Chapter 4

                    MY FIRST IMPRESSION OF THE Keepers was that they were a people of adventure.  I imagined a life of heroism, fame and warfare.  But that was not to be.  I began to realise this very soon after my education began.  I wasn’t put in one of those gyms, where the elder kids fought with wooden swords, practised archery, wrestled unarmed, and ran laps around the gym.

                    Instead, I was placed in a dark classroom reading through texts and writing articles and compositions about my interpretations of history; mostly about people that have come and gone, while doing “great deeds” in-between.  It was a way the Keepers could document the way I thought, so they knew what kind of a mind I had, what the best way to educate me was, and perhaps to test my ability to make the right decisions.

                    I thanked the God I didn’t even believe in that my mother taught me to read and write as a child.  It was perhaps the only thing we had to occupy time.  She even made it a sort of game, making it fun for me, so I wouldn’t grow up depraved and bitter.  She almost succeeded in this.  She had a sort of “desperate love” for me, me being the only thing she had to keep her from losing her sanity, and basically her reason to live.  I was her only hope in a world of corruption and malignancy, and, for a while, she was mine.

                    She did her best to teach me of ethics and morals; of pride, dignity and success.  She told stories to me, by memory of course, every night before I went to “bed.”  Many of these were obviously fairy tales designed to provoke fear in little boys who didn’t know better and to try and teach children the difference between right and wrong.  Two in particular caught my attention:

                    The first was about a fox and a scorpion.  The scorpion had somehow lost his way in the woods, and tried to make his way back home.  After a whole afternoon of searching, he finally found the way, but realised that to get home he’d have to pass a creek.  The scorpion couldn’t swim at all, and there was no other way across.  The scorpion looked around, not knowing for what exactly, and in the corner of his eye he saw a fox come out of the meadow and approach the creek.  He dipped his paw into the lukewarm water, and was about to dive in.

                    “Excuse me,” said the scorpion.  The fox looked up towards the source of the voice, and tensed up, growling as he saw the scorpion.  “Please, please,” said the scorpion, lifting up his claws.  “Don’t be frightened, I only wish to make a deal.”  The fox lowered his defences only slightly, in some sort of apprehensive curiosity.

                    “A deal?”

                    “Yes.  I need to cross this creek to get home, but I cannot swim.  I couldn’t help noticing that you can.  May I mount on your back so you could swim us both across?”  The fox paused only for a second, then gave the scorpion a commandeering eye.

                    “And how do I know you won’t sting me if I let you on my back?”  The scorpion didn’t even have to think before answering.

                    “Well that wouldn’t be very smart, would it?  Then we’d both drown.”  The fox thought seriously about this for a moment, then nodded reluctantly.

                    “I see your point.  But what would I gain from doing this?”

                    “My eternal respect and gratitude.”  The scorpion paused, smiling coyly.  “And I promise I won’t sting you if you do.”  The fox shrugged and knelt down on all four legs so the scorpion could mount up on his back.  The fox hopped into the pond and began paddling, but halfway across the lake the fox felt a prick, and a sharp pain in his back.  The scorpion had stung him.

                    As the fox started to lose his strength and sink underwater, he looked back and asked, “Why did you do that?  Now we’ll both drown.”  Again, the scorpion didn’t even have to think before answering.

                    “I couldn’t help it; it’s in my nature.”

                    That story made a lot of sense to me, and, in a juvenile sort of way, it explained a lot of what was wrong with the world, and what a good person could expect in life.  It also reminded me of the old expression, “good fellows finish last.”  It’s sort of supporting the antagonist of the story, but it had truth to it.

                    The other story was a much more concise one, about a little boy who went around pick-pocketing and stealing.  One day, he saw a fox running around in the back of a Butcher’s shop, and he got the idea to steal it, go to the local Bazaar, and sell it.  He did so, but the Butcher saw the little boy leave the shop, and chased after him.  He asked if the boy had taken anything, and the boy said, “No,” having hid the fox under his tunic.  The fox was trying frantically to get out, however, and in trying to rip apart the fabric of his tunic, it started to scratch and claw at the boy’s back.  Of course, the boy couldn’t yelp, because he was too afraid of getting caught.  The Butcher kept asking the boy questions, and as he did so, the fox, now mad with fear, ripped his claws right through the boy’s neck, killing him.  The point of this story was pretty self-explanatory.  It obviously didn’t have any effect on me, but for some reason I never forgot it.

                    My instructor, to my surprise, was none other than Keeper Mayar, and over the next few weeks I came to decide I didn’t like him all that much.  Of course, he wasn’t all that bad, I suppose; but he was very headstrong and he saw ideals and principles that opposed his own as something to be abolished, not respected.

                    I suggested on occasion that if all that I was being taught about these people were true, that they went around in the shadows "protecting the great balance" of the world we lived in, then we would have more influence letting ourselves and our motives be known, publicly correcting people's corruption.  But every time, he would say the same thing:

                    “My young man, we mustn’t allow ourselves to be tempted by adventure and fame.  The essence of balance is detachment.  To embrace a cause, whether it means to be fond or spiteful, is to lose one’s balance, after which no action can be trusted.  Our burden is not for the dependent of spirit.”

                    It sounded like something he had rehearsed, some line he had come across that he couldn’t stop using.  I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by this, but the gist of it stuck out like a hawk in a flock of sparrows: the less people who know we exist, the better.  Those who seek recognition for their deeds do not belong in the fold.

                    I would spend a year learning in this fashion, in the second row in a classroom of twenty-five students, most of which were years my senior.  We learned history from as early on as 4000 years before the Builder’s birth (allegedly).  I learned of ancient cultures, empires, how they were run, what kind of men they were ruled by, why they were as successful as they were, and what folly finally led to their demise.

                    I learned about great men in history, their place in it, what kind of men they were believed to be and what kind of men they really were.  I learned of great leaders such as those of the Caesar family, Alexander, whom they called “The Great Alexander”, and also some Pagan leaders I had never heard of before.

                    Keeper Mayar told me that there were far more great men in this world than the commonfolk knew about.  It was just a matter of glorification.  He told me that those who glorify themselves and announce their achievements and “divinity” also condemn themselves.  There are people who hold the very fabric of this world together, and they receive no recognition, nor do they wish for any.  Somehow I got the impression he was trying to tell me something, teach me a higher, more complex lesson by saying these things.

                    I learned about how the very human mind worked, our tendencies, biases, our strongest weaknesses and the way one can compensate for our earthly limits.  I studied the words of ancient philosophers and “wisemen”, and their view on life and mankind.

                    But most importantly, I thought, I learned about war; wars that happened in the past, the concepts and traditions of warfare, why it starts and what it does to the people concerned, how it can bring a wrecked community together and how it can tear a prosperous one apart.  It fascinated me.  I wanted to learn more.  I wanted to know everything about man’s perverse fetish for death and self-annihilation.  I think Keeper Mayar sensed this, and I’m pretty sure he was troubled by it.  But I didn’t care all that much.  I thought he should be pleased that I was eager to learn.

                    But through the whole time of my education, right up to the point where I abandoned the Keepers, Brother Magar was enormously proud of me.  And somehow, for some reason, I took pleasure in this.  He seemed very dedicated to me, more so than a mentor would be to an apprentice.  I couldn’t quite figure it out until very later on, when I realised I felt the same way toward him.  But that wouldn’t be for a long time.

                    One late evening, after the classes had been dismissed, I stayed in after everyone had gone, so I could read more of what we had been taught.  It was about an ancient leader named Caesar.  Julius Caesar, I believe it was.  He had ruled the Roman Empire for a long time, with the support and love of all his people.

                    We were taught that it took certain genius to attain such standing as he acquired, but I held a different opinion.  The more I read about him, his deeds, his history, and his personality, the more I found him to be rather petty.  I daren’t say this to Keeper Mayar, but it seemed so obvious, so plain, that I was surprised not everyone had the same ideas about him.  He was basically a power-hungry, self-seeking politician.

                    He solved many of his disputes and disagreements with bribery.  He spent most of his time having affairs with his servants and his friends’ wives.  He became an enemy of the state by declaring war on his own nation, in an attempt to gain more territory for his most loyal followers.  His policies and acts aroused resentment and contempt in his fellow politicians.  He was sure he had crushed any opposition that existed against him, but after all those years his own people still rose against him.  He was assassinated in his own courtroom, when each member of his court, some old rivals and some old friends, stood up against him and attacked him with their daggers.  No one knows which one killed him first.  It happened the same year he became full dictator of the Roman Empire, and his death left his nephew Octavious, soon to be called Augustus in possession of his thrown – and his widow.

                    I had been there reading for an hour after class ended, when I heard footsteps behind me.  They were so quiet I didn’t even recognise them as footprints until a familiar hand rested on my shoulder.  I turned around and it was Brother Magar.  I smiled warmly.

                    “Hello, young man.  What are you doing in class so late?  You weren’t given a detention, were you?”  I shook my head and, smiling, turned back to what I was doing.

                    “No, Keeper Magar.  I was just reading more about someone we learned about today.  His name is Julius Caesar.”  Magar nodded again.

                    “I’ve heard of him.  Are you interested in him?”  He leaned further forward to see what I was reading.

                    “Yes, but it’s not because I admire him.  As a matter of fact, the more I read about him, the less of what he’s reputed to be seems to be true.  He seems to have been a very small and ‘dogmatic’ man.”

                    “Really?  I’d be interested to know why you think that.”  A wave of modesty passed through me.

                    “Well…  I don’t know…  it’s…  a lot of things.  He just seems like a very… flawed man.”  I was surprised at myself.  I was stuttering as if I had no idea what to say, even though I had spent the last hour formulating the perfect explanation for why I didn’t like him.  It was the oddest sensation.  I couldn’t say what I wanted to say.  I had no idea what the problem was.  Keeper Magar either didn’t notice this, or didn’t mind at all.  He didn’t hesitate to give me his own thoughts.

                    “Well, most people are.  That is what your instructor is trying to teach you: even the ‘greatest’ of men, whether kings, warriors, or philosophers, have many flaws.  And in the case of warriors and kings, if they are not careful, their flaws will get the best of them, or rather people clever enough to see their flaws, and those so-called ‘great men’ will perish.”  I thought about this for a long time, then nodded in agreement.  Starting to feel my exhaustion, I gathered up my books and got up from my chair, sliding it neatly back under the table.  He wasn’t finished with me.

                    “Garrett, I wanted to talk with you about an important matter.”

                    “Oh?”  I hadn’t the slightest idea what it could be.  He nodded.

                    “Garrett, you’ve been studying in Keeper Mayar’s classroom for almost a year now.  Now granted, most students spend up to five years here, but both Brother Mayar and I have been watching you most closely, and we are astonished with your progress.”  I was surprised to hear this.  I had always gotten the impression that the other students were far smarter than me, and more importantly, that Keeper Mayar didn’t think terribly high toward me.  He went on.

                    “We have also watched your physical stamina while working in our exercise gym, and we feel you are ready for a more… advanced level of education.”  I was dumbfounded.  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  He thinks I’m better than the other students?

                    For the past year, despite my fascination with what I had been taught, I had always got the impression that I was looked down upon, for my age and for my inferiority.  But from what Brother Magar was telling me, I was more advanced than the other students, in the gym and the classroom.  The very idea seemed ludicrous.

                    For my whole life, I had been at rock bottom, stealing food and loose change to keep my ribs from meeting my spine.  Everyone knew I was a runt, and I couldn’t have cared less.  I couldn’t care less what people thought of my sense of honour and dignity, and that gave me an honour and dignity of my own kind.  But this was new; this was unprecedented, unexpected, and, I thought, infeasible.  Brother Magar must have registered my surprise, for he stopped me before I could object, and I was really going to, and that shocked me even more.

                    “Now don’t doubt yourself, Garrett.  We’ve watched you most carefully, to become fully aware of your abilities and personality.  I’ll even admit that we’ve watched you a great deal more closely than most of the other students; and we’ve made our judgements.  You are one of the best students we have ever had.  I am here to ask you to come with me and become my full apprentice; I will instruct you myself, and teach you to be a Keeper.  That is a goal I believe you can achieve very soon.  Will you be my student, Garrett?”

                    I was gaping open-mouthed at the older man, still in shock from hearing this.  I… am the best student… in this whole temple.  The very concept was so alien to me I had to restrain myself from laughing.  It took me a long time to realise that I was spellbound, but as usual, Brother Magar read my thoughts.

                    “You’re speechless, young man.  But I’ll take that as a yes.”  He reached a hand out towards me.  I took it gratefully and let him pull me up.  Closing my books and sliding them in my pouch, I left the room bouncing with anticipation.

                   Needless to say, I wouldn’t sleep much that night.  I was still bewildered by the fact that Keeper Magar had chosen me to be his full apprentice, and to be trained with the elder students.  I had absolutely no idea what to expect.

                    My new quarters, which I thought were ought for a king, were as warm and welcoming as always as I came in and shut the door behind me.  I had never even had a room before, and now, I didn’t know what I would do without it.  It was my sanctuary.  I had everything set up perfectly, although my needs were very few.  My bed was an oak contraption covered in a woollen quilt, a silk sheet, and a decorative top blanket.  To the wall left of the entrance was a simple pine desk with an oil lamp and writing utensils.  To the right of it was a small bookshelf where I kept all my readings and texts.  Across from my bed was a simple yet eloquent dresser with all the clothes the Keepers had provided me with.

                    I dropped the books in my hand onto my desk, and walked over to my bed, lifting the covers.  I took a long look around the room, and smiled, still amazed at what I had crawled out of and what I had to show for the last year of my life.  These people -- these Keepers had given me a life, and I was thankful for that, but somehow, it didn’t seem right.  The Keepers wanted me to be one of them, and something about that disconcerted me.  I shrugged off the thought and crawled into bed.
 

                    SURE ENOUGH, THE NEXT STAGE OF my long education wasn’t all fun and games.  I spent the next month and a half in extensive physical training, building up my stamina, strength, endurance and metabolism.  For the first three weeks, I worked in a gym early at morning with Brother Magar, while he trained me.  The end result was surprising to say the least, but the actual experience was gruelling.  I had never worked my body so hard in my life.  But this training wasn’t nearly done with.

                    Once he found that I had trouble running, he put me on daily marathons around the temple.  He saw that I couldn’t do a single push up, so he made me work my shoulder muscles until I could.  He gave me weights to lift, and replaced them with heavier ones each few days, until I was lifting weights well more than half that of my own body.  He had a way of assessing my limitations, then forcing me to break through them.

                    After all that, I was a wreck.  I was exhausted, so with permission from Brother Mayar, Brother Magar permitted me two days of rest.  I spent most of that time sleeping and eating, after which I was put back on training.  I would spend another month in this fashion, on a strict food diet, while still learning all the lessons we were taught in the classroom.

                    I remember all-too-well the first time I entered the temple’s gym.  It was just past daybreak, and when I walked into the place, it was packed full of other students.  Most of them were years my elder, and they all stared directly at me from the moment I walked into the room.  I ignored them, not hesitating a moment to come in and grab a metal bar from a stand on the far side of the room.

                    I picked up two large medicine balls from a rack, one at a time, buckling under the tremendous weight, and headed back to where I left the bar suspended above a cushioned bench.  There was a hole in each of the balls, designed to be used to screw the balls into the bar, creating an enormous weight to lift.  I was all too aware that a group of elder kids on the far side of the room were staring at me, snickering, watching my pathetic show with glee.

                    Still ignoring them, I lay down on the bench and got ready to heft the massive weight the other kids were lifting so easily.  Grimacing with some sort of stubborn determination, I brought all my energy into my arms in one struggled intake of breath and began pushing upward.  It was far heavier than I could possibly have guessed.  The other children saw my difficulty and started to laugh openly.

                    This fuelled my determination, and in a few moments I collected enough strength to lift the bar from the stand and above my head.  In every heartbeat that past, the weight actually appeared to grow heavier.  I already felt my elbows buckling.  I lifted the bar the full length of my arms, and brought it down again.  But when I tried to lift it again, I realised it was still falling, and the next thing I knew, it was on top of me, crushing my ribs, making it impossible to breath.  This provoked even more laughter from the others.  In defiance, I redoubled my effort and tried desperately to force the bar back up, but it was already rolling up my chest towards my neck.

                    I panicked and started panting, trying to stop it rolling, but the momentum was just too strong.  Suddenly, the other kids’ laughter stopped and the room went silent.  I barely noticed the change until the weight on my chest disappeared and the bar was lifted.  I looked behind me and found Keeper Magar towering above me, lifting the bar up almost without strain.  He had a very authoritative grimace on and paid the children across the room no attention, but they seemed to get the message nevertheless.  They slowly separated from each other and started using the exercise equipment, completely oblivious to my master and me.

                    Keeper Magar looked down towards me, a small smile on his face, and held his hand out.  More than a little embarrassed, I smiled back and accepted his hand gratefully.

                    “I think you should start out with something a little more within your grasp, young Garrett.  Come.”

                    I didn’t think for a moment that the elder kids were done harassing me, and I was sure that that harassment would soon turn into torment, even though I had never interacted with other children before.  They weren’t very different from adults, really.  Most people I had encountered were as self-righteous, as ruthless, and as unrelenting as the most lamenting, spoiled child.

                    When I was told by Keeper Magar that I was ready to be put on yet another kind of training, I didn’t know what to think.  He told me it was a special kind of training, one that is considered most exclusive and sacred by the Keepers.  It was essential if I were to become a Keeper Master.  Most who took this training weren't nearly as young as I, but he told me that I had demonstrated exemplary skill since the day we first met, and he thought I was ready.  I began asking questions about this training, but he stopped me and told me by holding up his hand and saying simply, “All will become clear in the morning.”  Then he led me into the dining hall, where he sat with his peers at the Master’s table, and I ate alone at a simple table in the corner, biting down on a leg of roasted foul, waiting for my broth to cool, and sipping some water mixed with ale.  He offered me a seat with the Keeper Elders, but I turned him down, feeling more like being alone while I ate.

                    I kept remembering that humiliating incident in the gym, which was by then months ago, and I found myself wishing I didn’t have to come near those teenagers again.  But I took some solace in the fact that I would probably be safe from them for now, if I just ate quietly, then retired to my room.  But no matter how far I could get from them, it wasn’t far enough.  A group of four or five of them sat at a table about ten-to-twenty paces from me, eating messily, laughing obnoxiously and passing glances and pointing fingers at me.  I grunted, bobbing my head in a noticeable “harrumph” aimed at the group, and sipped loudly at my broth.

                    This seemed to anger them; I could see them readjusting their seats and talking among each other from the corner of my eye.  A feeling of dread and anticipation coursed through me, and I adjusted my seat as well, trying to prepare myself for anything they might try.

                    Brother Magar, who had been glancing in my direction every now and again while reminiscing with Brother Mayar, now seemed to sense the sudden change in the atmosphere in the room, and looked from me to the group of now-smiling students, and back to me again.  I saw him nudge Mayar with his elbow, and he turned in my direction as well, immediately showing concern.

                    Three of the teenagers had gotten up from their chairs and were headed in my direction, while the other two stayed at the table, watching their peers closely and laughing up their sleeves.  By now, it was pretty obvious which of the elder boys were “in charge”, per say.  The boy in the middle, taller and more heavily built than the others, made a point of walking in front of the other two.  He had an arrogant stance, and a smile to match.

                    He looked down on me as one would look down on a vermin, except his expression was one of mockery rather than disgust.  He walked right up to me, standing just a little too close for comfort.  I could even smell the biley smell of his breath and the revolting body odour he was emanating.  If it weren’t for those other boys he was with, I would have mentioned both of those traits without hesitation, including the words “and I’m trying to eat here”.

                    He stood there for quite a long time, seemingly content just in watching me squirm in discomfort at his presence.  I had no idea what he was trying to accomplish in doing so, but it wasn’t too long before I had had enough.  I dropped my chicken leg noisily on my plate, creasing my brow to make a show of being annoyed, and looked up at him smugly, to find that proud smile still on his face.

                    “What.”  The boy’s eyes widened just a little when I said this, and his two friends snickered and whispered to each other behind him.  The boy obviously heard them but ignored it.  He peered at me with a menacing stare that seemed to announce trouble, and took another step closer, though I didn’t think that possible.

                    “You have a big mouth, don’t you.”  The others snickered, almost as if they were expected to.  “You don’t like me, do you street rat?  I can see it in that pasty face of yours.”  I was surprised at that, although I forced myself not to let it show in my expression.  How the devil did he know I used to live on the street?  I made another show of being irritated by this interruption of my dinner, and adjusted my arse.  He went on.  “Something wrong?  Oh, have we disturbed you from your dinner?”  He chuckled.  “Serves you right.  You should be out in the den, eating leftovers with the dogs.  That foul is too good for the likes of you.  Although you really could use a good fattening up.”  The other two laughed at this, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Brother Magar putting his hands on the table in front of him, as if getting ready to raise from his seat.  He shot a warning glance towards the lead boy, even though he knew the boy didn’t see it.  I decided to retaliate.

                    “You think I should eat with the dogs,” I said as simply as I could, nodding facetiously as I spoke, as if making a mockery of considering the prospect.  The boy responded with an evil grin.

                    “Aye.  I do.”  I considered for a moment how I wanted to react to him.  I could either answer with a cleverly-crafted quip, something I sometimes had a knack for, or I could leap up and hold him by the nooks of his neck, something I saw the two men do to my mother on that day so long ago.  I had a mind to go for the latter, but I decided instead to keep my temper in check.

                    “Well I suppose you would know a lot about that, wouldn’t you?  You smell like you’ve been eating with the swine and the cattle for weeks.  May I suggest a perfumed bath some time or another?”  The boy’s expression transformed before my eyes into one of uncontrolled fury, and he took a step towards me, one fisted hand pulling back behind him.  I matched his glance with a grim stare and prepared to block a punch.  Brother Magar shot up from his seat on impulse.

                    “Donal!”  The boy swung his head around to find Keeper Magar push aside his chair, storm around the table he formerly sat at and towards him.  I assumed “Donal” was the boy’s name.  Magar stopped right in front of the boy’s face, and Donal returned his icy glare with a smug, if yielding look.  “Return to your quarters and do not come out for the rest of the night.  Keeper Mayar will come there, at his leisure, and decide what should be done with you.  Now go.”  Donal shifted his stance, but didn’t move an inch.  Keeper Magar glowered and leaned into Donal.  “Go!”  Even a boy with such insolence as his could not rebuke an order like that.  After a cold stare towards Keeper Magar, and an evil eye towards me, he stormed out of the room with deliberation, knowing every eye in the hall was on him.

                    Keeper Magar turned towards the other boys, who were watching this whole scene nervously.  “As for you mouths, you may report to Custodian Gervaisius; I’m sure he has some tasks he needs done.”  The boys got up crossly and walked slowly out of the room.  Keeper Mayar decided to put in his part.

                    "Come on, then!  Take the iron out of your pants and go!  Hurry!"  The boys performed a weak attempt to appear to be hurrying out.  Brother Magar turned idly towards me with a sympathetic, if reprimanding look.  I raised my hands in apology.

                    "I -- I'm sorry, Brother Ma-"  He raised his own hand to stop me.

                    "It's alright, Garrett.  It wasn't your fault.  Just remember that some people are not to be provoked.  That's a valuable lesson for you: no matter who you are, or how big, strong, and formidable you may be, there is always someone better.  If you try to solve every problem with vigilance, you will inevitably run into someone who will gladly teach you the same lesson that I am teaching you now.  Do you understand?"  I nodded modestly.  "Good."  He gestured towards the table the other elders sat at.  "Here, why don't you come sit with us?"  I thought about it for a moment, then shook my head.

                    "No… no that's alright, Brother Magar.  I think I'll retire to my quarters.  I have some work to do."  Keeper Magar looked down on me for a heartbeat, then nodded.

                    "So be it.  Sleep well, young Garrett.  But remember our arrangement: tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn; come to the training house, and your real training will begin."
 

                    SO THE NEXT MORNING, I DID AS Keeper Magar bade and rose from my bed at dawn, got dressed, and walked down to the training house surrounding the courtyard.  It was unusually cold that October morning, and I was glad that I had brought the cloak of heavy brown wolfskin that my mentor had given me.

                    Even after all the months I had spent there, under Brother Magar's wing, I still felt there was something out of kilter with this whole arrangement.  This man had come out of the blue, taken me out of my life on the street -- after I tried to steal his gold-purse -- and then he took me in, as if I was family.  There was something about this I wasn’t being told; I was sure of it.  And no matter what happened, I was going to find out what that was.

                    The entire complex was split into two main wings, separated by a courtyard going right up and down the middle of the compound.  The first wing, on the Eastern side, held the residential quarters.  Those were split between the Keeper Masters and the novices.  Along with the bedroom wing were offices, each one reserved for the most accomplished and respected of the Keepers.  The main infirmary was here too, in a building just outside the reverse L-shape of the Eastern Building.  Towards the north of the building was a large conference room only the elders and Keeper Masters were permitted into.  They held meetings twice a week, usually on Moon’s Day and Saturn’s Day.  It also held a massive library of books; books of all kinds.  Ancient texts, history, statistical, literative, religious; there were also some we weren’t permitted to see, ones that were in a smaller room of the library.  This confused me very much.  What could they be hiding from us?  What would they not want us to see?  It was all these little discrepancies about this place that made me weary about this whole charade I was going along with.  Something about this whole operation was very odd; that I knew from the very start.

                    Below the citadel was a storage facility for everything we had in the compound: food, equipment, goods, raw materials, fine wine and the like.  Besides that was a secondary kitchen, for the “messier” work the few servants (by choice) we had.  This one included a slaughterhouse, where a very strange man by the name of Tortus did his hard work skinning animals and processing meet with his small crew of servants.  He was a large man, and a little intimidating to look at.  My only soft spot for him was that he must lead a very lonely life.

                    Our raw materials and lumber were supplied by the carpenter’s hut and a fair-to-decent ironsmithy, both outside the walls of the citadel, just below the stables.  The ironsmith there was a short, stalky, elderly man with a scruffy but short Scottish beard and a bit of a limp on his right leg.  I believe his name was “Hadden”, and no one seeing him for the first time could of thought him anything but a smith; he looked more like a smith than any smith I had ever seen.  He had a pale complexion, but I had no idea how I came to that conclusion, considering that he was always polished with a thick layer of soot and charcoal.

                    I wondered from time to time about the intelligence it took for an ironsmith, who worked with molten metal, smouldering rock and flying sparks, to have a beard.  It was a wonder to me that it didn’t catch on fire.  He was a verey built man, despite his size, and he wore only a raggy tunic underneath the filthy apron he always put on when he walked into the door of the smith.  He hardly ever said a word to anyone, or even gave a passer-by a nod or glance.  Hadden the ironsmith was a very odd man; but I had seen my share of odd men in my time, even then.  When I first came into the smithy during my tour of the complex and saw the strange man, I knew immediately he wasn’t going to like me much.  He was busy hammering away at a scolding bar of iron, cursing as small sparks fell on his forearms.  As I walked into the dismal, dim-lit room, he looked wearily up to me and my guide, grimacing with disapproval.  Even as Brother Magar cleared his throat and formally introduced us, he answered with a cold stare and a “harrumph”.  I knew better than to extend any kind of greeting or good will.

                    The second wing, the larger of the two, held the entrance hall with the main entrance, the schooling dorms, the larger and fancier of the two kitchens, the granary and cold food-storage, the main armoury, the students’ mess hall and the gyms.  It also held a training facility for Keeper novices, where they could train to become true Keepers.  The training gym included three or four smaller gyms, the main courtyard, and the grounds outside the building.  This was where I was headed now.

                    The whole place was the very image of a simple Roman complex, taking in many of the outward appearances of their construction techniques.  I couldn’t tell whether such a layout was meant to make the compound look too average to give a second glance, or too formidable to dare challenge.  One way or another, it seemed to be working.

                    I shivered slightly at the cold and bundled up in my coat, but I was already at the doorway going into the Eastern hallway of the West wing.  As I passed by the schooling dorms, I placed my wolfskin cloak in the students’ repository.  As I walked towards the door, I caught myself in the mirror.  Keeper Magar had given me a Keeper’s cloak and garments before I went to bed the last night, and I agreed to wear it starting the next day.  I put it on quickly when I woke up, having slept later than I planned, and so I hadn’t seen myself yet.  As I looked into the mirror before me, I was stunned by the transformation.

                    The cape itself was close to black, with a barely noticeable tinge of brown to it.  It could sling around my shoulders, resembling a druid’s cloak, cowl and all, in which one would be almost invisible at night.  Or it could be pulled back and simply rest on my back, such as in a combat situation.  Underneath the cape was a tunic made of toughened leather and bull’s hide, similarly obsidian in appearance but with a blue tinge to it.  Around my waist was a simple but elegant belt with an iron buckle, with nothing to adorn it.  The suit was contrasted with thick leather gloves, buckled at the wrists, and fine brown boots, comfortable, if confining.  If it wasn’t for the sinister, seclusionary demeanour of the garb, I would have mistook myself for a nobleman.

                    Overall, it was a simple attire, not built particularly for adornment.  But as I looked at myself in that mirror, I didn’t see a scared little street-rat with matted hair and a hollow gut; I didn’t see a boy who had nothing to show for himself but a short temper.  I looked in that mirror, and I saw a man who could look intimidating without lifting a finger -- a man that a person would see on the street at and think, “Now that person is going somewhere important,” as opposed to, “What a disgusting little vermin.”

                    It was only then that I realised that I had changed a lot more than my figure and attire.  My attitude, my very nature had been altered, piece by piece.   I had been transformed by these people, turned into an entirely new human being altogether.  Keeper Magar had been so tolerant and accepting of my lack of discipline that I didn’t even notice how he gradually influenced me.  I wasn’t sure whether to think of myself as a student or a pawn. But I have to admit, I thought, the garb is pretty nice.

                    Instinctually, I sucked in my gut, proud that I had one to suck in, and placed my hands on my waists gallantly.  I looked like a war hero, an aristocrat, or perhaps even a gentle.  I permitted myself the briefest of smiles, then shook myself back to reality.

                    Walking briskly down the by-now-familiar hallway, I took a right turn and came finally to the door of the training gym.  I had never been in there before, so I didn’t know exactly what to expect.  But I knew Keeper Magar would be there, and that gave me some solace.  Whatever I would face that day, my mentor would be there to guide me.  I took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway into a darker room.  I took a brief look around me, letting my eyes adjust, and-

                    I stopped in my tracks.  Sitting at the far end of the room, at a desk, was a man I had never seen before.  He was a Keeper, and despite his size he had an impressive build.  He hadn’t noticed me.  I cleared my throat. I didn’t know what to expect, but perhaps he would have some answers.  After a moment, he looked up from what he had been writing, and glanced at me with powerful blue eyes.

                    “Ah, Keeper-Novice Garrett, I presume.  You’re a minute or so late, but I won’t reprimand you, this time.  Come, come,” he said, gesturing for me to come towards him as he closed his books and stood up.  “Come on, then.  Get the iron out of your pants, boy.”  I reluctantly stepped forward.

                    “Where’s Keeper Magar?” I asked, ashamed of the way it came out.  I sounded like an 8 year-old kid asking where his father was.  “I thought he would train me today.”  The man grunted.

                    “Yes, he called for me to train you this morning.  He’s on campaign, you see.  Last minute.  You’d best learn, boy, he won’t always be here to teach you.”

                    “Campaign?  I haven’t heard anything about a campaign.  Where did he go.”

                    “That’s not for you to know.”  The bluntness of his tone caught me off guard.  “Now, my name is Keeper Mac Arthur, and I’m to teach you advanced fighting skills and the Keeper arts.  How does that sound, boy?”  A little confused, I nodded my head, not knowing how else to answer.  He grunted again.  “Alright then, let’s get started.”  He turned on his heel and began walking to the far corner of the gym, obviously sure I would follow without question; and I did.
 

                    KEEPER MAC ARTHUR WAS A VERY firm, well-built man, though one of the older of the Keepers.  He had a strong, rectangular face, and he was just starting to show lines under his eyes and mouth.  He was perhaps an inch or so shorter than me, but his demeanour alone was enough to intimidate a boy my age.

                    He took me across the training gym, impervious to the impressive equipment set up on the walls and scattered around the floor.  I didn’t know what half of the machinery was for, but it looked intriguing.  I slowed down every now and then to gaze at the scene around me, only to hear a, “Come on, then,” from the older man.

                    We stopped first at what he said was the citadel’s armoury.  He used his keyhole ring to open the iron door, just as I had seen Keeper Magar do when I first came to the complex.  There was a vast variation of weapons here, varying from short-swords, to long-swords, to practice swords, to bows, to daggers, to Roman gladiums, to clubs.  He took little time to choose a simple short-sword from the collection.  It was made of cast-iron, quite pure by the looks of it but not by comparison to the other swords on the racks.  It had a straightforward cross-hilt and a ball-cock at the end for balance.  Keeper Mac Arthur spent a moment hefting it in his hand, nodded approvingly and handed it to me.  I had never used a real sword before, only wooden ones, and so I prepared myself to take on a massive weight.  Mac Arthur dropped it into my hands, and it felt like a feather.  I was holding it easily.  It was far lighter than the wooden ones.  Impressed with myself, I swung the sword around a few times, enjoying the agility and ease by which I did so.  Mac Arthur saw what I was doing and put his hands up, cautiously.

                    “Easy, easy, err, Garrett.  Save it for the sparring grounds, you’ll tear this room apart.”  I nodded briskly, and slid the sword into the scabbard on my belt, interested that it fit perfectly.  The older man picked up a reddish-brown long-bow, a couple pieces of string and a quiver of arrows.  He handed the quiver to me and took the rest.  He looked around him, perhaps for anything he might have forgotten, and nodded.  “Alright, let’s go.”  We then made our way out of the armoury and began walking to the far end of the gym.

                    “Err, Brother Mac Arthur-”

                    “Keeper Mac Arthur,” he corrected me, waving a commandeering finger towards me, though not even turning his head.  “We’re on official business here, lad.”

                    “Keeper Mac Arthur… Keeper Magar told me I would begin some sort of ‘sacred training’ today.  What training was he talking about?”

                    “Ah, yes,” he said immediately.  “That is a different training altogether.  I’m sure Magar was eager to begin your true Keeper’s training right away, but I’m going to teach you the basics first.”  He added nothing more to this.  I nodded slowly, though he was ahead of me and couldn’t see me.  I shrugged the thought off and followed forthwith.

                    We crossed through many rooms, each with strange qualities and that each appeared to have their own purpose, and stopped after walking up a stone staircase, at a metal door.  Keeper Mac Arthur swung it open and didn’t hesitate to walk through.  It led into a stone-tiled hallway, decorated at the walls with pictures, banners and carvings.  The air was colder in the hallway; I knew we were close to the outside.

                    And indeed, when we reached the end of the hallway and another doorway, I found myself outside, on a simple porch, right across from the library.  Keeper Mac Arthur took a moment to suck the dewy morning air into his chest, but in a heartbeat he was off once again.  He led me up to the North side of the Keeper Citadel, near the cloister gate.  There was equipment set up here as well; it appeared to be a modest sparring ground.  There were a few other students around, doing some standard exercises.  They saw Mac Arthur and gave them obedient nods and greetings, but took no notice in me.

                    Finally, when we reached the base of the gate, he stopped at a group of bull’s-eyes made of hay and covered, appropriately for the name, in bull’s hide.  They were all different sizes.  He pulled a couple of arrows from one and added them to my quiver.

                    “Now, lad.  I trust you’ve worked with a bow-and-arrow before.”  He was staring at me expectantly, and I realised after a moment that it wasn’t a rhetorical question.

                    “Oh, err, Yes, Keeper Mac Arthur.  I’ve used bows and arrows before, but… the bows I used were smaller.  Is this one going to be much harder?”

                    “Yes,” he said immediately.  “But we’ll see how you do.”  He handed me the bow, which was heavier than I expected, and a brown piece of twiney string.  He was looking at me expectantly again.  I looked back and forth between the two objects, and realised he wanted me to put the bow together.

                    “I’ve… never put a bow together before.”  The older man paused.

                    “Ah.”  He sighed, his hands on his hips.  “Ok, just attach one end of the string to the bottom, at the pulley… yes, that's it.  Then put your leg inbetween the string and the bow itself -- no, the other leg; careful now, don't fall on your -- arse."  I had fallen on my arse.  I got up, a little embarrassed, dusted off my pants and started again.  I got it right this time.

                    "Good, now push the top of the bow down to meet your hand.  Careful, don't force it."  I was struggling to keep the bow in place as he had said.  The wood was strong.  "Now, bring the other side of the string into the slot."  I jerked my hand away just in time as the string went into the slot, became taught, and made a noise like a stringed musical instrument.  That would've hurt, I thought.

                    "Good.  Now you're ready."  I hefted the bow in my hands and tested the string.  "No, no, don't-"

                    "I know, I know, don't dry-fire it."  Keeper Mac Arthur exhaled.

                    “Alright then.  Step back; go back, further… further… further… there, that’s good.”  I was a good forty-to-fifty paces from the wall now, and he had to shout his last words.  He walked over to my location and stopped at my side, uncomfortably close.  “Ok, now.  We’ll start with the largest target, on the left,” he said, pointing.  I hefted the weight of the bow again and brought it up, getting an arrow out of my quiver and knocking it.

                    The string was extremely taught, and I found it nearly impossible to move it back.  I began sweating from my effort, and I became determined, pulling it back as far as I could.  The arrow was beginning to tremble on the rest.  My upper body was shaking.

                    "No, no don't-"  I lost my edge on the arrow and it went flying, far above the target.  It hit the Cloister Gate, almost going over the wall completely.  Mac Arthur paused.  "Alright.  Let's try again.  Take another arrow out."  I did as he said.  "Now.  Raise your bow up, and position your arrow."  I brought the bow up to eye-level and positioned the arrow.  The older man adjusted my grip before going on.  "Don't pull back yet.  Take a good look at your target.”  He began speaking in a slow, calm voice. Time began to slow down with him.  The sounds of students training and work being done evaporated around me.

                    “Assess its distance.  Stare right into the centre – don’t take your eyes off of it.  Breathe slowly.  Now, pull back -- gently.  That's it."  It was easier now.  I gradually pulled it back, not forcing it, just steadily drawing it back to my ear.  I knew I couldn't hold it forever; I wished he would talk faster.

                    "Now, take aim.  Compensate for the slant.  Feel the wind and assess it as well."  My fingers were beginning to ache. I trembled slightly, then kept myself in check.  "See yourself firing the arrow.  Imagine it flying towards the target, and hitting it perfectly.  Now, take a deep breath; hold it… Now!"  With a crack and a whirring sound, I released my hold on the string, and the arrow went flying in a beautiful arc.  It landed almost immediately, and right on the target.  It was inches above the centre.

                    "Good shot," he said, matter-of-factly.  "Now that you've learned the slant, try again.  See if you can do better."  I took another arrow from my quiver, and repositioned my stance, my left foot a few inches ahead of my right.  I was about to pull back and shoot, but then I remembered my concentration.  I took it slower, trying to forget the other man was there, watching me.  He had helped me already, but his presence made me uneasy.  I looked directly into the bull's-eye through the rectangle-shaped eyepiece used as an aiming device.  The bow didn't feel like a weapon anymore.  It felt like a part of me: an extension of my body.  I gently pulled back, feeling the two pulleys at the top and bottom slowly feeding me string.  I pulled gradually tighter, and I felt the power, the potential of my grip on the string.  The sense of control and power was very invigorating.  The largest target stood directly in front of me, but then I torsioned the bow to the right, aiming for the smallest target, barely larger than an open hand.  I took a few seconds to refocus on my target, brought the string right back to my ear, and released.

                    The speed of the projectile was astonishing.  It shot faster than a rock fired from a catapult -- considerably faster.  There was almost no curvature at all, and I realised this the last time I fired, and tried to compensate.  I heard a barely audible “thunk” at the wall.  The arrow had hit the target, and dead on centre.

                    “Good shot!  Excellent shot!”  Mac Arthur stared for a moment in amazement, then composed himself again, clearing his throat.  “Well done Garrett.  You may continue practising, if you wish.  Let me know when you have had enough.”

                    I fired three more shots at the medium and small targets, most not as good as that last try.  But Keeper Mac Arthur was visibly impressed.  He patted me on the shoulder.

                    “Good job, lad.  Shall we go on?”  I nodded, a formal smile on my face.  “Good.  How experienced are you with swordfighting?”

                    “I know the basics,” I responded.

                    “Show me.”  He gestured towards a training dummy, a wooden contraption made to look like a man with no arms, held up by a wooden pole.  I knew what he wanted me to do.  I had spent entire mornings working with training dummies alongside Keeper Magar, while he coached me.  He had told me about jabs and thrusts and tip-thrusts.  He told me that in a quick situation I should use a jab to the side.  When I had enough space and time a stronger thrust would do me well.  And he told me never to use the tip of my sword unless I was sure my enemy couldn’t retaliate.  It was too easy to block and it took too long to recover.  I took out my sword, still a little cautious so not to slice my other hand off in the process, and took on a fighting stance, as if the dummy were a real opponent.

                    I started with an overhead slash that curved around the left and struck the dummy in the shoulder.  I sliced another left cut and hit it in the torso, swung back, and hit in the same place, harder this time.  I swung to the right and then chopped its torso on the right side.  I then took a few dramatic steps back, and charged at it with all my might, going for the base of its neck.  I struck it with a great amount of force, and I had to yank it out by placing my foot on the dummy and pulling.  Keeper Mac Arthur nodded satisfactorily.

                    “Good.  You think you’re ready to take on a live opponent?”  I hesitated a few seconds, then nodded.

                    “Yes, Keeper Mac Arthur, I think so.”

                    “Good.”  The man turned around, apparently looking for something or someone, and once again placed his hands on his hips.  “Donal!”  I raised my eyebrows as soon as I heard this name.  Across the field, the older boy stopped what he was doing and turned around, frowning.  But he smiled as soon as he saw me with his teacher.  “Come here, Donal, I have a sparring partner for you.”  My eyes widened and I gulped, taking a step back.  I was not too sure about this.  The oversized 17-18 year-old walked smugly in our direction, his left hand resting on the hilt of his sword.  When he was about five paces from us, Donal stopped and rested his arms on his hips.  He hocked and spat loudly, too close to my feet to be an accident.

                    “Donal, this is Garrett.  You’re going to fight him today.”  Donal nodded agreeably.  I just glowered and harrumphed.

                    “We’ve met,” I said simply.  He smiled at me when I said this.  I wondered briefly if Keeper Mac Arthur was aware he wasn’t far from being a full head taller than me.  He went on, obviously not noticing the trail of ice between my eyes and Donal’s.

                    “Alright then, let's begin.”  He pointed over to a circle painted on the ground.  “Over there is good.”  I reluctantly stepped toward the mini-arena, Donal at my left side all the way.  He whispered something as he stepped in with me.

                    “You’re dead, street rat.”  I saw that comment coming, and I tried to appear unaffected by it, but I knew he could see the apprehension in my eyes.  I looked in his, and saw only a glint of anticipation and amusement.  Mac Arthur stood clear, three or four paces away from the circle.  It suddenly struck me as odd that we were using real swords in a sparring fight; someone could get hurt!

                    “Alright, get in position,” Keeper Mac Arthur ordered, taking another step back.  We stepped back from each other, and got into a fighting position, mine cautious and defensive, and his proud, almost mocking.  He looked almost like a bull about to charge into its victim, except I’m sure they didn’t smile when they did so.  I could even see huffs of air snorting out of his nose in the cold air.  I could tell this was going to be a quick fight.

                    My trainer signalled for us to begin with a swift chop of his arm, and quickly backed off to a safe distance.  Donal didn’t waste his time at all.  He charged at me immediately, his sword coming in for an overhead blow.  For the briefest of moments I took into account that he began his charge with his left foot, thinking that he was either very smart, or very stupid for doing so.  What he would do when he reached me would prove which of these was true.

                    The former prevailed.  There were four large paces between us, and he obviously knew it.  He crossed that distance in a heartbeat, and on his third step, again on his left foot, he thrust forward with his body and his sword, using his right leg as a catapult and his left as a counterbalance.  I quickly brought my sword against his, but it was a quickly planned move and our blades clashed dangerously close to my face, and his brute strength forced them even closer.  I brought my left foot back a little more, digging into the ground, searching for more strength, but I knew I was being too bold.  With a loud and gallant grunt the older boy thrust his blade forward, pushing me back a good two paces.  I remembered from my training that that could be a good thing, if I knew what to do next.

                    I used the distance between us to gather momentum and create one enormous thrust.  I lunged forward and brought my sword far over to the left, flung it forward, and met with his.  He was slightly taken aback this time, and I homed in all my concentration and training to use this newfound initiative to my advantage.  I began swinging rapidly, first to the left side, then to the lower right, and up above.  But as soon as I went in for my fourth chop, Donal gained back the upper hand with a block and a shove that almost left me down on my arse.  I tried to back off to distance myself from him again, but I immediately realised my mistake.  When you back off from a sword fight, it takes precious moments to get back into a fighting stance.  Before I could even hope to regain my footing, he was charging at me again.  He knew exactly what he was doing in that ring.

                    He came clashing into me again, swinging up and down faster than I could retaliate.  In a desperation tactic, I ducked under his swinging arm and tried to spin around in a heroic counterattack, but as I pivoted quickly around, before I knew it, my face met up with the blunt of his cross-hilt.  He had struck me with it, and my vision blurred as I sprawled backwards.

                    I felt myself fall backwards, and the next intake of breath filled my throat with the dirt and filth I lifted up when I fell.  I coughed loudly and desperately, trying to get lively air back into my lungs.  My pelvis was in a lot of pain, and my brow was throbbing.  I felt a trickle of hot liquid seep down my face and I spat it out of my mouth, scowling at the sweet-and-sour taste.  Through the ringing in my ears, I could hear a laugh, and I opened my eyes again.  Donal stood proudly over me, with a smug look on his face.  I felt hands grip at me, pulling at my arm.  Keeper Mac Arthur helped me up, wiping the blood away with his sleeve.  He took my head by the chin and examined my face, left and right.

                    "You'll be fine," I heard him say.  "I think that's enough for today, Garrett."

                    "No… no, I'll be fine, Keeper Mac Arthur.  I just need a few minutes.”  Donal made a sound resembling a snorting snicker and a harrumph.  The older man barely gave him a glance of acknowledgement.

                    "Donal, get inside.  You have a few laps to run around the courtyard.  I'll be watching."  Donal's smile disappeared, but he still looked pleased with himself.  He spat again, pivoted around and walked to the far end of the grounds, near the chariot house.  Keeper Mac Arthur harrumphed, and looked back towards me.  He gestured back towards the training gym, and I followed him, dusting off my backside.  As I walked back inside, I saw Donal running by about 30 paces away, already losing his breath.  Keeper Mac Arthur gave him a few coaching and insulting remarks to hurry him up.  I snickered, though not loud enough for my trainer to hear.
 

                    "WHY DID HE BEAT YOU," KEEPER Mac Arthur said to me, quite matter-of-factly, as he placed my sword back on the shelf.  I thought for a moment.

                    "I was too headstrong, and I ignored my training."  The older man blinked.

                    "What do you mean."  I thought for a moment again.

                    "I wasn't cautious enough, I… I tried to use brute strength to overpower him, I made mistakes with my technique…"  He blinked and nodded.  Wordlessly, he walked across the armoury and took down two wooden staffs, the kind often used during sparring practice.  They didn't have hilts, and they weren't shaped like swords, although we used them as such, and sometimes as staffs too.

                    "Come with me," he said simply.  I followed him out of the armoury, and into one of the larger rooms of the training gym.  When we reached the centre of the room, he stopped and breathed in, as if testing the air.  He nodded again to himself and tossed me one of the staffs.

                    "Defend yourself."  He immediately came forward and thrust the side of his mock-sword in my direction.  In a heartbeat he was right in front of me, and all in one motion, I readjusted my hold on the staff as if it were a real sword, tightened my grip, and brought the staff up to meet his.  Immediately he used the momentum of my counter-strike to bring his weapon down on me again and I brought mine down the same.  He continued to fight me in this fashion, and I retaliated.  He fought in a very standard way, very by-the-book, and I knew it was deliberate.  He wasn’t trying to defeat me, but merely testing my limits and then forcing me just a little further.  He was gaining more and more initiative, and I couldn’t keep up with him.  He grazed me on the shoulder and I slowed down to bark out a grunt.

                    “Come on, fight back boy.”  He struck me again and we spiralled around in unison, taking each other’s former position.  “Keep ahead of me.  Anticipate my next move.”

                    My logical mind kicked in, and between each standard defence I put up, I became ingenuitive and tried to out-manoeuvre him.  Finally, as I blocked a side-chop, and he brought his sword overhead for a good thrust, I brought my sword up to meet his as I pivoted counter-clockwise on my left foot.  I didn’t block his attack, but rather re-directed it.  Without looking I knew he was brought slightly out of balance by the move and would take precious moments to regurgitate.  I used my pivoting foot to spin around, and brought my mock-sword up to chop him across the waist.  It suddenly dawned on me that this wasn’t a real fight, and I probably should not have done that.

                    I looked back at Keeper Mac Arthur, and indeed, he was holding his waist where I had struck him, obviously bruised.  I took a step forward to try and help him, but he waved me off.

                    “I am alright, boy.  You needn’t take pity on me.”  I thought it was somewhat haughty of him to say something like that, after all I was just trying to help, but I nodded obediently and held my peace, waiting for him to compose himself.  He did so immediately.

                    “Good.  You are beginning to use your head.  It is not an easy thing to do in combat, you know.  But it is invaluable.”  He hesitated.  “Just remember what your intentions are, Garrett.  You made the same mistake as your friend out there: you forgot that this was a travesty, an exhibition.  To get carried away is to jeopardise the balance within.”

                    I didn’t even try to ask what he meant by that.  “Keeper Mac Arthur, if we accomplish our goals in hiding, then why do we need to learn how to fight?”

                    “A precaution,” he said immediately.  “We can’t rely completely on our ability to remain hidden, although it never fails us.  Also, to defeat an enemy, you must know and understand how he fights."  I considered this for a moment and saw that it was a wise choice.  I didn’t say so, of course.

                    “Can I start my real training now?”  I knew I was being a bit robust, but I wanted to know what this training he told me of was about.

                    “This is your real training.  But… if you mean our sacred training, the Way of the Shadow, then that must wait.”

                    “But why?  Why can’t I start that training now?”

                    “Because you are not ready for it.  I can see it.”  He was very straightforward in his tone.  “The Way of the Shadow requires knowledge, and mental discipline.  You are yet to acquire either of those, boy.  I see there is still much work to be done.”  I sighed, dismayed.  Keeper Mac Arthur patted me on the shoulder and showed me to the door.  “Come.  Let’s go get some breakfast, then we’ll try this again, ehh?”  And we did.

                    For the next fortnight, Keeper Mac Arthur trained me day in and day out, and I co-operated without hesitation.  I now had a newfound strength in me, a confidence in myself and willingness to work hard to reach my goals.  Whereas before I kept away from mirrors, since they reminded me how filthy and pathetic I looked, now in the mornings I would always pose for a moment after I got dressed, and each time I couldn’t help chuckling at myself.  When I first put on that uniform, it hung off of me like I wasn’t meant for it.  Now the sleeves filled up with contours of muscle, and the curves of my torso stood out proudly.  I was simply unrecognisable from the fifteen year old boy that had been taken in by a man named Keeper Magar.

                    My face was the most astonishing change.  I have a faded image of my old face in my mind, of a small boy with a fearful grimace, glassy green eyes under tired eyelids and dark ruffled hair.  I still had a mildly tired look in my eyes, but they were the weathered look of wisdom, yet not without a certain aspect of unperturbed curiosity.  My face had a strength in it, a strength of mind.  I wasn’t fearful to glance at, but I was respectable.  Even my cheeks were showing colour, especially when I smiled, which I now did more often.  I think around that time was, in retrospect, the happiest time of my life.

                    I worked hard with swordsmanship.  I became a master of the weapon.  Keeper Mac Arthur taught me dozens of different formulas for sword manoeuvres, and, gradually but steadfastly I mastered them until we could play them out side-by-side in perfect synch.  When we fought together I always made him break out in sweat.  Learning what he had to teach was one of the hardest things I had ever done.  But damnation, it was fun.

                    Keeper Magar came back on the first Sun’s Day of November, while I was in bed.  For some reason, I already knew not to ask him where he had been.  It was none of my concern.  It left me very curious, after all two and a half weeks was a long time to go on a campaign, especially if he just up and left so suddenly.  I overheard something about a scouting mission, but no particulars were mentioned.

                    He asked me how I had liked working with Brother Mayar.  I told him that it had been hard work, but fruitful.  That was true.  He was walking with me towards the training gym, through the west hallway.  It was morning.

                    “So you feel you’ve mastered the sword and bow?  And you think you have a stronger stamina than before?”  I nodded confidently.

                    “Yes, Keeper Magar.”  I caught myself with my formal tone.  Nowadays I oftentimes simply called him “Magar”, without the title.  I had neither asked him or had been given permission to do so, but it seemed understood between us.

                    “Good.  Then I think you’re ready for your next step in training.”  I beamed a smile at him.  “The obstacle course is just ahead.”  The smile disappeared immediately.

                    The obstacle course was a large contraption in the second-to-largest room in the training gym that was designed to measure agility, speed and stamina.  It was made of planed timber and grated metal, with ropes and chains and wooden planks lying around everywhere.  When I first saw it, it scared me to death.  I had seen people older than I being pummelled off of it by spinning wooden contraptions that looked like men and duffel bags that swung back and forth.  I had also seen some collapse on themselves with fatigue in the middle of the course.

                    It was a very complex task to complete this course.  There were three destinations when you began the run.  One was the “pickup spot”, where you grabbed a small bronze statue.  The second was a “drop off” point, of which the principle is pretty self-explanatory.  The third was the escape route, which ended up on the other side of the machine.  All of this was timed by an hour glass with fine white sand.  If you didn’t finish by the time all the sand had reached the bottom, you had not succeeded.  Most people didn’t make it in time until they had tried and tried again for months.  It was rumoured the hour glass took over a quarter hour to empty.

                    I took off my cloak and entered the room in my leather tunic.  As I approached the contraption, I eyed where I was to begin, trying to see as far as I could into the run so I knew what to expect.  It started with a steep ramp with foot-holds, but no rope.  It was a test of agility.  There was a long walk-way beyond that, and I couldn’t begin to guess what was waiting for me there.  With much reservation, I turned back to Keeper Magar for some sign that he didn’t truly expect me to brave this elaborate death-trap.  He was watching me patiently.  I sighed, mocking with body language that I was getting ready to begin.  I couldn’t help but swallow.  Preparing myself the best I could, I turned back to him once more and nodded, as ready as I’d ever be.

                    Keeper Magar turned the hour glass and brought it down, loudly, on the table to signify the start of the run.  I dashed forward, barely pacing myself as I stormed up the ramp, and forgetting myself as I ran forward.  I picturd myself flying like an angry crow through the course, dodging everything that dared get in my path.  Something blunt and padded knocked me clean in the side of the head and I was thrown to the ground.  I had fallen off the entire thing, to the floor of the gym.  I wasn’t hurt, except for my ego.  I rubbed my head and turned to my teacher.

                    “What the devil was that??”  By the look on Magar’s face I’d say he couldn’t decide whether to feel impatient or amused.

                    “An obstacle, young Garrett.  You won’t always be able to see them before they see you.  You have to anticipate.  Shall we try again?”  I nodded briefly and accepted his hand.
 
 

                    ONCE A WEEK FROM THEN ONWARD I would try this course again, and I continued in this fashion for a full month, mastering the course along with my regular studies and fighting practices.  Meanwhile, the people of the Keeper Citadel endured a winter-season of substantial cold.  There wasn’t too much snow, nothing unmanageable, but there was one incident where a hailstorm broke out and much of our property was damaged.  It carried on all day, and a feeling of misery followed.

                    The Keepers’ preparedness for the winter was astonishing.  There was no shortage of food reserves at all, and with ovens burning deep in the basement of the compound, and flowing through the ventilation, the compound was always warm.

                    I decided as time went on to take the opportunity to explore the Citadel, to have a better understanding of it.  I had been almost everywhere: the stables, the courtyard, the gyms, of course the schools, the kitchens, basement, armoury, and food storage.  But what I really wanted to see was the Keeper’s library.

                    To be perfectly honest, I had never been in the library before.  Walking into the cast place, it was all I could do not to gasp in awe of it all, giving away my pretence of calmness and mild cynicism.  Although it didn’t really matter: I was alone, for the most part.  The whole ballroom-like place seemed mystical, magical in a way.  The ceiling towred high above me, separated from the floor by towers of books.  There were three floors, but the upper of the two were nothing more than a series of elegant “catwalks,” so from where I stood at the entrance I could see everything.

                    Thousands of books lay long undisturbed upon their shelves, as if in some dreamless slumber.  I thought wearily to myself that if these books were chronicles of history, religion and culture, as I was told, then there was enough books here to tell tales of everything that ever happened in this world, and what was yet to happen, too.  The beginnings of a realisation began to register in my head, but I dismissed the idea as an impossibility.

                    Beautifully crafted lampposts towered above the bottom floor, ten in all.  They surrounded the room in a decagonal pattern, and emitted a soft blue-white light.  Below, on the lower walls between the rows and rows of books were small oil lamps encased in glass, giving out a more regular yellow light.  The result was awe-inspiring indeed: as if from a soft ray of light from the heavens, a huge circle of blue floated around most of the room, while a more earthly light glowed submissively around the edge of the room, and on the walls.

                    The air itself seemed to come alive around me, as if it were playing out some mysterious dance.  I don’t know how else to describe it, but the library as a whole looked as if it were a living, breathing being, and I was inside its innards.  Truly this was a room of magic, a room of dreams.

                    I soon found that my original premonition was wrong: I wasn’t alone.  I could hear voices to and about; a busy book-stacker here, a few older-sounding students there.  But I didn’t mind a bit.  They were just noise in the background.  I felt as if I were alone, undisturbed in this incredible room, as if it were built for my indulgence only.

                    I felt a chill run down my spine as I walked through the room; as if the books were beckoning to me.  I needed to see one, to see what was inside.  The nearest shelf of books towered twice my height.  There was a sign on the shelf, in big Roman letters: Philosophers & Politicians - (500 B.B. - 0 A.D.).

                    I randomly chose one from the shelf, a particularly thick one.  The title glowed at me, brilliant and gold.  It was entitled:

                    Intrigued, I opened the cover and skipped through the pages.  I begun to read, interested in just what kind of thing I was looking at.  It looked like a conversation between to men.

                    “‘Socrates, do you want really and truly to persuade us that in every way it is better to be just than unjust, or only to seem to have persuaded us?’

                    ‘Really and truly, I said, ‘is what I would choose, if the choice were with me.’

                    ‘Then,’ he said, ‘you are not doing…’”  Blah blah, moving on, I jibed silently, skipping the page.

                    “‘Where do you put justice?’ he said.  ‘In what class?’

                    ‘My own opinion is,’ I said,. ‘that it belongs to the noblest class, which is to be loved both for its own sake, and for what comes from it.’”  I harrumphed at the man’s righteous attitude towards justice, turning the page again.  The pompous git’s probably an aristocrat himself.  I read on, wondering just what it was these two men were discussing.  As I skimmed through words on the pages I turned, it seemed these men were playing some sort of a game with each other, by inventing some kind of imaginary city and the people in it.  I stopped and read.

                    “‘The next thing to ask is,’ said I, ‘how the city shall suffice for all this provision.  Will not one be a farmer, one a builder, one a weaver?  Shall we add a shoemaker to the list and someone else to look after the body’s needs?’

                    ‘Certainly.’

                    ‘Then the smallest possible city will consist of four or five men?’

                    ‘So it seems.’  I laughed out loud, quickly steeling myself.  I felt the eyes of older men on me, so I went back to my book, turning the page, still smirking with a child’s kind of enchantment.

                    “‘Not at all,’ said he; ‘there will be some who, seeing this, appoint themselves for this particular purpose.  In cities properly managed these are generally the men weakest in body and useless for other work.  They must remain on the spot, about the market, and exchange money for the goods with those who want to sell, or give them goods for money…’” blah blah blah…  So far I was becoming angered at what was being told here.  Even so, I read on.

                    “‘Well, we forbade the shoemaker to try to be a farmer or weaver or builder; he was to make shoes that the work of shoemaking might be properly done for us.  Just so we sorted out the others, according to their natural gifts.  Each was to leave other things alone, and to spend his life on this one occupation and to lose no chance of doing his work well.’”

                    I closed the book in disgust.  Even after all those years of comfort with my teachers the Keepers, my heart was still back there in the streets of the city: the bottom of every society so far that nobody cared to acknowledge as littered with their fellow men.  This ideal of society, that every person had his place in his society, whether scholar or “shoemaker”, and had no right to question that those above them were superior by divine right or what-not justification, was just righteous and could only be held by a man who had lived his life in creature comfort, willingly making themselves fat and sucking up the society’s wealth.  Some member of society.  I put the book back on the shelf.

                    I walked quickly along the series of shelves, all with books of philosophers and politicians, going slowly forward through time… 200, 300, 400… my eyes glared in horror as the numbers rose above and beyond today’s date.  700, 800, 900… I stopped at 1800-1900 as one caught my eye… I took it out, and read the title.  It was labelled:

                    My eyes gleamed as I opened the book and once again turned to a random page.  I begun reading, taking in whatever made any sense to me.

                    “The bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations.  It has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his "natural superiors", and has left no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous "cash payment".  It has drowned out the most heavenly ecstacies of religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation.  It has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom -- Free Trade.  In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation.”

                    I didn’t even know what a bourgeoisie was.  But this man, “Marx”, sounded like he was saying something very important.  I skipped a few pages, trying to find the part where he got to the point.

                    “This organization of the proletarians into a class, and, consequently, into a political party, is continually being upset again by the competition between the workers themselves.  But it ever rises up again, stronger, firmer, mightier.  It compels legislative recognition of particular interests of the workers, by taking advantage of the divisions among the bourgeoisie itself.”  I turned a few pages.  “The lower middle class, the small manufacturer, the shopkeeper, the artisan, the peasant, all these fight against the bourgeoisie, to save from extinction their existence as fractions of the middle class.  They are therefore not revolutionary, but conservative.  Nay, more, they are reactionary, for they try to roll back the wheel of history.  If, by chance, they are revolutionary, they are only so in view of their impending transfer into the proletariat; they thus defend not their present, but their future interests; they desert their own standpoint to place themselves at that of the proletariat.”

                    Yeah!  Damned right! I thought.  I wasn’t entirely sure, but it sounded like this man was saying that the lower class deserved more than what they were getting, while the upper class deserved less.  This man was talking about equality.  I closed the book and looked at the cover again.  Surely this person was a leader of men… even if he wasn’t even born yet.  I skipped forward to the final written words, wondering where Marx was going with this scripture.

                    “The Communists disdain to conceal their views and aims.  They openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions.  Let the ruling classes tremble at a communist revolution.  The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains.  They have a world to win.  Working men of all countries, unite!”

                    I nodded, admiringly, and considered taking the book from the shelf, bringing it to my room where I could keep it.  Just then I heard a noise.  The door was opening.  I don’t know why, but I felt afraid and quickly concealed myself behind the shelf.

                    Three Keeper Masters I recognised from the Guild of Elders came in, accompanied by Keeper Magar himself.  I watched with covert interest as they crossed the room.  They stopped at the far wall, for what reason I do not know.  It was a bare wall: there was nothing there for them.  The wall was dark, even though it was in sight of the lamps.  It was as if the light was being shooed away from this place, it was almost pitch black.  The three elders were doing something with the wall and their Key-hole rings, while Keeper Magar stood back, patiently.  As if he knew he should have done so before, he checked the room to his left then right, likely to see if anyone was watching.  Suddenly, doors were opening where I thought there were none.  The wall itself was splitting apart, books on shelf and all, and were to the best of my knowledge completely invisible beforehand.

                    I watched intently as the group of Keepers nodded to each other, looking… I peered more carefully… looking worried, somehow.  Not panicked, for they were Keeper Masters and Elders, but very concerned.  They entered the room with a sort of internal deliberation, but not so self-conscious as to find me, watching them from near the centre of the room.  They shut the door behind them, promptly.

                    I stared with great interest at what had just transpired, and instantly decided I waned to be a part of it.  I looked around me for options, but none showed themselves.  I reached into my pockets, what for I don’t know.  Empty.  With haste, I dashed across the room to whereabouts I thought the doors had been.  I couldn’t know for sure.  I pressed my ear against the stone wall, trying to hear voices.  I could hear nothing.  The insulation of sound was perfect.  I pressed harder.  I felt something move all of a sudden, and the wall gave way to me and I caught the doorway to try and stop from hitting the floor.  Getting up, I looked around quickly, expecting to have been found.

                    I found myself in a moderate-sized room, devoid of people, filled with more books.  I looked back, and found that the door was but a single door.  I was in an entirely different room.  I took a better look around.  The walls were carefully crafted and there were paintings on the wall, things that looked like fantasy.  Beasts, and griffin-like things, all causing mischief on men and women, and pictures of what was obviously the Master Builder, in “all his glory and splendour.”  There were books, many books on the shelves, some left untouched for so long that they were gathering dust and cobwebs.  There was a small window on the far side of the room, beaming light from the other side.  I carefully peaked into it with a single eye, and saw the four Keepers, talking across a long table.  I could almost hear them, but not quite.  I looked around for guidance, some kind of aid.  What I found was one in a million.  A tuning fork!

                    It was sitting on the small table in the centre of the book-room, and I picked it up, getting an idea.  I placed it against the wall, not making a sound.  After a few seconds I could feel vibrations in the metal.  They felt like voices, if that makes any sense.  I brought my ear right up to the fork to hear better, and I began to hear them.

                    “What do you mean they’re forming a new order.”  It was one of the elders.  From his demeanour, he seemed to be the one in charge, at least of this conversation.

                    “They seem to be reuniting as a single military power, for the Hammerite God only knows what.  They’re forming some sort of coercion, based on industrial growth.  They’re already gaining power.  They’re expanding themselves, for the first time in a century, when they had the support of the Roman Britons.”

                    “Industrial growth?  Ehh?  What do you mean, Magar.”

                    “Technology, Keeper Mayar.”  Of course.  I couldn’t believe I didn’t recognise the voice sooner.  Robust, pompous, domineering.  But there was indeed something different there.  “Technology is their key.  They’ve found new confidence with their beloved machinery and devices.  You’re not going to believe this.”  I swallowed, and continued to listen.

                    “Well what is it, Magar, spit it out.”

                    “They have gunpowder.”  There was a series of “What?” in the room, as everyone was startled by the news.  Gunpowder.  What the devil is that.

                    “Gunpowder!  Stuff and nonsense, it couldn’t be!  The Chinamen to the East won’t develop that technology for six hundred years, and it won’t be used in Britain for another three hundred!  How could the Hammerites have invented firearm technology!”  I could feel in the adjacent room the sense of quelching horror one feels in one’s stomach.  Something was very wrong.

                    “I don’t know.  But it’s happened, and that means the balance has been upset.”  There was a pause.

                    “Well, tell us more.  Tell us about what you saw.”  There were words of agreement.

                    “Me and my campaign-force strived for a week, against the will of the winter cold, to enter Hammerite territory.  We were completely unseen, as always.  We passed through their city, and into their castle to see what was afoot, as per your instructions.  The castle ground was filled with laboratories, and testing grounds, and firing ranges.  We knew they were developing warfare technology.  We inspected everything they were doing.  It was horrible.  It is one thing to read of such devices, but to see them for what they are truly capable of is ghastly.  They had dozens of barrels of powder in their basement, stashed away with dark metal devices, barrels on wheels.  They appeared to be in the making, not finished yet.  We also saw them testing machinery.  They fired balls out of catapults at things like trees and shrubs, and watched as they caught on fire and were blasted into pieces.  We also saw other inventions of theirs.  One was a long tube that had a “siphon” which shot out a steady stream of fire, as if from a dragon’s throat.  They laughed and cheered as they found things to burn with the awful machine.  We concluded that there must be some kind of revolutionary work being done on chemicals and their capabilities.  It’s remarkable!  They don’t even know what a molecule is and they’re using them to destroy things!  They’ll destroy themselves, if we don’t do something, or perhaps everything else instead.”  There was a long pause, and I could picture clearly the look of appall on the faces of the men.  I felt as if I were about to vomit.

                    “By the Builder.  We must stop this.  These people are too ambitious, they cannot handle their own ideas yet.  By God Himself, two thousand years hence they still won’t!”

      &nb