Foxfire (The Blood Oath) old version

Chapter 3: The Secret of Fire

        

Drake watched behind a great statue as Alfred paid the guards of a renowned proving ground. The building was a grey walled tower. Its spires towered several metres above, Arthur's Cathedral, the tallest building in Shearmark town. The large pillars of the building were sculpted to the faces of the Eight Patrons. They were eight founders of the school of magic which Drake knew by heart. Their images were dour, and they bore an uncanny gloom that made them seem unhappy, but it was only an effect of poor maintenance.

Alfred turned to him, "We're good, Drake, follow me."

Inside the grounds, the statues of the Eight were rich in ornamentation. Drake's gaze strayed from one to the other. From Annwyn the Immaculate, Matron to the School of Restoration, to Lothar the Fierce, Patriarch to the School of Destruction. Their images held history in earnest, molded in gold of which one of Lothar's ruby eyes have been carved out by thieves. The only thing that kept the statues from the quick fingers of robbers was their enormous weight.

"Before we begin," Alfred said, "I must show you something. There are things you must know about Blood-sigils."

Drake stood beside a rail of iron where weapons ranging from swords to spears were kept in safety. He studied Alfred keenly, following the old Ranger's movement.

"Your bones are weak, Drake," the guardian said.

"I know," Drake muttered.

"Every child in Shearmark has been given the mark at birth. It is almost impossible for a boy of fifteen to be marked at his adolescence..."

"But..." Drake leaned forward.

Alfred sighed and sank his hand his pouch. "Remember that old box I showed you? In there, I found this," he pulled his hand and revealed a scroll.

The scroll was an old brown parchment, torn at several sides. Alfred unrolled it to open wide. Drake stepped forward, anxious to see. He reached his guardian and took a peek at the scroll.

"The Secret of Fire," he read, "by LotharSmalleyes."

Drake raised his gaze at Alfred, "I can't understand this writing. They look like some sort of glyphs."

"Lothar the Fierce was handicapped. His was not a weak bone disease, but a poor sight and for that they called him Smalleyes. But he overcame his disability to become one of the greatest Conjurers in the Nine Worlds."

Drake's heart pumped faster and faster. His anxiety was born of enthusiasm. His ears have finally heard what they've wished and that meant there was hope for him. The King would announce the annual Transcendence Tourney in a forthnight in celebration of those who have been newly bonded. At fifteen, Drake was a perfect candidate. Last year's rite had ended in a rare fashion, to hell with the euphuism! It was nothing short of broken bones and shattered brains.

The winner Malkin Whitehorse was a clairvoyant from the school of Illusion. He had fallen from his mount while attempting to savor the overwhelming cheers of the crowd after the finals and dropped down the height of a cliff.

Eight schools and eight talents, Drake had seen many boys and girls go through the rites, evolving into something greater. He wanted it too. If he had been given the mark, it would be the triple- spiral of Conjuration. As a native of Elondale, it was only natural to be a conjurer as it was the indigenous talent.

Alfred pulled his long white robe and grey cloak customary to Rangers of his ilk. He had served Avalon for thirty years, would still be, if not for a certain misunderstand with the Royal House that was not clear to Drake. The man wrapped his fist with a white bandage and threw another to Drake.