Byzantine Purple

Chapter XI: If There Is Any Justice

Dim moonlight faded behind thick clouds as Goran Gothar heard his mentor's voice. He leapt over a dirty puddle and quickened his pace, a book beneath his arm and a backpack flung over his shoulder. Goran slinked among the shadows, peering through the curtain of heavy rain at the grey contours of lavishly decorated buildings in downtown Rijeka. His mentor's massive frame and unkempt black curls obscured the view, forcing Goran to peek over his broad shoulders. Lithe and agile, he did not mind taking detours to explore the city.

Old leather raincoats covered most of their figures, hiding both Goran and Slavoj Kosar from curious onlookers. Like an overgrown bat, Goran landed on a Roman ruin and placed his hand on what used to be the corner of a military command center. He could do little but imagine what it would have been like if he had ever led a normal life.

"Goran! We need to keep going," Magister Kosar called to him in his sternest voice. Goran obeyed. He nodded weakly, clinging to the book beneath his arm.

"I'm coming."

Kosar shook his head and strolled forward.

"Stay alert, always. Your romance novels will not teach you how to survive. I will."

Goran gritted his teeth, hoping his mentor hadn't noticed him sulking. He knew he had to be worthy of the scimitar he'd been given. But how could he ever match the skill and heroism of the weapon's previous owner - Dragomir Drašković, the greatest Alkar to have ever dwelled beneath the Veil? 

"Why are we still hiding?" Goran had asked the same question countless times. He knew Slavoj's reasons and he never agreed with them. He could not.

"You have taught me everything you could. I can pass the Trial and join the Alka!" Goran persisted. "The more we run, the more they think we have a reason to flee! The more they believe you are a murderous traitor!"

Slavoj's sad smile made his heart ache.

"I have failed you, Goran. And for that I am sorry." Before Goran could interrupt him and refute his arguments, Kosar continued. "I don't know who killed your family and I don't know if they want you dead. Even if they don't, others do. When you join the Alkari, you will face something more terrifying than assassins. You will face politics." He stared at the pavement, his gaze bitter and troubled. "It is my experience that the most dangerous men hardly ever lift a finger to slap you. They make you slap yourself."

"I can change that," Goran said with grim confidence. "And I will, or I'll die trying. Like Magister Drašković did. I will be the next Dalmatian Serpent!"

"Ehh..." Kosar let out an exasperated groan. "Don't idealize a man you have never known." His face soured. For a moment Goran even wondered whether it was raindrops or cold and angry tears in his mentor's eyes.

The abandoned house overlooking dull grey city blocks did not strike him as remarkable in any way. When they approached the front porch, Slavoj started searching for keys in the depth of his pockets. A minute later, he gave up and hit the lock with his fist. The door budged open. Goran entered the house and prepared to switch on the lights, when a fresh smell alerted him of an alien presence. Subtle and deadly, it felt incongruous in a space filled with dust, wood and paper. It was the scent of jasmine and thunderstorm, northern wind and dewy flowers.

"Somebody is here," Goran whispered to his mentor, barely suppressing his excitement. Kosar held him back, lifting a cautious finger.

"An impressive magnetic field. I don't know many people capable of such a feat..."

Before Kosar could stop him, Goran twisted away and sneaked into the dark living room.

Scarce moonlight stained the carpet, turning it into an intricate silk brocade thrown over polished floorboards. Squinting, Goran distinguished a solitary figure in a swivel armchair and a pale hand holding a fragile purple rose. He rushed forward, raising his scimitar. It took him no more than a second to press the weapon's edge to the stranger's neck.