Paragon Of Destruction

Arran spent the remainder of the banquet making a valiant effort in being a proper host. Yet after the Matriarch's announcements, most of the guests were filled with gloom and worry, and what was supposed to be a celebration ended up more resembling a funeral.

The only bright spot was the food. As always, Arran's cooks had done better than anyone could reasonably expect, and several Elders subtly inquired whether he would be willing to part with them — for a generous price, of course.

Arran politely but firmly rejected any such requests, though he reminded the Elders that anyone teaching at his mansion could enjoy his servants' cooking for as long as they remained. Even with the Matriarch's orders, it wouldn't hurt to give the Valley's most powerful mages an additional reason to help him train.

He spent the rest of the day making conversation with his many guests. This was something he hardly had a natural talent for, but he acquitted himself of the task as best he could. And if he didn't exactly win any new friends, at least he got through the banquet without offending anyone.

Still, he was glad when the evening came to an end. Between politics and training, he much preferred the latter.

That was a fortunate thing, too, because, at the Matriarch's orders, his training resumed the very next morning. While work on the training grounds had not yet finished and many students had yet to arrive, she made it clear that she did not wish him to waste any more time.

And so, his studies began once more.

There were about two hundred students in total, with as many again yet to arrive. These students didn't all train together — even for teachers as skilled as the Valley's Elders, that would have been too much to handle. Instead, they visited their various teachers in groups of one or two dozen, spending several hours studying a particular discipline before moving on to another teacher.

Arran was the lone exception to this. Although he spent half his time studying with various groups of students, many of his teachers also provided him with several hours of personal guidance every week, to address the many gaps that still remained in his knowledge of magic.

That proved no needless luxury. Now that he had other students to compare himself to, Arran soon discovered that his accomplishments in magic were middling at best.

While he wasn't the worst among the novices, there were many whose skills far surpassed his own. As for the adepts, there was no need to even mention the vast gap that existed between his skills and theirs.

This apparent disparity between Arran's skill and his privileges initially caused some grumbles among the other students. Though none dared show any hostility, it was obvious that they could not fathom why so average a student would be chosen as heir to the Matriarch.

Arran recognized that he could not allow this resentment to fester. Even if it did not cause problems just yet, over time it could turn into something more dangerous — especially if he were to succeed the Matriarch one day.

Unwilling to let this continue, he approached Jovan near the end of the first week.

"Have the other students visit me tonight," he said. "All of them."

"Lord Ghostblade?" His steward looked at him suspiciously.

"I'm having a little training session," Arran explained. "And I would like the others to join in."

Any doubts the others had about his abilities disappeared that night, with a series of sparring matches showing his fellow students exactly what the difference between a warrior and a mage was.

That their magical skills exceeded his made little difference. His skill at shields was sufficient to close the distance between him and even a strong adept, and once he closed the distance, the fights invariably ended in seconds.

Few of the students were left uninjured that night, but Arran's display had its intended effect. After that night, none still questioned his talent, and if any of them still felt resentment, they hid it carefully.

There was an unintended effect as well, however, with the demonstration causing many of the other students to develop an interest in swordsmanship. Not only did the number of students taking lessons from the House of Swords teachers rise drastically, many even began to appear when Arran instructed his servants in swordplay.

Somewhat to Arran's surprise, many of the most diligent students in swordsmanship turned out to be among the most accomplished mages in the group. Rather than being demoralized by having their weaknesses exposed, they were zealous in addressing them, practicing their swordplay with every bit as much fervor as they studied magic.

Arran had previously believed that their skills owed as much to talent as they did to effort, but now, he began to suspect he had been wrong.

The realization helped him a great deal. He had always suspected that his talent in magic was mediocre at best, but if the real difference between the strong and the weak was effort rather than talent, then he had the means to achieve greatness.

Encouraged by both this new realization and his memories of Brightblade's duel, he set to work with all the passion he could muster, refusing to waste even a moment that could be spent on study and training.

Each day, he awoke before dawn, then studied until the fall of evening. And although the evenings were his own, he spent those on training as well, either practicing his sword skills in the training grounds or retreating to the dungeons to practice his magic while circulating Destruction Essence through his body.

Though the schedule he set for himself was brutal — even more so than the one set out by the Matriarch — the thought of complaining never occurred to him.

With as many Essence Crystals as he could use and the personal guidance of both the Matriarch and the Valley's Elders, he had an opportunity that others could only dream of. And although his relentless efforts left him weary, he would not waste the chance before him.

If the other students studied hard, he would train harder. Each day, he studied until his mind could bear no more, then cleared his mind by training until his body reached its limits as well.

Those few hours he did not spend either studying or training, he sat in the hot spring, eating dragon meat as he recovered from the day's labor.

That was not enough to fully fend off the ever-encroaching exhaustion, but any weariness he felt, he wore like a badge of honor, a token that he was doing all he could.

Months passed like this, and his efforts soon began to pay off.

Each week, he surpassed more of the novices, with others slowly falling behind him. And if many were still far ahead of him, the gap between them was shrinking by the day.

His tireless efforts did not go unnoticed. While his strength might have impressed the other students, his efforts truly earned their respect.

Every single one among them knew the burdens of training, and they had no difficulty recognizing just how grueling Arran's self-imposed schedule was.

Yet unexpectedly, Arran found himself gradually beginning to enjoy it. Even if he worked harder than he ever had before in his life, he was excited to see his skills progress rapidly. And each time he learned something new, the feeling of accomplishment grew stronger.

His first major victory came after barely three months of training.

His skill with Shadow Essence had always been among his greatest strengths, and the fury with which he trained had seen that skill increase rapidly.

He had learned a series of increasingly complex versions of the Shadowcloak spell, then practiced them endlessly, maintaining them every waking moment until they became as familiar to him as his swords.

Then, one morning, a House of Shadows Elder informed him that he was ready to attempt the full version of the spell.

Arran initially thought it was far too soon for that final step, but he obliged nonetheless. And although it took him several hours of failed attempts, he was stunned to discover that he could finally create a true Shadowcloak.

The spell was ruthlessly complex, as it consisted of many overlapping patterns of Shadow Essence, each of which needed to be maintained separately to achieve the full effect. Yet even if it took all of Arran's concentration to do so, he found that the task was no longer beyond him.

That his version was far from perfect did not matter. Now that he knew the spell, fully mastering was simply a matter of more practice. And although that would take more months of ceaseless training, such an effort no longer seemed like an insurmountable obstacle.

He devoted much of his time to practicing the spell in the months that followed, and as a result of his efforts, his proficiency at it steadily increased.

Yet although the achievement filled him with joy, he was already eying a bigger target, and one that would be vastly more difficult to learn.

Among all the spells taught in the Society, there was one that stood above all others. The spell for which the Society had been named — Shadowflame.

Learning this spell qualified one to become an adept, and although Arran doubted that Brightblade would allow him to take that title so easily, he suspected — and hoped — that learning it would get her to reveal at least some of her secrets to him.

Arran had already been exposed to this spell several times. He had experienced the Sixth Valley's Patriarch casting it to great effect while using his body, and both the Matriarch and Brightblade had spent a significant amount of time instructing him in it.

But even so, learning it proved no small obstacle.

Unlike the spells he already knew, Shadowflame used two different types of Essence, merging them together to create something different — a mixture of Essence that contained aspects of both components.

And it was this step that proved nearly impossible for Arran. Because even though he knew what to do in theory, any actual attempts he made at merging the two types of Essence failed miserably.

He did not let the lack of success discourage him. Instead, he redoubled his efforts, spending hours each evening trying to get it right.

Yet although his other skills continued to improve steadily, his attempts at learning the Shadowflame spell were as fruitless as they were fervent.

His teachers proved no help, either. They obligingly answered any questions he had about the spell — and he asked many — but none of their answers seemed to be of much use.

In the end, all they told him that it was a matter of practice and understanding, with several of them adding that most mages spent years studying the spell before successfully learning it.

Arran wasn't willing to wait that long, however, and he studied the spell to the point of obsession, until even his dreams were filled with scenes of him trying — and failing — to cast it.

Engrossed in his studies, Arran barely noticed the passing of time. He knew that Snowcloud's return must be nearing, but he kept his mind focused on his studies — partly because he could already imagine the surprise on her face if she learned that he had mastered the Shadowflame spell.

Yet it was all for naught. Try as he might, learning even the first step of the spell seemed an impossibility. And although this did not stop him from studying it, his mood slowly became gloomy, with the constant failure beginning to weigh on his mind.

Eight months after the duel, he unexpectedly received word from Brightblade. Between his training and her new responsibilities, he had seen little of her since the banquet, and those few times she had visited him she had seemed every bit as exhausted as he was.

Now, however, she had sent him a summons to her stronghold. And in her message, she said that he should not expect to return to his mansion for some time.