by D. T. Kane
That was the problem with this place. Even those who aspired to enlist and travel north to aid in the war effort at Doom’s Keep barely met the criteria the Symposium would have required for a docent of the junior tier. Their desire to enlist was driven by the promise of a few extra bits and silvs in their pockets each month, not some desire to hone their skills or serve their country. Though from what Ferrin could tell, no one was much interested in saving it anyway. For years now, the war effort had stalled to a perpetual siege of the North. The Senate was likely content to just let their counterparts in the North starve. Indeed, it was amazing that hadn’t happened already, as the North had depended on Southern imports for much of its food supply before the war began.
As his mind wandered, Jeryk took a quick jab that nearly clipped Ferrin’s flank. He spun around, narrowed his eyes, and issued a growl of frustration from the back of his throat. Toying with Jeryk was entertaining, but this had gone far enough.
He dropped out of Stone stance, lowering his defenses, and dipped the tip of his blade until it touched the dusty plane of the sparring ring. Clear Sky at High Noon. First-position Sun stance, traditionally used for execution of unarmed men. And insulting opponents. He watched as a momentary spark of surprise shot across Jeryk’s eyes, followed by a flash of anger. He shifted to a Blaze variation and charged.
Outwardly, Ferrin retained his seemingly defenseless posture, barely even looking at the oncoming attack. Instead, he was focused on the energy of the earth he could feel seeping through his blade. It would be much simpler to squat and touch the dirt with bare hands. Channeling was always easier when in direct contact with the subject element. But even Jeryk was observant enough to recognize that. So Ferrin reached out with his senses, feeling down the length of his sword for the particles of earth streaming up it, and injected his will into them. Simple as filling a wash basin with water, then tipping it out.
A cloud of dust burst from the ground before him, straight into Jeryk’s oncoming face. He sputtered. Skidded. Nearly tripped. Then reeled back, breaking into a fit of coughs. The blinded boy lashed out, but Ferrin slid to one side and the blow met only air. With a flick of his wrist, he slashed his practice blade into Jeryk’s exposed offhand side.
Water Strider Whispers Over the Pond.
Block that with your foolish bracer.
The boy let out a pained gasp as the blow knocked the wind from his lungs. He stumbled to the ground on all fours, panting for breath. Ferrin gave him a whack on the back for good measure.
“That was for Jenzara,” he muttered.
“You’re dead, son.” The grizzled voice of old Nolan Mapleaxe was almost painful to hear, like an army trampling over the sun-bleached bones of foes long dead, taking particular care to crush the skulls. He crossed his arms, staring at the fallen student. “An aggressive approach is rarely the correct response to an unfamiliar tactic, Jeremyck. You know that.”
Jeryk staggered back to his feet, anger mixing with the pain in his face. “He cheated!” Jeryk stabbed an accusatory finger at Ferrin. “A channel during a sparring match? That’s not allowed.” Jeryk’s expression was somewhere between that of a pouting five-year-old and a man ready to commit murder. It was the second time he’d looked at Ferrin like that today.
Ferrin scoffed. “Cheated? I don’t know what’s worse, Jeryk,” he pronounced the shortname without the y. “The way you sniveled after I broke your face this morning or your idiocy now. Try saying you cheated to the shadow friends in the North when they’re spewing black corruption from their fingertips at you. See how far that gets you.”
Jeryk reached to his hip for the sword that wasn’t there.
“Don’t try to scare me with children’s tales from your books, orphan.”
Ferrin stared at him for a moment, slack faced. Unlike Jeryk, he’d held on to his weapon. And he knew how to use it, besides. He lashed out like a cat. Panther Strikes from Tall Grass. If he hit just right even the blunted practice sword would shatter Jeryk’s windpipe.
Instead, the blow surprisingly met Mapleaxe’s outstretched forearm. The Master at Arms turned it away and Ferrin had to sidestep to avoid falling over.
“That’s enough,” Mapleaxe growled. “Step back, both of you, and recite your Litany.”
Ferrin tried to simultaneously scowl at Jeryk and consider Mapleaxe with incredulity. He couldn’t believe the Master at Arms insisted with such formality. The Litany felt more a Parent’s prayer to the Lady than a warrior’s credo. But Mapleaxe was a stickler for tradition and it wasn’t worth the energy to oppose him. So he recited the words, staring into Jeryk’s face all the while, taking particular care to emphasize the Sun stance line.
Jeryk spat out the last lines of his chant, then spun to leave the ring. “Blasted arrogant waif,” he muttered before taking a step, just loudly enough for Ferrin to hear.
“Dismissed, Jeremyck,” Mapleaxe said, not needing to add that if he spoke again it’d be pan-scraping duty for him.
Jeryk stalked towards Ral Mok’s Great Hall, not bothering to retrieve his practice blade from where he’d dropped it. Ferrin shrugged the tension from his shoulders. Who cared what Jeryk thought, anyway? He found himself imagining the boy trying to cry foul on the planes of the Darkerland while a Terror tortured him. He began to feel a bit better.
“Ferrin,” Mapleaxe grated. “A moment before you depart.”
He’d hoped to escape the Master at Arms without further comment. But after evading even a rebuke from Raldon this morning he supposed his luck was bound to fail at some point. He turned back to Mapleaxe.
“Samruna?” the Master asked.
Ferrin arched an eyebrow. Not because he didn’t know the word, but because he’d never heard it spoken aloud before. As far as he knew, Raldon was the only one living within Ral Mok’s walls—besides himself anyway—who could not only pronounce the word, but perform its meaning.
“What of it?”
Mapleaxe narrowed his eyes. “Don’t play me a fool, boy. We don’t teach the mixing of blades and elements here. Unless Master Raldon’s been working on it with you privately.”
Ferrin had to suppress a laugh. It was a good thing he did—the Master at Arms treated Jenzara’s father like he was one of the Angels.
He supposed it’d been exciting when Raldon began tutoring him. Though the man never spoke of it, Ferrin (and everyone else in town) knew Raldon had been a high-ranking Keeper before the Disbanding. The Light Master Keeper, even. Along with the other seven Master Keepers, just one step below the Grand Master Keeper himself and, if rumors were true, he’d even been a one-time favorite to succeed Rikar Bladesong in that position. So after spending years snoozing through lessons where students struggled to even light candles while sitting in the same room as a blazing fire (he’d nearly set the entire town ablaze channeling fire from his bedroom candle when he was eight), personal attention from a proven elemental master had seemed a fine blessing indeed. For that matter, any attention at all from anyone whose name wasn’t Jenzara had been a somewhat novel, if not unwelcome, experience.
But of late even Raldon’s lessons had become discouraging. Ferrin was certain there was great power within himself pleading to escape. But despite repeated assurances, Raldon had done nothing that helped unleash it. More often than not, their lessons were little more than grueling exercises in control—rote actions that made his head ache. Raldon was already holding back certain truths about Ferrin’s past, and now Ferrin was beginning to suspect the town’s master was purposely stalling his elemental development as well.
Ferrin clenched his fists.
“It’s just something I read about,” he finally replied to the Master at Arms’ question.
Mapleaxe snorted, though it sounded so incredulous that he might as well have called Ferrin a liar. Ferrin met the exhalation with a level stare. He had just read about it, then applied what the book had said. He didn’t know why everyone else didn’t just do it too.
“One does not
simply learn from a tome the art of combining blade work with channeling. It took even the greatest of Keepers at the Symposium’s height decades to master.”
Ferrin only shrugged.
“Well however you figured it out, perhaps it’s time to consider sending you to the City. There’s no Symposium to enroll you in any longer.” The weathered man said this with such an unsarcastically wistful tone that a muscle under Ferrin’s right eye twitched. “But there’s still skillful masters a plenty with whom you could benefit working. Old Westcott is still there, I think, though he always fancied his alchemical weapons to steel. But there are several others besides him.”
It was an interesting thought. He wouldn’t mind getting away from this dead-end backwater. And he got gooseflesh just thinking of the number of volumes in the old Symposium library. But he couldn’t leave Ral Mok. Not yet.
“It’s a nice thought, Master at Arms. But I’m not interested.” He turned to leave the practice grounds. Perhaps he’d get some more reading in before Jenzara returned from whatever she and Raldon were doing beyond the wall. Then he’d go find her to learn what was going on.
“There’s no one coming for you, boy.” Mapleaxe had intended his tone to sound gentle, Ferrin supposed. But to him it sounded like the whisper of wind through dead trees. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“I remember, Master Mapleaxe,” he said without turning. “A man in fine, brightly colored robes handing me to Master Raldon at the front gates. He was no beggar. No vagabond. My father was a man of power and influence. He’ll be back as soon as he can.”
Mapleaxe made to speak again and Ferrin dug his fingernails further into his palms.
“You’re dismissed,” Mapleaxe finally said, back to his gruff voice, though there was an undertone of sympathy that made Ferrin want to gag. He released the breath he’d been holding and stalked away towards the shade of the stables without looking back.
When he reached them, he leaned against one of the horse stalls and shut his eyes, inhaling the barnyard musk and letting the shadows roll over his body. How dare Mapleaxe question him like that. Of course his father was coming back for him. Maybe even his mother, too. And he’d be here when they returned. He’d spent countless days picturing the encounter. A firm handshake form his father; his mother kissing his forehead and wrapping him in a loving embrace.
He’d hoped the stillness of the stables would calm him. But rather than finding respite in the coolness and earthy aromas, his angst only grew. That feeling of untapped frustration he’d been experiencing in Raldon’s lessons gaped like a dark pit, bottom cloaked in black unknowing. He gripped a wooden rail, feeling as if a dam within him was about to burst, so dizzy his knees buckled. One of the horses gave a nervous snort, pawing at the ground of its stall. Suddenly, a bird’s song overhead seemed impossibly loud. For a moment he couldn’t tell if it was him or the wooden fence that was shaking.
Then shouting. The whining of the main gate opening.
Ferrin got a hold of himself. That meant Jenzara was back. Tension eased from his back and hands. He released the rail he’d been grasping, frowning slightly at several splinters, and began to make his way toward the gate. Perhaps Jenzara’s willingness to listen would help; her soft purple eyes always seemed to understand. Plus, he was eager to hear what sort of visitors had warranted both her and Raldon going beyond the walls to meet them.
The first horses began trotting through the open gate.
Ferrin froze.
A column of ivory mares, each carrying a white-robed man or woman, filed into the courtyard. The group’s standard bearer bore a pole atop which flew two alabaster flags, the lower of the two bearing a blazing sun, the upper bearing a golden staff-and-stars.
His eyes widened, then narrowed just as quickly. Those were Parents. And the staff and stars meant the Grand Father himself was in the party. He could recall a single Parent, or maybe a pair, occasionally stopping at Ral Mok while on their way to Doom’s Keep. They never stayed long, though whether due to their distaste for this wilderness or Raldon’s less-than-warm receptions of them Ferrin never knew.
But a whole troupe of Parents? There must have been two dozen, perhaps a whole covenant. And the Grand Father with them? With the Symposium disbanded, he was the most powerful man in all of Agarsfar. What could bring him here? Nothing good, certainly. At best the Parents of Tragnè were zealous to a fault. At worst, they were bigots who used religion and the rule of law to disguise their hate and discriminating ways. Ferin had heard of the “Camps” they’d created for shadow attuned in Tragnè City.
As if on cue, Ferrin noticed two sullen children riding at the end of the line of Parents. They dismounted with some difficulty, large—and apparently heavy, judging from how they stooped—iron collars hung from their necks. One of the Parents aimed a kick at one of them, a young girl who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. She took the blow on the hip and went sprawling. The Parent let out a hoarse laugh.
By this time a small crowd had gathered to see the new visitors. Ferrin’s stomach turned at the sight of the girl lying there, tears welling in her eyes. But even more infuriating were the other townsfolk. Pointedly looking away, as if even laying eyes on the children might infect them with whatever had caused the Parents to treat the girl so. Not a one of them shouted out in protest. Ferrin watched as the boy bent without a word and retrieved a fiery flower that had fallen from the girl’s—probably his sister’s—tunic.
If that’s how they treat children, think of how they’ll be with the rest of us, Ferrin thought.
Then he saw Jenzara, riding through the gate alongside Raldon. The dour expression on her face matched how he felt. She picked him out of the small crowd almost immediately, and he felt a gratifying spark as her purple eyes communicated that she was just as eager to speak to him. She nodded towards their usual meeting place, afternoon light flashing off her shoulder-length, carob-colored hair. Then Raldon spoke and she turned away. But that was enough for now. They’d meet soon and he’d learn what in shades was going on.
Suddenly the hackles on the back of his neck rose and Ferrin turned back around. The children, both of them, were staring at him with wide eyes. Completely black eyes.
He took an involuntary step back. He didn’t give two bits what the Parents said of the shadow attuned. He’d nothing against them. But black eyes? That marked them as having succumbed to the Seven’s Call. A slow death by madness. Those collars might be keeping the children from channeling, but they were likely keeping them alive as well. The sickness wouldn’t progress nearly as fast if they couldn’t channel the fifth element.
But Ferrin was startled for reasons other than their eyes. He’d never seen a child look that way, afflicted or not. Identical expressions of distress and suspicion, so strong he could feel their eyes on him even as he looked away. What had been done to them to steal their innocence so?
What could cause such a reaction?
He raised his eyes to the children once more and now found a man stooping over them. Another Parent. This one wasn’t abusing them, but speaking in hushed tones with apparent great interest, wrinkled lips set in concentration. He was different from the others in appearance. Hair mostly gray, where the others were clearly still in their prime. And yet, he gave off an air of timelessness, as if you had to really look hard to see he was actually older than the others about him.
But though the man seemed to speak gently enough, and didn’t so much as raise a hand to either child, they both cowered away. The girl had covered her face and begun to cry; the boy was faring little better, his lips trembling. Either they weren’t used to being spoken to, or there was something in this man to fear more than the casual cruelty of the other Parents.
Finally, the boy raised a trembling hand in Ferrin’s direction. He was hit by an overwhelming urge to flee the courtyard immediately. Turning his back, Ferrin did his best to blend into the now sizable crowd that had gathered to view the Parents.
He did
n’t look back to see whether the man had spotted him, but the sinking feeling in his stomach told him what his eyes hadn’t. He hurried on to the Angelic Chapel to await Jenzara and the answers she’d provide.
7
Jenzara
Of the four founding heroes, Lady Tragnè was the most prolific. Even setting aside her acts before Agar’s death—her role in the Leveande’s escape from Sykt, organization of the first Northern expeditions, and Invocation that saved the First Agarian Army during the Great War among them—she accomplished more in half a lifetime than most could in ten. She established the Temple, chaired the convention that produced the nation’s Charter, fed the hungry, cured the sick, served as the first Grand Parent. She was also an historian, dictating her remembrances to an unnamed scribe late in life. Those original recordings of her oral histories are re-printed here, and continue to be one of the only sources detailing our country’s early history.
-From the preface to the Millennial Printing of Tragnè’s Oral Histories, written by Rikar Bladesong
THE GATE THUMPED SHUT behind them as they rode out to meet whoever it was approaching the town, she on her chestnut courser, father on his Northern destrier, dark as a windowless room. He’d been tightlipped while they mounted and rode out, so she’d been avoiding looking in his direction. Now she saw father had brought his staff and bit at her lower lip.
The rod was nearly a height long, crafted of smooth hickory with the occasional knot left in the wood for better grip. Father had always said he preferred staves to blades—people always underestimate a man with a stick, he’d say. But why he felt inclined to bring it with him to greet guests she couldn’t say. She’d declined when the page had offered her bow; now she wondered if she’d need it. At least she had the knives she always carried, little skill with them though she had. She shifted in her saddle, failing to find a comfortable position, and wondered how her horse would feel to know the saddle was made of leather harvested from the rumps of horses that had outgrown their usefulness.
