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FAMILY IS MORE THAN blood and lineage. A true family is bonded through trust and love.
—Zorot Durantis, trade ambassador to Sparrowport
* * *
"THE SERVANTS FOUND him as a baby, floating in a basket on the river," explained Zorot. The official welcoming ceremony had concluded, and Zorot had graciously invited Torreg to his home for a meal and a talk. Torreg had, of course, jumped at the opportunity. Onin departed shortly after arriving at the Durantis manor, claiming to have other business in town.
"We had just lost our own infant son to fever," continued Zorot. "When the servants brought him to us, we took it as a sign from the gods and adopted him as our own. Onin was so tiny as an infant, I never guessed he would turn into such a bear of a man!"
Torreg nodded. Zorot was not of the Great Families, so adopting a Midland child would not have run counter to his breeding and lineage. Zorot clearly adored his son, adopted or not—his broad smile proof.
"I can say he has done your family proud. He has a moral certainty that makes quite an impression." Torreg went on to describe how Onin volunteered to aid the village of Lost Grove against the Jagan raiders and his valor in battle. Zorot seemed surprised by the story.
"Onin has never been reckless, but he has always been stubborn when he thinks he is in the right. On more than a few occasions, I’ve had to sort out situations brought about by his sense of ethics.
"But I am surprised by his battle prowess. He has received rudimentary training from the town’s militia but has never been in a real battle before this excursion. Truthfully, as he departed, I feared I would never see him again."
Torreg was amazed. Many men could barely stand their ground the first time in battle; Onin had fought like a seasoned veteran. Torreg found himself once again reevaluating the young man and his capabilities. He thought of a way he could curry favor with Zorot while benefiting Onin.
"Zorot, what plans does your son have for his future?" asked the captain with a sly grin.
* * *
WHEN ONIN DELIVERED the news of Flea’s passing, Janda reacted much as he expected. She made a great show of grief, sobbing loudly and pulling her hair while cursing the gods for taking her "sweet, innocent Jarid" away from her. The display sickened Onin; he couldn't recall Janda having referred to him so affectionately.
Still, he could not bring himself to voice his feelings. Real or not, Onin would not trivialize her grief.
"I am undone!" cried Janda piteously. Her sobs wracked her body, but her eyes were surprisingly free of tears. "What is an old widow to do? How will I manage with all the additional work? The stables alone will be the death of me!"
Onin stifled a snort of derision. He’d never seen Janda so much as lift a broom in her own inn, let alone muck out the stables. He suppressed a smile when one of the patrons spoke out.
"I suppose you’ll just have to pay someone to do it, like every other innkeeper in the world."
Janda scowled in the direction of the voice. The speaker, perhaps wisely, decided not to identify himself. Several other patrons covered their faces with their hands, suppressing mirth. Onin had no patience for humor. Though her only relative, blood or otherwise, had died, her first thoughts were of the increased workload for herself. His disgust turned to righteous anger.
Onin left the Mossy Scale Inn and turned to look upon it one last time, knowing he would never return. Onin wiped moisture from his eyes as he hurried away.
He spent some time wandering the streets of Sparrowport, lost in his own dark thoughts. He had spoken his convictions truthfully to the captain and sergeant and truly believed even Flea would do it all over again. He still struggled to accept the empty place his friend’s absence left in his heart. He felt responsible for Flea’s presence on the field as the two friends had joined the militia together. Onin doubted Flea would have been on the battlefield at all if he hadn’t been there.
But in the heat of the moment, Flea had acted courageously and without hesitation. Onin was certain those children lived today because of his friend’s quick action.
Many locals greeted Onin as he walked; being the son of the richest man in town had that effect on people. One of the primary reasons Onin had valued Flea so highly was he had been one of the few people who never sought to curry favor with Zorot through his son. He waved or nodded politely at each greeting or congratulatory statement, but he never stopped to talk. He simply had no words to share and no patience for platitudes.
It was not long before his strides carried him toward his home. He had nowhere else to go in Sparrowport. He had no friends among the wealthy families of the town. In fact, he held nothing but disdain for the scions of the rich as he found them arrogant and frivolous. When the militia had been rallied and sent to the marshes bordering the Jaga, no wealthy scions joined them. Onin knew all of them trained in arms and armor, possessing superior equipment and quality steeds, yet none of them would lower themselves enough to serve in the militia.
Onin passed one such house as these thoughts crossed his mind. The Blankenfort family owned a great number of warehouses within the city and made a fortune buying foodstuffs from the local farmers and shipping them to the Heights inside the dragon-borne cargo baskets. He could hear the sounds of thumping and cracking, punctuated with an occasional pained cry, coming from the garden behind the house. Curious and yearning for a distraction from his morbid thoughts, Onin went to investigate.
The gate to the garden stood open, and Onin could see a group of young men inside. He knew them all, the sons of the wealthy playing at being knights. The Blankenfort heir, Roddin, stood in the practice yard, adorned in his beautifully crafted and shined armor, armed with a wooden practice sword. As Onin watched, Roddin mercilessly beat his opponent, a younger boy whom Onin recognized as Carus Wheeler. The shorter boy stumbled under every blow, even if he managed to get his shield in the way, and each time the practice sword got through his guard, Carus would let out one of the yelps that Onin had previously heard. Roddin clearly possessed greater strength and skill, yet he showed no mercy for Carus. Eventually Roddin struck him a ringing blow to the helmet, and the slight boy fell to all fours, dropping his wooden armaments. With a contemptuous sneer, Roddin kicked Carus hard in the ribs, sending the boy tumbling over and gasping for breath.
"Only a coward hits a defenseless opponent," said Onin. The words came from his lips before he could stop himself. But he felt the anger growing within him. Onin’s inner wounds were quite raw yet. Seeing someone reminiscent of Flea being beaten so remorselessly rankled.
Roddin turned his sneer upon Onin. "So the mighty militia man returns! You must have the most interesting stories about digging ditches and scratching fleas!" Roddin paused to allow his cronies to laugh, which they did obligingly.
"We’ve heard about the great victory over the savages. Why don’t you tell us all about your part in the battle, Onin, or did you just run away like a spooked deer? I’ll bet you didn’t do anything at all except make a mess of your trousers." Another round of mocking laughter escaped the cronies.
Onin stepped into the garden and lifted Carus to his feet. He led the boy to a bench at one end of the garden and deposited him there then returned to fetch his wooden sword and shield. Roddin continued with his haranguing, undeterred.
"You can’t really be blamed for your uselessness, though," said the arrogant heir. "After all, you haven’t had the benefit of fine training like we’ve had here. If only we would have been there; then you would have seen something!" Roddin raised his wooden blade in salute to himself, and his friends did likewise with a hearty yell.
After retrieving sword and shield, Onin headed back to Carus, still quite rattled from the beating at Roddin’s hand, and placed the shield there. But he kept a hold of the practice sword. The stout young man then returned to the center and squared off with Roddin, wooden blade in hand.
"Come on, then," said Onin coldly. "Let’s see if you’re worth anything."
Roddin looked shocked then enraged. With a fierce cry, he leaped for Onin, swinging his wooden sword in a vicious arc. Onin raised his own weapon to parry, almost casually. Roddin's wooden sword scored a glancing blow, opening a small cut above Onin's right eye. Onin didn't flinch, a trickle of blood flowed from his scalp down his cheek.
Onin took a step forward and knocked the sword from Roddin’s hand with a single blow. The wooden blade went flying clear over the wall of the garden. Onin then reached forward with his left hand and grasped the rim of Roddin’s shield and yanked it from his grasp as well. The sudden assault left Roddin stunned and off balance.
Suddenly disarmed, Roddin could do nothing to protect himself from the rain of blows that followed. He tried to cover himself with his arms, tried to retreat, but Onin would not be stopped. Each blow connected with a painful thud, and he followed Roddin around the garden with deliberate, unrelenting steps, giving him no quarter and no respite.
Finally Onin swung his mightiest blow yet, striking Roddin squarely on the helmet. The wooden sword fairly exploded with the impact, sending a shower of splinters cascading through the air. Roddin collapsed onto his back, his armor clattering like so many cook pots. Dents and dirt marred the once-shiny armor.
"How dare you—!" began one of the cronies, but Onin fixed him with an icy glare that clamped his mouth shut, rebuke unspoken. Onin's glare ensured continued silence.
Onin tossed the hilt of the broken practice sword on the ground in contempt. He gave the gathered cronies one last glare then spun and stomped away.
* * *
WITHOUT CONSCIOUS THOUGHT, Onin’s footsteps carried him to his home. Beating Roddin had taken the edge from his anger. He took satisfaction in knowing Flea hated Roddin and would have cheered Onin on had he been there.
Onin crossed the threshold, lost in his misery. A manservant approached to say his father had called for him. Onin indicated for the servant to lead the way, and the servant looked at him with a puzzled expression, though Onin didn’t know why. Dutifully Onin followed to his father’s library, where the older man preferred to spend the majority of his time.
To Onin's surprise, Captain Torreg was there as well, sipping a goblet of wine. The remains of a lavish meal sat on a nearby platter with two empty decanters. Onin found this odd as his father rarely drank wine and never during the day. Both men had been indulging, though. Onin could tell by the rosiness of their cheeks.
"Yes, Father?" asked Onin. He stood straight and tall.
"What in the world happened to you, my son?" exclaimed Zorot. He stared at Onin’s head. "You’re bleeding!"
Onin looked at him in confusion then ran his hand over his scalp. His fingers came away sticky with blood. He had completely forgotten about the blow to his head.
"It’s nothing, Father," said Onin. "I had a . . . practice session. Didn’t realize I’d been cut."
Zorot motioned a servant over and ordered clean water and a dressing be brought to the library. After the servant scurried away, Zorot waved Onin to one of the lavishly comfortable chairs that resided in the library. Onin sat, being careful not to get any blood on the chair.
"A practice session?" commented Torreg, draining his goblet with a final gulp. "Must have been some bout to have given you such a cut under your helmet."
Onin shrugged. "I wasn’t wearing a helmet."
Zorot raised his eyes to the heavens. Torreg looked about to say something when the servant returned with the water and dressing. Without pause, the servant began to clean and stitch the wound on Onin’s scalp. Torreg watched as the servant went about the task with practiced hands.
"Do all of your servants know how to tend wounds and make such clean stitches?" he asked of Zorot, and the trade ambassador returned a wry look.
"They all do now," said Zorot. "Each member of my staff has had a chance to minister to my son on multiple occasions. They get good at it after a while. The longer you know him, the more you realize you’d better have a supply of bandages on hand."
Both men laughed, a little too loudly. The wine seemed to be having its way with them. Onin grew a little annoyed at them for talking as if he weren’t there. To his surprise, his father poured a goblet of wine and handed it to him.
This also made Onin a little nervous. His father rarely drank during the day, but for him to give Onin wine was unthinkable. He had a mad, momentary thought this must be an impostor, sent here to impersonate his father. He pushed the thought away and accepted the wine nonetheless, while his father refilled the two other goblets.
"We toast!" exclaimed Zorot, and all three men lifted their drinks to their lips. The wine had a strong flavor, almost sour. Onin wasn’t sure he liked it, but relaxing warmth spread throughout his belly after imbibing. He barely noticed the prick of the needle in his scalp as the stitching continued.
"Um . . . Father," began Onin. "What are we toasting?"
"You! We are toasting you, my son!" said his father with a wide grin. Zorot’s enthusiasm clearly ran away with him, no doubt fueled by the uncharacteristic wine. But he seemed to notice his son’s melancholy and adopted a somber expression.
"Yes, I forget.” His eyes softened in sympathy. "You are grieving for Jarid, and rightly so." The sound of the name gave Onin a pang; Zorot insisted on using Flea's given name. Zorot’s expression spread into a grin again.
"But I know your friend would not begrudge you," said the trade ambassador. "He would cheer your success and wish you the best!"
Captain Torreg smiled in smug anticipation. He belched lightly as Onin glanced over at him.
"I’ve long wondered what you would do with your life, Onin," continued Zorot. "In your younger years, I entertained the hope you would take over the family business. As you’ve grown, it has become apparent to me trade and diplomacy hold no fascination for you."
Onin could only nod. He had no patience for the negotiation, gilded words, and social niceties both fields required.
"I then supposed you would devote yourself to Sparrowport’s militia," said Zorot. "You know my opinions about such a thing. A soldier’s life is low on coin and high on risk, but it does suit your temperament."
Onin nodded again. He had joined the militia over his father’s protests.
"Now," said Zorot. His grin widened to a point Onin thought it must surely hurt. "A true opportunity has come to you, my son."
Onin finally spoke up. "What in the world are you talking about, Father?"
Torreg interjected a question. "Have you ever considered joining the Royal Guard, Onin?"
Onin looked at the captain but could think of nothing to say at first. He would have laughed at the notion but was too unsettled by recent events and his current strange situation.
"Every child does," he said. "But it’s just a dream."
Tales of the Guard slaying dragons single-handed were the stuff of fireside tales and bedtime stories. But only those from the Heights could join the elite order. Torreg might as well have asked him if he had ever considered being king.
"No, not just a dream," said Torreg. "Your father and I have had a long and fruitful discussion about many things. We have come to an arrangement which will allow me to sponsor you to Scaleback Academy."
"But . . . I’m a Midlander," stammered the young man. His stature, dark hair and ruddy complexion all attested to his non-Heights heritage.
"But, adopted or not, you are the son of a man of the Heights," interrupted the captain. "While not one of the Great Families, the Durantis line is quite respectable, and your father, a man of no trivial influence. This will allow me to sponsor you for the academy."
Onin felt slightly giddy. He wondered if the wine had gone to his head but then looked down to realize he hadn’t taken more than the first sip.
"Being a Guard is being a soldier, Onin. Your father is right about his views; it’s no road to wealth or prominence," continued Torreg. "But it is a path of dignity, honor, and duty. We’ve fought together, and I see the makings of a Guardsman in you, make no mistake. More than your strength in arms, the Guard requires strength of character. Everything I’ve seen so far says you have that in abundance.
"So, Onin . . . will you join the Guard and serve your king?"
Without hesitation, Onin hoisted his goblet. "To the king!" he cried and drained it with a single gulp.
The two other men rejoiced as well and raised their own goblets in salute.
* * *
ONIN HAD THE DREAM again, stronger than it had been in years. Dragons filled the sky, all flying in the same direction. Their numbers stretched from one end of the horizon to the other. Behind them, Onin could see the shape of a shooting star, a giant comet brightening the night sky with its luminescence. He could hear their mighty roars, from a great distance, and the landscape beneath them burned. Fires raged everywhere his eye wandered, and smoke rose to the heavens until even the endless stream of dragons was obscured by it.
As it always did, an amber glow grabbed at his attention from the top of a great mountain. Without even willing it, he had the sensation of passing over miles and miles in the blink of an eye, until he found himself looking into what appeared to be a nest dug out of solid rock. Inside, the shells of sizable eggs littered the area. In the middle rested a single, lonely egg, its shell dappled in the colors of stone and sand. Glints of metal sparkled over its surface. As Onin stared, an apparition of two eyes superimposed itself over the egg. One eye was amber, the other sparkled like blue gemstone.