The War of Transition

Chapter Two (Aran)

     "This is an outrage," said Grattus, pacing from one end of the table to the other. A hearth cracked and snapped behind him. "He's a Journeyman. Journeymen do not become Grand Sages, not like this."

     The other seven Sages occupied the high chairs around a dark wooden table fit for a feast hall. The old men and women gave each other concerned glances, only occassionally looking over to Aran who stood in the doorway. The great oaken doors were sealed shut behind him, a notification to any outside that a council meeting was in session.

     "We cannot abide by this foolishness." Grattus threw the letter onto the table. It fluttered across the surface as if carried by the wind.

     "The will was written in Warren Avyrentus' own hand, Grattus. Surely you do not mean to disregard that," said an elderly woman at the far end of the table. Her skin was wrinkled, but her warming smile and bright eyes gave her the illusion of youth. Aran recognized her as Syra Doran, the oldest of the Sages. The chair where Aran's father would have sat was next to hers.

     "Warren is nearly two weeks dead. Those were the words of a man dying of fever. Do you truly expect the other candidates--those who have dedicated their lives to becoming a Grand Sage--to step aside on the words of a man who could not know what he was saying?" Grattus only gestured to Aran, but never set eyes on him. 

     He would have spoken to defend his father's name if another woman hadn't done so before him. "Warren had a sharp mind, Grattus. You would do well to hold your tongue in the presence of his son. I visited Warren a few days before his passing and he was still the man we all knew." Tareia had a slight Jianese accent, and her darkened skin tone served as a reminder of her homeland across the sea. She gave Aran an acklowledging nod. He smiled back politely.

     "And what of the war we are fighting?" Grattus shouted back. His heavy lips sagged on a narrow face of pale stretch marks and thick, white eyebrows.

     "Can you truly call this a war, Grattus?" Ezzero leaned forward and snatched the note with surprising dexterity. His white robe indicated he was from the northern country of Kraigskar, one of the few Yzgrazzan to secure a royal position among the Alchemists. He had only been inaugurated last year, and still retained traces of youth and strength that were tha hallmarks of his people. "it seems to me like we are the only side fighting. The mystics seem to run and hide. This is no war."

     "We are amidst a war." Grattus insisted bitterly. "Just three days past, a village of those primitives murdered our soldiers. You cannot deny the warfare in that."

     Ezzero sat back in his chair in dilligent silence. Aran's eyes flickered around the table at all the faces. There were three men, and five women. It has been that way for as long as Aran could remember. His mother would have joined with his father if she hadn't passed away some time ago, only nine months before Warren's inauguration. A terrible illness had befallen her, and no manner of treatment could restore her once unbending health.

     "I understand your concern, Grattus, but Aran is the son of the man who started our legacy. I am told he is as studious and determined as his father was. A trait that we can't get enough of on this council." Syra Doran's tone was soothing, a beacon of understanding in a storm of arguments and debate.

     "Studious? His father understood that knowledge comes with age, and I will not believe this man is half of what his father was." For an elder of seventy one, Grattus managed to march back to his seat around the table at the brisk pace of a young man. The council sat in expectant silence while grattus' nostrils flared. "Well go on! See if he's as sharp as the great Warren Avyrentus." There was a sliver of sarcasm in his tone that unsettled Aran.