by Lakshman, V.
Arek rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling. His ability to disrupt magic had been a constant annoyance in his life. More than once, he had ruined his study partner’s experimental conjuration in class, or caused an instructor’s example to go awry.
He knew Piter wasn’t the only one who called him a jinx. He was bad luck on anyone trying to cast a spell and as a result, rarely chosen as a partner for any schoolwork. Rarer still was being asked to participate in the festivals marking many of the most joyous times of year. Who wanted someone who could ruin an evening with a touch? Only Master Silbane seemed to care about him. Arek rolled onto his stomach and sighed. Some days, he thought sullenly, it just did not make sense to get out of bed.
Laughter drifted up from the courtyard, pulling his gaze. Sitting up, he braced his elbows on the windowsill and watched as two apprentices squared off for a game of rhan’dori. One he recognized immediately as Jesyn, her slight frame hidden beneath her leather combat uniform. In her right hand, she carried her bohkir, glowing faintly blue as she concentrated her magical power through the wooden blade.
This slight conjuration helped to teach each apprentice how to channel their power, and served as part of the rhan’dori rules. Whatever part of the body the blade touched would become temporarily immobile, paralyzed by the magic channeled in the wood. Unconsciousness was the result of a strike to the head. Arek often wondered what color his bohkir would glow if he could channel power the way his friends could.
The paralyzing effect channeled into the bohkir served another important purpose. Injuries were kept to a minimum since the victor was clear. It made the blade work easier to follow and learn from, as each blade would leave behind a quickly dissipating colored trail in the air. Instructors could then reconjure the trails and walk the students through the fight, showing where a strike or block was correct, or out of place. When two evenly matched opponents paired, the cuts and parries often painted an intricate image of their struggle that was beautiful to behold.
Arek didn’t recognize Jesyn’s opponent until he shrugged off his cloak and raised his bohkir, glowing purple in the fading light. That would be Piter. Even as he watched, Piter’s sword flashed brighter for a moment, an obvious sign he was channeling more power into the wooden blade, either to lighten it or to increase its speed.
Piter was always showing off, in one way or another. Arek grimaced at the thought. Even as the flash faded, the two combatants grabbed their swords in both hands and moved toward each other, measuring stance and pace. Soon the sounds of their blocks and parries echoed from the circle, along with the occasional cheer from one group of students or another, each supporting their favorite.
The game of rhan’dori was as ancient as the council itself, and Arek had heard rumor that it was part of the Test of Ascension. At the time a student became a Green, he or she began learning the basics of sword and spell. By the time the student was ready for Ascension, they would have gained enough knowledge to blend these two disciplines together.
Part of every formal test before Black was the rhan’dori, where a student faced multiple opponents. Only by successfully defending themselves and defeating their opponents with controlled killing strikes, could a student pass.
Of course, these were against real people. Arek had no idea what one faced when testing for the Black. The mark of a true master was to use nothing at all. They had trained to a point where their very bodies were honed as weapons. Arek assumed the Test of Ascension would be fought unarmed.
And he certainly would not be required to kill anyone. That would be an unsustainable way to advance the teachings, for it called for losing someone gifted with Talent at each test. Furthermore, he reminded himself, believing the rhan’dori was part of the final test was still purely conjecture, as no one except the one being Ascended and the adepts witnessed anything. Only they had an idea of what was required, and no one talked about their test after it concluded.
Those who failed their first attempt, and this seemed to be almost everyone, were unable or unwilling to voice any recollection of the test itself. They claimed they remembered everything, but just couldn’t speak it aloud. It was likely, Arek thought, that they took a Binding Oath that prevented them from speaking.
A few, a very few, were never seen or heard from again. The other students whispered that these unfortunate souls had failed and as a result, died. The thought brought a certain fervor to their training, for no student took the chance their life might be forfeit due to laziness.
One thing was clear. If they failed and survived, it was not considered a mark against them. They were encouraged to continue teaching classes, their knowledge invaluable to the younger students, until such a time when they were ready to test again. Strangely, very few ever did, and most left the Isle within a year.
Arek also reminded himself, being at the Brown rank did not mean one was not formidable. Indeed, Browns were accomplished and deadly fighters, dangerous to the extreme. Arek had once heard Adept Dragor say he worried more about facing Browns than adepts, because they would try anything, with little regard to their own safety.
This could result in disaster, as evidenced by stories passed down from student to student, whispered tales about the statue on Prayer’s Rock actually being a Brown who had tried to enhance his skin by merging with the energies of the surrounding stone itself. The adepts did little to discourage this sort of gossip, content it kept the more adventurous in line.
It was clear though to the other students that something fundamental changed when a Brown failed to attain the Black. Something altered deep within them, a strange indifference to the world. It was as if they were going through the motions, but their minds were a thousand leagues away.
Arek’s only exposure to this had been a few years back, when their combat instructor, Keren, had tested and failed. She hadn’t said anything, but the normally talkative and vibrant trainer had become more silent and withdrawn, given to bouts of prolonged introspection. She had continued teaching for a few months, then one day had simply left the Isle. Once a Brown left, they were seldom heard from again, and the memory of Initiate Keren had faded from detailed stories and feats to a soft patchwork of nondescript feelings.
Silbane had often told him the outcome of the Test of Ascension seldom hinged on the raw magical power of a particular initiate, but more on his or her ability to understand weakness and be observant. Arek knew with a cold certainty that if his admission into the adepts’ elite circle rested on his ability to merge the arcane with the mundane, he would never wear the Black, regardless of what his master thought. It was more likely he would leave the Isle, just as Keren had, an errant disciple of the Way, out in the world on his own.
Arek shook his head; this was no way to think. He would not have been accepted into the Isle or been apprenticed by Master Silbane if he didn’t have potential. Through hard work and training, he had achieved the rank of Brown, a feat that put him in an already rarified level of expertise. Still, his inability to cast even the simplest charms infuriated him and made him feel incompetent in front of the others.
Then there were the informal rhan’dori practices. He understood the touch of his bare skin caused the paralyzing effect, which was followed by unconsciousness or feeling dizzy.
However, Arek argued, wasn’t that exactly what the enchanted bohkir’s touch did? No, it didn’t disrupt magic, but it did cause the person hit to become incapacitated. He didn’t see the difference between that and his touch. When he had ventured to ask why, his master had scoffed, “You will learn nothing from these mock combats other than imitating other people’s mistakes. Practice perfection and you will learn perfection.”
As a result, while Arek had participated in practice combats during classes, he had never competed in an informal test against his friends. This frustrated and relieved him; frustrated because he couldn’t show off his skills and prowess, relieved because he had the perfect excuse not to have to compete against the other Br
owns and perhaps lose.
The fear of losing was his darkest secret, one he did not mull over, but that grew the moment he found himself across blades. He did not fear combat, as others did. Actually, he longed for it, but he was more afraid of losing than of fighting.
Strangely enough, Arek’s lack of participation in the rhan’dori and his obvious skill in class had given him a reputation as a dangerous opponent with the sword, something he had not anticipated. He enjoyed the reputation, but because it was unearned, being asked by his friends for advice on technique still made him feel uncomfortable, as though they were actually mocking him.
A yell of triumph caught his attention as Jesyn cut quickly downward, forcing Piter back to block. The force of the blow caused him to go down to one knee, his sword raised horizontally above him. Jesyn took that opportunity to kick upward, catching the back of Piter’s blade from underneath. His sword spun out of his hand in an arc of purple, leaving him defenseless.
Jesyn’s leg went numb from the strike. Arek could tell she knew this would happen, and had bet her victory on it. Her sword leapt high, then cut straight at Piter’s head. However, the numb leg slowed her by a heartbeat, an eternity in a sword fight.
Piter was too well trained to let the slip go unanswered. As Jesyn attacked, he timed himself perfectly, flipping sideways from the blow, landing more than a sword’s length away. He stretched out his hand and his wooden bohkir flew from across the circle into his palm. Then from a crouch he moved forward, his legs pumping as he quickly covered the short distance between himself and his opponent.
Jesyn tried to retreat, but her leg impeded her motion and she took a painful whack on her left arm. That arm went limp as the magic of the blade deadened it. Jesyn quickly spun on the heel of her good leg with a dancer’s grace, her training taking hold. The blade in her right hand whizzed horizontally through the air behind her, completing a blue circle and singing for Piter’s head.
He raised his bohkir vertically and caught her blade, forcing it out and downward. His sword leapt from hers to tap her right arm, deadening that as well. Jesyn’s sword dropped from nerveless fingers, but not before she flung her head backward and caught Piter full in the face. With a cry, he fell onto his back, his nose a spattered ruin.
Jesyn knew where Piter was and kicked backward like a mule. She both felt the impact and heard the satisfied “whuff,” as her heel caught him in the stomach.
As he fell backward, she fell with him and landed straddling Piter’s prostrate form, her numb shin under his throat, the other pinning his outstretched sword arm to the ground. Without using her arms, she leaned her weight forward onto her shin, closing Piter’s windpipe. One word hissed from her mouth, “Yield?”
Piter’s face turned purple, as his left hand tried to claw Jesyn’s knee off, but it was useless. Jesyn had positioned herself well and had her entire body’s weight on Piter’s chest. By leaning forward, she had brought that weight to bear on this throat. Only a few heartbeats passed before he realized the futility of trying to break free and croaked out, “Yield.”
She leaned back, letting him breathe, and smiled. “I figured you’d not want to be dragged to the infirmary unconscious.” Jesyn stood up and limped back, her arms dangling at her sides. The feeling had started to return in her leg, pins and needles prickling it back to life. Her arms, however, were still completely numb. She turned and took a bow.
Arek sighed and whispered to himself, “Finish him, Jes. I’ve told you a hundred times. You’re too nice.”
Piter slowly rose, growling, “The winner is the one who walks from the circle.”
“You yielded.” Jesyn spun, facing him.
“And you left me armed.” Before Jesyn could move, he swung his glowing blade, still in his right hand, in a tight arc. It caught her under her chin and Jesyn went down in a heap, unconscious.
Arek looked around, but there were no other senior Browns on the hill. Piter bowed once and walked out of the circle toward a small copse of trees, and Arek could imagine the smirk already growing on his face. A few of the watching Greens were at Jesyn’s side, helping her back to consciousness. She finally stood on unsteady legs and staggered out of the circle supported by a brace of Greens as they headed toward the nearest doors.
Damn him, Arek thought as a cold anger settled over his heart. It was one thing to be arrogant, but to cheat to win a stupid practice match! A part of Arek knew no adept would think what Piter did was wrong, instead they would chastise Jesyn for dropping her guard and not incapacitating her opponent.
The rules of rhan’dori were simple. You continue until your opponent is disabled, then you leave the circle. They were constantly reminding the apprentices there were no rules in the rhan’dori, just as there were no rules in war. Jesyn failed to disable her opponent, trusting his word instead.
Still, though nothing Piter did was technically wrong, Arek could not let him get away with it, he was ready to accept whatever punishment his master gave him. He raced toward his door, only to be brought up short by a chime sounding. He sighed, then turned to face his washbasin mirror. Slowly, on the mirrored surface appeared an image of his master, Silbane. Straightening his robe, Arek bowed once and stood still, only his eyes betraying the anger he felt.
“I have need of you, Apprentice. Please come to my quarters.”
Arek licked his lips and replied, “Of course, Master...” He tried to think of a way to meet Piter first. When no excuse came to mind he felt his master would accept, he inwardly cursed and bowed again. “Yes, Master.” It was not often he was called upon and once done, it was not his place to disobey, regardless of his current situation. Piter would have to wait. Arek watched the image fade and then left for the Hall of Adepts.
Between his quarters and the Hall of Adepts lay a square expanse of green, a courtyard of sorts with a nice open area that contained little to interrupt its serenity. This was the quad, where his friends and he spent many hours lounging when chores, adepts, and other students failed to beckon.
The quad was also where the Spring and Fall Festivals were held each year. The Spring Festival had only been a moon ago, the square decorated with all the new blossoms the students could gather. He could still remember the exhibitions of martial prowess by the adepts, reenacting the great battles of the land. They heard tales of the Crystal Mountains and the dragon Rai’kesh, of the Battle of Ice at Dawnlight, and of Argus the Sunlord and the Rending of Shornhelm.
The adepts performed feats of strength, speed, and agility that would have left most in stunned silence. They reduced a boulder to a pile of rubble, shattered by an adept’s withering palm, or leapt through rings of fire while extinguishing candle flames with thrown darts at fifty paces. It seemed nothing lay beyond their honed expertise. They were forged by their training to be weapons of the most lethal sort: ones that could think.
He cursed himself for daydreaming, then ran across the green expanse and made his way up the many levels to his master’s chambers without breathing hard. He took his stamina for granted, a luxury only the young did not fully appreciate. He found his master’s door ajar and after knocking discreetly, he entered. He bowed as his master turned from the open window.
The sun was setting over the Shattered Sea, spilling red-orange light into the room. Arek could feel a strong breeze whip through, ruffling some of the dry parchment held down by a weight on the desk. He had forgotten how high up his master’s quarters were. Somewhere the sound of a gull cawing added to the serenity of the scene. Arek drank in the sea air, its coolness slowly easing the anger he had held at Piter.
Silbane moved to a chair, motioning for him to sit across from him. “Tell me, Apprentice, what do you know of Bara’cor?”
Arek, not surprised by the question, raced to dredge up all he could from the name. His master often tested him this way, pulling something from a lesson taught many years ago. His frustrations at the many events of this day were forgotten as the information came flooding into his mi
nd. That seemed another of his peculiar talents. He could remember anything he saw or heard with perfect clarity.
Clearing his throat he began, “It is a fortress on the western edge of the Altan Wastes. Legend has that it was built by the dwarven lords. It defends the pass to the lower plains and the capital city of Haven.
“It is currently held by King Bernal Galadine, with an unbroken lineage that can trace its ancestors back more than two hundred years, to the summoning and defeat of the demonlord, Lilyth. Mikal Galadine enacted the King’s Law then, which put people with Talent, people like us, to death.”
He paused for a moment, thinking if there was anything else he knew. “It is said the Galadine line runs strong in the Way, and every Galadine has magic to some degree, whether or not they choose to acknowledge it. I doubt this, however.” Arek watched his master, waiting for any remark.
“Really? Why?” countered Silbane.
“If you have power, why not use it? I cannot believe the Galadines could be so strong in the Way and still reject its might. More likely they are mundane.”
Silbane looked out over the Shattered Sea before replying. “Having power doesn’t require its use.”
“Easy to say, for those with power,” countered the younger apprentice. He knew his master encouraged debate as a way of learning, and therefore said what was on his mind.
“Perhaps,” Silbane said, looking sidelong at his apprentice, “but forbearance is also a sign of strength.” He sighed, then stood up. “Bara’cor stands as you said, guarding the pass to the lowlands and though no longer inhabited by dwarves, still contains many mysteries.”
