The Shard of Fire

by K. J. Parker

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  Gil ran as fast as he could. Three days of sleep and a double rasher of bacon had done wonders for his vitality. The old man had told him the castle lay to the north, and west, in a long narrow valley sunk low, and surrounded by great peaks on all sides. Gil considered taking their horse, or buying it, but thought the old couple needed the horse, and needed it more than a ruby, or a dozen rubies, or the trouble that came with them. Wealth would only bring them pain and danger. Like the inn. Gil raced on, over rock and hill, past open farmland and grassy fields and thick copses of mulberry and birch. Eventually he slowed, walking, as the road ascend, first over small hills and dips, then higher, reaching again into the foothills of the mountains ahead. Broadleaves soon mixed with pine and fir, as the trees grew taller and broader and quiet. Gil passed several wagons, traveling south, who stared after the boy long after they couldn’t anymore.

  Late in the day, Gil rested by a deep stream babbling softly against mossy rocks. It was a quiet glen, and peaceful, and made him think longingly, of home. Gil closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the forest, the leaves falling, the water gurgling, and the wind lapping gently across his face. He felt the cut on his cheek, it would scar. When he opened his eyes he could hear splashing and yelling from somewhere up stream. He sighed, and stood, and followed the sounds.

  Ahead, a shallow pool widened in the brook, holding only a few inches of clear water over smooth dark stones. Gil stood at the edge of the pool, silent and watching. Two men, peasants, dressed in ragged clothes and shoeless stood in the center of the shallow water, where an enormous blue fish, as long as a man, lay dying and gasping for breath. Each time the fish tried to flop towards deeper water, one of the men kicked it and pushed it back into the shallows. Gil glanced at the riverbank aside the men, where dozens of trout were dead, and piked on long wooden spears.

  “What are you doing?” Gil spoke, as the men jumped, startled.

  “Go away boy, none a ya business!” one the men snapped and kicked the fish again, which let out a terrible gurgling sound as it rolled over in the shallow water. Gil looked at the fish, its eyes were glossy black, full of fear, and pain.

  “Why are you doing that?” Gil asked flatly, stepping into the pool towards the men. The two men glanced at each other, confused, then back at the boy.

  “What? What’s it to you? It’s our fish, go away find your own!” the other man yelled at the boy. Gil glanced at the river bank again. Dozens.

  “Leave it be. You already have enough. More than you can carry, take them and go home,” Gil’s voice was deep and angry as he stepped closer, the icy water soaking through his boots.

  “What’s it to you? So what if we do?! We want this one too, but the damn thing won’t die!” the first man spat, kicking at the fish again and again. When he did, Gil dashed forward and shoved him into the water, head first, hard, then spun around and hit the other man with the back of his axe, cracking several ribs. The boy wasn’t a warrior, but two fishermen were even less skilled at fighting than him. Gil stood over the first man, who was cowering on his knees in the water, and raised the axe to strike.

  “Please! Please don’t kill us! We’re starving! Our families are starving! Everyone is these days! We just needed more food that’s all … our village is starving … please, please don’t kill me! I have young ones, they’ll die without me!” the man whimpered and pleaded as Gil stood with the axe still held high. For a moment Gil thought of how bad his own life had been without parents. He thought of the choices he’d made, and the mistakes.

  “Go! Go home! Take the fish on the bank and go!” Gil screamed at them. The two men nodded, cowering, and thanked the boy as they stumbled to the bank, grabbed the wooden spears full of trout, and disappeared into the forest. Gil stared after them for a long while before turning back to the fish, but it too, was gone. At his feet where the fish had been was a sword. It lay just under the surface, and shimmered in the ebbing water. Though glistening, the sword seemed rather ordinary. It had a plain black handle, a straight guard, and a simple steel blade. Gil picked up the sword from the water, and wondered a great many things.

  CHAPTER 6: RAVENSKEEP

  On the morning of the third day Gil reached the rim of a long narrow valley. Ahead, oak trees blazed with a thousand shades of red and yellow and the air was crisp and cold. The valley was nestled at the foot of the western mountains not far from the sea, and though it was still dawn, Gil could see a large town hazed by woodsmoke and mist, and beyond it, the castle.

  When Gil reached the town of Mendoc it was near midday. Crooked alleys and cobbled streets ran in all directions as dozens hustled about, selling foods, wares, and all sorts of things, disreputable or not. Smiths worked their furnaces, tinkers glanced through colored panes of glass, and pushcarts roamed the street calling bargains. Many people wandered about the town, knights of the Huu-Di, scholars from the capital, wenches hard at work, and workmen hard for wenches. Gil avoided the crowds as much as possible and made his way at the edge of the town as best he could. He bought a dark, stonewood sheath for his sword, paying the smith the smallest possible gem from his pocket. Gil didn’t have much idea on the value of gems, though he knew it was worth more than the sheath. Luckily, for Gil, the smith he found was at least somewhat honest. Along with the sheath, the smith gave the boy a handful of gold and silver coins in change, a large black leather rucksack, and a pair of new boots as Gil’s were rotten and worn through. The smith wondered if the boy knew how much the tiny gem was really worth, and decided to give him a few more coins to ensure the boy never thought of it again.

  Finished at the smith’s, and famished, Gil bought food from the nearest pushcart he could find, downing two charred sausages, a sour ale, and three spiced apples in half a heartbeat. Sated, the boy continued towards the castle. Shortly passed the town, Gil spotted several scarlet jays sitting idle in the oak along the road. The birds watched him with mock interest, as the boy near an old stone bridge. The bridge crossed a thin river of dark blue, swift and strong, as the waters moved with the force of the mountains high above. Across the bridge, Gil came upon two dozen white tents lining each side of the road. Many people stood before the tents, waiting in lines longer than Gil could count. Beyond them a grassy meadow stretched to the edge of a granite butte, whose massive bulk loomed far above the river and tents below. At its base a single archway passed through a short sandstone wall encircling the rock. Stairs, cut deep into the sheer cliff of the butte, led far above, to the castle of RavensKeep, and its five towers of shimmering black stone.

  As Gil stood gawking at everything and everyone before him, several newcomers crossed over the bridge, nearly knocking him to the ground. They were dressed in fine robes of golden silk, embroidered with lavish patterns, high collars, and ivory buttons. They were masters from the House of Mystics. One of them, tall, bald and particularly arrogant, glanced at Gil, then laughed, and turned away. There were many people waiting for the entrance test it seemed, all sorts and all ages, and many many more than Gil had expected. He recognized some by their colors, but not all. The ceremonial robes of the Alchemist's House, lavender and white. Clerics from the north, dressed in indigo and sky. There were oracles, and shamans, nobles and lords, and many many others. Most were dressed like him. Not in grey, but simple, practical, and smart. Boiled leather, denim, wool. Felt cloaks and buckskin tunics. Some had weapons, but most didn’t.

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  As Gil walked past the first few tents he couldn’t see any real difference between them. Each tent had two men seated behind a table, and each table had a very large, very thick book set upon it. Gil found the shortest line he could and waited for a very very long time. Lines were moving in an abrupt fashion, spurts of extreme quickness or agonizing sloth, though he didn’t know why. He knew nothing of the test, and learned nothing from standing in line. When one entered a tent a veil of magic enclosed it, shimmering and white, like wet snow suspended in the air. The veil muffled sig
ht and sound, and was altogether completely and utterly aggravating, to a boy wanting to cheat.

  Three long hours passed. Gil dared not leave the line, no one did. He tried to start several conversations, asking questions about the test, and if anyone knew Master Amas, but none did and no one had. A sinking feeling began to grow in his stomach, as a worrisome little voice rang in head, Why are you here? What are you doing? Eventually he reached the front of the line. Ahead of him, a very short, very old woman entered the canvass tent. One to go. Behind him a disheveled servant, who had been standing in line as long as Gil had, glanced around anxiously.

  A short time later two boys dressed in rich velvet, and a few years older than Gil, came over the bridge. They were fat, with dark curly hair and feathered hats. The two boys switched places with the anxious servant who bowed profusely, then ran off back to the town. A dozen people behind them in line jeered at the boys, who quickly turned and yelled a slurry of replies such as, “Shut up!” and, “Do you know who we are?!” Seemingly, these were powerful spells, for no one spoke again. Amused and irritated, Gil glanced at them but kept silent. Across the road a tall young man, perhaps twenty and dressed in dark leather, also stared at the two boys. His face was calm, though his eyes had a curious look upon them. He glanced at Gil for several long seconds and smiled slightly.

  The old woman in the tent was taking far longer than any had. Gil was restless, and the two boys behind him only made it worst. They whined like children, complained about the wait, and kicked at the dirt. One of them suddenly tapped Gil on the shoulder.

  “Hey … hey you …” Gil turned his head slightly. “I’ll give you a sovereign to switch places with us.” Gil smiled but shook his head. The boy tapped again, harder this time. “Ten sovereigns.” They were rich, and asses, it seemed.

  “No …” Gil said as politely as possible, then added “thank you,” though begrudgingly.

  The other boy grabbed Gil by the shoulder and twirled him around. “He said ten sovereigns!” they weren’t accustom with no. When Gil turned, both boys took a slight step back. Something in his eyes made them afraid, it was a wild look, desperate, and dark, and something else they weren’t accustomed to as nobles.

  “You going to chop your way into the Keep?” one of them grinned pointing at Gil’s axe. “Give it here, let’s have a look,” the boy suddenly stepped forward and tried to take the axe from Gil’s hand. Gil pulled the axe away and shoved the boy with his free arm, nearly knocking him down. The other boy dashed forward and shoved Gil back, equally hard, and pulled a small silver knife from his belt. Gil’s hand immediately went to his sword's hilt, though he didn’t draw. The two boys paused for a moment, glancing at each other, and, at the undrawn sword.

  “Knock it off, both of you, or you’ll be kicked out,” it was the tall young man dressed in dark leather across the way. He didn’t move from his line but shouted from where he stood. The two boys glanced at each other then took several steps towards the young man, the line behind them moved forward, filling their spaces.

  “Mind your own business stranger or you’ll get what’s coming to you too!” the second boy snorted holding up the silver knife.

  “No, I won’t, but you might. Put down the knife idiot before you hurt yourself.”

  The two boys stunted, “How dare you! How dare you! Do you have any idea who we are?!” the first boy was almost screaming. People in both lines looked frightened.

  “No I don’t … and do you know who I am?” the young man smiled curiously. The two boys paused glancing at each other. They didn’t. The lines whispered a bit, guessing, shaking their heads yes, no, maybe. The first boy was about to open his mouth again when a wizard of RavensKeep came towards them. He had blonde hair, and was dressed in a long crimson jacket. His fingers held a dozen gold rings ornately decorated with delicate flowers, leaves and insects. Everyone in both lines bowed to the wizard as he passed, everyone except the two boys, the young man in dark leather, and Gil. The wizard stood between them all, silent, as he surveyed the scene, glancing at each of them, one by one. When he looked at Gil, the wizard stared for several long seconds, then smiled, slightly.

  “You two, return to your line,” the wizard commanded. The second boy opened his mouth to protest, but his brother elbowed him in the ribs. Some fights you couldn’t win, no matter how rich you were. The two boys turned and tried to push back into their spots. “Not there, the end …" the wizard pointed. Both boys stood with their jaws open. As they turned to leave, the two boys gave both Gil and the young man dressed in dark leather an embellished and aggressive bow. They would meet again.

  The wizard left without another word, and the young man dressed in dark leather entered the tent before him. Gil stood silent and confused as ever. Another tap on the shoulder. This time it was the old woman. She smiled softly, but sadly, then walked back to the town. She hadn’t passed.

  Inside the tent Gil didn’t know what to expect. He knew nothing about RavensKeep, nothing real anyways. He knew the stories. A school of magic. The castle of the Ancients. The five towers of black glass, endless rooms, gardens, libraries, crypts and ghosts, and all sorts of terrible and interesting rumors. But nothing more, nothing real, nothing to tell him what he should expect of the castle or the test.

  “Name?” the man on the left asked blankly.

  “Lincoln,” it was his grandfather's name, “Lincoln Hart.” The deer in the mountains had also come to mind. He had three hours to think of a name, though he wished he had thought of one better. The man on the right who sat in front of the great book wrote it without looking up.

  “House affiliation?”

  “None,” Gil replied. Both men looked up, then looked at each other. In awe? In mock? Gil smiled awkwardly. The man at the book drew a long hard line after Gil’s name. He waited for several moment staring intently at the page before shrugging at the other man.

  “Lincoln Hart, since this is your first attempt, I will briefly explain how the test works. You may choose to take a test of knowledge or of skill.”

  Gil stared at the two men, scratching his nose. Brief. Gil scratched his ear and stared at the tent roof. Yes very brief indeed. The man on the right let out a deep sigh. Infants.

  “The knowledge test consists of twenty questions on all manner of magic. You are allowed five errors, and when you fail, you may retake the test again in subsequent years for as long as you like. The old woman before you, for example, has retaken the knowledge test forty-two times.”

  “Forty-three,” the man at the book interjected.

  “Forty-three times. On the other hand, the skills test changes every year and will not be revealed until the test begins. You may take the skills test only once in your lifetime, and it is pass or fail, only. You may of course drop out of either test at any point, but if you drop out of the skills test you may never take it, or the knowledge test again.”

  Gil glanced between the two men trying to decide. Five errors seemed, generous. He had read a lot about magic, he thought. He knew about cayophty crystals, and embedded charms, and a range of dark creatures large and small. He knew weather runes and could name the attributes of each calling. He knew myths and legends, and understood the basics of the inner star. Yet the old woman had retaken the test forty-three times. His practical skills were far less impressive. Lavos had shared his lessons bought on the road, though Gil knew these weren’t much. Chap had once shown him a woodworkers spell to command greenwood, but again fairly useless unless you were making cabinets or clearing a hedge. Gil had seen magic though. Terrible magics. Great magics.

  “Could I speak with Master Amas?” the boy blurted out.

  “Who? … no. Never heard of him. Listen boy, stop wasting time. Chose or leave. Others are waiting …"

  Never heard of him? Apparently no one had, and Gil’s stomach turned at the thought. “May I see the knowledge test before I decide?” The two men looked at each other. Few ever knew they could ask, it was an unspoken rule. The
essence of knowledge was seeking after all. The scribe in front of the book handed Gil a single sheet with twenty questions on it. Gil skimmed the page. He didn’t know what half of the words even meant, and couldn’t read the other half.

  “I choose a skills test … please …” Gil smiled and handed the sheet back.

  CHAPTER 7: THE TEST

  They had gathered on the grassy meadow before the sandstone wall. It was nearly sunset, and the great shadow looming from the butte above seemed appropriately ominous. They hadn’t been given more information, only to gather, here, before the sun went down, and nothing more. Nearly a hundred now stood on the meadow waiting for the skills test. Gil glanced around. Most looked decades older, in years, and experience. Dark scars and grey beards prevailed. They glanced at the boy with looks of mock and disgust. Gil’s stomach turned, again. He thought back to Astal, of the magi killing each other, of the magics used, the blood, the death. If the skills test was against each other … he turned his head and glanced back at the bridge. For a moment, he thought he saw two men who looked familiar, standing atop it, and pointing.