《Lonethorn》


 Prologue

    It is an odd sensation to experience firsthand -- to be stunned.


    A constant sureness to your step and reasoning one moment, only to be upended by the sudden distortion of reality the very next. A sudden contradiction as to what your eyes are seeing now as opposed to what your mind acknowledges mere moments ago. Then you find yourself acting out of instinct--not conscious action-- in the brief instant of disparity between opposing realities your mind registered beforehand. Well, this is what it felt like to me at least. I instantly thought back to all those prior times I was ever stunned, which I can say with relish, is a mere handful of times I can enumerate in a single hand.


    What an odd train of thought this is, I admit.


    Maybe I am just coping as I suddenly find myself on the ground, crawling with no real sense of direction or purpose before I took hold of my senses as the very world around me seems like it was being torn asunder. The sound of a dozen musket fire reverberated too alarmingly close for my liking. Followed by a wail so horrid, so inhumane ( and so very close) that it nearly made me lose control of my faculties as more humane screams sounded off. Men shouted. Men screamed. Men died.


    I tried to put my feet underneath me but my shins betrayed me. Liquid oozed down on my left brow and made it frustrating to see. A brief questing with my free hand illuminated to me that it was no mere water but blood, oozing down a gash I have no memory nor sensation of having received. My right hand, to my relief, in its grasp was the reassuring weight of a flintlock pistol. I tried to put my weight underneath me and only succeeded half a feet off the ground via my forearms before my leg buckled underneath me and I slumped once more into the sand. The roar of the ocean was harsh and constant and above its sonorous melody was the din of battle.


    What was I doing here again? the thought came abruptly. I was forgetting something crucial. Something Necessary. As I try to piece together the last clear fragments of my memory my eyes came upon a form. And for a second time in a single day, I was stunned.


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    Her eyes lay half-shuttered, such a ungracious and almost comedic look upon her save for the frighteningly lack of movement of her chest. Her platinum-blonde locks half undone and swathed across her features like seaweed.


    Before I knew it, my hands dug deep into the sands as I desperately crawled myself towards her like a man drowning. Her grey-blue eyes-- so crystal and haunting, full of derision and disdain and yet found myself ever transfixed by them-- peeked lazily underneath her eyelids. I could not affirm if they were moving for certain or if it was my hopeful imagination. Her lips, usually curled and sneering --always a delight in my opportune serendipity where I managed to find a witty retort, much to me and my peers delight -- lay open and unmoving.


    My heart thudded against my chest. My teeth grit as the sand parted before me as I made my way towards her. A gut wrenching scream of a man split the air and was immediately followed by their maker as he flung overhead over the sand dunes. Another barrage of musket fire but it was paltry response at to what it had been a moment ago. That means the Guard''s numbers are dwindling.


    One problem at a time! I have to make sure she lives!she was so close now. A flare of hope rose from my chest as I saw (what I think I saw) a flicker of movement from her hand. A grand delusion pierced the veil of despair in our grim situation and I allowed myself a modicum of hope.


    That is until I heard the warning.


    "Serrano watch out!" came the guard-captain''s cry.


    Too late.


    With soul wrenching swiftness I was dragged away her as a strong, slimy grasp encircled my ankles and pulled me away from Covington''s lying body amidst the sands. I felt the creature, its presence so permeating I could cut the air with it. A heat of fear spread from the bottom of my nape and spread throughout my extremities as I stared down the abomination, a chaotic myriad of emotions wracking my heart and soul in a flash of instance. Fear, disgust, horror. All aimed at what possible cruel fate awaited me.


    Still having the instinct to raise my flinlock and aim it futilely at the gargantuan abomination.


    In that sparse infinity of a half a heartbeat away from death, time slowed to a crawl, even as my fingers enclosed tightly on the trigger. Even as the hammer collided with the frizzen, a miniature of explosion of dark igneum erupting in beautiful cascade of sparks frozen in time right before my very eyes.


    The moment where my life flashed before my eyes.

 Chapter 1

    I was brought back to the earliest moments of joy. As clear as daylight, replaying the events with a vividness that I suppose to be transcendental, what with the onset of a terrifying demise close at hand. A death so horrid it brought me passing through once more on the dawndays of my young life.


    I found myself in that modest abode of our loft, atop the Seventy-eighth floor of the Tower of Resplendent Inspiration, amidst the Thousand Seaspires.


    The place of my birth. My beginnings.


    My mother ever so lovingly referred to it as a rustic garret overlooking the great spanning seas. A small two-bedroom apartment leased to us by none other than the Master of the Tower himself. It¡¯s most striking feature was that it was a corner loft as well as possessing massive opening where two walls should be but instead made up for an angled window that enable the inhabitants a full striking view of the Mare Veridium. Some deepest part of my brain, dredged up a memory of when we first moved in and I remember a fragmented recollection of laying sight of it. An endless expanse of beautiful aquamarine waters that stretch well beyond the horizon. A man could look at those waters all his life and be filled with the selfsame tranquility that so inspired the multitude of painters that have made the Mare their muse.


    I was at best four or five years old at the time. The year before, my mother made me sit through piano lessons via a colleague of hers. The Seaspires have no shortages of self-styled artistes from across the world. My mother (after a certain fashion) being among them.


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    She  had done an exemplary job of settling up in that corner of the Seventy-Eighth.  As I¡¯d come to know in the later years of my life, she can be vexingly resourceful.


    One day in particular struck to my mind than the rest. She had invited much of her peers, all in mutual patronages of the Master of the Tower. My mother


    They watched me play Amara d¡¯Orl¨¦ans¡¯ ¡®A Rhapsody of Ravens¡¯ in the C minor. They lauded and gave sweet kisses till my cheeks ached and I sought an escape from their grasp. I suppose I was an adorable little child then. Innocent and obedient and eager to please my sweet darling mother.


    A sigh escapes my lips, remembering it all those years ago. That naivete of mine.


    My mother made me play two more songs (the names of which has eluded me) before finally acquiescing to my demands and play with the other children. I wriggled out of their grasps and dashing amongst the adults legs. Her colleagues brought their own children. At the time I thought it nothing more than just a simple get together but in truth it seemed it was more of a boasting sport that is played amongst the adults of certain levels of the Tower. Amongst aristocrats, artiste, musicians and the odd wealthy merchant or two just eager to spend some much-needed wind atop the heights of the Seaspire we inhabited altogether.


    While the adults were busy playing their games with complimenting words dripped with two-edged meanings and smiles hiding concealed daggers, the children were busy playing hide and seek and tag.


    Looking at it now--na?ve to the fact and wiles of the world at large--this is one of innocence, the kind children only know and exhibit brings about a peace to my heart that I hadn¡¯t appreciated in recent years.


    Meanwhile, the men and women of talents, prestige and breeding ¨Cthe very lifestyle that I sought later on-brings about a new perspective. It was like seeing through thin layer of ice, at any moment risking plunging at the dark abyss beneath.


    Oh, how I cherished those days of innocence now.

 Chapter 2

    The Thousand Seaspires.


    Known throughout the world as a trifecta: an oddity, a wonder and a dream. A sprawling conglomerate of a thousand 700 ft. square black stones jutting out from the seabed in the middle where three ocean meets. None truly knew how they came to be or what purpose do they serve. The black mineral of which they are made cannot be cut nor carved by any living knowledge of stonework. Whatever craft used in their construction have long since been lost for millennia. Of the Thousand towering stones, only a mere fraction of which contains entrances and egresses, a great many of the structures are but solid black rock with no apparent seams or entry points. As to how the first settlers train of thought to decide on settling on such a strange and bizarre place perplexes me. Then again, as I¡¯ve come to learn in years since my childhood, humanity can have strange instances of inspiration and creativity, one that must not be underestimated.


    Over the centuries, folk from other lands have also made settlements from the various gargantuan coral reefs that have accumulated at the base of some of these towers, reaching the sizes of small islands and mountains. These corals have porous holes big enough that made them ideal places for habitation, protected from the salty sea winds and high storms. The highest of these formations reached up to forty feet above the waterline at high tide. The nature of these reef formations as well as the Black Spires themselves are among the mysteries debated and sought upon by a great many scholars.


    The more eccentric of these settlers had soil imported via ships and levered upwards toward the upper levels, creating hanging gardens that became a source of income and produce over the decades that followed, until becoming a vital trade route in the Grand Mare Triumvirata.


    It was not long thereafter that the Seaspires made for a vital waystop for passing ships amidst the long distances necessary to cross the wide ocean expanses.


    With only a few centuries under its belt, the Seaspires have no clear law. Much left to the individual towers and the respective Masters that control them. A center for artists, merchants and moguls, making the higher tiers where the rich and lofty are catered and gallivants in various soirees and balls.


    None go hungry in these here splintered realms in the middle of the sea, where each tower were but a country unto themselves.


    With the Tower of Resplendent Inspiration being situated on the clear waters of the Mare Veridium, it was an ordinary past time for me at that age to jump head long into the cool aquamarine waters along with the other children. The vibrant reefs were ever teeming with a myriad of marine life. Brassscales, Thornback eels, Amberjacks, Scarlet Gillfin just to name a few.


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    There was a decently sized reef at the base of the Tower as well. Of course, it could not compare to mighty Reeftown, the largest and chief of the reefs within the Seaspires. Nor does it even have an officially recognized name, mostly due to its size which can be compared to a small islet.  (much to the chagrin of the towermaster). The locals of the tower simply refereed to it by extension as well and most commonly known as Resplendent. It possessed a taverna that doubled as an inn. As well as a dock, a customs building and a score or so of little tents and pavilions nestled in protectively in the natural formations of the reef for added stability. And being right in the middle of a trade route of over a hundred different countries, one is not left wanting from the variety of the cuisine made available by the hundreds of galleys, cogs, carracks that pass through daily.


    My mother and I would spend our time on Resplendent should her hectic schedule permits it to pass the time. See the wonders and trinkets laid out in the pavilions and tents while eating the famous skewered meats from far-off Ardifa. Or even join me as well as other families as luncheon was set up by the waterside and we dive in together in the crisp clear waters of the Veridium. And always, and I mean always, end the day either by the reef or our loft, watching the setting sun bathe the world in a fuzzy lazy bleed of orange beyond the horizon of Mare Cerrulea until finally plunging the world in the darkness. My mother would hug me close and tight as if I were a babe still and not a five-year-old boy (maybe I still was, at that age, to her). Her jaw would click and clack funnily against my head to tease me.


    And funnily enough, now that I think about it, I had a habit then of combing her long black hair with my hand, enjoying the smoothness of it between my fingertips. I had forgotten I used to do that.


    Such were times for me then, in the innocence of youth. Simple. And without worry.


    As the years would go on, I would go back to these days, these instances living in my heart and mind whenever Mother World and Father Time would wear on my soul as it does to everyone else growing up. Particularly the memory of me and my mother watching the setting sun in silence but the symphony of the soft rolling waves.


    The secret of these Black Towers meant nothing to me, and doesn¡¯t still even in my young adulthood, if only I could have the memories of these sunsets till the day I draw my last breath then nothing of value would be lost (for me at least).


    Sigh.


    If only the cruel serendipity of world had remained that way.


    Little did I know that years later, after arriving at Lonethorn University, that I would be among the handful few of uncovering the secret of their history.


    I¡¯d wish I¡¯d never known.

 Chapter 3

    The apple fell far from the tree. That is all I could say concerning my personality in comparison with that of my mother, Andarina Yn¨¦s Serrano.


    Odd, really. You know that sort of character, people who just exuded an air of likeability on the first instance upon meeting. People who take genuine joy in knowing and talking with others.


    My mother is one such individual. What with her easy and genuine smile and jovial air, she was an easy person to be around with. A people person. She enjoyed and could understand minute nuances of social interactions out of pure instinct. She enjoys the art and expertise that is human interactions.


    And what is the ultimate form of human expression? Of emotions made manifest?


    Art, and thereby High Society that so crave it.


    Whereas I on the other hand, well¡­..I don¡¯t particularly care much for people, much to the grievance of my mother. But she kept a particular respect for that quirk in my character. As she herself was able to emphasize as how I saw the world.


    Her and maybe my father.


    Perhaps it is time to discuss the subject of my sire. The so-called man at the back. There was a somber sorrow to him, particularly when his eyes fall on me. Almost like pity. Even when he smiled out of genuine joy, there was a gentle sorrow to how his lips would lift and his eyes alight. Not an oppressive shadow but a phantom pain in his eyes. For most of my early childhood he would pop in now and again, I deduced it was because of his occupation. My mother was so adept at diverting attention to whenever I inquired as young children often do. My mother told me he stayed quite aplenty during the first two years after I was born (though not at the same Tower for reasons I would not come to know until my young adulthood.)


    I remember as I was full of smiles whenever he would make his rare appearances in the tower. Until one day he just stopped coming altogether. But that would not be the last of I ever saw of my father.


    A few years after that our time, in the Thousand Sea Spires would come to an end as well. My mother was ever adept at diverting attention whenever I asked what it was my father did. That deft skill of hers also extended to her own line of work. Andarina Serrano did not do "work". Not in the strictest sense of the word. I came to acknowledge the fact that people of the Tower adored my mother. She was ever dressed in shades of green of varying hues, a complement to her soft green eyes that made her seem ethereally pretty in certain lights and her midnight black hair so dark that it was almost blue, a trait that is distinguished among the inhabitants of the Old Grey. The Tower has no shortage of aristocracy or nobility of varying degrees of wealth originating from dozens of different lands. So many in fact, that they could not be faulted for not noticing that among their peers were no small number of peasantborn interminglers. What is the aristocracy if not masquerading and peacocking? of misdirection and gossips? of being something you are not? As it turns out, there are a number of people who has this gift of social maneuvering, lineage notwithstanding.


    With the fervent stream of wealth and resources that is ever ready available in the Spires, aristocrats dole out gifts, parties, favors and soirees with an almost wild abandon. With guests numbering in as few as a couple dozen and as many as a thousand, my mother would deftly maneuver her way into the good graces of those at the top. She would dazzle them with her smile and her ever listening ears. She never forgot a name nor a face (a feat that amazes me still, me who couldn''t so much as be bothered to know our neighbor''s name, much less a stranger.) In a span of a few hours she would endear herself so intimately with the host of the party that it would seem like lifelong friends as they chatted and gossiped.


    Dazzling Andarina Serrano. Lovely Andy, some of her friends have nicknamed her. Pretty as a butterfly and just as dainty looking. What they don''t know is how she wore the same dress every other day, how she only had a three sets of clothing that she mix and matched to make it look like she had a n array of dresses while her "friends" have entire rooms the size of our loft to hold their immense collection of dresses that could make up a small mountain. Or that she was practically flat broke, not a single drachma to her name but appeared to be as rich as the aristocrats she associated with. She never asks nor begs money from her friends.


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    If it was known to others, she may seem sycophantish. I never saw her, not once, beg for money. She''d rather go hungry than beg or ask for any financial support from her friends. She once went home somehow having spirited an entire silver tray of hors d''oeuvres that became that night and the morning afterwards my meal.


    To my young innocent eight year-old eyes then, I thought my mother was living a lie. That she does all these things in support of me, her only child.


    But when I saw her talking and partaking in the festivities on the odd occasion she gets me to attend a party, I realized a central truth about my mother. Her eyes were alight with real glimmer of joy. This was not the act of a woman forced to survive but a wondrous creature that have found her place in the world and thrives in it.


    I began to notice other things too. How she would sometimes sit in a bench as I play with other children in the park level of the Tower, looking at nothing in particular, lost in thought. Or how she would fidget in place, her feet tapping against the floor as I finish my meal.


    Andarina Yn¨¦s Serrano was a woman of easy smiles and genial company. I seldom saw her angry or in a down mood. My mother is a creature ever in search of adventure. meeting new people and enjoying the frivolities high society has to offer. I noticed as much as I saw her, she was missing out on various events and parties held by some aristocrat or another.


    It had began as any other day I suppose. It was not out of the norm, my mother bid me goodbye and she would be back in a few hours with food. In later years, I wondered in amazement at my mother''s steely constitution, how she could go for the better part of a day without so much as a full meal, living off on the little food they serve at parties and a glass of wine or two.


    Andarina Yn¨¦s Serrano was a woman born and built for such a life of endless parties.


    But a child of eight was an entirely different matter. My mother would later tell me of days where she wouldn''t sleep, hopping from one party at a tower to the next party at a different tower. She doesn''t know how she does it, she simply does. I waited eagerly as my stomach grumbled for supper. the allotted she was supposed to return came and went. One hour late became two. Two became four and so on.


    I had not eaten anything for the last thirty six hours. It never occurred to me to beg to our neighbors. I was ashamed to beg. My mother never begged, so why should I? I slept and I read. Anything to pass the time and alleviate my hunger. I was pushed on by the unwavering faith that my mother would return. And return she did. The door to our loft groaned and swung open. I remember her smiling when she swayed in, her eyes alight with that euphoric dreamy look in her eyes whenever she came home from an outstanding party. Then our eyes met. She froze, eyes gone wide as if she remembered that I existed. And with sorrow so profound, she realized her folly. She was stunned. Remember what I said about being stunned? as if your breathe was caught in your throat and you forgot how to breathe. She then scrambled out of her way and back out the door. I followed. I saw her begging and explaining to our closest neighbor, a family of painters hailing from Zares. They were perplexed at seeing Andarina Yn¨¦s Serrano on the verge of tears and frantic. For the first time ever, I saw my mother beg for food. It was no problem really for the Zaressi family. They were kind people. My mother begged me for forgiveness as she fed me. She kept saying sorry over and over again as I wolfed down the food. I was not angry. Never occurred to me to be angry. Why would I be angry with my mother? I was an eight year old boy who thought the world of her. I told her as much then. She was trying to hold back tears, that much I saw clearly.


    Something must''ve broken inside of her that day. For the first time ever, I saw my mother cry. Or rather I heard her cry, she never let me see her tears. She realized another truth about herself that day.


    Andarina Yn¨¦s Serrano was not fit to be a mother, try as she might. She was of a different creature. Much like the migratory birds that travelled all over the world, unheeding of the boundaries and worries that beset much of humanity on a daily basis. Not soon afterwards, she came to a decision.


    I ever only followed my mother. I did not ask questions. We simply boarded a boat, bigger and tougher looking than the boats that came to the Tower Resplendent. My mother hugged me close against the chill sea wind as we weaved beneath the behemian shadows of the Towers. To my shock, we were leaving the their shadows, out into the open waters. Away from the Mare Viridis and into the somber and colder waters of the Mare Graucus.  The Grey Sea.


    And so we departed the Thousand Seaspire.

 Chapter 4

    Our vessel trudged on, searing through the grey murk like a sword. It was a lumbering beast almost a quarter in length of that of a Tower. I remember watching the Spires ever shrinking away from the distance, solid black shafts rising from the conjoined waters of the Triumvirate as we ventured ever deeper into the Mare Graucus. Much like the rolling, swelling waves that beset the blackened hull of the ship, my emotions rose and slushed inside of me. One moment I was ecstatic at seeing and going at a different place, the sights and thrill of something new thrilled me and then the next I would be panged by some deepseated sorrow in my chest at seeing the only home I had ever known shrink away from the distance (My mother awaited till we are well away to tell me our true destination, probably anticipating that I would throw some sort of tantrum at leaving our home, which is to say sort of insulting that she thought me some brat at the age of eight. I remember being as almost as somber as my father with regards to me temperament at the time.)


    The waters of the Mare Graucus were reasonably comely at that time of the year, a near-endless expanse of stormy-grey waters accompanied by an ever present fog that have never abated. The Greyveil it was called. It was an ominous looking mist that stretched the better part of the Grey Seas, enshrouding it in perpetual drab of grey, much like the waters that we sailed on. The ship sallied forth, seemingly undeterred by the thick blanket of grey that made it impossible to discern anything 20 yards from the ships boundaries and the waters beyond. I found myself unknowingly frightened of it as me and mother would always settle on the ship''s open decks, among with the vast litany of other travelers, mostly hailing from other lands rather than native Sorezii going home. I was beset with question after question. How did the ships navigate these waters? Did they worry about colliding with other ships what with the everpresent fog of the Greyveil?


    "The stars, Anri" she said, huddling me against the cold clime, a dark halfcloak on her shoulders to stave off the worst of the cold.


    The stars?" I repeated, glancing upwards. Her hands were on my shoulders and I held them, playing on her fingertips to ward of the cold as well.


    "Aye. Every seafaring vessel, especially those Greywaters-worthy ship like this one, have devices called starseekers. They use it to pinpoint our location in the map, how close we are to the nearest charted land or what shipping lane we are treading on. And see those lights on the ships prow?"


    "Yes?" I noticed them, held in small iron lanterns, with gilded metal in each inside, making the reflection of their light ever brighter. There was a myriad of them placed close to the prow and the hull of the ship.


    "Those are signlights. Each ship has a distinct signlight unique to them, making them known amongst other ship captains. They could be seen a good distance off, even in the Greyveil to prevent collision. There hasn''t been a massive collision in years, so fret not."


    We stood there in silence, staring at nothing in particular. The Greyveil lived up to its name. I stared and stared, not growing bored or fidgety. I do not truly know what it was I was looking for. The veil dredged up this.....this feeling of something out there, in the greywaters. What it is, I do not know for certain. I am certain my mother was ensnared by that selfsame feeling watching out there in the cold waters. Though her gaze wasn''t as searching as mine. There was a resolve her eyes as if she had taken a peek at the grey fog or at least had some faint premonition of what lies behind. I do not know how long we stood there, just being in the moment, before my mother broke the silence.


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    "And we have the Star of Sor as well, the oldest of blessings for a sailor in these here waters. Have you and your tutor tackled it yet?"


    "Yes mama." I answered earnestly. Then added, "Why do they called it the Star of Sor?"


    "Good, good. You will understand better when you see it," she replied cryptically, a hint of a teasing tone in her voice.


    Night descended upon us. Night in the Grey was even more foreboding than the day. Which is why probably the commissary and the cantina as well were lit like a feast. Orange vibrant lanterns lit and an almost feast-like mood were set among the passengers. Sorezii sailors though would partake a little in the talks and chats and games to entertain the guest, a great majority were still on duty out there in the cold gloom of the deck. I noticed that the passengers were more lively in their interactions with one another, a little bit forced joviality really. Was it to keep their spirits up? What with the assailing gloom of the mists.


    "These mists scares me, mama," I said to my mother then, clinging to her skirts as she took her place always close to the ship''s prow. We stood amongst a few number of souls on deck, enjoying the quiet away from the boisterous cacophony of voices within the ship''s halls.


    "Aye, it is wise to be so." She replied. There was a wistful, almost nostalgic smile as she did so however.


    "Does it never cease? The Greyveil?" I asked.


    "Never. For the better part of our people''s history, the veil made it nigh impossible to traverse the Grey Sea. It wasn''t until 400 years ago, upon the induction of the starseekers that we actually ventured out into the deep waters and beyond the veil. Before then we all but traded through land by way of our neighbors."


    "Why? it''s just mist." I said a little puffed up by some false sense of bravery.


    My mother looked at me, really looked into me. Green eyes staring into my same green gaze. It wasn''t a scolding gaze nor admonishing. Then in an almost flat, serious tone she said, "There are things hiding in the great mists. unnamable things. Lost cities and forgotten islands best remained as they are, lost and forgotten."


    "Don''t tease me, mama. I''m eight now! Not a baby anymore!" I said in a offput-joking manner I did not truly feel. Something to turn the conversation in a happier light.


    It worked. She giggled, pinching me in the cheek, adored the baby fat that still gave me a plump toddler look. But the hint of seriousness was still there in her eyes, in the slight downturn of her smiling lips. It was still in her thoughts. She continued on, "The more brave fishermen of olde would venture ever deeper into the mists, away from the sight of any land to try their luck at a bigger catch. They''d hear things. Strange things away from the mists. Hints of shadows and of weird shapes splashing about."


    "it''s just their imagination."


    "Is it? imagine it my love, You are alone out here, nothing but the great grey waters and the impenetrable wan haze of the Veil. Not a soul for a hundred miles in all directions. Nothing but the sloshing waters at your paltry dinghy. Maybe it was their imaginations, the mind can be a mischievous wandering thing. But deep down, those stories you hear others tell, of things away from your sight. They might exist in one form or another. Something far beyond our notice or ken. Be wary of this wisdom Addy, it is a hard won knowledge our people had learned, a long, long time ago."


    I was speechless. I found a deep regard of respect and fear and awe at the blanket of murk that surrounded the ship. I did not answer, hoped to whatever power in the universe never to know the answer to that question.

 Chapter 5

    Our voyage lasted the better part of a month. I knew our journey was almost at its end when I saw the sun peeking out of the veil, its muted colors of yellow barely breaking through the grey mire of the fog. The other passengers breathed a sigh of collective relief and gathered on the deck to watch the ball of light. The fog was so thick within the inner vicinity of the Grey Sea, sailors remarked that you know you are close to land if the Greyveil is thinning, making possible for the light of the sun piercing the faint vestiges of this ancient fog.


    "Mama, mama! Look! it''s the sun!" I said in excited greeting to my mother.


    She gave me a smile. "Is it? Are you sure?"


    Hours would pass before I asked my mother of a peculiarity. The sun never moved. It was a steady fixed point in the horizon. But as the ship ever drew closer, so too did the ball of light grew in size.


    "The Heart of Sor, son," My mother answered. A light that burns at the highest peaks of Sorez'' mountain range that marked its northeastern border. A guiding light for the ships that make the journey into the Greyveil. It had stood vigil there for nigh on three hundred years. A entire village high up in one of the peaks was said to have been tasked in keeping its light perpetually lit. I remember gazing at it in amazement. A ball of orange light so warm and pure that it pierced the thick mire of fog.


    Seven days more would pass before we were truly rid ourselves of the Veil.


    Passengers all stood close to the deck and prow of the vessel, so many that I feared we would tip over the entire boat. Fortunately, it was but a child''s innocent and overactive imagination and the vessel remained steady. I jostled and pushed my way into the gathered crowd like some rodent and I was not alone. Other children did so too, while others were hoisted by their fathers on their shoulders, until finally I reached the rail of the prow.


    I was greeted by the first glimpses of my mother''s homeland.


    Sorez.


    Grey and drab from afar, grey waters and greycast skies. Broken only by the muted colors of green by the coastal forest that rolled on the hilly terrain, slowly giving rise to the hinterlands of Sorez''s mountain range. And in that gloom, I saw the brilliant orange spark of human life, bright orange lights. A sea of orange stars that fought against the gloom brought about by the drab monotony of grey. Something shivered deep inside of me as my eyes laid on the sight. An echoing at the deepest bowels of my soul.


    This land was beyond ancient.


    We disembarked. Mother negotiated our luggage with some dockside workers. A laugh was shared and my mother hardly gave the man any fees merely offering that smile of hers and six others offered to carry our luggage.


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    "My, my this place certainly have grown," I heard her mutter, A soft wistful smile on her lips. Much of the architecture of Sorez were made of the same grey slab of granite they quarried in the hinterlands. Tiled roofs and stucco walls all in their hundreds made for a beautiful sight despite the drab grey. Despite the grim climate of the homeland, I have come to learn that much of the Sorezii people have the self-same jovial manner as my mother. They lit their homes in bright orange lanterns that spilled their homes with the vivid tint of the setting sun. They were loud and smiling people, the roads clean and cobbled. Thick wool, cotton and leathers were the fashionable attire among the populace to ward off the chilling cold that sweeps up from the mountains and down to the forest and coasts of Sorez. The docks were filled with people from other lands, as all docksides tend to be.


    Somewhere along the way, my mother requisitioned a calesa drawn by a gelding. The porter hefted our luggage and off we went into the winding road of the city. As we ventured further, the rode steadily grew into a slant, the terrain built atop of a hilly outcrop. The Sorezii houses I saw where perched on nonetheless despite unevenness of the land. The path swerved up and down and zigzagged as we passed through the marketplaces, the residential districts. Everywhere there were noises. This was not what I had expected. I expected a people much like shaped by their environment that is the Gray Sea, moody, cold and drab. Instead I found them to be full of life, joyous and partaken to celebrations and festivals.


    "Such is our people, Anri," My mother told me.


    If so why did she leave? I wondered to myself. I realized we were easily making our way out of the inner city winding our way out of the grey metropolis what with its bustling people.


    "Where are we going?" I asked.


    "There is someone I want you to meet," my mother replied cryptically. Sometimes my mother''s flair for the dramatic can be quite aggravating.


    Almost an hour would come to pass before we reached our destination. It was well beyond the outskirts of the city, deep in the hinterlands. There were more green than grey here. The forest almost neck-in-neck with the sparse homes here.


    We stopped in front of a small but wellkept house. Grey stone as with all the houses of the region. We strode in front of the door and mother swung the knocker.  I noticed her to be afraid, almost trying to retreat into her coat as we waited. What could have caused her to be apprehensive when she rubbed elbows with actual nobility in the Seaspires?


    The man that greeted us was the tallest man I had ever lain eyes on. Six feet and six inches tall, his gaze was withering, his features almost set in a semi-permanent scowl that would make the hard rocks of the Grey Seas crumble beneath its weight. His jawline was almost as severe and hard as the rough rocks that jutted out of the wild shores of Sorez, weatherbeaten and hard.


    Instinctively, I hid behind my mother''s skirt.


    "Anda,"  The tall man muttered. He wore a vest coat and dress shirt, almost like a scholar though the way he scowled at everything he could easily belong at the most roughest of ship and crew in the port.


    "Hello Arn," my mother greeted back, meekly.  She reached out and tried to pat me forward, like some foal who was about to spook and bolt into the forest.


    "Come now, Anri, don''t be afraid. Come meet your Uncle Arnao. My brother."

 Chapter 6

    "Huh," Arnao Micael Serrano simply grunted as he put the full weight of his gaze on me, the same color of green as mine and my mother. For a three full heartbeats he stood there, staring and saying nothing. Then he opened his door wider and gestured for us to enter as he went up and hoisted our luggage after us. His home was modest and utilitarian. The living room as adjoined to the dining area, I know this because it was only signaled by the appearance of an small table fit for only four people if I was being generous and two if I was being truthful. Back at our home in the Towers, there were some partition to signify each area of the loft. And the entire first floor of my uncle''s home was less than half the size of our loft.


    "You know...." He started, settling down on a brown armchair with leather proofing. It was old and faded looking. We sat opposite him in a long chair with no cushions. I suspected that it was only there to serve its purpose for guests. Arnao Serrano did not strike me as a man who put much thought in fashionable decoration or expression, "I thought this might happen. The fact it took more than twelve years for you to come back with a child far exceeded my assumption."


    Mother regained some of her usual mirth and cheek, rolled her eyes, "Thank you for that immense vote of confidence dear brother."


    "Have you eaten yet? There is some call¨®s in the pot for you and the little one if you are famished." He gestured to the kitchen, also adjoined to the dining area and very much visible to us in the living room (if it can be called that).


    "Thank you Arn,"


    He merely grunted.


    The kettle whistled and Uncle Arnao got up. Mother also got up but my uncle simply help up a hand. A moment later he returned with three cups on a tray with small ceramic pot and other complementary smaller sets. That surprised me really. At first impression he seemed like a grim man but maybe there were more to him.


    "Well Anda? Out with it. Why are you truly back home?" He gruffed as he settled once back more on his chair, cup in hand.


    "I make for a terrible mother." My mother simply uttered. I did not look up as I fiddled with my drink. Mother hadn''t put me in through all those propriety and manners classes without ingraining the lessons on my spirit. I anticipated the air heavy with what is to be a serious discussion between adults. I wanted to be out of there and play instead, maybe wander on the beachside while the mother and uncle talked but mother did not give me leave to do so. And so I stayed, helplessly. And bored, let''s not forget bored.


    Uncle Arnao did not look terribly surprised at my mother''s admittance. Instead his gaze was calm and steady.


    "Don''t sell yourself short, Anda. The boy looks well fed and well mannered enough."


    "It''s not just that, Arn. I feel this...yearning. One that persists even after Anrique was born. You know what I speak of. The desire to travel, to mingle and to celebrate. The Joyful curse of Sor that makes me want to celebrate life. I thought it would go away. Or at the very least muted or buried. It did not. I fear suppressing it would poison me or make me twisted, and direct it to someone undeserving. Someone blameless," Mother looked to me and I met her gaze, it was for an instant before she turned away and went on, "Not everyone is fit to be parents. The crux of it is at times is when you realize it after the fact," she sighed, weary and heavy, then added, "I do not want to end up like mother and father, twisted and bitter."


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    In my young mind I began to comprehend of what is the conclusion of this trip of ours. Of what it entailed as I listened to my mother''s words. It gripped my heart heavily. I felt helpless but nonetheless propelled by forces that were beyond my influence, as if I was adrift on a river against its currents.


    "So you wish to impart another mouth to feed?" uncle asked.


    My mother shrugged helplessly, "My lifestyle isn''t fit for a child. It isn''t a salubrious environment to nurture a boy of eight."


    "And what of the boy''s father? Where is he in all of this?"


    "Leofstan would have taken Anrique without a second thought. But his present.....circumstances would have put our son in a far more precarious environment." Never once heard my father''s given name before. I only ever called him pa or father. And mother only referred to him simply as ''luv''.


    "Leofstan? That sounds Malrish," Uncle Arnao deduced.


    "He is Malrish," Mother confirmed


    "Why me? Why not Agostin? Or Anthona for that matter." Agostin? Antona? More of mother''s siblings I wondered? Mother never spoke much of them. And it was a surprise to hear that mother had more family out there.


    "Agostin? Seriously?" there was a wry tone in my mother''s voice.


    This time it was my grim uncle''s turn to shrug.


    "And Anthona? she has more than enough children to look after don''t you think?" Children? I have cousins as well?


    "I''m not asking you to look after him for the rest of his natural life. Teach him. Teach him as you did us. To be independent and to fend for ourselves, to be the pillar we relied on till we were truly able to care for ourselves," She implored.


    Arnao Serrano didn''t say anything. He merely looked at his sister, and for the first time I saw real emotion there not the fixed scowl that so naturally comes to his features. That emotion was weariness. And it made him look years older than what he truly is. But there was a bit of compassion in them as well. And seeing the littlest bit of compassion in a soul as grim and callous as Arnao Serrano was indeed a thing of wonder.


    "You do know what you ask of me sister? I am more akin to father and mother."


    "Not entirely. You are kinder."


    He scoffed and waved a hand away, some of that old jadedness returning, "Alvaro would beg to differ."


    "How is he? I keep writing him letters but he never replies." Another uncle it seems.


    My uncle said nothing. Now the miniscule warmth in his eyes were truly gone and in their place was concentrated bane that I shrunk in my seat and edged closer to mother, shielded from his view.


    Mother held his gaze, I was surprised she was able to weather it. But I think that that glare was not aimed at mother but at the supposed uncle I have yet to meet. What had he done so to incur such ire from this man, I do not know nor do not want to get in the middle of. It was then also that I came to notice the first downside at having extended familial relations; the dysfunctional drama.


    Mother was about to break the silence but one wave of uncle hand said what he had to say in the matter of uncle Alvaro, that he did not want to discuss it.


    Then, as if in a phantom of my mother''s skill in changing the subject, uncle spoke.


    "Very well then."


    That shook my mother awake from whatever reverie that held the moment. "Y-you accept then?" she said, almost unbelieving.


    Uncle Arnao, seemed to mull it over, seeming to have second thoughts before finally speaking, "More like acquiesce really but yes." Mother jumped from her seat and gave a surprise embrace on uncle who was as taken back as I''ve seen the man in the short span I''ve met him. He surrendered and gave mother a gingerly tap on her back, the only gesture he could muster.


    All the while I sat there, helpless. Not consulted on my opinion on the matter. Not that I had any at the time. I was a child then. Wherever would mother go, I simply followed. Whatever she wished, I obeyed. And truth be told, I didn''t know what I would have truly done. Mother was indeed right, a wisdom I had not recognized till in later years, when I saw the full scope of the darkness that can twist the love in people''s heart into something vile and sinister.

 Chapter 7

    Naturally, I was despondent. Having learned that my own mother was giving me up to my uncle''s care drained me all of the usual vigor a boy of eight should have. I was beginning to learn the nature of change, the only forever constant in life, slowly chipping away at the innocence of my childhood as it was.


    In my own little way, I rebelled at my mother''s decision at leaving me to my uncle''s care. I refused to smile, lethargic in whatever activity she tried to rope me in. She never said anything. She knew were I was getting at. Merely took all my minor temper tantrums with a sad but stoic resolve. From what I garnered from the occasional conversations I can overhear before my uncle had me set off to one chore or the other; when mother had came of age, she made no secret of her intention of ever returning to Sorez, resolving on venturing out into the wider seas and the open world. Something about a rather difficult childhood under their parents roof. From the hints and pieces I can find, I found myself grateful that I have not had the pleasure of meeting my grandparents, them being having long since passed on.


    Uncle Arnao, their firstborn, was considered to be far kinder in contrast to them.


    Uncle Arnao laid down the rule of law under his roof, plain and simple. I remember not soon afterward that initial greeting, he had me sat down and looked me in the eye. Mother cleaned up the plates and cups and busied herself in the kitchen as uncle had a "man to man" talk with me (his actual words, not mine). With him I never even dared nor thought to throw a tantrum. His evergreen glare was severe enough to blow whatever childish impulses I had reserved only to my mother. Crying outbursts would not work on the man, this I instantly deduced from the very first moment I laid eyes on him.


    His rules were not many, nor were they unreasonable.


    First thing was to wake and rise before the sun do. Much of the Sorezii woke up in the dim gloom that strikes the world, a cold blue film as the night slowly bled away giving way for what passes as sunrise in the greyed overcast skies of Sorez. He taught me how to stack the woods and kindling proper, to give them a decent airflow and good strong fire. As well as how to knead the dough for the morning fast and pair it with some cured bacon and steaming hot mallaca. Uncle Arnao can be stern and domineering, watching over me work with an executioner''s level of intensity. Those first few instances working under him were nerve wracking but did them I had. I had a glimpse as to how my mother learned her craft of housecare back in our loft in the Tower. She never ordered me to clean the house, it was a ritual she herself conducted and maintained while it left me to do as a child pleases playing around and being tutored without a care in the world.


    That was not the case beneath Arnao Serrano''s roof. Everyone pulls their weight. Truth be told, it was out of fear and feeling out of place in the tall man''s house that fueled my eagerness to learn and do my chores. My mother had warned me that back in their youth, Arnao Serrano became a third parent to the Serrano brood. My grandparents had placed great responsibility on him, the firstborn, to maintain discipline and care amongst his siblings ( a trait almost all of Sorez implements in their households it seems). Laziness and insolence was beaten out of the young Sorezii children with an almost semireligious zeal at the time.


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    I will say this though, Uncle never put me in a chore that was beyond my abilities nor did he hit me (unless I did something egregiously stupid, which I did aplenty as I approached my teenage years but I''ll get to that later).His instructions were  said loud and clear, not in an unkind manner nor a condescending tone. In his eyes, I was already my own person, rather than an eight-year old child in need of tender love and care.


    After breaking fast each morning, before the first light of day, we prepared to venture into the city proper and the markets within. To stock up on the day''s meals. Uncle took the reins after he showed me how to attach the horses to his very own kalesa and it was off to the markets. Mother simply trailing behind us as my uncle took me under his wing. We visited the markets. Plural. All the while my mother took a backseat to the proceedings. Merely watching with an amused, if not nostalgic look in her eyes at times while at other times giving commentary here and there to supplement my education at the ways of my motherland. We round our way on the cobbled path into the grey city, amidst sloping roads and steep inclines that so marked the outskirts of the city.


    As we passed by people nodded and greeted at the direction of my uncle with jovial smiles.


    "Morning consejo," they would say. Uncle only ever replied in a stiff nod here or a simple grunt there. The people did not seem taken aback. Mother had to hide a smile for some reason as she watched. I asked my mother what they mean as Uncle began chatting up a man that had strode up to him with a weaved basket full of grocer and vegetables. It was common politeness to greet a neighbor but when four out of every five people took the brief time to say their greetings it raised a flag of curiosity in me. It was a clear mark of high regard and respect.


    "You uncle is a counsel. An attorney of the law. Amazing really, considering our circumstances as we grew up," my mother informed me as we browsed the freshly caught fish from the Grey Sea. I looked then at the old man. My fear was freshly given at the first instance of our meeting. Now it was filled with equal parts awe and respect. Mother and uncle merely alluded to a difficult past in their childhood and to see them now strived above that poverty filled me with pride then. Days would pass and indeed I did see Arnao Serrano conduct his affairs as a counselor of the Courts of Sorez. He would wear a great leather overcoat of fine make. It was not a gaudy piece of clothing, that was not Arnao Serrano''s way. It was utilitarian in use and signified his profession. But even without the greatcoat he struck an imposing figure, standing amongst the tallest Sorezii and with that ever present glare his face was set in made for an unforgettable presence. His place of work was located some distance within the city center where much of the administrative affairs of the city take place.


    My mother would take his place and show me how to care for the house, particularly the gardens behind as she toiled the earth, gave the crops in uncle''s garden manure and weeded out the undesirables.


    It was.....calming work to say the least. Slowly but surely, the sudden thunderstrike of change was easing its way into my spirit, the supposed wound closing up as I began to acclimate and accept my predicament.


    I realized now, looking back, that I was merely deluding myself. I had thought that this would be the new normal. That my mother had merely changed her mind about abandoning me to my uncle as she travelled the expanse of the horizon. That she had overcome whatever internal want that she had over me, her own flesh and blood.


    Childish delusions, really.

 Chapter 8

    My mother left without saying goodbye.


    Though in hindsight, I should have seen it coming. The signs were there. The day before her departure my uncle worked me to the bone so that when the time I got to my bed, I lost consciousness within seconds. He made me accompany him to a potential client in the hinterlands of Sorez and insisted that we go by foot. It was a four hour hike to and fro from the client''s abode, a small farmhouse in the hills, adjacent to the coastal forest.


    I quite enjoyed it to be frank. The silence of the green rolling hills were a serene contrast to the obtrusive greyness of Sorez and the howling fresh air made the sight atop the elevated spot all the more beautiful. Uncle had given me a walking stick (of which the crafting of is a popular past time among the oldfolk of Sorez) to aid me in our trek. Mother opted to stay behind to look over the house. That should have been the first giveaway at what they planned.


    True enough, the sights atop the hills were splendid and distracted me.


    The greystone houses that jutted the coastline and formed the city was a thing of marvel. In the silence afforded by the distance and elevation we stood on, I gazed and relished the quiet beauty as well as the soft winds that accompanied being so far out of the metropolis. A thought came to my mind. That I should take some time, rather than tackle my uncle''s modest collection of books, to take some small hikes in the hills should the weather permit it. As if sensing my line of thought though, without turning around, My uncle warned, "If you are planning to trek by yourself in these hills, do not. You are not yet prepared."


    "Sir?"


    "It may not look like it, but the hills and forests has claimed aplenty unwary souls. The path twists and turns. What should have been a simple clearing can turn into a mind bending peril. Do not go into the forest and hills by yourself," He warned me cryptically.


    I was perplexed by this, "What do you mean uncle? They''re just trees and grass and hills." We talked as we walked. We opted for greatcoats to shield us from the cold winds that met out from bothways, the ones coming down from the mountains and the one rising up from the seas. I''ve been told that the geography affects the weather as well, giving Sorez an almost perpetual feeling of a storm about to fall.


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    Without turning to face me, uncle Arnao added, "Sorez is an old, old place boy. Surely you must have felt it when you first laid your eyes on it?" I did not voice my agreement. True that seeing these drab and cold land reverberated something deep inside of me. I do not know then how to describe such a feeling. I was eight, my only concerns most of the time was the next distraction to ward off boredom and chores. I felt the world revolve around me then, to give me the options to alleviate the ailment that is boredom and monotony.


    That feeling, the one I felt when I first laid eyes on Sorez....It was a feeling of something far bigger. A hidden giant moving behind a veil I could bare comprehend to grasp. A history so ancient it perplexed me, a boy of eight years. It took me years to give voice to this. My silence as my uncle and I trekked gave him all the assent.


    "The world would much like to forget it, but we Sorezii and along with our Grey neighbors do not forget so easily. And it is not for a lack of trying in our part," the old man continued, a lonesome how of wind accompanied us in our small journey making the conversation even more forlorn.


    "There are...forces in this land, Anrique," he said, speaking my name. He seldom says it. My ears pricked. The moment forever ingrained in my mind, attested that even after many years I still recall it every now and then. Uncle Arnao went on, "For the most part, that force --that power-- ignores us. So long as we don''t poke or shift its resting place. You strike me as a curious young soul. There are places in this world, many of which are here in Sorez, where such power lies. Either sleeping, forgotten.....or waiting."


    "Waiting, Uncle?" I inquired. He did not continue, simply kept on forward and I followed as best I could with my little legs. I did not get what he was referring at. What he was cautioning me against, as much as I asked in that trek. Only that I was being cautioned. His tone....I could not pinpoint what it was at the time, only years later would I discern it - -through an event. An incident.


    An incident that began the cascade of disaster in Lonethorn.


    The incident triggered the memory of those hills and the lonesome breeze that accompanied us. And I understood then what it was that my big old uncle Arnao felt as he cautioned me of the supposed unseen forces. Ancient forces that so slumbers amidst quiet hills and lumbering forests.


    It was fear.

 Chapter 9

    There are many things I remembered clearly on the day my mother left.


    The orange light of the lamp outside my door. The moving shadows on the hallway. The hushed conversations. I did not make sense of it in my sleep-touched delirium, that state of waking where you could not tell dream from reality. My body was beat. I spent the better part of the previous day walking uphill and into craggy terrain till my thighs burned and ached. My mother made sure I ate a serving and a half of her hearty meat stew she and uncle had cooked as soon as we arrived back close to dusk.


    It was, perhaps, the best stew I had ever tasted. It felt like exhaustion had given the stew a dozen more flavors and spices.


    I was more than willing to gloss over my uncle''s warnings of ancient powers and nameless forces hidden in the forest and hills of Sorez. The words he spoke unnerved me. My mind even went to go as far as completely forgetting my mother''s earlier declaration weeks prior of handing over the care and wellbeing of me, her son, to her brother. I wanted her to stay with me, in this cold gray land. With its unyielding mists and ancient forests, I wanted her to tell me stories I ever only gleamed about. We had been at my uncle''s barely two months as of then.


    I remembered going to bed, expecting much more of the same for tomorrow. Do chores, eat and maybe even take a stroll to the grey coast and walk alongside its shores. For some reason, both uncle and mother denied my request to a beachside stroll. The only answer I got then from either of the two was "Sorez''s shores and waters aren''t like those of the Mare Viridis. You''ll learn....soon." As soon as I hit the goosefeather mattress of my bed, the day took its instant toll. I was asleep in under a minute.


    I remembered my dreams then as well. Of moving shadows in the mist of Sorez. Of the rolling green hills and the quiet forests that so littered the gray coasts of this rustic land. They looked innocent enough, from afar. But my uncle''s words echoed still, even in my dreaming. Of the unseen. The ancient. The supposed powers that slumbers in the hills, the forests and even in the grey waters veiled with its grey fog. In my dreams, I was flying. Or my consciousness anyway. Peering and looking, the lure of curiosity baiting me to see what was the fuss about, as to why my uncle had gone out of his way to warn me? Of something that may or may not exist. And why, for some inexplicable reason, I feel the faintest whispers of dread as I looked and looked?


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    Half-awake, I remembered a lit lamp. The orange light not obtrusive, and thus did not wake me fully. My mouth had been open and a steady stream of drool spilled unto my sheet. I''m a fitful sleeper. Twisting and turning, I was sprawled out of my covers awkwardly and gangly. Mother had laid out the lamp on the foot of the door, her features completely concealed in the shadows, her steps quiet and weightless, floorboards beneath unmoving. She didn''t say anything. She just sat gently on the edge of my bed and smoothed out my hair, stroking it as she had done thousands and thousands of times when I was younger.


    I don''t remember how long she was beside me. I was in and out of my sleep, never waking fully, stuck in between my flying dream and reality.


    One moment she was there.


    The next, she was gone.


    I remember waking up and my blanket being tucked neat and well beneath, all my limbs well wrapped underneath my blanket.


    I remembered my Uncle Arnao siting alone on the dining table. Two earthenware cups on the table. My body walked out of instinct and out of routine. The chores my uncle had assigned having been drilled into the very fiber of my being. I did not notice how hunched his shoulders were. Or how his hands clasped together on the table, a solemn look on his features. He had seemed to me to be absently sipping on his mallaca, though it no longer steamed.


    More than an hour later, I had about done with my morning chores, the spears of first light had just pierced the grey mists.


    Another half hour would go by, after I had searched high and low for my mother and finding no trace of her did I go to ask my uncle.


    I remembered how he looked at me then. Compassionate and calm. An emotion so rarely conveyed on his hard gaunt features. He offered me a seat and told me she had left, two hours before I had woken up. Having bought passage on a vessel, setting sail on the witching hour.


    I remembered it, try as I might to not think about it.


    Of the years that came after in grey old Sorez.


    Of those quiet and carefree days of my childhood.


    For some reason, I find myself reminiscing of those times more often these days. Now, close to a decade later.


    Here, in Lonethorn.

 Chapter 10

    It was a cold misty morning when I arrived on Thornmont, homecity of the University of Lonethorn. It was the third and final stretch of my two-week long journey and for amenities sake, I booked the entire cabin to myself. My dreams were mist-filled, the cold grey grip of Sorez forever moored in mind and soul and the memories of the day my mother left forever nestled within the deepest recesses of my psyche, whether I wanted it to or not.


    It''s been almost ten years since that day. I am eighteen years of age, a man grown by the norms of old Sorez. Independent, for all intents and purposes. But as I''ve learned throughout my journey-- a year hence since I''ve been free of my uncle''s guardianship - - I am still little better than a pimply-faced teen in the eyes of some. I glanced at the translucent reflection afforded by my cabin window, it showed a fair skinned young man, though a little bit beaten by the weather after a year on the road. Long gone were the babyfat and innocence of childhood and in its place was a hard-boned youth with haunting green eyes and a tightness in the jaw that may have a hint of bitterness and hardness like the worn and beaten rocks at sea. Years living under my uncle''s roof imparted me more than certain self-sufficient skills but demeanor as well.


    I keep telling myself that my mother''s departure didn''t have as much effect on me. That I was strong and surefooted in my path in life. That her choice was logical and was for my own betterment and that she didn''t abandon me willy-nilly. Then why does it sound so hollow to my own ears then?


    I let loose a long sigh, grateful for my foresightedness to book the cabin to myself. The privacy it afforded me without having to walk on eggshells on any erstwhile companions for the long journey was a welcome and worthy comfort indeed.


    A gentle rap on the door brought me away from my reminiscing. The knob turned.


    "Hey there ''yung fella''," the conductor suddenly greeted as he passed. He was an elder fellow, bushy eyebrows so thick and grey he reminded me of a squirrel, along with an equally bushy beard. He stooped when he walked and as he made his rounds within the rattling carriage of the locomotive in his faded and worn frock coat with the coat of arms of the train company stitched on the left breast, silver piston and hammer in a field of blue and silver.


    "Fine morning ser," I replied back. The conductor had been a gentle soul throughout my journey, full of warm smiles in his wrinkly face and was never for a loss of polite remarks. He must be well liked by his coworkers, he has an affable air about him.


    "Now, we be reaching the end of the line soon so best be ready with your belongings....not that you''d have to worry, he heh," He jested in good humor and indicating to my meager luggage which is merely composed with the clothes on my back and the sailor''s ditty I have on my side. "Tis not uncommon to seeing young folk such as yerselves to travel alone....but I have heard some whisperings and speculations as to what brings you to mighty Thornmont. Is it true then? You are for Lonethorn?" He said with no small amount of wonder, eyes wide and bushy brows wriggling as high to his crinkled forehead could allow.


    "Is it really that much of a wonder?" I asked him.


    "Oh verily, verily. You strike me as an intelligent lad. But I could not help but wonder, aside from booksmarts and the likes, what you don''t strike me is well forgive me lad but - -" he wagged a finger in my general direction and about the entirety of my person. I arched up a brow at his inquest.


    "I''m afraid you have me at a loss good ser."


    "Well, Lonely Thorn - -we calls it Lonely Thorn round these parts -- is one of ''em fancy schools, the kind that houses the gilded gets of ''em aristocrats, magnates and royalty. That''s why they part of ''em so called "Regent League". Kings and such and all that hullabaloo. And well, without any ill thrown your way,....you look like from the other side of the tracks if you don''t mind me saying."


    Ah. I remembered I dressed simply. I put no such further thought into my clothing unless it is of a formal occasion. Little different from my time on the seas really. A simple wool trousers paired a white cotton shirt and sleek grey unbuttoned waistcoat that I am fond of to be honest. All finished with a pair of mud-encrusted, tall leather boots that went up just beneath my knees.


    This time the conductor stooped somewhat lower and clasped his hand in front of him in a deferential air, "Anyways young master, there''s another matter I wish to bring up. We hope we are not imposing of the sort, but on behalf of the company may we request something partial to your convenience?"


    "What is it?"


    "I know that you''ve fully purchased the cabin but we have some.....esteemed passengers that requires seating. And well, all the other first class cabin have been fully booked. Yours is the only one with acceptable space."


    I sighed. The conductor was quick to add, "The company is prepared to recompense you of this indiscretion of course!" He said with a wrinkly smile. There was real nervousness behind those bushy brows of his. A sweat had formed on his temple despite the chill of the uplands air. Whoever these passengers are, they warranted extreme care for the staff of the locomotive. Must be some kin of the owners or relatives of such form.


    I wanted to refuse. I had paid good money for my privacy and leisure. Money that almost cost me life and limb after a year on my own sweat and blood. My uncle tried his best over the years to be rid of the impetuousness and insolence that slowly took root in my soul. As much as I''d like to say that my mother''s departure had not left me with scars, a seed was unwittingly planted. Was I unwanted? What reason is there to be doing things then? What use was being obedient and behaved and quiet if the things that we loved don''t love us back? These were the thoughts that sprouted from that day. The day when my young innocent child-mind slowly began to unravel and sprout into an unruly and emotionally charged thinking of an adolescent. I have mostly kept those emotions under reins these recent years and I was in good humor that morning.


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    I hoped it didn''t show on my face. Maybe it already had. The conductor was an old and warm soul. Arnao Serrano would have agreed immediately and stoically to the small request and mild inconvenience. I ,on the otherhand, hesitated. A cruel retort forced down on whatever blackened part of my soul it crept from.


    ".....very well," I said eventually, after a few uncomfortable seconds (for the conductor).


    "Much thanks young master. Much thanks!" the old man beamed. He must''ve been in quite a pressure. "Proper recompense would be given to you on our ticketing offices on the platform once we arrived within the city proper."


    Hardly a minute had passed when in strode two women. One young and the other middle-aged. Upland customs required respectable young women, commonality and aristos alike, to have some form of chaperon when travelling or in events where there is even a smallest hint of possibility of persons from the opposite sex. An older female relative or even an unrelated employee with that specific task. Quite unlike back home, were the women are expected and trusted to conduct themselves properly without an overseer. Here a guardian is required and I do not blame them. The youth can be quite illogical and emotional creatures, what with onset of adulthood bearing down and changing them at a biological level.


    Still, I was in the littlest bit of way, peeved. Peeved that my peace and privacy was disturbed. That bitter impetuousness that I tried to reign in and, for the most part, succeeded. A few leaked against my resolve however. Such that they manifested themselves as small acts of pettiness. I gave them an acknowledging nod, not really bothering with remembering their faces, just a blank look in their general direction and I returned to my musings as we approached the city proper. We have been steadily travelling ever deeper into the heart of the city. The wide open praire and moors gave way to signs of civilization. Brickwork and staccato walls rose as habitations and places of businesses at the outskirts of the city. Towering limestone and quarried rock dominated here. Magnificent Low-pitched roofs and pointed arches rose upwards towards sky and I was entrapped as I took in the fine architecture at display as our locomotive pierced ever deeper into one of the hearts of the Modern Age.


    I felt eyes on the back of my neck.


    I snapped my head around.


    The younger woman was staring at me.


    "Did I hear that right? You are for the University?" There was slight hint of derision in her tone as well as disbelief. I had not been paying attention. My initial glance was so cursory. But if it had been a second or two longer, I should have known that these two are not mere commonality. Gentry, of that I am certain. They wore promenade dresses, simple clothes for any outdoor endeavor. Their clothes were not frilled but little nuances and the mere quality of it, despite lacking any garish or frivolous decorations, would instantly nominate them as aristos. The young lady wore a dress of deepest dark-burgundy while the older one was in humble beige. The hem of her skirt reaching her ankles and her hands were clasped neatly on her lap as she watched me coolly.


    "Electa, hush! It is a rude line of questioning," the older woman reprimanded her young charge. So she says but her eyes were calm, not filled with secondhand shame at the blunt tone the younger woman spoke. She wore an expression that I had difficulty discerning.


    "I am madame." I said keeping my voice neutral. The young woman, Electa, made no secret as her gaze swept me up and down. Her chin was slightly tilted upwards making her eyes looking down at me. It was so small a gesture and yet the condescension reverberated ten fold in the small confines of that cabin. I almost grinned at that. Here I was minding my own, eager to be in my own company and she had the gall to belittle me? (although in a subtle manner that could easily be overlooked or missed). I took a bit of sadistic pleasure at being mocked at. I am not so insecure to be cowed like a lamb. Still the effort she made to waste time and thought was very amusing.


    "Do you have proof of that?" she continued. Her governess merely pursed her lips and seeming to bore fire at the back of her charge''s neck. It seems this demeanor of the young lady was not uncommon.


    "You mean a letter of admission?" I said, fishing out a letter stamped with the seal of the University. I had to keep my lips level and face as stoic as a stone. Uncle had repeatedly remarked I had a "feces-consuming grin" (his own words) and that it can irritate people. Her eyes narrowed at the piece of paper with the dried wax embossed. I returned the letter to my ditty bag. Her nose scrupled as she took the sight of my sailor''s ditty.


    "Are you a peer, good ser?" she asked politely but her expression did not match her tone. "You purchased an entire first class cabin all to yourself after all."


    "I do not have that privilege." Not yet anyway. Soon.


    "Then how then? It''s still weeks but already you are being admitted into the university. I have yet to receive a letter myself."


    "You are for the University too then?" I asked.


    She gave a dismissive, flippant shrug as if it was a small matter. "I applied for Eldrotology as well as the histories. It is expected, as mama often reminds me. Maybe even a minor in Aetherlosophy if fortunes favors me. What course have you applied for?"


    "Commerce and Industry."


    "Ah....." she said as the words began to settle in. She seemed disappointed at the mundanity of my chosen study. It sure as hell did not sound as exotic as Eldrotology or Aetherlosophy, whatever the hell those are.


    "Well that''s.....certainly a respectable course," she belatedly added.


    "Indeed," I answered with my most charming smile. Then I crossed my legs, rested my chin against my knuckles as I watched the cityscape pass by. The rails went by an industrial complex, billowing pillars of smoke rose as workers by the hundreds went to and fro the gaping mouths of the buildings. Thirty-seven seconds of silence passed within the cabin. Without meaning to, I have become a master of uncomfortable silences. Where my mother was a born adept of social graces, I was the exact opposite. I can read a room just well enough (not to the level as my mum of course) but for the life of me, I could never restrain the worst parts of my character to make myself be likeable. Not for long anyway. Uncle says I give people a cold and distant air whenever I am about. A remark of his I agree with.


    I returned my gaze back to young Electa and I was rewarded by a twitch at the edge of her lips. She was caught off guard by my response (or lack thereof). Her chaperone was just glad that her charge wasn''t making any more breach of proper conduct befitting for a young lady.


    "I never did catch your name, ser." She finally said, breaking the silence. Her tone was icy.


    "Anrique Ortega Serrrano, dear madame." I said with another beaming smile, dismissive of her tone.


    "Covington." She replied with no small pride as if we have restarted introductions once more. The name meant nothing to me. Not yet anyway.


    "Electa Blanche Covington, of the Drakenmoore Covingtons''."

 Chapter 11

    A tide of people have poured out from the steel carriages of the locomotive. Harried mothers corralling their brood of children. Travelling business men in their sleek dark coats and canes in hand eager to get to the next appointment. All a myriad of people exiting the belly of the black beast that bore us. Veins of dark iron ran through hundreds of leagues and all convalesced here in the uplands of the Thornmont.


    A city of opportunity, many had called it. There seems to be many that share that title. I could not say for certain that I myself am not ensnared by that promise. Lonethorn University was not just my main objective. With the advent of the railroads for the past few decades, it has transformed Thornmont into a sprawling state. Nestled amidst its neighboring countries, both burgeoning and ancient alike, it was a hotbed of investment opportunities and vital trade routes. Opportunities that could make or brake my aspirations in life. But, in that moment I found myself ensnared by the company of young miss Covington.


    "It is no trivial matter, getting admitted into the university. And no small amount of money at that as well," Covington said, not dropping the matter. A steady tide of passengers have exited their cabins and disembarked the locomotive. An unspoken agreement to let it thin out before we made our own exit was settled between us in our own carriage.


    "I thought it rude to discuss financial matters." I replied back. The young woman was clearly miffed at my admittance but continued to prod the subject with a nonchalant charm, passing it off as meandering conversation.


    "Just curious good ser," she made a motion to inspect the fine threads of her gloved hand. Her governess wasn''t looking nor interested at our conversation and looked rather exasperated. Governesses'' are supposed to watch over their charge so that nothing untoward may occur. Her ward had been edgily dancing at the borders of what I thought to be protocol among the peerage.


    "Where are you staying for the time being?"


    "Why at the university of course! I already have a room and board in the university," or so it said in the letter. I wondered if old Saville kept to his word. The man had a tendency to be absentminded in certain details.


    "May we accompany you then? We have a stagecoach waiting for us. Would that be allowed Aunt Ione?" Covington blurted rapidly that I was not able to reply immediately. To me, it seemed, that she had been dead-set in seeing me walk through the gates whether I have given my consent or not.


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    "We have no further appointments for the day, aside from luncheon with your father and that wouldn''t be for another few hours. Stopping by the University shouldn''t accost us much time, by my reckoning." The older woman said, who now that I have seen with the better light of day, was quite a handsome beauty.


    "Splendid. What say you ser?" Covington had the gall to ask. I could feel the edges of my eyes twitching. If I say no she''d just implore further, it hadn''t been an hour since I''ve met up with the personage of Electa Covington of the Drakenmoores'' Covington , but I already have the sense of feeling that she''s the type of woman that gets what she wants. One way or the other.


    I sighed. "I wouldn''t want to impose," I replied politely as I could. I felt anything but polite.


    "Not at all, not at all! It has been some time after all since I''ve last visited the University. Maybe a quick stroll in the parade grounds or even say hello to some of the professors. Do you know of Professor Charmant? Dean of the Office of Eldrotology? My father is an ardent financier of his expeditions and studies...."Covington prattled on. From the corner of my eye I thought I saw her Aunt Ione roll her eyes as Electa name-dropped several more key figures of the Lonethorn Academia.


    "Much thanks ,Miss Covington," I cut in. "But really, I wouldn''t want to waylay you any further from your day."


    "Did you plan on trekking it to the University gates Mister Serrano?" she asked. "It''s quite a climb, I tell you. Being situated close to one of the Thorne Peaks and all. As well as a little out of ways from the city proper as well." She turned to cast a look at the domineering silhouettes of the peaks that surrounded the city of Thornmont. It was still early in the morn and the mist hadn''t all that dissipated, especially to the higher elevations. The shadow of Lonethorn was unmistakable. Encrusted in soft mists, the silhouette of what could be Castle Thorne (or maybe was it the monastery? I had not been quite sure at the time) made for a picturesque image then and there.


    "It may look like closer than you think but in reality it''s much farther on foot, going uphill and all," Covington supplemented.


    True, I admit, that it seemed closer and my plan was to hike it. It could save me a decent far and I did relish a good hike, a taste I acquired from my uncle.


    I could not quite pinpoint the exact thought of reasoning. A part of me want to bullhead the idea of trekking, ignoring Covington''s invitation to ride with her coach, out of sheer spite and pride. Another spoke fine reasoning to save the trouble of sweat and ache in my limbs as well as money. It did not hurt the fact that both Covington women, old and young, made for a fetching and alluring sight that I wouldn''t mind cast glances along the journey. Or maybe it was that I had not yet taken a bite of my morning gorge?


    Whatever the case, I stifled a sigh and relented to endure the prodding of Electa Covington atop Lonethorne University.


    A small price to pay, I had hoped.

 Chapter 12

    Lonethorn University sat atop one of the peaks that surrounds Thornmont City. From afar, it seemed like a castle of old, which is half-true. Lonethorn University is composed of two separate principal structures that laid the groundwork of the entire estate:


    Castle Lonethorne and the Abbey.


    Young Covington was more than happy to elucidate my dull country mind with the finer points of Lonethorn''s history as their fine carriage bore us from Thronmont Central Station towards Lonethorn Peake. "The Abbey predates the castle by at least four hundred years. Seeing the strategic location of the peak, the then Lord of Thorne practically stole back the land once gifted to the monks by his ancient predecessors and erected a formidable castle. Now it lays much of the foundation of the university itself. Now, it is entitized into a single massive property and nurturing students and graduates for ten generations."


    Like all things high, it bore the illusion of closeness. When in reality it would have taken me the better part of an hour on foot.


    Prestige and old power resonated with the outer grounds itself. So wide was the estate that as carriage made its way climb up, my first sight of the University was its centuries-old crumbling curtain wall that bordered its southern edge of the property, as we came out of the city proper and starting the path up towards the peak.  The weather and elements have done their job over the passing of time for the wall was teetering on some of its section while others lay crumbled.


    "Tell me truly, How did you gain your letter?" Electa Covington resumed her questioning.


    I sighed. She really is relentless as I had suspected. My own reluctance at reminiscing that particular line of events stems not only from being annoyed by the young woman''s pompous attitude but much deeper woes. It is not a memory that I''d like to revisit. I think back on the Mists of my homeland and then on the ones nestling calmly on the peaks of the mountain itself. The sight brought about a cold slithering dread that I had kept at grip deep within the bowels of my soul. A dread that I had repressed since it nestled there more than a year now, like a viper that have found a lair in the deep recesses of the shadow of the earth. It threatened to upend my stomach. I forced it back out of sheer will and spite.


    I looked towards young Covington, who remained oblivious (as she should) of my inner turmoil. It had only been a moment since she inquired but to me it was an agonizing eternity. I swallowed a lump that have found its way on my throat somehow. I prayed she did not notice. I answered her question with the truth or at least the conclusion that got me on this path rather than the series of events and circumstances, hopefully to satisfy her thirst for knowledge (or gossip).


    "I gained the acquaintance of a professor," I simply said.


    It was two in fact. But it was Saville who convinced me to send an application along with his letter of commendation, as a way of thanks. Ol'' gruff Spencer would even write in a sentence in the letter, Saville joked, some form of jest between the two. I did not think what would come of it at the time Saville had said it. I was more preoccupied of making it out alive of the....''predicament'' I found myself then.


    "A professor? Truly?" She seemed genuinely perturbed.


    I nodded, my jaws starting to ache. It was getting tiresome answering her.


    "Who?" The way she said it sounded like I had just been accused of murdering her cat. Accusatory.


    "uhm....," I tried to think back, scratching a cheek, trying to remember Saville''s given name. I had been so used at referring to the man by his surname.


    "Mansfield Saville."


    Electa Covington did not seem to hear me. She looked to me, but her eyes seemed unseeing. They were wide open, the whites of her eyes almost as big as saucers. Then, as if she had been struck in a stupor, she shook herself awake.


    "I-I''m sorry, I did not hear that right. What did you say the name was?"


    "Professor Mansfield Saville. You...recognized his name?"


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    Another silence had drawled on. The sound of the clod of hooves as the carriage''s pair of draft horses was all that accompanied us. The landscape passed by, more highland grass and thrush and inclines on the right and the dilapidated curtain wall of Castle Lonethorne on the left. The cold seemed to creep in as a change had occurred to Electa Covington''s blank stare. I instinctively shrunk back in my seat. Her Aunt Ione looked to her intently, I saw her hand seeming to reach for something at the back of her seat.


    "How did you came upon the acquaintance of him?" Electa said without emotion. I felt I was suddenly thrust upon a frozen lake with thin ice at the tone of her. "I do not appreciate it when people so blatantly lie to my face, ser. Especially an outlandish lie such as you claim. Even more so that I have invited you, out of common decency, to join a ride with us, " Before I could even clarify my acquaintanceship with Saville, she raised a hand. She turned away from me, eyes closed as if the very sight of me offends her. I looked at her aunt Ione. The older woman only had an apologetic look on her and made a motion of her hand, a signal to me. To brush it off. I have severely underestimated the humors of Electa Covington. I had cold read her demeanor to be pompous. I have to add melodramatically delusional as well.


    Then she lunged from her seat, almost pouncing atop of me.  "I dare not...Nay! I refuse to believe that you made an acquaintanceship with the esteemed Professor --" (esteemed Professor, really?) "-- I could maybe entertain the idea of some commoner entering the prestigious halls of fair Lonethorn but to lie directly to my face? Of being companions with one of the leading minds in the field of Eldrotology--" Electa''s tirade was interrupted as a thick roll of the morning paper bopped her head. Once, twice, three times it struck her without any real harm but proved effective in sending her into childish squeaks.


    "Aah! Gah! Aunt Ione! Stop! Please!" Electa went from a noble lady to a squealing child in a matter of moments.


    "How many times have I disciplined you of this?! Oh you histrionic tart! I am at my wit''s end with your obsession into this obscure study. Insulting guests and strangers! Gah! Shame on you!" The older woman battered her niece with no less than a score of strikes with the newspaper roll with a deft hand. Ione looked none of the worse with hardly a lock of hair loose as she doled out the castigation. On the otherhand, gone was the regal bearing of Electa Covington and in its place was a chastised child fearing another strike of a roll of newspaper. The cruel parts of my heart almost let out a grin at the change in demeanor.


    After the tumultuous few seconds of swinging newspaper and the pleas of a teenager, a silence settled once more in the cabin. Electa Covington looked liked an innocent child, her lips puckered as if she is about to cry. I had to scratch the corner of my lips to stop myself from laughing. Reminded me of a pair of neighbor''s children back in Sorez who I played with. A similar situation unfolded where one child was told not to make mischief and the other told him of what might happen. We had a good bit of laugh at seeing the little scamp getting scolded by his mother.


    "I sincerely apologize for my niece''s conduct good sir." Ione said, finally breaking the silence.


    "I''m not," muttered Electa under her breath.


    Another loud ''Thwack!'' sounded. Electa said nothing more and it took me all of my will to not end up in hysterical laughter. My cheeks hurt in the effort.


    "It has been a continued source of trouble within the family. I hope you understand. This will certainly reach the ear of her parents who would be more than willing to discipline her, with her unacceptable treatment with strangers and guests," Ione explained. The stagecoach drew to a stop. We have arrived at the outer curtain walls of the University. Mist had completely enshrouded the environs now. A 500 meter visibility radius by my reckoning, having spent half my life in the mists of Sorez.


    "We have to cut this short I''m afraid, Mister Serrano. I wish you a fine stay at the University and Good tidings as well." Ione Covington seemed genuine in her remark.


    "Good tidings to you as well madame. And thank you for the ride as well. It has been.....certainly eventful to say the least." I replied with the best of my warm smiles. The kind of smile my mother taught me. The older woman gave a small smile and nodded. I cast a look at the disheveled Electa Covington, now sulking like a spoiled child at her portion of the seat.


    Our eyes met. Her aunt had turned away from me to give instructions to the driver.


    I unleashed the full smug aura deep within the black parts of my heart, an almost childish smirk of self assurance that to be sure to piss anyone off. The last sight I saw of her then was one of utter disbelief and wide eyed shock.


    I did not give her the satisfaction of listening to her replies as the coach clopped on back towards the city.


    I chuckled beneath my breath as I head towards the Admissions Gate of the University. Twelve-Feet tall black wrought iron gates protected the main driveway while the faintest of shadows loomed behind the mountain mist was the only ever real evidence of Lonethorn University''s presence. I trudged forwards.


    I am not an expert on aristocrats. Although my time in the Thousand Seaspires had me instructed in their conduct, It had been years and those had been seen through the eyes of a child. Nevertheless I had hoped then that would be the last I saw of Electa Covington.


    How sorely wrong I was.

 Chapter 13

    I do not blame Miss Covington for her suspicion. It was warranted.


    I can reason her dislike as to how I found myself, a common-born through and through, at one of the gates of a Regency League institution. How do I explain it to her then? The series of fortuitous circumstance that I had to make the most out of, that led me to the path that is Lonethorn University?


    If she persisted further I would have given her four words. Four words that come to my mind. Four words that I would have given her to sate her accusative curiosity (or inflame it further).


    "Treasures from the tides."


    After my mother left me in Sorez, me and my uncle settled into a fixed routine. I did my homely chores as he set out for work each day in the city, meeting up clients and working cases in the Tabernacle Of Law within the city. The work made me not think of my mother and kept my idle hands busy. After my chores I then distracted myself with his moderate collection of books (of which are merely the technical sort, my uncle had no uses for novels nor penny dreadfuls, much to my dismay) Perhaps a month of moping had gone by and the lonesome corners and bookshelves of my uncle''s abode had become too somber, even for me.


    I think my uncle too had picked up on this dour demeanor of mine and finally took me on a jaunt by the seaside, the very same seaside I was warned not to wander by myself. I was the very soul of childish obedience then, though dejected by the departure of my mother, I obeyed when uncle suddenly appeared at the doorstep of my room and declared in that authoritarian tone of his that made judges and jury alike to hang unto his very words. "Anrique, come," he simply commanded and I obeyed with no further noise nor inquiry. We don our coats and walking sticks and made off one misty afternoon.


    Our destination was the nearest beach, not half an hour away from where we lived. It made no difference to me, so long as I kept busy and this was by far the busiest my mind had been as I took the fresh new sights to be stored in my mind. We left the hilly and pastural scape of the city outskirts, passing through a brief copse of pines, oaks and willows that made up that border between the pastural residences and the outlying shore. The soft thrashing of the waves were not far off as I trekked that thicket. The ocean breeze was a constant visitor, always rustling the leaves of the few dozen trees that lines this part of the coast. They towered above us, quiet. I noticed the peculiar nature of not a single chirp of bird can be heard. There were places like that in Sorez, scattered about. A chill crept up the back of my spine and into my open neck. It was not a grand grove of trees and still it instilled in me a watchfulness from their brief shadows. My uncle walked on unhindered nor undisturbed by the silent sentinels of this miniature forest. I tried not to add voice that some of these trees had odd carvings and effigies etched into the very bark. I hurried after the older man.


    A smile made its way to my lips as my gaze met the limitless shores that stretched onward. We arrived on a pebbly beach, the waters were calm here and the waves soft and tranquil as it met the stones. The greyness did not strike me as cold and hard but rather almost akin to a warm blanket amidst a chill rain, surprisingly comfy. Me and the old man walked in silence with no fixed destination, just simply relishing in the subtle silence afforded by nature.


    Others were there too. Families on quiet little picnics, lovers taking a stroll hand-in-hand, and lonesome individuals amidst their own thoughts walking in line with the soft accompaniment of the waves. It wasn''t terribly overcrowded and the number could hardly reach fifty that afternoon.


    I cast my gaze all around me. I noted that from here, one had an picturesque view of the city and the docks jutting out into the sea. A myriad of vessels erupting from the grey mists and into them. The grand majesty of the vast gray waters had an effect on the soul of appeasing whatever inner turmoil besetting them, like any sight of nature would. So far, I saw no fuss as to why both uncle and mother forbid me from wandering here, not an half an hour away from the house. As we kept on walking, I saw a pair of siblings running up a kite on the opposite bank, their parents eye on them.


    But what caught my special attention from me were the several odd constructions dotting on the side of the seascape; iron lampposts hoisted on mortar and stone set well beyond the coastline and rising well over two meters. They are old. Corroded and barnacle encrusted, the light they afforded were meager at best what with the smeared and faded glass within. But shone they all still. For how long, I do not know. They stretched into the horizon, parallel with the coast, a decent gap of about ten or twenty meters in between each.


    Were they a form of rudimentary beacons used by local maritime folk? Or to accompany night strollers in this part of the coast? I was about to voice my question when another piped in.


    "See anything peculiar Anrique?" My uncle asked, stopping sudden and facing towards the open waters. The quiet surf gently lapped the soles of our boots.


    I looked around and could not find anything amiss. It was just a quiet little beach with a few people enjoying the scene. I shook my head. "N-no sir....?" I replied hesitantly. I wasn''t sure what the old man was aiming at.


    "A fine day it is. The waters are calm. I''m sure if the same could be said of the clime at those Thousand Spires of yours, everyone would jump on the water, wouldn''t you agree?" Uncle said. I thought on those words a bit, chewing them.


    A fine day it was indeed, the air not terribly cold and yet not a soul could be found so much as baste their ankles in the water. Even me, who hardly a day went by when we lived in the Towers, when I didn''t jump from the reefs into the aquamarine waters with a great splash. I strode out from my uncle''s company, taking a few steps forward. It brought to the waters edge, the waves now smashing against the tips of my boots. Back at the Seaspires, I sometimes would spend the noon traipsing on the reefs on bare feet, letting the cool waters lap at my toes while I was lost in some fine novels my mother had brought.


    I stared into the roiling waters. I think I could see into the bottom of it as well. It couldn''t have been three feet at the deepest and yet already the grey murk that was prevalent in the waters of Sorez made it seem phantasmaly abyssal. My feet froze, not taking another step. A spine tingling chill crept up and held the back of my nape hostage. It felt like an illogical fear had me in its throes.


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    No, that is wrong. Not illogical. But inexplicable is the more apt term. As if some deep animal instinct of self preservation kept me from making that one more step into the unknown murk of the Greysea. Yes, that was it. And yet what was there to be afraid of? I saw nothing out of the norm. No warning signs of any sort that could offset this sensation that had entirely gripped my spine. But I found myself enraptured by the waves of the sea. It was gray from where I stood but when seen in a certain angle, such as I do now, It appeared as black as the pits of hades itself. Dark and unknowable. Deep and uncaring. As if the domain of something entirely else, outside from the vision of the illuminating light of day. One could not help but feel as if....something was there despite the evidence to the contrary.


    I do not know how long I stood there over the water. I was broken away from the trance when my uncle''s hand grasped me by the shoulder.


    "That''s enough boy." he merely said. "It would be dark soon." Then he nodded to the nearest iron lamppost, whose light seemed to grow brighter. No, not brighter but rather everything else slowly turning to the coming night.


    I stepped away from the water, the cold gripping sensation never quite leaving my spine. I half expected uncle to leave for home but we kept on with our stroll. I looked back and saw a few people leaving. The family that picnicked had long since made their way back to the city it seems.


    "What was that?" I asked uncle.


    "That be the Old Blood of Sorez, my boy. It is good to see its grip in you. I had been worried your foreign father''s blood would dilute the call." He said without any malice. I stopped myself from wrinkling my nose at the remark about my father. Best to let it slide. "It is an instinct," Uncle Arnao continued. "Much like the instinct of any animal in the wild, it is one borne of self preservation."


    "H-how did this...''instinct'' came to be? And why be afraid of the sea?" I wouldn''t have believed it if I hadn''t experienced it firsthand. I never thought myself abnormal, though by Sorezii norms this was as normal as the grey seas and the unlifting mists. And how did mother overcome it and sail away from here? But Uncle Arnao picked up what I left unsaid.


    "No one rightly knows for certain. There are those that says that the Old Call was some curse by some forgotten god of old, to keep the Sorezii from taking sail and trap them here in this misted lands, stricken by fear of the seas. While others say it is a blessing from a benevolent deity, a warning to be wary from the sleeping horrors that cast the mists like a blanket. The legends goes on depending on who you ask. I think there is a grain of truth in all of them. And the Old Call is not some debilitating illness, you need not worry in that regard. Did you not grow up by the sea yourself? Pass through the Greyveil without an incident? I think it only makes itself known in...certain parts of this world. There places aplenty here in Sorez. Trust not your eyes nor your ears for they can deceive you, Anrique. Trust only in the Old Call." The lines on his face seemed deeper as he told his tale. As if he was dredging the innermost particles of his being and making them laid bare. Maybe all Sorezii have in their souls this irrational instinct embedded. Maybe grouchy old Arnao Serrano hasn''t been able to open his innermost thoughts unless to his dispersed kin.


    "And as to your question on what I think the Old Call is; I think we inherited it from our ancestors. Do you know how parents discipline their child that it carries over unto adulthood? A habit reinforced into the very impressionable mind of a child. What if something, a long time ago in our forgotten past, it is one that kept on happening over and over again, a lesson that was reinforced unto the innumerable generations that followed. Until, eventually, it was ingrained on the very fibre of our psyche as a people, living here in these lands."


    "A lesson? So that we would be afraid of the ocean?" I intoned, positively curious and intrigued by this trait.


    "As I''ve said, It is an instinct borne out of self preservation. Survival. Like a babe learning not to touch the handle of a burning pot. The baby reaches out, gets burned and learns to be wary of pots, whether they be hot or cold from thereon. The baby learns to be afraid of the pot, to be wary of it. The Old Call is akin to that instinct. Now imagine it, Anrique. An entire period in our history as a people, a period in which we became afraid of the very ocean that it carried on to our descendants. An instinct drilled to the very subconscious of our people. I ask this what could have such a thing? To warrant such fear for the greywaters?" He didn''t speak for a time after that.


    We kept on with our walk, neither saying anything. Me in the middle of processing this amazing and terrible information while uncle had the look of a man gazing way beyond the horizon. I could scarce comprehend what thoughts he had ruminating. Clearly, the man had his own opinions and ideas of this uncanny trait among the Sorezii people. My own mother never told me outright of this ancestry.


    We stopped in our stroll, gazing out into the seas. It couldn''t have been past four in the afternoon but with the prevalent mists it seemed close to sunset. As I scanned the horizon, my eyes grew wide at what I saw not a quarter mile away from the shores. We had reached a part of the beach where the tide have pulled up, leaving the shallow seabed bare for the winds. The waterline has greatly receded revealing warped stones, eons old and tide pools. Down the distance, A few people were hunched over with sticks and buckets poking at the exposed sandbars and mudbanks. Do they not feel the Old Call at their napes?  I thought to myself then.


    "The Call can be overcome, mitigated up to a point. As I''ve said, It is not a debilitating illness. It''s just a....''sense'' for things. Like what those brave fools are doing over there," Uncle Arnao replied, already having guessed at my line of thought at the sight before us.


    "What are they doing?" I asked the old man.


    He remained quiet. I thought I saw his left eye twitch at the question. Time passed by but it couldn''t have been more than just several minutes. Over the horizon, a vessel was slowly swallowed by the mists just as six others were making way for port.


    "Us Sorezii can trace our recorded history dating back as much as 1,700 years, Anrique." The old man suddenly started again, completely ignoring my question, "And for all that time we could never recall or trace as to what caused the Old Call tingling in our spines. It seems that the Old Call goes back even beyond that time. All we have from before that period are folktales, myths and legends."


    "Stories? just stories?" I asked incredulously.


    "More like warnings really. It is all the same." He replied with the briefest noncommittal shrug. Whatever mask he had briefly laid bare was back on again, the same old gruff stoic exterior. But there was indeed more to the man rather than just a simple grizzled lawyer. Uncle Arnao had more to say, "And one warning echoes down the millennia, the kind of warning parents tell their children, and their children''s children."


    I could not discern what it was he felt when he said the next words, what weight they held on him, only that his eyes conveyed that I keep these words from this moment henceforth.


    "Beware the treasures from the tides. Beware them."

 Chapter 14

    The towering iron-wrought gates of Lonethorn University stood imposing before me. As I stood there, I am oft reminded of such similar days in my life. One I have referred to as days of change. We all have experience it at one point or another. On such occasions, as I have observed over the years, people have a sudden influx of emotion in these moments of great change and uncertainty. It is an inclination in the human spirit that enables us to persevere into the unknown with our chests held high and hopes aflutter. A way of thinking that borders on the fine line opposite of delusional.


    Optimism. It borders dangerously on wishful thinking and delusions of grandeur, to throw caution to the wind and step into the unknown despite the odds stacked against one''s favor, leading eventually to a realm of boundless disappointments and misery. That is the crux of Optimism. As my uncle had once told me: Smother it. Smother that feeling deep and down your gut boy. And be on the look out for the punch that you don''t see coming, for those are the ones that would knock you flat on your arse. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.


    Days of great change come far and few in between for well-adjusted average individuals. Not to me, for as early as childhood it is one change after the next and am more than just adept to quell down that feeling of optimism deep within my chest.


    Lonethorn''s main gates were a reflection of the school''s prestige. Fifteen meters of dark iron, embroidered with masterfully crafted ferric vines and replete with sharp thorns in the thousands. An aesthetic choice, I think, with a sense of functionality to deter intruders. The vines wrapped themselves majestically against the vertical rods of iron that formed the barring locus of the gates, akin to their living counterparts and finally coiling atop the upper frames.


    A faint mist creeped around the property, oozing its way and clinging close to the ground as the day was well on its way. The sun appeared on the horizon, and with it a great mantle of piercing blue horizon. But something has taken hold of the mist within Lonethorn, for the stubborn brume clung in places like a barnacle on a ship''s hull. I ran my hand against the weathered iron, I get the sense this path is used for only official or ceremonial capacity. No guard was visible. There was no way I was going through there. Saville''s instruction were vague at best and so I have to trust my gut. After a moment of craning my neck from left and right, my eyes spotted an adjacent building lay beside the gargantuan gates. An old single story brickwork structure, dwarfed by the gates but was no less imposing.


    My steps were heavy and boisterous to my ears, as if (and very might well be) I was the only living soul for leagues on out. The city can be seen from where I stood for the peak was cresting over the elevation and provided a superb view of the bustling metropolis below. And it was so quiet here I stood that I could still hear the thrumming of the city. As I''ve made my way inside, my initial assessment was proven wrong.


    A clerk sat behind a rich and dark wooden counter within, along with a quadruple set of stern-faced guards at the far end of the hall that led to the campus proper. All four guards made no mention of my entry but their eyes trailed on me with each step. Their clothing was in apathetic dark blue, made in style with that of chauffeurs, long sleeved and high collared. The only tell of their office was the black truncheon and whistle hanging on their belts. And there was more. I felt more than just simple mortal eyes cast upon me. On one section of the red brick walls were several portraiture of austere ladies and gentlemen lined up, a cursory glance awarded me a brief insight of deans and various famous alumni. None were smiling. Their eyes trailed on me as I walked.


    I seldom feel self-conscious. I learned to walk with pride early on, watching my Uncle Arnao. Pride was all he had growing up in the barren hinterlands of Sorez''s mountains. Despite the impoverished beginnings of my forbearers, he persevered. Pride was all he had in his heart, even when his stomach had nothing. He nurtured and cared for his many siblings and took up a law degree in that time as well. Pride is all I had and all my mother and uncle had growing up while clawing a living in the harsh boonies. And yet as I took those first dozen steps I could feel their painted gaze, measuring me, founding me wanting. My heart found itself doubling in its pace because of those thoughts. It was an irrational fear. It was merely a trick of the painter''s brush and lighting, fueled by my own voices in my head. I try not to let the doubt show on my face as I approached the front desk.


    "Yes?" asked the clerk in a rich tone, not looking up from his work. I pulled out my sealed letter and put it atop the counter.


    "I am here for admission." I slid the letter across.


    The clerk''s eyes narrowed, "The university is still in the midst of drawing up and sending letters. We haven''t so much as posted the list of Admitees yet."


    "I''m not precisely an admitee. It''s all laid out, as I''m instructed, within the letter." I tapped with a finger on the embossed envelope with the University''s waxed seal.


    "How peculiar," the clerk muttered but nonetheless took the envelope. He produced an ornate silver letter-opener, a flick of the wrist, and opened the envelope. His eyes danced from one side to the other like a rubber ball between two players. Then his brows shot up, eyes wide. He cast me a wide-eyed glance. A myriad of gestures happened in between as suddenly the office behind the desk burst into motion. He stood and went behind a door to an office I could not see, but clearly more people lay within. I did not see but heard books opened, drawers pulled open and a minor commotion erupting within. Muffled voices trailed outside.


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    "An indorsement from those two coots? Saville and Spencer?" said one voice, a midge louder than the rest, with a hint of authority to it.


    "Really?" piped another, a woman''s. "How peculiar."


    "That''s what I''ve said as well," came the clerk''s voice within.


    In the interceding time in-between as the gears of Lonethorn''s bureaucratic machine sorted whatever it is that needed sorting, I regained most of my old poise, dispelling the whispering doubts brought upon by the line of painted men and women looking down on whoever happened to be walking beneath those doors. As I listened further for the muffled discussion between rank-and-file employees, I couldn''t help but feel a twinge on the back of my elbow. A sign of something going wrong. It wasn''t the Old Call but merely an estimate based on the limited observations I made.


    The clerk''s remarks: ".....We haven''t so much as posted the list of Admitees yet." "How peculiar."


    Then I thought back on the two scholars: wily Saville and gruff old Spencer. I thought back on our times more than a year ago now and winced. Their little morning habits and routines, the state of their quarters and the myriad of academic paraphernalia scattered on their tables or any flat surfaces that found the miserable luck of being burdened of several stones worth of scribbled papers and books.


    Damn those two old coots! If I came all this way only for them to botch the admission process.....


    I seethed inwardly. That likely scenario was more than likely.


    When the door to the hidden office opened once more, the clerk was not alone. With him were two more people. An older gentleman who carried himself with authority and a young-ish auburn haired woman with glasses. The older man stepped forth, "Young man," he said. "Do you have with you the Certificate of Qualified Intelligence? Did you undertook the qualifying exam conducted on any of our satellite facilities? Received, through postage, an advance Letter of Acceptance? For only the Letter of Esteemed Indorsement, though highly regarded, is contained within the sealed envelope."


    I straightened my back a bit and answered in a steady and concise manner, making eye contact, "Professor Saville assured me he received my Certificate of Qualified Intelligence. And no, I did not undertake the qualifying exam on any satellite facility but was instead proctored under Professor Spencer''s discretion. The Letter of Acceptance I have no idea but have several correspondences that both Professors Saville and Spencer have confirmed my admittance to the Dean of Studies and apt authorities of the University. I have the correspondences on my possession should you wish to affirm it."


    The man merely nodded. "I have confirmed that this letter is indeed legitimate. But..."


    There''s always a but.


    ".....the aforementioned additional documents are nowhere to be found. As well as our ledgers and memorandums contain no mention of your imminent admittance, Mr. Serrano." Then, with genuine contrition, the man dipped his head a few degrees lower. It wasn''t a full bow, the gesture was stiff but I muse it was the stiffness of his joints rather character that made it so. "On behalf of Lonethorn''s Administrative staff I apologize."


    "Ah." I simply said. I was not surprised. If I had been optimistic with a spring on my step, the blow of this bureaucratic mishap (I blame those two fogies, Saville and Spencer) would have laid me low. But I was not. I was of clear mind and humors. My only consolation was that young (crazy) Miss Electa Covington was not here to witness it, while my topmost grief is the considerable sum I spent on train tickets and transportation.


    "It is what it is." I eventually said. It had only been a few seconds since the news but I am ready to move on. My uncle''s words echoed on my mind. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. I expected the unseen blow and here it was. Did it hurt? mayhaps a little, but it did not knock me flat on my arse.


    "Well then, I apologize for any inconvenience and thank you for your assistance. Good day" I re-hoisted my sailor''s bag over my shoulder, it would be a long journey back to Sorez. It would sting a little but Arnao Serrano taught me to look a problem face on, regardless of any inner weakness. I would look my uncle straight in the eye and tell him things did not pan out. Such was life.


    I almost made a full hundred-and-eighty degree turn before all three burst forward, surprised and alarmed.


    "Mister Serrano, wait!" They all said in unison. "W-where are you going?" piped the young-ish woman.


    "Well, back home of course." I replied as if that wasn''t clear.


    "No, no, no! You are still eligible for admittance into the school. It''s just that..." The woman gestured blindly with her hands, looking for the best to lay the words gently. Her eyes was directed blankly towards the ceiling as if a dictionary was there, ".....we''ll have to search for those mentioned documents and would most likely take up....''considerable'' time on our part."


    "The problem lies in the interim of that period. Because of the shoddy paperwork, we could not accommodate you on the dormitories as of yet, as all of the rooms are already spoken for and any alteration would result in further complications," plied the clerk.


    "I''m afraid we would have to temporarily house you in some....irregular accommodations for the time being," added the older gentleman.


    I mused on what they said. Now this clearly put me on my proverbial and metaphorical arse. I was prepared for disappointment, steeled myself for it. Only to be legitimately flummoxed by the turn of events (and shoddy paperwork of Saville and Spencer, both left unsaid by the staff but I know they blame the two dodos for this mishap.)


    The silence stretched on as I try to gather my thoughts, it stretched to the point it bordered on awkwardness. The clerk began to check his well polished shoes. The young-ish woman began wringing her fingers and the old gentleman seemed to be puffing his chest ever higher just to ward off the silence. It was the young-ish woman who broke the silence finally.


    "So without further ado and apologies aplenty, Welcome Mister Serrano, to Lonethorn University," she said with a sheepish smile.

 Chapter 15

    To be honest, I had no idea the value of the letter given to me by Saville and Spencer. I was there when Saville penned the thing, Spencer only gave his assent and his personal seal and signature along with Saville''s. Many a night we sat down at the local taverna, back at the docks of Sorez. It was sometime after that ill-fated....''expedition'' (I''ll get to that bit later). I always found myself at their company in the taverna, exchanging stories, drinking refreshments or watching the nightly festivities that are so famed back home. It was in one of these conversations that they threw my way the possibility of me attending Lonethorn, their alma mater. Uncle Arnao often spoke of opportunities of advancement and to satisfy myself (as well as the old man) I agreed, (after much convincing from the two scholars).


    Besides, part of me needed to get away from Sorez at the time. Reasons relating to said ill-fated ''expedition''.


    By that point in our association, I had become somewhat of an "assistant" to Saville and Spencer. I hauled their equipment, purchased necessary supplies and guided them among the near vicinity of the coasts and hills of Sorez and so on and so forth. Not that different really when I worked under my uncle as an aide in his law office, only main difference being I spend much of my work on the outdoors.


    Aside from a few eccentricities and quirks, the two scholars never struck me as renowned academics with near-celebrity status among their peers. I never knew the extent of their reputation nor the prestige they garnered until my arrival at the Uplands territories. But it was more glaring now more than ever. The administrative staff of the university were quite apologetic of my current predicament but it was clear to all parties involved that the fault not lie in them but rather on the duo that is Saville and Spencer. Both of whom, unsurprisingly, were not on University grounds at the time.


    "A symposium at Monarey, they''ve been away a week now," Explained Mister Gyl, the Administrative Officer IV of the Student Admissions Office. We walked a leisurely place as they guided me to my temporary accommodations at the University. The streets were wide and empty, save for a few custodial staff maintaining the manicured lawns scattered thereabouts. We were accompanied by the young-ish woman, who introduced herself as one Mildburgh Leynham, while the other clerk, a Mister Siward Bell, manned the desk.


    "I never figured them for being famous, Saville and Spencer," I admitted to both staff members, who walked in front of me. Miss Covington was right that the grounds of Lonethorn made for a fine stroll at such a clear day. The roads where cobbled and the silence afforded by the mountain was serene. Situated above and around a mountain peak, Lonethorn''s main roads gave the illusion of straightness by a subtle curve in them, accommodating to the peake''s terrain. Stairs are inevitable in a mountainside topography but as we crossed the thousand acre property, I saw little of them, as if the architect felt the need to avoid them. Two main roads diverged from the front gate, one assigned as ingress while the other as its opposite. They coiled around the mountaintop in a subtle spiral meeting and conjoining into lanes at the very top. Buildings dotted the sides of the main roads: Staff housing, dormitories, society lodges, science buildings, commerce buildings, official residences and so the list goes on and on.


    "All accounted, there are about a hundred and eighteen structures within the property," Mister Gyl proudly stated. "And that includes the Abbey and the Castle as well, our pride and glory."


    I glanced at the domineering structures at the very top of Lonethorn. Even here they appeared as if they are a singular entity. Castle Lonethorn. The main hub of knowledge and the University''s heart and soul. It''s spires jutted out of the sky and the obsidian stone it was built upon looked as if the stonemasons quarried it from the very night itself. Even in the full bright glory of day, the castle was stuck in perpetual darkness. It was beautiful just as it is terrifying to behold. I found my throat dry just looking from where I stood.


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    When I resumed our walk I found both Mister Gyl and Miss Leynham where looking at me with expressions of delight. Delight at my awe of the Castle Lonethorn.


    "Professor Saville and Professor Spencer are among the recognized authorities of their respective fields," supplied Mister Gyl, our conversation resumed as this time we walked alongside a great field with seats carved in the stones that bordered it. We would pass two more just like it with minor differences in style and architecture but in essence remained the same. My thighs and joints began to ache and I wondered if both my guides were faring any better. Maybe they have, having been in service here for a while. "Between the two of them, they''ve about publish a dozen different books on groundbreaking topics and discovered just as many sub-studies," piped in Miss Leynham. "Admittedly though, they are rather infamous as well among the administrative staff, all for a different reason."


    "Present situation being an example?" I said in jest. Miss Leynham chuckled and nodded, while Mister Gyl lips were set in a straight line, muttering something about an incident with the daily time records.


    Oh I was more than enjoying myself then, my heart felt like swelling atop the clouds and lying beneath a radiant blue sky with naught a worry in the world. The complete left-hook of my admittance into the university filled with such joy that it blinded the age old senses I carved into my soul. Looking back at things, I should have known better of life''s amorphous nature, one moment at the top of the world, the next down on the dregs in the chasm of despair. But I am getting ahead of myself.


    "Here we are, Berwycke Hall," declared Mister Gyl with bit of pomp and ceremony. I had to restrain my jaw from dropping once more. I had expected some out of the way dormitory or lodging house for the staff. Berwycke Hall was no such thing. It was a well maintained manor estate complete with a small garden and fountain on the outside. The property seeped of antiquated privilege with its high pillars and pitched roof and stucco walls. Ivy creeped an entire wall till it was greenery. It stood three stories high and was absolutely lovely.


    "Of course, once we process with your full admission you''d be assigned your own dormitory room but it would take a few weeks to see it through," Mister Gyl explained, "Until then Berwycke Hall would be your temporary abode. We hope it would suffice."


    The way he said it made it seem like it was a meagre thing, as if I was a given consolatory desert by a restaurant for a mishap on my order. "Oh, it is more than sufficient," I said, amazed and grateful. "This is...Well...Thank you. It is more than enough." Both staff looked satisfied with my expression. Miss Leynham produced a key from her pocket and stepped into the red-bricked pathway. Flowers of varying hues and complexity lined the shrubbery to the sides of the path. Chrysanthemums, larkspurs, pansies and hibiscus were in full bloom.


    "I hope you don''t mind, what with the irregularity of your situation, we have to house you with other habitants that call Berwycke Hall their residence. So far, you would have to make quarter with several other people. It is a temporary situation. I hope you understand," Miss Leynham explained politely.


    I didn''t mind of course. Not half-an-hour ago I was more than content at missing my shot at advancement in life and preparing my journey back to Sorez. Living with other people would be a necessary and livable grievance as I live out the next couple of years of my life here in Lonethorn. Though the idea of my own private abode was such a nice thought.


    I said my goodbyes and thanks as both Mister Gyl and Miss Leynham had a prior appointment set up, both regretting not being able to introduce me to my new housemates: A brother and a sister who have stayed the term, with others coming in in the encroaching new term. "Seems they are not home at the moment, which is a shame, Helewis and Hervey are an utter delight. I''m sure you''d get along," Miss Leynham added as she departed. She handed me my keys to my room, which is commodious (along with a privately attached lavatory). When they left, I plopped down on the gargantuan mattress and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


    Thing is, joy and elation are just as intoxicating as any alcoholic beverages, they dull the senses. As much as I tell myself to smother any feeling of optimism, I could not help myself. I am human still. I fall and stumble every now and then of my preconceived principles and notions I set myself to. I completely trusted and believed the assessment of Miss Leynham of the character of my new housemates: the siblings Helewis and Hervey, with more tenants on the way.


    I ought to have known, with my history with peers my age, that I seldom get along swimmingly.

 Chapter 16

    Night time in Sorez was a peculiar thing. When the sun sets, the grey waters would no longer be grey but dark and black as anything can be in this world. Moonlight barely pierced through the gloom of the Greyveil, the moon itself a circular, ghostly haze that hardly lights up the environs. The fishing vessels never dare venture out in the height of darkness for the grey waters turns to the darkest of black. To venture forth in the dark without any source of light was utter foolishness. One might think with these factors in mind, the people of Sorez would huddle in the warmth of the hearth and wait with baited breath for the coming of dawn.


    That is not to be.


    Nightlife in Sorez was a different world altogether. Thousands upon thousands of well-maintained lampposts lined the city streets, their bright flames awash the greyness away with vibrant orange that filled every nook and cranny. The city was like a second Star of Sor itself. Womenfolk cloth themselves in the most frivolous of dresses with layers of frills dyed in the hues of deep black and flaming tangerine, the sable of the cloth making the bright hues stand out even more. They dance and dance, twirling with their flowing frilled dresses till the witching hours , accompanied with a myriad of instruments hailing from distant lands.


    All day the city folk worked and toiled, but when the shadow of the night sets in, the city was almost in a near-nightly festival every night. The air was alive with excitement and joy that even affected me. The treasures and wonders from abroad come to the docks of Sorez and share with the festivities as well as trade. The trading never stops, day in and day out it seemed. Temporary stalls would be set up and the city''s central park was the center of many dance performances.


    I was twelve years-old and my uncle had by then taken me to his law office to aid with mostly menial tasks: taking notes, delivering of documents from one adjoining office to the other, or even to get the occasional hot cup of khaf¨¤ at the nearby khaf¨¦han which he was a regular of. I had not been aware, at the time, of the considerable leeway my uncle had afforded me then. It was his unspoken way of making me get out of the house more often, to socialize with the gathered youths in the parks or one of the many nocta feria in the city. Even my reclusive nature, it seems, was too much for grumpy Uncle Arnao. My only way of any outdoor activity was my afternoon strolls at the nearby beach, with a book and sketchpad in hand. Once, I saw him watching me from the little knoll just outside the copse of trees. I came over to say my greetings and ask him what was our supper for the evening would be.


    "What?" I asked him innocently. Arnao Serrano''s face was usually stoic and undiscernible of expression to anyone meeting him the first time. But I had gotten adept at reading my uncle''s miniscule facial incriminations over the years. The man was somewhat displeased.


    "Nothing," he replied and turned back. I followed him. He didn''t have to say that I had to go home with him and prepare supper. It was in the way he replied that Nothing, a slight shift in tone at the end. I had taken it as my cue. We walked back to the house in quiet solitude. Whatever displeased him didn''t seem to be directed at me and that was good enough. Or so I thought.


    "Do you not play with the other children?" he suddenly asked of me.


    "Not really," I responded. " I liked to be on my own."


    Uncle just grunted noncommittally and I thought nothing further of the exchange till a couple days afterwards when he took me to his law office. To make me understand his work and help me decide what I should do with my life when I became my own man. I was a tad nervous at what I was supposed to do at his law office? Do I need to testify? Help with the proceedings before a judge? Such was the inner workings of my twelve-year-old mind then. I was wholly relieved (and somewhat betrayed) when all I did was wait on the man as he chatted up with some colleagues of his in his favorite khaf¨¦han. He then told me to spend my time around the nocta feria, the night fairs, till it was time to go home.


    And I''ve been accompanying the man on most nights since then, along with the elevated responsibility of assisting him at his office.


    On this one particular night I found myself strolling away from the large crowds and immense throngs of people. I let my feet wander below me. Usually, I drift to places with less people, people who just want to enjoy a bit of quiet and leisure. Always there are the number of people who enjoyed a leisure walk in peaceful silence. Mostly small families or young couples but also there are those lone few who, as far I could tell, were kindred spirits with me. Souls who were just in complete contentment with their own company, never seeking others. This is one of my favorite past times, wandering the city with no aim in mind. I took a special liking in just admiring the architecture of the various buildings the city had to offer. From the humble clay-tiled homes that could be centuries old or the sprawling manors and manses of the city''s elite. Even the streets cobbled with stone added much to the festive city surrounded by the unceasing fog of the Greyveil. All built with the same materials but in differing sizes, shapes and age.


    It had gotten to the point where I could find my bearings easily enough and worked my way home at almost any point of the city. I felt more adventurous than usual that evening for I must''ve walked for some time and I found myself in a spot I had never been before. Maybe a quarter of the city was built atop the stilted wharfs, harbor and piers, scaffolding that have stood for decades, if not centuries. Strong was their foundation, nestled atop the rising and thrashing waves below. Some Wharf''s are more famous and see plenty foot traffic. I have been to those piers. I would lean on the railings and watch the rolling waves below. I would wonder if the people here could feel the call? Or maybe it''s not as strong as they''ve lived their whole life right beside the Mare Graucus, hence they are more used to. Sometimes I would catch glimpses of lamplight in the distance, down on the shore below. Figures silhouetted as they ventured the low tides amidst the dark.


    Madness, I thought. In the years since that stroll on the beach, I only heard whispers of them. They are an unspoken secret of Sorez from what I gathered. Oft spoken in hush tones. I asked other children and It was supposed to be the parents duties to instruct their children of the Old Call. If I get lucky, uncle would give me remarks but would speak no further of those brave fools that ventured the tides and bore the Old Call.


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    I remembered asking uncle and his aged colleagues at the khaf¨¦han once. They all looked at me with silent grimness. They had been laughing at a different subject a mere moment ago, I was bored out of my mind and asked absently. The looks they gave said what was better left unsaid. Treasures of the deep. And it wasn''t just them, nearby patrons looked at me. Old fellows all. The waitress behind the counter looked at me as well. Her look were more sympathetic, brows furrowed almost sad, but still carried that gravity of warning. She brought a finger to her lips. A shushing sign.


    He then gave me a bit of pocketmoney to and sent me off to play at the feria. I believe I still had that money on that night on my pocket, unspent.


    Here though, the lamp posts where close to dilapidated in state, the orange glow weak and waning, unchanged and little cared for. The wooden boards where in desperate need of maintenance, there were sizeable gaps in the wood that could easily let slip a man''s leg. It was more darker here than the rest of the city. Despite this, there are still quite a considerable number of people here. Or shadows of people at least, for such was the weakness of the light.


    I grew wary and yet, despite myself, unafraid as my feet moved onward.


    The people there were not the shady sort. Still, regular folks out on a stroll. Small families and lovestrucked young couples but they walked in the part of the pier were the light was stronger. It was those solitary, almost unmoving, shadows that sent goosebumps on my skin. They stood alarmingly still, away from the stronger light coming in from the brighter streets back towards the city center. I could only guess at the general outline of these people. They stood apart, in heavy coat that made it impossible to tell man or woman. They were spread all throughout the pier, these individuals. All of them facing the sea, almost like they''re looking for something out of there.


    I stood on the edge, where the lampposts'' orange light bordered with that unknowable shadow of this darkened pier, in the midst of deducing what were those motionless individuals doing. It didn''t take me long to arrive at a suspicion. I swallowed a lump at my throat. A chill ran down my spine as well and the night seemed colder. It didn''t take me long to guess at what they were doing, for I think, I had been doing something similar.


    Back at the beach near our home, I played it like a game, something to kill time. Other people would bounce a rubber ball or flip a coin as they passed the time away: how high to bounce it, at what angle and doing neat tricks and whatnot. For me, I would stare into the ocean and walk alongside the sands, letting the old cold slither of the Call snake up my spine. Like cold liquid-fire seizing up my veins and jolting me alive and awake. Other times it was like a cramping sensation, as if my entire vertebrae was sent into a convulsion all the while I am awake. In time, I grew to like the feeling.


    But looking at these people in the dark of night, each alone and almost swathed by the encroaching mists, A deep dread clawed its way and grip my bowels. They were in the midst of the Old Call. I was certain of it. But to what end? Surely not just to pass the time. And the people, the regular people walking the light of the lampposts seem indifferent to those closest to the seas. Was this a normal occurrence?


    "Eerie ain''t it?"


    "Gahh!"


    I yelped back. Someone had sneaked up on me. Spoke words mere inches away from my ear. A stranger. A girl to be exact. She laughed deep, holding her stomach while nearby onlookers briefly glanced at my direction and then back to what they were doing prior.


    "Ha! got you good ''tado! ha ha!" The girl teased.


    I looked at her, unbelieving. Who sneaks up on complete strangers? The girl was taller than me and looked older by a year or two. A sash was bound lopsided on her head and her hair ran down almost to her waist. She dressed a bit tomboyishly and had a grin on her lips. A staff hung at her back that was almost as tall as her. The tip was caked with dried sand. Whatever the case, the strange girl brought me out of my thoughts. I glanced back at the motionless figures in the dark. They didn''t so much as glanced back at the commotion caused by the girl. I thought of asking uncle and proceeded to make some distance between me, the strange girl and the dark pier.


    "You''re wondering what are they doing, huh tarantado?" the girl called out. I recognized the slang. It means "scaredy-cat". I didn''t like it and didn''t like her by the second. But my curiosity got the better hold of me. I stopped on my steps and faced her.


    "Why, yes actually," I said politely out of habit. I inwardly cursed myself. I wanted to get back at her for scaring me and wanted to sound pompous. Something to get her riled up and annoyed. She didn''t respond immediately. Instead sizing me up with her eyes, all the while the grin never leaving her lips. Somehow, the sight made me even more angry.


    "Them kooks is listening in on the OId Call," she eventually said. I sighed. "So I have guessed. But why?"


    She shrugged, "Depends on the person. Some likes the feeling, getting a jolt down their spine," she answered while twirling her hand as a gesture. She went on, "While the crazier ones adhere to the Old Faiths, thinks the Old Call is a gift and not a warning. And then there''s the craziest ones- -"


    "The Old Faiths?" I cut in, even more piqued than before. So far as I can tell, The Sorezii are not a religious people. I never once saw Uncle Arnao perform any prayer or supplication within the house. To my knowledge there wasn''t even a church in the city to any deity that I knew of.


    "Oh yeah, oh yeah," she nodded, scrunching her lips in thought. Then she went on, "So ''tado, Yours is a face I ''aven''t seen ''round ''ere. You new here?" already the girl was changing the subject.


    "Uhm...yes- -well, no. I''ve lived here for years," I answered hesitantly. My curiosity outweighed that of my dislike for the strange girl with the sash on her head. I mean, who scares strangers for their amusement? Reprobates, that''s who.


    "So, where you from? What street you live in? Need a guide in the city?" the questions came tumbling out of the girl''s lips one after the other, all clamoring to be answered. I was at a loss of words, she looked to be the sort to get her hands dirty. And most likely a ruffian of some kind, maybe her accomplices were watching me, thinking me an easy mark. But I was hoping to get one more question answered.


    "Wait. You said there''s one more kind of person. The craziest ones. Who are they?" I pressed her, taking a step closer. She didn''t budge.


    "Well, if you really want to know...," she turned and was beside me, snaking an arm around my shoulders and guiding me away from the pier. "I can show you instead."


    ".....what?" I asked meekly. Her grip wasn''t tight but I could feel the potential strength underneath.


    I looked up at her, meeting her gaze. She was giving me a toothy grin. Right then and there I had an inkling, a dreaded answer, as to whom this strange girl referred to as "the craziest ones".

 Chapter 17

    "By the by, I''m Nyla," the tall girl introduced while practically holding me hostage. Five times I''ve tried to pry away and five times she deterred me. She was a full head taller than I was and possessed with bewildering strength. She laughed as we walked, which was further down the dilapidated pier, into darker territory: More unmaintained lampposts, abandoned storefronts with boarded up windows and buildings filled with moving and shifting shadows. Desperation clung to me as with each step brought me further and further away from familiar ground. But Nyla was all laughs and jokes as if I was some lost buddy and not a kidnapee. It was almost like a game to her. I managed to get my fingers underneath her grip and try to pry her grip on my shoulder one finger at a time. But she would instead twist her body closer to mine, nearly suffocating me with a sudden one armed bearhug and renew her grip. Her body was tough as an anvil beneath all that cloth.


    As we came closer to a boarded up warehouse I was suddenly filled with a cornered animal''s vigor.


    I pried her fingers away with all the strength I could muster, twisted my body, managing to break free from her grasp. I broke away from her and was prepared to make a run for it if I hadn''t seen her face. She was unsurprised, eyes still glinting with mirth and lips fixed in a grin. Her stance was wide and loose and I knew- -I just knew - - that if I made a run for it, she would get me. She was more physically fit beneath all that sash and fabric, whilst I spend entire days barely getting out of the door if my uncle doesn''t prod me. There was no escape here.


    "And here I thought you to be curious," she said with with no small amount of cheer. We were farther away from the well-lit street I came out of and down a path lined with wooden abandoned wharfs and ruined warehouses. I thought I saw a figure moved from one boarded up window but that could have been a play on my mind. The moon more lit up the promenade we were on than the feeble light of these forgotten lamp posts, it casted the entire esplanade in an eerily silver glow of moonlight.


    "Not at the expense of my own life, you miscreant!" I hissed at her.


    "Miscreant. How posh." she said, making a mocking imitation of me like some puffed-up aristocrat. Was that how I really sound like?


    "You think me a mugger?" She then asked, now feigning the innocence of some delicate maiden, puckering her lips and enlarging her eyes as best she could.


    "I don''t know you. You suddenly appeared out of nowhere, all smiles. And you are, quite literally, leading me down a darkened alleyway against my will. Is that not the definition of a mugger? A thug?" I laid out all of the known facts before her, counting them off with my fingers. Maybe I could scream for help? Surely someone, anyone, would come to my aid? A 12 year old boy screaming is a distressing sound to hear in the Sorez.


    She shrugged. "I have no plans of the sort, tado," she said with the least bit of worry, as if we were two mates jesting about. "You seemed genuinely curious. And as I''ve said before, you look new. I was just doing my best, guiding along a wee lost lamb lest you fall over the railings or the missing floorboards. These here parts aren''t too kind for cute little lambs such as ye," she said, circling me like some wolf and eyeing me like some lamb before finally settling against the rusted iron rail that lined the esplanade. I met her gaze and held it. Her eyes were the color of bright amber.


    The waves rolled below, crashing against the promenade. The sound of the festivities were muffled here, in this enshrouded part of the city. I guessed that every light must have its shadow and this was it for Sorez. My eyes were starting to get used to the low light afforded by the worn lamps and the enshrouded moon. I found myself slightly shivering. The air was colder here for some reason, having thought myself acclimated already to the climes of the Greysea.


    I breathed, letting out a becalming sigh to soothe my nerves. My breath was slightly visible in the cold. She claims it was out goodwill but I am not certain of it. I kept a wary sense of my back lest for another sudden ambush. Common sense dictates to return back to the light of the inner city and back to uncle. Morbid curiosity got the better hold of me however. Here was an ample opportunity for my questions to be answered. So much of this land is sheathed in more than just mists. "Who are the Faithful?" I asked.


    Nyla gave a noncommittal shrug with one shoulder, "Those that hold faith. The names are pretty self explanatory, no?" she chuckled at her own joke. Then proceeded in a more serious tone, "They themselves don''t rightly know what faith they hold unto. They simply could not help it. The Sorezii have all destroyed any relics, temples or even the smallest of mementos by whatever faith our ancestors used to keep. All we have are stories."


    "Yes, yes. I''ve heard it all before," I piped, a bit aggravated, "Stories and the Old Call. That is all that remains." Then added for further clarification, "And I''m not new around here. I''ve been living here for almost four years now."


    "But you weren''t born here, were you?" Nyla deduced correctly. There seemed a glow in her eyes even as she back was to the moon, her faced swathed in shadows. I was right to be wary of her, for all her smiles and jests, there was degree of low cunning to her. I eyed the long stick that hung behind her via a strapped sheath. "Are you an orphan?"


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    The question brought me out of my assessment of Nyla.


    "What? No."


    "Everyone in their mothers were told not to stare at the Faithful and simply ignore them.. So long as they don''t cause any trouble for anyone, they are ignored. Ex visu, ex animo as the saying goes."


    Out of sight, Out of mind. Nyla was leaning against the railing with apparent ease. Does she not hear the Old Call? Even as I stood there it was an ever prevalent thrum at the base of my skull. Not obtrusive nor painful but you could feel it like a constant breeze at the back of your neck being this close to the Greysea.


    "You, however," Nyla went on, "were gawking them so openly you only had to be born outland. So where are you from? Originally?"


    Cunning indeed. But I have no reason to lie, so I answered her truthfully. "The Thousand Seaspires."


    Nyla gave a low whistle and nodded to herself, seeming impressed.


    "Why''d you ever come back to this greysmeared country then? Do you know what kind of strength--and maybe a hint of madness -- to cross the Greysea for a Sorezii? It is no easy thing, I tell you."


    I sighed. Now the discussion had veered dangerously close to the subject of my mother. I did not want to dredge up the feelings of that particular topic brings. Best change the subject. "Family troubles." I simply said, and then added; "Is that all they do then? Stare out into sea all day long?" Pointing back to the figures so apart from everyone else. I stepped towards the rail, right beside Nyla. I stared at the outstretched pier and at the disparate figures that stared out into the sea.


    "No, they''re just like you and me. People. They work, they go about their days. They eat and they sleep," Nyla explained. Then an expression flitted in her feature (of which I got a better look in this waning light: Dark skinned, a face that is usually out in the elements. But handsome, in a diamond-in-the-rough sort of way) as if she had chewed something bitter. It was gone in an instant, "But there are stories," she continued, "that if you attune to the Old Call in just the right way, the right note on the right time of day or night.....you might just hear it."


    "Hear it?" I repeated, practically close to leaning, "Hear what?"


    ""The Answer, it is said to be," A blank expression now was in her amber eyes, as if recalling a tale she heard a long while ago. "That the oldest and most adept of the Faithful, after decades of attuning to the Old Call with its minutiae and giving their life''s pursuit to this singular task, can find the Answer. Calling to them, somewhere beyond the mists and the Mare Graucus'' abstruse currents. And then....." Nyla broke off, not continuing. As if there were no more words to be said or trying to grasp words she had no means to say.


    "And then what?" I gripped the iron rail. I did not know I had been gripping so tight the white of my knuckles appeared.


    Nyla shook herself awake, as if she had been stuck in some kind of trance. She looked towards the sea for a bit. Then, finally, spoke once more, her voice regaining its steadiness, "Then nothing. Every now and then you get the occasional fool who thinks they''ve head the Answer, rushing out into the sea with their bare feet as if to walk there straight-on," she shook her head, finding the idea much like I did. Madness. Utter madness.


    She gave another sigh, somber, "And every now and then people find some washed up corpse of one of the Faithfull. It doesn''t happen often, just every couple of years or so. People would usually rush to stop any mad fool from making the attempt of walking on the sea but people have to sleep and the Faithfull who thinks they''ve heard the Answer go rushing out into the sea with no one looking." She shrugged, "Sometimes their bodies turn up, sometimes it doesn''t. The tides claim them all the same."


    We stood there, staring out into the sea, not saying a word. Just letting the windblown breeze be our accompaniment. I cast hidden glances at my back, where the darkness in between the alleys were most prevalent. Satisfied, it seems Nyla was true to her words, that her interference (and brief kidnapping) of my evening was some random act of goodwill. Or maybe she was just looking time to pass. Who knows.


    "You''re a tidedredger aren''t you?" I said unceremoniously.


    She cast me a sideways glance and grinned before erupting into a overexaggerated bow.


    The muddied boots caked with sand, as well as the long stick strapped at her back. The open disdain of talking of such matters in public I can deduce from what Nyla and Uncle had told me.


    Treasures from the Tide. The Old Call. The Greysea and its strange undercurrents.


    All of them connected.


    "What are you looking for out there? When the low tide sets in and the waters pull up--" Nyla interrupted me, putting her finger to my lips, hushing me.


    I jerked back, started spitting and rubbing my lips with my sleeve. Who knows where she put her fingers?


    "Now that is a conversation for another time, newboy." She simply said, unheeding of my act of cleansing my lips.


    "My name --" I gave another cleansing spit, "-- is Anrique."


    "Anrique," she repeated, almost purring my name, with a smile.


    "If you wish to know more, Providence willing, the world would set the circumstance for it. Besides it is ill to talk of such things in the open, which is why I pulled you somewhere a bit secluded but not secluded enough." She broke away from the rail and began moving ever deeper into the promenade. I got the feeling this conversation is at its end and we should part ways. But I was not yet sated.


    "Can you tell me at least what are the treasures from the tide?" I called out. She turned. The sight struck a dagger into my heart. There must have been a breakaway in the greyveil in that short instance but the full glow of the moon poured down on the esplanade, the occurrence sheathed Nyla''s features in a mantilla of moonlight. The sight took my breathe away as well as several beats of my heart.


    "Tsk, tsk, tsk. You shouldn''t say such things aloud. The Faithfull is one thing. But the so called ''treasures''?" she shook her head not pressing the matter any further, genuine worry was prevalent in her sun-kissed features before turning her back. The world returned once more into the shrouded night, the brief gap in the grey brume closing. She disappeared in the shadows, just as she had come.


    And I was left there, alone. More questions to my mind than answers and then some; an odd sensation lingering on my chest, a feeling that refused to go away no matter how hard I rubbed, as I trekked back towards the glow of the city.

 Chapter 18

    I awoke from my first night at Berwycke Hall not quite knowing where I was at first. I stared at the ceiling for a while before I realized I had woken up. The halls were tranquil and quiet, not a sound save for the chirp of a nestling outside. The windows shut, and to my observation had been since my arrival. Miss Leynham had told me that there were others in the house, a brother and sister in fact, with more soon to come. But they were complete strangers to me at the time. I was mindful of this last fact. As far as I could remember I always preferred my own company at the best of times and being at the abode of somebody else''s erupted that age-old instinct that I had, to walk on eggshells and to disturb as little as possible. Something along the lines of the old saying Doing Unto Others. I extremely disliked it when others intruded into my abode without my express invitation and shall do the same for my erstwhile hosts.


    After a quick drench with the lavatories supply of water and a washcloth, I changed my shirt from my meager belongings. I would have to resupply my dwindling number of fresh clothes. Which meant tapping into my allocated stipend for the month. With my morning routine done, I was prepared to tackle the day ahead.


    I could not help myself but did a perfunctory tour of the house, mindful of my steps for the both of them may very well be asleep at that hour. Berwycke Hall was a manor to be sure but it was a modest one. I counted at least ten rooms with doors I did not open out of modesty, with at least seven of them being bedrooms. It was quite spacious and sported another garden on the back along with a veranda. Each room had its own small balcony that I observed, having one of my own. My own room was easily five times the size of what I had growing up back home. I took notice of several key notes as I made my short tour of the house, signs of it having lived in. Various books scattered about where they should have no business of being. A pair of gloves tossed in a corner of a chair in the living room, a mug or two lain about in one windowsill and another in the table outside. The place was tidy, make no mistake, but here and there lay about the signs of habitation. It was quiet in that morning but there was a lingering warmth to the hall that only can be caused by the living that called it home. I did not explore the purported third floor but I did find the door leading up to it.


    It was thirty past six in the morning when I left Berwycke Hall with naught a single sign of the supposed siblings Helewis and Hervey. Maybe they were late sleepers?


    Lonethorn at the early morning was a tranquil place. The midspring air painted the land in deep and dark-green undertones. The winds were cold but not harsh. The soliloquy of nature humble and not hinting of some malign undercurrent. Birds fleeted from one copse of trees to the next. Pine trees were extremely predominant where the large swathe of open grass lawns not present. The mountain''s fog was thick and yet softer and fleeting. Odd, I thought. Much of it reminds me of home. Similar but not the same. The staff were already in full swing by then, mowing the grass to an acceptable height.


    I truly appreciated the distance afforded away from the humdrum of city life and industry. A smile slowly lifted on my lips but wavered as an important detail brushed to the forefront of my mind.


    It was not ideal however. Both Saville and Spencer were not in campus grounds. There were matters to discuss and business to conduct that needed their presence. The last time we spoke was during the final preparations for my application into the University. I spent the most time with Spencer during that period of reviews and lessons. I remember a discussion we had when I had just passed with favorable marks on the last write-up with the gruff historian when instructions were laid out.


    "Oh we have so much new research to conduct! Our expedition into Sorez really did wonders not just for the field but society as a whole! We have to rethink of what we know of the histories!" Saville declared giddily. When he gets like that he tends to talk to himself more than me and Spencer. He gets some of his best ideas like that. Saville was the more younger of the two and the one who is in touch more with the younger generation. While Spencer was not only far older but much shorter as well. What the man lacked in height he made for mass, like the brawny dockworkers that hauled cargoes all day long. He never once stated and I never once bothered to ask but I think he is just a bit older than my uncle Arnao. He was built like a bear, Spencer is. With hair forearms that rival that of a blacksmith. Saville once said that at one point in Spencer''s life he had worked as a stonemason.


    "Boy," he said in that bearish growl of a voice of his, "Should you arrive at the university before us, there are tasks that needed to be done, saves us the trouble for when we arrive and before the semester starts." He made an emphasis by jutting the sausage-like finger of his in my direction. He reminded me of my uncle and I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes whenever he assigns me a task.


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    "Fine, fine. Best put it in a list so I can get it done," I leaned my head back, letting it rest on the top rail. My head felt like it was struck by twenty pounds of book, which was not that far-off a claim as we had been reviewing for days on end.


    "Oh and another thing," he had something in his grasp and had it reached out for me to take. I peered down to get a better look at it. It was a key.


    The very same key that I held as I asked around the University to get to the College of History and Antiquity. I asked a custodian performing landscaping where the College was located in campus and directed me to the very top of the peake. Or close to it at least. As a means of traversing the trek up (and indeed it was a trek) he pointed me as well to the most direct route rather than the roundabout way (of which would have been far more lenient on my knees but would accost me too much time.)


    Higher I went and as I did so I had not thought the illusory effect of heightened elevation would cause. It took me about ten minutes to traverse the distance but by then my calves burned as I''ve climbed six flights of stairs. The College was on the other side of campus, opposite of Berwycke Hall. By the time I reached the top, a sheen of sweat had formed on my back and temple and my blood almost simmering with the effort. It felt good then. The air on the peake was clean and fresh and reinvigorating.


    The domineering forms of both the Abbey and Castle Lonethorn were much more discernible now, quite a literal stone''s throw. The College of History and Antiquity was officially attached to that of the Castle, all disciplines concerning Humanities and Arts were made so. A gargantuan and impressive structure of reddish-brown brick and mortar, the College of History and Antiquity covered the expanse of six outlying buildings and holds territory with two spires of the Castle itself with each building is adjoined by a pedway for faster and easier traversal.


    I entered the building and was greeted with stretching hallways and rooms, my steps reverberating in echoes as they are empty of students in this time of year. Or so I thought I first. I passed by halls great and small, which I had thought of them bare but it seems that a handful of the student population have stayed the term. A professor was discussing in one while in other rooms another professor were merely sitting watching a sparse few students in scattered seating bent down and scribbling on notes. Mostly sophomores, juniors and seniors, the remnants of the previous terms either staying for remedial classes or having a private study with their applied teacher. I moved on, impressed with the dedication of some of Lonethorn''s studious elite.


    Try I did to locate the offices of Saville and Spencer but the layout of the vast hallways proved detrimental. And I had not yet had my morning fast. I thought it would be a simple twist and drop; get my bearings of the place, check the state of their office, grab a bite to eat and return with renewed vigor to tackle the tasks ahead. I completely underestimated Lonethorn''s mountainous terrain and immense architecture of its facilities to drain my reserve of energy.


    I thrice passed by a group of young women that were seating at a benched alcove, signs pointing that my sense of direction had gone awry. My stomach grumbled noiselessly, thank heavens.


    "Are you lost ser?" asked one with short yellow hair that came to her jawline.


    "So it seems miss." I said in tired gasps. I could have used a hefty serving of fish and chips but the Uplands were much farther inland and had proved quite scarce of my favorite snack growing up. The efforts of the morning had made me an unsightly thing, drenched in sweat, a rivulet of which matted my hair. I reflexively combed it out with my fingers but instantly regretted it. I would have to wash myself once I get back to my room. And that would be another hike in and of itself. "Pray can you help me?" I asked the three young women.


    One of the girls giggled. All I did was ask politely. The other jerked her elbow and the girl stopped giggling but did nothing to dissuade the dimpled smile in her lips. "Of course, tis no trouble. Where are you heading?" the girl at the center of the trio, one with soft strawberry-red hair tied in a ponytail spoke. I handed her a scratch of paper Spencer had scrawled into. The girl at the foremost, the one aiding me in locating Saville and Spencer''s office raised an auburn brow. Was there something peculiar? I thought.


    She replied, "Take the stairs to the left, then take two right turns for the next interceding hallways. The professors'' office are at the very end." I nodded my thanks. Before I turned, she added a final note. "I haven''t seen you here before. Are you a new student?"


    "Yes and thank you kindly for the assistance. Good day miss." I said and went on my way.


    "Uhm...right then. You''re welcome ser," she called out just as I took the stairs to the next floor. I caught a glimpse of them huddling and giggling amongst themselves just as I rounded the corner.


    I dare not look back, did not try guess at what game they are playing. Young women have the capacity to be playfully cruel without meaning to. I learned that the hard way.

 Chapter 19

    "Anything in particular I should prioritize?" I remembered asking Spencer months prior. He was the one who tends to be more tetchy on certain tasks. Especially when that tasks concern the arrangement of their place of conduct.


    "A succinct organization of our athenaeum is in order. You already know of our preferences. Return nothing to the Librarians, no matter how hard they press. Remember that last one, boy. I will hold you to that," he jabbed the air with his meaty finger.


    I gave him a mock salute like the ones Atruskan sailors do. I was helping them pack up their research materials and journals for their return to the Upland territories. It won''t be a straightforward a journey as they''ll be visiting likeminded scholars and personages of various institutions and cities. They''ve brought with them sketches and findings after their time in misty old Sorez. I cast a glance at at an item bound in a metallic black cloth lain on Spencer''s bed. If I had been the owner of the inn and had an inkling of what lay inside, I would have burned the bed furnishings and condemned the room. That box contained to be one of, if not, the most important discoveries of the expedition. A voice echoed in my mind, a memory resurfacing. Treasures from the tides.


    The phantom of the Old Call slithered up my spine. Then a thought came into my mind and I turned towards Spencer who was busy forcefully stuffing his bags with dirty laundry.


    "This office of yours," I began, "are there any.....artifacts that I should worry about?" At an earlier point in our partnership I have revealed to them the instinct all Sorezii posses, the Old Call. To my surprise upon my revelation, they are already aware of its existence and much to my annoyance, as Saville pointed out, that any level-headed scholar think of it as mere backwater balderdash or over-imaginative folklore. Though the things we have seen in our travails in the Greyveil put a dent into that belief and I am fairly certain they believe it to a minor degree. They just would not speak of it aloud and I do not blame them. The Old Call existence and history is clouded in mystery.


    "Hmph? Oh just some knickknacks and bric-¨¤-brac we''ve collected over the years, nothing to concern yourself about. We''d have known otherwise if they even so much as contained a hint....something." Spencer waved my concerns as he pressed down on the overstrained confines of his luggage. I tapped his shoulder, gestured to the bag and he stepped aside as I took out all the rumpled clothes and refolded them to better accommodate them.


    "Oh and before I forget," Saville cut in, "there would be a few remedial classes taking place all around the campus. Try inserting yourself into one of these, the other professors won''t mind. Get yourself a bearing of what is to come in the semester. Enjoy the academic atmosphere of one of the finest institutions in the land lad!"


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    Spencer merely scoffed. It was my turn to wave off a suggestion.


    Now, months later, here in Lonethorn, I stood at the precipice of madness.


    Their offices was the epitome of a hoarder''s cache of knowledge. Several towering tomes teetered on the edge of collapse, the floor strewn with an entire layer of parchment with notes and scribblings. The walls teeming with corkboards and bulletins interconnected with pins and yarns and cutouts of various trail of thoughts and intercepting lines of references. Most of all was the obtrusive cold slaking of chill running up my spine and into the forefront of my temple. Somewhere in this whirlwind of an office lay concealed various paraphernalia that was better left at whatever endarkened corner of the world. And the both of them were poking and jostling at it for years.


    I stood there, unmoving at the cusp of the doorway of the offices of Saville and Spencer. Motionless, like the Faithfull of the dark piers and hidden alcoves of Sorez. After a brief purview of my assigned task, I took a step back and gently closed the door once again, fearing to topple a precariously teetering tower of books that have made my initial entrance difficult. Once the door was closed, I smacked my temple against the door. I did not have the appetite to deal with domain of academic chaos at the present moment. And I needed a place to rest my legs and to put some much needed sustenance within my stomach.


    In my time of need, I would come to know that Lonethorn has no shortage of little nooks and crannies for food establishment to cater to the staff and students. I had purchased a steaming handful of miniature pie filled with mutton, gravy, spices and chunks of vegetables that restored a much needed vigor after a hike of a morning. The scope of work of bringing Saville and Spencer''s offices were pushed back to the back of my mind for the sake of my sanity. No wonder my admission papers were lost in the fray of bureaucracy! They could hardly keep their office well at hand! I said my thanks to the man manning the miniature bakery and went off my way. I needed to clear my head and reasoned I owe it to myself to do a bit of further exploring the rich grounds of the University.


    I made about a block away from the College of History and Antiquity before I took notice of another equally obtrusive structure. I was on the Abbey side of the peake, for the streets and building, it seems that there was a subculture of sorts here in the University. A minor change, really. But it was there. The Abbey housed the Applied Disciplines of learning, such courses as that of Engineering, Medicine, Industry and Commerce fall under its reach. There were hardly any other people save for the occasional passing staff here and a student there lounging about reading a book or talking with a fellow classman. Many buildings, of which I do not know the functions of, lay closed and devoid of life within with the semester break in full swing. It was akin to an empty city in atmosphere and the image was soothing to my soul.


    I took stock of the structure before me and the silvered signage on the side of the doorway in flowing script. The College of Industry and Commerce it lay engraved.


    Without any further plans for the day and my coping mechanism to stave off the madness-inducing task of cleaning up the professors'' office, I decided to take the first step to the halls that would (hopefully) lead me to my grand aspirations in life.

 Chapter 20

    I spent my mornings cleaning up Saville and Spencer''s office.


    No, that is incorrect for the word Clean is too strong a description and what I have been doing quite complete miss the mark as to warrant a close appropriation of the word. Teetering towers of books were not taken down but instead reinforced. Loose pages of scribblings and notes piled together and not tossed out. The only thing I ever actually have any worth of being called clean were the various utensils to be found in places where they shouldn''t be. Oh how I loved to tear it all down and give it a proper cleaning, the kind that brings honor to the word. But I know Saville and Spencer, though their orders had been to clean, it just meant to make possible for a human being to be able to walk within and without of the room without scuttling their references and tomes to the four winds. The two have this peculiar sense of locating the necessary tome it what may look like a hoarder''s lair.


    Oh I had already imagined it then. Even as it is, I''d still be privy to their moaning and complaints at disturbing the order of their office. Thankfully, my afternoons enable it so that I could relieve some of the stress and tension.


    Aldridge Forum, the amphitheater-styled hall was a marvel for classes that could seat fifty or more students, those at the front being the lowest and closest to the lecturer while at the back was at highest and furthest and still could view the quadruple-joined chalkboard with no difficulty. Voices carried out easily with the hall''s enhanced acoustics and old Ayshecombe''s shakey voice could need the every help it could get. Be that as it may, there were hardly a dozen students present at the time.


    Saville had been correct. The professor hadn''t mind. None of them did when I snuck in quietly and took a seat at the back of each remedial class. I am now most familiar with one of the core courses that I would officially take in the coming term. Though having been taking place during the sweltering hour of one thirty in the afternoon, I would oft find myself dozing after laboriously organizing the office. The light would strike just right in the Forum and I would find myself having trouble keeping my eyes open. I would fall into a deep, deep sleep that rested my bones and lulled by the aged but rich voice of Professor Ayshecombe.


    These were quiet days, my routine for that first couple of days since my arrival. A time of peace and I relished it as best I can. I had learned that such things do not last, making them all the more precious.


    Eventually, I opened my eyes and found myself staring at the lecture hall of Professor Ayshecombe, who was still in the woes of discussing the finer details of operational management to the rest of my classmates. A small trail of saliva had oozed out of the corner of my lips and I tried to rub away the bleariness away from my eyes. Memories of Old Sorez as of late plagued my sleep, dredging up feelings hidden beneath the murk and mud that is my psyche. I tried to put old Ayshecombe and his lecture into focus, better that than trying to relive the day my mother left ( a memory I hadn''t thought of for quite some time, truth be told).


    "...it is imperative that your prediction models and data be kept up to date! Hence the reiteration of the necessity of an established network of information is vital......" Came the professor''s voice from way out in the front. From up on high in the farthest back of my seat, his voice shouldn''t have woken me up. Old Ayshecombe''s lectures were pretty much derived from the lecture books he prescribed. Books Spencer and I have already poured over months prior.


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    My gaze was caught by the bobbing heads of the figures one tier below mine. Henshawe and Wightman, much like the rest of those that had taken their seating arrangements at the far back of the tiered lecture hall, was stuck in their own conversation or distractions. Sandy haired Henshawe and lanky Wightman ducked their heads, oblivious to the ministrations of the professor. I couldn''t help but overhearing their conversation, their volume drowns out that of the professor. Much of my colleagues in the College of Industry and Commerce were much like that, fueled by the unending desire to stave off monotony of being relegated to remedial classes during the semestral break.


    Henshawe blanched, his eyes growing wide and Wightman followed his gaze and wished he hadn''t.


    "Serrano," he said with a nervous twitch of a smile. Over the years living of under my uncle''s guidance had imparted me of many of the man''s characteristics. I never meant for it to pick up, it just happened as it were. I did not know what it was in my gaze but it seems the old mans stone-cracking gaze must''ve rub off on me or so I''ve been told.


    "So," he started, a nervous twitch to his sheepish smile as he turned to face me, "Me and the lads we''re just wondering, we''re having a bit of a get-together in the lawns off Wrenne Hall, would you like to come?"


    "Thank you for the invitation. I''ll see if I could."


    Ayshecombe shaky voice, somehow still echoed every now and then, only those at the forefront could ever hear of what is being said.


    As everyone was more than eager to head out, I lingered back. the fourth wall of the lecture hall was afforded in a glass pane. The afternoon sun attributed further to the laziness of the students under this schedule. Ayshecombe was a frail old man. Chances are he''d die as a professor of the College of Commerce. A tenured professor. Such was their fate.


    "Professor," I greeted in a rather overinflection of my Sorezii accent.


    "Ah hello se?or Serrano!" he smiled genuinely as he saw me. As I''ve been able pry, he seemed to like cities. Maybe it''s of the fact that he can''t travel anymore because of his advanced age.


    "Allow me to have your books professor."


    "I may be an creaking old man my boy but still I have some pride left!" he said but did not refute when I hefted the heavy tome from him.


    "Would pride still be preferable to another week in a care facility? You have two flights of stairs to traverse after all." I teased the old man.


    "uhhh....hmmph," he harrumphed beneath his breath. "I would not be swayed by your mannerisms my boy"


    "Never would have dreamed of it." I walk at a pace with him. Our footsteps echoed in the wide empty halls of the college as we made our way to his office.


    "You are quite unlike your peers, all eager off galivanting," he observed. Good, I thought. I have heard on several mentions from Saville that many of the professors and teachers of the university are connected in elite circles of the city.


    "Really?" I said with more than a hint of enthusiasm in my voice. I dressed simply with my white shirt and workman''s trousers not quite unlike my well-off classmates. It added an air of sincerity and humbleness that I hoped would ingratiate itself to the professor, "Professor Fane has stories of a much different sort. And they are young, my generation are all too aware of it. So we spend the best of times."


    "Such contemplative soul! you would have made a fine philosopher," praised Ayshecombe. We were at his office door.


    "Philosophers tend to be on the poor side of things, professor." I replied honestly.


    "Haha! Don''t you dare tell that to the castellans!"


    I said my goodbyes and parted ways with the aged academian, heading towards the great green expanse of the lawn.

 Chapter 21

    The lawns around the bend of the College of Industry and Commerce was a popular gathering place. By default, it is were most of my colleagues tend to gather, laying about like bovine creatures, wondering and mulling what to extricate from the sparse freedom the rest of the day afforded them. Some have a few more classes while others must brave the onset of boredom brought upon by ample time. Although I am inclined for most of the time to shut myself in my quarters and enjoy a good night''s slumber, I forced myself to break out of this inclination for the foreseeable future. For my stay in Lonethorne, I am to rub elbows with the offspring and heirs of realms and titans of industry. This was one of the reason why I accepted Saville and Spencer''s offer in the first place; to nurture connections and relationships with individuals with influential futures. A opportunity that I must not squander.


    I approached the college green where my acquaintances spend their time thinking of what to do for that evening. The field was vast and largely empty, several trees dotted the expanse and it is in one of these, a decades old oak tree with a bulbous trunk and branches scattered in a way that made it ideal for lazing below, that they have made their rendezvous point. Even as I approached I already know what troubles beset the preconceived leader of our merry little band.


    "Aaaahhhhh.......," moaned Sigric Holbrook, eyes staring into nothingness like some undead freshly risen from the grave. He lay back on the grass itself, uncaring for the mildew soaking into his fine erizian coat. Flaxen haired and possessing a strong jawline that many a women find attractive, Sigric Holbrook could have easily stepped out of a dictionary under the definition of the word privileged. The third son of a baron, his main and primary concern was what to occupy his time with.


    "What to do, what to do...?" he muttered as he continued his agonizing wonderment of something to occupy his evening.


    "You know, you could actually do some actual school work and study? Being stuck in remedial and all," said a towering young man seated against the trunk of the oak tree with an open notebook in one hand, easily the biggest lad in our merry company. Bertram Inwood. At the time, all I know of him was that he came from money. It was unknown to me whether he was of aristocracy or an heir apparent to some wealthy industry. He towered at well beyond six feet with powerful shoulders and long legs. His stature was imposing and has a preference in dressing impeccably in fine dark suits. He moved quietly, almost as quietly as I am. However, despite his quiet personality, he was well liked by all and has many friends in various circles around campus.


    Both cast a glance my way. Bertram nodded and muttered a quick hello while Sigric waved at my general direction to acknowledge at my arrival. They were pleasant fellows and my senior being as they are (or supposed to be) sophomores in the coming semester. Their academic performances from the prior semester has required them to attend remedial classes during the break. They were the first ones to extend an invitation after my first class sit-in and found myself under their wing.


    "Any plans for the evening, gents?" I asked with a jovial tone. I made it a priority not to let my true melancholic personality seep in.


    "That is what that dolt is troubling over," Bertram supplied, kicking a patch of grass towards Sig''s direction, before he went back to his notes. Sigric muttered incoherently in response.


    "I may have something to alleviate that. A gathering at Wrenne Hall."


    "Wrenne Hall? For the umpteenth time? No thank you."


    "I wouldn''t say umpteenth," inserted a voice from across the lawn, not far away from where we were. Strode in Livitha Topingfield. An heiress. Of what, I get varying answers. Steel mills one source and a soap industry in another. A myriad of things of that to be certain. Strawberry-blonde hair without any restrictions cascaded beyond her shoulders. She acted in a way that reminded me of a certain auburn-haired girl back on Sorez. She the university and there are special classes and protocols about young women. But it seems as I was surprised to learn. I heard mention of this of Miss Covington and her Aunt Ione. But to see unaccompanied, unchaperoned young women of their stature was a certain shock to me. I had to stop myself from staring. In a school? with little to no proper supervision? I pity the school administration for having have to deal with this matters. What would their parents think? These thoughts I bottle up and corked and careful never to speak out in the open. I found it most odd but never spoke it aloud. I thought it would be rude of me.


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    "Please If Parnell has to cater from the restaurant again, I''d rather roll myself down the steepest hill in the campus all the way to the city!" Sig complained.


    "Well, Sig, if you haven''t flunked three courses you would not be here amidst a break but instead gallivanting off on Dornsee Hills," teased Livitha further.


    Sigric cast her a wry glance, "You take immense pleasure in my suffering don''t you Liv?"


    "I heard Lyfelde Hall is having a get together of some sort," I offered. I heard of it among some history-major students in passing while on my way to the office for my morning chores. I was about a good quarter way in progress.


    All three looked towards me sharply, curious looks directed at my way. Maybe even a slight hint of hostility perhaps? "Lyfelde Hall? Where did you hear that?" asked Sig.


    "I passed by some juniors on my here this morning. It seems they have been at it for some nights now," I answered but wondered what warranted such a reaction.


    "Lyfelde Hall? Are you certain?" This was Livitha''s inquiry. There was an authoritative steel tone in her voice.


    "Positively."


    There was silence, their thoughts mulling over. Sig was, honest to gods, sincerely in deep thought. Bertram returned once more to his notes, uncaring it seems. Livitha.....Livitha was hard to read but stared on me for some reason.


    "Bah!" said Sig, "Wrenne Hall it will be then for the night! We''ll meet at the front of the dorms then," Sig announced, completely dismissing Lyfelde Hall without explanation but seems apparent and understood to both Liv and Bertram. Odd, I thought.


    "Speaking of," I started, eager to move on to another subject. I fished out a folded piece of parchment from my pocket and flashed it to the laid-back youth atop the grass, "In order to avoid another moment of moaning from you. Have you finished the paper for this week yet?"


    Sig''s hand sped out but I was faster, yanking it away from him, "I''ll get it done, you''re not my mother."


    "And yet we continue to suffer your moaning," piped in Liv.


    "Oh shut it," he snapped at Liv. Liv smiled, a genuine satisfaction spread on her dark tinted lips. She favored dark lip stick for some reason, it makes her seem more mature.


    Sig turned to me this time, "What''s that?" his tone turned softer. He already knows what it is. Salvation.


    "Notes," I said. This time I actually handed it to him. "And do please try to add what you actually learned in class. This is just something to get you along."


    "Of course, of course," he assured me, getting up and dusting away the mildew and clinging grassblades. "And don''t forget you lot. Wrenne Hall, sixth chime of the eve!" he finished already galloping away across the lawn. He turned a corner, bounding towards his dorm room.


    "You know he''s going to copy it word for word," Bertram said from his notes.


    "Thank Providence I''m not officially enrolled then."


    "And what happens if Ayshecombe starts asking questions? He may be getting on in years but the old man has his moments of extreme sharpness." So I have heard. Every now and then, Old Ayshecombe would ambush his class with sudden recitations and questions regarding the subject at hand. The man was like a viper at times, never knowing he would strike and putting spotlight on the students who undertook his class thinking this would be an easy swim of a remedial course. One infamous instance that I oft heard was when Sigric got the unfortunate fate of being put in that said light. It is said that the entire class was in a fit of laughter, almost wheezing in pain even, as Sigric made up his own answers on the spot with a genuine seriousness on his face. The story always puts a smile on both Bertram and Livitha''s lips since the short time I''ve known them.


    "Oh, then I''ll finally see an encore of Sigric v. Ayshecombe. See what the fuss is all about," I replied. That caught laughter from both of them.

 Chapter 22

    A get together it was called. To say it was anything else would have raised the school''s prefects untoward attention. Even as we arrived at the "get together" I felt eyes watching the Wrenne Hall from dark corners and windows. It was never really stated outright but the University employs a staff of prefects, guards and watchers. When your housing the heirs and offspring of various powerful entities and individuals, it is prudent to have a sort of safety net prepared. Especially concerning youths with time and money on their hands.


    Wrenne Hall was on the other side of the campus from the likes of Berwycke Hall and housed students under the courses of Applied Discipline. We arrive some time after six, the night completely befallen on us. But Wrenne Hall was not lacking in glass lanterns and festivities. There was even an ensemble to add to the liveries. An equal number of young men and women were present, though I saw much of the women were accompanied by an older woman in one form or function. Laughter filled the night air and merriment was abound. The hosts provided beverages that were in strict compliance with the school protocol; drinks with quite low alcoholic content and would make it quite difficult for anyone to be intoxicated with. Skarbitter and amberroot was served aplenty, they carried with them that slight buzz without completely impairing anyone''s cognition (A challenge that Sigric wishes to undertake, he told us.)


    String instruments and percussions brought out a festive mood and I could not but help be reminded of home. A pang struck me in my chest at the memory. We all arrived together; me, Sig, Bertram and Liv but a few minutes after arriving we went our separate directions. Sigric went on to greet some chaps he knows from other classes. Bertram was likewise but his circle of conversation were more dignified in their bearing. Livitha flitted from one group of friends to another, always laughing and smiling and generally welcomed by everyone.


    I on the otherhand, wandered the halls and did a tour of the house myself. This would have marked my second venture into Wrenne Hall. It was far bigger in comparison to that of Berwycke Hall, more in common with that of a dormitory in design really but with the a slight hint of history. I have yet to traverse its entire expanse with its capability of housing as much as fifty people. I was fascinated by the generations of Wrenne Hallers, preserved by the various portraiture and daguerreotype hanging on the eggshell white walls. It was time distilled, history paused for all to see. The people in the portraits may well be gone but still here they are, the very light of their moment on earth forever enraptured. That thought somehow made me smile.


    I wandered and watched, trying to pick up some gossip, knowledge and names. As I did so I was surprised when one I was familiar with popped up.


    It was a conversation between ,what I judge to be, a group of friends who happen to be speaking loud enough for me to overhear while I had been genuinely engrossed with the various awards and medals on display on a nearby mantle.


    "Well isn''t this a lovely affair?" declared one student, a young woman. She was accompanied by another stern faced older girl. Maybe a sister acting as a guardian. This type of arrangement is common among young women attending university.


    "A lovely affair? it''s juvenile at best. I would have preferred some more class among our peers but what would you expect from a bunch of engineers and architects majors?" haughtily said by a young man with sideburns. I noticed the glint of a silver pin of a caduceus on his lapel. A student of medicine.


    "Quiet! I do not want to evicted because you dare not show some respect to our hosts!" replied another. A short fellow with a much gruffier sideburns that could rival Spencer''s.


    "I saw Helewis van Uffel the other day. Utterly breathtaking!" cut in another young woman. She shared a semblance to the other two. Maybe a cousin? The topic was more than enough to change the subject and ease the tension caused by the haughty student. By the mere mention of the Van Uffels even mine own ears perked up.


    "Did you approach her?" asked the short fellow.


    "N-no...." the youngest woman replied, stuttering. That caused a short chuckle to spread from the friend group.


    "Well I''d like to see you try!" She bit back at them.


    "Oh no, thank you. If what even half of what I''ve heard is true then they are one of the more eccentric castellans in the entire school. I''m just content observing from afar."


    Their conversation then diverged to topics that did not interest me further. This was not the first time I heard mention of my erstwhile flatmates that I have yet to see a shadow of. Every now and then I''d hear snippets of them from one conversation to the next. My initial thoughts had all stemmed from that brief reference from the Administration Staff. That they are polite and perfect hosts. The rest I could make out a decent picture: They are among the most popular students within the campus. Hailing from the renowned Van Uffels of Vohenrode, an elite among the elite. An ancient bloodline that could trace their lineage millennia in the past. It made me wonder of the suitability of my accommodations within Berwycke Hall.


    As I wondered about Wrenne Hall, my attention was once more caught by a large gathering in one of the guest room. Almost half the guest present were inching for a view. Once I caught of what was being said by the humdrum of people, there was no need of me to see it in its entirety. There is a movement that has been gaining steady steam and popularity among high society and has yet to reach its peak. The Occult has enraptured the peerage of aristocrats and nobles all across the land by tales of the macabre and strange. Seances were a popular party event or so I have heard, along with palmistry, astrology, mediumship and table turning to name a few. It is further fueled by the scientific discoveries as well over the past couple decades. Ancient cities being uncovered in various locales across the span of the globe, which in turn made scholarly pursuits in the matter extremely profitable. I am an indirect beneficiary of such endeavors, much as I''d like to admit.


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    The crowd finally parted, giving space for the participants at the middle. They all sat encircled, young men and women as they try to call upon a force beyond the confines of this reality. Everyone was hushed. I saw the items on the table and deduced that what they are trying to do is some sort of cross between a seance and a table turning: to reach into the Beyond and perform a show of power. I saw Livitha watching with fervent eyes, Bertram leaning against a bannister casting the entire affair with a skeptic look. I thought I saw a mop of yellow hair outside in the yard as Sigric was busy playing drinking games with his other compatriots, completely uninterested with the occultic session taking place. A grin spread to my lips and I turn to walk away.


    I could feel the onlookers watch with baited breath as they waited. I took stock of the things on the table before turning my back: A Ouija board, six black candles and six red candles placed at the points of a dual hexagram, skulls of small fauna and sealed bottles of what could be oils. I shook myself in disbelief. I headed out into the mostly vacated veranda and instead enjoyed the stars twinkling in the night sky. The veranda was mostly devoid of people except for a pair of juniors hidden amongst the shade of a willow tree in questionable closeness and a bespectacled engineering major enjoying a smoke with his pipe.


    I heard gasps and oohs of wonderment from the inside but paid it no heed. The Old Call did not thrum nor so much as a fluttered at the objects at the table.


    The stars were out in their thousands that night. It was a sight seldom seen in an blazing-orange night at Sorez. While Lonethorn has a surprising lack of illumination in major parts of the campus. A thought occurred to me as I sat there in peace; whether the spectators within would still beheld themselves in awe should they witness a true act of the occult. I hoped, for their sake, they never have to suffer such an experience as I had.


    <hr>


    It was past twelve of midnight when we made our way back to our respective dorm rooms. Bertram and I agreed that Livitha was the first to be dropped off. An suggestion she cast a derisive look our way, thinking probably that we coddle her like a young lady (which we did). But she made no loud protest of it and we waved her a good night. Next, was of course the worst off in our little merry band, Sigric. Who was having trouble staying upright and had to make multiple instances of relieving himself from one bush to the next. I laughed in the darkness each time and even stern Bertram couldn''t help but smile. It made the journey back to the dorms longer but quite entertaining. Oh the morning after was going to be so much fun. But not for Sigric.


    "How did you come by the affair at Lynden Hall?" came the sudden question from Bertram while Sigric hung limply in between us hoisted by the joined efforts of me and Bert ( which we never call him Bert aloud though, for he despises it with all his passion).


    "As I''ve told you, I overheard it," I replied, wondering where he was going with this.


    "Where precisely?" he persisted but his tone wasn''t hostile. Just genuinely curious.


    I shrugged, which was awkward considering there is a drunk person on your shoulders, "At the College of History and Antiquity."


    "They let you in?" Bert sounded surprised.


    "They didn''t bar the door if that is what you are asking."


    "So you just strode in and..--Wait, the office you''ve been task with, its of the Castle?" Bert correctly deduced, surprised and amazed at the conclusion. His reaction baffled me.


    "Yes. They are also my sponsors."


    "And they let you be admitted to be an abbott?" he asked.


    "What? What''s this I''m hearing of abbots and castellans? I''ve been hearing it here and there and what is it that is so fascinating?" A bit of irritation was in my voice. I sense there is some degree of tensions between the so called abbots and castellans (of which I have found myself in the former without intention.)


    "Apologies," Bert sighed and explained, "It is something that came to me as a shock as well. The school takes some of its traditions and norms too seriously. Relishes in it in fact. For all intents and purposes Lonethorn''s academic umbrella is separated by the abbots and the castellans. The Abbey and the Castle. Applied Sciences falls under the Abbey while Humanities and Arts belongs to the strict purview of the Castle, hence the castellans. Don''t even ask me why it is the way it is. It just is." We arrived at Bert and Sig''s dormitory and Bert kept on with the tale of the internal rivalry of the two factions. Navigating a staircase with a drunk person proved quite the task but Bert''s explanation of the school''s hierarchy made my travails not as tedious.


    "I infer that at some point in the past, some hooligans from both sides took their pride a mite too far and established the so called factions of our esteemed school along with the corresponding traditions and whatnot. Stupid, yes I know. But they were young as we are now, and youth is a time of stupidity and recklessness and the consequences that follow."


    "Was that a quote?"


    "Yes. Killigrew. 1789 AO."


    We finally reached the Sig''s room, drop him off his bed like a sack of coal and hoped to Providence that he doesn''t soil his bed. Bert slept down the hall and he saw me off at the doorway. Before I departed for my own trek across campus, Bert had this to say.


    "Just be careful. They can be a bit....rude, especially the pompous ones. I could say the same for the abbots that have taken it like a religion of their own," he warned me. "It''s nothing short of a miracle you haven''t encountered any....problems going there being under an Applied Sciences major. Then again, it is the break. Not many students roaming the halls."


    "Well, thank you for the advise, I''ll remember it."


    "Also, are you sure of going back to your Hall? It is awfully dark. And Sig''s bed is exceeds far beyond University protocol. He won''t mind," Bert suggested.


    "No, tis no trouble. I''m used to walking in the dark back home. Good night then Bert...ram" Almost slipped my tongue at the end. Bert didn''t bother to mention and waved me goodbye.


    I walked back to Berwycke unheeding of the shadows. I kept saying to myself that this was not Sorez. The mist and darkness would not harm me. That there is nothing waiting there.

 Chapter 23

    The morning afterwards, I was sifting through a pile of rubbish that my employers refer to as "research materials" in the office when I heard a light tap upon the door. The shadows of a person moved beneath the small gap below the door and an age old tingling found itself at the base of my spine. Sometimes I have better mastery over my nerves and other times they can be as willful as the winds themselves. Dealing with people can be quite a taxing chore for me but that morning had become so monotonous that I welcomed the unexpected visitors with a degree of relish. I stepped over piles of scribbles and teetering towers of books, zigzagging my way to the front door. Muffled voices can be heard as I approached closer.


    "Are you certain someone is here?" came one voice, a young woman''s. I answered the query by opening the door ajar. A duo of students from the College of the Arts and Humanities, evident by their dark robes as opposed to the simple trousers and vest of the Abbotts. Castellans, as my fellow abbots call them, for much of their colleges are situated within the Castle itself.


    "Oh," said the female of the pair. A girl with short blonde hair that was cut short and with length just about her fae-like jawline. It was a rather peculiar haircut for me, coming from a land where women prefer their hair waist-long and flowing. Still, I must admit that the style was rather....appealing. "Are the professor''s in?" she asked, belatedly a second later, quite surprised at seeing my presence.


    "I''m afraid they are away on business and would not return for the foreseeable future. Can I take a message?" I answered diplomatically.


    "Oh...," she said once more, eyes off to the side towards her companion, a taller than average young man with bullish features but possessing of keen intelligent eyes. The fellow was hard to believe to be in the studies of the Arts were it not for his attire. His physicality would have him more suited for the varsity league where his frame would be the prized pupil of any instructor.


    "...Uhm," her eyes tend to wander a lot, I noticed. "It''s just....just that we were wondering if we could extend an invitation to the professors'' for dinner, me and others of our class that is."


    "And to whom are we addressing?" cut in the other student, the large young man.


    "I am the professors'' assistant," I simply said as a matter-of-factly.


    However, that simple statement seemed to have reeled them in, for the apparent surprise in their visage. Words tried to form in their mouths but failed to conjure past their throats. I quirked an eyebrow at their reaction but said further nothing. A few seconds passed before their retained their composure.


    "I was not aware that they had one. Many applied but the Professor Saville said they were not taking any," said the young man, whose name I have yet to know. That was just poor decorum on my part, I realized.


    My reply came in the form of a shrug, "I will be certain to pass along the invitation once both professors arrive, and forgive me for my rudeness, I have yet to ask your names, madame and sir...?"


    "This is Zelia Alphine," the young man gestured to his companion. "And I am Irvin Mulvahil. We undertook a course in both the professor''s class last semester. It was enlightening. Out of curiosity, are there any more openings as an assistant?"


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    There was a crass reply ready to fire in my mind already. The position they so covet only entails cleaning up after the two eccentric scholars and it was a position of that of a glorified servant. But I anticipated such a reply would dour the mood of all party involved and continued my line of diplomatic answers. In other words, just lie. But like all good lies, one that has a grain of truth in them.


    "I''m afraid that is up to the professors , they have not shared such inclinations since last we talked. And truth be told, my employment beneath them leans on a whim. You have met them. They can be quite.....eccentric."


    That seemed to placate the two. Well, mostly the young woman, Zelia, who was most understanding and was just as eager to extract herself from this exchange. She seemed the more socially awkward of the two despite being pretty. Mr. Mulvahil on the other hand seems to take my word for it but tries to conceal a measure of disappointment at the lack of possibility of being taken as an assistant. With the conversation drawing to a close, both parties exited and departed amicably. I felt rather good about myself in dealing that particular duty. Strangers can be quite unpredictable and difficult and with my duty as assistant finds me in such position in relaying news about my employers disposition in such matters.


    I had just shut the door but Zelia and Irvin had not walked far away nor their voice so distant that I had no difficulty listening on their exchange.


    "What will we tell the others? Odis was so certain the professors would be here! He already sent out invitations!" jittered Zelia. Despite her dainty features, it seems she''s quite excitable with those she is familiar with. Would not have guessed it judging from our initial interaction.


    "Zelia, dear, it is not the end of the world. We would simply have to cancel or maybe just think of some other form of entertainment for the evening," I noted a genuine warmth in Irvin''s voice that was not present when we spoke as Irvin allayed Zelia''s fears.


    "Oh Irv! Odis will not like this! Not one bit!"


    Then they moved out of earshot, more words were exchanged but they had completely been muffled as their footsteps turned around the corner of the hall. This was a rather bold move for the sophomores, inviting two college professors to what I presume is a dinner party. From what I gathered from Bert and the others, such invitation, if ever taken up by the residing professor, is only given to clear favorites or promising students. It was to be an ostentatious event in any budding socialite that wish to expand their circle and popularity in not just the teachers purview but with their fellow students as well. Garner relationship points and good repute as it were, a foundation for future comradery that goes beyond the walls of academia and into society. A good way of establishing business relations as well.


    A dinner party, I thought. A bold move indeed.


    Be that as it may, Saville and Spencer never spoke much of their students or their classes, always on about their research and findings. They gave me the impression that they merely took to teaching courses as to placate the requirements for Lonethorn professors to doll out classes.


    But it seems this Odis fellow''s efforts are all for naught as the two scholars are halfway across the realm attending symposium one city after the other. They would not be here for the better part of the month. That fellow would have to find another notable personage to be the center of his dinner party. Just then I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as I realized the way the cards are stacked before me. But I quickly dispelled it.


    Only for it to come back a few seconds later. Surely, it will not come to that? If not the professors, then maybe the coveted assistant then? It was a ludicrous idea. They were sophomores and I was but a budding freshman. Not even that, I was not properly enrolled in the school registry yet. Finally, with my hunger growing tantamount, I banished such a troubling and anxiety inducing thought with the idea of pie and mash and may be even a shepherd''s pie for second helpings. The mind can turn so quickly into oneself, as I had learned growing up. Best to sink my needless worries into food, I thought then as I locked up the office for luncheon.


    Only as it turns out, later in the day and much to my fears, that my worries were not needless after all.