Mercy's Trial

by Sever Bronny

  Hours later, at around noon, every barefoot step burned something fierce. At one point he sat to take stock of his feet and found them blistered from the hot sand. He was boiling inside his robe and so he removed it, leaving only his linen undergarments, and used the hood of his robe to cover his head. Then he trekked on, robe swinging behind him. Throughout, the cube hovered nearby, now set to the weight of an inkwell, for he needed his strength to last. His goal today was to not let it touch the ground even once. He clutched Leera’s portrait in one hand, stealing glances at it often to give him strength. He could almost hear her encouraging him, could almost feel the soft touch of her lips, the gentle caress of her hand running through his hair. He continued training his reflexes by trying to catch pebbles he gathered from the desert.

  Hours later still, with the sun mercifully two-thirds of the way across the sky, he saw small blurry figures amongst the wavering horizon and thought it a mirage, only to see the figures steadily enlarge as he drew near. By this point he was already parched and dreaming of water, constantly mistaking wavering heat lines on the horizon for distant pools. He had also stopped the reflex training.

  The figures turned out to be three-hundred-foot-high statues carved from orange stone. There had to be at least fifty of them, spaced hundreds of feet apart, each depicting an ancient Leyan, for none had hair. Myrymydion had told him that they had been buried up to their chests for long years, revealing themselves when the curse of the scions had blown the desert sands away. Now half of the statues stood watching the exact point where the sun rose every day and the other half where it set.

  He continued dragging his poor aching feet along, cube wobbling beside him, portrait clutched in sweaty fingers, until he came upon the one statue that oversaw them all. It was double in size and portrayed an ambiguous god-like being who stared straight up at the heavens, arms outstretched in reverence. This androgynous statue had no face. It merely looked upward eternally.

  Augum collapsed at the statue’s feet, an ant among giants. By then, the sun was only a couple hours away from setting, and the wind had sprung up again, making him shiver. But he was too exhausted to put his robe back on. First he needed to rest, which he did for those final two hours, watching the stars move overhead as the wind continued to pick up, throwing sand in his face. The cube steadily got closer to the ground, his powers weakening, his soul crying from thirst.

  At last, when the sun began to kiss the opposite horizon, Augum sat up, feeling the sand cascade off of him in sheets, and kneeled before the great figure. Its origin was a mystery even to the Leyans, though Myrymydion had mentioned a few theories as to its identity. Some considered this being to be the very first Leyan. Some the first warlock explorer. Some thought it the first human, created by the gods. Others that the figure represented the first god, the creator of the other gods. But the predominant theory said that it represented consciousness and awakening, hence the lack of a face and the outstretched arms, for it yearned for knowledge.

  Augum, holding Leera’s portrait with both hands while the cube floated alongside him, bowed before this ancient figure of unknown origins and age, and spoke the sacred words. “Ancestors, come I before you humbly begging for your forgiveness, for knowingly hath I strayed from the path of righteousness. Help me forgive myself, for I have done my soul wrong.”

  He looked up at the statue resting under an infinite blanket of brilliant stars and felt the cold darkness of sunset envelop him. As the light of the setting sun steadily rose up the statue, heralding the night, Augum finished the sacred words.

  “Knowest I what lay behind, yet knowest I not what lay ahead. Therefore ask I you, blessed ancestors, in this eternal moment, to guide me in my sacred quest of life, for I am but a particle of sand …” He took a shuddering breath and finished in a whisper. “… in a great hourglass.”

  He watched as the light left the top of the statue—and then caught a glimpse of a falling star flash across the sky, disappearing an eyeblink later in a small burst of light. That falling star could have represented many things—an Unnameable telling him that they had heard and absolved him; a warlock failing their teleport as they traveled between planes; his mother watching over him, the mother he had never gotten to know; or perhaps a friend’s soul giving encouragement. But Augum chose to believe that it meant his ancestors had been listening.

  There above in the black skies he saw all of existence … and he saw those who had passed before him, those his father had murdered, and those who had made the ultimate sacrifice.

  * * *

  The trek home was a trial in and of its own, for the winds had increased to a roar and the cold seeped into his bones. He had donned his robe and clutched Leera’s portrait, cube stubbornly floating before him and set to quill weight. Even though the weight was low and he had long gone numb, he still wanted to push himself.

  He dragged himself up the mountain then down the long stairs, taking a moment at the bottom to orient himself in the darkness, before slowly, agonizingly, crawling along until he found a house wall. Only then did he dimly light his palm and carefully maneuver his way home. Luckily, Gavinius seemed to be out training—or perhaps in Endraga Ra, for he could have easily stepped out from the darkness and caught Augum dragging himself like a sorry sack of potatoes.

  When he finally crawled through the doorway in the wee hours of the morning, feet screaming from the sting of sand embedded in burst blisters, he felt like a dried-out sapling, starved for moisture. And he craved sleep. Precious and quiet sleep, for he could still hear the wind roaring in his ears.

  But he was proud of himself not just for accomplishing this part of the pilgrimage, but for not dropping the cube even once. It trembled beside him, a silent friend full of encouragement, just like the portrait, which was still clutched in his clawed and numb fist.

  He allowed his dim palm light, throbbing weakly to the pulse of his heart, to guide him as he slowly crawled up the steps. He opened the door to his room, feet and body numb, and slithered to his cot. He drew the hand clutching the portrait to his chest and finally allowed the cube to fall to the floor with a thud.

  * * *

  Augum awoke in his room to discover he was still clutching Leera’s portrait. When he sat up, he saw Myrymydion standing nearby.

  “Thy brethren very much care for thee, Dragoon Stone,” the man said upon seeing Augum check his feet, which had been bandaged. “As does Dragoon Jones.” He handed Augum a cup of water.

  “Thank you,” Augum croaked, emptying it in a few gulps. “I didn’t even wake up through the bandaging.”

  “That is due to Dragoon Okeke having placed thee in a healing slumber. Thou may remove the bandages.”

  Augum did so and found that his feet had been completely healed, which was evidently permitted after the trek’s conclusion.

  “Ready thou be for thy day of stillness?”

  Augum hopped off the bed. “I am ready, sir.”

  He spent his day of stillness in the middle of a road in the bowels of Absalon, in pitch-darkness and total silence, surrounded by long-abandoned stone buildings, with only his thoughts to keep him company and Leera’s portrait clutched to his chest. But he had used his time wisely, not only training with the cube, set to book weight, but going over every single thing he had ever learned in his life. And by doing so, he learned some things about himself—that he could commit to difficult mind and body trials and see them through, that his thoughts were cluttered and inconsistent and needed sharpening, that he could be kinder and wiser and smarter if he only gave himself the chance, that he could be studious if he applied himself, and that he could be a better leader.

  Throughout, he prepared himself for what lay ahead, not only in Endraga Ra, but beyond. He saw himself becoming the commander The Grizzly and Dragoon Myrymydion had been training him to become. He saw himself leading an army. He saw himself battling in a maelstrom of violence. He saw his own face … and it was covered with blood. But he also saw the possibil
ity of victory, and finally … peace.

  And he did it all without moving a muscle. It was one of the hardest things he had ever done.

  By the end of that day, he felt himself so in tune with his surroundings that it was a shock to hear Myrymydion’s feet softly padding to fetch him.

  “What feel you?” the man asked in the pitch-darkness, his voice a siren against the silence.

  Augum took his time replying. “I feel numb. One with the floor. One with the darkness. One with the silence. One with my soul.”

  “There are stories, ancient stories, of Leyans sitting in such repose for a millennium. Now stretch and feel thy limbs. Breathe deeply. Savor what thou hast learned.”

  Augum stretched, almost dizzy with the shock of simply moving. He took his time standing up, feeling his limbs move again, then breathed deeply. For a time, the pair stood in silence as Augum savored all he had learned. He felt that he was stronger for having experienced this stillness and understood himself better now. He also had a deeper appreciation for why Mrs. Stone had taken up sculpting.

  When he had reviewed it all, he pocketed Leera’s portrait. “I am ready to sup and sleep and continue my pilgrimage tomorrow, Dragoon Myrymydion.”

  The following day was spent in proata mentora helping various Leyans. The Leyans said almost nothing and yet asked him—or motioned, in many cases—to perform basic duties like sweep the floor, repair damaged items, wash linens, carry heavy objects, and so on. They were standard proata mentora requests, though the Leyans had purposefully not answered any of his questions or spoken with him. Even Mrs. Stone said little, merely nodding at a privy door and saying, “I once spent a whole hour oiling but one of these door hinges.” Then she told him to scrub the privies with a horsehair brush and departed—without so much as informing him how his friends were doing.

  And oh how he missed his friends. He missed Olaf’s whacky jokes, Bridget’s sisterly support, Jengo’s cagey intelligence, Haylee’s jesting prods and especially the smiling wit and companionship of his beloved. This and so many other things he pondered as he scrubbed the ancient stone privies, not wanting to think about how many people had used them over the eons. His pride grumbled about the Vanquisher of the Lord of the Legion and Future Leader of the Resurrected Arcaner Order performing the lowliest of duties. It was the same voice that tried to interject when he had washed his enemy’s feet.

  Yet the peace he had gained from his day of stillness watched over him like the doting father he never had, the muscle having been built up like the telekinetic muscle responsible for the cube now floating alongside him at all waking hours. He vowed to somehow continue that practice of meditation so that he would never lose touch with what he had learned about himself.

  With the day complete, Myrymydion at last gave an exhausted Augum leave to sup and return to the dorm, where he intended on completing another two tasks the pilgrimage demanded.

  After he supped alone on food waiting for him on the supper hall table, he was immediately swarmed by his friends upon entering the house for a group welcome-back hug. They told him how awful he looked—and smelled!—but also how much work they had been putting in learning Teleport—and Spectral Teleport for Leera, and Craft Trap for Bridget and Leera—and how agonizing their own trials were. In return, he regaled them of his adventure to the Shrine of the Ancients, for it was the only thing worthy of note.

  “I have a couple things to ask of you,” he said when they were done catching up, cube floating by at all times, “but first I really need to take a bath.”

  Leera crinkled her nose at him. “Do you ever, mister.”

  He smirked at her, then strolled upstairs to grab his Leyan soap—infused with rosemary—and took a gentle, warm bath that relaxed his bones, nearly falling asleep in the process. Then he assembled his friends and reviewed all the Arcaner course lessons he had taken in the academy, which they had to acknowledge.

  “Satisfactory,” Leera said with a serious bob of her head at the end of his summation, mimicking Mrs. Stone.

  “Yes, satisfactory,” the others agreed, grinning.

  “All right, thank you. And since that part’s done, I’m only left with three things. One of them is washing all of your feet and asking for your forgiveness.”

  Haylee raised a blonde eyebrow. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Leera punched her shoulder. “Don’t enjoy it too much, fiend.”

  “Guess you’re up first, Tennyson,” Augum snapped, mimicking Jez. Haylee grinned while rubbing her hands maniacally and Augum readied a bowl of warm water and soap in the basalt dining area. Mercifully, the others went to their rooms to do some late-night studying.

  Haylee babbled incessantly as he washed her feet, mostly going on about how much she missed her home in Arinthia—particularly having a servant around. But she also yammered about boys and, embarrassingly, how she wished they were more like Augum—kind, empathic, occasionally funny—but not too funny like Isaac had been, or Olaf was—responsible, brave—

  “All right, enough already,” he had to finally say.

  “Oh, am I embarrassing you? Sorry. It’s just, I want to meet a boy, you know? A proper boy. Seeing you two and now Bridget and Ollie parade about—heck, even Jengo has someone waiting for him back at home—has really made me realize what I’m missing in my life.”

  Augum scrubbed her toes, the nails of which were painted blue, and wondered how to get her to fall silent for a little bit. After spending almost three straight days with nothing but his thoughts, he was having a hard time with so much babbling.

  “… and then I say to Bridge, ‘What is it about me that I can’t seem to snag a boy?’ and she says to me—”

  “Why not ask someone like Cry out?” he blurted, rinsing her feet, not wanting to mention that he had put Cry up to writing that note.

  “Cry? Cry?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, why not? He likes you.”

  “Yeah, great, except there’s one problem with that—I have, like, zero attraction toward him. He’s small and weaselly and whiny and unlikeable and he’s got no passion about anything except tattling on people, not to mention that he’s hardly spent a moment with a girl without staring at her like a dumb goat.”

  “But you didn’t say he was ugly.”

  “Well he isn’t exactly pretty to look at either though, is he? I mean, he’s got that weird half-asleep zitty face and that nasty unwashed hair and he carries himself around like it’s a chore. Oh, and he’s the son of tax collectors. Tax collectors, Augum.” She scoffed. “Cry indeed. Sometimes I wonder about you. Besides, there are social graces, traditions to obey, tiers of station to observe, that sort of thing—none of which Cry cares about. Let alone the talk. And oh how people would talk.”

  He shrugged. “So let them talk.”

  She bit her nail in thought a moment, then shook her head. “No, that’s silly, he’s an awful match. Really, Augum, bless your kind heart, but you can be painfully naive. Besides, I want someone tall and rich and handsome and, ideally, more famous than me, someone like a warlock prince.” Her eyebrows scrunched as she tapped her lips. “Although maybe he should be less famous. Hmm, I don’t know. Oh, and he should save my life. That’s how we’d meet, of course. I mean, I know you saved my life, but I’m talking about someone else, you know?”

  Augum sighed, feeling sorry for Cry. Hopefully she’d let him down gently. “Fine, what about Brandon?”

  “Pfft, I don’t take hand-me-downs, Augum.”

  “Oof, don’t let him hear you say that.” Or Bridget for that matter.

  “I’m not mean, Augum. I mean, I used to be ages ago, but that’s no longer me. I’m better now. Smarter and better and wiser. But I still have standards. But do you know who I find strangely cute? That Edwin fellow—and don’t look at me like that, I fully realize he’s the enemy. There’s just something endearing about him, the kind of boy a girl can bring back from the dark side … you know?”

  Augum, who did not f
eel like continuing the conversation, remained silent as he replaced her shoes.

  She melted in her chair. “Aww, are we done?”

  “We are.” Mercifully.

  “That felt sooo good though.” She tapped her lips again. “Hmm, I think I might have to get my servant to do this for me daily.” She raised an appeasing palm when she saw the look he gave her. “Oh, don’t worry, I’d find a way to repay her somehow.”

  Augum sighed a second time. “You have to forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive, you were a divine foot washer.”

  “No, I mean you have to officially forgive me for dimming my shield.”

  “Oh, right. Silly me.” She awkwardly tapped his forehead with two fingers like a fairy from a children’s story. “I forgive you for having your shield dimmed, even though you had no choice in the matter and who knows what we would have had to do had you not—”

  “Hayles.”

  “Yes?”

  “You have to be serious.”

  “Right, sorry.” She closed her eyes and took a breath. “Dragoon Augum Arinthian Stone, I, Dragoon Haylee Esmeralda-Ray Tennyson, forgive you for dimming your shield, um, with all of my heart.” She opened her eyes and smiled.

  “Thank you. Now can I trouble you to send the next victim in, please?”

  “Your wish is my command!” and she skipped off.

  Next came Olaf, who regaled Augum with all the hilarious things that had happened over the last few days, including Leera fishing him out of the ocean after a botched teleport casting and flopping him onto the platform like a beached whale. Augum happily listened to his stories as he worked. But then Olaf’s face went serious.

  “Hey, can I talk to you about something?” he said.

  “Bridget?”

  “How in the heck did you know?”