Everyone Needs An Adversary

He woke in his bed with aches in his arm and head. Thin curtains hung around his canopy, drawn closed. Hidden to that degree, his staff could keep watch while he slept. A window was open to warm air and sunlight. He levered himself up with the arm that didn't hurt until he sat upright. The hurt arm wasn't broken anymore, but he recognized the signs of magical healing still in progress. He wouldn't be able to strain it for several days. His head felt much the same.

"Young Master, are you awake?" Chambers, of all people, sat on a chair beyond the foot of his bed, a shadow watching over him. The staff must be taking shifts.

"I think so."

Chamber's shadow moved around until her hand entered his sleeping space, holding a cup of water. He drank it gingerly and gave it back.

"Are you hungry?"

"Starved. But I'm a little dizzy. Do we have something light?"

"Cook is holding some soup for you."

She brought up a tray with a tureen of soup and several light sandwiches. She dished up soup as he wanted it and passed sandwiches through the curtains until he was full.

"Thank you. How long was I out?"

"Eighteen hours. The curator will come by tonight."

"So she's not dead? That's good news."

Taylor didn't catch Chambers' reply, or hear her take away the dishes. He was already asleep.

"Before we say anything else to each other, I am required to tell you I'm not permitted to know what passed between you and Reginar. It's some kind of interdicted magician lore. That means," she continued before he could ask, "it can't be discussed with anyone who doesn't already know it. That elf knocked me out to keep me from learning anything."

He watched Jane's silhouette through the bed curtains. She seemed fine, except for the edge of anger in her voice.

"And we're listening to a malicious lint ball because why?"

"He is the head magician of the Rossignol Court, which means he has the ear of the leader of a semi-independent nation. He is also not as malicious as he acted last night. He was testing you. It's an old tradition among beastkin magicians to see what a student's made of before they enter training. It was stupid and cruel, in my opinion, but he never intended to kill you."

"Obviously, since I'm alive. Did I pass?"

"You did more than pass. You impressed him. He left you a letter of recommendation for the Imperial Academy."

The Imperial Academy. High School for the connected and entitled. Taylor couldn't imagine a more conflict-prone environment outside of an actual dungeon.

"Yeah, I can imagine how that goes. Me, in a room full of entitled brats, for an hour at a time. The school would burn down on the first day."

He could hear the smile on her. "I told him something along the same lines. But with his letter, they would make accommodations. Each province gets a limited number of nominations each year. He is offering one of Rossignol's precious slots to you. Tuition-free, uncontested entrance if you can pass the exam."

"I don't think I'm interested."

"You have a few years to decide. You can't enter until you're at least twelve. Most children enter a little later."

"I'm not sure that improves the school-on-fire calculus. How are you, Jane? Did you get badly hurt?"

"Rahel didn't hit me as hard as she did you. I'm not the one who almost bled her protectee dry. Mostly, I'm furious."

"I'm sorry about your dining room." Taylor had a vivid impression of every plate and glass on the table shattered by Flare.

"Don't be. Reginar is buying me a whole new dining set. It's not as good as an academy recommendation, but it'll do. And trust me, I won't let him off easy. He hurt my ward, and I'll make him pay for it."

Restoration Secured

The Imperial Expeditionary Force today officially announced the end of suppression operations in the Restoration territory. "Today marks a turning point in Imperial history," said Col. Otis d'Mourne. "Our next mission is to expand across the strait into Garem-Da. Not only will it ensure the safety of Restoration, it will reopen the homeland of countless dwarves and humans alike."

— The Estfold Herald

Spring edged toward summer, and Taylor spent more time outdoors. As difficult as magic skills were to hone, fighting skills were harder. Body and mind had to be conditioned and he had nobody to practice against.

Still, he had a fighting style that drew its techniques from several worlds and a training regimen honed by the best teachers he could find. In his early lives he died a lot, but he learned important lessons along the way.

So Taylor did what he could alone, and worked on basic strikes and stances, falls and rolls, staff techniques and combinations. Now that his body wasn't such a ragged mess, it could learn to do other things. His throwing practice advanced from rocks to knives, thanks to a set of simple cast iron daggers procured by Blake. Knowing how to put a dagger into someone from across a room was a handy skill to have.

Magic practice extended into minor praxes and devices. A praxis was an object engraved with a spell, like the wand Reginar had tried to use on him. All it could do was replicate whatever spells were engraved on it, but it was a quick way to activate magic effects. A minor praxis needed mana from the user to function, while a major one could be enhanced with a mana crystal.

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A magic device could have more complex behavior described by magic circles and was powered entirely with mana stones or crystals. Anybody could use one. Cook's cold box was a good example, as was every light in the mansion.

Taylor's first attempt was a lamp that had nine different settings for the tone and brightness of its light. It was obvious to him that the magic circle system had been tacked on to the Mi'iri-based magic language and lacked important concepts. Whoever invented it probably felt terribly clever about their achievement and reveled in their accolades, but Taylor could do far better. As soon as he was powerful enough and had the right materials, Taylor would make a proper inscription system. Whether he would allow anybody else to use it or not was an open question.

The house received few visitors. Deliveries of food and other necessities came once a week, through the side gate and the kitchen door. If anything else was needed, Blake rode into town on the mansion's one horse.

Taylor knew from his semi-accidental eavesdropping that all his staff liked to visit the town at least once a week to drink and visit friends. He knew it was good for them to get away, but he felt abandoned, just a little, on the nights he knew they were in town. It wasn't rational. After all, they slept in their cottages beyond the wall every night, leaving him alone in the empty house. But knowing he was the only one who couldn't go to town and see new people drove home the fact of his isolation.

Mail usually came with the groceries, but it was always personal correspondence for his staff or missives from Curator Jane.

All of this is to say Taylor was surprised when a rider came galloping up the road and through their gate without asking anyone's leave. He heard a high voice, too young to be taken too seriously, but desperate to be taken seriously.

"Can you tell me where the legate's cursed son is? I'm here to spar with him."

He must have encountered Blake, a man who never spoke when pointing would suffice, because Taylor didn't hear a response. He continued practicing his staff techniques until his visitor rounded the corner of the house. Both of them stopped cold.

"You!" exclaimed the ringleader from the gang that tried to beat him up.

"Come for a second serving?"

"I'm armed this time." The blonde child drew a wooden sword. "Let's see how you do in a fair fight!"

"No headshots. We stop when one of us taps out. Agreed?"

"Fine."

"And first we pray to Wiñuri and Abnoba."

"Who?" The boy's sword lowered. "What for?"

"They're the gods of growth and martial arts." Taylor rested the end of his staff on the ground to be non-threatening. "No prayer, no sparring. But if you pray, we'll fight until one of us is exhausted."

"Okay. We'll play your way."

Taylor showed his interloper how to say a quick prayer by clapping hands, saying the gods' names, and asking for a good session. Then, the work began.

At first, Taylor won every bout. His footwork was far better than his opponent's, and his staff had reach over his sword. But the other boy was older, stronger, and in better shape. Eventually, Taylor started to lag, and he got the bruises to pay for it. But for the first time in this life he didn't have to train alone. Taylor was the first to give up when his arms couldn't lift his weapon anymore.

"Thank the gods!" the boy said, panting and sweating, feeling his bruises. "I thought you'd never quit. My name is Kistur."

"Hello Kistur," panted Taylor, "I'm Bilius, the cursed child of Legate d'Mourne."

"Is that why you wear the mask? So people won't want to punch you?"

"Something like that."

"Well, I got news for you, Legate's son. It ain't workin'. I still want to punch you."

"Obviously," he laughed. They both laughed. At the same time, at the same thing. His Bilius brain marveled at such an impossibility.

"Stay for lunch? It's nothing special."

"Thanks, I guess, but I can't." Kistur stood carefully and dusted himself off. "I'm already going to be in trouble. I don't want to make it worse."

Taylor walked him to the front of the house where Blake was saddling Kistur's horse. He'd been brushed and watered while they were practicing.

"He's huge! Are those army markings? Where'd you come from?"

"The garrison at Midway. I'm training there until we get deployed. Nine more months of boring training, then I can finally face off against some monsters."

"Aren't you too young for military service?"

"I'm twelve, so I'm legal. And I'm big for my age," he said proudly. Taylor would have guessed he was a year or two older. He needed a hand up to mount the massive steed, but he looked down from that imperious height as if he'd vaulted into the saddle. "I'll be back for more training, Bilius. Count on it!"

Blake watched the boy's rapid retreat. "He rides his animal too hard."

Kistur was prone to popping up at odd times and challenging Taylor to mock battles, even if it meant tracking him into the hills. Taylor was careful not to use any spells or mana during these duels, other than a slight damage resistance to avoid serious injuries. He needed to hone his skills, and Kistur had offered himself up as whetstone, so Taylor wanted to make the most of it. Facing off against a living adversary gave him a reason to do push-ups in the morning and run up and down the hills during the day. He wouldn't let their joint sacrifices go to waste.

Any proper duel required a suitable cause, and these were announced with all the verve of ancient and terrible grudges.

"Your horse is ugly and has fleas!" Kistur would announce, loud enough to sing from the rocky hills. "You must die!"

"You are a no-good layabout who reads too much. Prepare to die!"

"Your clothes are old and smell of mothballs. Die, vermin!"

Thus warned, Taylor had to defend himself until one or the other of them was too spent to go on, or bruised enough to admit they'd been 'killed' too many times for necromancers to raise them from the dead.

Afterward, depending on where they were, they would eat lake fish off a campfire, or Kistur would dash into town and bring back skewers of meat or some other portable food. If they were at the mansion, Cook prepared lunch.

"It isn't fair, you know." He said one day over campfire trout. "You don't even go to school and you're better than me."

"Barely. You've gotten a lot better, and you keep coming back to train me. I get all your school's techniques for free. I don't need more than that."

"I am pretty great, aren't I? Just wait until selection, when I get a class. Then I'll be unstoppable!"

"There's something you should know about having a class," said Taylor, turning serious. "I've been reading … "

"Of course you have," Kistur sniggered.

"… and you don't have to take everything it offers you. You can reject quests you don't want to do, or if they seem wrong. Your class will offer something else. Maybe not right away, but it will. Classes are there to guide you on the path they think you want, but they don't always know best. You can't let them decide who you are."

"The church doesn't see it that way. Classes are divine. They're the goddess' gift. Not taking a quest is like rejecting the goddess."

"Father has the Commander class, so he learns everything about other classes. He has books on it, and they all say nobody was ever punished by the goddess for rejecting a quest. But people have done horrible things just because their class offered them quests to do it."

"Why are you so worried? Afraid I might show you up, finally?"

"I'm abnormal. It's not a secret that I'm … "

"Overskilled at everything."

"Right. That. But when it comes to fighting, you're more than keeping up with me. If classes are granted by merit, I can't imagine you won't get one. And once you do, you could be a great hero. But if you take a few wrong turns … " Taylor didn't want to say evil out loud, but there it was.

"You're worried I could become a dark lord," Kistur grinned. The notion had an undeniable appeal to the ambitious soldier.

"Something like that. Your selection is coming up soon, right? I wanted you to know ahead of time. You don't have to be a terrible person just because your class offers quests to be terrible.

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