Three Acts of Penance [01] Attrition: The First Act of Penance

by S. G. Night

  No answer came. The student tossed the swords onto the grass and began walking back toward the cottage, and his bed. He left his teachers bound on the darkened cliff-side, the waterfall thrumming peacefully nearby.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Daragoian

  The next morning, Racath sat in Oron’s living room, peering thoughtfully into a small hand-mirror. At first, he hadn’t recognized the face of the person looking back at him. The Pyre had changed more than just his anda and the vatra rune on his hand: his eyes were also different. Gone was the familiar hazel of his irises, replaced by rings of gold, amber, and subtle vermillion. The colors of flame.

  When he was a child, his mother had always told him he had his father’s eyes. Oron had said so, too. But that was gone now. These eyes were not his father’s anymore. These were the eyes of fire. These were Racath’s eyes.

  His face seemed different, too. It had not changed in shape or feature at all. It just seemed…older. Wiser. It was the same look he had always associated with people who know things, understand things. He thought back on the boy he had been before, when he had first arrived at the domus. That silly, arrogant boy who knew nothing about life, or about the world, or about God, or about the Demons.

  But that boy, just like his former eyes, was gone. Replaced by the man in the mirror.

  Something suddenly flicked Racath’s ear, hard.

  “Ow!” He was jolted out of his thoughts, and he nearly dropped the mirror as his hand went defensively to his ear.

  Nelle stood beside his armchair in her nightshirt, a sleepy smile spread across her face. “Good morning, Madam Vanity,” she yawned, plopping down in the adjacent chair.

  Racath rubbed his ear and smirked. “A good morning to you, also. Nice to see you finally got out of that hex.”

  “There’s no need to gloat,” she responded affably.

  “Oh, but I think there is,” Racath said, his crooked smirk growing wider. “How long did it take you and Oron to get free?”

  Nelle snorted. “We got back about two hours after you did. You were a-sleepin’ like a baby by then.”

  “Huh. Funny, it only took me a minute or two to get out of the Bind after you dumped me in the pit.”

  Nelle showed him her tongue. “Yeah, well I’m not a High-Mage. Just be grateful you didn’t spend all night trying to ignore the muscle cramps that come with two hours spent in the Bind. Thank you for that, by the way.”

  Racath gave an innocent shrug. “I did what I was told to do. And judging by the results, I assume I passed?”

  “You know damn well you passed!” Nelle said, swatting at him playfully. “But you lose moral points for beating up a girl and an old man.”

  “Hey, you attacked me.”

  “Well, nyeh,” She stuck her tongue out again, but then favored him with a warm, genuine smile. “Really, though. You did great. Much better than Rachel did.”

  He returned the smile and patted her on the knee. “I had good teachers. And a good friend who motivated me to do my best.”

  Nelle blushed with pleasure, beaming. “Thank you, Racath. You made me proud to be your augur.”

  “And you made me proud to be your tutor.” Both Racath and Nelle looked to the doorway and saw Oron there, watching them. The older Majiski was also smiling.

  “Glad to be of service,” Racath replied magnanimously, taking a seated bow. “So, now what? Is there a ceremony that you do, or something? Tradition?”

  Oron shook his head. “Nothing like that. For now, Racath, you’re going to go out to the cliff above the pool and wait for me there.”

  “What?” Racath joked. “Do I have to beat you up again before you’re satisfied?”

  Oron laughed and shook his head. “No, no. Just one last test. And something else, too. Go on, now. I’ll be there soon.”

  That piqued Racath’s curiosity, but he’d learned by now that Oron would tell him anything if he asked. He looked at Nelle. She shot him a knowing wink and nodded for him to go. Shrugging to himself, Racath stood, went to the foyer. He pulled on his boots and his cloak-coat, and left the cottage.

  After the door was shut behind him, Oron turned his eyes back on Nelle. The augur in the nightshirt raised her eyebrows at him. “So,” she said. “You’re really going to give it to him, huh?”

  Oron nodded. “Yes. I think he’s ready for it. Don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” Nelle answered. Her face was alight with excitement. She’d been waiting for this day for a hundred and seven years. “Of the three Scorpions I’ve helped you train, he’s the best by far. He’s learned all he can from us. He’s definitely earned it. And by all rights, it belongs to him.”

  Oron nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Go on, then,” Nelle said, jerking her chin towards the door. “He’s waiting for you.”

  ——

  It was, truly, a beautiful autumn day. The sky-ceiling was a perfect pale blue, dotted by cotton clouds. The air had a briskness to it, the kind of briskness that makes you think of warm apple cider and crackling leaves. The sun’s golden rays cast millions of flickering lights across the glassine surface of the pool below the waterfall.

  Racath let his eyelids fall and breathed in the free autumn. Nelle was right — it really was easy to forget that it wasn’t real. He stood there, beside the waterfall, his eyes closed, waiting.

  After a few minutes of peaceful silence, he heard the soft puff puff puff of footsteps approaching on the thick grass. Racath did not turn to greet his master, though. Instead, he remained still, a statue by the edge of the cliff, until Oron stood beside him.

  “You performed exceptionally last night,” Oron said. It wasn’t a cold observation, nothing so perfunctory as that. It was real praise. A rarity from the older Majiski.

  Racath opened his eyes, but did not turn away from the awesome landscape of the domus. “Oh?”

  “Your diversion was ingenious,” Oron continued. “I admit, you had me fooled. You established proficiency in every topic we have covered — and excelled at most. You demonstrated remarkable mastery of magic, the sword, and other martial abilities. You proved that you can control and manipulate your corobna dosdom with ease — and that it does not control you. I’m very impressed with you, Racath.”

  Grinning in spite of himself, Racath finally met his teacher’s gaze. “So what happens now?”

  Oron sighed with an old, tired smile. It was only then that Racath saw that Oron was carrying a long bundle of dark cloth. He held it gingerly in both arms, like he was clutching a child.

  “You have learned everything that I can teach you,” Oron told him, a fatherly twinkle in his eyes. “Your training here is finished, and you’re ready to join the other Scorpions in their efforts against the Dominion. Rachel and Notak are on their way here as we speak — I’ve recalled them so that they can report on what progress they’ve made, bring you up to speed, and take you with them when they leave. You are to lead them, Racath.”

  Racath nodded, but said nothing.

  “You have earned the right to be called a Scorpion,” Oron said. “We don’t have any sort of initiation or ceremony. But I have a tradition of giving each new Scorpion two things. First—”

  He held out one hand, doing his best to keep the oblong bundle steady in the other. Dangling from his fingers was a simple necklace, a wooden pendant hanging at the bottom. The Rotenic rune skorpija was engraved into the wood.

  “ — The mark of a Scorpion. Keep it with you, and keep it safe.”

  Racath accepted the necklace and slipped it on over his head, tucking it under his cloak-coat. “And second?”

  “Second,” Oron continued. “I always give the gift of a weapon, a unique weapon suited to their talents, to the new Scorpion. I gave Notak his lanac axe. Rachel I gifted with twin stilettos of Shaeyéd steel, through which she can channel her force-magic. And this,” he hefted the bundle of dark cloth, “is your gift. But it goes beyond mere token value. This is not only somet
hing that I thought suited to you; it is something that will define you as the Krilati, the Savior of Io, the Dragon Amongst Wolves.”

  With great care, Oron handed the bundle to Racath. As Racath took it in his hands, he could feel…something. Like the object was emanating raw, pure power, muffled by the cloth that covered it.

  “When the Demons laid siege to Krvistata,” Oron told him. “They were indeed trying to crush the last of the Majiski resistance. But that was only a secondary goal. This is what they were really after.” He gestured at the bundle. “Open it.”

  Racath looked back down at the bundle. Curious, he loosed the tethers that bound the cloth to the object. As the wrapping fell away, the muffled aura of radiating power came into sharp, sudden focus.

  It was a sword. A katana, specifically, like the ones carried by the Majiskuran warriors he had seen illustrated in Oron’s history books: the trademark blade of a Majiski.

  The matte black scabbard was made of a material he did not recognize; it had the look and feel of expensive woodwork, but seemed far too light to be made of any high-quality wood. A cap of silvery metal adorned the scabbard’s rounded end, and a ring of the same metal encircled the mouth.

  Black leather enveloped the eight-inch handle. The pommel, flush with the rest of the grip, was set with a polished onyx oval. The cross-guard was a flat circle that mated perfectly with the mouth of the scabbard, engraved with ancient engravings, like ornate scrollwork.

  “At the start of the First Age, when the races were just beginning to populate the world,” Oron began. “Gospodar knew that Cyrus, the first Majiski, would need a potent weapon if he was to carry out the divine purpose of his race: to protect Elf- and Humankind. So, God wrought this sword — the very first sword in existence — from adamantine.”

  “Adamantine?” Racath repeated.

  “A metal native to the Immortal Plane of Iyasheim,” Oron elaborated. “Because it is from a higher plane, it is not subject to the substances or punishments of this world. The blade will never dull, corrode, or break. Blood will not leave stains. No matter how far you flex it, it will never break or lose its shape. So long as there is enough force behind it, there is no material in this plane that it cannot cut, pierce, or shatter. And, most importantly, the blade, hilt, grip, and adamantine caps on the scabbard will scorch any organic substance it comes into contact with.”

  Racath’s eye shot back to Oron in alarm. “You gave me a sword that I can’t even hold?”

  Oron shook his head. “No. You see, there is a strange phenomenon about this sword — whether it be the work of God, or even the sword itself. It…chooses people that it will allow to hold it and wield it without being burned. We Majiski have called them stewards, Cyrus being the first of them. After he died, the sword chose a new steward, then another after that.

  “It became an heirloom to the Majiski people. After the fall of Roten and the exodus from Athair, it was used by Majiski heroes like Anthony the Lesser during the founding of Calisto. It was, however, a Jedan relic, and so it was preserved by the Jedan pilgrims that traveled here to the Midlands at the end of the Second Age. It’s said that High General Tarek I of Io was the last steward who could actually use it.”

  “And after he died?” Racath asked. “What then?”

  Oron carried on with the history. “After Tarek, the blade was kept safe by the Majiski military of the Commonwealth of Io, behind the walls of the fortress of Krvistata. There were stewards there who the sword allowed to hold it, but not wield it. They watched over it there for centuries, keeping it enshrined.”

  “What would happen to someone who tried to use it?” Racath inquired.

  Oron’s expression was grim. “Bad things. Usually death.”

  Racath gave the sword a dubious look. “Delightful.”

  “But you see,” Oron said. “During the siege of Krvistata in Year 3, when your father, your mother, Nelle, Mrak, and myself were all fighting with the last of the Genshwin and High Paladins, the steward of the time was killed. Before he died, the responsibility was passed to your father.”

  Racath’s brow furrowed as he gnawed on his lip. “What does that mean?”

  The older Majiski let out another long, world-weary sigh. “Like I told you, I knew your father well. Seth was a good man, but I fear he had grown angry with God by that point. He wanted nothing to do with the sword, so he gave it to me for safekeeping. I am not a steward: I can only hold it by the sheath, or if it’s wrapped up in cloth. I’ve done my best, but now I think it needs a proper keeper.” He inclined his head at Racath.

  Racath raised his eyebrows. “And you think that it…God, the sword, whoever — will allow me to use it?”

  “I am fairly certain,” Oron said. “There is a line in your prophecy, Vae Valores Krilati, that claims that the Dragon Amongst Wolves will carry the edged stave of celestial fire. As the Krilati, the last hope for the race that holds this sword dear, I can’t imagine a reason why it would not give itself to you. It is a sword born of fire, much as you are. A fitting weapon for a Pyromancer. And also, you are Seth’s son. You are the rightful heir to his stewardship. Racath, if you can wield this sword, it will erase any sliver of doubt that might have existed that you are the one God sent to save us.”

  Racath looked back down at the sword. Hesitantly, he reached out and gripped the katana’s handle. His fingers fit comfortably, naturally, like the handle had been molded for his hands. There was no burning, no pain.

  He met Oron’s eyes again. The older Majiski nodded. Racath held his breath, and pulled the sword from the scabbard.

  The adamantine blade rose from the sheath with the sound of resonating bells. It caught the sunlight — the metal flashed, a flare of brilliant silver that would put a Stinger’s gleam to shame. From the blade-collar to the graceful tip, the blade was more than two-and-a-half feet long. The single edge seemed magnificently sharp. Impossibly sharp. Its curve was subtle, supple. Elegant, yet almost imperceptible.

  A pattern of onyx was inlaid into one side of the blade, forming the shape of a rearing ebon dragon. A small, single green gem marked the dragon’s eye. When Racath turned the blade over, he found another onyx marking on the other side. A Rotenic rune.

  It wasn’t any word Racath recognized. The shapes contained within the rune’s core, however, indicated that it was a proper noun — a name — and therefore pronounced phonetically. Following the pattern from top to bottom, he formed the sounds in his head.

  Dare-ah…Dare-ah-goy…

  “Daragoian.” As he spoke the name, the sword seemed to stir in his hands. The invisible aura of energy reacted, fluxing, rolling like the pitch of ocean tides. Its power washed over him like roiling surf, pulling him in. Warmth filled his limbs and chest, spreading fluidly from his hand up into his head. Like the sword itself was reaching into him, searching for something inside him.

  Then it found the Pyre.

  The Pyre responded, rising and stretching like a chained lioness, offering a welcome to the newfound warmth. The two of them joined together, becoming a single entity inside his mind. Suddenly, Racath’s understanding of the Pyre magnified, became stronger and more intimate. Like the Pyre was revealing itself in full to him through the sword. Like it was telling him its name.

  Daragoian. The name of fire.

  Racath fed mage-fire up through his markara. Daragoian’s blade became wreathed in a sheet of ruby flame, as if the adamantine was ablaze. Easy as breathing, natural as the beat of his own heart, Racath swung the burning katana through the air. The very fabric of the Mortal Plane seemed to shiver in submission before the glorious edge. Racath’s face was triumphant, painted in the red light of the mage-fire.

  Oron’s face looked like it was about to split, his smile was so large. “A true Scorpion, now you are,” he said formally. “And a Krilati that Io can look to for salvation.”

  “I have one last question for you,” Oron announced as Racath swung the sword again. “One last test.”

&n
bsp; “Ask me,” Racath said, barely containing his delighted laughter. The weapon felt so natural, so perfectly bonded with his body….

  “Do you know what your surname means?”

  Racath paused. He had never really registered that his family name was Rotenic. Now that he thought about it, it seemed rather obvious. “Um…it’s the first-person future-tense of thanjek,” he answered. “To fight.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Oron nodded. “I will fight. And that is the last thing that I will ask you as my student. The choice to be a Scorpion, the be the Dragon Amongst Wolves, is now yours. Only you can make that choice. So I ask you, Racath Thanjel: will you fight?”

  Before he answered, Racath looked once more at Daragoian. The onyx dragon reflected brightly in the envelope of mage-fire, poised as if about to strike. He felt the sword in his hand. Its balance, its weight. Its presence at the center of his being, a part of his Pyre.

  And for the first time, Racath believed he could do it. That it was possible. Before, he had resolved that he would do his best, that he would try to be the Krilati that Nelle had dreamed of for a hundred years. But it had never really occurred to him that he could succeed. But now…with this sword, with Daragoian in his hand, he believed that he could do it. With this sword, he could save Io.

  Racath slung the scabbard over his shoulder and tightened the strap so that it hugged the back of his Shadow, snug against his body. He released the flow of magic and allowed the red energy to dissipate, leaving the blade flameless — it was still perfectly cool. Smooth as dancing fire, he sheathed Daragoian with the hilt over his right shoulder. The blade-collar met the scabbard’s mouth with a definitive click.

  “Yes.”

  ***

  PART III

  Godkiller

  1st Day of Abur

  Autumn of the 107th Year of the Fourth Age

  City of Dor’mon — Duchy of Dor’mon

  The Dominion of Io