Innocence is subjective, and power always has its price--so his elders told him. Silas Blane is destined for greatness. Born into an elite family with many skeletons in the closet, he learns to harness his inherent shamanic powers and finds purpose...
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I faced some challenges the first morning of class. All students were required to make their own beds. I did my best.
Gerald sighed, and shook his head. "No, no. Let me show you. We don't have housekeepers here to do it for us."
"So I'm aware."
"It's not a gibe, it's a fact," he said.
Once the bed was presentable, he checked the time. He paled. "Five minutes. Damn, let's hurry."
We raced downstairs, across the square outside. Gym was our first session, and it lay on the other side of campus. Shoving the gymnasium doors open, we joined the group of young men within, panting for breath. It was more than shameful to be late. A penalty would also earn Father's scorn.
The clock tower struck time, and the professor called us to attention. After a proper introduction and roll call, he led us to the locker rooms. We changed quickly, then gathered on the field. A standard warm-up routine followed.
"As you all know, you're required to represent Chamberlayne in at least one sport. Line up, gentlemen."
When my turn came, I announced my preferred choice. "I'd like to sign up for tennis, please."
"I'm sorry, but tennis isn't being offered this term," said the senior student at the recruiting desk. "We still have positions in rugby, wrestling, or rowing crew."
Gerald and I chose the latter.
Our team met at the edge of the lake. The racing shells and oars rested on the bank beside the captain--none other than Vance Prynne.
"We'll start with the basics," he said. "There's twelve of us, so let's form three groups."
I ended up with Gerald, Vance, and Chester Armitage.
"This ought to be interesting," Vance said, looking me up and down as we climbed into the shell.
I took up my oars, and we pushed off. I'd often rowed across the lake at Silvring Hall. It was one of my favorite pastimes. However, coordinating with a team was harder than I expected. What was worse, Vance pointed me out several times.
"Come now, Blane, sweeping isn't difficult. Keep the rhythm."
My frustration was at its peak when we reached a clearing in the trees.
The sound of many female voices and the shriek of a coach's whistle split the morning haze. A dozen girls sparred in a field hockey match further up the bank. The clash of their shouts and sticks rang across the water. A moment later, the ball flew in a high arc toward us. It landed with a splash, and floated just offshore.
"Wait a moment," Vance said, as a group of girls ran after it.
We paused in our stroke, drifting closer to the wayward ball.
