Son of the Cat

Son of the Cat, page 1.

Son of the Cat.
Where to begin? I feel a need to set the events of the past year down on paper, as if somehow it will lay all these memories to rest, but I confess I’m not sure how to go about it. I suppose I’ll just have to do the best I can. So where shall I start? I could begin with my long ago ancestor who managed to fall in love with one of the cat folk, win a war, and get raised to the nobility all in a few months, which events founded the Kestral family. But then I might as well start with the creation of the world, if I want to begin at the beginning.
I suppose, then, that I should start with that summer day. It’s strange to think that it was little more than a year ago. It seems like a lifetime ago. I remember getting up that morning and going to the study. The room had the unmistakable stamp of my father’s presence. It was spotless and tidy. One wall was lined with bookshelves, and the books were arranged precisely by size and topic. The top of the big desk was almost bare, holding only a neat stack of blank parchment and a quill and inkwell for writing. But it wasn’t the desk that interested me. Rather I turned my gaze to the eastern wall. The wall was covered with framed diplomas. I had wondered if my father would actually hang mine there with the others. I peered at the wall. Generations of Kestral children had studied at the finest schools in the kingdom, and each and every one had returned with a diploma, all reading pretty much the same.
I too had gone off to school, and I had graduated with high honors, but still I didn’t know if my father would deem my diploma worthy to hang with the others. I read over the familiar words, “Master of Applied Thaumaturgy” on a dozen different certificates, putting off the moment when I would look at the bottom of the wall where mine should be and find it empty. At last my eyes reached the spot. I didn’t want to look, but I did. And it was there! A small smile crossed my face. Perhaps, I thought, perhaps I’m not a complete disgrace to my family. Perhaps Father is beginning to see that I have something to contribute too. Then I shook my head. No. More likely it was Mother who had hung it there. I read the damming words inscribed in flowing calligraphy for all to see; “Master of Theoretical Thaumaturgy.” It was just one word, “theoretical.” Just eleven letters that meant the difference between honor and disgrace. Father would never accept the cold verdict pronounced by that one word. A word that spelled out clearly that, unlike my father, I could never be a real mage.
It was the last nail in my coffin, as far as I was concerned. Up until the moment I left the school I could always hope that something would change, that somehow being around all the more talented students would bring my latent powers to the fore. But now I couldn’t see any chance of that. The last nail had been pounded in firmly and my fate was sealed.
The first nail had been set in place on the day my little brother’s claws had come out, but to know about that you’d have to know about our family. Perhaps I should have begun this with that long ago ancestor. It was his marriage to one of the Ritah cat folk that brought the cat blood into the family. The occasional child would be born totally normal, but most of the Kestral children had some sign of their feline heritage. I had been blessed, or perhaps cursed, with all of the signs. My eyes are intensely green with slit pupils. My ears are slightly pointed. My eyeteeth are just a little longer and a little sharper than the human norm. And my fingers are slightly wider at the tips and have no fingernails, indicating the retractable claws. Unfortunately the indication was all I had. I’d never been able to extend my claws. Somehow all of the abilities and powers of the feline side of our family are linked to the claws. Since mine had never come out, I had no use of any of the abilities that my father and brother had.
At first everyone had thought I was just a late bloomer. Most Kestral children have their claws by the time they are three or four, but some have taken longer. But by the time I was twelve there was still no sign of them. That same year my brother, just two years old, extended his claws for the first time in some minor tantrum. He scratched his nurse rather badly, and I think he was startled to be fussed over rather than punished.
That was when I started to feel my father’s disappointment. I suppose he did love me, I was his son, but I was also a constant reminder of failure. And as if that first failure wasn’t enough, a second soon followed. Along with the cat blood, magic runs strong in my family. Usually magical powers manifest around puberty, and so not long after I gave up on gaining my cat powers I was sent off to boarding school in search of other abilities. At first it was easy, and fun. I was the center of much juvenile admiration for my fangs and cat eyes, and I was a quick study at the basic theories that all mages have to learn before trying real magic.
My first practical class, however, was a dismal disaster. I could not cast any spell, I could, in fact, summon no power at all. Father was consulted, specialists brought in, and a verdict pronounced. I was latent. That meant that I had plenty of power, I just couldn’t get at it. Something was blocking it. They tried everything known to modern magic to bring my talent out, to no avail. I was questioned for traumatic incidents, repressed memories, and anything else that might cause latency, but there was nothing. No reason at all why I shouldn’t be a mage at least as powerful as my father. The puzzled specialists decided it was best I stay in school. There were plenty of theoretical classes I could take. They even offered a complete master’s program in theory! Plus--and this is what convinced my father--being around active mages might spark my own talent.
Well, that chance was now gone. I had my degree, much good it would do me, and I was home again.
I sighed and left the room. Sunlight was pouring through the wide-open windows of the hall. It was going to be a beautiful summer day. In the courtyard below a team of horses was being harnessed to a carriage. Kestral tradition called for a formal ball to celebrate the graduation of the family’s eldest son, but Father couldn’t bear to have his disgrace paraded in public, and so there would be no party. Mother, however, had insisted that since my graduation (with full honors) represented a significant achievement it should be celebrated in some way. So we were having an outing. We would breakfast on the beach and spend a day in the town. I did look forward a bit to going to town. I hadn’t been there often during the years of my schooling. I was home only for holidays and there was always too much going on at home.

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Son of the Cat, page 1.
Son of the Cat. Where to begin? I feel a need to set the events of the past year down on paper, as if somehow it will lay all these memories to rest, but I confess I’m not sure how to go about it. I suppose I’ll just have to do the best I can. So where shall I start? I could begin with my long ago ancestor who managed to fall in love with one of the cat folk, win a war, and get raised to the nobility all in a few months, which events founded the Kestral family. But then I might as well start with the creation of the world, if I want to begin at the beginning. I suppose, then, that I should start with that summer day. It’s strange to think that it was little more than a year ago. It seems like a lifetime ago. I remember getting up that morning and going to the study. The room had the unmistakable stamp of my father’s presence. It was spotless and tidy. One wall was lined with bookshelves, and the books were arranged precisely by size and topic. The top of the big desk was almost bare, holding only a neat stack of blank parchment and a quill and inkwell for writing. But it wasn’t the desk that interested me. Rather I turned my gaze to the eastern wall. The wall was covered with framed diplomas. I had wondered if my father would actually hang mine there with the others. I peered at the wall. Generations of Kestral children had studied at the finest schools in the kingdom, and each and every one had returned with a diploma, all reading pretty much the same. I too had gone off to school, and I had graduated with high honors, but still I didn’t know if my father would deem my diploma worthy to hang with the others. I read over the familiar words, “Master of Applied Thaumaturgy” on a dozen different certificates, putting off the moment when I would look at the bottom of the wall where mine should be and find it empty. At last my eyes reached the spot. I didn’t want to look, but I did. And it was there! A small smile crossed my face. Perhaps, I thought, perhaps I’m not a complete disgrace to my family. Perhaps Father is beginning to see that I have something to contribute too. Then I shook my head. No. More likely it was Mother who had hung it there. I read the damming words inscribed in flowing calligraphy for all to see; “Master of Theoretical Thaumaturgy.” It was just one word, “theoretical.” Just eleven letters that meant the difference between honor and disgrace. Father would never accept the cold verdict pronounced by that one word. A word that spelled out clearly that, unlike my father, I could never be a real mage. It was the last nail in my coffin, as far as I was concerned. Up until the moment I left the school I could always hope that something would change, that somehow being around all the more talented students would bring my latent powers to the fore. But now I couldn’t see any chance of that. The last nail had been pounded in firmly and my fate was sealed. The first nail had been set in place on the day my little brother’s claws had come out, but to know about that you’d have to know about our family. Perhaps I should have begun this with that long ago ancestor. It was his marriage to one of the Ritah cat folk that brought the cat blood into the family. The occasional child would be born totally normal, but most of the Kestral children had some sign of their feline heritage. I had been blessed, or perhaps cursed, with all of the signs. My eyes are intensely green with slit pupils. My ears are slightly pointed. My eyeteeth are just a little longer and a little sharper than the human norm. And my fingers are slightly wider at the tips and have no fingernails, indicating the retractable claws. Unfortunately the indication was all I had. I’d never been able to extend my claws. Somehow all of the abilities and powers of the feline side of our family are linked to the claws. Since mine had never come out, I had no use of any of the abilities that my father and brother had. At first everyone had thought I was just a late bloomer. Most Kestral children have their claws by the time they are three or four, but some have taken longer. But by the time I was twelve there was still no sign of them. That same year my brother, just two years old, extended his claws for the first time in some minor tantrum. He scratched his nurse rather badly, and I think he was startled to be fussed over rather than punished. That was when I started to feel my father’s disappointment. I suppose he did love me, I was his son, but I was also a constant reminder of failure. And as if that first failure wasn’t enough, a second soon followed. Along with the cat blood, magic runs strong in my family. Usually magical powers manifest around puberty, and so not long after I gave up on gaining my cat powers I was sent off to boarding school in search of other abilities. At first it was easy, and fun. I was the center of much juvenile admiration for my fangs and cat eyes, and I was a quick study at the basic theories that all mages have to learn before trying real magic. My first practical class, however, was a dismal disaster. I could not cast any spell, I could, in fact, summon no power at all. Father was consulted, specialists brought in, and a verdict pronounced. I was latent. That meant that I had plenty of power, I just couldn’t get at it. Something was blocking it. They tried everything known to modern magic to bring my talent out, to no avail. I was questioned for traumatic incidents, repressed memories, and anything else that might cause latency, but there was nothing. No reason at all why I shouldn’t be a mage at least as powerful as my father. The puzzled specialists decided it was best I stay in school. There were plenty of theoretical classes I could take. They even offered a complete master’s program in theory! Plus--and this is what convinced my father--being around active mages might spark my own talent. Well, that chance was now gone. I had my degree, much good it would do me, and I was home again. I sighed and left the room. Sunlight was pouring through the wide-open windows of the hall. It was going to be a beautiful summer day. In the courtyard below a team of horses was being harnessed to a carriage. Kestral tradition called for a formal ball to celebrate the graduation of the family’s eldest son, but Father couldn’t bear to have his disgrace paraded in public, and so there would be no party. Mother, however, had insisted that since my graduation (with full honors) represented a significant achievement it should be celebrated in some way. So we were having an outing. We would breakfast on the beach and spend a day in the town. I did look forward a bit to going to town. I hadn’t been there often during the years of my schooling. I was home only for holidays and there was always too much going on at home.
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