Chapter Eight
Five Years Later
I wonder what they’re doing right now.
“Ceril?” Roman asked again.
“No, that’s me,” Ceril said without looking at his instructor. “I know what I’m doing.”
“You don't say? Well, you could have fooled me.” Roman sighed. “Ceril, I don't know where your mind is today, but it's not here. It hasn't been for some time, so I'll tell you what. Go ahead and take the rest of today off. Get a little rest. Fix whatever it is that's broken in you, all right? Then I need you to come back in here at 0600 tomorrow, ready to be briefed. It's a routine Instance hop, but you know as well as I do that even routine missions are more than dangerous enough to get you killed if your head's not in the game. You got me?”
“Yeah, sure. 0700. Got it.”
“Six. Oh-six, Ceril.”
“Yeah…yeah, I’ll be here at oh-six,” Ceril said. “Promise.”
With that, Ceril turned from his instructor and walked out of the room. He made his way through the grey metal hallways that had become his home during these last six years and quickly found himself lying reclined on the bunk he had been assigned his first day aboard the Inkwell Sigil. He stared out the porthole with his fingers interlaced behind his head. He loved watching the blur change color in front of his eyes. It was one of the few things that could really relax him these days.
For a very short time, the observation deck had helped him relax, but he hadn’t been able to go in there for years without having some kind of panic attack.
Without being able to keep his hands in the dirt—like he used to do on the deck—he had taken to staring at the colors of hyperspace and trying to find some kind of meaning in their shifting. It had almost become like a religion to him. Saryn joked that he was looking for his purple-green god out the window.
Sometimes he wondered if she was right.
Life aboard the Inkwell Sigil was not luxurious, and much of it was lonely. Much of Ceril's time was taken up by studying, and his room reflected that dedication. Unlike most of the other Apprentices, Ceril kept his room almost exactly as it had been when he came on board six years ago. His linens were standard-issue white and gray, and the walls of his quarters were undecorated except for the Sigil’s embossed logo near the ceiling and a small selection of books Ceril couldn’t leave in the Library—he just had to have access to them any time. The porthole and its view of hyperspace over his bed was the highlight of the room.
Well, except for the picture of Gramps on his desk.
How he missed that man. Ceril hadn’t seen him in six years, hadn’t even spoken with him in five. That photograph was Ceril’s only proof that he had connections with anyone off the Inkwell Sigil.
He stared at the picture, not blinking. Ceril saw himself standing beside Gramps. The day that photo was taken seemed like a lifetime ago, and his heart sank. The two of them had shared so much of their lives with one another, but lately, his studies and Apprenticeship made everything before coming onboard the Inkwell Sigil a blur.
He hated that, but he couldn’t help it. He looked away from the picture and back out the window. Focusing on the shifting colors allowed him not to think about how long it had been since he had seen or spoken with Gramps. Too long, Ceril thought. Much too long. What if he’s…not there anymore? Ceril pushed the thought from his mind. Of course he was. Nothing had happened to Gramps in the last five years. He had always been as tough as a Yaghian plated bear.
And what about Swarley? Ceril never even got to say goodbye. For all the years they had lived together and made visits to each other’s homes over breaks from Ennd’s, Ceril might as well have vanished into thin air. They must have come up with some story about where Ceril had gone—some lie. They told Swarley just to move on with his life. Because that’s what they had told Ceril.
“No,” he remembered Roman saying. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” Ceril had asked. “It’s been nearly a month, and I’m sure he’ll want to know where, you know, his roommate is. If I’m alive or whatever.”
“Rules are rules, Ceril. You know that. I wish I could, but I can’t let you contact anyone who isn’t aboard the Sigil for security reasons.”
“Yeah,” Ceril had said. “Security reasons. Because you don’t want people to know you exist.”
“Exactly,” said Roman. “We don’t want people to know we exist.”
“But they do know,” Ceril explained. “There were those people with the Flameblades who attacked—”
“They. Are. Not. Us. I’ve told you that over and over again, Ceril. Do you think that anyone on this ship, me included, could do that to anyone? To children, I mean? Could you? You have a Flameblade, after all. Are you one of them?”
“Of course not,” Ceril had said. Roman rarely raised his voice, but when he did, it was enough to frighten almost anyone. “But…”
“But nothing, Ceril. We don’t want people—any person at all—to know that we exist because we will be seen as being just as bad as they are. Do you want that?”
Ceril was silent.
“Well, do you?”
“No, sir,” Ceril said. “But why would they?”
“Why would they what?”
“See us that way? If we just let them see the good that we do, what we’re really about., then maybe they’ll realize we’re not so bad.”
“I’m sorry, Ceril,” Roman said. He’d meant it, too. Ceril heard the apology in his voice. “That’s just not how the world works. That’s just not how we work. This system has been in place for a very long time, and it works. I’m sorry that it’s painful not to talk to the people you care about, but it’s for their protection as much as yours and the order’s. On the upside, you will be able to talk to your grandfather eventually.”
Ceril’s eyes widened. His whole body perked up. “Really?” he said. “When? Soon? Today?”
“Eventually,” Roman had said. “When you complete your first year of training and pick your Class.”
“Oh,” Ceril said. And that was that.
Roman had been as good as his word, though. That first year had gone by quickly though, and Ceril had been able to speak with Gramps just like Roman had promised. Ceril’s grandfather had not been happy when that Ceril was training to be a Charon, but he told him that he would support him in whatever choice he made. Ceril had tried to bring up how Gramps knew Headmaster Squalt and Professor Nephil, but Gramps dodged the question and redirected everything back to being about Ceril.
Gramps was still in great health and had plans to expand the garden even more that summer. When Ceril asked about the terrorists who had called themselves Charons, Gramps became visibly distraught and denied knowing anything about what Ceril was talking about.
Now, five years later, Ceril yearned to speak with his grandfather again. He would soon, though. That was one of the few things that kept him going. He was going to start his Rites tomorrow.
That had him worried. No matter how routine tomorrow’s task would be, he had to get his head on straight—it was the start of his final test to become a full agent of the Charonic Archive.
A full agent, he thought. A Charon. The thought was ridiculous when he actually thought about it. He was supposed to be a farmer by now. Of course, Charons were supposed to be myths, too.
So much for that, Ceril thought. With his eyes fixed on the window, Ceril got to his knees and extended his left arm with his hand open. His Flameblade materialized in his hand. Its faint purple-green glow was overpowered by the light from the hyperspace blur. He did a one-handed practice that Bryt had taught him. It was supposed to help with nervousness. Sometimes it did, but this wasn’t one of those times. When he finished, the sword dissipated and his hand was empty once again. Ceril collapsed back onto his bed.
Roman had said that once Ceril’s Rites were finished, he would get to go back to Erlon. What Ceril couldn't wrap his mind around was how. How that was possibl
e?
If he was supposed to go back to Erlon after being Rited, then why all the secrecy? In his six years of being aboard the Sigil and through all his research, he couldn't find more than what would a single book's worth of information about contemporary Charons on Erlon.
His Rites would surely flesh that out further, and hopefully even help them stop the impostor Charons who were terrorizing most of Erlon. Except for a handful of news reports and scattered information about them, Ceril might not have even known they existed anymore. And even those reports were hard to find using the Inkwell Sigil’s archives. Ceril always had to do a little extra digging when he was off the ship to learn anything new.
Like so many other times during his training, Ceril just had to trust his superiors and hope they weren’t lying to him when they said they weren’t involved in those attacks.
He breathed in deeply and tried to calm himself. The swirl of the hyperspace envelope’s colors wasn’t making him any less nervous tonight. So, his attention moved back to the picture of him and Gramps. He barely recognized the smile on the boy’s face. He couldn’t remember the last time he smiled like that.