5 — Raziel’s Lessons

Cassian’s eyes stared into a haunting blackness that stabbed at his consciousness. Raziel had tied the blindfold tight over his eyes, he could feel it pressing on his brain. But he shook the thought. 

He sharpened his ears for the sound of small jingles from the tiny bells they had hung up around the room a moment earlier. Cassian felt Raziel’s presence, though he did not know exactly where. A small shuffle of flat shoes on stone made him jump unnervingly, his breath catching in his throat. 

Cassian’s eyes darted around under the blindfold, even when he knew he wouldn’t see. He couldn’t control his primal instincts, the crippling desperation for all his senses. 

A bell jingled softly behind him. 

Cassian pivoted, as he felt a wind cut the air right beside his ear. He felt a prickling itch at his neck, the dagger had let loose a bit of his hair. Cassian let out a quick exhale, gathering himself. 

Another bell rang to his left. 

He leaned back—and without realizing—his hand had reached out and grabbed a wrist. The wrist jerked out of his grip. Cassian held his breath at the sound of steel slicing through the air. He ducked desperately, losing his balance.

Ring. 

Cassian scrambled for balance, he rolled, and with a strong push into the ground he got back to his feet. 

Ring.

He weaved left.

Ring.

He rolled under sliced air. 

Ring. 

His leg caught with a protruding stone in the floor. The tumble got him out of the way of the blade. He used the momentum to roll back up to his feet. 

Ring.

Duck.

Ring.

Pivot.

Ring.

His breath left his lungs much faster than it entered. A pain grew in his chest as his breathing became uncontrolled. In a last desperate movement, he ducked under the blade and grabbed a torso. A searing pain shot above his eye, as warm liquid trickled down. 

He felt the chest he held onto puff out then shrink, Raziel sighing. 

“Dead. Again.”

Cassian—out of breath—slowly loosened his grip on Raziel’s clothes and fell onto the cold stones. He shook his head, his words on his tongue, but he was too tired to speak them. 

“Have you been eating, crow?” Raziel added, “Your body is still frail, and weak. You leave your body no room for stamina. Without that how do you hope to survive a real encounter with someone that is set on ending your life? You are small. Everyone is larger than you, stronger than you. They will hurl attacks at you, backed with all their might. If you can’t consistently avoid them and find the right openings, you are a rabbit in a snare.”

Cassian, on all fours, finally regained a bit of himself. “No one else would move like you,” he remarked through heavy breaths.

Raziel clicked his tongue, disapproving. “So that is what you think? You rather indulge in your own arrogance and assume they can’t take you?”

Cassian’s face heated, his mind flooded with what he wanted to say. But he knew better. His eyes wandered up to see Raziel standing over him. One hand held a silver dagger, the other, gone. His right arm only went down to his bicep, where it ended with a stub. 

“This is what arrogance gets you, kid,” Raziel said, pointing his phantom limb at the boy. Then he barked, “Get up! Again!”

Once more, Cassian was blindfolded against his will and placed in the middle of the room. The positions of the bells had changed. Unknown to him, he would have to adapt from scratch once again. 

They went at it for a good hour that felt like three, moving, almost dance-like in the way Cassian reacted to Raziel’s movements. They mirrored each other. 

Raziel stepped, Cassian pivoted. Raziel thrusted, Cassian side stepped. Every action had a reaction. And with every slight error in movement, came an overwhelming storm to weather to regain control. A miniscule imperfection in balance drained Cassian’s muscles and he was beginning to understand why. He also began to understand breath control, which muscle group in his legs were the strongest and which was least likely to cramp. He began to conserve his energy with looser small adjustments instead of tensed wild dodges. 

Cassian’s eyes were locked into the blackness of his blindfold. His mind had gone silent, letting his body take control. He moved without a thought, he reacted without noticing. 

A smirk formed on his face. 

Suddenly a wind that felt like a hurricane swept past his face. His head met stone in a brain rocking crash. The blackness of the blindfold turned white and grey as a stabbing pain consumed his skull like a flood. His arms failed to support him when he tried to get up. He fell flat on his back, the room spinning wildly around him. 

”What did I say about arrogance, kid?”  

Raziel’s teachings and ruthless lessons carried on well into Cassian’s sixteenth year. Winter had bit down its freezing teeth into the ground. 

Cassian was sent on many small tasks during his time at Greykeep. New tasks Raziel claimed would benefit his newfound ability. Though they were more errands than missions and didn’t make much sense to him. 

He had been tasked to head into the castle library and read old texts to memorize them. Boring paragraphs of dead lords and their morals and ideologies. 

Some were of interest to Cassian, like the old stories of The Shadowblade. A legendary crow operative whose name was unknown even to the House Vaelthorne records. The story questions that it was the secret adopted son or daughter of Duke Balenor Vaelthorne. Who was handpicked by the duke himself to act as his blade in the dark. Hence the name. However, the answer was never found.

Later on Cassian would report back to Raziel, and repeat word for word everything he had read. The slightest word out of place meant a strike to his fingers with a stick.

Other tasks consisted of Cassian entering Ricard’s chambers in the night while he slept. Find his brother’s journal and find his schedule for the following week, then shadow him throughout the entire schedule without being seen. He was forced to adapt, blend in and listen in on every conversation no matter how private. 

Then report to Raziel. Explain to him in incredible detail exactly how it unfolded. How Ricard held himself. What he was wearing. What he smelled like. If Ricard seemed tired or energized. 

Raziel would also ask about the weather when Ricard was speaking with a crippled stable boy two weeks past. Would it rain? Snow? Was it sunny or cloudy? How many hours until sunset?

If Cassian couldn’t answer he would be struck. 

As winter passed, Cassian no longer had to wince every time he curled a finger. He found that they became less bruised and no longer were thick from swelling. It had been weeks since he had been struck. 

He had begun to fully understand the role of the informant. Information seemed to engrave itself into his brain, never forgotten and never missed, even when another memory entered. He consistently reported in extreme accurate detail of every situation he was sent to observe. Even the whispers exchanged before Cassian entered the room somehow found their way into his memory. 

Raziel’s errands had become a routine, a part of life. Cassian had nearly lost the concept of time, but it did not cross his mind. All he found himself caring about was gathering more knowledge. He liked the way it empowered him. That he could see through a person he had never talked to. 

Before he knew it, the winter snow had melted. His toes were standing in fresh green grass again. The sun warmed his face as he looked into the sea. Waves crashed against the cliffside, the smell of salt and rock hung in the air. 

His task now. Stand there. Do nothing until high tide. It was a brain-numbingly boring task, but at least it wasn’t a complicated one. 

His stomach twisted painfully, but he held his position as he was ordered to. Thoughts of venison stew and steaming bread flooded his mind. When Raziel would relieve him of his duties later that day, he planned to raid Otto’s kitchens. Even though it would be after dinner time and his family would have eaten most of the food, the cook always saved a bowl or two for Cassian.

It was a rare occurrence when Cassian had the time to dine with the other Vaelthornes. He faintly remembered when he shared a glass of wine with his brother two winters ago. But since then, either he had been busy with Raziel’s tasks or Lady Belle was not in the mood to see the bastard. It also hadn’t helped that Hetark had sent Ricard on a number missions without Cassian during the training. Which meant he was left with no one to share his company. 

Until Otto, who always regarded Cassian warmly. He took a liking to the boy’s hearty appetite and always remarked, “oh to be young and skinny like you again, boy. You eat like a man, but remain small like a twig.” Chuckling at the end. 

Whenever Cassian found himself struggling to sleep, he would occasionally make his way into the kitchens and get himself something to eat. Food always calmed his mind, and Otto took note of it. Which is why the cook left Cassian a spare key to his personal pantry, filled with pastries, sweets and other delightful food. Otto never barked at the boy, or scolded him for stealing. Cassian may be a bastard, but to Otto, he was as much a Vaelthorne as the rest. Just a less fortunate one. 

“Little lord,” Otto would call him. Not crow. Not Vaelthorne. He said it with a warmth that was unfamiliar to Cassian. 

Cassian rarely spoke around Otto. Not because he disliked him, but instead he didn’t know what to say, or how to act. Raziel would always give very strict and accurate directions. But when Cassian was eating in the kitchens late at night and Otto stood chopping vegetables for a stew, there were no directions. Otto didn’t seem to mind it however, he hummed an old tune and did his work, unbothered by Cassian’s company. Occasionally letting out a small chuckle when Cassian ate too fast and clutched at his belly. 

“Good kid.” Cassian heard Otto say to himself. 

Though he did not understand what was ‘good’ about him. He was just eating.

Cassian’s kitchen visits with Otto became another routine. He noticed that Otto would stay past his working hours. Sometimes he would be sitting with a book instead of cooking, spending his leisure time in the kitchens with Cassian. Otto would not speak much when Cassian was around as he knew the boy knew little of conversation. 

“Take another bowl, little lord. Looks like you need one,” he would say when he noticed Cassian was more sluggish than usual.

One night when Cassian enjoyed a healthy portion of wine marinated beef and potatoes, Duke Hetark wandered into the kitchens. His movement was off and his clothes reeked of spirit. He bumped into a counter, his head rattling the pans that hung above it. 

“Otto!” he slurred, “Get—hicc!—get me one of those beefs!” Totally oblivious of Cassian, when fell into a chair next to him. He burped uncontrolled as his head swayed back and forth, as if balancing it on his shoulders was a challenge. 

Cassian kept his head low, but continued eating. One of his hands suddenly reached out in support as Hetark nearly fell off his chair. 

Cassian reached for another bite.

Hetark’s dazed eyes glanced over his shoulder. “Oh… my son—“

Cassian’s fork paused before his lips.

“I have never done right by you… Ever since I met your mother I haven’t been the same.”

Otto stopped stirring his pot. His eyes were busy but his ears remained sharp.

“The bleeding court of insufferable nobles and ridiculous morals have stopped me from raising you as a child. Instead they forced my hand to create something that barely even resembles a person—hicc!—but you make one hell of a weapon, boy!” He laughed, but it felt hollow beneath it. 

Cassian heard the faint crunch of Otto’s grip tightening around the ladle. He remained quiet, watching his father’s laughter slowly fade. 

If a weapon is what his father wanted, a weapon he would become.

Cassian returned to his chambers that night, his father’s acknowledgement burning inside him. He would become the blade in the dark. The pillar that cemented his family’s legacy. And if his father demanded it, then Cassian would carve himself into whatever shape necessary.