In addition to continuing their training in survival, combat, and strategy, the trainees began to learn the forms for the clan magic.
“Tannoch clan magic is blood magic,” Master Solon said, “and so involves life and death. Blood is the surrogate of both. Without it, there is death, with it, there is life. The power of our magic is based upon this premise. Thus is it called the Raibrech, the Bloodfire. It is no small exaggeration to say that it is what makes us of Clan Tannoch.”
Aeden looked around at the others. They were all rigid, focusing on Master Solon with intensity. He turned his attention back to the man in front of them.
The warrior was more than sixty years old, but he stood erect and moved like a man much younger. Aeden had seen him sparring, and he was still agile and quick. His long, almost completely gray hair was tied behind his head in a ponytail, a complex piece of jewelry made of interlocking vines and snakes holding it in place. His sharp beak of a nose dominated his face, and several scars crossed his cheeks and forehead. They were reminders of battles with other clans, it was said.
“You will be learning the forms for the magic, but will be unable to use it until the Trial. By tradition, the quickening happens when you become adults, at fourteen years of age. The elders have cast blocking magic upon you to prevent any from prematurely gaining the ability.
“You must pay attention to every nuance, every movement and every word of power I teach you. It could be the difference between passing the test and failing. You do not want to fail this test.”
So began their training and practice in the clan magic. Aeden thought it was fascinating, the mixture of deft hand and arm movements and words in other languages.
Ruthrin, the common speech shared by most of Dizhelim, was used for conversation in Clan Tannoch. Some spoke in the traditional Croagh language, Chorain, but as time passed, that tongue was being relegated to the past. It saddened Aeden. It was a beautiful language, much more so than Ruthrin. Though a few of the words of power they were learning were Chorain, the vast majority of them were in another ancient language. The “language of magic,” as Master Solon called it, sounded even more impressive than the other two.
“No, lad,” Master Solon said. “You canna do it like that. Turn your wrist a quarter turn and straighten your back. The magic will not come if you do not channel it correctly. And speak up. You’re barely whispering the words.”
Aeden did as he was instructed and the master smiled. He had Aeden repeat the movements several times, adding the words of power in a clear, loud voice, and then Solon clapped his hands twice, getting everyone’s attention.
“Everyone, come here.” The master pulled Aeden toward him so he was standing next to the older man. “I want you to see how the motions and words should be done. Aeden, perform the spell.”
Aeden did as he was told, just as he had done earlier. Others in the crowd mimicked his motions.
“Good,” the master said. “Keep practicing.”
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Greimich told Aeden later. “We’re told to go through the motions, say the words, do everything we would need to do to cast the spell, but we’re not allowed to call the magic. How can we be sure we have it right if we can’t actually feel the magic?”
“We have to rely on the master to tell us if we got it right,” Aeden said.
“But why would they block us that way?” Greimich groused.
“It’s tradition. Maybe there was a reason in the past. Maybe too many trainees hurt themselves or others with their practice. Can you imagine loose magic flying about the training yard? Someone could burn the village down by accident.”
“Aye, I see your point. Still, I don’t have to like it.”
“No,” Aeden said, patting his friend on the shoulder. “You do not. But we have to accept it, don’t we? We have to train, learn what we need to learn, and trust that when the block is removed, we will pass the test. It’s all we can do, is it not?”
“I suppose.”
There were dozens of magics to learn, but the trial would consist of only a few. There were healing spells—not many because the blood magic concerned itself more with causing injury—as well as offensive and defensive magic.
Some forms even did simple, mundane things. The master demonstrated a few, just to show them there was more to learn after succeeding in their Trials. For the time being, though, he drilled them relentlessly on the handful of forms they needed to master first.
The time finally came for the Trials of Magic to begin. They had been learning the forms for nearly a year, since just after the Trial of Combat. At fourteen years of age, they were considered adults, though not yet warriors of the clan. Each of the trainees would be individually unblocked by all six elders of the clan, including Aeden’s father, for their test.
“Before you go to get unblocked and take the Trial,” Sartan Tannoch said, addressing all the trainees, “I want to commend you all on your hard years of training. We took wee lads and lasses and have forged them into warriors deserving of the clan name.
“After today, you will be free to go to your families and to take part in the day-to-day life of the clan. You will no longer live in the barracks and will no longer have your schedule set for you each day. You will have proved your adulthood and will be seen as such in the eyes of all the clan. After today. For now, you have one more task to complete, one more trial. The Trial of Magic. Let us begin.”
The Trials were performed in reverse order, the lowest ranked boy in the class all the way up to Aeden, the top of the list. Aeden watched the first few, all successful, but to different degrees. The masters and the elders judged if the use of the magic was sufficient to allow the candidate to pass. While some showed a firm grasp of it in one or two of the required spells, many barely brought the magic up at all. It made Aeden feel better, though he was still nervous.
Since the trainees were not required to watch, most of them went back to their bunks and rested, only returning when it was their time. After a while, Aeden did the same.
The crowd sounded different than it had all day. It had the cast of disappointment and surprise, the tone dropping as the sound reached his ears. Aeden left the barracks and went toward the spectators to see what the commotion was about.
“He failed,” someone said nearby, merely a whisper.
“Seam didn’t pass the Trial,” another voice said.
It seemed true. Seam was walking toward the mass of those watching the Trials, head hung low, his step barely a shuffle. The boy looked up at Aeden as he walked and there was pain there in his eyes. Failure. What would happen to him? No one had ever told them. What price did failure bring?
The rest of the Trials passed without failure, and soon it was Aeden’s turn, the last Trial of the day. He went to the elders who, in unison, made several gestures and spoke unfamiliar words. A warmth settled over him, spread throughout his entire body, and then dissipated.
Sartan smiled at his son, nodding his encouragement.
“The last Trial,” Master Solon said. “Aeden, son of Sartan.”
Aeden strode boldly up to the space in front of the masters and the elders. He did not feel as confident as his posture portrayed. Still, he had practiced the forms, knew all the words. The block was removed. All he need do was bring forth the magic.
“Perform for us ‘Skinning the Highland Cat,’” Master Solon said, and chuckles rose from the spectators. All of the spells held poetic names such as this, not only to differentiate them from the others, but to remind the user of what the magic did. The pun on his trial of survival, a well-known story to all, was humorous to some. But Aeden was too nervous for joking.
The boy dropped into a deep stance, such as would be used to withstand a charge, and he began to move his arms in the prescribed motions, circular in a counter-clockwise direction, the shifting so the right hand continued in that direction while the left moved clockwise. He clearly enunciated the words of power, “Feat. Gate. Adehal,” whi
le facing the training dummy he was to use as a target.
Nothing happened.
“Cachten daedos d’estaigh!” Aeden muttered under his breath. His mother paled at the particularly vulgar curse. His father hid a small smile. What was he thinking, cursing at a time like this?
The surprise on the masters’ faces stood out in stark contrast to the smiles of a moment before. Aeden knew his own face must reflect them. His hands shook slightly and his heartbeat doubled. His motions stalled until he grappled his mind back under control and started to repeat the fluid motions. He said the words again, this time louder, more insistent.
Nothing.
“Perhaps one of the more powerful spells will warm you up more quickly,” Master Solon said. “Take two deep breaths and perform for me ‘Light to Conquer Darkness’.”
Light to Conquer Darkness. It was the most powerful magic they had been taught in their training. Done correctly, it would force the blood magic into the opponent, overwhelming them with energy and literally tearing their bodies apart from the inside out. It was one of the rare spells they had been taught that could affect more than one foe at a time. It was very powerful.
Aeden breathed as he’d been instructed, noticing the look of concern on his father’s face. He closed his eyes, pushed that out of his mind, and pictured himself successfully performing the spell, the dummy in front of him exploding from the energy of the magic he wielded.
Opening his eyes, he stared at the dummy with such intensity it should have burst into flames without the magic. He made rolling motions with his hands, almost as if he was punching something directly in front of him with one hand, then the next, repeated over and over again. As he did so, he fixed his mind on the dummy and the conflagration he would force into it, seeing the actual flame in his imagination. He spoke the words of power.
“Liso. Vinctire. Aruna!”
The only movement was the soft breeze gently carrying the ribbon tied around the dummy’s head. It remained still. And whole.
Aeden’s heart doubled its rate again. It pounded in his chest, trying to get out, to run away. His palms were moist and his forehead dripped with perspiration. He didn’t understand. He did the forms correctly, exactly as Master Solon had taught him. The words were pronounced exactly right as well. He had just performed the same spells yesterday for the master, and he said they were perfect. Why, then? Why would the magic not come?
Frantically, he repeated the motions and the words, louder this time, still with no result. He did so again. Nothing. The next time was interrupted by Master Solon’s hand going up.
“That is enough, Aeden. If the magic has not come yet, it will not. You are done. You have failed the Trial of Magic. I am sorry.” The old master hung his head.
Aeden looked to his father, whose face had gone pale. Scanning the crowd, he found his mother. She had tears in her eyes as she looked at him. Why were they overreacting so? Was he to be banished? What was the punishment for not passing the Trial of Magic? He was afraid he would find out all too soon.
Three of the clan warriors stepped forward. One grabbed his arm roughly in a fist and one of the others did the same with Seam. The men pulled the two boys away from the crowd toward the clan meeting hall.
“What is going on?” Seam asked. “I need to see my father. Let me go. What is the meaning of this?”
Aeden kept silent. Words would do him no good. Whatever happened to them would happen. And he didn’t think it would be good.
11
Aeden and Seam were kept in the meeting hall until well after the sun went down. They were not given any food or water, something Aeden took to mean that they were the lowest kind of prisoner.
“What do you think will happen?” Seam said, his voice frantic. He had probably been going over the possibilities. Aeden knew he had. The boy had not shut his mouth the entire time they were there. He announced every idea that popped into his head, and the chief’s son stopped listening long ago.
“Why won’t you speak?” Seam said. “How can you be so calm? They may beat us, or banish us. What is wrong with you?”
“Seam,” Aeden finally said, “if you do not shut up, I will knock you out. Whatever they will do, they will do. Your whining and pacing will not make it easier and will not change the outcome. Sit down and wait for them to get us. We’ll find out what will become of us soon enough.”
The other boy looked as if he would argue, but he knew well enough Aeden’s fighting ability. It was not an empty boast. Aeden could strike him to unconsciousness fairly easily. The other boy sat down and stopped talking, though he fidgeted and kept darting glances from the door to Aeden and back again.
The same three warriors came to fetch them three hours after darkness had fallen. They were Sartan’s friends Arlden, Beathan, and Fingal.
“Come,” Beathan said. His tone made it clear that if they did not do so willingly, they would be made to come. The two boys followed him out, and the other two men swung in behind them.
They were taken to the edge of the village, where most of the village council was waiting. When Seam saw his father, Dor, he tried to run to him, calling at him, “Father, what is happening? What will you do to us? Are we to be beaten?” The strong arm of Fingal, a giant of a man, stopped the boy cold. Dor wore an expression that was somewhere between sadness and disgust. He turned his head to talk to another of the elders.
Aeden stood there quietly, watching the exchange. He turned his gaze to find his father looking at him. His face was a mask, but his eyes, oh his eyes. Aeden knew then what was to become of him. He nodded slightly to his father and let out a breath, dipping his head to look at the ground.
“You are to come with us,” Sartan said to the boys as he started walking out of the village to the east. Aeden followed immediately, Seam after a few seconds and a prodding by one of the other warriors.
They walked for almost three hours, the torches carried by the warriors and elders the only light on the cloudy night. Aeden had never been this far east of the village—his ordeal of survival had been to the north of his home. He watched what he could see in the circle of light made by the brands, but it looked no different than any unfamiliar landscape in the dark. He gave up and looked at the ground directly in front of his feet.
Their escorts did not prevent the boys from speaking to each other. Seam edged in close to Aeden and nattered on about what was going to happen. None of the others would answer, so he fixated on Aeden.
After Seam asked the chief’s son what would become of them for the dozenth time, Aeden grabbed the boy by his tunic and pulled him in so their faces were only two inches apart. “Shut your mouth, Seam. You don’t want me to describe what will happen to us. Be silent and act like a warrior. It will all be over soon. Now is no time to be a little girl.”
He released the other boy and went back to looking at the path in front of him, but not before he saw several of the men around him nod, including his father…and Seam’s father as well.
“Stop,” Sartan said after they had been traveling for several hours.
The brush and small trees of the highlands around their village transformed into bigger, heavier trees. They had been steadily descending into the flatlands, and it seemed that they were truly no longer in the highlands—in Aeden’s homeland—at all. It was as if they were in another world entirely. It would happen here.
Sartan called out names of the warriors with them, directing half to go toward Seam and half toward Aeden. The fathers were to be with their sons. It was to be expected.
“You, among the many trainees in the warrior arts of Clan Tannoch, have failed the Trial of Magic,” Sartan said, his voice heavy as if fighting emotion. “That offense is inexcusable. The magic of the Raibrech is what makes our clan, and those who would be warriors must have mastery of it. Without it, you are not of Clan Tannoch and you must be cut away.”
Seam still did not understand. He looked around, at his father, at Sartan, at Aeden. He still did
not see.
“It would be better,” Sartan continued, “had you never been born than to bring shame upon your families in this way. To amend the wrong, you will be beaten—”
Seam let out a relieved exhalation. They had been beaten before, he must have thought. It would not be so bad.
“—until you are dead,” Sartan continued, “the final blows being struck by your own…father. It is the Daodh Gnath.”
Seam’s gasp filled the night air. Now. Now he understood.
Sartan spoke again. “You will not fight back, or your limbs will be broken to prevent it. You will stand like warriors and accept your punishment so that you do not bring even more embarrassment and dishonor upon your families. Do you understand this?”
Aeden nodded. Seam started pleading with his father. “Father, there must be something you can do. You are an elder. Do not do this. I will train harder, I will pass the test. Allow me a month and I will pass the test. Please. Please!”
Dor took his son by the arm and pulled him violently forward toward him. Then he pushed him toward one side of the clearing they were in. The others who were assigned to Seam went with him. Thudding sounds began to fill the air, dull echoes of flesh striking flesh, as did screams of pain from the boy.
“You are to be beaten in such a way that you will feel the pain of it, every blow meant not to kill but to injure,” Sartan said, his face frozen in an emotionless mask. “Your suffering will last as long as possible to bleed your unworth from your mortal flesh. No killing blow will be struck until the last, struck by your own father, is dealt. May your suffering and pain cleanse you and prepare you for the embrace of Percipius, Lord of the Grave.”
He had said it loud enough for both boys to hear, but Aeden knew it was only for his sake, and for the sake of tradition and ritual. Aeden nodded as he was led twenty feet away to another part of the clearing.
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