• • •

On the day of the trial, Heron woke up with cold bones and the image of the stranger's pale eyes engraved in the upper layer of his memory.

The trial taking place was material proof of his eminent ascent as member of the ruling council of the northern region. Any outcome lending him more independence than he had was positive news. Even so, mornings had a particular way of making Heron think through his bad decisions.

It would have been obvious to anyone with any capacity of practical reasoning. But to Heron the realization had come rather late : it was madness to send an ill man — already a few blood drops away from dying — to be brutalized in the blackcircle. Worse was making that the price to pay for a risky night of pleasure in a city tavern. Granted Heron missed the warmth of his stable boys, but he preferred to keep his conscience free of the regret of causing Davir irreparable health damages.

Heron had interceded for Davir numerous times, mentioning his Chill illness to brigadier Jallon, trying to appeal to his pity to arrange Davir's trial accordingly.

Jallon, respectable as he was, always proper in his manners and etiquette, he listened to Heron as no other high-ranking military man or clergyman ever did. As if he already considered Heron to be a part of the ruling council even before his enlistment to the military. But deep down, Heron knew that Jallon's lack of definitive reaction on the matter was proof that he had discarded his indirect begging. And that morning, Heron felt the worst was bound to happen.

He galloped abreast Master Salmior from the palaces to the barracks of the domain. They waited on the fields where the combats were held, staring at a vast carpet of grass with several black and redcircles.

Brigadier Jallon joined the two, accompanied by two bluemen. "Lord her Lomeon." Jallon bowed. "Sir Salmior. Follow me, please."

The two guards only budged once Heron and Master Salmior followed Jallon's lead, all behind the three noblemen. They strolled along the rocky paths to the lateral sides of the barracks.

The solar-arcs of the past week had been strong enough to melt most of the ice. Though the cold still bit on skin early in the morning and at sundown, the water trickling down the cobblestone announced a hot Sprout season ahead.

Five men already stood near one blackcircle, Davir among them. And a full round opposite to him, soldier Bjon was stretching his limbs and cracking knuckles. Heron's mouth went dry at the sight of the soldier. He stood paralyzed for a moment, only resuming his walk when Master Salmior turned his way with an inquisitive expression.

Bjon's bulk was intimidating enough, but it was worse it gave the wrong idea about his speed with swords.

He looked relaxed, of course. The task at hand consisted of sending a sick man back to the sickhouses.

Bjon's lowly blood from the villages near the Maleys border in the north was the only thing keeping him from the superior ranks of the guard. Too much power in the hands of the low-born threatened societal balance.

Only the low-born who had proved unconditional loyalty to the ruling council could be trusted with weapons reserved to the Superior battalions. Such loyalty was measured in decades of dedication.

"Begin," bellowed Jallon. "And by the rules of the black circle, the best should win."

Davir reached for the tip of the quarterstaff sheathed across his back — a quarterstaff! Of all weapons he could have chosen. With that paleness, the suicidal lunatic only had halfway to go if he wanted to die that badly.

Bjon stepped toward Davir. Strangely, Davir bowed, hand still sliding down his back. But Bjon drew the first hit before Davir could touch the weapon. A rampant lunge of the erected sword meant to impale anyone without the armor Davir was wearing.

Davir dodged, stepping towards Bjon's weaponless arm, evading the guard's follow-up sideways thrust.

If Davir had waited for half a second, it would all be over.

Bjon pounced hard at Davir with his brutal momentum, elbowing his throat, kneeing him at his ribs, smashing the flat of his sword where his knee had hit with a clang against Davir's armor. The blows sent Davir staggering across the circle, falling just steps from the black line marking the round borders of the fighting circle.

The anticipation of the worst caused Heron to turn away, wishing Davir had fallen three strides ahead, out of the circle. To end the madness while he was still alive.

When Heron stared at the blackcircle again, Bjon was strolling towards Davir. Davir's struggled to stand as Bjon watched static until Davir was on his feet. He raised his sword without urgency as if he considered how to best end his opponent.

Davir's quarterstaff finally came unsheathed. Everyone laughed except for Heron.

Everything else seemed to happen all at once.

Davir was the first to draw the hit, striking the base of Bjon's palm with an audible thud of metal hitting bone. Bjon's blade leaped across the blackcircle, prompting a scan of his empty hand as if he was unable to believe his eyes.

For a heartbeat, Heron could swear everyone held their breaths, then hits of quarterstaff rained on Bjon, each blow, leading him to recoil. Bjon blocked a few at first, dodged one and another, and tried to fight back, only to take another hit of metal that caused a grunt. Another that forced him to stumble backward. And another that disoriented him to the point of making him fumble.

Bjon understood Davir's strategy and fought to stand his ground before he was driven outside the fighting circle. But Davir struck faster than Bjon could track the metal cutting through the air. There was precision, fury at each strike, and serenity that Heron found unsettling. Bjon kneeled, shielding his face. Davir struck his shoulders and the guard's arms fell limp.

He looked up at Davir. Then towards those watching the duel, wearing an expression of despair.

"I surrend—"

Davir knocked him in a violent slump before Bjon could utter the request of mercy.

The sight of the soldier on the ground with a swollen face and limbs sprawled askew clarified things to Heron. The unnatural paleness, clear eyes that seemed to promise murder, lack of reaction to the cold. . .

Heron was exerting physical effort to stifle the shivers running down his legs. He wondered if he hadn't considered the evidence because of sheer foolishness or if the prospect of truth had been as daunting as its realization. Davir hadn't bluffed when Heron had visited him in the sickhouses : he had never been sick. He simply wasn't normal.

Brigadier Jallon turned to Salmior with black eyes shining, lips twisted into a thin smile. "This one belongs with nobles in the superior ranks."

"With the rebellions it's best we remain very prudent about integrating low-borns to the superior ranks," said Master Salmior. He didn't turn to the captain, his eyes were set at Davir. As if he was dissecting him from head to toe.

Master Salmior couldn't know what Heron knew, Heron pleaded.

"He recovered quite fast from his illness," Master Salmior added, as though regretting it. Still, grudgingly, he marched up to the center of the blackcircle and pronounced his blessings as welcome to the Guard of Ceres before abandoning the fields.

Davir dropped his quarterstaff and knelt, crestfallen and body heaving with exhaustion. Only once the nurses had come to escort soldier Bjon and the brigadier was out of sight did Heron muster the courage to walk up to him.

Davir regarded him with a ruddy grey stare, lips busted red and scratches marring his neck.

"What exactly are you?" Heron asked.

Davir spat blood. "A soldier now," he rubbed his lips clean, "I suppose." His attempt to stand was cut short by a grunt of pain.

"You want me to get the nurses?"

"Never." He did stand successfully, his face still creased with agony. "Whatever plans you have now, Lord, I'd appreciate if you were efficient with your demands. I'm willing to repay what I owe. But don't count on me to be brutalized in blackcircles every start of solar-arcs."

Davir's tone bore defiance that seemed to challenge Heron's natural authority over him. It was a warning. That he didn't plan on honoring his newly gained uniform. Davir wouldn't hesitate to supplant his personal desire to that of his Lord if that benefited him better.

"You will be acting under my orders because that is why you have been trialed," Heron said. "But I will ask you a favor. As a guard, you are first under the orders of your brigade of affiliation, then under mine. I want you to forget the Blue Guard for one night. And strictly follow my orders. Since I have no political power yet, that qualifies as a crime. You can consider that infringement as payment for allowing you into the palaces."

" If something goes wrong?"

"Your crime being mine by extension shields you.

"I am all ears then," Davir said.

• • •

Heron crossed the double doors of the grand library.

"Late today, aren't you, my Lord?" Tutor Arai said, flipping pages without turning an eye Heron's way.

"Forgive me," said Heron, "I had to attend to some urgent matters."

"I do have some other urgent matters for you, since Lord's well trained on that now," Arai said. "All Lord needs is ready above the table. Same spot, though I've changed chairs. Replaced it with a newer one." Arai looked at Heron for the first time. "To spare the latter you've used since it did get flimsier from being kicked all day." He brought the tip of his index to his tongue and flipped a page. "Beware, because the new one is metallic, Lord. . .on purpose."

Heron eyed the pile of his assigned scripts with a sense of dread about the work entailed. He turned to Arai. "I need your help."

The old man rose his chin as if startled, expectant. "Of course, Lord." He stood, bookmarked his book with a red ribbon, and shut it with an agile thud.

"I need to find information on the Onus of Healing," Heron said.

"Oh," Arai said, "it's not my forte, I have to admit. I am primarily a culturalist and historian. Although I dabbled in the study of plants and flowers. Never in healing. Be more precise, and perhaps I can see what I can do."

Heron mulled over the consequences of revealing too much too soon of an unlikely idea."Something about people with odd vital signs. Lack of pulse, lack of sensitivity to heat, cold."

"That's quite specific. I am sure Lady Zuna knows best how to help you," Arai said. "I can ask the Mistress myself and report to you if need be. Lord will indeed be busy with all that there's still to read, considering I will soon have to report Lord's progress on your assignments to Sir Salmior."

"I could do without the Mistress's help for now," Heron said. "Somewhere to start would be enough, any information I could find."

"I see," he said. "All the Onuses of wisdom are way at the end of the hall. You should consult the one about Healing and Human Body Components. Don't shy away from consulting The Foreign Arts of Healing, I bet it has been a while you have not practiced your reading in Ukewian and Malei. Lord must be careful as they are all quite heavy."

"I will."