OoOoO

Castle Armathain had changed, and not for the better in Hithon's estimation. Where once there had been the soft click of slippers on sun-washed marble floors, now there was the creaking and clanking of armour. The end-of-summer garden parties had been cancelled, leaving Castle Armathain's fountains empty of copper ignums and the court jesters searching for other work. Instead of jewel laden nobles speaking together in smooth voices, the castle halls now rung with the gruff baritones of soldiers and the anxious chatter of pages running to-and-fro.

The castle wasn't the only thing that had changed since spring. Hithon found his family life was also much diminished. As far as aunts went, Ellorae was neither the most warm nor playful. Still Hithon missed her willingness to play checkers with him, especially since she wasn't one to let him win just because he was the king's son.

Missing his father was a strange feeling. Mahir had returned home from the port at Syrion a changed man. The loss of the Third Company in Utunma seemed to have stoked a fire within the king, a fire which until now had been only simmering. Mahir spent his days constantly on the move; from the barracks to meetings with the Magicol to consulting with the Masters of Warefare at the Academy and back. Although Hithon was very used to his father being a busy man, it was a new dissapointment to find Mahir pouring over maps, lists, and letters even long into the evening when the two of them usually spent time together. The book they had started last month hadn't even been touched since the last moondark.

Wheneven Mahir did speak to Hithon, it was of Factionists and rebellion and the Amenthis line. On these subjects the king was happy to spend as much time with his son as Hithon could stomach. Talk of treason and the punishment therof sickened Hithon though, and even though he could see the dissapointment in his father's eyes he always found some reason to excuse himself from these conversations. It wasn't that Hithon did not want what his father wanted; peace and a return to the way things were. It was just that he wanted those things without the war which Mahir seemed convinced was now inevitable.

It was from just such a conversation that Hithon was fleeing when he made his way to the SkyBridge. The guards on duty nodded him through with murmurs of 'Your Highness', and Hithon hurried to feel the open air. It was a bleak day, grey and overcast. There might be rain later, if the metallic scent on the wind was any clue. Hithon's summer cloak felt thin against the breeze. Perhaps it was time to have his autumn wardrobe brought out of the trunks. With things as they were now, who knew if the Harvest Feast would take place this year...

Strange sounds drew Hithon across the SkyBridge toward the upper rings of The Lair. Down on the floor of the arena, the Magicol was assembled for their daily training session. These sessions were a new routine for the Obads, and Hithon hadn't seem them practicing their craft openly like this before. The sight made the prince's mouth fall open.

Each Obad was paired with a weapons master from the Academy. The sorcerers were slow and deliberate with their new, unfamiliar weapons, but even so it was instantly apparent that only a master could have sparred with them.

Arzai and Frandel wielded short whips, long enough to strike at a man within five paves without being uncontrollable. The two Red Obads flicked and spun their whips cautiously, but even so their opponents kept their distance. They also wore full armour, the better to withstand an unexpected strike from one of those twin tongues of flame. Both Arzai and Frandel advanced, eyes blazing like coals from the heart of a forge and their whips trailing tongues of flame behind them as they hissed through the air.

A safe distance away, Bvhoros was reluctantly practicing strikes on a man-shaped wooden manequin with a mace. His weapons master stood to one side, arms crossed and offering critiques on form. The Green Obad's eyes when he nodded curtly to the swordsman were as vividly lit as his colleagues', summer-bright like the sun through a canopy of young leaves. Hithon could see now that anywhere Bvhoros' mace struck the target, wood instantly turned to stone and crumbled away into dust.

Only Davenir did not seem to be using magic...until Hithon inched down a few rows for a closer look. The weapons master stood twelve paces away from Davenir, a handful of throwing knives between his fingers. One-by-one he flung the knives straight at Davenir. One-by-one, each knife stopped abruptly in midair, as if striking an unseen force only a handspan from the Grey Obad's chest. Davenir slowly opened his eyes, and under his pearly gaze the knives quivered...rotated...and flew straight back toward the weapons master. The master was ready though. Quickly he brought the broad wooden shield laid at his feet up, and the flying blades bit in a perfect ring around the outer rim.

As for the Ovates, they were gathered off to one side. They sat cross-legged on the arena's coarse sand, eyes closed and heads bowed. It seemed none of the Magicol's youngest sorcerers had yet managed to achieve the skill of waking magic. Occassionally a puff of smoke from Ijireen or a sudden breeze ruffling through Brand's hair betrayed the use of their arts. All three Ovates' eyes remained closed though, their brows furrowed in intense concentration.

Suddenly Arzai's whip of flame winked out, leaving only a length of knotted black leather. The High Obad clapped her hands twice sharply, and the bowl of the Lair carried her words clearly to Hithon where he sat.

"That will be enough for today. Ovates, break your trances if you are not already free of them."

Brand, Ijireen, and Roran slowly roused themselves, like dreamwalkers emerging from a deep sleep. Brand wobbled upright on jelly-legs, and Hithon had to surpress a giggle at the other boy's expense.

"We return to the Tower of the Elements then, High Obad?" asked Bvhoros.

"For now, yes. I presume that you all have lessons planned this afternoon?"

The mention of lessons had each of the elemental pairs glancing toward one another. Davenir and Frandel were quick to depart with their respective pupils, Frandel with a poisonous look back over one shoulder at Arzai. Hithon wondered if Arzai had had something to do with Frandel's sudden change of hairstyle. Baldness did not suit the man at all.

Bvhoros stooped to where Roran was still seated on the ground. The Green Obad said something too low for Hithon to hear, and Roran responded in kind. Bhvoros nodded though, and set out for the stairs with Arzai, leaving Roran retying the laces of his shoe. He seemed in no particular hurry to follow the rest of the Magicol back to the castle.

The sudden urge not to be noticed seized Hithon, much as it had when he hid from his tutor amidst the flowering hedges of the castle gardens. In a single, smooth motion so as not to catch the eye, he slid down behind the seats of the row below him. The Obads ascended the steps on their way to the SkyBridge, but no one looked Hithon's way.

Once Bvhoros and Arzai were past, Hithon peeked up above the seats. Roran was rising to his feet down on the arena floor, not bothering to shake off the sand which clung to his leggings. He looked upward toward the stairs and saw Hithon standing amongst the empty rows of stone.

"Prince Hithon! My apologies, we did not see you there."

Hithon scampered down the stairs, a cheerful smile crinkling his cheeks. He knew he ought to be more dignified at ten years old than to skip about like a child, but he didn't feel like being princely at the moment. Instead he met Roran at the centre of The Lair.

"I didn't intend to be seen, so I'm glad," said Hithon. "Were you practicing waking magic?"

"The Obads were. I'm afraid I'm no closer to it than I was a week ago."

"Is it difficult? Magic, I mean."

Roran shrugged, smoothing back a tuft of foxy red hair. "No, not usually. It takes a lot of concentration though. It's like..." He cast about, searching for the words. "It's like trying to keep a dream in your mind's eye, even as you're halfway to waking. Or like remembering a scent you haven't smelled for years."

"That doesn't sound too difficult," said Hithon. Then he sighed. "I wish I could be an Obad too. If I had your magic, I'd make all of my favourite flowers grow inside the castle as well as out."

For a moment Roran's gaze followed where the rest of the Magicol had departed for the SkyBridge. Then he gave Hithon a lopsided smile and waved him closer.

"You may not be an Obad, my prince, but I think I have an idea. Sit."

It wasn't often than anyone directed Hithon to do anything, and Hithon was glad to discover that their talk of magic seemed to have made Roran bold. None of the other noble sons who lived in Amenthere ever spoke to Hithon like an equal. He quickly folded his legs beneath him, as the Ovates had been before. Roran sat down directly facing Hithon. The young prince waited expectantly, doe-eyes bright with excitement.

"What now?"

Roran stroked his chin – still yet to boast more than patchy stubble – and thought carefully. He was looking Hithon up and down with his green gaze as a tailor might consider a model.

"You remember on your Birth Day, how Bvhoros and I made the golden tree that now sits in the Hall of Thrones?"

"Yes of course, how could I ever forget?"

"Well, if you're willing...I think I could try to replicate that same sort of magic here, so that you might know what it feels like to make something grow from nothing."

The notion of such a thing thrilled Hithon right down to his toes. He was nodding vigorously before Roran had even finished speaking.

"Oh yes, I'm willing! Just tell me what I must do."

"Here, take a handful of sand and hold it out."

"Right!"

Hithon scooped up a measure of the coarse white sand on which they sat. He had taken a little too much though, and it took both hands to hold it all as he offered the sand forward to Roran.

"Now...picture what you want to grow in your mind. See every detail of it, and I'll be able to see it too."

"How?" Hithon asked, but Roran was already reaching out to cup Hithon's hands with his own. Roran's fingers were warm and calloused; unsurprising for the son of a farmer.

With a long, slow breath, Roran let his eyelids fall shut. At first the two boys sat together in silence. Then a low, gravelly droning began to rise from deep within Roran's chest. It sounded like the voice of a much older singer; a bass voice carrying the bottom harmony of a choir with a single note. An emerald glow seeped out from beneath Roran's gingery lashes, casting his freckled cheeks in an eerie hue. That was when Hithon felt it.

It did remind him a little of the making of the golden tree. The same tickling buzz spread along his skin where Roran's fingers touched his, and deep in his stomach Hithon could feel a shift, like gravity's pull had suddenly moved from the earth to the Green Ovate before him.

Remembering what he was supposed to be doing, Hithon forced himself to clamp his own eyes shut. He willed his over-excited mind to picture a plant. What surfaced from the darkness was none other than the golden tree itself. Hithon imagined the gleaming breadth of its trunk, how its leaves glittered like rubies beneath the skylight, how tall it would become-

That's too big!

Roran's startled voice pierced through Hithon's mind like an arrow. Hithon jerked in surprise, but he found his hands stuck fast to Roran's. Opening his eyes revealed a tiny sapling that glittered like beaten gold even beneath the sky's gloomy canopy. Crimson leaves no bigger than a fingernail were unfurling in heartbreaking detail. The little tree grew seemingly from nothing but the sand in Hithon's hands...and grow it did.

"Roran, it's beautiful!" Hithon exclaimed.

Roran did not answer. His forehead was puckered in deep furrows, the electric buzz passing between their nested hands becoming more intense with each passing heartbeat. The sapling they held was nearly as tall as a sword now, a perfect replica of the one which now grew in the Hall of Thrones.

"Roran?" Hithon shifted uncertainly.

Suddenly, Roran's eyes flew open. Green light washed over both their faces, glowing all the brighter as the clouds curdled and rolled overhead. The tingling sensation – which until now had been a pleasant rumble – suddenly seized Hithon in every bone of his body.

"Roran!"

Even now, Hithon could not free his hands. The golden sapling was growing too fast, too tall. It loomed over the pair of them, scarlet leaves uncurling black in the verdant glow. Hithon's thin arms shook with the effort of holding it up. More than that, his very soul trembled as he felt the magic's flow suddenly shift out of the tree and into his body.

What's happening?! Hithon cried out wordlessly in his mind. To his bewilderment he heard Roran answer.

I don't know! I think I might have slipped out of my trance into waking!

Can't you stop it?!

I'm trying! The magic has escaped the spell! Now you're-

Roran stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, but Hithon didn't need to be told that he was the one now at the apex of the Green Ovate's magic. He could feel it rumbling through every muscle and bone like an earthquake. The little golden tree began to shudder and shake, shriveling before them in an instant. Where only moments ago it had been nearly as tall as a man, now it shrank and shrank and shrank until what remained crumbled away into brown dust. Leaves showered down over Hithon and Roran's heads, turning to rusty-red ash before they landed.

The powers of earth were not finished with Hithon yet though. Hithon wailed as he felt his body stretch, trying to accommodate the mighty current and failing. He was not an Obad, and there was something inhuman about the power that thundered through him. Even his skin felt like it was trembling around him.

Suddenly, Roran managed to wrestle back control as completely as he had lost it. Glowing eyes still open, he jerked his hands away from Hithon's and fell backward. The sand beneath the Ovate's hands immediately began to tremble, and only when Roran released the spell at last did the arena fall still.

Hithon had toppled backward as well, and for a moment he lay gasping and blinking up at the Lair's guardian dragons, silhouetted in carven stone against the blue-black of the sky. Then a pale, freckled face blocked the gathering storm, eyebrows drawn tight with concern.

"Prince Hithon! Can you move?"

Slowly, cautiously, Hithon allowed Roran to take him by the elbow and guide him up into a sitting position. His skin felt strangely sensitive, as if he could count every single grain of sand beneath his palm.

"Are you alright?" asked Roran.

"I...I think so," said Hithon slowly. He lifted his hands up to his face, and was surprised to find the cuffs of his sleeves halfway up his forearms. "Ah...?"

Relief and fear warred across Roran's face. "May I?" he asked, and Hithon gave the older boy his hand in a daze. Carefully Roran turned over Hithon's palm and began an inspection of every finger and joint.

"Roran...am I...as tall as you?" Hithon asked in disbelief. It didn't take a close inspection to notice that, where only minutes ago Hithon had been a full hand-span shorter than Roran seated, now the two were seeing nearly eye-to-eye.

"Nearly," said Roran tersly. "That's not all I'm afraid. Look at your skin."

When Hithon held his hands up to his eyes, he was in for another shock. To the casual glance, nothing was markedly different. Up close though, the smoothness of Hithon's skin was now latticed in a tiny, maze-like pattern. It was like looking at the surface of a leaf, as if those tiny veined labyrinths had been imprinted upon Hithon indelibly.

"I'm a...tree?"

Hithon nearly giggled to hear himself say such an outlandish thing. Roran was not laughing though. In fact, there was such a grim expression on the Ovate's face that Hithon looked down into his lap.

"I am so, so sorry, my prince," said Roran. "This was all my idea, I should never have tried such a spell as this alone." He swallowed hard. "Your father...what will he say when he sees you? What will he do?"

Hithon shook his head hard. With a sudden vehemence that surprised even himself, he seized Roran by the forearms.

"My father won't say anything, because we won't tell him! No, listen to me Roran. If Father notices my sudden change in height, I'll just explain it as my growth-spurt come early. And no one will notice my hands. Nobody touches me unless I give them leave to, and with autumn coming I can wear gloves if need be."

A rueful smile twitched the corner of Roran's mouth. Lightly he touched the back of a finger to Hithon's chin.

"I might agree with you...if your hands were the only place affected. Surely a father will notice such a change written across his only son's face."

Sure enough, when Hithon lifted his hands to his cheeks, he felt the same subtle leaf-lines imprinted there as well. His mouth hung open for a moment, speechless. Suddenly an idea came to him, and Hithon was talking at Roran full speed once again.

"I'll start painting and powdering my face, like the Vaelonese do! Mother left behind a whole trunk full of cosmetics and other things. If anyone asks, I'll just say that I'm trying out something new."

Roran smiled despite the gravity of their situtation. "People will think you're frivolous, experimenting with such things in troubled times."

"So? Let them think whatever they like, at least you'll be safe from Father's wrath. Besides, with a little practice, I'll be able to paint my face to look very 'naturally beautiful', just like they do in Vaelona. The courtiers will find something else to gossip about within a fortnight."

"And your father?"

Hithon hummed absently, having gone back to studying leafy imprint across his wrists. A single raindrop fell, beading up and rolling off of Hithon's skin with ease.

"Father has bigger things to mind right now than what I'm doing with my face. Besides, he's worn paint and powder before too."

"Because he was trying to hide the bruises from fighting off an assassin," pointed out Roran.

It was beginning to rain in earnest, and Roran was very late for his lesson with Bvhoros by this point. With nothing else to be done for the failed spell, Hithon and Roran clambered to their feet and hurried up the stairs to the SkyBridge. They parted ways once back inside Castle Armathain, Roran to the Tower of the Elements and Hithon to the the royal apartments. They said no word of farewell, but exchanged a fleeting conspirators' grin.

Despite none of his clothes fitting him anymore when he returned to his rooms, Hithon couldn't help but walk with a skip in his step. He had a secret now, one shared with someone whom Hithon considered a friend. For all the fine things that the prince of Goran owned, that was something he'd never truly had before.

OoOoO

Mahir was expecting the knock at his door when it came. The storm outside had brought darkness upon the castle early that evening, and already Mahir had several lamps lit throughout his study. One large beeswax candle sat on a dish in the center of his desk, unlit as of yet. A taper would not be necessary for the High Obad to set fire to its wick though.

"Your Grace," said Arzai, sliding through the door and closing it behind her. She did not come in secret, but the rumble of thunder overhead seemed to invite quick, furitive movement.

"Mistress Arzai," Mahir replied with a tip of his head. Respectful gestures like that pleased Arzai, and so Mahir was amenable to observing them. After all, the Magicol was quickly becoming one of his most important assets in this burgeoning war. "Please, sit."

Drawing up a chair, Arzai folded one leg elegantly over the other and faced Mahir across his desk. Her long dark hair – wound over her shoulder in its customary rope – caught and reflected burgundy sparks in the lamplight. Born in the cliffside city of Syrion, the High Obad possessed the proud features, strong will, and careless grace of her coastal people. Mahir pitied the nobleman who had lost his betrothal to such a woman upon her entering Goran's Magicol. Such was fate; the Volkain family's loss was Mahir's gain.

"I have a task for you," said Mahir, lacing his fingertips together to peer at Arzai overtop of them. "I require the aid of your magic, much as you used it before to deliver me from the Factionists at Utunma."

Arzai dipped her chin solicitously. "Of course, Your Grace. You refer to the art of candle-gazing?"

"Yes, the very same. I was thinking of how you were able to see me in the flame, and in doing so guide your Grey Obad to speed my escape. It seems I owe you my life, High Obad."

"The Magicol is and will always be bound to the crown, my king," replied Arzai. Her ruby-red eyes gleamed in the lamplight. "By both oath and action."

They both knew very well that the Magicol's history alongside the crown was no longer unblemished. The treason of the former High Obad and his favourite student had scarred the once unshakable bond between the sorcerers and the Amenthis bloodline. Tomur and Margalee were gone though, blinded and banished from the capital. Even so, Mahir's words clearly did much to firm up the young High Obad's sense of security in her controversial appointment.

Arzai was not without her own wiles. She had won her place as head of Goran's Magicol by stepping in and affirming allegiance to the crown when none of the other Obads seemed willing or able. She had even overseen the punishment of her former teacher and friend without so much as a flinch. Subduing Frandel upon his return to Amenthere had also done much in raising her in Mahir's estimation. Whether or not she would be able to assert authority over the other, wilder Red Obad had been a real test in Mahir's mind. Arzai had passed that test, and now Mahir felt certain they could and would surpress this southern uprising together. Magic and monarch working together in concert, just as it had been since the days of First King Amenthis. With the Obads on their way to being restored to their former glory now that they had the power of waking magic, Goran would once again know that the blood of Amenthis ruled surpreme.

"What I was also thinking was that, if you were able to see me in the flame, perhaps you could also see the BlackPearl, our so-called Factionist ringleader," said Mahir.

To Mahir's surprised displeasure, Arzai did not smile or nod. Instead her arched brows drew together in an expression of consternation.

"I am sorry, Your Grace, but I cannot. To see someone through the flames, an Obad must have first seen them in person. As I have never personally encountered Vinie BlackPearl, I have no likeness to visualize in my search."

Mahir bit back a curse. "It seems the fault is mine then; I should have brought you with me to Utunma, where I both saw and spoke to her face-to-face. Perhaps I could describe her to you?"

Arzai shook her head. "I'm afraid that a description is not enough. I must have seen-"

Arzai stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, a look of dawning realization coming over her.

"You have another idea?" Mahir pressed, leaning eagerly forward in his seat.

"Yes Your Grace. While I have not seen the BlackPearl, I have seen her accomplice, the one they call Gideo StarGazer."

If before Arzai had had Mahir's interest, now she had his full and undivided attention. "Gideo StarGazer, you say? The man who tried to murder me as Hithon slept nearby?"

An animation seemed to have come over Arzai, bringing the slightest of rhythmic Syrinese pitch to her otherwise level voice.

"He was present at your son's Birth Day celebration. I saw him speaking...with Margalee in an alcove, and marked him well."

"Well done!" Mahir clapped his hands together. "As you can see, I have a candle ready for you here. Is there anything else you may need for your search?"

Arzai was practically purring with satisfaction. "I need nothing else Your Grace. I will find our errant StarGazer before the wick even blackens."

A single deep breath was all it took before the Red Obad's eyes began to simmer with an inner fire. Reaching out, she passed a hand over the unlit candle. A flame sprang up, bright and clean, and Arzai leaned in close. Mahir subconsciously leaned in as well, and they sat facing one another through the flame.

Arzai's glowing gaze flickered and moved, as if following images that only she could see. As far as Mahir could see there was only light, fire, and wax. The seconds crawled by, time seeming to slow with each long breath that passed between the king and his High Obad.

When Arzai's shoulders stiffened, Mahir nearly struck his knees on the underside of his desk. There was a triumphant smile growing on Arzai's face, almost predatory in its fierceness.

"You see him?"

"Oh yes...I see him. He is in Danitesk, I can tell by the garish paint of the buildings around him. He looks whole and well, more than recovered from the shot he took from the guards."

"He has far more than that coming to him, I assure you." Mahir was already pulling the bell-cord which summoned the Knights of Amenthis. Seconds later his guard appeared in the doorway. "Get me Enidu LawKeeper. I have need of loyalists in Danitesk."

OoOoO