Chapter 5 Volunteer

[frenzied67]

This chapter started to become overly long. The idea was to end on a point of conflict, however, getting to that point of strife requires a strewing of clues to help keep continuity intact. Also, meanwhile, other characters are doing things that require recording. So. I had to break this idea into two chapters.

Ch5
Volunteer

"As a Daughter of the Word you will be upholding a centuries old tradition that began when our free ancestors not only dreamed of freeing their families and friends from Faelora and Gachtler chains, they actually began to enact those plans. They challenged the might and power of the two elder races and their empires to break those chains, which was not an easy task. Our soldiers, our guards do a lot of work still, though the wars for freedom have been long ended," Lady Entolia intoned, leading the small clutch of younger women deeper into the old building. Decades older than her charges, the noble woman's over exaggerated gliding steps and slow unnecessary gestures made her seem to be grasping for a stateliness nature did not want her to have.

The noblewoman had stopped to encompass the five girls and Leachelle with a sweeping arm gesture, the move supposedly her idea of graceful. "Most of us are the children of fathers or mothers who serve in Bolloren's military, so we know the... stresses of military life. Those of you who do not know these stresses, you must realize that the men and women who serve, do so with little thought from the people they protect. That is where we Daughters come in." Lady Entolia folded her hands at her waist as she turned about, trying mightily not to let her head bob from the invisible line her erect posture implied.

Two of the girls in the little group held lanterns up so everyone could navigate the detritus and cobwebs festooning the old community center. The stairway up to Leachelle's right had graffiti scrawled under the tread of one step, this sexual suggestion seemed to imply a physically impossible deed. Leading them further into the building, the older lady continued her induction speech. "It is our duty, as Daughters of the Word, to show our soldiers that they are appreciated. That the work they do does have relevance to those outside their number. We bring them solace and joy, so they can continue to serve without reservation."

At the end of the hallway the main public room of the community center opened up before the ladies. The evidence of new construction work lay all about. From the repairs done to the overhead dome, the walls, and most of the stage, to the new tile that was halfway laid into place. pallets of lumber, and flooring, and other unknown construction materials were spaced about the hall in no apparent order. At least not a logical order that Leachelle could discern as she viewed the chaos of sawdust piles, tossed blocks of wood, and scattered tools. Taking ten gliding steps into the hall's interior, Lady Entolia spun to face them, her dress swaying like a peach colored bell. She brought her hands up as a dancer would have, then swept them down and away from herself to broadly indicate the room they were in.

With great exaggeration, she held her head proudly posed as the lady took in her young charges. "I am happy to say, that our last few donation drives has brought this about. Not only has the Daughters of the Word brought in enough money to buy this old hall, we have almost completed renovations on her. Soon this place will become the center of light, life, and laughter it once was, and we, we shall be the ones who transforms this dull facade before us, into a captivating venue that our soldiers will be proud to dance in." A buxom young blond girl, whose expression had been constantly bored interjected.

Plump lips pouting as she twirled a few golden curls with a finger, the young lady was trying hard to show she was unimpressed with the rest of the world.

"I thought we were supposed to set up decorations and dance with the boys? Are you thinking that we are going to swing hammers and paint this place?" Leachelle was immediately turned off by the over abundance of privilege the girl was showing, and the lack of respect to the woman giving them their orientation. Evidently Lady Entolia felt the same way. Crows feet tightened on the older lady, and her response came with a flatness to her voice.

"We are volunteers, not recipients. We do the work that show others that their work is worthwhile. When you put your life on the line, then we will let you dance with the fella's and have a good time."

Before the disdain from the older lady had a chance to grow into a continued diatribe, Lady Holtain Aggrue, a little bit of a girl with dark hair and large light blue eyes raised her hand. Without waiting to be chosen, however, Holtain issued her query.

"We're not going to work today are we? I didn't wear a dress that I can work in, this is the finest silk from Deshnandu." Am I the only one who paid attention? Leachelle asked herself, wondering about the self absorbed priorities her companions were showing. Even Lady Entolia lost a beat, trying to figure out why she was being bombarded with this drivel. One of the lantern bearers answered for Lady Entolia, a gorgeous girl with fox like features and a challenging smile. This stranger had as fine of a dress as Leachelle herself wore, but she was completely unfamiliar to the young magister.

Without challenging either the blond or silk encased Lady Holtain, this girl pointed out what Leachelle herself had been thinking.

"This is an orientation. We are being shown were we will work, and then figuring out when we will work." While this girl spread her look around, her gaze lingered upon the inattentive two. When the stranger looked at Leachelle, she offered the young woman a smile to show her appreciation for a fellow who knew how to listen. She had brown hair a bit darker than Leachelle's, and her large narrow eyes were extremely lovely; enviably so. Those vixen like eyes framed a delicate sloped nose; though thin, this girl's lips did have contour. A narrow chin and delicately sculpted eyebrows sat on an oval face. She is far prettier than Taleen could ever hope to be, and this girl does not seem to be overly conceited because of it.

To Leachelle's amazement, this stranger noticed the smile and nod she had offered. Those lovely glowing blue orbs locked onto her, before a tentative smile was returned. She was studied in turn for several heartbeats, and just as she found the stranger acceptable, Leachelle herself was determined to be refreshing; the smile firmed into something friendly and inviting.

"Just so," Lady Entolia declared, finding her aplomb once again. "The work in the dance hall will be completed in a week or two. What we Daughters of the Word will be required to do is clean up the rooms that will have to be painted. We have kitchens, conference rooms, coat rooms, and a dozen other nooks and crannies that will require a lot of sprucing up.

"Then when the repairs are done, this room and a few others that have been renovated will require our attentions and decorations. Our hope is that we can have our first DOW dance before summer begins." I think I have found someone here who is not a brat or a bimbo, Leachelle thought while raising her hand. Unlike her old classmate, she waited for Lady Entolia to indicate her before issuing her question.

"What you describe seems like a lot of work. Are we six the only women going to be working here?"

Lady Entolia inclined her head, either at Leachelle's inquiry, or at her respectful manner.

"Oh my no. There are many other Daughters who will be working in this building. You are just our newest volunteers. There will be many others who will be able to show you what to do, every job is lead by someone who is quite experienced. Don't you be worried about that. I imagine many volunteers would walk away if we expected such mighty results from so few women," the older lady stated with a laugh as sculpted and artificial as her mannerisms. Despite Lady Entolia's outrageous idiosyncrasies, Leachelle liked her. There was a sincerity in the older lady that was disguised within the broad gestures and thick artificial poise. She believed in the mission she was on.

For once, I think I made the right decision. It was getting so lonely at home. I'm the only one there. All I have to look forward to is father's bi weekly letter, and that is not enough. Volunteering after work is going to grant me time with other people, give me company to hopefully stimulate my mind and emotional state. Though two of the volunteers did not strike Leachelle as persons worth knowing, there were still two who had potential, and one who had offered a tangible warmth. On top of that, the older noble woman had implied there were a lot more people for Leachelle to meet, and the events the Daughters of the Word held would include many young men her age. So many girls who volunteered for DOW did so seeking a boyfriend; she was here just to make a friend or two; and a little dancing would not be too bad.

With another gesture that did not quite capture grace, Lady Entolia began to point out points of interest in the ballroom. Leading them deeper into the spacious area, taking a path that avoided dust piles, tools, or construction detritus, the girls began to string out behind her. Blond and Buxom cut Leachelle off, forcing her to bring up the tail of the line. The girl with the large narrow eyes held her lantern high, allowing all the other girls to pass. Falling in line next to Leachelle, the young woman offered another smile.

After they entered a hallway at the back of the dance floor, on their way to the stairs leading down to the kitchens, the lovely young lady whispered.

"Let me guess, great clothes, great poise, perfect complexion. You must live in the palace?" Leachelle was trying to listen to Lady Entolia, but she did smile and sketch a curtsy to her new companion to show her guess was correct. This struck the girl as humorous, her smile blossomed making her lovely face even more radiant. "I am going to guess you are either here out of boredom, or because you have a family member who is serving?" This time Leachelle gave the woman a closer examination.

She was in a cream and gold dress that was just as nice as Leachelle's own, though the jewelry was subdued it was not cheap.

"Both," she confessed, which caused a well shaped brow to quirk up. "My father is with the army now which means I'm all alone in the apartment," she confessed to the unspoken question. Shifting the light to her left hand, the girl offered her right for a handshake.

"Hi, I'm Mishiel Orngutter." Leachelle shook the hand, her own smile growing to show delight.

"What, not Lady Mishiel or Magister Mishiel?" Mishiel covered her mouth to dampen her laugh, then shook her head no.

"My father is a medium level magister and my mother is a very successful merchant. We are rich, but we don't live in the palace."

At that moment the queue of ladies started down a flight of stairs wide enough for three people abreast to take.

"That may be for the best, the palace produces the most entitled brats in the entire nation. I'm Leachelle Gueardan by the way."

"Present company excluded I assume?" Mishiel whispered, humor bubbling forth.

"But of course, I must be the only exception produced in those halls," she joked, drawing herself up with a haughty expression while fluttering an imaginary fan.

Mishiel gave forth an inadvertent snort while trying to stifle her laughter, which made both of them lose control at the same time. The landing at the bottom of the steps also showed recent reconstruction work. Lady Entolia and the other girls paused to look back at them. In unison, almost like they had rehearsed the move, they both curtsied to Lady Entolia. "Forgive us, good lady, we did not mean to intrude," she apologized. The noble woman wore the frown of woman who has had to deal with too many rude little girls.

"While we do not discourage our ladies from socializing with one another, we still expect them to accept instruction from our more senior members. Can either of you tell me the origins of we Daughters of the Word?"

Mishiel's face fell a little, either intimidated by the noble woman, or confounded by her own lack of an answer. The girl's face registered a little surprise when Leachelle supplied the proper response.

"Five hundred and thirty six... no five hundred and thirty nine years ago, when our ancestors grew tired of living in tents and running from the elder races, the men of Bolloren vowed to free the Human slaves still being held in the northern lands. They made this vow on the scriptures, hoping the Lords of Light and Life would hear and approve of the plan. Year after year, our population grew because of the raids those soldiers conducted. But they grew weary, they grew discouraged from the daunting magnitude of their task.

"The women of Bolloren noticed their men faltering and grew disquieted. Talking among themselves they sought a way to restore the spirits of the soldiers who had already given so much to bring families back together. They decided to throw a feast, and have music played for them, 'and the daughters, full of love, danced for the tired heroes, and brought solace to their furrowed brows. Through dance and food were the men of Bolloren reminded of laughter and hope'. That was the foundation of the Daughters of the Word."

Through Leachelle's recitation the look of disapproval from Lady Entolia faded. At the end, she even inclined her head at Leachelle as a show of respect.
"Very good, now ladies pay attention, we will all be spending a lot of time in these rooms down here. This is the first pantry to the left...," the lady intoned continuing her tour. Mishiel gave Leachelle an approving nod.

"You may be the epitome of a brat, but at least you're educated," she whispered. "No matter what, I am going to try to have our volunteer times overlap. I hope you don't mind?" Leachelle felt surprised, her own thoughts had just began to ponder instigating such a possibility.

"You don't know how much I would welcome that, Mishiel. I believe you have the right level of entitlement and self absorption to make you an acceptable companion." This produced another spat of giggles that were hard to stifle.



Randera the Widow winced as she gently touched Gil's cheek below both his blackened eyes. The bandage over the bridge of his nose kept her from touching his wounds directly.

"Is it worth it, this champion thing?" she asked, concern turning a few of her laugh lines into temporary wrinkles. The beauty mark over her lip dipped as her face passed through several levels of worry. "Are you going to be coming home with bruises and broken bones every night?" Not liking to see her fret like this, Gilserand took her hand between both of his as he perched on one of their chairs.

Never before had he ever thought of The Widow as tiny, now she seemed to be half his size in height and breadth.

"I don't think the idea is to break me into pieces," he said trying for humor. Too soon, he realized from the deepening of her frown. "Having to duel three experienced spear fighters was a test. I don't think they will make me have to repeat that anytime soon." Her worries were not relieved.

"You hurt people Gil, doesn't that make you feel bad?" She had asked him this the other morning when he had stumbled home from his brief stay in the infirmary.

Only if they pay me, he thought to himself, unwilling to say that joke aloud again. Last night Randera had not appreciated his dark humor, and she did not seem to have had her mood improved a day later. Instead he raised her hand and kissed it.

"Of course I feel bad. I hated hurting them, especially my sergeant. I didn't realize how dedicated those men were to our training until I put them in the hospital. That's why I went to visit them on my day off. Do you realize we are the only platoon in Alren who had earned a leave?" Sensing his comment on the leave time was meant to distract her, she ignored those words altogether.

"If you feel bad why don't you quit the guard, find a job that won't make you hurt people, or worse yet, get you killed?"

Gilserand continued to smile benevolently, even though he had already covered this ground with the woman who had raised him.

"What other job out there will be paying me magister level wages? Give me a few years and you'll be able to brag that your son bosses high magister's around." The continued frown showed him that this was not on her list of priorities. It must just sound cool to me then, he realized.

"Money is not as important to me as you are, Gilserand. Please, think about finding another line of work."

Closing his eyes for a few seconds, Gilserand had to fight down a spike of ire that twisted his smile into something less than friendly. He was able to twist it back into something neutral after he opened his eyes.

"Do you remember how small I was as a boy?" he asked. The Widow's response was too quick, like a verbal panther pouncing.

"You're still a boy." Gil's lip twitched, but he forced himself to ignore that.

"I was picked on. A lot. I didn't like it, and I tried to stop it. When I saw those same bullies hurting other kids... it drove me crazy. Even though it got me beaten up, I would step in and interfere. When I got bigger and learned how to fight back, no one got bullied when I was at school. That is who I am! They are paying me to follow my nature, and that money is going to allow me to help you. That is all I ever wanted. I will be protecting an entire nation if they make me a general." This did not help.

Randera was wide eyed and uncertain, as if she were dealing with someone who refused reality. She was mostly silent through the making and eating of breakfast. Gil was thankful when he was able to break away and head for the barracks. He did not like the frustration that came from not reaching Randera the Widow and making her understand his motivations. She's being such a mom, he thought, elevating his mood with the joke as he walked the dark street south. Reflections of sun light illuminated the eastern sides of the tallest buildings, but down on the stone cobbles night still held sway. The coolness of the air presaged that the day would not be as hot as the previous five or six days had been.

Arbelest wielding guards on the barracks balconies watched Gil cross the pavement and stone yard to the military buildings, but it was the guard at the southern barracks door who actually challenged him. The dark was finally shying away from the morning light.

"Who goes there?" the guard called, holding his dueling spear crosswise, seeming to look through Gil.

"Corporal Rivenheart, Eighth Platoon," he intoned. Immediately those eyes snapped onto his face, widening slightly as if the guard had heard him claiming to be King Uldarnan. Instead of stepping aside and allowing Gilserand entry, the man turned, opened the door, then stepped aside while making himself as militarily erect as he could get.

What in the pit is this guy doing? he questioned himself, studying the man as he entered. Angling for the steps of the southern staircase, Gil noticed an office door near those steps open. This was almost a morning ritual since Gilserand had stopped staying in the barracks, a corporal from the fully trained Seventeenth Platoon stalked from that office intent on reaching the squad room of his unit. Gil was used to this man ignoring him as he followed his own quest, but this time the young man turned when he caught sight of Gilserand. The young corporal smiled and inclined his head as if they knew each other. He felt forced to nod back, while being completely mystified.

As usual the Eighth Squad's door was already open, the guys taking their time getting dressed as they conversed quietly. When he crossed the threshold and turned left for his trunk a silence fell. Turning around he found nine sets of eyes glued to him. Private Jaffe grinned and dipped his head, but the rest of the guys watched him as if he were the conductor of an orchestra who was now expected to start the music. Spreading his arms, he silently appealed to them to help him understand. What is up with everyone? Why are they acting this way? Instead of illuminating him, they slowly resumed their task of dressing, resumed conversations took a minute though.

After doffing his street clothes, he began to pull his gambeson out. Private Machen trotted over, an obsequious smile on his boyish face. This was proof that everyone's attention was not negative.

"Can I help you with that, corporal?" the private asked after delivering a salute. Soldiers did not salute a corporal unless they were being disciplined by one. Gilserand could not help but study the man as he nodded. All he saw was a fellow with too youthful features, eager to please; who also was not fully dressed and armored himself. After Machen pulled his gambeson down for him, Gil asked him from the side of his mouth.

"What's wrong with everyone? Why is everyone treating me different?"

The private was grasping the chain shirt getting it ready for Gil to worm his way into it, but he stopped and gave Gilserand a puzzled look. As though he did not understand Gilserand's confusion, Machen answered in a tone just above a whisper.

"Sir, you beat three highly trained spear fighters by yourself." Seeing that Gil was still confused he added, "You did it after only one day of extra instruction. Regular guys like the rest of us can't do anything like that, Corporal Rivenheart." He called me sir, like I am already an officer. We both could get busted for that. He put his arms then head into the chain shirt, like he was diving into a pool. When he emerged he found several men from the squad moving to join him in the corner.

I saw how to do it before I did it, he confessed to himself. Who would believe me if I said that out loud. I'd sound like a guy who had his wits stolen by the Burning Spirits. He winced just thinking about the high strangeness of the event, remembering all the other odd things he had lived through; wondering if they were tied together somehow. With expectation on their faces, the Eighth Squad gathered about.

"How did ya do it?"

"Is the Sarge gonna live?"

"Is it true that you're from a special forces unit?"

"Could you teach me how to fight like that?" They all started asking him questions at once, mostly drowning each other out.

Gilserand had faced hero worship from the little kids at school, but coming from these men the adulation just did not feel good; they too were protectors.

"Corporal Rivenheart." Sergeant Garr rumbled from the door. Immediately the squad retreated from Gilserand, returning to the morning ritual they should have been following. Gil trotted over to the noncom relieved that the attention had been lifted off him. The short stocky sergeant was tapping a white envelope against his leg, but his dour expression broke into a quick smile as he rubbed his chest. This was acknowledging the hit he had taken from Gilserand during the three-on-one fight two days ago. Good, he's not mad at me for that either. He had worried about how the sergeant was feeling, Goenz and Guerlach had been forgiving, but this was his first time meeting up with Garr after that bout.

Beckoning with a finger Gil was pulled outside of the squad room.

"I got a problem, Rivenheart. We are short in our command structure, who in there do you think can step up and help me run the Eighth?" Gilserand's stomach dropped a thousand miles. He was supposed to be helping with the squad. Crap, I'm being demoted because of that damn fight, he assumed. When his face fell, Sergeant Garr's smile grew like a sadist twisting a knife. "Who has the juice to step up, corporal?" The use of his rank pulled Gil out of his temporary funk, but other questions began to line up in his already crowded skull.

Only one name stood out, but he did not like who he was about to name.

"Sergeant, Private Tulauten has steady nerves and the assertiveness to be a noncom. All he has to do is learn that he can't bully people." The shorter man's forehead wrinkled as he considered the recommendation.

"Is that who Sergeant Goenz would choose?" That challenge made Gilserand blink, and think.

"Sarge, I can't speak for Sergeant Goenz-"

"He doesn't seem able to speak for himself now, Rivenheart." Something cold had crawled into Garr's eyes when he reminded the younger man of Goenz's throat injury, but that vanished when he saw the pain the reminder caused Gil.

Feeling wretched, Gilserand considered his task.

"Sergeant, I think Tulauten is the only choice. I think Sergeant Goenz would go through the effort to condition Tulauten to put his lesser impulses aside." A smile crept onto the noncoms face.

"'Lesser impulses....' That rates right up there with 'my teacher was hot', Rivenheart. I like how you turn a phrase. I'll take your recommendation under consideration, corporal," the muscular little man stated before holding the envelope up. "Congratulation, Rivenheart, you've been reassigned. You have passed our weapons training program twice over. Report to Captain Kinnert in the public building."

Gilserand studied the letter for several moments before he hesitantly reached for it. Yet again his world was being changed. Would he like what was coming next?

"What are they going to have me do?" he asked, looking into Garr's eyes.

"I have no clue, kid. I suspect that the next time we meet I'm going to have to salute you though." Alternating feelings plagued him during his walk to the eastern side of the keep halfway across Alren, curiosity and hope for his future vied with his dread of the unknown. The letter did not help him one way or the other; all it said was 'report to Captain Kinnert for reassignment'. No clues in there, he groused.

As a trainee, Gilserand was not yet familiar with the civic building. There were a lot of entrances on every facing of the huge building, but he was only familiar with one route to get to the captain's office. He went to the bureaucratic offices set up to accept and evaluate government job applications. Inside was a line of people that was backed almost all the way to the entrance. Muttering apologies, Gil forced himself through the press of people to the right of the queue. He made a bee line to the north eastern door that only government workers ever used. Finding door number four hundred sixty two was not a problem, Gilserand knocked.

"Enter," a muffled male voiced called back immediately. After closing the door behind himself, Gil turned, came to attention, and threw a salute.

The office was still cramped, dominated by the desk that must have been constructed inside the room; it was far to large to fit through that door. The only change to the interior was a ten foot long black case laying across Captain Kinnert's massive desk. With a lazy return salute, the officer gestured at the ugly chair already pulled up across from his seat. The older man seemed distracted by an open file on top of a tall stack of other folders. Yet when Gilserand found his seat, the officer proved ready.

"How did you like how everyone was treating you this morning?" Gil was asked.

"Sir?" he queried, not certain what he was supposed to have noticed.

Kinnert looked up from his file, his mashed nose seeming particularly flat and shiny under the glow rod.

"Didn't you notice the guard treating you differently?" How, by the Lords of Light and Life, did he know that? Gilserand's response was slow, as if his reactions had to mince through a hall full of traps.

"I did, sir. I didn't like it, sir. People were treating me like I was a hero." The captains face broke into a beaming smile before the older man returned to perusing the papers in that file.

"I think it's great. This is proof that rumors spread faster than syphilis in the guard. It only took a day and a half for the words we planted to start percolating through the West Barbican's ranks. You're achieving legendary status, and all we had to say was that you were special."

Reality lurched for Gilserand. The idea that officers in the guard were promoting lies about him did not seem like it should be real. It should not be at all.
"Sir? Why?" was all he could stammer out. What in the pits of torment is going on? This can't be real! Are all the officers in league with evil, are they disciples of the Burning Spirits? Captain Kinnert only raised his eyes for a second, a quick probe exploring the alarmed tone he had heard.

"Have you ever noticed the one thing legends have in common? They all have a mystique about them which makes their exploits larger than life. That mystique has to be built, I'm afraid." This is wrong! You don't make legends that way!

Frustration and anger vied over control of his voice.

"Sir, that's not right. Don't the people have a right to choose what they think is heroic? Shouldn't I do epic deeds before I'm lauded?" Captain Kinnert placed a finger on the file to mark his spot before he looked up. His happy smile shifted to a more serious expression, wrinkles between his brows showing a form of confusion working in the officer.

"You don't think you've done anything special, then? You did beat three men in a fierce fight?"

"Sir, no, sir. It was an accident. Something strange happened...." On the verge of confessing that he was traveling through time, or seeing the future just before it happened, a part of himself warned him from doing so. "It was a fluke, Sir. I got lucky," he ended lamely.

Being studied by the officer, who was twisting his mouth with his thoughts, made Gil want to squirm in his seat.

"Most of the people we hold up as heroic examples did little more than be lucky at the right time. A lone soldier holding a bridge or a pass against an army, or a guy who happened to strike down a pivotal villain against all odds, those are the deeds that live on in peoples minds. Look at King Lorinlil, a centuries old heroic figure to his people, before you were born he struck down that mutant freak Trillam the Trumage. He stopped the disintegration of the city states all by himself by that deed. All we're doing is planting ideas and nudging the story along with you. All armies do it, all nations shape the narratives."

Misery crumpled Gilserand's features.

"Sir, what if I don't live up to the hype? Why don't you wait for me to actually do something special first?" Returning his attention to the top page in the file, the captain sounded as if his own patience was waning.

"Our hands may have been on the lever, but what you accomplished was a deed beyond the capacity of most men. Now corporal, lets discuss your next assignment."

Hearing the finality in the officer's tone, Gilserand straightened in his chair.

"Yes, sir." Closing the file he had been reading, Captain Kinnert moved it to his left and opened the next file. His eyes began to transition back and forth as he read the form on the top.

"While you may be eager to start your officer school training, we think you might benefit from some experience in the field first. The Wild Rose of Bolloren is finalizing plans to lead a combined force of our people and his into the old forest." Fear thrilled through Gilserand's body and soul when he heard this, yet he also knew this was what his job was supposed to be about.

Turning the top most page in the file, the captain continued. "You are to report to the Fourth Cavalry in the north west barbican. You will be taking care of their animals during this expedition." The incongruity of these orders with the military's intent to elevate him above his station caused Gil to do an emotional double take.

"Sir, their animals, sir?" Kinnert smiled the smile of a man who really wanted to laugh.

"You wanted humble beginnings, we are giving you humble beginnings. You should report to Captain Liethor as soon as possible, your new job will require more from you than just scooping poop and slinging hay. Pay attention to your job because you'll start learning basic equestrian skills. All officers must have experience in riding, we're giving you a head start in that."

The officer found something in the form he had been scanning because he removed it from the file and set it before himself. Rummaging in the front drawer of his desk the familiar quill and ink bottle came out. Gil started to feel forgotten when Kinnert began taking notes on what he had found in the form. "Believe it or not, Corporal Rivenheart, we've been doing this for a long time. You think we are gaming the system, but you have to look at why we consider it necessary," the officer said suddenly placing the form back in the file. The next folder was opened and being scanned after another briefer pause. "We are dealing with the elder races who have shown Humanity a blatant disregard for what we feel and what we want.

"The Faelora have a history going back more than twenty thousand years, the Gachtler half that. Our civilization is just over five hundred years old. They consider us Humans to be nothing but clever animals imitating their successes. They think their magic and technology still makes them better than us. Do you know what prevents them from marching down here and placing the chains back on our wrists?" The sudden question threw Gil, but the officer separated another file from the pile he was working on.

"Sir, I don't know," he admitted. Captain Kinnert's eyes left the paper for a few seconds as he gave Gil a nod.

"It's our capacity to fight. Without the millennia of tricks and gadgets they have, we still match them on the field of battle. We show them that we have champions and heroes who can match their martial artists any time, any where. That gives them pause."

Gilserand felt himself blinking as his mind expanded to encompass the captain's point of view. Jotting down some more notes, the officer returned a form, moved a folder to a third pile, then opened the top of his still large stack of files. "You are young and idealistic, most young men are. You see us meddling and lying to the public when what we are actually doing is molding certain individuals who show they have a greatness in themselves. We're just trying to bring that greatness out. But it fails more often than not." This made Gilserand's brain feel crowded, like he had just received an information overload. He also began to feel a bit selfish for how he had been viewing his situation. I really didn't know how much was riding on me, or this interpretation of me that they are crafting.

Before he had a chance to express his new understanding, Captain Kinnert began dismissing him. "Did you forget your civilian clothes in your old barracks?"

"Uh, yes, sir. I left them in my locker," he admitted feeling a twinge of anxiety.

"That's okay, I did that the first time I was reassigned too. I'll have a couple of men return your clothes to your place of residence. Meantime, you should requisition a duffel bag when you get to the north west barbican, consider it a mobile trunk while you're out in the field. The baggage train will carry it for you, which will keep your back pack from becoming over filled," Captain Kinnert said as he made a one handed gesture of brushing Gilserand away. Rising to his feet he threw the officer his smartest salute.

Instead of acknowledging the courtesy, the officer blinked himself away from his work. "Oh yea, I almost forgot. Take this with you," he said indicating the long black case on his desk. Even as Gil was glancing at the mystery case, the older man's face lit up like a child getting a puppy. The pen was thrown down to create a growing dark mark on his notes, as the officer reached over and began to undo the three clasps holding the case closed. The officer pursed his mouth in appreciation as he flipped the lid open. Resting on form fitted red felt cushions was a dueling spear not quite like the spears Gilserand had been training on.

The shaft was black and had metal studs and cones in aligned rows running up the last foot of the butt end. Instead of a long tapering point, this spear had a more sword like shape to the business end, and a squat cross shaped quillions like those found on a boar spear. The metal of the sword point, cones, and pyramids looked odd, almost like woven threads of steel had been fused together like textiles. Kinnert scooted the case and spear closer to Gilserand, an unspoken encouragement for him to lift the weapon. The haft was not painted wood. There was a sandpaper like texture to the gripping area that promised increased purchase, but would still allow him to shift his grip when necessary.

Is this metal? he asked himself unsure of the spears pole which was warmer than steel usually was. While maneuvering the spear to an upright position, being careful not to hit the desk or filing cabinets, Gilserand marveled at the balance of this weapon. It was heavier than either the practice spears or real spears he had handled before, but there were weights in the haft that made this spear feel more lithe in his hands. The blades of the longsword like tip looked supremely sharp, trying to shave with these edges would most likely end in disaster.

"This feels like it wants to move, sir. A little bit of practice with it, and a guy would be really dangerous to his enemies. I'd love to spin this and test the balance, but I'd trash your office, sir."

Noticing how his quill was staining his sheet of notes, Captain Kinnert scooped the writing instrument up while giving the paper a truly annoyed glare.

"Yes, outside of my office get some practice... get a lot of practice. Oh, yea, corporal, there are a few things you should know first," he told Gil while giving his pile of work a glance. "This metal here, this alloy, it is a new trick our good old Bolloren magisters learned. You know how smiths have to get their various metals hot before they fuse them with hammers. We figured out how to blend a variety of different grades of steel into this alloy here, and they use their relics to do it without heat.

"This thing is stronger than any armor or weapon born with fire and hammer, not even Gachtler metal crafting. In a duel you'll notice their weapons coming away nicked and dinged up, yours... haven't seen it take a scratch yet. We are having a practice spear made for you, it will have the same weight and weight distribution as your real one. You should get going now, I'll have the spear's case sent to your home." With that, Gilserand was dismissed. He was soon to learn of the hazing traditions practiced between the infantry and cavalry units.



The room where the community center had it's dishes washed was fairly spacious. The east wall had the entrance in the north east wall, a table that was ten feet long and three feet wide sat just off the northern water basin. The southern basin and table were a mirror image of the other, the basins had a drain in the floor in the one foot wide space between them. A tall cabinet, standing open and almost empty was supposed to hold cleaning agents and scrubbing tools; now they held dust, webs, desiccated bug parts, a broken moldy crate, and the handle that had belonged to a scrub brush. That sat along the south eastern wall.

The south wall had chest high cabinets sitting under a tall row of cupboards. Those storage spaces were filled with the community center's ceramic dishes. Those had a tan glaze with two flowers that had the same simplistic leaves and stems; rust red pansies and chocolate brown daisies bobbed on stalks too thin to support any flower. A metal corner table sat in the south west corner. Cabinets and cupboards, also filled with gaudy dishes, were aligned against the entire south west wall and northwest wall, broken by another three by three foot metal table between those storage spaces. A bench like wooden table filled the Northern wall, almost twenty feet long.

The wood of that table was scored with thin cut lines showing it was a food preparation surface, which in all reality, did not belong in a washing room. Leachelle was busy trying to identify a decades old sticky spot on the southern table serving one of the empty basins. The pipes running to the floor would not be carrying any water until the building was hooked back up to Bolloren's aqueducts, and she was supposed to be cleaning the basins and their tables without soap and water. Her dusting wand and cloth would not be getting rid of the gooey mass at the back edge of the metal surface, where it flared up to help channel water to the floor drain.

"There is another crate under this cabinet," Mishiel called out. "Could you give me a hand?" Leachelle had already dropped her dusting brush and rag.

While the crate was not large, it was still heavy; and it rattled when they stood with it in their arms. They were both dressed in the pale blue servant's dresses and shirts that were also allotted by the Daughters of the Word.

"More dishes for sure. Mugs or saucers more than likely." So far this was the seventh crate they had fished from the cabinets and cupboards, they had been stacking these finds up near the western walls little middle table. Though Mishiel lifted up a small crowbar they had been furnished with, she gave Leachelle an expectant look; even wiggling her fine eyebrows suggestively. Leachelle had to look to the door to make sure they were alone before she pulled her relic level wand from the heavy fabric of her light blue work skirt.

Though Leachelle knew many ways to make the magic do their work for them, the Daughters of the Word felt that elbow grease built character. Neither one of them had proven strong enough to crack these crates open with the tool they had been given though, so Leachelle had been relying on her hidden mahogany wand. Mishiel could not see the dozens of threads of energy Leachelle pulled forth, all she could see were the hand gestures used to form a hollow straw. Leachelle then pinched the end of her mystic straw so the end was flat. Inserting that flat edge between the crates top and walls, Leachelle then inflated all the energy strands, blowing them up like balloons. Nails screeched as they were displaced by the rising lid.

A dozen light tan beer steins, with the gouache floral pattern, were nesting inside old straw.

"Hey, this is new," Mishiel stated with deadpan sarcasm.

Three crates had been full of tea cups with the same awful design, two crates of saucers, one crate of bowls, and one full of assorted silverware that had a lion head motif on the tangs. Indeed the steins were a new addition. All those cupboards would have to be unloaded, both the cabinets and the dishes themselves were coated in dust, rat droppings, and the carcasses of deceased bugs. The two tables around the basins aren't big enough to hold all the dishes stored in this room, we're going to have to do some creative stacking on the floor if we're to finish all the dusting and sweeping.

After making a face at the dinner ware's less than pleasing pattern, Mishiel glanced up.

"Do you think they will make us take the inventory of all these dishes? I hope not, my snot has turned gray from all the dust we've kicked up. It feels that all the dirt we remove is stacking up on my body, and I don't like it." Though Leachelle could sympathize, her friend had stated something that she had to comment on.

"If you're taking the time to pick your nose to examine your boogers, then you are not keeping up on your end of the work." Caught by surprise, Mishiel opened her eyes wide before she was forced to hide her laugh behind her hands.

At the end of their mirth the beautiful girl chose to wag a warning finger at Leachelle for going with the less than savory humor. Feeling pleased with herself, she addressed her friend's concerns. "Doing the inventory would be a lot better than being stuck washing all these dishes. However, I don't think that will be our fate. I don't even think we will finish dusting and sweeping in the two hours we have left on our shifts. There are a lot of dishes we still have to displace in order to clean the cupboards and cabinets." After a few seconds of consideration, Mishiel inclined her head to her to concede the reasoning in that answer.

"We should sweep up under the washing station tables, we can stack dishes under and on the tables. That will get them out of our hair for a time." Mishiel suggested, showing that her friend had also been pondering the same problems she herself had foreseen.

They both moved to retrieve the brooms they had been assigned. After a few days of volunteering for the Daughters of the Word, Leachelle had learned how to use mops and brooms; she had even scrubbed floors for the first time in her life. They both took opposite tables to work under, sweeping so that they would meet under the basins. "So what was this about your enemy being kicked out of the palace?" Mishiel asked after a few moments.

"Taleen isn't my enemy... well I'm not hers, but she seems to have chosen me to hate," she confessed.

"You yoinked her out of her chair by her hair, and you don't consider yourself her enemy?"

Embarrassed for being called out on that regrettable incident, she laughed a little self consciously.

"I guess I don't want to be her enemy, but she forces my hand. Anyway, she was not kicked out of the palace, she had to move out. Her father's artifact level relic burned out, became mundane. Since he wasn't able to bond with anything but a relic level relic, he was no longer ranked high enough to be a palace protector," Leachelle reported with a shrug, trying to imagine that happening to her father.

"That's harsh. What if she bonds with an artifact when she advances?" IF she advances, was her first thought, but this made her feel less than charitable.

Something scuttled from her broom strokes, a spider that chose to race towards Leachelle. Mewling in distaste she crushed the creepy crawly with her foot, shuddering at the deed.

"I don't know," she said after the chills left her spine. "His Majesty will either invite her back or have her stationed in one of the support communities around Bolloren." Mishiel's squeal shocked her, as the girl dropped her broom and raced away from a bug her broom had dislodged. That shrill sound continued in a sustained note of fear until she jumped up and sat on the cutting board table to the north. The cockroach, in full panic mode, charged one direction, then another, and then a third not knowing where safety could be found.

As Leachelle had been doing after their chaperon had left them alone, she whipped out her relic. In the act of returning to the same crease it had come from, she hit the insect with a ribbon of power; snapping the magic like a whip that made the cockroach splay and bounce; just as dead as the stomped spider. Sighing in obvious relief, Mishiel climbed down from her refuge and returned to her broom. She watched the dead bug all the way back as if she feared it were a monster that was only feigning death. Beautiful face marred by distaste, Mishiel gingerly scooted the little orange brown body into her pile of sweepings.

Once that chore was done, the girl was able to return to her normal speed of work.

"We've only been at this for a week and a half, and I'm already tired of it," Mishiel grumbled. That admission hurt Leachelle for some reason. While the work was not glamorous, she had been looking at her volunteered hours as an adventure. Her mother had been a member long ago. She had just assumed her new friend had looked at the DOW work the same way she had. "That's it, let's take a break, Leachelle my bell. All the other ladies do that, and we've been working for several hours straight," Mishiel demanded while leaning her broom against the north basin.

With all the work that was needed in this room, Leachelle was reluctant to stop. The way her friends face suddenly lit up with an idea swayed her towards choosing truancy. Beckoning her close, Mishiel shared her thought, her face taking on a surreptitious cast.

"Let's see what the other women talk about when they think they're alone." Her eyes naturally narrow, Mishiel's lids seemed to take on a shifty aspect as she grinned in anticipation of the confidences she would overhear. Secretly listening in on people was an old game for Leachelle, yet for some reason this suggestion did not sit well; this seemed to lack innocence.

Moving with a soft glide, Mishiel moved to the door before casting a conspiratorial grin her way. Trying hard to not let her reluctance show, Leachelle followed. No matter how hard she tried she could not smooth the crease between her eyes. Why do I feel like Tuchurok the Gobesh saint who withstood the temptations of seven Burning Spirits? Still grinning, her friend stuck her head out of the door, looking up and down the downstairs corridor. Holding her finger over her lips, Mishiel tip toed into the hall heading north towards the kitchens and prep areas.

East and west, six dumbwaiters filled the walls in banks of three. Two grown men could fit into each lift, if they had been in functioning order. Just north of the dumbwaiters were the swinging doors of the kitchens, along the east wall. The whisk whisk of brooms in motion met the two girl's ears, then the voices of two young women. They settled next to the doors, crouching as if that would help them avoid getting caught. At first Leachelle did not understand the topic of conversation, but as certain words were used, she discovered they were talking about sexual foreplay. One girl complained bitterly about how her boyfriend did not have imagination or skill enough to stimulate certain erogenous zones.

Leachelle was mortified, which made her start to pull away, but Mishiel's sneering grin shocked her. This isn't for us to hear! Why does Mishiel look so avaricious, like she's hungry to hear more? This is just wrong! After another minute of the one girl gushing about her lover's prowess, and the other lamenting the lack thereof, she had heard enough of all the graphic details. Standing up, she shook her head in denial at Mishiel's uncomprehending glance. Though she stepped softly, she still left her friend at those doors and the dirty talk within. She had finished sweeping under the basins and had a third of the southern cupboard unloaded by the time Mishiel returned from her eaves dropping.

The girl's return caused Leachelle to feel worse, which made her unable to maintain any eye contact. For a time Mishiel stood at the door observing her without word. The scrutiny felt like judgment, and she was being found wanting without a defense that did not ride on emotion. When the weight of silence grew too heavy, she finally stopped working long enough for a glance. She found hard eyes that slowly softened in a face void of expression. "What made you leave?" That question should not make me feel so defensive, Leachelle complained in her thoughts. Feeling like she was on her back foot seemed to slow her thinking, before she realized she was trying to find an excuse or a prevarication that would not touch her real thoughts at all.

Clearing her throat, she told the truth; yet her eyes shied away from her beautiful friend's face.

"That was their conversation, and it was about things that were very personal to them...." Shaking her head was all it took to make Leachelle trail off.

"You don't have a boyfriend do you?" The incredulity in Mishiel's voice was heavy, as if her friend had a hard time getting her mind around that idea. "You're a virgin?" That secondary question felt like a smack in the face. An old urge to hide under her covers swept over Leachelle for a few moments.

She had to draw herself up before she answered.

"Every where I go, Taleen and her friends have been there first. Every guy I meet, calls me 'skinny princess' to my face when they recognize my name. Imagine trying to date someone who starts off with a low opinion of you from rumors and innuendos fostered by people who hate you. I deserve someone who will rate me based off of me, not what others have said of me." For a few moments hidden things flickered through Mishiel's wide narrow intense eyes, all of a sudden a smile flared up.
"Me, me, me, it's all about me." The laugh buoyed Leachelle's spirits, made her feel things were back to the way they should be. "Taleen can't be everywhere- wait.... Are you going to the DOW dance at the twenty Third Division's officer's club? It's next midweek, starting at four o'clock and lasting til nine."

Laughter proved to be a valve that released all the pressure of the last ten minutes.

"The Daughter's of Night only allow the girls to join the dance if they helped set up the party. They would put us to work if we showed up. I don't want to stay up on a work week taking or returning coats at the door." Waving Leachelle's worries away with a negligent wave of her hand, Mishiel addressed her concerns.

"No, no, no. A gentleman is allowed to bring a date to DOW dances if they wish. My boyfriend has a friend who just moved here from Alren, we could set you up if you wish. He's a really nice guy, a lieutenant from the Ninth Halbadiers...."