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    David McLeod
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Fire And Ice - 1. The Scullery and the Student

Paiolo’s world had ended. The caravan master had been kind, but resolute. “We travel east to Dundee and thence to the coast. The caravan is smaller, and the danger from trolls and brigands is much less than on our route through Arcadia and the Gray Mountains. I have dismissed half the guards, and no longer need a cook’s assistant.” He paused, and then continued, “You are a fine lad and a hard worker. You will have no trouble finding work. I will tell Master Margulis at the warehouse about you. You may call on his name when you seek employment. Tell him where you find work. If I need you when I return…in several months, perhaps longer…I will look for you.

 

“Here is your share in the profits from this journey. Master Margulis will hold most of it for you, if you like.” The caravan master counted out five gold crowns, each bearing the likeness of Prince Auric of Arcadia; his father, Prince Elgin; or the elven king, Oberon.

 

*****

 

Paiolo left the warehouse with a purse holding a half-crown in silver and copper. Master Margulis, as a courtesy to the caravan master, had agreed to hold the rest of Paiolo’s money without charging for the service. He had also concurred with the caravan master’s promise that Paiolo might use his name when he sought work. But not for a day or two, Paiolo thought.First, a hot bath. Then, some food I didn’t prepare…and a night in a bed that’s not the dirt under a wagon—these first.

 

The day was young, the sun was bright, and the air was cool. Paiolo strolled easily through the broad streets of Barbicana. He saw an inn, but the people who came and went were too finely dressed for his means. He saw another inn. It was shaded by taller buildings, and seemed to drink in what little light reached it. Paiolo shivered, for what reason he did not know, and walked on.

 

The street opened onto a sunlit plaza. In the center of the plaza, a fountain played. Tables were scattered around the fountain. Boys from public houses carried mugs to and from the tables. One table drew Paiolo’s attention. Two elven tweens sat opposite one another, concentrating on game pieces before them. Three other tweens stood watching. Paiolo approached, and joined the kibitzers.

 

The boys were playing chess. On the table was a row of pennies. The champion’s penny was matched by the boy who was playing against him. The remaining pennies were those of the other boys who had challenged. Paiolo was about to walk away when a voice called from a shop across the square, “Henry! Alex! Brandon! Enough idleness. There’s work to be done.” Paiolo watched as two of the boys removed their pennies and hurried to the shop from which the voice had come.

 

Well, Paiolo thought, I’ve nothing to do, and this might be fun. He took a penny from his purse, and put it on the table. As he did so, the boy with the blue hair turned over his king, conceding the game, and hurried after his companions. The remaining player looked up at Paiolo, and his eyes widened as he saw the human tween who had put down the penny.

 

May I challenge, please? Paiolo asked, in Elvish.

 

The boy replied in the same language, “Yes, the game is open, and you are welcome. My mother’s name for me is Kyrie.”

 

“Um, my name is Paiolo,” the human boy said, and sat in the vacant challenger’s seat.

 

Kyrie wasted no time in setting up the board, and gestured for Paiolo to select his color from the two pieces hidden in Kyrie’s hands. Paiolo pointed to the boy’s left hand, which opened to reveal the white piece. Kyrie returned the two pieces to the board and rotated the board so that white faced Paiolo. Paiolo moved the king’s senior’s page to begin the game.

 

Kibitzers came and went, but no one else challenged; Paiolo and Kyrie were left alone.

 

“Queen takes paladin; checkmate,” Paiolo said.

 

“You play well…and you speak Elvish well, too,” Kyrie said. “Would you like another game?” He put a penny on the table as he spoke.

 

Paiolo removed the penny he’d won, and slid the remaining penny to touch Kyrie’s. “Yes, please.” As the boys reset the board, Paiolo continued. “I learned to speak Elvish almost before I spoke the common tongue. We traveled with elves from before I can remember.”

 

Kyrie moved a page and asked, “Traveled?”

 

“My family all were caravaneers,” Paiolo said. “Not didicoy; Father was a Master Merchant-Trader. He drove a wagon. Mother cooked. My brothers drove wagons, too, when they were old enough.”

 

Kyrie concentrated before taking one of Paiolo’s donjons, and then said, “Then you will leave Barbicana when your family leaves…”

 

“No,” Paiolo replied. “They are all dead … an attack by brigands … north of Questa … that’s in western Arcadia … two years ago. I stayed with the caravan until today. Check.”

 

Kyrie started at the speed with which he’d been put in check, but then smiled. Moving his queen, he captured Paiolo’s second donjon. “Checkmate!”

 

“You don’t wear a sword…so you’re not a guard,” Kyrie said. “Another game?”

 

Paiolo put out another penny. “No … not a guard. I’m Valarian. I don’t own a sword,” he said, and then added, abashed, “I was the cook’s helper.”

 

The boys’ third game passed in silence until Kyrie said, “I’ve never been out of Barbicana…well, not any farther than the foothills, and once a few miles down the river. But you’ve seen … well, so much! It must have been wonderful to travel … not your family getting killed, I mean. I’m sorry…”

 

“Please don’t be sorry. They were all Good people; they have returned to the Light to be purified before being reborn. But traveling? Not as wonderful as you might think. Sun, wind, rain, hot, cold…it didn’t matter. We traveled. Bed was at best a hammock. More often, it was a patch of dirt under a wagon…or under the stars when the weather was good. When the road didn’t follow a river, we couldn’t bathe, sometimes for days. Food was always the same: soup or beans, and bread. Especially after my mother died. She used to make pies.” Paiolo’s voice trailed off, and he bent over the board.

 

“But chess is a battle game, and I wear a sword. If you’re a Valarian, why are you playing chess, and why against an armed boy?” Kyrie was plainly puzzled.

 

Paiolo laughed. “Check! Chess is also a game for the mind; and, just because I won’t carry or use a weapon doesn’t mean I think no one should. I don’t even think it’s wrong or Evil to be a soldier or guard, or to wear a sword, even to use it. I just choose not to. Besides, even Valeus knew that the Light required the service of both the soldier and the statesman. Checkmate!”

 

“I’m not really a soldier. Just a student,” Kyrie said. “Someday,” he continued, as he gently touched the figure of the knight on horseback, “…someday, I’m going to be a paladin.”

 

The boys continued talking as they played eight games, each winning four. “I would like to raise the wager on the next game,” Kyrie said.

 

Paiolo, oddly afraid that he was about to be taken advantage of, was hesitant. “I’ve not much money, and until I find work, I’m reluctant to risk much. What wager do you suggest?”

 

“A kiss,” Kyrie said softly.

 

Paiolo was stunned. Kyrie would have stood out in any group of boys. His silver hair curled around his pointed ears and the back of his neck. His deep blue, almond-shaped eyes gazed from a chiseled face with creamy skin. A kiss from him, and it wouldn’t matter who won or lost. Furthermore, the offer of a kiss was certainly a prelude to another offer: to share boy magic, to have sex. Paiolo smiled broadly. “Please forgive me for what I was thinking. I accept.”

 

A few minutes later, Kyrie turned over his king. Looking up from the board, he smiled at Paiolo. “I usually win at least a shilling in a morning. I’m doubly glad we wagered a kiss.” He stood, and walked to Paiolo’s side of the table.

 

The kiss was all Paiolo could have expected, and more, and he hardly heard the elven boy’s invitation. “Come on, then” Kyrie urged. “My friends from the school will be at the baths, now, and you must meet them.”

 

As a redhead, Paiolo had been always in the minority. In this elven city, redheads were more common than in human lands, but a redheaded human stood out. Despite this—perhaps because of it—Kyrie’s friends made him welcome. Kyrie introduced Paiolo to more than a dozen elven boys and tweens, all of whom seemed to know one another. Their names swam in Paiolo’s head as the boys swam in the huge pool of the public baths. At one end, a noisy game of hide-and-find was going on, accompanied by the rhythmic shouting of two-syllable words that Paiolo didn’t recognize. The noise was overwhelming until an attendant cast a spell to dampen the sound, or at least restrict it to that end of the pool.

 

Kyrie’s friends played a ball game that involved tackling whoever held one of the several balls that floated in the pool. That Paiolo had never played before didn’t seem to matter. He quickly realized that the real objective was to maximize touching, ducking, and wrestling.

 

Paiolo had grabbed one of the balls as it flew from another boy’s hands. Kyrie seized him, and pulled him under the water. Paiolo lost his grip on the ball. It flew from his hands to pop above the surface of the water before being taken by one of the other boys. Despite Paiolo’s strength, Kyrie managed to pin him against the wall of the pool. Both boys gasped for air.

 

“I’d better ask you before one of my friends does,” Kyrie panted. “Will you share with me?”

 

“If I may have another kiss,” Paiolo replied.

 

*****

 

Sated with sex and magic, Kyrie and Paiolo returned to the pool. Kyrie’s friends greeted their return warmly. “You must come to the school with us,” one said to Paiolo.

 

“Stay for supper, and the night,” offered another.

 

“Yes, please,” another asked.

 

“Um,” Paiolo hesitated. “The school?”

 

“Centurion Antonio,” answered the tween Paiolo remembered as Meeno. “He’s the best teacher in Barbicana.”

 

“In Elvenhold,” interjected a boy … Will, Paiolo remembered.

 

Paiolo allowed the boys to lead him to the school. “I’ll tell Centurion’s wife that we have a guest,” said one of the tweens—Dodger, the other boys called him, Paiolo remembered. “See you at supper,” Dodger tossed over his shoulder, and was gone.

 

“Come,” urged Kyrie, “you must meet Centurion Antonio.”

 

Kyrie led Paiolo to the armory, where the centurion was sharpening a sword. After hearing Paiolo’s story of family and being released from the caravan, the centurion asked, “Do you wish to become a student, then?”

 

“No, centurion, that is, my parents…my family…I am Valarian. I’ve never considered being a fighter. I’m…” Paiolo blushed, “I’m just a cook’s assistant.”

 

“And a champion chess player,” Kyrie said, stoutly.

 

*****

 

The next day was filled with training for the boys. Paiolo sat on the wall of the balcony overlooking the exercise yard. He was not tired in spite of having slept little the night before. He’d shared boy magic with four of the boys. Or was it five, he wondered. Meeno; Dodger; Will—he’s a cute boy—and energetic, too; and Kyrie, again. That’s four. Afterwards, he had lain awake, his mind tumbling with thoughts.

 

All the boys are nice. But is that just because they don’t see many humans? And what will they think when they really understand that I’m a Valarian, and don’t carry a weapon? After all, that’s why they are here…to learn to be soldiers. It didn’t seem to bother Kyrie, I don’t think. Will I ever see them, again, anyway? I must find work. It’ll be on a caravan, likely. That means I may never see Kyrie, again. Traveling…that’s all I really know. And the centurion, he—

 

Paiolo’s thoughts were interrupted by Antonio, himself, as he climbed the stairs to the balcony. “What do you think about my students, Paiolo?” Antonio asked companionably when he reached Paiolo’s position.

 

“They’re very graceful,” Paiolo said. “Much more than the soldiers in the caravan. They move together in a…a harmony that I’ve never seen, before. And,” he paused, “and they seem to be more intent on what they’re doing, but also more aware of their surroundings, more alert…more…alive…than soldiers I’ve seen, before.”

 

Antonio asked, “Why, do you think, they are different?”

 

Paiolo thought for a moment. “They’re learning to work together, but not to fight the same way as each other, and not to fight the same way all the time. I…I think.”

 

The centurion’s face could not conceal his amazement. “You’re very observant. I have had former comrades-in-arms who didn’t see what you saw, or didn’t see it as quickly. I am training these boys to fight as a unit. Not just as a maniple or a decuria, but as a team. I am training them not only in the standard drills, but also to innovate. I am training them to find a foe’s weakness and to adjust to it. I am training them to see everything around them, and to understand how it fits into or affects a fight, whether with an individual soldier, or on a huge battlefield.” The centurion’s voice grew very passionate as he described the boys’ training.

 

After a pause, Antonio continued on a more sober note. “Paiolo, the boys are allowed to have guests, but only during their free days. They were so insistent, however, that I agreed that you might visit last night. The things the boys learn here may mean that they will live, rather than die, when they leave the school and become soldiers. Nothing, no one, may interfere with their training. You may not stay as a guest past sext today. You said you were a cook’s assistant. My wife will soon bear a child, and will need considerable help in the kitchen.

 

“If you would like to remain in Barbicana, if you would like work, and if you would like to make the school your home, for a while at least…well, there would be a place for you here. Think on it, won’t you?”

 

Paiolo, although taken aback by the centurion’s offer, stammered his thanks, adding. “I will…I will tell you by sext.”

 

The centurion walked down the steps, and back to his teaching.

 

Paiolo leaned against the balcony, thinking. Now, how did I know those things about the boys’ training? he wondered. And why does the centurion seem so anxious for me to stay?

 

*****

 

“Master Margulis has vouchsafed you, and my students seem to have adopted you. Kyrie, especially, thinks you have hidden talents,” Centurion Antonio said. “I hope it is more than infatuation. If you agree to the terms we have established, we will be oath-bound tomorrow at the temple. Go, now. Enjoy the rest of the day.”

 

It had been agreed that Paiolo would receive bed and board, and a shilling per day in return for helping Antonio’s wife and daughter in the kitchen of the school. He could likely earn more on a caravan, but here his bed would be indoors, and the bath would be hot. He would have the same days off as the other boys. “We put on City Guard tabards—the tweens, anyway—and swords on market days and stand around looking stern…to help keep order,” Kyrie had explained. “So we get a day off after market, and sometimes another between markets when Antonio thinks we need a rest from training.”

 

Both Paiolo and the centurion were pleased with the bargain.

 

*****

 

“When I don’t have enough money to pay Centurion, he lets me work for it. One way is to take the kitchen slops away,” Kyrie explained as he loaded one of the huge jars onto a handcart.

 

“I wondered why they were saved,” Paiolo said. “Please, may I help…”

 

“Thank you, but no. This is my work. It is how I make my way in the world,” Kyrie grunted.

 

“Please…the bar on the cart is wide enough for two. I would like to go with you.”

 

Kyrie turned to Paiolo. “You are a good friend, Paiolo. All the boys like you, and not just because you are so good at sharing.” He lifted the last jar onto the cart. “Thank you. I would like you to go with me.”

 

The boys walked in silence for several minutes before Paiolo spoke. “Kyrie,” he began, “even though you’ve known me for less than a month, I want to believe that we are something more than just boys who live at the same school, are nearly evenly matched at chess, and who enjoy, well, incredible sex.

 

“All the boys at the school are friendly, even though I’m just the kitchen helper. That’s part of why I don’t understand why there’s a…well, a distance between you and them—and between you and me. It’s as if there were an invisible wall around you. It’s not that no one can get close to you. Rather, it’s that everyone has to try harder to touch you than to touch anyone else. When I asked to go with you, today, you were reluctant, at first. You did not accept help or companionship easily, but when we first met, you wagered a kiss. Surely, you knew where that would lead.

 

“If there’s anything you would like to tell me, I will listen, and I will hold what you say to myself, alone.”

 

Kyrie glanced at the boy who was plodding beside him. The street through the city was smooth and level, but the cart was heavy, and both boys were sweating.

 

“Perhaps it is because you are not an elf,” he began, “that you so not see it. But I am half human. I’ve not told anyone, but I’m sure the others know that there’s something different about me. It’s not the human part—that wouldn’t matter. But it means that I’m so much younger than everyone else. Even Will, who is still a boy, is more than a century older than I am. That creates a gulf. Also, I don’t have any family. All the other boys have families. Their families pay their tuition; I have to pay my own or work for it.”

 

Paiolo digested this information, and then said, “If anyone else had told me that, I would think he was feeling sorry for himself. But you have made your difference into strength. You have built a tower of stone that reaches higher even than the mountains that surround Barbicana, and you stand on the tower. Other people must climb the tower to touch you. When we first met, you saw that I, too, was different. Perhaps that is why you stepped down from your tower.”

 

Kyrie abruptly stopped walking, bringing the cart to a halt. Paiolo looked at Kyrie and saw the stricken expression on the boy’s face. “How did you know? How could you know?” Kyrie whispered. “Whenever I feel alone, I do build a tower in my mind. I stand on the top and look south, over the mountains. But how did you know? How could you know?”

 

“I…I don’t know, Kyrie, truly I don’t,” Paiolo said. “It’s just the picture I saw as you spoke. It seems right, though, doesn’t it?”

 

Kyrie leaned against the crossbar. The cart began to move, again. “I’ll tell you more, when we get back to the school.”

 

Just outside the northern gate of the city, Kyrie hailed a boy with an ox-drawn wagon. “Meeka! I’m glad you’re here already. I’ve more than usual, today.” When Paiolo and Kyrie had pulled their cart beside the wagon and stepped out of the traces, Kyrie introduced Paiolo to Meeka. “Meeka’s father farms the flood plain just over the bridge,” he said, pointing to the massive stone arch that carried the royal road over the river that flowed past Barbicana.

 

“We feed the goats on kitchen slops,” Meeka explained. “Father repays with cheese. You’re the first, today, but my wagon will be full before day’s end.”

 

The three boys quickly hoisted the slop jars over the sides of Meeka’s wagon, and emptied them. Paiolo saw that Kyrie was using boy magic to ensure that the jars were completely empty, and followed suit. Now he understood why the inside of the jars was glazed: to prevent the slops from penetrating the clay, and to facilitate emptying. When all the jars were empty, Meeka offered water from a jug. The boys cleaned their hands, and then drank.

 

“Thank you, Meeka,” Paiolo said. “But why doesn’t your wagon smell bad? I always had to dump slops downwind from the caravan.”

 

“It’s a spell,” Meeka said. “You don’t think that we could raise goats without knowing a stink spell, do you?” He giggled.

 

*****

 

The cart had been returned to the school, which was nearly empty on the boys’ day off. The slop jars had been rinsed, perhaps unnecessarily, and racked in the corner of the kitchen. The Paiolo and Kyrie had cleaned themselves in the cold water of the bath.

 

“We have the afternoon, still,” Paiolo said, “if you still want to tell me…”

 

Kyrie nodded, “I think you must know.”

 

By midafternoon, the boys sat at a table outside a public house. “None of the others will come here,” Kyrie said. “They’ll all be at the baths by now.” As the boys drank tea, Kyrie told his story.

 

“My mother was human. My father was elven. He had been a soldier, a general. When he brought my mother to Barbicana, they bought a small inn. That’s where I was born. I was still a child, perhaps 10 years old, when my mother died. My father continued to operate the inn. Many of his old companions were frequent customers. They visited often. They taught me to read and to play chess. They told me stories of the Great War, and of heroes. Their example and their stories made me want to become a paladin.

 

“When my father died, I was just a half-century old, and still a boy. The inn was claimed by a man who had proof that my father owed him money. I didn’t believe it, then, and I don’t believe it now, but there was nothing I could do. I did get to keep my father’s personal things…his sword, a long bow, a poniard, and a shield. There were also some letters of my mother’s that he had saved.

 

“Two of father’s old companions found a place for me at this school. I sold the shield—it was mithral. The money from the shield ran out years ago, but Centurion has been good about letting me work. When I can’t make enough playing chess.” Kyrie grinned at that thought.

 

“I learned from the letters that Mother had been the daughter of a human baron, the Baron of the Northern Marches, in the city of Paxunt.”

 

Paiolo nodded. He’d traveled through Paxunt many times between Arcadia and Elvenhold.

 

Kyrie continued. “Mother’s family forbade her to marry my father or to go with him to Elvenhold. She did both. She and my father were estranged from her family. I did not even know who my mother’s family was until I read the letters. Some were letters she’d written to her family, and which had been returned, unopened. Some were letters a brother had written to her in secret. Between them, I pieced together the story. I wrote a letter to my mother’s family telling of my father’s death. Their reply was delivered by a knight. He had ridden all the way from Paxunt just to deliver the message that I was never to contact them again, and that I should abandon any thoughts of a claim on the family. As if I would do that.”

 

Paiolo broke the silence that followed. “What do you look for from your tower? Is it your mother’s family?”

 

A look of anger flashed across Kyrie’s face, but was quickly gone. “I’m sorry, Paiolo. You must have seen my anger. It was wrong to think that way of you. I don’t know…I don’t know what I look for.”

 

*****

 

The next time Kyrie took slops to Meeka, Paiolo was unable to go with him. The centurion’s wife had given birth, and Paiolo was operating the kitchen by himself. When Kyrie came back, Paiolo helped him unload and clean the pots.

 

“Meeka asked about you, today,” Kyrie said. “I told him that you couldn’t come. He asked if he could visit you, some day. I said I would ask you.”

 

Paiolo thought for a moment. “I would like for him to visit, but I’m not sure that I have that liberty.”

 

“In that case, I’ll invite him. And his brother, Lucas, too,” Kyrie grinned. “He used to drive the slops cart, and we’ve been friends for a long time.”

 

Months passed, and winter approached. Paiolo and Kyrie became close companions. Paiolo nearly always accompanied Kyrie when he hauled away the kitchen slops. Kyrie seemed to know when Paiolo finished his kitchen chores in the evening, and would show up there just in time to share the bath with Paiolo. The boys’ friendship coupled with Paiolo’s red hair and Kyrie’s silver hair quickly earned the boys the nickname, Fire and Ice. That Paiolo’s talent for sharing boy magic, and Kyrie’s self-imposed isolation from the other boys also underlay the appellation was not lost to the centurion. However, it did not interfere with training or the morale of the students. In fact, Kyrie’s aloofness was as likely to attract the other boys’ attention and overtures as was Paiolo’s enthusiasm and energy. The two boys were different, yet they were an integral part of the family that constituted Centurion Antonio’s school.

 

*****

 

When there was no reason for Paiolo to walk the gallery that overlooked the exercise yard, he created one. He liked to watch the boys at their training, but the centurion did not want the boys to be distracted, and discouraged observers. Paiolo always kept to the shadows, and quickly moved on if he thought anyone was looking at him. Today, the sun was bright and the shadows were particularly dark, and Paiolo lingered.

 

In the yard below, one of the boys, Laeka, was practicing falling. The first time Paiolo had seen this particular exercise, he had thought it foolish. That night, however, Dodger explained. “Whether in hand-to-hand or with weapons, you’re going to fall every once in a while. Sometimes, you want to fall, if there’s no other way to avoid a blow. Or maybe you want to disconcert your opponent. If you know how to fall the right way, you can roll and maybe get behind your opponent, or on his blind side, and gain an advantage.”

 

Laeka was practicing a forward fall and roll, one that brought him to his feet in time to spin and counterattack. Paiolo watched the graceful boy drop, roll, spin, draw, over and over. Drop…He didn’t roll! Paiolo thought. The boy lay crumpled on the ground, not moving. That something was terribly wrong became evident as the centurion rushed over, and brushed the other boys aside. Paiolo ran down the stairs and toward the fallen boy.

 

“What’s the matter? What happened?” he asked.

 

The centurion stood. “It’s too late,” he said to no one in particular. “His neck’s broken. Even if a healer came right away, he’d be dead…”

 

Paiolo knelt beside the fallen boy. “I have set bones and bound wounds…” He reached out to Laeka. The boy’s eyes were open, and Paiolo could see life—and fear—behind them. Laeka’s chest did not move. Paiolo put one hand behind Laeka’s neck, and one on the front. There’s no pulse, either. His heart has stopped! But he’s still alive. Calling on the memories of the training his mother had given him, Paiolo willed the bones to straighten. In his mind, he fashioned a picture of the pattern of the neck bones and the column of nerves that ran through them. Unseen in the bright sunlight, a glow crept from Paiolo’s hands to Laeka’s neck. The boy gulped a great breath of air. Paiolo held his hands firmly, not allowing Laeka’s head to move.

 

“Still, still” he said softly, “lie still. The healing isn’t complete.”

 

One of the boys had run, unbidden, to fetch a healer. Paiolo was still holding Laeka’s head when the man arrived. “Move, boy,” he said brusquely. “Let me…”

 

Paiolo did not move. “The bones are not yet fully healed,” he said firmly. “If I move, they may slip and cut the nerve.”

 

The healer paused, and then knelt beside Paiolo. “Are you sure, boy?” he asked, more gently.

 

“Yes, master,” Paiolo replied. “On the caravan I set bones and bandaged wounds. My mother—a Valarian—taught me.”

 

Unseen, the healer’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I’m going to put my hand on the boy’s forehead,” he said to Paiolo. “I will not move his head, but that will allow me better to see his condition.” Paiolo nodded.

 

*****

 

“The boy should not engage in vigorous exercise for at least a ten-day,” the healer told the centurion. “And certainly no tumbling! His neck was, indeed, broken, and had not the boy tended him so quickly, he would have died. The bone is healed, but is still weak. The ligaments will need to be strengthened. They were stretched, and no healing was done to them. That will require exercise, but not immediately. I will visit daily until his healing is complete.”

 

“Paiolo, would you come with me, please?” the centurion asked, as he turned toward the gallery. Laeka had been put to bed with strict instructions to lie still. “And that means no sex, too,” the centurion had ordered sternly, his eyes sweeping over the crowd of boys that had filled the room.”

 

The centurion took Paiolo to a corner of the gallery, where they could speak unheard by the others. “Paiolo, you saved Laeka’s life. You know that. The healer told you that. But what if his spirit had already gone and you healed his body? What would that have done? What sort of evil would that have created? You didn’t think before you acted, and just because things turned out right, it doesn’t mean you were right. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, centurion,” Paiolo said. “But his spirit hadn’t gone! I could see it!”

 

“I am a soldier, boy,” the centurion said, not unkindly, “and I’ve never associated with Valarians. Is that how you knew that his spirit was there?”

 

“No, master. I don’t think it’s a Valarian thing,” Paiolo said. “When I share with Laeka I know who he is. I’ve begun to understand that I see deeper than most boys see. When I looked at Laeka today, I saw that he was there…that all of him was there. That’s the first thought that went through my mind.

 

“I’m not evil, master. I serve the Light,” Paiolo said boldly, but not defiantly.

 

The centurion sat quietly. “I believe you, Paiolo. I never doubted your steadfastness. I cannot find it within me to doubt your confidence in your knowledge. I would like you to talk of this with someone who can understand it better. Would you come to the temple with me, tomorrow?”

 

Paiolo nodded. “Thank you, Centurion. I would like that, very much.”

 

The centurion and his friend at the temple had been attached to the same army unit. They’d been friends and companions in boyhood, and still maintained that friendship. Paiolo recognized the cleric as the healer who had accompanied the midwife at the birth of the centurion’s son.

 

When the centurion left, the cleric, Polonius, invited Paiolo into a small room to which an acolyte brought tea. Polonius talked easily with Paiolo, asking after the health of the centurion’s wife and the baby. When he felt the boy was at ease, Polonius said, “My old friend says you have a talent, and that you were trained by your mother.”

 

Paiolo sensed the man’s curiosity, but also felt a sense of calm. He easily and eagerly opened up to this man, telling how he had healed Laeka, and also—without providing the details—how he knew about Kyrie’s tower.

 

“Your mother was wise to teach you how to use your talent to heal,” Polonius said. “Did she know that you could see a person’s spirit?”

 

“No, master,” Paiolo said, “that is something that happened only…well, I think just when I met the friend I told you of…just after I arrived in Barbicana. Mother’s been dead for more than three years, now.”

 

Polonius surprised Paiolo by answering with a very Valarian blessing, and then said, “Boys often exaggerate their own prowess at sharing boy magic. How would you assess yourself, in reality rather than in imagination?” His tone of voice took away any censure that Paiolo might have otherwise found in the form of the question.

 

“The other boys…they call me Fire…and not just because of my hair, I think. Many have told me that I share boy magic the best they’ve known. I don’t know why, really. It may be because they don’t see many humans…I don’t think we…humans I mean…do it any differently.”

 

Kyrie paused, and his eyes widened. “What did I say wrong? I did not lie to you!” The sense of panic he’d suddenly felt was instantly replaced with a sense of calm.

 

The boy took a deep breath. “What just happened?” he asked.

 

“What did you feel?” Polonius asked.

 

“As if the walls were closing in, as if I had angered you…something which disappointed me…and, in truth, frightened me,” the boy said slowly and thoughtfully. It was a test, he thought.

 

“You know that I was testing you?” Polonius asked.

 

“Yes!” Paiolo exclaimed, “but how did you know?”

 

“Paiolo, I believe you are an empath,” Polonius said. “More tea?”

 

It was several hours later when Paiolo remembered his duties. “I must return to the School,” he said. “Supper…I’ve got to prepare supper.”

 

Polonius walked the boy to the door of the temple. “I hope you will reconsider, when the time is right. You know enough and you are wise enough, that you will not be a danger to yourself or others. However, your talent cannot be fully used without training…a lot of training.”

 

During the walk back to the school, Paiolo’s mind buzzed with all he’d learned. Fortunately, his kitchen tasks were second nature, for he paid no attention at all to what he was doing. I’m an empath, Polonius said. That’s why I win at chess so often. Sure, I know the game, but I also sense—without knowing it—what the other player is planning. That’s cheating! And boy magic. I know—I feel—what the other boy is feeling. I know what he wants to feel and how to make him feel it. All without knowing it, at all. Kyrie’s tower? I didn’t deduce it; I saw it! Oh! I must tell him!

 

*****

 

Kyrie was so quiet that Paiolo thought he had lost his friendship. Then, he felt the older boy’s arms around him, hugging him tightly. “Oh, Paiolo, I’m so happy. There is no one in the world that I want to know me better than you.”

 

Translators’ Notes

Various clues in the original manuscript of this story suggest that it begins some 3—5 years after the coronation of Prince Auric of Arcadia.

Pending the publication of the translators’ glossary to The Book of Heroes, the following definitions are offered. (Note that references to “Earth” mean “our Earth-analogue.”)

Arcadia: Country south of Elvenhold.

boy magic: n Energy that is captured by a boy as he moves through the magical field that permeates World. While the capture mechanism is unclear, it is believed that this energy is stored in the Schwann cells and the oligodendrocytes that insulate the neurons of the peripheral nervous system and the central nervous system, respectively. Various passages in The Book of Heroes make it clear that the capture operates in much the same way that electrical energy is captured in a copper wire passing through a magnetic field on Earth. The Schwann cells and the oligodendrocytes strongly resemble a liquid capacitor that might have been used in the early 20th century on Earth.
A boy or tween cannot access or use his own boy magic, but may give and receive it through sexual intercourse with another boy or tween. One of the physiological changes that occur upon adulthood provides a path for releasing this magic, and an adult can use his own magic.

didicoy: n A word from our Earth-analogue, from Great Britain, used occasionally on World, it refers to a person who lives like a gypsy but who is not of Rom heritage. In Britain (Earth) and on World, didicoy are considered to be less reputable than caravaneers, who are legitimate traders; and Rom, who are honorable thieves.

donjon: The chess piece corresponding to the castle or rook.

page: The chess piece corresponding to the pawn.

paladin: The chess piece corresponding to the knight. A paladin is also a powerful warrior dedicated to the service of the Light (Good).

senior: The chess piece corresponding to the bishop. Senior is a title held by the lead cleric at a temple (q.v.).

temple: Neither the Light (Good) nor Darkness (Evil) are worshiped in the sense that gods are worshiped on various Earth-analogues. However, there are places (temples) where magic is studied, and where rituals (spells) are practiced by people (clerics) dedicated to Light and enlightenment, to Good and goodness, and in opposition to those people (Evil) who would suppress or extinguish enlightenment and goodness.
There are places, often isolated from cities and towns, where people gather to study and practice, and live with one another in a self-sustaining community. These places may evoke an image of a monastery or a nunnery.
Workbenches used by these people are often stone cubes, and evoke the image of an altar. The tools used in ritual include cups (chalices), incense burners (censers), and plates made of noble metals (patens). The workbench of a senior cleric would be the focal point of his workshop (chapel).
The people, themselves, are magic users, whose activities and lifestyle evoke images of monks and priests. For that reason, English words and phrases associated with religion are often the best translation.

tween: A male older than a boy and younger than an adult. A tween is normally accorded all rights, privileges, and obligations of an adult. Physical changes that accompany the transition from boy to tween include a deepening of the voice, narrowing of the waist, development of more defined musculature and loss of “baby fat,” etc. In some guilds, the transition is associated with advancement from Apprentice to Journeyman.
In order to legitimately call himself a tween, a boy must be examined and certified by some official (cleric, Guildmaster, Town or Village Master, etc.). He must also be proficient enough at a trade or craft to be able to support himself.

Valarian: A person who holds beliefs that include non-violence.

Copyright © 2011 David McLeod; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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hmmm being an empath would explain how he new the difference in the training for the boys. But it will be interesting to see how this connects to the rest of the story.

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I am not sure, but I think I have read this story on another site.  If it is the same, it is a wonderful story that I will continue.  I am excited, because this time I will be able to comment and review.  That's the wonder of GA and why l read so much on this site!

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