Chapter 11: Part 11: The Taste of Electricity in the Air

Sebastian lost a few more cards to Destan over the course of that season and won quite a few as well — including that Hati card, of which he was very proud.

He had even made it a little frame, and set it pride of place on his bookshelf. It was carefully positioned where Destan'd had to see it any time he wanted to check the alchemy recipes in Sebastian's notebooks against his own. And the noise Destan had made when he had spotted it, on the hunt for a water-breathing potion that didn't taste quite so vile, oh —

Priceless.

Far too precious a treasure for Sebastian to take out with him on the Path. Risk some grubby village drunk sloshing an ale on it or a grebling gnaw on it or what have you? No thank you. Not when it held so much promise of entertainment for at least a handful of winters to come.

Mistide came and went with all its usual contradiction. The days of feasting and gaming and relaxation — or, that is, attempting to — despite the knowledge of what lay waiting for them just outside the walls.

By this point, the new boys from this year's Levy had finally stopped their bawling. Weeks of three hot meals a day tended to go a long way towards helping Eldfäst's newest recruits come to terms with their new lot in life. Or at least, what they thought they knew of it so far.

A few of the more pragmatic had even begun paying something like attention to the lessons they now found themselves faced with. They in turn would elbow their crying Levymates, hissing at them for silence so they could actually listen to their instructors, and thereby prodding their fellows into getting better.

Old Thamas certainly seems as happy as ever, Sebastian thought to himself over his breakfast as he watched the new recruits practice.

With Eldfäst's doors barred and barricaded shut, they were all pressed for space inside. And would continue to be, until the winter winds came howling down the mountain passes and blew the mist away.

Anyone wanting a turn in the workshops or alchemy labs had to sign up for a slot days ahead. The tables in the Great Hall were always full, day or night. As were the ones in the keep's library and even most of the classrooms nominally set aside for the trainees.

You couldn't even walk down a hallway without checking first to make sure someone wasn't using it as a casting gallery. Not unless you wanted to find yourself knocked flat on your ass by a stray Vindil, that was.

To compensate, this time of year each morning saw the front half of the Great Hall turned into a sort of makeshift weapons salle. The long tables that usually spanned the length of the Hall got shoved into tight rows in the Hall's back half until dinnertime.

Just as soon as morning's first light came spilling through the tall narrow windows, the trainees were given the dubious honor of first use. Under the baleful eye of Old Thamas they were set to practicing their drills; the promise of breakfast after an unsurprisingly strong motivator for the growing boys.

Meanwhile, the late risers among the Path-walking Relicts would watch them sleepily over their breakfasts, calling out encouragement and corrections. Or snickering and laughing at the mistakes as they spotted them, as if it were all dinner theater being put on for their amusement.

Red-faced and bellowing, Old Thamas was attempting — and failing — to run the haphazard lot of boys through even the most basic of forms. Sword drill after sword drill that made Sebastian's shoulders ache to see, even now.

He jumped in long ingrained reflex as the ancient instructor barked out a rebuke. Some unfortunate and terrified kid apparently had held his training sword at less than the prescribed angle. Sebastian's knee bounced in suppressed response, but he knew from experience it was useless and less than useless to try to and raise a complaint.

The instructors were convinced their methods gave the trainees their only keys to surviving the Ordeals that lay before them. That anything less was 'coddling' and guaranteed to end in a Graduation year like...

Well, like Sebastian's own.

But as the weeks passed, the trainees' efforts paid off and many of the boys were beginning to show some real progress.

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Those ones, Sebastian had been told, were the trainees the instructors kept an eye on; gave them extra training, and extra rations too. Old Thamas endorsed the idea that those were the trainees who tended to survive the whole process; to win their shot at Graduation.

And what Old Thamas believed, the rest of the instructors under him fell in line with as well.

But Sebastian couldn't help but wonder...the leg up probably didn't hurt their chances none. Caught himself at breakfast wondering perhaps more often than was good for him; what the numbers would be like if all the boys were afforded the same advantage.

He scowled into his porridge, hunching further over the warm bowl and tried to eat as fast as he could without completely burning his tongue. He left — certainly didn't flee — the Great Hall as soon as he was done, the sound of Old Thamas's voice roaring in his ears.

But soon enough Mistide passed; signaling an end to the holiday so the real work could begin.

Even with the snow piled up as high as a man outside the keep's walls, it was a relief when the doors were finally opened. That first few days, Sebastian and his fellow Relicts were like children again, stepping outside into the sunlight and fresh air only to nearly immediately go racing for cover as the first of the snowballs came pelting his way.

Anything that could be turned into a sled was. And those Relicts that possessed a pair of skis or skates made a brisk business renting them out over the next few months as their fellows indulged in the rare spot of free time that could be had during winter's scant daylight hours.

Work and weapons practice took priority of course, as much of it held outside as could be in all but the most bitter of weather. The keep became a veritable beehive of activity after the lassitude of the previous weeks.

In its turn, the bite of cold softened; winter drawing to its inevitable close as the seasons marched on. Snow melt washed in trickles and clumps over Eldfäst's rooftops and towers. The trainees' classes were moved outside to a great deal of grumbling.

Grumbling that ended quickly when after their own practice finished, the recovering trainees saw the Path-walking Relicts file into the courtyard next.

Their month of rest and recovery over, the mist faded for another year; it was now time for the Relicts to practice their own weapons work. To sharpen existing skills and perhaps pick up a few new ones. You could never be sure what might give you the advantage, what might make that mortal difference in a fight one day.

Winter couldn't last forever.

Soon the spring would come and melt the snows, and The Path would be calling once again.

 

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Author's Notes:

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