Aborted Novel

26 November 2011 update: I’ve managed to recycle some part of my aborted novel into a chapter of my current novel (specifically those two favorite parts mentioned in the previous note below). But the alternative world/ magical vs. non-magical on  a Jovian moon concept is still dead as a dodo. May it rest in pieces.

22 May 2010 Note: This is my aborted novel.  I’d been tinkering with it, off and on, since 1985, when I was in middle school. The stuff that I wrote back then I thankfully trashed a long time ago. But the idea of it held on, and in a roughly six-month stint eight years ago, I wrote what you see below. After that six months, my muse fell silent again, and I have moved on to other ideas. If anyone wants to pick up where I left off — or even do major surgery and make it his or her own — be my guest. Just give me credit for where you got the inspiration. I just hope, in more capable hands, that this story comes to life again and runs its course to a proper The End.

By the way, this was supposed to be an alternative human history, in which human beings didn’t evolve from Earth but from one of the more habitable moons of Jupiter. Of course, I had to give a different name for Jupiter (“Gebayu”), as well as a different creation-myth of how humans came to be. I did a bit of research to find an appropriate moon, but I have since thrown away all of my notes.

For what it’s worth, my two favorite scenes — the ones that amazes me that I was even capable of writing them — are 1) when my hero, Galin, is reunited with his foster mother, Queen Aneca, at his boarding school and 2) when Galin realizes that Aneca has died.

_______________________

An Island in the Moon

By Rufel Ramos

Ch. 1: 5/30/2002 1:00 AM
Ch. 2: 5/30/2002 5:00 PM
Ch. 3: 6/15/2002 6:37 PM

Supplemental Ch. 1: 12/20/2001

Chapter 1 Supplement: Exile and Remembrance

The townspeople were the worst of all.

As if on holiday, like the Festival of Light, they lined the main road leading out of the Ilaeon, shoulder to shoulder, at least five persons deep, by Galin’s reckoning. Leaning close, as if haggling with the fruit sellers or the wine merchants, they made certain that Galin could smell their presence. He could smell the urine and feces stuck onto the shoes and hem of the herders, the sweat and grime of the food sellers, the blood and water of the meat butchers. He could smell everything, and he would rather concentrate on the smell rather than the feel. But that he could not avoid, for the townspeople made their presence felt. Oh, yes. He felt them in the swoosh of the air, caused by the fists shaking above him. He felt them in the thud of rotten fruits and vegetables – and much worse – as these things hit his body. And he felt them in their spittle, pendulous and still warm from their heat even as it flew through the short space between their lips to his bowed, sodden head.

Oh, yes, the townspeople were the worst of all. And, what was galling, they were doing him a favor, a favor because they should have killed him, for he deserved death. But, out of mercy, they exiled him instead.

Mercy, he thought. Not mercy. No. Slow death.

The bit of the main road that led him from his prison cell to the perimeter walls of Ilaeon was a good half mile long, and all of Ilaeon seemed to be all along that length, on either side of that road, bidding him an appropriate good-bye. When he was first in his cell, after the magistrate called his sentence of exile – a sentence with no precedence, as everybody knew – Galin had thought originally to march out of his cell, head up, eyes forward, back straight, and stride steady, to demonstrate his integrity, his nobility. He was Galin Pyr-Simon, after all! A Head Apprentice of the Defense School and the only son of Simon Pyr-Gind, Chief of Palace Guards! Although stripped of his tunic and the vestments of his position, Galin felt his inborn nobility and the upbringing of a nobleman under the care of the Queen herself, after his mother died when he was just a baby. Although wearing the rags of a criminal, Galin knew he was no ordinary criminal but One-Who-Used-Magic.

And no ordinary criminal would suffer like this, Galin thought. Oh, yes, you wished to be treated differently, and so here you are! They would not hate an ordinary criminal in the way they hate you now!

Three days in solitary confinement because the other prisoners would have killed him. Three days hearing the townspeople’s howls for his blood, for their chance to lash him to a tree and burn him until his bones turned to ash. Three days hoping his father or his one true friend would visit him – even if it were just to castigate him – and his hope turn into despair. In those three days, Galin finally understood what the fifteen years of his life never taught him: that a breaker of the Great Prohibition of Magic becomes an enemy of the people and, like a gangrenous foot, must be cut off from the body politic, to die alone in its own evil. Alone was the operative word, and, in those three days, Galin, surrounded by gray stone walls except for thin bits of light which filtered through the chinks in the outer wall, broke down under the weight of his loneliness and despair. At the end of the third day, Galin curled against the corner of his cell, turned his face to the wall, and wept.

It was in this position where the guards found him on the morning of the fourth day. “Up, get up, you man-witch! You filth! Get up!” The guards had kicked him hard, and he had groaned before they could kick him again. At the sound of his groan, the guards backed away, and Galin realized that they were afraid of him. He became keenly aware of the dampening collar around his neck, like a captured dog aware of his bonds, and it was this collar that the guards trusted, not his integrity, not his nobility.

As a Head Apprentice, he knew what a great achievement this collar was. Decades of tedious, scientific research went into the development of this “portable shield,” as his teachers liked to call the thing. “Portable shield” because it used the same technology as the Great Shield which ran along the perimeter and over the top of Ilaeon in an invisible hemi-bubble of electro-magnetic interference. As soon as the founders of the school discovered that magic used the various media of the physical world and, thus, followed recognizable scientific laws once propagated from its magical source, the founders only had to identify what medium through which a certain magic spell traveled to reach its object. The Great Shield and the dampening collar were the first major products of their research. The Great Shield rendered any typical magical user who entered Ilaeon unmagical, with very little exceptions. However, since it covered the entire kingdom, the Shield, by its design, was diffuse such that at its center, where the palace compounds were, the Shield was at its weakest. Of course, everyone assumed that magicals who invaded Ilaeon, once rendered unmagical, would be dead before they could reach the palace compounds.

But what of magicals who arose within Ilaeon? Although monstrous to think of – that anyone of Ilaeon or its allies would be magical – such things could occur. Also, what of the extremely strong magical who managed to survive all the way into the center of the kingdom, far-fetched and theoretical as that case might be? Thus, the physicists of the Defense School developed the dampening collar: Worn around the neck of the magical, it was guaranteed to render it non-magical without diffusion. So, the magical was rendered impotent, and the ordinary, good people were safe from its monstrous, evil force, thanks to the dutiful diligence of the good scientists of Ilaeon’s Defense School.

Still, they are afraid of me, Galin thought. And his sense of pride flared up, a recognition of the power that he must possess if others feared him so much that, even starved, beaten, and bound, they still feared him. He squinted through the matted hair that lay before his eyes at the guards and almost felt scorn. But then he recognized them, not as fearful enemies, but as the friends of his father, the fathers of his childhood classmates, and felt shame at his guilt – the momentary flare up of his pride, yes, but the lightning quick thought that accompanied that pride. Like a knife thrown past his cheek, leaving only the tight line of damp red as a memento, the thought, leaving the sharp pain of shame and guilt behind was,

I could kill them.

As if sensing this thought in him, like the fawn sensing the intent of the ravenous wolf and thus, not trusting her speed, will hold her breath and not move, the guards moved with caution, despite the dampening collar and the broken look of the criminal.

Chapter 1: Into the Desert

As far as he knew, he was the only human person out there. No one would voluntarily walk out of his country, his city, with only slippers and a robe between his flesh and the sand, the wind, and the desert scrub. He was not an exception.

If one were to see him – that is, if there were anybody out there besides the desert animals – one would see the hooded, bowed figure of a person, sex indeterminate because the body was so slim. The robe, flapping about his body, was encrusted with fluids, most of them bodily, dried under the unwavering sun and the cool wind. Perhaps the robe’s color used to be a uniform shade of dun, but the dried fluids made the robe streaky and mottled. The grey slippers barely covered his tender, pale feet, and the sand chafed all over, drawing pinpoints of blood, which rubbed against the inner layer of his robe. He had long since broken out of his rope wrist restraints, which, he knew, were only thick enough such that he would be far away from his country before he could break free. Once his hands were free, he brought them to his neck, feeling a thick, metal collar, which remained cool against his sweaty neck. He was far enough such that he no longer felt its effect, but there was no removing the thing.

Even with the hood, he felt the sun against his hairless head. He was glad for the cool wind – a desert was a desert, after all, not because it was always hot but because it hardly rained. The world was a bright, shimmering sea of tan, grey-green, and brown, with the tan reflecting the sun. He had spent the night out there, when he still felt the collar’s effect, heavy in his brain, curled around a grey-green plant, the name of which he did not know, hoping that he would be unmolested. He had awakened with a great thirst and hunger, and, remembering vaguely a childhood lesson, he removed a few spines of the plant, snapped off a large tip of a lobe, and sucked at it. The taste was bitter, and it made him gag; the sap was milky, which, he remembered – too late – meant that the plant was toxic. Heaving what little was in his stomach, he was worse than before, and all he could do was walk toward the horizon of this bright, shimmering sea of sand and scrub.

Under the sun, the cool wind shifted into a warm blast, and the sweat ran even more down his cheeks. Desperate for water, he licked at his sweat, even as it blinded his eyes. With eyes stinging, he saw his first desert creature – a mouse, which should have been in its burrow. Without a cry, he fell upon the mouse, smashing its skull against a rock, and sucked its blood. It was too late, though; faint with his thirst, hunger, and disgust, he retched upon the sand, giving the world an offering of stomach acid, spit, and blood, and the darkness fell before his eyes.

He had no idea how long he was unconscious. But when he awoke, it was night, and a stranger was giving him water. Greedy, he gulped without tasting, his tongue swollen and his lips cracked and bleeding. He was propped against a rock, and the stranger, hooded and enrobed in white, crouched before him with the water skin. He could see a small fire past the stranger, who was backlit such that he couldn’t see his savior. Fearing that he would exhaust the water, he shook his head a little, and the stranger removed the water skin from his lips.

“Thank you.” His voice sounded like crushing leaves. It was the first time he had spoken in days.

The stranger did not reply but gave a high grunt, sounding like a young boy or a woman. Gauging from the height, he guessed his savior to be a woman, and she turned his back to him, perhaps certain that he was too weak to do anything. She pulled a stick from the fire and handed it to him, who saw a flat paddle, soft from being cooked. He felt a mild wave of nausea, remembering his first experiment with eating a desert plant, but his hunger won out. Still too weak to use his hands, he nibbled at first and then ripped the paddle from the stick with his teeth. The taste was like sweet water, and it was the best thing he had ever eaten in a very long time.

“Thank you,” he said again.

When he didn’t receive a reply, he wondered if she even understood him. The desert region was unexplored country, and he suddenly realized that he ought to be surprised that anybody was out here.

“Maybe you don’t even understand me,” he said.

She didn’t say anything, but he could tell she was listening to him. She sat on the other side of the fire and lowered her hood, but the night was powerful, the fire was weak. He could barely see her, and yet he had an overwhelming desire to speak. It had been a long time since he had this desire, and even if it sounded like nonsense to her ears, even if she was really an enemy and not a friend, he was determined to speak.

“Let me tell you my story,” he began.

Chapter 2: Two Children Running

My name is Galin Pyr-Simon. I am by birth of Ilaeon, on the coast near the center of the world. My father, Simon Pyr-Gind, is from the Martial class, the highest level a commoner can be in my country. He is the only son of a mere guardsman, but as soon as he passed his ninth-year exam confirming his vocation as a soldier, my father accepted training in nearby Laedyon instead of staying in Ilaeon, in order to accelerate his rise in the Martial class. After his initial training, he toured the inner and outer lands along with the yearly surveillance corps for ten years, proving himself in skirmishes against occasional hostile agents, most of them being traitors.

After ten years, when he came back home to Ilaeon, his father – my grandfather – had died a long time ago. My father then decided to enter the royal guards, rising until, five years later, he eventually became the Chief of Palace Guards. It was during this time that my father decided that it was time that he married.

It’s strange. One does not suddenly decide, “It is time that I should be married,” especially if one’s whole life so far has been solely a martial career – such was my father. But my father is a very determined man, and within the year, he found his wife, Varvra Pyra-Bos, amongst the Merchant class. My father never told me how he met my mother, but his fellow soldiers say, that one day he was buying a dagger from Varvra’s father. My father admired the scrollwork on the hilt and commented that he would like to meet the artisan. My mother, who was within ear-shot, told him that she was that artisan.

“You! But you’re only a girl!” my father said.

“With enough curves, sir, with which to copy,” my mother replied with a grin.

So they say. Not long after their meeting, they married; my father was thirty-nine years of age, and my mother was sixteen, only a year older than I am right now. Of course, my father married in order to have children, but they remained childless for the first four years of their marriage. Various people tell me that my parents did not mind this; it gave them an opportunity for their initial lust, the lust between a bachelor-soldier and an inexperienced yet bold girl, to turn into marital love. My father discovered what he had been missing all those years fighting, and my mother discovered what it meant to be a woman.

Even the outside world, the world beyond Ilaeon’s walls, left them alone in those first four years, for we had unusual peace. Our king, Rhone Pyr-Brel, married a Laedyoni princess, Aneca Pyra-Cet, and the year Queen Aneca became pregnant with her first child, my mother became pregnant with me. As the wife of the Chief of Palace Guards, my mother lived on the palace grounds and had obstetric care better than any woman in the Merchant class. I grew; the child in the queen’s womb grew. But sometime in the eighth month of gestation, the royal child became sluggish while I continued to thrive. My mother, however, was becoming weak. She attributed it to her pregnancy, but I believe she knew that something was wrong but didn’t want to jeopardize me.

On the night I was born, thunder and dry lightning shot through the sky such that my father was away, checking the integrity of the Great Shield along with an electrical engineer from the Defense School. On that same night Queen Aneca gave birth. They say that she cried out, knowing that her child – a little boy – was dead. The superstitious say that my temporal twin died in order that I survived. I cannot say how much that angers me – the only one who sacrificed that night was not that boy but my mother.

Shortly after my birth, my mother lapsed into a coma. She died two days later. The autopsy report said that my mother had brain cancer. It was inoperable and aggressive, and even if the doctors had caught it earlier, there was nothing that could have been done. Thus, everybody told me, I was not to blame. Correction. Everybody but my father, from the day that I was born.

For one year, Ilaeon mourned the loss of the future king while my father silently mourned the loss of his young wife. I was given into the care of the palace nurse, who should have been the prince’s nurse. But as soon as Queen Aneca knew of my existence, even in the midst of her own grief, she took pity upon her Chief of Palace Guards, his dead wife, and his helpless son. I’m not certain whether King Rhone or my father knew to what extent Queen Aneca looked after me. Both men threw themselves into their public lives; King Rhone barely saw his wife, and my father never saw me. My first memory is not of Varvra, my mother, for I was too young. My first memory is the smell of Queen Aneca’s skin as she held me when I was a baby and held a gourd rattle before my eyes. Her skin smelled of lavender and sweet water, and the gourd rattle was so red that it glistened.

I know that this is wrong, but in my mind, the woman whom I consider my mother is Queen Aneca. She fed me, clothed me, played with me, and taught me. When she was not busy with her palace duties, she would slip into my nursery, relieve the nurse, and rock me in her lap, humming a song or reading a picture book. Yes, she taught me how to speak and read, and with language my memories of her mothering stayed with me. Sometimes, the nurse would bring me to the palace greenhouse, where I would “help” Queen Aneca plant some of the medicinal plants. But, actually, it gave me an opportunity to play in the dirt while she smiled and laughed, calling me her “Little Galin.” For three years, I wanted to call her “Mama,” but she always insisted on “Tanta” – she was Aunt, not Mother. In my third year, I realized that Queen Aneca’s lap was getting smaller and smaller because her belly was getting bigger and bigger. And then one day, exactly a half year before my fourth birthday, Queen Aneca did not relieve the nurse, which angered me. I threw a tantrum, and the nurse scolded,

“Hush, Galin!”

“I want Tanta!”

The nurse gave me a little shake. “You must never call Queen Aneca that again. She’s a real mother now – Mara Pyra-Rhone was born last night, and it is time that you remember who you are.”

Soon after, my father, who was now a stranger to me, got me. I moved back into my father’s rooms in the palace, which smelled of bachelorhood and soldiery. Six months later, I began residential school in the city on my fourth birthday. By that time, I was just relieved to be away from my father.

In Ilaeon, Kaldach, and Laedyon, the Servant class and the poorer Merchant and Martial classes send their children to day school while the richer Merchant and Martial classes and the Noble class send their children to residential school. Because of my father’s position, I went to the best residential school in Ilaeon, Kamret School, where I stayed from age four to age twelve. Royalty is technically part of the Noble class, but it is rare for a king or queen to send their children to a residential school; usually they have palace tutors to educate their offspring.

So, it was a great surprise when Queen Aneca sent her daughter to a residential school, the same one where I was attending, when Princess Mara came of age. Even at age seven, I knew that Princess Mara’s enrollment was controversial – I heard murmuring from non-royal Nobility, questioning the prudence of allowing the heir apparent to leave the safety of the palace grounds. I heard that King Rhone was at first against the idea. But Queen Aneca persuaded him – perhaps she wanted to make sure that her daughter knew the people with whom she would someday be sovereign. I don’t know. All I know is that, when the new term began, my classmates, the faculty and I greeted a small cadre of Palace Guards, led by my father, who surrounded the royal coach, in front of the main gates of the school. The coach door opened, and Queen Aneca, whom I had not seen in years, and a little girl in blue serge, whom I had never seen, emerged from the dark, cool coach. The little girl, Princess Mara, wore a little cap which matched her blue serge dress and cloak, and her little hand was grasped lightly yet securely in Queen Aneca’s hand, which, I imagined, must still smell of lavender and sweet water. She looked timidly at the group before her and turned her face into the soft, warm folds of her mother’s dress.

I hated Princess Mara instantly.

The other new children had arrived previously; Princess Mara’s arrival was later because of security reasons. I was grouped with the other fourthers while Headmaster Prosser directed the queen and princess to the firstrons. After pointing out the firstrons, he swept his arm to our small class of seconders, thirders, fourthers, all down the line to the handful of niners, who were going to take their ninth-year exams that year. I tried not to look at Queen Aneca and ended up staring at the little girl, who saw me and cried,

“Stop staring at me!”

I felt all eyes on my seven-year old form, including my father’s, but the queen only said, “Hush, Mara, don’t be rude,” and she changed the subject to where Princess Mara’s room would be in the firstron floor. After the queen, the princess, and my father entered the school, the whole class broke formation, and we wandered back to our respective rooms, to get ready for high dinner. What I didn’t expect was the queen calling me in the hall.

“Galin, my little Galin.”

I wanted to hate her, to ignore her, but it was the voice of the only mother I knew. I looked up, and saw my Tanta presenting her daughter before me as my father, her bodyguard, looked on.

“Galin, this is my daughter Mara. Mara, say hello to Galin, the son of Chief Simon.” Queen Aneca did not use the title “Princess” in her introductions, and from then on, I only thought of Mara not as a princess but as a rude yet timid little girl who stole my mother from me.

“Where are your manners, boy,” my father began, but Queen Aneca said, “Simon, it’s alright; we’re old friends.” Mara still clung to her mother’s side, but Queen Aneca’s arms were free. “Are you going to give your old friend a hug?”

I stared at Mara and then at my father. Then I stared at my shoes and shook my head as only a little boy could do.

Queen Aneca smiled, turned to my father, and said, “Simon, could you please escort Mara to her room? I’ll join you presently.”

My father looked at her doubtfully. “Are you sure, Your Highness? You’ll be alone –”

“Simon, we’re in a residential school. If children feel safe here, I think I can feel safe here.”

My father still looked doubtful, but he bowed and received Mara, who reluctantly let go of her mother’s gown.

Queen Aneca watched them go down the hall, and then she turned to me.

“Little Galin. I’m so sorry. My husband – well, let’s say he didn’t understand why you needed me. In some respects, I’m just as powerless as you are. But you’ve grown, yes? You’re no longer my little Galin?”

I heard her kneel down to my level, and when I looked up, she looked blurry. She put her arms around me. Yes, she still smelled of lavender and sweet water.

“I miss you, Tanta,” I whispered. It had been a long four years.

***

As I mentioned earlier, I stayed at Kamret School for over eight years; I entered the firstron level at age four, and I passed my ninth-year exam at age twelve. Since my first four years of life was spent within the palace grounds, and I had very little contact with other children my age at that time, I always felt out of place in an institution filled with so many children. I suppose I was a serious child back then. Well, I suppose I haven’t really outgrown that seriousness.

Unlike the other children, I could already read well and speak clearly, which were the main lessons taught to the firstrons. I did my work quickly, silently, and diligently, and my teachers didn’t quite know what to do with me. As a result, I spent much of my time in my room or in the library, reading, when I wasn’t in the gymnastic field, participating in required exercise. My fellow grade-mates at first teased me about my lonely habits, but since I didn’t show that I was bothered by them, they got bored with me and eventually left me alone. I passed my years as a firstron, seconder, thirder, and fourther in relative quiet, learning all I could. During the holidays, when many children would go home, I stayed at school, reading and doing chores. My father never asked for me, and I never asked for him. During these years, I tried very hard to forget Queen Aneca.

With the enrollment of Mara in Kamret, however, Queen Aneca was back in my life. It was not as if she was at the school – after all, she was the queen first, a mother second. But knowing that there was a tangible connection with her at the school made light a life that I had not realized had become heavy and dark.

At first, I had nothing to do with Mara. After all, when we met, she was a four-year old, barely out of toddlerhood, and I was a seven-year old boy. While she was learning the fundamentals of learning – reading, writing, speaking, mathematical logic, and other skills – I was learning the history of my city and her family. I learned that the royal houses of Ilaeon, Kaldach, and Laedyon have a common ancestor that is older than the cities. I learned that of the four classes of these cities, Noble, Martial, Merchant, and Servant, only Noble was static and unchanging, ensuring a stable, hereditary ruling base. But the fact that a person born in the Servant class could rise, by education and by his class aptitude on the ninth-year exam, into the other classes (short of the Noble class), indicated the inherent fairness of these cities’ social and political structure. In fact, Ilaeon, as the most forward thinking of the three cities, even had a Senate, comprised of the elders of classes, to serve as council to the King and Queen. This Senate was unheard of in Kaldach and Laedyon, and it was relatively new; Mara’s paternal great-grandfather, Tiran Pyr-Kamret, enacted this Senate as a formal way for the wise of his people to participate in the legislative powers of the monarch. This trust in the people’s good sense was unheard of. But such a delegation of power would not exist if the non-Noble classes were static.

No, I didn’t learn all of this in my formal classes at that time – I was only seven years old! And it wasn’t until much later when I really understood any of what I read. But I had plenty of time to read outside of my classwork, and all of my teachers thought it good that I could read and reason much higher than my official grade level. No wonder that I could – up to that point, the only thing in my life was the residential school.

And then Mara enrolled in Kamret.

I should have known that Mara had the same advanced pre-school education that I had received; we shared the same first teacher, her mother, after all. So Mara was as bored with her firstron work as I was in my first year. Like me, she would finish her work early. But instead of staying in her room or in the library, she spent her free time in the gymnastic field. She would watch the higher level students in their field exercises as she sat within the climbing cage or swung on the high swings, waiting for her fellow grade-mates to arrive for their exercises. Kamret’s schedule is such that all of the levels are segregated, except for special occasions, such as that day of Queen Aneca’s arrival with Mara. Firstrons learn, study, exercise, eat, and sleep as one group, seconders as another group, and so on. Mara being on the gymnastic field, separated from her group, was unusual. I assumed that she must have received a dispensation from Headmaster Prosser to do that.

The gymnastic field is rather large; it is an interior quad, circumscribed by the four, large rectangular buildings that make up the school itself. The under-levels’ playground equipment was the farthest away from where the fourthers did their daily drills. Mara would be alone five to fifteen minutes before a firstron exercise period began. Then the firstrons would arrive just as the fourthers would wind down their period, and the firstron would begin their first exercises as the fourthers left the field. It was during those few minutes a day – Mara by herself and then with her grade-mates when the firstrons would arrive before my grade-mates and I left the field – that I caught glimpses of Mara’s personality.

Her initial baby shyness and fear when I first met her– which, I must admit, angered me – was temporary and, as it turned out, unlike her true self. Waiting for her grade-mates, Mara never looked lonely, just… interested. Perhaps interested in being in a large group of children her age and, yet, being able to be solitary, watching from afar. Sometimes, performing my exercises, I could feel her watching me. I would check. She never looked away, and I would have to look away, usually feeling angry with myself. Then I would look at her again, and now she was swinging on the high swings, her eyes closed. When the firstrons would finally arrive, a handful of girls would run right up to Mara, squealing. Mara would open her eyes, her smile getting wider, as she received her friends.

Whereas before I hated her because of her timidity, I hated her that day because of her sociability, her ease around others, even at four years of age. I resolved to ignore her

.*****

As the first holiday of the term arrived, I saw others get ready to visit their families. As the day turned dark, I resigned to spend my holiday in the library. And there I was, reading as usual, this time a book of elementary physics and astronomy. I had just read that the gigantic moon that hung in our sky was not really a moon but that our world was its moon, when I felt eyes on me.

“Galin, Mama says to come with us.”

Startled, I dropped my book and saw Mara hop back as it dropped before her feet. Her comment was the second statement she had ever spoken to me. The first, if you recall, was “Stop staring at me!” I looked around, as if woken from a dream, and saw Queen Aneca at the other end of the table.

“Tanta.”

“Mara and I are going for an excursion. Would you like to come along, little Galin?” She smiled.

I left the book where it lay.

The school was officially closed; only Headmaster Prosser and a few members of the school staff were on the premises. Adjusting my eyes to the dark, I expected to see my father, but Queen Aneca had no escort.

“Where –” I began.

“Hush, Galin.” Queen Aneca placed a hooded cloak over me, and suddenly the world looked much brighter, as if by bright planet-shine. But the brightness was washed out in color. The only objects that were dark in color were Queen Aneca, Mara, and – as soon as I looked at my hands and arms – myself.

“Come along, you two.”

Outside the gate was the blackest horse I had ever seen, so black that the color had a blue sheen. The queen helped Mara and me upon the long saddle, and she sat behind both of us.

“Like mice. Be as quiet as mice.”

We left the gates of Kamret School, left the city center, and left the perimeter walls of Ilaeon itself just before the city gates closed for the night. I could feel the Great Shield suddenly break away from me as we passed through it. The feeling was a weird, suffocating sensation, and as soon as we were free from it, I suddenly felt as if I could breathe better, as if the air was sharper and crisper. Then we descended slowly the long hill upon which the walled city sat, finally arriving at the valley plain below.

We rode for, I think, an hour, maybe more. We rode until we were in the outskirts of Ilaeon’s western territory, where the cultured green of Ilaeon gave way to the brown of the desert. I had never left Ilaeon’s walls before, but I was too happy to be afraid. Under the shade of an ugly, gnarled tree, which only grew in acute angles, we stopped.

“This is a belajoun tree,” Queen Aneca said as she dismounted in one, smooth motion. She helped both of us down, and I was amazed by just how strong Queen Aneca’s arms were. Looking back at where we came, she smiled and then removed first her cloak and then our cloaks. Suddenly, the night was black again, and my eyes saw nothing until it adjusted to the dark.

“Tanta, those cloaks – where did you get them? How do they make the night go bright?”

Queen Aneca only smiled. “Science and technology, little Galin! Someday you’ll know about them. But now, we need to work.” She draped the cloaks over the lowest branch of the belajoun tree, and with a little handheld laslight she swept over the bottom of the tree. With a soft, “Ah!” she kneeled low and located a tiny, splotchy weed, not found in Ilaeon. The weed was ugly, with little spines all along its stem. Without turning to me, she removed a small pouch from her robes and handed it, open, to me. Holding it, I saw her harvest this unknown weed, and I flinched as I saw the weed draw blood from her small, white fingers.

“Tanta, shouldn’t you wear gloves?” I whispered. I suppose I didn’t have to whisper – we were far from the city. But the desert demanded small movements and hushed voices.

“Hush,” she said. And that’s when I could hear soft, nearly inaudible sounds from her lips: “Evoe, evoe, sab hasi nan. Evoe, evoe, sab hasi nan.” I had never heard anything like that, but she said them continuously as she picked the weed, her blood sprinkling the spines such that the plant took on a light rust color. When she was finished, the spines had bent back within the stem, leaving the stems smooth with tiny, pinpoints of darker red. She tore the weed into little bits, rolled the bits into little pills, and ate three of the pills. The rest she placed in the pouch. Then she picked more of the weed, whispering those strange words.

I felt ill, seeing the queen’s blood, and that’s when I looked up. Sitting on that low branch was Mara. With those eyes I knew well, she stared into the space from which we had come. I knew enough from books and my father that Mara was serving as look-out, but her direction was toward Ilaeon, which didn’t make much sense to me at the time. Why was she guarding against our own people?

As if sensing my thoughts, Queen Aneca said, “Your father, Galin, would be horribly alarmed that I was here, with only two children to look after me, for the world is a dangerous place. But the procedures of the palace guards would only attract too much attention to this location, this little plant.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Hazel-herb,” Mara replied above me. “It’s in Mama’s books. It keeps the sickness away.”

I had never heard of hazel-herb. “So why don’t the palace horticulturists come here?”

“Because they don’t read my books,” Queen Aneca replied. Seeing my puzzled look, she added, “Ah, Galin, you’re too young – no. That’s nonsense. My books are more like a housewife’s recipe book, passed down from mother to daughter. It’s not scientific and, therefore, not serious enough to send the horticulturists. So I come here myself to do what they do not do.”

“But you’re the queen,” I began.

The queen laughed under her breath. “Ah, Galin, my position is not as powerful as you would think. If it were otherwise, do you think I would be here with only my two children?”

At the time, I didn’t understand what she had just said. Instead, my heart leapt up as I heard her call me one of her children. It was good to think of her as my mother!

“Done,” the queen said, and Mara dropped from the branch.

“A mouse, I hear a mouse, Mama,” and she took off running towards a sound that I did not hear.

“Mara!” I dropped the pouch and followed her, blindly stumbling against the shrub and scraping my legs against the rough sand. Even though she was fast, my legs were longer and I was faster, and I caught up with her.

“Oh, it’s gone, it’s gone, you were too loud,” Mara hissed. She kicked me in the shin, and I, not thinking, hit her chest such that she fell, backside against the sand. Horrified, I saw her face contort into a cry, but she only made sharp sucking sounds.

“Aren’t you going to cry?”

She continued to make sharp sucking sounds and then finally said, “Are… you… my broth…er?”

I was taken aback. “No.”

“But… Mama’s your Mama too.”

I paused and then wanted to cry. “No.”

“But she is!”

“My mother is dead.”

“No, she’s not!” Mara was now on her feet, stamping one foot angrily onto the hard packed sand.

“No, I mean,” but she was already running back to the small laslight, like a bird flying away from a hawk. By the time I made my way back to the belajoun tree, Queen Aneca had finished consoling a weeping Mara.

“No, Mara, I am not dying!” She rocked her daughter in her lap and wiped the tears with an edge of her sleeve. “Really, what gave you that idea?”

Seeing me, she gave me a curious look, but I only shook my head. I was tired.

Queen Aneca removed the cloaks from the branch, placed them on herself and on us, lifted us into the saddle, and mounted behind us. This time, the horse walked home, and we saw the hill upon which the walled city sat grow in the dark horizon. The gentle rhythm of the horse was like a cradle rocking, and I could feel Mara slump a little against me, in a soft sleep. In my ear, I heard the queen whisper:

“Galin, this is important. Tonight is only between you, Mara, and me. Yes? Tonight is for us and us alone.”

“Yes, Tanta.” Keeping silent was a skill I had developed very early.

“And Galin?”

“Yes, Tanta?”

“I know… I know that I’m not your real mother, but I feel like one to you. And as the big brother, promise me to look after Mara. Will you do this for me, my little Galin?”

I remembered the conversation in the desert, between Mara and myself, and felt as if I were about to lie. “Yes, Tanta.”

We rode so slowly that we could see the large crescent of the planet Gebayu form in the sky like a sliver of horn. When we finally arrived at the hill on which the walled city sat, Gebayu shone like a broad, thin bow in the sky. I don’t recall how we got inside the perimeter wall since the city gates were closed for the night. All I remember is that we spent a while within the rocky hill itself, moving within the caverns of the dead, illuminated faintly by the queen’s laslight. Mara slept, and I tried to stay awake, but my eyes ached with looking at shadows and half-seen melted columns and spires. Finally we emerged within, as it turns out, the palace grounds itself. Dismounting, she handed the reigns to a very young page, not much older than myself, who led the horse to the stables. There, she waked us and lifted us from the saddle.

“Would you like to go to your rooms? Or would you like to come with me to the greenhouse?”

We already shook our heads to the first question, and so we slipped into the greenhouse. Mara promptly curled under one of the willows and fell asleep. Queen Aneca smiled at this, and she carefully shook the pills onto her open palm and planted all except one around the sleeping Mara. I helped her, patting down the soil, which covered the pills. The one remaining pill she split in half, and she gave one to me and, after waking up Mara, the other to her. I was afraid to swallow it, a thing made out of strange leaves and the blood of the queen, but Mara swallowed it, and fearing that I would seem like a coward, I swallowed my portion.

I choked, for the pill was bitter, and the queen rubbed my back and gave me some water from a watering can. “I know; it tastes awful, but it’s good for you.” As I drank the water, she stared into the ground where the pills were planted. She murmured, “It’s just my luck that I would stumble across this weed in my books so late. I have much to learn still, yet not enough time.”

It was only much later that I understood what she meant by those words.

Like toadstools, the hazel-herb plants sprung up the next day, to the puzzlement of the gardeners and horticulturists who tended the greenhouse since nothing grew there that wasn’t documented to be there. With the rigor of science, the horticulturists tested this new plant and discovered the medicinal properties inherent, as a painkiller, as an anti-inflammatory, and other useful effects which were stronger than the willow without some of the willow’s side effects, like an upset stomach. They called the plant “willow weed” from where they found it, but only the queen, Aneca, and myself knew what it was really called.

As for my holiday, my father kept himself busy, and I was alone most times in his rooms. Again, I was just the son of the Chief of Palace Guards and not the foster son of the queen of Ilaeon. But even though Mara, Queen Aneca, and I never spoke of that night excursion, I knew where I stood in my Tanta’s eyes, and that would sustain me for the next five years.

Chapter 3: Promise

I still worried about those cloaks. I worried about those cloaks because of the Great Prohibition, for everything in Ilaeon, Laedyon, and Kaldach exists to keep the Great Prohibition of Magic, which is the main reason why you found me, nearly dead in this desert.

Everybody knows of the Great Prohibition; this was the first law that King Tiran’s son and the Senate of Ilaeon created together. But the law only made formal a long-standing practice that was older than the royal houses themselves. We never explored beyond our far territories, never set sail for that land in the middle of the gulf or the other side of our world, because of this creeping fear of what lay beyond our cities. The fear seemed as intangible and natural as the air, as part of us as our skin. It was a fear with no specific object; instead, it was as axiomatic as gravity, something to accommodate when living one’s life. In fact, most of the time, we didn’t even think of it as “fear” but simply as common sense. Why bother leaving our cities when we can have a perfectly fine life at home?

Perhaps I can better explain this way. There’s a folk tale of sorts, spoken by the very old to the very young, of a time before the royal houses, before Ilaeon, Laedyon, and Kaldach. Once upon a time, there was nothing. All was darkness. Then Gebayu’s Eye opened and shone upon the darkness, and our moon – our world — was born, the incarnation of that Eye of Gebayu. Our world was harsh, dry and red, until Gebayu’s Eye wept and quenched her angry, red child. Where the rain-slick air, the bare land, and the stormy sea met rose all living things – all flora and fauna, all vegetable and animal. And culminating in this making was humanity, first woman, and then man, her consort. Zea and Ord. They were stewards of their world, Zea dreaming, thinking, planning, and Ord waking, doing, acting. They were the two sides of humanity, the potential and the active, the motive and the action, and together they participated in the birth of their world by giving forth three children. Thus they became the first mother and father.

As mother, when her first child was in her womb, Zea gathered the air within herself and gave birth to a daughter. When she stopped the air from touching her, she gave birth to either a daughter or a son. In this way, Zea was able to give birth to those who can harness the air and make the world safe for her husband and her other children. Zea’s family was originally Ord and her three children: Ilaeon, Laedyon, and Kaldach. Ilaeon was her youngest daughter, beautiful to behold. Laedyon was her only son, dutiful and strong. Kaldach was her oldest daughter, dark-eyed and proud. Zea, the first mother and the first woman from Gebayu’s Eye, directed the order of her family’s stewardship of the world, and Ord, her consort, participated in the directing of this stewardship. They sent their children to the three points of the world while they remained in the center of the world, and as they sent forth their children, Zea said, “Go, but always remain within Gebayu’s Eye. Do not go where you cannot see her Eye, for you will certainly be lost.”

Through flora and fauna, through earth and sky, the three sent messages to their parents, as they walked upon the world, naming the flora and fauna, naming the earth and the sky as they ranged throughout the land. But one day, Kaldach fell silent, and Zea could not feel her daughter’s presence in the marrow of her bones. “Kaldach!” she called, but Kaldach remained silent. That very night, as Ord lay next to his troubled wife, he had a dream.

A beautiful woman, as dark as the sky with hair shining with stars, turned to him and gently said, “Why are you sleeping, Ord? The night is beautiful, the nightbirds are awake and calling. Do you not see the stars, shining upon you, honouring you? Walk with me, Ord. I will show you a place worthy of your splendour.” Ord rose, and, following the dark woman, he felt the earth fall away from his feet as the world tipped away from Gebayu’s Eye. Afraid, he thrashed his limbs, seeking to touch the world lost but instead found the dark woman’s body as his safe haven. Through the darkness of her body, he sought the world lost, and with a shudder, he felt her body melt into airy thinness, and he sunk back into himself, into sleeping Ord, and he awoke, remembering nothing.

Ilaeon was the first to return, bearing fireweed and hazel herb. Laedyon returned second, with a tamed boar behind him. But Kaldach did not return until many cycles had passed, and when she returned, she was as dark as her eyes, and her belly was swollen with child.

“Kaldach,” Zea said, her eyes sad, but she was there when her eldest daughter bore her child, the first granddaughter, and as the blood fell upon Zea’s hands, she felt her skin sting with the heat of Kaldach’s blood and the body of the child.

“Her name is Nadia!” screamed Kaldach, and she snatched the screaming child away from her mother’s bloody arms.

“Kaldach,” Zea said, her eyes sad, and she felt the war within her blood begin. She began to fade, to shrivel like a curl of wood upon the fire. “Mother Mother!” cried Ilaeon and Laedyon, and Ord wept, ignorant of what to do.

“It is Kaldach,” said the first mother of the world, “and it is Nadia. Ord.”

At the sound of his daughter’s name, his granddaughter’s name, and his name, Ord remembered his dream, after many years, and became angry. He found his power in the first death of the world, at the grave of Zea, and under cover of night, he crept into Kaldach’s bed and killed her with one strike of his hand. Before the day came, Ord and his remaining children fled the center of the world for the inner lands, leaving Zea, Kaldach, and Nadia, the only one living. When Nadia awoke from her slumber and found her mother, she screamed, and in that scream, the air rushed within her, and she raged, insane and powerful, trapped within the center of the world. But she bore, without aid of man, many beings in revenge, and not all stayed in the center of the world.

And so Ord, alone, became the remaining first parent of humanity, but, wishing to die, gave his power, not to his daughter Ilaeon but to his son Laedyon. Laedyon took Ilaeon as consort. To remove the stain from Kaldach’s name, they named not a daughter Kaldach but a son, and he founded the royal house Kaldach. They also gave forth many more children, founding the royal houses of Ilaeon and Laedyon and populating the world. But their children must always be vigilant of Nadia’s revenge, the power unleashed by a woman who can control the air.

“What does this fanciful story mean?” you may ask.

This story, which every child of Ilaeon, Laedyon, and Kaldach has heard at least once, is called “The Catastrophe.” As incredible as it sounds, it claims that our people was once a matriarchy, but because of a catastrophe – matricide and incest caused by people who can control the air – we became a patriarchy, which we are to this day.

“And what do you mean by ‘control the air’?” you may ask.

It was not until I was much older, taking physics classes, did I understand what this phrase meant. We children learn it as a euphemism for those who are magical – Nadia’s brood of monsters that she bore when the air rushed within her. But what is meant by “the air” is actually the radiation that bathes our world as we orbit Gebayu, for our world lies within Gebayu’s radiation belt. Most people can withstand this radiation if they are well-shielded, either with special, long clothing or by being within the walls of the cities and under each city’s Great Shield. But there are a few people – what we call magicals – who are not only unaffected by the radiation but can actually take it within themselves and channel it from their bodies. Can you imagine the power such people have? Can you imagine the fear such power creates in those who do not have this power?

Yes, society shunned these magicals. They were Nadia’s brood of monsters, freaks of nature. I always found it strange that we didn’t consider the mythical Zea as a monster, even though she, too, could control the air. But no matter. Goodness was on the side of normal people, on the side of Ord and his remaining children, not the power hungry Kaldach nor the mad Nadia. And so there established that long-standing practice of never travelling far from the city walls, of avoiding all magicals, those people who looked odd, acted odd, for whom odd things happened. Yes, a vague definition, isn’t it? But nobody ever thought to think, “But what if I’m wrong? What if this person isn’t a magical?” That would be like thinking, “But what if this person isn’t two-legged?” Such is the nature of custom and superstition. And those people deemed magical did have a hard life. But magicals were not criminal until the Great Prohibition, and the Great Prohibition happened because Queen Lyssa, King Brel’s wife, died by shriveling up like a curl of wood upon the fire, by what the ordinary folk called “Nadia’s Curse.”

That is a euphemism, “Nadia’s Curse,” from the myth of Zea and Ord. Poetic, isn’t it? Certainly prettier sounding than “cancer.” For that is what the wife of Brel Pyr-Tiran, Mara’s grandmother, died of. Inoperable, terminal cancer from severe radiation poisoning, the source of which was unknown and, according to our popular superstitions, caused by a magical. Our doctors and scientists at that time could only diagnose the cancer and try to pinpoint the source, but Queen Lyssa had always kept within the thick palace walls, shielded with lead and other metals to keep out the poisoning air. Those with the means wore thick clothes, often impregnated with radiation-blocking metals. No Queen or King, who certainly had those means, encountered “Nadia’s Curse.” And so, at first, King Brel could not believe that his wife – just like my father could not believe that my mother – was dying of cancer. It was like saying that his wife was dying of cholera or of scurvy. Nobility wasn’t supposed to die of such low things as Nadia’s Curse. He sought better doctors, better treatments, but the diagnosis was always the same – swift-moving cancer of the blood, origin unknown.

From what I’ve heard and read, King Brel, like his father, was a logical man, a scientific man. He took little stock in the superstitions of his people. He ruled according to the laws of his father, and he presided over the Senate as the official spokesman for the Noble class and, as King, with ultimate veto power. But as his Queen – a beautiful woman, they say, with shining, wine-dark hair and piercing dark blue eyes – withered and curled into an ashen husk, and as science and logic gave him no answers, no solutions, he turned to the other extreme, to the voices of the superstitious. And his wife’s scream, on her deathbed, sealed his resolve, as reported by those who heard her, “It is them! It is THEM!”

He could not see her die. He ran from that deathroom, blood filled with rage and despair. The chroniclers say that he wanted to roam the streets of the three kingdoms, grab those with even a rumour of magic about them, and slaughter them where they stood. But there was no law, no official process for him to do so – he had no right, he had no method. Previously, social pressure alone took care of most of our problems with magicals. But the death of a Queen – ah, that changes everything. And so, as his wife withered in their bedroom, he spoke before the Senate in impassioned speech, turning his great intellect and reason toward a new cause, a mission eradicating the land of magicals. He called for the establishment of a royal body that would research the manner of the magicals – how to identify and neutralize magicals – and also the establishment of a law that would outlaw magicals so that the royal body would have teeth behind its information. He played upon my grandparents’ generation’s fears – the old fears of the monsters of Nadia, of the fear of being eaten alive by a monster that we could not see and, therefore, not really fight. On the day of his wife’s death, he and the Senate passed into law the Great Prohibition of Magic and, with it, the creation of the Defense School and the redefinition of a traitor – the magical amongst us.

My parents were not even born when the first fiery wave of the Great Prohibition swept through the three kingdoms. Once Ilaeon, King Brel’s house, passed that law, the other two houses, Kaldach and Laedyon, soon followed. It was a great cauterization, burning away the spots of disease that would infect us all. And the beauty of this law – the power of it, the teeth – lay not in the Defense School nor the newly appointed guards who patrolled but in the ordinary citizen, who served as eyes and ears for the King and the Senate. Superstition and custom became moral and patriotic duty. Many magicals – or those deemed magical – where carried away in this great wave, killed or pushed out, in a silent and hidden exodus.

Still, the Defense School gave solid fact to the existence of these magicals and how magic worked, and with that research rose new defenses, in addition to the radiation-retarding metals. As soon as the founders of the school discovered that magic used the various media of the physical world and, thus, followed recognizable scientific laws once propagated from its magical source, the founders only had to identify what medium through which a certain magic spell traveled to reach its object. The Great Shield and the dampening collar were the first major products of their research. The Great Shield rendered any typical magical user who entered Ilaeon unmagical, with very little exceptions. However, since it covered the entire kingdom, the Shield, by its design, was diffuse such that at its center, where the palace compounds were, the Shield was at its weakest. Of course, everyone assumed that magicals who invaded Ilaeon, once rendered unmagical, would be dead before they could reach the palace compounds.

The dampening collar came later and was a great achievement. Decades of tedious, scientific research went into the development of this “portable shield,” as my teachers liked to call the thing. “Portable shield” because it used the same technology as the Great Shield which ran along the perimeter and over the top of Ilaeon in an invisible hemi-bubble of electro-magnetic interference. And so for those magicals who arose within the city walls or for those who managed to take advantage of the weak points of the Great Shield within the city, the physicists of the Defense School developed the dampening collar. Worn around the neck of the magical, it was guaranteed to render it non-magical without diffusion. So, the magical was rendered impotent, and ordinary, good people were safe from its monstrous, evil force, thanks to the dutiful diligence of the good scientists of Ilaeon’s Defense School.

And so. Now you know why I wear this collar. And my Tanta, because of those cloaks – yes, even at the age of seven, I knew what my duty was as a child of Ilaeon – my Tanta should have been subjected to the collar. But she never was, for I held my promise to her to keep that night secret, and… she died before anyone could discover that secret or any of her other secrets.

Tanta was dying of Nadia’s Curse, and because of that, I do not really know if she was truly magical or not – nobody knew if magicals could actually be inflicted with this disease, for, because of the Great Prohibition, only “ordinary” people sought treatment. But not Tanta – she kept her illness secret, and for the life of me, I don’t know why, because she even kept it secret from me.

The years passed quickly enough – we never had another excursion after that night trip to the belajoun tree. The older I became, the more isolated I tended to be, as I studied hard to excel at each level, to pass each level’s exit exams with the highest marks. I saw Mara from afar, as if from across a great ocean, for she continued her friendships, her active physical life while I retreated more and more into the life of the mind, the library, the classroom. Then, in my ninth-year, Mara, like years earlier in the library during her first-year, crossed that great ocean. She found me in the library and said, “Galin, it’s Mama.”

I looked up from my book, my heart racing at her words, and it was the first time I had seen Mara close-up since she was four and I was seven. Now I was eleven and Mara was eight, and I could see the beginning image of her mother in her features, which, at the time, frightened me – I didn’t know why then. Mara’s face was still, as if she were trying hard not to cry, and, in fact, that was what she was doing. Eight years old, but old enough to know about the decorum of oneself in a library! Like years earlier, I left my book, and I followed Mara to wherever she would lead me.

She did not lead me far, for at the door of the library was my father; he looked angry but tried to make his anger look like concern. “Your Highness, we really need to leave – your father – “

“Not without Galin,” she replied, looking at the Chief of Palace Guards full in the face.

“Princess, what has my son to do with your father needing you by his side?”

“Nothing. But Mama was his mama, too, and he’ll be by my side. I command it.”

My father winced at her words. “Your father will not be pleased.”

“But Mama will be, and it’s Mama I care about, Simon, not Papa.”

One could see my father debating with himself, on whether he felt like arguing with a stubborn little girl and then physically having to remove her from the school like a sack of food or a young animal or just giving in to her demand so that he could escort her away quietly. But the king’s might was on his side, and Mara learnt what her mother already knew – only the king had power. “No, Princess, it is your father’s command that I escort you – and only you – back to the palace. And we don’t have time for this, Princess; one minute arguing with me here means one minute less you have with your mother.”

Mara’s face stilled even more – it became a mask that looked awful upon a person as young as she. It was a mask that I was fully used to upon myself, but not on the effervescent, sincere face of Mara. She turned to me and let the mask slip a little as she whispered, “I’m sorry.” And then she left quickly, with my father immediately behind her.

Only when the school bell tolled three hours later, at an unusual time when there were no classes or routine activities, did I know – for I knew — that Tanta was dead.

She was dead. And I never even got the chance to say good-bye.

***

The official mourning period was one year, and for the first few months, Kamret School, as were the rest of Ilaeon, was demure and somber in its grief for the loss of Queen Aneca. But time, like a river, washes away the destruction, the loss, and Ilaeon began to awaken from its mourning, still a little somber, but with an eye towards the present and future again.

I felt the change in the feelings of the people, and I tried not to feel angry over it, to feel exhausted by it. It was still my ninth-year, my last year at Kamret, and it was easy – oh so easy – simply to quit, to sit down and stare out my window instead of studying for my ninth-year exam. What was the point of going on when Tanta was no longer in the world? Who would look upon my achievements and be proud, who would even appreciate what I was doing? I would stare out my window, my books unread, and it would have been so easy just to leave all of this.

But Mara would not let me.

In her sixth-year, at the height of her popularity, the death of her mother chilled many of her early friendships, for this, this, was a point of alienation, a wave of disconnection that her simple friendships could not bear and ride through. As much as I saw Queen Aneca as a mother, she was Mara’s mother, and thus her death ironically created a bond, based on shared sorrow and grief, a bond that didn’t fully exist when she was alive. Mara would find me in the library, ask me to help her with her studies, and, remembering my promise to her mother always to look after her, as brother would look after sister, I would help her study. In continuing that mode of study, I kept up with my own ninth-year work; teaching Mara while being taught kept me from brooding over my loss, over my “what could have been.” It was a nonsense dream, of course – I was a commoner who could never be a real adopted son to Queen Aneca. But the dream was what kept me going up to my ninth-year; what kept me going through my ninth-year and final graduation from the Kamret School was my promise to Mara’s mother and, well, Mara herself.

The ninth-year exam is a comprehensive exam, covering the whole curriculum of the Kamret School, in addition to an aptitude and skills portion that determined one’s place in society. I have heard of students born in the Servant class immediately rise into the Martial class simply based on the results of their ninth-year exams. I was already in the Martial class, and could not rise higher, but where I was placed, what I would do, in the Martial class (if I showed the aptitude to remain in this class – some soldiers’ children became shopkeepers because of their aptitude for the Merchant class) was also determined by the results of the ninth-year exam.

How one does on the ninth-year exam determines the rest of that person’s life. It is daunting, especially since one is only twelve years old when the test is taken. But I had prepared for this test, had been waiting for this test since I was four years old and a timid firstron. Academically, I was certain I would excel, but aptitude, I wasn’t certain. I didn’t feel like a soldier, didn’t feel like the son of Simon Pyr-Gind. And indeed, I excelled in the academic portion of the exam, and as for the aptitude section, I not only confirmed my status in the Martial class, I tested into the Scientist subsection. In other words, I was to continue my study as an apprentice in the celibate Scientist order in the Defense School.

You look at me strangely, which tells me that, yes, you are not of the three kingdoms, for anyone of the three kingdoms would know the strictures of being a member of the Defense School.

___________________

And that’s all I wrote.