True Colours

Everything before Jeran’s eyes was a dance of colour and light, from the soft rose coloured glow of the stone walls of the study, to the rich, deep burgundy emanating from the oak desk his elbows leaned on. Each book on the shelves around him had its own set of hues specific to that book alone. He could see the vivid pink of his mother’s favourite romance. The deep regal blue of the book of lineages. Even the boring old history book on the desk before him glowed a rich amber.

Jeran looked to the window and perceived, beyond the pale gold of the glass, the rich greens and yellows which spun from each leaf, so full of life. Jeran held his hand up in front of him and saw his own aura, which ran from turquoise, through deep blue to a purple hue. As he wriggled his fingers the colours danced and flowed, running through his fingers like liquid light. Yet again, Jeran sensed that there should be a way to manipulate the light, capture it and then make it do things. Sometimes he felt he was on the verge of figuring it out, but today, like so many times before, the knowledge eluded him like a lost memory, and all he could do was watch and smile. The colours were so pretty that he often just lost himself..

"Jeran Markel! What in Zana’s holy name do you think you are doing? Are you even listening?"

Thorbin’s voice cut through Jeran’s vision like a knife and his perception abruptly snapped back to the muted tones and shades of ‘normality’. He realised that he had no idea of how long he had been lost in ‘seeing'. He tried to refocus his pale green eyes on his tutor and saw that Thorbin’s beady black eyes were glaring at him from under his huge grey eyebrows. Resigning himself to a tongue lashing Jeran tried to look suitably repentant.
"Well Master Markel? What is your answer?" His tutor scowled at him from across the table and tapped his finger impatiently on the arm of his chair.

Jeran ran a hand through his thick sandy hair. "Uh, could you repeat the question Thorbin? I was a bit distracted. Sorry."

"Distracted?" spat his tutor. "As heir to this Baronetcy I would have thought you would find the history of the Five Kingdoms of particular interest. Certainly more interesting than the back of your hand. Hmm?"

"I guess it should be Thorbin. I’m sorry. I am just not sure what all this stuff about Archprelate Liam has to do with nowadays." Jeran knew inwardly this was the wrong thing to say, and, to be honest he did find history a fairly interesting subject, but Thorbin seemed to bring out the worst in him. "I mean, some people even say he was a bit, you know, cracked in the head. Surely the mages can’t have all been bad, and to kill not only them but their families too seems…"

Thorbin rose abruptly from the chair and leant forward on the table holding his face a few inches from Jeran’s. "Young Master Markel, I can tolerate your unhealthy interest in magic and sorcery to an extent, but when Archprelate Liam proclaimed the mages to be heretics he was saving the Five Kingdoms and acting as Zana’s own representative on Hannsu. The mages were in league with darkness, they were servants of Murak. What he did was right and proper and we should all praise his name night and day that we were spared from a second Schism War. No good ever came from Art Magic, and thanks to Liam the Pure, nothing ever shall."

Thorbin slammed the book in front of Jeran shut with a bang and returned it to its place on the shelves. He looked back at Jeran and scowled again. "I think we are done for today. I shall be talking to your father about your attitude, have no fear. You may be thirteen in just a few days but I suspect you will find your father will not be happy to find I have cause to complain, yet again, about your attitude. We shall resume tomorrow.

Jeran stood, sighing heavily and hurried out of the room and down the stairs as fast as he could. Running down the passage he stopped in the doorway as he saw Helen the cook, who was crossing the cobbles carrying baskets of vegetables. Helen seemed to have the opinion that any lad, from Baron’s son to stable boy, was fair game when it came to kitchen chores. She stopped just out of sight scolding some poor unfortunate. Jeran leant in the shadows of the doorway casually and scanned the yard looking for his friend Patrick. Jeran could not see him so he waited while Helen finished her verbal chastisement and went on her way. Jeran peeked around the doorway and, seeing all was clear, raced across the yard and out through the gate to the lower ward. Here, away from the main keep were set the various outbuildings, storerooms and workshops of the manor.

Jeran walked along the path, his footsteps falling in time with the rhythmical sound of Tom’s hammer ringing out from the smithy. He waved to Megan, one of the manor’s guards, and his favourite. She sometimes let him have a go of her sword, and she often looked he other way when he was about a bit of mischief. Now, Megan gave him a conspiratorial winked as he passed and pointed to the stables. Nodding a thanks, Jeran picked up the pace and turned the corner to the stable yard.

As Jeran walked along the side of the low, half-timbered building he glanced in each stall. He liked horses, and he was becoming a fairly capable rider according to Master Finch who was the Baron’s trainer and Patrick's father. Jeran stopped and looked in on Fiddler, a lively young brown with an off centre star on his forehead. Fiddler recognised him and poked an inquisitive nose out.

"Sorry Fiddler, I haven’t got any apples today, besides, Finch says you’re getting fat!"
"That’s only because my Da says you feed him treats all the time," A tall lad with tousled brown hair and a toothy grin suddenly appeared at his side and delivered a friendly punch to Jeran’s shoulder. "Hey Jer, you seen the visitors horses? One of them is just a plain old bay, but the other one, well it’s really nice, I think it’s a Levanese Pureblood."
"There’s a visitor? On a Pureblood? No Patrick! Really?" As they walked down to the end stall Jeran’s mind raced, you rarely got true bred Levanese horses this far east. The dark skinned Levans were a wary lot and only allowed those they respected greatly to purchase their steeds. That probably meant that some visitor of great importance had come. Peeking in the end stall Jeran had to admit it was a very fine horse, a beautiful golden brown with an almost white mane. "She’s beautiful Patrick. So, who’s the rider?"

"A Grey Harper!"

Jeran was thrilled, this was great news indeed, but he knew his friend Patrick sometimes liked embellishing he truth. Even though the mare did look like a pureblood he had to make sure.

"Pat, are you sure it was Harper? Did you actually see him?"

Patrick, looking a little hurt at being doubted, replied, "Well I don’t know for certain, I sorted out the servant’s pony and he said a few kind words, his accent’s a bit odd. As to the rider, well my Da escorted him up to see your father a little while back, but I saw him for a few moments and he was dressed all in grey. And I untied his saddlebags and they are full of books and scrolls and ink and things so…."

Jeran smiled, "That does sound like a Harper. This is wonderful Patrick, you know they collect tales and legends, they have to memorise hundreds of stories. They say, up at Harper Hall, they have rooms and tunnels full of books and scrolls and, if you can manage the journey, you are allowed to read any of them you like!"

Patrick yawned, this was common enough knowledge and Patrick had little time for books as his father’s assistant in the stables. "That’s great Jer, I bet you two will have loads to talk about. The way you love your books, he’ll probably adopt you and carry you off to the frosty north to be one of them!"

Jeran sighed, "I’d like that, but you know I am being ‘groomed to be Baron’. I’ll be cooped up in this mouldy old castle forever."

Patrick laughed, "And I’ll be cooped up right here with you, but I’ll have to call you My Lord Baron and bow as you pass". Patrick bowed deeply at the hip, sweeping his arm wide. "Milord!"

Jeran chuckled with is friend. "That’s if I make it to evening meal. I daresay old Thorbin’s knocking on Father’s door right now to complain about ‘my attitude’.
Patrick frowned. "What have you done now Jeran? Or is it more like what have you not done? Distracted again?"

"You could say that," The boy dropped his voice and leaned closer to his friend. "I saw the colours again, when I was with old Owly Thorbin."

Patrick looked askance at his friend. Although two years older than Jeran, the younger boy's education sometimes made Patrick feel the inferior, but he felt as close to Jeran as any brother. Now he felt deep concern for his young friend.

"Jer," He spoke in a whisper, "you know I am your friend, but this talk of seeing colours, it sounds crazy."

Jeran shrugged. "I wish I could explain it, I've only ever told you. It scares me sometimes, but it’s so wonderful when it happens. And it must be real. Remember that time I found the stable house keys you had lost? I saved you a thrashing that day." Patrick nodded, "You said you saw them peeking out from under the mash buckets."

"Not exactly," Jeran, paused, trying to find the words, "When I see the colours, everything gives off its own lights. Things that belong to a person, that they hold a lot, they take on the colours of that person. Your father’s colours are a sort of deep green and gold, a bit like yours actually, but darker. Anyway, I saw those colours behind the buckets. That’s how I knew to look there. I couldn’t see the keys at all."

Patrick looked unnerved at this apparent evidence. He stepped away from Jeran and thought hard. He looked back at his friend and then took both of Jeran’s shoulders in his hands. "Look Jeran, I think maybe you ought to stop trying to see these colours. And I think you should try and forget all about them. I think, if a priest heard you, even a priest of one of the Lesser Gods, you could get in a lot of trouble."

Jeran saw how earnest his friend was and a cold feeling crept into the pit of his stomach. "What do you mean Patrick? I am not doing anything bad am I?"

"Jer, I don’t know. I’m just a stable hand. I am not wise or educated. But what you do sounds like…well…magic."

Jeran stood in shock as the word spun around his head. Magic? No, that was just stupid. He did not feel bad. He was not a servant of evil. How could it be anything so terrible as magic? He looked up at his friend and searched Patrick’s eyes for any hint of a joke. Finding none he whispered, "Magic? It can’t be Pat. It’s just a trick I can do, like reading or balancing on my hands."

Patrick stared back, shaking his head. "Do you think old Father Merell would agree with you? Look, I have work to do. Think about it and take my advice. Forget the colours." Patrick released Jeran’s shoulders and ruffled his hair. "Now go on, Maybe I’ll see you at dinner."