Brightblade remained at the mansion in the following week, providing Arran with protection from any would-be assassins. There was no sign of any enemies, however, and instead, she spent much of her time making a valiant effort to eat all the food his cooks could prepare.
This proved a battle she could not win. Voracious though her appetite might be, it was no match for the cooks' tireless efforts. If she devoured a roast chicken, they would bring a beef roast. If she fought her way past that, an entire roast pig would be brought out. It was a challenge she could not defeat, but she faced it eagerly.
Arran, meanwhile, spent most of the week training.
He had been told to rest and recover by the Matriarch, but his only real injuries were self-inflicted, and even those were fully healed by the end of the first day.
That wasn't quite enough to reassure Jovan — rough though he looked, the man really did worry too much — but Arran could not bring himself to spend a week doing nothing at all.
Much of his time, he spent in the dungeons, practicing magic. Brightblade had set up a series of wards that blocked all but Arran from entering the area, and in the solitude of the dungeons, Arran could safely use his Destruction Realm.
He made keen use of this opportunity. While he could do little with Destruction Essence but increase his resistance to magic by moving it through his body, that was exactly what he needed.
The adepts' attack had proved that there was no shortage of mages who wished him harm, and even if these attackers had been weak, others might not be so easily defeated. To face future threats confidently, he needed every advantage he could get.
As he trained, he found himself surprised at his own progress over the past months.
While he practiced various spells and shields, he circulated Destruction Essence through his body, maintained his Shadowsight, and concealed his void ring with Shadow Essence — and discovered that doing all these things at once took surprisingly little effort.
Controlling Essence no longer felt like juggling water. Instead, it was beginning to feel natural — like the Essence was an extension of his body, rather than a slippery alien substance.
The change had been a gradual one, and in his relentless training over the previous months, there had been little time to contemplate it. But now that he had a week to himself, he found himself startled at the difference.
Still, practicing magic was not all he did.
Every day, he would spend several hours sparring and training with Doran, Anthea, and his servants, studying both his own style and the Thousand Cuts. While the others could not match his skill, instructing them provided valuable insights, their questions and struggles helping shape his own progress.
Brightblade did not join in any of the training. Although she occasionally observed and offered comments — some helpful, others mocking — Arran could tell that her mind was focused on other things.
She showed no outward signs of concern, but he knew her well enough to know that she was worried. For all her power, this situation was a dangerous one — even for her. The whole Valley was involved, and no mage could stand against an entire Valley.
The days passed slowly as they waited for news — the quiet before the storm, Arran thought.
While he could not venture beyond the mansion's walls himself — Brightblade would certainly not allow it — he learned from Jovan that no serious talk of the attack had spread through the Valley.
There had been some rumors, but no more than that. And rumors hardly meant anything. If Jovan could be believed, the peaceful Valley saw far more rumors of murder than it saw actual murders, with bored servants and students always eager to share even the unlikeliest tales.
No word came from the Matriarch, either. She sent no complaints about Brightblade's treatment of her mages, nor did she inform Arran of any progress in finding those responsible for the attack.
That was unexpected, but not so much as to cause him worry — and, at any rate, worrying would not have accomplished much of anything.
Toward the end of the week, an unexpected group of visitors arrived at the mansion — mages from the House of Swords, come to see Brightblade.
Arran recognized only some of them, but that was no big surprise. While he had arrived at the House of Swords over a year ago, he had spent little time among its members.
Doran, however, clearly knew who they were, and he stared at the group with undisguised wonder in his eyes.
"Those are our House's leaders," the adept explained in a quiet voice. "All of them, from what I can tell."
The group spent several hours at the mansion, talking to Brightblade in the privacy of one of the mansion's many chambers. While Arran was curious to hear what they were discussing, neither he nor Doran was invited to the talks.
He could have objected to this — it was his mansion, after all — but he quickly decided against it. Interfering with whatever Brightblade was trying to achieve would be foolish, especially if his reason was merely to satisfy his curiosity.
When the group said their goodbyes some hours later, Arran thought he saw a subtle change in their behavior. While they weren't overly formal, it was as if there was a certain reverence in their attitude toward Brightblade now — something beyond the respect with which they treated her usually.
Yet curious though he was, Brightblade refused to reveal anything about what had transpired during the talks. That she had been successful, however, was obvious — the pleased grin on her face told as much.
More quiet days followed after that, with Arran engrossing himself in training to take his thoughts off his concerns. There had still been no word from the Matriarch, and that concerned him — if she had found those responsible, she would surely have told him about it.
Then, at long last, the Matriarch arrived. It was early in the morning when she came, only barely past dawn, and she entered the mansion without either servants or guards at her side.
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Arran and Brightblade were eating breakfast in the garden as she entered, and the moment he saw her, Arran knew the search had not gone well.
She looked weary, almost haggard. There was little sign of her usual self-possessed confidence, and her expression held no small amount of frustration.
"I take it you haven't found those responsible for the attack?" Brightblade asked calmly.
"There have been… obstacles." The Matriarch shook her head. "The House's Elders refuse to believe their students could have done such a thing. Some of them…" She paused and looked at Arran, her gaze carrying a hint of shame. "Some of them have demanded that I put you on trial for murdering six adepts."
Arran clenched his jaw as he resisted the urge to punch the Matriarch in the face.
Not only had the useless woman failed to take action against his attackers; she had allowed him to fall into even more danger. He felt no concern about the danger, just anger. Anger at both the Matriarch and the Valley's Elders. Anger at the Valley itself, even.
Yet before he could give voice to his frustration, Brightblade spoke up.
"Convene a meeting of the Valley's Elders," she said in an icy tone. With a look of barely veiled contempt at the Matriarch, she added, "You can still do that much, can't you? I will speak for the boy."
The Matriarch shook her head in response. "Even if I summon the Elders, you are not an Elder — you cannot speak for him, and if you do, they will not listen."
"I am an Elder," Brightblade said calmly. "As of last week, I am Blademaster of the House of Swords, and by extension an Elder of the Ninth Valley."
"You…" The Matriarch looked at Brightblade in confusion. "The House of Swords hasn't had a Blademaster in decades. You mean to tell me…?"
Brightblade shrugged. "I've been teaching the House's leaders for some time now. Accepting the position was a mere formality."
Despite her ragged appearance, a smile crossed the Matriarch's lips. "I've always known you'd grow roots one day," she said in a soft voice. Then, more firmly, she continued, "I will do as you ask. There will be a meeting tomorrow. With you the ruler of a House, the others cannot easily ignore your words."
Brightblade gave the Matriarch a slight nod, her earlier contempt softened if not gone completely.
The Matriarch departed soon after, and a pensive expression appeared on Brightblade's face as she watched her old friend leave.
She was silent for some moments, but finally, she said, "Do not judge her too harshly. I fear her position is even weaker than I thought. Though how…" She stopped mid-sentence. "No matter. I will find the truth eventually. For now, the situation is handled."
Arran gave Brightblade a suspicious look. He wasn't surprised that she had taken over the House of Swords — that she could take it if she wanted was obvious from the day of her arrival.
Rather, he had his doubts about her intentions for the meeting. Unless he had badly misjudged her, she intended to offer the Elders more than just words.