The Fate: Book 1: Tournament Wysteria

by Ko, John

  “She practices The Old Style,” the Captain explains, nodding at the old heron. “The Way of Fates.”

  “They’re just birds,” Monster says.

  “Did your master not teach you The Three Steps of the Right Way?” the Fate asks him.

  The Half-Orc nods. Father Arnould had. It was one of the very first lessons the Half-Orc had learned. “Will you recite them for us?”

  “Define, Decide, Do,” Monster says begrudgingly. They are looking at him now, so he continues. “In any situation, the first step is to Define it; to attempt to truly understand what really matters at that moment; to look past illusion and perceive the truth of things. The second is to Decide what must be done for the greatest good—now and forever. The final step is to Do it: to act without hesitation, doubt or fear.

  “Follow this path with pure mind, just heart and eyes towards enlightenment. In this way may you live well.”

  “Just like that old bird,” the Fate tells them. “She understood what was happening. If she had fled with her young ones, one of them would mostly likely have been caught, so she stayed behind as an easy target. But she had also decided that it wasn’t yet her time and did what she had to do.” The two smaller birds fly back to their mother and continue to fish under her watchful eye.

  “When we know each other’s Wills, we will know what we are fighting for. If we always keep each other’s Wills in mind, we will know how we should decide what to do. If we can do that, we will be of one mind and one heart—a true team.”

  Chapter 32

  POE

  [Behind the Stewards & Raiders Inn, Greenwood]

  No matter how early Poe gets up, he’s always there first. Poe can never beat the Fate to the washroom in the morning. It’s beyond bothersome. Luckily, it’s usually dark enough that they can’t even see each other’s faces clearly enough for it to matter. What makes it really irritating is how he teases Poe on how long the little bard takes in there.

  Poe hoped to avoid getting a silly nickname, but the musician got the very worst one of all.

  “Pooh, you are a fortunate fellow. I have never met anyone as regular as you,” he says every morning.

  In a way, it’s better than being called by the bard’s real name. Well, at least it is safer. Besides, he’s the only one to call Poe that. The others know better.

  They’re always the first two in the yard, as well. The Fate spends that time honing this Tech or that, and Poe watches for the sun to rise. Afterward, Wake would usually be back from whatever training the Fate had sent him out for earlier and then they would go and gather the others for breakfast.

  But those precious moments before they all sat down to break fast are Poe’s favorites. With no one else about, the bard could speak. Speak! The conversations are usually so one-sided that the little bard wonders if the Fate is actually listening, but he always responds just as Poe thinks he’s not. He’s unforgivable in that way, as Riser would say.

  The other parts of the day aren’t too bad, either. Poe passes the time writing new lyrics, playing Desi, and sometimes even joining the others in their practice, especially since the Fate gifted the young bard with Baton, an ice reed, Poe’s very own mini-stick. The Fate explained how they only grow on the very tips of the most ancient glaciers and that it’d be perfect for an Ice-User like Poe.

  He even gave the bard an Ice Gauntlet to match, the common version of the Dark Blue Hand of Fate, the gauntlets that made the Pure Water Gauntlets obsolete. That’s how Poe officially became his second student.

  On this particular morning, it’s the Fate asking all the questions. He doesn’t stop all his jumping around and running back and forth to do so either; something Poe’s gotten used to.

  “Pooh, how did you learn to speak or even sing so well if you could never talk to anyone before?”

  “I used to have this necklace. When I wore it, I could speak as much as I wanted to, but it’s lost now. And even before then, I could always talk to my father.”

  “That is good to know. I wonder why your words don’t affect me, either?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not the same reason as my father’s. After performing for so long, his hearing was all but gone. He used to say he could still feel the sounds. Whatever that means. He mostly relied on reading lips, though.”

  “Amazing! He could read lips, like a book?” the older boy asks, standing upside down.

  Poe laughs. “No, it means he could tell what people were saying by how their mouths moved. It’s not that hard. I can do it, too.”

  “Daebak,” the older boy says, hopping onto one hand. “He must have been really grateful then.”

  “He used to say that, but I always thought that was a funny way of looking at it.”

  “He sounds a lot like my parents. He must be a great man,” the Fate says, flipping back onto his feet. He was …

  “Yes, well …” Poe doesn’t want to think of all that right now. “What about your parents? Are they coming to watch you in the Grand Finale?”

  “No, they are gone now. I lost them when I was young,” he says with that stupid smile. “I have my Old Man, though. Hopefully, he will show up soon.”

  “So when you talk about your Old Man, you’re not talking about your father?” Poe asks. The Fate shakes his head. I’m so dumb, I don’t want anyone reminding me about that … and I just did it to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Sorry for what? Did you do something wrong?”

  “I just reminded you of your … your loss.”

  “You reminded me of them. Actually, I am always thinking about them. They were the best,” he says. “Thanks.”

  I bring up his dead parents, and he’s thankful for it? Not that anything about the older boy surprises Poe anymore. “But back to your original question. My father tried everything to help me with my problem.”

  “Condition. It is a condition, not a problem,” the Fate says. “Problems are something entirely else.”

  “Alright, my condition then. Well, he finally found this necklace. It used to belong to a Champion or something. Anyway, when I wear it, my voice is fine,” Poe explains. “But after he passed. There were those who tried to use it against me. They tried to control me with it. I had to leave the necklace behind when I ran away, even though it’s mine by right. They can track its whereabouts, and … and I’m never going back there ever again.”

  “You ran away?” The Fate stops and looks at the bard. “You did not call it leaving or escaping, but running away. That is not good.”

  “Problems, conditions, run away, leave; they’re just words. When did you become such a stickler for words?” Poe complains. “I don’t really feel like talking about it anymore.

  “Besides, it’s my turn to ask the questions now,” Poe says. “You called me your second student, so then who’s your first?”

  “Ieiri.”

  “That girl you’re always talking about, the one that tricked you into telling any girl you meet that you have a girlfriend? She’s your first student?” Poe asks, not liking the answer one bit.

  “Yes, but Ieiri did not trick me. She helps me,” the Fate says. Now, he’s walking on his hands.

  “How did you meet her?”

  “She showed up at the village one day and asked to join the Clan.”

  “Oh,” Poe says. “Is she any good?”

  “Yes, she is very good.”

  “Is she smart?”

  “She is smarter than I am,” the Fate says, pushing himself onto his fingertips.

  “Well, what does she look like? Is she pretty?”

  “Hmm, now that you mention it …” The Fate flips onto his feet and makes his way towards the bard. Squinting in concentration, he brings his face right up to Poe’s and stares.

  “Stop that!” Poe says uncomfortably. When one of the bard’s frantically waving hands threatens to touch the Fate’s face, the older boy jumps back.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look like a cat?�
�� the Fate says, still staring at Poe.

  “A cat?” the bard says in surprise before remembering, “My father used to say something like that, but that was when I was little. No one calls me that anymore …”

  “You remind me of Ieiri, sometimes. Almost as if you're Ieiri in one of her disguises?” The Fate says.

  The bard starts laughing nervously. “Disguise? Why would you even say that?”

  “You two are just a lot alike,” the Fate says. “I suppose she looks like you, or you look like her, one or the other. And I think she must be pretty. Sya and Haenul are always saying that she is.”

  “Sya and Haenul? Who are they?”

  “You do not know Haenul?” the Fate asks, looking almost confused. “Even Sya? I thought everyone knew them.”

  “I don’t think I do. Should I?” Poe says, trying to remember. The names sound vaguely familiar.

  “I suppose I am just used to everyone always knowing who they are. Sya and Haenul are from the Slate, too. Even though you have yet to meet them, consider them teammates. They just happen to be a year older and have already gone on ahead.”

  “My teammates? But I’m not even really on the Team,” Poe says, trying to figure it all out. So he must have had a team before forming this one. But they got split up because of their age difference. Sya and Haenul must have competed on the Tour last year, while he and Esperanza are doing so this year, and then Ieiri next.

  “Silly Pooh, Wysteria is just where it all begins. Once we get to the World Circuit, we will all be together again—new teammates and old. So just because they list only some of us here, it does not mean you are not one of us. Just like Ieiri, Sya and Haenul are too, even if there are no papers to prove it.”

  “What about Wysteria being banned and all?”

  “Bans do not last forever, Pooh.”

  “Oh, okay,” Poe says quietly. It’s probably not as simple as that, but if he’s not worrying about it, neither will Poe. “And, Fate … Thanks.”

  Just then, the wind blows, swirling the fallen leaves all about. The Fate holds his hands out wide and begins turning with the breeze. Poe joins him.

  As the wind dies down, Poe grabs a perfect little leaf that floats by. Looking up at the bare branches, sadness fills the young bard.

  “I hate the Fall,” Poe says, walking towards the closest tree.

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s just sad. All the flowers and leaves are gone. The trees look naked and … and dead.”

  “But they are alive, just waiting,” the Fate says.

  “It’s still sad.” Poe reaches up to the closest branch and places the little leaf onto it. For a moment, it stays. “There, that’s better.”

  But with the next breeze it flitters and falls. “Stupid wind,” Poe mutters.

  “I do not understand. The leaf is just a part of the tree,” the Fate says, catching it before it reaches the ground. He hands it back to Poe. “The leaf may fall, but the tree lives on. And all the fallen leaves protect the tree’s roots from the cold. They return to the earth and someday return to the tree. And when the time is right, the tree blooms again. Is that not wonderful?”

  “I guess if you put it that way, it doesn’t sound so bad,” Poe mutters. “But still, I don’t like it. They should just all live happily … together, forever.”

  “But then there is no promise, nothing to look forward to,” the Fate says.

  The bard stares at the little leaf. It’s a perfect shade of crimson. He’s right, but still … Poe pulls out a small notebook and places the leaf inside. “Well, this one isn’t going to protect any stinky roots from the cold. This one is going to be a bookmark.”

  Chapter 33

  WAKE

  [Behind the Stewards & Raiders Inn, Greenwood]

  “What do you mean, my fighting style isn’t Home-brew or Beautiful Design?” Riser growls.

  Wake Avenoy shrinks at the Daughter’s words. If only he could become small enough to not be there at all. He tries to choose his next words carefully, very carefully. “Riser, you’re super strong. Much stronger than I ever will be, but come on …You’re fighting style is unoriginal.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows he didn’t choose carefully enough.

  Riser glares at him. His explanation better start getting better. “You summon chunks of Air, and you hit things with your sword. There’s no real synergy besides what’s apparent. You’re super powerful, but you’re not leading up to anything, creating anything.”

  “What’s more beautiful than strength? What more is there?”

  “Um,” Wake looks around for help, but his teammates have all retreated. “Beautiful design is creative, when every move complements every other … in an almost artistic way. It doesn’t really mean it’s stronger. But when you see it, you know you’re watching something personal, something special. Not to say that when you see brute force, that’s not just as special. It’s just different, when you see the thought and effort someone has put into creating their own Home-brew Class, you can see a piece of them in it as well.

  “I guess that’s the real difference. Beautiful Design is not really stronger than a generic type of fighting style. But it says something about the Crier. You know they put their soul, their heart into it.”

  Riser thinks on it a moment before starting towards the now trembling boy. “Did you just call me generic?” Wake turns and flees.

  Wake finds himself up a tree, too afraid to even peek down. I think I lost her. Suddenly, the branch beneath him bends lower, startling him from his perch. He is able to twist himself around as he falls to avoid any real damage, but lands roughly, nonetheless.

  He scurries backwards, ready to flee again. “Greetings, Way,” the Fate says from above. The older boy leaps down and looks him over. “You seem fine. There is no need to worry. Riser became hungry and Monster convinced her to go back to the inn for lunch.”

  Whew. Wake slumps down against the tree. He has to really learn to watch his mouth better. “Thanks.”

  “You are welcome,” the Fate says. “I know the feeling—hiding in the woods from girls. But Riser is not so bad. She was just going to hit you a couple of times. It is not as if she was going to tie you up and torture you.”

  He sure has a way with words. Wake’s stomach grumbles.

  “Here, I brought you something to eat.” The Fate hands him a small package wrapped in linen. “I think she will forget her anger by tomorrow, but you should probably avoid her till then.”

  “I guess my mouth got me in pretty deep back there,” Wake says, taking the carefully wrapped plate of food. “Things like that should be said and known, though. I wasn’t trying to offend her.”

  The Fate nods absently.

  “I guess I can’t take off my 128’s for awhile,” Wake says, “As long as I have them on, I should be safe.”

  “Her Wind Dash is faster than your Wave Step though,” the Fate says.

  That’s right. I’ll never be able to outrace her, Wake thinks. Sharded footgear or 128’s each have a specific Dash step: Earth has Earth Leap, Sun has Trip the Light, Air has Wind Dash, Water has Wave Step, Fire has Skipping Flames, and Blood has Blood Boost. The Light, Incorporeal Colors are known to be the faster, though. Dark Blue Water’s Dash Step will always be slower than Light Blue Air’s version.

  “I can teach you how to Wave Step as fast as she Wind Dashes.”

  “Really? Is something like that even possible?” Wake says before remembering the last lesson his friend taught him. “Wait a minute. This isn’t going to be like that water breath thing, is it?”

  “No, this will be much more difficult. It will take some practice. But I am willing to teach you, if you promise to work at it.”

  This actually sounds kind of interesting. “No water? No buckets?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Wake manages to avoid the angry Daughter for the rest of that day.

  The next morning he finds her sharpening her sword. The sigh
t of her is almost enough to make him turn and go back where he came from. But he realizes, I can’t avoid her forever.

  “Riser, I’m sorry. I just want to say there’s nothing generic about your fighting style. It’s just …”

  “It’s not Beautiful Design,” the Daughter says, not looking up. “I thought about what you said. It’s not.”

  Wake is more than surprised by her answer. In the end he decides to ask the first thing that comes to mind. “Ehecthal is status locked right? Why are you sharpening her?” He knows the ins and outs as far as it comes to armor—that’s what he’s licensed to appraise—but weapons are a whole different matter. What he does know is that when any object is Teared, it does not change, does not chip, nor dull, and should need no sharpening.

  “Him. Ehecthal is a him,” Riser says. “And don’t you know anything? Ehecthal is a +6 Weapon, a true Ethereal Blade.” If memory serves him right, a +6 weapon is powerful enough to slice the intangible; Light, Fire, Shadow, Lightning and Air itself.

  “That’s really amazing. I never realized,” he says. There can’t be more than a handful of weapons rated that high in all of the Three Kingdoms. “You must think I’m pretty … babo. I’m supposed to be a high level Appraiser and I didn’t even notice.”

  “Sometimes you’re pretty and sometimes you’re babo. But in this you are neither. Only a true weapon master could’ve known by sight alone.”

  Wake turns red. She continues, “I sharpen Ehecthal, because weapons rated +6 or higher cannot maintain their true sharpness even when Teared. Besides, I want to be able to evolve him to +7 someday.”

  “That would be really amazing.”

  The Daughter grunts.

  He has an idea. “Riser, the other day while we were training, I happened to barely miss one of your Air Blocks. Anyway, since I just barely grazed it, it ended up sharpening my frozen falchion. Maybe if you did something like that, you could maintain Ehecthal at full sharpness even during battle?”