Miles Valyrian

Sandstar, the capital city of Valdor

MILES PLACED THE last of his things into his knapsack, and pulled the leather strap tight. With how wild his horse was, it was better to keep things tight as possible, unless he wished to be scouring for his personal items alongside the desert roads of Valdor.

Onyx was his horse's name, and he could hardly remember how it came to be. It seemed it was always the horses name, as Miles could think of nothing else, as if the horse would answer to nothing else. And Onyx was a suiting name, with it's black coat and mane. It was well muscled too, and strong and fearless. Miles liked to think if he had been a horse, that he would've been Onyx, but perhaps that was boastful of him to think so. He'd keep such thoughts to himself.

He hoisted the knapsack over the rear of his horse, and fastened it to his saddle. He pat his horse and ran his fingers through it's thick mane, much like his own dark hair. The horse had blue eyes too, like little sapphires cut from the sky.

"Good boy," said Miles as he fed it an oatcake.

Jazmyn came from the stables with another bag, this one full of his mail and surcoat. It was heavy even for him, but Jazmyn seemed to have no trouble with lifting the bag. "Are you sure you must leave so soon?" She handed him the bag, and Miles set it atop his horse.

Miles nodded. "I must. It is my duty."

The letter came from a raven yesterday. Joras Freemane was dead, the elves were responsible, and they were on the run. He was to return, and he was to await further instruction, though what that meant could be a multitude of things. And it wouldn't bode well for the elves.

He didn't want to believe that they would murder Joras. It didn't make much sense to him, the King seemed committed to restoring him, just as they all had been. But there was much he didn't know about them as well. Maybe this was an act of vengeance for their uncle, the one they called Tyren, the one who set fire to Gallador. Miles still had yet to rid himself of the man's screams. They were unlike any he had ever heard before, and he had heard plenty of men scream.

Gallador Thornshield deserved a better fate...he deserved to die drunk and warm in his bed...

The fire burned hotter than any he had ever felt before as well, like heat from the sun, he imagined. Wherever that fire came from, however Tyren summoned it, it wasn't of this world. No fire in Sylvetria burned like that, as hot or as long. To have it set to ones skin? Miles shuddered at the thought.

And they left him there, to be devoured by those creatures, those monsters that Miles sees in his dreams. No, not dreams. Dreams are what you have when all is well and things are grand, and all was not well, and things were not grand. What Miles had were nightmares, endless and the same. Those dark halls where all his mind knew now when he slept. He used to dream of things like flying over the hills of Jorden, of drinking ale with his fellow warriors, of dancing with beautiful women, but now? All that he would see when he shut his eyes were the dark and endless halls of that haunted place, the place that should have remained underneath the waters of the Red Ocean...

The place they called Valadel.

"Sir Vallyrian?"

Miles looked up, greeted by Jazmyn's face. She looked at him oddly, as if she had been calling his name for hours. He felt odd too, as if she had pulled him out from the Abyss itself. Such thoughts could lead to a place like that.

"Miles, are you feeling well? You haven't answered my question yet."

Miles nodded, unaware she had even spoke to him. "Sorry, Jazmyn, I was thinking about something."

Jazmyn nodded. "Yes, you were...and here I thought you were only capable of swinging around a piece of steel. I didn't realized you had the capacity to think, Sir Vallyrian." She said the words with a smirk, formed of sarcasm and friendship. She had been like that lately, more so than usual, with him at least. He didn't mind it, it was nice to have a friend out in a foreign land, especially one as foreign as Valdor. And Scribe Kallarya was a good friend.

"I'm full of surprises, my lady." He finished strapping the last of his bags to his horse.

"So are ravens nowadays, it seems. Are you sure you don't want me to come with you? Jorden is a long ride from here."

Miles nodded. "I'm sure, my lady. Your queen and your college need you here, as do I. I need to have someone I trust in Valdor. Your queen and your council, they've raised the blue flag, you've made yourselves targets," He swung his leg over his horse and sat in his saddle, "and targets as big as you are hard to miss. Stay safe, Lady Kallarya. If I sense you are in danger, or things are not as they seem in Jorden, I'll send for you or I shall return. Till then."

He whipped the reins of his horse, and Onyx took off down the desert road, kicking up trails of dust behind them.

Jazmyn waved to the warrior as he left, though she doubt he'd see her, or return the wave, but still, she felt it right.

Good luck, Sir Vallyrian

*****

Jazmyn's studies were just as she left them when Sir Baronstone and Sir Stormwell had come to fetch her all those weeks ago. How long ago that seemed. Had she known then what she knew now, she wondered if she would still embark on that expedition. Well, of course she would. She was a scholar, after all, and scholarly things were her duty, much like fighting wars was Sir Vallyrians duty. Although she thought her duty far more important. Perhaps it was selfish of her to think so, but wars would be unnecessary if more people would devote themselves to books rather than swords. If one would simply read just one book in their life, they'd quickly understand that swords and war were not necessary. Most arguments and squabbles between the kings that start these wars could be settled by a mere few choice words. But kings liked to let their swords do their talking.

Much like the war she found herself caught in now.

Her studies looked like they've seen a war as well. Messy and unorganized, there were papers and quills set out everywhere without a thought, like corpses strewn about a battlefield. Maps draped over tables like war banners, and artifacts that belonged in display cases were out in the elements. She didn't care much at all for organization. Her workspace was like her mind in that regard, always messy and cluttered, full of things she didn't need to have or know. But she had them and knew them nonetheless. It was always better to have what you don't need than to need what you don't have, just as it was to know things that didnt need knowing. At least she thought so.

The Magus Irving had always told her if sickness or steel wouldn't take her life, than her desire to know things would.

"There are some things in this world that don't need knowing," he would say. But she disagreed.

"How could one call themselves a scholar, a seeker of knowledge if they didn't strive to know all they could?" She'd ask him, but he'd only sigh and shake his head.

"You have a gifted mind, Scribe Kallarya, but you still have much to learn. Wisdom is just as important as knowing things," he'd say, and he would say this many times.

But wisdom often came with a price.

She picked up a book left open and snapped it shut. She ran her fingers over it's leather face, and the words on its cover made her smile.

The Life and Death of King Varrus Freemane, by the Magus Irving Haverton.

She remembered first reading the book, an account of the life of King Joras' father, the one whom Ragnar Oathbreaker usurped the throne from nearly twenty years ago. It was the first book of his that Jazmyn read, years ago when she first apprenticed for the college. It was the book that made the Magus more than a man in her eyes, a scholarly being not of this world, one who carefully chose his words when he spoke, who wrote with a passion she had never seen, like setting fire to paper. She flipped the book open, and read it's contents with a bittersweet smile on her face.

"The duel seemed to have went on for ages, but neither man aged. The only change in their appearance was not of the wrinkles or slumped shoulders that came with the burden of aging, but rather the cuts and bruises that came with the suffering of battle. Varrus Freemane was not a man of the sword, and this was known. Ragnar, on the contrary, was born with a sword in his hand, as were all rangers. And when Ragnar took that sword and ran it through the chest of Varrus Freemane, it was felt throughout the Kingdom."

She turned the page, and read another passage.

"Varrus wasn't like his other brothers. Joren Freemane was indeed a man of the sword, as was Alister Freemane, both of whom died by the sword, both of whom would have been king had they not taken to the blade. Varrus was a man of the quill and the scroll, as all kings should be. But the quill and the sword do have much in common.

"In the hands of masters, each can incite great deeds of justice or great deeds of violence. That is only a matter of what the master believes, and whether or not the world agrees with him."

The words stung her eyes, and tears welled within them. She remembered the first time she read those words. It was as if the world around her had finally made sense, her illusions of life shattered, and replaced with a reality shaped by the words of the Magus Irving. She couldn't recall a similar moment, one of such impact. Perhaps when she first came to the college, or when she laid eyes on the Kingdom of Valadel, but she would not have done either unless she had first read those words.

She closed the book and placed it on the shelf it belonged to, an assortment of the Magus Irving's works, as well as some of her own. She made sure his works came first, and hers second. She would never write anything as insightful as what the Magus wrote. She could only try to. She could only live by his words now, as he was not around to speak anymore.

Words spoken were different then words written...there is more conviction in them, she thought to herself.

The Magus had told her years ago that if a word is to leave your lips, it best be carefully chosen.

She would do her best to ensure her words were ones that incited deeds of justice.