Saren was never particularly excited to meet with Wezen Aderes, the former general of the Selenian armies, the conqueror of two countries, the head kyron of Divion University's military school, and most importantly, his father.
He knocked on the door to Wezen's office, sliding his tongue over his teeth as he waited for a response. He'd been summoned by his father's secretary, a small, nervous looking fifteen-year-old who had looked absolutely terrified to even approach him as Saren had sat eating at the dining hall. What had the boy thought he was going to do? Club him with a piece of toast?
"Come in," his father called, interrupting him from his thoughts. Saren pushed through the door. Wezen sat at his desk, a pile of papers neatly stacked at one of the desk's corners, the rest of the room neat with two chairs sitting in front of his desk, cold late winter sunlight trickling into the room from the window at his father's back.
His father would be a mirror to himself in twenty years' time. Wezen had light brown skin paired with brown eyes, and with a muscular physique characteristic of a man who'd spent much of his life in war. The main difference between them was their hair: Saren's was wavy and short while his fathers was straight, carrying down to his chin. Saren's hair was the only thing he could ascertain that he had inherited from his mother, though his memory of her was distant.
"Good," his father said. "I thought I might have to come fetch you myself."
"What's this about?"
"I think you know." Wezen raised up a sheet of parchment, which Saren made out to be his class marks. "You're failing."
"I haven't failed out yet." Despite himself, Saren's hands had begun to sweat.
"Failing students don't tend to do well in metapathic duels. This is a military university for a reason. Duels and sparring are a part of the curriculum. This used to be where the Vandrin army received its top recruits. And let's be honest with ourselves here." Wezen sighed. "Saren, you couldn't hit a fly out of the air if it was about to murder you."
"That's not true," Saren said, his cheeks beginning to burn. "I spar. I'm good at that."
"You're a good, decent person; this isn't a bad trait of your personality," his father continued. "Sparring with wooden swords is different than duels that can have real, deadly consequences. I don't want to rub salt in the wound, but you have a history on not being able to commit to hurting someone even if it means saving your life."
"I can do it," Saren said. "I know I can. I'm different than I once was. You don't have to worry about me."
His father studied him for a moment, his fingers drumming absently on his desk. "All right," he said finally. "I just want you to be safe."
"So," Wezen said nonchalantly, "I hope that you don't mind that I've asked Kyron Carnan to tutor you until the upcoming duels."
"Kyron Carnan? She—she would take me on?" From what little Saren knew about the kyron, she was one of the most notoriously difficult teachers on Divion's campus. She also only taught eighth-circles and above, so why she'd waste her time on a below average student was beyond him. She'll eat me alive, he thought to himself nervously.
"It's not too late to change to something else," his father pressed. "It doesn't have to be my school. It can be history, mathematics, anything."
"I've always wanted to study metapathy." He felt a need to defend his poor academics, to prove himself. "I'm just at a disadvantage with my prior education, that's why I'm doing so badly."
He immediately wished he hadn't said it at the expression that worked itself onto Wezen's face.
"I didn't mean it like that," Saren added quickly. "I just don't have the experience other students do. I couldn't practice like they did when they were children." He was just making it worse. "That's not your fault. I know it was what was best for me. If it's anyone's fault it's mine, I was the one who was careless—"
Wezen put up a hand to stop him. "I certainly don't want you to take responsibility for my shortcomings. You want to study metapathy. I'm going to do the best I can to see that happen now. I want to help you. Truly."
I wish I knew what was wrong with me. Or someone else did. Then they could tell me, so I don't keep making a fool of myself. Saren had dreamed for so many years as a child of what it'd be like to see his father every day. He'd poured over the few letters his father had been able to send him, learned everything there was to know about his father from his aunt. Now, as an adult, he couldn't help but think how disappointed his childhood self would be disappointed in his present self.
"I'll see you sometime this cidem," Wezen said finally. "Rana will meet you on Clanire at midday in one of the practice arenas."
"Thank you," Saren said. "Really, thank you."
Wezen gave him a small wave goodbye. When Saren left and closed the door behind him, he resisted the strong urge to repeatedly slap his face with his palm.
Idiot, he thought to himself. Idiot. You're such an idiot. You go around walking like an idiot; you go around talking like an idiot. Idiot.
Saren had come to his father's office alone, but he found Eltanin was waiting down the hallway, his hands in his pockets. Saren recalled telling him about the meeting, now that he thought on it.
"How'd it go?" Eltanin asked. He winced, making the freckles that splattered across his pale, pink nose scrunch together. "He didn't expel you, did you?"
"I don't think he can do that. I don't even to belong to his specialization. So, he can't, right?" Beside him, Eltanin raked a hand through his red hair, not looking so sure. "Did you think he was going to expel me?" Saren asked.
"It crossed my mind," Eltanin admitted.
"Well, in any case, I wasn't expelled. I'm going to be tutored, actually." I also made a complete ass of myself, he thought. But that's neither here nor there.
Eltanin nodded. "Good. That's good."
"Metapathy is difficult. Other people struggle too, don't they? It's hard to come up with instructions, be creative, all of that…. I'm not really that bad, am I?"
Eltanin held up his hands in apology in a half-shrug. "No, other people struggle to, I suppose. I don't want to see you killed is all."
"I'm not going to get killed," Saren said. Then, he added, belatedly, "That doesn't happen that often."
Eltanin tipped his hand back and forth in imitation of a teetering scale as they neared the building's double exit doors. "Eh. I'd say your chances are half and half. Don't forget I'm three years older than you, remember? I've seen some terrible things."
Saren glanced over at him to see that Eltanin was grinning. "Oh," Saren said. "Very funny."
"This will be good," Eltanin said, changing tactics. "Look on the bright side. Things can only get better."
"So, if Kyron Carnan murders me and puts my head on a spike in front of the school, I can hold you personally responsible?" They pushed through the military college's exit doors. It was already dark, and the grass had begun to glow an ambient green along with the trees planted alongside the building that housed his father's office.
"I think I can live with that guilt," Eltanin responded. "I'll bury your head for you. How's that?"
"Seems like an equal exchange."
Saren and Eltanin made their way through the paved walkways of Divion. They soon found the pathway to the metapath common area, a courtyard in the northwestern wing of Divion's campus that boasted a perfectly manicured lawn with stone pads for students to sit on. Surrounded by a ring of trees on all sides, the courtyard made a perfect circle with sharp edges maintained by Divion's landscapers—some of all the best in Vandris. A school as prestigious as Divion couldn't have ragged lawns and unkempt bushes with the heirs to fortunes and prestigious estates attending.
The common area wasn't crowded at dusk, but Saren saw a few other students sitting on the grass, their hair white from a lack of sentia, but darkening to their natural pigmentations as he and Eltanin found spots on an empty patch of grass as cool air breezed through the courtyard.
This time, taken once every cidem, was one of the only times that Saren could feel at ease. Saren breathed out, closed his eyes, clearing his mind of all the day's problems and tribulations.
Taking in sentia was not as much as an effort like it was a bodily function. Similar to how one didn't think about taking a breath of air after a long time underwater, Saren didn't think much about taking in sentia once he was in the right-thinking space. Metapathy required conscious thought, and this was no exception. Become a part of myself until I instruct otherwise, was the only instruction this simple task took. While everyone had reserves of sentia inside of them, only metapaths had to take it in on a consistent, conscious basis in large quantities every cidem. Non-metapaths took in sentia unconsciously, but it was at such a small scale that it was invisible to the naked eye.
The courtyard's open, airy atmosphere was what made it so conducive to taking in sentia. Sentia traveled and was ingrained in the air around them, it was much easier to take in sentia when there was an abundance of it.
The time it took to take the sentia in gave Saren time to think. The quickly approaching final exams for his course work in preparation in metapathy were approaching soon, including the duels he and his father had discussed. There was a practical and combat exam, reflective of the school's proud status of a military university. Combat wasn't Saren's specialty, but this wasn't real life, he told himself. No one would die in these duels. These were to prepare for dangerous situations, not to emulate them.
He took a deep breath as he took in more sentia. He would have to remember that. He would have to if he wanted to pass.
His tutorship with Rana Carnan would help. He could make the best of that. He had to be aware of his weaknesses and not be afraid to hide them. If she was anywhere as near as accomplished as her reputation suggested, she'd see right through any sort of farce to present himself as better than he actually was. This was doable. He could do this. He just had found the right way to go about the situation. Maybe he could pull this off.
Their first meeting was on Clanire, two days away. That gave him two days to come up with any questions he could come up with and then ask about. He could try to identify his weaknesses—of which there were many—and at least come clean with them. It was his only option. Two days simply wasn't enough time to learn any new metapathic techniques. Metapathy required not only instructions, but careful visualization. The only reason why taking in sentia was so easy for him was because he'd been required to do it as a boy, every cidem. Most other students at Divion had done the same thing, except they had been doing much more complicated tasks than this.
But Saren had spent most of his life hiding his connection to his father. Only about one in ten people were metapaths, and that eliminated a significant amount of the population for any assassins who might have come looking for him. They had. Twice.
As a result, Saren hadn't practiced metapathy for the majority of his childhood. Things that should've been second nature to his peers were simply not simple at all for him. He would have to work ten times harder to pass these exams, just like he'd worked ten times harder these past years to stay with the pace of his classes. Even then, he was still nearly failing. He could not fail these exams. Others had sacrificed much for him to get here, some of them dead. They had suffered so that he might be able to live, so he might have these opportunities. He would not waste their sacrifices, and he would not waste the ones he'd made either.
Later that night, Saren settled into his desk, his fingers finding the familiar switch for his syrana lamp. The ambient white light filled his desk area, and he heard the sound of fabric swishing as Eltanin burrowed underneath his blanket in their shared dormitory to hide from the light. Saren opened a book, The Principles and Applications of Metapathy, and began to read, even though he'd already read it several times over.
He worked far into the night, until his eyes ached from reading. He only went to bed when he could go no farther, when his head lulled forwards and his lids could no longer stay open.
He eventually crawled into bed, hours after he'd started. He'd do this every night if he had to. He was going to enter the College of Metapathy if it killed him.
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