Paragon of Destruction

He did have other powers — more than a few, in truth — but as far as he knew, only Brightblade and Snowcloud were aware of those.

To the rest of the Valley, he might seem exceptional, but certainly not so much as to cause the valley to go to war. The very idea was absurd.

Yet Brightblade merely looked at him with a calm expression. "No need to look so startled," she said. "It’s hardly surprising that others might draw such a conclusion."

"But I’m just an initiate," Arran said. It wasn’t much of an argument, but then, her claim was so outlandish he found it hard to think of a reply.

"You’re an outsider," she said. "Where the Ninth Valley’s younger generation has only ever known peace, you have experienced real battles, defeated enemies stronger than mere bandits. You have faced the true dangers of the borderlands."

"The same is true for all outsiders," Arran countered. "Not to mention every mage over fifty in this Valley."

Given mages’ extraordinary lifespans, there would be many thousands within the Ninth Valley who still remembered the wars against the Hunters. Whatever Arran had experienced in a few short years of traveling the borderlands, he doubted it could compare to years of actual war.

Brightblade merely gave him a calm glance, then continued, "Once here, you joined the House of Swords — one of the few Houses whose members could stand against the Hunters. On your very first day, you — a mere initiate — matched its most promising adept. After which you promptly disappeared into secluded training, only to emerge a year later with the skill to match Masters in swordplay."

To this, Arran had no response.

Everything she said was true, and these were not the kinds of things one could expect to go unnoticed. Of course, Arran had known this already, but now, he began to think that he had underestimated just how suspicious his actions had been.

But even so, this did little to convince him of her earlier claims. Even if he was suspicious, it hardly meant he represented war — whatever that even meant.

Yet Brightblade wasn’t done yet.

"Then, you decided to study the Forms," she continued. "A foolish endeavor, most would argue. But it is the path walked by the last mage to pose a serious threat to the Hunters. And to a talented young mage who intended face them again, the path might be a tempting one."

Arran frowned, but he said nothing.

"All of these things could be easily explained as the delusions of a young but overambitious mage, of course. There are many of those in every Valley. But when the Matriarch chose you as an apprentice..." Brightblade paused briefly, her eyes focused on Arran in a manner that almost made it seem like she was studying him.

Though her piercing look made Arran uncomfortable, he remained silent. By now, his earlier certainty was beginning to fade, and he felt no small anxiousness at what else Brightblade was about to tell him.

She continued speaking a moment later, a gravity to her voice that had been absent before.

"It wouldn’t be far-fetched to think a failing Matriarch would want to groom a successor. Someone to win the war she failed to win, to hold the power she failed to hold. A champion to grant her a legacy. Someone who, with half a century of training, could achieve the things she never achieved."

At this, Arran swallowed hard. Not just because of the idea that the Matriarch might want him as a successor, but also because he had no intention whatsoever of spending the next half-century in the Ninth Valley.

"The Matriarch didn’t know about those things," he said, anxious to find a different explanation. "When she took me as her apprentice — she didn’t know about any of it."

"Didn’t she?" Though Brightblade’s voice was neutral, her eyes suggested she thought otherwise.

Arran paled slightly at her words. He had believed it had all been a matter of luck, but now, doubt began to rise in his mind. When he arrived in the House of Seals, he had believed it was merely his talent that got him sent to the Matriarch. But what if she had already been expecting him?

It took him a moment to suppress the panic that was growing inside of him, and as he calmed down, more questions arose in his mind.

"But why would they try to kill me?" he asked. "Even if everything you say is true, why would people try to kill me? Even if they believe the Matriarch is grooming me to lead the Valley against the Hunters, wouldn’t that be a good thing?"

"Not everyone is keen to restart a conflict that lasted for centuries and killed half the mages in the Valley," Brightblade replied in a flat voice. "Even if they believed success was possible, many would think the price too high."

To this, Arran had no response. With the Valley as peaceful as it was, only a fool would choose to wage an unnecessary war. And if the price for keeping the peace was a single murder, it would be a price well worth paying.

Brightblade nodded as she saw understanding dawn in his eyes. "But of course," she continued, "your enemies’ motives may not be quite as selfless as that. The Matriarch’s successor might not be as pliable as she is, and the Elders who currently hold power may be unwilling to give up their hard-won influence."

"But I’m only an initiate," Arran said in a dejected voice. "They have nothing to fear from me."

"Not yet," Brightblade replied. "And if you were them, would you allow the spark to grow into a fire? Or would you snuff it out before it had a chance to become a threat?"

Arran had grown up the son of a guardsman, and the curse he uttered was enough to make Brightblade’s eyes go wide with shock. Then, in a low voice, he asked, "So you’re saying that half the damn Valley has reason to want me dead?"

"More or less," she replied. "Probably more, given how many would die if the wars were reignited."

"Then we have to leave," Arran said. "At once. If the Matriarch can’t protect me... We can be in the borderlands a week from now. Once we find Snowcloud—"

"Not so fast," Brightblade interrupted him. "Rhea can’t protect you, that much is true. But she isn’t your only teacher." A small smile appeared on her lips.

"You?" Arran looked at Brightblade in confusion. "I know you’re strong, but if half the Valley’s Elders have reason to want me dead, I doubt even you can protect me."

"Do you?" Brightblade’s smile turned into a grin. "You think I cannot protect my students?"

Her grin grew wider as she spoke, and Arran could not escape the feeling that whatever she had in mind, it was something that would shake the Valley’s very foundations. "What are you planning to do?"

"You are but a distant threat," she said. "And a small one, at that. I intend to give them more immediate things to worry about."

The cryptic answer only strengthened Arran’s misgivings, but try as he might, she refused to give any further explanation about the matter.

Instead, she turned her attention to a completely different matter — the amulet. Arran had all but forgotten about it, but the subject seemed to cause Brightblade no little glee.

"So she believes it stopped the adepts’ attacks?" she asked in a tone that almost seemed eager. "And the enchantment was completely destroyed?"

Arran nodded, unsure of what she was getting at. The amulet had been a priceless artifact, but Brightblade seemed almost excited at its destruction.

"Excellent," she said. "I couldn’t have planned it better myself."

A frown on his face, Arran stared at her in confusion. "Why are you so happy about it?"

"You were attacked in her Valley," Brightblade said. "Naturally, she will have to give you a replacement of equal value. And items that can stop adepts’ attacks are beyond priceless — whatever she takes out of the Valley’s treasuries, it should be most useful."

Once more, Arran found himself astonished by Brightblade. Just a few moments earlier she had been discussing matters of life and death, and now, she was eagerly anticipating the opportunity to cheat the Valley out of its treasures.

He gave her a wary look, then sighed deeply. Whatever she had planned to draw attention away from him, he had little doubt that it was nothing good.