A/N: Dedicated to cleofriskey for motivating me to write.

******

"Higher, higher. Faster. Don't lose ground." The sharp comments of Sir Eldric sting me as I struggle to meet his expectations.

A sickening crack slaps over my knees; I buckle under the shock. Lowering my sword, I lean my head against the wooden post, a free hand gripping my injured legs. Pain immediately flares from my back.

"Did I tell you to stop, squire?" growls Sir Eldric. In his hand is a long, slender, and extremely deadly cane, the source of my throbbing back and knees.

"No, Sir Eldric," I say through gritted teeth. For a non-Champion, the man could hit hard. Very.

"Then why did you stop?"

I straighten myself and raise my head to look at him, appreciating in full the Captain-like features. An interrogating nose; a thin, critical mouth; fierce, hawk-like eyes. I place him at about my father's age, his dark hair thinning with streaks of silver running through it. "Because I was in pain, sir," I reply coolly.

He snorts. "In pain. If you're in pain in a battlefield, do you drop your weapons to nurse your wounds? Do you expect everyone to halt the fight and comfort you when you're down?"

"No, sir."

"So is being painful a reason for ceasing to swing your sword?"

"No, sir."

He studies me for a moment, his eyes probing and intelligent. "You're too much like your father—pig-headed and smart-mouthed," he remarks, a hand reaching up to stroke the faint stubble at his chin. He sighs in exasperation. "Pride was always one of the damning traits that ran in Rutherland blood. We'll stop sword practice for now and move on to crossbows." He turns towards Gilbert, who is desperately slashing at another post after he saw what happened to me. "Squire Falkner, put down your sword now. Move over to the archery fields."

It's the first day of our exclusive training with the king's best warriors. Captain Eldric and Sir Kendrick had decided to rotate their training sessions every other day to not trouble themselves so much. Today, Captain Eldric takes the helm.

After Gilbert puts his sword back with forced enthusiasm, he scurries to the Captain's side. I repeat his actions with certain reluctance, making my trainer's nostrils flare slightly. I know I'm supposed to behave properly, but some rebellious streak is guiding my actions unconsciously, bending me into its will.

Around us, the yells and battle cries of training knights and soldiers rise to a vicious crescendo. Gilbert and I are allowed to train on the knights' field, adjacent to the squires' training field. Even from afar, my eyes can pick up the squires' clumsy manoeuvres and less-than-graceful attempts at sword-fighting.

Sir Eldric pokes about the crossbows rack, before handing us two heavy models. Then he picks up one for himself with relative ease and gestures for us to walk towards the archery field. It's crowded with knights, but a path through them opens for us as we approach. They bow towards their superior, who acknowledges them with a slight nod.

We load our bows in silence, then stand at our marks and take aim. I even my breathing, allowing my mind to focus on the tiny black dot at the target's centre, near indistinguishable from this distance. I release the trigger, feeling a gleeful jolt as the quarrel shoots out. A watching knight hollers the result from afar.

It has hit the centre.

Sir Eldric grunts in reluctant approval. He turns towards Gilbert, who has trouble smoothing out his breathing. I heave a sigh of relief; at least there's something that I can do to please the impossibly demanding Captain. I start to load my next quarrel.

********

The stench of my sweat clings to my clothes like a dog unwilling to leave its master. I contemplate bathing, the only thing holding me back from doing so being the fact that I had just taken a wash yesterday. Word would go around that I'm abusing my nobleman rights. I'm unsociable, yes, but I still don't want anyone to have a bad impression of me.

And then again, my aloofness and icy demeanour already portrays negativity.

My training with Sir Eldric is finally over. It's the first time ever since that first training session with Sir Isaac that I'm actually reeling with exhaustion. At least I'm not the only one—he tries to hide his fatigue, but Gilbert is as worn out as I am.

"Have you been Marked yet, boy?"

I look at Sir Eldric, who is watching me narrowly with arms folded across his chest. He's referring to the traditional ritual in which Champions are branded with the symbol of their patrons when they turn sixteen. I'm seventeen this year. However, my birth was only officially recorded a year later, so I appear a year younger in the Domesday. Gilbert had his branding a year ago.

"No sir," I reply carefully.

"When's your birthday?" he asks.

"Two months ago, sir."

"And you haven't been branded yet?"

"It's due in a month's time..." I say uncertainly.

He observes me for a moment, a lithe, sinewy tiger deciding how to take down a boar. It's unsettling. I shuffle on my feet.

Behind Sir Eldric, Gilbert watches, obviously overhearing the conversation. I squint at the brand on his collarbone, just visible above the flap of his tunic. It's a dangerous-looking black mark, with a bear head and a battle axe as its image.

I remember the day he received his Mark. He'd emitted a piercing howl as the royal smith pressed the branding iron onto his skin; I'd struggled to pin him down as his arms flailed about, like a fish thrashing about on dry land. It was the first time I saw him cry, silver streaks washing the dirt and grime over his face. But after he was branded he quickly recovered, and started bragging to all the other squires.

He locks eyes with me. Their queer, light colour startles against his olive skin and messy black hair. For once, I feel that we are sharing the exact same thoughts.

Then the moment passes. "Your Marking ceremony is to be sooner; the king himself requests it," announces Sir Eldric. "Maybe in about a week's time."

Thinking of the pain I that I have to endure, I suddenly feel nauseous. I still manage to compose myself and say, "Very good, sir."

He sweeps a hand at me and Gilbert. "Training's over for today. Remember that it'll be Sir Kendrick tomorrow," Sir Eldric dismisses us.

We salute him and go in our separate directions.

******

I head into the inner circle of the castle, only stopping to show the guards my permission slip. I make for the Royal Library, where the next session of the king's scheduled 'Champion's training' will continue. Gilbert and I are to meet a Quinnian scholar, one of the intellectual elites of Perinus.

Despite exploring the castle library being a welcome notion, I'm still stuck in a foul mood. My head swims with Xingko manuscripts waiting to be transcribed, as is Sir Isaac's work for now. Being his appointed squire, I've had no choice but to help him earlier, and all he did was chide me for my poor translating skills.

"Don't blame me if Sir Kendrick doesn't choose you as his apprentice," his stinging comment rings in my ears. I feel myself growing hot in spite of the north wind hurling itself towards me. Am I really that unworthy to be called the Bane of the king?

"You're heading in the wrong direction," a familiar voice pipes up behind me. I whirl around to face the person. Gilbert. His lips are slightly upturned in amusement. "I thought that you'd be able to find any library in Perinus while blindfolded. Losing your sense of direction now?"

"How amusing. I'll let you know that I can find my way easily enough."

"Then you should also know that the direction you were heading for leads to the ladies' quarters." I blush appropriately and don't say anything. Gilbert grins at me. "I believe the library is this way," he says, leading me towards the opposite direction. I curse under my breath. Nothing is going right for me today.

We enter the Royal Library. This particular library is supposed to be exclusively reserved for noblemen and the Royal family. I feel delighted and taken aback at having the privilege to use it; the same cannot be said for Gilbert.

The library differs from the one I'm usually permitted to enter. It is smaller, more compact, yet it seems to be crammed with more books, making it look like all the ancient knowledge of the past had somehow hurtled into the future and ended up here. In fact, the area seems to be made up of the spaces in between books. I make a mental comparison; the common library is bigger. However, the huge spaces between shelves gives it an empty feeling, void of any real treasures of the mind.

I step into the room, breathing in the musty air. Behind me, Gilbert hesitates. "Aren't we supposed to wait for the scholar?" he asks, his voice shaky. I know that siphoning through rolls and rolls of paper isn't his niche, but I didn't imagine him to be displaying cowardice at this.

"The scholars are always inside, Gilbert." I tap my foot impatiently. "Come in."

He follows me meekly; I snort in disgust. Inside, I'm pleased that I have a distinct ability superior to his.

A figure dressed in the blue-grey robes of Pst. Quinn comes shuffling towards us. A wimple is situated upon its head; a heavy, ornamental medallion hangs from a ribbon around the neck. As it gets closer, I can see that it is a woman. Dark skin and a curl of black hair escaping from the wimple indicates that she is from Ravürk, but her angular cheekbones and straight, perfect nose indicates otherwise. She's possibly of mixed ethnicity. She's fairly young, anywhere between the age of twenty to thirty. Her pale grey eyes stare out steadily at us.

"Squire Rutherland and Squire Falkner, I presume?" Her voice is soft yet firm.

"Reporting for duty, Quinnian...?" I trail off as I realise that I don't know her name.

"Allura," she says. "Quinnian Allura. Of the House of Knowledge." My eyes slide to the medallion on her chest, confirming her occupation—it has a large eye carved onto the silver. The symbol of one of the three Houses of the Quinnian scholars.

She turns without warning, starting to guide us down a maze of books. She walks sprightly—to my surprise—and I'm forced to increase my pace to keep up. When she reaches a dead end, she stops. "I suppose that you two have heard of the catacombs running below the castle?"

We nod in response. The catacombs are supposed to be an escape route in times of siege. Only, no one really knows where the entrances are, not to mention where the routes lead to.

"Then you are about to take your first peek into it," she says. Quinnian Allura presses a hand against a spectacularly dull-grey brick. Amazingly, it gives way; an opening slides before us. The new passage is narrow and gloomy, with slippery moss growing between the rough edges of bricks. Braziers shed what little light they have into the never-ending darkness.

My jaw drops in awe. "But...how – why?" Gilbert sputters.

Quinnian Allura does not answer, giving us a smile instead—a serene and all-knowing one. She gestures for us to follow her into the passage. Once we step inside, she presses another brick. A series of mechanics inside the walls click together, making the secret door sliding to a close.

"The knowledge of generations is precious and is a powerful weapon—'A word of the tongue is sharper than the blade of the sword'," quotes the Quinnian from War of the Minds by Maximus. "As you can understand, it cannot afford to be lost. That was why the Quinnians had requested for the catacombs to be built, so that they—we—may keep our most important documents safe from invading renegades. Does that answer satisfy you, Squire Falkner?"

Gilbert bobs his head dumbly. His eyes are fixated onto the path before us. It's not a wonder that he's squinting; even I'm having problems adjusting my vision in the darkness. Only Quinnian Allura, probably after years of walking up and down this passageway, seems completely at ease and confident in her footsteps.

"No wonder I didn't see any Quinnians back there..." I mutter as the thought strikes my mind. I had expected scholars to be swarming the library.

"Clever observation, Squire Rutherland," Quinnian Allura interjects. "Many people assume that our work takes place in the Royal Library, but we'd never work in a place that open to everyone. I'm taking you down to the place where the Quinnians would be. It's a real privilege extended only to a selected few other than the children of Pst. Quinn."

We finally reach the end of the passage. Quinnian Allura repeats the steps before to open the exit. This time, the door slides open to the warmth and comfort of life. Gilbert and I eagerly step inside, away from the shadows. I barely notice the door closing as I transfix my eyes on the sight before me.

Dome-shaped and divided into two levels, the Quinnians' workplace seems as regal an architecture as any other famous building in Gaiatea. A flawlessly carved stone staircase spirals downwards towards the second floor, and deep indentations along the granite walls serve as bookshelves. Quinnian scholars bustle about with texts and scrolls cradled in their arms, rushing to get the endless information sorted out like bees in a hive. Other scholars sit at a large, circular table on the bottom level, transcribing ancient manuscripts or tales of yore. Overall, the place teems with life, whether from the past or the present.

I laugh out suddenly; it feels beautiful.

Gilbert seems shocked at my outburst of joy. Then I realise that I'd never smiled or laughed in front of other squires before, and immediately straighten my features. Gilbert leans towards me and whispers in my ear, "You should smile more often. You'd look less of a stiff squat."

I scowl at him.

Quinnian Allura watches this exchange, smiling with faint amusement. "Come on then, we'll go find a personal space to work in," she says.

While we walk past the Quinnians, I notice that they all acknowledge Quinnian Allura by pressing two fingers to their lips and onto their right brow—the sign of the Quinnians wishing for someone to bestow knowledge upon them. It's a gesture only reserved for the ones of senior rank, equivalent to us squires saluting knights. The second thing I notice is that while all of the Quinnians have medallions, they are all the same eye imprinted onto silver. Where are the members of the other two Houses?

"Quinnian Allura, where are the other Houses of Pst. Quinn?" I ask.

"Another clever observation, Squire Rutherland," she remarks while leading us down an even narrower passageway than before, one that is hidden behind a tapestry. "The other Houses have other passageways from the library leading into their separate chambers. We had decided to keep our Houses separate, so in case one is found out and destroyed, the others might have a chance of staying intact, and we can rebuild the lost House."

These Quinnians are mighty clever. I'd never have thought of it.

"Here we are," she announces chirpily. The new room is much smaller and cramped than the one outside. It has a dome-shape, but that's where the similarities end. It seems uninhabited for a long time; the place fairly reeks of rat droppings. A small, round table is situated at the centre, ready to break apart and crash onto the floor at any moment. A stack of books and yellowed scrolls sit atop it. I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

Quinnian Allura notices mine and Gilbert's discomfort. "My apologies, squires. The king's notice for us has been rather...abrupt. We had no time to clean up the room properly, as it hasn't been in use ever since our previous Claristäe—House leader—had passed away. Our current Claristäe, who doesn't use the room, commissioned it for us so that we may not be disturbed as we look through your predecessors' records. But I assure you that it's in a far better condition than when we first cleaned it up."

Embarrassment creeps over me. "Oh, no, no. It's perfectly fine, Quinnian Allura." I lace my fingers behind me in nervously.

"Perfect? Fine? It reeks of rat droppings!" Gilbert hisses. I glare at him. He realises his mistake, clamping his hands over his mouth and bowing three times in rapid succession towards Quinnian Allura. I find a sudden urge to laugh once more.

"I – I'm so sorry, Quinnian Allura. I don't know what came over me! Forgive my rudeness—" Gilbert stumbles over his words.

She cuts him off with another gentle smile. "It's all right, Squire Falkner. You were merely speaking the truth. Now let us finally start our work."

******

A/N: Remember to vote if you like or comment if you hate (or like!) XD

Pst. Ailith - Lady of war and strength; her symbol is the bear, which is infamous for its brute strength and ferocity in battle.