off his shoulder, and from the balcony of the open courtyard, looked toward the mountain.
Alone it stood in the centre of the vast open plains, and if it hadn’t been for the fracture in the land where the burning River Emor effortlessly flowed, separating Dracyg Dominion from the volcano, the spewing lava from the eruption may have drowned the ancient city.
But the Emor had earnestly drank Mount Morkun’s load like a human drinking water after a week’s drought in the Agni Dessert. Now, the river’s level had risen, though thankfully not to the point of spilling over.
Thus Dracyg, the royal capital of Zarynth, remained safe from harm.
The fledgling was late. A new recruit, so he had been told, and likely to be too young to display any true power.
Gedeon had told the Commanders, had even complained to the Empress that any fledgling that came to him under the age of sixteen was too young to progress their magic in any way that truly counted.
They were always too frightened, too painfully untrained in their power by the time they came to him.
A waste of Gedeon’s time. He was a Master.
Not some mediocre teacher with barely an ounce of magical talent.
If the Commanders in the camps would teach the fledglings to wield their magic before he could sculpt it into something remarkable, it would make those first few years of their training with him far more beneficial.
But alas, Empress Azar would not listen to his advice. Nor was he stupid enough to push the subject.
And so he waited, yet again, for another fledgling that was not ready for his teachings.
A spark of lightning illuminated the red-tinged sky above, followed a few seconds later with crashing thunder; the storm was overhead now, though thankfully the rain had held off.
Good. He didn’t feel much like getting wet.
He heard the child before he saw her. The frantic footsteps of a tardy student echoing from the outer hall of the cobbled courtyard.
It was his preferred training ground, away from prying eyes and far enough away from his brother’s chambers that the likelihood of Sekun Dewmaul wandering into his classes was slim.
He preferred to see as little of his brother’s sneering face as was absolutely possible.
‘You’re late,’ Gedeon blandly remarked, turning to face the human girl as he linked his arms behind his back.
A small, scrawny thing stared past him with wide, fearful eyes. Her skinniness was made more prominent by the far-too-big black fledgling uniform they’d clothed her in. ‘I am sorry, my lord. I was lost.’
‘It won’t happen again, I presume?’
‘No, my lord, I swear it by her Majesty,’ she said with surprising boldness, placing her right fist across her heart.
Gedeon nodded once and circled her slowly. Her chin jutted out and she continued to stare straight ahead, though he noticed a slight shake in her clasped hands. ‘Your name?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Amala Opherion.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twelve.’
Gedeon refrained from rolling his eyes with exasperation, though he had known just by looking at her she was very young. ‘Where are you from?’
‘I am an Agni native, my lord,’ she told him somewhat proudly.
He’d deduced as much upon hearing her thick accent, but it wasn’t often he came across a desert-born fledgling.
Though the slave camps were situated in the Agni Lands, most of its indigenous people had been slaughtered when the desert had been taken by the Empress’ Commanders, using the land instead as a slave camp, or the ‘army foundations’ as the Empress preferred to call it.
The Agni people had not relinquished their lands without a fight, even with the knowledge that they were severely outnumbered, and very few were left alive at the end of the massacre.
As Gedeon recalled, they’d fought well, and bravely, and the ones that were spared were often wielders of magic and therefore seen as too valuable to dispose of.
Those with the gift were reared in the camps, then sent to Dracyg in their adolescence to begin their lives as magic wielders, elite soldiers to the crown.
Parents tried to hide their children’s magical abilities to stop them from being taken, but Gedeon had never understood why.
It was an honour to serve the Empress, low-born or high-born. It was duty.
‘You speak the common tongue well,’ he noted, pausing in front of her.
That flicker of pride he’d seen earlier flared once more as she said, ‘My father taught me.’
‘Smart man. Is he a wielder too?’
She shook her head.
‘What is his trade?’
‘Bladesman, my lord.’
‘A warrior,’ Gedeon said, impressed. ‘Where is he now?’
‘I do not know, my lord. He was called away to the capital two years ago. I have not seen him since.’ Amala’s throat bobbed slightly, but her chin did not dip.
‘A man that does his duty is a noble one,’ Gedeon reminded her. ‘Your father serves our Empress, as do we all. There can be no sadness in performing one’s duty.’
A few seconds ticked by. Amala stared blankly ahead before answering: ‘Yes, my lord.’
Gedeon began pacing again. ‘And your mother? Is she alive?’
‘Yes,’ the girl said, and Gedeon could have sworn her expression hardened. ‘She has magic but it is weak. Too weak to wield. She stays in the camps with my younger siblings.’
He had expected as much: most women born with little to no magic were used as rearers, their sole duty to reproduce as many off-spring as possible with the view that all children, magically gifted or not, would serve a purpose in the Empress’ growing army.
‘She did not want me to come.’
Gedeon paused, taken aback by the boldness of the young human before him. Engaging in such a conversation with a fledgling was ill-advised and against protocol, but intrigued by the child’s nerve, he couldn’t help but ask the question that rose on his lips: ‘Did you want to come?’
Tension rippled through her thin arms as her hands gripped tighter together. Gedeon heard her heartbeat quicken. ‘I… I am afraid to answer that question truthfully, my lord.’
‘Master Gedeon,’ he corrected her.
‘Master Gedeon.’
‘Speak freely, Amala. Your truth will bring you no harm in this instance.’
Her throat bobbed again, but for the first time, her dark eyes met his. ‘No, Master Gedeon. I did not want to come.’
In all his years of training the fledglings, Gedeon had never experienced an interaction such as this.
Unapologetic honesty from a being so young.
He should have reprimanded her for it, or struck her for her insolence.
He thought about reiterating the importance of duty, of the glory and honour that came with it, but instead found himself quietly asking, ‘Why?’
She hesitated before answering, as though wondering what the price for her audacity would be. Gedeon didn’t pry for a response and waited. Eventually, she found the words: ‘Because my life is not my own. There can never be freedom in duty.’
Had his brother been the training master instead of him, Gedeon was sure Sekun would have killed the girl on the spot for her dangerous thinking.
‘I thank you for your truth, Amala,’ Gedeon said, though an uncomfortable feeling had begun to materialise in the pit of his stomach.
‘Though I must warn you not to speak of such things again in this castle. For your own sake.’
Amala nodded and broke eye contact, staring forward once more. ‘Yes, Master Gedeon.’
Glad of her obedience and the end of an unsettling conversation, Gedeon unlinked his hands and rolled his sleeves to his elbows. ‘Shall we begin?’
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There was only one place in the Black Castle that Gedeon truly despised. It just so happened to be the place he was required to be in once a week, every week from the second he had come of age.
The Throne Room was a place of grandeur, of ancient beauty.
Remarkable in its infrastructure, with its shining obsidian floors and white marble pillars that ran the length of the room, holding up the tall domed ceiling that was painted with a grand depiction of the Old Gods, Xados and Xusyn, in all their former glory.
It was a work of art that represented the Void Ages, when the Gods of Night and Sun had ruled over Droria, before the ascension of the Four Mothers.
Gedeon knew the Empress had ordered the addition of the mural to the ceiling upon her succession to the throne over one hundred and fifty years ago, a clear and proud exhibition of her devotion to the old religion, not the new.
It was unsullied by the hands of time; some spell to prolong its life had been cast over the brush strokes, and appeared as though it could have been painted just yesterday.
At times, Gedeon was certain the beady eyes of Xados were alive, following his every move, watching what had become of the world below. Though it wasn’t the God of Night’s apparent fascination with him that upset his well-controlled nerves.