

# BECOMING HEALER

ISBN: 9789606616389

Smashwords Edition

Text copyright © 2013 by Tantz Aerine

Illustrations by Martin Rebas, Tantz Aerine and Michael T.

ART OF VEILING characters, names and related indicia are property of MindPower Publishing.

2006, 2008, 2013 ©, MindPower Publications

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reroduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. No part of this publication may be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

For further information contact:

MindPower Publishing

55 Il. Apostolou st, 14121 Athens, Greece

Phone: +30 2102829285

http://www.mindpower.gr

info@mindpower.gr

tantz.aerine@gmail.com

##

# MAP OF TRIPATRIA

# THE AGE OF RITES

Alias, circa year 1696 of the Archmage's Grace

"Today is a big day for you lads," Jahan Daryan announced with smug pride as he picked up the goblet full of sweet morning wine.

Aaron shut his eyes, weathering the feeling of dread washing over him as his younger brother grinned with nervous delight.   
"That's wonderful, father!" Aren said, elbowing Aaron to nod, comment, or do something to show he shared the sentiment. "Why?"   
"Because Aaron here is becoming twelve years old – the age of Rites," Jahan nodded with a cold smile to his eldest son. "And we cannot oversee that, now can we?"   
"Why not?" Aaron could not help asking, his voice tight and tense. "You oversee everything else about me."   
"Aaron," the boys' mother spoke the name in a warning tone as she quietly worked lard upon her bread with small, elegant movements.   
"Cessile already held the ceremony for me, in her Domain, back in Spring, when it is actually my  _birthday_. There is really nothing for you to do now," Aaron ignored his mother, exactly like his father was doing, with Aren glancing quickly between the two.

In truth, they were nothing alike, Jahan and his eldest son, although they shared their raven black hair, austere straight nose and steely, diamond glance. Jahan Daryan was a Paladin-  _the_  Paladin, the very definition of warrior heading formidable, seasoned soldiers into any sort of battle to protect Alias and the Tripatria against any and every foe. He was tall, broad shouldered, exercised. The picture of prowess and battle virtue, he was proud to the point of arrogant and  _strength_ just poured out of him in concentric waves. Though Jahan had not had the chance to face battle at all in his career- the Tripatrian Nations had been at peace with the Outer Rim for at least two centuries, barring the odd skirmish here and there- he looked as battle worthy as the Leaders of old, the Tripatrian Forefathers, who had faced hoards of enemies from every side.

Aaron, on the other hand, had elegance. Aren had noticed it since he could put words to his thoughts, that Aaron had everything their father did, but in a way that was completely different- maybe even stronger. But Aren would never voice that thought to anyone, not to Aaron and certainly not to their father, because Jahan would beat the thought out of his mind, exactly like he did whenever he heard something he did not like from the lips of anyone within his household, be they servants or family members. Aren sighed, watching father and brother locked in a battle of stares, with the silence that fell upon the morning table broken only by the monotone of the cicadas bursting on the heat of mid-Summer.

Aaron had elegance, because Aaron was a Sorcerer- or was going to be very soon. He, too, was showing that he was going to be tall like their father, but where Jahan was broad shouldered and well built, Aaron was thin. Lithe and whiplash strong, but not the war figure his father demanded his progeny to have, since they were born male. And Aaron, while good at the sword and obedient in all the lessons that Jahan ordered for him up until his magic had been triggered, was not one who thrived on violence or the art of war. Aren knew that this was the true trouble, and where the rift between him and Aaron had begun. Aaron would not enthuse over hunting, would not thrive on any of the arts of war, would not consider the exercises or the acquired skills as anything more than tools, means and not an end.

But he would enthuse over flowers.

Jahan had even frightened their mother, who always obeyed her husband in every demand and wish, the day he had discovered their eldest son potting little lentil seeds in neat rows on his room's window sill, because he literally tried to kick the urge to 'farm' and 'cowardice' out of his son. Aren himself did not remember it, but Deacon had narrated the whole thing to a Healer much later, when Aren was old enough to listen in and understand. It put the fear of death in Aren too, to hear that story told to the Healer come to heal strain tears in his older brother's legs quite a few years later, and a weakness of his lower ribs, and he vowed never to be on the receiving end of his father's great temper, even if that meant to have to hunt deer instead of pet them. It bewildered Aren that Aaron had not at all tried to humour his father, not at all tried to be what his father wanted, except impeccable in his studies, and very, very scarce when Jahan was around.

When Aaron's magic was triggered and the Tower précised Cessile Shriftyn, the Necromancer of Northern Woods, as his Mentor, it was as if the whole household breathed in relief, because the Sorceress took Aaron with her, and did not let him return except for when his parents explicitly asked for the presence of their eldest son.

That was not often.

The goblet dropped on the table with a firm rap, making Aren jump in his seat.  
"That woman is teaching you insolence towards your father, towards your betters, boy. She had better watch her steps, lest Jahan Daryan decides to do something about it," his father was saying, and Aren bit his lip, snapping back to attention. His mother bit into her bread slice.

Aaron's teeth clenched so tightly that to Aren it seemed they'd break, or his jaw dislocate. He sat back in choppy, tense movements and broke the lock of glances first. Jahan smirked in superiority.   
"Mistress Cessile is my Mentor," still, even with his eyes cast downward, Aaron found it in him to say. "You know what that means, father."   
"Fancy Sorcery Tower talk- all it takes is for me to claim she's driving one of my sons insane, and I will have you pulled from her eager little fingers, the horrible spinster that she is," he leered, and Aaron's face turned red in anger.   
"She's not a spinster! Or –or driving me insane! And-and I know that you're just- just saying all this to frighten me, because if you really could do it, you'd have already done it!"

The challenge spilled from Aaron's mouth in a tumble, but its words- some near-quotes no doubt, some spontaneous from his swelling emotions drove the point effectively, making their mother stop chewing, and Jahan's smile freeze upon his face. Aren thought his heart would pound out of his ribcage. Would this mean that what... what had happened before, would happen again? Would there be a blur of- of anger, and Aaron would be hurt, and the Archmage's Council would intervene, just like the accident that got Aren's own magic Blocked, like his father's had been? Aren direly wished not, because if it happened when everyone was Blocked, then the disaster would be greater, far greater- what exactly Aren didn't know, and never wanted to find out. But he  _felt_  just how vast a disaster would befall the Daryan family then.   
"Well," Jahan broke the silence again and snapped his fingers for the servants to clear away the table, "thank you for reminding us, Aaron, why the house is so much brighter when you are not in it."   
Aaron's shoulders slumped, but he said nothing, sitting back as the servant cleared away his plate, even though he had not eaten the food in it.  Jahan looked at his wife for the fist time since the morning.   
"Sanaz, leave us, and see to it that the practice room is not disturbed until I call for anyone."   
"Yes, husband," she nodded gracefully, and got up to leave with slow, languish movements.

Aren felt the thrill of battle- though he was only ten years old yet, and still considered a child, his advancement in the art of fighting was so impressive that his father had taken him to the barracks, to show off to his recruits and deliver a speech about prowess that Aren could not remember and never tried to. The call for the practice room meant that there would be chances for spars, or fights, or lessons where Aren felt he excelled, and where he appeased his father. Maybe a good work out would make Jahan forget about Aaron, his insolence, and his female mentor.

He shot up from his seat as Jahan was also getting up. Aaron remained seated, staring somewhere ahead in a middle distance. Aren tried to catch his glance, but his older brother was not responding, and his father was quickly leaving the room- it wouldn't do for Aren to linger. But then, Jahan stopped, just before crossing the door, and turned towards the table, where Aaron was still sitting, somber faced and thoughtful.   
"Follow, boy, just like your brother is doing. I said this was a big day for you- the day where you prove just how much of a man that...  _woman_  can possibly make you."

Aaron frowned, but he did get up in that silent, fluent way he had- another element that enervated his father, that he would make no noise, be lightfooted and careful and never cause havoc or brawls as Jahan believed 'real boys should do'. Aren himself believed that it was an amazing capacity, one that would aid any fighter in a fight. When he was old enough, he would ask Aaron to teach him- if Aaron would concede to it. Aren was pretty certain he would, as his older brother liked nothing better than play teacher and act all-knowing.

Jahan clicked his tongue in irritation and walked out quickly in a huff, leaving the two boys in the morning room alone.   
"Why d'you do that all the time?" Aren whined at his older brother. Aaron's eyes- that strong deep green that was nothing like the brown of their parents'- glared at him though the rest of his face was impassive.   
"Do what?" he snapped.   
"Make him growl at you all the time. Why do you make him be so cross every time?"   
Aaron rolled his eyes and shook his head.   
"Well, he already has you wagging your tail for him all the time. I guess I must find some other trick."   
Aren frowned. He wasn't certain what his brother was saying, but he knew it was not flattering for him. He sighed and tried to say something goading to at least try and infer what his brother had meant, but Aaron straightened up and yanked Aren from the front of his tunic.   
"Come on, little Aren- you don't want father to wait for his prize son, do you?"

Aren side glanced at his older brother again, just  _sensing_  that there was more meaning and weight in his words than what he understood, but yet again feeling sorely lacking the skills to decipher it- and part of him did not want to, because that would make him angry at his brother, and Aaron didn't need anyone else angry at him when Jahan was already mad. Aren would never do that to his brother, would never team up on him with anyone, even if that meant he wouldn't do what Jahan ordered. He had vowed that after... after the accident.

He sighed heavily as he followed the straight-as-a-rod gait of his brother. He walked in the manner Sorcerers did, nowdays: a calm, controlled and rather medium-speed pace that spoke of tranquility and power. It was enough to drive anyone but other Sorcerers mad, and Aaron seemed to know no other way to walk anymore.   
"Aaron..."  
"Mmm."   
"You talk like she does, now," Aren whispered. Aaron turned, and his expression was that of pleasant surprise.   
"Thanks," he said, and his voice was also softer, more like... Aren wasn't sure, but he liked it better on his brother. He smiled back a little thinly.   
"It makes father mad. Can't you... not talk that way, when he's around?"  
"No," was the curt reply, and Aaron's scowl was back- and Aren knew that the conversation was over, too.

The practice room was a vast, empty room with wooden floor, wide windows and just one seat at a corner. It was well lit and cheerful, but with Jahan towering in the middle, sword in hand in a menacing manner as the two boys entered, it was too hard for anyone to enjoy the openness.  
"Your tardiness is affecting my son," his voice serrated the atmosphere as his eyes bore into Aaron. "But as this is your big day, I will not act on it."  
Aaron simply stared, Aren hesitated- until Jahan's eyes ordered him with one curt glance to go stand in the corner to the left, and wait.

Jahan lifted his sword- it was a magnificent scimitar, with a soft deadly arc that made the light glint off the edge. In Jahan's hands it always looked thirsty for blood, but Aren had learned not to fear it, after far too many years of cowering before it and angering his father. Aaron stayed where he was, just inside the practice room, straight and somber-faced. His eyes, however, seemed fixed on that blade just like Aren's often were. Jahan smiled.   
"That woman promised to keep teaching you the sword, boy. Does she even keep that promise?"   
"Yes," Aaron frowned, straightening up some more in indignation. "She does. She's a very hard opponent- everyone in the Vanguarde says so. Some say that not even the Archmage can beat her."  
"Nonsense, a woman's prattle no doubt, filling up your mind with idiocies," Jahan laughed, but the sound was ugly, and Aren looked at Aaron fearfully. He was a Sorcerer's Apprentice now, he could channel magic. Would he attack his father?  _No, he won't. Aaron would never do that. Aaron doesn't want to be blocked, he'll take death rather than a Block_ , Aren's thoughts were rushing to reassure him, but his heart still pounded.

Aaron's face reddened again, but this time he held his silence. Jahan didn't allow for interruptions as he continued to talk:   
"The Rites, if that woman at all bothered to tell you in that sorry place she has you stashed, is not just to acknowledge that you are nearly adult. It's to announce to the world your position in society, your stature- and your possessions."  
He started pacing, waving the deadly scimitar around in lazy half circles that were progressively becoming more threatening as he smoothly went on:   
"I am to bequeath upon you your share of our great family's fortune, Aaron, and to do that, I have to be able to tell who is the worthy son, and who is the one I simply have been saddled with."   
Aaron's gaze dropped to the polished floor, but yet again he did not speak.   
"Now, as first born, you are entitled to this manor, and your brother is to have your mother's. That is the Law-  _unless_  you are not worthy. That is also the Law. And here, is what I must determine. After all, I cannot let myself be unfair to either of you, can I?"

It all went over Aren's head, but he could see that Aaron understood it well- or at least better than Aren.   
"The Rites are complete, father," Aaron said in a low tone voice. "I am going to be a Sorcerer- that's my Apprenticeship, and that ranks me in the highest caste in Alias. I don't care for the manor, you can give it to whomever you wish."   
"I do not recall asking for your permission!" thundered Jahan, slicing the air with the scimitar, the sword tip coming quite close to where Aaron was standing. "Insolent brat, is that what you are taught, how to usurp what isn't yours? I expect no less from a woman teacher, Sorceress or not. Come stand opposite me. Aren! Fetch me my second sword!"

Aren bolted thankfully, but not before he saw how Aaron's fists at his sides began to tremble. That his older brother was angry was no secret- he'd been angry since the moment he had set foot in the house the day before. But now he was also frightened. And when Aaron was frightened, Aren was, too.

Running to the weapons room, where Jahan kept his vast array of weapons, shields and armour parts, he tried to sort his thoughts. Was he going to kill Aaron, because of the Rites? Or was he going to just beat him, or ridicule him before he would be sent away to stay with his mentor once again?

A hand grabbed his arm just as he was about to get into the weapons room. He gasped and looked up.   
"Mother!"   
"Shhhh! What is your father doing in there, with Aaron?"  
"He.. he wants his second sword," stammered Aren, eyes a little wider. If his mother was whispering, it meant she didn't want to risk being heard by Jahan- and it that was the case, then truly, this day was big. Sanaz's face paled and she glanced nervously towards where the practice room was, but then she said nothing, and released Aren's arm.   
"Go quickly," she said and left. Aren was left wondering for a moment, but then he quickly picked up the second sword and ran back to the practice room.

The second sword was the scimitar's twin, and Jahan often said how they were made together by the same sword maker. One of the two- the one Jahan favoured- was supposed to be the strongest blade, but both were exquisite, coveted by any prime fighter, even a Dragon fighter who had the best sword in the Tripatria. Aren only just remembered not to skid into the practice room- something his father detested. He paused, took a breath, and walked in respectfully, holding the sword appropriately- he didn't need to think to do it, a sword hilt seemed a natural thing for his palm by now.   
"I have it, father," he said, trying to make his voice as steady as possible.

Aaron's eyes seemed a little too bright, and there was red in the rims- whatever Jahan had told him, it was harsh, Aren knew. Aaron glared at Aren almost menacingly. Aren avoided his glance, unsure why he felt guilty- but he did. He was thankful the glance was only for a moment, as Aaron approached Aren quickly and swiped the sword from his grasp. Then he about turned to walk back to his spot opposite Jahan, all without a word, all with that fluid silence that did not even let footfalls be heard. Jahan sneered.   
"Come, boy. If you are this angered now, you will be far too easy."  
Aaron again did not reply, and just kept blinking his eyes and pressing his lips into a hard line, as if stubbornly willing himself not to cry, not to react, and just be somber faced and silent. Jahan looked satisfied.

"Now, as I told you, Aren has grown skilled enough to best some of my trainees at the barracks, even if they are quite older than he is. He is an appropriate match for you. Aren, take my sword, and fight your brother."   
Something in the way Jahan said it made Aren's heart feel ill and his gut chill painfully. He had often wanted a spar with his older brother as he, too, became skilled with the sword, but not like this. Not with Aaron glowering and their father watching. This...  _this is wrong_. Aren swallowed and meekly reached out for the sword.   
"Man up, boy! Don't make me snap at you," Jahan's voice cracked and Aren straightened too, and took the sword properly. He nodded to his father as the army protocol demanded- something that Aaron never did.

"Now, I should not have to spell out rules, but I never know if  _someone_  will cross lines they will regret," Jahan said arbitrarily, "so here they are: you boys will fight to the death."   
This time, both Aaron and Aren gaped at their father, and for a moment Jahan kept a straight, menacing face. But then he sneered and shook his head. "The first one to land a nick on the other where the blow would be fatal, wins. No first blood rule- that is for the wimps, and I care not for them."

Aren turned to glance at his brother. He had straightened up again, sword held loosely at his side, and his expression was closed. His green eyes were flashing angrily, but he also looked uncertain, ambivalent... frightened. Was he frightened of Jahan or of Aren? After all, it was Aren that had caused... that accident. Aren's heart sank. He really didn't want a fight with his brother. He wanted a spar, like those he shared with friends that were invited at times for practice sessions, which were fun and light. This felt like a real fight to the death, and it had not yet even begun.

"Boy, take a ready stance," snapped Jahan's voice again, and Aaron flinched, but did not move.   
"I have, father," he said, his voice empty of all emotion.   
"Pitiful," commented Jahan, but then barked one single word: "Begin!"

Aren's body moved of its own accord, so well practiced he had become, bringing the sword upwards from below to his brother's neck.

Aaron simply side-stepped and blocked, the swords making a strident note of strain as they clashed. Aren blinked in amazement- he was fast, but his brother seemed to possess another level of speed entirely. He attacked again, this time with a feint, as his father had taught him. Yet again Aaron side-stepped and blocked, his movements economical and efficient, smooth and to the point. Their eyes met over their swords, and though Aaron's were serious, he did wink once at his younger brother, as if to reassure him- and Aren realized that he was feeling already outclassed.

He wasn't wrong.

The next attack he tried, a swift arc to the ribcage, Aaron kicked his sword hand aside with a deft side kick, opening him up for that one split second needed to whip his sword in momentum in an upward swoop, and place a light nick at the side of Aren's neck, exactly where his blood was pumping.

The match was done barely into its first paces, and Aren was thrilled- he wanted a rematch, he wanted to ask Aaron a ton of questions, and he wanted to learn how his brother could move so little and yet win so much-   
"Stop! Idiot boy! Did I teach you nothing?" thundered Jahan's voice over him, and the sword was yanked from his hand as painfully as possible. Aren winced, not from the pain, but for the knowledge that there would be horror waiting for him the next time his father took him for a class- or even worse, he'd pick another sword master to teach him from now on.

Aaron looked satisfied, smug and superior as he turned to his father again, not giving Aren another glance. He looked as if he had known all along how easily he would be able to take the match.   
"Aren's too young, father. I've been learning my style two years more than him." Aaron's voice was almost challenging, an odd bounce in it that seemed to make Jahan madder than the fact that Aren had lost the match. He grit his teeth.   
"That's right. You weren't evenly matched. I was being unfair in my test for your Rites, but I won't be again. We will repeat this immediately- and since you are a _Sorcerer's_  apprentice, I really should expect and treat you as a full fledged fighter."   
Aaron's face paled only then, as realization seemed to overcome him. He backstepped once, and Aren didn't understand what was going on, simply happy to be apparently excused for his failure- until Jahan's voice announced:  
"Boy, you fight me for this manor."   
"You can have the manor!" Aaron said anxiously, taking another step back. "I don't want to fight over it!"   
Aren bit his lip, knowing that Aaron had good reason to fear Jahan- those stories the key servant, Deacon, was saying. Aren wasn't afraid to face Jahan in a spar, not  _really_  afraid, but then Aren had never been beaten by him, whereas Aaron had been, back when Aren was too young to remember, and before he got Mistress Cessile for a mentor. Aren had seen how servants were beaten at times- not often, but some times- and if it was anything like that, Aren would never blame Aaron for his terror of facing Jahan in any kind of setting where physical force was involved. He stepped backwards, his stomach roiling with nausea, but he felt helpless as to what to do. In this manor, Aaron's only real ally was Deacon, and Deacon had no power over Jahan.

Jahan sneered again.   
"Like I  _said_ , I am not looking for your permission, but for justice in the split," he nearly purred as he gestured for Aaron to approach. "You will fight me boy, and you will fight me  _now_. Or are you a coward?"   
The word always put fire in both brothers- it was the very word that had caused... the accident. Aaron's jaw set and he straightened once more, then took two very deliberate steps forward, keeping his blade to the side again.   
"Same rules?" he asked.   
"No. You fight me to yield," Jahan said. "Much safer way to determine what I want, without chance factoring in. I am sure your mentor would agree."  
For a moment, Aaron looked as if he weren't breathing. But then he just gripped the sword hilt again, and waited, exactly as he had done for Aren.

Aren's stomach was doing flip flops at the pace of his heart. Why was their father doing this? He didn't want to know, and yet in his heart he knew it was a violation of some sort, something dreadful that would never let Aren be rid of this horrible, horrible feeling of guilt.

It began without warning.

Jahan simply swiped forward with an angry yell, and Aaron gasped, jumping backwards. He nearly did not block his father in an overhead attack that looked like it would tear him in two neat pieces- the scimitar was so terrifyingly shiny- but in the nick of time he managed to bring up the blade, with a loud, sickening  _keeeen_ as the contact made them spark. Aaron grunted, and raced to block another attack, this time from the side, and then again overhead- Jahan was too big, too strong and too fast for Aaron yet, and he was using it to make his eldest son backstep all around the practice room.

Aren was too young and too inexperienced yet, but even he could see that this was not a real spar. This was a beating once again, and Jahan was making sure his son would get no opening, and be forced to block powerful swings that jarred his arms painfully, strained his pelvis and endangered his knees. And he kept coming and coming, certain that there was no way for Aaron to beat him- and there wasn't.  _Why isn't he evading like I know he can? Why does he block every swing?Aren's_ mind raced for an answer but he couldn't provide it- it seemed to be a dare, a challenge, a different fight than the one proclaimed, and Aaron kept blocking even though his eyes had smarted from the pain, even though he risked his father's blade cutting him as it was stopped closer and closer to his flesh each time.

In the end, however, Aaron let out a big cry and side-stepped his father's swing, the sword singing menacingly in the air. He was panting, as sweaty as Jahan, who grinned.   
"Yield yet, boy?"   
"No," Aaron grit his teeth. "Never to you!"   
"Then block! Evade me once more, and you forfeit!" Jahan attacked, once more with that frightful overhead swing, bearing, no doubt Aren thought, the entire weight of his muscular upper body. Aaron yelled angrily as he raised his blade to block it, but as the swords impacted the yell turned to one of pain. Jahan swept his son's feet, and Aaron toppled backwards, the sword clattering away from his grasp, useless.   
"Now, you yield," Jahan spat and raised his sword, back-stepping. "Your brother takes the manor, and you can keep whatever your mother will relinquish unto you."

Aaron was panting on the floor, and he could no longer keep his straight face, or the tears from flowing as he folded his arms in front of his chest, his long fingers cramped around imaginary candlesticks. Aren could see something was wrong with them, and he  _knew_  that his brother was in real pain- of all sorts, but pain from his arms as well.   
"You can have your stupid house," he was whispering under his sobs, but Jahan had swept from the room, leaving the two boys alone, once again. Aren approached tentatively, feeling horrible and frightened in the same time.   
"Aaron..." he ventured, but Aaron simply yelled:  
"Get- away from me! Get away from me, I hate you! I just hate you all!"   
Aren recoiled, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to leave like his brother was shouting at him and part of him wanted. His fists were clenching and unclenching, and quietly, he approached once more as Aaron was crying, curled up around his arms, eyes closed tightly as if to shut out the whole room and everyone in it.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, he knelt next to Aaron's head and then very carefully sat cross-legged. Aaron flinched, a sign that he knew where his brother was, but did not move. Aren swallowed again, and edged a little closer, and put out a tentative hand on his brother's head, stroking the sweat-damp hair. It didn't take long for Aaron's sobbing to diminish to heavy breathing. Aren smiled, glad it still worked, glad that his brother didn't really hate him and was still comforted by his touch. Then he remembered that their father had taken something important from Aaron with the fight, and his heart sank.   
"Aaron, I'm... I'm so sorry," he murmured as his brother breathed curled up around his yet unmoving arms against his chest, back still turned to Aren.   
"Help... help me up," was the hoarse response. "And don't be stupid like him."   
Aren almost grinned in relief and rushed to help him. As he touched Aaron he felt the shudders of pain within the muscles, and he took extra care to help his brother in a sitting position. The wrists had swollen, he saw now.   
"Your wrists!" Aren exclaimed, but Aaron recoiled.   
"I'm fine. Not a word of this to  _him_ , you understand? Or I'll... I'll..."  
"I won't say anything," Aren rushed to say. He didn't want to make his brother threaten him.

"I came as soon as I could, Master Aaron!"   
Aaron's eyes opened in hopeful relief at the voice of the key servant, Deacon, as he quickly entered the practice room. Deacon was a young man himself, but extremely well trained as key servant, running Jahan's household like his father had before him. He nodded to Aren respectfully as was demanded of him, then took Aaron in his half-support of an embrace.   
"Look," Aaron said quietly, tending his wrists to the man. Deacon hissed with concern.   
"I will look to it immediately, Master," he said reassuringly. "Just let me help you to your room."   
Aren pulled back, knowing not to intervene or interfere, knowing that Aaron would snap at him to leave if he so much as made a sound. When Deacon entered the room after encounters such as these, Aren knew he was to remain silent, or go. So he watched with guilty eyes mixed with relief as Deacon gently, tenderly helped his older brother out of the practice room, knowing that he would be all right now.

He knew that even when the dinner bell was called, and Aaron did not come down to the table, even when Jahan said they did not need him to begin to eat, even when he ordered their mother to stay put and eat, and Aren to get on with it and not look morose. Aren told himself that Deacon would take dinner to Aaron and if his hands were hurting feed him every bit, and that Aaron would be happier to have Deacon opposite him rather than their parents- and that made the knot in his throat loosen up enough to allow him to swallow food.

Dinners for the Daryans were always in silence when Jahan was not making announcements, and even when visitors were to happen by at that time, they were told to wait by the key servant. So Aren was very much surprised when a door was heard banging, something crashed in the hallway and the door to the ornate dining room with the tapestries swung open wide.

Not a servant was in sight. No tray with food was waiting in the aisle to be served when they were done with their first course. Nobody was in the aisle but Cessile Shriftyn, the Necromancer of the Northern Woods- Aaron's mentor.

Aren gasped fearfully, and felt himself becoming very small upon his chair. Cessile Shriftyn was not tall, but still she managed to tower in the room, filling it with her presence so much that everyone else seemed dwarfed. Her dark brown hair was high up in a ponytail that fanned out in energy Aren could not understand, but witnessed. Her eyes- those large grey eyes- were terrible to behold, as if holding lightning and damnation in them, her magic power barely harnessed enough not to make all of her surroundings blow up around her. She was wearing a travel cloak, but that too had slipped behind her like a mantle, and her tight fighter's overcoat reminiscent of the Vanguard soldiers' dark tunics seemed to sway menacingly. To Aren it looked that every bit of what was Cessile Shriftyn was deadly, and even a touch of her hem would be equal to a bite from a black viper.   
"Jahan Daryan!" she called- not shouted. She did not shout and Aren simply wished she had, because that controlled appellation was so much more dreadful in its significance than an out-of-control yell. His father frowned as he looked at her.   
"You dare barge into my home in this most intimate of times, Sorceress?" he snarled, but it was nothing like the snarl he had shown Aaron.

Cessile's eyes were narrowed. With one curt gesture of determination and order, she pointed to the door.   
"Sanaz- out of my sight, now."   
Aren's mother left without waiting to see if her husband permitted her. Aren realized he was now under the table, witnessing it all with the chair's protection.  _She knows I'm here. Aaron says she can tell everything._    
"Now, Jahan. I believe the Rites are over regarding Aaron."   
"The Law gives me three days," Jahan ventured. "Mentor or not, you'll do well to stay out of it. You've no right-"

There was a gasp. Aren flinched. That was his father that was stopped from his speech, and though Aren tried peering around the chair's frills and the table cloth, he still only saw feet- his father's boots and Cessile's cloth shoes peeping from under her cloak. He ventured a little further out of the table, not resisting trying a vantage point that would let him know what was going on better.

Jahan was standing up now, and though he was well taller than Cessile, it was obvious even to Aren just who was the one giving the orders and controlling the interaction. Aaron had once bragged to Aren about how their father feared his mentor, but it was only now that Aren was forced to believe it- not when Jahan seemed so unfearing when Mistress Shriftyn was not in the vicinity. His heart sank again at the last thought, though he couldn't tell exactly what it was that gave him the disappointment.   
"Do you think you are so smart, soldier, or so cunning, that I will not understand what it is you are trying to do? Do you think that I will not come to defend my charge?"  
"My property is mine to give as I like! And make my decisions as I like!" Jahan yelped, and backstepped, making the chair he had been sitting in scrape against the wooden floor.

Cessile advanced a step.   
"The Law does grant you this... atrocious right- it is exactly that which renders it against the Balance, and all the vows of the Tripatria. I care not about any corrupt legislation that crosses those vows and stipulations, Jahan- I only care for and heed the Law of the Balance, and you have overstepped it once too many. Now is my time to follow the Law that Sorcerers ascribe to."  
"No!" The exclamation seemed to be extracted from Jahan as painfully as if drawing hairs out of his body. Aren winced.   
"No?" Cessile's voice was belligerently amused now. "Are you afraid, Jahan Daryan, Paladin of Renome? What have you to be afraid if you have done nothing wrong?"   
"Keep away from me, get out of my house, you're not welcome here!" Jahan kept backstepping around the table, trying to futilely put it between him and Cessile.

Cessile did not move. Aren saw her watching his father's movements with her eyes, seemingly listening to his continuous, rather haphazard attempts to justify his actions with the Alian law- and the more his father spoke, the more Aren knew for sure, that what happened in the practice room was not just wrong. It was  _evil_. He burst into tears then. He didn't want... what didn't he want? Aren's mind was addled with thoughts he had trouble putting into words, but he knew he wanted a new swords master, and not his father any longer- even when only moments earlier that had seemed an unthinkable sentence.

Then his father screamed and leaned heavily against the table, making cutlery and bottles topple in the process. Aren shrank under the chair instead, and felt safe that though he was much closer to Cessile now, she would not step on him or harm him in any way, just like Aaron had so many times said. Aren had a specific sensation that he also was not being overlooked, that Cessile was taking into account the fact that he was listening in. It seemed to voice a lot of things that Jahan already knew, but Aren never did.  _It's because she knows I'm here. She wants me to know._  Aren didn't dare not pay attention.

"You deliberately harrowed Aaron into a fight that broke his wrists- do you think I would not instantly know? Do you think I was bluffing when I warned you of the fact? Or do you think that I will not dare go once more to the Sorcery Tower and plead that you be removed from office?"  
"What are you doing to me?" Aren could hear his father writhe on the table in pain. "Stop it, please stop it! Please!"   
"You disgust me," Cessile said in that quiet yet condemning manner she had. "I am only giving you what you gave your son, in hope against all hope that you will feel sorry about it while you feel it- because I know you well, Jahan, and don't expect you to have memory of your sniveling after your arms heal."

Jahan yelled in agony again- Aren wondered what it was Cessile was doing. She was waving her hand slightly, as if swatting away a tiny, non significant fly. Aren's hairs stood at the sensation of the magic being used. Block or not, Aren could always feel it when a Sorcerer channeled the Flow- it made his heart skip with a flip of longing.  
"Stop! Anything, just  _stop!_ " Jahan sobbed, and Aren felt so overwhelmed he could do nothing but watch- without feeling, without emotion, just with wide eyes he felt he could not blink. He knew he should plead with Cessile to stop hurting his father, but Aren was surprised to find that he didn't want to. The thought both freed and disturbed him.

"All right, Jahan. I will do that, since you ask me so nicely. After all, I came to collect my Apprentice, not to talk with you. I would advise calling a Healer for those wrists of yours- they will need time to mend well enough for you to hold your sword again," she said in a calm, controlled voice. "Plenty of time for you to think about what lines you must never again dare cross. Also, Jahan, your younger boy needs a new task master. See that you get one, now that you  _will not_  be able to teach him. We don't want to make your injury permanent with overzealous teaching of your son. I will aid you in choosing the right person for this task. You want to be sure Aren will also be in expert hands, like Aaron is, correct?"

Jahan just panted, and Aren's heart pounded with hope again.   
"Jahan, correct?" Cessile asked again as if simply his father had not listened, but her voice took a sharper, more menacing hue.   
"C-correct," Jahan sobbed- and the moment he said it, Cessile was out of the door, and going up the stairs to get Aaron. Aren knew that his brother would have good wrists far sooner than his father would. He stayed under the chair while Jahan moved, and only crept out when he was sure nobody was left in the now messy dining room. He stole to his own room and didn't wait for a servant to help him into his night clothes.

Burrowing deep in the soft covers, Aren thought of the Balance for the first time in his life- and that it was definitely stronger than his father.

_I will pay attention to the Balance's Law more, from now on._

He smiled, stretching like a kitten in the bed, then thought about the new swords master he was going to get. Would he teach him how to fight like Aaron today did?  _If Cessile will pick him, I am sure of it!_  Aren giggled to himself.

And with that, the sweetest sleep ever took him.

# ADULTHOOD

**Alias, circa year 1700 of the Archmage's Grace**

Cessile Shriftyn, the Necromancer of the Northern Wood, usually meditated by walking through the giant, eon-old trees that flourished in resplendence in her part of the ancient, great forest so very near the borders of Alias, the Elven Realm, and Anthrmyn, the Human one. It was easy to simply reach out with her Presence and just  _feel_  the gentle ambience of the Balance's Flow, the essence of all magic and the one compass for any creature upon the Earth. Her Domain was a manifestation of her love of Nature, growing and ebbing as the forest also grew and ebbed, providing her the protection of a domicile without infringing on the growth of all creatures around her. She smiled thinly to herself. It was one accomplishment that few Sorcerers could boast, as to create a home entirely out of energy and the matter that the forest will relinquish – not what can be taken crudely by man – was one requiring great attunement to the Balance, and nearly none to Society. In this day and age, only she was sustaining a Domain in the entire Arcane Circle.

In all of his seven years of training with her, the Domain still mesmerized her Apprentice to the point of reverence.

Thoughts about her Apprentice disrupted the calmness she had built for the umpteenth time that day.

"Oh, Aaron," she sighed, letting her head tilt back to enjoy the late Spring sun as she stopped her measured walk through the forest paths. There would be no meditation to speak of today- Cessile was too concerned for her Apprentice, who was returning to Society now. Too early yet, by Balance. _  He is only a boy really, isn't he?_ She began her way back to the house. The sun, after all, had risen. Aaron would soon be summoned to the fringes of the Northern Woods, to be taken back to Renome, and assume his duties- as an adult. Along with the worry, a wave of pride raised in her heart. At his sixteen years of age, her Apprentice Aaron Daryan had impressed Sorcerers twice his age with his skills in the Arcane- and especially his capacity as a Healer.

It hadn't taken long for her to know that Life was the Discipline Aaron was gravitating towards, or that his true mission within the Arcane was Healing. His power and instincts at relieving pain were simply stunning, and often Cessile taught more than she expected she would be challenged to teach to a mere youngster. Cessile smiled softly as she felt him bustling about within the Domain as if this were any other day, any other morning. Then she bit her lip. To go back to the capital of their Realm, would be to go back to nightmares and poison that she had extracted him from for nearly four consecutive years, and the most part of the rest as well. Was Aaron ready for a noxious father, and whatever had become of his family?  _You cannot keep him cooped forever. It is a journey each of us must experience, and you have prepared him well for it... And at sixteen, there is nothing that can convince him that he is not quite an adult yet, as this stupid Society wants to proclaim those that are blooming, but not yet in full bloom.  _

Reaching the house, she schooled her face to have an open expression- she knew that it would be important for Aaron to feel she would always have his back. The doors felt their usual smooth warm, humming with the forest's energy and her coaxing.

"Cessile," Aaron was trying to keep a straight face, but his eyes were dancing, laughing with the day's importance. Cessile smiled as she entered, and the young man could no longer try to appear somber. He chuckled.

"That's more like it," Cessile nodded. "You should not try to quench your laughter, Aaron. It is such a beautiful sound."

"Well today, I will laugh," Aaron grinned as he led the way to the main room of the house, where he had set the morning table. In the centre of it, a single white candle was waiting unlit upon a green and silver candlestick. Cessile's eyebrows arched.

"I do not remember asking the Domain to forge anything of the sort," she said, pointing at it, and her heart for some reason rejoiced more than she would expect.

Aaron smiled proudly.

"That is because this is not part of the Domain's matter or energy, Cessile. I asked Thomas to get it for me from the capital, when he visited."

"When Thomas visited? But that was six months ago!" Cessile exclaimed. "Was  _that_  what you two were hiding?"

Aaron chuckled again.

"Yes- and ever so thankful I am that you did not use Cogitance to see what that was, my mentor," he added with a small flourish.

"I... knew it was nothing negative," Cessile managed to say, and finally prying her eyes from the white candle, turned to look at her Apprentice. "Aaron, are you sure you want me to perform the ceremony? This is usually the privilege of the parents."

"Of course," Aaron nodded, and his green eyes were serious and forceful as he met his glance with her own firmly. "And that is why I want you to light the Proem Candle for me. If I ever knew a true parent, it is you."

Cessile smiled again, and her eyes watered. She realized that she had indeed often thought of the Ceremony of adulthood, one that took place on a boy's sixteenth birthday, to mark him as part of the adult society and able to found a home and family of his very own. The thought of Jahan or Sanaz lighting this candle for the son they had all but thrown away and forgotten made her stomach turn- and she only realized as much now.

"This is the most precious gift I have ever received," she told Aaron, and embraced him. Aaron shut his eyes in relief, and held on to his mentor as he always did- as if for dear life.

Then, all business, she broke the embrace and placed herself behind the tall white candle. Aaron dutifully took his place opposite her. She raised her hand over the candle, eyes locked with her apprentice's, and recited the traditional Wish by which the candle would be lit:

"Upon the Balance, by whose Grace you have grown, I welcome you to the World; Upon the Ground, on which you rose, I welcome you to abound;

Upon the Tree, from which you fed, I welcome you to bloom;

Within the World, I welcome you to bear your fruit;

May they be in Love and not in Poison,

And Death be not a condition, but a transition for you,

And I be not ashamed, but exulted

As the Weaver of the brightest Weave of Nature's Fabric."

Cessile lit the candle, and Aaron raised it, lit as it was, to say his Vows- something that each boy was supposed to compose for himself for the occasion:

"I pledge myself to the Balance, to listen to the Flow and heed the Song forever."

Watching the young man, tall and thin as he was, dressed in white and green tunic and pants, his very long onyx hair in a tight braid, away from his eyes that sparkled with determination and earnest, Cessile was certain that he would- and that he would be challenged to the limits to prove his words. After all, she had been, as well.

"Oh, my boy," she could not help finally saying- she so ached to call him 'son', but something had always held her back, as if doing that would jeopardize far too many things, far too many bonds between them. She pulled him into another embrace, but quickly ended it.

"Come now," she said. "They are already waiting for you. Gale is all saddled and ready with your travel cloak and some travel food. Go; and be careful. Not only when you go to your house, but later, too. The Sorcery Tower is not-"

"The Arcane Circle, I know," Aaron nodded with a smile. "We have talked a lot and practiced a lot, Cessile. But I must do this- how else am I to Heal?"

Cessile clicked her tongue.

"Several ways, but we both know that this is a talk for a good few months from now at least, and after you have done certain things, don't we?"

"Yes, yes indeed," grinned Aaron and walked out, bending on the way to pick up his shoes. At the door, he turned back with a questioning eyebrow.

"Aren't you coming?"

She shook her head.

"I am not interested," she said with a wave of her hand, "and I can watch you all the way to the borders of the Domain from where I stand. Go meet your friend, Aaron. And remember- you can always return here, at any time."

Aaron was out the door with a quick nod. He walked away with his measured pace after slipping on his shoes, but it seemed that midway to where his horse was grazing, he forgot that and sprinted happily, vaulting to the saddle of his dray horse- one of the first animals he had managed to heal, and then bought from the farmer for the horse did not seem to want to part with the young Healer. Gale had dark brown coat and nearly white mane and socks and tufts, that made it seem like the air was frothing around her when she galloped.

He laughed in the air as he held on to Gale's thick mane, and breathed in the deepest he could of the Domain air- for he knew well that he wouldn't be coming back soon. It was time, he was certain of it. Aaron had waited a very long time to become adult. A very long time to outrank Jahan, and rebuff him, rather than tolerate him. A very long time to claim his own.

It was not long before the great, muscular dray horse had covered the distance from the house of the Domain to the treeline that marked its limits and those of the forest, too, on this side. A vast plane spread lazily beyond that, in buoyant green bespeckled with an abundance of flecks of colour, the kiss of Spring upon the land, and the promise of regeneration. Aaron loved the Spring. Raising one hand in salutation- he knew Cessile would know- he took a deep breath and crossed the border, back into the world, Alias, the Sorcery Tower, and Jahan Daryan.

"Aaron! Race you to the camp!" came a loud call and another young man, his busy brown curls flying everywhere, loose, in the wind, made his mount heel to underline his challenge.

"Your loss, Thomas!" Aaron called back and patted Gale's neck. The mare nickered and  _threw_  herself forward in the same direction as the other rider, catching up quickly with light huffs.

"You wish!" Thomas laughed and spurred his stallion on, and still Gale kept closing the distance between them.

The prairie was inviting for the race, and the pounding of the heart, and the letting go of everything but the sheer speed and force into the wind. Thomas always had this effect on Aaron- and though he was two years older than Thomas, and Thomas was the same age as his brother, Aaron found in this friend more than he cared to put words to. Maybe it was because of their common grammar school origins, maybe because Thomas was one of the few people in his life that did not make him feel wanting, Aaron didn't know and did not much care. He was grateful.

Too fast, the camp site Thomas had referred to came into view, and both boys had to work to make their mounts skid to a halt before having to literally leap over it. Thomas leapt fluidly from the saddle and bounded towards where two more people were raising to meet them. Aaron stayed on Gale, panting a little and patting his horse. The camp's tents- two of them- had the crest of the Alian army. It was not unexpected, but somehow it drove home the change in his daily reality more. For a moment, it made him falter, hesitate. Was he really going into the Vanguarde, one of the youngest full Sorcerers, and  _the_  youngest Healer of his cohort?  _Yes, it's true. Get your act together!_  Aaron admonished his own self, and purposefully dismounted and straightened his clothes.

And none too soon, because Thomas was already chattering happily about a mission successfully completed, and how the Domain's Veils still amazed him, and a dozen other things that only were received as background noise by Aaron, because his brother was there.

"Aren," he said, and immediately he felt tense.

"It's been two years, brother," Aren tried to smile a little.

"Yes," Aaron said unhelpfully, watching Aren.  _He still fidgets when I stare him down_ , he affirmed, not without satisfaction. While Aaron knew that it was not Aren's fault, it still rankled that he had something Aaron never could, for reasons that Aaron could hardly fathom- and it always made him wary of Aren, careful. His whole body seemed to be repulsing the younger boy. It couldn't be the accident of nearly seven years ago, the magic spilling from Aren in such a deadly way against him. It should have worn off as a reflex, and yet Aaron could not help just staring at his brother, and do little to help him along.

"I... missed you," Aren ventured again and swallowed. "I've been...yes, missing you."

"Well, I'm here now," Aaron nodded uncomfortably and approached more, but didn't take Aren's professed arm in salutation. "Did Jahan send you to represent the family?"

Aren swallowed again, and seemed to be racing to pick his words, but Aaron smirked bitterly.

"Ah. So he didn't see fit to send anyone to get me."

"Aaron, he was busy," Aren said weakly, cringing to himself.

"Don't justify him to me. That's one thing about you I certainly don't miss," Aaron snapped and Aren sighed, biting his lips.

Walking towards the space between the two tents, Aaron smiled for the older man- he knew him to be Aren's sword master, a very candid and easy going redhead with a countenance that Aaron began to see had been rubbing off on his brother.

"Greetings, Master Eamon," he said respectfully. He knew Cessile held this man, this warrior in great esteem, though he never had managed to get his mentor to fully explain why.

Master Eamon grinned and raised a hand in greeting.

"Hello, Aaron. My, how you have grown! You are ready to fit your part, just as Cessile has said, aren't you?"

Aaron couldn't help smiling and straightening up a little.

"I certainly hope so, Master Eamon. Thank you for escorting my brother to get me. And Thomas."

"Did someone mention my name?" Thomas' voice was heard from inside one of the tents.

"No!" Aaron shouted back to him and chuckled. Master Eamon smirked to himself.

"Oh my. What am I to do with three boys bouncing off each other all the way back to Renome? Good one of them is adult, right?"

Again, Aaron could not resist grinning, and felt once more grateful that those who had come to get him, had done so because they wanted to.  _Then maybe you should begin showing as much._

Thomas jumped to a stand next to him, dispersing Aaron's thoughts. Though he was two years younger than Aaron, and Aaron was considered tall, Thomas was already beginning to best him in height. So he had no trouble establishing a very firm eye contact with him with a very wide smile on his face. Aaron held the lock for a while, then he scoffed and rolled his eyes in a desperate attempt not to laugh.

"You look silly with that face."

"Told you, I'd have that face each time yours threatens to melt to the ground, it droops so much."

"It doesn't droop!" Aaron protested. "I'm dignified!"

Thomas dissolved into laughter at that, and Aaron dutifully pretended to be offended, and marched over to where Aren was sitting, near the fire over which they would soon cook their dinner.

"While Thomas laughs his breath out of him, I wanted to say that... it's good to see you, too. I'm glad you came."

Aren turned to look at him, and smiled.

"I know. Master Eamon said you would be. And it felt like an eternity, how long you were away. I wish I could come to your Domain."

"It's not mine. It's Cessile's. I have mother's house, don't I?" Aaron sighed, watching Thomas sit up and dust himself, the laughter gone as soon as Aren's sword master called him to help out with the preparation of the food- something Aaron suspected was pre-agreed.

"So," Aaron made an effort, "how has your apprenticeship been so far?"

"I'm okay," Aren grinned and side looked at his older brother. "I'd be more interesting in a sword match now."

"Maybe someday we'll have one," Aaron said, just because he knew his brother wanted him to. "But for now, I really just need to go to my house."

"Mother is preparing the Proem Candle for you at home," he said after a pause.

"My Proem Candle has already been lit," Aaron said aggressively. Aren stared, apparently horrified. Aaron clenched his teeth. "Like I said, I just need to go to my house, and the day after that happens, I'll call. I need to talk with Jahan."

Aaron's house- his mother's house- had been used by noone ever since her own parents died, well before Aaron was born and just a little bit into her marriage to Jahan. Noone but Aaron himself, who had, in terrible moments of his childhood, sought refuge to this house, and the wonderful secret it held. Still, the servants that went with it had maintained it and cared for it for the guests or other instances Jahan decided to use it. Master Eamon dutifully left Aaron there at dusk eight days of travel later, instead of taking him to the main Daryan manor, heeding Aaron's request as that of an adult.

He had not, of course, been expected, so when his presence was announced, Aaron heard a general low-level noise of padding feet and shuffling items. He smiled to himself as he led Gale to the stables and tended for her himself, giving time to the household staff to get ready- a courtesy Jahan never would extend.  _But I will be so much better and different than him, that not one will believe we were ever related._  He breathed in, straightened his shoulders, and walked into the house to do exactly that.

By the time he had walked the long pillared aisle to the main room, all the candles were lit, and all the household staff was gathered there- all positions, Aaron could tell with one sweeping look at their clothes, except that of the key servant. Aaron nodded to himself, he knew all that well, had been preparing for it even though Cessile was not too keen to teach him household ranks or anything that reminded her too much of what she tagged 'Society' with a distasteful sneer. Aaron felt that was a little extreme- after all, the Forefathers had established this Society. He pushed all these yet unsettled issues in the back of his mind. He had work to do, he left Cessile's Domain to do it.

He breathed in, folding his hands at the small of his back, and straightened, looking at all of the servants opposite him. Everyone was older than him.  _So what? I am adult, this is my house._

"I am Aaron Daryan," he said, his voice dispersing the complete silence in the great room. "I am the master of this house as of today."

The servants were hesitant in replying- normally the key servant was the one to speak for them, but one was not there now. Then, one stepped forward, an elderly man in a gardener's outfit:

"Your estate welcomes you, Master Daryan."

"Please, continue your tasks. I shall find my own quarters," Aaron added as an afterthought. "Tomorrow, our household will have a key servant."

And that will be the second step completed.

The next morning, Aaron wrote his first missive as master of a household- setting his signature sent a thrill up his spine, and he couldn't help a smug grin as he gave the letter to a servant to send. He himself would follow the letter's route soon. He felt almost hungry for the moment he would set out, but he breathed in and schooled himself to wait. He sighed, glancing around at his office.  _His_  office. All of this old and very spacious house, albeit quite smaller than the manor Jahan had bequeathed to Aren, was his responsibility now, and the people in it, serving. Cessile had taught him enough about Society, though she hated it, to know that since he would most likely not be given any of the lands that yielded income without the necessity to work, he would have to ensure that he would be able to sustain his household on his own earning power. He smiled to himself, and once again felt right to have asked his mentor to light the candle only a parent should- because of her, and all of her training on so many levels and aspects besides that of magic and Healing and his Discipline in general, he felt confident in his capacity to come through in this challenge.  _No, I don't want to return to your Domain, Cessile; I would love for you to come to mine._

Reviewing all the areas in the house and a cursory look of the gardens served for the time to pass until the moment Aaron hungered for seven years and more came, and Aaron headed to the master bedroom, where he had spent the night, and dressed himself for the first time as a full, adult High Elf: not only tunic and breeches, but the over-tunic and high boots as well, and overall his dark blue Sorcerer's tunic- the rank Aaron had acquired two years ago in skill, but only now was able to assert upon Society, and everyone else; now that he was sixteen, and adult. He touched his long, loose strands of hair in front of his ears, the symbol of the Sorcerer, smiled at himself in the mirror, and walked out with the brusque pace that would help him build up the forcefulness with which to go to Jahan's territory, claim what he wanted, and win.

Riding to Jahan's house- there was no other way he could think of the hated place- and seeing the tall gate again after nearly three years, he arched an eyebrow in mild surprise.  _I remembered it far larger than it actually is._  The thought pleased him, and he eased Gale at the entrance, and did not dismount until a servant came to see to his mount. Aaron did not even glance around at the gardens with plants pruned and twisted in unnatural shapes- he despised the way Jahan liked everything so cramped and cropped and stunted.  _Nothing in my garden will ever look like this._

"What is the meaning of this, boy?" Jahan managed to surprise his eldest son, by waiting for him just at the entrance of the large family room, the missive crumpled in his hand.

"None of that, now," Aaron said calmly although his heart pounded painfully, exactly like before. He hoped Jahan wouldn't hear it, that he wouldn't notice. "I am Sorcerer Aaron Daryan, or Healer Aaron Daryan, and you will address me with the respect you owe to a Sorcerer- your better, Paladin."

Jahan gaped, his eyes widening and his complexion paling to the point Aaron wondered if he would faint on the spot, like those farmers who feared his mentor's wrath at what they had been doing to their wives and livestock. Part of him craved the amusement of watching Jahan crumble, part of him hoped it happened after he had completed his business in this hated household that only held nasty memories for him.

"What- did you say?!" Jahan managed to gasp, and the parchment in his hand crinkled and snagged even further as his fist clenched, knuckles grey-white.

"I believe I made myself heard," Aaron carefully picked his words, talking as much like Cessile did in such occasions as he could muster.

"Blasted ingrate! How dare you, how  _dare_  you come here and make demands!? You cannot have him!"

"He is not your slave," Aaron said with a smile. "He is free to choose any master, should one offer him another household to run."

"He is MINE!" Jahan growled. "And you owe me. You owe me!"

"I believe that you have it backwards," Aaron's eyes flashed dangerously. "I outrank you, soldier. I am not anyone you have a claim to any longer; and do not _dare_  take a step towards me, for I will not allow you any deviance from propriety."

The words had been well rehearsed- Aaron had carefully crafted the phrases he wanted ready to throw back to Jahan, his once-upon-a-time father, meticulously for years while he waited to become adult.

Jahan gaped again, and backstepped into a seat, sinking heavily there. Aaron had never seen him react that way before, and he almost forgot Cessile's warning that a viper was deadly even if it was dead, so long as its fangs had venom.

"Call Deacon here now," he ordered. "The Law obliges you, Jahan."

" _Father_ , Sorcerer Daryan," hissed Jahan from his seat, and he seemed to recover from the surprise and the horror in amazing pace. "I am still your father, and you will address me as such, or I will be the one after you, for causing your mother such distress over the Proem Candle of your pitiful coming of age- if she dies, it will be on your head, and I will see to it that the guilt haunts you forever!"

"Mother is ill?" Aaron slipped.

"Your refusal to come of age here, your stealing her rights from her to give to  _that woman_ \- you may as well have gutted her," Jahan spat at Aaron, getting up slowly and throwing the offending missive upon the floor like trash.

"Then let me look at her," Aaron said quickly.

"You stay away from her, you ingrate! She needs nothing from you!" Jahan grinned in triumph, feeling that he had found a crack in the unexpected armour of his son.

But he, too, had not calculated well, because he forgot that his son was, indeed, a full and very potent Sorcerer.

His eyes seemed far away for a moment, and Jahan shivered fearfully. His bones still remembered the trauma the Necromancer had inflicted on them the night that Aaron left with her and never spent another night in his house to that date. Would his son repeat the punishment?

Aaron's face distorted into a mask of contempt and disgust.

"You have no limits, no bounds, do you, Jahan? The woman is healthy, and her emotional problem not a threat to her body, though to a  _non_ -arcane person she would make a pretty convincing charade. I can feel the health reverberating from her Presence, just as I can sense the lie in you. Is that how you both control my brother, keep him at your beck and call? Cessile was right about you, so profoundly, irrevocably right, even with those three times of ever setting eyes upon you. Deacon!" he shouted, even as Jahan began to protest.

He smiled, seeing how quickly the key servant appeared at the door to the room. He nodded to him.

"Deacon, I am of age now, and have a household of my own. I am offering you the position of key servant at my domicile, with the same wages and considerable better working conditions. Do you accept?"

"How will you provide his wages, boy, when none of the estates are ever going to be yours? You won't see a copper from that revenue. Deacon cannot accept a lower offer, I will not allow it, and if you make a fraudulent claim then law-"

"Deacon," Aaron cut off his father and did not even glance at him, "I am a Healer, and soon I will be more than that. My commission at the Sorcery Tower, as Junior Healer on readiness, and my provision of complex or rare Elixirs can and will more than provide any expenses required. The law does stipulate that you know all this before you accept or refuse a post; what do you say?"

"Deacon, you belong to the Daryan household! Don't you  _dare_  stray from that!" Jahan growled.

Deacon made a small bow to Jahan, then offered the same gesture to Aaron, and when he rose, his smile was genuine, and one of relief.

"I would not think of serving anyone but the Daryan household," he said in careful elocution, "and so, Master Daryan, I accept your offer with pleasure and gratitude. I am honoured to be asked to serve one of the most promising young Sorcerers of Alias."

Aaron smiled, and his eyes softened.

"Good, then it is settled. Gather what you need, for you are direly expected and needed," he said, and Deacon, now that he had pledged himself to another master, completely ignored Jahan, bowed to Aaron and about turned to carry out the order.

"You... are  _not_... welcome here!" Jahan growled and stormed out, leaving Aaron alone in the room- one of the direst signs of contempt. But for Aaron, it was a victory. He grinned to himself, and paced in the room once.

"Aaron?"

The young Sorcerer about turned, and nodded, folding his arms on his chest.

"What is it, Aren?"

"Didn't you come to visit?" Aren looked so crestfallen that Aaron wondered if perhaps his brother had hoped for more than just a typical formality.

"No, I came to take Deacon. I saw everyone I would even remotely want to talk to in this house on our way here from Northern Woods- I thought that was clear."

"Yes... yes, that much was clear," Aren sighed and looked to the side, as if troubled. Aaron frowned, puzzled.

"What is it, Aren? Do you want something?"

"It's really... well it's mother," Aren said quietly, glancing at Aaron in hope. "And... well... you're a Healer."

"Ah, I see," Aaron nodded, and rage threatened to consume him for a moment- but only for a moment, because Deacon made his appearance with a satchel and a curt, happy bow.

"Master, I am ready," he said, and did not try to keep the emotion from his voice.

"Follow me, Deacon- I came only with Gale, but you'll see- she can carry us both and not even notice," Aaron said and turned to leave.

"Aaron-" Aren called out. "Please, come on!"

"Mother is perfectly healthy, Aren. She is just pretending. She's not...not real," Aaron said, and walked out as fast as possible without it being called a run, with Deacon following close.

Aaron didn't speak until Deacon had mounted Gale behind him, and they were well on their way to his house.

"I am happy you accepted, Deacon."

"Ah, Master Aaron- you have no idea just how many years I waited, hoping that maybe this day would come," Deacon readily said.

Aaron smiled as Gale, bored with the canter, jumped to a gallop.

I certainly have, Deacon. I certainly have.

#

# CHARGE HEALER FOR DEMESNE: PART I

Alias, circa 1702 of the Archmage's Grace

...I have completed the re-organisation of the Healer's Sick Bays, just like you had always said they should be run. Of course you were right again; I don't seem to find any area where you are wrong, except in that Society does respond when I put my stern face on.

Aaron smirked to himself, dipping his quill in the inkwell. When writing to Cessile, things always sounded somewhat funny, less important or less troublesome. Maybe because his Mentor would often reply with advice or words of heartening, and he took courage in them in advance.

I know you say that accepting the position of Charge Healer is going to conceal dangers for me, that I must remain alert, not overconfident. I will, I promise. Besides, you have taught me well, I am not troubled.

He paused, before going on to the next subject in his rather lengthy letter- lately and over the past two years of serving in the Vanguarde during times of peace, his time became more and more occupied with duties, meetings and several calls of distress for Healers. Therefore, his letters became fewer and longer than many and short.

It was not exactly true that he was not troubled in his work; he was. At least he had been. Upon presenting himself to his ranking officer, the Vanguard Ponderant, he found with dismay that it was going to be hard work convincing the seasoned officer that he was entitled the title of 'Healer' at such young an age- sixteen. Officially he was the youngest Healer in quite a few decades, even a century! Aaron had earned the rank because he was Cessile's student, he was positive of the fact.

But it also earned him doubt and envy, and a distance from the rest of his co-Healers or other Sorcerers in the Vanguarde. It showed immediately in the duties assigned to him. Though he was stationed in Renome, the Ponderant sent him everywhere but, had him be the Assisting Healer to the Army troops far too often- a task all Healers dreaded since the Assisting Healer was required to Heal several people consecutively at a time- and sent him to the suburbs of the great capital to see to Commoners far too often. The ills and diseases of Commoners tended to be far tougher to heal than those of the sheltered higher castes.

In short, for that first laborious year, Aaron shouldered nearly single-handedly all the drudgery a Healer's duties could entail. Nearly every week during that first year, the Ponderant would call him and ask if he had had enough; Aaron didn't understand at first why he looked so hungry asking the question and why he was so disappointed when Aaron replied negatively. Cessile settled that question by telling him that the older Sorcerer was most likely doing his father a favour in an effort by Jahan to break his firstborn even from afar, to see him defeated in the very thing Aaron felt was the essence of himself.  _Find others that will see you are more vital elsewhere so that you will gain in rank_ , she had written back, together with a list of steps to take to achieve that goal.

It took one more year of diligent work, written reports that were also sent to the Council of Five with suggestions and questions and arguments about why the Realm would benefit from changes or reforms- Cessile had instructed to keep the arguments solely in the area of funds saved and fame earned, which resulted to power- along with tirelessly seeing through each and every call for Healing that was assigned to him.

Aaron smiled and the quill hissed across the parchment as he wrote on.

One could even say I am oddly popular; at least I have earned respect and some eyes smile when they look at me. I am not talking about Thomas, he doesn't count. But they come to me with problems, even when they are older than me, nowadays, with minimal distaste. However, I doubt I am ever going to be high in their preferences as a choice to share beer with.

Aaron chuckled, tending his hand to dip the quill in the ink again, but paused, glancing up at Deacon, who was standing at the door of his office.

"What is it?"

"Master, your brother has come, he is waiting for you in the family room," Deacon said as he approached with a warm wet towel for Aaron's inky hands. As Aaron rolled his eyes and put the quill aside the unfinished letter, grabbing at the towel, Deacon said in a cautious manner:

"Sir, your brother has come in great hopes. After all, it hasn't been too many days he turned sixteen."

Aaron looked up, his agile fingers stilling around the towel.

"In high hopes of what, by Balance? That I sever the past so that he can enjoy the present?"

"If you will give me permission to speak, Master," Deacon looked hesitant, but Aaron rolled his eyes again and waved the key servant ahead, throwing the wet towel carelessly over the back of his chair.

"Deacon, we have been through this before- when you  _don't_  have my permission to speak, I shall inform you of the fact."

Deacon's smile was warm with emotion for a second, but then he sighed and did continue.

"Sir, just as I have watched you grow, so I have him, as well. Your brother loves you. Don't let whatever was done under Jahan's roof poison this further. Give him a chance to show you what I've always seen."

Aaron didn't reply, but his doubtful, tight-lipped expression did it for him as he walked brusquely past his key servant, through the aisle- devoid of servants, just as he liked it- and into the large main room with the wide windows. The room invited him often, just as much as his study and his work room, but Aaron had little time for the house, just yet.

And right now, his brother was standing in the middle of it, fidgeting in the nervous manner that was so familiar, his back turned.

He's grown taller, the Healer thought, but his teeth clenched as his glance took in Aren's dress: it was definitely military, and around his sleeve there was a winding rope of rank.

"I see you are well on your way to becoming Eladin, Captain."

Aren turned sharply on his heel, making his short cape swell around him for a second. His eyes were wide with hope, exactly like Deacon had told Aaron they would be. It was a clear glance, free of any venom or reserve, full of force and determination that made Aaron's painfully erected walls of protection threaten to lower. He swallowed, lifting his chin in slight challenge.

Aren grinned a little nervously.

"Eh- yes, I guess I am, I guess I am... Aaron, I missed you so much."

"I have been in town for the past two years," Aaron's voice was accusing and Aren sighed.

"You know how f- Jahan can be."

Aaron's eyebrow arched.

"Jahan, is it? Not 'dad' or 'father'?"

"I am not bound by law to call him that way any longer," Aren straightened up. "Don't for a moment think I don't blame him for all he did to you."

"Mmh," Aaron made a dismissive grimace and gestured for his brother to sit down, then for Deacon to bring them drinks. Though unseen, Aaron knew Deacon was there, watching, ready. He always was. "Whatever. So. What brings you here, and so early? One would assume you would be on duty at the barracks."

Aren beamed at his older brother.

"Well, it so happens I am, actually! I am here on an errand- and for the pleasure of seeing you again."

"Ah," Aaron's heart sank and only the first words stayed with him. "An errand. I might have guessed. Very well then; hand me the parchment. You have one, I suppose?"

"Aaron, it's not like that. Don't be like that! I really,  _really_  wanted to come see you. But fa- Jahan had forbidden it, and I had to bide my time. My mentor had no excuse to get me to live out of our house like Cessile could do with you. You can't blame me for what was beyond my power! I am here now!"

"No, I cannot blame you, can I? Because little perfect Aren has  _never_  been known to break parental rules before," Aaron grinned mirthlessly as he leaned back to allow Deacon to serve the wine, his voice dripping with venomous irony.

It was Aren's turn to clench his teeth as his fists balled upon the armrests of the thin black armchair in Aaron's main family room.

"I never know what can please you. Nothing will, will it? Did you even bother to send a missive to me all this time since you claimed Deacon? Something,  _anything_ to show me that if I did risk my future in the army, my house, everything to see you, you'd actually look upon me with something less than scorn, or even let me in your house? Did you bother to see what sort of life I led in that house with  _him_  and  _her_ , and everything they did to heap their shames upon you? No! You stayed in your own contented and barricaded place, in your high and mighty  _magical_  tasks, away from them, safe, waiting and judging! Balance, Aaron!"

Aaron's eyes flashed dangerously in anger and hurt, and Aren seemed to deflate.

"Goodness, I'm sorry.  I- I should have done more, and come to see you anyway. Master Eamon would have covered for me. I'm sorry, really sorry, Aaron." He didn't dare look at his brother, nor did he attempt to stop the icy silence that settled as Aaron simply stared at him, arms folded on his chest.

"Give me the injunctive, Aren."

Aren shut his eyes and sighed, then reached into his satchel and pulled a rolled up document, sealed with the Alian crest. Aaron snatched it from his grasp and made no further comment as he broke the seal and unfurled it.

Aren sighed in the unfriendly silence. How did he always manage to destroy it all with his brother, even when he had been meticulously preparing a situation to please him? And why didn't he think of disobeying Jahan on the particular matter of seeing him? Aaron had always had an odd, sometimes detached fashion of nevertheless covering for him when it all came down to that, even after the accident that drove the carefree shrug from his posture. Why didn't Aren have the same, always, all the time, like his brother seemed to manage? How did he always, despite his best efforts, seem to come up short of expectations? And how, _how_  in Balance would he make it up to him? He would have to find ways, in this task ahead.

"Charge Healer for Demesne? Me?" Aaron's voice was full of pleasant surprise, and Aren jumped to that, trying to keep the ambience there.

"Yes, you! You have really impressed the Council, and they want you to apply all your... eh... ideas... and stuff, there at Demesne! If it works, you will get to be Charge Healer here in Renome. Isn't that amazing!?"

But Aaron was not listening to him, reading further down, and frowned, tilting his head a little as if he had not seen right, then looked up again, lowering the document.

"And you are to accompany me and my Healer Second to that town?  _You_  out of all the captains to the Eladin, are to escort  _me_  there? How did that go past Jahan and his buddies in the high ranks?"

"I had help from Master Eamon, and uh... a few written petitions for being paired with you, utilizing my privilege of choosing who to escort for off base duty due to my top marks and flawless conduct- I am not bragging, that's how!"

Aaron couldn't help chuckling.

"Drink your wine, you dunderhead," he said in gruff affection and picked up his own goblet. Aren grinned and laughed as he complied, relieved. The previous tension dissolved as if it had never been, and his brother's eyes were happy as they looked at him. Aren raised his goblet.

"So, pack up for the stroll in the countryside, Charge Healer Daryan! Balance that sounds impressive," he sipped the drink.

Aaron rolled his eyes and shook his head with a small smile. How right had Deacon been! But then again, Deacon was almost always right. Second only to Cessile.

"You still cannot boast any knowledge of our land, can you? You call going to Demesne a stroll in the countryside? Do you know what Demesne  _is_?"

"Apart from being all the way down to Madinon Valley? Um, a town?"

"It's not only a dormitory town from which everyone passes along the Upper Ryadon to and from the sea, but it is also only one of the towns combining commerce and farming- they have rice fields down there, and grapevines. A Charge Healer in such a town- and I read here I'm going to be the only Charge Healer for the whole of the town- will be drowned in work. And his accompanying captain will have his hands full providing the peace required, and order. They might stampede you once they see your innocuous, sunny, harmless grin!"

Aaron had been gesticulating in threatening manners, though his face was lit with pride of being given this chance, and Aren saw it there mixed with happiness. So he leaned back and said, audaciously:

"You do your magic, brother, and I'll do mine."

It was much easier said than done. Even with Cessile's warning and preparations in her letter which had come speedily and in time with a special horseman, Aaron still was shocked with what he had been pitched up against.

The journey to Demesne had not been too tiring, with adequate stops, good carriages and the Main Road, wide and paved, allowing them to pretty much travel in a straight line to the town. The vast grape vine fields heralded their destination two weeks after they started out from Renome. Demesne itself had become visible half a day before it was reached, across the great plane of Ryadon and Madinon Valley. It was a town built in a circular fashion, situated exactly on either side of Ryadon's banks, like two halves of a pie. Ports and piers were literally transversing the middle of the town that way. Little boat ferries flitted to and fro between the two sides of the city, under and parallel to an ancient looking stone arched bridge connecting them for pedestrians and carriages.

Aren had the picket stop for a moment, a little way before the entrance to the town, so that Aaron would ride Gail into the town, as he had wished, and his Healer Second, a girl newly sworn in the Vanguarde and the army Healers, would head the carriage.

Aaron hopped off the carriage and came to stand near his brother, waiting for Gail to be brought to him. He exhaled, setting his shoulders. Aren side looked at him.

"Jitters, brother?" he murmured.

Aaron glanced at him once, then replied in the same tone:

"I just realized I've never been in charge of a town's healing needs before. And this is a  _big_  one."

"And you are good for it," Aren grinned, some of the younger brother glimmer of wonder still in his eyes.

"I'll have to be," Aaron conceded as he took Gail's reins and mounted. "Come on."

Demesne's roads were all paved with cobblestone, causing the wheels of every vehicle to reverberate crackling echo. It made a continual backdrop of hubbub offsetting the stentorian bedlam of sellers, bystanders, couriers, criers, bickering or haggling buyers and assorted raucous Commoner children that immediately harassed Aaron's nerves to a level he did not expect. The smells mingling haphazardly together, of river water, river pollution, sewage wafting together with freshly baked bread and assorted dyes and leathers did not help, and he realized that although he had been sent to several of the less privileged suburbs, areas or even villages around Renome, the state of things was nothing like this large port-like river town that managed to  _look_  filthy and derelict even with tall buildings, solid walls and brightly painted shutters on the windows.

Aren had sent, as was protocol, an envoy ahead into town to alert the Prefect of the arrival of the town's Charge Healer, but as the picket of men comprising Aaron's retinue waded further inside the town, nobody seemed to be forthcoming to welcome them or lead them to their posts. Aaron's lip curled in disgust, but he did not comment until they reached the town's Upper Square, as it was called, very near the wide expanse of what was Ryadon. Aaron's eyes swept over the calm, rolling deep green waters that supported a flotilla of assorted vessels, from little fishing boats to large ferries carrying wares to and fro. He sighed, and forced himself to look around at the Square.

"Aren, it is clear enough that even if a welcoming committee is coming, it is dreadfully late. I am not willing to wait for anyone who does not bother to properly carry out their duties. Find someone who can show me the way to the town's Hospice, and be done with it." His voice sounded sour and dejected, even to his own ears, but he didn't find it in him to change the tone.

Aren nodded and gave the order. It was not long before a middle aged looking woman in a large apron and with short hair led Aaron across Demesne's bridge to the Lower Town, as the south half of the town was called. Aaron frowned to himself, seeing the buildings gradually becoming more and more modest, the roads narrower, and still no wide area with a proper Hospice building in the middle seemed to be making its appearance or even hint they were approaching it.

"Woman, are you sure you are leading us right?" he asked sharply. The woman flinched and bowed raising her hands.

"Yes m'lord, we's not far now, we are. Sorry, sir."

Aaron waved for her to continue showing the way, and the woman did, accelerating until indeed, not much later, they did manage to reach the Hospice, whereupon Aaron's Second dismissed the woman. Aaron did not notice, nor the woman's bowing, nor the woman's thanks or scurrying away as he tended to do when forced to interact with Commoners, because he just sat there on Gail's saddle, hands gripping the reins nervously as dread slowly filled his lungs instead of breath while his eyes took in the sight of his workplace.

"What... is... that  _hovel_?" the assistant Healer managed to utter, and Aaron wished the road had not been so narrow that his brother had to be behind the carriages with the picket.

Get it together. Come on!

He breathed in and set his shoulders.

"That, Nashya, is our Hospice. And we've work to do. Go ahead while I give our retinue the necessary orders, and I'll be right after." He said as confidently and as brusquely as he could. The Healer Second sighed and obeyed, dismounting along with Aaron and turning to the carriage to give orders to the assistants.

The Hospice was a narrow house that looked to have once been a store of some sort, with narrow windows and two floors, a very small paved yard surrounding it with no fence except a painted red line marking the property's borders. It was dark, dirty looking and neglected, and reminding of Aaron more of an abandoned warehouse than a place for Healing. His lips thinned in a line of anger. What was the meaning of this, just  _what_  was that Prefect doing regarding protecting the health of his town's dwellers?

And why had he been assigned a task that already seemed to loom, requiring far more than one first-time Charge Healer to see it through?  _Do they   **want**  me to fail? Why did they give me just one Second? Do they not know this is too much for just- _

"Aaron?"

He turned to Aren, pressing his nails in his palm to keep his composure.

"Go find that Prefect, and where your Guard is supposed to be stationed. I will be here, and won't see him until I have assessed the needs of this... station. Thank you."

With one more glance, Aren turned to carry out his order, knowing that his brother would not appreciate talking now.

Aaron straightened up.

Cessile's apprentice won't fail. Just watch me.

And he strode decisively towards the Hospice's entrance.

#

# CHARGE HEALER FOR DEMESNE: PART II

Alias, circa 1702 of the Archmage's Grace

The Hospice was empty but for him, his Healer Second, and his three assistants.

He made a grimace the moment he entered.  
"Balance, this place stinks," he muttered, and glanced around quickly, feeling his cheeks flush with the waves of anger he was forcing down.

On the ground floor, typically as in any Hospice building, the room was one, vast and with movable wicker separators and screens, all propped at the far wall. There were series of cots made of wooden frames and taut thongs, waiting for mattresses to be laid on them whenever necessary. On the left side of the large room, stacked to the middle of the shuttered window, were the mattresses, the pillows and the blankets that would go to the beds while on the right side there was the Healer's white curtain, where elixirs would be mixed or other preparations made before applied to the patient. Aaron figured that the brown area- the serious cases that needed seclusion from the rest- would be in the floor above. Considering the desolation he was witnessing, he didn't want to think at all about what the condition would be of the kitchens below or the sheds or, he shivered with horror just at the notion, the outhouses.

"It comes from the mattresses and blankets, mostly," Nashya said.   
"What?" Aaron asked.   
"The stink. It's from the beddings," the Healer Second repeated dejectedly. She was around Aaron's age, with shoulder length dark brown hair and brown eyes, with a slightly round figure that was not exactly plump.  _A Middle Elf_ , Aaron thought idly for the first time since she was introduced to him as part of his staff.

It made him angry.   
"Get the assistants to haul all this bedding out, and burn it. We will furnish this Hospice with proper cleanliness. Where  _is_  the cleaning staff? And why is this Hospice so horribly abandoned?"   
"Sir, we found him. He says he is the cleaning staff," one of the assistants said, leading by the forearm an old man in a sleeveless tunic that looked to be a patient more than part of the staff. Aaron grit his teeth, towering over the cowering man.  _A Commoner_ , he thought with revulsion and his anger soared more.

The man bowed as best he could.   
"What is the meaning of this? What's your name?" he snapped at the man, leaving him bent before him.   
"M'lord, I's be the cleaner. I's do the cleaning, see, it's swept all purdy."  
"You don't clean, you simply spread filth across the floors. Where is the rest of the cleaning crew, and why are there no patients?"  
"They's here, jus' not  _here_ ," the man panted, getting dangerously tired in the awkward position, but not daring to straighten up without permission. Aaron clicked his tongue.   
"Rise. When was the last Charge Healer in Demesne?"   
"Sire, he died, see? Back in '99 I reckon, he does. Second calls for new one, and you's here, but after Second left, too, see?" the old man gesticulated and Aaron frowned racing to try and make sense of what the old man was babbling out disjointedly. Still, the theme of his words did get through.   
"The Second left his post?" Aaron intoned in disbelief.   
"Uh, he left  _here_. With th' patients, he does," the man tried to provide. "'es around though, see? Name's Healer Myr Abyn."

Questions clamored at the edge of Aaron's tongue, but he doubted this relic of a man would know things only the higher castes would. Surely there had been reason for this gross neglect, and the Prefect would inform him adequately.

For now, there was work to be done.

"I have no need for you," he told the man. "Leave."

Then, he clapped his hands for the assistants to assemble. They were only three, again just as young as him, and as the Healer Second came to stand by his side Aaron again felt having been set up. He angrily pushed that to the back of his mind, for when he'd have quill and parchment to rant with.

"Assistants, you will now inform me of your names, and I shall then relay to you your tasks for the first few days."  
Already the assistants were fidgeting. The first one stepped forward, a man of about 25 years of age, looking experienced. He was of the middle elf caste, as healer assistants were, with fair colours and whitewashed blue eyes.  
"I am Ahura Ihsyan, my lord. I've served with several Healers."

_You have a family name; upper middle elf then._

"And I am Bryn, my lord; this is my first term of service," a girl at around fourteen or fifteen said, bouncing with excitement and levity that told Aaron she had no idea what was waiting for her or the deductive reasoning to piece it together anyway from what was surrounding them.  _Well, that will be amusing I expect_ , he thought with morbid humor.  
"Obviously," he indulged in telling her, making Ahura smirk knowingly but the third assistant, another girl sharing Bryn's short dark colored busy curly hair that flew around as it if was irritated at the slightest air currents, and the black eyes that made the pupils invisible, frowned.

"And you are Bryn's sister, I suppose," he stated. She looked to be his age, and as much as Bryn's black irises gave her a look of amusing inebriation, this older girl that was maybe even older than him had a look of eeriness.   
"I am Isyl, my lord, and Bryn is indeed my youngest sister, just through with her apprenticeship. But I am experienced enough," she added and Aaron arched an eyebrow at how the tone was threatening.

"Here is what we are up against," Aaron began. He had no time for idle observations, interesting though they were. "The ghastly state of neglect of this edifice is obviously our primary priority; and by the glaring abstention of the authorities of this town to be even present for niceties, it is safe to expect they will not be of any sort of assistance, at least for now."  
Bryn's brightness seemed to dull a little, and Aaron schooled his face to be straight instead of smirk. He continued.   
"As such, we will need to shoulder many more tasks and duties than we are supposed to for the while we get this Hospice running again. I do  _not_  want to see or hear grumbling when I assign them to you."

He waited for a moment, glancing at all three assistants as if daring their faces to be anything but blank or determined, and nearly rolled his eyes when he saw that it was his Second, Nashya, who wore the mask of horror. Lovely. _  Just wonderful._

He breathed in and started pointing his finger, assigning tasks.   
"Ahura, continue hauling out all the bedding, and set fire to it. Make sure I won't have to contain any flames, but I want all the filth incinerated by tonight. Bryn, you do the same for all the utensils and anything else that is smaller than a bed frame."  
"Burn them?" the girl asked incredulously.   
"No, disinfect them," he barely bit back an adjective. "Isyl, you can find your way in this town although we're newly arrived, correct?"  
"Of course," Isyl said defensively.   
"Good- go find where the guard is, and tell Captain Daryan I will need his men to come and sanitize the edifice. Now. Nashya, oversee and write down the supplies we will charge the Prefecture for; we will send for the bulk of the wares tomorrow morning, early." Aaron's voice had a tone of relish as he gave that last direction.  _Prefect, you'll assist me whether you like it or not._

The assistants hurried to their tasks, and Aaron about turned to leave, towards where Gail and the carriage were. Nashya frowned.   
"Where are you going?"  
"To see to re-stocking the elixir cache, among other things," Aaron replied as he hopped on the mare easily. He grit his teeth as he started towards the bridge again.  _And see what that scrap of a codger was on about the latest Healer Second._

It turned out that weaving through the city was not that hard, as all the streets and paths and sideroads were designed to converge to the main hubs of the city: the river ports and the two great squares on either side of Ryadon. People instinctively made way for him the moment they saw his long hair and tunic that signified his caste, shying away or bowing respectfully, and thus, though the main roads were alive with people Aaron found it very easy to move through them.

Gail's hooves echoed against the cobblestones and merged with the rest of the clamour of peddlers and groups of men or women arguing. It grated on his nerves every time a shriek or high pitched laughter broke through the hubbub, and his anger pulsed around him begging to be released to any willing target. Everything was harder than it should be, and he could imagine his father cackling at him from some corner just beyond his line of vision, challenging him to make it with this filth.

_Keep it together. It's not the people's fault if you arrived to a shambles._  Aaron straightened up and breathed in as Gail dropped from trotting to a brisk walk.  _See what you'll be dealing with, instead._

It was instantly obvious that there were gross differences between different categories as Aaron scrutinized the bystanders and workers and sellers swarming around him, going about their business: most people, of course, looked healthy and strong. But those that didn't, looked decidedly haggard, worn down, as if they had been battling or living with their ailment or problem for far longer than they would need to if they had had proper access to care. Aaron could see several levels of deterioration especially to those that looked to share social conditions.

There were also stark differences in wealth- not only due to the obligatory different caste garb, but in the quality of clothing, the opulence in tools and merchandise, and especially the adequacy of food. It was obvious that the Prefect of Demesne was not taking care that all his people were seen to and not allowed to starve.

It was nothing Aaron hadn't seen before. If not for the dreadful abandonment of the Hospice, he would have completely shrugged it off as run of the mill, and moved on. But things being as they were, it worried him that the Laws were being trampled on and administration here shamed the Sorcery Tower that swore to battle all darkness and protect the people of Alias from wasting away in times of peace.

Aaron banished the thought from his mind, but he knew what he would eventually be forced to do. It left a foul taste in his mouth and a matching expression on his face.  _Don't be hasty; maybe it will straighten itself out,_  he tried to soothe himself as the rather narrow street finally widened, signaling his approach to the town centre.

Indeed, very soon, he reached the great Lower Square, one of the two squares that the old arched stone bridge connected across the river. It was huge, wide, set with the same infernal cobblestone and almost circular. Many roads ended in it, and several carriages, wagons, mules and donkeys were ambling along as their owners went to and fro in their day's work. On his right, Aaron saw a large inn built of stone, with wide windows of yellow glass. A large sign swung over its door in the slight breeze, of a running boar, and its bright red doors were wide open as the keepers were bustling around preparing for sundown. On his left, conveniently enough, there was a great winery, looking vaguely like a stone barn. Empty barrels were stacked up high at the front, and on the other side lidless ones were being prepared for the year's yield. Yeast wafted from there in heavy waves mixed with the dull, sinister smell of congealing blood and rotting flesh from the butcher's, nearly opposite him.

Aaron made a face and coaxed Gail towards the inn, where he bound her reins and walked in. The main room was wide and airy, letting the sun stream in. Long wooden tables and benches lined it, and further inside another ring of independent tables with stools stood, yet leaving the centre free for dancing and merry making. Aaron smirked to himself.   
"M'lord," approached a buxom woman and bowed. She was so blonde her hair was nearly white, and flying this way and that around her ears. "What'll be yer pleasure?"   
"I am Charge Healer Daryan," Aaron said in a clipped voice, "and I should like some information."   
He gestured for the woman to rise, which she did and nodded subserviently. Despite Aaron's forbidding expression, she looked greatly relieved upon hearing his title.   
"Whatever y'want, m'lord," she said eagerly. "What is it?"   
"I want you to tell me where I can find the Apothecary of this town, and Healer Myr Abyn."

The inn keeper snorted and rolled her eyes before she remembered she was before a High Elf and bowed once more before replying.   
"Healer Myr Abyn be at Upper Town, for sure," she scoffed with revulsion. "If y'ask for 'im at the  _Lion's Head_ , they'll call him for ya. Th' Apothecary's on Lower Market Road, name's Kyle Gemyan. You'll see his shop just on yer left as you enter Lower Market Road."   
"What happened to the Hospice? Why isn't Myr Abyn at his post?" Aaron asked further, knowing well from Cessile that inn keepers and hair dressers were the best sources of information one could easily access.

The woman threw her hands in the air.   
"Ah, sire!" she sniffled, looking at him for sympathy already. Aaron's face remained impassive. "After Charge Healer Lymyn died in the Pestilence of '99, 'is Second ordered t'abandon the Hospice. After that, 'e never returned to it."   
"So, there is another Hospice in Demesne?" Aaron asked hopefully. The inn keeper looked at him incredulously, then shook her head.   
"Balance, no," she said loudly. "There's only  _The Lion's Head_  inn or yer house, if ya want Myr Abyn to look ya over. But ya need to pay at least a whole silver, so it's only for the Upper Towners anyways."   
"I see," Aaron nodded. "Well... what is your name?"   
"I'm Ailbye, sire, thanks for asking," she said. Aaron nodded impatiently.   
"Yes, yes; I have a task for you, Ailbye: you are to inform anyone in need that as of tomorrow, there is a new Charge Healer in town, and the Hospice is reopened. No Commoner or Middle Elf shall need to pay for Healing, as is Alian Law."

Ailbye screeched in just the way that irritated Aaron, in order to express her delight and clapped her hands.   
"Oh, I will, sire, I will!" she said and bowed again. Aaron nodded and turned to leave, but stopped.   
"Oh- I shall leave my horse here for the while I am at the Market. The Hospice will need some steady cleaners. By the time I return, have any willing to take up this task waiting for me here; it pays a copper per month, and offers midday's meal as well."

With that, Aaron hurried out, smiling to himself. He decided against seeking out Myr Abyn at all or going to bang on the Prefect's door. They would crawl out soon enough, Aaron knew; and then the interaction would afford Aaron a far better vantage point. It would now serve better to get facts and stories- and allies- in those that had been slighted unlawfully, those seeking someone with the sense to follow Laws impartially and treat everyone with Justice.

And so, Aaron weaved through the long Lower Town Road, where the different stores selling food and basic house and kitchen ware stood in a haphazard row, with colourful tents jutting forward and benches with the best of the merchandise on display. First, he found the Apothecary, a short Sorcerer with three running children in his shop he seemed proud of. Aaron handed him the long list of special or dangerous ingredients for Elixirs, like snake and bee venom, odd tinctures and decocts like poppy extract or dried dandelion. Things Aaron preferred to prepare on his own, but a working Hospice needed to have ready stocks of. Along with the list, he got more information that the Prefect, Prefect Nantan, was one of the largest rice field owners and was only interested in maximizing profit.

Then, he went to the Herbalist next door, a lovely middle aged woman that reminded Aaron of Deacon somehow, and ordered everything else in the category of herbs that he could even remotely need. And along with that, he learnt that the most destitute part of Demesne was in the far end of Lower Town, where the shanties of the rice and wheat workers were- people that did more that one job to manage to eat, and could not afford to get sick.

Next was the grainmerchant, and how much prices were manipulated by Prefect Nantan, so that his friends could charge the sky, and all the rest denied to charge enough to have any sort of profit, and then the candlemaker's and how High Elves tended to leave debts one could only hope would be paid, and never dared demand.

It was afternoon, by the time Aaron made full circle back to the Lower Square and the Brewer to get the yeast necessary for several Elixirs, and return to the _Running Boar_. It shocked him to see just how many Commoners had gathered in Ailbye's inn to wait for him and beg to be selected for the Hospice cleaner's job. She wedged through them as they rose and hopped to him.   
"Master Daryan, sire! Here be they, all good, fine people for yar job!" she squawked. Aaron decided she reminded him of a rather overgrown duck, the way she seemed to swish her body like the bird does its tail.

Aaron gently pushed her aside with the back of his hand, and looked at them all. They were of all ages, men and women, even children, and they shared one great element: they were hungry. The clothes on their backs were worn to shreds, almost, and it was up to the ingeniousness and care of each of them to try and hide it. They were all gaunt or lean, and only age masked the exhaustion Aaron could feel in all of them.  _Cessile, what do I do? I cannot hire everyone, can I?_

A quick head count showed to be fifty candidates in front of him. An average Hospice needed only twenty cleaners at most.  _What do I do?_

"Those I point to, stand over here," he said in a sharp, strong voice. "The rest, stay where you are."   
Quickly, he separated the ones that felt healthiest and strongest in the group he would hire. There were only seventeen people he estimated to be strong enough to handle the hard work ahead of them.   
"All of you, consider yourselves hired if you present yourselves at the Hospice tomorrow at dawn."   
He waited out the varied adulations and thanks he got from those people, his eyes set now on those whose shoulders had dropped in stoic acceptance of disappointment. He straightened up a little, hoping that Cessile would somehow know of this now, because he wouldn't be able to bring himself to write it later with everything he was feeling.   
"The rest of you, I expect to come after the sun rises to be examined, fed and assisted. You lot are  _dreadful_ , and I shall not stand to have you shame us before the Balance for lack of food in your belly," he drawled, and about turned to leave before the stunned surprise turned to effusiveness he wouldn't know how to react to.

As he hopped upon Gail, amidst people that bowed to him and looked at him with smiles and thirsty hope, he sighed, shaking his head to himself. Gail leapt forward, and back towards the Hospice by the same route. Aaron found he didn't mind the hubbub and cobblestone noise that much any longer, amusing himself by adding up the prices for the bill he would send to the Prefecture. It would certainly be far more effective a summons for the Prefect than the herald announcing his arrival to Demesne had been. Aaron chuckled to himself and felt his spirits rise just at the thought of teeth being gnashed.

His spirits rose even more to see that Aren's men had indeed arrived and instead of the drab stink that seemed to have clung to everything around the hospice and within it, there was now a pleasant smell of cleanliness wafting in the air, mixed with traces of special thyme and alcohol mixes they had prepared from Renome for disinfecting large edifices. There were only embers left of the offending, infectious bedding and instead all the furniture had been pushed out in the yard to disinfect and clean, in the disciplined effectiveness that the army often had.

"You are back," Aren said the moment he had entered the yard and a soldier took over Gail. "This place is a nightmare!"  
"Yes, but not for long," smirked Aaron. "Soon, the nightmare will be in the Prefect Hall. When do you estimate to be finished?"   
"I believe by sundown the basic disinfecting will be done and you will be able to take over," Aren nodded, then he leaned towards Aaron a little. Aaron arched an eyebrow. "The Captain's Guard is in the Upper Square, and it looks like a mansion compared to this. I don't know what the matter is with this town."  
"I am beginning to learn," Aaron sighed, rolling his eyes.  _It figures you get the prime cut- again_. He smiled thinly at his brother and walked past him. "I need to see to my work."

Just inside the building, it was finally beginning to look like a Hospice. Nashya approached him to report.   
"Here is the complete list of supplies we absolutely need, sir," she said, handing him a scroll. "Fortunately there is adequate firewood in the shed in the back, and all the standard tools are in working order. I sent Ihsyan to get the absolute necessary items so that we can open the Hospice tomorrow."   
"How many beds will we have by dusk?" Aaron asked.   
"At least ten, and tomorrow or the day after I expect all hundred of them to be ready."  
"Sir," Bryn skidded from her trot up to them. "The kitchens are clean, crockery and everything is ready."

Aaron groaned, and shut his eyes for a second. Sod it, I forgot to have a cook hired. He breathed in.   
"That's good," he nodded to Bryn. "You will ask Captain Daryan to leave two men with us for these two days, and then you will get them down to the kitchen to begin preparations for commons tomorrow, and supper for us today.   
"Me?" Bryn blinked. Aaron's eyes flashed.   
"Yes, you! Do you need assistance to delegate simple tasks to soldiers?"   
"N-no, no sir," she managed to utter before she bolted.   
"Sir, why not ask Ihsyan to do it?" Nashya asked.   
"Because Bryn is green, and she needs to stop being inexperienced as soon as possible," Aaron muttered. "And because Ihsyan will be seeing to organizing and stocking everything that will be arriving soon, and which I ordered. Oh, and have Isyl arrange for a professional cook to be hired along with the servants. I have taken care of the cleaners."

By the time most of the soldiers had left, Aaron's Elixir ingredients arrived, and he had settled everything in the Apothecary room in the organization he preferred and was familiar with, he already felt exhausted.

_Don't be- you have only just begun_ , he told himself as he took to the workbench fair amounts of flax, dittany, cress, marjoram, willow's and birch's bark and basil, before deciding on milk instead of oil, at least for the first batch of strengthening, antiseptic and analgesic Elixirs that he would make.

_They won't sit at the shelf long before they are all consumed- especially by our cleaning staff_ , he thought with a smirk.

He opened the window wide to let in the night air that would soon come with twilight, prepared the girandoles and candelabra to be ready for lighting and set to work

#

#

# CHARGE HEALER FOR DEMESNE: PART III

**Alias, circa 1702 of the Archmage's Grace**

That first month had been grueling for everyone. To Aaron if felt like one blurred, continuous work session where he did nothing but go from workbench to beds and patients to seeing to administrative issues Nashya felt he had to personally decide on, and then back to the workbench or the beds with patients on. He was pretty sure he did sleep at times, but when or where was vague, since the more word got around that Demesne had a non-charging Hospice again, the more sick people-  _chronically sick_  people- seemed to crawl out of everywhere.

Aaron saved no time at all to go once more for a round in the city, like he had that very first day, or for any other thing than work and sleep, and when eventually he did get a summons to the Prefect Hall to meet with the Prefect, he turned it down saying he had no time.  _Chew on how that's like, and when maybe the destitution of healthcare in your city is somewhat ameliorated, I will pay you a visit and hand you more bills._  Aaron smirked as he leaned on the Elixir making counter rather heavily, waiting for his energy to be relinquished back to him as the concoction was done. It was very early in the morning- dawn had only just began hinting its arrival in the dark cool night sky out Aaron's wide open window, when there was a knock at his door.

Sighing with relief as his energy returned with the relief of a deep breath, he turned at the door with a frown.

"Enter."

It was Isyl that opened the door, with a small prim bow as always. Aaron felt his eyebrows heavy with a frown.

"What is it?" he asked in a rather clipped voice as he began ladling the Elixir that had just been completed into vials.

"Sir, there is a young boy that is asking to see you."

"Who is it?" Aaron arched an eyebrow.

"He will only tell me his name, sir- Sabba. He is a Commoner, but-"

"Have Ihsyan see to him. I can't be seeing to every street rat that stumbles in the Hospice," Aaron snorted, waving Isyl out without glancing at her. Suddenly he was feeling tired. "In fact, if he is not in need of assistance, send him away and tell him to come back when there is something seriously the matter with him. And do not disturb me until at least midday. Am I clear?"

Isyl's eyes shone with the cold fire of disapproval she was not in a position to voice with impunity, that deprecating glance that always grated on Aaron's nerves before she turned on her heel and walked out the door- leaving it open despite Aaron's constant demands that they close them behind them.  _She is doing it on purpose. As if she is the designated silent evaluator around here,_  Aaron snorted irritably in his mind as he swatted his hand in the air and the door slammed closed by itself under his command.

But with the fading of the sound, the Elixir workroom seemed to grow empty and his presence in it redundant. The heaviness on his shoulders that weighed on him the moment he had to talk to another person-  _it   **had**  to be Isyl, hadn't it?_\- spread now to his shoulder blades, his back, and the base of his neck. The last of his draught safely stored away in the last vial, he put the ladle down and avoided glancing at the ingredients for the next one he had planned to make for the day, before he could go and have some breakfast. Suddenly he just did not have the energy to start.

He sighed as he pulled the band keeping his hair tied up high in an efficient ponytail on his head. With a small grimace as even the roots seemed to ache with strain, he brushed his fingers through his hair and walked to the window, to gaze outside at the street. There was no grand vista to be seen from any window in the Hospice, burrowed as it was in the middle of Demesne's Lower Town, but the Elixir workroom window oversaw a rather quiet stone-laid side street where occasionally children waiting for their parents in the Hospice would gather up to play. And while Aaron didn't particularly appreciate rowdy children under his window, happy kids in that particular street meant his Hospice was doing its job. It was the only touch with the outside that he got as feedback of how the people fared. If he wanted to be completely sincere with himself, it was the only piece of feedback from how the people fared that he  _allowed_  himself, after that one time in the Market.

He leaned on the sill and breathed in the crisp air, eyes closed, listening to the echo of the cargo carriages ambling towards the various shops full of merchandise, their wheels cracking against the cobblestones of the main roads.  _Maybe I should sleep a little, and allow Nashya to brew the next batches. It will do no good if I am too tired to oversee or perform any serious Healing._  He felt the tiredness spreading along his bones, and remembered how his mentor said that such sensations should be respected, or a Healer may be turned into a patient by his own excessive spending of energy. Aaron did not want to experience illness due to exhaustion from Healing ever in his life. That he had begun sensing what up to then Cessile had only described to him, served to decide on rest before breakfast, and perhaps even afterwards, too.

Turning from the window just as the sky began lighting its way into dawn, Aaron tiredly put away the ingredients he had prepared, and left the dirty utensils of his last Elixir making neatly stacked at the table side so that one of the Hospice servants would come and wash them. Walking out of his workroom he took in the ordered appearance of what had only weeks before been a derelict abandoned dump with due satisfaction: the air was fragrant with the thyme of the cleaning agent, and imbued with the smell of Healing- a mix of Elixir fumes and fresh bedding hay. The beds were in neat rows, their bedding folded and awaiting use if they were empty while the patients on the ones that were not, were cozily tucked in with blankets and crisp sheets. There were Hospice servants at the four corners of the room sitting vigilant in their chairs, waiting to immediately clean away any mess made. Isyl and Bryn walked around the beds in turns, or gave orders in low voices.

Nashya walked up to him the moment he entered into the room, ready to do his bidding. Aaron's chest swelled with pride. This was  _his_  work, and his alone- and when the Prefect and him would meet, it would be Aaron with the upper hand, and the Prefect who would need to convince the new Charge Healer why not to send the condemning reports of the man's prefectship to the Sorcery Tower.

"Sir, breakfast is not yet quite ready," she began slightly anxiously, as if afraid she was not keeping schedule properly. Aaron waved her off.

"I am aware of that," he said dismissively. "Is everything in order here?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Everything is just fine. We are probably going to send two of our charges on their way today- and Isyl is composing their regime so they can build back their muscle, as well as the Elixirs necessary to provide them with energy while they keep recuperating outside the Hospice."

"Good," Aaron nodded reluctantly; he knew about the two field workers well enough- they had been so exhausted that Aaron had performed the initial healing of their torn and abused muscles and tendons in their too-thin bodies himself. It had been plain to his senses that the culprit for the two Commoners' critical condition when they had arrived in the Hospice a week ago had been too much work and not enough food.

The fact had angered him and disturbed him, and created a reluctance to go out of the Hospice to meet with Demesne's dwellers ever since, as if he didn't want to have to come face to face with cruelty he would then have to do something about, cruelty that would inadvertedly pitch him against the officials of this city- for Aaron didn't forget the condition of the Commoners who had sought their employment at the Hospice.

Aaron didn't want to have to deal with something that massive so soon. He felt too tired for it just yet.

"I have sent Ahura to their employer to ensure that Law is followed and they are allowed back to employment, and their prescribed regime respected," Nashya dutifully continued giving her report. "I expect him to be back by midday."

"Ah, so you finally divulged who was responsible for their destitution apart from their own selves?" Aaron sneered. Laws were laws; there was no reason why these men would allow themselves to become so overworked, Commoner or not. They should have petitioned for their rights, asked a Scribe to write down a demand for a Law Arbitrator to be sent from Renome so that employers and land owners would remember not to act as savages in the interest of profit. That they had not had made Aaron cold to the predicament laid out before him. And when the two men had refused to disclose whose lands it was they had been working, fear in their eyes that bordered to terror, Aaron had nothing but disdain for them.

Nashya chewed the inside of her lip, as she always did when holding something back, Aaron had noticed. He wondered what it was that she felt would be inappropriate in the context of debriefing, but he was too tired to try and fish for it, especially since she curtly answered:

"Well, yes, sir. It was given to them to understand that this was the only way the Hospice would be able to continue to protect them."

"I see; and who is that mysterious employer they are so afraid of, then?" Aaron drawled, starting to walk across the great Hospice room towards his quarters with Nashya at his side.

"Erm... they work at Prefect Nantan's rice fields, sir." Nashya's voice was a little numb.

Aaron's heart sank and his stomach constricted. He had not expected that. He paused with a frown and looked at Nashya.

"Prefect Nantan's rice fields, you say? Surely the Prefect does not breach the Laws. They are probably lying."

"Maybe, sir, it's not the Prefect that is breaching the Law," Nashya said, "but his Overseers. They may be trying to curry favor by pushing the workers too much."

Nashya's eyes weren't too hopeful as she provided this explanation, but Aaron latched onto it with a hopeful fervor that surprised him.

"Correct; that must be it. Thank you, Nashya- that is all for now. I will withdraw to my quarters to rest. I am not to be disturbed unless calamity has befallen the Hospice or someone is bound to die without me. Understood?"

Nashya made her customary half-bow.

"Yes, sir."

Aaron nodded and walked to the stairs- but as he put one foot on the first step, he turned to Nashya again.

"Oh, and Nashya- when Ahura returns from the fields, notify me immediately. I want to speak to him the moment he is back."

Nashya bowed again, and Aaron hurried up the stairs as if he were being chased.

He sent away the servant that came to assist him, and shut the door, resisting the urge to lock it. The Charge Healer's door was never locked. Leaning against it, Aaron brushed his fingers through his hair and breathed out, trying to soothe the harsh heartbeats of his heart. There was no need for this sort of reaction, no need to feel anything was amiss, and yet Aaron felt like there was not enough air in the room to breathe.

"Focus," he whispered to his own self. "Just breathe."

If Prefect Nantan was the rice field owner, he would not be exempt from responsibilities in the face of the Law. High Elves not ensuring that those under their authority were living within the Law of the Balance were not dealt with impunity or leniency, if of course brought to Justice. Now the gossip from the markets he had learned but had been too reluctant to follow up on returned to haunt him, and the tiredness he was feeling increased ten fold. He sighed deeply, and leaned off the door and towards his bed.  _Sleep. I need to sleep. I can't think clearly right now._

He peeled off his clothes with loose movements and threw them carelessly over the stool nearest to him. Suddenly, his strength was sapped in a more massive and absolute way than any Healing or Elixir ever had up to then, and the room spun once just outside the periphery of his vision. In his underclothes, he almost collapsed on the wide wooden bed, not even bothering to shut the curtains around it to shield from the now strengthening daylight streaming in from his window. He didn't find it in him to pull on his nightgown, and he just stayed there, face nearly pressed against the pillow, hoping that sleep would come before the dreaded thought could pass through his head fully formed:  _If Prefect Nantan sets the example for the work conditions here, just how many High Elves, including him, will I be forced to report to the Council of Five? And just what will happen to me and all my hard work to get where I am?_

Aaron groaned into the pillow and turned slowly on his side to gaze upon the ceiling of his room, direly wishing for Cessile's advice. To report on a High Elf, much less a Prefect, was serious. Evidence had to be more than conclusive, or the one who would end up in trouble would be the one making the report. Would emaciated Commoners count as conclusive evidence, or would it be chalked up to poor Commoner self-care as he had heard so often discussed among Healers? Would the state of the Hospice upon his arrival be considered Nantan's fault, or just Myr Abyn's, who was not as high up the ranks as the Prefect he was serving?

And if he couldn't make it so that his report and accusations would be impossible to be denied, would Aaron be dismissed from the Healer ranks? That would be a disaster, and just what his father would hope and wait for, so that Aaron would be pressed to crawl back, tail-between-his-legs, to beg for help. Aaron's teeth clenched.  _Never! Do you hear that Jahan? Never! I'd rather go live in the wilderness like  Cessile, or even in the Outer Rim if I am banished- but never back to you!_

"Sir?"

Aaron started, waking up at the gentle prod. He hadn't realized he had fallen asleep. He blinked to the side, breathing in, and saw Bryn stepping back quickly. She looked half embarrassed and half intrigued, brimming with messages. Aaron rubbed his eyes and sat up.

"Ihsyan is back, isn't he?" he muttered, reaching for his shirt.

"Yes, sir," Bryn's hair bounced as she nodded. "He's waiting for you in the Staff Hall. Will you want something to eat, too? It is past midday."

Suddenly Bryn's eyes on him began to annoy him, and he waved her off.

"I will see to everything else," he said dismissively, and Bryn reluctantly turned to leave, shutting the door behind her again.

Breathing in, Aaron pulled on the rest of his clothes and tied his hair back as was proper and walked out the door in quick, efficient, sweeping motions. The possible repercussions that could befall him still circulated hauntingly in his mind as he walked down the aisle to the room reserved for the Healers to dine. It rendered him already in a foul mood, angered at both the perpetrators of what he was unable to overlook any longer, and the victims that seemed to be passively accepting it. If they didn't bother to oppose Nantan's abuse of his Commoners, why should Aaron bother to help them at all?  _Cessile would have._  But he had asked Cessile that very question, and she had told him that he would have to experience the answer to be able to understand it.

"Tsk," he clicked his tongue in derision as he opened the dining room door. "Enough with all the idiocies."

Ahura Ihsyan stood as Aaron entered. The tall blonde man looked uneasy and almost fearful for the first time, glancing at Aaron with doubt.  _What are you doubting, Ihsyan?_  Aaron's irritation increased as he waved for his assistant to sit down, and he took a chair as well.

"I trust you escorted the two workers back to their homes," Aaron began.

"Yes, sir, I did." Ahura nodded, but he was not forthcoming with anything else.

"And did you go to see their employer?"

Ahura's eyes broke contact with Aaron.

"Eh... I did speak to the Overseer, sir. The one in charge of them. He said he would follow Hospice orders faithfully."

Silence ensued then, as Aaron was staring at Ahura, and Ahura at his hands. Aaron clicked his tongue again.

"Ihsyan, I believe by now you are aware of how I despise waylaying, are you not?" he said sternly in a sudden, clipped voice that made the other man rigid.

"Yes, sir."

"Therefore be advised that if you keep hedging and keeping the information I want from me, I  _shall_  see to it that you are in perpetual bedpan duty."

Ahura's eyes seemed to momentarily light with mirth before they darkened again.

"Sir, most of the workers there are in similar conditions," the assistant began. "The shanties they live in are invitations for disease and their infants die of things that can be averted. The Overseer told me that most of the workers are paid in food rather than coin or they are dismissed from their jobs."

"I see," Aaron said, remembering just how many had rushed to his call for employment the day they had arrived. "So you, as Assistant to the Healers, estimate that there is fear of epidemic in the rice fields of Prefect Nantan?"

Ahura's eyes flashed with excitement at Aaron's question- for Plague Danger was one of the few ways that Healers could outrank the officials of the city or town they served in. Aaron smiled thinly and arched an eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Definitely, most definitely, sir," Ahura said quickly, relieved for more things than Aaron could fathom.

"Excellent; I will inform Nashya that tomorrow she will be acting as Charge Healer in my stead here, as I will be visiting those rice fields to ascertain the validity of your estimations and prescribe measures if I so deem. Send word to Captain Daryan I will need an escort, and have someone bring me whatever it is there is to eat," Aaron said, feeling his stomach unclench somewhat as Ahura rushed out to do his bidding.

If he could restore order through the Plague Danger provision in the Law, then there would be no need for any report to be made that would put everything he was working for at risk. Aaron couldn't help a grin of triumph as he heard the servants bringing him supper. What would Cessile think of this clever handling?  _I haven't written to Cessile since I got here. Time I did._

And so, after eating to his heart's content, seeing that everything was still well in the Hospice, Aaron instructed Nashya regarding the next day, retired to his room once more and after writing a rather long letter to Cessile, he slept much more easily and readily than he expected.

At dawn, Aren with a picket of five men escorted Aaron and his assistants towards the rice fields. Aaron arched an eyebrow.

"You do realize it that it wasn't required of you to come in person with me," he told his brother as once again they were riding side by side at the head of the picket, Isyl and two Hospice servants surrounded by the footmen.

Aren chuckled.

"True, but I haven't seen you for days upon days, and I had begun to worry the Hospice had eaten you."

Aaron chuckled, too, but at Aren's now low, serious tone, he stopped and frowned.

"The Prefect came to 'officially greet' me a couple of days ago. He was asking me all sorts of questions about you."

"I would expect him too," Aaron snorted. "Did he mention bills?"

"He tried to, but to be honest I wasn't interested in hearing him out. I too am busy, you know; the Guard building is all fine, but the organization in the actual Guard is absolutely dreadful. There was no way to check whether the Law is upheld anywhere. I only just managed to get some sort of control in the Lower and Upper markets. It's wild!"

Aaron chuckled. "Oh, I know exactly what you mean."

"Anyway, I expect he'll be doing the same to you too, soon," Aren sighed, glancing around as they left the city. The fields surrounding it were already in sight.

"We are going to his fields on business, Aren; I will be really surprised if he isn't there."

Aren glanced at his brother's profile upon hearing the stony tone of those last words.

"Is there really a Plague Danger, Aaron?" he asked softly.

Aaron nodded.

"Of course there is- the same Danger that there is in this entire city. Nantan is not a Prefect but a profiteer. That much has been rendered clear. I was simply... hoping he was simply negligent, not active in enforcing this... this  _misery_."

Aren was silent for a while. Then he asked:

"And this is your solution?"

"This is my first attempt," was the only thing Aaron would say.

The Overseers of the Nantan Fields, just like Aaron had predicted, were soon seen galloping up to meet them. There were three of them. Aaron's face smoothed out all traces of expression.

"Greetings, Charge Healer," the apparent leader of the three said. "We are the Lord Nantan's Head Overseers, I am Myhr, at your service. We received word of the potential danger your Assistant warned, but we assure you, that such does not exist."

"That we will ascertain, rest assured," Aaron said in that painful neutral voice that clearly stated no favor as yet won with him. Aren took care not to cringe at it or smirk.

"Yes, well, if you would escort us to the Lord's estate," Myrh tried again.

"I would not," Aaron said. "I have come here, leaving my Hospice, for a very serious potential  _threat_  Overseer Myrh. I am not interested in exchanging pleasantries before I have seen if there is such a danger in the first place. Besides, I do think that Prefect Nantan is a man of work and not interested in superficialities when there are other priorities, as he has well demonstrated ever since my arrival in your city."

Overseer Myrh looked at a loss for what to say- being a Middle Elf didn't help matters either, nor the obvious barb about Nantan's lack of acknowledgement of the young, but obviously not dismissible man opposite him.

"Have one of your men escort me to the actual  _fields_  and the housings of the workers, Myrh. That is what I am here for. But if you absolutely must, you may lead my Assistant Isyl to see the Prefect in my stead," Aaron couldn't help a mirthless smile at the Overseer as he offered this 'compromise' which would, actually, be more insulting to the Prefect than complete dismissal of the invitation. Aaron heard Isyl fidget behind him.

"Eh... eh, no, that's quite all right," Overseer Myrh rushed to say. "Please, Charge Healer, follow us."

The rice fields were vast murky square patches of water, with narrow dirt paths for horses and two-wheel hand-pulled carts. Already the neat rows of rice were beginning to be formed as numerous men, women and children bent over, planting the plants in the knee-deep water field. Some were wearing oddly shaped straw hats, some were not. Overseers waded or walked idly around the workers, inspecting and ensuring that everything was done right, especially where the work was being done by especially young children. While work was being done in an efficient pace, the scene did not give Aaron the sensation of constructive production that he had seen among the farmers that Cessile would oversee, with him in tow as her Apprentice. There was exhaustion here, and a lack of the spark that he would never have believed possible to miss from those who work land, and grow the food that feeds everyone else.

But then again, the farmers in the Northern planes were robust, well fed, these were thinned out stick figures like those a child would draw in the dirt with a stick. There was a low hum of chatter and interaction among those working fields, in the Northern planes where he Apprenticed. Even in the periods of harsh and adverse circumstances, periods where Cessile had to do more than fix the occasional injury, there was no feeling of desperation as what Aaron was now witnessing in the moves of these rice workers, the silence and heaviness in the atmosphere.  _There are not enough water carts for them_ , his mind provided idly.

Gritting his teeth, he dismounted.

"Isyl, follow me. Overseer Myrh, I have no more use for you. Leave."

"But sire," the Overseer look frightened, but Aaron didn't care.

"I said  _leave_."

"You heard the Charge Healer's order, Overseer. Leave, and you will be called should you be needed," Aren asserted further as the man lingered, afraid to leave the Healers rampant at the rice fields. He nodded to one of his men, and he took one step towards the Overseer, hand on the scimitar's hilt.

The man bowed and ran off.

Aaron didn't give him another thought. Gesturing for Isyl to follow him, he walked along the dirt paths alone, leaving Aren to keep everyone else at bay. Rice workers that caught sight of him stopped slowly raised their bodies only to bow again, the overseers among them barking orders to pay respects to the visiting Healer.

"Isyl, tell those imbeciles that should I want respects to be paid to me, I will stop and indicate as much. I want everyone to continue what they were doing," Aaron's voice was clipped and stern.

Isyl obediently relayed the message, and the overseers stopped ordering the workers. For the longest time, Aaron did nothing more than walk along those long dirt paths around the rice paddies, stopping at moments, glancing at some and completely overlooking others, Isyl nodding when he pointed or spoke. The sun was high in the sky when finally, Aaron called the overseers again and ordered them to let the workers break to eat.

"They eat at home, sire, not here, when the day's work is done," the overseer said numbly instead.

"I see," Aaron said, unsurprised. "In that case, by Healer's order, dismiss them for the day and let them go to rest and eat. Or there will be more than a Plague Danger in my report."

It took a while for the workers to realize that they had been unexpectedly given a holiday. Aaron hoped to feel some embers of the spark of hope or joy rehash in them, but none came that he could feel in the faded Presences of these people. As they meekly began to gather in large groups-  _gaggles, really_ \- Aaron nodded to Isyl.

"Come, let us follow them to their shanties and be done."

"Will you issue the Plague Danger?" Isyl's eyes burned with withheld rage.

"At least," Aaron said quietly, watching the people move slowly while the children ran around like flocks of little birds.  _Children still have this spark_.  "But I am also thinking for more than that."

"Thank you," Isyl said, for the first time her eyes not harboring scorn for Aaron. He arched an eyebrow.

"Law is law," he began, about to launch in an attestation of his faith in it, but he was cut off.

It was a child, not more than ten years of age that had broken off the groups of workers retreating to the shanties, that was standing at a safe distance from Aaron and Isyl, but definitely before them. His eyes were large in his gaunt face, whitewashed blue, the only thing alight upon him.  _Rickets will set in soon if he doesn't eat_ , his senses informed Aaron in the back of his mind.  _He hates me_.

"What does that child want?" he asked.

"That's Sabba. I wasn't aware he was from these fields. He came yesterday, I think," Isyl's voice was studiously nonchalant, but memory bit at Aaron's heart. The street rat that I wouldn't see to. _  He hates me._

"Come here," he ordered, his voice sharp and cold- the boy, Sabba, flinched, fear crossing his features for a moment before he found it in him to approach.

"Bow to the Charge Healer," ordered Isyl as was protocol.

"No, Isyl," Aaron almost growled. "Boy- your name."

"Sabba, sir." The boy's eyes shifted uncertainly from the ground to Aaron's face and then back down.

"You asked for me yesterday, I am told. Well then, what is it? I assume you still want to see me."

"No, sir," Sabba's voice was dripping acid.  _He really does hate me!_  "Not 'nymore, sir."

"And why is that? You do know it is punishable to ask for Healer assistance without need, do you not?" Aaron's voice became sharper as well. Sabba shivered and flinched but he swallowed and shook his head.

"Yeah," he muttered, forgetting to answer properly. "Yeah, I know 's much... but yes'day she is alive, ya see, and now she isn't."

Aaron frowned.

"What?" he barked. "Speak up and speak better, boy! What are you saying?"

"Me sister!" Sabba's voice cracked and a couple of tears made paths down his dirtied cheek. "Me sister's dead,  _she_  needed ya, ya wouldn't come!"

For a moment, Aaron was struck dumb, not knowing what to say.  _Maybe she's not dead yet_.

"Where is your sister now?" he asked urgently. "Quickly boy! Have you already buried her?"

"T'day after werk," Sabba sniffed and rubbed the tears off, smudging his face. "She at our hut."

Aaron let out a loud whistle, and Gale leapt from where she had been waiting near Aren, thundering to him and skidding only just in time. Sabba cowered, but still did not flee. Aaron realized that it had been Isyl that kept the nearby overseer away so that he or Sabba wouldn't be interrupted.

"Alright, boy," Aaron said quickly and reaching out, grabbed the child from the armpits without warning and lifted him up. With a little cry, Sabba found himself upon the horse. Aaron mounted right behind him, holding him in the saddle. "Let us see what there is to see."

It didn't take long to get to the shantytown where the workers lived. It was a huddle of wooden, mud and hay buildings made by the workers themselves with haphazard paths for streets. It reeked of excrement and garbage even at its fringes, where Aaron was forced to leave Gale- there would be no efficiency in riding her into those narrow little pathways, over and under old men and women and children too young to work just yet.

Sabba led him without preamble through a series of such streets where people couldn't move fast enough to part for him, nor did they realize they had to in time. Aaron's shoes and robe hem soon became muddied in the ground that looked more hospitable to rice than men.  _How many of these have not even bothered to walk the distance to the Hospice to come for me like Sabba did?_  Aaron avoided the glances of those pulling their feet or hugging the mud walls of the houses to let him pass. He had thought he had already done good work.

"We's here," Sabba said in a voice that caught, and pointed at a hut with just one opening serving for a door. It looked like an ant hive on its side to Aaron, the hay roof over it sprinkled carelessly and promising to dissolve at the first sign of rain. Aaron just walked in, hoping beyond hope that there would be something to salvage so that Sabba's eyes wouldn't look upon him with such hatred.

It took a moment for his own eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness of the hut, but he finally saw the body huddled at the far end of the hut floor, wrapped in something thickly woven. He took the one stride needed to get to the prone woman's side and knelt, uncaring for the dirt, and gently uncovered her.  _Please, be in there._

The moment he touched her, he knew that the woman was as good as dead. Aaron cussed quietly and shut his eyes, placing one palm at her forehead, the other at the center of her torso. Channeling his flow powerfully and urgently, he let the failing body tell him what was wrong- and in his urgency, to try and heal what would ensure life. It was a difficult task, one that he had only lately begun to try with Cessile's advising, but it was Aaron's fault that he needed to apply such skill.

It was a body that filled Aaron's Awareness with images of horror and pain and fear and terror, together with a desperate resistance that ultimately led her to her death- for had she not fought back, had she not tried desperately to beat away the one wishing to force himself on her she might still be able to live. Blows to the head, fists to the ribs, kicks to the loins and breaks to her limbs- it was all more than an already depleted body could handle. Bleeding in her belly would be what would condemn her, Aaron knew- because for the lack of energy fueled by food and health, whatever Aaron's powerful cast Healed only gave way seconds after, making it impossible for the Healer to continue. A failing body such as this would need the skill of Aaron's mentor, not Aaron himself.

But still, however futile, Aaron felt it was impossible to give up, impossible to let her go even now at the threshold, because it would be  _his_  fault. And so he poured his strength into the woman, and sweat drenched his brow and back, and still what heHealed collapsed before he had the time to anchor it with his own Presence, what only High Healers would be able to do.

"Yer waking her! She's wakin'!" Sabba called from behind Aaron's back with hope, but Aaron was too far into his concentration to listen to the boy's voice.

Time seemed to pass like centuries before Aaron's own heart began to palpitate irregularly, trying not to follow the beat of the woman's but rather force it to be the other way around, but too much energy had already been spent, and the Charge Healer's strength was ebbing.  _I won't give up. This is my fault. Mine._

Cold, very cold hands weakly gripped his own, and Aaron's dwindling energy let him be distracted, and the Healing be breached.

"No!" he gasped, panting now, but knowing he had failed. He wasn't good enough. He had-

"Thank ye," whispered the woman. The same whitewashed blue eyes as Sabba's were gazing back at him, heavy lidded.

"Don't thank me," Aaron said bluntly. "I haven't saved you."

"No... I saved meself," Sobba's sister said with serenity that surprised him. "But ye... took away the... cold, and th'pain. Feel all... warm, fed an' no pain. Thank ye."

Aaron found nothing to say to that, so he turned to Sabba and let him be next to his sister.

"Your sister is awake for one final time," he said in a voice devoid of tone. "Come speak to her."

"Sabba," smiled the dying woman as the boy took both her hands into his trembling ones. "R'member... I won... I won... b'cause he didn' get me, didn' do wha he wanted wi' me... so now, with no pain, I'm happy. R'member t' all, will ya?"

"Yes. Yes, Eysa. I will," Sabba's voice was full of the tears that Aaron wasn't seeing, and he stepped out of the hut.

He tried taking a few deep breaths, something to give him a handle on everything he was feeling- it was the first time he had failed at Healing, the first time he had not accomplished what he had set out to do, the first time his exhaustion did not serve to remind him of his triumph over illness and trauma. It didn't help, and the boy's, Sabba's, quiet crying from inside was harrowing to his ears as it now wafted out, heard easily despite the crowd of workers that had gathered, wedging themselves as tightly as possible in the two sides of the narrow path in order to watch the Healer fail.  _Get a grip, salvage what you can! Make sure-_

Aaron sprung into action although his mind was still reeling and his heart felt as if it had stopped to be the violent battlefield of his churning emotions. He yanked forward the worker within easier reach.

"Who... just  _who_  is responsible for  _murdering_  a woman that would not let him force himself on her? Do not even think of lying, for I will be infinitely worse than anything that Prefect might do to you," he said in a low voice of whisper that sowed fear in the other man's heart.

"The... the o-overseers do th'gals," the man stuttered, "when they's alone, sir. Th'-th' overseer! This- like Eysa- 'appens all the time, sir, nothin' new. Jus' Eysa wouldn' sit fer it, she ran, but yesterday, guess 'e caught up wi' her."

"Happens all the time, does it? And  _what_  does that  _Prefect_  do regarding his overseers brutalizing women, and murdering them?"

Nobody had any answer for Aaron, and the silence was heavy. Aaron grit his teeth and suddenly felt like invoking the power in the rice seeds nearby to demolish the place. But he held back.  _Her death was your fault. Don't you dare lash out as if it is someone else's!_  Aaron's mental voice berated him, and so he breathed in and ordered everyone to leave.

Then, as Sabba peeked from the hut door-hole, he pointed at he child.

"Boy, you are coming with me. You know who it was that was chasing your sister, correct?"

"Yeah," Sobba said uncertainly.

"Good," Aaron nodded, his eyes flashing steel. "Do not worry about your sister- I shall see to it she is tended to. You need Healing, and I need information. Come."

And taking the young boy's hand, he brusquely marched away from the forsaken street, with more purpose than one would expect.

I have declared Demesne under conditions of Plague Danger, Aaron wrote two days later, the quill filling the parchment with his small handwriting, and have imposed on all the workplaces Guards to enforce Law and ensure the regime prescribed for those needing it is kept. As long as I am here, I will not allow for anyone to be denied rest or food or Healing, although to be honest I do not expect myself to be here long. I filed charges against the man who assaulted the Commoner I failed to Heal, Eysa, and together with those against the Prefect for neglect and harboring crime.

Of course he has threatened to counterattack and defend himself before the Council, so I must expect to be removed from my position within the month since the trust of the authorities in me will be officially withdrawn to support Nantan. But I trust that Kellan Emstyn at least will see to it that Justice is served as Law requires. You have also spoken of Ustyan in good favor, so I am hoping Nantan will not continue to harrow this city even after I am gone.

I feel it is deserved for me to lose this post, as I failed to answer to a call of a patient- never mind that I was not aware of the circumstances at the time. I know well that I did not see to it that I be properly informed.

I have nothing to say for myself except that I will never forget this, Cessile. Of that I promise. I do realize now how hard it is for Commoners to defend themselves or summon a protector though the Law recognizes their right to one. I thought I would never say this for myself, but I have been arrogant and complacent, and that is probably a big part of the reason why a life I could have saved was lost.

I expect that Sabba will forever hate me despite the fact I saw to it that he is healthy now and begins an apprenticeship with a cobbler, and I certainly do not blame the boy in the least. I allowed him to lose far more than I can ever help him gain, and that cannot change.  I will forever remember him and Eysa too, and see to it that I never again feel that the Law by itself is enough for Justice to reign in our land.

I will remember it requires alertness and action to see that what is written is also applied; if I ever am given authority again, even over the tiniest of villages in a corner of our land, I will be sure to do so.

And then maybe I will have less people hating me for letting them lose what they can't ever regain.

Forever your apprentice,

Aaron

Aaron put the quill down and neatly folded the letter to Cessile, then let his face rest in his hands and cried quietly, hoping nobody opened the Healer's door that never was to lock.

# WANT TO READ MORE ABOUT AARON, AREN AND THIS WORLD OF MAGIC YET OFTEN BRUTAL EVERYDAY REALISM?

PICK UP YOUR COPY OF

_THE ART OF VEILING: AWARENESS_ by Tantz Aerine

NOW!

Continue to an epic journey of war, suspense, deceit, and the one in the Daryan family able to UnVeil the truth.

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in Montreal, Canada, of Greek background and Russian descent, Tantz Aerine, influenced by the Greek, English and North American cultures, draws connections and blurs her three fields of discipline, Literature, Psychology and Education in an innovative and creative way. She currently lives and works in Athens, Greece.

