Loral

by Richard Young



  Loral

  It's interesting to note how full of confusion one's life typically is. Rarely, if ever, can we truly be certain of anything. Yet we blunder on anyhow, making the best decisions we can with the limited information available to us. Those who make one choice, we label heroes. Those who make the other, villains.

  "Loral?" a voice said softly. I jerked my head up out of the book to see my mother standing at the doorway. I hadn't heard her come in, though whether that was due to my preoccupation with reading, or because the snores coming from the beds around me drowned out all other sound, I wasn't sure. Three brothers. One room.

  I was something of an insomniac.

  The candle my mother carried flickered in rhythm with the one by my bed, casting shadows over the room. "Put the book away, dear," my mother said. "You need to sleep."

  Sighing, I marked my place in the book and set it to the side. It wasn't that interesting anyway. For a book that was supposed to be about one of the greatest figures in history, it sure sounded a lot like philosophy.

  My mother waited until I blew out the candle before she wished me good night and left. Miraculously, I managed to fall asleep.

  The next day, I woke up to an empty room. It wasn't unusual. I was a heavy sleeper - once I got to sleep, at least - a trait formed from circumstance. My brothers, all older, had jobs, and so had to be up early. My father would be working already as well. He always left before I was up, and usually returned after I was asleep. Almost a year out of school, I should have joined them. Part of me wanted to. The fact that I wasn't contributing to keeping a roof over our heads and food on the table burned at me with the power only guilt held.

  The feeling only intensified as I glanced at the stack of books beside the bed. They had cost an exorbitant amount, putting the family into debt to pay for them. Yet they were our salvation. If I was to join the Academy in the fall, I'd need the knowledge contained in their pages. When I graduated, I'd be able to get a position that paid more than the rest of the family earned. That was the risk that had led my father to buy the books. That was my responsibility.

  So when I made my way out to our small kitchen to find some breakfast, I clutched the book I had been reading the night before, The Life of Jarem Nebriah. You can see why I thought it would be a biography. As much as it wasn't what I expected, it was still an interesting book.

  A smile reached my face when I saw the kitchen table loaded with food. No doubt my mother was out performing errands, but she always made sure I ate. If she left it up to me, I'd probably just have a couple of bites of whatever I could find, then curl up and get lost in a book.

  But she expected the food to be gone by the time she got back. I slid the book onto the table, and opened it up to the page I had marked, picking up an apple at the same time. I was careful not to drip juice onto the page as I crunched into the apple and started to read where I had left off.

  Whether hero or villain is a matter of some debate in certain circles, but the one thing no-one can doubt is that Jarem was influential. We all know the story of how he came to the aid of King Delin, forming the Quis and giving the King the means by which to control the Madmen and reduce the now-illegal Ratan population. How he himself led the charge against the Madmen in Brochus, and his fall outside the walls of Alston. But very few know the story that comes before that - Where did he grow up? Where did he learn the skills of the Quis? Why did he offer his assistance to the King of Attarnon?

  Some of these questions I have found the answers to - others I can only guess.

  As Jarem himself wrote:

  "My family was neither rich nor poor, and I had an uneventful childhood.

  "That all changed the moment I got accepted into training.

  "I had never told my parents about my plans. I had barely breathed of them even to my friends. They would have thought I was crazy. Yet I always felt a pull toward the Quis, as though the Goddess was guiding me, even then.

  "I was accepted at the age of fifteen, and the moment I stepped within those walls, I knew there would be no other place I would ever call home.

  "I’m not permitted to speak of our training, even here. But when I emerged ten years later, my arms were stronger than a normal man, despite being of average size. My eyes were clearer, my ears sharper, my legs faster. The broadsword strapped to my back and the steel plate that hung on my shoulders marked what I was as clearly as the Goddess’ symbol emblazoned on my chest.

  "I was a Qui."

  I reached for another apple only to find the food was gone and my stomach full. My mother would be pleased.

  The kitchen table not being the most comfortable of places to read, I rose and brought the book with me to my favorite reading chair. I settled in and found where I had left off. Jarem’s journal entry. I wasn’t even aware the man had done any recording of his life. The text continued with the author’s comments.

  Jarem was never cut out for life as a typical Qui. A life of acting as a judge, distributing justice across the land - it wouldn’t have agreed with him. Though he tried for a brief time, he quickly felt the pull to travel west, beyond the mountains.

  It should be mentioned that, at this time, the country of Brochus did not exist, and the mountains formed the boundary of the west and the east. Jarem followed the road through Valjen until he arrived at Insen. In his own words:

  "I have never seen such disarray in my life. It is as though the entire country seethes like an anthill. The cities have no structure. The land undulates like waves on the sea. And the trees! Spread as far as the eye can see, they cover the landscape. At times, even the sky is hidden by the branches. I fear if I stay here much longer, I may become claustrophobic.

  "Insen itself brings the welcome relief of civilization, though even here the disorder is rampant. The city itself is circular, rather than the more logical square shape, and the streets within the walls run with no discernible pattern.

  "Worst of all are the Krin. They use their magic recklessly, with no regard for the destruction they cause when they go Ratan. Even the Ratan themselves are used as conveniences. The Krin, for all their reckless behavior, could be better called Madmen...

  "It is clear why the Goddess has sent me here. I must correct the course of this nation. And the first step is to meet with Delin, the man these people call their king."

  And here we see one of our questions has been answered. Jarem felt himself compelled to right the injustices that had been inflicted on the residents of Attarnon. The use of Ratans as servants was a practice he would particularly deplorable, and was the first that he turned his attention to.

  Fortunately for him, Delin was more than willing to listen.

  "Loral?" a voice from the front of the house said. My mother was home. I closed the book and went to greet her.

  "So you are up," she said as I walked into the kitchen. She had set a large bag on the table, and was pulling food out of it to fill the cupboards. "I was wondering if a mouse had eaten your breakfast - and gone away hungry."

  I smiled in response as I helped to unpack the bag of food. There was a lot of it, by necessity. Also by necessity, I noticed with a grimace, was the abundance of fruit and vegetables, and the relative lack of meat. I only saw one strip of salted pork.

  "I eat more than enough, Mother," I said, partially motivated by the lack of real food. "I don’t get hungry."

  My mother’s snort told me what she thought of that, but miraculously she didn’t press the issue. We finished putting the food away in silence.

  "We still need bread," my mother said. "Coming to the bakery?"

  "Ah... " I tried to think of an excuse to get out of it.

  "Loral," my mother said. Her tone told me there wasn't much choice in the matter. "You need to get out of the house."

&n
bsp; I glanced down at my book, which was still resting on the table.

  "Yes," my mother sighed. "Bring the book if you want."

  I should mention that my mother liked to talk. A lot. Assuming that it would be rude to crack open the book on Jarem Nebriah in the middle of a conversation, it remained closed in my hand. The baker's place was only a few blocks away, and the streets were as empty as they got during the day. Which meant that there was actually room to walk side-by-side. Which meant I couldn't even just pretend to be listening.

  By the time we reached the bakery, I was almost ready to open my book anyway, courtesy be damned. My fingers were starting to twitch, and my breath was beginning to come in shorter spurts. I tried to calm myself, distract my mind, but nothing seemed to work. I was worried that the sweat on my hands was going to ruin the book, and I had to exercise every bit of willpower to keep from checking. If I brought the book anywhere near my eyes, I wouldn't be able to resist reading a couple words. And then, well, then my mother would be disappointed in me. She might wonder why I couldn't keep from opening the book, and that would lead to questions I didn't want to answer.

  Fortunately, we arrived at the bakery with my book still hanging in my hand by my side. I made some excuse to stay outside while she picked up whatever we needed. As soon as she was out of sight, I settled myself on a small bench outside the shop, and