Family Relations

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One:

 

 

“I’ll be going to school at the end of this month,” young and strapping Zeldar Tarrn announced with a sigh, plucking off the petals to the hill flower he was holding. “I really hate going away, but Father says I will eventually take up the business and I need to learn how to manage it. But I say, if you know how to manage goats, you can learn to handle any man.”

The goat herders laughed to themselves. That was the saying, passed on for generations. But it had yet to be proven true. If it had been, the goat herders themselves could have been diplomats.

“The thing is,” Zeldar said with a tired huff, falling backward into the grass where he had been having lunch, “I have been signed up to go to the Red Hall Academy for some time. I just haven’t told my father yet because, you know my stepmother…it is not prestigious enough for a nobleman’s son and Father has been taking her advice lately.

“He wants me to go to Ferr’durnak University with all my old classmates,” the young man continued with a groan. “Old boring Ferr’durnak where the professors tell us we’re the leaders of the world, gods compared to the other classes and heathen nations. I had enough of that at my old school, thank you, to hear that rubbish again.”

“And you don’t believe it none, I gather?” one of the herdsmen said with a wry smile.

Sitting up, Zeldar made a face. “What? And be reminded that I’m nothing more than the half-blood son of an Orr’ras. Really…I find the vanity of our people shocking. We place too much emphasis on purity of race and not enough emphasis on treating other people kindly.”

The men grinned at him. They sucked on stems of dill weed that grew between the cracks of the rocks on the Tur skirts. None of them bothered to voice their opinions at all, knowing this nobleman’s son sometimes had loose lips and repeated their words in fits of anger at his stepmother. She did not take too well to goatherd philosophy, even if Jarr the Great was once a goat herder himself. She didn’t approve of the legends of Jarr either. The mythic hero had married an Orr’ras like Zeldar’s father. And the reminder of it, even in legend, was like an insult.

Of course, Zeldar worshipped the tales of Jarr the Great since he was a child. He was his favorite hero. Forget the adventures of Torr the Sailor or the amazing Kanzar that tamed an army of demons in the Orr; they were frauds in Zeldar’s mind anyway—later copies of Jarr’s adventures since Jarr predated them both. There was a time when Zeldar wished to keep a string of shark’s teeth around his neck, just so he could pretend he had slain a demon army, but his stepmother had the necklace confiscated then ground up into dust. Zeldar had managed to save the string though, hiding it away in his room with another singular shark’s tooth he had smuggled inside the house from a trade he had made at school. There was an Aba foreign exchange student that had a collection, which was where he had gotten his first string of teeth.

But a nobleman was soft-spoken and not heroic at all. He had to learn his letters, practice his penmanship, and memorize all the mathematics tables and formulas by heart. Not only that, but he had to learn the glorious history of his noble lineage and recite his fathers by memory, all the way back to the mythic Quarr. Of course, that everyone took as a joke for no one truly believed in the origin myths those days. No one believed in demons either. There had never been any archaeological proof, though some said that the Abele crossbreeds were demonic enough to prove their existence.

“Sir!” The herdsmen heard a voice call up the hill.

All of them turned and glanced at Zeldar, who sat up and winced.

Peering down the hill irritably, Zeldar spotted one of the footmen from his father’s coach climbing up the hill in his smart suit coat and pressed pants. The footman’s shoes were poorly suited to the rocky terrain, and already the man seemed winded by the hike.

Reluctantly Zeldar called out, standing up and dusting himself off, “I’m here. What is it Yarrd?

The footman hurried up breathless and bowed at the young lord. “You must return to the lodge at once and change your attire, sir. Your father wishes to speak with you.”

Making a face with a backward glance at the others on the hill who were hiding their smirks, Zeldar returned his attention to the footman and said, “Need I change for my father? Why all the pomp? I don’t think he cares whether I am dressed as a herdsman or a baker’s boy. He never did before.”

“Your stepmother is also here,” the footman replied.

Zeldar winced and nodded. “I see. No doubt she is dressed in her utter best to survey the village and be superior and all.”

“Please sir, beware of your tone when speaking of her,” Yarrd warned with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, calm yourself,” Zeldar said, walking down the hill towards him. “I will not lose my inheritance by speaking ill of my stepmother. It isn’t scandalous enough, and everybody here knows I don’t like her anyway.”

“But word spreads,” the footman replied, now joining him on his journey down the hill. “And you don’t want my lady to hear an ill report in the mood she is already in.”

“What mood?” Zeldar asked, feigning indifference. However, the goat herders watched him go a little faster. They knew his stepmother got cattish when she was filled with ire. Zeldar feared her somewhat still.

“She heard about your behavior at the end of the year at Brighthall. That fight you got into…” the footman said with a tone of warning. “Master Wil’s son was said to be sporting a black eye.”

Zeldar huffed. But now he jogged down the hill, something the footman chased with pain in his shins. “Ferr Wil deserved it. The prick said something nasty about Brandarr’s daughter, and I wouldn’t have it.”

The footman stopped. “Brandarr? You don’t mean our country steward?”

“The very one,” Zeldar replied with a turn, walking backward before turning around again.

He jogged toward the path in the hill where he saw the parked pedicab that he knew Yarrd took to get there. They never rode off the hill path. That was the rule in the fields. Everything was to be on foot to preserve the terrain for the goats.

“What did he say about Darrii?” Yarrd asked, now feeling concerned.

“Nothing repeatable,” Zeldar replied, hopping into the driver’s seat.

The footman hurried to the vehicle and waved Zeldar back to the passenger’s seat. “Come on sir, you know you are not allowed.”

“Don’t be silly, Yarrd,” Zeldar returned, grasping the handlebars cheerfully. “I’ve steered these many times. I’ve become quite adept at it now, though I have had a tumble twice while learning.”

But the footman remained stationary, waving him still back to the passenger’s seat. “How would it look sir, if a young nobleman such as yourself, were driving the servant. It would be scandalous.”

“It would be novel, Yarrd,” Zeldar replied with a smirk. “Hop on in and quit dilly dallying.”

“I cannot,” the servant replied respectfully. “I would not be the instrument to you losing your inheritance.”

Zeldar made a face and huffed, climbing back into the passenger’s seat with resigned reluctance. He then leaned over the back of the driver’s seat and said, “I’ll humor you today…. But really Yarrd, it would take a scandal of magnanimous proportions for me to lose my inheritance. My grandfather was specific in his provisions of his will. I’d have to have an affair with another man’s wife or become some kind of national criminal for me to lose my lands. Nobody arrests a nobleman’s son for driving a pedicab.”

Still, the servant was quite satisfied once Zeldar had moved. Yarrd climbed into the driver’s seat and started the motor at once.

They lifted off the ground lightly and hovered, resting only gently on the wheels that rolled on the path. It didn’t exactly fly. It wasn’t built for that. But the hover mechanism made it so that speed was more manageable and the shock of the road was almost nil. It was a great invention of the modern age. Zeldar’s father bought several as soon as he knew the value of them.

The trip down the hill went swiftly. Zeldar smiled as the wind whipped his hair about his face. It reminded him of something he felt in a dream he had forgotten, a pleasant dream he wished to have back. As they zoomed down over the rocks and the bumps, they went over hills and downward until they could see the fringes of the main estate, which accommodated a small lodge of ten rooms. The edges of the trees that contained a walnut grove among the other fruit trees gleaned by the locals when they weren’t visiting, were now in view. Zeldar grinned broader.

He called forward to the footman, “Why did Stepmother come anyway? I thought she hated the fresh air of the country? Didn’t she swear she was going to reside in the city forever and die of lung cancer?”

The footman said nothing. It was safer not too. Despite Zeldar’s sincere friendliness with the servants and workers employed by his father, no one dared get too close to him when the stepmother was around. She took it as a sign of blasphemy committed by her stepson and the villainous peasant that dared step above their station to speak to him at all.

“Your silence is not encouraging,” Zeldar said after a while. He leaned sorrowfully back into his seat.

The path took them through the groves. Zeldar watched the blur of the fruit pickers, their ladders and the colorful trees around them. They then zipped into the more open grasses of the lawn where the vehicle slowed down and settled on the gravel that made the drive. There, the family coach sat parked with the driver seated, reading a newspaper.

“Ho there, Dzhon!” Zeldar called out, standing up and smiling with a wave.

The driver looked up and nodded kindly to him.

“Is my father in or has he gone touring?” Zeldar hopped out of the pedicab. The footman followed him with a disapproving air at Zeldar’s familiar behavior. His expression warned the driver to not be so familiar. The driver got the message.

“His lordship is in the manor, sir,” the driver said with an unusually polite bow.

Rolling his eyes, Zeldar strode over. “And I suppose my stepmother is in there also. Or is she lurking about in the bushes to catch us talking?”

This made the driver laugh. He caught himself when he saw the footman’s warning glare.

Clearing his throat, the driver replied, “My ladyship is also in the manor with your lordship’s brothers and sisters, preparing for their village tour. I hear your lordship has been summoned to join them presently.”

To this, Zeldar laughed out loud and nodded with a click of his heels in the proper manner. “Well then, oh noble driver of our humble family car, what do you suggest my lordship to do to avoid certain said ladyship that has harbored in wait within the abode yonder?”

Ignoring the footman’s irate stares at the both of them, and the driver replied with a smile, “I suggest you enter through the back window. She’ll be watching the servants’ doors. The doorman has been ordered to announce your arrival if you come by the main doors. Undoubtedly, she intends to mock your herdsman attire.”

“That is uncalled for speech,” the footman said. “She’ll hear of this. Be forewarned.”

“Fink,” Zeldar replied back and promptly crept down to walk around the house as the driver suggested.

The driver hopped out of his covered perch and placed a hand on the footman’s shoulder, hissing into his ear, “Leave him be. You’d sneak around if you had a stepmother like that.”

 

Zeldar crept through the bushes under the window, sneaking past gardeners that would have to tell if they saw him. Despite their fondness of him, the household workers were terrified of his stepmother just as much as he was, if not more. She had fired so many in her day and set others to tears. One even had a nervous breakdown. Zeldar had witnessed it on a morning ages ago when his stepmother quibbled over the eggs they were eating. She seemed to take great joy in breaking people now and then just to revel in the fact that she could do it.

Climbing under the window, Zeldar peered up into the opening. It opened into the conservatory where they kept their instruments. It was empty, thankfully. But the window, when he pushed on it, was stuck.

Grimacing, Zeldar crept down again towards another window and carefully peered in. Immediately he ducked down though. There was Dazder, his six-and-a-half-year-old[1] half-brother—the biggest gullible pest on the planet—pulling his half-sister’s curls and taking her candy-coated fruit the kitchen maid must have given her on arrival. The kitchen maid liked Minwel more than all the other kids (and that included Zeldar), and always made special treats for her that Dazder often liked to snitch when she wasn’t looking.

Ducking down again, Zeldar peered into another window where he only saw five other servants talking and laughing about something he could only barely hear through the glass—all about him, of course. They were taking bets on whether he was going to get caught by his stepmother. Knowing their tendency to turn him in for a prank, he decided against entering that room also.

Zeldar crawled back to the conservatory window. Minwel was now in that room, crying and closing the door to have privacy. Biting his lip, Zeldar tapped on the glass then ducked down. Minwel crossed the room and peered out the window, still rubbing her red eyes. They glittered despite her misery. Standing up slowly, Zeldar motioned to the window latch. His half-sister looked at him disapprovingly, but she turned the latch at once and opened the window.

“You’re going to catch it sneaking in this way,” Minwel said with a shake of her head.

With a heave, Zeldar pulled himself over the ledge and replied with a cough, “Better that than your mother yelling at me for being dressed below my station.”

Minwel smirked, yet said nothing.

Zeldar turned over and sat on the floor with his feet still hanging out the window. Contemplating his dirty herding boots for a moment, he glanced up at his five-year-old[2] half-sister and said, “I doubt I can get away walking though the house like this. Any suggestions?”

Minwel walked over and untied his laces at once. “Sneaking around in stocking feet is suspicious, Zeldar, but it is better than leaving tracks. Mom’ll be watching for those.”

He smiled at her and reached up to take his boots off. There was one thing to be said for the kitchen maid, she had good judgment in people. Zeldar had always liked Minwel. He never said so, even to her, but he attributed her good nature to his father’s influence, a Tarrn through and through—unlike Dazder who took entirely after his mother in every respect from his pettiness to his temper. He was even meticulously neat in the same way Zeldar’s stepmother was. The only proof he was a Tarrn were his looks, which made him more like Zeldar than he himself liked. And Dazder was always overeager to point out they were merely half-brothers just to prove he was of better blood in some way.

With his boots in hand, Zeldar sat cross-legged with a smile on his face, watching Minwel close and lock the window again.

“You are too nice to me, Min,” he said, getting onto his feet. “Your mom might not approve of us even sitting in the same room. She seems to think I’m a scoundrel.”

“You are a scoundrel,” Minwel replied with an innocent smile. “But better a scoundrel than what Dazder is—a thief.”

“I saw,” Zeldar replied with a nod. “I’ll get Darrii to get you another fruit stick.”

“Don’t bother,” Minwel replied hastily. “If you saw me and told her, Mom might figure out where you saw it happen, and then you’re through.”

Walking to the door and peeking out, he replied, “I’m probably pre-mortem anyway. Bentarr is playing behind the door. I can’t get out without being spotted.”

Minwel rolled her eyes then said, “I’ll take care of that. You hide behind the door.”

Zeldar bent over and kissed her on the top of her head. “Thanks, sis. You are one in a million.”

She shook her head, replying in a hiss, “No, just call me a sneak, and I’ll be happy. I’m sick of people thinking I’m such a little lady they have to pamper.”

Almost laughing, Zeldar said, “Then talk to Dad. I’m sure he’d let you spend summers here with me.”

“But Mom won’t,” Minwel replied and opened the door.

At once she began to tease their little three-year-old[3] miniature copy of Dazder, including temper. The boy kicked back with a wail before running to his mother. As soon as he was gone, Minwel waved for Zeldar to come out.

With haste, Zeldar, pulled open the door and dashed in his stocking feet towards the wide stairs that swept up to upper rooms of the manor house. He nearly slipped, skidding over the shiny wooden floor, and tripped on the rug, catching himself on the railing of the stair banister. Luckily no one was in the room to witness it but Minwel, and she quickly turned to be in another room so as she would not be an eyewitness. Zeldar scrambled up the stairs a bit too rapidly, and almost tripped again. He caught himself with a slight thud then hurried up the rest of the way to the top carpet.

“You sneak! I see you!” The high-pitched squeaking changeable voice of a six-year-old[4] shouted in a painful echo. “Mother!”

Zeldar shot Dazder one dirty glare before sprinting down the hall in thunderous leaps to his private room, slamming the door shut with too much haste. He swiftly stripped of his clothes for the shower. Not even after two breaths did he hear the harsh pounding on his bedroom door and the shrill shouts of his stepmother to open it immediately.

Of course, he ignored the yells and leapt into the shower, turning on the hot water immediately. Of course, it was still cold, only recently turned on for his father’s arrival. Zeldar had not used the house at all when he stayed with the herdsmen. He found it a waste of energy and counterproductive to being among the herders as one of the men.

“I know you’re in there, Zeldar! Open this door!” she shouted louder. “I’ll get a key and unlock it myself if you don’t!”

Zeldar wet down his hair and face and hastily soaped up to get off the grime and stench of goats that permeated his whole body. It was lucky that the soaps were so fragrant, though he despised the scent of them: too flowery. However, it was better to smell like daffodils than goats in that house.

“Zeldar! I’m warning you!” His stepmother shouted once more.

Rolling his eyes, the young deviant rinsed off all the soap with a shiver. He shook out his hair, running his fingers through his blonde curls before turning off the shower. With a drip, drip, drip echoing in his ears, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it quickly around his waist for protection. The jiggling of his bedroom lock was growing steadily louder, and he had not managed to close his bathroom door when he entered.

Stepping right from the shower, Zeldar came immediately face to face with his stepmother, a feat indeed since a year before he was staring at her chin, wondering why in heaven’s name he had not grown taller since both his parents were quite tall. Now he was somewhat taller than her. With an irritated grin, Zeldar wiped his dripping hair out of his eyes, clutching his towel with his other hand.

“What is it? Can’t I shower in peace?” Zeldar snapped, trying hard to seem justly annoyed.

But his act did not work. His stepmother glared at him as she said, “You just jumped in two seconds ago, you little sneak.”

Letting go of the charade, Zeldar walked across the room to his dresser where he drew it open. “Why don’t you call me a big sneak, I’m taller than you now.”

“You impudent scoundrel,” his stepmother snapped with a great turn of her skirt. It flowed with taffeta and lace, looking extra flouncy as she trounced over to where he was fishing out a clean shirt. “I know you snuck into this house by covert means. I have witnesses.”

“Shall I be arrested?” Zeldar replied dryly, trying not to sound upset that she had him.

“You should,” his stepmother replied with a bite of her teeth. She tugged on the cuffs of her lacy gloves as if she needed them to keep the filth of his room off her. Standing at her elbow was Dazder and one of his other half-brothers, Miilkin, a whiny babyish boy of four and a half[5] who was even worse company than Dazder was because he simpered for favor and never smiled. At least Dazder had confidence and self-respect.

“Then why don’t you,” Zeldar said with a snap to his voice that only he dared when he felt unjustly accused. “I, for one, see no point to it. You knew I was on the mountain with the herdsmen. If you wanted me to enter with any dignity then perhaps you should not have made me feel like a fugitive by setting guards about the place.”

“Don’t you dare make such inferences about me,” his stepmother snapped back, raising her chest indignantly. “I did no such thing.”

“The servants were taking bets whether I’d get caught,” Zeldar bit back while yanking out a pair of button flap trousers. “I saw them.”

She flustered and lifted her chin as if to set her dignity higher than his—which, considering that she was fully dressed and he still stood in his towel, was not hard to muster. “A low man bases his assumptions on the shenanigans of household help.”

“And a wise man knows that when things are astir among the servants, internal trouble is afoot,” Zeldar replied.

He grabbed a pair of socks and underclothes and returned at once to the bathroom.

“Do not turn your back on me! I am speaking to you!” his stepmother shouted at him. She actually stomped her foot then, making Miilkin and Dazder jump.

Zeldar rolled his eyes and turned slowly around, still gripping his towel in one hand while his clothes were draped over his shoulder getting damp from his dripping hair. “Do you prefer that I change here then, Madame? I will if you insist.” He then proceeded to fumble with his towel.

Flushing red with new indignity and a greater embarrassment at what she had indeed commanded him to do, Zeldar’s stepmother spun round and stomped out of his bedroom with a shout. “I will speak with your father about your shameless indiscretion, Zeldar! You can be sure of that!”

She slammed the door behind her. Dazder and Miilkin left with her. Happily, Zeldar locked his door again, dropping his towel to the floor and proceeded to dress.

 

Not even a second after he had pulled on his smart black socks did the door shake with a firm knock. He looked up and trembled with the thought that it was his father. Taking a second, Zeldar reached over and picked up his clean boots and unfastened the clasps.

The door knocked again, this time with a voice after. “My lord, your father wishes to speak with you in his study.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, Zeldar pulled on his boot and called out, “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute, Harrz.”

“Yes, young sir,” their gentleman porter returned. Zeldar heard his soft footfalls echo away from the door down the hall.

Quickly, Zeldar took his other boot and opened the clasps to put it on. After stomping in them to make sure they fit, he locked the clasps and stood up straight. Drawing in a breath, Zeldar strode to the door. He put his hand on the door lever and pushed it down to open it, hoping that his father was only mildly irritated by his stepmother’s report. It was one thing having her harping on him. But to receive the disapproval of his father smarted worse than a thousand of his stepmother’s shrieking lectures in his face.

He stepped into the hall onto the thick carpet. Closing his door behind him, Zeldar took one step towards the stair where he expected to meet the usual barrage of guilt-making remarks from family and servants.

“You’re in for it this time,” Dazder said, suddenly appearing on the landing as if lying in wait to attack first.

“Stuff it, twerp,” Zeldar said, walking more proudly down the hall to the stair in a larger stride.

Dazder followed after him and jeered. “You still smell like a goat, half-breed.”

Not even giving his half-brother a second look, Zeldar replied with relative calm, “Better than smelling like you, half-wit.”

That made Dazder curse out loud. It set a grin on Zeldar’s face because soon after he heard Bentarr yelling, “You said a swear! I’m telling Mom. Mom!”

Zeldar continued down the stairs as his younger brothers bickered on the landing above. With two down and only whimpering Miilkin to go, there was little to bother him now except the betting servants.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Zeldar proceeded at once to the wide hall, passing the library and the family room where he glimpsed Miilkin whining at Minwel for a bite of her second candy fruit. Minwel noticed her elder brother pass by, but pretended not to see him so Miilkin wouldn’t, skipping quickly from the door and leading him on with one promised piece. Then Zeldar passed the dining room where their serving girls, Triin and Sawiin, were setting the plates and crystal goblets and a flagon of creamed juice, undoubtedly for guests they were expecting. They did not see him, which was good. He then passed the kitchen where several house servants were snickering about the argument they heard up stairs. One man was bickering that Zeldar had not been caught sneaking in; therefore he won by technicality. The other argued back that Dazder caught him and therefore the other still owed him money. At this, Zeldar had to stop and stick his head in the room, too infuriated not to pass by without remark.

“Technically, I was caught coming in. Minwel let me in at the window. But unlike some people, she doesn’t turn traitor for her own amusement,” he said with a sharp nod.

They all turned, surprised at his voice, and more so at his intense glare.

He then nodded to the kitchen maid. “I saw Dazder steal her candy fruit earlier, so you had better keep an eye out for him again. He’s in a vengeful mood right now.”

With that, he turned from the door and continued on.

Zeldar reached the end of the hall and turned right where there was a shiny stained wood door. He took a hold of the handle and pushed it down but did not open it yet. Drawing in a strengthening breath, Zeldar closed his eyes and hoped that his father wasn’t seriously upset with him. Pushing it open, he stepped into the room.

“Son…” he heard his father say before opening his eyes.

Zeldar opened his eyes and saw his father sitting in his high-backed chair with his one leg crossed over his knee. He was looking at a creased stack of papers in his hands. It looked like a typed letter by the nice paper and the bleed-through ink on the other side. His father was gazing at him with a sober expression that was neither angry nor happy.

“Close the door,” his father said nodding to the doorway.

He did as he was bidden, shutting the door with care and stepping forward to hear his father’s judgment. Putting his hands behind his back, Zeldar cleared his throat and attempted to speak in his defense. It never came out. His father spoke first.

“Must you persist at tormenting your stepmother?” his father asked immediately.

Zeldar flushed as his retort came more readily. “I did nothing of the sort. She walked in on me as I was getting out of the shower. I was startled.”

His father gave him a sly look and leaned forward, uncrossing his legs as he did. “Is that so? She said you threatened to walk in front of her naked.”

Rolling his eyes now, Zeldar replied, “I was attempting to change my clothes in the privacy of the bathroom. She insisted that I remain and listen to her while wearing nothing but my towel. I was merely making it plain to her that it was an inappropriate moment to talk with her just then.”

Sighing loudly, Lord Tarrn sat back in the chair. He gazed toward the window in silence, watching the fruit pickers that were coming in with bushels of it for the manor guests.

He said in a tired voice, “Zeldar, you must cut short these feuds with your stepmother. And don’t you tell me she started it either. You are a young man now. You can no longer blame your actions upon those of another, even if that other person is antagonistic towards you. Understood?”

Zeldar nodded, lowering his head and sighing like his father. He also glanced out the window, if only for a moment to see what his father was looking at.

“You are, as of this day, to enter complete gentlemen society. I will have dinner guests coming over this night—two gentlemen, their ladies and some young women of courting age. After tonight we are to go to town where Lord Barrwan is having a party where other young ladies and gentlemen will be gathering.” His father paused. He turned and looked at Zeldar plainly. “You are to be on your best behavior tonight, as what you do will reflect on me and the rest of the family of Tarrn. You are no longer a child, my boy.”

There was no answer to that declaration. Zeldar nodded again to his father, murmuring, “Yes, sir.”

There was silence again. Zeldar’s father gazed on his son for some time then held out the paper he had in his hands. “I received this yesterday, which urged my arrival here to see you. I have been contemplating it for some time without any answer. And now I am asking you. Why is Ferr’durnak University writing me saying that you did not reply to their acceptance letter?”

The silence after his words was as thick as cake, and Zeldar found it hard to swallow.

Clearing his throat, yet not meeting his father’s eyes, Zeldar replied with a small shake to his voice, “Uh, well… because I did not choose to go to Ferr’durnak University.”

Cul’rii Tarrn sat forward in his chair. He stared more steadily on his son. “Did not choose…? What? Don’t tell me you are still entertaining that notion of becoming a goat herder? I thought that notion died from you when you were five[6]?”

Zeldar shook his head, replying with haste. “Oh, no sir. I never really seriously considered that. I was just saying that to get my stepmother angry.”

“What then?” his father shouted, shaking the typed pages in Zeldar’s face. “Why have you rejected the highest university in our nation? Ferr’durnak University wants you, Zeldar! That is something to be proud of!”

Bowing his head with a twitch of pain, Zeldar replied, “Indeed Father, I know that. But I do not want Ferr’durnak. They’re full of presumptuous old windbags. And I can’t stand another year with Ferr Wil and his gang of idiots.”

“They’re your friends!” his father exclaimed with some puzzlement.

Nodding with a grimace, Zeldar replied, “So they say. However, they are nothing more than back-stabbing snot boys that couldn’t care about anything more than their pocketbooks and reputations.”

“I would that you should care about your reputation more,” his father replied. “I heard you got into a fight with that friend of yours, that Ferr. What was that about?”

“Nothing I can repeat,” Zeldar replied darkly, turning to glare at the wall.

Cul’rii remained silent for some time before saying, “Are you indeed refusing to attend the university simply because of some fight you had on the last day of school?”

Turning back around, Zeldar shook his head adamantly. “No, sir. I’m refusing Ferr’durnak for many reasons.”

“List them and enlighten me,” Cul’rii replied. “It was my university after all.”

Nodding, and taking a breath, Zeldar held out his fingers to count.

“First off,” he said, taking courage to speak his mind, “Ferr’durnak houses the biggest windbag teachers this side of Arras. Namely: Prof Tharser Ben, Prof Pransk Hiilt, and old Mr. Quordisii. Secondly…”

“What is wrong with Quordisii?” his father exclaimed at once. “I don’t personally know this Tharser or that Pransk, but Quordisii taught me when I was young, and he is one of the best Sociology instructors I ever knew.”

Zeldar rolled his eyes. “He’s outdated, Father. His information is thirty years old. And he hates those of Orr’ras tradition.”

That silenced his father who knew Zeldar was intensely sensitive to any criticism over his Orr’ras heritage.

“As for Pransk, he’s not so bad, just stupid.” Yet Zeldar’s face hardened afterward as he said, “But Tharser is a villain. He gave lectures to all the school halls last year and the year before that, promoting this new social theory he had come up with. That man endorses the deification of the wealthy over the common people. He seems to think that birth in certain social classes dictates some genetic superiority. And I can’t stand listening to nonstop nonsense.”

His father remained silent. Then he closed his eyes and asked, “Is that all? Three professors?”

“No,” Zeldar replied, lifting his hand again. “I also do not like the company. So yes, do not wish to attend two more years of my educational experience with those pompous pricks anymore. I’d rather go on foreign exchange to the Aba than attend another year with Ferr, Culsii, and spoiled Terrnaq.”

“I never knew you thought this way,” his father replied, sitting back in his chair now. “But don’t you think you could always make other friends?”

“With the others remaining around? They’d know something was afoot,” Zeldar replied sourly.

His father raised his eyebrows. “Then they don’t know they fell out of your favor?”

“They know,” Zeldar snapped to the floor, for he dared not speak so harshly to his father. “But for face sake, they’d not let me alone if I sought other company after so many years.” He paused. “You know they call me goat-boy behind my back.”

His father shook his head. “Well, that is your own doing. You keep quoting the goat herding philosophies to them all the time. Young men that are not in the trade generally do not understand the nobility of it.”

Zeldar snorted and looked more directly at his father. “Oh? Father…they call me goat-boy because they envy me and my inheritance, and they have nothing on me to truly vex me, excluding my lineage.”

“Which they do not hold against you?” Cul’rii Tarrn asked with mild curiosity.

Shaking his head, Zeldar replied, “Who would dare? They know that if they did, I would no longer hold them in my favor. Calling me goat-boy is safe.”

“So then why did you strike young Ferr Wil? Did he make such a remark?” his father asked.

Drawing himself up, Zeldar said, “No sir. But he offended my sensibilities and honor by talking dirty about our steward’s daughter, Darrii.”

Cul’rii stood up from his chair at once. “What did he say?”

“I won’t repeat it,” Zeldar said, looking away and folding his arms. “It is entirely detestable.”

“You will tell me,” his father demanded. “If our steward’s daughter has a tainted reputation—”

Zeldar turned at once and snapped back, “It was nothing that she did! Ferr tried to take advantage of her when he was visiting us last break. I didn’t find out about it until that last day. He was bragging about how much he grabbed before she got away—crying. He’s nothing more than a loathsome fiend, and I will have nothing to do with him anymore.”

His father’s silence spoke for him. Zeldar was believed utterly. Cul’rii turned and sighed. Shaking his head, he said slowly, “Has Darrii said anything about it?”

Zeldar shook his head. “I did not think there was a proper occasion to ask. I daresay she would want to forget the incident ever happened.”

They were silent for some time, neither one speaking or moving for several minutes.

At last, Zeldar’s father said, “Are those all your objections for attending Ferr’durnak University?”

Wetting his lips, Zeldar replied, “I have one more.”

His father’s silence told him to continue.

Clearing his throat, Zeldar said, “I want to go to Red Hall Academy.”

This seemed a greater shock than being told that he didn’t want to attend his father’s Alma Mater. Cul’rii stared at him for several minutes, wide-eyed and speechless. When he at last found his voice, he said with a slight wheeze, “Red Hall? Why? That place is substandard!”

Zeldar let out a breath and drew up his courage. “Father, it is not. It has the best practical business program in the nation. I’ve studied it for a long time. Almost all successful businessmen that built their way up attended Red Hall. Besides,” Zeldar added, “Supreme Judge Rran graduated from there, and he is the most honorable man of our age.”

“He is also two generations dead,” his father returned. “The Red Hall Academy may have once been one of Arras’ best universities, but now it is a relic of the past. Ferr’durnak University surpasses it ten times over in supplies, faculty, and location. Red Hall in the middle of the city near all the ruckus, hardly a good study environment.”

“Father,” Zeldar said back, not giving up, “Red Hall Academy is in the center of things where life really happens, not in some isolated campus where things are green only because some overpaid gardener has free time to spray paint the grass.”

“They don’t do that,” Cul’rii snapped. “That is a false rumor.”

Rolling his eyes, Zeldar continued all the same. “The point is Red Hall Academy accepted me last month, and I’m going at the end of this one.”

“No, you aren’t,” his father said back, standing up. “You are attending Ferr’durnak University like a gentleman, and I will hear no argument out of you.”

Zeldar closed his mouth as if ready to comply with his father’s command. He bowed as he said, “I will be going to Red Hall. I hate Ferr’durnak.”

Both men stared at each other in silence, neither one stepping down from his position.

“I wish I could blame your willfulness on your mother as your stepmother so frequently does, but I know your mother was an angel,” his father said at last. “You get your willfulness from me.”

Zeldar tried to hide his smile, but it still came out in his eyes. He knew he had won from his father’s words.

“I will make you a deal,” Cul’rii said.

Zeldar nodded back to him.

“I will allow you to attend the Red Hall Academy for one term. Then you must spend one term at Ferr’durnak University,” he said.

His son opened his mouth to protest, but he never spoke a word.

“I think you will be able to see for yourself which one is superior,” Zeldar’s father said.

Snapping his mouth shut, Zeldar took in the offer and bit the inside of his cheek contemplating his response. He said, “If I discover that I do indeed prefer Red Hall to Ferr’durnak, am I allowed to return there the following year?”

Drawing in a breath with a sigh, Cul’rii nodded. “If for some strange reason you do prefer that shambled place, then you can go there. But only if you remain within your studies and out of trouble.”

“Not a problem,” Zeldar said at once. “I will go to study, not to seek a different night life than what is acceptable to you, Father.”

“You had better not,” Cul’rii said walking to the door to let Zeldar out. “For you could not afford a scandal with your inheritance on the line.”

Zeldar smiled and then embraced his father with a hug. “Thank you. You won’t regret this.”

“I do,” his father responded with an amused smile. “But I believe in a bit of freedom for the young and impetuous.”

Ignoring his father’s last remark, Zeldar strode out the door and into the hall with a wide grin on his face. He strolled all the way back past the kitchen and stopped. There he stuck his head in and said, “If you took bets on whether or not I’d get punished. I’d say I didn’t.”

With a laugh, Zeldar exited the room and proceeded back to his own room without further interference.

“Pay up,” the porter said to the chef once Zeldar was gone.

 

[1] 13 years on Earth

[2] eleven earth years approx

[3] Six-year-old earth years

[4] Thirteen-year-old earth years

[5] Nine years

[6] ten years old

As a Performer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two:

 

 

The dinner party was undeniably dull, according to Zeldar who had to endure it. Listening to the formidable businessmen talking the hour away about how much profit they made in speculating the past year while the women gossiped with his stepmother about what so-and-so was wearing that was so ghastly, made him feel like his ears would soon bleed. But that was nothing to the three young ladies who sat across from him. They made eyes at him, smiling, while trying to show off their ample cleavage to draw his eye. One girl kept running her slender fingers along the line of her dress collar, trying not to look interested. Yet she cast a glance his way every so often to see if he had noticed. Basically, Zeldar spent most of the evening staring at the ceiling, inspecting the one cobweb that the servants had somehow missed when they cleaned up that morning before the arrival of his father and family.

“So, tell me, young Zeldar,” at last one of the older men addressed him, leaning over his full plate of crème of Qalgerr, barely touched. “When do you plan to get into the trade? I hear you are of age to inherit now.”

The girls all watched him intently at the mention of him gaining his fortune soon. His stepmother clenched her teeth and remained silent. None of the other family was in the room except for his father, since the children always dined separate when company was present.

Clearing his throat and wiping his mouth on his napkin because he had just taken a particularly large scoop of Qalgerr he had hoped would get him out of the need of speaking to the ladies, Zeldar said, “I have actually chosen to delay my claim to my inheritance until after college. I feel that I should be better versed in business before taking on any of the duties of the family company.”

His father smiled at his perfect answer. Even his stepmother nodded in approval.

“Indeed,” Cul’rii rejoined, “We discussed it in detail and feel that for the sake of Tarrn enterprises it is best that Zeldar not start any work with the company until he is well educated in economics, theory, and good public relations—practices which we highly value within the company.”

It was all business conversation again after that, and the men left Zeldar out of their conversation once more. The ladies, however, leaned in closer with flirtatious smiles.

“Oh, but why delay?” asked a young woman Zeldar guessed to be only eight[1] fresh out of finishing school. She had a twinkle in her overly trained eye. “I hear the best teacher is experience. You could have a house of your own. Be your own man.”

With frankness not meant to insult, Zeldar said with a tired sigh, “I’m afraid the constraints of society will never allow that, for I will always be somebody’s man and never my own. Either I am my father’s son, or doomed to be somebody’s husband.”

All three girls flustered at his tone. However, it also made them go silent and give up flirting, which was Zeldar’s purpose after all.

 

They parted from the dinner party only to prepare for the evening ball they were to attend. Though he desired to remain home, Zeldar did not vocalize his wishes. He dressed into his better suit coat as bidden without a word of complaint. With their party from the dinner, the Tarrn household joined them out in front of the manor and entered their coach, leaving only the children behind. But Dazder begged to come. His parents allowed him, though he was only six and a half[2] and considered below the company. His mother insisted that he join simply because he was older than his years—or at least that was what she said to convince her husband. Zeldar knew it was really done to stroke Dazder’s ego. It also allowed his stepmother prove who was the better-behaved son—the most-worthy son.

In the growing dark of the evening, the trip to the town was pleasant enough, at first. Zeldar’s stepmother usually remained silent in her criticism when they traveled in tight compartments. Quite possibly it was from fear of no escape in case she actually offended her husband. Dazder sat like a little lord. His chin was up with an air that said he was above all. Zeldar ignored it. Gazing out the window into the night, he watched the stars blink and prick into being with a lingering feeling that he was seeing something so ancient and yet so new. He would have continued in his reverie had not his father cleared his throat.

“Boys, you must be on your best behavior in town,” their father said. “I hear Lord Mannen will be there tonight, and his business is crucial to mine.”

“Of course, Father,” Dazder replied promptly. He then looked smugly for Zeldar’s response.

“Yes, Father,” Zeldar said as always, taking no notice of his brother.

“I’ll be counting on you, Zeldar,” his father continued with a knowing look. “You need to be kinder to the ladies. I saw you tonight at dinner.”

Zeldar felt like moaning, but he knew it was not appropriate then or later. He drew in a breath and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“He really should be seeking a bride soon, shouldn’t he?” his stepmother cut in.

Glancing once at her, Zeldar replied as civilly as he could. “I am well too young to be considering that yet, Madame.”

His father nodded also, but his stepmother replied tersely, “Too young to merely look? A man your age should at least be looking.”

Taking another longing glance at the stars, Zeldar turned and replied, “When men look, they typically find. I do not wish to find anyone this early. Let me finish a few terms of school, Madam, before marrying me off to the insipid choices you place before me.”

“Zeldar, watch your tone,” his father snapped.

Turning back to the window, Zeldar went silent again.

After just a bit of this, his stepmother said, “I think we should consider an arranged marriage for him. Keep him from doing anything rash.”

Zeldar whipped around at once. “Not in this life! I will agree to no such thing.”

“Really, this is too early to talk about it anyway,” Cul’rii replied, trying to calm all that he read between their argument. He knew there were direct implications towards Zeldar’s parentage in her remarks. But he had long stopped arguing directly about his marital choices before he wed his second wife, almost as if he feared to say anything about it in her presence.

Madam Tarrn glared darkly at Zeldar without another word. Zeldar returned her glare. The rest of the trip, both remained silent until they arrived at the social hall and were greeted by Sir Wan and Lord Mannen.

Zeldar’s stepmother hissed in his ear before parting to her group of ladies in the room and leaving him at the door with his father to make pleasantries with the noblemen there. “You will either be a gentleman or a scoundrel, but you will not have the last word in my house.”

Without even looking at her, Zeldar drew himself up and pretended not to be affronted. He faked a grin and bow for the lords there.

 

The ball was all Zeldar expected it to be. He had been to several before. The ladies gossiped about the usual things, and the men bragged in their corners. There was dancing of course, but none of it was the fun lively stuff that the real locals danced on summer nights. The high society did not get into high kicks and laughter—unless it was snickering behind people’s backs about some scandal. Typically, their dances constituted taking a partner about the room with a little skipping involved. The steps were almost the same as a common dance, but speed was meant to be slow, graceful and elegant—unendingly boring in Zeldar’s mind. But the young gentleman had to stroll about with as much dignity as possible, not to give any inclination that he thought the whole evening a waste of time and energy.

After passing Lord Tewoviir with a grand nod and giving good Governor Garrd a smile and a kind ‘hello’, Zeldar strolled to the entrée table and hors d'oeuvres, picking up a crisp to give him something to do. He heard giggling behind him. Then came the warm tenor of a familiar voice. Closing his eyes, Zeldar hoped that voice and its source would walk the other way.

“…And then I said, ‘old chap, with a scarf like that you might as well wrap your whole head up and hide your face’.”

The giggling grew louder in feminine frenzy.

“So did he take it off?” another male voice asked.

Zeldar’s stomach suddenly sickened. That voice he also knew, and the man he definitely did not want to see. He started away from the table, not looking up to pretend he did not hear them.

“Oi, there! Zeldar! I didn’t see you there? Were you standing there the whole time?” The first voice called out to him.

Halting in his tracks, caught, Zeldar turned and put on his pleasant face. “No, Terrnaq. I tend to wander from spot to spot at times. At present I was going over there.”

He then turned to continue on.

Terrnaq laughed and called back. “Well, come and talk with us. You left graduation without a word, and in such a temper. And you have been here a month without even a letter to say if Ferr’durnak accepted you. Don’t be a stranger.”

Zeldar turned once more, retaining his polite smile. He took one step toward his school friend and bowed with a formality he had been using all evening. “So sorry. I’m afraid I am out of sorts this evening, and I promised my father I’d be on my best behavior tonight. So, if you will excuse me…”

He was going to turn again, but the other fellow spoke. “Are you still in a tiff about that mere commoner?”

Zeldar had not even looked at the other man until then. His smile vaporized, nodding curtly to him. “No, Ferr. I am in no tiff. However, you have dishonored my house with your behavior, and I can no longer regard you as a friend. Is that plain enough for you?”

“Water under the bridge,” Terrnaq said standing between them and smiling generously as mediator. He looked at Zeldar. “Let bygones be bygones.”

“You are utterly cliché, and I have no tolerance for that right now, Terrnaq,” Zeldar replied and turned once more to go.

“Are you not going to even try civility?” Ferr said with sharpness in his voice.

Turning once more with a sigh, noticing the watching eyes around them and the listening ears as well as the distant paparazzi that were keeping an eye out for trouble with their cameras ready Zeldar replied, “I am being civil. I am keeping my tongue from speaking what I’d really like to say to you. Consider this our final word to one another, Ferr. For I will not speak to you as a friend again without your full apologies for you actions toward Darrii.”

The man spoken-to rolled his eyes at once and turned to Terrnaq. “He obviously has sunk lower since the end of school. I will not be bunking with him at Ferr’durnak University if I can help it.”

“You most certainly will not,” Zeldar replied. And with that, he left without another word.

The gossip behind him was all too clear though. The hiss of the word, ‘half-breed’ echoed on the conditioned air the fans blew over the steaming room. But the young nobleman in question continued on his journey, not looking back.

Zeldar crossed the room in a slow meander. He wished to lean against the wall in his boredom, but well-bred gentlemen always stood upright, ready to give acknowledging nods to the ladies and lords that stroll by. On his best behavior, all he could do to ease his boredom was to watch the musicians play and pray that he would not have to do anything more than grin and nod the rest of the night.

Of course, that was not to be. It never was, and he knew it. When the quartet finished their concerto, they laid down their instruments at the word of Sir Wan who was the host of the ball. Sir Wan stood in front of the room with an intensely pleased air and bowed to the ladies and gentlemen in the room with the dignity of a city lord. He said in a deep booming voice, “Fellow leaders of our land. Lords. Ladies. Elected officials. Grand businessmen! Welcome!”

Everyone in the room answered him the customary reply of “Thank you,” and let him speak on.

“As is customary at balls such as these, it is time for our accomplished youth to display their talents for our viewing pleasure.” He then bowed directly at Zeldar, who looked up with a start. “And since young master Zeldar Tarrn is nearest the stage, and perhaps one the most accomplished young men in our party, I would ask him to entertain us first with a song. I hear he sings beautifully.”

Zeldar had gone red at once, wishing now he had chosen to stand in the back of the room. Typically, he would have been ignored, as most disapproved of his half-blood status despite his talents and connections. But Sir Wan was indeed a kind man that overlooked such things.

Walking up, as he knew he could not escape now, Zeldar bowed to Sir Wan. Then he strode immediately to the musicians that had been playing all night. Just doing that caused a stir. Many of the noblemen gasped at his casualness at talking directly with the staff, but Sir Wan smiled and waited as good host should. For that matter, it did not seem to bother him in the least, having known Zeldar for many years. The young man had come regularly to his land during the summer, and Zeldar’s father and he were on excellent terms.

When Zeldar stepped from the musicians, one of them lifted a wooden flute to his lips and began to play a light mournful melody everyone recognized. Walking to the edge of the stand, Zeldar lifted his chest, drew in a breath, and sang in his bright tenor the first words to that classic ballad “My Love for a Rose”, which was in fact a tragic story about a young girl who loved a man of nobility but she was bound to marry another. He sang the words with such feeling that the room went silent with surprise and an increase of awe. Some of the women started to cry. They dabbed their eyes with their lace handkerchiefs. The men pretended not to be affected, but even some of them were blinking a bit more than usual to clear their sight.

When Zeldar came to the tragic end of the song where the woman jumped off the cliffs to her death with her hair intertwined with roses and thorns, he gazed into the crowd with a dignity that some later called angelic—such as an archangel with a flaming sword. He looked it with his fiery blonde curls and fair visage. And when he bowed, the applause was thunderous.

“Masterful!” Sir Wan praised as Zeldar moved to step down. “Do another!”

Pained with the idea of performing all night, Zeldar politely said, “As it would be my pleasure, I am sure many others are eager to display their talents. We mustn’t deny them of the pleasure.”

Sir Wan smiled and was about to concede, letting Zeldar take his place back on the floor, but an unwelcome voice called out from the crowd, saying, “But you have so many talents to display, Zeldar. You could become a right musician once you graduate from Ferr’durnak. I know you also play the flute and the long horn. Play some for us.”

It was Terrnaq.

Trying hard to keep smiling, Zeldar looked directly at his old friend from school. “I would not weary you with such a performance.”

But the cries of the crowd suddenly begged him to perform.

Sir Wan gazed toward Cul’rii Tarrn silently. Zeldar did also, looking for some excuse to get out of it.

But Cul’rii stepped forward and nodded. “Play for them on the lute and sing another song to satisfy them, Zeldar.”

“He plays the lute also? What next? The drums?” Ferr exclaimed a little too loudly.

Many heads turned to see the impertinent speaker. Ferr tried to become invisible as soon as he realized he had indeed been loud.

Drawing a breath, Zeldar walked back up to the stand and asked to borrow the lute from the musician in the quintet. The man seemed reluctant to part from his instrument and even surprised that such a talent would be had among the social elite.

Zeldar strode to the center of the stand and pulled on the lute strap, adjusting the fit. Then he checked the stings, tuning and twisting the pegs until he was sure of the sound. Thinking for a moment, he nodded to himself and started strumming. He plucked out a song that was much more cheerful than the last.

 

On the hill of the green near the meadow of the vale,

Down by the stream grow the flowers of the dale

Rustling softly in the wind blowing sweet

There, where my lover and I planned to meet.

 

Singing, tra, la, la, la loo

Ta, tra, la, la lee.

Singing tra, la, la, la loo.

Tra, la, la, la lee.

 

Oh, lovely she danced there in valley of mine,

Wearing daises, and roses, and green meadow vine.

And orchids, and lilies: all gifts less than she

For more than flowers is she the more lovely.

 

Singing, tra, la, la, la loo

Ta, tra, la, la lee.

Singing tra, la, la, la loo.

Tra, la, la, la lee.

 

And I with my lover will sweetly go there

Hand in hand and forever, with eternity to share.

With the riches of nature and the cool open sky

And we will go together, love—together, you and I.

 

Singing, tra, la, la, la loo

Ta, tra, la, la lee.

Singing tra, la, la, la loo.

Tra, la, la, la lee.

 

The applause was more like the rolling of waves, crashing on Zeldar and adding to his growing embarrassment. He quickly bowed. Handing back the lute before anyone suggested an encore, Zeldar stepped down from the spotlight.

“No one would dare go up now after you, Zeldar,” Terrnaq said, striding toward the front stand where Zeldar was fleeing. “You put us all in our places as dabblers in the arts.”

Despite the desire not to talk to this antagonist anymore, Zeldar returned as politely as possible, “I’m sure some will come up with the courage.”

Indeed, a young lady stepped forth and began an aria at once. And even though her voice by far did not have the quality of Zeldar’s, the audience was just as attentive to her as they were of him.

Zeldar was about to retreat to the farthest end of the hall where he could engage someone less obnoxious in a conversation, but Terrnaq persisted in following him with remarks on his lips. “But really Zeldar, you never told us you also played the lute. It is quite scandalous.”

With a tired sigh, Zeldar continued on his trek. “Oh, be serious. If I told you, you’d make me play at every party, and then I’d never have any fun.”

“It really is going overboard though, wasting so much of your time on silly instruments. What use is it?” Ferr said, still with his friend.

Zeldar stopped and turned with a glare. “Wasting my time?”

“Really…” Ferr replied with a shake of his head, still not wise enough to see the danger he was in talking to Zeldar. “What use it is except to act like a monkey in front of other people? You can hire musicians.”

To that Zeldar let out an ungracious moan and continued on without a word.

Both men stared for a second and then persisted to follow after him.

“Are you still not going to talk to us? Are you still going to be petty about past events?” Ferr called out.

Several people around them silenced their conversations and listened in now. The paparazzi stirred on the other side of the wall, lifting their heads and grasping their cameras. One moved from his station.

Zeldar noticed and turned with a pained grin. “A man has his options to do as he pleases. Now I am asking you two to leave me be. I am in no mood to deal with either of you at present.”

“Deal with us?” Ferr snapped. “Of all the impertinent—”

“Ah! Zeldar! I thought I saw you escaping this way,” another unwelcome voice unexpectedly broke in, unaware of the conversation that was taking place.

Zeldar looked up and smiled politely at one of his old school instructors. Right behind him was another face he wished he did not have to meet—Professor Tharser himself, along with Lord Mannen.

Behaving himself as his father wished, Zeldar bowed to each and said, “And what may I do for you, sir?”

“See! I told you. A proper gentleman,” his teacher said to both the professor and the lord. He then turned to Zeldar. “These gentlemen wish to have an acquaintance with you. Professor Tharser has just informed me that you have been late in your acceptance to Ferr’durnak University, and he was concerned that you were ill.”

Zeldar let his eyes meet the professor’s. He read no such concern at all. In fact, the professor’s eyes were probing and dark, though his face was that of decorum and decency.

“Well, sir, you can inform him at once that I am quite well, however reluctant to start at Ferr’durnak at present.”

“You will be attending Ferr’durnak University, will you not?” Prof Tharser asked with a tone of concern, though his eyes spoke differently.

With a calm smile now, standing with increasing confidence, and with a glance to his smug and eager classmates, Zeldar said, “Not the first semester. I will be joining you in the second.”

“Ah,” Lord Mannen said with a pleased nod and warm agreeable smile. “You are going into the business early, I see. A semester in the field…correct? That is a grand move.”

But Zeldar bowed his head more humbly and replied, “I am afraid not, sir. I will be engaged in an experiment for the first semester. It is an agreement between my father, and I that I am not privy to speak about at present.”

Though all three men looked interested at once, they all had the tact to remain silent after that.

Ferr did not.

“An experiment? What kind?” Ferr said louder than necessary.

Heads turned and figures passed from the far wall now to investigate the noise in that corner.

Zeldar drew in a breath and replied in a darker tone, “Ferr, do not inquire that which I do not wish to divulge. I have already said I would not.”

His old school buddy huffed. “You are indeed cad. We were friends.”

“Once,” Zeldar replied with a snap he should not have used. However, he bowed to the older company and said, “I am sorry. Tonight, I am out of sorts. I beg you would excuse me.”

With that, Zeldar retreated once again to the far corner of the room, leaving the five men to gossip on their own. And indeed, they did gossip at once.

“See?” Zeldar’s instructor said. “The boy is well-mannered, full of wit, and has good self-control. However, as you have witnessed, his temper lately has been flaring.”

“He struck me,” Ferr said with an indignant air. “Right on the last day of class.”

Lord Mannen gazed down on him with a disdainful gaze. “Who needs to wonder why? You have to learn manners young Ferr Wil. What I know of the Tarrn family is that they do have tempers, which they control with great skill unless a great effrontery disturbs it.”

“I’d say it was his mother’s influence,” Prof Tharser mildly replied. “You know she was an Orr’rras. Those people are always more emotional than sensible.”

Zeldar’s teacher nodded in agreement.

But Lord Mannen snorted. “Absurd. The Orr’ras are a spiritual people. I have dealt with them myself. I tell you, his temper comes from his father. Cul’rii becomes rather indignant when offended. And as for Zeldar, I see his father in him, not his mother.”

“That’s because you have never seen him in his private quarters,” Terrnaq said wryly.

Ferr nodded.

“Zeldar spends his mornings doing meditations that those Orr’ras do,” Terrnaq said.

“He is such a prude when it comes to girls,” Ferr added.

“And he never imbibes. Not in spirits, wine, or even a small beer at a party,” Terrnaq also put. “The man is a regular wet blanket at parties like these. And he talks all the time about how much more lively commoner parties are.”

“And his eyes are just creepy,” Ferr added with a nod. “Have you ever looked at them? So blue I’d say they were looking inward rather than outward. And he has these dreams—”

“He goes to commoner parties?” Prof Tharser asked, cutting Ferr off.

Terrnaq nodded. “Every summer. His father lets him work with the goat herders each summer. He dresses like them, sleeping with the goats.”

“You don’t say!” Prof Tharser said in shock that was half sincere. “With the herdsmen?”

Terrnaq nodded again. “We came over one summer to surprise him, and stay at their lodge with him. And do you know what? He never uses it when the rest of the Tarrn family is gone. He stays with the herdsmen in their homes or on the mountainside. When we got to the house, it was all locked up. And their yard servants, the only ones around, told us where he was. When we went up the hill to find him, he was wearing this rough smelling tunic, trotting with the goats at a watering hole surrounded by other goat men.”

“Scandalous!” Professor Tharser gasped with glee.

But Lord Mannen laughed. The dignified lord shook his head. “What did you expect? Young Zeldar spent his early childhood on that mountain. If you have forgotten, Cul’rii himself had renounced his inheritance to marry that Orr’ras woman. I met her myself, years ago. She was quite a beauty, so much that I might have done the same. And so sweet, she was.”

“Well, she didn’t rub off on Zeldar,” Ferr said with a snort.

“Aye, but she did,” Lord Mannen replied darkly to Ferr, whom he had now taken a dislike to. “Zeldar is as honest and good as she. He is also much wiser than you lot, wise to know his company and how to address them. I saw how he held himself when we arrived. I’d say Cul’rii raised a fine son. And I would be pleased to do business with him in the future.”

No man chose to speak for some time after that. Except Prof Tharser, who did not seem to feel the burden of Lord Mannen’s influence. All he said was: “All the same, Lord Mannen, that boy is a threat to the fabric of society. A sly half-blood had no place in honest Quarr society. You mark my words, he will cause trouble sooner or later. You will have to choose how to handle your connections with that family.”

Terrnaq cut in at once. “Oh, the family is right and all. They lead the stocks at a high growing rate, expanding a great percentage each quarter. Zeldar will be heir to millions if not billions by the end of this century.”

Lord Mannen smiled.

“That is not what I meant,” Prof Tharser said with a condescending air. “If Zeldar continues on this path, the name of Tarrn will someday bear the brand of ignominy.”

“Like his father?” Lord Mannen said dryly. “That man was disinherited at one time and left the sphere he was brought up in ages ago. Look at him now. His name is of the best level.”

Professor Tharser nodded to him. “But Cul’rii is full blood. And he returned to the world of his upbringing. There is a difference. If Zeldar leaves, there is no turning back. And he has only danced on the border of Quarr decency.”

“I must disagree with that entirely,” Lord Mannen said with a deep warning in his voice. “I have watched Zeldar afar since he was a child. Decency is an ingrained factor of his life. Why else would he strike at a childhood friend if not to protect the honor of another?”

Ferr looked ready to escape just then.

But Terrnaq snorted. “The honor of another? Zeldar? Preposterous. He’s the biggest prankster this side of Knarr. And moody to boot. I personally think he’s cracked.”

Both professor and teacher remained silent. Lord Mannen watched as to where Zeldar had gone, and sighed. Zeldar did indeed look bored among the company. And predictions toward him going wild had been passed around for sometime. Everyone knew through his stepmother that night that Zeldar had snuck into their house through a window, and a whisper that the young man had chosen to attend Red Hall Academy instead of Ferr’durnak University still tugged on the man’s worries. Could he do business with such a man?

 

[1] Sixteen years

[2] thirteen years old

Carefully Adventuring

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three:

 

 

First day of the week. Zeldar was packed.

His bags were filled well with all the necessities of college life. He was leaving that morning to the university campus of Red Hall Academy. It was happening—actually happening.

The servants snuck around the city manor that morning, on edge because the lady of the house was uncommonly irked and “in no mood for dilly-dallying”. They didn’t even dare sneak in to wish Zeldar luck. Most went about their duties quietly, slipping in notes and gifts to Arrmiin, Zeldar’s gentleman helper, so he could pass them on to their young master and old friend. The majority of the letters expressed their best wishes. But some remarked how much more tiresome work would be without his friendly word and smiling face.

But Zeldar had no remorse leaving home that day. He dressed in his simple suit knowing he was entering more moderate society. In point of fact, he picked his wardrobe carefully. Granted, he did bring a few nice suits to be worn at formal occasions, but in all, Zeldar tried to prepare for being the only high blood man within his school—a first for him. He had always been on the border of society’s norm, but today he believed he would see where exactly he stood. Up until then it had been a racial issue and a choice of company. But now, he would see exactly what the real common man did and thought. And he would be one of them.

“Sir, the coach is ready,” the footman Yarrd reported with a proper bow.

That was actually the signal for Arrmiin to usher the other servants to carry Zeldar’s bags. But it was not customary for the servant to inform others their tasks with the master present.

Zeldar nodded. “Am I allowed to carry anything?”

Despite the desire to laugh or even smile, Arrmiin did neither. He merely nodded.

“Yes sir,” he said with a controlled air. “You need to carry your student card and your housing information. There will be a doorman there to take them from you.”

The young lord sighed loudly, rolling his eyes. “Must you always do this Arrmiin? Please tell me you are not coming to school with me.”

The man did smile at that, despite himself. “I am afraid sir, that there is no room for me at your university. You will have to make due without.”

“You’ll be haunting Dazder then?” Zeldar said with a smirk, not really meaning his words. He and Arrmiin, when no one was looking, would chat more naturally.

 “No, sir,” Arrmiin replied with a placid expression. “Your brother will be getting his own gentleman’s helper shortly. I am to remain yours during your family visits.”

Zeldar nodded and then turned as if to go. But he spun back around and gave Arrmiin a powerful hug. He broke back and said, “Be well, old friend. Keep the others sane for me.”

“Study hard, my master. Prove them all wrong,” Arrmiin whispered, giving him a firm pat.

But Zeldar winked and smiled. “I intend to prove them right—that Zeldar Tarrn is indeed the scalawag they all take me for, ready to turn the world upside down.”

That did make Arrmiin laugh. He stifled it at once and said loudly, “Come, sir. We must be off.”

“Right o’,” Zeldar replied with a brisk nod. He picked up one of his bags before the servants could get to it, and dashed out the door.

“Young sir! Decorum!” Arrmiin said in his friendly chastising way.

They crossed through the main hall and into the vestibule where Zeldar spotted his father watching the servants take out each piece of luggage. The man was sighing and looking sadder than normal. When he noticed his son, he crossed the room to him.

“Are you really sure you want to do this? You can still start at Ferr’durnak this month if you decide to withdraw.” Cul’rii grasped his son by his arms as if to shake some sense into him.

“I am sure, Father,” Zeldar replied, looking at him as directly as he could.

Cul’rii nodded. He let go.

“If you ever get lonely,” his father said, “You know your grandfather Yoorz works in the city center at the city temple now. You can visit him.”

Zeldar smiled and whispered, “You’d better not let your wife hear you give that advice to me.”

But Cul’rii smiled then handed him a package that was wrapped. “Open it when you are in your new room. Think of me.”

Nodding with tears now forming at the cracks of his eyes, Zeldar smiled. At once he embraced him and whispered, “Thank you, Father. I’ll never forget this.”

“We must go, sir,” Arrmiin reminded from behind.

Father and son parted. Zeldar gazed back one last time before turning to pick up his bag and go. However, another servant had taken the bag already. Zeldar walked through the front doors, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

“Zeldar!” the bright voice of Minwel called out, her sharp shoes tapping rapidly on the stone tile as she ran through the front hall.

He turned around in the doorway and smiled, meeting his half-sister. She dashed up to him with her hands holding up a wrapped gift in front of her.

Breathlessly she said, “I…I wanted…to give you this…before you left.”

Zeldar took the present. Then he gave her a hug. He had not thought his stepmother had allowed any of the children to see him off, but then Minwel always was one with a will of her own.

“Sir.” Arrmiin reminded with a slightly impatient tone.

Sadly, Zeldar pulled away. “Good bye, Minwel. I’ll see you during winter holidays.”

She nodded, wiping tears from her eyes as Zeldar turned to go.

“Good luck!” she cried out, waving.

Zeldar waved back and walked down the steps to the idling coach. Yarrd held open the door, and Arrmiin beckoned Zeldar in. The young heir to the Tarrn fortune climbed inside the vehicle, giving his home one last sweeping glance (it was a big house). Arrmiin climbed in after.

Zeldar’s father and half-sister watched him go. The family coach, their large vehicle that carried not only room for much luggage, but also several people, rolled out of their cultured courtyard of their city home.

 

The ride out from the city skirts of the best neighborhoods and into the city center was not long. It would have been longer had he gone to Ferr’durnak, which was situated on the opposite skirts of the capitol city. They passed all the fine houses first then entered the more middleclass section of the city with the suburban lawns and small homes that had only about four rooms at most. Then they entered the more commercial areas where they could take the expressway to the center of the city. From there the trip flew by.

Taking the off ramp toward the city center, their driver followed the scenic route past the parliament building and then the prime minister’s hall. The servants riding along peered out the windows on this leisurely tour while Zeldar grew anxious, glancing back at the company. He then looked at Arrmiin and frowned. Resting his hand on his mouth and pinching his lips, an unsettling thought occurred to him. The gentleman’s helper said nothing, waiting for the master to speak, as was customary—but that seemed to make Zeldar’s anxiety grow.

At last, Zeldar said, “Arrmiin. I just realized something. We can’t just drive up to the college like this.”

His gentleman’s helper blinked at him and replied, “Why not, sir? You do want to go to Red Hall, or have you changed your mind?”

Zeldar shook his head and leaned near. “No, Arrmiin, I have not changed my mind. But there is a problem I did not think about until now. We can’t just stop on the curb and unpack the carriage. People will be watching.”

“People are always watching, sir,” Arrmiin replied calmly.

This made Zeldar even more nervous. “Arrmiin, please do not play this game with me right now. You know what I mean. This is a middleclass school. I can just picture it. The audience we’ll have, unloading all my bags and then carrying them to the dorm…. It will be a regular parade with me at the lead. I can’t do that.”

“How else are we to get out of the car, sir?” his gentleman’s helper asked, just as calm as ever. There was a glimmer of a smile on his mouth. Zeldar could tell he was amused at his master’s desperation for discretion. “We must unpack and you must go to your dorm room. There is no other way.”

“Let me out early,” Zeldar begged desperately. “I’ll walk on campus and unlock the door for you.”

“That would look suspicious,” Arrmiin replied. “And I will not do it. The servants must precede the master. I cannot allow you to unlock the door for us.”

“Then I will give you my keys and you go on ahead,” Zeldar snapped back, his unease increasing. You can you lead them and unpack. I’ll tell Dzhon to drive around the campus and let me off somewhere discrete.”

“And how are you to get into your room, I wonder?” Arrmiin said with a chuckle now.

This annoyed Zeldar. He replied without masking his exhaustion, “I’ll meet you at the university museum. You can hand off the keys to me there. Please, Arrmiin do this for me. It would be a bad entrance as well as a terrible start if I came in with a parade behind me. None of these people have servants, and they would take it wrong if they saw I had.”

“Are you ashamed of being of higher blood, Zeldar?” Arrmiin replied with his continued amusement.

Groaning, Zeldar was about to reply, but Arrmiin continued.

“You really shouldn’t be,” his gentleman’s helper said. “Besides, as soon as you introduce yourself, they will know who you are and the millions you are already worth. Your face is in the tabloids.”

This time Zeldar moaned. “Don’t remind me, Arrmiin. It was bad enough hearing my stepmother rail into me about the photos from the ball.”

“You did look ready to strike that boy again in the face. And Ferr Wil is of high standing in society.” Arrmiin’s dry reply implied a greater disapproval than his words.

Zeldar clenched his teeth and glared out the dark window at the university buildings they were nearing. With a decided breath, he stuck his hand into his pocket and fished out his cards and keys and handed them over to his manservant. “Take these and do as I ask, Arrmiin. Tabloid or not, I want to start here right. Will you help me?”

His gentleman’s helper sighed and took the keys from him, but it was obvious that he did not approve. “Really, Zeldar, must you always sneak around?”

The young man nodded affirmatively. “I must.”

Their driver had already pulled into the front lot where they could go no further without going on foot. Arrmiin peered at the keys in his hands and then shook his head sadly. “Men, exit the vehicle and take the master’s things out of the back. We will proceed ahead without him as he wishes.”

“Thank you,” Zeldar said, leaning back in his seat.

*

Those at the university indeed saw quite a sight. The appearance of the enormous fancy vehicle was enough to cause a stir. Several stood by to see what dignitary had come to their college—perhaps a new speaker, or a foreign professor come on exchange. But all they saw were six male servants exit the vehicle, led by one dignified manservant they recognized as wealthy man’s personal assistant, a gentleman’s gentleman. They were not unheard of in those parts, but they were a rarity. All of it was out-of-the-ordinary.

The finely dressed servants marched to the back of the forbidding vehicle with the dark windows and opened the back. They lifted out several suitcases and a few large rolling trunks. Each man took his load, some just carrying bags, but others stacking his load onto the trunks. Six men were plenty for the job. The gentleman’s gentleman led the way into the campus, down a particular path through the grass—the one towards Hiims Hall, the wealthier dormitories.

The vehicle started from the curb as soon as they had gone. It rolled down the campus lane, which circled the college and divided the main buildings from the student shops. It stopped again in front of one shop, almost as if the driver had been given an impulsive command. A young, well-dressed gentleman stepped out.

If many eyes had been watching earlier, more were now gazing at the particularly fair figure of the tall youth that confidently strode into the soda shop. The man spoke to the keeper as if to an old acquaintance; yet he said with proper politeness, “Excuse me sir, but which is your most refreshing drink?”

The storekeeper blinked his eyes at this man for a second then answered with his usual air, “The citrus ts’ilq. It is cold for the hot, and tart for the drained, and sweet for the weary.”

A broad smile spread on the young man’s lips. He promptly ordered seven of these drinks, all with lids as they were to be taken on a car trip for several of his friends. Then he ordered a thick malt with a high straw as well as a Highbrow Yorrii, which was a drink only the daring go for since it contains a high amount of caffeine. The young man ended up making trips back and forth from the coach to the shop, carrying the drinks and placing them inside the voluminous cabin. The door was open enough for many passersby to see in. Inside they saw a refrigerator and several other nifty gadgets, besides all the space. By the time the young nobleman (for that is what they guessed he was from the Highbrow Yorrii [because it is also a favorite drink of their class]) finished carrying his last load and closed the door to the vehicle, many passersby got a good look into the high life with a sense of bitter jealousy. But the young man did not return inside the vehicle. He handed the last drink to the driver—not the Yorrii, but the malt. However, he took one of the ts’ilqs with him instead of the Yorii, and he waved goodbye to the driver. Then he strode off across the lawn.

Eyes on the interloper were now fixed, watching his moves carefully. The man didn’t strut as they expected one of his class to do. But he did tour the campus with a sort of amazement that said he had never seen anything like it. Many would have interpreted his awe as proud disgust, except for the indescribable smile that was on his face was just too pleasant. Most were puzzled by his meandering stroll. Many could only compare it to the lazy mannerisms of a goat herder, which just did not match up. His simple admiration of the campus could have been easily construed into something worse, considering what he was. But there was something so entirely unaffected in his manner that shattered all suppositions—or at least delayed them for a while.

It was only when one of the pristinely dressed servants that had carried the luggage from the coach greeted the young man that their suspicions were confirmed… Then once more blown to smithereens when the man replied back on equal terms. The servant seemed prepared to bow to the man, but the young man spoke to him as a friend. Then the servant embraced him, shook his hand and embraced him once more with an affectionate pat. When he and the servant parted, the man strolled a little faster as if looking out for others of the same group—with the intent to hide.

He entered the museum. Unfortunately, he only made it to the lobby where another of the group approached him to give farewells. This servant left something in the young man’s hand. Quickly, the young man moved further inside, but already people spotted two more servants enter the building to find him. The last three came after, the gentleman’s gentleman waiting calmly with a mildly amused expression on his face.

The gentleman’s gentleman did not greet the young man until all the others had met with him. Then, when the others had parted, leaving this young man with four more presents, the gentleman’s gentleman greeted the young lord—for that was what the watchers had finally guessed him to be—delivering keys into his hand and a word that appeared to be sage. What he said to his young charge, only the nearest eavesdroppers heard. And they later passed on the word that Zeldar Tarrn was on campus, the heir to billions if not a sizable portion of Knarr.

*

Zeldar entered his room, swinging his keys from his finger, thinking how glad he was he didn’t have to climb in through the window. It seemed a possibility with how many heads turned when his servants had come out of nowhere to wish him well and give him parting gifts. His arms were now full. He was feeling sheepish at how his plans could be so easily ruined by devoted affectionate servants.

He took two steps into his new room and halted.

In front of him in his dormitory were five boys already rifling through his things, whispering to one another in an excited hiss.

Taking one more step, Zeldar said in a slightly less-than-irritated voice, “When you are done looking through that drawer, could you please put things back in the order you found it in? I’m sort particular about where things go so I can find them.”

All three young men stood up with a jerk, flushing red in their faces.

Zeldar smiled and strolled in the rest of the way. He gazed about the room with a satisfied air. He looked on one corner of the room and saw his bedspread on a far bed near the window. His family pictures were already set up on his desk, and his favorite football team poster was pinned up neatly on the wall.

“So, you’re Zeldar Tarrn,” one of the men at last said, stepping from the four. “Why don’t you go to one of those fancy colleges instead of here?”

Zeldar looked at him directly, assessing his words carefully. He knew some hostility was expected. But on the first day, like this, was most unwelcome.

Tilting his head and striding over to the open drawer the men still surrounded, Zeldar bent over and pushed it shut. He then stood up and said, “Because I choose to be here.”

“Why would you go here?” a friendlier type-voice asked. It was from a young man that was about his own height, which meant the man was rather tall. The man had an honest look about him. He was auburn haired and freckled.

“Isn’t Ferr’durnak University also in this city? Why don’t you go there?” another said with more bite.

With a sigh, Zeldar gazed at him and replied, “I will, in the second term. But this term I hope to prove that Red Hall Academy is the school for me.”

“Prove?” the first man said, stepping forward. Zeldar had a better look at him now. He was stocky, a bit shorter than himself, and blonde but in a hayfield sort of way, with stick straight hair, whereas Zeldar’s hair was light and curled naturally. “Why would you want to prove that? You’re a rich man’s son. Go somewhere else.”

“Whatever for?” Zeldar replied tiredly. Walking over to his bed, he plopped down. He felt the mattress and smiled. It was firm and comfortable.

“You can’t be serious about going here,” one of the other men said. This one was platinum blonde and green-eyed. He was as lanky as a beanpole, and his hands were long fingered, as if he were a musician. “What are you playing at?”

Moaning now, Zeldar replied with a sense of impatience, “I am playing nothing. What is wrong with Red Hall? It is one the earliest universities on Arras, and has the finest professors this side of Knarr—not even counting the amazing football team and the arts program. I chose to come here.”

“But Ferr’durnak University is better,” the first man replied darkly.

Zeldar stood up with a huff. “Says who?”

All the men laughed at that.

“You must be joking!” the second man said approaching him with amazement. “Ferr’durnak University has the best staff, materials, campus, location—”

“On the outskirts?” Zeldar replied with annoyance. He shook his head. “I’ve seen it, and I’m not impressed. Besides, it is so much better in the city center.”

The men stared at him again.

“You are joking now,” the first man said.

“I’m not,” Zeldar replied, walking over to his desk. He opened a drawer to inspect it.

“This place is noisy. I’d love to get away from the noise to the green lands on the outskirts,” the first man replied. “In fact, I’d love to go to Ferr’durnak, but they won’t accept us simply on the basis of class.”

Zeldar made a face. “They would. But believe me, you wouldn’t really want to go there—not if you really knew how utterly oppressive it is.”

“I bet,” one replied.

They all stared at him as young aristocrat walked about the room, inspecting where all his things went. His closet was full. Zeldar opened it with a tired moan, parting the suits hung up and pulling out some.

“I told them not to pack these….” Zeldar said to himself with marked annoyance.

The five men huffed and turned from him, moving to leave the room.

“Rich kid…” someone murmured.

Zeldar looked up as all five departed. For a moment he was about to say something, but then he decided against it. Instead, he returned to his closet and took out all the extra fancy suits to repack and ship them back home with all the other unwanted articles the servants somehow smuggled into his bags at the request of his stepmother. He ended up eliminating half of his wardrobe, stuffing them in the best suitcase and locking it tight. He also removed some of the nonsense items from his drawers such as fancy cufflinks and pins that he never used anyway except on formal balls. Somehow, they made it into his things. As soon as that was done, Zeldar sat on his bed and opened the parting gifts.

No one reentered his room for a while. Zeldar wondered whom his roommate would be—if any of those men that were rummaging through his stuff were him. He fingered the gift from his doorman, a pocketknife with a carving of a demon on it. He stuffed away because it was definitely something he wanted to keep but was not sure it was allowed on campus. Then he unwrapped pictures in frames, books, and even a simple puzzle cube. All of this made him smile and miss the servants more. To him they were more than just house employees. They were friends of his childhood.

After a while of repacking and sorting, Zeldar found that they had also packed his lute, his flute, and another wind instrument that was similar to a clarinet except longer and a slight curved front. Sighing, Zeldar dusted off the long instrument and pulled out the cleaning stick. He wiped the outside carefully with the cloth packed in its case and slowly assembled the instrument, matching up the parts. Plucking out the reed, Zeldar started to suck on it while cleaning in and out the hollow chamber. He did not notice that the door was left open or that people passed by once or twice to peek in—three times when they saw him cleaning the instruments.

Still cleaning his things, Zeldar continued to moisten the reed to his woodwind. But he fingered his lute now and tuned it. This lute also had a bow that was played on the strings for a different sound, common in the hills near the Tur but not for most of Knarr. Zeldar plucked off the stray hairs of the bow and rubbed down the wood so it shone a deep brown. After a small tune up, Zeldar plucked out a simple melody on his lute, still sucking on his reed for his wood horn, which is what the long woodwind was called. All the while, he hummed. After playing another short tune (which drew more people down the hall to peek through his door), Zeldar put the lute back in its case and relaxed the strings. Plucking the reed from his mouth, Zeldar fixed it back into the mouthpiece of the horn, carefully adjusting the space. He gave one practice blow and adjusted the valves. Then with a deep breath, Zeldar started to play.

The tune was deep, much like an ache that reaches into the stomach but is connected to the heart. He played a mournful, soul-filled melody that clearly resonated and echoed out of the building. People outside stopped and stared into the surrounding air, wondering where it came from.

Several men down the hall now stood in Zeldar’s doorway, staring with an awe that bordered on fear. This sound the young nobleman created seemed impossible, too ethereal to make.

But Zeldar ended his tune and sighed. Taking the wood horn apart at once, he just glanced up near the door. He blinked again at the men in the doorway as they stared at him. They immediately blushed and hurried back into the hall.

Zeldar shrugged and continued to hake the horn apart, cleaning it out again as he dried off his reed.

“That was some stunt,” said a voice he had heard before.

Looking up, Zeldar recognized the first man that had spoken to him from that group of five, the straw-haired one. He walked in the room and closed the door.

Nodding, Zeldar set the rest of his horn on his bed and stood up. “So, you are my roommate.”

Zeldar bowed in the correct manner for politeness.

The man just returned his look without the bow. “It seems so.”

Drawing in a breath as he assessed his roommate’s attitude, Zeldar paused to think of how to salvage the situation.

“Did you put on that performance just for people to like you, or was it to show off?” the man asked him before Zeldar could speak.

“Neither,” Zeldar replied, “I was merely going through my stuff.”

“And you couldn’t leave those alone until you were in a sound chamber where you would not disturb others around you?” his roommate asked.

Turning a blush red, either from embarrassment or from irritation that his man had taken such an adversarial stance to him so early, Zeldar replied, “I did not really think about it—no. I’m afraid I have a weakness towards impulsive behavior. Pardon me for disturbing you.”

But the man took Zeldar’s apology as a condescending remark. “Pardon you? You don’t belong here.”

Zeldar stiffened. He walked back over to his bed and finished taking apart his wooden horn without another word. Fitting it back into its case, Zeldar returned it to the closet where he had found it and then picked up the flute, tucking it underneath his arm.

Trotting to the door, Zeldar cast his new roommate one glance before going. “Well, I’m very sorry we got off to a bad start. However, I will remain here whether you think I belong here or not. I will respect your privacy and space if you so desire. But I would prefer we do not go at each other for the duration of the term. If you will excuse me.”

And with that he left, taking his flute with him.

His roommate stared after him as he went down the hall, watching the young aristocrat walk away as if he were on an adventure and nothing could bother him.

Unwanted Attention

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four:

 

 

The news of the young aristocrat coming to Red Hall Academy spread like a plague. At lunch, the young man was spotted purchasing a simple sandwich from a street vendor who was ignorant of his identity, but struck by his unusually good manners. He was the subject of the afternoon’s talk. And by dinner time, when he was seen trotting into town with his carved wooden flute on his shoulder, the news had spread off of campus to the ears of the paparazzi. They arrived at Red Hall waiting for their opportunity to take pictures of that wayward noble.

When Zeldar returned to campus, hopping the curb in a good mood while carrying a wrapped dinner in his hand, he did not notice the watching men at first—or did not seem to. Everyone observed this young rogue as he stepped onto the path that would lead to his dormitory. And coming out like cockroaches in the dark, converged the camera-toting paparazzi.

The young nobleman continued on his trek as if he still hadn’t noticed, taking large strides down the path while his picture was being taken. Reporters for the city magazine pounced at once. Zeldar quickly took to a faster pace grimacing once with a glance behind.

“Zeldar! Zeldar! A word! Why did you come to Red Hall!” one shouted.

“Is it true you have ended all ties with Ferr Wil?” another called out.

Zeldar hurried his pace and soon dashed to the doors of the dormitory. Several reporters chased after him, but most did not enter the building. The ones that did enter, Zeldar confronted immediately, spinning on the balls of his feet.

“Out! This is a private residential area!” he said with a snap.

“Just one word, Zeldar!” one of the reporters said while the young man shoved him back through the doors.

“I’ll give you two!” Zeldar said, with a glare. “No comment.”

The young aristocrat closed the door. Snapshots of his furious face were taken. But once the door was closed, Zeldar turned with no more notice than he had before. He strolled straight to the stairs that would take him upwards.

“Why don’t you take the elevator?” one of the men in the hall asked. It was one of the five that was in his room earlier that day, walking down and passing him.

Zeldar lifted his eyebrows mildly. “Why should I?”

The man snorted and replied, “Won’t this amount of exercise tire you? You have so many servants, I doubt you do anything more strenuous than lift your spoon to your mouth.”

Zeldar could have given him a killer glare just then, feeling it creeping into his eyes. However, he merely smirked. “Well, I think I’ll manage, though the strain might break me some day.”

With that, he continued upward without concern. Of course, he was not in the least tired, having grown up on the Tur where he climbed the rocks with the goats.

The man glared after him.

 

Zeldar reached his room in the hopes that he could sit down at his desk and have dinner in peace. But when he opened his door, he saw that his roommate had company again. This time different boys were in the room staring at Zeldar’s wardrobe. His roommate held the door open wide.

“Why not try one on while you’re at it,” Zeldar said with a tired roll of his eyes. He walked in and passed the men as they stared, sitting at once in his chair and immediately unwrapping his satchel.

His roommate closed the closet and replied with a huff, “Well, excuse our curiosity.”

Mildly glancing up, Zeldar weighed his words as he said, “Well…would you please at least limit it to common courtesy as to respect of privacy.”

His roommate turned from him with another huff and walked to the door to show the men out like last time.

When they were gone, Zeldar said calmly, “Are you planning on making our room a museum every time I’m not in?”

His roommate turned with a glare, closing the door. “Would you quit with the tone!”

“Tone?” Zeldar asked, cocking his head and side-glancing his roommate. “What tone are you referring to?”

“That tone!” his roommate shouted. “The tone that says that you are rational, and I am not.”

Zeldar remained silent. The temptation to point out that he was the only one yelling was hard to hold in. Instead, he said, “In what way is my tone supposed to imply that?”

“You’re still doing it,” his roommate said through clenched teeth.

Exasperated now, Zeldar moaned. “Doing what? I am just talking! Don’t read things that aren’t there.”

“Don’t talk to me like I am a child,” the man bit back, taking a step towards him.

“How am I talking to you like a child?” Zeldar snapped now, thoroughly lost on this man’s rationale. “I’m just talking!”

“Well, shut up!” His roommate shouted.

Zeldar silenced as if accepting that command, something that even seemed to surprise the man who ordered him. The young aristocrat just stared at him, blinking.

Drawing in courage, for that is what he seemed to be doing according to Zeldar, his roommate said in an authoritative type voice, deep and dark, “Let’s get some things straight right now. I’m the senior in the room, second year student, while you are only a first-year greenie. What I say goes. And what I say is, do not speak to me unless spoken

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 13.05.2023
ISBN: 978-3-7554-7916-1

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