by Lakshman, V.
* * * * *
Twenty summers ago, Jebida had left to fight alongside Bernal in the Dawnlight campaigns, a successful effort to solidify the northern borderlands. The king had liberated the fortress of Dawnlight, and in the process, won himself a new bride and queen, Yevaine.
The firstmark, elated at their victory and the king’s good fortune, had returned to his village only to find it in smoking ruins, the houses smashed and burned into charcoal caricatures of the beautiful homes they once were. He recalled with perfect clarity the sight of his own home, reduced to a bed of gray ash like freshly fallen snow, barely covering the blackened bodies of his wife and daughter.
The village blacksmith had been the only survivor. She wailed of winged creatures pouring through an opening in the air, what they now knew to be a small rift. Each creature was insubstantial, but fearsome in form. They dove into people, who then lost themselves. Their eyes glowed white and they walked mindlessly away, back through the rift and were never heard from again. Those few that fought or resisted were killed.
Part of him had died then, with his family and people. The village had been decimated and as a result, nothing of the Naserith name had survived, except for him.
Swallowing the knot of anger that had begun to form in his throat, the firstmark concentrated on finishing his report. “I have evacuated all the elderly and children down the pass to the lowlands, escorted by Captain Kalindor with Fourth Company. Any who passed their third blade are here, reporting for duty. The younger ones were given the chance to volunteer to stay if they wished.”
Both Jebida and the king knew Tyrus Kalindor well, a straightforward man who had served the Galadines for over a quarter of a century. He was a seasoned veteran with a steady hand, a soldier who would bear even the underhanded maneuverings and political intrigues of Haven to watch over the queen and the evacuees.
The king asked, “How many volunteers?”
Jebida smiled crookedly, “All of them. What did you expect?” He paused, a glint of pride shining in his eyes, then finished, “Tyrus and the queen’s party should arrive in Haven soon.”
The smile was short-lived, though, as the firstmark’s eyes drifted back to the nomad line, and his mood darkened at the thoughts of magic being used against them. But Jebida’s loss to the demons and hatred of magic was no secret to the king. They both focused on the desert.
The king replied, “The nomads will attack on the morrow with this storm.”
“Aye, it is the wisest course,” Jebida agreed, “and hard on our archers. I do not underestimate their commander. Barbarian or not, he has attacked us with cold efficiency and camped well out of catapult range. Only the fact that our backs are to a cliff and we have water has allowed us to hold this long. Makes me wonder how they manage to stay camped at our door this long without the same.”
* * * * *
With the conversation between his father and the firstmark receding into the back of his awareness, Niall imagined what his first real battle would be like. So far, all the assaults against the wall had been warfare at range, the archers of First and Third Companies dueling with their counterparts from the barbarian lines.
However, if his father was right, they would see hand-to-hand combat tomorrow. Niall ran his hand over the waist-high lip of the outer wall. The rough, gritty surface felt good against the hard calluses on his palm. Niall hoped to serve with Armsmark Rillaran. His heart beat hard at the thought of working the front wall, where undoubtedly the harshest fighting would be. Most on duty there were seasoned veterans, well versed in the art of repelling a siege.
“Niall.”
Niall gave a start at hearing his name. Shaking off the visions of battle, he found both his father and Jebida staring at him. He moved over to the pair, watching as Jebida nodded his massive head in answer to some command his father whispered.
“Niall, I shall be down in the council room. Jebida has your orders for tomorrow.” The king clasped his son’s hand in an iron grip, apparently satisfied he would do as he was told, and confident in the firstmark’s ability to keep him safe. With a thin smile he walked across the battlements to the inner stairwell, heading into the deep coolness of the interior.
The firstmark cleared his throat, motioning for Niall to come closer. “Well, my prince. You’ll be working with Captain Fenrith.”
“Fenrith! Wha—?”
“Silence,” snapped Jebida, fire in his eyes. “The first lesson a soldier must learn is to follow orders. Tomorrow you will be working under Captain Fenrith, supporting Fifth Company.”
The boy dropped his gaze, disappointment etched in his young features.
A conciliatory hand came up, clapping the young warrior on the shoulder as the firstmark continued, “I understand your disappointment, lad, but you are not yet experienced enough to stand at the point of the spear. It is not yours, but the lives of those next to you that are in jeopardy, as each would extend himself to protect the Imperial heir. You understand this?” A small smile escaped his lips, “You have my word I will do what is within my power to allow you a chance on the wall. Just be patient.”
Niall nodded once, dejected. He knew Jebida would keep his word, but put little faith in the firstmark’s chances against his father’s will. He was too disappointed to think others might endanger themselves for him. “If you will excuse me, sir.” He saluted, right fist to chest, then spun on his heel, heading for the stairwell where his father had disappeared.
Had he looked back, he would have seen a rueful smile on the firstmark's face, as if the veteran recalled a similar 'discussion' with his own armsmaster so many years ago. As it was, Niall could only focus on what tomorrow would not bring, a chance to prove himself a warrior in his father’s eyes.
THE APPRENTICE
In studying the Way,
Accept that learning it is hard.
Once learned, accept that wielding it is hard.
Accept that mastery of the Way is hard,
And your journey will be easier.
—Lore Father Argus Rillaran, The Way
Arek Winterthorn sat at an oaken desk situated deep in the back of the large library in the main tower, his blond head bent in concentration over the book in front of him. Looking up, he rubbed his pale blue eyes and squinted as the full strength of the afternoon sun shone through a slotted portal high above, pooling its yellow brilliance on the top of his desk.
He rose and stretched, his brown practice uniform feeling both warm and used, as he moved to another table, and a platter of cold meats. Sandwiching a piece of meat between some hard bread, he sat down and began his repast. The spells he had been given to research by his master, Silbane, swam like clickfish through his head. Finding himself unable to concentrate, he hoped food would bring clarity to his thinking, a state particularly elusive today. How math and numbers had anything to do with spells made no sense to him, but he continued learning every equation and transformation by rote.
He was interrupted by Piter Winterthorn, a fellow apprentice who was under Master Kisan’s tutelage. Piter made his way over to Arek’s books and looked down, the familiar smirk already forming on his mouth. “Is my brother-in-name still muddling through matrices? With the Test of Ascension so close at hand, I would think you would be with the other apprentices on the hill, practicing.”
Piter moved slowly around the desk and lowered his wiry frame onto Arek’s notes. “Will your master let you accept help? They’re pretty simple.”
Arek looked sidelong at Piter, his taunting nothing new, and removed his gloves. Then he said simply, “Get off my notes.”
“Of course,” Piter backed away quickly with both hands up. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”
Arek had a unique Talent, one that none of the masters on the Isle yet understood. For some reason, anything he touched that was magical found itself disrupted for hours. This made it necessary for Arek to wear thin gloves whenever he was around anyone who had magical abilities, or items of a
magical nature, which included almost everything on the Isle. Arek’s interactions with his fellow students had quickly become strained. Piter in particular seemed to enjoy making Arek feel different, somehow damaged.
Forbidden from participating in unsupervised combat practice, Arek could not establish an equanimous balance with his peers. Had he been allowed to fight, he might have asserted himself in the natural pecking order. Competition in all things was naturally intense amongst the students as they vied for recognition or attention from their instructors. His strange Talent had resulted instead in more one-on-one tutelage and attention from the adepts, something he hadn’t “earned.”
He hated having to back down again, but Master Silbane had been extremely clear. Real fighting amongst students was strictly forbidden, punishable by extra chores and homework, possibly even expulsion from the Isle, something every apprentice feared.
Arek straightened out his notes and turned to face the other boy, “Nothing you say ever comes out the way you mean.” He knew Master Kisan would not look kindly upon this incident if Piter reported it. He nodded, affecting an air of nonchalance, and finished, “And I don’t need your help.”
Piter backed up a bit. When Arek didn’t continue, he turned to go, but then stopped. Looking back he asked, “Have you ever considered you may not be a jinx, like everyone says?” A heartbeat, then two passed. When Arek made it clear he was not going to reply, Piter shrugged and said, “Well… good luck with your studying.”
Once again, it seemed like a nice thing to say. Then came that familiar smirk painting Piter’s face, and Arek knew he was being ridiculed. His face grew hot from a flush of anger. Even though competition between apprentices was tolerated, at times even encouraged, it seemed Piter had a special dislike for him. What frustrated Arek more than Piter’s arrogance, was that deep down inside he knew Piter was one of the more gifted apprentices on the Isle. When given the chance, Piter would certainly earn the black uniform to mark him as having passed from initiate to adept.
Arek was not so confident of his own chances. Truth be told, he didn’t know why he was even on the list to test. In his opinion, he was far from ready. He stared at his notes, anger still clenching his jaw. Then, his ability to concentrate ruined, he gathered his notes and left the library. The confrontation with Master Kisan’s apprentice was the perfect interruption to what was becoming a truly pointless day.
Walking down the wide hallways, he made his way to the Hall of Apprentices. Divided into three levels, the lowest was a large area for the newest arrivals. Arek wove in and out of the small cots placed side by side, trying to get through quickly. The last thing he wanted now was to get waylaid by some youngster full of questions.
He rounded one bed, promptly smacked his toe into a footlocker, and fell. Out spilled school supplies and a white robe. He sat there for a moment, clutching his foot, his eyes watering. Massaging the pain out with a hand, he looked about the isolated carnage he’d wrought, then began grabbing things. He put everything back, knowing it didn’t look as neat and orderly as before, but better than it did a moment ago. New candidates would spend many years here, learning mathematics, reading, and writing. No sense in ruining someone else’s day because of his clumsiness.
Getting back to his feet, he brushed himself off and continued through the Hall. He still remembered where his cot had been and often checked up on its newest occupant, a small girl named Lissah. He did not see her as he passed, and silently thanked the Lady. He didn’t have the patience just then to sit down and engage in a conversation with that talkative little girl, barely eight summers old. He limped over to the stairwell, shaking his foot to lessen his toe’s throbbing, and made his way gingerly up.
The next level was dedicated to the intermediate apprentices, or “Greens,” those who were selected to stay after a rigorous testing of both basic skills and magical potential. They slept three to a room, offering a little more privacy than that of the Whites.
Greens studied the basics of the Way, armed combat, and a multitude of herbs, medicines, and other techniques for healing the sick and injured. They also began learning more complex mathematical concepts, for the instructors seemed to believe the Way was strongest in a logically trained mind. While Arek had learned quite a bit, he still couldn’t see the connection.
These Greens did not learn anything but the most rudimentary of fatigue-banishing spells, nor fight with anything but wooden weapons. They would stay Greens for as many years as it took to earn them the right to move on. No apprentice knew how long he or she would train at any level, and no promises were made that they would ever advance. When the right time came and their instructors felt they were ready, they traded in their uniforms of green and donned close-fitting dark brown ones, moving themselves up to the third level of the hall.
Each Brown slept in his own room and carried the responsibility of teaching the rudiments of mathematics, reading, and writing, as well as the basics of combat and magic to those below them. Arek himself conducted two classes in blade combat, a beginner’s course in mathematics, and an advanced course in multi-opponent combat strategy. In this way Browns kept their knowledge up to date, as they could be called upon anytime to teach Whites or Greens.
Browns also began rudimentary efforts at combining their combat training with magic. They learned the same spells, though of much less power, that they would use as full adepts. Their primary focus was to learn to create a path to the Way and sustain it. It took intense concentration at first, but as with all things, became easier as students practiced and time passed. Eventually the council recommended the more promising of these initiates to take the Test of Ascension and be recognized once they passed as a full adept of the council.
Unfortunately, the intervening years after the King’s Law had been enacted had seen fewer and fewer children with Talent born in the land. Fewer still found their way to safety from the Magehunters and whatever else preyed on those newly born to the Way. Many children disappeared into the rifts: unexplainable events never hinting about their appearance, and over the years growing more frequent.
The result had been a slow dwindling of students to teach and masters to teach them. These six adepts and the hundred or so students were the only ones left to carry on the knowledge and learning of a once proud and powerful Order. It also didn’t help that passing the Test to become an adept was extremely difficult, even if one were strong with the Way.
Arek’s knowledge of the Test was hazy at best and subject to the rumors that inevitably filtered throughout the school. If half of those rumors were true, becoming an adept required ludicrous feats of power, like slaying an elder dragon. Yet Arek didn’t doubt masters Silbane or Kisan could do something as legendary if necessary.
However, every student who aspired to don the black uniform knew one fact. They knew they were an adept when they heard their true name uttered for the first time. It came to them as they Ascended to the rank of adept, whispered on the wind, and with it came their power.
Arek continued his climb up to the third level. He paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, listening. He did not want to meet up with any of the other Browns, least of all Piter, who had a habit of inexplicably showing up at the most inopportune times, like in the library. Making his way to his door, he eased it open, careful not to make too much noise. Then he closed the door behind him and plopped down on his bed, staring out the window. To be an adept had been Arek’s dream since he had first begun his training.
He did not remember much of his life before the Isle. What he did remember came as brief flashes, a feeling, or a smell. He recalled someone with a gruff voice, and the smell of fresh cut leaves. Arek remembered a feeling like stone against his skin, but colored a strange blue and warm to the touch, as if alive.
They said he had been found by Master Silbane on the east side of Neverthere Bay, abandoned in the forest near Winters Thorn. For this reason the name “Winterthorn” became his last, shared with the other orp
han of that same forest, Piter. Now, nearing the date of what he had adopted as his seventeenth birthday, he had spent all his life on Meridian Isle.
In all that time, he thought, I have yet to see any example of my power. Negating magic seemed to be the only evidence he could do anything at all. Every student learned minor spells, like how to clean dirt off their clothes, stay warm, heat water, or clear dust. These were necessary to help with upkeep and chores. Arek, however, could not even cast the simplest enchantment. It didn’t help his self-esteem that even Lissah, the little White of eight years old, could do more than he could.
The most perplexing thing about his time at the Isle was that he had been formally apprenticed to Master Silbane before becoming an initiate. This was an honor supposedly reserved for only the most gifted of students, such as Piter, whom Master Kisan had apprenticed when he was just a Green.
Arek was sure the only reason he had been apprenticed so early was because he was a danger to other students. Of course they would want him looked after, to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone else. He shook his head and pushed open the glass pane, breathing in the cool sea air that rushed in.
His room, much like any of the others on this level, was sparsely decorated, one wall dedicated to a bookshelf crowded with training manuals and texts he had accumulated with the passage of time. A small washbasin and mirror stood against the wall between his bed and the bookshelf. In the far corner stood a small sword stand holding his bohkir, a two-handed wooden practice sword, the handle worn smooth and dark with years of practice and sweat. At least in that, he knew he had some talent.
When he held his sword, a state of calmness came over him, a peace he could not explain. He had heard some other Greens say they dreaded combat. That made no sense to him. Why learn a martial discipline, but not wish to use it? It was like being a great swimmer, but not wanting to swim. The entire illogic of it frustrated him, and he tended to deal with those students who were afraid to fight more harshly than those who were clearly eager to test themselves, blade against blade.
