Sunday, August 28, 2005

   Chapter 2: Future (part 2)
It took a moment for Pen to find himself again, and to lock his mind away. He got to his feet and drew his beloved sword, watching the light play around on its smooth silver surface. Then he threw the envelope up in the air and broke the seal on his blade. Not bothering to sheath it, he bend down and picked up the paper with his free hand. He sat back down, balancing the sword across his knees.
Dear Penumbra of the Archives,
You have been invited to University, Center of Learning for Arts and Knowledge. Our school supports up to nine years of continuous education. By attending our school, you will be able to continue to the following places depending on your abilities and interests:
· Havoc, School of Combative Arts. Students must be invited to the auditions to attend, and the King assesses who will enter. Students travel alongside an authorized warrior for four years, and will be involved in mandatory quests to test their skill. Grades consist of Passing or Failing. Passing students will gain the attention of the public and are entrusted to dangerous missions on the order of the King. Failing students can be excluded from the program at any time and cannot re-enter.
The rest of the paper had been blanked out by magic, save for a curly elvish signature at the very bottom. It seemed that someone had already guessed that Havoc was the only thing Pen wanted to do when he grew up, and that he would get in. He was pleased.
The normal age for attending University was ten—Tory’s age. Pen had sought a way to get in one year early; a feat accomplished only one time before, by an angel named Predicus. The first time the dark-haired boy had heard of him was a year ago when he had eavesdropped on a pair of elvish travelers from Perol. They had gone to the Archives’ library to read up on dragons. Sitting in the shadows between the shelves as he liked to do, he heard them converse quietly if anyone would ever be able to save a certain city from the siege of a brass dragon. The man sent to settle the problem had been Predicus, fresh out of Havoc at the age of eighteen. Only two days later, the newspaper displayed a large painting of a fierce-looking angel, with the headlines “Havoc Graduate saves City from Siege.”
In the article was everything about Predicus. He was an orphan who was found by Havoc, wandering the mountains just off the coast of the northern city of Senlae. He spent a year growing up in the angelic version of the Archives, called Crypt. The only thing he said about his past before he was discovered was that his parents had died protecting the town from a raid. Despite his unknown history, he was a popular and highly skilled kid in ways nobody had seen before. At age 8, Predicus proved himself by protecting a girl from being murdered by an angry gaerfalcon. His popularity only grew after that, and the story got around until University decided to let him enter a year early. He did well and joined Havoc afterwards.
From the moment he first read that article, Predicus became Pen’s idol. The dark-haired boy had cut it out, stopped the magic that made it change day by day, and kept it in his special hiding spot in the library.
He had spent a lot of time looking at the painting of his hero, wishing deeply that he could follow in his footsteps. In the picture, Predicus had determined-looking, shining gray eyes framed by yellow-green bangs. The muscles in his arms looked like the kind that was much stronger than they appeared at first glance.
Pen got to his feet again, with sword in hand, and made his way over to a small wooden bookshelf just behind the chair. He stuck the letter into the crack between the wall and the shelf, beside the old article, with the rest of his precious papers.
Now what? Should he follow the wisewoman’s request to go to the city with Tory? He held the sword up and watched the light play on it. Something in him pleaded that he wouldn’t ruin her birthday because of his future. It was already planned out now anyway.
He didn’t want to go with Tory and her friends, but he did want to leave the Archives. In the end, Pen sheathed his sword and strode out of the high-domed library with the intention of going to the city.
The wisewoman was just outside the doors, along with an aged, white-haired wiseman. Tory and her stupid, giggly friends were gathered around them. When they saw Pen, the girls squeaked and scampered away; the boys froze. The wisewoman gave him a questioning but harsh look.
“I’ll go to the city,” Pen told her, “as long as I can go my own way when we get there.” The elf-woman exchanged a glance with her white-haired colleague.
“Alright,” she said, “but you must join up with us before we leave.” Pen nodded. She yelled to the girls to go ahead along the forest path, which they did with a great deal of noise and stumbling, pursued by the boys. Pen followed them, and behind him were the two wisepeople. He couldn’t help but sigh at the children’s silliness.
The forest was an untamed and magical place. It stretched across all of Anatol, and much of it was unexplored. Before the war, it was said that much more of the land had been inhabited, but many of the villages were never recovered from the wilderness. There were plenty of elvish allies in the woods, like the unicorns, pegasus, and several smaller kinds of dragons. It was a place were pests could easily become uncontrolled—dribs among them.
And then there was the least pleasant side of the story. Raiding parties were widespread, as were groups of criminals, mercenaries, and the similar. There was much talk about Gypsy-elves; the survivors of lost villages turned wild. Wizard-elves gone crazy was also a large threat. To top it off, there were the dangerous monsters—chimera, sphinxes, and griffins, among others. The beautiful Buto were also said to exist in the deepest parts of the forest, although they were rarely seen by elves or angels alike.
Pen walked along, staying in the shadow of the path in the attempt to stay out of the sight of Tory and her group of friends. Even if he could not see them, he could hear them clearly. Noisy idiots, Pen thought. It ought to kill them some day.

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