As Yarik was silently cursing himself for being caught staring by Maria, Cavaar made his way back to the watchtower where he knew Myriel would be waiting. His thoughts turned back to the question he was supposed to answer. Well, he had already answered it, but not with the answer the librarian was looking for.

What is the price of freedom, other than blood? He mulled it over, balancing the bowls of stew and walking up the stairs. Myriel seemed to accept the first thesis, that the price of freedom was blood. The problem wasn't that Cavaar was wrong, he was just missing something.

It was clear there was some kind of lesson in this, something he was supposed to learn as a consequence of his breaking into the library. Cavaar thought about the other lessons he had learned at the citadel. Those first days had been hard. Living on the streets of Seagrim, he had learned that those who do not take what they need when the opportunity presents itself do not live. Stealing was a habit, and a necessary one. At Dawn Castle however, those habits were not accepted. More than once the young boy had been caught hoarding food under his mattress “just in case” before he grew to trust that the Blades wouldn't let him starve. He could remember the black eyes of the head instructor boring into him:

'Why did you steal?' The boy shifted on his feet.

'I needed it.'  

A sigh and a look of… what? Regret? Disappointment? 'No you did not Cavaar, the Blades will take care of your needs. Trust us, and you will prosper. Trust not, and I cannot speak for your future.' 

The boy looked into the cold black eyes, and then looked away. 'Yes sir.'

Was that what this was about? Trust? After all, Mareth had told him that he was being kept in the dark until he was ready, whenever that would be. 

He turned the corner to the study and set the two bowls in front of the librarian, who studied him with apprehension. “Sit.” 

Cavaar took the chair across from him. He looked at the floor. 

“Have you given thought to the question?”

“I have. It's just-” He flicked his gaze at the librarian.

“Just what?”

“You're trying to teach me a lesson, aren't you.”

Myriel smiled. “I am an old man Cavaar, teaching lessons is what we do.”

“Can't you just tell me and be done with it? I know what I did was wrong.”

“But do you know why?”

“Because I disobeyed a law of the Blades.”

“But do you know why we have that law?”

“Because, well. I-” Cavaar let out a frustrated sigh. “I guess not.”

Myriel leaned closer and drew his gaze. “Knowledge is a tool Cavaar, and like all tools it can be harmful to the user if the proper technique is not utilized. That library-” He gestured towards the ceiling. “Contains mysteries and secrets that have driven good men and women mad. There is a reason that only Blades and librarians can access it. Truth is not meant to be absorbed all at once. The human mind is limited, and though it is capable of reaching great heights, experience has taught me that it can only do so by steadily climbing one stair at a time. Wisdom is cumulative. Gain too much too fast and you will go mad, especially with the Black. Do you see?”

“Yes I think so.” Cavaar looked at the floor, trying to follow the old man's meandering way of speaking. “But what does that have to do with the price of freedom?”

Myriel's eyes lit up. “Now that is the right question to ask! The man who is free to think is also free to learn, but here is the crux: If he does not know how to think, if he does not know how to use the tool of knowledge with proper technique, then he will become prey to all manner of dangers. Philosophy is useful no doubt, but a man can drown if he is not careful. What good is it, if a man is given access to an unlimited library if he cannot distinguish fact from fiction?”

“We are not talking about a simple deduction of genre, but the ability to perceive the proper reality from the facts given. Man's actions are determined by what he or she believes, and if she does not truly understand what she reads. If she takes it at face value, too dazzled by an intellect greater than her's to ask questions, she becomes enslaved to those ideas. So it is with intellect, and so it is with society. I asked what the price of freedom is, and you answered correctly that part of that price is blood, (the oppression of the Old Ones was only shaken by violence), but that is only the front-price for freedom - the recurring cost is responsibility. Do you see now?”

“I…Yes I think so.” Cavaar was looking out the window. The moon hung in the sky, a great silver disk that he felt he could reach out and grasp. He imagined the canvas of the sky stretching and tearing as he brought the moon back to earth, a few stars falling to the ground in the process. He turned back to the librarian. “The one who does not exercise responsibility is not truly free.”

The old man sat back in his chair with a smile on his face. “Aye Cavaar, there may be hope for you yet. Mareth was right to-” Myriel's sentence was cut off by a thundering boom, as if the giants from tales of yore had come back to life and were hammering outside the castle gates. A great yellow flame lit up the night sky, followed by yelling and an inhuman wail of pain and terror.

They ran down the stairs and emerged from the base of the watchtower. A throng of students gathered in the yard. The terrible cry of distress grew while Myriel pushed his way through and Cavaar followed. The training yard was bathed in an orange glow that made it seem to Cavaar that the night was over early, but there was no sun - only fire. Burning pieces of the main gate were strewn across the yard. They made it to the front and Cavaar saw the source of the terrible shrieks of pain. Framed against the blackness of night by the wrecked outline of the gate there was a flaming horse. It kicked and reared up on its hind legs, thrashing about in throes of terror. It's front hooves hit the ground and it seemed it would charge into the crowd of students, but it turned at the last minute and fled into the darkness.

Just then the students in front of Cavaar parted and he saw Dmitri and Mareth each holding a burden. Dmitri's was smaller and more delicate. They were moving towards the infirmary. The reflection of the flames flickered on Dmitri's face, revealing what might have been tears - though they could have just as easily been sweat. Mareth followed. Black as his eyes were, it was impossible to tell where they focused at any given time, but it seemed that those black eyes fixed Cavaar's own. It was then that he realized who Mareth was carrying.

Yarik's body was still smoldering in the Prelate's arms. For a moment Cavaar thought him dead, but the body's chest moved and relief flooded in. But did it move? Cavaar's view was not ideal, and the movement was small enough to have been imagined.

Cavaar had not considered his relationship with Yarik to be anything meaningful. Until now, Cavaar's existence had been a series of events that he stumbled through with one goal: survive. Attachments were a luxury, gamines did not have threads to tie themselves to society. They were cast off, rejected, solitary.

Those children in Seagrim who Cavaar had found in like circumstance, though they had every reason to, did not attach themselves to each other. There was a barrier, an unspoken rule written on their minds by the harsh treatment of society that prevented it. It was an indictment and an accusation that writ itself into their psyche with every word, every glance, and every interaction with humanity.

Hot tears rose in Cavaar's eyes. He saw the glances and looks Yarik received through the days. The beatings brushed off with a joke and a smile. He had considered himself a superior to his friend. He was a better fighter, he scored higher on the tests, he was capable and promising if also troublesome and headstrong.

But what did that matter? He wished to go back in time and slap himself in the face. Here the burned body of his friend had passed before his eyes, and he would have given anything to be able to grab the moon and throw it into backwards revolutions as a means to speak to Yarik. To give him an opportunity to look his friend in the eye and refute with sternness that accusation leveled by society and say: “you are wanted!”

An instructor's voice snapped him out of his reverie. “Form a line to the stables! We need a brigade!” It was Geoff, instructor of first squad. The students obeyed, Cavaar included, and the other instructors along with Myriel set about getting the blaze under control. They worked until the moon sunk and rose again, pondering the same unspoken questions: Why would someone attack the Blades? And who were they?