Birthright-The Technomage Archive

by B. J. Keeton

  Ceril saw a hand shoot up from the first row. “Yes, Saryn?” Bryt said.

  “I was under the impression that our discipline choices were set. That once we made a decision, we were locked into that path.”

  Bryt frowned and cocked his head to the side as he shrugged. “Maybe locked in is not the best choice of words, Saryn.” The small man walked down the aisle between desks toward the rear of the room. He leaned against the back wall. “While we certainly encourage students to make informed choices regarding their path of study and truly believe that the initial draw to a discipline is more than random happenstance, it would be incredibly unfair to everyone involved if, for instance, a truly inspired medic felt pulled toward soldiering when they were your age and found themselves unsuited for the profession.”

  Half of the students had turned to look at Bryt while he was behind them. The others faced stiffly forward. He continued, “How many of you watched the assigned videos on the first night aboard the Sigil that outlined the roles and duties of the scholar, medic, and soldier?” Every hand in the room except for Ceril’s went up. If Bryt noticed the exception, he made no show of it. “Good,” he said. “And what made you all choose the disciplines that were not soldier?”

  This time, no one raised a hand.

  “Oh, I'm not going to be mad. Like I said, I changed to soldier, myself. If anyone can understand why you wouldn’t want this job, it’s be me.”

  The professor waited for someone to respond. He just leaned against the back wall, saying nothing, and watched a handful of students turn back to face the front of the classroom. Ceril fidgeted a little; the silence was a tad awkward. Finally, one of the boys in the back raised his hand. “Yes, Swinton?” Bryt said.

  “Being a soldier is dangerous,” said the boy. He was small—but not as small as Bryt—and his hair was disheveled. He wore thick glasses. He looked like someone Ethan Triggs would’ve loved to pick on.

  “I see,” Bryt said. “So what did you choose instead?”

  “Scholar, sir,” Swinton answered. Ceril vaguely recalled seeing him in some of his classes, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Why the scholar?” Bryt asked him. “What made that role seem better than medic or soldier?”

  “Well, being a soldier just seemed hard, and being a medic put so much responsibility in my hands.” Swinton paused. “I don’t think I want people's lives depending on me. I've always done well in school. During Phase I, I did pretty well, so I just felt that scholar was close to, you know, school.”

  Bryt nodded. “What about someone who chose medic?”

  A girl raised her hand. Bryt gave her the floor. “Yes, Laura?”

  “Well, I want to help people, but I don't really think I can do that by shooting or cutting them up, or with my nose stuck in a book all day.”

  “Okay,” Bryt said, nodding. “Both are very admirable answers. Did anyone notice what they have in common?”

  Saryn's hand went up. Of course it did, Ceril thought and suppressed a smile—the first one he’d really felt since last night. “Yes, Saryn?” Bryt said.

  “They both chose was based on emotion, not logic. They didn't weigh any pros or cons, they just went with their gut feelings.”

  “Very good, Saryn. That's just right. We Charons put a great deal of emphasis on instinct and emotion. We feel that we are all drawn to our roles for a reason, and we want to foster that. However,” Bryt said as he moved back toward the front of the room, “if anyone feels the need to switch paths—or even discuss the possibility—all you have to do is go to your current mentor, and tell them.”

  The scholar students looked around at one another. They exchanged whispers and looked at Ceril. He felt very alone being in front of the class then, without anyone to confer with. No one else seemed like they were going to ask, so Ceril decided to take advantage of his situation and raised his hand.

  “Yes, Ceril?” Bryt said.

  “What if we don't have a mentor? Scholars have been under Roman for a while, but we were told he's not our mentor. What do we do?”

  Bryt sat down at the desk that sat just off of the padded floor where Ceril stood. “I had been debating whether or not to discuss this with you, or if I should let Roman do the explaining.” The small man sighed and wrung his hands together. “You have a mentor already.”

  “Roman is just temporary, sir. We’ve never met our real mentor.”

  “I’m afraid you have, son. Your mentor, Jana Ketner, was expected back aboard the Inkwell Sigil weeks ago. We received word not long ago that Professor Ketner is not going to be joining us, after all.”

  “Why not, sir?” Saryn asked without raising her hand.

  “Professor Ketner died, Saryn. I don’t have any other details that I can share with you, but Roman will continue to serve as your mentor indefinitely.”

  “Was it the same people in the videos who killed all those folks with the Flameblades?” Ceril asked.

  Bryt looked at Ceril and said, blankly, “Yes, Ceril. It was.”

  No one in the room spoke. The terrorists who called themselves Charons were rarely, if ever, discussed by those on the Sigil. Ceril had put another mark on his back by bringing it up. If Bryt had disliked him because of what happened to Ethan, Bryt hated him now. The professor stood up from behind his desk and walked to Ceril's side.

  After the awkward silence, the soldier trainer put his arm around Ceril’s shoulder. “Speaking of Flameblades, Ceril, you just brought us around to the point of today’s lesson.”

  Oh, no, Ceril thought. No, no, no. No. He tried to move away, but the teacher held him firmly in front of the class. Everyone’s eyes were staring at him, boring into him. He wanted to run, to get away. At least when Bryt was talking and pacing and moving around, it had seemed like no one had noticed he was up there. But at that very moment, everyone was just staring at Ceril, and he could feel himself begin to sweat as his cheeks flushed.

  “Charons,” Bryt said, “as a general rule, are able to form a unique bond—a symbiosis, a kind of partnership—with certain pieces of technology. One such piece of technology is called a Flameblade.” A low rumble of knowing oh's came from the students. “They are so called because of the glow they will sometimes emanate. This same technology provides the base by which the sword can bond with a single person. This bonding does not mean that only one person can use the sword—anyone can pick one up and slash away, cut off their hands, feet, or whatnot—but to bond with a Flameblade is to increase its power tenfold.”

  “How do we get Flameblades?” Swinton asked.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Swinton: you probably don’t get one. In fact, I'd be willing to say that not a single student sitting in this classroom will ever have the chance to bond with a Flameblade.”

  “Well, why not?” Swinton asked.

  “Because you're not soldiers, first of all,” Bryt said. “It’s a soldier’s weapon. And secondly, there has not been a new Flameblade constructed in many years. Many, many years. Existing swords are recycled, handed down from father to son (or daughter) or from mentor to pupil, and I’ve known a couple of newly Rited Charons who have tried to track various artifacts through various Instances, thinking that each one could be a Flameblade. They wasted their lives on some damn fool, idealistic crusade.”

  “So they're reserved for soldiers?” Swinton asked, apparently ignoring the second half of Bryt's response.

  “Not always,” Bryt said. Ceril thought he felt Bryt hug his shoulder more tightly when he said that. “But that's the way it usually happens. What good does having a magical sword do for a medic as she stitches together wounds? Or a scholar as he indexes a research library? No, the Flameblade belongs in the hands of someone who can and will use it. Which, coincidentally, is a perfect segue into today’s lesson.”

  Swinton's hand shot up again, interrupting.

  “Yes, Swinton?”

  “How do the Charons bond to the sword?”

  “The weapons a
re not forged with any traditional metal, Swinton. The weapon’s entire molecular structure is comprised of nanites.” Bryt paused. “Who knows what a nanite is?”

  No one, not even Saryn, answered.

  “Nanites are microscopic machines—robots really. Each nanite is capable of programming itself to respond to a specific DNA signature and only to that signature. If a Flameblade is dormant for a considerable length of time, there is the possibility for it to bond to the first person who comes into contact with it, which is how most people become bonded these days. I’m afraid I know of more than a couple archaeologists who have deprived quite capable soldiers of weapons. In the past, some Rited Charons have had success at altering the programming of a sword’s nanite structure, effectively stealing someone else’s weapon. But that has not happened for many centuries.”

  Swinton nodded, apparently satisfied, so Bryt continued where he left off. “Today's lesson is an introduction to the Flameblade and the unique properties it possesses. Probably the most remarkable and useful property is its ability to travel across subspace to its bonded owner. No matter where you are, no matter what Instance you are in, your sword will be able to find you.”

  Bryt put a little distance between himself and the students and Ceril. He held his hand out, and instantly, he held a golden blade that flamed a corona of red. Everyone in the room reacted. Some shrieked, others sighed, and even more gasped.

  Everyone but Ceril. He’d seen the trick before. Ethan Triggs’s face flashed in front of his eyes, and he averted his eyes from the red glow in Bryt’s hand.

  “Also,” Bryt said, “nearly every Charon's blade will have a uniquely colored glow. I wish I could tell you why, but we still haven’t figured that out. It’s just one of those things. We have, however, noted that if the bond between weapon and wielder is weak, the Flameblade’s aura will be dim. The dimness is an indicator of the control a Charon has on the blade, the tasks he or she can perform with it. See how mine is bright?” Some of the students nodded. Bryt walked toward the front row and dropped the sword on the table in front of a female student with long black hair. The flame went out as soon as he released it. “Grab it, Paula.”

  She did, and nothing happened. It was just a sword now, no aura whatsoever. Bryt walked back to the front of the class. “Paula, hold the sword out, please. Yes, like that.” He held his hand open in front of him and the Flameblade disappeared from Paula's hand. She sagged back into her chair with relief. The sword erupted into flame the moment it reappeared back in its owner’s hand. He walked back to Paula. “Touch the blade,” he said.

  She hesitated and said, “Really? I’ll get burned.”

  “You will be fine.”

  The young girl reached out and lightly tapped the blade with her index finger. Her hand passed through the fire to the metal without being burned or scorched. It was like the fire didn’t exist.

  “Did you feel any heat?” Bryt asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “The Flameblade can generate heat if its wielder chooses. However, most don’t. Conjured fire is not only hard to control, but having that kind of heat in your hand is more than a little dangerous. The fire, however, serves a purpose other than identifying the owner of the sword and intimidating opponents. When properly utilized, the Conjured fire around the blade hones the edge, keeps it sharp, and allows it to be malleable or firm. Enterprising soldiers have even been able to change the blade’s shape and form to suit their situations, although that is rarely done. Think of the fire as a way for the nanites to change and strengthen the blade according to the bonded Charon’s will.”

  Bryt held his sword in front of him and the Flameblade shimmered as the golden blade grew larger, both in width and in length. Once it was roughly double its original size, heat began to emanate from it. Visible beads of sweat appeared on Ceril and Bryt, while the rest of the students felt wafts of heat as the sword’s red aura flared. Then the sword disappeared and the room cooled down considerably.

  “Where did it go?” asked someone in the back.

  “My quarters,” Bryt said. “Now, the reason I have Ceril up here today is that he is one of the lucky few I mentioned earlier. He has already found a Flameblade.” The teacher paused momentarily, and then continued. “And apparently, he bonded with it.”

  The classroom was full of hushed murmurs.

  “How is that possible?” asked Swinton.

  “We’re still unclear on the details, but we’re investigating it.”

  That was news to Ceril.

  “Has anyone heard about the unfortunate incident in the observation tiers last night?”

  A few students shook their heads, and a few more murmured, but no one admitted to having heard anything.

  “Well,” Bryt said. “There was an accident. Ethan Triggs and Ceril here were involved in an altercation that ended…ended in Ethan’s death.”

  The students erupted. Ceril couldn’t look at any of them. He was a killer. They knew it now. He had killed Ethan, but it was an accident. Would they ever believe he wasn’t a bad guy?

  “But…” Ceril began. He had to defend himself. He had to tell them what happened.

  Bryt’s voice cut him off and boomed over the class. Ceril stopped speaking and stared at the little man, whose voice suddenly had outgrown his frame. “Ceril didn’t mean to kill Ethan.” The class quieted, and his voice modulated itself back to its normal tenor. “He is not at fault, really. He was untrained, unsupervised. Even though we knew he had bonded with a Flameblade—in fact, that was the deciding factor of his admission—we did nothing to show him how to use his weapon. Ethan died because of our negligence as instructors. It was a failure on every level; we should have known an Apprentice with a Flameblade would be trouble, but we became complacent since the past year has given us no indication that it would be an issue. We were wrong, and I am apologizing to all one of you. We put you all in danger, and it is our negligence—not Ceril’s—that is responsible for Ethan’s death.”

  Ceril thought, Yeah, but that's not what Roman told me last night.

  “However, because this has happened, Ceril is the first Charon Recruit in centuries to require the support of two disciplines. He will be studying as a soldier as well as a scholar, and this will be his first lesson.” Bryt leaned close to Ceril’s ear and spoke softly enough that the class couldn’t hear what he said. “I could do much worse to you, Ceril. I want you to know that, and I want you to know I think you deserve worse. Ethan was a good kid when it came down to it. This may be embarrassing, but it kills two birds with one stone. You’re going to get the basics of handling your Flameblade, and they get to learn the basics of high-end soldiering. Don't mess this up.” His voice got louder, as he turned back to the class. “Summon your sword, Ceril.”

  Ceril stepped back. His stomach twisted from what Bryt had just told him. He directed his thoughts to the sword, thought about it appearing out of nowhere. He held out his hand to grasp it, but instead of appearing and igniting like Bryt's, Ceril's sword appeared a foot above the ground and clattered at his feet. He reached down to pick it up, but Bryt's small hand stopped him.

  “Uh-uh,” he said. “No. Summon it to your hand.”

  Ceril flashed with anger and embarrassment. He straightened his body, held out his hand, and willed the sword to appear in it. It just lay on the floor.

  “Come on, Ceril,” Bryt said. “You’ve done it before. You did it last night. Summon the sword into your hand.”

  Ceril glared at Bryt and tried again. Nothing. Some of the students were snickering and laughing, and he felt his ears begin to burn as blood flushed into them. Brilliant purple-green fire erupted from his palm as the Flameblade appeared in his hand, its glow brighter than it had been the night before. It rivaled Bryt’s sword in brightness, he thought.

  The rest of the class stopped snickering and began screaming. After what had happened to Ethan, Ceril could hardly blame him. He looked at Bryt, who just ignored the class’s reacti
on and said, “Excellent! Now attack me.”

  “What?” Ceril asked.

  “Attack me. Slash at me. Try to cut me, stab me. Fight me. Come on.”

  “I…I don't think so, sir.”

  “Do it, Ceril.”

  “After what happened last night—”

  “You don't have a choice,” Bryt finished for him. “Come at me.”

  So Ceril did. He tightened his fingers around the Flameblade and lunged at Bryt with his left hand. The professor stepped aside and summoned his own Flameblade into his right hand. He struck downward at Ceril’s sword and almost knocked the boy to the ground with the impact.

  The class was loud and raucous, but as Ceril hit the ground, they began to quiet down. It was as though that were the only reinforcement they needed that Bryt could indeed protect them from the killer in their midst.

  “Again,” Bryt said.

  Ceril slashed at his teacher from the side this time. Bryt stepped to the right, away from the attack, and brought his own sword up to connect with Ceril's.

  The instructor did a flourish that Ceril couldn’t match, and the golden sword whipped out of Ceril’s hand. It landed on the padded floor, its glow extinguished. Bryt backed up, and said, “Now, attack me without bending over to pick up your sword. Run at me and summon it on the way.”

  Ceril ran at Bryt, but the sword did not come into his hand as he attacked, which caused him to make a weak, sloppy punch at his teacher’s head. He missed, and the class laughed at him. It was all he could do to try to ignore them.

  “I said, summon it on the way, Ceril.”

  Ceril put his head down and said, “No.”

  “Excuse me?” Bryt asked, lowering his own weapon.

  “I said I'm not going to do this, to be humiliated like this.”

  “You will do precisely what I ask of you, young man.”

  “No, sir, I won't.”

  “You will, or you will not be studying aboard this ship for long.”

  “Maybe,” said Ceril. “But after last night, I’m not going to be mocked like this. I just don't have it in me.”