A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"A subtler business," Verdant said, as he checked the teapot by the hearth. It must have been empty, for he soon retrieved a jug of water and began to fill it up. "The young man who runs it offers advice for a small fee, to those that need it."

"Advice?" Oliver repeated incredulously. "That's it?"

"That's it," Verdant agreed. "He asks for my assistance in that, and in return, I have another quiet place, away from the confines of the staff, and their games of politics, and away from the other priests and their incessant questions."

"What a strange place…" Oliver mused. It almost made him angry, but the room was so peaceful that he could hardly summon the emotion. It was unfair just how carefree the nobility were able to live. And these weren't just children, as though that would excuse such a lax lifestyle. From the time a child could walk in a peasant village, he was helping in some sort of way.

There would never be any excuse for these kinds of… frivolities.

It seemed hardly a wonder to him that he hadn't detected a single youth of note in any of his classes. They were educated, for the most part, far more educated than he, but it was not mere education that Oliver was after. He searched for strength, even if he was doing so blindly.

He longed for some sort of measurement, someone he might compare himself to, someone he might compete with, or someone who might teach him. Read latest chapters at empire

"Are all the professors as weak as Heathclaw?" Oliver asked, suddenly, more blunt than he had been in several days. He recalled both Lombard's and Lord Blackwell's attitudes when discussing the Academy. Both of them had seemed to regard it as a waste of time.

He'd been optimistic at first, given the nature of his other classes, and how lacking he was in them… but swordsmanship had been so underwhelming. It was beyond disappointing.

Verdant did not answer his question immediately. He sparked a fire amongst the kindling, and watched carefully as it grew into a moderate flame. When it was strong enough, he pushed a well-used tripod over the top of it, and then stuck the kettle on top of it. "You had better to that shirt of yours off, I suppose, so that I might see to your back."

Glancing over his shoulder, and towards his back, Oliver could see the redness. The blood had flowed freely, for a time, but now it was already beginning to clot. He doubted that he needed a second set of stitches for it, just a week after he'd gotten the last set out. But Verdant had a quiet sort of intensity to him, something that brooked no complaints.

It seemed less of a hassle to do as he was asked to.

He pulled it off his arms with a sigh, feeling it stick to the back where some of the blood had already dried. He looked at the shirt once he was done, and sighed again. "What a waste," he murmured, knowing how difficult it would be to remove the blood from it.

"You are unused to such luxuries, mm?" Verdant asked. It was not really a question. There was a look in the man's pale blue eyes that told Oliver he knew. They were eyes that looked, and really saw. "Very few of our noble students would have much of a reaction to losing but a single shirt."

"Hm… Then I suppose they're a wasteful folk," Oliver said. He turned around as Verdant came to look at his back.

"You speak as though you're not one of them."

"I am not."

"Hm… The Young Wolf shares many qualities with his father, it would seem," Verdant said, his fingers cold on Oliver's shoulders. "You've a harsh set of scars to you," he noted. "The marks of a whip?"

Oliver went cold for a moment, as he sucked in a breath. Of course… He realized. The marks of his slavery, even with the marks of battle over the top of them, they would not be easily overwritten. He said nothing, hoping that Verdant would not press the issue any further. To his relief, the priest did not.

"A spear here, a sword, and there..? An axe? Your body bears the truth of your battle with the Yarmdon, far more than rumour does," Verdant said. His voice seemed calm, but Oliver was sure he could detect excitement in it. He was sure, and yet, he was also sure that it didn't make sense. "So, young Oliver, your father made it through the Sixth Boundary, did he?"

"I thought you were not meant to speak of such things to me until I came of age," Oliver said.

"It is taboo," Verdant agreed. "Amongst those that worship Claudia, and follow her teachings. There's a belief in there, an old one, that the Second Boundary must be breached by accident, without the knowledge of its existence, to attain the same sense of enlightenment that the first Blessed individual reached when he struck through it.

Yet, I am a monk of Behomothia, and even if I wasn't, I do not think such restraints apply to you, do they?"

"Say what you mean, priest," Oliver said.

"You've already passed through the Second Boundary, have you not? They say you slew Kursak. As far as we know, he had been blessed by Varsharn, the Yarmdon God of War. The strength of such a blessing is equivalent to our Claudia's Second Boundary."

"Is it?" Oliver asked, his voice level. It was the answer to a question that he had not yet found the time to ask. Dominus had passed before he had the chance. Different Gods – the Yarmdon had blessings of their own sort. It was not only Claudia.

"Of course, such blessings are equally as rare amongst their people as they are amongst ours," Verdant continued. With a wet cloth, he had begun to wash the blood away from Oliver's back. "There's ignorance in you, Young Wolf, ignorance that does not match your strength. In an effort to dispel that ignorance, and assure you that I mean you only goodwill, I will tell you what I think I know of you."