Cavaar knew he had to be the first out of the classroom and on the track around the castle. Dmitri would be watching from the front gate to count their laps, but he wouldn't be supervising them the whole way - and Cavaar could sense that many in the squad meant him harm. He understood why. They hated him for being good, and for wanting to be recognized for it. Why should he have to carry his squad when more than half of them were not and would never be good fighters? Cavaar scowled and sprinted across the training yard.

There was a moment in that classroom when Cavaar had been transported back to the cell where he first met Mareth. Those eyes boring into him, torch flames dancing across their black surface. It had been five fulldays and Cavaar had learned nothing about Mareth except that he was the Prelate of Dawn castle. He had learned how to read, how to do basic alchemy, how to do sums in his head, how to identify and exploit the weaknesses of the various beasts the Blades insisted came from the Black, and he had learned how to fight. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was far enough ahead of the group. They were nowhere in sight.

But in everything the Blades had done for him, there remained a nagging doubt eating at him. As the novelty of living at the castle wore off, Cavaar began to sense that the instructors, especially Mareth, were hiding something. Every time the subject turned to the Cataclysm, the joining with the Black, and Convergences, both people and scrolls put on a mask of obscurity. The doubt had started small and grown over the days, fed by the fact that there was a forbidden library inaccessible to students. Cavaar's fear of Mareth had been greater than the doubt - until now. The instructor's reply echoed through his mind: “We are keeping you in the dark.”

Cavaar muttered under his breath and quickened his pace. “I'm done living in the dark.”

He finished the first lap as fast as he could, making a show to Dmitri that he was getting tired. It would appear to the squad instructor that Cavaar had gone out too fast and would be overtaken by the group on the second lap. When he was out of the instructor's sight he sprinted again, his feet pounding on the dirt track and kicking up motes of dust. They shone in the moonlight before they were swept away by stray steam clouds wafting from nearby hot springs. Cavaar breathed in the warm, sulfur smelling air and slowed before he reached the side gate the second time. He pressed his back to the wall and slipped through with the quiet step of a gamin.

Just as he suspected, the other instructors were drilling their squads and supervising them while they sparred. Cavaar edged out of the doorway and through the shadows around the outside of the yard. He could see Mareth watching a duel.

This is it, Cavaar thought. 

A narrow section of moonlight separated him from the gate leading to the inner ward. He prepared to dash through it, giving a final glance at the training yard, then froze. The Prelate's gaze was fixed on him. Cavaar dared not move a muscle. He wasn't sure if he could even if he wanted to. All he saw were the black eyes, swallowing him, pulling him into the dark expanse. Then they looked away, and he was free.

Cavaar dashed through the moonlight and through the gate, across the empty inner yard of the castle and up the stairs that led to the top of the watchtower. He slowed his pace when he was inside. The stairs spiraled up in complete darkness. Since inhabitants of the castle carried lamps with them, it didn't seem necessary to waste oil on wall mounted light. Cavaar fumbled upwards, using the wall as a guide. He froze when a flicker of light appeared just around the bend. At first he thought it was one of the librarians coming down the stairs and he almost fled, but the light stayed where it was. He crept upwards and came to the entrance of a small study attached to the staircase.

“The temperature in the Chamber has been fluctuating more than normal, and the pressure has been doing the same.” It was the voice of a young man, the apprentice being trained as a replacement for Librarian Myriel.

“What were the percentages?” The voice of the elder.

“About seventy.”

A sigh. “That is not good. The Cataclysm… This is not good.”

“Sir? Isn't it natural though? My meaning is, the Cataclysm is supposed to happen roughly every century. It has been seventy fulldays since the last one.”

“Natural? Yes. Good? No. If you have lived through a Cataclysm Albert, then you will understand that it is never good. We barely survived the last one.”

Cavaar crept closer to the door frame. He poked his head around the corner and there was the key! Just on the inside sitting on the table. The two librarians had their backs to him. He snatched the key like a viper, then crept as fast as he could up the rest of the stairs. Cavaar hesitated at the door to the library, but only for a moment. He slid the key into the lock and turned. It opened with a heavy click. The door swung open on oiled hinges.

Cavaar stared at the rows of scrolls and leather bound books. He smiled, enticed by the secrets hidden in their pages, then frowned. He discerned no organization or labels of any kind. Half of them didn't even have titles. He snatched an old looking one with a dark stain on its cover and skimmed it:

“First and foremost a scholar must be devoted to finding the truth, for the truth is oftentimes difficult to find, and much more counter-intuitive than one believes. This is not to say that the truth is relative, for there are certain facts that cannot be refuted. The grass is green, two plus two equals four, and a water lily is a beautiful sight. What it means is that people are inherently limited by their physical faculties and perspective…”

Cavaar set the scroll back, careful to make sure it looked the same as when he had taken it out. He glanced around the room to look for something else when he caught a shadow moving. He spun towards the entrance and it was all he could do to keep from screaming. He was face to face with the black eyes of Mareth.