Paragon of Destruction

"Is something funny?" the young woman next to Arran asked, giving him a questioning look.

Arran coughed several times, only partly succeeding in stifling his laughter. "My friend may have done something stupid," he said, his attention focused on the Governor’s daughter as she entered the dining hall.

Now that he got a better look at her, he saw that she was really quite beautiful — her flowing brown hair framed a well-proportioned face, and her dark eyes were large and alert.

When she noticed Darkfire, her eyes lit up, and she immediately approached him, seemingly unconcerned with what the others in the hall would think.

As she reached Darkfire, she cast a glance at the man who was sitting next to him — a wealthy merchant, judging from his elegant robe and slightly pudgy physique.

"Move!" she said in an unexpectedly firm tone that caused some looks of surprise among the other guests in the dining hall.

The man looked up at her with a startled expression, obviously unsure of what to do.

"Move!" she repeated. When the man didn’t move, she gave him an annoyed glare, then added, "Now!"

The merchant looked at the Governor, seemingly hoping for some sort of help with the situation.

"What are you waiting for?" the Governor said in a commanding voice. "My daughter told you to move!"

At this, the merchant hurriedly stood up and made his way to a different seat toward the back of the room, an unhappy expression on his face.

The Governor’s daughter smiled at her father, then sat down next to Darkfire.

To Arran’s astonishment, she leaned over, then gave Darkfire a short kiss on his cheek.

At once, Arran looked over to the Governor, fearful of what would happen next. Yet to his surprise, the man merely nodded, then went back to eating.

"The Governor is many things," the young woman next to Arran said in a low tone, "but a hypocrite, he is not." When he turned to her, he saw that she had a smile on her face.

Arran sighed in relief, understanding that he and Darkfire wouldn’t have to fight their way out of the palace. Amused though he had been by Darkfire’s predicament, he had also felt some worry at what the Governor’s reaction would be.

Yet from the look of things, there would be no trouble — at least not today.

Reassured, Arran turned his attention to the young woman next to him, hoping she could answer some of the questions he had about Hillfort.

"You’re a Shadowflame novice, right?" he asked, unwilling to bother with subtlety.

"Well-noticed," she replied. "Have you met any of us before?"

"A few," he said. "I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me."

"That depends on what those questions are," she said, a twinkle in her eye. "But first, perhaps we should introduce ourselves?"

"I’m Ghostblade," he said.

"Just Ghostblade?" she asked, smirking. "You don’t have a real name?"

The question took Arran by surprise. This was the first time someone had asked for his real name in a long time, and although he had little love for his nickname, there was something uncomfortably intrusive about the question.

"It’s Arran," he said after a moment’s hesitation. "No family name."

"A pleasure to meet you, Arran," she said. "I’m Amaya Tir. Call me Amaya."

The bright smile she gave him made him forget his questions, but only for a moment. Pretty though she was, with her long dark-brown hair, olive skin, and dark eyes, what mattered to him now was learning more about his prospects in the Sixth Valley.

"Why do the novices here place so much value on fighters?" he asked, starting with the most obvious question.

"You don’t know about the current situation?" she asked with a puzzled expression.

"I only arrived yesterday," Arran said truthfully. "I haven’t had time to ask around yet."

She gave him a thoughtful look. "Then you may have unknowingly stepped into a hornets’ nest."

"So what’s going on?" he asked.

"Not one for subtlety, are you?" She laughed as she spoke. "Very well. A little over a decade ago, the Patriarch of the Sixth Valley fell ill. Since then, several factions have formed around the main contenders to be his successor."

Arran frowned. "But what does that have to do with the recruits?" he asked. He could not imagine recruits having any influence on the selection of a new Patriarch.

"Recruits are future initiates," she replied. "And some will become novices, or rise even higher. The more of them a faction can bring in, the stronger that faction will be when the time comes to choose a successor."

"The factions are trying to boost their numbers?" Arran thought he was beginning to understand what was happening, although it still didn’t explain why novices would go so far as to bid on fighters in an auction.

Amaya hesitated for a moment before speaking. "In the beginning, novices would just take in more recruits — dozens, or in some cases even hundreds. But after the first few years, some of the less scrupulous factions decided that reducing the numbers of their opponents was as good as increasing their own."

"Reducing the numbers?" Arran asked in disbelief, both at the idea and at her discussing it so openly.

"Killing them," Amaya said bluntly. "Beyond the border, the Society does little to protect novices and their recruits — especially when their enemies are Society members themselves, with enough support to shield them from repercussions."

"So it’s a war," Arran concluded.

"It’s a war in all but name," Amaya agreed. "Once you step beyond the border, there are constant battles between the novices, along with their recruits. The strongest recruits serve as commanders, while the weaker ones are little more than soldiers."

"Do others get involved in these battles?" Arran asked. Novices and recruits he could handle, but anything stronger than that would be a real problem. "Adepts and Masters?"

"It hasn’t gotten to that point just yet," she said. "Having novices and recruits fight each other is one thing, but having the Society’s stronger members interfere... that’s something different altogether."

She hesitated, then added, "Although the way things are now, even that might not be far off."

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Arran looked at Amaya with some suspicion, unsure of both her motives and the truth of her words.

If she was speaking the truth, these hardly seemed the kind of things the Shadowflame Society would want discussed in the open.

"Because you asked, of course," she said. Then, with a resigned sigh, she added, "And it’s nothing you wouldn’t find out after staying in Hillfort for a week. But perhaps at the auction, you’ll be swayed by my kindness — if you prove to be worth something."

"I suppose I’ll have to win the tournament to prove myself?"

"Of course," Amaya replied with a playful smile. "If you can’t even do that, you’re useless. But if you do... I have several hundreds of recruits that still need a good commander."

Arran was about to respond when he noticed that the other people in the dining hall were beginning to stand up. As he looked around, he saw that the steward had once more entered the dining hall.

"Honored guests," the steward said, his voice as practiced as his smile. "Today’s entertainment is at an end. The Governor thanks you for your company, and bids you farewell."

Hearing those words, Arran stood up as well, following the other guests’ example in bowing to the Governor.

The first guests were already beginning to leave, and Arran was about to follow behind them when the Governor’s loud voice sounded through the dining hall.

"Darkfire," the Governor called out. "You and your companion are welcome to stay longer, if you would like."

Although the words sounded like an offer, the man’s voice sounded like a command, and Arran realized he had little choice but to stay.

He cast a frustrated look toward Amaya as she left the dining hall, realizing that his other questions would have to wait.

"Young master Ghostblade," a voice sounded.

When Arran turned around, he saw that the steward had appeared next to him.

"Please follow me."

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