Sorcerer's Shadow

I sighed heavily. "Alright. Try to arrange it, will you? And pass the coordinates to Selendis. I'd rather not spend excessively on the Bitch Patrol, so I'll just put up with a bumpy journey."

"Why don't you manage it on your own, then?"

"Not that bumpy."

"Turning frugal, boss?"

"You imply I wasn't before?"

"Understood, Viktor."

Thorne exited the room.

* * * *

With a few years of hindsight, I must admit that I don't perceive my father as having been harsh. Just the two of us existed, which complicated matters, but he did the best he could considering his circumstances. And by alone, I mean truly alone. We lived among Imperions, not in the Terran slum, thus our neighbors kept their distance, and our only other family was my paternal grandfather, who steered clear of our part of town, and my father didn't like bringing me to Vost-pa's when I was little.

You'd assume I'd have adapted to solitude, but it didn't happen that way. I've always despised it. I still do. Maybe it's a primal trait among Humans. The most delightful moments were what I now believe must have been quiet days at the Inn when the waitstaff had spare time to entertain me. One of them I remember: a large, portly man with a mustache and nearly no teeth. I'd tug at his mustache, and he'd jest about cooking me up and serving me with an apple in my mouth. It's perplexing why I found that humorous. I wish I could recall his name.

Upon reflection, my father likely viewed me more as a hindrance than a joy. If he ever had a romantic partner, he concealed it effectively, and I can't fathom why he would. It wasn't my fault, but I guess it wasn't his either.

Despite everything, I never truly liked him.

I guess I was around four when my father started bringing me regularly to see my grandfather. That's the first significant change in my life that I remember, and it made me happy.

My grandfather fulfilled his role, which was to spoil me, and only now am I starting to grasp how much more he did. I think I was five or six when I began to notice that my father disapproved of many things Vost-pa was teaching me—like making a leaf drift slightly off the wind's path just by willing it. Also, the tiny slap-games that I now understand to be my first lessons in Terran-style fencing.

I was confused by my father's disdain but, being a stubborn little rascal, this only made me pay more attention to Vost-pa. This might be the root of the issues between my father and me, although I'm not certain. Perhaps I bear a resemblance to my mother, I can't say. I've asked Vost-pa who I look like, and his consistent response is, "You look like yourself, Viktor."

I can recall one incident that likely wounded my father. Around the age of five, I endured my first real thrashing, courtesy of, I believe, four or five ruffians from the House of the Cetan. I remember I was at the marketplace running some errand when they surrounded me, insulted me with words I no longer recall, and ridiculed my boots, which were of Terran style. They slapped me a few times, one punched me in the gut hard enough to leave me breathless; then they kicked me once or twice and stole the money I was given for the purchases. They were roughly my size, which I guess means they were in their late teens, but there were several of them, and I ended up quite battered, and scared to tell my father.

After they were done with me, I picked myself up, sobbing, and sprinted all the way to South Avandryl, to my grandfather's residence. He applied some soothing concoctions to my wounds, served me tea (which I suspect was laced with brandy), escorted me home, and spoke to my father so I didn't have to explain where the money had disappeared.

It was only years later when I started questioning why I'd rushed all the way to Vost-pa's, instead of heading home, which was closer. And several more years passed before I considered if this could have hurt my father's feelings.

* * * *

About twenty-two hours after Thorne left to arrange things, I was reclining in my chair, which has a unique mechanism allowing it to tilt, swivel, and perform other movements. My feet were on the desk, ankles crossed. The tips of my boots pointed to the room's opposite corners, and Thorne's lean face appeared in the space between them. His chin, which a human might label as feeble, belies the truth – Thorne isn't weak. He's an embodiment of illusions. Some natural, others I suspect are nurtured. For instance, where others would display anger, he usually just seems irritated.

The face framed in the V of my boots looked quite irritated. He said, "You're correct. You don't need to bring anyone along. Why would a Dragonlord potentially harm an innocent Vorgan, simply because he's a Human? Or should I say, a harmless Human, just because he's a Vorgan? Get real, Viktor, you need to have protection. And I'm your safest bet to evade trouble."

Opal, who had been diving on random bits of lint, perched on my right shoulder and said, "Just remind him that I'll be there, boss. That should alleviate his worries."

"And if it doesn't?"

"I'll snap at his nose."

I spoke up, "Thorne, even if I took every enforcer in my employment, it wouldn't matter one bit if Drevolan decides to eliminate me. And this is a friendly visit. If I show up with protection—"