Convergence (The Dragon Within Saga Book 1)

by Roberto Vecchi

  I’ve often heard it said, once again by men much wiser than myself, that the eyes are the windows to the soul. But when focused with purpose and a willful intent upon God, the soul solidifies and is reflected outward through the eyes and remains unaffected by things trying to shine within. Therefore, I find it much more appropriate to state that they eyes are the light of the soul. However, if unfocused on God, as it was with the dejected young men of The First Silver Selection, things seen from without gain entrance and can change the soul. Which is why it should have come to no surprise to anyone when the young men began to covet those vices they saw indulged in by the working men of the city. But therein grew the dilemma of satisfying their growing distractions. They were without the normal means of acquisition. Whether it was gambling, drinking, prostitution, or even more unsavory sights, they all required money. Money they didn’t have in hand. And money they had no means of earning. Even the most spiritually centered man must guard himself vehemently against distracting temptations, let alone young men with no guidance whatsoever coupled with an abundant supply of energy. So what began as simple, random break-ins and street thievery as the first signs of a developing problem, rapidly cascaded into much more than a miniscule increase in petty crimes. Even so, it wasn’t until the gangs developed and organized crime began that the people demanded action.

  Pretago Cor is, by all standards, a huge city, probably the largest in all the land. So not every problem is dealt with quickly by the authorities and even fewer are large enough to be presented to the district administrators; however, when a problem reaches the magnitude as it did in this case, nothing but the First Counselors attention would suffice. Mendron Borlic was a tall and slender man, severe in his face and even more so with his exact decisiveness. His body presented as if it was subjected to less gravitational force than the rest of us as his features appeared to be elongated. As a condition of his title, The First Counselor wore a hooded black cloak with red lining that set his facial features against a backdrop of wickedness. Despite these features, he was a very rational and logical man whose judgments were always fair (if there is such a term). He never raised his voice because he didn’t have to. His stare shouted louder than any voice of mankind had ever dared.

  So when rumors of gang related violence reached his ears, First Counselor Borlic's attention was set in motion. He went to the High King and suggested a state sponsored vocational program to "make active their idle hands" sponsored, in part, by the excess in the treasury generated by the money collected with the newly instituted import/export tariffs from the coastal cities. Through a series of committees comprised of a handpicked representation from each of the major trades (one thing Mendron also understood was how to subtlety avoid notice while he stacked his deck of cards), the rules of the First Silver Selection were formed. Each master tradesman in the city committed to hire at least one apprentice through the newly formed Office of Skills and Trades. At the same time, all of the young men looking for work submitted their names, talents, and vocational interests. Then, after a short time required for organization, several locations were established throughout the city. These locations functioned as the headquarters where the master tradesmen could select an apprentice from their pool of applicants. The apprentice was to be paid a minimum amount of wages until he developed sufficient skill to warrant a higher increase in, or to engage in the ultimate goal of the program, for the men to become independent. But because Mendron knew most of the trades masters could not afford to pay for the apprentices until their productivity increased, the Silver Empire agreed to subsidize this salary for a period of three months.

  However grand and well thought out these plans were, they focused on what to do with the wayward young men who entered the city six months ago, not the crime hardened, well-funded gang members they had grown into and now faced. Then Mendron had another idea. He took the meanest, roughest, and deadliest criminals being held not only in the palace dungeons, but also those from every other cell within the city walls and gave each of them a badge. Accompanying that badge was a mission – break the gangs by any means necessary; and a reward – exile from The Silver Empire, instead of death. While men of legend often times choose honor over death, these men had none, or at least not enough to overcome their insatiable desire for life and all such vices therein. So exile presented well when set against the backdrop of the executioner’s axe. The Grim Guard as they came to be known, (a name coined by Mendron) embraced their charge with a poetic fever as described by the greatest of battles in the greatest of poems by the greatest of poets. As word spread, because of the numerous legalized murders, the crime hardened, well-funded gang members quickly returned to their wayward young men roots.

  Once the gangs were largely dismantled, the agreed upon plans were put to the test. Minus a couple of holes in the roads, the plans functioned as they were intended to. Much like the first year of the Silver Selection, this second year met with huge success. So much so that its continuation for years upon years to come developed into not just a program, but an entire festival celebrating the purpose and prosperity of an empire solidified under a common goal – the goal of self-empowerment. This single collective endeavor was the basis for vaulting the Silver Empire into a level of greatness far exceeding its age, and is singularly responsible for my propulsion into a world I neither wanted, nor was ready for, but became eternally grateful for because it lead me to Him.

  Gainoth (Festival).

  “But Drashin, it is only a few miles away and Drin is not waking up! Why do we have to wait for him?” I heard my younger sister Hithelyn state with her signature, high pitched, whiny voice employed when anything does not meet with her approval.

  On most other days, and by most I mean every other day when the conditions permit our collective rising as a family to complete those activities necessary to operate a successful farm, myself, my father, and my mother would have been up well before my twin sisters, Jinola and Hithelyn. However, this day was different. This day was the beginning day of the Festival of the Moon as named by our Lord, Lord Emordin Henchat (eighth in the line of ruling Henchats to reign from the city of Twin Oaks). But beyond that, this was a very special Festival of the Moon for my family. The first day of the festival always opened with a grand feast followed by the Martial Tournament. While in reality both events were prepared to honor the local lord’s generosity and increase his reputation throughout the Empire, it was publically announced that they were held to honor those families whose sons were set to soon depart for the Silver Selection. And as such, it was my family’s turn to be publically honored, for the first time, as a direct result of my survival for sixteen years.

  “You already know the answer to that, Hithelyn,” returned my mother’s soft, yet firm voice.

  “But Drashin! Drin is not waking up and we are going to miss the feast and tournament!” she persisted.

  “Jinola, please take your sister outside so she does not disturb Drin from his sleep,” directed my mother.

  My sister Jinola was twin to my sister Hithelyn in all physical ways, but none of the others beyond. They both possessed my father’s dark completion and angular features. Their hair was a blend between the dark, midnight black of my father and the soft, velvety blonde of my mother. While they were almost indistinguishable, even when standing side by side, their similarities ended there. Hithelyn sought adventure illustrated by her increasing insistence that she and her sister explore more of the Breckenwood than was currently permitted by my mother. All explorers, from Hithelyn all the way to those legends pervasive throughout the Ogre race, possessed a quality of first seeing, and then instantly doing, often times without a blanket of thought between the two. And while Jinola would often times follow her twin, she did so only after much protest and internal contemplation of the possible consequences. It was Jinola who would collect the supplies for their make believe adventures into unknown lands.

  So while it was second nature, and sometimes fir
st nature, for Hithelyn to protest any and every request my mother made of her, Jinola presented with a contrasting and, for all practical purposes of maintaining a modicum of sanity between my mother and Hithelyn, calm demeanor. Never questioning and always obeying, Jinola responded with her ever-so familiar, “Yes Drashin.”

  “But Drashin! That is not fair!” asserted Hithelyn, who had taken a slightly defeated tone to her voice.

  “Even so young one, it is the way it will be.”

  And with that all-too-familiar statement more often used by my mother, but still employed by my father, the conversation had effectively ended even though Hithelyn continued to verbalize her discontent as she was lead outside by her more level headed twin.

  I could feel a slight chill to the morning breeze. Because it seeped into my bedroom from the open window, I pulled my bed covers slightly more tightly around my head preventing any infiltration of the chill to my shoulders. However, I could tell the sun had been up for a couple of hours because when the breeze all but dissolved, allowing my focus to leave the chill upon my face, I was able to focus on the warmth being generated as it stretched across my covered legs indicating the sun had passed the early dawn. In addition, I felt increased warmth on my arms as I involuntarily stretched them across the ray’s path. Instinctively I relaxed and seemed to sink further into my bed. Although my first impulse was to allow this sinking to propel my consciousness back into slumber, I decided that sitting at the side of my bed would be a great place to contemplate the significance of today, as well as a great opportunity to lessen the stress placed upon my mother by one half of my younger twins.

  With my feet planted upon the wood floor, I allowed myself to acknowledge that I, Drin Martos, was going to leave my home, the only home and life I had ever known, in just one week to embark upon the path that all other men of the Silver Empire had walked before me. I would be untruthful if I did not recognize the duality of fear and excitement, each growing in equal portion, as the fateful day approached. But that day was still a week away, and today began the week long festival to honor those of us departing.

  “Drin, my Eklirin, it is time for you to rise and join the rest of us,” voiced my mother as if she had an arcane gift to know when I had become part of woken humanity. “We are all excited to hear your name spoken by Lord Emordin Henchat at the beginning of the tournament!”

  “I will be out shortly, Drashin,” I said groggily, still battling my primal desire to sleep.

  Just as I was donning my breaches, I heard the deliberate steps of my father enter the house. “Is Drin up?” he asked causally.

  Both my mother and father had decided to let the family sleep longer and forgo our morning and mid-day chores because of the necessity that we be present for the first day of the festival. The remaining days, however, were decided to stand the way they had for all the years of our lives. Chores would be done, lunch would be eaten, chores would be done again, and dinner would be eaten at the early hour of four in the afternoon. We always supped in the pre-evening hours as we still had several more chores to complete, and postponing dinner until after they were completed was impractical for a very good reason. While postponing it until after all chores had been completed would appear to lack any detriment to the rhythm of the day, doing so would extend the amount of time between lunch and dinner resulting in a loss of energy from the rigors of farm life that would negatively affect the integrity of the evening chores. In the more succinct terms of my father, “We eat early to prolong our strength until the day’s chores are complete.”

  “Yes my dear Son'ame. He has just risen and is dressing now,” my mother answered my father as she kissed him lightly.

  “Good. We will indeed be in time for both the feast and tournament. Tell him that I and his sisters are eagerly awaiting him,” he said. “I had better go outside and see what our little girls are getting into. Hopefully they learned their lesson with the bees.”

  Rounding the corner from my bedroom to the kitchen where my mother was busy cooking our breakfast, I realized that this could quite possibly be the last time I would have breakfast with my entire family present. Normally we did not get the chance to eat breakfast together because my father and I were up well before dawn. While my mother woke shortly after we did, her chores were confined to the house because of my sisters. I had never seen my mother’s set of morning work, though each time I entered the house following my morning duties, things were always in order (and by things I mean to include both Hithelyn and Jinola). On the rarest of occasions, my sisters would rise late enough allowing my father and I to join them for our morning meal; however, this was the exception and certainly not the rule. My sisters, while only eight years of age, possessed none of my objection to inadequate sleep and seemed to require much less than myself when I was their age. As a result, by the time my father and I had completed enough to warrant a pause in the day for sustenance, they would already be either outside working on some grand scheme to see the world, or sitting in study. So when I rounded the corner and did not see anyone sitting at our table, I became, for lack of a better term, saddened by my current thought.

  Noticing the small change in my facial expression, my mother asked, “What is wrong, my Eklirin?”

  “Oh, nothing really. I am just still tired and have not fully woken yet,” I said trying to cover my emotions.

  “That is good because you have two younger sisters who are eagerly awaiting you so we can go to the Festival. I do not think they would appreciate being made to wait longer,” she said with a faint grin implying all the youthful impatience contained within two eight year old girls.

  “I know mother. It is just that, well, I am going to miss everything,” I said as I looked around the kitchen.

  “Everything?”

  “I know this is a great opportunity. I know how important it is to the Empire. And I know that it is something I have to do, but,” as I paused to look for the proper words, my mother deepened her grin into a smile of affection, “I am really going to miss everything.” As I finished, the weight of the moment began to build as reflected in the tears gathering in my eyes. Everywhere my eyes fell, I saw something I would miss and quite possibly, never see again. Clearly my mother noticed.

  “Oh Eklirin, you are going to be missed too,” she said as she walked the two or three paces between us to embrace me in a hug I had not felt since I was much younger. Her hug brought back emotions and memories of when my mother sought to convey protection from fears and hurts and all other mistakes associated with youthful vigor and impracticality. “All things work for the greater cause. Sometimes we just do not know what that cause is. Sometimes, we just need to trust. Look at your father.”

  With that direction, I did indeed look at him through the eyes of a child, not as a young man embarking upon the greatest adventure of his young life. And as I did, my tears began to flow because I was unable to ignore the emotions that had been building for months. As if my mother sensed my increased production of tears and subsequent river dripping form my eyes, she paused to tighten her embrace.

  “Look at your father, Drin. Had he not lived his selection exactly the way he did, I would have never met him and you would not have been born. Do not be sad for what you will leave behind, my son, but be happy in what awaits you around the next corner. You are such a good boy and have become such a great young man. It is with pride that your name will be announced; a pride that is shared by both your father and myself.” She gave me one last quick embrace, stepped back to arms-length while still holding me about the shoulders, smiled and added, “Now we must go to your festival. I made something for us to eat on the way. Take these and make sure to give two to each of your sisters and three to your father. You may have three yourself.”

  Because our farm was located between the city of Tisdale and its festival grounds, our journey was much shorter than the average inhabitants. I often wondered why my father’s family had picked this portion of land
to establish a farm and came to one of two conclusions. It was either appointed because fortune had shined down upon our forefathers, or because there was some other greater power at work who understood the nature of Hithelyn. She was able to cover large amounts of terrain in relatively short periods of time if its attachments were limited to exploration for exploration’s sake; however, once there was any other attachment that resembled a concretely established end destination her endurance mysteriously vanished.

  “Drin, can I ride on your shoulders?” asked Hithelyn. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the faintest of grins develop on my father’s lips.

  “Not yet Hithelyn,” I returned.

  “But why? My legs are already tired!”

  “How can they be tired already,” I turned to see if our farm was still visible in the distance, “I can still see our fields from here.”

  “Common Drin. Please!” she said with elongated vowels as she clung to my arm in an effort to show me exactly how tired she had become.

  “I have seen you walk from one end of the Breckenwood to the other with your sister in half the time it takes me. If anyone is giving anyone a shoulder ride, I should be asking you for one!” I said with exaggerated motions.

  “No! We always take breaks!”

  “No we do not Hithelyn,” said Jinola’s soft voice.

  “Jinola! We do to take breaks! Mother, can you tell Drin to let me ride on his shoulders?” she said as she turned to plead her case to another set of ears.

  “I am sorry my dear, I cannot do that. They are his shoulders and he should be able to decide if and when someone rides upon them,” my mother returned as she quickly followed the direction of our family debate.