Blood Will Flow

A LitRPG Academy Adventure

Kyle Johnson

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Copyright © 2024 Kyle Johnson
All rights reserved

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To Keri, for keeping me going when everything crashed and burned.

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Contents
Blood Will Flow
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Epilogue

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 Prologue[MG1][MG2][MG3]
“My Lady! Beware!”
Agheeral ignored the cry as she raced toward the group of tamashi. The
three-reach-long creatures undulated through the air, riding on currents of
sahr rather than anything as capricious as the wind. Thick, gray scales
covered their long, lean bodies, from the tip of their flat, paddlelike tails to
the point of their elongated snouts filled with rows of serrated teeth.
Electricity crackled from them, ready to arc to anyone foolish enough to
draw near—anyone, that was, except Agheeral.
A lash of blue lightning snapped from one of the creatures to her, and
Agheeral raised a hand to catch the blast. It hissed and popped in her grip
but couldn’t escape as she drew on that energy, pulling it into herself and
pushing it down into the reservoir of power beneath her heart. That well of
energy was new, something that she’d gained when the world changed. It
wasn’t the same as the nearly endless core of power she could tap before the
change, but in some ways, it was far better. The power she stored in her
center was denser, more solid than what she’d used before, so she could use
less of it to achieve the same results. Plus, it absorbed practically any
source of energy, even those she’d found impossible to wield before. Of
course, the reverse of that was that it took far more energy to refill that core,
and the lightning lash she absorbed barely raised it by the width of a hair.
Only one source of energy was dense enough to truly replenish her, and she
was about to collect that.
The closest tamash opened its mouth, and a brilliant flash of white
exploded from it as it belched a ball of lightning at her. She slipped around
it, riding the wind on a tiny trickle of her new power, and focused her intent
on the space above the creature. The world suddenly flattened as she
shrank that distance, bringing herself to her desired location without having
to travel so far as a span. She released her focus, and the world sprang back
into normal shape—only now, she floated above the attacking beast, not
before it.
The creature reacted swiftly, whipping toward her, but Agheeral
touched her core of power and channeled the energy into her mind and
body. She suddenly moved as fast as thought, the tamash’s attack a slow
crawl that she could easily dodge if she chose. Instead, she reached out and
grabbed its snout with one hand and drove a force-covered fist into its
skull. The blow struck with the weight of a mountain, pulping the
monster’s brain and killing it instantly.
She spun and leveled a finger at the next tamash, touching her power
once more. A line of darkness shot from her extended digit and drove into
the side of the beast, piercing its armor and heart with equal alacrity. The
next vomited another lightning blast that she caught and absorbed before
slashing with her hand. A blade of invisible wind shot out from her, cutting
three of the beasts in half. To most, the tamashi were a scourge, a deadly
threat beyond their power to battle, but to Agheeral…
They were simply training.
In less than a minute, over twenty of the beasts lay dead, floating on the
waves below, and the rest turned and fled back into the colorless wall of the
Edge, the boundary of the spirit realm that marked the end of Umpratan.
Below her, the restless sea rebounded from that barrier; around her, the
wind curled away from it and blew back toward the continent behind her.
Nothing that wasn’t alive and sapient could cross that boundary, nothing
that lacked its own spark of immortality. She could fling her blade at it
with all her force, and she’d simply end up with a shattered blade. Only
living, intelligent creatures could enter the realm of spirits—and those who
did never returned.
She dove toward the surface of the sea and landed on it, standing on the
water like it was solid ground. She drew the corpses to her with an effort of
will and a touch of power to pull the water beneath her feet toward her. As
they neared, she felt the power burning within them, calling out to her, each
a different note in a melody only she could hear. She reached out to them
with her spirit, touching each and drawing the power to her. The energy
surged forth, condensing beneath her will, growing denser and denser until
it formed into a fluid that surged up from the beasts’ bodies and poured into
her. She drew it in deeply, tilting her head back to inhale that pure essence
and pull it into her depths. The liquid poured into her core, refilling it
swiftly, and at last, she cut it off, allowing the excess to dissipate.
“My Lady! Are you well?”
 She refrained from clenching her fists at the voice that called out to her.
Instead, she rose back into the air and floated over to the ship bobbing on
the waves before her. Agheeral descended lightly to the deck beside the
overdressed official whose presence she’d been forced to endure this entire
trip. If she’d had her way, she would have left the vessel behind—she was
hundreds of times faster without it—but doing so would have
consequences. Her powers weren’t the only thing that had changed in the
past years. The entire world had, as well.
“My Lady, are you injured?” The man wrung his hands as he peered at
her, his entire body screaming his distress. “Those creatures…”
“Are but a shadow of the forces I battled during the Great War, Vizier,”
she cut him off firmly but gently.
“But there were so many! Lady Agheeral, we have a contingent of
soldiers aboard. You should have waited for them!”
“Tamashi are no threat to me, Vizier, even if there were an army of
them. If you involved your soldiers, you would simply have gotten them
killed for no purpose.”
Those words tasted sour in her mouth. They weren’t “her” soldiers any
longer, and that reality stung her more than anything else.
Despite her victory over the spirits, she’d led a broken and dispirited
army away from the fields of Praja. More than half their number had died
on that field, a loss equaling a decade of casualties in the war. Agheeral
regretted the loss but deemed it worthwhile; the spirits had been driven
from their world, after all, and that was the point of the war. The nations
could rebuild, and over generations, their losses would be replaced. She
brought her army back to the great plain of Aggath to dismiss them only to
find a new mountain range splitting it in half, a range that hadn’t existed
moons ago.
And that was only the beginning of the changes she discovered. She
led her army north, around the new mountains, and dismissed them, sending
them back to their homes. The shayeni trudged off to the east, toward their
forests; the short thelnis marched to the west to their hilltop homes, while
the feline fernari headed southeast to the grasslands they preferred. It was a
bittersweet moment for Agheeral; her entire existence had been spent
watching over those soldiers, and seeing them vanish over the horizon had
hurt more than she imagined it would, but the fact that they lived to bid
farewell meant she’d done her duty. She’d claimed victory, and that was
what she had been born to do.
Only, she soon found that her victory was at a greater cost than she
could imagine. While she’d broken the ritual the spirits used to try and pull
her world into theirs, that ritual had activated, and its activation had
consequences. It broke her world, shattered it into pieces, and flung those
pieces somewhere beyond the Edge, where they couldn’t be reached. Her
soldiers marched home only to find that home denied them, their paths
blocked by new shores and oceans where land existed before. The thelnis,
always clever with their hands and tools, built a fleet to seek that homeland
and sailed away, only to return years later with the news that the Edge
surrounded their world to the west. Not to be outdone, the fernari fashioned
vessels of magic and sailed out to the east, only to come back with the same
news. Beyond the new shores lay an ocean, and ringing that ocean was the
Edge.
That loss, it seemed, was the final snowflake that brought down the
avalanche. Discontent rose among the people, discontent that led to anger
—and all of it directed at her. She was the general of the army; she was the
one they’d counted on to protect them; she was the one who’d interrupted
the ritual. Never mind that according to Willinel, the only one of her
companions to survive that battle and the greatest mortal wielder of sahr,
had she not acted, the ritual would have brought the entire world into the
spirit realm. Never mind that she’d spent her entire life fighting for those
people and their freedom. They wanted someone to blame, and she was the
convenient target.
The shift of power away from her was slow at first. A council formed,
one comprised of several members of each race, designed to help advise
her. Agheeral, they pointed out gently, had been born and bred to wage war,
and now that there was no war, she would need guidance in the arts of
peace. She’d seen the undercurrents forming even then, but she hadn’t
known how to stop them from growing. To some extent, they were right;
she knew how to be a leader, but only on a battlefield. Politics was
something alien to her.
When the first incursions from the spirit world appeared, she’d counted
them a blessing. She gathered a force and confronted them, eager to remind
her people why they should follow her. Victory after victory followed, but
despite her triumphs, she felt the reins of power slowly slipping from her
fingers. While she was out defending her people, her council remained
behind, reminding her followers that the battlefield was where she
belonged, and that her skills, while unmatched in warfare, were unsuited for
keeping the peace.
The day had come at last where the council had voted to remove her as
its head, and there was little she could do. They didn’t present it that way,
of course. They called it honoring her, declaring her the Supreme
Warleader of Umpratan, and giving her full authority during times of battle
—while simultaneously stripping all other authority from her. She became
a figurehead, an icon of power and a bastion against the spirit incursions,
but no longer a leader of her people. Those who’d willingly followed her
for decades in battle turned away from her, and in turn, she found herself
growing disconnected from them, less a part of the mortal races every day.
Technically, she was a nalu, a matter of necessity and design. Other
races were born with genetic memories that made them excel in certain
areas. Shayeni were born knowing how to wield a bow and to live in
harmony with the forests; thelnis emerged from the womb carrying their
race’s nimble fingers, clever minds, and the basic crafting skills associated
with their lineage. A newborn fernar possessed the knowledge needed to
hunt and to tumble effortlessly through the air. Naluni had none of this;
they lacked genetic memories and were born as blank slates. This once
made them the least of the mortal races—under the yoke of the spirits, they
served as common laborers and livestock—but it also made it possible for
them to excel at anything. Fernari were amazing hunters and gifted with
sahr but poor crafters and clumsy with many weapons. Shayeni were
practically born with a bow in hand but could never seem to master heavier
weapons or the use of most armor. Naluni could be excellent at anything
they chose to master, and Agheeral had been bred to be excellent at all the
arts of war.
Realistically, though, she had as little in common with other naluni as
they did with the reptilian esseth. She hadn’t aged visibly in the decades
since she’d come to maturity and still looked to be around twenty-five
summers old. She was stronger than a giant, green-skinned vadnik, faster
than a lupine goruk, cleverer than any thelni, and more intelligent than the
oldest shayen. She was utterly perfect, without flaw or weakness, and now
that her followers had turned away from her, it was hard to see other
mortals as anything other than—less.
The perfect example stood beside her, the braying nalu vizier in his
overly ornate robes, thinking himself clever as he subtly tried to demean her
before the gathered sailors and soldiers. The man was only forty-five
summers old, but already he showed the signs of aging. Light lines creased
the olive skin at the corners of his eyes and mouth; his black hair showed
gray at the temples, and if he took off the absurdly long, conical hat he
wore, it would reveal the slowly expanding spot of baldness atop his head.
His body looked like he’d once been a warrior but had now let his muscles
atrophy, and he moved slowly and clumsily, every step thumping noisily on
the wooden deck. He wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes in an actual battle,
and had he tried to actually lead the soldiers under his command, they’d
have likely killed him and tossed him overboard in a day. He was pathetic,
a scheming grasper—and as the Council’s designated aide and
representative, he was a thorn in her side that she wasn’t quite ready to pull
out.
“Captain, set course for the city of Kossuk,” she ordered, turning away
from the obnoxious vizier.
“My Lady, are you certain?” the little official asked, causing the ship’s
captain to halt in the process of calling out his commands to the crew.
“Surely, the spirits would send worse than that small group of weak
creatures to assault us! I believe it wise to wait and…”
“I have given my orders,” Agheeral said coldly, eyeing the suddenly
flinching commander of the vessel. “I expect you to obey.”
“Hold, Captain,” the vizier countermanded, his voice suddenly far less
subservient and wheedling. “By order of the Council, we are to remain on
patrol against potential incursions for a period of three moons, no less. You
will continue on your…ack!”
The vizier cut off as Agheeral’s hand darted out and seized his throat,
cutting off his wind. She lifted him effortlessly into the air, ignoring his
kicking feet and his desperate attempts to claw her hand free. Compared to
her, he was little more than a newborn infant, utterly helpless and powerless
in her grip. Her eyes never left the cringing captain as she spoke again.
 “Captain, set course for Kossuk immediately. It seems I need to have
some words with my advisor, to remind him of his place.”
“As you say, Great Lady,” the captain bowed, hesitating briefly before
adding, “If it please my Lady—the ship, she is but simple wood. I would
beg you to consider that during your questioning.”
She gave the man a flat smile. “Diplomatically spoken, Captain, but
have no fears. Your vessel will be in no danger from me—and I suspect
that I won’t be needing it any longer.” She called the winds and rose from
the ship, carrying the now weakly struggling vizier in her grip. She drifted
off the deck and floated several spans away, far enough that she judged her
passage wouldn’t damage the vessel, before channeling a trickle of power
into the air around her. The air around her rippled and distorted as she
exploded into motion, racing over the waves toward the Edge faster than an
arrow from the strongest bow. The vizier went limp in her grasp as his frail
body failed to withstand the incredible force of her acceleration.
She reached the Edge in seconds and slid to a halt. She glanced down
at the roiling sea beneath her and lashed out with her will. A loud crackling
sound rose from the waves as a patch ten reaches wide froze solid, the ice
descending even more reaches below the surface to keep the platform stable
in the waves formed by the wind of her passage. She lowered herself to the
ice and touched down gently, barely disturbing the platform. The vizier
didn’t get such a gentle landing as she tore away his fancy robe, revealing a
heavy paunch and sagging flesh, then tossed him carelessly onto the
unyielding ice.
The man woke with a groan as the cold quickly seeped into his bare
flesh, and he pushed himself up with a confused, disoriented look on his
face. He clutched his arms to his shoulders, curling up into a ball, and
looked around with growing alarm as he saw the ice upon which he sat—
and the towering wall of the Edge looming mere reaches away. He slid
back away from that wall, then looked up at Agheeral standing over him,
his face panicked and fearful.
“My Lady!” he protested. “What’s the meaning of this? What…?” His
questions cut off as his gaze met her own. Agheeral channeled a tiny trickle
of power, allowing it to flow up into her eyes, and struck with her will,
driving her mind into the vizier’s. He tried to resist, erecting a barrier of
will around his thoughts as all soldiers were trained to do when dealing with
the spirits, but his barrier was so pathetic that any spirit would have pierced
it easily, much less her. The force of her mind shattered that wall like it was
made of thin glass, and her will plunged into him, smothering his and
blanketing his mind. His struggles ceased almost instantly, and he fell still
as her mind dominated his, stealing his will from him. It was something
she hated doing—taking over the mind of another was the way of the
spirits, and doing it left her feeling vaguely unclean—but the vizier’s words
had made something click in her mind. She needed information, and this
was far simpler than torturing him for it.
“What were your orders, Vizier?” she asked in a cold voice. She could
take his will, sense his emotions, even shatter his mind, but she couldn’t
read his thoughts. No power she knew of gave that sort of access, not even
among the spirits, a fact for which she was grateful. If it had, they would
have known of her existence and snuffed her out long before she was able
to defend herself.
“To keep you patrolling the Edge for a minimum of three moons,” the
man replied in a wooden voice. “To watch your battles and gauge how
much strength the change took from you, and to see how you accumulate
power.”
She hesitated, surprised at the last two orders. “To what end?” she
asked curiously.
“I don’t know. I was simply told to report what I see to the Council.”
She nodded. “And what did you tell them?”
“That you have to kill to gain power. That you drain it from the bodies
of the slain. That your power seems undiminished by the change.”
“Good.” She released her hold on his mind, and his eyes cleared
instantly. A look of horror and loathing spread across his face as he realized
what she’d done—and what he’d said. Before he could complain, she lifted
him by his throat and held him aloft. He gagged and choked as her fingers
cut off his windpipe, and his eyes bulged in horror. His fingers danced and
fluttered in the manner of a sahr-wielder as he tried to fling a working at
her, but the power slid past her ineffectually, allowing her to draw a little
more energy from it as it flowed over her.
 “You’re a treacherous serpent, Vizier,” she said in a voice as cold as a
spirit’s heart. “By all rights, I should toss you to the spirits and let them
play with you, so you could see what my armies and I faced for decades to
give you a world free of their slavery.” His face paled, and despite the fact
that she knew he couldn’t breathe, his efforts to escape redoubled. She
ignored them; he was as helpless as a babe in her grip, a mewling infant
who could no more harm her than he could lift a mountain.
“I won’t do that, though,” she said. “That would be cruel, and despite
your treachery—and my supposed Council’s—you don’t deserve that. No
one does.” His struggles lessened, and relief flashed across his face.
Premature relief, as it turned out.
“However, treachery can’t go unpunished, so…” Her fist clenched, and
the man’s trachea crumbled with a popping sound. His eyes bulged once
more, and his face darkened to purple as her fingers crushed the large veins
in his throat, trapping the blood in his brain. He lived, but that would only
last for a few minutes at most—more than long enough. She flexed her
arm, then flung the man, adding a tiny bit of power to the motion. He sailed
backward, his hands grasping for her and his feet kicking as he soared
through the air, hurtling toward the gray wall of the Edge. His shattered
throat didn’t even let him cry out as he vanished through that barrier,
disappearing into the world of the spirits, never to return.
She turned her back on the wall and gazed toward the distant mainland
as she lifted into the air on a current of wind. She’d lied to the vizier.
Killing him hadn’t been a mercy. It was a necessity. Those who entered the
Edge usually didn’t return, but when they did, what emerged wasn’t them.
The spirits ripped out their soul, leaving the body an empty vessel, then
poured themselves into it and slipped out into the mortal realm to sow
havoc. She’d hunted down dozens of the spirit-possessed herself, but she
guessed that hundreds had escaped her notice. By ensuring that the vizier
would die swiftly, she’d kept from adding another to those ranks, one who
held some measure of actual power and could do real harm. The man’s last
few minutes of life would be terrible ones, subjected to the spirits’ torments,
but they would end swiftly, and no power of the spirits could stop it. They
couldn’t heal; they could only mar and destroy.
Granting the man those last few minutes of life had also been a
necessity. The vizier had been in contact with the Council, obviously, but
she had to assume they had some way of knowing if he died. That would,
after all, be their first warning that she knew they planned some sort of
treachery against her. Whatever method he used to contact them, though,
wouldn’t reach across the Edge. No power did, not even hers. She could
touch the Edge, draw on its power, but she couldn’t stretch her awareness
through it. They might worry at losing contact with him, but they wouldn’t
immediately panic. That gave her an advantage: they wouldn’t be
expecting her swift return. The Council had stolen power from her—no,
she corrected herself, she’d let them steal power and authority from her. It
was time to see what they did with it.
She summoned her power and sent it into her eyes, and the eldritch
currents of the world suddenly flowed into perfectly clear view before her.
It took her but a second to locate the thin line of power stretching from the
horizon and disappearing into the Edge, slowly unraveling as its connection
with the lost vizier failed. She reached out with her mind, molding the
world around her to her will. A tunnel of screaming wind formed around
her, shooting her up and over the churning sea at terrific speeds. At the
same time, the very fabric of existence condensed before her, bringing
everything in that direction closer.
Marches flashed below her, days of walking for a normal soldier flitting
by in seconds. The wind roared its fury as she arced outward, following
that thread of power. She streaked over the northern swamps, where the
reptilian esseth now dwelt. She raced past the much smaller forest that the
shayeni had taken as their own, bordering mountains that glittered golden in
bright sunlight. She followed the line of power to the fields of Aggath,
where her council supposedly waited—and then continued past, flashing
through a gap in the new mountain range dividing the continent and roaring
across lands that looked well-watered and farmed. Green grew everywhere
she saw, and mighty rivers that hadn’t existed a few decades ago carved
paths through the rich soil. Naluni worked the land everywhere she looked,
raising enough crops to feed her entire army—or, she supposed, the citizens
of a new land.
Guilt and disappointment flashed through her as she realized that she’d
never even considered how the races would feed themselves. She’d made
no arrangements for farms, for transport of food, or for the livestock that
would provide the meat a nation would need to eat. During the war, her
quartermasters had handled such, and she’d never given it a thought beyond
making sure her army was provisioned, and those provisions were
safeguarded.
She followed the decaying line south, ignoring the commoners who
cringed and cowered at her passage as she examined the terrain. When
she’d last passed this way, after the Fields of Praja, this land had all been
grassland. The new mountains changed that, trapping much of the rain on
this side of them and turning it into rich soil. Villages and towns dotted the
sparkling river she followed, and simple roads connected them, while
wooden rafts and barges floated along the river. Her council had done this
without her knowledge, she realized; they’d found this land, realized its
utility, and built it up while she slaughtered incursions of spirits.
A shimmer of light caught her eye, and she rose higher into the air. Her
vision was fantastic, but she couldn’t see through the world’s horizon; as
she rose, more of Umpratan spread out around her, and she saw more of the
Council’s work. Praja was no more, but towns rose where once hundreds of
thousands of bodies lay. A river carved the land near that plain, and the
beginnings of a new forest rose on the western side of that flow, which
spilled out into a bay that had once been part of the great battlefield. To the
south, lands that had once been the junglelike home of the canine gurukkai
now looked sere and withered, their trees wilted and brown as the water that
should have fed them poured far to the north. And to the south…
She sped toward the glimmer of light that caught her eye to the south,
following the last vestiges of the line of power that raced toward it. She
recognized that shimmer; it came from a city, one that the spirits had forced
their slaves to build and that they called the center of their kingdom. It was
a place of towering crystalline spires, walls of opal and jade, and gleaming
gemstone halls. The spirits called it Baldasar, and they believed it to be
their ultimate triumph, an unassailable fortress and city from which they
ruled this world.
And so it had been—until Agheeral herself tore down its diamond gates
and allowed her army inside to sack it. It was the turning point of the great
war, the moment when it became obvious to all that the spirits were
doomed. They’d expected a long, protracted siege; instead, she’d taken the
city in a few days. And now…
 She ignored the men and women swarming about the city, slowly
repairing the damage she’d done. The link had faltered and faded at last,
but she knew where she was going. The central tower of the city was an
edifice of gleaming emerald, and it was from there that the spirits truly
ruled. That would be where her supposed Council ruled in her name
without her word. That would be where she confronted them.
Her will lashed out at the structure, and the gleaming gates surrounding
the central palace shattered into shards of gemstone that sprayed over the
cowering guards. She ignored them; they no longer served her, so they
weren’t her concern. The ruby doors leading into the palace had been
repaired to some extent, but they crashed into fragments of crimson crystal
as they had so long ago when she’d first taken this tower.
She settled to earth and strode inside. Guards rushed up, forming
before her, and she felt a spike of disappointment as they raised their
weapons to stop her. They should have bowed before her and offered their
service; instead, they opposed her, and those who opposed her had ever
only suffered one fate. She controlled the blast of power she unleashed at
them, breaking their bodies but leaving them alive as she swept past and up
the stairs leading to the spirits’ grand hall.
Her council waited for her there, cowering around a sapphire table that
the spirits had once used for their deliberations. Anger surged in her; were
these mortals attempting to rule as the spirits did? If anyone deserved to
hold that position, it was her. She’d let power slip from her hands, but she
would reclaim it. Her advisors had forgotten that political power meant
nothing without the strength to wield it. She’d let her sorrow and confusion
rule her long enough.
“M-my Lady,” her shayeni “advisor” stammered, half-rising to his feet.
“W-we did not expect…”
“Be silent and sit down.” Her words were calm, but they carried the
force of her will behind them. Willinel might have been able to resist, but
he was long gone. All her companions were, and those who remained no
longer remembered the horrors of war—but neither had they gained
strength from it. All seven of the council members dropped into their seats,
their mouths working silently and fear spreading through their eyes as they
realized that in the grip of her will, they were helpless as babes.
 “This council was supposed to serve as my advisors,” she said in a cold
voice. “However, instead, you have tried to usurp my power—and I
allowed you to do so. No more.” She floated into the air, touching her
power so that it radiated from her as she stepped onto the table at the center
of the room. She glanced at the shayeni, and when she spoke, her will
backed her words. “Telastel, has this council been working to steal my
authority and power?”
The elf struggled for a moment as her will tore through his barriers and
wrapped around his thoughts. His eyes went blank, and he ceased
struggling. “Yes, My Lady.”
She glanced at the short, horrified thelni woman staring up at her.
“Bordana, to what end?”
The halfling’s eyes went just as blank, and when she spoke, her voice
was wooden and emotionless. “To build a new kingdom, My Lady.”
Agheeral looked at the cowering feline fernar at the end of the table.
“Mirrinir, why should you rule instead of I?”
“Because you refused to, My Lady,” the advisor spoke in a flat tone.
“What do you mean?”
“The people looked to you for guidance after the Shattering. You gave
them none, so our predecessors provided it instead. We rule because we
must.”
Agheeral froze at the cat’s words. Was that true? Had she truly turned
aside from her people? Was war the only thing she knew? Could she even
rule in a time of peace?
She shook her head. This wasn’t a time of peace. It was a truce, a lull
in the war, but if she lowered her blade, the spirits would return. She was
needed.
She turned her head to her nalu advisor. “And how did you believe you
could ever supplant me, Vivitania?” she asked the woman. “All of you
together—your entire army is no threat to me. I could remove you all
whenever I wished.”
The woman struggled, her will fighting Agheeral’s in admirable
fashion, but in a few seconds, her resistance crumbled, and her face went
blank. “We are making more of you, My Lady,” she said woodenly. “They
will serve where you would rule.”
“What?!” Agheeral’s roar exploded through the room, hurling the
advisors around. She grabbed the blank-faced nalu by the throat and lifted
her up, barely restraining her anger. She was a unique creation, a perfect
creation, the sole survivor of hundreds of secret trials and experiments, and
her creators were long dead. Had their knowledge survived?
“Explain!” she commanded.
“We found the process in the ruins of Shinfrain, My Lady, where you
were given life. Some of it was lost, but we’ve managed to replicate
enough to create guardians to protect ourselves and our lands from you if
needed.”
“Show me!” Agheeral demanded, pointing to Mirrinir. “Show me!”
The fernar’s fingers danced as he wove strands of sahr, and a window
opened in the air, one that revealed ten cylindrical tanks. Agheeral grabbed
the cat as well and folded space, taking herself to that spot in an instant at
the cost of much of her stored power. They were underground, deep
beneath the earth from the feel of it, in a cavern she knew intimately. She’d
been born here, brought to life through a combination of magic, breeding,
and the sacrifice of thousands of lives. She’d thought this place lost, but
apparently, it survived the spirits’ assault on the village above, the attack
that slaughtered the only ones she could consider her parents. That blow
had come far too late, of course. She was long gone, training with the
various races and learning all they could teach, becoming the perfect
weapon and leader she would need to be.
Murky liquid hid the bodies she felt floating within the tubes before
her. They were only partially formed, but even so, she could tell that they
were—less. Power coiled within them, but not the same power she held.
They reminded her of shadows, things that looked like her but were
ephemeral and insubstantial.
She gathered her power, intending to obliterate her potential rivals, but
she paused and glanced at Vivitania. “You say that these are being bred to
follow?” she asked.
 “Yes, My Lady. We hope to gain their strength without losing our
power.”
Agheeral nodded and released her advisors’ minds, ignoring the look of
horror on their faces as they understood how utterly she’d controlled them.
“Then serve they shall—but me, not you. As of this moment, you no longer
rule. I do.”
“My Lady, the laws…”
“Are meaningless. Only my will has true meaning. All else is merely
words.” She turned back to the pair. “You will tell me who among the
council I can trust to serve me and who will work against me. Those who
prove trustworthy will live and continue their work to lift up my people.
Those who do not will be replaced, their lives feeding my powers. Is that
understood?”
“Yes, My Lady,” Mirrinir replied swiftly, bowing low. “I will happily
divulge…”
“You misunderstand, Mirrinir. You’ll tell me the truth, not whatever
lies you think will gain you extra power. You all will. There will be a
culling, and when it ends, all will serve me, in life or in death.” Her power
flowed through her, and the pair stepped back, their faces fearful. “Once, I
was called Nasika, She Who Leads. Now, I will be known as Shashana, the
Eternal Queen.”
Agheeral turned her back on her soon-to-be-born followers. They
would serve as a new company, companions to replace those she’d lost in
the war, and once they were birthed—she would obliterate this place. She
wouldn’t again allow any to rise to take her power, at least not until she was
ready to hand it over of her own will.
She paused. Or perhaps she wouldn’t. She would lock it away, though,
hide it behind a barrier of her power so that none could use it and its secrets
against her again. In the meantime, she had a council to purge. It was time
to reclaim what was hers and remind those pathetic sycophants who she
was and why an entire world of spirits spoke her name in tones of abject
terror…

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter [MG4][MG5]1
A lot had changed for Amarl in the last year. He’d gone from being an
orphan and outcast in the tiny mining village of Tem to being a student of
Askula, the academy that trained the ithtaru who safeguarded the Empire.
He’d discovered that he had a power so rare it was unknown, and he’d
trained until he unlocked a part of that power that helped him grow in
strength and skill at what was quite frankly a ridiculous rate. He’d made
friends and enemies, and he’d journeyed to entirely different worlds to find
new people who wanted to kill him just for the crime of existing.
One thing hadn’t changed, though. He still hated waking up naked in a
strange place to a hostile person.
“What the FUCK?!”
Amarl rolled sideways as the wooden door leading into the room
crashed open. In his mind, he moved like a cat, spinning gracefully off the
bed and landing on his feet in the opening stance of his combat form, ready
to face whatever threat appeared. He would move like lightning, striking
swiftly to disable rather than to kill, ending the threat in a properly heroic
fashion.
Sadly, it seemed the gods had other plans for the young hizeen. As he
rolled, the sheet draped over his naked body wrapped around him, tangling
his legs. Instead of landing nimbly on his feet, he thumped heavily on his
ass, hissing as he bruised it on the hard stone floor. He kicked his feet,
trying to dislodge the thin cotton twined around his limbs, but a flicker of
motion warned him of danger, and he rolled swiftly sideways again. He
swore as his head cracked into something hard and wooden, and he reached
out to grab his attacker before realizing it was nothing more than a bedside
table.
A crack caught his attention, and he glanced sideways to see a short,
half-reach-long javelin skip across the stone floor where he’d been lying.
The weapon twisted sideways, struck the side of the bed, and clattered
across the floor to whack him in the shoulder. It wasn’t a dangerous blow,
but it still stung. His head throbbed from where he’d hit it, his ass ached,
and now his shoulder would probably have a bruise. He was still tangled in
the sheet, and from his position on the floor, he couldn’t really see his
attacker.
All in all, it was a shitty way to start a day.
“Gowen!” A female voice shouted from the bed above Amarl, and he
knew that it came from a round-faced third-year with almond-shaped eyes,
deep olive skin, soft lips, and a pair of heavy breasts that probably would
have felled a lesser man than he. “What the hells are you doing?”
“I think I’m the one that should be asking that, Nolla!” a male voice
shouted back. “What the fuck’s going on here?”
“If you need to ask that question,” Amarl thought wryly, “maybe
you’ve just answered why Nolla was so ready to take me to bed.”
“None of your damn business, Gowen! This is my room; what I do in it
is my concern, not yours!”
“What? Nolla, how can you say that? I thought—I thought we…”
Amarl winced as he pushed the sheet off his legs at last, freeing himself
from it, and wrapped it around the lower half of his body. He rose to his
feet and finally got a look at his assailant.
Gowen was tall for a nalu, half a span over a reach in height, with dark
brown hair and slightly pale olive skin. His face was long and lean, with an
extended chin, and matched his whipcord body. He wore the same purple
outfit that Nolla had been last night before she and Amarl began their—
festivities, colors that marked them both as members of Baqena, the school
for students with Tier B abilities. He had a long, slim blade strapped at his
hip, but fortunately it seemed like he only had the one javelin—unless,
Amarl realized, his ability let him conjure the things out of nowhere. He’d
seen an older student named Veter do something similar with ice and had no
idea if someone could do that with wood and metal. He edged sideways
toward his own clothes, the green shirt and trousers of Sabila, the school for
novices; hopefully, he could slip out while the two fought, dress in the
hallway, and escape this situation without finding out exactly what Gowen’s
ability was. Sadly, that wasn’t to be.
The tall boy glanced sideways at Amarl and pointed a finger. “Don’t
move!” he commanded. The boy’s voice echoed in Amarl’s mind, blotting
out his thoughts and freezing him in place. His body suddenly felt encased
in stone, trapped and helpless. He strained against the command holding
him, though, and a tiny surge of power rose from just below his heart. That
energy flooded his mind, burning away the web of power holding his
muscles in place, and he sighed in relief as his body once more responded
to his commands.
Fortunately, by that point, Gowen had dismissed the hizeen and turned
back to Nolla. “How dare you cheat on me?” the older boy demanded.
“And with this—this thing?” He gestured sightlessly toward Amarl, who
remained still, waiting for his chance to move. Being called a thing didn’t
much bother him; he’d been called far worse by people whose opinions he
cared about a lot more than Gowen’s. As a half-spirit, half-nalu, he was
basically mistrusted on sight, and even the people he’d grown up around
treated him like a piece of trash more often than not.
“His name is Amarl!” Nolla said hotly. “And he’s twice the man you
are, Gowen! Besides, you don’t own me! I can lay with anyone I want!”
“What’s all the racket…?” A new voice at the door froze the pair in
their argument, and everyone glanced toward the open doorway. A young
woman in Baqena purple stood in the door, her face frozen in surprise that
turned quickly to understanding as her eyes darted toward Amarl. “Nolla!
This is why you wanted me out of the room last night?”
For a moment, Gowen’s gaze was fastened on the girl who was
apparently Nolla’s roommate, and in that moment, Amarl struck. He
whipped the sheet from around his waist and flung it at the other boy,
catching him in the face and wrapping the sheet around his head. He
snatched up his clothing, uncaring of his nudity, shoved Gowen toward the
bed, where he tripped and fell, then raced toward the door.
“Stop!” Gowen screamed, his voice echoing in Amarl’s mind, but the
hizeen shoved the command aside with a minor effort, only stumbling
slightly before regaining his footing. The roommate glanced down at
Amarl’s nether regions before stepping back, grinning openly as she
allowed him to pass.
“Good morning,” he said to her politely as he slipped out of the room.
“Seems like it was a better night,” she murmured, glancing down once
again. He ignored her and stepped into the hall, realizing quickly that the
racket had disturbed half the residents in the passageway—and that most
were now standing outside, watching him with expressions that ranged from
open amusement to anger and disgust.
“Get back here, you half-breed bastard!” Gowen’s voice screamed
from the room, rousing Amarl from his moment of awkwardness. Once
again, the power of the boy’s voice flowed over him, but it lacked the force
it initially possessed. Either the boy was running low on ithtu—the stronger
an ability was, the more power it drained from an ithtar’s tak, their central
well of power—or his ability didn’t work as well when he was out of direct
sight. Either way, Amarl ignored the command. He considered stopping to
pull on his pants, at least, but the sound of a blade being drawn and Nolla
screaming behind him convinced him it was time to go.
“You’d best get out of here,” the roommate suggested, glancing into the
room. “Gowen’s getting his javelin again.”
“Thanks,” Amarl smiled at the girl before turning and sprinting down
the hallway to the stairs at the end of it. He ignored the outcry behind him,
leaping over an outstretched foot that tried to trip him and ducking under a
grab intended to hold him, presumably for the older boy to stab. He knew
that if any of the students really wanted to, they could stop him easily—
they all had at least some use of their abilities, and he had access to only the
simplest passive aspect of his—but he suspected they wouldn’t go that far.
The racket was sure to draw the attention of the school’s awal, whoever that
was, and if they were anything like Tekasoka, Awal of Sabila, bothering
them would result in swift punishment. As it was, Gowen faced the
possibility of expulsion—meaning public execution by beheading—for
using his ability on Amarl at all. None of them wanted to add their heads to
that chopping block.
He reached the end of the hallway and yanked open the door, glancing
backward once. Gowen stood in the hall, his face purple as he screamed
profanities at Amarl, but his voice lacked any sort of power to compel
obedience. Either his tak was empty, or Amarl had moved out of range of
the boy’s ability. He clutched a javelin in his right hand and held his rapier
in his left, but with the hallway relatively crowded, he didn’t dare throw.
Amarl paused and gave the boy a dramatic bow, drawing a new scream of
rage, then flashed the hallway a grin before disappearing into the stairwell.
 He paused a floor down to pull on his clothing and straighten his long,
silver hair as best he could before stepping out into the ground floor of the
school. The noise above didn’t carry through the stone floors, so the hall
was thankfully empty when he emerged. It was Akio, the day of rest, the
final day of the eight-day-long week and the only day most students got to
sleep in. He’d been counting on that to let him slip out of the dormitory
undetected in the morning, but he hadn’t anticipated being woken up by
Nolla’s apparently jealous lover. Hells, he hadn’t even known she had a
lover. If he had, he—probably wouldn’t have done anything differently,
really, except that he wouldn’t have stayed the night. After all, he
personally didn’t owe anything to Gowen. The older boy’s issues with
Nolla were just that: their issues.
He passed a few older students as he made his way to the entrance.
Most looked at him curiously but probably assumed he was acting as a
messenger; second-years were often pressed into that duty on Akio, after
all, being experienced enough to know how to find everything and everyone
but not advanced enough that anyone really cared if they missed their rest
day. One student lurched sideways as he passed Amarl, trying to brush into
the younger boy and give himself an excuse to bully or even hit the hizeen,
but Amarl was used to that trick after a year of it and deftly slipped aside,
letting the boy stumble past him.
He emerged more or less unscathed and made his way back to his own
dorm, walking quickly but not running. He knew Gowen wouldn’t let the
perceived insult go, and he didn’t want the boy running him down in the
open. If Gowen attacked him, Amarl would defend himself, but that sort of
thing tended to go wrong for him, and the awals were likely to punish
everyone involved in a fight just to be safe. Fortunately, either Gowen
didn’t pursue or had already run afoul of Baqena’s awal, and Amarl reached
his dormitory without incident.
He climbed the stairs to his room and opened the door quietly, hoping
not to disturb his roommates. He should have known better; after a year of
combat training and the days they all recently spent in the hostile realm of
Isolas, his friends were incredibly light sleepers. Burik was on his feet by
the time the door was opened—his sheet didn’t tangle around him, Amarl
noticed sourly, and the larger, dark-skinned boy stood in a perfect ready
stance, his hands raised and his weight evenly distributed—exactly as
Amarl had hoped to end up when he was rudely awakened. Burik had been
raised in a military family, and he’d always been muscular, but the training
regimen in Askula had hardened those muscles and added more to his wide
frame. Dressed in nothing more than small clothes, he looked like he’d
been chiseled from stone rather than flesh. Not that Amarl was even the
tiniest bit jealous, of course.
Meder was on her feet, as well, one hand stretched out toward Amarl.
He was more worried about the young woman than Burik, to be honest.
While the past year had put muscle on the once-soft noble girl’s frame and
tanned her pale olive skin, it was her abilities with sahr that concerned him.
He knew she could unleash blasts of fire and ice, and he’d seen her shatter
stone with a working. Sahr wasn’t as strong as an ithtar’s abilities,
typically, but Meder seemed to be doing her best to close that difference.
“Whoa, whoa,” he said with a quiet laugh, stepping into the room and
holding his hands out to the side. “It’s just me, guys. Calm down.”
“Amarl,” Burik growled, relaxing his body and rubbing tired eyes. “It’s
Akio. What the hells are you doing up so early?”
“He’s not up early, Burik,” Meder said, lowering her hand and grinning
at the gray-skinned hizeen, brushing her short, black hair back from her
face. “He’s back home late. Aren’t you, Amarl?”
Burik’s annoyed frown spread into a grin. “Really? Are you just
getting back home?”
“Yes,” Amarl sighed, shutting the door behind him and walking over to
his bed.
“Must have been quite a night,” the bigger boy chuckled. “Who was
she?”
“It’s not polite to tell, Burik,” Meder said primly, then smiled. “Unless
it’s us, of course. Who was she?”
“It’s not really much of a secret,” Amarl admitted. “At least, not
anymore. It was Nolla.”
“Nolla? The third-year from Baqena?” Meder’s eyes widened.
“The one with the big…”
 “Burik!” Meder said sharply, cutting the boy off with a frown before
turning to Amarl. “I don’t know if that was a good idea, Amarl.”
“Yeah. So I found out when her—whatever he is burst in on us this
morning.” He lay back on the bed and draped an arm over his eyes with a
sigh. “Made for an exciting start to Akio, believe you me.”
“Did you have to fight him?” Burik asked, sitting back down on his bed
but not laying down.
“No, but it wasn’t for his lack of trying. He tossed a javelin at me, and
then he used his ability on me to try and force me to stay in the room while
the two of them argued.”
“He used his ability on you?” Meder gasped, her eyes going wide. “Oh,
that’s bad, Amarl. He could get expelled for that! Did Awal Sohathat have
to break it up?”
“No, I never saw the awal. Nolla’s roommate…”
“Tefin,” Meder supplied helpfully.
“Okay, Tefin came to see what the racket was, that distracted Gowen,
and I tossed a sheet at his head and ran out into the hallway—where half of
Baqena School was apparently waiting to see me run outside naked.”
“Naked?” Burik exploded with laughter, falling back onto the bed.
“You—you showed—the whole school…”
“Not the whole school, ass. Just part of it.” Amarl couldn’t help but
grin. “Tefin seemed pretty impressed.”
“Down, Amarl. Sit. Stay.” Meder’s voice was tired as she shook her
head. “This is bad, you know. Now, the entire school is going to know
what happened. Gowen’s going to be a laughingstock by the end of the day
—assuming they don’t expel him.”
“They won’t,” Amarl predicted. “First, it’s not likely that anyone’s
going to tell the awal that he used his ability on me, assuming they even
realize he did. It only held me for a second or so, so they might have
thought that he just yelled at me.”
“And even if they know, they won’t say anything unless they have to,”
Burik added. “No one wants to be the one responsible for a student being
expelled. Everyone would hate you.”
 “Exactly. And since no one was hurt, there’s no reason for the awals to
ask awkward questions,” Amarl finished. “So, if the awal even got
involved, they’ll just yell at Nolla and Gowen for disturbing them over a
lover’s quarrel. They don’t have a reason to investigate further.”
“True,” Meder sighed, finally sitting down herself. “You know, Amarl,
you’re going to get into trouble like this someday.”
“Hey, I asked her if she was with anyone,” he protested. “Several
times! She flat-out said no.”
“You actually asked her that?” Burik asked dubiously.
“Well, not exactly like that, no, but we discussed it. And she
specifically said that she wasn’t with anyone!”
“What will Andra say when she hears about this?” Meder asked quietly.
Amarl shrugged. “She’ll probably make fun of me for being naked in
front of half of Baqena.” He lifted one arm and looked over at Meder.
“Andra knows I’m with other people, Meder. So is she. She spent last
Akio with a fourth-year named Dopry. She’s not going to get jealous or
hurt.”
“You still need to be careful. You’ve got enough problems here without
jealous older students coming after you.”
“I don’t really have a choice,” he laughed.
“Of course, you do,” she replied sharply. “You could just, you know,
not go around seducing people! Keep your pants up, and you’ll have a lot
fewer problems like this.”
“No, I can’t. I actually have to. It’s part of my skill training.”
“What?” Her eyes grew wide as she stared at him. “Wait, I thought
you were taking classes in biology, anatomy, and social skills for that!”
“I am.” He sighed and rose to a sitting position. “According to
Povanac, though—my Seduction instructor—once a skill’s as high as mine
is, all that theory won’t advance it. I have to put it to use and figure out
how to make all that knowledge work for me. That means seducing
people.”
“Did it work?” Burik asked. Amarl arched his eyebrow meaningfully,
and Burik snorted. “No, I mean, does it work to boost your skill?”
 “No clue. I just started the practical aspect a couple moons ago. I
haven’t seen a jump yet, but I will say, all that theory is useful. It was a lot
easier getting Nolla to invite me back to her room than I thought it would
be.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” Meder said, waving her hands before her
face and shaking her head. “Not listening to Amarl talk about getting
people into bed!”
“Jealous?” he asked with a grin. She grabbed her pillow and threw it at
his head, and he ducked away with a laugh.
“Hardly. I just want to be able to eat breakfast this morning without
feeling like I’m going to vomit.” She rose to her feet again and went to the
chest at the end of her bed. “And speaking of that…”
“You’re planning to vomit in your footlocker?” Burik asked with mock
concern.
“Hah. Hilarious.” She glared at the taller boy. “You’ve been spending
too much time around Amarl, you know.”
“Or not enough, depending on your point of view,” Amarl suggested.
“No, definitely too much.” She pulled out a set of clothes that weren’t
the normal green uniform. “I meant, speaking of breakfast, since we’re all
already up, we may as well eat and head into the village. We can stop by
Galiber’s and do some shopping. Now that we’re finally going to start
crafting lessons, I want to check out the alchemy components.”
“You’re still set on doing alchemy, then?” Burik asked her.
“Absolutely.” She grinned at the pair as she slipped out of her sleeping
shift and began to pull on her clothing. “I can’t wait for this year to start.”
Amarl smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm, but secretly, he wasn’t so eager.
His first year hadn’t exactly been a warm fling in a soft bed, after all. All
students at Askula got harassed by their upperclassmen—on the orders of
the malims, the instructors of Askula, as it turned out—but as the only non-
naluni to ever join the Ithtaru Order, Amarl got more than his fair share of
abuse. He’d nearly been killed by older students twice, once when his
mouth ran away with him, and once when his classmate Herel paid a third-
year student to beat him while on a hunt and things got out of hand. Herel
himself had nearly ended Amarl’s life by cheating during a sparring match,
and the year ended with Amarl and his classmates heading into another
world for survival training and getting captured by a race of intelligent
insects that wanted to use the students as food.
Of course, things had turned out okay in all those cases, more or less.
His first near-death experience taught him a valuable lesson about mouthing
off to the older students, and that encounter ended with nothing more than
disciplinary duty for everyone involved. When Nihos attacked him and
tried to kill him, though, he’d fought back, rousing his dormant ability and
nearly beating the older student to death. He’d had his companions on that
hunt leave Nihos’ beaten but still living body for the beasts, a decision that
still haunted him, but if the awals knew what he’d done, they seemed
content with the outcome, and he hadn’t been punished for it. Herel, he’d
learned, had been acting under some form of coercion, and once that was
removed, he and the former noble got along well enough. They didn’t like
one another, exactly, but they agreed to just ignore one another as much as
possible.
And, of course, being captured by the assilians—and going back into
their hive alone to rescue Andra—had been the catalyst to finally
awakening part of his ability. On a whim, he pulled up his status screens
and glanced through them, reading through his ability once more.
 Thanks to his bloodline, an utterly pure strain of one of the original
ithtaru, his ability was ranked Tier F, making it potentially hundreds of
times more powerful than a standard Tier A ability. Sadly, it also required
ridiculous amounts of power to work, far more than he could even store,
much less channel into it. Its passive effect had boosted him this past year
—and probably longer, considering how high some of his skills were—
letting him improve his skills and stat at four times the normal rate and
giving him a boost to his stats as needed. He’d tapped it a few times to
survive the past year, and he assumed he’d be doing it again this year but
probably more frequently.
 He closed his screens and began to dress, unable to share in Meder’s
enthusiasm. He had zero hopes that this year would be any better than last.
In fact, he was pretty sure that the way his luck ran, it would be much,
much worse.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 2
Askula Village was too large for the name, by Amarl’s reckoning. He’d
grown up in Tem, a true village with a couple hundred inhabitants, most of
them miners and all but Amarl members of the naluni race, the massively
dominant intelligent species in the Empire. The entire “village” of Tem
existed along a single road, with some homes set farther back and a dozen
or so farms surrounding it. Tem had one blacksmith, one baker, one
chandler, and so on, so anyone who needed anything had a single place to
go to get it.
Askula Village had to have a thousand people living within its walls,
which to Amarl meant that it was a town, not a village. Even the name
suggested it: villages in the Umpratan Empire all had names exactly three
letters long. Cities had six to eight, depending on their size and importance,
and towns had four or five. Of course, the village wasn’t nearly big enough
to be a city, at least in his extremely limited experience. He’d only ever
seen the city of Devald, which he passed through on his way to Askula, but
it was much bigger than the village. Still, the village had three bakers, four
blacksmiths, two goldsmiths—there was actual competition for goods and
services, which to Amarl’s mind made it a town, at least.
The trio of friends passed through the gate in the wall surrounding the
village, a wall that made no sense to Amarl. No one who wasn’t an ithtar
could enter Askula, so who was the wall meant to keep out? Members of
the Order? The four-reach-high wall was tall enough to look imposing, but
Amarl knew several older students who could leap it easily, or even fly
across it. The thick, wooden gates could be sealed with a heavy crossbeam
—and a single ithtar with a strength ability and a hammer or axe or any
student with a fire ability could get through it in no time. Hells, a student
with an earth ability could open a hole in the walls or even collapse them
back onto the people inside. No, walls weren’t a barrier to the Order, just a
minor obstacle at best. That begged the question of why the walls existed,
but Amarl didn’t really care enough to ask anyone who might know.
They stepped into Galiber’s Bakery, their usual first stop, and paused to
enjoy the scents of baking bread and warm pastries that filled the air. A few
students were already in the bakery, but the place was never really packed.
Most of the students preferred to spend the day at the fair, or in the beerhall
or winery. Amarl hoped to visit both of those, as well, but it was too early
for alcohol, at least for him. Besides, he knew he’d probably need the drink
after spending a day shopping with Meder.
“Amarl!” A hearty voice boomed in the quiet bakery, and Amarl looked
past the counter to see Galiber raising a hand in greeting. “Meder! Burik!
My favorite customers!” The pudgy, slightly balding man wore a flour-
covered apron and had more flour covering his upraised hand.
“Any customer who spends money is your favorite one, Galiber,”
Amarl laughed.
“Yes, but since the three of you come in here every Akio, you’re my
most favorite.” Galiber was a friendly, open man who never seemed to
frown—at least not where his customers could see it—and Amarl genuinely
liked him. Plus, while Secosur, one of the other bakers in town, honestly
made better breads in Amarl’s opinion, Galiber’s sweet pastries were
unmatched in the village.
“So, I hear that the three of you graduated,” he said heartily.
“Congratulations!”
“We did,” Meder smiled at the man. “The new term starts tomorrow.
I’m so excited to start crafting lessons!”
“You’ve decided your craft, then?” He grinned at the three. “Let me
see if I can guess what you picked.” He looked thoughtfully at Meder,
rubbing his chin and smearing flour on it unknowingly. “For you, I’m
thinking either engineering or alchemy. Am I right?”
“Alchemy,” she replied brightly. “I’ve wanted to try it for years, but I
never thought I’d actually get to.”
“Expensive craft, but an important one.” He turned to Burik. “You’re
easy. Blacksmithing.”
“Yeah,” the larger boy grinned. “How did you know?”
“You’re built for it, for sure, and you’re fascinated with weapons.” He
chuckled. “Besides, you’ve pestered every smith in town to let you watch
them work, and word spreads.” He turned to Amarl. “Not sure what I see
you doing, boy.”
 Amarl shrugged. “I’m not, either, Galiber. I suppose I’ll figure it out,
though.” He smiled at the man. “Maybe I should try baking.”
“You should!” Galiber laughed easily. “It’s a fine craft, and the world
needs bakers as much as it needs armorers and alchemists—more,
probably!”
The three bought their breakfasts and headed out into the village,
toward the central commons. The weekly fair beckoned them with strains
of bright music and fluttering pennants, and they joined a steadily growing
stream of other students wandering into the village. The passed through a
low, white-painted fence into a large, grassy area ringed with local
merchants and crafters. Some had little more than a table displaying their
wares; others set up entire tents with display cases to show off their goods.
The moment they entered the area, merchants began calling out to them,
urging them to buy their wares. The noise and crowd nearly overwhelmed
Amarl when he’d first come to the fair, but after a year, he was more or less
used to it.
“Stick together, or split up?” Burik asked, looking around at the booths.
“It’s early,” Meder said. “If we split up, we’ll be done before
lunchtime.”
“Stick together it is, then,” Amarl nodded. “Where to first?”
“This way,” Meder gestured toward one of the nearest tables. An older
woman stood behind it, holding out what looked like a long dress and
calling to the girls that passed by. As she saw Meder heading her way, she
smiled and set the fabric down.
“My dear, are you looking for clothing?” the woman asked brightly.
“Yes,” Meder nodded, sliding her fingers along one of the long gowns.
“But not a dress. I’m looking for an outfit for Akio, one I could…”
The next couple hours passed slowly for Amarl, as they usually did. He
had no real interest in the fair, in all honesty. There wasn’t much that he or
any of the students truly needed. The academy provided his clothing and
food, and unlike Meder and Burik, he was perfectly fine wearing his
uniform on Akio. The material was better than the castoffs he’d grown up
wearing in Tem by a large margin, and while the uniform proclaimed him a
novice, nothing he wore was going to offer him any sort of anonymity,
anyway. Even if he or Burik bought weapons, they had no opportunity to
use them, even in training. About the only things that drew his eye were the
food and drink stalls, and those were where the few coins he spent went
each week.
That didn’t mean that the fair was a waste for him, though. His highest-
ranked skills were social ones—Seduction, Deception, and Persuasion—and
the fair was a fantastic training ground for those skills. While the others
searched the wares put before them, Amarl spent his time talking to the
vendors and, more specifically, their assistants. He chatted amiably with
them, befriending those he could and flirting whenever possible. He
learned a great deal about the village that way—and more importantly,
about the assistants’ masters. He learned whose products were what they
said they were, whose weren’t, and who offered the best of everything. He
couldn’t buy much yet, but when it finally made sense for him to, he
planned to get the best possible value for his money.
He stood to the side of a table, watching as a young woman maybe two
summers older than him cut and trimmed the leaves off a tall plant,
collecting them in a wicker basket placed beneath it. The dark green leaves
were small and had jagged, serrated edges that made them look dangerous,
but they fluttered gently into the basket in a way that made him think they
were actually pretty soft and pliable. The woman’s cuts were slow, careful,
and methodical, placed with exacting care using a small pair of gleaming
scissors.
“…be extremely delicate harvesting the leaves of summer’s grace,” the
woman spoke in a low, almost hushed voice as she worked. She pointed
with the scissors to a bulge in the stalk connecting a leaf to the main plant.
“See this? It acts like a valve, keeping the sap from flowing backward
down into the main stem. That’s how it can get so tall.”
“Do trees have something like that, then?” he asked curiously.
She laughed softly. “No, trees use a whole other mechanism to carry
nutrients into the crown, but they’re also a lot more advanced than
summer’s grace. It’s a pretty primitive plant, and most of its cousins died
out over time because they couldn’t compete with the tall grasses for
sunlight and the attention of pollinators. It survived because of this
adaptation, but it’s not enough to let it really thrive. That makes it pretty
rare.”
She laid the scissors on the leaf stalk, placing them carefully in the
center of the bulge. “See, the trick is to cut right in the middle of the valve.
That keeps sap and water from leaking out of the leaf.”
“Couldn’t you just cut right below it to get the same effect?”
“Yes, but then sap leaks out of the main plant, which can cause wilting
and make the rest of the leaves on the plant unsuitable for harvesting for at
least a week.” She closed the scissors gently. “But if you cut right down
the middle…” The scissors came together, and a leaf floated delicately to
the basket below. The cut stalk glistened wetly, but Amarl noticed that
nothing seemed to be leaking out of it. The woman smiled. “Then you can
harvest as much as you need without damaging the plant. It’s all about
taking your time and being slow and careful.”
“That’s impressive,” he smiled at the woman as he squatted down to
examine a leaf without touching it. “You’ve obviously worked hard to get
good at this.”
She returned his smile and blushed slightly. “I try. Master Kenorig is
much more knowledgeable, though. He can tell you all about these things if
you’re interested.”
“Yes, but then I’d be taking him away from customers.” He waved
toward the main table, where Meder and an older man with hair going silver
argued back and forth about what looked to Amarl like pieces of grass. He
gave the girl beside him a direct look. “Besides, you’re much more
pleasant to talk with—and to be around.”
She blushed again, lowering her chin and looking up at him through her
eyelashes. “Are you really interested in herbology?” she asked with slight
hesitation.
“Yes,” he replied with total honesty. “I’m supposed to choose a crafting
skill this year, and I have no idea what I’ll pick. I figure, the more I know
about each of them, the better a decision I can make.” He paused
deliberately before reaching out and laying a hand on her forearm, lightly
touching her to establish a connection without being too forward while
giving her an easy way to reject his touch by simply moving her arm out of
the way. When she allowed his fingers to rest against her skin, he silently
exulted.
“However, I have to admit, I also wanted to spend some time getting to
know you,” he said in a deeper voice, leaning slightly toward her. “Maybe
sometime, we could get together for a drink, and you could tell me more
about herbology—and about yourself…”
The girl’s eyes suddenly widened in alarm a fraction of a second before
something grabbed the back of Amarl’s uniform and yanked, hauling him
off his feet. He felt himself flung backward, and as he fell, his reflexes
kicked in. He rolled with the movement, flipping over his shoulder and
landing in a crouch, then dove backward again. He was glad he did as a
foot sailed through the space where his head would have been. He
scrambled to his feet, settling his body into the base position of Water Form
in case he was attacked again, and finally got a glimpse of his attacker.
“Gowen,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head. “Seriously?”
“Did you think I’d let this go, you—you—half-breed?” The older boy
stood in a ready stance of his own, one from a form Amarl didn’t
recognize. He wore the same clothing he had earlier in the day, and his
dark brown hair looked rumpled and tousled. His eyes were wide and
furious, and one of them sported a reddened lump that would probably
become a bruise by the end of the day. Amarl had to work to keep a grin off
his face; it looked like not only had Gowen not made peace with Nolla, but
she’d given him the makings of a splendid black eye—one that, sadly,
would probably be healed and vanished in a day thanks to the accelerated
healing all ithtaru possessed.
“I kind of hoped so, yeah,” Amarl finally said.
“Then you’re an idiot as well as a filthy mongrel!” the older boy hissed,
the sound loud in the sudden silence surrounding them.
“Look, Gowen,” Amarl said, lowering his hands and relaxing from his
stance, “you don’t want to do this. Not really.”
“Oh, but I do,” Gowen practically purred.
“Are you sure?” Amarl gestured at the crowd surrounding them. “You
want to start a fight with a student from a lower year without any
provocation—in front of all these people?”
 Gowen glanced around and suddenly looked unsure, but while he didn’t
attack, he didn’t drop from his stance, either. “You have to pay for what
you’ve done, mongrel,” he said, his voice somewhat less menacing.
Amarl shook his head. “Your problem isn’t with me, Gowen. It’s with
Nolla, and this won’t fix it. It’ll probably make it worse, in fact.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed, and his body relaxed as he fully moved into
his stance. Amarl shifted his weight, ready to counter an attack, but before
Gowen could strike, another figure broke from the crowd and moved
toward the pair. The new student was female, as tall as the older boy but far
more heavily muscled, and moved with the unconscious grace of a skilled
fighter. She stepped between the pair, facing the older boy with her hands
outstretched.
“Gowen, don’t be a fool,” she said in a voice that was higher and
thinner than Amarl had expected from such a large person.
“Robla, this half-breed…” Gowen began, but the girl gave him no
chance to speak.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re already on unsteady ground with Awal
Sohathat after that fiasco this morning. You want to get banned from
hunting? Stuck mucking stables every morning for the next three moons?”
She leaned closer. “Expelled?”
The boy’s face blanched, and he lowered his hands. “Fine,” he said.
He looked past the girl’s shoulder at Amarl and pointed a finger. “This isn’t
over, half-breed!”
As Gowen turned and stalked off, the crowd parting to let him pass,
Amarl heaved a sigh of relief and looked at the newcomer. “Hey, thanks for
stepping in. I appreciate…” He broke off as the girl pivoted swiftly and
stood in front of him, towering over him with her face a span or so away.
He forced himself not to take an unconscious step backward and instead
met her eyes calmly.
“Shut the fuck up, you disgusting half-breed,” the girl growled
threateningly. “I didn’t do it for you. I’d have happily let Gowen beat the
shit out of you. In fact, if it weren’t for the fucking awals…” Her fists
clenched, and Amarl moved into his stance once more, not that he was sure
it would matter. As well as the girl moved, he didn’t know if his passive
ability would be of much use except to hopefully let him survive a beating.
“Is there a problem, here, Robla?”
Amarl almost let out a sigh of relief at the familiar voice that spoke over
his shoulder and risked a glance around. Meder stood to his right, her face
hard and her fingers dancing as she apparently prepared a sahr working.
Burik had appeared to his left and behind the girl, his body loose and his
weight balanced as he readied himself to use his Military Boxing form.
Best of all, Andra stood behind him, her arms crossed over her chest and
her face deceptively calm.
The girl didn’t look all that dangerous, standing only as tall as Amarl
with a muscled but slight frame, her light brown hair pulled back from her
light-skinned face in a ponytail. Robla, though, stiffened and took a step
back as she saw the smaller student. Most other students walked carefully
around Andra; her ability was ranked at the high end of Tier C, making it
significantly stronger than most, and it was hard to counter. The girl could
slow her enemies’ passage through time, making them not only move and
react but actually think and perceive more slowly.
“Nothing that concerns you, Andra,” Robla said cautiously. “Just
talking to the hizeen, here.”
“He’s a friend of mine, so I’d say it concerns me,” Andra said easily,
moving to stand slightly in front of Amarl, forcing both the boy and Robla
back a step.
The bigger girl’s eyes narrowed. “You know, I’ve always wondered if
you’re as good as everyone says you are. Might be interesting to find out.”
“I’d be happy to show you, Robla, anytime you’d like to meet at Halit.
You won’t like it, but that’s your problem, not mine.” Andra’s face went
flat, and her voice lowered so that only Amarl and Robla could hear it.
“Unless you want to make it my problem, Robla. Say, by threatening my
friends—the way Nihos did.”
Robla’s eyes widened, and her face paled as she took another step
back. “You—you—did you just admit…?”
“I didn’t say anything, Robla. I just pointed out that people who
threaten my friends sometimes have bad things happen to them, that’s all. I
wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” Andra stepped closer, and the
larger girl moved backward, her eyes wide. “Would you?”
Robla blinked and looked at Amarl with a sneer. “You’re not worth the
trouble, half-breed,” she snarled before turning and stomping away.
“Thanks, Andra,” Amarl sighed, then winced as the girl’s hand slapped
the back of his skull. Andra was a newly raised fourth-year and was one of
the most skilled fighters in all of Askula, and the blow struck with a loud
crack that made his ears ring for a second.
“Don’t thank me, idiot,” she said, shaking her head. “You deserve to
get your ass beat. Part of me wants to find Gowen and suggest that he take
this to Halit just to teach you a lesson.”
“What did Amarl do?” Burik asked as he walked closer. “He was just
talking to the flower girl…”
“Do you really want me to answer that question, Burik?” Andra said
dryly. She looked around at the crowd, who still stared at them. “Come
on. None of us are going to get any shopping done for at least a couple
hours. Let’s head to Sasofit’s and grab a beer or three. First one’s on me.”
She gave Amarl a hard look. “Second round’s on you as a reminder to keep
it in your damn pants.”
Sasofit’s Alehouse was crowded, as usual, but it was early enough that
the four managed to get a high table together. Burik and Amarl both
ordered a beer, while Meder chose a glass of red wine, and Andra chose the
house ale. After their drinks came, the older girl gave Amarl a withering
look.
“Nolla? Really?” she asked.
“Don’t blame me,” he said innocently. “She seduced me with her
wiles.”
Andra snorted and rolled her eyes. “We both know it wasn’t her wiles
that seduced you.” She took a sip of her ale. “I’ll admit that the girl’s got
tits for days, but it was still stupid to lay with someone who’s seeing a
fourth-year.”
“Amarl didn’t know that, though,” Meder said quickly. “He said that
Nolla told him she was available.”
 “Oh, she is available. That’s the problem. She’s far too available.”
The older girl took another sip of her ale.
“Really, now?” Burik said thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “Just how
available is she?”
“Shut up, Burik.”
“Seriously, Andra, I did ask her about it,” Amarl protested. “She didn’t
mention Gowen once.”
“Nolla’s a ridiculous flirt, Amarl,” she sighed. “She’s famous for using
her—assets to manipulate people, getting her way with vague promises that
she doesn’t bother to keep. She’s been stringing Gowen along for a year
that way, making him believe that they’re an item when really, she just likes
having a fourth-year cater to her whims.”
“Wait, you mean they aren’t actually sleeping together?” Amarl asked.
“Not from what Nolla says. I guess she expected him to get frustrated
and give up at some point, but instead, he fell for her, and he’s convinced
that she’s saving herself for him. Or, I guess, he was—until this morning,
when he walked in to find the girl he thought was waiting for the perfect
moment with him in bed with someone else.”
Amarl winced. “Shit,” he muttered as he realized that Gowen wasn’t
about to simply let the matter slide. “I didn’t know any of that.”
“You should have,” Meder said a little primly.
“Just because you happen to know everyone’s gossip, Meder, doesn’t
mean the rest of us want to,” he replied a little irritably.
“Not unless they’re planning to try to lay with half the girls in the
academy,” she snapped back. “Then, knowing a little gossip might help.”
“Actually, I have to agree with Meder, here,” Burik said slowly.
“Knowledge is the key to victory in any battle, Amarl. My mother always
says, ‘Half of warfare is knowing your enemy’.”
“What’s the other half?” Amarl asked with a tight grin.
“She never says,” he shrugged.
“Using that knowledge, of course,” Meder replied. “What point is there
to knowing your enemy if you don’t act on that knowledge?”
 “Damn. That’s probably exactly right.” Burik shook his head. “I spent
years trying to figure that out, Meder.”
“I don’t know that I’d called seduction a battle, exactly,” Andra grinned,
“but the principles hold. Especially in a place like Askula, where you can’t
just avoid problems you’ve created. Knowledge is everything.”
“Okay, point taken,” Amarl sighed. “I admit, I screwed up. Now, I
have to figure out how to make it right.”
“I don’t think you can, Amarl. Best thing you can do is avoid Gowen
and Robla as much as possible—and stay away from Nolla. Let things
calm down on their own.” She took another drink from her ale, finishing
the last of it, hesitating as she did. “And the worst part is, I won’t be here to
help you much this year.”
“You won’t?” he echoed, his face mirroring his confusion. “Why not?”
“From fourth year on up, the top five students in each class get assigned
special duties, where they’re apprenticed to a full ithtar out in the empire,”
she sighed. “That means that in a moon or so, I’ll be leaving Askula for the
better part of the year.” She gave him a hard look. “You’ll be on your own,
so keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your cock covered.”
“He’ll only be able to do that first one,” Burik predicted. “I’ve never
seen him do the other two.”
“Then he’ll learn the hard way.” She shook her head. “You don’t
understand, Amarl. Your ability’s quickened, now—at least, partially—
which means a lot of the rules about older students leaving you alone go
right out the window. It’s still frowned on for an older student to beat a
younger one, but if you’ve both got access to your abilities, as long as it
happens out of sight and everyone can walk away from it, the awals don’t
do much about it. After all, with your ability awakened, you’ll heal
anything short of death in a few days.”
“Shit,” Amarl sighed, slamming back a large gulp of his ale. “Well, that
promises to be fun.”
“It just means you need to learn to use your ability,” Meder pointed
out. “If you can control it, there won’t be many people who can really hurt
you, even in the upper classes.”
 “She’s right,” Andra nodded. “I watched you beat an assilian queen to
death, Amarl. Compared to that, Gowen and Robla are nothing—assuming
that you can use your ability when you need to.”
“Can you help me with that?” he asked quickly, but she shook her head
again.
“Nope, sorry. Everyone’s ithtu is different. Don’t worry, though.
You’ll all be learning more about abilities this year, and Amarl, you’ll
probably start exercises designed to help you control and strengthen
yours.” She winced. “They aren’t fun, but they do work, and once you’ve
got It in hand, you should be able to handle your own problems.” She took
another drink, and the table lapsed into silence for several seconds.
“Looks like there’s another batch of candidates in the village,” Meder
observed eventually, lifting her chin off to the side. Amarl looked over and
saw a group of several young people sitting around a pair of tables, staring
around in awe and fear. The potentials had broken up into two groups by
caste; the obviously well-dressed zahai and shalai at one table, the poorer
akorai, tagarai, and umanai at another. They sat in silence, sipping at drinks
that they didn’t have to pay for and watching the crowd of students and
instructors almost reverently.
“There’ll be a Joining tonight,” Andra sighed. “And since it’s a
Naming Day Joining, we’ll all have to attend.”
“Wait, students attend the Joining ceremonies?” Meder asked. “I didn’t
know that.”
“Second-years and above, and only the Naming Day one each year.
Well, except fifth-years; they have to attend all of them.” Andra
shuddered. “I’m not looking forward to that next year.”
“Great,” Amarl said darkly. “I’ve got a pair of fourth-years hating me,
Andra’s going to be gone most of the year, and tonight we have to watch
people die.” He finished off his beer and set the mug on the table with
more force than was strictly necessary, then gave Meder a sour look. “Still
can’t wait for this year to start?”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 3
Amarl groaned as he rose from his bed in the early hours of Shimio, the
first day of the week. His head pounded, his mouth was cottony and dry,
and the dim light filtering in through the windows was far too bright. The
two matching groans that came from his friends as they rose as well
provided only slight comfort to the hangover he suffered.
Their first night in Askula, all three students had gone to bed
staggeringly drunk and woke up the next morning feeling like hell. They’d
struggled through their classes, especially physical training—exactly as the
awals intended, Amarl was certain. All three of them had resolved to drink
lightly indeed at the Joining the night before. That resolution lasted right up
until the actual Joining began.
To join the Order, a person had to have enough of the blood of one of
the original ithtaru in their veins to be able to see and interact with ithtu.
Most naluni—and almost all non-naluni beside Amarl, apparently—lacked
a pure enough bloodline to even perceive ithtu crystals, and that meant they
could never wield the power of an ithtar. Ithtaru went through the Empire
each year, directed by some sort of detection ability or working that Amarl
didn’t understand, and found all those children between their fourteenth and
fifteenth Naming Days who had that potential, then brought them to Askula
in groups every three moons whether they liked it or not.
However, just having the potential wasn’t enough to join the Order.
Each student had to bond with a Joining crystal that gave them access to
their status and the ability to track their growth and advancement. To do so,
the potential was held down on a stone altar and had the crystal driven into
their heart like a knife. Needless to say, this wasn’t particularly healthy for
the victim—in fact, it was universally fatal. Every ithtar in the Order died
to join it. Only those who returned from death by having their souls bond
to the Joining crystal became students in Askula. The rest failed, either
never awakening from death or perishing during the agonizing bonding
process.
Amarl had seen a lot in the past year, and he thought that the Joining
wouldn’t bother him. He was terribly wrong. He watched in horror as the
first trembling, terrified student was led to the altar and held down by four
ithtaru. He could do nothing but stare silently as Ranakar, his mentor and
instructor, plunged the crystal into the screaming, crying girl’s chest with a
spurt of blood and an agonized shriek. He stood, rooted in terror as her
eyes snapped back open and her body convulsed and shook as she bawled
in pain. The smell of urine and feces plunged into his nostrils as she lost
control of her body, and when she finally fell still, her horrified and
despairing sobs echoed through a vast silence. She was one of the lucky
ones; she lived through the procedure. She wouldn’t agree at that moment,
Amarl knew.
He thought he’d put his Joining behind him, but seeing this brought the
memories screaming back into his mind. He remembered the abject terror
he felt as he waited for his name to be called—last, of course, since the
Joining of the only ever non-naluni was a spectacle of sorts. He recalled the
numb fear in which he walked to the altar, blind to the crowd of ithtaru and
students around him. The panic he felt as they lifted him and set him on the
stone bier, as he saw the crystal held high above him, burned brightly and
clearly in his mind. He remembered the agony of the Joining afterward and
the shame of realizing he’d soiled himself before a crowd with keen clarity.
A single glance at his friends’ faces showed him that they, too, were lost
in their own remembrances of that awful night. Their faces were pale, their
eyes wide, their jaws set. Meder wrapped her arms beneath her breasts and
tapped her fingers against her sides, as she often did when she was afraid or
worried. Burik stood perfectly straight, his fists clenching and
unclenching. They each recalled that night, and he could read his own
horror on their faces. And they weren’t alone; other second-years stood
nearby in similar states of dismay, horror, and sickness. His three
classmates Herel, Hadur, and Norag stood in a group several reaches away,
and he read the same pain he felt on their faces. Even the older students he
saw watched in silent misery.
Eleven children walked or were dragged to the altar that night. Five
never rose from it. He could only watch in horror as Ranakar dug into their
chests to retrieve the crystal they failed to bond, and a pair of ithtaru
dragged their corpse down to the wharf jutting into Agheeral’s Deep. The
body was tossed onto a waiting wooden barge, which eventually was
doused with oil, set ablaze, and pushed into the lake to burn and sink to the
depths. Part of him wanted to close his eyes or turn away, but he couldn’t;
some part of him had to watch in terrible fascination.
When the Joining ended and the rainbow-robed Rashiv, head of the
academy, gave a welcoming speech to the new candidates, Amarl and his
friends headed for the beer kegs with a purpose. Their resolve to drink
sparingly shattered in the face of that nightmare, and they drank steadily
through the night, trying to drown the memories of their entrance to
Askula. They weren’t alone; Herel and his friends seemed to have the same
purpose, and even Andra and the other older students consumed far more
than was good for them.
Amarl recalled his first morning in Askula, when a second-year
accosted Herel, Hadur, and Norag for sitting at the wrong tables, giving
Hadur a fattened lip in the process. He’d thought back then that they were
simply bullies, waiting for the chance to jump all over the younger
students. Now, he wasn’t so sure that was the case. If those students had
been forced to watch the Joining the night before—probably for the first or
maybe the second time ever—they likely felt as shitty as he did at that
moment, with the memories still fresh in his mind and a headache that
pounded inside his skull. Fortunately, he and the others had spent enough
time in Sasofit’s over the last year that their hangovers weren’t nearly as
bad as they could be, but he still wasn’t looking forward to the morning’s
training.
They dressed slowly, not bothering to shower since they were going to
start the morning with exercises, and headed to the mess hall for breakfast.
Amarl loaded up his plate with mostly pastries and a small helping of
bacon, then grabbed a mug of juice and followed the others to a table. For
the first time, the group bypassed the beaten, battered, and stained tables
closer to the kitchen—the realm of the first-years—and headed for the
territory of the second-years.
“This is pretty nice,” Burik observed as they sat down. He reached out
and touched the tabletop, giving it a gentle shake. “Look, the whole thing’s
not about to fall apart.”
“And my chair doesn’t wobble,” Amarl agreed. “So fancy!”
“You’re both idiots,” Meder sighed, rubbing her temples. She took a
sip of her drink—she’d chosen water—then motioned toward the door.
“Here come the new first-years.”
Amarl glanced over and saw three students in brand-new green
uniforms venturing slowly and cautiously into the mess hall. They talked
quietly amongst themselves before joining the line of students waiting for
food. Amarl had seen the same sight several times in the past year—every
three moons, in fact, when new groups of students came in—but having
watched the newbies go through the Joining the night before added a new
element to it. Before, he’d always felt a kinship with the new groups. They
were first-years, and so were he and his friends. Now, though, he felt
disconnected from them, as if watching the ceremony made them seem less
like potential friends and classmates and more like strangers. He watched
impassively as the trio moved to a table that had deliberately been left
empty for them, and he didn’t react when Palet, one of the older second-
years, screamed at them for daring to sit at the wrong table. He simply
watched with the rest of the mess hall, not even considering intervening.
“It’s amazing how much you can change in a year,” Meder sighed,
picking at her food and looking away from the display as she echoed
Amarl’s thoughts. “A year ago, I promised myself that when I was in
second year, I would stand up for the newbies. And here I am, letting this
happen.”
“It’s not like you could stop it,” Burik pointed out. “You’d just get
yourself in trouble for trying.”
“Maybe, but that’s not the reason.” She looked back at the table. “Last
year, I assumed that the older students were just bullies who liked to push
younger students around. I’ve talked to Palet a few times before, though,
and he’s actually decent. This is just—an act, I guess. Something that he
has to do as a senior second-year.”
“It’s to help awaken our abilities,” Amarl said in a quiet voice that
didn’t leave the table. “At least, that’s what the Rashiv said. Ithtu responds
to our needs, so they give us the need to protect ourselves hoping that it
awakens our abilities faster.”
“That makes a terrifying amount of sense,” she sighed again.
“Assuming that it works, of course.”
“It did for Amarl, didn’t it?” Burik asked quietly. “He almost died, and
his ability woke up, at least a little bit.”
 “That’s true.” She made a face. “I’ll say this, though. I don’t care
what the reason is. I won’t treat them like that. I can’t.”
Amarl nodded but didn’t say anything. He knew that Meder was
sincere, and he didn’t want to point out that she might not be given a
choice. He knew Palet a bit, as well, and she was right. The older boy
wasn’t a bad sort, which meant that he’d probably been told to behave this
way. If a malim or awal ordered Meder to harass the younger students,
she’d have to do it or risk punishment. Hopefully, none of them would
have to find out which choice they’d make in that case.
They finished their food and walked outside, where they joined a larger
group of second-years for the first half of the morning’s exercise, physical
training. Their first year, they’d had this class more or less to themselves,
but Amarl supposed that was necessary. Except for Burik, they’d all been
in awful condition at first, and putting them with even other, more advanced
first-years would have been too much for them. That wasn’t the case
anymore, though; even the least fit of them, Hadur, could run for miles
without stopping and exercise for an hour straight.
A woman in the white robes of a nadar, a junior instructor, stood before
the group. She looked as hard and tough as any ithtara, her dark brown hair
cut short just below her ears and a faint scar marring her chin. She stood a
full reach tall, taller than Amarl but not as tall as Burik, and lean muscle
rippled beneath the skin of her exposed arms. She swept a flat gaze across
the group, and the students fell silent instantly.
“Ny name is Nadar Tautibal,” she said in a loud, clear voice that carried
through the morning air. “I’ve been dragged here from my own
responsibilities to train you all this year. I’m not happy about it, which
means none of us are going to be happy.” Amarl wasn’t the only one
among the students to wince at her proclamation. A pissed-off nadar wasn’t
something any of them looked forward to.
“Every nadar in this role tells you the same thing your first year,” she
continued. “All they ask is that you do your best, and they’ll be happy.”
She stopped, and if anything, her gaze hardened even more. “I’m not
them. I won’t blow sunshine up your asses. The simple fact is, your best
isn’t good enough. If it were, you wouldn’t need this training. I will
demand more than your best, and you will give it to me, or I will make this
year misery for you. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am!” The response rose instantly from two dozen throats, all
trained to answer at once.
“It isn’t, not yet. It will be, though.” She smiled, and Amarl felt a chill
run down his back at the sight of her cold expression.
“We’ll start our morning with a nice, leisurely run, three times around
the Citadel,” she announced. “I’ll give you all five minutes head start, and
then I’ll come after you. If I catch you…” She reached behind her and
pulled out a leather riding crop. She slapped it into the palm of her open
hand with a smack, and several students jumped at the sound. “Let’s just
say that you really, really don’t want me to catch you. Now, GO!”
Amarl took off running, with Burik and Meder at his side. He set his
normal pace for distance running, but a quick remembrance of the snap of
the crop striking the woman’s hand spurred him forward, and he set a
slightly swifter pace, one that he thought he could maintain but that would
leave him exhausted at the end of the run. The others stayed with him
through the first lap of the Citadel, until they heard a loud snap and a
scream echo behind them. At that point, they all sped up, and Burik moved
ahead—the larger boy was a better runner than either Amarl or Meder.
Meder kept up with Amarl for most of the second lap before falling back;
her Running skill was only at level 2, and her Toughness stat was 4.9,
significantly below either of the boys’. Amarl’s heart hammered in his
chest, and he gasped for breath, but he didn’t slow—the sound of Tautibal’s
lash and an occasional shout of pain behind him kept his feet moving when
his lungs screamed for mercy.
At last, he completed his third lap and staggered back to the start. His
head swam, and stars floated before his eyes. He sucked in shuddering
breaths, and his legs wobbled beneath him. He wanted to fall to his knees
or even lay down, but he knew that his body would recover faster if he kept
moving, and if he lay down, his muscles might stiffen. He walked around,
his hands atop his head, trying to control his breathing as best he could as
his heart thumped in his chest like it was trying to leap out of his body. A
third of the students had already finished ahead of him, and only a few
looked in reasonably good shape—Burik among them—while the rest
appeared to be no better off than he was.
“Well, that was an interesting start to the day,” Burik said, walking up
beside Amarl. The taller boy’s shirt was sweat soaked, but he otherwise
looked to be more or less recovered from his run already.
“Not…how I’d…put it,” Amarl gasped, trying to slow his hammering
heart. “More…like…shitty.”
Burik chuckled. “The riding crop seems a bit much,” he admitted.
“Heck of a motivator, though. I haven’t seen you sucking wind this badly
since early last year.”
“Shut up…and let me…breathe,” Amarl huffed. “Army…asshole.”
Burik laughed but let Amarl catch his breath over the next minute.
Meder staggered in a couple minutes later, dropping to her hands and knees,
coughing and gagging as she fought to keep in her breakfast. Amarl and
Burik stayed close but didn’t offer to help; they knew the best thing they
could do for her was to pretend they saw nothing. Norag stumbled in
behind her, his round face pale and dripping sweat. He managed to stay on
his feet, his hands resting on his knees as he sucked in deep, rasping
breaths. Thirty seconds later, Tautibal joined them, her face slightly flushed
and sweaty but her breathing even as she spoke.
“Good,” she said looking around at the students. “Some of you actually
know how to run. Congratulations. As a reward, you can keep running
until everyone else finishes. No point in letting those muscles cool down, is
there?”
Amarl groaned but set off again on a fourth lap of the huge Citadel, this
time at a more normal pace for him. At least, until he heard the nadar shout,
“And this time, you’ve only got two minutes before I chase you!” He
groaned as he forced himself to speed up once again. He caught up to the
slowest of the group halfway around and winced as he neared them.
Tautibal hadn’t been joking about the crop; each of the three students he
neared had a slash in the back of their uniform, two on their back and one
on their thigh, beneath which a sweaty, red welt could be seen.
As he neared them, he gathered enough breath to croak out, “The
nadar’s on her way!”
 “Shit!” He didn’t know which of them spoke, but all three sped up,
obviously eager not to feel her lash once more.
He finished his fourth lap just in time to be sent to run one more, and
when he finished, his head swam and spun dizzyingly. Stars flashed in his
eyes, and everything seemed too bright. He dropped to his knees, gasping
for breath that wouldn’t seem to come fast enough. Beside him, Burik
stood bent over, his hands on his hips, looking wiped himself. In fact, only
three of the students looked to have recovered, and the instructor sent those
three out for a final lap, this time setting off to chase them after only a
minute. All three arrived back at the start dripping sweat, gasping for
breath, and with Tautibal running right on their heels. They all staggered
and nearly fell, and the woman nodded with a gratified look.
“A decent start,” she said approvingly. “Here’s how this goes. Each
week, I take a little time off the head start—and hit a little harder. Next
semester, I’ll be running faster and using a bronze-tipped crop. You’ll be
better by then, or you’ll bleed for your weakness.” She flashed them a
wicked grin that none of them returned.
“Now that the warm-up’s done, let’s go start the actual training! On
your feet; we’re running to Sitjak! Time for weight training!”
Amarl couldn’t help but groan as he staggered erect, hearing similar
sounds from most of the other students. Burik and Meder fell in beside him
as the three of them jogged toward the distant weapons training center.
They ran in silence, all three too winded to speak, and Amarl noticed at
least a half-dozen of the students collapse mid-run, exhausted beyond their
body’s ability to function. Hadur was one of those; the boy had never been
as fit as his classmates, and he’d been the only one of them to pass out the
first day of training. Amarl didn’t honestly care if the former son of a
merchant kept up or not, but he didn’t really want the boy to get lashes—or
more of them, judging from the two rips he already had in his shirt—just for
being one of the physically weakest members of the class.
The next hour passed in a sea of misery. Tautibal broke the class up
into groups based on how they’d run and spread them out in different
exercises. Amarl and Meder were both in the middle group with Norag,
Herel and Hadur were in the bottom group, and Burik, of course, was in the
top group. The nadar worked every muscle in their bodies. They
shouldered heavy bags filled with sand and carried them forward and
backward, up and down stairs; they hefted round rocks across sandy pits
and stacked them in pyramids, only to move them back to where they
started; they jumped in and out of knee-high pools of water carrying metal
rods across their shoulders.
The nadar moved through the groups, calling out corrections and
reinforcing her words with a crack of her crop to the offending body part.
When people seemed to be doing too well, she added more weight or
difficulty to the exercise; when they seemed unable to complete another lift
or jump, she encouraged them with her voice and a snap of the whip to their
backside. Amarl’s muscles trembled and burned by the end of the exercise,
and even Burik stumbled frequently on the run back to the dormitory.
“That was just slightly better than pathetic!” Tautibal finally shouted
when the last stragglers dragged themselves back to the starting point.
“Today, you gave me your best—and as you saw, it wasn’t good enough!
You will do better, or you’ll feel pain! Is that understood?”
The “yes, ma’am” that rose from the students was far slower, quieter,
and more hesitant than the first one they’d given her that morning, but she
merely laughed in response.
“Now, I believe you. Dismissed!” She hesitated. “Oh, and I believe
your next class is weapons training back at Sitjak in fifteen minutes. I
suggest you all run there if you don’t want to be late.”
As the students rose wearily for their feet and stumbled back the way
they’d just come, Meder fell into step beside Amarl.
“I so hate you right now,” she huffed, her steps far more plodding than
normal.
“Me?” he said, surprised. “What did I do?”
“A year ago in physical training, you said, ‘One day, we’ll look back at
this and think it was easy.’ Damn you for being right. That was a walk in
the park. This is the spirits’ hell.”
“I’m too tired to say, ‘I told you so,’” he replied heavily. “Remind me
to say it later.”
“And remind me to punch you for saying it, once my arms start
working again,” she moaned. “By the way, I changed my mind. I’m no
longer excited for this year.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 4
The realm of Askula was little more than a huge valley, a bowl-shaped
depression surrounded by tall, grey mountains that filled every horizon.
The center of that bowl rose slightly, and the Citadel occupied that central
rise, dominating the landscape. Fields and pastures surrounded the Citadel
in every direction, and beyond those, the land rose sharply into the circle of
mountains that clawed at the pink-hued sky above. Amarl had grown up
next to mountains, and he knew that normal mountains rose slowly from the
landscape, starting as foothills that grew and swelled into a true range. The
mountains of Askula simply were; the flat fields and plains ended abruptly
in walls of granite that rose like jagged teeth from the soil. He suspected
that the mountains weren’t precisely natural, but he couldn’t imagine any
force, working of sahr, or ability powerful enough to create actual
mountains from flat ground.
Sitjak, like the other training centers, hid inside a pocket valley among
those mountains. A flat stone road led from the Citadel’s main entrance to
the training center, curling around a mountain and spreading out into a flat
valley of hard stone and fine gravel. Again, Amarl knew from experience
that most mountain valleys had been carved out by water and sloped down
to either that source or the dry bed where it once ran, but Sitjak’s valley
looked like someone took part of the mountain range and plucked it out,
leaving the flat bedrock behind. Nothing before him looked like it could
have been an old riverbed or even a lake bottom, and once more, he
suspected it wasn’t a natural valley.
Sitjak wasn’t a single building. Instead, a complex of one-story
structures in various shapes ringed the outside of the valley, leaving the
inside open for dozens of training rings and archery or firing ranges. Amarl
knew that most buildings focused on a specific type of weapon, but the
class had spent all of the previous year in the same one, learning the most
basic skills with knives, unarmed combat, and one or two other weapons.
He hadn’t even been inside most of the buildings, although he knew from
listening to the older students—and Meder, who was an endless well of
information—that the long, low buildings were meant for ranged weapons
and the taller ones for long polearms and spears.
 “What do you think will be different about weapons training this year?”
Burik asked quietly as the trio slowed to a walk, following the other, older
second-years past the buildings and into the main courtyard in the center of
the complex.
“Specialized training,” Meder answered immediately, looking around at
the buildings. “From what I hear, this year, they start us off training with
the other students using the same weapons, instead of keeping us all
together.”
“That’ll be nice,” Burik said, cracking his knuckles and shaking his
hands out.
“Or a nightmare,” Amarl said with a snort. “A bunch of older students
with free rein to beat us senseless with training weapons? Yeah, I can’t see
how that might go wrong.”
“They might want to beat you senseless,” Burik laughed. “Meder and I
should be fine. Besides, I need a real challenge if I’m going to grow my
skills, and that means fighting older students.”
“What, we’re not good enough for you?” Meder asked in a hurt voice,
her hand pressed to her chest.
“You really want me to answer that question?”
She made a face. “Amarl makes you work to win.”
“He does, but I still win. I need to find someone who can beat me
regularly and work to catch up to them.”
“You should join my training with Ranakar,” Amarl said tiredly. “Trust
me, he’ll beat you as often as you’d like—or as much as he thinks you need
it, which will probably be a lot more than you like. It’s great training if you
don’t mind stab wounds, bone fractures, and occasionally being knocked
unconscious.”
“Sounds perfect to me. I want to get halberds to level six at least this
year, and that means I’ve got to be pushed.”
“Not me,” Meder said with a shudder. “I’m fine with regular training,
thanks. I’ve seen Amarl’s bruises after Ranakar is done with him.”
“Bruises build character, Meder.”
 “If that were true, Amarl wouldn’t be so—Amarl,” she snorted, flashing
the hizeen a grin.
“Hey, I’ve got character,” Amarl protested with a laugh. “It’s just all
bad.”
The trio joined the crowd of second-years, moving around until they
could see their soon-to-be instructor. To Amarl’s surprise, the man facing
them wore the gray uniform of the malims, the full-time instructors at the
academy. Typically, the students of Sabila received their instruction from
nadars who were just ithtaru rotated out of their duties in the Empire for six
moons to a year of teaching in the academy. The malims, ithtaru who no
longer went on missions and only taught classes, usually only instructed the
higher-ranked students who needed more specialized and advanced lessons.
He wondered if the malim would actually be their instructor, or if he was
just there to break them up into groups.
“Fall into ranks!” Although the malim was short, standing a couple
finger-widths taller than Amarl, his voice boomed over the group of
students like a clap of thunder. Amarl reflexively moved to stand beside
Meder, his shoulder an arm’s length from hers, shifting to match her as she
spaced herself from Burik just as swiftly. He didn’t know the person who
fell in beside him, but they moved as crisply as he did. All around, the
students shifted until they stood in a series of straight lines, all facing the
malim.
“Stand at attention!” Amarl snapped upright at the man’s command, his
right hand at his side, his left fist pressed against his chest, and his feet
together. He lifted his chin and stared directly forward, not looking to
either side. The malim moved out of his vision, but he resisted the urge to
follow the man with his eyes; he’d been yelled at for that enough times that
he felt sure the instructors moved around the way they did just to give them
an excuse to shout at their students, and he wasn’t about to give them that
satisfaction. Apparently, not everyone agreed with him as the man shouted,
“Eyes front!” at someone to Amarl’s right.
The short man moved back to the center and stared at the group of
students. “For those of you who are new to this class, I’m Malim
Wurynath, one of the senior instructors here at Sitjak. I was fighting in the
Mistways and killing threats to the Empire when your mothers were
bawling in diapers. I’ve slaughtered more enemies than any of you are
likely to see, and I’m still here. Students, why am I still here?”
He bellowed the last sentence, and the older students around Amarl
replied with a shouted chorus that told Amarl they’d been asked this
question a lot in the past.
“Training, sir!”
“Exactly. Training. And not just any training, but the hardest fucking
training in the entire Empire. Training that would make Imperial Wardens
weep and Royal Pathfinders beg for their mothers.” He paused. “The
training that you’re going to receive starting today.”
The man folded his hands behind his back and began to pace slowly
back and forth before the students. “For you new second-years, you
probably think that you’ve already spent a year training. Let me assure you
that what you experienced was nothing but a warm-up. Last year, you
developed the basic skills you’ll need to actually start learning. This year,
you’ll bleed for those skills. You’ll work for every bit of growth, and you’ll
earn your next rank with pain.”
He stopped and looked back at the group. “In second year, you begin to
expand your weapons training beyond those weapons you’ve chosen to
specialize in. You’ll each learn archery and firearms, and you’ll learn how
to fight with at least one of every class of weapon. You might not master
any of these, but you will become familiar enough to be able to use them.
Why? Because if a club is the only weapon you have, you fucking better
know how to pick it up and use it, or you’ll be dead, and all this training
and time we’ve spent on you will be wasted.”
Amarl suppressed a nod; he’d dealt with that exact thing in the assilian
hive. Norag and Hadur had no idea how to use spears, and that was the
only weapon the students could scrounge after breaking out of captivity.
That left Amarl, Burik, and Herel to do most of the fighting. Norag made
himself useful by carrying Meder, who’d fallen unconscious after crafting
the sahr working that broke them all free, but Hadur had honestly been dead
weight in the hive’s tunnels. If the boy had learned to use any weapon other
than his slim rapier, he might have been useful.
When the man finished his explanation—going on to tell the students
that they’d be broken up into groups based on their skills ranks and weapon
types, and that they’d spend four days a week focusing on their main
weapons and three on alternate weapons—Amarl walked with eight other
students to a tall, round building. Inside, he found a smaller armory filled
with polearms, from simple axes to elaborate weapons with odd hooks,
points, and forks that he didn’t recognize and was glad he wasn’t using. A
third-year he didn’t know issued him a moon axe, an actual metal one
instead of a wooden training weapon, and he glanced at it curiously.
“No training weapons this year?” he asked Burik, who was also doing
polearm training with his gleaming metal halberd.
“No more of that wooden shit,” an older boy standing nearby said with
a snort. “They’re good for learning forms, but you’re going to be doing a
lot more sparring and a lot less forms this year. Those wooden ones are too
light for that, and their balance is all wrong.”
“Good point,” Burik nodded. “Glad to hear that we’ll be doing more
actual sparring.”
“Oh yeah. Sparring with actual weapons. Super excited about that,”
Amarl sighed.
“Stop bitching. They’re just like the Halit weapons. They won’t kill
you. They can hurt like hell, though.” The older boy gave Amarl a slightly
contemptuous grin. “You’re not afraid of getting hurt, are you?”
“Of course, I am,” Amarl laughed. “Nobody likes to get hurt—unless
you get off on that sort of thing.” He eyed the boy up and down. “And if
you do, hey, whatever. Just don’t start stripping down in the middle of a
match, okay?”
The boy flushed, his olive skin turning a darker brown, but before he
could speak, a white-robed nadar walked into the armory and held up a
hand for silence. The woman looked around the room, her eyes scanning
the students, and she nodded as if with satisfaction as she spotted Burik and
Amarl.
“Two new students joining us this moon. Good. You two, stay with
me. Everyone else, head out.” The other students walked around the nadar
and headed deeper into the building—the boy Amarl insulted flashing him a
glare as he did. The nadar walked over to stand before the two remaining
students.
 “Novices Amarl and Burik,” she said, nodding at each of them in turn.
“Follow me.” She turned and walked through the door the other students
had just used, and the pair fell in behind her. They passed through the door
into a short hallway, and Amarl glanced inside to see what looked like
crafting tables, all empty but with racks of hammers, chisels, planes, tongs,
and other tools he didn’t recognize hanging from the walls behind them.
“Repair facilities,” she said shortly, gesturing at one of the rooms.
“You’ll learn how to not only care for your weapons but how to effect basic
repairs, like patching a broken shaft or replacing a lost rivet.” She led them
past the stations and through a pair of double doors into a large, open space
filled with students. The other second-years had lined up before a counter,
and each walked away with a bundle of something that looked like leather
and metal. Beyond them, older students stood in training circles already,
their weapons blurring and flashing as they fought with spears, halberds,
poleaxes, and weapons Amarl didn’t have a name for.
“The main training arena,” she said loudly to be heard over the clash of
blades and crack of wooden shafts striking one another. She pointed to
counter the green-clad second-years lined up before. “The first thing you’ll
need to do is get fitted for armor.”
“Armor?” Amarl asked, surprised. “We’re wearing armor?”
“Yes. Learning how to wear and use armor effectively is a big part of
what you’ll learn this year.” She led them toward the counter. “You’ll first
be measured and issued armor; the armorer will give you a number once
they’ve decided what fits you. Remember it, as you’ll have to give it every
time you come to train.”
As they neared the counter, Amarl focused on the girl standing at the
front of the line. “…one, six, four.” An older student behind the counter
nodded and walked back to a set of racks, pulling out different pieces of
armor and piling them on the counter. The girl scooped them up and
walked away, while a boy stepped up behind her.
“Today, I’ll teach you how to put on your armor. After that, you’re on
your own. If you do it wrong, you’ll learn by bleeding.” The nadar guided
the pair past the front counter and into an area in the back where several
students bustled about. Several wooden mannequins stood around the
room, each wearing different bits of armor that the students worked at.
Amarl guessed they were repairing the armor, but he had no real clue.
“Two for measurements!” the nadar called out, and two of the older
students stopped their work and hurried over to the pair, the boy grabbing a
small ledger-type book and a pencil, and the girl carrying a long strip of
fabric with markings along it. She stopped before Amarl and held her arms
out to the sides.
“Stand like this with your feet apart,” she instructed tersely. Amarl
copied her pose, and she reached out and wrapped the strip around his
neck. He tensed involuntarily, and she paused. “Relax. Don’t tense up, or
your armor won’t fit.”
“Sorry. Not used to having strangers wrap things around my throat,” he
muttered, forcing himself to relax his stiffened muscles.
“Seems to me that should be second-nature to you by now,” Burik
muttered quietly, and the girl snorted before pulling the band snugly around
his neck.
“Two-four,” she said aloud, and Amarl glanced sideways to see the boy
write something down in his ledger. She released the band and slipped it
around his chest just below his armpits. “Six-eight.” She continued,
encircling his arm and forearm, touching it to his shoulder and wrist, and
running it from the top of his sternum to his waistline. She crouched down
and wrapped the band around his upper thigh, and he smiled down at her.
“Hey, at least buy me some dinner, first,” he joked.
“Damn, you’re so clever,” she replied in a monotone. “No asshole’s
ever made that joke before. Three-eight.”
At last, she rose and looked over at her partner. The older boy scribbled
on the paper for several seconds before nodding and looking at Amarl.
“Your armor number is twenty-seven, twenty-two, thirty, four. Repeat that
back to me.” Amarl dutifully did so, and boy nodded. “Good. Memorize
that. If you forget it, you’ll have to be remeasured, and you’ll pay for the
time wasted by working here on your Akio.” The pair moved to Burik,
whose numbers were somewhat higher than Amarl’s, and the nadar led the
two back to the front counter, where they gave their number and received
piles of armor.
 Amarl sorted through the mess of armor as the nadar led them off to the
side. Five pieces looked like thick, cotton clothing that he assumed went
under the armor as padding. Everything else was made of thick but supple
leather with square plates of iron attached to the inside and hardened pieces
of leather on the outside. One piece looked to be a round, open-faced
helmet. Another was obviously a breastplate and back without sleeves. The
rest he supposed covered his arms and legs. They all looked far too large,
but each piece had canvas straps and buckles attached to them that he
guessed were to adjust everything.
As soon as the nadar stopped, Burik began to slip on the outer
garments, and Amarl quickly copied the older boy while the nadar watched
without comment. After the padding, they slipped on the chest plate, and
Burik showed him how to adjust both sides at once using the straps at the
shoulders, armpits, and waist to keep the armor even and settled. The armor
over his thighs came next, followed by pieces over his upper arms and
forearms. The helmet had what looked like a sock inside it but proved to be
a wool cap, and Amarl slipped that on, tucking his long hair up into it
before settling his helmet on his head and tightening it in place with the
straps around his forehead and under his chin.
He bounced up and down a few times in the armor, swinging his arms
and stamping his feet the way Burik was. The gear wasn’t ridiculously
heavy, but it was heavier than anything he was used to wearing, and he
could feel its weight dragging at his arms and legs. The helmet blocked his
peripheral vision, and the nose guard loomed in the center of his sight, just
a couple edges of darkness that annoyed him but didn’t limit his vision
significantly.
“Well, that was easy,” the nadar said when the pair finished. She
looked at Burik. “Military family?”
“Yes, ma’am. Shalai caste.”
“That makes things easier. You’ve fought in armor before, then?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you don’t really need most of this. Listen anyway.” She looked
at Amarl. “What do you think the point of all this armor is, Student?”
 “I suppose to keep us from getting hurt, ma’am,” he said with a shrug,
noticing the weight on his shoulders as he did.
“No. Armor makes it harder to damage you, absolutely, but it won’t
keep you from being injured. A good crossbow or heavy longbow will tear
through that, especially if it hits between plates, and a bullet will punch
through no matter where it hits. A powerful monster, a sahrotik weapon—
hell, any weapon wielded by an ithtar with a combat ability will cut right
through even solid plate. That won’t keep you from being hurt, Student.”
She tapped the center of his chest, and he couldn’t even feel her finger
through the breastplate. “What this does is give you more options in
combat, that’s all. It will absorb or deflect most minor attacks, meaning
you can use it as part of your defense and focus more on offense.” She
gestured at his weapon. “With that moon axe, armor will allow you to get
inside a spearman or halberdier’s reach more easily, as well.”
She turned and led the pair toward the larger group of students, who’d
split themselves into three smaller clusters and gathered around various
rings. “As you can see, these older classes are divided by ability, mostly by
skill rank.” She pointed to the smallest group. “These are the top fighters,
people of rank 5 or higher in their weapons. I assume you’ll go there?”
She addressed the last to Burik, who nodded.
She then pointed to the next smallest group. “These are the rank 1 and
2 fighters. Most new second-years go there.” She glanced at Amarl.
“However, I understand you had special training with Awal Ranakar last
year. Does that mean you’ve reached rank 3 in your moon axe?”
“Four, ma’am,” he corrected.
“Impressive,” she said with a slightly surprised look. “Typically, that’s
what people who’ve never picked up a weapon before shoot for by the end
of second year. What about your unarmed skills?”
“I’ve got Tiger and Water forms at rank 5 and Bear at rank 4, ma’am.
Oh, and one called ‘Nameless Form’ at rank 2.”
She stopped, and the pair of students halted a couple steps later to turn
and face her. Amarl saw his confusion and concern reflected on Burik’s
face, and the pair swapped nervous glances.
 “Wait—Nameless Form means it’s one you created. Did you have prior
training in unarmed combat before you got here?”
“Only the occasional fistfight, ma’am—which I usually lost.” Amarl
gave her a shrug and a self-deprecating smile.
She looked at him curiously, and he noticed her finger tapping against
her thigh. “What are your physical stats?”
Amarl hesitated; he knew his stats were far too high, and he was
supposed to be keeping his ability secret, but he didn’t want to directly lie
to a nadar in case she found out the truth later. “Force is five-five, Skill is
five-six, Speed is five-nine, and Toughness is five-three, ma’am,” he said
quietly.
“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, her eyes going vacant. After a moment,
she seemed to return to herself. “Technically, your moon axe rank would
put you in the middle group—ranks 3 and 4—but I don’t know how much
of a challenge that would be for you with those unarmed numbers and stats
like you have. At the same time, the high group might be too much of a
challenge, so I’ll leave the choice up to you.”
Amarl was seriously tempted to choose the middle group. He didn’t
think fighting in it would be easy, exactly—the other students had more
experience than he did, and the armor wrapped around him would certainly
slow him down enough to make any fight difficult. However, he still had to
face Ranakar, and he could imagine the old man’s reaction if he found out
Amarl chose the easier route. He’d likely decide to make up for it by
increasing the intensity—and probably the pain level—of Amarl’s training.
Amarl would much rather take a beating from an older student than from
the awal.
“The high group would probably be best,” he said with a sigh at last.
“Good. The best ithtaru look for challenges; they don’t avoid them.”
She led the pair over to the smallest group of students, who Amarl realized
were gathered around an older student with the number five on his shirt.
The older student was calling out names, but he paused as the nadar
approached.
“Darow, these are Burik and Amarl,” she said crisply. “The two new
second-year polearm students. They’ll be joining your group.” She
glanced sideways at Amarl. “At least for the time being.”
“Yes, Nadar Licotia,” the boy nodded, then scribbled on his paper. He
pointed at Burik. “You. Halberd rank and physical stats?”
“Five, and Force at five-seven, Skill at five-two, Speed at five-one, and
Toughness at six.”
“And you?” He turned toward Amarl, and the hizeen repeated his
numbers for the student, who frowned at hearing Amarl’s moon axe skill
rank of 4 but seemed to relax at hearing his stats.
“Fine.” He looked up at the pair. “Here are the rules for this level of
sparring. Unlike last year, you won’t be fighting to first touch or first
blood. You fight until the referee rules that one person would be unable to
continue. Passive abilities can be used normally; an active ability can be
used once per match. Follow all referee commands immediately. Overuse
of abilities or failing to follow those commands will result in automatic loss
plus penalties.”
“Penalties?” Amarl asked. “What sort of penalties?”
“Those are determined by the nadars and can range from loss of points
to disciplinary duty or worse, depending on the severity of the breach.”
“What does ‘loss of points’ mean?”
“Right, newbies. After each match, the referee will award from one to
five points to both participants. These are based on how well the match was
fought, how much skill was displayed, and of course, whether you won or
lost. There’s a running tally of points, and the highest earner each moon
gains extra rewards, determined by the nadars.”
“Meaning the students who’ve been around the longest are always the
highest earners,” Amarl said with a snort. “The rest of us won’t have had a
chance to catch them.”
“Wrong. Everyone starts at zero each moon, so everyone has an equal
chance.” The older boy gave Amarl an annoyed and somewhat
contemptuous glance. “Any other questions?”
“What if we haven’t unlocked our ability yet?” Burik asked.
“Then it sucks to be you if you’re fighting someone who has. And in
this group, that’s almost everyone, so don’t be surprised if you lose a lot for
a while. Fortunately, you can still earn points by showing your skill and
losing well instead of badly.” He looked over the two boys. “That it?”
“I can’t think of anything else,” Amarl shrugged.
“Good. Burik, I’m putting you up against Toret.” Darow pointed to an
older student holding a weapon that looked like a longer than normal staff
studded with sharp spikes and topped with a spear blade at one end. “And
Amarl, you whine too much, so you get Ricia.” He pointed to a tall girl
with light brown hair carrying a polearm that looked like a three-span-long
butcher knife strapped to a stick, with spikes jutting out the end. The other
students grinned at Amarl, but Ricia simply nodded toward him.
“Head out to get your ring assignments. When you’re done, I’ll
schedule you for your next round.” He gave Amarl an evil smile. “Good
luck, meat.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 5
Amarl concealed a sigh as he walked toward Ricia. “Hi there,” he said
to her in a light, conversational tone. “Let me guess: you’re the best fighter
in this group, aren’t you?”
“One of them,” she shrugged, her voice almost as deep as Amarl’s and
her shoulders moving impressively beneath her armor. “I’m top in points
about half the time. Nykos and Sorla trade off the other half.” She turned
and began walking away, and he fell into step beside her.
“Care to share anything about your ability or style?” he asked with a
grin. “You know, just to make the match more interesting?”
“Sure,” she nodded to his surprise. Catching the look on his face, she
chuckled. “It’s nothing everyone else in the group doesn’t know.
Obviously, my favorite weapon is the glaive, here…” She lifted her
polearm, incidentally putting a name to it for Amarl. “…and my ability
gives me a short speed boost. It doesn’t help me run any faster; it just
speeds up my attacks and movements for a second, two at the most.”
“Sounds like a useful ability.”
“It is. That’s why I win most of my matches.” She smiled at him.
“Don’t worry, though. I only use it if I have to. It drains my tak a lot to use
it, meaning I get to do it two or three times a day. No point in blowing it if
I don’t have to, right?”
“Lucky for me, I guess,” he agreed. He walked beside her to another
older student, who directed the pair to an empty ring. A fourth-year he
recognized but whose name eluded him stood in that ring, and she gave him
and Ricia a quick look as they approached. He expected the referee to give
him a look of pity or—more likely—of knowing glee, but instead, she
looked thoughtful as they approached. Apparently, Ricia caught the look as
well, and she glanced appraisingly at Amarl.
“How good are you with that thing?” she asked curiously. “Only rank
4, right?”
“That’s it,” he agreed.
“Huh. Well, let’s see how this goes.”
 The pair stepped to opposite sides of the ring, and the referee stood in
the middle, quickly reminding them of the rules. Amarl gripped his moon
axe loosely, shifting his shoulders beneath the unfamiliar and
uncomfortable weight of his armor, doing his best to suppress a wave of
irritation. He hadn’t expected the matches to be fair, but this was about as
unfair as anything could be. He had the lowest skill rank in the group,
probably the worst stats, and no active ability. Plus, his armor clung to his
body, making every movement awkward and uncomfortable, giving him an
even greater handicap. And he was facing the best fighter in the group,
someone he’d probably struggle to keep up with even at his best. He never
expected fair, but this was giving him no chance whatsoever.
“Fight!”
As focused as he was on his annoyance, Amarl started slightly at the
referee’s command. Ricia moved forward instantly, thrusting with her long
weapon, the knifepoint leveled at his chest. Her polearm wasn’t as long as
most spears, maybe a reach and two spans, but combined with her natural
speed, it was long enough to let her strike practically from across the ring.
Only his reflexes saved him as he jerked the moon axe up to block, and
even then, the blade scraped across the armor covering his left shoulder as
the added encumbrance pulled on his limbs.
He stepped back and ducked as the girl slashed sideways, her blade
passing through where his neck had been, then dove forward as she shifted
aim in mid-swing and chopped downward. Again, the armor betrayed him,
and the shaft of her weapon slammed into his back as he rolled, crashing
him awkwardly into the mat. He rolled sideways, avoiding a stamp from
the girl, and stumbled awkwardly to his feet.
Ricia’s expression had gone from appraising to dismissive as she slid
backward and turned, keeping him at range. He didn’t much blame her; he
moved like a lumbering cow in the armor, and she’d hit him twice in less
than ten seconds. His irritation grew as the weight of the armor pulled at
his balance, but he did his best to ignore it as he hefted his axe. She thrust
at him again, and this time, he spun the axe, knocking her thrust aside and
gaining the momentum he’d need to use his weapon effectively. She rode
his block and slashed sideways, and he tried to deflect with his weapon, but
the blade slid along his side, leaving a long cut in the armor there as he once
more moved too slowly to keep up with her.
 He already realized that he had no real chance to win the fight. Ricia
had the advantage of reach and experience, and considering the nature of
her ability, he was sure her Speed stat was a match for his. Normally, he
would have fought defensively for a while, waiting for his moment to move
inside her reach and shift the battle in his favor, but that wasn’t working for
him this time. Encumbered by the armor, with the drag on his limbs, he
couldn’t build up the momentum he needed to use his axe effectively, and it
was all he could do to keep her thrusts and slashes away from his face,
chest, and throat. Her blade scraped against his armor again and again,
leaving deep cuts in the outer leather, and twice her thrusts pierced the
leather and padding, avoiding the iron plates beneath to score his flesh. The
sahrotik enchantment on the glaive meant the wounds were shallow, but the
armor and padding beneath it both rubbed against the cuts, adding another
level of pain and frustration.
At last, she batted his axe aside and thrust, catching him in the throat
above his armor. He coughed and choked as the point pressed against his
windpipe without penetrating, then lowered his axe as the referee called the
match with a dissatisfied look on her face.
“Ricia, three points,” the girl said. “Amarl—one point.”
Amarl staggered back, suddenly exhausted by the weight of the armor
encasing him. Sweat streamed down his face and soaked the padding
covering him, and his arms and legs felt ridiculously heavy. The metal and
leather suddenly felt like a terrible burden, and he couldn’t wait to strip it
off.
Ricia walked over to him, her eyes hard and her face disapproving.
“I’m not very diplomatic, so I’m just going to say this,” she said in a flat
voice. “I don’t know why Licotia put you in this group, but you don’t
belong here. You just wasted my time and cost me the chance for five
points—I can’t show my skills against someone so inept. Go back to the
middle group, and earn your way here.”
Amarl’s irritation flashed into anger, and he straightened. “You know
what?” he said in a cold voice. “Fuck this.” He dropped his moon axe and
pulled at the strap beneath his chin, tearing it free. He yanked off the
helmet and tossed it to the ground, then began pulling at the buckles on his
armor.
 “What are you doing, Student?” a voice spoke, and he turned to see a
gray-robed malim striding toward him with a hard expression. The man
looked down at the helmet lying on the ground, then at Amarl with a flat
gaze.
“Taking this off, sir,” Amarl said, slipping the armor off his forearm.
“Put it back on,” the man instructed. “It’s for your own protection.”
Amarl paused. “Look, sir, today’s my first day, not only in this group
but ever wearing armor. And an asshole fifth-year just put me up against
her…” He pointed at Ricia, who stood silently to the side. “…the best
student in the group. She just told me I don’t belong in this group, and
wrapped up in all this shit, she’s right. I want the chance to prove her
wrong, that’s all.”
“You think that the reason the top student in your year beat you was
because of armor?” the malim scoffed.
“No, I think the armor’s the reason she did it so easily.” He yanked off
the second forearm piece and tossed it down as well. “She’ll still win, but
I’ll make it a lot harder on her.”
“And get cut to pieces in the process.”
He shrugged. “It won’t be the first time.” He stopped and took a deep
breath, trying to calm himself down. Persuasion was one of his best skills,
but to use it, he needed a clear head. “Sir, I’m not saying I’m better than
her. I’m not saying I’ll ever be better than her. I’m just asking for a real
chance—and weighted down with all this, I don’t have one. I’ve never
even worn any of this before, much less fought in it.” He shook his head.
“What the hells am I going to learn this way? What will she?”
The man frowned, then looked at Ricia. “You believe he was placed in
the wrong group?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. His skill is only rank 4, and I have trouble believing he’s even
earned that. He doesn’t belong here.”
“And you say she’s wrong?” the malim asked Amarl.
“Maybe, sir. She might be right. I just want a chance to actually see.”
“Fine,” he nodded. “Take off your armor, and you two can go again. If
she wins just as easily, though, then I’m moving you down a group—and
giving you a week’s disciplinary duty for wasting all of our time.”
“Good enough,” Amarl muttered, struggling to remove the rest of his
armor. After a few seconds, Ricia sighed and stepped over to him, pulling
on the pair of straps at his waist and loosening them.
“Let me help you. I don’t want to wait all day for this.”
With her aid, he loosened his chest armor and slid it off over his head,
then quickly removed the armor encasing his arms and thighs. He sighed in
relief as the last piece fell away and swung his arms, reveling in the
freedom of movement.
“Damn, that’s better.”
“Stop preening and get into the ring,” the malim snapped. “Let’s get
this farce over with.”
Amarl retrieved his axe and moved back into his starting position, his
irritation gone. He knew he would still likely lose—he always did to Burik,
and Ricia, he judged, was better than his friend—but at least he’d get a
chance to show what he could actually do. If they still dropped him to the
middle group, he didn’t care; he just hated being put in a situation where he
had no real chance of winning.
“Fight!”
When the command came this time, Amarl was already moving,
whipping his axe up and setting it spinning before him. Ricia’s glaive
darted at him, but he twisted past it and used his axe to knock the weapon
down and sideways. She reversed the blade and slashed, aiming for his
legs, but after their previous fight, he anticipated that and slapped his axe,
reversing its spin and using its momentum to grab her weapon and carry it
up and over him. He twisted, bringing the axe behind his back, then let it
slide out, slashing at the girl with the crescent-shaped blades on one end.
Ricia leaned back, avoiding the blow, but her startled gaze banished the
last of his irritation. She slipped backward, hooking at him with the points
on the back of her weapon, but he caught them on his crescent and guided
the glaive high before lashing outward with the spearpoint on the other
end. She dodged out of the way, then blocked as he chopped at her with the
axe blades to each side of that point, the haft of her glaive clacking against
the shaft of his axe.
 Amarl had already disengaged, riding the force of her block and using it
to slash low at her legs. She again slid out of the way and tried to move to
place some distance between them, but he stayed close, his axe moving
constantly as he thrust and slashed it at her. The pair moved across the ring,
Ricia dodging and retreating, trying to create space, while Amarl attacked,
never relenting or giving her a moment to recover. She’d made a mistake,
thinking that she could end the match with a single blow at the beginning
and giving him a chance to move inside her reach, and he wasn’t letting that
advantage go. That was the strength of the moon axe; once he began
attacking with it, the constant strikes and power he could put into them
made it hard to turn the tide of the battle. So long as he held the initiative,
he had a chance to actually win the match; all he needed was for Ricia to
make a mistake, and he could actually beat her.
The girl’s form blurred suddenly, and a line of burning pain cut across
his chest. He fell back, his momentum entirely lost as another flare of pain
erupted in his stomach. He ducked away, spinning his axe, and another
crease of fire shot across his back and shoulder. He couldn’t even see the
girl’s movements; one moment, she stood still, the next, her arms were a
blur, and her weapon pierced his flesh repeatedly. He dove backward,
rolling over his shoulder, but she followed, her glaive nothing but a hazy
shaft as it stabbed into his chest, piercing half a finger-width before
stopping.
“Hold!” At the referee’s cry, Ricia stepped back, her shape once more
solid as she ended her ability. Amarl rose to his feet, wincing at the pain in
his chest, back, and shoulder, but he faced the girl with an open grin. She’d
won, but he’d forced her to use her ability to do it. That was as good as a
win in his book—at least, for now. Eventually, he’d figure out how to tap
his own ability consciously, and then, she might not find things so easy.
“Ricia wins,” the referee said with a faint smile. “Ricia, three points.
Amarl, four points.”
The older girl made a face but nodded in acquiescence. Amarl looked
away from her toward the malim, who watched from the edge of the ring—
and the man wasn’t alone. Most of the rest of the class had finished their
matches and gathered around to observe. Burik grinned openly at Amarl,
while most of the rest whispered quietly to one another, their faces either
speculative or confused.
 “Well, sir?” Amarl asked the instructor at last.
The man nodded. “You can remain in this group. However, for wasting
some of my time with your first performance, you’ll report here after
classes for the next three evenings, where you’ll spend two hours exercising
in that armor you obviously have no idea how to wear.” The man looked
around, spotting the older student who’d put the pair of them together in the
first place. “And Student Darow, you also wasted my time with this
obviously ridiculous pairing. Report to my office at the end of this class.”
“Yes, sir,” the older boy nodded.
“Good.” The malim looked around at the gathered crowd. “The rest of
you, get back to work! And Student Amarl, put your armor back on.
Student Darow will make sure your next matches are more appropriate, and
you need to learn how to fight in it.”
“Yes, sir,” Amarl said resignedly, picking up the pieces of armor.
“Here, I’ll help,” Ricia said, walking over and scooping up some of the
armor for him.
“Thanks,” he muttered, not looking at the girl.
“Least I can do after I was such a shit to you,” she shrugged. “Sorry, by
the way. I was wrong about you belonging here.” She gestured toward a
relatively empty spot. “Come on, I’ll help you put it back on over here, out
of the way.”
He followed her, sliding on one of the upper arm pieces as he did.
“Hey, I’ve got a question. Why did I get more points when you won?”
She grimaced, then shrugged. “Because I was overconfident at the
beginning. After that first round, I thought you were slow and clumsy. I
didn’t realize how much the armor was affecting you.” She glanced at him.
“You’re a speed-based build, right?”
“I’m not sure what that means,” he laughed as he slipped another piece
of armor on.
“You focus on dodging, not blocking, and you prefer to win with a lot
of little cuts, not one big one. Is that right?”
“More or less, yeah.”
 She nodded. “Armor’s harder on someone like you, and you’ll have to
really work to adapt your fighting style to it. You’ll have to learn to take
some hits that you’d normally dodge and count on your armor to keep you
safe.”
“And how do I do that?” he asked.
“Practice. There’s really no other way.” She helped him slide his chest
piece back on, and he winced at the added weight on his shoulders. “I had
the same problem at first. You have to learn when to trust your armor and
when to handle things yourself, and that means getting hit. A lot.” She
crammed the helmet on his head, and he buckled it beneath his chin.
“Sounds like something you could help me with, then,” he grinned at
her. “Maybe after classes sometime, just the two of us.”
She shook her head, either ignoring or simply missing his attempt at
flirting. “I’m too good. You’ll just get frustrated and angry. You need to
go against someone who’s not that great, at least at first. Work your way
back up to me.” She slapped the back of her hand against his chest.
“You’ll get there. Give it three or four moons, and you’ll be giving me a
run for my money, even in armor. Now, let’s get back so Darow can give us
both a better match.”
Amarl nodded and followed her over to the older boy, who glowered at
the hizeen but said nothing as he paired him up with a boy wielding a long
spear. Amarl lost that match, as well, but the spearman was much slower
than Ricia, and Amarl had at least made it closer, gaining three more
points. He fought twice more, once against a girl with a poleaxe and once
against the boy with the spiked spear that Burik faced in the first round, and
while he lost each time, he felt like he was starting to get used to the armor
—at least a little.
Still, when the class ended, he yanked the heavy weight off his body
with a sigh of relief. The feeling of weightlessness and the air circulating
against his drenched uniform felt amazing, and while his entire body ached
from the weight he’d been carrying—and the bruises and cuts he’d gotten—
he felt far better without the burden wrapped around his body. He returned
the armor and walked with Burik back outside, where they found Meder
waiting for them, chatting with Norag. The girl’s uniform and hair were
just as soaked as Amarl’s, and her left elbow had the beginnings of a
purpling bruise on it. Norag looked just as exhausted, but if he had any
injuries, they were well hidden.
“How’d it go?” she asked brightly before glancing at Amarl’s tattered
and slightly blood-soaked uniform and wincing. “Not so great, I take it?”
“Actually, except for Amarl’s first fight, it wasn’t too bad,” Burik said
with a grin.
“What happened on your first fight, Amarl?”
“I went up against the best student in the class and got my ass handed to
me. Armor sucks, by the way.”
“Yes. Yes, it does.” She looked at Burik. “How did you do?”
“Won one, lost three,” he shrugged. “Got fifteen points out of it,
though. You?”
“I lost all my matches. Nine points.”
“Same here,” Norag agreed. “I got eight points, though.”
“How about you, Amarl?” the girl asked.
“I lost, too. I did okay on points, though. I only got one from that first
match, but after that, I got thirteen more, so close to Burik.”
“He also pissed off the fifth-year pairing us up and the malim in charge
and got disciplinary duty,” Burik chuckled.
“What? Amarl, what did you do?”
Amarl sighed, flashing Burik an annoyed look, then explained about the
first fight. “I admit that I was complaining, but it wasn’t on purpose. I was
annoyed and hot from all the armor, and it just kind of slipped out.”
“Still, I thought last year showed you why you can’t mouth off to
upperclassmen,” she said disapprovingly.
“It wasn’t Amarl’s fault,” Burik shook his head. “Darow would have
done it anyway. That was just his excuse.”
“What do you mean?” Norag asked.
“I saw his face when the nadar told him that a student who was only
rank 4 in a weapon would be in his group. It pissed him off. I think he was
trying to get Amarl pushed back down to the lower group.” The taller boy
shrugged. “I think he’s proud of the fact that he’s in charge of the highest
group, and he thought Amarl was making it less elite.”
“And because of it, he’s probably getting disciplinary duty, too,” Amarl
grinned. “Hopefully, that means that’ll be the last time he gives me
problems.”
“I doubt that,” Meder smiled at the hizeen. “I’m pretty sure that you’ll
give him some other reason to be annoyed with you. You can’t seem to
help it.”
“Hey, I’m not that bad.”
“You did have a third of our group annoyed with you almost all year
last year,” Norag supplied unhelpfully. “It seems to be a pattern.”
“That wasn’t my fault, though. Herel and Hadur are just assholes.”
“The Book of the One says that if we wish to perfect our soul, Amarl,
we first have to see the blemishes upon it,” the boy said a bit
sanctimoniously.
“What if I just want my soul to be reasonably clean instead of perfect?”
Amarl asked archly.
“Then, I’d say you’ve still got a lot of work to do.” Norag looked past
Amarl and inclined his head. “Herel and Hadur are done. I’ll talk to the
rest of you later.”
As the boy walked away, Burik clapped Amarl’s shoulder with a laugh.
“Norag thinks you’ve got a dirty soul, Amarl.”
“He’s probably right.” Amarl rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder
if there’s some special soap I can use to help with that.”
Meder rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she said, walking away from the
pair toward the road leading away from the valley. “Let’s get back and get
cleaned up so we can eat. You can try to scrub your soul there if you’d
like.”
“I don’t think there’s enough soap in the showers to even start,” Burik
grinned.
“You laugh because you’re jealous,” Amarl replied with a smile,
following his friends back toward their dormitory. “You both wish you had
a soul half as dirty as mine, and you know it.”
 “Not me,” Meder shook her head. “I know how it got that way, after
all. Definitely not interested.”
“I might be up for a little soul dirtying,” Burik mused. “Depending on
who I’m getting filthy with.”
“Well, just leave me out of it. I’m happy with my soul the way it is,
thank you very much.” She flashed the boys a smile. “Although, I still
want to hear the stories afterward, of course.”
“Of course,” Amarl replied with a laugh as the trio broke into a jog.
The first day of the new year hadn’t exactly gone well so far, but Amarl
couldn’t complain too much. Especially since he knew that the worst part
of his day—his training with Ranakar—would be right after lunch. That, he
definitely wasn’t looking forward to.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 6
Amarl felt more than saw the disturbance rushing toward the back of
his skull. Once, he would have moved to dodge the attack, diving forward,
but his time in the assilian hive had taught him a valuable lesson. The
insect creatures were able to build stone blinds, hidden pockets in the walls
of their deep tunnels that looked exactly like regular stone but crumbled
away at a touch, and they used these to ambush trespassers in their warren.
Amarl had repeatedly dived away from one attack there only to find that
he’d been herded into a trap, at least until he learned to stop immediately
flinging himself away from ambushes.
His left hand rose as he spun, slapping against the heavy stick heading
for his skull. He shifted without thinking into the fluid movements of Water
Form and twisted toward the blow, grabbing the stick and pulling it across
his chest. His right foot swept out, feinting a low kick at his attacker to
force them to step back to avoid the kick. Doing so while he yanked them
forward would force them off-balance, leaving them vulnerable to the right
hand that shot out toward their skull.
At least, it would have had the attacker not released the club, allowing
them to sway out of the way of his blow. They struck back instantly,
moving into the aggressive stance of Tiger Form, lashing out with a flurry
of hands and feet. The blows weren’t meant to land; they were designed to
force Amarl back, to push him from side to side and disturb the slowly
growing harmony of Water Form. Once, that would have worked, but
Amarl slipped out of pure Water Form into the Nameless Form that he’d
created, one that combined Water, Tiger, and Bear Forms into a harmonious
whole.
He rode the edges of those attacks and channeled their energy into
counterstrikes, turning each blow into an attack of his own. He dodged and
shifted without losing his balance, moving forward toward his enemy
without taking a step. With this Form, he’d fought through the assilian
hive; he’d destroyed dozens of her minions with nothing but his bare hands;
he’d faced their queen in single combat and won. He relaxed his awareness
and flowed along the pulse of the battle, letting his mind and body attack
instinctively, feeling the wave building as he gathered more and more
power from the blocked attacks. At last, the surge reached a crescendo, and
he struck, channeling all that force into a single strike aimed at his
opponent’s unprotected chest. His foe was off-balance, fighting to stay
erect, and they’d dropped their defense entirely in an attempt to correct.
There was no way to avoid the powerful blow, no way to dodge the attack
that would crack his enemy’s sternum and leave them at his mercy.
The strike never landed. His foe never regained their balance, but
somehow, they swayed out of the way, moving loosely and limply as their
knees buckled and their shoulders swung backward. They looked like
they’d fall, but somehow, they stayed erect, swaying in a wide circle that
brought them back to their feet. Amarl stumbled as his final blow met no
resistance and his accumulated momentum dissipated, but he quickly
recovered and began again. He moved toward the still-swaying figure and
struck, lashing out with his limbs, using targeted strikes to guide his enemy
and draw off their energy to use as his own.
His opponent refused to cooperate. They slid past each of his strikes,
letting the blows touch them and using that momentum to push them aside.
They moved drunkenly, without coordination, continuously on the edge of
falling but somehow always perfectly balanced, nonetheless. It felt like
fighting a feather in the breeze or a piece of paper. His blows landed but
did no damage; his kicks swept legs out and crumpled knees but always
seemed to prop up his foe rather than bring them down. His opponent left
him no momentum to siphon away and offered no resistance, allowing his
form to flow past it like water on oiled leather. He struck harder, faster,
trying to push the enemy’s balance beyond the point they could recover, but
he paid for his recklessness as a hand grabbed his elbow and guided it
downward, twisting him off-balance for just a moment.
The blow that followed cracked into his forehead with deceptive force,
and he staggered backward, his skull ringing and stars flashing in his eyes.
Everything seemed vaguely distant for a moment, muffled and distorted as
if he were watching it through water. He fell into his stance without
thought, which was good since at that moment, he was having a great deal
of troubling focusing his eyes, much less concentrating on the battle.
Fortunately, his foe stepped back, disengaging, and after a moment, his
head cleared, and his focus returned.
 “Better,” Ranakar said with a grim smile and an approving nod. “I take
it that was your Nameless Form?”
“Y-Yeah,” Amarl nodded, wincing as the movement sent a dull ache
flashing in his skull. In public, he addressed the awal of—Amarl paused as
he realized he didn’t know what school Ranakar was awal of, then
dismissed the errant thought—he spoke to the awal the way everyone else
did, with utmost courtesy and respect. In private, Ranakar instructed him to
drop the honorifics, as they simply took up too much time and got in the
way of actual learning. The gray-haired man dressed in the black and gold
robes that all the awals wore, but unlike Tekasoka, his sleeves lacked the
colored slashed to indicate which school he oversaw. As usual, his long
hair was pulled back into a tail behind his head to keep it from his face,
something that Amarl always meant to do but never thought of in time for
training.
“It’s a mingling of all three of your forms, isn’t it?” The awal reached
to his waist and pulled out metal canteen, offering it to Amarl. “Here. Take
a sip. It’ll clear your head.”
“Yes,” Amarl said before taking a swig from the canteen. The liquid
within tasted faintly minty, and it tingled on his tongue, burning its way
down his throat. The fiery sensation spread through his body, warming his
skull, and he sighed as the pounding in his head slowly faded, aided by the
sahr elixir now flowing in his veins. He handed the canteen back and
nodded again, delighted in the lack of pain he felt from that movement.
“I still struggle with the buildup of Water Form, but adding the attacks
from Tiger and the grappling from Bear helps me stay in balance while I
gather that energy.”
“It can, if you do it correctly,” the awal nodded. “Of course, while your
form has some of the strengths of each of your other forms, it also has some
of the weaknesses. Water Form’s greatest flaw is what I call ‘Breaking the
Wave’. Everything you have goes into that final attack, and if it misses or
is ineffective, you’re left defenseless for a moment.” He smiled. “That’s
why Water Form usually loses to Drunken Form.”
“Is that what the form you used is called?” Amarl asked with a grin. “It
fits. You looked pretty drunk. It seemed like you were always on the verge
of falling down, but somehow, you never did.”
 “Exactly. Water Form requires resistance to work, and Drunken Form
offers none. It slices through the water like a rudder through a fast-moving
current, guiding the flow and using it for its own purposes.” He gave the
boy a serious look. “Sometimes, the best way to control a flood, Amarl, is
to ride along with it. Standing in its way will just drown you.”
“I never thought of it like that,” Amarl said, considering the old man’s
words.
“Few do. However, all advanced forms are built around a concept like
that. To master the form, you have to understand the concept. For Drunken
Form, the concept is about control; control your body, and you’ll control
your opponent’s, as well. Let me show you another, and we’ll see if you
can understand the underlying concept.” The man set his feet and raised his
hands, seeming to become more solid for a moment. “Use your new form
and attack.”
Amarl obeyed instantly, dropping into his stance and lashing out at the
awal. He flicked a quick hand, feinted with a knee, and snapped a fist at the
older man’s face in rapid succession. To his surprise, Ranakar didn’t dodge
a single blow. Each time, he shifted to absorb the strikes on his arms, his
thighs, and his hips, turning each strike into a grazing one that impacted but
did no damage. Amarl moved around the man, striking from all directions,
but Ranakar simply shifted around to face him, soaking up strikes rather
than dodging them and denying Amarl the tiny bits of growing imbalance
he needed for his final strike. When the wave of his attack crested, Amarl
lashed out at an opponent still fully in balance, and the blow slid across
Ranakar’s chest. The old man’s knee slammed upward, catching Amarl in
the stomach, and the boy fell backward, bent over and gasping to recover
the breath the man’s strike had driven from his body.
“That was Mountain Form,” the awal said conversationally, ignoring
Amarl’s distress. “The mountain allows the river to flow around it, not
stopping its path but not yielding to it, either. While Drunken Form is about
control, Mountain Form’s all about endurance.”
Amarl finally managed to suck in a deep breath, and he stood erect,
ignoring the throbbing pain in his stomach. “It seems like Bear Form
would be a better match for it,” he finally said, his voice hoarse and breathy.
 “Not if done correctly. The mountain refuses to yield, so it can’t be
knocked over.” The old man shrugged. “And those are just two of the
advanced forms.”
“How many are there?” Amarl asked.
“Dozens.” The old man turned and led Amarl into the room. Amarl
ducked around the thick ropes strung across the space and slipped past the
wooden poles attached randomly between the floor and ceiling without
effort and joined the awal in the middle of the room, sitting down on a
cushion placed there for that purpose.
“What I taught you last year were three of the basic forms, but there are
dozens of those, as well,” the man continued. “Most of them, though, are
just variations of one another. There are other soft forms than Water, for
example, like Wind, Mantis, and Earth. Tiger is only one hard form—
there’s Eagle, Snake, Fire, and many others—and in addition to Bear, there
are grappling forms like Monkey, Tree, and Octopus. However, there’s no
real point in learning them all since the differences between them are
relatively minor. Wind involves a bit more movement than Water; Snake
has fewer but faster attacks than Tiger; Octopus is more about locks and
holds and has fewer throws or trips than Bear.
“Your style is powerful, but it’s still just a combination of basic forms.
Now that you’ve got a good handle on those, this year, you’ll be learning
advanced forms. Just as with basic ones, most of them are variations on a
few simple themes: avoidance, absorption, and assault. Drunken Form is an
avoidance technique, allowing you to dodge attacks that you shouldn’t be
able to. Mountain Form is an absorption technique that lets you take hits
without taking damage. The final form you’ll be learning this year is
Cutting Blade, an assault technique that focuses on precise, lethal strikes.”
“I’ll be learning those on top of my other forms?” Amarl asked.
“No, instead of them.” The awal gave Amarl a slight smile. “Those
basic forms are nothing but a foundation, teaching you the skills you’ll need
to learn more advanced forms. You’ve already gotten them to rank 5, which
is more than enough to move forward.”
Amarl frowned. “And my Nameless Form?”
 “You’ll keep practicing that. As you learn the new forms, the challenge
will be to incorporate parts of them into your technique.” He gave Amarl a
serious look. “Combining your techniques is a good thing—in fact, it’s the
best thing in the long run. No technique is perfect for every situation. Each
has its strengths and weaknesses, and switching from one to the other as
needed can distract you in combat.
“At the same time, doing it so early creates new problems for you.
Typically, we teach students to do what you’ve done in their fourth year,
after they’ve learned basic, advanced, and a specialized form, so they’re
creating a form using years of experience and training. As you learn new
techniques, you’ll have to try and incorporate them into your existing form,
which is harder than if you’d waited until you’d learned multiple techniques
and then created your own style.” He shook his head. “You don’t do
anything the easy way.”
Amarl wanted to protest that he hadn’t meant to create his own style,
that his techniques had simply clicked together battling the assilians, but he
didn’t bother. Ranakar wouldn’t listen to excuses or reasons. He only
cared about results. Why and how Amarl forged his technique were
unimportant; what mattered was that he did, and now he had to deal with
the consequences. Honestly, Amarl couldn’t blame him. In the end,
intentions didn’t matter, and the world didn’t care about what he meant to
do or why. It just punished him for what he did.
“However, we’ll work on that over the course of the year,” the awal
said, pulling Amarl from his thoughts. “How did your weapons training go
this morning?”
Amarl made a dissatisfied face. “Badly,” he admitted. “I lost every
match.”
“Why?” Ranakar asked evenly.
“I’m used to fighting using my speed and agility, and the armor slowed
me down too much,” Amarl said, not mentioning his first fight or the
unfairness of it. Again, Ranakar wouldn’t care and would probably arrange
for Amarl to fight only the best students in the class moving forward. After
all, he’d say, Amarl couldn’t count on only fighting people worse than him.
“Which is the whole point,” the old man nodded. “As I just said, every
style and technique have weaknesses, Amarl, even with weapons. If you
rely on your speed alone, and you’re fighting someone faster, you’re going
to die. If you use brute force, and you’re fighting a monster stronger than
you, you’ll end up in its stomach. Learning to use armor gives you options.
“Last year was all about building a foundation,” the man went on.
“Your physical training was designed to condition your body so it could
handle more advanced exercises without injury. You learned the
fundamentals of history and math so you could understand more complex
concepts. We taught you to access your ithtu and strengthen yourself with it
so that you could learn more subtle ways to use it. Your skill training taught
you how to improve basic skills so that you could learn more advanced ones
like crafting. And you learned the basics of fighting so that you could move
on to more advanced techniques without killing yourself in the process.
“This year, we’ll build on that foundation and strengthen it. You’ll
learn how ithtu create abilities, why individuals have the abilities they have,
and the naming system for them. I’ll teach you more advanced methods for
using sahr, and we’ll branch out to other weapon forms so you can broaden
your base. And yes, you’ll be learning to wear armor. In fact…”
The man rose sinuously to his feet and walked over to a chest, opening
it and pulling out what looked like a shining, silver shirt. He tossed it to
Amarl, who caught it with a grunt; the shirt was heavier than it looked. He
held it up and examined it. It looked to be made of soft, thick leather with
wool padding inside. Rows of small, steel plates two finger-widths wide
and shaped like scales had been sewn into the leather, each row overlapping
the one below it. Unlike what he’d worn before, the shirt was all one piece,
but it had a band at the waist that looked like it could be adjusted. It was
heavier than what he’d worn before but felt more flexible, and he hoped
that he’d be able to move more easily in it.
“Put that on,” the awal instructed, tossing a pair of what looked like
metallic sleeves at the boy. “And those as well. Just slide the chest piece
on like you would a shirt, then slip the sleeves up your arms.”
Amarl struggled into the heavy shirt, barely managing to get his arms
through the holes and scraping his ears and nose in the process. The shirt
hung to his mid-thigh, and as he suspected, the band in the center pulled it
tight around his waist. He slid the sleeves on, and Ranakar told him how to
tie the sleeves to a pair of metal rings set into the chest piece’s shoulders.
When it was all in place, he swung his arms and twisted in it, staggering
slightly as the weight affected his balance. It was heavier than what he’d
worn earlier, but it moved more easily, as well.
“What you need to learn is how to adapt your balance and movement to
the extra weight of armor,” Ranakar told him. “That means you’ll be doing
your acrobatics and calisthenics today while wearing that. You also need to
learn how to take a blow with your armor, so afterward, we’ll do some
sparring—me with the stick, and you unarmed.” The old man’s smile
turned vicious, and he reached into his belt and produced a handful of what
looked like small steel knife blades without hilts, holding them up in a fan.
“We’ll start with the rope drills, but since you’re wearing armor, I’ll use
these instead of the weighted balls. Begin.”
By the end of the next hour, Amarl wanted nothing more than to take
Ranakar’s stick and shove it up the old man’s ass—not that he’d ever be
able to. The awal had him leaping over ropes, swinging around poles, and
diving under chains, all the while flinging the sharp metal blades at the
boy’s exposed hands and legs. Amarl expected Ranakar’s aim to be worse
than with the balls—the blades didn’t look that great for throwing—but if
anything, the old man was even more accurate. Sharp steel sliced his
fingers or pierced the back of his hand when he moved too slowly; razorlike
blades sank into his calves and the back of his thighs. The slim blades
didn’t do much damage, but they hurt like the spirits’ hells, and every hit
slowed Amarl a little as wounded legs refused to respond as quickly, and
bloody palms failed to grip.
By the time they finished, Amarl’s head swam, and his blood-stained
legs barely held him upright. He felt nauseous, and the armor across his
back and shoulders seemed like a mountain bearing down on him. Ranakar
gave him a chance to catch his breath, then they moved into sparring.
Technically, Amarl wouldn’t call what they did sparring, or even fighting.
That implied some sort of mutual combat, where they attacked one another.
Amarl had no weapons but his hands and feet, and those were too lacerated
and bloody for him to use them effectively. Ranakar held the stick he’d
used earlier, a half-reach-long piece of oak with a lead core at the end for
weight. The match consisted of the man beating Amarl with the stick while
instructing him how to take a blow on the armor. The boy learned quickly
that while the armor would probably turn aside a blade or spearpoint easily,
it didn’t do much to ease the impact of a blunt, heavy object. Amarl’s first
attempt to block the stick with a forearm fractured one of the bones there,
and he quickly learned to dodge, deflect, and slide attacks rather than
meeting them head-on.
As the battering continued, Amarl gritted his teeth and did his best to
keep any more bones from breaking. He knew that Ranakar would heal
him at the end of the session, but the pain of trying to move around with
one broken limb in combat was plenty. He focused on his defense,
dreaming of the day when he’d be good enough to hit the old man back.
He knew that time would come, and he silently promised that when it
finally did, he was going to enjoy the fuck out of it.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 7
One good thing about having his training with Ranakar right after lunch
was that unlike his friends, Amarl didn’t have to trudge back from Marjan
Tower, where Meder and Burik’s sahr classes took place. Ranakar’s
training room was in the main Citadel, as was Amarl’s next class. That was
good since after Ranakar’s training, he was barely in any condition to take
the stairs down to the second floor, where the academic rooms were, much
less run anywhere. Ranakar, needless to say, was utterly unconcerned about
that fact.
“You know the reason that we push you and the other students so hard,
Amarl,” the awal told Amarl when the hizeen could barely stand after a
final sparring session that left him with what he thought was a cracked
femur and several broken ribs. The sahr elixir the old man gave him
helped, but it didn’t fully repair all of the damage, and it couldn’t heal
Amarl’s bone-deep exhaustion.
“You’re going to be pushed harder than anyone, for obvious reasons. If
your ability fully awakens before your body and mind are capable of
handling it, it could kill you faster than that assilian queen, and even with
your passive growth ability, I’m not sure if we can raise your stats to where
they need to be fast enough. Deal with the pain today, or die tomorrow.
Those are your choices.”
“That’s not exactly much of a choice,” he muttered in reply.
“No, it’s not, but no one ever promised you fair, did they?”
That was a line of reasoning Amarl couldn’t exactly argue with.
Nothing about his life had ever been fair. His mother apparently had one of
the noblest and highest bloodlines in the Empire, but Axanor, the sole
bureaucrat running Tem, hadn’t bothered to check that bloodline and had
assumed she was of low caste. She died when Amarl was a toddler, and
since his maternal parentage was unknown, he’d been consigned to the
ishtai, the lowest caste besides branded criminals. His entire life, he’d lived
at the edge of the village’s society, provided just enough to survive but
never welcomed or included. He’d grown up without friends or family—
and all because an asshole of a bureaucrat couldn’t be bothered to do his
damn duty. He’d long ago abandoned the idea of fairness; the Empire
wasn’t fair, life was less fair, and that was all there was to it. Expecting
anything else was as useful as expecting Askula’s pink sun to rise in the
south tomorrow.
He limped down the stairs and hustled as best he could through the halls
toward his next classroom. The others had thirty minutes between lessons,
but the downside of Ranakar’s classes being in the Citadel was that the awal
kept Amarl as long as possible, forcing him to scramble to reach his next
class on time. He dodged a few tripping feet or odd lurches from
upperclassmen trying to give themselves a reason to punish or hit him—
they did the same to every younger student, but Amarl got more than his
fair share of their attention—and managed to slip into his next classroom
with several minutes to spare. As he entered, he collapsed into the closest
chair, rubbing his now throbbing leg and wincing.
“Glad you made it.” He looked up at Burik’s grinning face towering
over him. “You look like shit, though.”
“I feel like shit, so I suppose that makes sense,” Amarl muttered, still
massaging his aching thigh.
“Was Ranakar’s training worse than usual?” Meder walked over to
stand beside Burik, her face reflecting her concern.
“Absolutely. Pretty sure he broke my femur.” He flexed and
straightened his leg several times. “The elixir mostly healed it, but it’s still
sore.” He grimaced as he touched a particularly tender spot. “What about
you guys? How was sahr class?”
“Honestly? Kind of boring,” Burik snorted. “More math, more
matrices, and more theory.”
Amarl glanced at Meder, and to his surprise, the girl made a sour face.
“Actually, he’s right. It was kind of boring today.”
“Really?” Amarl laughed. “I thought you loved working with sahr!”
“Oh, I do, but I already know the theories Furmeras was describing—
how to link multiple matrices together to create a combined effect—and we
didn’t do any practical use, so…” She shrugged. “It was kind of boring.”
“She entertained herself by doing more math,” Burik chuckled.
 “More math?” Amarl echoed.
“It wasn’t just math, Burik. I was trying to see if I could work out a
formula for an array with more than one extra dimension.”
“Why?” Burik asked curiously.
“Because if I could create an array with two extra dimensions, I could
build two separate spells, one along each dimension, and collapse them both
to create a much more powerful and longer-lasting effect.”
“Couldn’t you just make your array bigger, though, and do the same
thing?”
“Yes, but you saw how hard it was holding an array as large as the one I
built in the assilian hive, Burik. Theoretically, it should be easier to hold
two smaller arrays than one larger one, so if I can work out how to make a
four-dimensional array, I could do more using less energy.” Her eyes
sparkled as she spoke with growing enthusiasm. “Then, I could expand the
concept to five, six, or even unlimited dimensions.” Her eyes sparkled as
she spoke. “Realistically, a working like that should last forever and be
impossible to destroy.”
“Wouldn’t it also use up all the sahr in an entire world?” Amarl asked
casually. “After all, I’m betting that each extra array would need more
power than the last, so wouldn’t it eventually use up all the available sahr?”
Burik gave him a puzzled look, and the hizeen shrugged. “What?
Ranakar’s trying to teach me this, as well. I just don’t get it the way Meder
does, and I can’t do anything with it even if I did. I can barely hold
together a working with one matrix, much less one with twenty like she
can.”
“Seven,” she corrected. “That’s the largest array I’ve ever been able to
keep stable, and I couldn’t actually activate the spell. And don’t worry,
Amarl, I’m not really going to try and create an infinite-dimensional array.
I just want to know if it could be done in theory, is all.”
“I wasn’t worried. I just wanted to point out a possible issue, is all.”
“So, can it?” Burik asked after a moment. “Be done, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “The math says that it’s technically
possible, but that could just mean that my math is wrong. After all, I’ve
never heard of anyone doing anything like that, and that suggests there’s a
reason for it that my math doesn’t show.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Amarl laughed. “I’d give even odds that the
world is wrong, and your math is right.” He rose stiffly to his feet and
began twisting his body so that stiffness didn’t settle in, swinging his arms
and slowly bending and straightening. He looked around the classroom,
inspecting it. Like most classrooms in Askula, the room focused on a
lectern placed in the center of the room, with wooden desks placed in
concentric rows facing it. The walls held nothing but maps as far as Amarl
could tell, and not one of those maps showed the Empire. One did display
Askula, but Amarl only recognized two of the labels on the map: the
Mistways leading to Shadora and Isolas. Five other labels marked what he
assumed were additional Mistways, one near each of the major training
grounds, and he shivered slightly at the though of having to travel those.
He hated the Mistways, and he hadn’t had good experiences in the worlds
beyond them.
“Come on, let’s go sit down,” Meder said, pointing toward three desks
in the front row. “The others will be here soon.”
“How did you guys get here ahead of them?” Amarl asked. “Don’t they
always get a ride on one of the wagons?”
“Not anymore,” Burik grinned. “Tautibal caught them trying it and
tossed them all off the wagon.”
“He means that literally,” Meder added. “She climbed up in the wagon,
threw them over the sides, and told the wagon driver to let it be known that
none of her students would be lazy enough to ride when they had perfectly
good feet.”
“In other words, their days of riding to classes are probably over,”
Burik chuckled. “And Hadur’s still the slowest of all of us, so Meder and I
got here quite a bit ahead of them.”
“Well, that’s one thing that went right today,” Amarl laughed, following
Meder over to the seats the girl had chosen. He didn’t sit yet, still wanting
to keep moving as long as possible before he had to take a seat. A minute
or so later, the door opened, and more students filed in—and to Amarl’s
surprise, they weren’t Herel, Hadur, and Norag. Instead, four other green-
clad second years that he vaguely recognized slipped into the room, giving
the three friends a brief glance before taking seats opposite them.
“It isn’t just the six of us in this class?” Amarl asked Meder softly.
“No,” she shook her head. “We’re taking Realm Lore with other
second-years from what I understand.”
“How’s that going to work?” Burik rumbled curiously. “They have to
be ahead of us, right?”
“I’m not sure, but I assume the malims know what they’re doing,”
Meder shrugged. “All that matters is that we’ll be taking classes with the
others more often this year.”
Amarl sat down and watched as more and more second-year students
filed into the class, including the aristocratic Herel, the pious Norag, and the
somewhat unscrupulous Hadur. The room filled with a murmur of
conversation that quickly stilled as the door opened one last time, and a
white-robed nadar stepped into the room and made her way to the central
lectern. The woman looked young like most nadars, with brown hair pulled
back into a tight bun behind her head and light brown skin. She stopped at
the lectern and gazed around the room, her hazel eyes hard as they swept
over the students, lingering for only a moment on Amarl.
“This is Realm Lore,” she finally spoke, her voice high and light but
with a hard edge to it. “My name is Gehatina, your nadar for this year.”
She stopped and pointed without looking at a student to her left. “You.
What’s the point of this class? Stand up and answer.”
The second-year rose swiftly to his feet, his body ramrod straight and
his left hand pressed over his chest. “To learn about the realms we might
find ourselves within, nadar,” he answered crisply.
“Wrong. Sit down.” The student sat with a disgruntled expression, and
she glanced over the rest of the students. “Anyone have a better answer?
Stand if you do.” No one moved, and the woman snorted derisively. “Too
afraid to guess? If the thought of being wrong terrifies you, how are you
going to face some horror from your worst nightmares in the depths of
Faeruna? How will you deal with the dead scrambling out of the ground to
eat your soul in Necronia? And yes, you will face both of those things at
some point.”
 She pointed at another random student. “You. What’s the greatest
danger in the realm of Dorosha? Stand and answer.”
The girl in question scrambled to her feet, her face uncertain. “I don’t
know, nadar.”
“Sit down, then.” She pointed to another student. “You. How can you
breathe in Malefican?”
“I don’t know, nadar,” the boy admitted.
The woman scanned the room, stopping as she looked at Amarl. “You.
What’s the biggest danger in Isolas?”
The hizeen rose slowly to his feet, his mind racing. He had a feeling
that she wanted him to say the assilians, or perhaps their queen, but neither
of those had been what really threatened them while they were there. “The
crystals, nadar,” he finally answered. Someone snorted in contempt, but the
woman nodded her head with a smile.
“Exactly. The crystals in Isolas drain power, both sahr and ithtu. An
ithtar trapped in a prison of those crystals is severely weakened. Without
the crystals, the assilians would be no threat at all; with them, their hives
are deadly even to the Order. Sit down.”
Amarl sat quickly as the woman turned to look at the rest of the room.
“What you’re learning here isn’t random trivia about these other realms.
It’s a guide to surviving in them. As an ithtar, you will travel the
Mistways. You will find yourselves in these realms and many others, alone
and without support, and the knowledge that I’m going to give you might
be the only thing keeping you alive. You’re not here to learn about those
realms; you’re here to learn how to survive them and return to Umpratan in
as few pieces as possible. If you pay attention, that might be one piece; if
you don’t, it might be several. So, pay attention, because the Order doesn’t
want to lose the investment in time and money they’re putting into you just
because you couldn’t be bothered to learn how to avoid getting your soul
ripped from your body and used as food—and again, that is a danger that
you will absolutely face at some point. Understood?”
“Yes, nadar.” The reply was somewhat muted and subdued, and the
woman nodded approvingly.
 “Good.” She stepped away from the lectern and began to walk around
it, eyeing the students as she spoke.
“As those of you who’ve been in this class for a while know, there are
different ways to classify the dangers of a realm. The strength of sahr in
that realm affects how likely it is that you’ll encounter sahr-using beasts
there. The stability of sahr tells you how much you can rely on it yourself.
Some realms are inherently dangerous or even deadly by their very natures;
others have specific features that make them dangerous, like the crystals in
Isolas.
“All of these together,” she continued, “give a realm a hazard rating.
This hazard rating is a rough descriptor of how dangerous that realm is.
The higher the rating, the deadlier the realm. Isolas, for example, has a
rating of 6.” She pointed to one of the older students. “What does that tell
you about it?”
The student rose from her seat swiftly. “A hazard rating below 25
means that the realm is easily survivable by anyone with training, nadar,”
she responded.
“Correct. Isolas is a low-hazard realm. As long as you don’t cross the
assilians, you can travel it with little risk. Necronia, on the other hand, has
a hazard rating of 136.” She pointed to another student. “What does that
mean?”
The boy stood slowly. “Any hazard rating over 100 means the realm is
deadly, even to ithtaru, nadar,” he said hesitantly.
“Exactly. Simply entering Necronia can be a death sentence. The
ground leaches the life from anything it touches, and the umbrals hunt the
living ceaselessly there. That’s why the Mistway to Necronia is a sealed
one; if you enter there alone, you will die, period.”
She continued walking as she spoke. “The problem with hazard ratings
is that they can be misleading. A realm with a low hazard rating isn’t safe;
it’s just that the dangers there are easier to prepare for and mitigate.
Umpratan, for example, has a hazard rating of 2, but thousands die there
from unnatural causes every day. The Empire isn’t safe, but if you’re
armed, have money, and have access to your ability or sahr, you can avoid
its dangers easily. On the other hand, just because Necronia’s rating is over
100 doesn’t mean you can’t travel there. It just means that you need extra
preparation and knowledge to survive it.”
She looked over the class, making sure she had their attention. “As you
should know, there are two types of realms: sundered realms and alien
ones. Sundered realms are those that broke free from the world of
Umpratan during the Sundering, and they tend to have lower hazard ratings
since they share similar characteristics with Umpratan: similar sahr strength
and stability, similar geography, similar laws of physics. Most are fully
occupied and inhabited by non-naluni races; Cau Etyal, for example, is the
land of the shayeni, while Nuvrodan is the kingdom of the vadniy. Cau
Etyal is heavily forested; Nuvrodan is cold and mountainous, but both are
as civilized as Umpratan, and you can travel them as easily as you can the
Empire. We trade extensively with the sundered realms, and while frictions
do arise, they’re mostly handled diplomatically. Because of this, ithtaru
rarely spend much time in sundered realms.
“Alien realms, on the other hand, have never been part of Umpratan.
No one knows where they came from, but they exist as totally separate
worlds linked to us only through the Mistways. Alien realms can vary
wildly in their geography, physical laws, and inherent natures. They can be
deeply familiar or fantastically extreme. Mayaltu, for example, is a realm
that is fundamentally identical to Umpratan in every way except that no
animal life exists on it at all. Riquara, on the other hand, is an empty realm:
it’s nothing but an endless bubble of air, as far as we can tell, without life or
solid structures of any kind. Sahr in each realm can be stable or chaotic,
incredibly potent or so weak that it might as well not exist.”
She walked over to one of the walls and peered up at a map that
depicted a large forest studded with dots that he guessed marked some sort
of important landmarks. “One thing that sets alien realms apart from
sundered ones is that their existence often makes no sense. Shadora, for
example, is nothing but mist-filled forests, but there’s not enough water to
keep that many trees alive. It never rains there; there are streams and
rivulets but no lakes or rivers. We’ve tried felling the trees to clear a space
to build, but they grow back in a matter of days no matter how we burn
them or salt the ground. Something about the realm itself supports the
forest, some fluctuation of the sahr field or property of the soil we haven’t
discovered.”
 She shrugged and turned back to look at the class. “And that’s an
important thing to know: you can’t expect alien realms to play by the rules
you know. Isolas is a world of tunnels that never seem to exit onto a
surface of any kind. Apirron is a series of plateaus atop mountains that
seem to have no base we can find. Malefican is made of rivers of ice that
float atop a sea of lava without melting, and it’s simultaneously bitterly cold
and searingly hot at the same time.” She hesitated. “It also has a hazard
rating of almost 400, so you won’t be visiting there before your fifth year, at
least.”
She walked back to the center of the room. “The point is that you could
probably walk into any sundered realm and survive as easily as you could
walking into a strange city. The only way to survive alien realms, though,
is with knowledge and preparation, and that’s why this class will focus
exclusively on them. We won’t be discussing Cau Etyal again after today;
if you’re curious about it, there are books in the library with maps and
descriptions galore. I’ll teach you about realms that you will or may visit,
and how you can survive those.”
She took her place back at the lectern. “First, we’ll be discussing the
realm of Isolas, as all of you will be hunting there, one way or another.
Some of you have already been there, and you may think that you know
everything you need to about the realm, but I can assure you that you don’t,
so pay attention.
“First, let’s discuss the peculiar geography of this realm—and how you
can use it to your advantage…”
An hour later, the three students followed the others out of the
classroom. Amarl’s head reeled with the amount of information the nadar
had given them, and he had pages of notes he’d taken about the realm of
Isolas—and they’d only touched on its geography and how its tunnel
system worked. They would be discussing that the rest of the week, then
they’d move on to the native flora. He hadn’t realized just how much he
didn’t know about the realm despite having spent days surviving it less than
a moon ago.
“That was—informative,” Meder finally spoke as the trio broke away
from the other students and headed for the nearest stairwell.
 “That’s a nice way of saying it,” Amarl laughed. “I was going to say
that my head feels like it’s been stuffed with facts about tunnels to the point
my brains are running out my ears.”
“It was a lot to take in,” Burik agreed. “I’m more interested in learning
about the other creatures there, anyway, the ones that were too strong for
them to let us hunt last time.” He flexed his hands with a grin. “It’ll be fun
to hunt more things like that centipede we killed.”
“You mean the one that also almost killed half of us?” Meder asked
archly. “And that led to us getting captured by the assilians?”
“Yeah, that one. That was exciting.”
“You and I have vastly different ideas of what’s exciting, Burik,” Amarl
said, shaking his head. “I’m still having nightmares about that.”
“Me, too,” Meder shuddered. She looked over at Amarl. “You know,
they might not let you go hunting with us this year, considering what
happened last year.”
“They will,” Burik predicted. “He pulls the best crystals, after all.
They’ll send him hunting just for those.”
“He’s got a point,” Amarl admitted. “I don’t think they’ll send me back
to Isolas with you, though. Maybe Shadora again. It was safer.”
“You almost died, Amarl,” Meder pointed out.
“Yeah, but Isolas has the assilians, and apparently, they really don’t like
me in their world. They’re more dangerous than the things I faced in
Shadora. Besides, the Rashiv said I’d be hunting again this year. I guess
with my ability partially unlocked, they’re not as worried about me getting
killed.” He made a face. “Although they’d probably be fine with me
getting horrifically wounded.”
“As long as you could be healed, probably, yeah,” Burik shrugged.
“They’re probably fine with all of us getting horrifically wounded, in fact,
since it’s going to happen one way or another eventually.”
“Speak for yourself,” Meder replied airily. “I’m planning to stand back
and let my two meat shields take all the injuries, personally.”
“I always knew you only loved me for my meat, Meder,” Amarl grinned
at the girl, wincing as she punched him in the shoulder in response. “Nice
punch.”
“Thanks. I’ve been putting more effort into my Unarmed Combat skill
after Isolas.”
“You know that whether you can do that is going to depend entirely on
your abilities, Meder,” Burik pointed out. “What if your ability gives you
diamond claws or something? You’re not going to be standing back casting
spells with those.”
“Or scratching your nose, for that matter,” Amarl added slyly. “Plus, I
think using the privy might be a little awkward.”
“They’d be just right for removing an obnoxious hizeen tongue,
though,” she answered drily. “That might be the greatest service I could
perform for the Empire.”
“It might,” he laughed. “It also might send an entire generation of
women weeping to bed each night at their loss.”
“You can only dream,” she snorted, stopping at one of the doors. “And
thank all the gods, we’re here. Let’s go learn about abilities—and hope that
one of us has the ability to make Amarl grow up.”
“Sounds like a pretty high-tier ability to me,” Burik mused, rubbing his
chin thoughtfully. “Tier D, at least.”
“E, easily,” Amarl corrected. “Maybe as high as J. Is there even a Tier
J?”
“Let’s go find out,” she said. “I’ll say this, though. If there is, and you
somehow figure out a way to get it, I’m going to have Burik hold you down
while I kick your ass.”
“I can’t wait,” he chuckled, following the girl into the classroom.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 8
The room was larger than the last had been, and its walls were mostly
bare of decoration and ornamentation. The typical lectern stood near one
wall, rather than in the center of the room, and instead of desks, a handful
of heavy tables rested in rows with benches on one side, allowing the
students to sit and face the lectern. The rest of the room was empty space,
and when he noticed the faint discolored spots mottling the stone walls and
floor, he had a feeling he knew why it was empty.
“This is different,” Burik said, looking around at the room. He walked
over to one of the tables and pushed on it, frowning as it didn’t move. “The
table’s bolted to the floor. The benches are, as well, I think.”
“That makes perfect sense for a class about awakening our abilities,
doesn’t it?” Amarl turned at the sound of Herel’s voice as he entered the
room with Hadur and Norag following behind. “I imagine it’s a somewhat
dangerous and destructive process.”
“Some more so than others, half-breed,” Hadur sneered at the hizeen.
“Your ability, whatever it is, probably won’t be strong enough to blow out a
candle, much less damage a room.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if yours was some sort of invisibility, Hadur,”
Meder replied coolly. “It would make it easier for you to run and hide,
wouldn’t it?”
“Are you calling me a coward, bitch?” the merchant’s son snarled,
taking a step toward the girl before Herel grabbed his arm and pulled him
back.
“Enough,” the noble boy said sharply. “Hadur, let’s not start the year
like this. We don’t need anyone getting expelled, do we?”
The smaller boy paled slightly and stepped back. Expulsion, they all
knew, meant execution—publicly, in front of the whole school. They’d all
watched it happen last year, and none of them wanted to see it again. Hadur
pressed his lips together, then turned and stalked across the classroom
toward a row of seats, hurling himself into one and muttering under his
breath. Herel shrugged, then walked over to sit beside the boy, also
speaking softly to him.
“What’s his problem?” Burik rumbled, staring at the obviously unhappy
Hadur.
“Awal Tekasoka searched our room this morning,” Norag said with a
sigh. “She found and confiscated the rest of the coins that Herel had
stashed from wherever he got them, so now Herel and Hadur have to rely
on their stipends—which aren’t enough to support the way they’ve been
living.”
“What do they even spend the coins on?” Amarl asked. “There’s
nothing they need to buy here.”
“They found someone else willing to give them extra weapons and
unarmed training,” Norag shrugged.
“I’m surprised anyone took them up on that after what happened with
Nihos and Yashi,” Meder observed.
“Oh, Januk made it clear that all he was willing to do was teach us, and
nothing more, and there’s no rule against getting extra help. You’ve been
having Andra give you extra sahr lessons, haven’t you? Of course, without
that money, they can’t afford the extra lessons, and Hadur’s worried about
falling behind the rest of us.”
“Then he should work even harder,” Burik suggested. “Or speak to the
malims about extra training. I’m sure they’d be willing to arrange
something for him.”
“That still doesn’t explain why he’s so upset with Amarl, though,”
Meder observed.
“Let me guess,” Amarl sighed. “He blames me for the awal searching
his room, right?”
“Pretty much. Herel told us how Danmila found a bunch of stolen
money on you when she first located you, so he thinks you’ve been
sneaking into our room and looking for things to steal.”
“I don’t even know where your room is,” Amarl scoffed. “And if I’d
found your money, why would I report it instead of taking some for
myself?”
 “I didn’t say it made sense, Amarl, just that he blames you.” The boy
shrugged again. “As the Book of the One tells us, ‘No eye is as difficult to
open as one that refuses to see.’”
“I should really read that book sometime,” Amarl noted. “It’s got some
good sayings.”
“That it does, and I’d be happy to sit down and read it with you anytime
you’d like,” the boy grinned. “Or to you. It’s got some big words in it,
after all.”
“Really?” Amarl laughed despite himself. “You, too, Norag?”
“What can I say, Amarl? You’re an easy target.” He laughed. “That
idea about asking the malims for extra training after hours is a good one,
though, Burik. They always seem to appreciate students who do more than
they have to. I’ll mention it to Herel, and hopefully, they’ll arrange
something.” He looked around. “In the meantime, though, I should
probably join them. I’m sure the instructor will be here soon.”
Amarl and his friends took their seats opposite those of the other three
students. That lasted right up until the door opened and a tall, slim woman
with chestnut hair and a pinched face entered wearing the white uniform of
a nadar. The woman took one look at the two trios and shook her head.
“No, this is ridiculous,” she said in a high, somewhat ephemeral voice.
She pointed at Amarl and his friends. “You three, go sit with the others.
I’m not turning back and forth just for six of you.” The three friends
dutifully rose to their feet and walked over to sit beside the other students,
Meder taking the spot beside Norag while Burik sat next to her, leaving
Amarl at the end.
“Better,” the woman said, pausing for a moment and staring at Amarl.
“Wait, Novice. What are you doing here?”
Amarl looked at her in confusion, then glanced at his friends, who
shrugged at him. “I—I’m here to learn about abilities, ma’am,” he said
slowly.
“Don’t be an idiot,” she snapped, walking over to stand in front of him.
“This is a beginner class, meant for those who haven’t quickened their
ability, yet. You have, as I understand it, yes?”
“What?” Amarl heard Hadur gasp. “No fucking way that half-breed…”
 The nadar’s hand whipped out, and a streak of bright white electricity
raced from her palm and arced into Hadur’s chest. The boy cried out and
fell from his chair, his body jerking and spasming madly. The power cut off
an instant later, leaving the boy twitching on the floor with the shoulder of
his uniform scorched and smoking.
“First, I wasn’t speaking to you, Novice,” she said calmly, still not
looking at the writhing boy and ignoring the wide looks the other students
gave her. “Second, I will not tolerate disrespect, for me or for your fellow
students. Punishment will be swift, as you can see. I presume you
understand.”
Amarl watched as Herel helped his friend back into his chair while the
woman spoke, and he swallowed hard as he turned his gaze back to the
nadar.
“Partially, ma’am,” he finally said. “The passive…”
“That’s sufficient,” she cut him off. She walked over to one of the
walls covered by a sheet of heavy wood. She slid the wood aside
effortlessly, revealing a large board with letters scrawled across it. “The
rest of you, begin copying these letters and their meanings down while I
escort Novice Amarl to the correct class. Novice, with me.”
Amarl grabbed his things and scrambled to his feet, tossing a
bewildered glance at the others as he followed the woman out the door into
the hallway. He had to hurry to catch up to her, ignoring his still aching leg
and sore muscles.
“Ma’am?” he asked as she strode briskly down the hallway. “Where
are we going?”
“I’ve seen your stats, Novice,” she replies crisply. “You aren’t dense.
Where are we going?”
“I—I suppose to a class with other students who’ve quickened their
ability,” he guessed.
“Precisely.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “For the moment,
what they’re learning is mostly academic. How tiers work; how to decode
ability names; that sort of thing. That’s because until they quicken their
ability, that’s all they can do in this class; well, that and channeling
exercises designed to speed up the process.
 “You’ll still have to learn all that, obviously,” she continued.
“However, you’ll do it on your own time. You have your ability at least
partially unlocked, so you need to learn how to tap it, use it, and control it.
That’s a different class—the one I’m escorting you to.” She glanced back at
him. “Trust me. You’ll wish that you were
He followed her down a few flights of stairs into a lower level of the
Citadel than he’d been to before. The corridors here were lit by glass
globes that shed a clear light; the walls were closer together and clammy to
the touch; a musty scent filled the air that reminded him of the mines of
Tem. In fact, after a few seconds, he felt convinced she’d led him
underground into some sort of basement area—or a dungeon, he supposed.
He couldn’t help but feel a shiver at that, but he doubted the school really
had a dungeon. If a student did something bad enough to be locked up,
they’d probably just be executed instead. It would be easier, and the awals
did seem to be all about practicality.
She led him into a wooden door banded in iron, knocked twice, then
pushed it open. He walked inside, and for a moment, he felt sure that the
Citadel did indeed have a dungeon, and this was its torture chamber. A
dozen or so students filled the room, and all of them looked to be in various
levels of pain and suffering. One stood erect in a cage made with bladed
bars that pressed against her skin and cut into her. Another had chains
wrapped around his ankles that bound him to the floor and wrists that ran
through a series of pulleys to a pair of heavy rocks dangling in the air, and
the boy strained to keep them from yanking his arms straight and possibly
dislocating his shoulders. One girl stood in a waist-high cylinder or water
placed over glowing coals, while a boy stood in a similar device covered
with smoking frost. Each of them looked to be in misery, and Amarl
couldn’t quite keep an exclamation from slipping out of his mouth.
“What the fuck?” he whispered in horrified awe.
“A common reaction to seeing ability training,” the nadar replied before
clearing her throat and raising her voice. “Malim Rateso! A student for
you!”
A gray-robed man with thinning black hair turned away from where he
stood beside a female nadar, both of them examining a young woman
performing calisthenics while wrapped in heavy chains that shrouded her
arms and legs. He peered back at the pair, displaying a slightly lined face
and piercing gray eyes that radiated annoyance. As his gaze fell on Amarl,
though, understanding filled them, and he turned and walked over to stand
before them.
“Yes, I thought I might be seeing you soon, Novice,” the man said in a
voice that was raspy but resonant. “Partially unlocked our ability, as I
understand it, yes?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Amarl said hesitantly.
“I’ll leave him with you, Malim,” the nadar spoke up. “The others are
waiting for me.”
“Yes, yes, thank you, Nadar,” the malim said dismissively. “Come with
me, Novice.”
He led Amarl past the students through a banded wooden door that led
into a far more standard looking classroom. As the malim shut the door
behind them, a sudden thump rattled it, and Amarl dropped almost
reflexively into a ready stance.
“Good reflexes,” the malim chuckled. “There’s nothing to be alarmed
about, however. I believe that Novice Gitor lost control of his ability for a
moment. To be expected with a hus ability.” Amarl stared at the man
blankly, and the malim shook his head. “That’s right, you haven’t learned
the nomenclature, yet. Well, you’ll have to study to catch up to the others,
as we don’t have time to go over much now. I can give you a bit of
information, though.
The man leaned back, and his eyes went distant. “Two things define an
ithtara, Novice. The first is the ability to quicken ithtu, which you’ve
already discovered. The second is the ability to turn the energy of that ithtu
into powers or abilities. Both are vital to the ithtaru, and the two go hand in
hand.” He looked at Amarl. “Any idea why? Why, for example, couldn’t
we channel sahr into our abilities instead?”
“Because it’s not powerful enough, sir?”
“Close. It’s not about power; it’s a matter of density. If you could
somehow gather all the sahr in Umpratan into one person, they still
wouldn’t be able to replicate our abilities, even though that person would
technically hold more overall power than most ithtar. Sahr simply isn’t a
dense enough energy source, and that means it can’t transfer enough power
in a small enough amount of time to do what our abilities can. Could a
person with unlimited sahr destroy a mountain? Absolutely, given decades
or centuries. An ithtar with unlimited ithtu could do the same thing in
seconds or minutes because ithtu can transfer a greater amount of energy
into any given area over a specific amount of time. In fact, it’s the single
densest form of energy we’ve ever discovered in any realm or world by an
order of magnitude, at least.”
He chuckled. “You’re probably wondering why that’s important. Well,
to put it simply, what most people call abilities or powers are essentially a
projection of the dense energy of ithtu through that person’s mind, body,
and soul out into the world. It’s an expression of the fundamental nature of
the ithtar using it, and ithtu simply powers it. The ithtu itself can’t create
any abilities; it requires an ithtar for that. An ithtar without ithtu can’t use
those abilities; only ithtu is dense enough to make them work. The two, as I
said, go hand-in-hand.”
He walked over to a bookshelf and pulled out a slim book, then walked
back over and tossed it down in front of Amarl. “This is a guide to ability
nomenclature. You have a moon to learn the Tier A and B letters, and to
memorize the most common Tier A abilities. We’ll work on the rest later.”
He leaned back. “For the moment, tell me your ability, and what
you’ve awakened so far.”
Amarl only hesitated a second; the Rashiv had ordered him not to
reveal his true ability—which apparently most ithtaru couldn’t read through
their joining crystals because it was so unique—and to give them a lesser
version that would mimic some of what he should be able to do.
“Em, sir,” he said. “I’ve unlocked a passive ability that gives me a stat
boost as needed.”
“Rare ability,” the man nodded. “Tier D, and a solid passive that can
benefit you in any situation. You quickened it early; most Tier D students
don’t awaken even part of their ability until their third year.” He snorted.
“Of course, with you, that’s to be expected, I suppose.”
He leaned back again. “My guess is that at certain times—usually
when you’re very stressed or in danger—you get a sudden surge of strength,
speed, or skill that helps keep you alive. Is that right?”
 “Yes, sir. That’s how it’s happened, for the most part.”
“That’s how most abilities first manifest, Novice. Your ithtu responds
to your need, protecting you or helping you through something otherwise
impossible. Almost all students awaken their ability that way. However,
that sort of use of ithtu is dangerous. Can you guess why?”
“Because it’s uncontrolled, sir,” Amarl said instantly, recalling how
he’d once almost killed a student when his ability reacted to save his life
without his conscious direction.
“Exactly. You see, Novice, ithtu isn’t good or evil. It has no morality
and no judgment. When roused and left to its own devices, it responds as
fully as possible to defend or aid its wielder, with no halfway measures. In
your case, it gives you whatever strength, speed, or skill you need, without
caring if it’s too much. As you grow stronger and learn to channel and hold
more ithtu, that response will increase with it. You’ve seen your ability
react when you had a tak of a couple points of ithtu and little to no
channeling abilities; imagine what it might do if your tak had thirty or forty
points of ithtu, and you could channel all of it.”
Amarl shivered slightly at the thought of that. He’d drained about thirty
units of ithtu fighting the assilian queen; if all of that went into a single
attack, say to defend himself against an older student harassing him—there
wouldn’t be anything left of that student, in all likelihood. He’d kill
someone without meaning to, maybe several people if the force of the blow
continued through whoever he hit. If that had happened when he was
fighting Nihos, he would have obliterated the boy and probably took Andra
with him.
“You understand,” the malim nodded. “I can see it in your face. That’s
why we find students between their fourteenth and fifteenth Naming Day.
Before we started doing that, there were—incidents. Some were
understandable, like bullies beaten to death, overly harsh craft masters
catching on fire, or thieves and muggers frozen solid. Others, though, were
far more tragic. Fires that started out of nowhere and killed everyone in a
village but the ithtar. Storms that washed out the farms of entire villages.
Parents or lovers accidentally crushed or torn to pieces.” He shook his
head. “Ithtu almost never awakens before the fifteenth Naming Day, even
in response to danger. After that, though, a budding ithtar becomes a
danger to everyone around them until they learn to control it—and that still
holds true here in Askula, which is why you’re here.”
He gestured toward the closed door. “What you saw out there probably
horrified you, but in fact, we’re teaching students how to call on and control
their ithtu. The problem is that at first, the only way to do that is to put the
student under stress, forcing their ability to react so that they can learn to
control it. That’s what you saw: students being placed into dangerous,
frightening, or painful situations so that their ability responds to protect
them, then learning how to rein in that ability and control it.”
Amarl nodded slowly; he understood. That didn’t mean he was looking
forward to it. “So, what do I do now, sir?”
“Actually, for you, the matter’s simpler than for most,” the man smiled.
“Your ability will boost any of your stats at need, yes?”
“That’s what it says, sir.”
“Then all we have to do is challenge those stats until your ithtu has no
choice but to respond. What’s your Force stat?”
“Five-five, sir.”
The man nodded. “Significant, but easy enough to challenge.” He
paused and gave the boy a penetrating look. “The next hour is going to be
one of the most miserable of your time here, Novice. It is for everyone.
However, it’s the fastest and best way we’ve found to teach you to control
your ability. One way or another, you will learn to control it.” He leaned
forward. “Or you’ll die trying. Understand, Novice?”
Amarl swallowed hard at the cold, hard look in the man’s eyes and
nodded. “I—I understand, sir.”
“Not yet, you don’t,” the man shook his head. “You will, though.
Come with me. Let’s get you started.”
Amarl rose to his feet slowly, fear filling his thoughts. The malim’s
words reminded him of Tautibal’s, earlier in the day, and then, she’d been
right. Amarl really hadn’t understood just how much harder this year’s
training was going to be. He thought he had an idea, but he’d been wrong.
Already, the thought of whatever they were going to do to him to help him
control his ability scared the shit out of him. If the malim was right, and he
was underestimating how bad it would be…
 Meder was wrong, he decided as he followed the malim back toward
the chamber of horrors. This year was going to be much, much worse than
last one, and he had a feeling he was only beginning to see just how bad it
was.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 9
The boy followed the malim across the room to a female nadar
watching the chained student strain against the rocks he held up. The
student’s face was red with effort and slicked with sweat, and his entire
body trembled and shook.
“No, Tehes!” the woman said sharply to the shaking boy. “Your
muscles aren’t enough to hold up the rocks! Concentrate on your ithtu!
Guide it into your arms. Let it do the work!”
“Nadar Sototen,” the malim interrupted. “I have another student for
you.”
The woman turned to look at Amarl, and the hizeen examined her in
turn. The nadar was bulky, with side shoulders and hips and a thick neck.
Her short black hair hugged the bottom of her ears and didn’t hide a series
of white scars that ran across the side of her neck and disappeared under her
robe. She stood with her feet wide but her weight balanced, and something
about her struck Amarl as being as immovable as a mountain—and very,
very dangerous.
The woman grunted, her face looking dissatisfied, but inclined her head
to the malim, who turned and walked away. The woman beckoned Amarl,
who stepped closer to her, trying his best to quiet the butterflies raging in
his stomach.
“You don’t look like one of mine, hizeen,” she said shortly. “You have
a strength ability?”
“Of sorts, ma’am,” he replied nervously.
“Of sorts? What the fuck does that mean?” she snapped. “Do you or
don’t you?”
“I—I have an ability that boosts any of my stats at need, ma’am,” he
said quickly. “Including strength.”
She grunted. “Good enough. What’s your Force stat?”
“Five-five, ma’am.”
 She glanced at him in mild surprise. “You don’t look it, with those
spindly arms.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “You’ve done weight
training, yes? Presses?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded. He wasn’t a fan of presses, where he had to
lie on his back and lift a heavy weight up and down over his chest, but then,
he wasn’t really a fan of any of the weight training he’d done.
“Good. We’ll start with those, then.” She pointed to a stone slab over
to the side. “Go lie down on that.”
He trudged over to the slab, feeling another stab of fear in his heart as
he looked down at it. It reminded him far too much of the altar the school
used to induct students—right down to the dark stains on it that he felt
certain were blood. A metal ring whose purpose he couldn’t quite fathom
was set into the top of the bier near one end, and thick leather straps hung
from both sides of it. He did his best to ignore the pounding in his heart as
he lay down on the cold stone. That got a lot harder as the nadar leaned
over him and began crossing the straps over his forehead, chest, stomach,
and hips, slipping them through buckles on the opposite side and pulling
them tightly enough that he could hardly move. The woman moved from
his vision, then reappeared holding a solid, somewhat rusty bar of dark
metal that he guessed was probably steel or iron. Most of the bar looked
roughened to make it easier to grip, but jagged spikes from the center of it,
each a span long and wickedly sharp.
She held the bar over his chest. “Go ahead and take it,” she told him.
He obediently reached up and grabbed the bar, carefully avoiding the
spikes. It was heavy, as he expected of a reach-long piece of solid metal,
but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t manage. At least, it wasn’t until she
added, “Now, bend your arms a bit and lower it a span toward your chest.”
He did so, and he watched as the woman wrapped a chain around the
bar, hooking the spikes in the center to lock it in place, then connected the
other end above his head, presumably to the ring above his head that now
made a lot more sense.
“Good,” she said after a moment. “Now, just hold that there. While
you’re doing it, practice touching your ithtu and holding onto it. Have you
learned channeling yet?”
“No, ma’am,” he grunted.
 “Shame. You’ll have to learn that, soon, but for the moment, it doesn’t
matter. Hold your ithtu, hold the bar, and don’t let it drop; as you can see, it
won’t be healthy for you.”
She walked away, and Amarl turned his focus to the spiked bar over his
chest. For the moment, his arms were fine, but he knew that wouldn’t last
long. Bent as they were, his arms would quickly run out of strength. Just to
be sure, he pushed upward, testing the chain. It clinked but didn’t let him
straighten his arms. He didn’t think it would, but he’d have been an idiot
not to try.
He turned his focus inward and reached with his thoughts to the bright
ball of ithtu nestled at his core. That was easy enough for him; Ranakar had
him touch it constantly during training, even while sparring or dodging
flying knives. Compared to that, holding it while pushing a metal bar up
was practically nothing. The song of his ithtu soothed and comforted him,
and he lost himself in its music.
Minutes passed, and while Amarl’s arms trembled slightly, he still had
the bar under control. He wasn’t sure what the point of the exercise was,
but he felt himself slowly relax. If this was all there was to it, he felt certain
he could handle it. A few moments later, he cursed himself for thinking
that.
“Warmed up?” The nadar appeared in his vision again, a vicious grin
creasing her face as she held up a pair of metal discs, each two spans across
with a hole in the center. “I hope so. Now, we start the exercise.”
He felt more than saw her slip the two discs onto the bar, and instantly,
the weight pressing on his arms doubled. He grunted slightly with the effort
as the bar sank a fingerwidth before he recovered and pushed it back up.
“Still holding your ithtu?” she asked, peering down into his eyes and
nodding. “You are. Good. Keep doing it. Hold that up, and I’ll be back
soon.”
As the minutes passed, Amarl’s arms began to shake harder, and he felt
weariness sinking into his muscles. He still held, though; the training he’d
undergone had hardened his body and given him considerable stamina, and
while he couldn’t hold the bar all day, he felt he could manage it for a fair
amount of time. Of course, that was when the nadar reappeared with her
wicked smile, slipping two more discs onto the bar. The bar lurched toward
his chest, dropping half a span this time before he recovered it.
“Not bad,” the nadar said approvingly. “Keep at it. Try to guide your
ithtu into your arms. Remember: drop this, and there’s a good chance
you’ll wake up dead.”
He shivered as he stared at the spikes, realizing that several of them
were stained the same dark color as the stone beneath him. At that moment,
he understood. The nadar wasn’t joking or teasing him. If he failed here,
that bar would plunge into his chest, and he’d be lucky to only get a pierced
lung and not die. This wasn’t just an exercise. The school meant for him to
learn or die in the process, just as the malim said.
Fear lent his arms new strength as adrenaline coursed through him, and
he shoved the bar hastily against the chain binding it in place. His arms
shook ferociously, but he gritted his teeth and pressed upward, holding the
bar erect. The song of his ithtu turned into a triumphal march in his mind,
somehow encouraging him and cheering him onward. He did his best to
sink into it; the song helped him ignore the growing pain in his wrists,
elbows, and shoulders, the burning in his arms, and the heaviness in his
chest.
The nadar returned after a couple minutes and slipped two more discs
on, leering at him as she did, and this time, the bar dropped over a span
before a spike of adrenaline let him shove it back up again. The song in his
mind soared powerfully, and he dove into it. His arms shook furiously; his
back throbbed and ached; his joints felt like they were tearing, but within
the caress of his ithtu, those sensations barely mattered. He focused on the
wicked spikes pointing toward his chest and his need to keep them away
from his heart. Holding the bar felt like carrying the whole damn Citadel,
but he grimly held it aloft. His muscles screamed in agony, and he knew he
was damaging his joints, but lost in his ithtu, he could ignore those feelings.
The nadar’s face appeared above his, and her expression no longer
looked sly or mischievous. Instead, anger radiated from her, a nearly
palpable force that pressed on him.
“Why are you still fighting, hizeen?” she hissed in his face. “Give up!
Let the bar drop! This whole place would be better without you!”
 A surge of anger wiped away his growing fear, and he furiously shoved
the bar upward, making the chain creak and groan slightly. As he did,
though, the nadar slapped her hands atop the bar and pushed back down
toward his chest. He snarled as her weight fell onto the bar, and the song of
his ithtu turned stern and sinister. The bar dropped two spans toward him,
but he growled and shoved it back up despite her weight on it.
“You’re not leaving this slab alive, Novice,” she chuckled at him.
“Know what my ability is? It’s called ‘atee’, and it lets me project force
from my hands in any direction I want. Say, down into this bar.”
The bar suddenly lurched downward toward his chest as if it had tripled
in weight. Fear and rage exploded in Amarl’s mind as the spikes plunged
toward his chest, and the song of his ithtu roared in furious response. New
strength rolled up his arms, and he shoved the bar back up, pushing through
the terrible pressure bearing down on him. The woman’s eyes narrowed,
and the weight on him redoubled once more, driving the bar until the spikes
hung half a span from his chest. His ithtu roared and raged, and he pushed
with everything he had, but no matter how he shoved, the bar remained
immobile, creeping slowly toward his chest, toward his furiously beating
heart.
Power exploded from him as his ithtu screamed into his arms. He
roared in fury and shoved, and the weight vanished instantly as the nadar’s
face disappeared from his vision. The bar flew from his hands with a loud
bang, and he tore himself free of the straps binding him, staggering to his
feet. The song of his ithtu shrieked in his mind, blotting out all thought and
demanding that he punish his enemies, that he slaughter the one who’d tried
to kill him…
A sudden wave of weakness swept over his body as the energy filling
him drained away. The song in his mind quieted to a murmur for an instant
before swelling once more, but in that moment, all the pain it held at bay
slammed into Amarl at once. His back knotted; his arms and chest burned
like liquid fire; his legs folded as they lost the strength to support him. He
dropped hard to the ground, his arms too cramped to catch his fall. Strong
hands rolled him onto his back, and a familiar face appeared in his vision,
holding up a slim metal vial.
 “Drink this, Novice!” the nadar said, her voice slightly urgent. “Hurry,
before you pass out!”
He struggled to pull away from her, and her face hardened. She
grabbed his jaw with one hand, and he felt it being pried inexorably open.
A warm liquid poured into his mouth, and he swallowed it reflexively,
recognizing the taste and the fiery sense of sahr it carried. The liquid
flowed down his throat, and fire spread into his body, washing over his
chest and spreading out into his arms. It flowed down his back and sank
into his legs, soothing the aching muscles there.
He relaxed as the pain slowly seeped out of his body. His arms
uncramped; the knots in his chest and back eased; the fire in his joints
ebbed. He lay on the floor, gasping for breath and shuddering as the fear
slowly left his body.
“Better?” He turned his head and saw the nadar crouched over him, her
face a neutral mask. Anger surged in him again, but his body lacked the
strength to do much about it. He groaned as she reached down and grabbed
his shirt, pulling him to his feet. His legs trembled and shook, but they held
him up, and she handed him another vial. “Drink this. It’ll help.”
He fumblingly unscrewed the cap and poured the liquid into his mouth.
It had a faint lemon taste to it, and as it went down, a tingling spread
through his body, granting him new energy. He straightened as the
shivering in his legs stopped and his body felt strong enough to stand erect
once more.
“Come with me, Novice.” He turned to see the malim standing behind
him, eyeing him with faint disapproval. The gray-robed man turned and
walked away, and Amarl staggered behind him. Whatever the last elixir
was, while it gave him the energy to walk, it didn’t repair the aching in his
body, and he still felt like Ranakar had beaten him with his stick for an hour
or so. He managed to keep up with the man, though, the second elixir
giving him the energy he needed to stumble across the room.
The malim held the door into the classroom for him, then shut it behind
the pair. He gestured at a seat. “Sit before you fall down.” Amarl
gratefully sank into a chair with a stifled groan. The man took a seat
opposite him and stared at him for several long seconds.
“That wasn’t a Tier D ability, Novice,” he finally said in a flat voice.
 “Sir?” A tinge of apprehension swept through the boy, but he pushed it
aside.
“I’ve been doing this a long time, boy,” the man said, glaring at Amarl.
“I’ve seen every type of ability you could imagine, and some you probably
can’t. I’ve trained thousands of Tier D abilities over the years, and that
wasn’t one. A Tier D ability would have reacted long before yours did, and
it wouldn’t have broken that chain—or flung a nadar across the room.”
“I—I didn’t know I did that, sir,” Amarl swallowed hard.
“You did. It wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t been caught off-
guard, but it shouldn’t have happened at all.” He leaned forward. “I’m
going to ask you again, Novice, and this time, if you don’t tell me the truth,
you’re going to find out exactly what being expelled feels like. What. Is.
Your. Ability?”
Amarl shivered at the thought of kneeling over the altar and being
beheaded before the whole school, but terrifying as that was, the thought of
disobeying the Rashiv scared him far more. “Sir—I’ve told you all I can.
If you want to hear anything else, you’ll have to ask the Rashiv, not me.
I’m sorry.”
The malim stared at him for long moments, then grunted and leaned
back. “I will. It’s important for me to know what I’m dealing with, so I can
challenge you appropriately. If I’d known how severe a reaction your
ability would have, I’d have done things differently.” He shook his head
and rose to his feet. “You’re too injured to continue today. Rest, heal, and
read that book I gave you. It’ll help you catch up to the others.”
“Yes, sir.” Amarl hesitated briefly. “Sir?”
“Yes, Novice?”
“The nadar—she was trying to kill me, wasn’t she?” Amarl expected
the man to deny the accusation or try to explain; to his shock, he simply
nodded.
“Yes, Novice, she was. And she’ll continue to do so—or whoever you
work with will, until you can call up your ability at will.” The man’s face
softened slightly. “As I said before, Novice, it’s the only way. Your ithtu
responds to your need, but that need has to be genuine to rouse it. If you
knew that failure simply meant being able to try again, you wouldn’t feel
that need. Knowing that failure means injury or death, though, will bring
your ithtu to your defense.” He gave Amarl a cold smile. “If you don’t like
it, there’s only one thing you can do: learn to tap your ability and control it
at will, rather than at need. When you do, this will all get a lot easier.”
He strode out of the room, leaving Amarl alone. The boy picked up the
book he’d left on the desk earlier and flipped it open, but his eyes refused to
process the words on the page. His hands shook, and a sob of fear caught in
his throat.
He’d always known that the school was harsh to its students. It pushed
them hard, forced them to grow and adapt. Some part of him, though, had
always felt that the school had boundaries, lines it wouldn’t cross. Today, it
had crossed most of those. If Amarl had failed—if his arms had given out,
or his ability hadn’t risen to his defense—those spikes would have punched
into his chest. They would have sliced his lungs and pierced his heart. No
sahr elixir would heal that, and Amarl wasn’t sure his ithtu would, either.
A realization that he’d always known but never really internalized
crystallized in him. The school gave its students two options: succeed or
die. There was no middle ground, no halfway point, no “almost good
enough”. He had to succeed every time—no, he had to excel every time, or
he’d be the one kneeling over the altar, waiting to feel the blade at the back
of his neck. They all did.
Deep inside him, a tiny spark of fury kindled to life, but he quickly
buried it. Anger wouldn’t help. Rage wouldn’t carry him through what he
had to face. One day, though…
He pushed that thought aside and forced his eyes to focus on the words
below him. There was no point to thoughts like that. All he could do was
keep pushing, keep striving, and hope that his best was enough, even
knowing that it wasn’t. It never would be.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 10
He trudged back upstairs when the class ended. His body still ached,
his joints throbbed, and his head pounded, but the elixirs and his own ithtu
had mostly healed him. He had no idea where he was, but it was simple
enough to follow the other students upstairs and into the main areas of the
first floor. Those, he recognized, and he quickly made his way toward the
main hall, hoping to run back into Meder and Burik there. Fortunately, they
seemed to have the same idea, and he found them standing to one side,
avoiding the older students and scanning the room for him. When they
spotted him, Meder’s eyes brightened, and Burik lifted a hand to grab his
attention.
“So, where did the nadar take you?” Burik asked as he wearily joined
the pair.
“An advanced class, of course, Burik,” Meder answered with a smile.
“Am I right, Amarl?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Apparently, once your ability quickens, they start
teaching you how to call on it at will and control it.”
“Sounds useful,” Burik observed. “How was it?”
“Awful,” he said with a shudder. “It was just about the worst thing I’ve
gone through here—except maybe the Joining.”
“Worse than physical training this morning?” Meder scoffed.
“A lot. Tautibal’s a bitch…” He belatedly looked around to make sure
no malims or nadars were in sight. “…but she’s not trying to kill us. At
least, not actively. In this class, they are.”
“I’m sure they aren’t really, Amarl,” Meder said with a frown, but he
shook his head.
“No, they are. The malim told me so. It’s the only way to force our
abilities to wake up. Today, I had to use mine to keep a nadar from driving
an iron bar with span-long spikes on it directly into my chest.”
“Shit,” Burik murmured, as Meder gasped in horror. “That’s harsh.”
 He nodded. “And they told me they’ll keep doing it, over and over,
until I can tap my ability at will and start controlling it.” He shivered
again. “And it’s not just me. That whole class is like a fucking torture
chamber.”
“Andra said it was awful, but I had no idea,” Meder murmured in a
horrified voice. “And to think, I was jealous that you got to go to an
advanced class!”
“Don’t be,” he said feelingly. “I’d much rather have been with you
two.” He shook himself. “Enough of that. Tell me what I missed. More
boring lessons?”
“Actually, it wasn’t too bad,” Burik shrugged. “We started talking
about ranking and tiers, and what sorts of powers you could find at each
tier.”
“I read a little about that when I was recovering,” Amarl nodded. “I got
a book about it to help me catch up to the others.”
“Oh, can I borrow it?” Meder asked eagerly.
“If you want,” he shrugged. “It might make your class boring if you
learn all of it ahead of time, though.”
“Or it’ll help me to ask better questions,” she countered.
“As if you need help,” Burik snorted. “She was the only one who
answered anything correctly today. Caterama—the nadar—isn’t very
patient with fools.”
“What nadar is?” Amarl laughed, pushing aside the last vestiges of the
horror he’d felt earlier. “Did Hadur or Herel give you any more problems?”
“Hadur got shocked again when he started bitching under his breath,”
Burik snorted. “That was when he found out that his ability was the
weakest in the group.”
“Has the lowest power requirements,” Meder corrected. “That doesn’t
necessarily make it weak.”
“So, you found out what everyone’s abilities are?” Amarl asked
interestedly.
“Only the Tier A ones,” Burik shook his head. “And just the names, not
what they do. We’re supposed to figure them out.”
 “Then how did you know that Hadur’s was the weakest?”
“It’s only two letters long,” Meder shrugged. “‘Or’. Burik’s and
Herel’s are both three: ‘est’ and ‘ene’.”
“Which means?”
“Each letter is either an action or a concept, and they all have their own
tiers, too. For an ability to be Tier A, it has to be made of only Tier A
concepts, and the more of them, the more power it requires.” She smiled.
“At least, that’s what Caterama said.”
“She used a lot more words, though,” Burik added. “Wait, I thought
you read about this stuff?”
“I did. That doesn’t mean I understood all of it,” Amarl chuckled. “Not
that I was trying all that hard. I’ll go back over it later when I’m less
distracted by almost dying.”
“That would make it harder to concentrate,” Meder laughed, then
looked at Burik. “I think I’ve figured out what your ability does, by the
way.”
“You have?” the larger boy asked in surprise.
She nodded. “Caterama gave us enough examples that I think I’ve got
it. She said that ‘e’ means improve, and I’m pretty sure that ‘s’ is strength
or power, while ‘t’ is the ability to endure. Your ability is probably going to
make you a lot stronger and tougher.”
He grinned. “I hope you’re right. There are a few upperclassmen I’d
like to meet at Halit with an ability like that.”
“Yes, because gaining vengeance is the main reason we’re unlocking
our abilities,” Meder snorted, rolling her eyes. “I think I figured out Herel’s
and Hadur’s, as well, by the way.”
“Oh yeah?” Amarl asked.
“Yep. I’m pretty sure that ‘n’ has to do with talent or skill, and like I
said, ‘e’ is improvement. Herel’s probably going to become much more
skilled once his ability is unlocked and maybe better at fighting.”
“Good,” Burik grunted. “Maybe he’ll actually be competent, then.”
 “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Amarl laughed. “I mean, ithtu’s
powerful, but there’s no point in asking for miracles.”
“You’re probably right,” Meder agreed. “If there were, I could hope
that unlocking your ability would somehow make you less of an ass.”
“Exactly! No point in wishing for things we can’t get, is there?” He
grinned at the girl, who simply shook her head at him.
“What about Hadur?” Burik asked.
“Oh, yeah. Well, I think that ‘o’ is about pushing or projecting
something, while ‘r’ is about defense or protection. I’m guessing he’s got
an ability to protect himself.”
“Of course, he does,” Amarl chuckled. “Anything to keep him from
getting hurt, right?”
“It does seem his personality,” Meder laughed as well. “In fact, all of
those abilities struck me as highly appropriate for the person holding them.”
“That’s how it’s supposed to be, according to Ranakar.” Amarl’s voice
took on a lecturing quality. “‘Each ithtar’s ability is a reflection of their
inner self, a projection of their nature into the world.’” He shrugged. “I’m
not sure how that works when there are only so many abilities, though. At
least, there can only be so many names, right?”
“We actually covered that. Apparently, the names are just rough guides
to what the ability does, but how it works can vary from person to person.
Two people can have the same ability name but manifest it in different
ways. The overall effect is the same, but the abilities aren’t. That’s why the
letters are broad concepts without specific definitions.”
“Not that it matters,” Burik shrugged. “If a person’s got super strength,
that’s all you need to know about them. It doesn’t matter how it works;
what matters is that they can lift a boulder and throw it at you.”
“It might. We don’t really know yet, do we? That’s why we’re in this
class.” She looked at Amarl.
“Can you tell us a little more about your class?” she asked tentatively.
“I mean, we’re both going to have to go through it, eventually, so we might
as well know what we’re getting into.”
 “Sure,” he sighed, despite really wanting to try and forget the day. She
was right, though; they were both going to have to experience it, and if he’d
have known in advance—well, it probably wouldn’t have mattered, except
that he’d have felt a little less betrayed. He gave them a brief description of
what he’d experienced and how his ability reacted. When he told them
about the malim questioning him after, Meder looked at him curiously.
“Why did you lie in the first place, Amarl? Why not just tell him your
actual ability?”
“The Rashiv told me to,” he shrugged. “I guess he doesn’t want people
knowing it—not even the malims.”
“That doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense,” Burik observed. “They can
just Inspect you to see what you are, can’t they?”
“Apparently not. Until I told the Rashiv what it was, he just saw it as
‘unknown’. If he couldn’t figure it out, do you really think a nadar or
malim can?”
“But why is he keeping it a secret?” Meder persisted. “Why not let you
tell everyone?”
“No clue, sorry. You could probably go ask him if you wanted, though.
Maybe he’ll explain it to you.”
She shivered and shook her head. “No, I’m good, thanks.”
“So, where to next?” Burik asked.
“Geralz for Skill Training,” Meder replied. “Three hours of it,
apparently.”
“Three?” Burik groaned. “It was only two last year!”
“They’re probably going to start having us learn new skills this year
instead of just focusing on the ones we have affinity for,” the girl pointed
out. “I’m sure there are skills that every ithtar has to know, things like
Diplomacy or Military Tactics, and we’ll probably start training those this
year.”
“Military Tactics would be good,” Burik mused. “I’m not sure about
Diplomacy, though.”
“You could both use some training in it,” she pointed out. “You can’t
intimidate or seduce everyone you ever meet, you know.”
 “That sounds like a challenge to me,” Amarl said thoughtfully, rubbing
his chin. “Seducing everyone I meet, hmm…”
“Yes, that sounds like a great idea, Amarl. Next time you get in trouble,
try seducing Awal Tekasoka. See how far that gets you. My guess is all the
way to being expelled.”
He winced at that thought. “Good point,” he sighed. “Fine. I’ll learn
Diplomacy, Meder, just for you.”
“No, you’ll learn it for you. I’ll just be the one hoping you actually
choose to use it.” She grinned at him. “Maybe we can make you less of an
ass after all!”
Geralz, the skill training center, was in the southeastern part of Askula,
and like most of the training centers, it was a collection of buildings rather
than a single large one. All the buildings were built of gray stone taken
from the mountains around them, and they clustered into groups that Amarl
now knew were based on stats. Most of his training happened in the back-
left cluster, where Presence-based abilities were trained. Those buildings
were smaller, with wider windows that let in more light than the narrow or
even fully blocked ones common in Force or Toughness-based skills. Herds
of horses, cows, and other animals moved around in pens beyond the
buildings, and students rode atop those or moved through them, no doubt
practicing their riding or animal husbandry skills. As Sengeloh, the malim
who oversaw their training last year, told them, if an activity could be
learned, trained, and improved, there was probably a skill for it, and Geralz
probably taught it.
The trio jogged into view of the valley holding the buildings, where
they saw Herel, Hadur, and Norag standing before a white-robed nadar.
They slowed to a walk as they drew close, and the nadar beckoned the three
forward. The woman was tall, nearly as tall as Burik, with short, dark hair
that had a distinctly reddish tint to it. A long scar ran along her jawline,
while a slim, white line traced out of her left sleeve onto the back of her
hand. Her face was round and mostly unremarkable save for the intensity
of her dark eyes. She waited until the three novices reached her before
clearing her throat and speaking, her tone brisk and no-nonsense.
“Good. You’re all on time. Not that I’d expect less from second-years,
but it’s always nice not to have to start a year with disciplinary duty.
 “My name is Nadar Danehia, and I’m going to be your instructor for
skill improvement this year.” She swept her gaze over the novices as she
spoke. “You’re probably wondering what that means. It’s actually quite
simple. Just as you can strengthen and improve your body and mind with
ithtu, you can improve your skills with it, as well, and I’ll be teaching you
how to do that.
“Now, I can go on about theory, and why you’re learning this, and the
benefits, but the fact is that you’re learning this because the Order says
you’re learning it, and you’ll see the benefits clearly enough once you’ve
learned how to do it. As far as theory, well, doing is knowing as far as I’m
concerned. Once you’ve all worked out how to do this, you’ll have a better
grounding to understand the theory, so we’ll wait until then to discuss it.
Understood?”
The students nodded, and Amarl actually felt a bit of relief. He
generally didn’t much care about the theories behind things; he just wanted
to know what to do and how to do it. It sounded like his sort of training—
although he wondered if it would even help him thanks to his ability. If his
ithtu already boosted his skill learning speed, would adding more do
anything? He didn’t know, but he assumed he’d figure it out pretty quickly.
“Good. Now, this training works best with a simple, mindless skill that
you don’t already possess, at least at first. Do any of you have the digging
skill yet?” When no one raised their hands, she nodded. “Good. That’s
always a good skill for this. Everyone, follow me.”
Amarl and the others followed silently as the woman led them to a
building near the animal pens. There, they each checked out a shovel the
same way they usually did weapons, then gathered at the edge of one of the
pens. They watched as the woman took six stakes and drove them into the
soil, each about two reaches apart.
“This promises to be less than fun,” Amarl sighed quietly as he
examined his shovel with distaste. “I hate digging.”
“It’s not the worst thing,” Burik shrugged. “We could be shoveling
manure.”
“Don’t give the nadar ideas,” Meder whispered. “There’s probably a
skill for that, too!”
 “Eyes on me, mouths shut,” the nadar snapped as she walked back to
the group, and the three fell silent instantly. “Each of you, go stand beside
one of the markers. Don’t do anything; just stand there.” The group
dispersed quickly, each moving to one of the slim wooden poles and
standing beside it. “Good. Now, begin digging.”
“Digging what, exactly, ma’am?” Herel asked in a confused voice.
“A hole, Novice. What else? Stick that shovel in the ground, pull up
some dirt, and then repeat. I want you each to give me a hole a reach wide
and half that deep. Go.”
Amarl sighed as he lifted the shovel and drove it into the ground. It
barely cut through the grass, but he stomped on it, driving it down into the
soil beneath. He pulled it out and cut another line in the grass, repeating the
motion until he’d made a square, then slid the shovel underneath and pried
the hunk of grass and soil up before tossing it aside.
“Some of you have obviously done this before,” the nadar said after a
minute, walking around the group. “Some obviously haven’t. I’ll give each
of you some instruction first, then we’ll begin the actual training. Keep
digging.”
Amarl simply dug in silence as the woman moved from novice to
novice. It was obvious that only he and Burik had done any actual digging
before. Norag seemed to have an idea of what to do, but Meder, Herel, and
Hadur had obviously never picked up a shovel in their lives, at least by
Amarl’s reckoning. Meder went at it the same way she always did, silently
and with as much skill and thought as she could, but Herel and especially
Hadur looked both uncomfortable and unhappy with the menial task. A
petty part of Amarl took pleasure in that and even wished that Danehia had
set them to shoveling manure. Seeing Herel and Hadur carrying steaming,
fly-covered piles of horseshit would satisfy him at a deep level.
They continued for fifteen minutes or so before the nadar spoke again.
“Okay, you’ve all got the basic concept well enough to move forward. So,
how do you improve a skill with your ithtu? The answer is simple: you
have to channel ithtu into it while you’re doing it. However, while the
concept is simple, the actual execution can be very difficult, and I’ll be
surprised if any of you learn it within the next few moons.” Her gaze
moved to Amarl. “Although doing so just means that you’ll learn the
digging skill at an accelerated rate, not that you won’t have to keep doing
this.”
The hizeen forced himself not to sigh; he had been hoping for that, in
all honesty. He really hated digging.
“Skill improvement is far more complicated than improving yourself,”
she continued. “First, reach into your tak and draw up a line of ithtu, just as
you would to improve your body. Then, guide it down into one of your
hands. Try to link it to the palm of your hand where it touches the shovel,
but not just in a point. Try to get it to spread out into the whole palm. Go
ahead; I’ll wait.”
Amarl reached inside with a mental finger and brushed the edge of his
tak, the way he did whenever he strengthened a stat. A thread of power
came away when he moved his finger, and it followed as he guided it gently
but insistently down his arm into his palm. He touched the thread to his
palm, willing it to spread out and wrap around the shovel like a glove. To
his surprise, it did so easily, flowing out to envelop the shovel’s handle, and
the dull ache that had already started to build in his palm eased somewhat.
He glanced around and saw the others lost in thought, digging far more
slowly as they obviously sought their ithtu within themselves. He forced
himself to look away and focused on his digging. This sort of thing usually
came easier for him, and while he doubted Burik would care that he’d done
it already, he knew Meder would be jealous, and he was certain Herel and
Hadur would simply hate him even more for it.
“Not easy, is it?” the nadar asked after a minute or more. “It never is.
Attuning your ithtu to a skill is much harder than doing it for a stat, and this
is only the first step.” She paused, then walked over to Amarl. When she
spoke next, her voice was pitched low enough that he hoped only he could
hear it.
“Let me guess,” she said with a sigh. “You’ve done it already, haven’t
you?”
“Ma’am?” he asked, feigning confusion.
“Don’t play dumb, Novice. I heard about how easily you quickened
your first stat, and I can see from your face that you’re not concentrating on
anything. Either you gave up, in which case I will be very disappointed, or
you did it already. Which is it?”
“The second,” he sighed, not pausing his digging as he spoke.
“I thought so. I’m going to assume that you’re going to get the rest just
as quickly, so I’m just going to tell you what to do and let you have at it.
When you’re quickening a skill this way, you want to attach a tendril of
ithtu to every part of your body that’s involved in the skill. For digging,
that’s pretty easy, which is why it’s the first thing we do: hands, arms, back,
and legs. Attach the strand, then spread the ithtu out over that part of your
body. Understand?”
“I can try, ma’am,” he shrugged.
“Good. Do that. Don’t expect much, though. Even if you manage it,
skill boosting is a lot slower than stat boosting.” She walked away, heading
toward Burik, and he turned his thoughts inward once more.
Grabbing a second strand of ithtu wasn’t remotely difficult, and he
quickly guided it down to his other palm and spread the energy out to cover
his hand. He dragged a third line into his right arm, then paused. He had
no clue if he was supposed to link it to his upper arm, lower arm, or both.
The nadar had said to link the ithtu to parts of his body involved in digging,
and he could feel the aching in both parts of his arm. Both felt like it would
spread the power out too thinly, making it worthless, so he guided one
strand into his lower arm and let it flow into the muscles there, then did the
same with his upper arm for the third strand.
He pulled more strands, guiding them down into left arm, but as he did,
he noticed that each got harder and harder to draw and control. The fifth
strand simply felt a little sluggish, as did the sixth, but when he pulled a
seventh to send into his right calf, he could feel it pulling uncomfortably on
his core. He sent the eighth into his left calf, and he was glad that he did
since he barely managed to get it there, and hauling a ninth to his spine felt
like trying to drag a mule with its hooves dug in. He managed it, but he
knew that he wouldn’t be able to pull another, and he hoped that those were
enough.
As he worked, Danehia moved into he center of the field and eyed the
group. “This is as good a time as any to discuss theory,” she said. “Pay
attention as much as you can, but don’t lose focus on the ithtu you’re trying
to guide.
“So, what exactly are you doing?” She began to walk around clasping
her hands behind her back and looking upward at the pinkish sky. “That’s
actually quite simple. As you hopefully know, your ithtu wants to serve
you. It wants to improve you and make you stronger. To quicken a skill,
you feed ithtu to the parts of your body involved in that skill while you’re
performing it. Your ithtu will naturally attempt to help you. It will
strengthen muscles, toughen skin, and harden bones. It will hone your
nerves and sharpen your reflexes. It can enhance your senses and even
speed up how quickly you learn if you need it to.
“A question that every new group asks is: can I use this for combat?”
She gave the group a thin smile. “The answer is unequivocally: yes. Yes,
you can use this for combat, and the older students around you are using
this technique when training and sparring. Can you use it for crafting?
Sahr? Academics? Again, the answer is: yes. Yes, you can, and once
you’ve mastered it, yes you should. This technique will improve the speed
at which you grow any skill, from academics to weapon masteries.
“However, before you get too excited,” she said, holding up a
cautioning hand, “let me warn you that ‘improve’ is a relative term. Yes,
you’ll learn skills faster using your ithtu, but you won’t learn them instantly,
and how much your ithtu helps you decreases over time. If you’re training
a new skill, adding ithtu can boost the speed you learn it by anywhere from
thirty to fifty percent, depending on your Mind stat and affinity for that
skill. Doing the same for a skill you already have at rank 5 might increase
that speed by a few percent, and typically, once you hit rank 7 in a skill,
ithtu boosts are practically negligible. That’s why we call it the ‘Expert’
rank: it’s the rank at which only your own hard work and talent will
improve you.”
She gave them all a grim smile. “For the moment, though, your goal is
to simply link that single thread of ithtu to your palm. Keep at it, and let me
know if you manage to achieve it.”
He didn’t bother to say anything, obviously. Instead, he continued to
dig, and as the minutes passed, to his surprise, the work actually became
somewhat easier. His palms stopped burning; his forearms relaxed; the dull
ache forming in his lower back faded. As the energy flowed into his
muscles, the song of his ithtu rose softly and quietly in his mind, its melody
setting a rhythm that his body fell into. He lost himself in that song, his
shovel rising and falling almost without his thought. He wasn’t exactly
enjoying the work, but it wasn’t mind-numbingly dull or torturously
difficult on his body, either.
When Danehia finally told the group to stop, Amarl stumbled slightly in
surprise. He’d been lost in the rhythm of his body and the song of his ithtu,
and he had no idea how long he’d labored. As he lowered the shovel, the
song of his ithtu faded, and the power flowing into his body guttered out as
the connections he’d built snapped. A wave of exhaustion hit him all at
once, as if he’d spent the time in Tautibal’s training, and he had to fight to
stay on his feet. He looked down and realized that he stood in the center of
a hole about a span deep and half a reach wide, with dirt piled up like a low
wall more than a span high around the edge. He glanced around at the
others and realized that he’d dug a fair bit more than they had; Burik looked
to have dug about half what he’d managed, while the others had managed
maybe a quarter.
“Well done,” the nadar said approvingly. “I’m impressed; most classes
take a week or more for anyone to make that first connection, and two of
you did it today. Of course, there’s still a long way to go; I wouldn’t expect
anyone to quicken their skill fully for at least a moon, and it’ll probably be
two before you all have it, at which point we can move to something more
complex and difficult.
“For the moment, though, clean those shovels, then return them to
where you got them. After that, you can head to your regular skill training.
I’ll see you all again in two days, on Sahrio.”
Amarl wearily climbed out of the hole, noting that the others moved
with similar slowness, even Burik. Meder kept stretching her back,
wincing, while Hadur shook his hands with a grimace. They all looked
dirty, sweaty, disheveled, and mildly miserable. As the group trudged back
toward the equipment building, Amarl moved to stand next to his friends.
“Two of us connected a palm?” he asked quietly. “I was one; who was
the other?”
 “Herel,” Meder said morosely. “About halfway through. I think I was
close to the first one, when she stopped us, though.”
“I wasn’t,” Burik snorted. “I can get the ithtu there, but I have no idea
how to spread it out over my palm.”
Meder looked hesitantly at Amarl. “Do I want to know how you did?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Do you?”
“Yes,” she said after only a moment’s hesitation. “If for no other reason
than to know what’s next.”
“You have to do every part of your body involved in the skill, I guess.
So, arms, legs, and back for digging.”
“And you managed to connect…?”
“All of them,” he admitted with only a bit of hesitation.
“Well, that explains how you dug so much,” Burik chuckled. “And
why you look so much better than the rest of us.”
“Yes, it’s quite a surprise that the thieving half-breed is good at menial
labor,” Amarl barely heard Hadur mutter from behind him. “It’s the only
thing his kind is good for.”
“It got harder the more connections I made, though,” he said, ignoring
the boy. “By the time I got to my back, it felt like my tak was fighting me,
and I had to drag the ithtu from it.”
“That’s how it always feels for me,” Meder replied a little sourly.
“Same here,” Burik agreed.
“Which means it’ll probably get even harder for us as we go,” Meder
added.
“Maybe,” Amarl shrugged. “Or maybe by going faster, I’m making it
harder on myself. Maybe the time that you guys are spending doing it will
make each extra one easier on you, and you’ll have an easier time in the
long run.” He winced slightly. “As we learned during ability training
today, moving faster isn’t always better.”
“Not that the half-breed learns anything quickly,” Hadur said in a low
tone.
 Meder suddenly whirled on the merchant’s son, her shovel flashing up
and the blade darting out to touch Hadur’s throat. The boy froze, his eyes
wide and his face panicked as he felt the cold, dirty metal pressed against
his neck.
“Enough, Hadur,” she snapped. “I don’t give a shit if you like Amarl or
not, but I am done listening to your Lasheshian bullshit. Keep it to
yourself, understand?”
“Or what?” Herel asked in a dry voice. “You’ll stab him with a
shovel?”
“No. If I hear one more spirits-damned thing from him, I’ll drag him to
Halit and beat him until he shuts up.” The tool spun in the air, whirring as
she whipped it around herself, swishing a fingerwidth in front of Hadur’s
nose. “One more, Hadur. Try me.”
The boy swallowed hard, but before he could speak, she lifted her
shovel and turned her back on him. She looked at Amarl, her face grave.
“You know what, Amarl? You’re right. Faster isn’t always better—but
I’ll be damned if I let Herel do this faster than me. Tonight, you’re going to
help us figure it out, okay?”
“I’ll do my best,” he sighed.
“Good. Because I really, really don’t want to have to finish digging that
hole.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 11
Amarl had never been a morning person. He knew people who were,
but he preferred to sleep as late as possible. He rarely got the chance to do
that back in Tem since he often slept in someone else’s hayloft or attic, and
he had to rise early to be out of it before he was caught. That didn’t mean
he didn’t enjoy sleep when he got the chance, though.
Askula turned his dislike for mornings into an absolute hatred of them.
He slept poorly that night thanks to the muscle cramps and aching that
his disciplinary duty gave him. After his evening meal, Amarl had reported
to Sitjak, where he spent three hours doing weapons forms while wearing
even heavier armor than he’d had on earlier in the day. Instead of
something like a moon axe or even a spear, though, he’d been stuck with a
heavy two-handed sword a reach long. While the weapon was well
balanced, it weighed more than twice what his moon axe did, and the center
of that weight was farther out on the blade, rather than near his hands as he
was used to. That made his movements even more awkward and clumsy,
and his entire body ached by the time he’d finished his punishment. About
his only consolation was seeing Darow, the student who’d put him in the
position in get in trouble in the first place, mournfully scrubbing bits of
armor, and he determined to get as sweaty as possible to make the older
boy’s job just that much harder.
Ranakar’s training was, if anything, even harsher than the day before.
Amarl had been looking forward to it a little—he was missing Tautibal’s
almost sadistic physical training, after all, as well as weapons training at
Sitjak—but he should have known better. The awal could be even more
brutal than Tautibal, and he’d never let Amarl miss something his
classmates got to experience, at least not so far. If anything, he made sure
that Amarl got it even worse than the others.
Amarl had learned over the past year that Ranakar’s training generally
followed a pattern. The old man started with calisthenics and movement-
based exercises to loosen the Novice’s muscles and stretch his joints,
usually interspersing this with a lecture or quiz of some sort. After, he
trained Amarl in spurts, pushing the boy’s body until the breaking point,
moving on to something less strenuous like sahr work or academics, then
starting over again. He generally saved the worst of it for the end, though,
so that Amarl’s injuries wouldn’t slow down the rest of his training.
That day started a bit differently, though. When Amarl entered the old
man’s room, moving cautiously in case the awal tried to ambush him, he
found Ranakar seated on the floor in the middle of the room with his eyes
closed. The old man simply gestured for Amarl to join him, and the hizeen
had with a mixture of relief and caution. He was happy not to start his
physical training immediately, of course, but he knew Ranakar well enough
to know that a respite couldn’t mean anything good for the rest of the day.
“Last night, you learned the method to quicken a skill,” the old man
spoke without preamble. “I understand that you managed to make at least
one connection, correct?”
“Yeah,” Amarl nodded before realizing the man couldn’t see him.
“How many did you manage?”
“Nine in total. Two to my hands, two in each arm, one in each leg, and
one to my back. The last three were difficult, though.”
“Difficult how?”
“It was harder to pull the ithtu out of my tak, and it felt like it was
fighting me. I don’t think I could have managed a tenth.”
“That’s because you pulled too many,” the old man shook his head.
“It’s better to use fewer connections and make each of them stronger, at
least at first. Not only will you get better results, you’ll learn more control
over your ithtu.”
The old man opened his eyes and looked at the boy. “We’re going to
start with calisthenics, as usual. I want you to make five connections, one
to each limb and one to your head. No more.”
“My head?” Amarl asked, puzzled. “Danehia didn’t mention that.”
“Because she probably didn’t think you’d get as far as you did.
However, you’ll always want to add a link to your brain while you’re
quickening a skill, even for something manual like digging. Your ithtu will
help impress the movements you’re doing into your brain and make the
nerves involved more efficient.” He gestured to Amarl. “Go ahead and
make the connections.”
Amarl dutifully closed his eyes and reached inward, grabbing a strand
of ithtu. “Does it matter where I link it?” he asked.
“Obviously. The best place to connect it is the center of the body part
in question. Once it’s connected, spread it out into the muscles, nerves, and
bones around it. Let it sink into them like water into sand.”
Amarl pulled the thread of power into his elbow, touching it there, then
smoothed it out so the energy formed a thin film over his entire arm.
“The power seems awfully spread out,” he noted critically with a twist
of his mouth.
“It doesn’t need to be all that dense to work, at least not yet. However,
we’ll be working on fixing that so that as your skills progress, you’ll still be
able to grow them quickly. Keep going until your connections are
complete.”
Amarl repeated the process with his other arm, then dragged a link into
each leg and pulled one up into his head. His head swam slightly as he
spread the energy out to fill his skull, but the odd feeling passed quickly.
When he was done, all five connections flowed feebly into his body, filling
his limbs with a barely detectable haze of ithtu.
“Done,” he told the old man.
“Good. You’ll keep those going during this session today. While
you’re working, focus on the links you’ve built and try to keep them
smooth and steady. Don’t worry about how much power you’re pulling;
just keep that power flow nice and even. Now, stand up, and let’s start.”
Amarl began his exercises, starting with a series of stretches. That was
simple enough, and as he moved through the various twists, pulls, and
squats that he’d done hundreds of times before, he let his focus turn inward
to his connections. They glowed clearly in his mind, and it didn’t take a lot
of effort to examine them with his thoughts. At first, he wasn’t sure what
the awal meant by keeping the connections smooth and steady. They
looked fine to him; five threads of dimly pulsing power coursed through his
body. They didn’t dance around, stutter, or flicker as far as he could see.
Several minutes passed before it occurred to him that the connections
pulsed, and pulsing probably didn’t mean a steady flow. He reached out to
the connection in his arm and focused on it, concentrating on dimming that
pulsing so that the thread simply glowed. It took more minutes and a lot of
focus, but finally, he managed to steady the connection into something that
looked stabler.
Of course, that was just a single thread, and it took most of his focus to
manage it. As he turned his thoughts to the other arm, he saw the first
thread beginning to brighten once more, and he quickly shifted back to it.
Making the threads was easy; controlling them looked like it was going to
be much, much harder. Sadly, Ranakar wasn’t going to help with that, as
the awal began speaking the moment Amarl shifted from stretches to
exercises.
“I understand that you’ve been moved into Rateso’s class, Amarl,” the
old man said as Amarl squatted and leaped into the air while resting a
weighted bar across his armored shoulders, one of the easiest exercises
Ranakar typically gave him and something of a warmup for the rest.
“Yes,” Amarl grunted as he landed. The bar wasn’t heavy, and the
armor wasn’t heavy, but together, the two combined to make this exercise a
lot harder than it had to be, in his opinion.
“I’d ask what you think of it, but I already know the answer. That class
is one of the worst you’ll endure here. Do you understand why?”
“To—force my ability—to respond,” Amarl said choppily, speaking in
between jumps. “Threaten me—and it wakes up.”
“Yes and no. Yes, we want your ability to wake up, but no, that’s not
the purpose of it. Stop and put down the bar.” Amarl dutifully followed the
man’s orders, refraining from sighing in relief. Ranakar would take that as
an invitation to add more weight to the bar. “Now, throw a punch at my
face.”
Amarl didn’t hesitate and snapped a quick jab at the man, dropping into
position instantly. He wasn’t surprised when Ranakar slapped the blow
away, and he quickly slipped his hand back before the man could grab it
and use it to lock his elbow up painfully.
“Good. Tell me, Amarl: did you use all your force with that punch?”
“No. If I had, you’d have been able to grab it and lock me up.”
 “Exactly. You struck just hard enough that it would have hurt, but not
so hard that you overextended yourself. Pick up the bar and resume your
exercise.” Amarl suppressed a groan as he followed the man’s orders,
forcing himself to pay attention as the awal kept speaking.
“The same is true of our abilities. Your ithtu wants to serve you, but it
has no concept of an appropriate response. Left to its own devices, it will
respond only when necessary and then as fully as possible. That’s
counterproductive in the long run, just like punching with everything
you’ve got every time is. You’ll wear yourself out, and while it’ll work on
someone or something that’s not trained to fight, it’ll leave you dangerously
vulnerable against someone who is.
“That’s the point of Rateso’s class. He’s forcing your ability to awaken
so that you can sense how it does, then learn to call it when you need it, not
when it decides you need it. Once you can, you start learning how to
control and temper that response, only using the minimal amount of power
necessary and to focus that power efficiently.”
“How—do I—do that—though?” Amarl grunted. “Lose—myself in—
my ithtu—every time.”
“It’ll be harder for you, it’s true. Your ithtu flows faster than most, and
it reacts far more strongly. However, there are some channeling exercises
you can do that will help you feel the movement of your ithtu, the skill
quickening you’re working on might help, as well. Of course, it’s possible
that none of that will do anything for you—likely, in fact.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter,” the old man shook his head. “For the moment, just
know that the point of the class is to try and focus on the feeling of your
ability activating and learning how to call that up without being in distress.
Now, Rateso tells me that he gave you a book on ability ranking and
nomenclature. Is that right?”
“Yes. Read—some of it.”
“Drop the bar and tell me what you’ve learned while you run through
the ropes course.”
Amarl lifted the bar over his head gratefully, set it on the floor, then ran
for the nearest rope and grabbed it, whipping around before releasing it and
rolling to his feet as a buzzing dart slammed into a wooden pole behind
him. He didn’t glance back as he rolled beneath another rope, sprang to his
feet, and rebounded off the nearest wall, hearing a dart crack into it behind
him.
“The first part of the book is about ranking abilities,” he said as he dove
over a taut chain, rolled to a squat, and cut sideways, dodging another dart.
“An ability’s tier is defined by how much power it takes to activate it. Tier
A is the lowest, and the least of the Tier A abilities are considered to have a
power level of 1 by default.”
“Why?” Ranakar interrupted, flinging another dart that Amarl barely
slipped past at the same time.
“Because they take one unit of ithtu to use.” Amarl frowned. “Or I
suppose it’s the other way around. One unit of ithtu is defined to be what it
takes to power the weakest abilities.”
“Precisely—although weak is a relative term. Someone with the ‘at’
ability—the weakest form of enhanced physical power—is still stronger
than any nalu will ever be, or any other of the intelligent species for that
matter. They’re just not five or ten times stronger. Continue.”
“Each tier is separated from the last by something called the ‘golden
number’, which is around two-seven—although I don’t know why it was
chosen.” He kicked off a nearby pole, flipped in the air, caught a chain, and
redirected himself swiftly as two more darts whisked past him.
“Because the rate of change of the field equations are far easier to
calculate using the golden number as a base. A function defined with the
golden number as its base has a rate of change equal to itself.” The old man
waved a hand. “That’s beyond what we’re discussing here, though.
Continue.”
Amarl tried to puzzle out what the old man was talking about, but the
words made very little sense to him, so he put them aside. He’d ask Meder
about it later if he remembered; or he’d wait until Ranakar taught it to him.
“That means that each tier contains abilities with a range of power
levels,” he went on, “and the higher the tier, the wider that range. I haven’t
memorized the tables yet…”
 “You should,” Ranakar interrupted. “Knowing those will help you
understand just how strong an ithtar might be based on their ability’s tier.”
Amarl nodded even as he vaulted over a pole, somersaulted on the
floor, and uncoiled swiftly to leap over a dart that pinged against the floor.
He frowned as a thought occurred to him. “What happens if an ability gets
stronger, though? I mean, I’m guessing that you can train an ability so that
it’s more powerful and more effective. Will that push it up a tier?”
“No,” the old man shook his head, flinging another dart at the boy at the
same time. “An ability will always take in the same amount of ithtu to
activate, and that means its tier is set. However, you can train an ability to
become more efficient, train your body to channel its power better, and
learn to focus it more effectively.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that our bodies and minds aren’t naturally efficient at
channeling ithtu, Amarl. In fact, they’re horribly inefficient. Most third-
year students are getting about one-tenth of a unit of ithtu out of their
abilities for every unit they put in, and it’s not much better for fourth-years.
That’s a big part of their training, in fact: learning how to alter their bodies
and minds to do better with the ithtu they’ve got.
“You can also do that by feeding ithtu into your body and mind, and in
fact, that’s essentially what your ability’s level is in your ithtu screen. It’s a
measure of how well you’ve adapted your body and mind to that ability,
and how efficiently you can use it. The higher the level, the more you can
get out of it, meaning you can get better results with less ithtu, but no matter
what, you can’t output more power than you put in. If you want to raise
your ability a tier, you have to evolve it.”
“Evolve it?” Amarl asked, halting and leaning back to let a dart whisk
past his face, then rolling on his shoulder to duck one aimed at his back.
“What’s that?”
“As you use your ability, your ithtu can learn to adapt it to you,
specializing it and making it more effective for how you use it,” the awal
explained. “Push it enough, and it can evolve into something better. Have
you studied the naming system at all?”
“The vowels and first-tier consonants, yes.”
 “That’s enough for the moment. What would the ability ‘ah’ be?”
Amarl almost hesitated as he considered that before pushing off a
nearby pole and flipping backwards to avoid a whistling dart. Each letter in
the naming system represented a different concept or principle. Vowels
were active concepts, and “A” meant creating, generating, or powering
something. “H” meant speed or agility. “Improved speed?” he guessed.
“Yes. At its base, ‘ah’ lets an ithtar move faster, be nimbler, and have
increased flexibility and reflexes. It’s a simple ability, Tier A with a power
draw of one. However, with time and usage, it can evolve into ‘ahe’, a
more advanced Tier A speed ability with a power draw of two, and then
again to either ‘ahen’, which boosts flexibility and reflexes, or ‘ahet’, which
boosts running speed and agility. Both of those are Tier B abilities with
power draws around four-five. That could grow even further to ‘ahenud’ or
‘ahetul’, Tier C abilities. The first boosts your reflexes to the point that you
react to attacks before they’ve even really started, and the second lets you
move short distances in practically no time at all by simply wanting to be in
the new location.”
“That seems pretty powerful,” Amarl observed as he bounced off a wall
with one foot, pushed off a pole with the other, and grabbed a chain, lifting
his legs above a glittering dart before letting go and doing a backward roll
in midair to avoid the inevitable follow-up aimed at his body.
“Tier C abilities are. There’s an even stronger Tier D version called
‘ahetuj’ that lets its wielder move their entire body just by thought alone, so
they literally move and fight at the speed of thought without having to
actually use their muscles and nerves. Someone with that ability looks like
a blur to anyone without very highly trained senses, and fighting them is
nearly impossible without your own ability to counter them.”
He shook his head. “However, you’ll note that each version grew out of
the one before it, and the core concept—‘ah’—never changed. That’s how
evolutions usually work. They expand, strengthen, and specialize the core
concept, but they never change it. The first two or three letters of the
ability’s name represent its essence, and that almost never changes. If it
did, it would fundamentally alter the nature of the ability, and that requires
altering the nature of the ithtar.”
“What do you mean?” Amarl asked in puzzlement.
 “Our abilities aren’t random, Amarl. They’re the natural result of our
ithtu expressing our essence on the world.” Possibly seeing the confused
look on the boy’s face, the awal tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Think of it
this way. Our abilities are like—like shadows of ourselves that the light of
our ithtu casts on the world. Have you ever made shadow puppets with
your hands?”
“Yes, when I was really little.”
“Then you get the idea. You can twist your hands around to make the
shadows resemble all sorts of different things, but they’re still obviously
your hands, just changed a bit, and you’re limited by your biology. You
can’t make something with twenty arms or legs because you don’t have
enough fingers.
“The same is true of our abilities. Your ability represents your deepest
nature in many ways, and to change it fundamentally, you have to change
that nature. That’s not easy, which is why most evolutions sharpen, define,
and specialize your ability rather than changing it entirely.”
After the lecture, the two moved into sahr lessons, then combat
training. The awal walked Amarl through some of the movements and
stances of his new Drunken Form, then taught him some basic spear
techniques. At that point, Amarl practiced both of the new techniques. The
spear wasn’t too bad, although he had to move it faster than he’d been
expecting from such a long weapon, and the forms wore him out swiftly.
The advanced form, though, utilized his legs and core muscles far more
than Water Form did, and the extra weight of the armor had those muscles
burning and trembling within fifteen minutes—which was when the awal
began attacking him with a slim, half-reach-long blade. He’d then picked
up a pair of spears and handed one to his student, and he and Amarl sparred
until the boy’s arms refused to hold up the spear any longer, and his legs
and back cramped so tightly that he couldn’t stand straight anymore. His
armor was the only reason he wasn’t soaked in his own blood from the
number of stabs and slashes he’d taken, and the awal’s blows left his skin
covered in deep bruises and stinging welts even with the armor covering it.
By the end, his body ached, his joints throbbed, and while he didn’t think
any of his bones were broken this time, he was pretty sure he heard them
creaking as they carried him down the stone steps.
 He walked heavily and unsteadily out the rear of the Citadel, exiting
near the large lake known as the Deep. He shivered as he looked at the still,
placid waters; just two nights before, he’d watched the burned remains of
the students who hadn’t survived the Joining slip beneath that surface, and
he couldn’t help but wonder if the entire lakebed was a thick pile of the
ashes and unburned bones of generations of failed students. It was a grim
thought made all the grimmer because he suspected it was probably true.
Joinings happened every three moons, and every Joining, the lake accepted
a half-dozen or more bodies. That meant something like twenty-five bodies
sank each year, and the Order was thousands of years old…
He shook himself free of the morbid math and walked over to where his
friends stood with the second-years they’d joined for Realm Lore
yesterday. Meder smiled at him as he approached, but her smile dimmed as
she took in his weary appearance.
“Rough morning?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “How about you guys? How was Physical
Training?”
Meder’s face paled slightly. “The spirits’ hells,” she shuddered. “That
woman—there’s something wrong with her, Amarl. She takes entirely too
much pleasure in using that riding crop of hers.”
Amarl glanced at Burik, who shrugged. “It was pretty bad,” he
admitted. “Only four of us kept from getting lashes today. Hadur passed
out twice, and most everyone puked at least once.”
“At least you missed that,” Meder said. “I kind of wish that we could
do that training with Ranakar with you, in fact.”
“No, you don’t,” he shook his head, sliding up one sleeve to display the
darkening bruises and red welts on his forearm. “Trust me.”
Meder gasped. “Did he flog you?”
“No. He cut me with a sword. That’s what made it through the armor,
and I’ve got them all over me." He delicately slid his sleeve back down
with a wince. “Although I didn’t throw up, so that’s something.”
“You just need to learn how to use that armor the right way,” Burik
said. “You have to think of the plates on your armor like a bunch of little
shields, Amarl. If you can shift to take the hits on those, they won’t hurt as
much—or at all.”
Amarl stared at the larger boy in surprise. “Wait—why the hells didn’t
anyone tell me that?” he demanded. “Is that really all there is to it?”
“Well, it’s a lot more complicated than that, but that’s the basic idea.
The hard part is training your body to shift to take blows on the strong
points of your armor without thinking about it and not letting them land on
your joints or the other weak points of the armor. And as to why no one
told you…” He shrugged. “Maybe they thought it was obvious.”
“Or maybe you annoyed the person who was supposed to teach you
about it yesterday, so they didn’t,” Meder grinned at him. “You tend to do
that, you know.”
Amarl took a deep breath, trying to let go of his irritation. “Fine. The
point is, I know it now, so I can work on it. Thanks, Burik.”
“No problem. If you want, I can join you at Sitjak after classes tonight,
and I can help you work on it—assuming the malims let me. As fast as you
pick up skills, with the extra work, you might be able to get an armor skill
in just a couple days.”
“That would actually be great,” Amarl said gratefully, the last of his
irritation vanishing with his friend’s generosity. He wasn’t really annoyed
at Burik, obviously; he was just frustrated that this year seemed to be
starting out so much harder than the last one.
“I should probably join you, as well,” Meder said with a sigh. “I’m
struggling with my armor, too.”
“As my mother always says, if you’re sharpening one blade, you might
as well sharpen them all,” Burik chuckled. “Besides, if you come along and
they don’t let me help Amarl, at least my trip wasn’t wasted.”
“A win for everyone, then.” She paused and lifted her chin back toward
the Citadel. “I think our instructor’s here.”
Amarl looked over his shoulder to see a gray-garbed woman striding up
the road from the Citadel toward the group. His heart began to race, and he
felt a touch of fear as he recognized the woman; Nirecina had been the
malim in charge of the hunt he’d gone on last year. She was short, almost a
span shorter than Amarl, but broad and muscular, with a wide, olive face
and inky black hair cut very short. The last time he’d seen her, she wore a
suit of chainmail over her dark gray malim uniform; that was absent, which
made him feel a little better since he hoped it meant they weren’t going to
be traversing a Mistway to practice survival training.
As she strode up, she met his eyes, and her gaze met his for a few
moments before sweeping over the group. “Shut up!” she bellowed, and
the entire class fell silent instantly. She glared at the students for a few
moments as if daring them to speak. When no one made a sound, she
grunted.
“Welcome to Survival Training,” she called out in a voice that carried
easily across the crowd. She gazed at the two groups of new second-years
as she continued. “I’m Malim Nirecina, for those of you who don’t know.
I’m in charge of most of the hunts for second and third-years, as well as the
Survival Training classes.”
She walked through the students, who parted swiftly to let her pass.
“What is Survival Training?” she said, not looking at anyone as she spoke.
“It’s exactly what it sounds like, so if you need to ask that fucking question,
you’re probably going to die no matter what I teach you.” She reached the
end of the group and turned back to face them. “In this class, you’ll learn
how to survive in every type of environment. You’ll learn how to create
shelter for yourselves, how to hunt for food, find water. I’ll teach you to
find a secure place to camp, how to make a fire, and how to survive in
everything from a searing desert to an icy mountaintop.”
She glared at the students as she continued speaking. “Every three
moons, there will be a test: you will go into another world through a
Mistway and be expected to survive there. If you fail, you will likely die,
one way or another. If you want to keep living, listen to every fucking thing
I tell you. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am!” Amarl and Burik shouted the reply immediately, along
with about half the class, while Meder and the others repeated them half a
beat behind.
“That was terrible. We’ll work on it.” The malim shook her head.
“Now, those of you who aren’t new to this class, into your groups. New
students, front and center, now.”
 Amarl and the others walked swiftly over to the malim, slipping around
the older students who shifted around slightly, forming four separate
groups, each with five or six members. Amarl stopped before the woman,
with Meder and Burik beside him, doing his best to avoid her gaze.
Unfortunately, she apparently wasn’t letting him get away that easily.
“Novice Amarl,” she grunted. “It’s been a while. Am I correct in
assuming that this class isn’t going to turn into the colossal fuck-up your
last hunt became?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, straightening. “At least, it won’t if I can help
it.”
“Well, you’ll definitely be able to help it. What’s your Survival skill?”
“Two, ma’am.”
She snorted. “Two, in less than a year—and you haven’t been training
it since Shadora, have you?”
“No, ma’am. Not really. Awal Ranakar’s worked with me a bit, but not
that much.”
“I didn’t think so. Either the awal is the best fucking teacher that ever
existed, or you’ve got one hell of an ability brewing inside you.” She
looked at the others. “Typically, I take a new group like yours and spread
them out among the existing ones, or pull one of the more experienced
students and put them in charge of you. In this case, that’s not necessary;
you’ve already got someone with the Survival skill in the group. So,
Novice Amarl, you’re in charge.”
Herel and Hadur made discontented noises, and her eyes snapped to
theirs. “Are you fucking questioning me, Novices?” she asked in a cold,
dangerous voice.
Both boys paled and straightened, and as one, they replied, “No,
ma’am.”
“Good, because you were about to learn what an ithtu-empowered slap
to the face feels like.” She looked back at Amarl. “You know how to find
water? Build a fire? You’ve got Tracking?”
“Yes, ma’am, to all of those,” he nodded.
 “Do any of the rest of you know how to do any of that? At least,
without using sahr?” She gazed at the others, and they remained silent. “I
didn’t think so. So, Novice Amarl is in charge. Listen to him.” Her eyes
hardened as she spoke. “Understand that in this class, you either succeed or
fail as a group. You’re being judged not just on how well you take in my
lessons, but on how well you can work as a team. If one of you fails, you
all fail. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am!” The six students weren’t quite in unison, but they were
close.
“Good.” She walked away from the group and stood to face the others.
“You can all consider yourselves lucky! Because we’ve got a new group
today, we’re spending an easy day in Kurlag. Let’s go!” She turned and
began jogging off to the west, away from the Deep, and the groups of
students fell into place behind her.
Amarl glanced at the others and saw them looking at him. “Well?”
Meder asked archly.
“Well, what?”
“You heard her. You’re in charge. What do we do, fearless leader?”
Herel snorted, but Amarl ignored the noble and shrugged. “We run, I
guess.”
“Never guess,” Burik shook his head. “Order.”
“Fine. Everybody, do the obvious thing and follow the rest of the
groups.” He grinned at them. “And because you all stood here waiting to
be told to do something you plainly had to do, now we have to run faster. I
don’t want to be the last group coming in; stragglers are always the ones
getting yelled at.”
“Better,” Burik chuckled. “You need to sound a little meaner to be a
proper First Spear, though.”
“I’ll work on it. For the meantime, let’s get moving, people!”
The run to the Kurlag Forest wasn’t a difficult one, at least not for
students who’d been running far longer almost every day for the past year.
None of the group was even breathing heavily when the forest rose into
view and Nirecina signaled them to stop. When all the groups arrived, the
malim looked over the class with what Amarl thought was grudging
approval.
“Good. You all made it without making me wait. That’s at least a
positive start. Team leaders, front and center!” Amarl glanced at Meder
and Burik, who shooed him forward, then walked up to the front, joining
four other older students who gave him looks that varied from icy to
appraising. He ignored them and focused on the malim, who pulled out five
folded squares of paper.
“Within this forest, I’ve placed five flags. These maps will lead you to
one of them. Your objective today is to guide your team to your flag,
retrieve it, and bring it back here. You will not use sahr or abilities in the
process.” She held out the maps, and each of the students took one, leaving
Amarl to grab the last. “Just FYI, the forest has not been cleared for this
exercise, so there’s no telling what you might find within. Good luck!”
The others turned away, and Amarl did the same, walking back to his
team and unfolding the square of paper to reveal an image that looked like
an oblong shape with a line tracing through it. A series of rings and
numbers sprawled across the surface, none of which meant anything to
him. He stared at the map as he reached the others, then held it up before
them.
“Anybody know how to read this?” he asked hopefully.
Herel snorted. “Some leader,” he said, shaking his head. “Can’t read a
damn map.”
“I’d be surprised if he can read at all,” Hadur added darkly.
“Here,” Amarl shrugged, holding the map out for the noble. “Go
ahead. Read it for me.”
Herel snatched the map from Amarl and held it up, staring at it.
Confusion quickly filled the boy’s face, and after a few seconds, he
practically flung it back at Amarl. “It’s not my job,” he said flatly.
“You mean you can’t do it,” Burik chuckled, taking the map and
examining it. “And no wonder. This is a logistical map, Amarl. If you
haven’t been taught how to read one, it probably looks like random scrawls
to you.”
 “Pretty much,” Amarl said brightly. “Please tell me that you can read
it.”
“Of course. I learned how to read these before my tenth Naming Day.”
He turned to face the forest, glancing up at the sun and down at the map a
few times, then nodded and pointed forward and to the left. “We go this
way.”
“Hold up,” Amarl said before the others took a step. “Before we go, we
need to make sure we all know our roles.”
“What are you babbling about?” Herel asked coldly.
“Nirecina said that they didn’t clear the forest for this exercise, which
means there could be hostile creatures in there. We have to be ready if there
are.”
“Ready how?” Hadur asked scornfully. “We don’t have any weapons.”
“A warrior doesn’t need weapons. They are the weapon,” Burik
proclaimed solemnly. “You’ve got your hands and feet, don’t you? That
should be enough.”
“Hopefully, but just in case it’s not, let’s prepare for the worst,” Amarl
said. “Once we get in, keep an eye open for sticks or branches that could be
used as weapons. Even something like rocks can drive a predator off if they
aren’t too hungry.” He looked at Burik. “Burik, you’re our shield. If
something hits us, your job is to keep it from hurting anyone else.”
“Got it,” the boy nodded.
Amarl looked over at the others. “Herel, if something does attack,
while Burik holds it, your job is to help him drive it off. Meder, Norag,
you’ve got our rear. Keep an eye on anything coming at us from behind.
Hadur…” He hesitated. “Have you picked up a weapons skill like spears
or polearms yet?”
The boy remained silent, and Norag rolled his eyes. “In case you can’t
see, Hadur, he obviously knows what he’s doing. No, Amarl, he hasn’t.
Just short weapons.”
Amarl nodded. “You should fix that, but in the meantime, that makes
you our ranged fighter. Collect any rocks or cones you can find and hurl
them at anything that attacks us.”
 “You want me to throw rocks?” the boy sneered. “What am I, a child?”
“Do you really want him to answer that, Hadur?” Meder sighed. “What
about you, Amarl? What will you be doing?”
“Let me guess. You’ll be observing us to make sure we do what we’re
supposed to,” Herel said in a frosty tone.
“Nope,” Amarl shook his head. “Unless any of you have a Tracking or
Hiding skill, I’m on point. That means that I’ll be out ahead of you all, on
my own.” He matched the noble’s icy tone with a cold stare. “Unless you
want to do it, Herel. You’re welcome to walk out in front of the rest of us
and pull attacks. What are your Hiding and Silent Movement skills, again?”
“Probably zero,” Burik snorted. “He’s got to have zero affinity with
anything that requires him to be silent.”
“The point, Herel,” Meder said smoothly, “is that the malim put Amarl
in charge because he’s been on a hunt and has training in this. He knows
what he’s doing, and you don’t. None of us do, except maybe Burik. The
smartest thing we can all do is to shut up, follow directions, and try to learn
from him.” She gave the boy a frigid smile. “Who knows? Maybe if you
pick up enough, the malim will make you a team leader, as well.”
Herel frowned at that but nodded slowly. “Fine. I’ll give you a chance
to impress me, Amarl.”
“You think I give a shit about your opinion?” Amarl laughed genuinely.
“I only care about getting there, getting that flag, and getting back in one
piece, Herel. If we do that, then I don’t really care what you think of the
job I did.”
He turned and faced Burik. “I’ll check back every fifteen minutes or so
in case we need to change directions. If I leave the path, just stop and wait
for me. Don’t go off on your own.” He looked at the others. “Once we get
in there, you’re going to need to move as quietly as possible. Noise carries
a lot farther than you think it does, and pretty much everything in a damn
forest is an ambush hunter. I’ll do my best to spot dangers and lead you
around them, but if you’re too loud, you might draw something after I’ve
already passed it. And by all the hells, no arguing! Just shut the fuck up,
follow Burik, and keep your eyes peeled. Got it?” Meder, Norag, and
Burik nodded, and a moment later, so did Herel. Hadur simply glared at
him and remained silent, which Amarl hoped meant he agreed.
“Good.” He turned back to the forest. “Now, let’s go. We’ve got a flag
to find.”
As Amarl led the group into the forest in the direction Burik indicated,
he stifled a frustrated groan. This wasn’t going to go well, of that he was
certain. Hadur was going to cause problems, and Herel might, too.
Something would go wrong, and he’d be the one Nirecina blamed. About
all he could do was try to make sure those problems were as minor as
possible, and hope it all turned out well. He had to plan for the worst, and
hope that it didn’t come to pass—knowing that it almost certainly would.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 12
Amarl had grown up in the shadow of the Silverband Mountains, but he
wasn’t really used to forests. Aggath, the province he’d lived in most of his
life, was a huge grassland, and the only trees near his village grew higher
up on the mountain slopes. Tem had a team of lumberjacks and a sawmill,
of course, and like many kids who didn’t continue Axanor’s schooling after
their fifth year, Amarl had spent some time working with the lumberjacks—
and he’d hated every minute of it. The forest was two hours’ hike up the
mountains along a dirt path that got washed out every spring, and the
woodcutters left before the sun came up each morning. His job consisted of
fetching water, carrying replacement axes and saws, and cutting away and
collecting small limbs and branches from felled trees. The trees’ bark was
rough and scratched his hands, the wood oozed sticky sap and turpentine
that stained his fingers and clothing, and he ended up each day festooned
with splinters. It was miserable work, and it paid an ak a day, the same as
carrying water in the mines or pulling weeds in the fields, both of which
were far less painful as far as Amarl was concerned. He’d spent a single
season beneath the trees and had never gone back again.
The Kurlag Forest reminded him of the woodlands above Tem in many
ways. Both were evergreen forests, and both had the same rich, resinous
scent of pine and fir. The trees in both grew closely together, blotting out
most of the sun overhead and leaving the space beneath the canopy
drenched in shadow. The lack of sunlight kept underbrush from growing
too thickly or too high, and the tall, straight pines lacked needles on their
lower branches, meaning his lines of sight were mostly long and
unobstructed. Of course, there were differences, as well—the forests above
Tem grew on a mountainside, meaning the ground beneath them was rocky,
treacherous, and sloped sharply, while the Kurlag grew in a shallow bowl
that felt almost unnaturally flat to Amarl, for example—but the two were
similar enough to trigger all sorts of unpleasant memories.
He pushed those to the side as he drifted as silently as possible over the
needle-strewn ground. He kept his knees slightly bent and moved forward
slowly, placing each foot carefully and rolling his weight from the outside
inward to avoid breaking twigs or crushing cones. He wasn’t perfectly
silent, but he moved quietly enough that to most people, the noise of his
movements would be lost in the sound of the breeze blowing beneath the
canopy. He flowed forward, minimizing the movement of his upper body
as much as possible so that an observer wouldn’t be drawn to his face or
hair bouncing up and down, and he slipped from tree to tree, using the boles
to conceal himself whenever possible.
His eyes scanned the soft ground and the nearby trees constantly.
Crushed cones, broken needles, and impressions in the ground told him that
the forest wasn’t uninhabited. He saw some signs of creatures—scratches
on trees where a deer had rubbed its antlers, a dark stain where a predator
had marked its territory, shredded cones where a squirrel or chipmunk had
torn out the seeds and left the rest behind—but mostly, the tracks spoke of
booted naluni wandering through the forest. Birds chirped overhead; small
mammals skittered into the sparse underbrush or leaped across trees as he
neared, but nothing seemed particularly out of the ordinary, and if the forest
was inhabited by something dangerous, he couldn’t see any traces of it.
After what he guessed was about fifteen minutes, he slipped back to the
others. As he’d instructed, they’d armed themselves with fallen branches
and sticks, and Hadur held a handful of small rocks that he’d apparently
picked up along the path.
“Everything seems normal so far,” he reported, glancing at Burik.
“Any changes to the path?”
“In about a quarter of a walk, we’re veering to the left,” the older boy
said. “It looks like there’s a bit of a rise there, a hill of some sort, and the
path circles the base of it and heads southeast after.”
“Okay. I’ll wait there, then,” Amarl nodded. He looked at the others.
“I haven’t seen any signs of anything dangerous yet, but that doesn’t mean
it’s not out there. Keep your eyes open, stay quiet, and don’t get
distracted.” No one replied, and after a moment, he nodded at them and
slipped back ahead.
He spotted the hill after only a few more minutes. It wasn’t even really
a hill, just a bump in the otherwise unrelentingly flat landscape. It rose
maybe a reach above the forest floor, and thick underbrush covered the five-
reach-wide top of it, obscuring the area beyond. Amarl dropped behind a
tree and examined the hilltop with a slightly cynical eye.
 Something about the elevation bothered him. No trees grew atop it,
letting sunlight stream down and allowing the thicket to blossom across it,
but he couldn’t see any reason for that. If the hill had been higher, it might
have held tree roots above whatever water fed the forest from below, but he
was pretty sure that those roots could tunnel an extra reach through the soil
without any real difficulty. Besides, the soil here was thick, soft, and
porous, and the slope of the hill was fairly gentle. Rain wouldn’t run down
the hill to water the forest below; it would soak into the ground on top of it,
providing trees with plenty of nourishment. There should have been at least
a single pine growing from the hilltop, shading out that thicket and keeping
it from growing so wildly.
He also couldn’t work out why the path on the map led around that hill.
It didn’t really make sense; the ground around here was flat, solid, and
perfectly traversable. So, why didn’t the map have them heading in a
straight line directly to the flag? Why the winding route? He could think of
a few reasons, and none of them comforted him in the least. The thicket
was the only concealment for half a walk, as far as he could tell, and their
path led directly along it…
He ducked down and brushed away the needles covering the floor, then
scooped up some dirt. He hesitated for only a second before rubbing it on
his face and hands, dirtying his dark gray skin and reducing its visibility.
More dirt as well as some leaves and twigs went into his hair, dulling the
silvery shine of it and hopefully helping to conceal his presence. With the
wind blowing at his face, leaving him downwind of the hill, nothing up
there should be able to smell him, and hopefully, now they wouldn’t be
likely to spot him, either.
He slid to his left, leaving the path and cutting wide toward the back of
the hill. He circled around it and came at it from behind, inching toward it.
As he drew closer, he realized that while the thicket seemed solid from the
front, the bushes only grew on the outer edges, leaving a mostly clear space
behind. A single figure crouched in those bushes, dressed in a hooded,
brown and green mottled cloak that blended into the foliage and rendered
them close to invisible from any distance. As he moved closer, the figure
shifted, looking to their right, and Amarl froze as he heard the sound of feet
crackling dried needles and crunching dead twigs. The others had caught
up to him, it appeared.
 The concealed figure tensed, moving slowly and silently deeper into the
bushes. Amarl looked around wildly, spotting a heavy branch laying
discarded nearby. He recovered it as noiselessly as possible, then waited
while the others moved closer, wincing as hushed voices carried over the
quiet of the forest.
“…stupid,” he heard Hadur’s muttered words. “There’s nothing in this
place. The damn hizeen’s just paranoid.”
“Or he’s right, and you’re being an idiot,” Burik murmured back. “Of
the two choices, I think that one’s a lot more likely.”
“Both of you, please, just be silent,” Meder said in a tone that seemed
long-suffering. “There’s the hill we’re looking for up ahead. Amarl will be
waiting for us there, and he can probably hear both of you right now.”
“So?” Hadur replied. “I don’t give a fuck what he hears…”
Amarl clenched his teeth, but silently, he couldn’t help but thank Hadur
for his inability to follow even simple instructions. The conversation
provided a welcome distraction and made enough noise that Amarl’s slow,
silent steps up the hill couldn’t possibly be heard. He kept his eyes on the
concealed figure, tensing slightly as that figure drew out a long, thin knife
and slipped to the edge of the thicket. The voices drew nearer as the group
reached the edge of the hill, and the figure shifted forward, preparing to
leap—and froze as Amarl laid the end of his branch against the side of their
neck.
“I think this means that you’re dead,” the hizeen said softly as the figure
turned slowly around to face him. He didn’t recognize the girl looking back
at him, but he judged her to be at least a couple years older than him,
meaning she was probably a fourth-year. Her look of surprise swiftly
settled into a rueful one as she recognized him, and she slipped her knife
back into the sheath at her belt.
“Not bad,” she said, nodding at him. “Having the others make noise so
that you could sneak up undetected like that.”
He grimaced. “I’d like to take credit, but they just can’t seem to follow
directions.”
She snorted and glanced down at the group that had stopped at the base
of the hill and looked around in seeming confusion, calling Amarl’s name
and generally making a ridiculous amount of noise. “You know that if this
was someplace like Shadora, they’d all be dead right now, right?”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “I remember Shadora.”
“I figured you would. I was on that hunt, too.” She grimaced. “It
might have been better to let me take one of them, you know. At least
they’d understand why they have to be quiet.”
He grinned at her again, this time wickedly. “You know, it’s not really
too late to give them a scare.”
She returned his grin, then slipped her knife back out. She
concentrated, and her form seemed to blur, shifting and changing until she
perfectly resembled the foliage around her. He blinked as she simply
vanished from his sight, and he reached out tentatively, finding the space
where she’d been totally empty. His eyes scanned the area, looking for
some trace of her—a hint of movement, a swaying of branches, a rippling
edge of an outline—but she was simply gone from his sight. At least, she
was until Norag yelped as she appeared behind him, her hand pulling back
his forehead and her blade resting against his throat.
To their credit, the group reacted instantly. Meder’s branch flew at the
camouflaged figure, while Burik dropped his map and charged toward
Norag with Herel close on his heels. Norag, for his part, moved just as
quickly, slamming an elbow backwards while reaching up to grab the wrist
of the knife hand to pull it away from his throat. The older girl slipped his
strike, twisted so that Meder’s blow cracked into Norag, then removed the
knife and shoved him toward the others.
“By all rights, you should be dead right now,” she growled at the wide-
eyed boy, pointing her knife at him before sweeping it toward the others.
“You all could be, in fact, and you would be if your scout hadn’t found me
first.” She pointed backward, and Amarl rose from where he crouched and
emerged from the thicket. The others stared at him in confusion, although
Burik’s face quickly resolved into understanding, and a moment later, so
did Meder’s. Herel’s followed a moment later, while Hadur’s jaw set into a
scowl.
“You’re on a hunt, not a fucking picnic,” the older girl continued.
“Shut the fuck up, or you’ll be the ones getting hunted. Understand?”
 “We understand,” Meder nodded, glancing shamefacedly at Amarl.
“Good.” The fourth-year sheathed her knife and looked back over her
shoulder at Amarl. “Good luck with them. I think you’ll need it.” She
blurred and vanished, and Amarl smothered a grin as the others looked
around vainly, trying to spot her.
He walked down the hill toward the group, shaking his head slightly as
he looked at Hadur. “Still think I’m being paranoid?” he asked the
merchant’s son sarcastically. Hadur bit his lip, but to Amarl’s surprise,
Herel answered.
“No, we don’t,” the noble boy said with a sigh. “At least, I don’t.
Obviously, we weren’t taking this exercise seriously enough, and you were.
Sorry.” His mouth twisted at those last words, as if it hurt them to say
them.
Amarl gave the boy a surprised look before nodding. “You weren’t, but
I think you all get it now. We’re not just learning how to hunt, here. We’re
learning how to survive.” He made a face. “And really, that means I
should be teaching you all, which I haven’t done, so it’s my fault as much
as anyone’s. Do any of you know how to move quietly in the woods? Or
how to conceal yourselves?” They all shook their heads, and he sighed.
“Okay, so let’s work on that first, then. What I’m about to teach you is
called the Fox’s Walk. It’s a good way to move quietly in a place like
this…”
Thirty minutes later, the party moved on, much more quietly than
before. The others still moved awkwardly in the shuffling, slow gait he’d
taught them, but they were at least trying. With their faces smeared with
dirt, they moved in a more spread-out fashion, no longer assuming that they
were safe as they scanned the woods for possible threats.
Amarl and Burik spent some time going over the map, and while part of
Amarl wanted to skip the path and just make a beeline for the flag, he knew
that Nirecina could be watching them at any moment, and he suspected that
deviating from the path might mean failure. Instead, they discussed
possible ambush sites, and they made sure that the group knew what to keep
an eye out for as they traveled.
 Even so, Amarl almost missed the next ambush. He’d been expecting it
to come at another point where the trail turned for no reason. Instead, the
next older student hid in a sapling that grew two reaches off the path, and if
he hadn’t been traveling away from the trail himself, he might never have
spotted them. As it was, he once more waited for the others to get in sight
range to distract the ambusher, but without the noise of their approach,
when he moved to take them, they spun toward him, their weapon low and
ready. The student blurred as they moved with speed that Amarl couldn’t
even see, much less match, leaping toward him.
He moved reflexively as his training with Ranakar kicked in. As fast as
the student was thanks to their ability, the awal was faster, and Amarl
reacted without thinking. He dropped to a knee and spun sideways,
slashing his branch toward the spot where he’d just been, then rolled along
the ground and thrust back behind him. The slash caught nothing but air,
but the thrust slammed into something solid, and the student suddenly
appeared, their face grim as they stared at his branch pressed into their
stomach.
“You got lucky, half-breed,” the older boy growled at him.
Amarl shrugged as he rose to his feet. “Whatever you need to tell
yourself,” he replied. “Either way, you’re dead.”
The boy spat in disgust and slammed his knife back into its sheath
before stalking off. Amarl ignored him and nodded to the others, then
moved ahead once more.
He flushed another ambush but missed a student hidden up one of the
trees. Fortunately, they tried to leap down onto Burik rather than one of the
others, and the larger boy reacted to the sudden movement instantly. He
dropped the map and thrust his long branch upward, toward the falling
student. The point caught them on the side of their chest, knocking them
sideways to the forest floor. The student rolled to their feet but froze as
Herel’s stick touched the back of their neck, “killing” them.
Amarl found out about that attack during his next check-in, and while
he expected Hadur or Herel to mock his failure, to his surprise, neither of
them mentioned a word of it. He and Burik examined the map, and the
larger boy pointed off to the right.
 “Looks like we’re supposed to cut right at that big tree up there,” he
told Amarl. “The flag looks to be about half a walk past that.”
“You know there’ll be someone waiting for us there,” Meder said
quietly.
“Probably more than one someone,” Herel added sourly. “Do you think
you can sneak up on all of them, Amarl?”
“No,” the hizeen shook his head. “Probably not. I might get one if
they’re not looking, but the noise of that will alert anyone else.”
“What we need is a distraction,” Burik said slowly, folding up the map.
“Something to let Amarl get close enough to take them out without them
hearing him.” He glanced at Hadur. “I’ve got an idea.”
“What?” the other boy asked, stepping back. “What are you looking at
me for?”
“Don’t worry, Hadur, you’ll like this,” Burik chuckled. “All you have
to do is be yourself.” He looked at the others. “Okay, here’s what I’m
thinking…”
Amarl stared at the bright yellow piece of fabric hanging from a low
branch of a three-reach-tall tree growing in the middle of a five-reach-wide
clearing. Heavy underbrush filled the clearing everywhere except a single
path that led directly to the tree holding the flag, which would have given
Amarl all the warning he needed even if he hadn’t endured several
ambushes already. In fact, it was absurdly obvious. Any group that made it
this far would be looking for another ambush and certainly wouldn’t take
the clearly dangerous path. They’d probably try to sneak through the
underbrush instead, sending one person in to retrieve it while the rest kept
watch, and that would be their undoing.
When they did, the figure concealed in the tree at the edge of the
clearing near the trail would certainly see them. They would signal the
person lying prone in the bushes, and that person would move to take
anyone crawling through the clearing. While the group’s focus was on that,
the elevated figure would strike from behind, probably taking the rest of
them out in one swoop. It was a solid set-up, and Amarl couldn’t help but
admire it. There was no way he could sneak into the clearing undetected;
the lookout would spot him easily. Even if he did manage to take the prone
student, the lookout would move on him and take him out. He assumed
they had some sort of movement ability that would let them strike from the
tree—or perhaps a ranged attack that they could use without ever leaving
the tree. That would make even more sense since they could take him out
of the equation without needing to change positions, leaving their ambush
fully intact for when the group arrived.
In fact, he’d gotten somewhat lucky not to be spotted already. He’d
circled the clearing and come at it from the back, and while he’d remained
hidden at the edge of the forest, if the lookout had been watching in that
direction, they’d have seen him easily before he had a chance to drop down
and conceal himself behind a trunk. Fortunately, they were watching the
direction of the path, only glancing at the clearing occasionally to check it
and send an all-clear signal to their partner.
Amarl watched, ignoring the damp seeping through his shirt and the
clamminess against his stomach and chest. They’d planned for this—well,
Burik had. Amarl just had to be patient. That wasn’t one of his strong
suits, really, but lying down and doing nothing? He was a champion at
that.
The first clue that things were about to go down came when the
lookout’s head swiveled sharply toward the path. A few seconds later,
Amarl heard the sound of voices speaking quietly but vehemently. He
watched for long seconds more before a pair of figures appeared at the edge
of the clearing, crouched low and hunkered behind two tree trunks as if
those would conceal them.
“…telling you, we should just go back!” Hadur whispered fiercely as he
hid pointlessly behind one of the trunks.
“We can’t just go back, Hadur,” Meder snapped back in the same
whispered voice that carried strongly across the silent clearing. “We’ll have
failed the test!”
“We failed already,” the boy argued. “We’re the only two left, Meder.
You think that will count as succeeding?”
“I’m not turning back when the flag is right there! Look at it! All we
have to do is grab it and run like the spirits are chasing us back to the
malim, and we’ll be fine!”
 “You think it’ll be that easy?” Hadur laughed scornfully and gestured
toward the path. “Go ahead, walk on up to the tree and take it. See how
that works for you!”
“Of course, I’m not taking the path,” Meder replied in a tone dripping
with disdain. “I’ll circle to the right and come at the flag that way; you go
left and do the same. Even if there’s someone in there, one of us will get
it.”
“I’m not going in that clearing,” Hadur shook his head. “We both saw
what happened when your little hizeen lover tried sneaking up on one of the
older students. If you go in there, the same thing’ll happen to you!”
Meder’s eyes flashed at Hadur’s words, and Amarl suppressed a groan.
The two were supposed to be pretending to fight, not actually fighting, and
Hadur was pushing things too far. If the pair actually started tussling, the
whole plan might be ruined. Fortunately, Meder just gave the boy a look
that dripped contempt.
“Fine. If you’re too afraid to try, I’ll go alone, Hadur. Just keep watch
for me, and if you see anything, call out. Can you do that, at least?”
He snorted but didn’t reply, and Meder began to move away from him,
heading to her right. The figure up in the trees flashed a few hand signals,
and the prone student in the bushes started making their way toward Meder
to intercept her, while the elevated figure shifted slightly, moving closer to
Hadur. The girl dropped to a prone position and began to crawl noisily
through the bushes, and Amarl could only watch as the hidden student
slipped closer to her. Something gleamed in their fist as they neared the
girl, and Meder cried out as they reached her and yanked her into the
bushes. She struck out as the figure rolled her onto her back, straddling her
and pinning her down, but they ignored her blows and rested their knife
against her throat.
At the same time, something flashed from the elevated figure’s hands,
and Hadur let out a strangled cry and leaped backward as a spark of
electricity slammed into the trunk next to his head, scorching the trunk and
sending a tendril of smoke wafting upward from the bark. Hadur lifted his
branch as if to defend himself, but the elevated figure dropped from the
tree, shaking his head.
 “You’re dead, Novice,” the older boy said in a contemptuous tone. “I
could have hit you in the eye if I wanted to.”
“You’re both pathetic,” the figure atop Meder growled in a voice that
Amarl recognized instantly. “And you—I heard good things about you, but
you’re just another of that hizeen’s conquests, aren’t you?” They shook
their head. “No wonder you lost so easily if you’ll give it up to a damn
half-breed.”
“Actually,” Meder panted, her face stretching into a grin despite the
anger that burned in her eyes, “we didn’t lose. You did.”
The other figure spun quickly at Meder’s words, but fast as they moved,
Amarl was quicker. His stick leaped out and pressed against the side of
their neck, and he flashed them a wicked grin.
“You’re dead, Robla,” he told the fourth-year girl, who stared at him
with wide eyes. The other student swore and lifted his hand, pointing it
toward Amarl, but before he could loose a blast of electricity at the novice,
he staggered forward as something struck him in the back. He spun to face
the attack, then stopped as Herel’s stick touched him in the throat.
“You’re dead, too,” the noble said easily, smiling at the older student.
“I believe that flag is ours.”
“You fuckers cheated!” Robla growled, slapping away Amarl’s stick
and rising to her feet.
“Cheated?” Amarl laughed. “How was that cheating?”
“You were supposed to stick together as a group!”
“They did stick together, Robla,” the other student sighed. “They just
used these two as bait to draw us out. There’s nothing in the rules against
that.” He lifted his chin toward Amarl. “Well played, hizeen.”
“Thanks, but it wasn’t my idea,” Amarl shrugged, gesturing at Burik.
The older boy lifted his chin toward Burik, instead, and in return, Burik
gave him a short nod.
“It doesn’t matter whose idea it was. It still doesn’t fucking count!”
Robla protested.
“Maybe we should call the malim in and ask her,” Meder said, rising to
her feet and brushing herself off.
 “There’s no need,” the boy shook his head. “They didn’t do anything
against the rules, Robla. Sacrificing two of your own for victory is a little
cold, but it’s not prohibited.” The boy grinned at Burik. “It won’t work
next time, though.”
The larger boy shrugged. “Next time, I’ll think of something else,
then.”
Amarl walked over to the tree and snagged the yellow fabric from it,
tucking it into his waistband. “That’s next time, though,” he said. “For the
moment, we’re just going to take this back to Nirecina and let her decide if
it counts or not.”
Robla took a step toward him, her fists clenched. “You’re not going
anywhere, half-breed,” she growled.
“Why not?” he asked, forcing himself to remain calm. Older students
weren’t supposed to be able to attack younger ones without cause, and there
were too many people around for her to claim that he’d done something as
long as he kept his hands to himself—and his tongue under control.
“First, you humiliated Gowen. Now, you think you can humiliate me,
as well?” She took a step toward him, putting her face a couple
fingerwidths from his. “I ought to beat you fucking senseless, Meat!”
“Back off, Robla,” the older student said tiredly.
“Fuck you, Redor,” she snarled. “He fucking deserves it!”
“Even if he does, he hasn’t done anything to you,” Redor said, his voice
hardening. “And there are too many witnesses to testify to that. Do you
really want to get expelled just because you lost a round of fucking Flag
Capture?”
The older girl stared at Amarl, who did his best to return her gaze
calmly, keeping his body relaxed and loose despite how his heart hammered
in his chest. He didn’t want to do anything to provoke her, but he refused to
show her the fear that screamed in the back of his mind. With his ability
partially unlocked, he wasn’t really terrified of the girl, but he wasn’t
excited to get into a fight with her, either. He suspected she had a strength
or endurance ability of some sort, and if it was strong enough, she could kill
him with a single blow. That would probably get her expelled and executed
as well, but that wouldn’t be any comfort to his headless corpse. At last,
though, she grunted and stepped back.
“This isn’t over, Meat,” she growled.
He forced himself to turn away from her and look at the others. Herel
and Hadur both remained at the edge of the clearing, watching impassively,
although Amarl saw a flicker of regret cross Hadur’s features. Norag had
taken a step into the clearing, his expression worried. Burik and Meder,
though, had moved close enough to strike at Robla if necessary, and both
stood with their weapons ready. Robla noticed, and she looked Burik up
and down with a sneer.
“What, you think you can take me, Meat?” she asked derisively.
“Without your ability? In a heartbeat,” he replied flatly.
“Save it for Halit sometime,” Redor said loudly before Robla could
reply. “You six, get out of here and back to the malim. Robla, take two
steps back.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are, Redor?” the older girl bristled.
“The guy that can paralyze you from here, Robla. Now, step back and
let them go. Whatever this is, it’s your problem, and I’m not about to let
you make it mine.”
Amarl backed away from the girl until he reached the edge of the
clearing, then turned and headed into the forest. “Burik, what’s the most
direct route back to where we started?” he asked.
“That way,” the larger boy said, pointing ahead and to the left.
“Fine.” He glanced at the others. “What say we jog back there? I’m
ready to be done with this.”
“Yes, please,” Herel murmured.
“I agree,” Meder nodded, then paused. “Before we go, though…” She
spun toward Hadur, and her fist lashed out, crashing into his head. The boy
fell back, swearing and cursing, then rose to his feet, lifting his stick into an
attack position.
“Put that thing down before I feed it to you,” Burik growled, taking a
step toward the boy.
 “It’s fine, Burik,” Meder said calmly. “I’m happy to break Hadur’s
weapon over his skull myself if he tries anything.”
Hadur glared at her for a moment before lowering his weapon. “What
the fuck was that for?” he snarled.
“I told you that if you ever accused me of sleeping around again, I’d
beat you until your family wouldn’t recognize you,” she said smoothly.
“Consider yourself lucky that I’m not fully rearranging your face for you.”
“You bitch, I ought to…”
“You ought to be silent, Hadur,” Norag sighed, raising his hands and
stepping between the pair. “You should have known better than to slander
her that way after the last time.”
“You assume that it’s slander,” Herel said smoothly. Meder bristled, but
before she said a word, Amarl held up his hands.
“Okay, so here’s what’s about to happen,” he announced. “Herel’s
about to insult Meder, assuming that he can take her in a fight—which I’m
not so sure about, to be honest. Burik will threaten Herel, who will back
down after saying something sarcastic. Hadur will grumble under his
breath, and we’ll all spend the rest of the day pissed off with each group not
speaking to the other.
“So, how about this?” he went on. “Let’s skip the first part and go right
to the second part where we shut the fuck up and don’t talk to one another
the rest of the way back. Sound good?”
“Fine by me,” Burik nodded.
“Yes, that’s probably the best thing,” Norag sighed.
“Good. Let’s go.” Amarl turned and headed in the direction Burik had
indicated, setting off at a run, listening as the others quickly joined in
behind him.
He’d been right. Herel and Hadur had caused problems, and they
would probably keep doing so every chance they got. He wasn’t sure how
to fix it; maybe it was something he could ask Ranakar about. In the
meantime, he’d just have to deal with them the best he could, and hope they
didn’t create too much trouble for him.
 He snorted. While he was at it, he might as well hope for a fucking
easy year at Askula. Neither of those was going to happen.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 13
“Well, there’s an hour I’ll never get back,” Amarl sighed as the three
friends jogged out of the Citadel and headed northeast.
“What do you mean?” Meder asked. “I thought it was fascinating.”
“You would,” Burik chuckled. “You and Herel are the only ones that
ever seem to enjoy Academics.”
“I thought history class last year was okay,” Amarl shook his head.
“But—what was it that Furemas called it?”
“Economics,” Meder supplied.
“Right. It’s money. What’s to study? I don’t have enough, so I’d like
to get more. Class over.”
Burik laughed, and even Meder couldn’t help but grin at that. “It’s
more complicated than that, ass,” she laughed at him. “And it’s important
that we know about it.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Burik said. “I’m not planning on becoming a
merchant anytime soon, are you?”
“Of course not, but remember, ithtaru are given the right of summary
judgment in the Empire,” she reminded them. “We need to understand the
economic consequences of sentencing a merchant or noble—or the only
blacksmith in a small village, for that matter.” She grinned at Amarl. “Of
course, it doesn’t matter if you’re only judging the village orphan, though.”
“Hey, I’ll have you know that I played a vital role in Tem’s economy,”
Amarl protested. “I worked hard to redistribute the village’s wealth on
almost a daily basis.”
“Meaning you stole money,” Meder clarified.
“Exactly, but then I spent it on things like food, a place to sleep, or
clothing. It wasn’t like I kept it. I was funding important businesses in the
village! Besides, all that money was doing was sitting around under
somebody’s floorboard or in a locked cupboard anyway. I put it to use!”
“Yes, yes, you were practically a hero,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Not
a—what did Robla call you?”
 “A worthless, cheating half-breed,” Burik clarified.
“Yes, that.” The girl shook her head and winced. “I still can’t believe
that she said that to Nirecina.”
Honestly, Amarl couldn’t either. After the hunt, he and his party had
run back to camp in silence. He’d presented their flag to Nirecina and
answered her questions about the hunt honestly. As he did, though, Robla
and Redor emerged from the trees and reached the camp, and the malim
motioned the pair of them over.
“Student Redor, Student Robla,” she said in a slightly frosty tone,
holding up the flag and waving it. “What do I have here?”
“The flag, ma’am,” Redor said miserably.
“The flag that the two of you were supposed to protect. It appears that
you failed—and against a group of novices on their first hunt together, at
that. How do you explain that?”
Redor opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Robla spat
out, “Because this hizeen is a worthless, cheating half-breed, ma’am!” she
snapped. “He split up his team; they didn’t follow the path; and he attacked
us from behind!”
Nirecina’s face went white, and her eyes went flat. “What the fuck did
you just say, Student Robla?” she asked in a dangerously quiet voice.
Robla snapped her mouth shut, her eyes suddenly wide and fearful, but the
malim shook her head. “Oh, no. You will tell me what the fuck you just
said, because I know that my ears couldn’t possibly have heard it correctly.
Now!”
“I—they cheated, malim, and…” Robla’s voice cut off as the girl
vanished, leaving Nirecina standing where she’d just been a moment
before. A crash and a cry of pain rang through the camp, which fell totally
silent, and Amarl winced as he looked over to see Robla on her face, ten
reaches away after having apparently flown through the air to crash into a
large, sturdy tree. The girl moved weakly, moaning as she tried to push
herself to her feet. Before she could, Nirecina vanished once more,
reappearing holding the vainly struggling girl in the air by her throat.
“Let me be very clear to you, idiot girl,” Nirecina said in a whisper that
carried across the entire silent camp. “Whatever Lasheshian beliefs you
may have, I never want to fucking hear them again. I don’t even want to
hear that you have them, or I will make it my mission to beat them the fuck
out of you. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes, ma’am,” the girl gurgled.
“Good.” Nirecina gave the girl a seemingly gentle toss, but Robla flew
another reach to land heavily on her back, groaning as she failed to roll with
the impact. “Oh, and just so you’re aware, I watched them take the flag
from you. They fooled you…” She looked at Redor. “Both of you very
thoroughly. How did they do that?”
“We were overconfident, ma’am,” Redor replied, standing perfectly at
attention as he spoke, his body straight and his left hand in the center of his
chest over his heart. “It was their first exercise, so when just the two of
them appeared, we assumed the rest had been taken and never thought to
look for them.”
“Yes, you were. Always assume your enemy has allies and
reinforcements, and never believe that you’re safe.” The malim looked
down at the moaning Robla and shook her head. “Get her a damn elixir,
then get her the fuck out of here. I’ll have her reassigned to a different
duty. She doesn’t belong here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Redor pulled a metal vial from his pocket and walked
over to crouch beside Robla, unscrewing the top and slowly pouring the
liquid inside into her open mouth. While the girl’s ithtu would help her heal
faster than any naluni could normally, the sahr-enhanced elixir would heal
the worst of her injuries in seconds, leaving her ithtu to only deal with the
remnants or anything too serious for the elixir to handle. She rose
unsteadily to her feet a few moments later, and Redor led her away. As the
girl staggered off, though, she shot a hateful look over her shoulder at
Amarl.
“You know that she’s going to blame me for whatever trouble she gets
in,” Amarl sighed as he shook off his reminiscences.
“Probably,” Meder agreed. “She’s got a crush on Gowen, and I think
she hopes that if she can humiliate you, Gowen might look at her the same
way.” She shook her head. “She’ll keep trying to find ways to punish you,
Amarl.”
 “What you need to do is awaken the rest of your ability, then have it out
in Halit,” Burik suggested. “With both her and Gowen.”
“That wouldn’t help, Burik. Gowen feels embarrassed by Amarl—and
now Robla does, too. Beating them in Halit would only make it worse.”
The girl’s face turned thoughtful. “Although, if you challenged them and
let them win, that might make them feel better.”
“Yeah,” Amarl snorted. “And it would also put a big target on me for
every other asshole who thinks I don’t belong here.”
“He’s right,” Burik agreed. “Amarl, you just need to become strong
enough that people are afraid to mess with you—the way they are with
Andra.”
“Yeah, or they’ll just gang up on me.” He shook his head. “I’ll just do
my best to avoid them for a while and hope that they calm down.” He
rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I can convince Nolla to give Gowen
a tumble,” he mused. “That would fix everything right away.”
“I think you going anywhere near Nolla is a terrible idea,” Meder said
firmly.
“Plus, knowing your luck, she’d tell him she did it as a favor to you,”
Burik chuckled. “That would make things a lot worse.”
“True. Maybe I just need to find someone else to take his mind off
Nolla.” Amarl glanced at Meder with a grin. “You’re not seeing anyone,
right?”
“I swear, I will cut you if you so much as suggest that,” the girl warned
ominously. “And not in a nice way like Ranakar. I’ll make it hurt.”
“Fine,” he laughed, holding up his hands defensively. “No need to get
all bloodthirsty!”
“Don’t try to pair me off with idiots, and I won’t.” She glared at the
boy. “I’ve already got two of them to deal with.”
“Hey, what did I do?” Burik protested.
“You were about to agree with him.” She shook her head. “Enough of
that. Amarl, have you figured out what crafting skill you’re going to learn
yet?”
The boy’s mouth twisted as he responded. “No, not yet.”
 “We’re literally on our way to Crafting class, Amarl,” Burik pointed
out. “You’re kind of running out of time to decide, here.”
“You’re both assuming that we get to decide. What if they don’t care
what you want and assign you a skill based on your stats or affinities or
something?”
“I’d be fine with that,” Burik shrugged. “I’m pretty sure my stats and
affinities would match with smithing.”
“Probably,” Meder agreed. “Although as I understand it, Amarl, you’re
right to an extent. According to Andra, the school lets you choose from a
few skills that your stats suggest you’d be good at. I guess if you’re
interested in the skill and have talent in it, you’re more likely to pick it up
and stick with it.”
“What if you change your mind?” Amarl asked.
She shrugged. “I never asked. They let you learn more than one
crafting skill if you want, though, so I suppose if you don’t like one, you
can switch to another.”
“Then I guess not knowing what I want to do isn’t that big of a deal,”
the boy grinned. “They’ll give me some choices, I’ll try what looks good,
and if it turns out I hate it, I’ll try another until I find one that I like.”
“And if you never do?” Burik asked.
“Then I’ll pick the one I hate the least, I guess. Sometimes, the least
objectionable choice is the best one you can make.”
“Something I remind myself every so often when I remember who my
roommates are,” Meder laughed.
“Being less objectionable than Herel and Hadur isn’t really much of a
compliment,” Amarl complained.
“It really wasn’t meant to be,” she grinned at him. “Come on, let’s pick
up the pace. I can’t wait to start learning alchemy officially!”
The road they took toward Tarmis Hall, the crafting center, was far
more heavily traveled than most of the roads leading away from the
Citadel. Mounted riders moved along the road at every pace from a sedate
walk to a frantic gallop, and the trio quickly learned to stay off the road and
run through the knee-high grass beside it, as those riders didn’t slow and
seemed unwilling to swerve to avoid foot traffic. The road climbed slowly
but steadily as they headed northeast, toward distant plumes of smoke rising
from behind the mountains and drifting into the pink-hued sky above.
Those plumes grew thicker as they neared the peaks, and they followed the
road as it rose up a hill and curved around a mountain spur, then plunged
down into a long, spreading valley.
Like all the ancillary schools, Tarmis Hall, the crafting school, lay in a
pocket valley surrounded by the towering peaks that ringed Askula. Unlike
most, it was fairly large and spread out for a significant distance. The
closer part of the valley was a long, downward-sloping hill of hard-packed
clay, with buildings flanking the road that led through it. Those buildings,
like most of those in Askula, were built of stone, with peaked roofs to shed
the snow that fell each winter. Smoke poured from several of the long, low
structures, and at least one of the plumes of smoke shimmered with odd
shades of red, green, and purple. Loud clangs echoed from a few of the
buildings, and Amarl winced as a flash lit up one shuttered window brightly
enough that he felt sure anyone actually inside that room was probably
blind at the moment. A stench of sulfur, ammonia, urine, hot metal, and
other odors he couldn’t place assaulted his nose, and he grimaced at the
thought of enduring that miasma in an enclosed space.
He let his gaze drift past the crafting halls deeper into the valley. The
road continued past the buildings, descending into a low, flat valley where
small bursts of scrub grass dotted the tan clay. A wooden fence ran across
the valley fifty reaches or so past the crafting buildings, and behind that
fence, a large herd of horses moved slowly through the grassland, their
hooves kicking dust up from the ground as they walked aimlessly about.
Beyond the herd, Amarl spotted a couple dozen mounted students trotting
along on horseback with what looked to him like varying degrees of skill.
“Hey, you think we’ll be learning how to ride, too?” he asked, pointing
at the distant horses.
“You don’t know how to ride?” Burik asked curiously. “I thought that
would be something anyone in a small village would learn.”
“I can stay on a horse, but I’m not that great of a rider,” he shrugged.
“The only things to ride in Tem were work horses, really. They’re not all
that comfortable, as wide as they are, but they’re slow and pretty stable, so
they’re easy to stay on.” He glanced at Burik. “Let me guess. You’re an
expert rider?”
“Not an expert, but I’ve been trained to basic cavalry standards,” the
larger boy replied. “What about you, Meder?”
“I can ride, yes,” the girl nodded. “Fairly well, too. We had horses on
the family estate outside Dairon, and I started lessons in my seventh year.
I’ve even competed in a few equestrian competitions.”
“What kind of competitions?” Amarl asked. “Questing?”
“Equestrian,” she corrected.
“It’s a big word for fancy horse riding and jumping,” Burik laughed.
“We had competitions in Tannshin sometimes, too, and I watched a few.
They seemed kind of silly to me.”
“Silly how?” Amarl asked.
“The riders all had their horses doing some weird prancing gait. Then,
they cantered them around a bunch and had them jump over things like hay
bales or big puddles. They got points based on how good they looked while
they did it.” He shook his head. “It looked mostly pointless.”
“Actually, many of the equestrian events were taken from cavalry
movements and training,” the girl replied a bit primly. “They’ve simply
been given a bit more elegance, is all.”
“I’ve never seen a cavalry horse prance like that,” Burik chuckled.
“And cavalry are trained to go around obstacles, not over them. On a
battlefield, a wall of hay bales like that would probably have a line of
pikemen or halberdiers behind it, and jumping over it will just get your
horse killed.”
“That’s probably true,” she admitted after a moment. “But the point of
the competitions is really to demonstrate how well you can control your
horse and how trained it is, not just to look good.”
“I can see how those would be useful to a soldier on a horse,” Amarl
suggested. “Right, Burik?”
“Well, yes. They still look silly, though.”
When they approached the crafting buildings, a gray-garbed malim
stepped out of one of the buildings and stood, apparently waiting for them.
The man was short, only a couple fingerwidths taller than Amarl, with a
barrel chest and broad shoulders. His bald skull sported what looked like
numerous shiny burn scars to Amarl, and the sleeves and lower trousers of
his uniform were patched and stained with what the novice guessed was
soot. His hands were large, muscular, and heavily calloused. He eyed the
three as they approached, and when they neared, he grunted at them in a
deep voice that matched his wide chest.
“You three the new second-years?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Meder replied, her voice barely containing her obvious
eagerness.
“Good. We’ll wait for the others. I don’t want to go through this
twice.”
They stood in silence for the few minutes it took for Herel, Hadur, and
Norag to jog into sight, and once the three other students joined them, the
malim grunted a second time.
“Welcome to Tarmis. Name’s Tonokita, and I’m the malim who
oversees all second-years, here.” He swept his gaze over the group. “In
every new group, someone wonders why you have to learn a crafting skill.
After all, you won’t spend your service to the Empire making leather goods
or building furniture, so what’s the point? Well, there are several reasons.
Can anyone think of one?”
Meder’s hand lifted, but to Amarl’s surprise, so did Burik’s and
Norag’s. The malim pointed at Burik first. “You. What do you think?”
“I think that learning a crafting skill can make us more self-sufficient,
sir,” the boy replied. “If we can repair and forge our own weapons, for
example, we won’t be at the mercy of merchants.”
The malim replied with a grunt. “That’s part of it, and you’ll all learn
the basics of things like alchemy, blacksmithing, leatherworking, and
tailoring, but what most of you learn won’t replace the talents of a skilled
crafter, and you’ll always be at the mercy of merchants.” He pointed to
Meder. “You.”
“Learning a skill like this can improve our stats, sir,” she replied.
“True, and that’s a big part of it, but you’ll get better results faster by
quickening your ithtu to a stat.” He pointed at Norag. “What about you?”
 The boy lowered his hand slowly. “Because we need to learn how to
create, not just destroy, sir,” he said slowly. “Crafting is good for the soul.”
The malim remained silent for a moment. “Artist caste?” he finally
asked, and Norag nodded. “Thought so. Your kind always get it right.” He
shook his head, then looked at the others.
“The simple fact is, everything else you learn in Askula is merely a
better way to destroy things. You learn weapons, and sahr, and hunting.
You learn about the Empire so that the destruction you bring doesn’t harm
it. It’s all violence and suffering.
“The thing is, whatever your ability, you’re still naluni at heart.” He
glanced at Amarl. “Well, most of you. And no soul, no matter how strong
or enduring, can live a life of pure destruction without being damaged—and
in the case of an ithtar, that damage can have real and detrimental effects.
Over time, an ithtar who’s seen too much and done too much can actually
find their soul stat dropping. If that stat drops too far, your ability can be
affected—you can even lose the use of it entirely. When I say that endless
death and destruction damages your soul, I mean that in a very literal
sense.”
He folded his hands behind his back. “Learning to craft can offset or
even repair that damage. Anything fulfilling or creative can, in fact, which
is one reason the nadars get rotated in for a year or two at a time. Teaching
can be quite fulfilling. Crafting, though, is a surefire method to not only
heal a damaged soul but to slowly grow that stat over time. Creating
strengthens you, makes you more able to accept the things you’ll have to
do. It’s a respite and a sanctuary from our more unpleasant duties. In the
end, it doesn’t even matter what you choose to craft; all that matters is that
it’s something you can throw yourself into, something that you can lose
yourself in. Passion is more important than talent, especially because your
ithtu will take the place of a hell of a lot of missing talent.”
He met all their eyes, then grunted again. “So, who here already has a
crafting skill?” Amarl and Norag were the only ones to raise their hands,
and Tonokita inclined a chin at Amarl first. “Skill and rank, Novice.”
“Carpentry at rank 1 and Baking at rank 2, sir,” the hizeen supplied.
“Let me guess: you helped out in a bakery and a carpenter’s shop for a
while, am I right? Either of them appeal to you?”
 “Baking wasn’t terrible, sir,” Amarl shrugged.
“But it wasn’t something you enjoyed, and that’s what matters.” He
looked over at Norag. “You? Skill and rank.”
“Sculpting, rank 5, sir,” Norag replied.
“That what your parent did?” Norag nodded, and the malim grunted
again. “You’ve got talent in it. Do you enjoy it?” Norag hesitated for a
moment, and the instructor chuckled. “That’s all the answer I need. You
can pick something else if you want.” He looked over the others. “Any of
you already decided what you’d like?”
Hadur, Meder, and Burik raised their hands, and the malim called on
them one at a time. Amarl knew that Meder really wanted to do alchemy,
and Burik wanted to learn to make weapons and armor, but he didn’t know
what Hadur was interested in.
“Goldsmithing, sir,” the boy answered when the malim called on him.
“Merchant’s son?” Tonokita asked. “Yeah, a lot of you are interested in
goldsmithing, silversmithing, and gem cutting. And that’s fine, but only if
you’re doing it because you’re interested in it, not because you want to
make money by selling what you make. If you’re crafting for the sake of
greed, it won’t help you.” Hadur’s eyes flashed with a hint of
disappointment, and the malim chuckled. “Yeah, thought so. Like I said,
lot of your type ask for it. Not a lot get to do it.”
He looked over the others. “As I said, each of you will be learning
certain crafts that are useful for any ithtar. Being able to effect field repairs
on your equipment is important, after all. However, your main crafting skill
will be something you enjoy, not something that you need or that you might
be good at. You like pottery? I don’t care if every bowl you make shatters
the moment someone touches it. What matters is that you can lose yourself
in it, and you enjoy doing it.”
He nodded as if to himself, then placed a hand on the door behind him.
“We’ll start with a tour,” he announced. “You’ll get to see the more
common crafting skills in action, so you can decide if any of them look
interesting to you.”
He gave the novices a hard look as he continued. “Do not interfere with
any student’s crafting,” he warned. “Stay back and touch nothing. Many
crafts use extreme heat or volatile chemicals, and you can’t always tell
what’s hot or coated in etching agent. Try not to breathe any fumes or
smoke. Do not bother the older students, even if you’re just trying to
compliment them. If you see something that you find interesting or admire,
feel free to discuss it among yourselves, but the fact is, the older students
won’t care about your compliments.” He hesitated. “And if you find fault
with something or just aren’t impressed, keep it to yourself. Insulting
someone’s crafting is a fast way to piss them off. Got it?”
The students nodded, and the man grunted once more. “Good. Now,
follow me, and let’s see if we can find something to interest each of you.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 14
The malim pushed open the door behind him and led the others into an
open building that reeked with a strong, acrid odor Amarl couldn’t place but
that burned his nose slightly. Heat welled over him, and sweat immediately
beaded on his brow. He looked around and saw a dozen or so red, glowing
furnaces spread throughout the room with students wearing leather coats
that dropped to their knees standing before or near them. A tinkling sound
like glass breaking and an odd whooshing noise filled the air.
“This is a typical crafting hall,” Tonokita said loudly, leading the
novices toward the nearest of the furnaces. “As you can see, crafting spaces
are typically open so that students can interact with one another and share
tools or resources.” He pointed up into the air, and Amarl glanced up to see
several large fans set into the ceiling that reminded him of the pumps that
drew old air out of the mines above Tem, allowing fresh air to circulate in.
“Crafting can be dangerous,” the malim said a little ominously. “That’s
why you don’t just learn how to practice your craft, you learn how to do it
safely. It’s common for apprentices in the Empire to lose fingers, eyes, or
even entire limbs learning their craft, but those sorts of injuries are very rare
here. Every crafting hall is ventilated with sahrotik fans to draw out toxic
chemicals and fumes. Every student receives all the safety gear they need
for their craft, and you will wear that gear, or you will find yourself
scrubbing out the tanning vats every day until you understand the need for it
—and trust me, there is nothing that you would rather do less.”
He stopped near the glowing furnace and waved a hand toward one of
the students working near it, who bent over a red, pulsing object Amarl
couldn’t really see.
“This is glassblowing. Note that I said glassblowing, not glass cutting.
These students aren’t making windows or lenses; they’re making artistic
objects from glass.” He reached down and slipped a leather glove onto his
hand, then picked up a glimmering, multihued object, holding it to the light
so they could all see it. It took Amarl a second to realize that the object was
an indigo wolf with a blood-red muzzle and ruff and golden streaks running
down its back. It looked to be in mid-step, and its bright green eyes stared
directly at Amarl when Tonokita turned it the right way.
“As a glassblower, you’ll learn how to make many different types of
glass,” the malim proclaimed. “You’ll learn how to shape and mold it, to
color it, and to create objects with both artistic and functional value. You’ll
also learn how to handle etching agents, which are some of the more
dangerous and volatile chemicals you can find in all of Tarmis—and what
you’re smelling right now.”
He set the wolf down and looked back at them. “A good glassblower
has patience, imagination, and a high Skill and Toughness stat. Glass
doesn’t respond to an overly firm hand, and you’ll need skill to craft the
fine details and endurance to handle the heat.” He continued walking, and
as Amarl passed the glass wolf, Amarl paused to look at it more carefully,
cautiously keeping half a reach between him and the object.
The student had done an amazing job detailing the creature. The
texture of fur covered its glossy body, and its open maw displayed tiny teeth
and a lolling tongue. Even its toenails were accurate, and its tail curled as if
in motion.
“It’s really good, isn’t it?” Meder asked from beside him, also staring at
the piece.
“I think so,” Amarl nodded. “I don’t really have anything to compare it
to, though. I didn’t even know you could do this with glass. I’ve never
seen anybody make something other than windows with it.”
“Dairon has plenty of glassblowers, so I’ve seen this sort of work
before,” she replied with a smile. “But I’ve rarely seen something so
detailed. It’s amazing!”
He grinned at her. “Not so into alchemy anymore?” he asked jokingly.
“No, I definitely still want to study alchemy, but being able to make
something like this would be incredible.” She shook her head. “If they
really do let us learn more than one skill, I might try this as a secondary
one.”
“We haven’t even seen all the options,” he reminded her. “You might
change your mind.”
 “True.” She straightened. “Come on, let’s catch back up to the others.
I want to see what else we could learn.”
The group followed Tonokita from building to building, stopping in
each one so the man could explain what each skill involved and the sort of
person who might excel at it. The smithy was loud and smoky, and only
Burik wanted to stop and watch the students hammering at glowing hunks
of metal or filing and polishing finished pieces. The tannery smelled
horrible, and while the array of leather goods being produced was
impressive—from hardened dark plates that could serve as armor to soft,
white blankets that felt more like cloth than leather—Amarl couldn’t
imagine having that stench in his clothing and hair all the time. They
stopped to watch students hammering at hunks of granite and marble,
gently sliding heavy knives across blocks of wood, and drawing thin lines
of gold wire that they worked and looped into chains. They saw students
molding wet clay into various shapes with muddy fingers and others
weaving sheets of fabric and turning them into racks of clothing.
Meder’s face took on an expression of awe as the malim led them into
the alchemy building. Amarl paused and looked around with mild concern,
himself. Each alchemy station was a large table covered with glass tubes
and coils, metal pots of varying sizes, and a single cast iron kettle bolted to
the table. A stone oven stood next to the table, and most of those held some
sort of metal pot filled with various bubbling masses. Metal stands on the
tables emitted jets of colored flame that bathed different parts of the
apparatus. Smoke and steam billowed into the air, some of it white or gray
but most twinkling and glittering in hues from brilliant pink to deep indigo
and everything in between. An acrid stink hung in the air, mingled with
cloyingly sweet smells that almost made the chemical stench worse. A bang
erupted from one of the distant stations, accompanied by thick black smoke
that curled upward to be sucked away by the spinning fans above, of which
there were twice as many as in the other buildings.
“This is our alchemy hall,” Tonokita proclaimed. “If you study
alchemy, you’ll learn how to draw the inherent sahr out of various herbs
and animal parts, then focus that into a liquid or solid to create a specific
effect.” Another bang echoed out, and the man smiled. “As you can hear,
this is one of the more exacting and dangerous crafts that you can choose.
A skilled alchemist is intelligent, good with sahr, and focused on fine details
rather than grand generalities. Alchemy is a delicate art, and tiny mistakes
can have large consequences—as is usually the case when sahr’s
involved.”
He led them deeper into the hall, and Amarl leaned toward Meder.
“And this is what you want to do?” he asked dubiously.
“Yes,” she nodded enthusiastically, staring at the nearest student, who
seemed to be pouring a thick, amber liquid into a glass jar containing
another thick, greenish fluid that bubbled and popped above a bright pink
flame. The student seemed to be pouring with incredible care, moving the
flask holding the amber fluid above the glass jar in a complicated pattern
rather than just dumping it in. “Look, see how he’s pouring that without
letting any of the trails overlap one another? I wonder why he’s doing it
that way! Do you think that it’s required for the alchemical matrix, or is it a
stabilizing protocol?”
“I think I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Burik chuckled. The
girl opened her mouth again, but he cut her off. “And I’m not really
interested in learning, thanks. All of this definitely isn’t for me.”
Amarl couldn’t help but agree. The noisy, flashy, and very smelly art of
alchemy didn’t appeal to him in the least. Unfortunately, as they moved
from craft to craft, that trend seemed to continue. Most of the students
expressed interest in a few of the crafts being displayed—Meder seemed to
be taken with most of them except smithing and tanning, in fact—but while
Amarl found them fascinating, none of them really caught his eye. He
supposed he would have to try a few of the more palatable ones and see if
any of them suited him. If not, at least his Soul stat was high enough that
he supposed it could absorb some damage without too many problems in
the future. At least, he hoped.
Finally, the malim led them to a larger building in the center of the
complex. They entered a small room that had a counter with an older
student standing behind it and doors leading outward on the other walls.
The student straightened as the malim led the group into the low room and
held out a hand. The student handed the instructor a stack of papers and
placed some pencils on the counter. Tonokita handed each of the students a
piece of paper, and Amarl glanced at it to see that it had places for him to
write down his stats except for Presence and Soul, as well as a series of
lines below the phrase, “Existing Skills.” Beneath that, the various crafts
they’d seen that day were listed in columns.
“Hopefully, our little tour interested you all in at least one craft,” the
malim stated. “However, it’s time for a hard truth. While I said earlier that
it doesn’t really matter if you excel at a craft or not, that’s not entirely true.
You don’t need talent, but the simple fact is that certain skills require
specific stats or mentalities for you to even become competent with them.
If you pursue a craft that you have zero affinity for, you’ll struggle with it,
and that frustration will do more harm than good.
“Each of you will write down your stats, as well as any current crafting
skills you possess and their rank. You will circle up to three crafts that you
found interesting, then hand the completed sheet to Student Satha, here. He
will then send you back to meet with me in private one at a time to discuss
what you’d prefer to do and see if it’s something that you can reasonably
become competent at.” He nodded to the student and walked through the
door in the back wall, and Satha gave each of the novices a stony look.
“Well? Don’t just stand there. Grab a pencil, fill those out, and hand
them to me so we can get started!”
Amarl quickly filled out the paper and handed it to the older boy, who
snatched it from his hand without even looking at him. “Good. Now, go
stand over there somewhere away from me.” The boy waved a dismissive
hand, and Amarl walked to the far wall, leaning against it with his arms
folded over his chest.
“So, did anything appeal to you?” Meder asked him as she joined him a
second or so later.
“Not really,” he shrugged.
“You seemed to be into glassblowing,” Burik noted as he walked up to
the pair.
“I like the results,” Amarl corrected. “I’m not sure I’d like the process.
It’s a lot like baking, really. It’s hot, probably messy, and if you don’t do
things just so, it all turns to shit.” He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be awful, but
if I’m going to be sweaty all the time, I’ll just stick to baking. At least we
can eat the results.”
 “Assuming you don’t poison us all,” Burik laughed, turning to Meder.
“You seemed to be into most everything. Still thinking alchemy?”
“Oh, absolutely,” the girl said feelingly. “I find it fascinating.” She
hesitated. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to learn some of those other
skills, though. Being able to craft things purely for the sake of art would be
amazing.” She smiled at the larger boy. “And are you still planning to take
up blacksmithing?”
He frowned. “I’m honestly not sure,” he admitted. “I mean, I think I’d
be good at it, but I wanted to do it because I thought it would be practical,
not because I really want to forge weapons or armor.”
“What would you do instead?” Amarl asked curiously.
The boy shrugged. “I’m not sure. Glassblowing and weaving are too
delicate, and painting seems pointless. Carpentry might work, I suppose.”
“Okay, novices, listen up,” Satha spoke up, interrupting their
discussion. “I’m going to take you back to the malim one at a time. You’ll
meet with him, choose a craft to try, and then you’ll be led to the
corresponding training hall to get started.” He looked down and grabbed a
piece of paper. “Meder.”
The girl flashed the two boys a slightly wan smile. “Wish me luck,”
she said nervously.
“You won’t need it,” Burik shook his head. “You’ve wanted this since
day one, and you’ve got the brains for it.”
“And the patience, considering that you put up with us,” Amarl added.
“Thanks,” she laughed weakly before walking over to follow Satha into
the back of the building. The boy returned a few minutes later and picked
up another paper. “Hadur.”
Amarl waited as Herel and Burik were called before Satha finally
picked up a paper and said with a sour tone, “Amarl.” He followed the
older boy through the door into a hallway, walking past a couple of doors
before Satha opened one and gestured to him. “In here.”
“Thanks,” Amarl smiled, but the older boy simply sneered at him.
Amarl shrugged and entered the room beyond, finding himself inside a
room that looked like an office—but also a little like a merchant’s store.
Bookshelves along the walls held texts and papers but also displayed a
dozen or more polished, gleaming works of steel, copper, and iron. One
looked like a vase of flowers, while another resembled the steamwagon
Danmila had hired to travel to Tem. Each was extremely ornate and
detailed, and Amarl stared at a few of the pieces admiringly for a moment
or two.
“Take a seat, Novice.” Tonokita’s grunted command jarred Amarl from
his thoughts, and the boy turned to see the malim sitting at a simple,
wooden desk that held a couple more pieces of metallic art. A bare wooden
chair rested in front of the desk, and Amarl lowered himself into it as the
instructor glanced over the paper in his hand.
“Well, Novice Amarl. What are your thoughts on crafting?” The malim
set down the paper and gave the novice a penetrating look. Amarl hesitated,
considering whether to lie and say that something interested him, but he
couldn’t see the benefit in that. Instead, he simply shrugged.
“I think that most of it’s pretty interesting, sir,” he responded.
“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” the malim snorted. “Let me guess. Nothing
caught your eye?”
“Not really, sir,” the hizeen shook his head. “Not that they aren’t
impressive, they just…”
“Weren’t for you.” The man nodded. “We get a lot of that.” He tapped
his fingers on the desk, staring at the sheet before him. “Normally, in a case
like this, I’d have you start trying various crafts until you found something
that resonated with you, but in your case…” He looked up at Amarl, his
face thoughtful.
“Awal Ranakar mentioned that you expressed interest in learning
sahrotik,” he finally said. “Is that true?”
“I—yes, sir, I did. That is, I did tell him I’d like to learn it.”
“Why?” the man asked, his voice intent.
Amarl shrugged. “It just seemed—interesting, I guess, sir. It’s
beautiful and useful, and it seems too delicate to be powerful.” He
laughed. “Plus, who doesn’t like gold and jewels?” He shrugged again.
“You didn’t show us it today, though, and it wasn’t on the list, so I didn’t
really think about it.”
 Tonokita nodded. “You’re right, and for a very good reason. Sahrotik
is an advanced skill, one that requires a number of supporting skills to
use.” He made a face. “All crafting skills require a number of supporting
skills, in fact. Smiths have to learn about metals, mining, and refining;
weavers have to learn how to grow and harvest the plants that provide the
base for their fabrics; glassblowers have to learn how to work with the
chemicals that etch and stain the glass.
“Sahrotik, though, is more complex than that. You need to learn about
metals, smithing, and goldsmithing. You need to learn how to cut and
polish gemstones. You have to study chemistry, and engineering, and of
course, sahr-working. You need multiple high stats, including Force, Skill,
and Mind.” He shook his head. “Typically, a student has to be at least a
fourth-year to have learned all those skills to the degree necessary to even
consider sahrotik, but…”
The malim leaned forward. “I understand that last year, you picked up
your first weapons skills in a single week. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir,” Amarl nodded slowly.
“And what are they now?”
Amarl pulled up his status. “Which ones, sir? The armed or unarmed
ones?”
“The highest ones,” the malim replied.
“My unarmed forms are at level 5, sir, and my armed ones at level 4.”
The malim snorted and shook his head. “Ridiculous.” He paused.
“And I understand that you already learned how to quicken a skill?”
“Yes, sir. At least, I managed to do it with Digging. I’m sure doing it
with a real skill is more difficult.”
“Don’t discount Digging as a skill, Novice,” the malim chuckled. “A
master at it could tunnel under a fortification’s walls to undermine them in a
week or so, or dig a tunnel into a secure place in a day or two. Being able
to quickly dig pits or trenches can make setting up camp easier and can help
you win in those survival games you’ll be playing this year.” He shook his
head.
 “However, that’s not the point. The point is that if even if you’re only
partially quickening an ability, it’ll grow faster, and with the kind of growth
you normally have, plus stats like yours…” He gazed at Amarl. “Are you
interested in sahrotik? Actually interested in learning about it?”
“Yes, sir,” Amarl said, straightening slightly.
“Then I’m putting you on a crash course,” the man said, writing on a
piece of paper. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ve got you three days a
week, and on those days, you’re going to be learning goldsmithing and
lapidary.” Seeing Amarl’s confusion, he added, “Gem cutting. You’ll
spend half your time working at each, which is fine since they’re in the
same building.”
He leaned back. “On nights where you have Skill Training, I’m going
to ask Malim Risobota to train you in Chemistry and Engineering. How
quickly did you get your weapons skills to rank 4 last year?”
Amarl frowned. “I’m not sure, sir. I think it took most of the year.”
“That’s fine. Once you’ve got all those skills to rank 4, we can start
you on sahrotik.” The man nodded firmly.
“Sir…” Amarl hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Why, sir? Why not just
let me try a bunch of things the way you always do?”
Tonokita folded his hands on the desk and sighed. “Because sahrotik is
a rare skill, Novice, one that few even attempt, much less excel at. People
with skill and talent at sahr usually stick with pure sahr working or go into
alchemy, like your female classmate. Those with an interest in gems and
goldsmithing are usually either just looking to make money like your other
classmate, or they’re in it for the artistry, which sahrotik can’t have a great
deal of by definition. Even if they have the interest, though, they rarely
have the patience or talent to pick up the other supporting skills.
“The result is that the entire Order has a handful of sahrotik
practitioners who’ve moved beyond the first few ranks in it. If you’re
interested and continue to grow the way you have…” He shrugged. “You
could match some of our most advanced practitioners before you’ve even
left the academy. It would be a huge boon for the Order as a whole.”
Amarl nodded slowly. “Okay. So, what do I do, sir?”
 “Take this paper and hand it to Satha. You’ll begin with goldsmithing
—which means that you’ll be learning metallurgy and refining techniques,
as well. You’ll stick with that for the entirety of today, and when you come
back on Ispio, two days from now, your instructors will know how to direct
you, so you get the practice you need in both skills.” The malim stood, and
Amarl rose as well, taking the proffered slip of paper. “Go on, now, and
let’s see how all this works out.”
Amarl turned and left the room, where he found Satha waiting for him.
He held out the piece of paper, and the older student read it with a snort.
“Goldsmithing?” he asked, shaking his head. “I should have known
that a greedy hizeen would pick that.”
“Actually, I just wanted to make something nice to thank your mother
for our time last night.” Amarl felt proud that the words that echoed in his
brain didn’t make their way out of his mouth. Maybe improving his Will
stat really was having tangible benefits after all. He had enough problems
with upperclassmen already this year without antagonizing more of them.
As he followed Satha further down the hall, he glanced back at the malim’s
closed door.
“Yeah, and this isn’t going to make those worse at all,” he thought with
a sigh. As excited as he was to learn sahrotik—and to use it—he couldn’t
imagine being the only younger student in a group of fourth-years and older
was going to make him popular. He’d be lucky if all they did was harass
the fuck out of him to try and get him to quit.
He shook his head. Two days into the new school year, and it was
already looking like shit.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 15
Amarl grunted as the heavy, weighted staff slammed into his arm. A
loud crack rang through the training hall as one of the metal studs at the end
smacked into the steel plate protecting his upper arm. The padded shirt
absorbed much of the blow, but not all of it, and he suspected there would
be a new bruise decorating his upper arm when he took the armor off later.
It would have good company, joining the dozen or more other bruises that
inevitably greeted him when he looked down at himself at the end of every
training session.
Meder’s staff whirled around and darted toward him, sweeping at his
elbow, and he spun his moon axe upward to knock her blow aside. He
slipped beneath it, then leaned sideways as the staff shot toward the center
of his chest. It flicked upward, and he ducked his chin to catch the blow on
the crest of his helmet. The sound of metal hitting metal rang in his ears,
and despite the padding beneath the helmet, his legs shivered from the force
of her blow, but he managed to swat aside her next strike and recenter
himself, regaining his balance and refocusing on the girl.
Meder’s staff flicked at him like the tongue of a snake, then spun
around and slashed like a whip. Once, she’d struggled to attack, preferring
to fight defensively, but no longer. Her strikes were swift, powerful, and
had he not been wearing armor, probably lethal. He dodged what he could
and did his best to take attacks on the plates of his armor when he couldn’t.
Each time a blow landed, some part of him wanted to flinch away—the hits
hurt, even if they didn’t do any real damage—but he forced himself to
simply absorb them and push through the discomfort, keeping his axe
spinning constantly and putting up the best defense he possibly could.
Every part of him screamed at him to stop defending and move to
attack. It would be easy; offense was where the moon axe shined, after all.
A downward block of a staff strike, a shift of the axe in his hands, and the
crescent blades would sweep toward her face, forcing her to retreat and
giving him the initiative. He forced himself to hold back, though,
concentrating solely on blocking, dodging, and absorbing blows. He didn’t
need to work on offense; he needed to train his body to use his armor
effectively. That was the whole reason he kept coming to Sitjak after hours,
in fact.
His ithtu flowed in his body, filling his limbs and skull with a gauzy
veil of energy. He couldn’t concentrate on those flows while Meder
pounded him with her weapon, but Ranakar assured him that simply having
them in place would help his armor skills grow, and he really wanted to get
better at those quickly. He knew that the technique worked, at least to some
extent; he’d gotten the first rank of Digging sometime during the third day
of skill training,
“Hold!” Burik finally called, and Meder stepped back, leaning her staff
against her shoulder and grinning at Amarl. In response, he dropped his
moon axe on the ground, stripped off his gauntlets, and fumbled with the
ties holding his helmet in place. He yanked it off, gasping for breath and
wiping away the sweat that streamed from his sodden hair into his eyes.
“You,” he panted, pointing at the girl, “are getting entirely…too much
pleasure…from this!”
She laughed, the sound light and happy, a discordant note above the
cracking of weapons and the grunt of bodies as other students did the same
as Amarl, spending their nights in extra training.
“Maybe a little,” she admitted. “It’s fun fighting you while you’re
wearing armor. Normally, I can’t hit you at all, and now, I get to smack you
around as much as I’d like!”
“Not as much as you used to,” Burik rumbled, walking up to the pair
and holding out a waterskin to Amarl. “You’re getting better, Amarl.”
“You didn’t get another rank to Armor Usage, did you?” Meder asked a
little plaintively.
“Nope, still just the one,” he grinned at her.
He’d originally approached his punishment with distaste. He’d finally
had his evenings free, and instead of spending them with his friends, he was
doing even more training. After Meder and Burik joined him, though, the
malim let him move from private disciplinary training to a public hall
where the three of them could work together. He’d been shocked to see that
despite all classes being done for the evening, the training rings were all full
of students, most of them fourth and fifth-years who apparently came for
extra practice every chance they got. He hadn’t really understood until
Meder had explained.
“I guess once you reach third year, sparring in Halit isn’t really optional
anymore,” she’d told the boys. “There’s a point system like the one they
use for us in weapons class, and if you don’t earn enough points at Halit,
you get disciplinary duties or worse. On the other hand, the top scorers get
extra privileges.”
“All of these people can’t be trying to take those top spots, though,”
Amarl pointed out.
“You never know,” Burik shook his head. “When you reach a certain
skill level, the difference between the best and the second-best isn’t really
all that large. A battle between two sword masters, for example, can be won
or lost over something as small as a single misstep or a blade being a
fraction of a fingerwidth out of position. Which one of them wins could
change from day to day. As my mother says, ‘No amount of skill or
strength can guarantee victory.’”
“Okay, but those are sword masters, not a bunch of students, Burik.”
“Some of these students would probably take someone the Empire calls
a ‘sword master’, Amarl,” the larger boy laughed. “According to Yamacol
last year, in the Empire, you’re usually considered a master of a weapon if
you’ve gotten to rank 7 or so with it. I’ll bet some of these students are
there already, if not higher.”
“Wait, rank 7 is considered being a master?” Meder asked dubiously.
“Not in Askula, in the Empire. Here, I guess rank 7 is considered the
‘expert’ ranks. You have to hit rank 10 to be considered a master at
something by Askula standards.”
“Doesn’t that usually take decades, though?” Amarl asked.
“Well, yeah, but you can’t just become a master of something
overnight.” Burik snorted deprecatingly. “Well, most of us can’t, at least.
Who knows how long it’ll take you?”
The fact was, Amarl couldn’t really argue with that. While the three
had trained together pretty much all week, thanks to his ability to grow
several times faster than normal, he’d gotten the Armor Usage skill, and
Meder hadn’t yet. Since gaining it, he’d found it easier to move and block
blows while wearing his armor. He still wasn’t great at it or anything, but
he no longer felt like a turtle on its back. Of course, to get it, all he had to
do was train until he was almost ready to pass out, give himself just enough
time to recover, and do it again over and over.

Even then, he probably wouldn’t have gotten the skill without Burik.
His friend had come to Askula with the Armor Usage skill at rank 3 already,
and he was good enough to help both Amarl and Meder improve. He
always spent an hour of their extra training time observing the pair as they
sparred and giving them tips to get better.
“You’re still moving around too much,” Burik told Amarl, handing the
dripping boy a waterskin. “That’s why you’re so exhausted. You need to
use smaller movements and rely on your armor more.”
“I know,” the hizeen nodded, drinking deeply from the skin, then
pouring some over his face. He wiped his face mostly dry and handed the
water back to Burik. “Ranakar tells me the same thing when I’m practicing
Mountain Form. I’m working on it, but every instinct I have tells me to
move out of the way of an attack, not stand there and take it.”
“Well, if you keep growing your armor skill the way you are, it might
not matter,” Meder pointed out. “Eventually, you might be able to dodge
while wearing heavy armor without getting tired.”
“Even if he can, he shouldn’t,” Burik shook his head. “It’s a waste of
energy. The whole point of armor is to allow you to worry less about
dodging and defense and let the armor do some of the work, Amarl. You
just have to learn to trust it.”
“It’s hard to do that when I end each session looking like a hunk of
meat Horiter the butcher had to tenderize,” he laughed. “Even my bruises
have fucking bruises, Burik.”
“That’s what shields are for,” the larger boy grinned. “You don’t want
to get hit? Switch from that moon axe to a scimitar or spear and use a small
shield. You’ll cut way down on the number of bruises you take, trust me.”
He shrugged. “Until then, get used to bruising in anything less than solid
plate when you’re facing a staff or other blunt weapon.”
 Amarl sighed. “Fine. And the bruises are always healed the next day
anyway, so it’s not like I can complain.” He made a face. “I kind of wish
that I could quicken an ithtu into toughening my skin, though.”
“That might be possible,” Meder said. “We don’t have the faintest idea
what we can and can’t do with our ithtu.”
“Yeah, but I can’t do it now, so it doesn’t really matter if I can do it in a
year.” He glanced at the clock standing next to the wall nearby. “We’ve
got time for one more match, I think.”
“We do.” Burik walked back to the edge of the training ring and
grabbed a spear, tossing it to Amarl. “Meder, armor up. This time, you’re
defending against Amarl.”
The girl sighed. “Ugh. I’m not as good with armor as Amarl is, Burik.”
“I know. That’s why I gave him that spear. He’s not as good with it,
either. Go on. Let’s see if he can give you a set of bruises to match his.”
Meder slipped into her armor with only a little difficulty, and the pair
moved into battle once more. In some ways, fighting with the spear was a
lot easier for Amarl than the moon axe; the simple weapon was fast and
took little movement to use, so it tired him out a lot less. He slashed and
thrust with the weapon, sliding the shaft through his left hand and using his
right to power it, targeting every part of her body. She blocked and dodged
as best she could, and despite her protests, she really was getting better at
fighting in armor. Still, he managed to stab the point into the leather
between the steel plates multiple times, and when Burik finally called it
after he caught her in the shoulder, she straightened with a wince.
“Ow,” she said, rotating that arm slowly. “That hurt, you jackass.”
“I think it was supposed to,” he shrugged. “I’ll bet it would have hurt a
lot more with a real weapon, though.”
“It would have,” Burik agreed as he approached the pair. “Meder,
you’re doing a lot better, but you’re still falling for his feints. That’s how
he drew you out of position for that last hit.”
“I know,” she sighed. “I’m still getting used to having a helmet on. It
blocks my peripheral vision, and I overreact to attacks to my outside.”
 “I need to teach you the spear, as well,” Burik mused. “It’s a more
useful weapon than a staff when you’re wearing armor. Maybe a short
spear, one that’s only a little longer than your staff but that has a point.”
“Will it help keep the jackass from stabbing me?” she asked with a grin
at Amarl.
“It should, yeah. You’d be able to keep your body in a tighter line, so
your outer lines wouldn’t be as vulnerable.”
“I’m all for it, then.” She stretched again and winced once more. “I
think it’s time to call it a night, though.”
“I think you’re right,” Amarl agreed, sliding off his helmet again.
“Once you start calling me ‘jackass’, it’s usually a good time to stop.
Besides, a couple more bouts like that, and neither of us are going to be able
to run back to Sabila.”
“Speak for yourselves,” Burik shrugged. “I’m fine.”
“You didn’t spend the past two hours getting smacked around by a
staff,” Amarl pointed out dryly.
“Or stabbed by a spear,” Meder added. She grinned at Amarl. “Maybe
next time, he should be the one defending against both of us. We’ll see how
well he really uses that armor.”
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Burik chuckled. “If nothing else, it
would teach the two of you how to fight together as a team. That’s
something you haven’t worked on, really.”
“Then, we’ll do that next time,” Amarl said. “For now, I want to get
this armor off and turned back in. Today was another long day.”
“At least tomorrow’s Akio,” Meder observed. “We’ll get to sleep in.”
“I bet we won’t,” Burik shook his head. “Second-years work as
messengers on Akio, remember? And we’re the newest second-years. We’ll
probably have to be up even earlier and spend half the day running around
Askula.”
“Ugh,” the girl groaned. “I’d ask if they’d really do that to all of us our
first week of this year, but…”
“But you know they will,” Amarl finished for her. “In fact, they’re
probably laughing about the thought of it right now.”
 “Who’s ‘they’, exactly?” Burik asked.
“You know. Them. The awful people who make us do these things.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the awal, Amarl,” Meder pointed out. “Are you
saying she’s awful?”
“Absolutely. She scares the shit out of me,” he said honestly. “I’m
making it my mission to avoid seeing her until the last day of this year.”
“Smart plan,” Burik laughed. “How long do you think you’ll really
make it?”
“End of Akio, at the latest,” he shrugged. “Still, a man has to have a
plan, Burik.”
The three students returned their weapons and armor to the older
students on duty, then headed out into the growing darkness. As they
neared the door, Amarl noticed Burik glancing backward with a slightly
morose expression on his face.
“Something wrong, Burik?” he finally asked.
Burik glanced at him, his expression startled. “Wrong? Not really.
Why?”
“Because you keep looking back at the training center like it was a girl
who turned you down,” Amarl explained with a grin.
“And sighing,” Meder added. “Lots of sighing. Are you upset that you
didn’t get to practice more? Seriously, if you want, you and Amarl can spar
next time instead.”
“No, it’s not that,” the boy shook his head. “It’s just—this place feels
really homey to me, is all.”
“Homey?” Amarl echoed. “Wait, are you thinking about dumping us
and moving in here?”
“Dumping you, maybe,” Meder scoffed. “I’m a perfect roommate,
thank you very much.”
“Well, except that you keep calling us asses.”
“No, I keep calling you that because you’re an ass, Amarl. Burik isn’t
—well, not most of the time.”
“Hey!” the larger boy protested. “I’m never an ass!”
 “As my mother always says,” the girl grinned at him, “never say never,
Burik.” He smiled faintly, and her expression turned serious. “Seriously,
what’s the matter?”
“I basically grew up in a place like that,” the larger boy sighed after a
few moments, gesturing back toward the training hall. “Being here brings
back memories, that’s all. It…” He glanced at the others. “Do you ever
get homesick?”
“I do,” Meder nodded, her face and voice both turning somber as she
spoke. “All the time, really.” She took a deep breath. “This is nothing like
Dairon or how I grew up, and sometimes, I really miss my old life. I know
that I was kind of pampered and spoiled, but it was easy—and this isn’t.”
She looked questioningly at Amarl. “What about you? I can’t imagine you
miss that place all that much.”
“I used to,” the hizeen admitted. “The first time we walked into
Galiber’s bakery was when it really hit me. It didn’t smell the way I
expected, and that made me realize that I wasn’t home anymore—and I
might never go home again.” He shrugged. “I don’t anymore, though. I
hardly ever think of Tem these days, to be honest, and when I do, I don’t
miss it.”
“I don’t usually, either,” Burik agreed. “We’re too busy most of the
time for me to think about Tennshin, to be honest, and when we’re here for
classes, I’m focused on what we have to do.” He glanced back over his
shoulder. “In the evenings, though, without the nadars yelling at us or the
pressure to do everything correctly…” He shrugged. “It just reminds me a
bit of the old barracks, is all.”
“Tell us about it,” Amarl said after the silence lingered far too long for
his comfort.
“What?” the larger boy asked.
“Tell us what it was like growing up there,” Amarl urged him. “Maybe
it’ll help.”
Burik frowned thoughtfully, but after a few moments, he shrugged.
“Well, as you know, my mother’s a first staff,” he said. “I don’t think
either of you know what that means, though. The army’s broken up into
regular soldiers—footmen, spears, and swords—and officers, staffs and
stars. A first staff usually commands a great axe, a unit of 5,000 soldiers,
and every large city has at least one great axe stationed within it.”
He smiled wistfully. “I think I told you all that Tennshin is the closest
of all the cities in the Empire to the Edge, right? Well, that means it gets
more incursions and attacks from spirit-possessed or spirit-mad creatures
than any other city. When my mother was young, a staff leader straight out
of officer training, her patrol got ambushed by a massive incursion of
spirits. She had a single knife, forty soldiers to hold them back, but she
did. Her knife held the Seawall for five days until they could be relieved.
It shouldn’t have been possible—they had no sahrotik and no ithtaru—but
she did it.
“After that, she got the name “Spiritward”, and they sent her out any
time an incursion happened. I think Tennshin’s starbearer, the overall
commander of the city, was hoping that she’d fail and be discredited, but
each time, she came back victorious. Eventually, she reached the rank of
first staff and took command of the northern defense, where she’s held a
flawless record. With her in command, losses to the spirits dropped by
sixty percent.”
He looked at the others wryly. “I’m telling you this so you understand
that my mother isn’t just a first spear; she’s the First Spear, the one that the
army holds up as a model commander. Every soldier in every province
knows her name. She’s a living legend—and I’m her only child.” He
sighed. “Was her only child, I guess.”
He shook his head. “My father said that I was born with combat boots
on, and it’s not far from the truth. I started physical training my fifth year
and weapons training my tenth. While other kids were learning that math
and science you like so much, Meder, I was learning tactics, strategy, and
warfare.”
His eyes took on a distant look. “It was a good life, really. Soldiers are
a tight-knit group, and they all admire and even adore my mother, so they
took me in as one of their own. The first swords, commanders of the elite
squads, were my aunts and uncles in a way. Spearmaster Tedetis, the
highest-ranking non-officer in the city, was like my grandfather. They
taught me how to be a soldier, sure, but they also taught me how to flirt
with a girl, how to dance, how to drink…” He chuckled. “Even how to
fuck. My first time was with a second spear named Liweta. She was older
than me, and it was right before her knife was shipping out for a tour of the
Seawall. I had no clue what I was doing, but she was patient and showed
me.” His eyes turned sad, and he shook his head. “And she never came
back from that tour.”
He blinked rapidly a few times, then smiled wistfully. “The point is,
growing up there was like being part of a massive family. Everyone knew
who I was—and who my mother was—and wherever I went, they
welcomed me. I had thousands of cousins, aunts, and uncles, even though
none of them were related to me.” He looked around at the moonlit
mountains towering over them. “I guess I just miss that sometimes—
especially knowing that if I ever go back, it won’t be the same. I’ll be an
ithtar, not a soldier.”
They remained silent for several moments before Meder cleared her
throat, her eyes shining as she spoke. “I understand, Burik,” she agreed.
“I’m not an only child—I have two younger sisters and a younger brother—
but my mother is matriarch of our family, so all of my aunts and uncles and
cousins lived close. I grew up with a bunch of cousins close to my age. We
all played together when we were little and were in the same year of school
when we got older. We shared all our secrets, and my first kiss was with
my cousin Deni in the one of my mother’s orchards when we were eight.”
Her gaze turned misty as she spoke, and she stared into the darkness,
obviously lost in her memories.
“I didn’t even really like him like that,” she laughed quietly. “That was
the day I found out that I’d been promised in marriage to a man ten years
older than me, one whose businesses my mother wanted to bring into hers.
She arranged it with his mother when I was only two or three, and when I
found out about it, I ran out of the house crying. Deni found me and
cheered me up, and I kissed him, thinking that if I did, Mother wouldn’t
want me to marry this other man anymore.”
She turned and gazed at Burik. “The point is, all that is gone now, I
know. I’m not Meder um’Goranda Dairon anymore. I’m Meder Askula,
and if I go back to Dairon, it won’t be the same. My family won’t be able
to acknowledge me, and I’ll just be another ithtara to them. I get how it
hurts.” The silence dragged out again, and finally, Amarl let out a low
chuckle.
 “Well, that was horrifically depressing,” he said, noting the looks of
surprise the others gave him. “Even if it’s probably ridiculously
inaccurate.”
“Inaccurate?” Meder repeated, her eyes narrowing and an angry
expression crossing her face. “You think we’re lying?”
“Oh, hells, no. That’s not what I meant at all. I just mean—it’s not like
you can’t go back there again, you know.”
“It wouldn’t be the same,” Burik shook his head.
“Well, no, but then, things always change, don’t they?” Amarl
shrugged. “It was never going to be the same, Burik. If you had joined the
army, do you think they’d have put you there in Tennshin beneath your
mother?”
“No,” he frowned, shaking his head. “Considering who my mother is,
they’d probably have put me on the Flamewall down south in Okkal to deal
with the Pashkit Nomads.”
“And things wouldn’t have been the same there.” He looked at Meder.
“And if you’d married this old man like you were supposed to, wouldn’t
you have had to start your own household? And aren’t all your cousins
doing the same thing right now?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Exactly. Things were going to change one way or the other.” He
shook his head. “If Danmila hadn’t come to Tem, the Naming would have
gone normally, everyone would have drunk themselves into a stupor instead
of going home early and finding that I’d stolen from them, and I’d have
gotten away free and clear the next morning. I’d would probably be living
in Aggath or Devald right now, doing whatever work I could find and still
scraping to survive. I wouldn’t ever have gone back to Tem again either
way.”
“Especially since you basically robbed the place blind,” Meder said
with a half-smile.
“More or less. The point is that things were going to change either
way. Meder, if this hadn’t happened, you’d probably be bedding some guy
you’ve never met right now, trying to produce more heirs so that you could
eventually take over as matriarch. Burik, you’d be standing on a wall
staring at a desert or fighting the nomads, trying to stay alive. Everything
was going to change either way.”
“He’s right,” Burik sighed, straightening. “If I hadn’t come here, I’d
have shipped out to basic training the day after my fifteenth Naming Day.”
“And I’d be married and either pregnant or trying to get pregnant,”
Meder acknowledged. “Okay, Amarl. You’re right. Things would have
been different no matter what.”
“And you can still go back there as an ithtar,” Amarl continued.
“Meder, do you really think that your cousins wouldn’t speak to you? Yes,
it’ll be different, and they can’t call you ‘cousin’ anymore, but you can still
be their friend. And Burik, you think your mother will refuse to speak with
you as an ithtar? Or will she be happy to see her son as a warrior defending
the Empire?”
“Damn, I hate when he makes sense,” Meder sighed. “Although you
can go back, too, Amarl. Don’t you think the people there will be proud to
see one of their own as an ithtar?”
Amarl snorted. “First, I wasn’t one of their own. Second, nobody
would be happy to see me return—not after the last thing I said to them.”
“Oh?” Burik asked. “What was that?”
“That I’d come back one day, and I’d make them pay for how they
treated me.” He winced slightly as he remembered that. “Danmila said that
my ithtu witnessed it, whatever that means, so everyone in the village heard
it. I don’t think I’ll be coming back to cheers and adulation.”
“So?” Burik shrugged. “Then you go back and put the place to rights.
Nothing wrong with that. Like you said, if we go back there, it’ll be
different, but it might not be bad.”
Meder smiled. “And it’s not like we’re alone here,” she pointed out. “I
mean, I’m as close to the two of you as I was to my cousins—maybe even
closer. You’re more like brothers, really.” She gave Amarl a grateful
smile. “Thanks, Amarl. I actually do feel better. Maybe you’re not such an
ass after all.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Burik chuckled.
 Amarl opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say a word, a
cold chill prickled the back of his neck, sliding down his spine and
spreading out along his shoulders. At the same time, the song of his ithtu
that always murmured in the back of his mind suddenly rose slightly in
volume, the notes taking on an ominous tone. He could feel something
watching him—and that something didn’t feel friendly.
“Amarl, what’s wrong?” Meder asked concernedly, all levity gone from
her voice as she looked at his face. “Is something the matter?”
“I—I’m not sure,” he replied, scanning the area around him. No stars
glittered in the velvet blackness of Askula’s night sky, but a silver-pink
moon hung above them, bathing the ground in its radiance. It shed enough
light to see by, although it left the area looking washed out, bathed in hues
of grays and blacks. Shadows lay thickly and heavily in pools all around
them, and for some reason, those shadows chilled his blood. Nothing stood
out in his vision, but he knew that something was out there, waiting.
“Something’s watching us,” he finally said. “Or someone.”
“Where?” Burik asked, slowing to a halt and looking around. “I don’t
see anything. Meder, do you?”
“No,” she shook her head. “Can you tell where, Amarl?”
“Maybe. I can feel it…” He halted and spun toward a flicker of
movement in his vision, just in time for something huge and dark to
explode into his vision, rushing toward the three unarmed novices.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 16
A wave of icy blackness crashed into Amarl with terrifying speed. He
braced himself, prepared to roll with the impact, but the darkness washed
over him without resistance. The light of the moon vanished as frigid cold
wrapped around his body, sinking into his muscles. His fingers and nose
went numb, and the tips of his ears burned. Meder shouted in alarm and
Burik swore loudly, but the sounds were oddly muffled in the blackness.
Icy fingers plunged into his body, trying to draw the warmth from him, and
he shivered and stumbled as his strength seemed to flee his body. A
moment later, something crashed into his chest, knocking him backwards.
His skin burned as sharp claws slid along his flesh, slicing open his shirt
and skin alike.
He flung himself blindly backward, rolling to escape whatever attacked
him. Without sight, he landed badly, and he grunted as pain flared in his
left shoulder. He landed in a half crouch, looking futilely around, then
swore as lines of pain burned their way across his cheek. He flung himself
sideways, but his attacker followed him, and agony flared in his left leg,
running from the back of his thigh down his calf. He lashed out with a
blind kick that passed only through air, then hissed as more pain crawled
across his right side.
He tried to stand but stumbled to a knee as the frigid darkness sapped
his strength. His eyes cast about uselessly, trying to find some hint of his
attacker’s presence, but the darkness seemed to suck away all light. Weird,
gray shapes floated in his vision, but when he struck at them, his blows
passed through them harmlessly. He didn’t even know if the shapes were
real or just figments of his imagination. Panic swelled in him, and fear
sucked even more strength from his limbs. He was going to die, there in the
darkness, utterly helpless…
A low murmuring sound at the edge of his hearing suddenly swelled to
a shout as Meder screamed something unintelligible into the blackness. The
song of his ithtu swelled within him, driving him to help her, but he
couldn’t even tell where the girl was. The blackness distorted all sound,
made her voice seem to come from all around. He staggered to his feet and
took a step, then halted. For all he knew, he was walking away from the
girl, not toward her.
Meder’s voice halted, and he felt a strange energy gathering around
him. The power felt familiar, but the darkness obscured it, hiding it from
his senses. He could sense the blackness scrabbling at that energy, trying to
drain it away, but the power seemed to harden and crystallize. The energy
expanded, then collapsed, crashing down into a tiny point that burned
fiercely in the blackness. The darkness swooped down on that point, but as
it reached it, the power rebounded and exploded, ripping through the
darkness like a flame through cobwebs.
Light blazed in Amarl’s vision, and he cried out and buried his face in
his arm as the radiance stabbed at his eyes painfully. The glow faded a
moment later, and he lifted his face, blinking fiercely to try and clear the
flashing spots from his vision as he took in the battlefield.
Meder slumped to her knees two reaches away, panting heavily. Burik
lay on his back, shivering and shaking, his skin pale even in the wan
moonlight. Between him and them, a creature of pure darkness stood. The
thing looked vaguely bestial, standing more than a reach high on four legs
with a nest of whipping tails lashing behind it, but darkness hovered around
its body, obscuring its form. A single pair of red eyes gleamed in the center
of what Amarl guessed to be its head. The thing hissed in pain as the
moonlight touched it, the darkness shielding it broken by whatever Meder
had done. It spun to face the girl and crouched, obviously prepared to
spring on the helpless novice, who couldn’t even seem to raise her head
high enough to see it, much less defend herself. Its form blurred as it
launched itself, springing toward her as shadowy tentacles erupted from its
head and swept at its prey.
The creature roared in pain as Amarl crashed into it, knocking it
sideways. It was stupid, a foolish move, but the song of his ithtu pounding
in his brain scoured away any thought but the need to protect his friends.
He didn’t know what the thing was, and he didn’t care. It had come here to
hurt Burik and Meder. For that, it would die.
The world seemed to contract and brighten around him as his ithtu
flooded his body. The icy weakness burned from his veins, and new
strength surged through him as he dropped into the stance of his Nameless
Form. He had no weapon, but he didn’t need one. He was the weapon, and
anything that tried to take his friends from him would fall before him.
The creature lunged, moving with terrifying speed. Ten whips of
darkness erupted from its sides and sped toward him as its legs grew
daggerlike claws of black energy. It raced across the short distance
separating them and leaped, its claws extended and its tendrils streaking
toward his body. It had been toying with him before, but no longer. He was
a threat, now, and it intended to end him.
He moved without thought, his body flowing past the attacks like water
rippling past the stones of a creek. He batted aside a paw and grabbed the
creature’s extended leg, shifting and twisting his body as he did. Darkness
shrouded the beast, but something inside it was solid enough to harm them,
and that meant it was solid enough for him to harm in return. The creature
flew past him as he yanked downward, slamming its body into the ground.
It flowed to its feet and struck again, but he was already moving, brushing
aside waving tentacles to crash a knee into the thing’s leg. It lurched
backward and sprang, trying to create some distance, but his ithtu-powered
body followed it, racing across the ground at breakneck speed. He reached
it as it landed and crashed an open palm into the side of its body, tumbling it
sideways.
The beast twisted to its feet with feline grace and raced at him once
more. It struck with tendril and claw, whipping its tails at him and trying to
overwhelm him with its darkness. He moved with it, never opposing its
strikes but always sliding past them, then responding with kicks and
punches that knocked it sprawling, slowly wearing it down. He flowed like
the waves, battering his foe against the shore time and again, receding only
to rush forward even more strongly. Power built in his core as the force of
his waves swelled, growing to a crescendo that made the very air vibrate
with its ferocity.
The thing was fast and powerful, stronger and quicker than the assilian
queen, but Amarl didn’t care. The size of the mountain didn’t matter to the
ocean wearing it away. All that meant was that it would take longer to
erode its defenses. The thing struck and retreated, leaped about, trying to
confound him, but wherever it went, he followed. He flowed with it as it
moved, surging past it and crashing into it as it landed. Its darkness
weakened as his blows drew away its strength, and it staggered as it tried to
lash at him with its whipping tendrils, its foot sliding a fraction of a span.
It was a fraction of a span too far.
He moved like a tidal wave, swooping in toward his unbalanced foe.
All the power he’d gathered from it crested in his hand as he drove it
forward with stiffened fingers. His knife-hand strike plunged into the
monster’s head just between the glowing eyes, and the power in him roared
outward, blasting into its body. The thing roared once as his strike
catapulted it backward like a rag doll, hurling it three reaches away to crash
heavily into the moonlit grass.
The darkness shrouded it bled away like mist under sunlight, vanishing
and revealing the beast’s form. It was hairless, with oily black skin that
hung loosely on its frame. He’d shattered its skull, leaving it a pulped
mess, but what remained resembled a hairless, earless dog’s head. Where
the glowing red embers had burned, only empty pits of darkness yawned.
The skin around its muzzle was pulled tightly back to reveal jagged canine
teeth and a long, tubular tongue. Thin, feathery tentacles hung from its
shoulders, their tips twitching weakly as its breathing stilled.
As it died, the life within it cried out to Amarl, begging to be harvested,
but he turned his back on it and staggered over to his friends. As the song
of his ithtu quieted, the pain returned, and his skin burned where he’d been
hit. He glanced down at his chest, expecting to see welling blood, but only
puffy, white welts creased the skin beneath his torn shirt. He touched his
cheek, wincing at the pain, and felt similarly raised lumps beneath his
fingers. When he took his hand away, no darkness stained his fingertips.
Apparently, the creature’s attacks, while painful, hadn’t broken the skin.
Meder knelt over Burik, who still shivered and shook. Amarl dropped
to a knee beside her, examining the boy. Welts like the ones on Amarl’s
skin covered Burik’s face, arms, and chest. It seemed that the creature had
focused its attacks on the larger boy first for some reason, felling him
before turning to Amarl. It also looked like those attacks hurt Burik a lot
more than they did Amarl, judging from the boy’s unresponsive state.
“Burik!” Amarl said, touching his friend’s face. His cheek was ice-
cold, and Amarl suspected that if the light were better, Burik’s lips would
look blue or purple. “Is he okay?”
 “I don’t know,” Meder said tiredly, touching Burik’s face and hands.
“His pulse is strong, but he’s so cold. He needs help, Amarl.”
Amarl rose to his feet and looked back down the road. “There’ll be
someone at Sitjak. I’ll go get them…”
“No,” she shook her head, rising a little unsteadily. “I will. You stay
with him.”
“Are you sure?” Amarl asked. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just exhausted. That working took everything I had. My head’s
pounding, and I couldn’t light a candle right now.” She shook her head.
“But you have to stay in case there’s something else like that out here. You
can kill it. I can’t.”
He nodded slowly and dropped back to a knee, reaching down and
rubbing Burik’s arms and legs, trying to get some warmth into him as
Meder raced away, her steps heavier and more plodding than normal.
Anger simmered inside him. Whatever that thing was, it obviously
wasn’t supposed to be in Askula. There was no way the malims would let
something that powerful and dangerous live here. It must have come
through one of the Mistways—or was brought through. He wasn’t naïve
enough to believe that it attacked them by coincidence. He didn’t know that
it had been sent after them, but he suspected it.
“And whoever did it is going to pay,” he thought grimly. “I don’t care
if it was the damn Rashiv himself. Somehow, they’ll pay.”
As he knelt over Burik, something grabbed his shoulder and pulled him
backward. He reacted without thought, his ithtu roaring into his mind as he
spun and struck at his attacker. His blow passed through empty air, but he
dropped into his form, prepared to flow over whoever was trying to hurt
them—then froze as he saw the white uniform of a nadar.
“Stand down, Novice,” the white-garbed woman snapped, her hands
raised defensively. The look she gave him was startled but not angry or
fearful, and he slowly relaxed as he realized that she was the help Meder
had gone to get.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled, letting go of his ithtu and straightening.
“I thought…”
 “Yes, yes, you thought I was attacking you. Now move aside!” She
shoved him sideways and dropped beside Burik, her hands touching his
face, neck, and chest. “What did this?” she demanded.
“That, ma’am,” he said, pointing at the corpse of the creature lying
three reaches away.
She looked up at it, her eyes startled. “And the three of you killed it?”
Her voice sounded dubious, but he nodded.
“Yes, ma’am.” It wasn’t the entire truth, but it was close enough as far
as Amarl was concerned.
She frowned, then looked back at the fallen boy, pulling out a metal
tube from her belt and unscrewing it. “Here, open his mouth so I can give
him this,” she instructed. Amarl knelt down and pried the boy’s jaws open
obediently, struggling against the larger boy’s clenched teeth. The nadar
poured a bit of thick, syrupy liquid down his throat, then lifted it away.
“Hold his head securely,” she instructed.
“Why…?” The words barely left Amarl’s mouth before Burik began to
trash, his body shaking and spasming. Amarl clamped his hands on the
sides of the boy’s skull while the woman pressed herself onto Burik’s body,
pinning him in place. The seizure lasted for a few seconds, no longer, and
his body stilled.
“Good. Hold his mouth open again, and I can give him the rest.”
Amarl pulled his friend’s jaws apart again, finding it much easier this time,
as his shivering seemed to have eased, and his body no longer clenched in
pain.
“What was that?” he asked curiously.
“Liquid fire,” she said shortly. “Antidote to umbral poisoning.”
“So, he’s going to be okay?” he asked.
“He’ll survive. The antidote will stop any further damage. He needs
healing, though, and fast, or he might be crippled.” She finished pouring
the fluid into the boy’s throat, reclosed the vial, and slipped it into her belt.
She slid her hands under Burik and rose to her feet, lifting him as easily as
Amarl could have lifted a child. “Did you or the girl strike the killing blow
on the umbravore?”
 “I did, ma’am.”
“Then go harvest it, and when your friend arrives, the two of you head
to the infirmary. I’m sure the awals will have some questions for you.”
Amarl blinked, and suddenly the woman was at the edge of his vision,
running swiftly toward the Citadel. As he watched, her body blurred and
vanished beyond his sight, and he blinked a few more times in surprise
before trudging over to the fallen creature and squatting beside it.
The thing’s life energy burned inside of it, screaming at him to gather it
to himself, and he rested a hand on its flank. He called that power, drawing
it to him, urging it to come from every hidden nook and cranny in its body.
The power roared toward him, far more than he could handle, and he split it
into multiple streams that he felt were just at the edge of his ability. He
drew the power forth, and with a loud tinkling and crackling sound, four
crystals rose from the creature, seeming almost black in the pale
moonlight. The crystals were tall and slender, with numerous thin spines
growing off them in all directions like the quills of a porcupine. They
practically burned with power, and he gazed at them, willing himself to
know them.

Three of the crystals were level 10 crystals, the maximum power

density, while the fourth was a level 7, still a powerful crystal. He stared at
them for a moment in awe; the thing had almost twice as much energy as
the assilian queen.
“What the fuck was this thing?” he wondered silently.
“Wh-where’s Burik?” He spun and rose to his feet as Meder thumped
up behind him, panting slightly, her face flushed and sweaty.
“The nadar gave him some kind of antidote and took him to the
infirmary,” Amarl explained. “She wants us to meet them there.”
Meder grimaced. “Just give me a minute to catch my breath,” she said.
“I sprinted the whole way there and back.”
 “That’s fine,” he nodded, bending down and scooping up the crystals.
As he touched them, their song swelled in his mind, but the power of his
own ithtu rose up, blotting out their music, and the crystals’ melody quieted
swiftly to a low murmur. He laid them on the ground, then pulled his shirt
up over his head and used it to bundle the crystals up. Meder might or
might not be able to handle the powerful crystals, but in her already weary
state, he didn’t want to push it.
The two jogged far more slowly than normal toward the Citadel. Meder
was still wiped by whatever she’d done to clear the darkness, and he wasn’t
in a lot better shape. While it seemed that whatever the umbravore had
done to Burik hadn’t affected him—whether because of his ithtu or his half-
spirit nature, he didn’t know—its cold had sucked the strength from his
body, and his legs still trembled a bit beneath him. They slowed as they
reached the gates and trudged through the lower floor to the infirmary
wing.
The last time Amarl had been to the infirmary, a malim named Midoral
had been on duty. When the pair arrived this time, that man entered with
them, his graying hair tousled and his equally gray robe rumpled and
uneven. Obviously, he’d been called in to deal with Burik, which made
Amarl’s heart race. He knew that a pair of nadars assisted the malim in the
infirmary, but he suspected neither of them had the talent or ability that the
older man possessed.
“How badly was Burik hurt?” he wondered silently.
Midoral swept past the two novices, barely sparing them a glance as he
strode toward the four figures clustered around a bed several reaches away.
He glanced down at the unconscious, still-shivering form of Burik, then
looked at the white-robed nadar crouched beside the bed.
“Report, Jelotil.”
“Umbral poisoning, Midoral,” the dark-haired nadar replied in a calm
voice. “Fairly significant, too.”
“Umbral poisoning? How?”
“He got attacked by an umbravore,” the nadar who’d rescued Burik told
the healer grimly. “He was on the edge of core stasis when I reached him.”
 Midoral reached down and touched the boy’s brow. “Liquid fire?” he
asked, glancing at the nadar, who nodded. “Good. That makes this much
easier.” Midoral knelt beside the pale boy and rested his hands on his
chest. As he did, the two other figures in black garb turned aside and
walked toward Amarl and Meder. Amarl swallowed hard as Ranakar and
the short, round-faced Tekasoka, awal in charge of his school, strode up and
stood before them. The woman’s eyes gleamed, and her large nose flared
angrily—but then, Amarl hadn’t ever seen it when it wasn’t flaring like that,
so he wasn’t sure if it was anger or just her nose. He had a feeling he’d
never know.
“Well, Novices,” the woman said in a deceptively calm voice. “We’re
meeting early this year, it seems. Last year, I believe I didn’t have the
pleasure until at least the first Akio. If you keep this up, by sixth year,
you’ll be causing trouble before the session even begins.” Neither novice
said a word as she swept her gaze over them, finally fastening her eyes on
Meder. “So, Novice Meder. How did this happen? Tell the truth.” The
woman’s last words echoed faintly, and Meder’s eyes glazed as the awal’s
ability forced her to speak honestly.
“We were walking back from Sitjak when a cloud of darkness washed
over us,” she said. “It was cold, too, cold enough that I was having trouble
standing up in it.”
“How did you?” Ranakar interrupted curiously. Tekasoka shot him an
irritated glance but looked back at the girl.
“Answer his questions, child. How did you hold out the umbral taint?”
“I used my warming working,” the girl answered. “The one I use to
warm our floor or the shower on cold mornings.”
“You collapsed a sahr working inside an umbral cloud?” Tekasoka
asked, her voice amazed.
“I don’t know what that is, but I knew the cold was dangerous, and it
was the only thing I could think of. After that, I built a light working,
collapsed it, and the darkness went away. The creature attacked us, but
Amarl fought it and killed it.”
“Wait,” Ranakar said. “How did you collapse that light working?”
 “I built three arrays at right angles to one another, then collapsed them
all down at once,” she replied in a monotone.
“Where in the upper heavens did you learn to do that?” Tekasoka
gasped.
“It’s something I’ve been working on. Burik and Amarl aren’t very
good with sahr, so I can’t rely on them to anchor a powerful array. I
thought that using multiple smaller arrays would be easier to hold than one
big one.”
“Astounding,” Tekasoka muttered as Meder’s eyes cleared, and she
blinked in confusion a few times. “As in, you’re astoundingly lucky to be
standing here right now talking to us, Novice! Do you have any idea what
would have happened if you hadn’t perfectly balanced those arrays? The
forces that a backlash like that would have unleashed on you? We’d have
been lucky to find a large enough piece of you to put on a pyre and send to
the bottom of the Deeps!”
Meder’s face paled, and she lowered her head, her eyes stricken. She
bit her lower lip, remaining silent, and the awal sighed.
“Still, it’s amazing that you had enough presence of mind to even
attempt a sahr working during an umbravore attack,” she added, then
looked at Amarl. “I assume you harvested it, and those are its crystals in
your shirt?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the hizeen nodded, laying the shirt on a bed and opening
it up to display the crystals.
“Four strong crystals, three of them peak-ranked,” Ranakar noted. “A
good harvest, even from an umbravore.” He looked at the other awal. “I
don’t see any need for disciplinary action, do you, Awal?”
“No,” she admitted. “You couldn’t have run from an umbravore—it
should have killed all three of you, in fact. That you survived it, much less
managed to slay it, is beyond remarkable. Had it somehow gotten to the
village, it could have slaughtered dozens before someone got there to kill
it.” She drew herself up. “It seems that you acquitted yourselves as well as
possible, given the circumstances. I’m not entirely disappointed in either of
you.” She looked at Ranakar. “Anything to add, Awal?”
 “Yes.” He pointed to Amarl’s face. “Hold up a hand, Amarl.” Amarl
lifted his hand and was surprised to see that it trembled in the air before
him. Ranakar sighed and looked behind him. “Jelotil. One more with
umbral poisoning.”
“I feel fine, sir,” Amarl protested. “I’m just a little drained, is all.”
“That’s the poison,” he shook his head. “It saps vital energy, leaves you
weak so that the umbravore can play with you at its leisure.” He stepped
aside as the nadar walked up and stood before Amarl. The white-clad man
inspected the wounds on the hizeen’s chest, face, and arm, his expression
grim.
“How are you still standing?” he muttered, then gestured. “Come on.
Let’s get you taken care of while Midoral heals your friend.”
“You might as well sleep here, too, Novice Meder,” Tekasoka
instructed. “You’re in no condition to travel back to Sabila, and I don’t
need you collapsing halfway there.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl sighed.
“Each of you, rest and recover.” The awal glared at them both. “And
please, for the love of the gods above, let this be the last time we meet until
the end of the year. Is that truly so much to ask?”
“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” Amarl replied tiredly as the nadar led him to a
bed and laid him down on it.
“No, Novice. Do better than that. Clearly, your best isn’t close to good
enough.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 17
Sleeping in the infirmary, he found, was far from restful.
The place wasn’t exactly quiet, for one thing. Only a handful of
students occupied the beds, but most were there because they’d gotten
wounded significantly enough that sahr elixirs wouldn’t help them. A few,
it seemed, had gotten their wounds on hunts—while second and third-years
had to wait three moons to go on their first hunt, it looked like older
students hunted more or less year-round—and some of those wounds were
apparently quite painful from the moans and cries that rang out from their
beds. Jelotil moved through the beds, healing what he could, but the sounds
still lingered in the stillness of the large room.
For another thing, while Amarl’s bed was serviceable, that was about
the best he could say for it. The mattress was thin and hard beneath him;
the pillow was too soft; the blanket was coarse and scratchy. It creaked
whenever he moved—as did everyone else’s beds in the place—and he
couldn’t seem to get comfortable.
Part of him chuckled in amusement at how damn picky and spoiled
he’d gotten—at least as far aas beds were concerned. Two years ago, he’d
have considered a bed like this to be a luxury, one he’d have to pay a full
day’s wages for unless he broke into Tem’s guest house to sleep. He’d
spent thousands of nights sleeping in haylofts, on piles of old blankets in
attics, or even outside with his clothing as his blanket and his arm as his
pillow when the weather allowed. Hells, he passed one winter sleeping in
an old, played-out shaft in the mine, resting on hard stone wrapped in a
tattered blanket. It wasn’t exactly warm underground, but it was much
warmer than sleeping outdoors in half a reach of snow. Having his own
room and bed for a year had spoiled him, it seemed, and he wished he was
there right now.
His friends, though, didn’t seem to care. Meder passed out the moment
she laid down, still exhausted from that light working she’d built. That had
basically sapped her energy, leaving her tapped, but she’d kept pushing
herself despite her weariness because her friends needed her. When Amarl
first met the girl, she seemed nice but soft and pampered; no one would
ever call the hard, muscled, grim girl slumbering beside him nice or soft
anymore. Even so, her body had been at its limits, and she dropped into
deep sleep almost before he even laid down in bed.
Beyond the girl, Burik snored loudly, as he did most nights. His face
seemed peaceful, and Midoral had left the infirmary after an hour or so,
which Amarl hoped was a good sign. Of course, it could also mean that the
healer had done everything possible, and whatever damage was left was
simply unfixable, but—Amarl didn’t really want to think about that. He
wasn’t really much for hoping, either, though, so he simply did his best to
turn his thoughts in other directions. What would be, would be, and there
wasn’t much he could do about it.
His own treatment seemed to have gone fine, although Jelotil grumbled
about the amount of ithtu he had to spend to clear the venom from Amarl’s
body. The boy guessed he’d gotten hurt worse than he thought in the
battle. He hadn’t really noticed the toxin in his body, which he assumed
meant that either his half-spirit heritage made it less effective, or his ithtu
had held it at bay. Honestly, looking at his status, he had a feeling it was the
latter.

His tak was empty, drained by the battle, and he’d again tapped his
crystals for extra power somehow. He supposed that could have meant that
he was using his ithtu to hold back the umbral venom—whatever that was.
It could also have just meant that the umbravore was really powerful, and it
had taken that much ithtu just to beat it. He didn’t know, and he really had
no way to find out.
The process of draining the venom wasn’t pleasant. Jelotil gave him a
dose of liquid fire that tasted and burned like brandy all the way down
Amarl’s throat, spreading out into his body. That comforting warmth didn’t
last, though, slowly increasing in intensity until it actually burned. Fire
roared through his veins, and his wounds screamed in agony as the liquid
burned away the toxin in his body. At last, the fire guttered out, leaving
him panting and sweaty. Then, Jelotil laid his hands on Amarl’s head and
chest, and foreign ithtu raced into his body.
His instinct was to fight it, to drive the invading power from his body,
and he sensed that if he wanted, he could probably do it. He forced himself
to relax, though, stifling the rising song of his ithtu in his mind and letting
the healer work. The strange energy coursed through his body, sinking into
his muscles and riding along his nerves. It washed over his face and
crawled along his skin. It wasn’t painful, but it was uncomfortable, like
having someone crawling around inside him, poking and prodding. The last
time he’d gotten a healing like this, he’d been unconscious, and he decided
that in the future, that was the way to go if at all possible.
After his healing, Jelotil told him to rest, and he’d tried. When the sun
finally streamed through the narrow windows in the morning, though, he
felt like he’d barely slept at all. His head pounded, his eyes felt sandy and
gritty, and his back ached. He knew from experience that his ithtu would
heal all those quickly enough, and he silently thanked the gods above and
below that today was Akio, the day of rest. Sure, new second-years
probably had to run errands and such, but surely he and his friends would
be spared that after last night…
He knew he shouldn’t have even thought that as the older second-year
pushed open the door to the infirmary and walked swiftly to Jelotil to speak
to the nadar. The two exchanged words, and the student practically
marched up to stand in front of Amarl, his face somewhat gleeful as he
stared down at the boy.
“Novice Amarl?” he announced in a quiet voice so as not to wake up
the other healing students. “You’ve been assigned duty here in the Citadel
this morning. Report to the Great Hall in thirty minutes to receive your
orders.
“Seriously?” the hizeen protested. “I spent the night in the fucking
infirmary!”
The boy shrugged. “Not my problem. I’d get moving if I were you. If
you’re late, they make you stay extra hours to make up for it.” He turned to
face Meder, who’d woken up at the sound of voices and blinked blearily at
the older boy. “Novice Meder, same for you. Thirty minutes.”
“Fine,” she groaned, flumping back onto the bed. “Please tell me that
Burik, at least, doesn’t have any duties.”
“Yeah, Nadar Jelotil excused him,” the boy nodded. “You two, though,
had better get a move on if you want to clean up and eat before you start—
and trust me, you definitely want to eat.”
“I feel like someone stabbed me in the head,” Meder complained as the
two of them sat in the mess hall ten minutes later, having run back to Sabila
and quickly showered. “With a dull, serrated knife.”
“At least you slept,” Amarl replied. “I’m working on maybe two hours
of sleep here.” He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“Remember when we used to look forward to Akio?”
“We’re going to miss Galiber’s morning pastries,” she pointed out
heavily. “All he’ll have by the time we get there is bread.”
“And we’ll never find a table at Sasofit’s,” he nodded glumly. “Hells,
half the merchants at the fair will have closed up their stalls by then.”
The girl took a deep breath, then seemed to shake herself. “No point in
whining about it,” she said firmly. “Come on. The faster we get there, the
sooner we’ll be done and can check on Burik.”
“Fine,” he sighed, slamming back the rest of his kaffee with a wince as
it burned his mouth, then rising to his feet. “Might as well get it over with.”
The two made their way as quickly as they could manage to the Citadel
—which wasn’t very quickly at all, really—and marched into the Great
Hall, the largest room in the downstairs area. There, he found an older
student in the yellow uniform of Risha School, the school for students with
Tier A abilities, and a number 5 on his chest below Askula’s symbol. The
older boy was busily talking to another pair of second-years, and Meder and
Amarl waited patiently until the pair hurried away and the older student
turned his attention to the two friends.
“Novices Amarl and Meder?” he said, not waiting for an answer.
“Good. You made it on time. Since you were in the infirmary, you were
allowed to sleep in this morning, but next Akio, be here an hour before
sunrise. Understand?”
“Yes,” Meder said tiredly.
“Got it,” Amarl added.
“What, no complaints?” the older boy grinned.
“Would they make any difference?” Amarl shrugged.
“No, but they’re funny to listen to anyway. Most new second-years
whine about being up before the sunrise on their one day off—as if anyone
gives a shit.” The boy glanced down at a paper in his hand. “Novice
Meder, you’ve been given duties up at Marjan, which means you’ll be
running up and down those damn stairs all day.” He grinned at her, and she
sighed wearily.
He glanced back down at his papers and frowned. “Huh. Novice
Amarl, you’ve been assigned to the Rashiv’s office for some reason.” He
shook his head. “You either did something really right or really, really
wrong.”
Amarl swallowed heavily; the Rashiv was the most powerful person
he’d ever met, and the old man frankly terrified him. He’d rather have been
running errands up and down the Citadel stairs all day—or maybe even
cleaning out the lavatories. He wasn’t quite sure if that second one would
be preferable or not, and that said all that needed saying as far as he was
concerned.
“Probably both,” the hizeen admitted after a brief moment.
“It’s much more likely to be the second one,” Meder corrected with a
weak grin.
“Whatever,” the student cut them off. “You know how to get there?”
“Yeah, sadly, I do,” Amarl grimaced. “Any idea what I’ll be doing
there?”
 “Probably running messages, the same as everyone else, just for the
Rashiv—well, technically for Awal Renahisek, his assistant. You probably
won’t even see the Rashiv himself. He’s too busy.” He looked back down
at his paper. “You’ll both serve until eighth bell, by the way, with a break
for lunch at fifth bell.” He glanced up at the pair. “Well? What are you
waiting for? Move your ass, Novices!”
Amarl had no intention of moving his ass. He didn’t know why he’d
been chosen to serve the Rashiv, but he doubted it was coincidence. The
older student looked far too surprised that he’d been selected for the job, for
one thing. For another, surely working for the head of the whole damn
school—even if it just meant delivering messages and fetching food from
the mess hall—had to be some sort of reward for more advanced second-
years. Amarl couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done recently that
merited a reward of any kind, so it was likely that this was something the
Rashiv himself arranged. The hizeen couldn’t imagine any way that was a
good sign.
Still, he didn’t bother to complain as he parted ways from Meder, who
scurried out the northern hall exit toward Marjan, which lay north of the
Citadel past the Deeps. He forced his feet to keep moving despite their
obvious reluctance as he made his way down one of the halls into the
central tower that housed the Rashiv’s office. That tower rose higher than
any other in the Citadel, of course, meaning it had more stairs than any
other, as well—not that it really mattered. After all the physical
conditioning he’d done over the past year, as long as he didn’t try to run up
the steps, they didn’t bother him in the least.
At last, he reached the top of the tower that housed the Rashiv’s office.
A closed steel door barred his passage, one that lacked any sort of knob or
keyhole. The last few times he’d been here, his second-year escort opened
the door with a strange hammer of some sort, one that Amarl obviously
didn’t have. He felt a spike of hope at the thought that he’d have to head
back downstairs to ask for it—and perhaps to be assigned a different job
while he was at it. Surely, Marjan needed another runner. The day would
go a lot faster, he imagined, with Meder to talk to, especially since he
supposed he’d spend a large chunk of the day standing around waiting for
something to do.
 His hope died as a loud clank echoed in the stone landing, and the metal
door shifted slightly inward. He sighed as he pushed the door open and
stepped into the antechamber to the Rashiv’s office. The space was large,
airy, and hemispherical in shape. Bookshelves stacked with various
volumes lined most of the walls, and a thick red carpet emblazoned with the
school’s symbol, a golden circle with a blue sword crossing it, covered the
floor. A sizeable window pierced the south wall, giving him a view of
Askula Village and the mountains beyond—and the lines of students
already making their way toward the village to enjoy their day off. Bright
pennons flapped above the central market, where the fair took place each
week, and he knew that one of the plumes of smoke rising from the houses
there belonged to Galiber’s bakery, where he and his friends had gone first
thing every Akio for the past year—and that they’d be missing for at least
the next several moons, he assumed.
“Good morning, Novice Amarl.” The firm but pleasant voice jarred
him from his melancholy thoughts, and he turned quickly to face a long,
heavy wooden desk that blocked off the northern end of the space. A man
sat at that desk, dressed in the black of an awal with prismatic stripes on his
sleeves that Amarl realized he’d never noticed before. The man was
middle-aged, with a slightly lined face and black hair going gray at the
temples, and power radiated from his deep brown eyes.
Amarl straightened instantly into an attention stance. “Good morning,
sir!” he said with as much energy and crispness as he could muster.
“Novice Amarl, reporting as instructed.”
“Are you recovered from your—episode yesterday?” the man asked
with a faint grin.
“Yes, sir,” Amarl nodded. He wasn’t about to complain to the Rashiv’s
assistant—who was apparently an awal himself—about being sleepy. He
doubted the man would care, and he might even push Amarl even harder to
help him “learn to deal with fatigue.” That felt like something the school
would do in a heartbeat, and if Amarl’s heart were to explode from running
up and down the stairs, they’d probably yell at him to shake it off and get
his ass moving.
“Good,” the man replied, holding out a sheet of paper folded into
thirds. “This needs to be carried to Awal Sohathat’s office here in the
Citadel. Do you know where that is?”
“No, sir,” Amarl shook his head.
“This will help,” the awal replied. He reached down into a drawer
beside his desk and pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper three spans long
and handed it to Amarl. “Take this and open it.”
Amarl took the scroll and carefully unrolled it to reveal what looked
like a map of the Citadel, one three spans high and four wide—and one that
he couldn’t make the slightest bit of sense of, in all honesty.
“Sir,” he said hesitantly. “I don’t know how to use this…”
“You don’t have to,” the man cut him off, reaching out and touching the
paper. A moment later, part of it started to glow, a shimmering dot in the
middle of a hemispherical room. A line stretched from the dot toward a
door in one wall, and Amarl glanced sideways in astonishment as he
realized that the dot marked his location, and the line touched the door
leading out of the office.
“Simply follow the line on the map, and you’ll be fine,” the man
instructed. “Pay attention as you walk, though; you’ll need to find your
own way back.”
“Yes, sir,” Amarl nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. Every new second-year gets a map like this for the
first moon or so. By then, I expect you to know every important location in
the Citadel, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now, take these.” The man produced two more objects,
holding them out toward Amarl. “You’ll need them.”
Amarl reached out and took the proffered items. One was the slim
mallet he’d seen before; it looked like a slim steel rod with a rounded ball
of the same metal on the end. A single orange gem glittered at the bottom
of the haft, and four more decorated the mallet head, placed in settings of
gold, silver, and copper. Bands of those metals traced down the shaft,
linking the gems together in an arcane pattern. The other item was a flat,
round piece of metal displaying the Askula symbol surrounded by seven
gems, one of each color of the rainbow.
 “Take that badge and press it to the right side of your shirt,” the awal
instructed. Amarl did so, and to his surprise, the flat metal circle adhered to
the fabric, clinging to it tightly. “That badge marks you as being in the
service of the Rashiv. While you wear it, no other student will bother you
or interfere with you.” The man pointed to the other item. “The mallet is
linked to the outer door. Touch it to the door, and I’ll know that you’re
waiting to be let in.”
The man’s eyes hardened. “Take extremely good care of both of those
items, Novice. If you lose either, you’ll be doing the worst disciplinary
duty I can think of for the next several years. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Amarl swallowed hard and unconsciously tightened his grip
on the mallet in his hand, checking the badge to make sure it was secure at
the same time.
“Good. Go deliver that, then return here. There’s a lot to do today.”
The map was nice, but Amarl still found it a little confusing. The line
shifted every time he reached an intersection, and after a couple wrong
turns, he learned to turn the map so that the line always pointed in front of
him. That made it easier for him to tell if he needed to turn right or left, but
it didn’t do much to tell him if he was supposed to take a staircase up or
down. Those, he only realized when he’d gone the wrong way, and the
map’s line swung backward to point behind him. Focusing on the map took
all his concentration, which made it hard to avoid any older students he saw
so they couldn’t trip or run into him.
Fortunately, that turned out not to be an issue. Every student he saw
swerved out of his way and gave him a wide berth. He didn’t even realize it
at first until a fourth-year moved so swiftly to avoid him that they ran into a
hapless first-year girl going the opposite direction. The older student
responded as expected, kneeing the novice in the stomach and sending her
crashing to the floor, clutching her middle and obviously fighting not to
retch all over the floor. Part of Amarl wanted to step in and help the girl,
but he knew that if he did, the older boy would probably just take it out on
him instead of her. At least, so he thought until he noticed the boy glance at
his chest and then hurry away, leaving Amarl to help the girl to her feet.
“Wh-what was that for?” she demanded, her eyes wild as she glanced
back at the retreating student.
 “You’ve gotta be careful walking the halls,” Amarl admonished,
recognizing the girl as one of the newest first-years, the ones he’d watched
at the Joining last Akio. “The older students can’t hurt you unless you
provoke them, so they like to purposefully run into you, then claim you
attacked them.”
“And no one stops them?” she gasped, her eyes wide. “At the
academy…”
“You’re not there anymore,” he cut her off gently, realizing that she was
probably one of the higher castes and had likely lived an easy life before
coming here. “Here, the students can do basically whatever they want so
long as it doesn’t put you in the infirmary—or make you late to class. You
just need to keep your eyes open and don’t get too close to them as you
walk.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Wait, then why are you helping me?”
“Because I’m a nice guy,” he laughed, flashing her a grin. “My name’s
Amarl, by the way.”
“You—you’re the hizeen.” She made a face. “I mean, you’re the only
one here, right? The only one ever, I heard.”
“I don’t know about that, but yeah, I’m the only one here right now,” he
shrugged.
“How…?” She sighed. “I’m being rude, sorry. My name’s Dethe.”
“Nice to meet you, Dethe,” he smiled at her. “And I’d love to tell you
all about how I got here…” He paused. “Some other time. I’m supposed
to be delivering a message right now. Find me later at Sasofit’s, and I’ll tell
you the story.”
“Sasofit’s?” she asked.
“Tavern in the village. You can’t miss it.” He flashed her another grin
before turning and walking away.
After that, he noticed the other students giving him a wide berth. Each
took one look at the badge on his chest and steered clear. He stifled a grin.
Perhaps working for the Rashiv wasn’t such a bad deal after all!
That thought vanished as he found the awal at the top of another tower,
which he should have expected. He tried to give the letter to the gray-clad
woman sitting in the antechamber, but she refused and instead ushered him
through a door into the awal’s office immediately. Sohathat was a large
man, taller by a span or more than Burik, with a barrel chest and calloused
hands. His slightly curly hair held a prominent reddish hue, one that
continued into the thick beard covering most of his face. He was dressed in
black, as all awals were, but his shirt and sleeves had purple trim on them.
Amarl’s heart froze as he realized who the man was.

This was the awal of Baqena School, Nolla and Gowen’s school. The
school he’d run through totally naked a week ago. He forced himself to
stand still while the man slowly perused the letter before him, his heart
hammering in his chest.
“Please don’t know it was me,” he prayed silently. “Please don’t know
it was me…”
“So,” the man said after a moment, folding the letter back up and
tossing it on the desk. “You’re the novice who caused such an uproar last
Akio, correct?”
Amarl swallowed hard and offered a curse to the gods who’d ignored
his prayer or decided to give him the opposite of what he wished just for a
laugh. Of course, the man knew it was him. He’d hoped that no one would
offer up his name, but they didn’t have to. They just had to say that it was a
hizeen who ran naked down the hallway. That would certainly narrow
down the list of suspects a bit.
He wanted to argue that technically, Gowen had caused the uproar, but
he’d never met an awal—or any instructor at Askula—who’d let him get
away with trying to shift blame. “Yes, sir,” he finally said.
The man nodded and placed a hand on his desk, drumming his fingers
lightly. “Will you continue to visit Student Nolla?” he asked simply.
Amarl shook his head vehemently. “No, sir. I didn’t know about her
and Gowen. Now that I do…”
“Good.” The man leaned forward, his eyes hard. “I don’t care for
disruptions, Novice. I like my school to run smoothly and in an orderly
fashion. Disruptions mean something’s wrong, and that means I have to fix
it.”
 A flare of power erupted from the man, a dark energy that Amarl
somehow recognized at a deep level. That power rolled over him, and he
felt his strength draining from his body even faster than the umbravore’s
bitter cold had done. His muscles trembled and shook, and he struggled to
hold himself erect as his energy fled his body in an instant.
An instant later, new power swirled into him as the song of his ithtu
swelled into a triumphant chorus. The dark power fled from the energy
rising within him, although he could almost feel his ithtu yearning toward
it. He couldn’t see the awal’s energy, but he could feel it, and it felt—
comfortable. It felt right to him, and part of him wanted to draw it into
himself and make it his. He fought that part, though, holding his ithtu in
check as best he could. He didn’t think that the awal would appreciate
Amarl stealing some of his energy, obviously.
The man’s eyes narrowed as he seemed to realize that Amarl remained
unaffected by whatever ability he used. “Interesting,” he murmured. “I
wonder if…” The man shook his head. “No matter. The point, Novice, is
that if you cause any more problems in my school, I will happily remove
your motivation for creating such problems.” He glanced down at Amarl’s
crotch. “Understand?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Amarl nodded, fighting not to cover himself with his
hands.
“Good. Dismissed.”
Amarl practically ran from the man’s office, idly noting the amused
expression on face of the gray-clad woman he assumed was the awal’s
assistant as he rushed by.
“Yeah, I don’t care if the other students leave me alone,” he grumbled
silently as he slowly wound his way back toward the Rashiv’s tower. “This
job fucking sucks.”
Fortunately, the rest of the morning passed without incident. Amarl
stayed busy, running to the various schools and offices to carry messages to
the awals and malims. He collected a few students from their dormitories
and brought them to the Citadel—he assumed for some sort of infraction—
and he carried what felt like an entire forest of papers. His “break” for the
midday meal, he realized, was actually just long enough for him to grab a
few things and stuff them in his mouth before rushing back to the Citadel.
He didn’t see Meder when he grabbed his food, and he hoped they gave her
a bit longer to eat—or that there was a mess hall up at Marjan where she
could eat. He did see Herel wolfing down food as quickly as possible, but
the two didn’t exchange pleasantries as Amarl stuffed some meat, bread,
and cheese down his throat and washed it down with a tankard of some
sweet juice—he had a feeling he’d need the energy.
He ran back to the Rashiv’s office and tapped on the door, which
opened a few seconds later. He stepped inside, ready for his next errand,
but to his surprise and dread, the door leading into the inner office stood
open. Awal Renahisek barely glanced at him as he entered, instead jerking
his head toward the open door.
“The Rashiv wants to speak with you, Novice,” he said calmly.
Amarl swallowed hard and tried to ignore the sudden fear that rose in
him as he walked woodenly toward the office of the single most powerful
person he could ever remember meeting—and the one who’d come
perilously close to ending his existence the last time they’d met.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 18
The Rashiv’s office looked exactly as it did when Amarl had last seen
it. It was shaped similarly to the antechamber so that the two together
formed a complete circle, and bookshelves lined the walls. Those shelves
held myriad dusty tomes, of course, but odd bits of what Amarl now
recognized as sahrotik also decorated them, gleaming and flashing with tiny
gems and lines of gold and silver filigree. A gleaming cube of three stacked
metal layers sat on his desk, with a second far less ornate cube resting in
front of him.
“Take a seat, Novice,” the old man said, gesturing at an empty leather
chair facing the desk. Amarl quickly sat down, sitting as erect as he
possibly could, and the old man chuckled. “Relax, Novice. You’re not in
any trouble—at least, not from me.”
The man gestured at the cube before him. “I believe I’ve introduced
you to labah, the Game of Life,” he said. “Today, you’ll learn how to play.”
“You want me—to play a game, sir?” Amarl asked hesitantly.
“Not just any game, Novice. The game. As the saying goes, ‘Life is the
game, and the game is life.’ Mastering it can help you navigate the
treacherous currents of your own life—at least, it’s certainly helped me.”
He smiled. “However, I’ll also offer you an incentive. If you pay attention
and play your best, at the end, I’ll allow you to ask me a single question.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed. “And you’ll answer it, sir?”
“I didn’t say that. I said you could ask. Whether or not I answer
depends on the question.” He gave the boy a thin smile. “Now, pay
attention. I’ll give you a brief summary of the rules, then we’ll play. You
seem to learn best by trying, failing, and then figuring out a way to make it
all work out, after all.”
Amarl wanted to protest that, but he honestly couldn’t. That did seem
to be the case for him.
“Labah is an ancient game,” the old man went on. “Legend holds that
we mortals were playing it even while still enslaved by the spirits, and that
its teachings were what let us rise up and overthrow them.” He chuckled.
“While I’m obviously uncertain as to the veracity of that claim, it’s true that
there are labah boards in the Imperial Museum in the Crystal Palace that
predate the Shattering, at the very least.
“This is the labah board,” the old man went on. “There are three layers,
each eleven squares across and eleven wide. The middle layer, Alar,
represents the mortal world and is where most of the game is played. The
center square of the row closest to you is your key, while the two rows
closest to you are your sanctuary. Obviously, my key and sanctuary are on
the opposite side of the board, and the seven squares between them are the
battleground.”
He touched the higher layer of the cube. “Above Alar is Saima, the
heavens of the gods or the world above. At the bottom is Jahin, the spirit
world or the world below. These affect the main battleground in the center,
and control of them is important, but they aren’t the main point of the
game.”
The man leaned forward and smiled at Amarl. “The main point of labah
is the concept of influence, Amarl. You begin with a certain amount of
influence, and you’re trying to spread that out over the board to gain even
more influence. The more influence you have, the more options you have,
and the fewer choices you leave your opponent. Your pieces influence
certain squares on the board, allowing you to move to those or place stones
within them freely and forcing your foes to expend influence to move into
them.”
He leaned back and grasped the top layer, lifting it free from the lower
ones and setting it aside. “This is a training board,” he explained. “It’s
meant to help teach the game to new players. While in the full game, all
three layers play an important part, for now, we’ll only play on Alar, the
middle layer.” He produced two bowls, one empty and one filled with dark
blue stones, polished smooth and glassy into discs and the size of Amarl’s
thumbnail.
“These are your stones, and the empty bowl is your kanz, your store of
influence. Begin by placing a single stone on your key, the center of the
row closest to you.” Amarl obediently did so, enjoying the smooth feel of
the cool stone beneath his fingers for a moment as he did. “Your keystone
has an influence of 10, so placing that gives you a beginning pool of 10
influence.” The Rashiv placed a large bowl filled with small, polished
pebbles of various colors to the side of the board. “Take out ten pebbles
and place them in your kanz.”
As Amarl did, picking out ten pebbles and dropping them into his
empty bowl, the man went on. “The essence of the game is to place pieces
to spread your influence, Novice. You always influence the stones in your
sanctuary. In the battleground, you control a square if you have the piece
with the highest influence affecting it. Determining a piece’s influence can
be complicated, but for now, all that matters is that each piece in your first
row gets half the influence of the two pieces adjacent to it, and each stone
in the second and further rows gets half the influence of any piece touching
it in the row behind it.” He smiled at the boy and placed a stone next to his
keystone. “This piece, for example, has an influence of 5 for being next to
the keystone, so I’ll take five more pebbles and add them to my kanz.” He
did so, then gestured to the boy. “Your turn.”
“I have no idea what I’m doing, sir,” the boy admitted, completely
confused.
“And when have you ever truly known what you were doing before you
acted, Amarl?” the Rashiv chuckled. “When was the last time you truly
understood the consequences of any of your actions and choices? I mean,
truly looked at what all the possible consequences would be, and prepared
yourself to deal with any of them?”
The boy frowned. “I—I guess never, sir.”
“Exactly. I doubt even the gods themselves truly know all the possible
consequences of any given action. Perhaps only the One Above All, in
fact.” He shook his head. “The rest of us have to make our decisions and
live with the consequences.” He waved a hand at the board. “As I said, the
game is life. Now, place a stone.”
Amarl lifted a stone and placed it next to his keystone, mirroring the
Rashiv’s move. He figured that the safest bet for this first game was simply
to do what the old man did and learn how the game worked. The Rashiv
nodded and placed a second piece on the other side of the keystone,
drawing five more pebbles and placing them in his kanz bowl.
The old man placed a piece directly in front of his keystone. “This
piece has an influence of 10,” he explained. “Half of the influence of the
three pieces behind it.” He drew ten more pebbles. “Your turn.”
Amarl kept mimicking the Rashiv as the man placed two more pieces
along the back row, giving each piece 3 influence from being next to the 5-
influence pieces beside the keystone. The hizeen did the same, then placed
two more pieces in the second row, flanking the one he’d already placed.
Each of those gave him 9 more influence, half of the 10-influence, 5-
influence, and 3-influence pieces behind it.
“Now, we enter the battleground,” the Rashiv said solemnly. “Every
piece you place in the battleground has one extra influence above what it
gains from the pieces behind it.” He placed a piece in the center of the third
row. “This piece, then, has an influence of 15: 1 for being in the
battleground, plus half of the two 9-influence and the 10-influence pieces
behind it.”
Amarl shook his head, still confused, but continued to follow along as
the Rashiv built an ever-expanding triangle, adding pieces at the edge of the
first row, then moving to the second row and third before expanding into
the fourth. He repeated the pattern until he had a triangle that extended into
the fifth row, one that was three pieces wide at the top.
“Now, we get to the interesting part,” the Rashiv smiled, touching the
piece in the very center of the board. “It would seem that my next logical
step would be to place a piece here, yes?” Amarl nodded. “Unfortunately,
it’s not that simple. You see, neither of us control that space, Amarl. We
each have a 32-influence piece adjacent to it, which makes it contested
ground.
“To place a piece on a square I don’t control,” he continued, “I have to
expend influence, enough to push my influence over that square ahead at
least 10 over yours, and doing so means I don’t grow my influence this
turn.” He pulled ten pebbles out of his kanz and returned them to the bowl
he’d first taken it from, then placed the piece in the center. “There. Now,
the center is mine. Your move.”
Amarl stared at the board, uncertain of what to do. He began to put a
piece next to the one the Rashiv placed, but the old man shook his head.
“Ah, ah, ah. I control that square, Amarl. The piece I just placed has an
influence of 47, well above yours. Do you want to spend 25 of your
influence to place a stone there?”
 “Not really,” the boy muttered, instead expanding the top of his
pyramid to four spaces wide and gaining another 25 influence.
“And now, the fun part.” The old man slid his front piece forward, into
the center of the top row of Amarl’s triangle. “We battle.”
“Battle?” Amarl asked, tensing up. “Sir…”
“Let me clarify, Novice. Our pieces will battle.” He tapped the board.
“We are fighting for control of this square. The winner gets the square, and
the victorious piece keeps its influence as long as it doesn’t move again.
The loser loses the square and the influence from his lost piece.”
“Okay. So, how do we battle, sir?”
“Quite simply. Each of our pieces has a base score equal to their
influence: 32 for yours, and 48 for mine. You can increase that by giving
up influence; simply take however much influence you wish to expend out
of your kanz—without letting me see it, of course.”
Amarl reached down and blindly scooped a handful of pebbles from his
bowl, completely unsure how many he’d grabbed, noting that the old man
did the same.
“Excellent,” the Rashiv said, holding out a roughly spherical orb
covered with numbers ranging from 10 all the way down to -10. Amarl
took it with his free hand, and the Rashiv held up one of his own. “These
are called luck stones,” he explained. “They remind us that no matter how
well laid our plans may be, the vagaries of life can interfere with them.
Roll your stone, Amarl.”
Amarl rolled the heavy die on the table, watching as the number six
ended up on top. Across from him, the Rashiv rolled as well and grimaced.
“Negative eight,” he said. “Not a good roll.” He glanced at Amarl’s die.
“And six for you. The number you roll adds to your score, along with the
influence you expended. How much was that?”
The boy opened his hand and quickly counted. “Seventeen, sir.”
“Giving you a total of 55. With my poor roll, I needed to have
expended at least 17 influence to win this contest.” The old man held up a
handful of pebbles. “Fortunately, I overdid it and expended 25. The square
is mine.” He picked up Amarl’s piece and handed it back to him. “Place
your expended influence plus an extra 32 pebbles back into the large bowl,
Novice.”
The game ended quickly after that. Amarl placed his pieces almost
randomly, filling out the sides of his triangle and trying to move forward
along the edge of the Rashiv’s controlled areas, while the Rashiv advanced
down the center of the board, taking piece after piece and filling in the
spaces behind to keep Amarl from trying to take them. Amarl’s influence
flowed out like a drunkard’s piss, and soon enough, the Rashiv moved his
leading piece directly before the boy’s keystone.
“I can only move pieces into your sanctuary, by the way,” he smiled. “I
can’t place them there, as you always control those squares. However, that
piece currently has an influence of 220, and next round, it will attack your
keystone. Do you, by any chance, have enough influence left to even
attempt to counter that?”
Amarl looked down into his nearly empty bowl and grimaced. “Not
even close, sir.”
“Then it’s probably best that you concede the match, and we begin
again.” The old man started taking pieces off the board and dumped his
pebbles back into the large bowl with a clatter. “However, as you made an
honest attempt rather than simply playing randomly—which most do their
first time—I’ll allow you your one question. Think carefully and ask,
Novice.”
Amarl frowned. He could think of dozens of questions he might ask,
but honestly, he suspected that the Rashiv wouldn’t answer most of them.
One seemed relatively harmless, though.
“I have one,” he finally said. “Where did that umbravore yesterday
come from?” He didn’t ask if the old man knew about the creature; he felt
completely certain that the Rashiv knew about everything that happened in
Askula, even the things that Amarl and his friends thought were private.
“A fair question, but certainly one you could discover on your own with
a little effort,” the old man shook his head. “But if that’s what you wish to
know, I’ll oblige. Umbral creatures like the umbravore come from the
realm of Necronia, Amarl. It’s a realm of death and darkness, and there, the
umbravore is a scavenger similar to a vulture or jackal.”
 “It came through the Mistways, then?” Amarl asked.
“That’s a second question,” the old man pointed out with a dry chuckle.
“Perform well in the next game, and perhaps I’ll answer it.” He placed his
first piece again, and Amarl did the same with a heavy sigh as a new match
began.
This time, rather than building up a triangle, he marched his pieces
across the board quickly, making a beeline for the other side. He lost badly
again, as his 8-influence piece was taken by the old man’s 15-influence
piece, allowing his foe to march back across the board more or less
unimpeded while Amarl tried desperately to build up his influence to stave
off the attack. At the end, the Rashiv nodded in appreciation.
“Pagha’s March,” he said. “A strong, direct attack from the beginning.
It can be a winning strategy, but it requires luck and a full commitment to
offense, or you’re left vulnerable. It was a bold strategy, though, and I
suppose it earns you a reward.” Amarl opened his mouth, but before he
could speak, the old man raised his hand.
“Not a question,” he shook his head slightly. “A lesson—the main
lesson that the game can teach you, in fact. Tell me about your first
delivery this morning.”
The hizeen froze in the act of scooping up his blue stones. “It—it was
fine, sir.”
The old man’s face hardened immediately, and Amarl swallowed hard
as a bit of the Rashiv’s power rose in the room. It suddenly became hard to
breathe, and Amarl struggled to hold onto the stones in his hand. “There is
a time for prevarication, Novice,” he said in a cold voice. “That time is
never when speaking with me. Tell me about your first errand—and do so
with complete honesty. Now.”
Amarl swallowed hard and forced himself to take a deep, shuddering
breath. “I—it was awkward, sir. And a little scary.”
“Why were you afraid?” the old man asked.
“Because I didn’t know if the awal knew I was the one who’d caused a
ruckus last Akio, sir.” Amarl had to fight to utter the words as the old man’s
aura pressed against him, and his heart hammered in his chest.
 “He didn’t. At least, not until he read the letter I sent informing him
that it was you.” The Rashiv’s voice was calm as his powerful aura faded.
Amarl took a deep breath as the pounding in his chest slowly eased, relief
flooding his body. A moment later, though, the old man’s words sank in,
and a touch of shock and anger pushed the relief aside.
“Wait, that was what was in that letter?” he demanded. The old man’s
eyes hardened, and Amarl swallowed, pushing down his anger and lowering
his eyes as the Rashiv’s power began to rise once more. Silence hung
between the two for a moment before the ithtar’s power faded away once
more.
“Better,” he said, his voice even. “And yes. The letter informed him
that its bearer was the one involved in the commotion in his dormitory last
Akio. He hadn’t really looked into the matter—like any awal, he has a lot
more to worry about than a foolish lovers’ quarrel between students—but I
thought it would be useful for him to know.” His gaze met Amarl’s eyes as
the boy looked up. “Tell me, Novice. Why do you think I did that?”
Amarl bit down the reply that almost leaped from his mouth. He didn’t
think the Rashiv would respond well to, “Because you’re a fucking
asshole,” and he knew the old man could kill him just with his aura if he
wanted. Instead, he remained silent, trying to ignore his irritation and
actually consider the question.
“I suppose to make sure I learn to accept responsibility for things, sir,”
he hazarded.
“Not remotely, Novice. Yes, it’s true that an ithtar has to take
responsibility for their actions, but it’s equally true that quite often,
claiming responsibility is the opposite of what you should do. As an ithtar,
you’ll have to do things that no one else will understand, and you won’t
always have time to explain. If no one knows you were the one who did it,
well, that’s certainly much simpler.” The old man shook his head. “No,
Novice, I was hoping you’d learn a valuable lesson—the same lesson that
the game can teach you. So, what can you learn?”
“I…” He paused, his mind racing furiously. “I’m not sure what you
mean, sir.”
The Rashiv gave him a disapproving look. “Because you aren’t
thinking,” he said flatly. “More precisely, you’re thinking about all the
wrong things. You’re thinking about avoiding punishments, or not angering
the awals, but there’s a much larger lesson if you just ask yourself one
question: what caused all of this to happen?”
The boy frowned and pondered the question. There were a lot of
possible answers, but one seemed the sort of thing that a teacher would
want to hear. “Not knowing about Gowen, sir. If I had, I never would have
gone with Nolla.”
“About whom you also knew next to nothing,” the old man agreed.
“Save that she’s attractive, and she seemed willing.” He shook his head.
“And that’s the lesson, Novice. Ignorance will kill an ithtar faster than any
spirit or beast—and it’s an easier foe to defeat.” The man placed his
keystone and picked ten pebbles from the large bowl.
“What if Nolla was close to someone with a reason to dislike you—
perhaps a companion of Yashi or Nihos?” he asked. “What if she’s
Lasheshian and hates all non-naluni? What if she were luring you into an
ambush of some kind? Going with her could have been dangerous, Novice,
or even fatal.”
He gave Amarl a serious look as he continued. “If you’d asked around
about Nolla first, learned more about her, you’d have discovered that
Student Gowen is one of a half-dozen young men that she keeps ‘on the
hook’, to use a fisherman’s phrasing. She reels them in when she wishes,
then gives them just enough line so that they seem free, never knowing that
she can pull them back any time she chooses. She’s a skilled manipulator—
something that we encourage, obviously—who happened to run afoul of an
even more skilled seducer, throwing all her plans into disarray. She no
doubt intended to make you another of her trophies, but your own skills
were potent enough that instead, she ended up as your prize.”
He shook his head. “Of course, she made the same mistake as you.
She saw you as an exotic toy, something she could brag and preen about,
and never bothered to find out about your talents. I’m sure she was quite
shocked the next day at how easily she let all her manipulations fall apart
just for the chance for a tumble with you, and some part of her no doubt
blames you for the aftermath—which was not in her favor.”
“Did—did Gowen attack her or something, sir?” Amarl asked
dubiously.
 “No, nothing like that. However, while Student Gowen remains on her
line, some of her others broke free upon hearing what happened. She’d
assured them all that when the time came, they would be her first, you see.
Faced with the indisputable fact that she’d given herself to you after a
single night, they realized that she’d been playing them. Those who remain
on her line are now warier, as well, and many of them will likely wiggle
free over the next few moons. While realistically, all that was her fault,
she’s likely to hold you responsible.”
The old man gave the boy a grave look. “And that’s going to present a
problem for you come Challenge Week, Amarl.”
“Challenge Week, sir?” he asked in confusion.
“Yes. The week before Naming Day. A sort of rite of passage, where
you face your elders in combat and test what you’ve learned against true
opponents. It will already be difficult for you, as many of the older students
still believe that you don’t belong here. Now, Nolla will surely convince
anyone she can to punish you that week for your perceived humiliation of
her, and with her skills, that won’t be difficult.” He shook his head. “I
foresee that being a bad week for you, Novice.”
He leaned forward, and if anything, his expression turned even more
serious. “And all because of a simple lack of knowledge. Your seduction
skills are impressive, Amarl. They give you a measure of power over those
around you, but all power has consequences. The greater the power, the
greater the consequences—and often, the harder they are to predict. The
counter to that is knowledge. The more you know about your abilities and
those upon whom you would use them, the more you can predict those
consequences and hopefully avoid them. Knowledge can be a potent shield
—as I’m hoping this game shows you.”
The venerable ithtar swept his hand over the game board. “The strategy
I employed is called ‘Dolared’s Triangle’. In a simple game with only one
board, it’s the strongest and most solid formation you can use, but it heavily
favors the person who goes first in a game. There are counters, and if you’d
known them—if you’d realized that I was going to introduce labah to you
and studied it in the library in advance—you might have used one
successfully. Knowledge is a powerful weapon, Novice. Never
underestimate it. Do you understand?”
 Amarl nodded. “Yes, sir.” Truthfully, he did. He hadn’t known any of
that about Nolla—but realistically, he should have. Povanac, his Seduction
instructor, had told him that one key to a successful seduction was knowing
the target as intimately as possible. He’d assumed the woman meant
knowing the target’s likes and dislikes, but he had a feeling she meant more
than that. If he’d known all that about Nolla—well, he probably still would
have seduced her, but he’d have arranged it so they met somewhere beyond
prying eyes, where their tryst wouldn’t be likely to be discovered. And it
wouldn’t have been hard to find out; hells, Meder probably could have told
him if he’d just asked. He made a silent vow that next time, he’d know
what he was getting into before he got into it.
The two played several more games, and Amarl lost miserably each
time. The Rashiv began to use different strategies, creating multiple small
triangles that ate into the sides of Amarl’s larger one, cutting his advancing
pieces off from their base of influence, or building multiple lines as Amarl
had tried, punching into the boy’s sanctuary and forcing him to spread out
his stones defensively. He wished he could say that he lost less poorly each
time, but the fact was, he struggled mightily and vainly to adapt to the
man’s strategies.
When the old man finally let him go, sometime after the eighth bell had
sounded, Amarl returned to his room to find a note from Burik to meet him
at Sasofit’s. He plodded wearily to the village, ignoring the festive air and
the remaining vendors at the fair, and slipped into the noisy, overcrowded
tavern. He saw Burik and Meder at a table and wove his way through the
crowd to join the pair.
“You’re late,” Burik noted wryly.
“I know,” Amarl sighed, looking around. “I really need a beer.”
“Long day?”
“Long doesn’t begin to describe it.” He glanced at Meder. “How did it
go for you?”
“Fine,” she shrugged. “I basically ran all over Marjan carrying
messages, setting up classrooms for next week, and helping malims with
whatever they needed. I’m a little tired, but I think most of that’s still from
yesterday.”
 “I heard you were working for the Rashiv,” Burik noted. “Were you in
trouble again?”
“No. Yes. Both.” Amarl sighed. “I spent the last two hours playing
games with him.”
“Wait, you were playing games for two hours?” Meder asked crossly.
“And you’re complaining how tired you are?”
“Not just any game, apparently. The game.” Amarl’s voice was faintly
mocking as he spoke, but Burik nodded with a solemn expression.
“Labah,” he noted. “The game of life.”
“You know it?” Amarl asked.
“Every officer in the army knows it, Amarl. It’s part of officer training.
I grew up playing.”
“They teach it in the academies, as well,” Meder noted. “It’s a common
pastime for the zahai caste.”
“Well, it isn’t common in Tem,” Amarl said irritably. “And I’ll bet you
didn’t learn by having the Rashiv of Askula hand you your ass over and
over again for two hours. I’m still not a hundred percent sure how the rules
work, to be honest.”
“I’ve been playing for years, and I’m still not sure how all the rules
work,” Meder laughed. “It’s a very complex game—and I’ll bet the Rashiv
is a skilled player.”
“It’s hard to tell. I could just be really shitty.” He shook his head.
“Enough of that. Burik, how are you feeling?”
“Tired,” the larger boy admitted. “A little weak. Midoral says that
might last for a couple weeks. I guess I got a really nasty dose of poison.”
He shuddered slightly. “What the fuck was that thing, by the way? I didn’t
even get a good look at it.”
“They called it an umbravore,” Meder said. “I haven’t had a chance to
look into what one is, though. I was too busy today.” She glanced at
Amarl. “Did you ask the Rashiv?”
“Yes. He told me they’re scavengers from Necronia, but he wouldn’t
explain any more than that.” Amarl grimaced. “We mostly talked about
how bad I am at predicting consequences, actually.”
 “That does seem to be a problem of yours,” the girl laughed. “You
might want to work on that.”
“Probably. It’s hard to say right now. My head feels like it’s stuffed
with sand.” He shook his head as a beer appeared on the table before him,
and he slipped the server a pair of coins in return. He lifted his beer. “To
the first week of our second year being done,” he intoned. “It can only get
worse from here.”
“You mean better,” Meder suggested.
“I know what I said,” Amarl said sourly, taking a sip. “Mark my
words. We’re going to look back at this week and think, ‘Damn, what the
hell were we bitching about?’ by the end of the year.”
“This year has to be better than last year,” she protested.
“Unless it’s worse,” Burik noted, taking a drink from the mug of ale in
his hand.
She shuddered. “Could it really be worse?”
“As my mother says, Meder, ‘However bad it is, it can always get
worse.’”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 19
It was hot. That simple fact overrode any other thoughts in Amarl’s
mind. The air was searing and dry, and breathing it curled the hair in his
nostrils. Sweat pooled beneath the heavy leather smock he wore, and he
knew that his face beneath the scratched goggles protecting his eyes had to
be almost as red as the flames wreathing the ingot of silver slowly melting
in the clay crucible in front of him. Those flames poured into the ceramic
bowl and radiated their heat up toward his face, making him want to pull
back, but if he did, he wouldn’t be able to see if the fire had burned away
the impurities tainting the silver or not.
He swirled the bowl around, watching as the silver melted into a
bubble-shaped puddle in the middle. Oily impurities rose to the surface and
were seared away or drawn to the side by the glaze of melted lake sand
lining the bowl. That sand, found only in dry lake beds of certain alkali
lakes, helped keep the silver pure by pulling away baser metals and
contaminants, turning dark brown and black as it did. When the silver
shone with a pure sheen, he quickly brought his mold over and poured the
molten silver into it, watching the shining liquid flow through the fine,
densely packed clay of the mold into the simple ring shape he’d carved into
it. Part of him wanted to pour it slowly and carefully, but he’d learned that
once it was taken out of the fire, the silver hardened quickly, meaning he
had to pour it out in a single quick motion or risk only getting a partial
pour. When that happened, he had to melt it down and try again, and the
nadars were never happy with the waste of materials.
He waited a few minutes for the silver to cool, taking the time to scrape
out his crucible before the silver and black sand set within it. Removing the
silver from the clay mold was a slow, painstaking process since if he pulled
it too hard or fast, the clay would come up with it, wasting the molding clay
and making the silver harder to polish. The resulting ring wasn’t anything
he’d expect to see in a store; the outside was blackened, the edges were
jagged and rough, and it wasn’t quite perfectly round. Fortunately, a bit of
time with a file, polishing stone, and steel cylinder fixed all those
problems.
 He held up his work and examined it with a critical eye. It wasn’t really
very good, he realized. The pour hadn’t quite gone perfectly, so there were
probably hidden defects in the metal. He wasn’t good enough at finish
work to leave the ring smoothly and evenly beveled, so the edges were
sharper and wavier than they should be. The prongs of his setting were
slightly uneven, meaning any stone he placed in it would sit at an angle
instead of exactly perpendicular to the band. All in all, it looked exactly
like what it was: a piece made by a novice to goldsmithing.
“Let’s see it, Novice.” Amarl turned to see the white-robed nadar
overseeing his group of beginning goldsmiths standing over him. Her hair
was light brown, almost blonde, a rarity in the Empire showing that she had
some non-naluni blood within her, and her face was long, narrow, and
knifelike. Her green eyes were hard as she gazed at him, but then, they
were the same when she looked at any of the new crafters. Apparently,
Nadar Noriseta considered herself something of an artist with jewelry and
didn’t much appreciate having to deal with inept beginners, which always
made Amarl wonder who the hell thought it was a good idea to put her in
charge of them.
He wordlessly held up the ring he’d made, and she took it and
examined it critically. After a moment, she shook her head with a
disapproving expression. “Look at this mess. The edges have to be
uniform, Novice, and without more beveling, they’ll dig into the skin of
anyone wearing them. See these lines here and here? You tightened the
engraving block too much and dented the metal. And this mount—it’s set at
an angle of at least five degrees. It’ll make the stone look lopsided.” She
tossed it onto the table beside him and sighed. “And the sad part is, that’s
the best thing I’ve seen in the past few weeks. I wouldn’t be surprised to
see a piece like this in a low-end shop somewhere in the Empire, which puts
it a notch or two above anything your fellow novices have made.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Amarl said dutifully.
She snorted. “Don’t thank me. Saying it’s the best thing I’ve seen isn’t
a compliment. It’s like saying which time I was stabbed in the liver was the
least painful. It doesn’t make it good.” She stepped forward and leaned
over his workspace. “Melt it down, try again, and let’s see where it all went
wrong—starting with your mold.”
 Amarl began the slow process of melting more lake sand and reducing
his ring to a puddle of liquid, adding as many of the silver shavings he’d
removed from it in the polishing process as possible so little was wasted.
As he did, he rebuilt the ithtu connections Ranakar had advised him to use
to boost his Goldsmithing skill, letting a thread flow to his each of his
hands, another to his eyes, and one to the center of his skull. The
connections weren’t hard to fashion, but he’d learned that holding them
drained ithtu from his tak, so he’d tried to get into the habit of dropping
them whenever he wasn’t actively working on a skill. The ithtu certainly
helped; he’d gained the Goldsmithing and Gemcutting skills after only a
few days of practice rather than a full week thanks to the ithtu aiding him.
That hadn’t endeared him to Noriseta or the other students, of course, most
of whom were several moons to a year ahead of him.
With his connections built, he had to wait for everything to melt down;
while he sat, he let his mind drift back to the past week. The second week
of classes had passed much the same as the first, minus the random monster
attack. Tautibal worked the novices to exhaustion each morning, pushing
them harder than she had the week before—and Amarl and Meder both
sported welts from the woman’s riding crop to show it at the end of most of
their sessions. The novices continued learning to spar with armor on, and
while Amarl still lost more often than not in sparring matches, he won a few
times, and when he did lose, it wasn’t as spectacularly as the first day.
He practiced his new fighting forms with Ranakar as well as training
his rather pitiful sahr skills, and while he left each day battered, bruised,
and with more than one cracked bone healing from a sahr elixir, he knew
that he was getting better. The movements of Drunken Form came more
easily to him, and he was starting to understand how to shift his body to
absorb blows without injury while in Mountain Form. In some ways,
Cutting Blade was the easiest of the forms to learn, but he struggled training
his muscles to make the swift, sudden blows of the style rather than the
smooth, flowing strikes he preferred. His ithtu helped with that, but he
knew that he still had a very long way to go before he could even call
himself competent with he new styles.
Survival Training continued to be a mixture of practical lessons on how
to find food and water, build shelter, and track animals, and challenges
designed to test those lessons. He had a feeling that his group surprised
Nirecina that first day since they hadn’t successfully completed a challenge
since, but he quickly learned that that was the norm. Nirecina seemed to
believe that failure was the best possible teacher, and after each
unsuccessful trial, she spent time with each group, helping them analyze
where they’d gone wrong and how they could do better.
Ability training was still nightmarish. When he’d returned to the class
on Sahrio, two days after his first unfortunate session, Nadar Soteten once
more strapped him down to the stone slab, this time using chains instead of
leather bands. She’d also attached the bar to the slab with three chains
rather than one, and she’d started him out with a lot more weight than the
first time. His arms gave out a lot faster that time, and while she hadn’t
pushed down on him to force the issue, she’d loaded his bar with so much
weight that eventually, his ithtu responded. Despite her preparations, he’d
flung the bar away from himself again, snapping the three chains and
hurling it a reach or so away, where it rolled across the floor and slammed
into the razor cage holding the girl he assumed had a toughness ability of
some sort. Having everything go faster left his muscles far less damaged,
which meant he only got fifteen minutes to rest and study before going
through it again. He still didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing to
call up his ithtu, but the nadar assured him that every time it responded, it
would get a little easier to summon.
To his surprise, his favorite class at the moment was actually his
crafting training. He hadn’t been looking forward to goldsmithing—he
knew how hot and stifling the inside of a smithy was, and he’d watched
Tem’s smith in action enough to know that he would hate blacksmithing—
but it wasn’t actually that bad. The work was hot, to be sure—very hot,
since much of goldsmithing involved melting down metals to be poured
into molds—and Noriseta had ridiculously high standards that even the
older students couldn’t come close to achieving. It took a ton of patience,
and there was a lot of menial work: mixing metals into alloys, drawing wire
through a steel die, and chiseling strips of silver or copper out of sheets to
be melted down later. At the same time, there was a certain satisfaction to
seeing his efforts coalesce into something real and tangible. Nothing he’d
made was anything to brag about, and he’d had to melt everything down
and try again, but it was easy to lose himself in the simple actions of
crafting, and seeing a pin or ring that he’d made gleaming In his hands was
deeply satisfying.
That was why when Malim Tonokita had him stay at Geralz three nights
a week for extra training, he didn’t mind too much. He needed the extra
practice, to be sure; he had to split his main crafting lessons between
goldsmithing and gem-cutting, meaning he only got half as much practice
as the other novices since much of his official time was spent learning about
the properties of metals and gems, the qualities of both that made them
valuable, and how to use the various compounds and reagents required to
finish both. By staying late, he was able to keep up; besides, crafting was a
lot more relaxing than training in armor.
He listened patiently as Noriseta walked him through the process and
pointed out all the places he’d screwed up—of which there were a lot—then
started again by crafting a new mold using an existing ring. As he worked,
his ithtu sang lazily and happily in him, and its gentle melodies made the
time pass far more swiftly. The resulting ring wasn’t much better than the
last. He still couldn’t get the mold quite right; it kept shifting on him for
some reason, either from the heat of the silver or some mistake he was
making in removing the original ring from it, and that left the mounting
skewed again. His edges weren’t smooth enough, and the metal had wavy
lines in it from where he hadn’t quite gotten all the impurities out. It was
better than his previous effort, though, and that was enough for him. As
long as he kept getting better, eventually, he’d be able to make things he
could actually be proud of.
He labored for another hour before cleaning up his station and putting
away his tools. He’d made another ring, fashioned some coin silver out of
silver and copper, and spent some time drawing copper wire by pulling a
long, slim ingot he’d hammered out through smaller and smaller dies. It
wasn’t exciting work, but the nadar insisted that if he really wanted to learn
sahrotik, drawing wire was an essential skill. He didn’t much like Noriseta,
but the woman seemed something of an expert on anything that had to do
with goldsmithing, so he took her word for it.
He walked out of the hall into darkness and stopped, breathing the cool,
fresh night air. The pink moon hung in the starless sky above him, and a
gentle breeze swept past him, drying the sweat from his skin and hair. He
enjoyed crafting, but it was hot as the spirits’ hells, and the breeze quickly
cooled him off. The worst part of crafting was running back to Sabila
afterward, when he was already drenched with sweat. Fortunately, his
school was the closest one to the crafting center, so the run usually took
only a few minutes at the most.
Once he cooled off, he set off into the darkness, his feet pounding
lightly on the gravel road. It was a little more roundabout and added a
minute or two to his trip, but running through the fields in the darkness was
a good way to turn an ankle or worse. If he hurried, he could make it back
to the school before Meder and Burik returned from their extra training at
Sitjak…
His ithtu suddenly surged inside him, and a feeling of danger lanced
through him like a dagger. At almost the same moment, he slammed hard
into something solid but invisible, his face and forehead cracking into a
surface that felt harder than stone. His feet flew out from under him, and he
fell badly, crashing to the gravel on his back. His head smacked hard into
the ground, and for a moment, the world swam around him, his vision
dimmed at the edges, and everything went fuzzy and distant. He idly felt
something warm trickling down his face, but he couldn’t quite bring himself
to wonder what it was. His face ached, his nose throbbed painfully, and his
ithtu sang quietly and confusedly in his mind. His thoughts refused to
gather, and he couldn’t quite seem to understand what happened to him and
why he was lying there on the ground. He’d hit something, he thought, but
he hadn’t seen what it was.
He began to roll onto his stomach to scramble to his feet, but before he
could, something hard and unyielding pressed down on his chest, pinning
his back to the road. He struggled weakly against the unseen force holding
him down, then fell back onto his back, his confused mind unable to
process what was happening. As he stared blankly up at the sky, three dark
figures appeared above him, staring down at his prone form. Dark masks
covered their faces, shrouding their features, and in his bemused state, he
simply gazed at them, wondering what they were doing and why they were
dressed so strangely.
“Looks like you had a bad fall, half-breed,” a voice growled, its tone
muffled through the heavy cloth around the speaker’s mouth. “You should
watch where you’re going. It’s not safe to run at night. You could have an
accident.”
 “And you will have accidents,” another equally muffled voice added.
“Over and over. Your life’s going to be the spirits’ hells.”
Amarl frowned, trying to focus on those voices. Something about two
of them seemed familiar, but in his befuddled state, he couldn’t quite place
them. “Wh-what are you talking about?” he mumbled, his swollen lips
clumsy and numb.
“This,” one of the voices replied. Pain flared in Amarl’s side as
something hard cracked into his ribs, and he hissed and tried to curl up
around the blow. The force on his chest pressed on him, though holding
him firmly in place. “This is what’s going to happen to you, every chance
we get.” Another pain lanced through his side, and the confused song of his
ithtu suddenly began to sharpen and turn ominous, giving his body new
strength and burning away some of the fog in his brain.
He tried to sit up, struggling against the force holding him, but the
pressure increased, locking him down.
“Don’t struggle, half-breed,” one of the voices laughed. “This’ll go
easier on you if you just take it.” The figure lifted up a booted foot and
slammed it into his stomach. The air exploded from his lungs as pain shot
through him. He struggled to regain his breath, but the foot in his belly and
the force pressing on his chest kept him from sucking in a breath. His eyes
widened as his lungs began to struggle for air, and the song of his ithtu rose
swiftly in volume, burning away the last of the cloudiness in his thoughts.
Another blow that he now recognized as a booted foot slammed into his
side, and he would have groaned as his ribs creaked beneath the impact if
he had the air. He fought to break free of the force imprisoning him, but it
felt like a boulder holding him in place, immovable and invisible. More
blows slammed into his sides and legs, and another kick crashed into his
stomach, driving what little breath he had left from his lungs. His chest
burned, and as his vision began to darken again, the song of his ithtu roared
into his mind, banishing his pain and filling his limbs with power.
He ripped himself free of the force binding him and flung himself
sideways, rolling away from his attackers and springing to his feet. The
three stared at him in mute surprise, their bodies frozen in mid-attack for a
moment before recovering. They moved apart quickly, each dropping into a
different weaponless form as they spread out to surround him. Amarl
slipped into his Nameless Form with ease, his body relaxed and his
awareness spread out to encompass all three of his assailants.
The one on his left moved first, striking with a low kick at his leg. The
one on his right attacked an instant later with a pair of fist strikes, one at his
side and the other at his head, while the one in front held back, no doubt
waiting to see his reaction. Amarl slid backward, avoiding the kick,
dodging the punch at his stomach, and blocking the one aimed for his head.
The third person moved forward as he flowed back, their arms reaching as
they went for a grapple to lock him up, but he slipped past them, guiding
their rush into the other two.
The trio recovered, spreading out once more, then struck somewhat
more cautiously this time. Amarl fell into a defensive pattern as they
attacked with swift, low kicks, short punches, and flashing knees and
elbows. He let his instincts guide him, moving constantly as he flowed
around the attacks, trying to redirect them into one another. He blocked and
dodged, shifted and slid around, staying the barest step ahead of their
strikes…
Pain flared in his back as a kick crashed into him, knocking him
forward and jarring him from his rhythm. The blow sent him staggering
into the arms of the grappler, who quickly snatched his shirt and twisted,
rolling him over their hips and flinging him toward the road. He relaxed
and rolled with the impact, levering his arms and knees up to tear himself
free of the person, then rolled clear. He rose to his feet, but the three were
on him instantly, and even through the song of his ithtu, he felt a flutter of
fear in his stomach.
His attackers were good. They were skilled, confident, and had
obviously trained in fighting together. Two had hard, striking styles, and
they used those to guide him toward the grappler. They struck high and low
in seemingly random patterns, forcing him to focus entirely on defense, and
they worked to disrupt the flow of his form, keeping him from building to
the crescendo that might injure or cripple one of them. Despite his best
efforts, another blow slammed into him, this one a punch low to his side.
He moved around the blow, driving the attacker into one of their partners,
but they fell upon him swiftly again, and within moments, he stumbled back
as another blow crashed into one of his kidneys.
 The fear in his stomach slowly grew as the three drove him back,
landing blows on him again and again. He managed to keep those from
hitting anything vital or crippling, but he knew the impacts were adding up,
weakening his body and slowing him. He tore free of another grapple,
taking a knee to the side in the process, then slipped past a punch aimed at
his skull only to take a kick to the back of his thigh. The song of his ithtu
rang in his mind, banishing his pain, strengthening his muscles, and
restoring his stamina, but it simply couldn’t compensate for being
outnumbered by opponents with vastly more skill and experience.
Desperately, he reached for that power, embracing it and trying to draw
more of it into his body, and it roared within him, blotting out his fear and
granting him new strength.
His body moved like water, flowing faster and more gracefully than it
had before, but still, all he could do was stay ahead of their attacks. He
guided them into one another, slipped past their blows, and flowed between
them, but he couldn’t build up the momentum to strike back. He fell deeper
into his ithtu’s song, letting it wrap around him, touching it with his mind
and holding it in his thoughts. He could feel it yearning for him, begging to
be unleashed, to vanquish his enemies, and he let it, allowing it to wash
through and over him completely.
The power roared through his body, but instead of racing along his
muscles, it surged up into his mind and flowed like fire down his nerves.
His body burned with the power that suffused him, and he embraced that
pain. Instead of strength or speed, he felt new confidence rush through him,
driving away his fear. He settled into his stance, and as he did, he realized
that it felt utterly perfect, as if a hundred tiny flaws he’d never even noticed
suddenly vanished. His attackers spread out around him, but this time, he
was ready for him.
The first of them struck, but Amarl was already moving. He slipped the
kick as if he’d known it was coming, blocked the two fast punches at his
head, tangling his opponent’s arms up in the process. His own fist snapped
out, cracking into the side of their head, and they cried out and fell back as
the blow knocked their skull backward. Amarl ignored them; he could feel
the one behind him striking, and he glided easily past their quick jab. He
caught the rising knee aimed at his side and lifted, sweeping their standing
leg and hurling them to the ground. He twisted as the last one lunged at
him, trying to grapple him. Instead, he slipped past their attack, grabbing
their wrist and twisting to lock their arm straight. His other hand grabbed
their elbow and pressed downward, shoving their body toward the road.
They crashed hard, and he increased the pressure, intending to snap their
elbow, but before he could, pain flared in his hand as the wrist he gripped
exploded into flames. He swore and let go as the flames spread up their
arms, but he snapped a quick kick out that cracked into the side of their
head, and the flames winked out as their skull lolled bonelessly for a
moment.
He turned toward the person he’d thrown, but as he moved toward
them, his fist struck another invisible barrier that pushed back at him. He
slashed at it with a hand, shattering it, but another swept up and cracked
against his head, staggering him slightly. He ducked around a kick aimed at
his back, grabbing the outstretched leg and slamming his elbow into the
muscle. The attacker screamed as the point of his elbow struck the nerve
running down the back of the leg. He twisted back toward the last attacker,
but they were backing away, and as he moved toward them, another barrier
slammed into his chest, driving him back for a moment before he shattered
it with a blow. He spun to watch the others, but they were quickly
disengaging as well. The one he’d kicked swayed a bit drunkenly, while the
other dragged their wounded leg slightly.
“This—this isn’t over, half-breed!” that one shouted. “Watch your
back!” Amarl simply stared at them as they backed away, watching as the
three disappeared into the darkness.
The moment they were out of sight, the song of his ithtu faded to a
murmur, and he dropped to one knee as exhaustion and pain crashed into
him in a wave. His vision tunneled again, but he focused on his breathing,
pushing past the pain the way Ranakar had taught him. His face throbbed;
his nose and lips felt swollen, and breathing through his nose was difficult.
His sides, chest, and back ached from the blows he’d taken, his legs were
weak and wobbly beneath him, and his head spun dizzily. He knelt for a
few minutes, just breathing and touching his ithtu, letting his body adapt to
the pain. Finally, he rose to his feet, freezing for a moment as the world
spun around him with the sudden movement. He waited for everything to
settle, then began walking toward his dormitory. Running was out of the
question, but he couldn’t simply collapse in the middle of the road, either.
 Thirty minutes of painful walking later, he pushed open the door to his
room and staggered inside. His body throbbed like a sore tooth; his head
spun and swam; his legs barely carried him as he stumbled inside. His
friends had made it back before him after all, it appeared. As he entered,
Meder turned from where she sat at her desk and gave him an amused look
that quickly faded to horror.
“You’re late, Amarl! Let me guess, they finally caught you stealing
some of the…” Her voice fell off as her eyes widened, and she leaped from
her bed. “Burik!” The larger boy’s head snapped around from where he sat
at his own desk, reading something, and his chair crashed to the floor as he
sprang to Amarl’s side.
“What the hells?” the boy half-roared, his face angry. “Amarl!”
Amarl winced at the bellow. “Not so loud, Burik,” he muttered through
swollen lips. “My head’s killing me.”
“By the gods, Amarl, what happened?” Meder gasped. “You’re covered
in blood! You need to get to the infirmary!”
“No,” he said, giving his head a minor shake that made his headache
spike. “Nothing’s broken. Just bruised—and that’ll be fine in the
morning.” He let the pair grab his arms and guide him toward his bed,
which he sat down on with a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”
“What happened, Amarl?” Meder asked again, her voice sounding
worried.
“Got jumped. Three older students. At least two with quickened
abilities.”
“They used them on you?” Meder gasped.
“Yeah.” Amarl quickly summarized what had happened, and as he
spoke, Meder’s eyes widened.
“I can’t believe that they’d ambush you like that,” she breathed.
“I can,” Burik shrugged. “Andra warned us about it, after all. She said
that once we’ve quickened our abilities, some of the restrictions on older
students using theirs get ignored.” He gestured at Amarl. “I’ll bet this is
one of them.”
“They ambushed him and beat him, Burik!”
 “But they didn’t break anything, and no one got hurt beyond what their
ithtu can heal.” He shrugged again. “I’ll bet if you reported it, the awals
would ignore it.” He examined Amarl’s face critically. “You still might
want to go to the infirmary, though, just in case your nose is broken. If that
heals wrong, your whole face will look weird.” He grinned. “Well,
weirder.”
“You’re one to talk. Do you even have a neck, or is your head just
attached directly to your shoulders?” Amarl snorted, then winced as pain
shot down his face. “You might be right about my nose, though.”
“Come on, Amarl. We’ll take you,” Meder said, pulling him back to his
feet. He groaned but let the pair lead him out of the room.
“So, did you quicken another ability?” Burik asked as they trudged
slowly along the road toward the Citadel.
“What?” Amarl asked.
“A new ability. From what you said, it sounds like your ithtu did
something different than just making you stronger this time. Did you get an
ability out of it?”
Amarl pulled up his ability and ithtu screens and examined them
carefully.
 “Nope, no new ability,” he sighed, closing his screen. “I did use up a
Strong crystal, though—and I think my Soul stat went up again.”
“Again?” Meder asked in an exasperated tone.
“Yeah.” He checked his status screen to confirm, then nodded gently.
“Yep. It went from nine-eight to nine-nine. Plus, my ability quickened a
little bit more, to twenty-three-five.”
“Of course, it did,” Meder sighed. “You gained, what? Twelve points
to your ability in a day?”
“And all I had to do was let three older students beat the shit out of
me,” Amarl said irritably. “We can probably arrange something like that for
you, if you think it’ll help, but I seriously don’t recommend it.”
“Plus, you have to consider that it’s twenty-three out of what, exactly?”
Burik chuckled.
“720,” Amarl grunted.
“There you go. Amarl needs 720 units to get to the next level—which I
guess might wake his ability up more. Mine needs six. Yours, Meder?”
“Thirty-three,” the girl admitted.
“So, we’ll probably have our abilities both quickened and leveled up
quite a bit before Amarl even fully awakens his.” The boy grinned at
Amarl. “Unless you want us to do like you offered for Meder and arrange
for someone to beat you every day. I’m sure it’d be even easier to find
people willing to do it to you. How long would it take him to get to 720
that way, Meder?”
“About two moons—assuming he lived.” She sighed. “Sorry, Amarl. I
wasn’t thinking.” She gave him a weak smile. “Come on. Let’s get you to
the infirmary before that face ends up looking even worse than it does
naturally.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 20
As Burik predicted, when Amarl staggered into the infirmary, the
response wasn’t quite what he might have expected. The nadar who
received him examined him and pronounced that he had a broken nose,
cracked rib, and a minor concussion. A bit of healing cured all three
quickly enough. The white-robed man took down Amarl’s report but didn’t
seem too concerned about it, and after looking around, Amarl understood
why.
The infirmary wasn’t exactly empty, and most everyone in it looked to
be in a lot worse shape than Amarl had been. A girl a few beds over had her
entire right leg splinted up, and her breathing sounded hoarse and
wheezing. A boy a couple rows down had blisters and burns over much of
his face, leaving him hairless and obviously in pain, and another boy behind
Amarl looked like someone had run his hand through a butcher’s sausage
grinder. Compared to them, Amarl’s injuries seemed pretty minor and
probably would have healed just fine on their own in a few days at most.
When Amarl stopped the nadar to ask what had happened to them all, the
man replied with a single word.
“Halit.”
“Wait, I thought the training weapons can’t hurt us!” Amarl protested
weakly.
“Under normal circumstances? They can’t.” The man pointed to the
boy with the mangled hand. “Of course, a hammer wielded by someone
with a Tier B strength ability crushing your hand isn’t normal, is it? Neither
is having a Tier C flame ability hit you in the face without shielding.” The
man shook his head. “No amount of sahrotik can help with something like
that.”
Amarl slept terribly as usual in the infirmary, and while he felt much
better in the morning physically, his body and mind were exhausted.
Ranakar, as usual, didn’t seem to care.
“You fought an umbravore last night,” the awal said without preamble
after Amarl finished his usual exercise regimen. “And you won, but only
because your friend managed to dispel the umbral cloud, which she was
lucky to do.” He leaned forward. “What do I say about luck, Novice?”
“An ithtar who relies on luck is a dead ithtar,” Amarl repeated tiredly.
“Precisely. Had she not been there, it’s still possible that you’d have
won that battle, but it would have been in much greater doubt. Do you
know why?”
Amarl frowned. The answer was obvious, but obvious answers to
Ranakar’s questions were usually wrong. Still, he had to try it at least.
“Because I couldn’t see it.”
“No, because you didn’t know how to ignore your lack of vision,” the
old man said with a shake of his head. “Blinding a foe is a common trick,
Amarl. Smoke, acid, alchemical substances—even a handful of dirt or sand
tossed into an opponent’s face can turn the tide of a battle. Nalu—and
hizeens—rely heavily on their sight to function, and without it, most are
close to helpless.” He gave Amarl a thin smile. “Needless to say, ithtaru
aren’t most nalu.”
The man produced a strip of heavy black cloth and held it out to Amarl.
“Take this and cover your eyes with it. Make sure that you can’t see
anything.” Amarl took the strip of cloth and bound it around his face,
spreading it out until it blotted out all light. Swirling, gray shapes still hung
in his vision, along with phantasmal shapes that looked like the room
around him but he had a feeling were totally in his head.
“Now, stand up,” the awal ordered. Amarl dutifully rose to his feet,
swaying slightly as his balance wavered. Ranakar chuckled at his
imbalance. “You’ve just learned the first fact about sight, Amarl. We use it
for more than just staring at pretty girls and reading. It helps us maintain
our balance, as well. Try to stand on one foot.”
Amarl lifted a foot, then slammed it back down as his balance shifted
wildly, and he felt himself falling. Ranakar’s chuckle turned into a full
laugh. “You see? We’ve learned to rely on our vision for a great deal—too
much, really. You’re going to have to unlearn most of that and learn
another way.”
The man moved with the sound of rustling clothing. “Tell me what I
just did, Amarl.”
 “You moved,” the boy replied.
“How did I move? Where to? Can you point to me now?” Amarl
pointed toward the sound of the man’s voice, and the awal snorted. “Good.
When you lose your sight, hearing becomes your most important sense.
Like sight, it works over distances, and like sight, you can use it to home in
on someone direction.”
Ranakar shifted again. “Now, take a deep breath. Tell me what you
smell.”
Amarl breathed in, but all he could smell was the musky scent of the
old man and the stench of his own sweat. “Sweat,” he said with a grimace.
“Try harder. Focus on your senses.” The old man chuckled again.
“Our senses tell us more than we know—or choose to know. You simply
need to learn to pay attention to what they’re telling you.”
Amarl breathed in again, focusing more on the scents in his nose, and
paused as he scented something familiar, a smell of oil that he recognized.
“Oiled metal,” he said. “You drew a blade.”
“Excellent. Yes, while smell isn’t very good at helping you locate a foe
—at least, not unless your Mind and Skill stats are very high, at least nine
or ten—it can tell you more about your area than what you hear. The smell
of blood can help you find wounded prey. The scent of metal can warn you
of an ambush. With enough practice, you can smell fear, or anxiety, or even
anger.” The man rustled again, and Amarl felt something brush lightly past
his sleeve.
“Touch. Another very important sense, and one that’s misunderstood.
Most people think that you can’t feel someone unless they contact you, but
they’re wrong. You can feel the air moving as they pass. You can feel their
breath on you. With enough practice, and high enough stats, you can even
sense the heat of their body…”
Amarl spent the next hour learning how to focus on his senses, not that
he thought he learned much. He still couldn’t balance on one foot or move
smoothly without sight. He couldn’t track Ranakar by sound well enough
to touch him with a wooden staff. He couldn’t feel the awal’s approach
until he was close enough that if he’d wanted Amarl dead, the boy would
have been. At the end, Amarl sat in meditation, still blindfolded, doing his
best to reach out to the world around him.
“I want you to practice like this at least an hour every other day, outside
of my training,” the awal told him. “These skills aren’t just good for
fighting while blind. Training your senses helps you pay attention to the
world around you. It can help you sense things that your eyes pass over,
like hidden creatures or ambushes—or a sniper with a rifle twenty reaches
distant aiming for your head. Paying attention to their senses has saved as
many ithtaru lives as weapons training over the years.”
Ranakar’s training wasn’t physically demanding, but it took a ton of
concentration and emotional energy. Amarl had to fight not to fall asleep
during Realm Lore, where Gehatina was discussing the ways that the
assilians used the energy-draining crystals to protect their hives, something
he already knew about. He suffered through ability training, this time being
locked in an iron coffin placed over a bed of coals so that it slowly heated
until his ithtu finally responded and let him break the lock sealing it shut,
then just managed to make it through Skills training before he stumbled into
his bed and passed out hard.
The rest of the week slipped past without major incident, at least until
Nashio, the final day of classes for the week. As they finished morning
weapons training, Malim Wurynath called them together with Herel, Hadur,
and Norag.
“Tonight, after evening meal, all of you will report to Halit,” the malim
told the group. “No exceptions. If you have disciplinary duties or
additional training, those will be held for a day.”
“Extra training,” Meder groaned as the three ran back to the Citadel for
lunch. “And we have to be up before dawn tomorrow!”
“A good ithtar works past nightfall and is up before dawn every day,”
Amarl said pompously. “In fact, a true ithtar wakes up an hour before they
go to sleep, so their day is an hour longer than everyone else’s.”
“That sounds about right,” Meder laughed. “What do you think we’ll
be doing?”
“Probably getting introduced to sparring at Halit,” Burik shrugged.
“We aren’t supposed to have done it before, remember?”
 “True. Do you think they’ll require us to do it this year?”
“Absolutely. I’m surprised they waited this long, to be honest.”
The novices finished their final skill training session of the week—
Amarl wasn’t really having any difficulty with the diplomacy and etiquette
training, he just found it boring—grabbed their evening meal, and wearily
ran back to Halit with Herel, Hadur, and Norag running just as tiredly
behind them.
They found Wurynath waiting for them outside the main building when
they arrived. When the six gathered around, the man lifted his voice to
speak.
“Normally, I would welcome you all to Halit, but I understand you all
had some experience here last year.” His eyes fastened on Herel and turned
hard. “An experience that we will never repeat, correct, Novice?”
Herel swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said quickly. Amarl
carefully didn’t glance at the boy; last year, Herel had almost killed Amarl
by cheating in a duel between the two of them. According to the Rashiv,
the noble boy had been forced to do it by someone else using some sort of
binding—which was why Herel was still at Askula and not a headless
corpse sitting at the bottom of the Deeps—but the hizeen didn’t think that
fact was common knowledge. Herel would be haunted by that act enough,
and while Amarl didn’t exactly feel bad for the noble, he didn’t see any
point in making things worse.
“Good. Then let me instead welcome you to sparring training. Nashio
evening is reserved for the second-year novices and is a time when you can
spar with those who are closer to being your peers without worrying about
older students with more developed abilities beating the shit out of you. Of
course, you’re welcome to spend your Akio afternoons here, as well, but
know that third-years in particular enjoy seeing second-years show up to
Halit.” He eyed Burik. “Especially large, muscular ones who think their
training can overcome an awakened ability. Let me assure you: in nine out
of ten cases, it can’t.”
The man’s gaze swept over the group. “The rules of Halit are simple.
All matches are to first blood or inability to continue, whichever happens
first. Ability use is allowed and even encouraged. Beyond those two hard
rules, everything else is negotiable: sahr usage, special terrain, or parity of
weapons. Typically, the challenged gets to choose the terrain or limits on
sahr. Everything else must be decided by both parties.” He eyed Meder,
who nodded without saying a word. “Each match has an advanced student
acting as referee, and combatants must obey their commands explicitly.
The match ends when the referee calls it, not before, and the referee’s
decision is final. Arguing will get you kicked out of Halit for the day and
disciplinary duty.”
He began walking inside the main building, an open, doorless space. To
one side, some third-years stood behind a counter, where students could
check out weapons and armor. To the other, a podium stood, where usually
an older student would wait to assign anyone wishing to fight a ring. That
podium was empty, but the counter wasn’t.
“Everyone, get a weapon and armor,” the malim instructed. “Use the
same armor measurements you do for Sitjak. Then meet me outside.”
Amarl trudged over to the counter and grabbed a moon axe and armor,
then grudgingly strapped it on. He’d gotten better at that over the past two
weeks, but it still didn’t feel comfortable on him, and he wondered if it ever
would. Once he was done, he joined the others outside. When the last of
them arrived—Hadur, as usual—the instructor stopped them and pointed to
a large, slate board fastened to the back of the building, extending for its
entire length, with hunks of chalk on strings dangling from it. Gold
numbers ranging from two to five had been painted above the board, and
the last time Amarl had seen it, names filled the board almost entirely.
Tonight, it was empty.
Amarl had been to Halit once before. It was a wide, flat pocket valley
filled with dueling rings where students could fight one-on-one to first
blood—at least, that was what he’d seen during his visit last time. Then, it
was full of students of all ages who’d chosen to spend their Akio fighting
and training rather than eating, drinking, and spending money. It was loud,
chaotic, and a little overwhelming. This time, the valley was a lot emptier,
holding only a couple dozen students all dressed in the green of Sabila
School. Despite the much smaller number of students, though, if anything,
things were more confusing and intimidating as abilities raged, seemingly
barely in their wielders’ control. More than one scream ringing in the air
held a cry of pain rather than excitement, and he swallowed hard as he
realized that in a few minutes, he might be the one getting cooked,
electrocuted, or flung bodily from the arena. True, Wurynath was there, but
Amarl doubted the man would do much more than make sure that no one
died in a battle.
“This is the entrant board,” the man proclaimed loudly. “Usually, if you
want to participate in sparring, you write your name and ability on that
board below the number of your year. Once you’ve done so, any student
who is no more than one year ahead of you can challenge you to a match.
If you refuse, your name is taken off the board, and you aren’t allowed to
fight that day.” He swept his gaze over the students. “Some of you might
be wondering why that matters. Why does being taken off the list hurt
you?”
Amarl stopped himself from nodding; he had been wondering that.
Granted, the sparring was probably good training, but they did that most
days in Sitjak already. There seemed to be little point to entering Halit
except for the thrill of fighting—and Amarl didn’t really get a kick out of
having his ass beaten.
“First, the training value. This is one of the few places where you can
use your abilities freely and any weapon or armor you wish. You can fight
in different environments; we have circles that emulate most standard
terrain types, from water to desert to mountaintops to ice and snow. You
won’t find better combat training until your hunts take you into truly
dangerous realms in your fourth year.
“Second, pride,” he continued. “These matches are recorded, and you
are assigned a rank in your class based on your wins and losses here in
Halit. In second year, the highest-ranking students are typically the ones
who’ve unlocked their ability and begun to control it, of course, but skill,
cunning, and tactics can overcome raw power in many cases—at least, early
on when students are learning about their ability. None of you are likely to
be in the top five of your class yet, but you might be in the top ten, and
you’ll find that ranking has practical benefits…” He grinned slightly.
“Such as convincing third-years that bothering you is more trouble than it’s
worth.
“Third, Challenge Week.” He fixed everyone with a grave expression.
“The week before Naming Day. Each year, all the students who’ve never
faced it will fight students from the higher years, ones with their ability
fully unlocked and at least partially mastered. You will be fighting that
week; there’s no way around it. Every battle you fight between now and
then is preparation for what you’ll be facing.
“Finally, the simple fact is that while we don’t explicitly require
students to participate in Halit, it is implicitly mandatory.” His gaze
hardened as he spoke. “Advancement to the next year is not a given in
Askula; it has to be earned. As you know, each year concludes with a trial
of some sort to test your suitability to continue into the next year. However,
beginning in second year, you also have to have a certain number of points
accumulated to move forward. Failure results in expulsion—and you’ve all
seen what that means.”
Amarl did nod that time. They’d watched last year as Yashi, a third-
year whom Herel had paid to help him try to kill Amarl, was publicly
beheaded. Expulsion meant death; there were no failed ithtaru.
“You gain points in different ways,” the man continued. “Your
instructors award them to you every three moons based on your
performance to that point in their class. You can earn them from hunts
based on your team’s contributions and performance. You earn them every
three moons based on your rank in Sitjak.” He smiled, but the expression
held no humor or warmth in it.
“You need a total of 200 points to advance at the end of this year, and
that number grows every year. You can earn up to 180 from teachers, forty
from Sitjak, and sixty from hunting, so it’s possible to earn advancement to
third year simply by being exceptional, but that’s obviously rare. Most
students earn between 140 and 150 points combined from those sources—
quite a bit less than what you need.
“Fortunately, you can make up the difference here,” he finished.
“Every match you win against someone the same year as you is worth one
point; defeating someone of a higher year or with a higher-tiered ability is
worth two points. That means that you’ll likely need at least thirty to fifty
victories in Halit to advance this year.”
Meder slowly raised her hand, and the malim inclined his chin toward
her. “Sir,” she said hesitantly, “doesn’t that mean that the worst fighter in
the class—is expelled each year?”
 “It might, yes,” he replied evenly. “And that’s deliberate, Novice. The
simple fact is that an ithtar must be an elite warrior. The dangers we face
won’t allow us to be anything less. A student who doesn’t meet that
standard is a danger to themselves and everyone around them.”
He smiled again and shrugged. “However, it’s rarely that simple.
Abilities make a huge difference, and a powerful ability can offset a lack of
talent to some extent. Plus, some abilities are simply more or less effective
against other ones. Someone with a body strengthening ability will often
lose to someone with a speed-based ability, but that one might lose to
someone with an elemental ability of some kind—and they, in turn, might
lose to the body strengthener who can ignore their attack. In many ways,
the nature of your ability—and how cleverly and skillfully you use it—will
matter as much or more than your actual fighting skill.”
Amarl nodded again; he’d seen that last year when he and his friends
observed the matches here before his duel with Herel. Skillful ability use
seemed to matter more than raw power, and he’d seen plenty of Tier A
students defeating Tier B and even Tier C students with cunning and good
tactics. He assumed there was a point where that stopped mattering and
raw power would win out, but hopefully, he wouldn’t be facing anyone like
that anytime soon.
“Today, things will run differently than normal,” the malim said, turning
and leading the students toward the fighting once again. “All second-year
matches are assigned, not chosen or selected randomly. You’ll be placed
against someone that I or the nadars feel will be a good match for you. This
will continue until we feel that you’re prepared to handle any reasonable
challenge, a matter that is our discretion alone.”
He led the group up to a white-garbed nadar. “This is Nadar Segetis,”
he informed them. “He’s in charge of pairing students without unlocked
abilities. He’ll assign you your matches. Do you have any questions?”
None of the students spoke, and the man nodded. “Good. Then fight well,
and remember that whether you win or lose, there’s something to learn from
each match.” He grinned. “Of course, it’s always better to win than to lose,
as well.”
The man turned and walked away, and the novices all shifted to face
Segetis. The nadar was tall, about as tall as Burik, but leaner, with a long
face marked with several white scars. His skin was dark, almost the color
of kafee, and his eyes were deeply sunken. He looked at a wooden board
held in his hand for several seconds in silence, making notes on it with a
pencil before he looked up at the novices.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said in a deep voice. “I’ve already arranged
your fights for today based on your reported stats and skill levels. Most of
your fights will be against other second-years without an unlocked ability;
however, you will be fighting at least once against a fully unlocked student.
Before any of you say it, no, this isn’t fair. Yes, you will almost certainly
lose. Failure and defeat are good teachers, and you’ll experience both of
them many times in the next several years. Learn to deal with it.” His dark
eyes scanned the students almost aggressively as if challenging them to
speak, but no one said a word. Amarl guessed that like him, they’d all
learned last year that very little at Askula was going to be fair.
“No bitching? Good. Let’s begin.” He glanced down at his sheet.
“Amarl, you’re against Lared, ring fourteen.” He pointed toward one of the
circles behind him. “Burik, you’re fighting Socor in ring eighteen…”
Amarl had seen Lared before; she was one of the second-years in the
group just ahead of his, and he’d spoken to her briefly a few times. The girl
stood about as tall as Amarl but was much more muscular than the boy, with
heavy shoulders and solid legs. When he arrived at the ring, he found her
easily, standing to one side watching the current match with a heavy spiked
hammer resting on her shoulder. Like Burik, the girl had chosen to wear
the basic armor provided by the armory, making her already impressive
frame look even more intimidating. As he approached her, she flashed him
a wide grin.
“Hizeen!” she said merrily, reaching out and smacking him on the
shoulder with a gauntleted hand. “So, it’s you and me next!”
“That’s what they told me, Lared,” he smiled at her, his voice sardonic
as he spoke. “I can’t wait.”
“I’m actually kind of excited to do this,” she laughed. “I’ve heard
you’re pretty good, and I’m the best in my group, at least at fighting.”
“Have you unlocked your ability yet?” he asked casually.
 “No, but I’m getting there. It’s going to be a body strengthening one,
I’m pretty sure.” She shrugged. “I’m already pretty strong, but I wouldn’t
mind getting stronger.”
“I don’t know too many people who would,” he pointed out.
“Probably true, although a lot of them just want to get there without
putting in the work.” She grimaced. “That asshole Feneh in my group’s
like that. Noble son of a bitch, thinks he can just do the bare minimum to
get by.” She spat on the ground. “And he might be right; he’s got a Tier C
ability of some kind.”
“So do other people who are willing to work hard,” Amarl shrugged,
thinking of Meder. “And tier isn’t everything. Maybe after he gets his ass
handed to him a few dozen times, he’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe.” She grinned. “That’ll be fun to watch, if nothing else.”
When the ongoing match ended, Amarl and Lared walked into the
circle, moving to a pair of wooden slats nailed to the ground about two
reached from one another. An older student in yellow clothing with a
number 5 on the shirt stepped between then and explained the rules—they
would fight to first blood, no sahr use, and to obey her commands—then
stepped back and started the fight.
Lared hefted her hammer and charged in swinging. She kept control of
the weapon, holding it high on the haft with one hand so that she could stop
and reverse it quickly, which meant she knew how to fight with the thing.
Of course, he knew that already, but he’d hoped that she’d overextend on
her first attack and hand him an easy victory. He should have known better;
nothing about Askula was easy.
Amarl dodged the heavy weapon and spun his moon axe, watching the
girl warily. She recovered swiftly and shoved the spiked end of the weapon
at him, then kicked low to try and sweep one of his feet. He slapped her
thrust aside with his axe and slipped his foot past her kick, then dodged as
she swept the spike on the back of the hammer at the side of his knee.
He fought defensively for a few seconds, getting a feel for her style.
She was good, no doubt about it. After the first massive blow, she kept her
strikes small and controlled, relying on her strength and the weight of her
spiked hammer to drive Amarl backward and control the fight. He couldn’t
directly block her blows and had to dodge or slide them, and she used that
fact to keep him on the defensive and always moving away from her.
Unfortunately for her, As skilled as she was, Amarl was used to fighting
apeople like Burik and Ranakar, either of whom could probably take the girl
even if they were unarmed and she wasn’t. Compared to them, Lared really
wasn’t much of a challenge.
She feinted a thrust toward his midsection, then brought her weapon
sharply upward, trying to crack him on the chin. He smacked the weapon
aside and stepped in, cutting at her leg with the axe blades. She quickly
withdrew her leg to avoid the blow, but in that moment, the initiative
shifted. The crescent blades slashed at her face, and she batted them aside,
ducking low, then reeled back as the rear spike stabbed at her face. She
struggled to keep up with his strikes, her heavy weapon simply not as easy
to move around. His blades clashed against her armor three times in a row
before he ducked low and brought the axes around in a wide arc that
slashed into the back of her knee. The heavy blades sliced through the
chain links protecting her joint and cut through the leather beneath,
stopping only when they touched her skin.
“Hold!” the fifth-year called out, and they both stepped back. Amarl
expected the girl to be upset, but to his surprise, a grin spread across her
face. “Disabling cut to the knee. Amarl wins.”
The pair bowed to one another, and as they left the ring, Lared reached
over and draped her arm across his shoulders. “Nicely done!” she said
happily.
“Thanks,” he smiled at her. “I thought you might be a little more upset
about me winning, to be honest.”
She scoffed and waved a hand at him dismissively. “That would be
stupid,” she said. “You won fairly. I’ve got no cause to complain.” She
grinned again. “Besides, I could learn a lot sparring with you. You’re fast,
and you’re good with that weird axe thing of yours. I need to fight more
people that are better than me if I want to keep getting better, too.”
“That’s probably true,” he agreed. “That’s what I do: I fight Burik a
lot. He’s better than I am.”
“Really?” she said, taking her hand off his shoulder and tapping her
lower lip speculatively. “He’s pretty strong-looking, too. He’s military,
right?”
“Yep. Mom’s some famous officer up in Tennshin, I guess. The most
important of them all, from what I heard.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait, you don’t mean First Staff Alowenatera, do
you?” she asked, her voice slightly awed. “The First Staff of the North?”
“I think that’s her name, yeah,” he laughed. “You know her, then?”
“Of course, I do! Everyone in the shalai caste knows of her!”
“Well, he did say she was pretty famous.”
“Famous? She’s a fucking legend! And he’s her son…” Her eyes went
distant. “Think he’d spar with me?” she asked after a few moments.
“I don’t know why not,” Amarl shrugged. “He’s usually up to sparring
with anyone who’s interested. The three of us usually hit Sitjak in the
evenings to train after classes. You could join us there sometime if you’d
like.”
“Oh, fuck yeah. Training with the First Staff’s kid…” Her eyes
gleamed brightly. “He’s not bad looking, either!”
“Come on. I’ll introduce you.” Amarl led the girl through the crowd
with a smile on his face. The night promised to be moderately stressful for
all of them. Making it even worse for Burik was the least he could do.
What else were friends for, after all?

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 21
Amarl left Lared with the somewhat stunned Burik, who seemed
overwhelmed by the girl’s barrage of questions about his mother, his life
growing up, and the training she’d put him through. The larger boy flashed
Amarl a look that was half spiteful and half amused, and the hizeen replied
with his best shit-eating grin before wandering back to Segetis for his next
assignment.
To his surprise, he wasn’t set to fight again immediately. Instead, he
waited thirty minutes for his next bout, this time with a girl named Badel
who’d started six moons before him. Most of the rest of her group were
either quickening their abilities or on the verge of doing so, but she
apparently had a Tier C ability that probably wouldn’t quicken until later in
the year. She was fast and strong, and she used a chain flail that was almost
as quick as his moon axe. She wasn’t terrifically skilled at it yet, though,
and he quickly entangled the chain with one of his crescent blades, swept
her back foot with the axe blades of his moon axe, and ended the match
with a spearpoint to her throat. She didn’t take the loss as well as Lared
had, refusing the hand he offered to help her up and glaring at him viciously
for the rest of the evening.
“Amarl!” Segetis’ voice rose above the continued clamor as the hizeen
drew near to the nadar for his next match. “You’re facing Rotet, over in
ring four!” Amarl simply nodded and head to his assigned ring.
Rotet was one of the older second-years, nine moons ahead of Amarl
and close to moving up to third year. He had a wide face with plump
cheeks, but that roundness didn’t carry down to his stocky, muscular body.
His bald head gleamed in the rising moonlight, and he carried a long, three-
bladed spear by his side. As Amarl approached, he inclined his head and
gave the hizeen a lazy half-smile.
“Amarl,” he said in a voice that was far more elegant than his
appearance suggested. He straightened. “I don’t think we’ve ever been
properly introduced. Rotet, once of Sanjor, now—well, hopefully of Askula
one day.”
“Amarl, formerly of Tem in the province of Aggath,” Amarl replied
with a smile. “Sanjor, huh? That’s just south of the Crystal Palace, isn’t it?
Were you one of the zahai?”
“I’m afraid not,” the boy replied easily. “Tagarai. My mother owns one
of the larger trading concerns in the southern Empire. She does business
with the nobility regularly, though.”
“Sounds like she’s important,” Amarl noted.
“She’s tagarai, the merchant caste, one step above a simple laborer.
She’s valuable, not important—a statement that describes the entire caste, in
a way.” His voice was faintly bitter as he spoke. “Never mind that without
us, the entire Empire would grind to a halt...” He stopped and took a deep
breath. “Ah, but that was my former life, and no concern to you, I’m sure.”
He forced a smile on his face. “I’ve watched your previous matches.
You’re quite good.”
Amarl also smiled, allowing the boy to change the subject. He’d heard
the same complaint from merchants his entire life, and while Rotet seemed
a little more bitter than most, his feelings weren’t really all that surprising.
Merchants were considered a necessary evil in the Empire, something to be
tolerated but not admired, and they were assigned one of the lowest castes
as a result. They were seen as greedy and grasping and were typically
viewed with caution if not outright mistrust—meaning their complaint was
something that he more than anyone could certainly understand.
“Thanks,” he nodded. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to see you fight
before. I assume you have your ability unlocked?”
“I do,” the boy nodded.
“Any chance you’ll tell me what it is?”
Rotet chuckled and shook his head. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He
pointed with his halberd toward the ring. “I believe we’re up.”
Amarl followed the older boy into the ring and took his place, his heart
hammering in his chest. He concentrated on the boy and understanding
him, but the sea-green box that appeared wasn’t particularly helpful.
 He silently promised himself to learn the damn ability naming system in
the book he’d been given as soon as possible so that his crystal’s Analysis
might be useful. He didn’t even know what tier Rotet’s ability was,
although he suspected it was either A or B. If it had been higher, it might
not have quickened yet.
The two boys listened to the rules and bowed to one another, and the
match began with a cry of, “Fight!” Amarl immediately moved into a
defensive stance, prepared to dodge if the boy showed super speed, the
ability to hurl fire, or something similar, but Rotet also took up a defensive
posture, his halberd low and his feet set wide. That made a certain amount
of sense since Rotet’s weapon gave him a reach advantage, and if Amarl
wanted to attack the older boy, he’d have to get inside the weapon’s reach
first. Unfortunately for Rotet, Amarl had spent the better part of a year
sparring against Burik’s halberd, and he wasn’t exactly inexperienced at
dealing with one.
He set his moon axe spinning and moved forward, darting to the side
and back to test the boy’s reactions. The spearpoint of the halberd followed
him, but Rotet himself remained stable, using his back hand to rotate the
weapon without shifting his balance or moving it unnecessarily. He knew
how to use the polearm, obviously, and he knew that Amarl’s only chance
was to draw him out of position and slip inside his guard. At least, so he
probably thought; Amarl was about to correct that mistake.
Rather than shifting sideways again, Amarl lunged forward, directly
toward the leveled halberd. The weapon slid toward him as Rotet thrust it,
using the spearpoint to try and drive the boy back. Amarl ducked low as his
moon axe spun upward, cracking into the haft of the halberd just behind the
downward-facing axe blade and knocking the weapon up and to the side.
Rotet reacted as Amarl expected, stabilizing the polearm and slashing
downward, but the smaller boy had already slipped sideways. His axe
smacked down on the top of the halberd, aiding Rotet’s strike and driving
the weapon toward the dirt. The boy corrected quickly, bringing the
weapon across in a horizontal slash to drive the rear spike into Amarl’s side,
but Amarl slid beneath it, pushing the weapon up and over him with a spin
of his axe. Rotet tried to retreat, but the extra momentum Amarl added to
the weapon caused him to overbalance, and he stumbled as he slipped
backward. Amarl used the misstep to slide forward, whipping his axe
outward toward the defenseless older boy…
And stumbled as the boy’s weapon seemed to fly up of its own accord
and smack his strike aside. The blow looked awkward, moving against
Rotet’s twisted body, but the unexpected nature of it caused Amarl to
overcommit himself. He quickly reset his footing and set his weapon
spinning once more, but in that moment, Rotet had recovered as well and
retreated to put Amarl back outside his weapon’s range.
Amarl frowned as he moved forward once more, this time darting
sideways and feinting back to draw the halberd out of line. Rotet’s weapon
moved to follow him, and Amarl grabbed it with his crescent blades,
jamming it into the ground and shoving the boy entirely out of position. He
lunged forward, sliding the spearpoint on the other end of his axe at the
boy’s chest, but to his shock, Rotet’s arm swept up with a wild swing and
knocked the thrust out of line, leaving Amarl off-balance once more and
allowing the older boy to recover.
Amarl moved in instantly, though, pressing forward as Rotet retreated.
He smacked aside a hasty thrust and ducked under a sideways cut toward
his shoulder. He shoved the boy’s weapon to the side and spun, sweeping a
low slash at Rotet’s leading ankle. Rotet seemed to almost stagger
backwards to avoid the blow, and Amarl pushed forward, stabbing with his
spearpoint at the boy’s side. The halberd’s haft dropped low to clumsily
knock that thrust aside, but Amarl was already moving into his next attack,
driving the boy backward and keeping him off-balance. The crescent
blades slashed at the boy’s head, but he stumbled out of the way of them;
the axes chopped at his midsection, but his halberd rushed sideways and
cracked into the moon axe, deflecting the blow and pushing Amarl
sideways in the same motion.
Amarl rolled with the blow and came to his feet to see Rotet grinning at
him. He set his jaw and moved forward once more, easily slipping inside
the boy’s guard and striking at him. Once again, his blows were clumsily
avoided or deflected, Rotet’s body seeming to move without his knowledge
to block his strikes or dodge around them. The boy staggered and
stumbled, jerked sideways as his weapon blocked in great sweeps that
should have left him critically unbalanced but somehow left him stable and
ready to fight once more, and eventually, Amarl was forced to disengage to
avoid the heavy blows.
Despite himself, Amarl felt a smile spread across his face as he realized
that he probably wasn’t going to land a blow on the older boy. He knew it
should have bothered him, but it didn’t; he didn’t really care if he won or
lost, after all, and he hadn’t expected this fight to be fair. Besides, it was a
good training exercise for him: the boy’s impenetrable defense meant he
could go all out on offense and not worry about hurting anyone, and Rotet’s
few attempts at offense hadn’t even come close to hitting Amarl. He
couldn’t win, but he doubted he’d lose either, so the best he could do was
just enjoy himself and see if the match would end in a draw, or if the nadars
would let them go until one of them was exhausted.
He moved forward, his axe spinning in his hands. He relaxed, no
longer worried about analyzing the boy’s movements or working out a
strategy. He suspected every tactic he could use would fail, so there wasn’t
any reason to overthink things. He simply pushed forward, letting his
weapon flow toward the older boy, knowing that his attacks would fail and
not really caring. The axe seemed to settle into his hands, becoming lighter
and more comfortable, and everything around him faded in his senses.
Nothing mattered beyond Rotet and him, his unrelenting offense and the
boy’s unbreakable defense. Everything else was shit to be ignored.
His body flowed as he unwittingly fell into his Nameless Form,
attacking with not only his axe but his feet, knees, and elbows. He glided
around Rotet’s few attacks and responded with a shower of his own. Every
strike was dodged or deflected; every blow failed to connect. It didn’t
matter; all that mattered was the attack. This was like sparring with
Ranakar without the danger; he could strike freely, never worrying about
his own safety and simply enjoying the battle.
His ithtu sang in his mind, and without thinking, he grabbed it, holding
it closely as he always did when fighting the awal. As Ranakar always had
him do, he guided five lines of it into his body, one to each limb and
another to his skull. The power that flowed down those lines was thicker
and more solid than normal, and it seemed to pulse and ebb with the rhythm
of his ithtu’s song. The energy spread into his body and mind, giving him
not only greater strength and speed but extra surety and confidence.
Grinning, he pushed forward, even his missed blows gathering
momentum as the tide of battle washed back and forth over the pair. He let
his mind go blank and focused only on the feel of the battle, riding the
rhythm of it, a rhythm that matched the song of his ithtu. The axe felt right
in his hands; his body moved fluidly and nimbly. His attacks pounded like
waves against the rocks of Rotet’s defense, washing against them
ceaselessly and searching for a tiny crack they could exploit, a gap in the
stones that they could flow through. The battle was perfect—he felt perfect,
cradled in his ithtu and lost in the joy of combat.
He felt the break in the defense, and his perfected form responded
before his mind even perceived it. His axe swept low, drawing a downward
block, then darted high, forcing Rotet to lift the halberd to parry. He rode
the impact of that parry and lunged, ducking low and slashing with the
crescent blades in a single motion. Rotet’s body twisted, trying to avoid the
blow, but Amarl was too close, moving too swiftly for him to avoid it. His
blades struck, and something resisted them, driving them back, but he
turned his body and completed the blow, pouring all his built-up momentum
into the attack. The barrier shattered, and his blades slid through his foe
like water flowing through a valley. He spun to his feet, exulting in the
song of his ithtu pounding triumphantly in his head, his weapon at the
ready…
Something grabbed him and yanked him backward, dragging him away
from his foe. He fought to free himself from what felt like bands of iron
that wrapped around his body, entwining his limbs and chest and holding
him in place. His ithtu raged within him, and he lifted his weapon to cut
himself free, but before he could, something tore his weapon from his
hands, and a heavy blow slammed into the side of his face. The world spun
around him, and his vision tunneled as his head snapped painfully
sideways. His ithtu raged, demanding that he strike back, but before he
could, a long, lean face appeared in his vision, and a grip of steel clamped
onto his jaw, forcing him to look into a pair of deeply sunken eyes.
 “Amarl!” a deep voice bellowed, the sound barely audible over the
sound of his ithtu. “Snap out of it! Now!”
He blinked in surprise as he recognized the face, and his ithtu faltered
as the battle fury in him ebbed and faded. His face and ear throbbed
painfully, and the fingers gripping him dug into his cheeks, sending a
dagger of agony spearing through his left jaw. As his muscles relaxed, so
did the fingers gripping him. He felt himself pushed backward, and he fell
heavily onto his ass, too confused to roll with the impact. The pain in his
face pounded in his ear and temple, and his jaw screamed when he tried to
move it.
Segetis watched him for a second, then turned away from him. “How is
he?”
“He’ll be fine, sir,” the voice of the fifth-year overseeing the fight
replied. “He cut the muscle but missed the intestines.”
Amarl forced himself to focus, ignoring the pain in his jaw and face.
His eyes blurred for a moment, but his vision steadied quickly, and he saw a
ring of students standing around the arena, watching in silence. Some
looked confused, others angry or even outraged, but none said a word. His
eyes quickly picked out Burik and Meder standing side-by-side, her looking
concerned but Burik’s face grim. His gaze drifted past them and settled on
the prone figure two reaches away, lying on his back. A pool of darkness
spread out beneath Rotet, darkness that also stained his green uniform and
looked black in the moonlight. A long, neat slash cleaved his shirt, looking
like it had been sliced with a razor. The boy’s eyes were closed, but Amarl
thankfully saw his chest moving slowly up and down regularly.
Segetis turned back to face Amarl. “Can you stand?” The boy nodded,
wincing at the pain that flashed in his face as he did. “Good. Then follow
me. We need to talk.”
Amarl rose unsteadily to his feet and followed the nadar. The ring of
students parted around the pair, and every eye stared at Amarl as he passed.
He avoided everyone’s gaze as realization slowly sank into him.
“I hurt him,” he thought with growing guilt and shame. “I could have
killed him! What the fuck?” He’d lost himself in the fight, stopped
thinking, and his ithtu had taken over. What if that had been Burik or
Meder he’d been sparring against? He might have killed one of his
friends! He still might the next time they sparred…
Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t even realize that they’d entered the main
building until Segetis stopped and looked around. “Everyone, out,” he
commanded. The students glanced at Amarl in surprise, then obediently
filed out. The nadar watched them, then stepped outside, glancing around
before walking back in and looking at Amarl with a grave expression.
“You have an unlocked ability, don’t you?” he asked in a cold, flat
voice. Amarl opened his mouth to speak, but the movement sent pain
shooting through his jaw, so he simply nodded hesitantly, then shook his
head. The nadar sighed and produced a metal tube. “Here, drink this.”
Amarl took the offered tube, but when he tried to open his jaw to drink
it, pain flared in his face again. He looked helplessly up at the nadar, who
shrugged.
“Your jaw’s broken, but I need you to be able to speak. Drinking it’s
going to hurt, but if you don’t, I’ll pry your mouth open and pour it down
your throat, and that’ll hurt a lot more. Your choice.”
The boy steeled himself, groaning at the pain as he used one hand to
pull his jaws down, tilted his head back, and poured the elixir slowly into
his mouth. Some of it trickled out the side of his mouth, but he managed to
swallow most of it down. Fire spread from his stomach up to his face, and
his jaw burned fiercely for a few moments. His face still ached as the
warmth subsided, and his jaw throbbed uncomfortably, but he could open
and close it without too much discomfort at least.
“Thank you, sir,” he mumbled.
“Like I said, I need you to talk. Now, answer my question. Your
ability? Is it quickened or not?”
“Partially, sir. The passive part is quickened. The active part hasn’t.”
The man nodded. “And what is it?”
“Em, sir,” the boy prevaricated, keeping his eyes low and not meeting
the man’s gaze.
Segetis frowned. “Improved soul stat? What’s the passive?”
“A stat boost, sir.”
 “That—would make sense,” he nodded slowly. “You were using it in
the fight, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” His eyes snapped up to meet the nadar’s. “Not on purpose,
though. It just sort of—happened.”
“So I assumed.” The man shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell
anyone?”
“The awals know, sir. So does the Rashiv. And I’m in the class with
Malim Rateso to learn to call on my ability at will. I…” He hesitated. “I
guess I didn’t think to tell anyone else. I assumed it was common
knowledge.”
The nadar sighed and rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes. “Fine. I’ll
talk to them. Not that it matters. Everyone will suspect it now.” He shook
his head and opened his eyes. “Tell me what happened.”
Amarl took a deep breath. “I’m not completely sure, sir,” he admitted.
“I realized pretty quickly that Rotet’s ability lets him make impossible
dodges and blocks…” He glanced at the man. “Right?”
The nadar nodded. “Yes. It helps him counter any attack directed at
him. Go on.”
“I thought it was something like that. Once I figured it out, I knew that
I wouldn’t be able to win the fight, but I also didn’t think he was good
enough with his halberd to hit me either, so it was going to end in a draw. I
just decided that since the fight didn’t matter, I might as well relax and use
it as training. I couldn’t hit him, and he wasn’t really a danger to me, so I
figured I could just let loose as much as I wanted.”
The man frowned. “That’s a dangerous way to think, Novice,” he
scolded. “What if he’d been feigning a lack of skill just to draw you in?
What if his ability had another side that let him strike back? Never assume
that your opponent can’t hurt you, or they’re definitely going to.”
Amarl nodded; the man’s words did make sense, after all. “Yes, sir. In
any case, I just started attacking, and I sort of lost myself in it. I didn’t even
realize what was happening until I’d hit him…” He fell silent and
swallowed hard as another wave of guilt rose up in him. “That could have
been Burik…”
 Segetis sighed heavily. “You lost control of your ability,” he said.
“And let it control you.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy admitted. “It was my fault.”
“It was, yes.” The man shook his head. “And yet, if we’d known about
it, we would have at least expected it to happen.”
Amarl looked up at the man in surprise. “Expected it?”
“What, you think you’re the first novice to be controlled by their
ability?” the nadar snorted. “You’re in Rateso’s class; you have to have
seen abilities get away from people before.”
“Not really, sir,” Amarl frowned.
“You’re probably too busy to notice, then. Rateso’s training can be—
overwhelming. However, it has to be because the whole point is to draw
your ability out, over and over, so that you can learn what it feels like, sense
the power flowing through you, and gain control over how much energy
you release. Even then, all you’re going to do with Rateso is learn how to
bring your ability out. It’ll take time and practice to learn how to work with
it and control it.”
He gestured back toward the dueling rings. “You think any of those
students out there really have a handle on their ability? Hells, Rotet wasn’t
remotely in control of his. Did you see how badly he moved? His ability
was leading him around, and he was letting it. That’s how almost all of you
are during your second and third years.”
“Sir, if that’s the case, then why…?” Amarl fell silent, but the man
nodded in understanding.
“Why do we let unquickened students fight them? Or even let them
fight one another?” He smiled thinly. “Because you’ll rarely face a foe
with the kind of control and restraint that a fully trained ithtar has, Novice.
The monsters you fight and enemies you kill will mostly be like Rotet,
barely in command of their abilities and leaking power everywhere. They
may even be stronger than you—sometimes much stronger. If you can only
fight things weaker than you…” He let the sentence dangle, but Amarl
nodded in understanding.
“Then we’ll die,” he finished. He straightened. “What sort of
punishment am I looking at, sir?”
 “None,” the man shook his head. Amarl froze in surprise, but the man
chuckled. “Think about it this way, Novice. Let’s say that one of Rotet’s
sweeping blocks accidentally caught you in the side of the head and
knocked you unconscious. Do you think we would have punished him?”
Amarl frowned. “No, sir, but…”
“It’s the same thing. This was the accidental result of an uncontrolled
ability. It isn’t the first time it happened, and it won’t be the last. Hells, it
isn’t the first time it happened today, just the worst injury.” He laughed
darkly. “And for that, I consider myself lucky. That wasn’t that bad.”
“I—I could have killed him, though, sir.”
“Yes, you could have. You’ve got a powerful ability, and that means
you need more control than someone like Rotet. Losing it can have far
worse consequences.” His voice was solemn as he spoke. “However, it
sounds like you understand that. Don’t you?”
A vision of Burik on the ground surrounded by a pool of blood flashed
in Amarl’s mind, and he nodded swiftly. “Yes, sir.”
“Then, we’ll help you get control of it.” The nadar smiled grimly. “In
the end, that’s the main thing we do, here: teach you how to use and control
your ability. And you will learn to control that ability, Novice, one way or
the other—or you’ll be useless to the Order. Do you understand what that
means?”
The boy nodded again.
“Good. Now, I’d say head back to the group, but that was your last
match, and honestly, you being out there right now is going to be more of a
distraction than anything. Head back to your room, and I’ll discuss this
with the malims. We’ll find a way to help you learn control, trust me.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 22
His trip back to Sabila’s dormitory was silent, and while slowly
plodding there suited his mood, he forced himself to run back. He didn’t
want the rest of the students catching up to him, after all. He wasn’t really
in the mood for more angry looks, grumbling, or even accusations. He
avoided the first-years he saw in the dorm and plunked himself down at his
desk. He opened the book on abilities, trying to focus on the nomenclature
system, but after several minutes of reading the same paragraph over and
over, he gave up. His brain was far too chaotic to study. Instead, he laid his
head down on the desk and let the thoughts come as they would.
He’d screwed up, that much was sure. He’d lost himself in his ability
somehow and forgotten that he was supposed to be sparring, and he’d hurt
Rotet pretty badly. According to the fifth-year referee, he’d heal, but what
if Amarl had put more force into the blow? Halit’s weapons were sahr-
enhanced to avoid doing real damage, but sahr was nowhere nearly as
powerful as ithtu. A fully powered ability would tear through that
protection with ease—as he’d just demonstrated. What if he’d cut the boy’s
throat instead of his stomach, or stabbed at his chest? Sahr elixirs had their
limits, and he was pretty sure healing a cut throat or a punctured heart
counted among them.
He was still lost in thought when Burik and Meder returned, the pair
falling silent as they entered the room. He felt their gazes heavy upon him,
and guilt surged in him once more. He simply lay there, enduring their
scrutiny, the tension thick and heavy in the air. His entire world seemed
balanced on a knife’s edge, as if a single word could cause it all to come
crashing down.
“Well,” Burik finally spoke, his voice deep and calm as it usually was,
“that was certainly interesting.”
Amarl snorted but remained silent.
“I wouldn’t call it interesting,” Meder said with a sigh, and he heard her
bed creak as she sat down on it. “At least, no more than I’d call Tautibal’s
training interesting.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Burik protested.
 “Speak for yourself,” the girl groaned. “You actually lasted two
minutes against Nesed. Tahis finished me in, what? Ten seconds?”
“Fifteen,” the larger boy chuckled. “You still lasted longer than Herel.
Girot’s charge ability is nasty. Took him out about a second after the fight
started. Boom! Herel goes flying, is unconscious before he hits the ground,
and the match is over.”
“Norag did okay,” Meder suggested.
“Yeah, he did. I’m not sure what Rifut’s ability is, but it feels like it
only works at close range. Norag was fine when he kept Rifut at a distance,
but once he closed, it was all over. I didn’t even really see how it
happened. Norag just stumbled, and Rifut stabbed him.”
“It wasn’t really remotely fair,” the girl said with a faint note of
complaint in her voice. “How can we beat someone like Nesed? I could
barely see her attacks; I have no idea how you kept blocking them, Burik.”
“I think that’s the point,” the older boy said drily. “We won’t always be
facing giant ants and centipedes. We have to learn how to fight people—or
things—that are stronger than us. Besides, it’s obviously possible. Amarl
won his match, after all.”
The hizeen snorted again. “I wouldn’t call that winning, Burik,” he said
sourly.
“I would.” A moment of silence passed, and Amarl felt the tension in
the atmosphere. “Amarl, look at me,” the boy said firmly a moment later.
Amarl simply lay there, and Burik repeated, “I’m serious. Sit up and look
at me.”
Amarl sighed and opened his eyes, looking over toward the larger boy,
who stood close to him with a serious expression.
“Let me guess,” Burik said, his voice calm but firm. “You feel guilty
for hurting Rotet, right?”
“Of course, I do,” Amarl snapped. “I could have fucking killed him,
Burik!”
“Maybe, yeah. But you know what? Shit happens sometimes.”
Amarl’s eyes widened in surprise, then his gaze hardened. “Excuse
me?”
 “You heard me. Shit happens.” The boy reached down and grabbed
Amarl’s arm, pulling him to a sitting position. “This isn’t a game, Amarl.
They’re training us to be soldiers—no, more than soldiers. What they’re
teaching us is deadly. People are going to die along the way. There’s no
way around that.” He shook his head. “You think that Nihos is the first
student to die on a hunt? Or that Rotet was the only one who got hurt
today?”
“He wasn’t,” Meder said quietly, and Amarl looked over to see her face
set in a grim expression. “Not even close. The older students—the ones
with abilities—they hurt each other a lot. Rehit’s got some sort of fire
ability, and he burned Farba pretty badly with it. Tamsu has a lightning
ability, and when he hit Lache with it…” She shuddered. “She just
dropped and went into convulsions. It was a little scary.” She shook her
head, mimicking Burik’s gesture. “The thought that it could have been one
of us is terrifying.”
“Not could have been,” Burik corrected. “Will be. At some point, we’ll
all probably get set on fire or electrocuted. We’ll get our bones broken, or
be knocked unconscious. It’s going to happen eventually—because I think
that’s exactly what the malims want. They want us to know what it feels
like and to learn how to fight through it. It’s just like when Ranakar stabs
you or breaks your bones, Amarl. You just did it to Rotet, instead of having
it done to you.”
Amarl grimaced, then slowly shook his head. “It isn’t the same,” he
protested. “I wasn’t trying to teach Rotet anything. I just got lost in the
fight, and my ability kind of took over. I didn’t even know what I did until
Segetis snapped me out of it…” He took a deep breath. “And that scares
me. What if I’d been fighting you or Meder instead of Rotet?”
“Then we would have disengaged and stopped you long before that
point,” the boy snorted. “I wouldn’t have wanted to fight you like that.
Rotet should have surrendered instead of counting on his ability to protect
him.”
Amarl looked at the boy dubiously, but Meder reached out and touched
the hizeen’s knee, her eyes serious as she gazed at him. “He’s right, Amarl.
You didn’t see yourself. You looked—you looked like one of the fifth or
six-years fighting. The way you were moving was scary. It was like you
were dancing with Rotet, but he didn’t know any of the moves.”
“It was impressive as hell, is what it was,” Burik chuckled. “But yeah,
if you start fighting like that, I’m backing the fuck off. I know my limits.
Rotet should have known his, too.” He glanced at Meder. “Which we think
is kind of the point.”
“What do you mean?” Amarl asked, slightly confused.
“Everyone was talking about your fight afterward,” Meder explained.
“I did some listening and asked some questions. I guess that since Rotet
quickened his ability, he’s been relying on it almost entirely in matches. He
just defends and waits for the other person to make a mistake, and the
malims have been trying to get him to stop. They say it’s a terrible habit.”
“It’s stupid as hell,” Burik corrected. “What happens when you fight
someone or something that can get through your ability? Someone so
strong that even blocking them could knock you down or break your arm?
He needs to be able to dodge and block on his own and use his ability as a
last resort.” The larger boy gave Amarl a direct look. “Which I think is
what that match was supposed to teach him. I think they picked you to go
against him because you had the best chance of all of us to get through his
defense—or at least to make him work for it.”
“You’d have been a better choice,” Amarl argued. “You’re better than I
am.”
“Overall, sure. But you’re better at offense than me. That axe of yours
is designed to fight someone like Rotet, who’s pure defense; it’s meant to
crack their defense with a thousand cuts. I’d be fighting him with an
identical weapon, and while I might be able to beat him, it would be a
matter of luck as much as skill. You just had to keep attacking until his
ability failed him.”
“In other words, Amarl, we think the malims wanted you to beat him,”
Meder concluded. “If he lost to you, a brand-new second-year without an
ability, he’d have realized that his ability isn’t all-powerful and might have
started putting actual effort into it. I think they just didn’t expect you to be
able to overcome the sahrotik on your weapon, is all.”
 “And that was their mistake,” Burik added. “It’s not like the school
doesn’t know about your ability, after all. If they didn’t pass that on to
Wurynath—or he didn’t tell Segetis—then that was their choice.”
“I could have told him,” Amarl pointed out.
“And he could have asked if any of us had an ability quickened,” Meder
countered, shaking her head.
“And really, it doesn’t matter,” Burik finished. “You’re worried about
blame, Amarl, but you’re missing the point. There is no blame because
what happened was perfectly normal.”
“The other students didn’t seem to think so,” Amarl noted with a sigh,
recalling the dark and angry looks he got. “I think some of them were
pissed at me.”
“Probably because they were hoping to beat the shit out of you when it
was their turn to fight you,” Burik chuckled. “You know that there are
some people who’d be happy to get a chance to do that. Now that they’ve
seen you in action, though, they’re probably a little scared, and I’ll bet
they’re more pissed about that than they are at you.” Amarl looked at him
doubtfully, but Meder laughed at Amarl’s obvious reservation.
“You didn’t see yourself, Amarl,” she said. “Honestly, I’ve never seen
you fight like that either, and it shocked me, too.”
“I have,” Burik said. “You were kind of like that in the assilian hive.
This time, though, it was even—more, I guess.” He laughed. “You sure
your skill rank’s only a four? You’re not secretly a ten, hiding it all this
time, right?”
Amarl snorted, glancing at his skill screen as he did—then froze, staring
at the screen.
“What is it, Amarl?” Meder asked. “Is something wrong?” Her eyes
narrowed. “Did your damn Soul stat go up again?”
“No,” he laughed weakly, shaking his head. “But—well, my moon axe
did. It’s five now instead of four. And Nameless Form is three instead of
two.”
“They must have gone up during the week,” Burik suggested. “How
often do you check it, really?”
 “I checked after Skill Training tonight. I always check at the end of the
week, just in case, since once I get my crafting skills high enough, I can
start learning sahrotik. They had to have gone up during the fight
somehow.”
“It makes sense,” Meder said. “I mean, you were fighting like some
kind of expert. Maybe some of that rubbed off and stuck with you?”
“Maybe.” He closed the screen, took another deep breath, and eyed the
others. “I’m just worried about what might happen if my ability takes over
when I’m sparring with one of you,” he admitted. “I don’t want to hurt
either of you…”
“You haven’t yet,” Burik grinned.
“And I don’t think you will,” Meder added. “From what you’ve told
me, Amarl, I think your ability only activates when you feel like you need
it. You obviously don’t feel that way when you’re fighting with us.”
“Besides, if it worries you, there’s only one solution,” Burik shrugged.
“Learn to control it better. Control is vital for any soldier; the more so the
better you are. A blade master losing control could easily kill a bunch of
people; so could an artillerist with a blast cannon. Hells, an officer who
loses control could get their whole command killed. If you don’t want to
hurt people, then learn not to.”
“Maybe you could talk to Rateso,” Meder suggested. “Or Ranakar.
One of them could give you some ideas on how to get control faster.”
Amarl wasn’t sure asking either of his instructors would matter; if they
had better ideas for helping him control his ability, they’d chosen not to
share them for some reason, and he doubted almost killing another student
would change their minds.
“Yeah,” he agreed after a few seconds. “I guess that’s the only real
option, isn’t it?”
“I think it’s something that everyone with an unlocked ability has to
work on, really. I know that the other second-years could use it. None of
them really seemed to be in control of their abilities most of the time.” She
laughed. “Girot has some sort of charging ability that lets him move really
fast in a straight line, and when he used it on Herel, Herel went flying, but
Girot just kept going and crashed into a bunch of other students. He ended
up tripping and landing on his face.” She shook her head. “He needs to
learn how to stop himself, too.”
“See? You’re in crappy company!” Burik laughed, smacking the
hizeen on the knee. “And we’ll be joining you soon enough, I’m sure,
creating just as many problems and just as out of control as you are!”
“Speak for yourself,” Meder said a little primly.
“Really?” Burik scoffed. “I’m apparently going to unlock some sort of
physical combat ability, Meder, and I’ve spent half my life training in
physical combat. You really think that you’re going to learn to control
whatever ability you’ve got faster than me?”
“That sounds like a wager,” she said slyly. “Care to make it
interesting?”
“Depends on the stakes,” Burik hedged. “What do you have in mind?”
“Loser…” She hesitated. “Oh, loser has to do the winner’s laundry for
a full moon!”
“You really think that letting Burik handle your panties for a moon is a
punishment?” Amarl laughed weakly. “And that you having to wash his
underwear is an equal punishment?”
She made a face. “Good point. Fine. Loser pays for the winner’s
drinks at Sasofit’s for a moon.”
“Agreed,” Burik nodded, extending his hand. Meder grasped his
forearm, and they grinned at one another. “So, how do we judge this?”
“The timer starts from the day you quicken your ability and ends the
day you gain reasonable control of it. Whichever one of us takes less time
to do that wins.”
“‘Reasonable control’ seems like a pretty subjective thing, though.
Who gets to decide what’s reasonable and what isn’t?”
“Amarl can judge. He’s a neutral party.”
“Wait, what if I want to get in on this?” the hizeen protested.
“Not a chance,” Burik laughed. “With as fast as you figure out
anything having to do with ithtu? Totally unfair.”
 “He’s right,” Meder agreed. “You’ll be the judge, Amarl, and we’ll use
our Halit sparring as the measuring staff. You just have to make sure to
watch our matches once we quicken our abilities, and you judge how long
we take to get control of them.”
“Fine,” Amarl sighed. “I’ll judge.”
“Good.” Burik gave Meder a grin. “You know, one way or the other,
I’m going to win, here.”
“What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously.
“Well, if I win the bet, then I’m getting drunk off your wallet on a
regular basis. If I lose, then we get to experience drunk Meder again, and
she’s a riot—or it won’t end up costing me much in the long run. Either
way, I end up ahead.”
“Fuck,” she swore, her mouth twisting sourly. “That’s true! You
swindled me!”
“You were the one who suggested Sasofit’s,” Amarl laughed. “I think
you swindled yourself.”
“Fine,” she grumped, dropping heavily back onto her bed, then looking
at the larger boy with a wicked expression. “Although, by then, I’ll
probably be pretty good at alchemy,” she suggested. “Buying drinks for
you could be very fun, Burik.”
He gave her a shocked expression. “You wouldn’t spike my drinks,
would you?”
“Who, me? Never! I would never put something in your ale that would
make you throw up all over the place—or that might affect that thing
you’ve got down there.” She eyed his crotch.
“Sounds it might be you who loses either way, Burik,” Amarl laughed.
“Either you have to pay for her drinks, or you have to worry that each of
them will leave you impotent.”
“It’d take a lot more than a sahr elixir for that to happen,” he shrugged.
“Or even an ability. Some forces are greater than ithtu.”
Amarl laughed at that, feeling the tightness in his chest easing. He still
felt a little guilty, but Burik was right. He’d just have to learn to control his
ability, so it didn’t happen again. Moping and bitching about it wouldn’t
help.
“And on that note,” Meder said, rolling her eyes, “we should get some
sleep. It’s an early day tomorrow, after all.” She grinned at Amarl.
“Although, we don’t all get to spend it playing games with the Rashiv.”
“Yeah, you say that, but if he’d picked you instead of me, you’d be
wishing you were running around and moving classrooms, trust me. That
man is terrifying.”
“All the awals are,” Burik agreed. “But just think: one day, we might
be just as scary.” He looked at Amarl. “Some of us aren’t that far off
already.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 23
Amarl crept as silently as possible, crouching low and placing his feet
carefully in the tall grass. He paused as the wind stilled and waited until
another breath of air stirred the tops of the reach-tall grass above him, its
movements hiding the disturbance his passage created. A couple moons
ago, he wouldn’t have even considered using the breeze to aid his stealth,
but while no one would ever call Nirecina a kind or patient teacher, she was
a damn good one. She’d given them all no choice but to either learn or
experience pain and defeat, and so they’d learned and grown.
He slid through the grass but paused as a glint of metal caught his eye.
He crouched down and examined the ground before him, gently shifting the
fallen stalks of grass around to reveal a roughly circular shape of rusted iron
almost buried in the dirt. The trap had been well-placed, set into the ground
deeply enough to be almost invisible but not deeply enough to run the risk
of getting wedged or caught. It was a simple device, a circle of iron spikes
attached to a spring trigger. If he’d stepped on it, the trap would snap shut
with bone-cracking force. Someone had also smeared something on the
spikes that he didn’t recognize but assumed would be a poison or paralytic
of some kind. It was a nasty thing, but fortunately, it was also easy enough
to render harmless. He could trigger the trap with a stick, but that would be
noisy. He could try to gently slip a stick into the hole that secured the
trigger, but a person’s weight might break the stick and cause the trap to
spring anyway—and trying to rig it like that might set it off and break his
arm in the process.
Instead, he carefully lifted the trap from the ground and flipped it
upside down, lowering it trigger-down very slowly indeed. Even if
someone stepped on it at that point, it wouldn’t hurt them, and the iron jaws
triggering into the ground wouldn’t make much noise. It was the simplest
and safest way to render that sort of trap harmless, and for disarming traps,
safe was always better. No one would place a single trap; if there was one,
there would be others, and Amarl had a limited amount of time to find and
disable as many of them as possible.
He continued to move through the grass, his gaze sweeping the ground
around him. As he’d suspected, his opponents had trapped the ground here
heavily. He found a dozen more jaw traps scattered in the grass, as well as
numerous foot traps that were really no more than a span-deep hole dug in
the ground, lined with caltrops, and covered with dried grass to conceal
them. Stepping into one of those while walking would drive the spikes into
someone’s foot, even through boots. If they were moving quickly, they
might even break an ankle. Disabling those was a simple matter of
uncovering them so that anyone could see them, but finding them in the
first place was a lot harder than spotting the jaw traps.
He cursed under his breath as he placed a final jaw trap upside down.
There were more traps than he’d thought, and he was running behind
schedule. He’d planned some padding into his timing, but that was running
out. He’d have to hope he’d gotten all the traps—or at least enough of them
to make traveling the grass safe. If not, well, it wouldn’t be the first time
his team had lost one of these exercises. It probably wouldn’t be the last,
either.
He headed forward through the area he’d already cleared. The land
sloped gently upward, and he climbed for several minutes before a soft
sound made him freeze and crouch lower, trying to blend into the foliage
surrounding him. The mud smearing his face and hands helped with that, as
did the stalks of grass attached to his uniform and woven into his hair. He
closed his eyes to keep them from shining and focused on his other senses.
He could feel the grass swaying around him as the breeze ruffled it. The
gentle susurration filled his ears, drowning out quieter sounds, but it also
carried a familiar smell to his nostrils. He suppressed a grin as he moved
very slowly toward that scent, the sound of his passage lost in the
whispering breeze. He kept his hand on his sheathed weapon—the glint of
it would be too easy to see once he drew it—and ignored the aching in his
legs as he slid forward in a crouch.
Once he spotted his target, he drew his weapon and moved forward in a
single, fluid movement. He thrust his blade at a waist-high blob of mud and
grass, the scimitar easily piercing the soft dirt and striking something
within. The dirt flowed backward like a parting curtain, revealing a dark-
skinned girl with short hair. The girl’s eyes widened as she saw his blade
resting against her mud-covered throat. Her stunned gaze quickly
hardened, and she lifted a hand as if to strike at him, but he shook his head.
Riroa’s ability was a potent one, he knew, letting her move earth around
with just a thought, but there wasn’t enough mud left between her skin and
his blade to stop him from slitting her throat if he chose. She seemed to
realize the same thing as a look of resignation settled on her face. She
nodded at Amarl and plopped down to sit in the grass, her expression both
rueful and angry.
He nodded back, sheathed his weapon, and slipped forward once more,
no longer quite as worried about being heard. Riroa was the only member
of her team with any sort of stealth skill, the group’s scout, and no doubt the
one who’d laid all the traps. He knew she had some sort of passive ability
to feel movement through the ground, but he’d hoped that the wind shifting
the grass would dull that sense—and apparently, he’d been right.
He'd learned the lesson of Nolla well enough. Knowledge was power,
and he was leveraging the fuck out of what little knowledge he’d gained
about his opponents.
He followed the girl’s trail until the grass thinned before him, and he
slipped to the edge of it and peered into the space beyond. The grass ended
abruptly in a clearing that was almost perfectly circular and around three
reaches across. The ground inside that clearing was blackened and burned,
leaving it flat and free of even small stubs of grass. A fire danced in a pit in
the center, the flames burning a deep crimson that hardly seemed natural
and releasing practically no smoke that Amarl could see.
Four figures stood around the clearing. One, a tall boy with reddish-
brown skin and auburn hair, crouched close to the fire, his hand practically
touching the flames. A short, lean boy smaller than Amarl with hair pulled
back into a tail that reached his back and eyes and lips stained with
cosmetics stood a reach away from the fire, fingering the pistols on his
belt. A girl with hair shaved into a strip that ran along the top of her head
held a short bow in her hands, facing away from the fire. The last, a broad-
shouldered boy with a square face, carried a long glaive. Those three
peered out into the grass, their eyes piercing but slipping past Amarl
without spotting him.
The hizeen heard his team coming long before he saw them. So did the
opposing team, who straightened and moved toward the sound of the
approaching novices. The boy by the fire pointed at the shaven-headed girl
and motioned her to one side, then did the same to the pistol-wielding boy.
The glaive bearer moved forward, preparing to intercept the incoming
novices, and a pair of shimmering, glasslike ovals suddenly coalesced in the
air to his sides, shielding his flanks from attack. The boy in the middle
reached out to the fire, and a tendril of it flowed up and into his hand,
dancing on his palm. The girl moved to the side and slid out her saber,
jamming it into the ground. She dropped to a knee, holding her bow low
with an arrow on the string but not drawn. The pistol-wielder also dropped
to a knee, pulling out one of his weapons and cocking it with a soft click,
leveling it at the grass.
None of them noticed as Amarl slowly pulled a linen pouch from his
belt and tossed it into the fire. At least, not until the bag caught flame and
the crystals within exploded with a series of loud cracks. Instantly, a cloud
of greenish smoke swept out to fill the clearing, and the students inside
began to cough and gag as the smoke filled their nostrils and burned the
backs of their throats. Amarl quickly wrapped a damp rag over his face and
fixed a scratched pair of glass goggles over his eyes, then charged into the
clearing just as four other figures burst through the grass and crashed into
the older students.
He pulled his moon axe off his back as he swept down on the
stumbling, coughing girl. Tears streamed from her eyes, snot ran freely
from her nose, and her chest shook with coughs, but she still managed to
slip past his first slashing attack. He followed it with a second and third
that she slipped past as well, her ability making her far more agile than a
nalu should be. Her body bent in impossible ways, and her limbs slipped
past blows that should have cleaved through them. Normally, he would
have had practically no chance against her, but the burning smoke shattered
her concentration, and at last his spearpoint slammed into the center of her
chest, “killing” her.
He dove sideways as a wall of flame washed past him, burning away
some of the smoke in the process. He glanced at the fire, where the red-
haired boy stood erect, his face angry and flames whirling in his hands. He
flicked a finger toward Amarl, and another blast of fire roared toward him.
The hizeen leaped sideways, but the fire still caught his side, igniting his
clothing instantly and searing his skin. He dropped to the ground and
rolled, extinguishing the blaze, then came swiftly to his feet as the taller boy
gathered a much larger ball of fire—and froze as the blade of a longsword
rested against the side of his neck.
“You’re dead, Rehit,” Herel said with satisfaction, his voice muffled by
the cloth covering his nose and mouth and his eyes hidden behind scratched
goggles. “You lose.”
Amarl glanced around the clearing and couldn’t help but grin. He’d
taken out the girl, and it looked like Hadur had gotten the pistol wielder.
Norag sat disconsolately on the ground with a small hole in the center of his
shirt, but Burik stood triumphantly over the glaive-wielder, his halberd’s tip
resting on the boy’s chest as he lay on his back on the ground. Only one
figure was missing, and Amarl’s gaze met Burik’s questioningly.
“Meder?” he asked.
“Trap got her,” Burik replied. “She’s pissed about it, too.”
Amarl winced; he’d apparently missed a trap.
“You haven’t won yet,” Rehit interrupted, his face angry. “Riroa…”
“I got her already,” Amarl cut him off, walking over to the fire and
taking out a flask of liquid. He poured it over the flames, and the green
smoke stopped rising from them, allowing the wind to quickly blow the
remaining fumes out of the clearing. “Herel, would you announce it,
please?”
“Happily,” the noble said, pulling down his mask to reveal a cold
smile. He withdrew a slim rod from his belt and held it up, his thumb
touching one of the gems placed on it. The rod pulsed with sahr for a
moment, then a streak of colored light shot up, turning into a glowing
golden ball that hovered above their heads.
“You little fucks,” Rehit growled, clenching his fist. “What in the hells
was that?”
“Advance preparation,” Amarl shrugged. He reached down and offered
a hand to the seated girl, and with a grimace, she took it and allowed herself
to be pulled up.
“Not bad,” she said in a deep, throaty voice that matched her heavy
features somehow. “You worked out how to circumvent our abilities in
advance?”
 “Yeah,” Amarl nodded. “Well, I didn’t do it myself. We all kind of did
it together.”
“Mostly Meder,” Burik suggested. “Which is why she’s pissed that she
died.”
“Mostly Meder,” Amarl agreed. “Although Herel came up with a lot of
it, too.”
Rehit took a step toward Amarl, but as he did, a whiplike voice snapped
through the clearing.
“Hold!” Rehit froze as Nirecina simply appeared at the edge of the
clearing, looking around appraisingly. “Victorious team?”
“We were, ma’am,” Amarl spoke up.
“Do you concede, Novice?” the malim asked, looking at Rehit.
“No, ma’am,” the boy shook his head. “They used some sort of toxic
vapor to blind us.”
“And?” the malim asked.
The boy hesitated. “We could have been seriously injured, ma’am,” he
protested. “Or permanently blinded!”
“Possibly.” The woman looked at Amarl. “What did you use?”
“You’d have to ask Meder ma’am,” he shrugged in reply. “She came up
with it.”
“Yes, she’s been taking alchemy, hasn’t she?” The woman looked at
Rehit and shrugged. “There’s no rule against using crafting skills in an
exercise, Novice—or that says a team has to fight fairly.” She looked back
at Amarl. “How did you plan this?”
“Well, once we knew who we’d be facing, ma’am, we did some
research on them,” Amarl explained. “They all have their abilities
unlocked, and we knew we had to counter them to stand a chance. Once we
learned that Rehit could only manipulate existing fires but couldn’t create
them himself, Meder came up with the idea of using a flammable toxin to
incapacitate them, while Herel and Burik plotted out the best approach and
where their scout would likely be.”
“And you neutralized her?” the woman asked.
 “Yes, ma’am. She’s about five reaches that way.” He pointed back into
the grass.
The woman vanished, and a few moments later, she reappeared,
dragging a shaken-looking Meder and the muddy scout he’d caught earlier.
“This is a good lesson,” the malim said in her usual gruff voice.
“Abilities are powerful, but they can be overcome or circumvented with
good planning and execution. Team Five wins this one.” Rehit looked
unhappy, but the taller boy wisely remained silent at Nirecina gave him a
hard look. “Good. That’s settled. Now, get your asses back to base camp
before I decide to run this exercise again, with all of you against an elite
fifth-year team!” Amarl blanched at that and gestured for his group to start
running, leading them into the grass back in the direction of the main
camp. The malim wasn’t kidding; she sometimes arranged for exercises
like that when she felt students weren’t taking her class seriously or just
needed humbling. It was effective: the fifth-years won every time, and the
novices usually ended up battered, bloody, and often unsure exactly what
had happened to them.
They found the other groups already back at the camp. As they
emerged from the tall grass into the lower, more open plains to the northeast
of the Citadel, they dropped to a walk. A muscular boy on the verge of
moving to third year rose from his group and walked over, ignoring Amarl’s
team and giving Rehit a wide grin.
“So, how badly did you beat them?” the older boy asked. Rehit simply
grunted in reply, and the new boy’s face grew startled. “Wait, you did beat
them, right? Come on, Rehit! They’re fucking meat!”
“Shut the fuck up, Capon,” Rehit snarled. “They fucking cheated.”
“No, they didn’t,” the shaven-headed girl countered. “They planned
well, nothing more.” She inclined her head toward Amarl, who nodded in
reply.
“They got lucky, too,” the mud-covered Riroa muttered. “Without that
wind, I’d have felt you coming a long way away, hizeen.”
“And then, we’d have come from the opposite direction, through the
marshy area,” Amarl grinned. “We planned for that, too.”
“How did you even find me?” the girl demanded.
 “Smoke,” Amarl shrugged. “You reek of it—probably from when Rehit
burned down all the grass to make that clearing. I smelled smoke and mud
and knew more or less where to find you.”
“Ha!” the slim pistol-wielder said in a cheerful voice. “He smelled you
because you stink, Riroa!”
“Shut up, Wyhon,” she snapped, sniffing at her clothes and making a
face. “I need to go clean up.”
“Well done,” the last member of the team said, looking at Burik as he
spoke. “You’re good with that halberd, Burik.”
“Thanks, Niheb,” the larger boy replied, extending a hand that Niheb
grasped after only a second’s hesitation. “You’re not bad with your glaive.”
“I can’t believe I never thought about extending my shields to the
ground,” the older boy chuckled, shaking his head. “You won’t get me like
that again.”
“Then I’ll have to figure out another way to beat you,” Burik smiled.
The older team broke away and headed for the nearby stream to clean
themselves off, and Amarl led his team to their section, where he sat down
in the short grass and leaned back, his legs extended. The others joined
him, sitting around in a rough circle.
“I have to admit, that went more smoothly than I thought it would,”
Herel said after a few moments.
“You doubted the plan?” Amarl asked with a grin. “You came up with
half of it, Herel!”
“Yes, but I thought it would just get us into their camp. I never thought
we’d actually beat them.” The young noble shook his head. “We did get
lucky that Meder’s concoction was so effective.”
“That wasn’t luck, Herel,” the girl replied. “If you’d ever gotten a blast
of sirax in your face, you’d know how badly it burns, and that it lingers for
a while. None of Rehit’s team really has that great of a handle on their
abilities, and I can’t imagine your eyes, nose, throat, and lungs all being on
fire makes that any easier.”
“When did you have that stuff in your eyes?” Norag asked curiously.
“The second week of crafting training,” she said, making a sour face.
 “Accident?” Burik asked.
“No. They make us suffer through some of the more common irritants
and poisons. I’ve been poisoned twice and had acid salt, burning pepper,
and sirax all blown in my face.”
“Why do they do that?” Norag asked, his eyes wide.
“Because accidents happen in alchemy,” she shrugged. “Bad reactions
are fairly common, and most of them will keep getting worse and worse if
you don’t stop them. If you’re incapacitated and unable to function, you
might end up poisoning everyone around you.”
“That sounds moderately awful,” Herel replied with a shake of his
head. “I much prefer winemaking.”
“If nothing else, it’s a lot more fun if they force you to sample the
results to get used to it,” Amarl laughed.
“In fact, tasting is a big part of learning to make wine—not that you’d
be able to tell the difference between a Varnial and an Uhrun White even if
they were labeled.”
“Probably not,” Amarl agreed. “And I wouldn’t care, either.”
“Peasant,” Herel snorted.
“Snob,” Amarl replied with a grin.
“Boys, boys, boys,” Meder sighed. “Is this really necessary?”
Herel’s face turned thoughtful before he nodded. “Why yes, Meder,” he
said pleasantly. “I believe it is.”
“Fun, too,” Amarl chuckled.
“Not for the rest of us,” she replied.
Herel opened his mouth as if to speak, but before he could, Nirecina
appeared at the edge of the clearing. “All right, off your asses and
assemble!” she bellowed. Amarl and the others quickly scrambled to their
feet and jogged over to the woman, moving into their normal position at the
woman’s far left. Amarl, as team leader, headed to the front, standing to the
left of the other team leaders, while the others formed staggered ranks so
they could see the malim.
 “Well done today,” she said in an approving voice. “This was one of
the more productive exercises we’ve run in the past two moons. We had
some surprise victories today, but no one did anything exceptionally stupid,
which is always a win in my book.”
Her hard gaze scanned over the silent students. “For those of you not
keeping track, a hunt is scheduled for this Ispio, two days from now.
Tomorrow, you’ll each report to the quartermaster to get kitted for the hunt.
It’s to Isolas, as usual, so plan appropriately.” Some of the older students
looked disgruntled at that, and a few even grumbled quietly, but she
silenced their rising complaints with a cold look.
“You want to hunt Apirron or Shadora? Make it to next year. This is
the last chance for some of you to get points toward graduation by hunting,
and for Isolas, the minimum requirements are a lot easier to meet.” She
waited to see if anyone else would complain, but a vast silence met her
examination, and she nodded.
“Good. Each team will be awarded points for this quarter based on
today’s exercise, but that’s nothing compared to what you can get in a good
hunt. Remember, it’s five points just for making the minimum, plus five
extra for doubling it and five more for the highest yield. That’s a max of
fifteen points for every member of your team.”
“We’ll meet at the entry to Geralz, two days from now, one hour after
sunrise. If you’re late, you’re fucked: no hunt, no points, and disciplinary
duty. Any questions?”
Amarl had a few, but he didn’t think that the woman would appreciate
any of them, so he remained silent. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to
returning to Isolas, but he didn’t think she’d give a shit about that either.
“Good. Team Five, stay. The rest of you, dismissed.” The other
students began filing away while throwing curious looks at Amarl and his
team. The younger novices gathered around the woman, who waited until
the rest of the students were out of earshot before she gave the novices a
grim look.
“No point in beating around the bush, and that’s not my style anyway,
so I’ll just say it. I’m splitting up your team.”
 Amarl grimaced, and Herel nodded slowly, but Meder looked upset.
“Can I ask why, ma’am?” the girl said cautiously. “I feel like we’ve
performed as well as any other team…”
“You have,” she nodded, cutting the girl off. “Better than most, in fact.
Your win today was damn impressive, and I don’t say that sort of thing
lightly. This isn’t a punishment, though. It’s a necessity.”
She pointed at Amarl, her expression grim. “This is basically about
you, Novice. If I send you and your team to Isolas, what will happen?”
“The bugs will swarm us,” he sighed as realization struck him. “Just
like they did last time.”
“Yep, but this time, there’ll be no perimeter to keep out some of the
nastier things you might draw, and most of the novices aren’t quite ready
for something like that. Imagine if you bring in something like a lake
spitter.” She shook her head. “You were lucky to take the last one, and if it
caught you by surprise, half of you could be dead before you realized what
the fuck was happening. And not just you; most of this group isn’t ready
for something like that. Their abilities just aren’t strong enough or focused
enough yet.
“So, Amarl, you aren’t going to Isolas, and without you, there’s no
Team Five. The rest of you don’t yet have the skills you’ll need to be in a
team on your own.” She shrugged.
“But after the hunt?” Meder asked.
“After the hunt, we’ll see. We’ll have a new group of second-years
coming into the class, and we’ll be losing the senior groups. Typically, the
groups get rearranged at that point to accommodate the changes, so don’t be
surprised if yours does, too.
“Hadur, you’ll be with Team One. Herel, Team Two. Norag, Team
Three. I suggest you go find the leader of your new team, explain the
situation, and give them a chance to work you into their group before the
hunt, but that’s on you.” She paused, then gave them an intense look. “Let
me say that another way. Get your asses out of here and go do that now.
Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am!” the three boys snapped. Herel and Norag gave the other
novices a curious look before they turned and ran off to try and catch up to
the rest of the students.
“As for you three, you’ll be meeting at Halit at sixth bell, not Geralz.”
“Ma’am?” Amarl asked, his voice hesitant. “What’s going on? I mean,
I understand that you don’t want me going on a hunt with the other second-
years, but why not Burik and Meder? And won’t I have the same problem
no matter where I hunt?”
“Yes, you will. In fact, I’m counting on it.” She flashed him a grin,
then looked at his two friends. “And as far as you two, I’ve been given
orders. You hunt with him. It’s stupid, and you’ll both probably die, but
there it is.”
“W-where are we going, ma’am?” Meder asked with a slight stammer
to her voice.
“Apirron, the Bottomless Peaks.” Her grin turned slightly wicked. “I
suggest you look into it with your free time, novices. If you fuck up my
hunt, I will make you all sorry your mother ever squeezed you out,
understand? Now, get the fuck out of here!”
As the three jogged away, Meder gave Amarl a flat glare. “That’s twice
you’ve screwed me today, Amarl,” she said. “Once with the trap, and once
with the hunt.”
“Sorry about the trap,” he replied. “I got as many as I could. Riroa
went a little overboard. I don’t see how this is my fault, though.”
“It’s not, really, but who else can I blame?” she asked with an arch
grin. “So, it’s all your fault, Amarl.”
“Why do you need to blame anyone?” Burik laughed. “You should be
thanking him! Now, we don’t have to be stuck in those damn tunnels with
ants gnawing at our ankles.”
“Yes, but now, we’re going to be hunting alongside older students,
Burik,” the girl sighed. “We’ll probably struggle to make the minimum,
and there’s no way we’ll have the best haul.”
“You think? Even remembering that the last time Amarl went on a hunt
like this, his group got pretty much all the crystals, and the other groups got
shit?”
 The girl’s face lit up. “Oh, you’re right! And we might even get to
quicken one of those advanced crystals!” She smiled at Amarl. “Okay,
you’re forgiven.”
“Gee, thanks,” he snorted. “However, you’re both forgetting what a
fucking nightmare the Shadora hunt was, aren’t you?”
“That was then. This is now.” Burik’s voice was dismissive as he
spoke. “Besides, you’ll have us watching your back this time. How bad
can it be?”
“Now, why the fuck would you say that?” Amarl sighed. “You just
guaranteed that no matter how bad I thought it might be, it’ll definitely be
worse!”
“That’s a superstition, Amarl,” Meder laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re
the superstitious type!”
“No, I’m the type who thinks that the awals somehow hear everything
we say, and when Burik says something like that, it encourages them to
figure out a way to prove him wrong.”
“Shit,” the larger boy said. “Okay, yeah, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Well, you can’t take it back now,” Meder sighed. “After crafting
tonight, rather than sparring, let’s visit the library.”
“How about you visit the library, and Amarl and I spar?” Burik
countered, but Amarl shook his head.
“I’ll be gathering information as well,” he said firmly. “The more I
know about Apirron, the less likely I’ll be to accidentally meet something
like the night stalker we found in Shadora.”
“Wait, you don’t want to fight something like that?” Burik asked in
disbelief. “That’s the whole point!”
“No, the point is surviving, Burik. Trust me, that’s probably going to be
hard enough on its own.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 24
The three novices passed the next two evenings in vastly different
ways. Burik, as usual, spent the hours after classes at Sitjak sparring with
the older students. Meder buried herself in the Citadel’s library, looking for
information about the realm they’d be visiting. Amarl joined her for all of
an hour before realizing that he had a much better way to get information
than trying to scrounge it in dusty books. It didn’t take him long to hunt
down some of the older students he trusted, and all it took to get them to
talk was buying them a drink or two at Sasofit’s.
“So, what did you both find?” Burik asked as the three sat at breakfast
the morning of the hunt. “You’ve been pretty tight-lipped about it.”
“I’m not sure if I want to share,” Meder said dryly. “You never even
tried to find out anything about Apirron, Burik, and Amarl gave up after an
hour. You could have at least helped me!”
“Do you really think that either of us could help you study?” Amarl
laughed easily.
“Actually, yes. That library…” She shuddered. “I don’t remotely
understand how it’s supposed to be organized. I found three books that
talked about Apirron, but they were spread across the shelves, and I’m sure
I missed a lot of good information. Having two more sets of eyes scanning
the titles wouldn’t have hurt.”
“Yeah, that’s what I guessed might happen,” he nodded. “At least, after
I talked to Veter. He told me that the library used a weird system, and until
you learned what it was, it would be hard to find anything in it.”
“Why…?” She sighed. “I’d ask why they do that, but I’m guessing it’s
to make us work out the system ourselves if we want to use it.” She
paused. “Wait, when were you talking with Veter?”
“While you were reading. That’s how I contributed: I talked with Veter
and a few of the other fourth or fifth-years and found out what they could
and would tell me about this place.” He shrugged. “I thought it would be a
better use of my time, and I’ll bet I was right.”
 “Probably,” she grimaced, then grinned. “Wait, that means that you
know what we’re getting into, and I do as well, but Burik doesn’t!” She
gave the larger boy an arch look. “Maybe we should keep it that way since
you were the only one that didn’t even try to prepare for this place.”
“I wouldn’t say I wasn’t preparing,” Burik protested calmly. “In a way,
I think I was preparing as much as the two of you, in fact. Maybe even
more.”
“What, by sparring?” Amarl asked. “Fighting naluni is nothing like
fighting monsters, Burik. Trust me.”
“I know. That’s why I spent the last two nights fighting older students
who could use their ability. I remembered how some of the creatures you
told us about in Shadora had special powers, and I thought that getting used
to fighting against something like that might be useful.” He grimaced.
“Got my ass handed to me over and over, but I think I’m ready to handle
whatever this place can throw at me—or as ready as I’ll be until my ability
quickens, at least.”
“That does sound like a good idea,” Meder said thoughtfully. “I kind of
wish I’d done more of that, in fact. Of course, if I’d been doing that, I
wouldn’t have been learning about Apirron.” She rubbed her face tiredly.
“Honestly, I really just wish they’d given us more notice about this.”
“As my mother says, the clock can never chime enough hours,” Burik
agreed. “Still, I think we each did the best we could with the time we got.”
He looked at the others. “So, what did you find out?”
“Apirron is a mountainous world,” Meder said, picking up her glass and
taking a long drink from it before continuing. “And by that, I mean that it’s
nothing but mountains. It’s a series of peaks and plateaus that stick out of
some sort of mist or clouds, linked by stone bridges. It’s chill, windy,
treacherous, and filled with creatures that attack from the air. Sahr is
somewhat stable and powerful there, which is good news since it’ll be
easier to balance matrices there, but that also means that more creatures can
use sahr than someplace like Isolas.” She smiled. “I also learned about a
lot of different types of creatures there, so if we see something, I can
hopefully identify it and maybe tell you about its strengths and
weaknesses.” She glanced at Amarl. “Is that what you heard?”
 “More or less,” he shrugged. “I got more specific information on how
to hunt there—and how to survive hunting there, more importantly.” He
gave the others a serious look. “First, it’s not just chilly. It’s bitterly cold.
The wind cuts through clothing, and if you aren’t dressed really warmly,
you can get hypothermia or even frostbite, especially at night.
“I guess there are two types of land that we’ll find: peaks and plateaus.
Peaks are steep, icy, and treacherous but actually safer to be on—as long as
you don’t go into any caves, that is. Those are warmer, but that means that
most of the non-flying monsters congregate in them. Plateaus are easier to
navigate, but they’re more dangerous since all sorts of creatures make them
their home. Basically, the older students said to hunt on the plateaus during
the day but to make camp on the peaks at night. Oh, and don’t eat or drink
anything you find there. It’s all poisonous, from the water to the plants to
the animals.” He shrugged. “That’s the gist of the information I got.
There’s more, like how to find good hunting grounds and safe camping
sites, but nothing that’s super important right now.”
“Sounds like you both got some good info, then,” Burik grinned.
“See? You didn’t need me to go blind staring at dusty books or piss
someone off trying to milk them for information. It all worked out.”
“Not yet, it hasn’t,” Amarl shook his head. “Let’s talk again this time
tomorrow and see.”
Their morning classes flew by, and soon enough, the trio jogged over to
Halit, where they found a group of fifteen to twenty third-years gathered
together out in front of the sparring grounds. Most wore thick, heavy fur
coats that looked hot and uncomfortable in the waning heat as Askula
shifted from summer to fall, including heavy gloves. As the trio
approached, several of the students gave the green-clad novices hard looks,
but none said a word to them as they joined the group.
Meder looked around nervously at the other students. “So, what do we
do now?” she asked Amarl in a whisper.
“Wait,” he shrugged. “If this goes the way it did last time, one of the
malims will split us up into groups. Oh, and once you’re in a group, they’ll
expect you to tell them your ability and any skills you have that could be
useful on the hunt, so you might want to pull up your skill list in advance to
make sure you remember them.” He quickly followed his own advice and
pulled up the list of his skills, focusing on the ones that had changed in the
past couple of moons.

His skills had grown quickly thanks to his ability, even though he
hadn’t worked out how to quicken every skill with his ithtu. Some were
easy, like his fighting skills; others, like Etiquette and Diplomacy, were
harder to boost with ithtu. Tracking was simple enough—he just had to
connect a thread to his eyes, ears, nose, and brain—but he had no clue how
to quicken Survival. Even so, Nirecina’s classes had boosted his Survival
to rank 4, which he guessed was as high as or higher than most of the third-
years around them, and upped Hiding, Silent Movement, and Tracking by
one rank each to 6. Most of the rest of his gains came from the more or less
relentless training he’d gone through, both what Ranakar inflicted on him
and what he pushed himself to do on his own time.
Sadly, while his skills had kept growing, his ability hadn’t. Or more to
the point, his ability to control it hadn’t. Nadar Sototen pushed him in
every session, challenging each of his stats in various ways, and while she
could always get his ithtu to respond eventually, whenever it did, he lost
himself in it. The song of his ithtu overwhelmed all thought and reason,
and he simply reacted, usually destroying whatever setup she’d created in
the process. He’d torn through water-filled steel boxes trapping him inside,
smashed giant, gleaming blades that probably would have beheaded him if
they hit, smashed storms of spears and arrows out of the air, and tore chains
from their mounts—and he still felt no closer to being able to call on his
ability at will. About all he could say was that he also hadn’t lost himself in
it in sparring matches again, which he counted a win.
And thanks to those skill upgrades, he could count far more wins than
losses in his sparring matches. Thanks to his boosted Armor Mastery skill,
wearing armor no longer felt quite as awkward and near-debilitating as it
once had. He still hated putting it on, but wearing it slowed him down
much less than it once had, and he was starting to get used to letting the
armor take the impact of some blows. He’d gained significantly in the new
forms Ranakar was teaching him and boosted his older forms with all his
practice, although Ranakar warned him that he should avoid improving the
base forms any more until he’d really gotten a handle on the advanced
ones.
Hells, he’d even picked up a skill in labah thanks to his weekly sessions
with the Rashiv—not that he’d come close to beating the old man yet, of
course. He doubted that he ever would, but the game had taught him a fair
bit about strategy and tactics already. In fact, the stratagems he’d learned
there had led directly to the plans that won Nirecina’s last exercise, so he
couldn’t really complain about those sessions. Overall, he was happy with
his skills—but apparently, his friends didn’t feel the same way.
“I don’t think I have any useful skills, Amarl.” Meder looked and
sounded worried as she stared vacantly into space, apparently reading her
own screen. “I haven’t gotten anything like Tracking or Survival yet. Just
Staff Fighting, and that’s only at rank 3 so far.”
 “Sure, you do,” Burik said, clapping a hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“Analysis and Investigation have to be useful, and your Sahr Mastery will
definitely help. Plus, just because you don’t have the skills listed doesn’t
mean you don’t know anything about moving quietly or building a fire.
You just haven’t had the chance to practice them enough yet.”
“Besides, you don’t need Tracking or Silent Movement,” Amarl assured
her. “Remember what I told you guys about roles? You’re definitely
ranged, hitting with sahr from a distance. You don’t need scouting skills.”
“And I’m the shield,” Burik nodded. “You’re worrying too much,
Meder.”
“Or you’re not worrying enough,” she countered sharply. “These are
third-years, Burik! They all have their ability quickened, and neither of us
do. I get why Amarl would be on this hunt, but I’m not sure we belong
here.”
“If we didn’t, they wouldn’t have put us here. They did, though, so I
assume there’s a reason. Besides, it’s not like we’re going to be split up
into other people’s teams. We’ll all be together.”
“What do you mean?” Amarl asked curiously.
The larger boy shrugged. “It wouldn’t make sense any other way. Let’s
face it, Amarl. You’re the special one here. Meder and I could have easily
hunted Isolas and found it a decent challenge without being overwhelming,
and really, we have no business being here. You do, but the last time you
did this, it didn’t go so well—and someone died. I’m thinking that’s why
we’re here: to help make sure nothing like that happens again. Mark my
words: they’ll keep us together.”
The three novices fell silent as a gray-robed figure walked out of the
main building of Halit. The man was of medium height with a thin, sparse
beard and a flat face. He moved with the lithe, unconscious grace that
Amarl had seen in every ithtar he’d met, his brown eyes scanning the silent
students. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, made slightly macabre by the
scar that ran through the left side of his mouth to his cheek and pulled that
side of his face up a little higher.
The man paused for a moment before lifting one knee into the air as if
he were taking a step. As his foot came down, it seemed to touch
something solid a span or so above the ground. The man took another step,
climbing what looked like invisible stairs until he stood above the crowd,
staring down at them with the same faint smile creasing his face.
“Welcome to this moon’s hunt,” he said in a slightly high-pitched voice
that nonetheless carried well across the crowd. “For those of you who don’t
know, I’m Malim Tapowa, and I’ll be your supervision for this hunt.” He
began to walk around, striding on air as if it were solid ground. “For some
of you, this will be your first hunt outside of Isolas,” he said. “For others,
your first hunt in Apirron. In case you haven’t been paying attention in
Realm Lore, here’s a few things you need to know before entering the
Mistway.
“First, Apirron is cold, bitterly cold. Be sure that you’re bundled up
before you enter the Mistway, because the cold will catch you by surprise
otherwise. Frostbite and hypothermia are real concerns. If you start feeling
tired, sluggish, or have trouble focusing or concentrating—or even worse, if
the cold suddenly starts feeling warm—stop, make camp, and warm
yourselves. The cold of Apirron can be deadly.
“That cold won’t be your worst enemy, though. The wind will. It’ll
blow out an unshielded fire and suck the heat and moisture from your body.
It’ll screw up your ranged attacks and make them all but useless, and it’ll
hide the sound of anything trying to ambush you. Creatures ride the wind
and use it to swoop down on prey at speeds they otherwise couldn’t
achieve, and if you aren’t aware of your surroundings at all times, you
could become that prey.”
His smile vanished as he spoke, and the look he gave the assembled
students was serious. “Apirron is a world with decent sahr levels and
stability. Your workings should function fine there, for the most part,
although be aware that water will freeze quickly, and the wind will
extinguish fire rapidly. That stability means that you’re more likely to find
a creature with some form of sahr usage, though, so if you haven’t studied
Apirron’s bestiaries, you might be in for some surprises.”
He nodded and pulled out a piece of paper. “I’ve broken you up into
teams of four. Let me remind you that you will always remain with your
team. You will travel together, sleep together, and answer nature’s call
together. Sound doesn’t carry well over the wind, so scouts, remain within
sight of your team at all times. If any of you go off on your own for any
reason, I will know, and I will drag your ass back to the Mistway faster than
you can open your mouth to give me an excuse why you did it. Now, as I
call your name, come join your team. Team one: Hodaw, Dyfen, Howik,
Robla.”
Amarl perked up as he saw the muscular woman walk over to join three
other students. “Robla?” he asked in a whisper. “I thought she was a
fourth-year!”
“Almost,” Meder shook her head. “She’s set to graduate at the end of
this moon.”
“What do you know about the rest of her team?” Burik rumbled quietly.
“Not much. I’ve talked with Hodaw a couple times—he’s in Libba with
Andra—and he seems nice enough, if a little arrogant. Dyfen graduated the
same time we did, and she’s always seemed quiet and reserved to me.
Howik…” She hesitated. “Howik’s in the same group as Robla, so if they
aren’t friends, they at least know each other well.”
“Great,” Amarl sighed. “Another Nihos to deal with.”
“Not necessarily. Robla isn’t the kind to break the rules, Amarl. I
guess she did something that almost got her kicked out her first year, and
now she’s super careful to stay out of trouble. I think as long as we can
avoid her, we’ll be fine.”
Amarl wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t argue as the next two teams were
called. Finally, the malim glanced at their group. “Team four: Amrir,
Meder, Burik, Amarl.”
Amarl glanced in the direction the malim pointed and saw a slim, older
girl with chestnut hair emerge from the group. He led the others over to
her, examining her as he approached. She had an oval face with a weak
chin that made her overlarge nose seem even more pronounced. Her skin
was very dark, and her hair hung from her head in short, tight braids
decorated with colored beads at the end. He couldn’t really make out her
body beneath her heavy jacket and pants, but she didn’t look overly broad
or muscular. She held a long spear that ended in a sharpened wooden point
rather than a metal one and had a rifle strapped to her back. As the trio
approached, she inclined her head to them.
 “Amrir,” she said in a pleasant voice. “Vufape. I’ve got Firearms at
six, Survival at five, and Herbology at seven.”
“Meder,” the girl introduced herself. “No ability yet, sorry. Analysis at
seven, Investigation at five, and Sahr Mastery at four.”
“Already?” the older girl asked, her voice slightly disbelieving. “Were
you a hara before you got here?”
“Zahai,” the girl said, shaking her head. “I’d never used sahr before I
came to Askula, but…” She grinned. “I really like it.”
“You’re talented, then. Mine’s only at three. You can be ranged,
especially since my rifle isn’t going to be worth shit on Apirron.” Amrir
glanced at Burik. “You?”
“Burik, no ability. I’ve got a lot of fighting and weapon skills at five or
higher with a focus on halberds and Military Boxing. Armor and Shield
Usage at five each, and Endurance at six.”
“No question, then,” the older girl snorted. “You’re our meat shield.
When something attacks, you keep its attention so the rest of us can kill it.”
She looked at Amarl. “And you’re our scout, right?”
He nodded. “I’m Amarl. My ability is Em, but I’ve only got the
passive part of it.”
“Which is?”
“Stat boost as needed, I guess.”
“Any particular stat? Or all of them?”
“Whichever one’s needed, it seems,” he shrugged. “I can’t really use it
at will yet.”
“Still, powerful ability. Skills?”
“I’ve got Endurance, Hiding, Silent Movement, and Tracking at six;
Survival and Investigation are at four. I’m at six with my moon axe, five
with my scimitar, and from two to six in a bunch of unarmed forms.”
“Fuck,” she snorted again. “Yeah, you’re definitely the scout.” She
looked at the rest of them. “How much do you know about hunting roles?”
“Amarl explained them to us,” Meder smiled.
 “Yeah, he’d know.” She glanced at the boy. “I heard all about Shadora
last year. How you guys got attacked by twice the creatures as anyone else.
Think it’ll be the same this time?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Probably, though. It happened in Isolas,
too.”
“Good,” she laughed, a wide smile splitting her face. “I volunteered to
lead this group hoping it would.”
“You volunteered?” Meder asked.
“Oh, hells, yeah. Tapowa asked all of the Libba students in this hunt if
we wanted to take your group and babysit the three of you. Me and Dashe
both volunteered, but the malim thought my ability would mesh best with
your group.”
“What is it?” Amarl asked curiously.
“This.” The girl lifted a hand, and the grass at her feet suddenly
stretched up around her, writhing and twisting madly as it grew to her
waist.
“You can control plants?” Meder asked with a gasp, reaching out to
touch the shifting stems of grass. “That’s amazing!”
“Yeah. Tier D ability.” Amrir lowered her hand, and the plants fell
still. “Takes a lot, though, and I’m getting low on my crystals—which is
the point of this hunt.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Normally,
I rely on my rifle. I make my own rounds, and each one has a sliver of
wood in the center, so I can control them in flight. With Apirron’s winds,
though, that’ll only work at fairly short range.”
She pointed at Burik. “When something attacks, you get in its way.
Don’t try to kill it; just hold it off with your halberd.” She turned to Meder.
“If it’s something flying, try to use your sahr to ground it; if not, see if you
can slow it down or hold it. Amarl and I will kill it.”
“Will that spear hurt anything?” Burik asked dubiously. “I mean, with a
wooden tip, it probably can’t even damage anything with armor, can it?”
“Normally, you’d be right,” the older girl grinned. “Thanks to my
ability, though, I can make it as hard as steel if I want to. I can also extend
it a bit or even make it root itself in the ground to accept a charge if
needed.” She shrugged. “So, for me, it’s a lot better than a steel head.”
She looked the three up and down a little uncertainly. “Now, to address
the obvious issue. Please tell me that the three of you have warmer
clothing.”
“We do,” Amarl laughed. “We just thought it might be too hot to wear
until we got there.”
“Trust me, you’ll want it on now,” Amrir shook her head. “The malim
isn’t kidding about the cold, and it’s a lot harder to regain body heat than it
is to keep it. Go ahead and get dressed while the other groups are
preparing. It’s going to be a long three days, and we don’t want to start it
with someone getting frostbite.”
As Amarl pulled the heavy coat, pants, and gloves from his pack, he
somehow doubted that frostbite would be the worst enemy he’d face in the
next few days.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 25
Amarl clutched the small green crystal in his hand and took a deep
breath before reaching out to touch the back of the shallow cave before
him. The wall looked like ordinary stone, and as far as he knew, it was just
the granite face of one of the mountains towering over Halit. To Amarl,
though, it was something much worse, something that scared him more than
the umbravore, the assilian queen, and even the Rashiv himself. It was the
entrance to a Mistway, and he was terrified to step forward.
He resisted the urge to look back to the opening of the cave, knowing
he’d just see his two friends behind him, waiting for him to step through.
Mistways didn’t frighten them; neither of them saw the things he did within
one. In fact, as far as he knew, they didn’t see anything. To them, the
Mistways were simply dark, silent passages leading to their destination.
They wouldn’t understand his hesitation, and there wasn’t much point in
explaining it to them. Instead, he pushed his hand forward, and it slid
through the rock wall like pushing through thick mud. He stepped forward
and felt the sensation pressing against his entire body, wrapping around him
and squeezing him for a moment before he slipped through and stepped
onto the Mistway.
Bright azure light bathed his face as he found himself standing on a
stone bridge leading off into darkness. The sides of the bridge lacked
railings, and when he peered over the edge, the bottom was lost in swirling
blue mist. Part of him wanted to drop a coin or rock to see how far it went,
but he knew that it wouldn’t fall—nothing in the Mistway moved unless he
deliberately moved it, as far as he could tell. The mist swirled for a few
reaches to either side before ending in towering, black walls that he
couldn’t quite make out clearly. The Mistway itself wasn’t what frightened
him, though; it was the things that lived there that made his heart race in his
chest.
Figures swirled in the mist, vaguely humanoid ones a slightly darker
shade of blue than the fog and somehow more solid, more real than the
ephemeral vapors. They crowded around the mist, pressing forward, their
arms reaching toward him but seemingly held back by a barrier he couldn’t
see. Worse, their whispered voices echoed in his skull, bypassing his ears
entirely and filling his mind. Their voices were warm and comforting, the
sound compelling, and their words hovered at the edge of his
understanding. He always felt that if he could just get closer, maybe touch
the misty border, he’d be able to understand them at last, to hear whatever
they had to say. He took an unknowing step toward them, straining his
ears…
He stumbled as his foot slid off the edge of the path and plunged toward
the void below. The spell holding him enthralled snapped as his sudden
terror cut through it like a blade, and he fell back onto his ass, panting as his
heart thundered in his chest. He didn’t know what would happen if he
stepped off the bridge—until that moment, he hadn’t realized he could step
off the bridge—but he knew whatever it was wouldn’t be good. That was
why the Mistways terrified him: when he faced other, more mundane
threats, he simply risked his life. Some part of him knew that there, in the
Mistway, he risked far more than that, and while he didn’t understand what
that meant, he was utterly certain that he’d much rather die choking on a
blade or being eaten by some horror than by plunging into the mists below.
He pushed himself to his feet, trembling and shaking. They’d almost
gotten him that time. Their words had slipped into his thoughts without his
even knowing, and he’d taken half a step into the darkness. Each time he
entered the Mistway, their calls grew stronger, and each time, it was harder
to resist them. Their voices still beckoned him plaintively, still cajoled and
urged him to listen, but the compelling quality filling them was gone, and
he forced himself to ignore them. He resolved to quicken more points to his
Will attribute; that might help him fight off the calls. If not, maybe there
was a skill he could learn. He’d never mentioned what he saw in the
Mistway to Ranakar or to anyone, but maybe it was time to share and see if
the old awal could help him.
He shook away his musings and began to walk unsteadily forward,
refusing to look to either side. The cries rose in volume as he passed, but he
steeled himself against them and pushed the walk to an easy jog. He didn’t
want to run now that he knew that stepping off the path was possible, but he
also didn’t want to linger here any longer than he had to. He loped along as
breaks appeared in the walls towering to each side, gashes that let more of
the blue mist roll toward him. The gouges appeared more and more
frequently until he ran between two lines of sharp spikes that reared high
above him, piercing the mists overhead and plunging into shadow below.
The bridge stretched out before him, ending at one of those spikes, and he
ran toward that spike gratefully, plunging through the thick barrier that
marked the end of the Mistway.
He squinted at the sudden brightness and stumbled as a powerful surge
of air crashed into his side. Tendrils of cold washed over his face, the icy
fingers scrabbling at his cheeks and nose. Needles of frigid air pierced his
thick clothing, and he shivered at the sudden drop in temperature. The wind
roared quietly in his ears, not deafening but certainly loud enough to drown
out most sounds. He shivered again as he realized that if he hadn’t been
wearing his furs when he stepped out of the Mistway, he’d have been
chilled to the bone before he could have gotten them on. The cold wasn’t
the worst he’d ever felt by a long margin, but the fierce wind amplified it
and made the freezing air far more chilling than it should have been.
He spotted Amrir and quickly moved to stand next to her, forcing
himself not to huddle in his jacket against the cold. It wasn’t serious, at
least not through his furs, and he knew he’d adapt to it quickly enough.
He’d endured worse during Tem’s long winters; sheltered beneath the
Silverhand Mountains, the small village got spans of snow and bitter
temperatures every year, and he couldn’t always buy or steal enough
clothing to keep himself warm. Hundreds of frigid nights spent huddled in
a hayloft, hungry and buried beneath straw that couldn’t quite keep the
subfreezing temperatures at bay flashed in his mind. He’d gotten used to
being warm and comfortable, but compared to those memories, the chill of
Apirron was nothing.
He straightened and took a look around. He stood near the center of a
wide plateau that looked like it stretched nearly half a walk across. It would
likely take him fifteen minutes to reach the edge at a casual walk. A lemon-
yellow sky hung beyond that edge, broken up by fingers of stone that
stretched above the horizon in irregular fashion, leaving large gaps of open
sky between. When he glanced up, the sky looked clear and cloudless, but
he couldn’t see any trace of a sun beaming down on them. The light
washing over the students just seemed to descend from nowhere as far as he
could tell. A tall spire jutted from the middle of the plateau behind him,
presumably the entrance to the Mistway.
 The others joined them a few moments later as they emerged from the
Mistway, blinking and shivering but obviously unaffected by their passage
through it. The group pressed together with the other students, gathering
around the malim, who once more stood above them, seemingly on solid
air.
“Listen up!” he said loudly, his voice somehow carrying easily over the
sound of the wind rushing in Amarl’s ears. “For those of you who’ve never
been here before, this is your base camp. It’s a secure area that you can
retreat to as needed. If any of your team is showing signs of frostbite or
hypothermia, get back here immediately to recover and heal. Do not
attempt to push through it, understand?” The students nodded, no one even
trying to speak over the winds, and he continued.
“There are seven bridges leading off from this plateau.” He half-turned
and pointed behind him. “Bridge one is over there, marked with red paint.
Bridge four is opposite, marked with green paint. The numbers increase in
clockwise fashion, so bridge two is to the right of bridge one, and so on.
Each team will take the bridge matching their team number, which will lead
you into a relatively isolated hunting ground.”
His eyes scanned the group, suddenly hard. “If you go far enough,
adjacent areas may reconnect. If you find yourself on the same peak or
plateau as another group, both teams will withdraw back until they can take
a different bridge. Don’t try to share territories; for now, it’s easier just to
agree not to compete directly with one another.”
His gaze relaxed. “And speaking of competition, your minimum for
this hunt is two minor or six weak crystals.” Muttering arose at that, and
the malim raised a hand for quiet. “I know, it’s a low minimum, but trust
me, there are reasons. I will tell you, though, that if you want to have any
chance at best haul, you’ll need at least a strong crystal.”
Amarl had a feeling he understood, and judging from Meder’s face, she
did as well. The low minimum was probably because of his presence. If
this hunt went like the last ones he’d been on, he’d draw most of the nearby
predators, leaving a lot fewer for the others to find and harvest. In Shadora,
that led to most of the teams not making their minimums; it sounded like
the malims were making accommodations for him being there this time.
 “Remember, stay with your team at all times,” Tapowa finished. “Stay
warm, and watch one another for signs of exhaustion or hypothermia. And
keep one eye on the ground and the other on the skies; Apirron will hit you
from both directions.” He grinned. “Good luck, and I’ll see you all back
here in three days.”
“Okay, we’re that way,” Amrir said loudly, pointing back behind the
group as the assembled students began to turn away. “And we’re lucky; we
should make the minimum with no problems. Do you all know how to
harvest ithtu?” The novices nodded and she smiled. “Good. I’ll harvest
until we make the minimum, and then you can all practice. The more you
do it, the easier it gets.”
“Amarl should do it,” Burik shook his head. “He gets better crystals
than the rest of us.”
Amrir glanced at Amarl. “What Tier is your ability?”
“D,” he lied glibly.
“So is mine, and I’ve had more practice, so it’s better to let me harvest
them first.”
“Maybe you should both try and see who gets better results,” Meder
suggested. “If meeting the minimum is really going to be as easy as you
think, Amrir, then it shouldn’t hurt, should it?”
The older girl’s face twisted, but after a moment, she shrugged. “No, I
guess not. Fine. I’ll harvest the first thing we kill; Amarl, you harvest the
second. Whoever gets a better result can harvest until we make the
minimum, and then we’ll all take turns. Sound good?”
“Works for me,” Amarl grinned.
“Good. Now, let’s go and get this hunt started.”
Amrir led the trio across the plateau toward their assigned bridge.
Amarl’s heartbeat quickened slightly as they approached the edge of the
plateau, and he examined the bridge they’d be using carefully. It was about
a reach wide, perfectly flat, and made of some sort of pale stone that he
didn’t recognize. Solid, waist-high walls flanked the bridge on either side,
and it looked like someone had painted those walls green for a reach or so
along the bridge. The bridge extended out into the air without anything
seeming to support it, curving around toward a peak maybe a quarter-walk
distant.
As he reached the edge, he glanced over the side and swallowed hard.
He’d seen mountain plateaus before; they usually sloped down toward a
relatively rounded, weathered edge. They were typically dusty, uneven, and
unstable as erosion steadily ate away at the edge. This one was quite
different. It simply ended, the flat stone of the plateau suddenly dropping
away into a sheer face of granite. The edge was sharp and defined, not
rounded and weathered. He glanced down and felt a shiver race through
him as he saw a layer of drifting, golden mist hanging far below, hiding
whatever might lay beyond. His heart pounded as images of the Mistway
flashed in his mind, but he took a deep breath and did his best to calm
himself.
The bridges and mists weren’t what made the Mistways terrifying. That
was the voices, and there were none of those here. Nothing would call out
to him, beckoning him over the edge. Sure, the wind might try to blow him
off the bridge, but that was a much easier foe to face than the unknown
creatures summoning him into the blue darkness. Falling here would only
mean death—there had to be a bottom down there somewhere—and while
he wasn’t in a hurry to die, he’d faced his demise any number of times in
the past year. One more wouldn’t matter.
He forced himself to step onto the bridge, finding it firm and unmoving
beneath his feet. He’d half-expected it to shift and sway in the wind,
especially with nothing supporting it, but somehow, it hung there, as solid
as the mountain he’d just left. He put one foot after the other, following
Amrir robotically, his eyes automatically scanning the skies and the sides of
the bridge for threats. Looking down made his stomach lurch and his head
spin, but he forced himself to do it. He really, really didn’t want to fight on
this bridge, and if he spotted a threat far enough away, the team could run to
the nearest end of the bridge and face it there.
He blinked in surprise as he stepped onto slightly softer ground and
looked around. He stood on a flat bit of ground that quickly turned into a
slope that reared above and descended below him. Paths led up and down
that slope, as well as to his left and right, rocky but easily navigable.
Coarse grass and stubby trees dotted the landscape, and ice glistened and
shone on the dark stone here and there, glittering in the ubiquitous light.
 “Okay, this is where the hunt actually starts,” Amrir said loudly over the
wind. “Amarl, you stay in front and look for tracks we can follow.”
“I can’t really hide from anything,” he said critically, kicking the short,
tough grass at his feet, then laughed. “Although I also don’t have to worry
about anything hearing me over this wind, I suppose.”
“The things that might hunt us don’t need hearing,” she shook her
head. “Assume that anything flying can see you way better than you can
see it. And anything underground can feel us walking on the ground, so you
still want to step carefully.”
“Got it,” he nodded, sobering quickly. “Is there a specific direction I
should go?”
“It doesn’t matter. All the paths will connect with one another over and
over all over the mountain. Just don’t go on any bridges. We’ll hunt this
peak until we can’t find anything, then pick a bridge and move to the next
one.” She paused. “Oh, and don’t go into any caves, at least not alone.
They’re a lot more dangerous than being outside is.”
She looked at the novices, her face serious and her expression grim.
“Keep an eye out in all directions, and stay alert. Half the creatures in this
realm fly, the other half burrow, and all of them like to attack from ambush.
If you see ground that looks weird or anything circling in the air nearby, call
it out; I’d rather have a dozen false alarms than one successful ambush. Got
it? Good. Amarl, move out.”
The hizeen nodded and unhooked his moon axe from where he’d
strapped it to his back, moving forward at a cautious pace but not bothering
to crouch or try to hide. His eyes scanned the ground and flicked up into
the air overhead, searching for anything that could be tracks or distant dots
moving closer in the sky. He chose one of the paths that led around the
slope, a two-reach-wide trail of stone and gravel that sloped gently
downward as it curved around tumbled piles of rock. To his left, the
mountain slope plunged away; to his right, the peak loomed, the walls
varying from gentle inclines he could easily navigate to sheer faces that he
guessed he’d need special tools to climb.
He made it all of ten minutes before the wall to his right exploded
toward him in a shower of stone and gravel. He reacted instantly, spinning
his axe and slashing blindly while he scrambled backward. His axe slid
through the rocky shards and struck something solid, something that wasn’t
stone. A loud hiss sounded over the wind as a dark shape emerged from a
hole that appeared in the side of the mountain. The shape lunged at Amarl,
and he thrust his spearpoint at it, stabbing at it and driving it back. His
weapon sank into the creature’s flesh, and it recoiled with another loud
hiss.
As the wind whipped away the stone dust, Amarl got a good look at the
thing attacking him. It looked vaguely like a lizard, with a dark gray body
longer than he was tall and a short, stubby tail. Its rear legs splayed out to
the sides the way a normal reptile’s would, but its front legs were thick and
armored with heavy, bladelike scales jutting out the sides and long claws
that gleamed like dull steel. Its head was short and blunt, its eyes tiny and
sunk deep into its skull. Flat, crushing teeth filled its muzzle, but when it
opened its jaws to hiss at Amarl again, he saw an inner row of thin, bladed
bone that he guessed could probably cut through flesh pretty easily.
The creature lunged at him again, its mouth snapping toward him, but
he slid back and slammed one of his axe blades into the side of its skull.
The creature’s scales seemed to act like armor, and his weapon only left a
relatively shallow wound. The monster still recoiled from the injury,
though, jerking backward and letting out another hiss. It lunged once more
but stumbled and fell as it did, and Amarl blinked in surprise as the grass
around the thing’s feet suddenly whipped up and grabbed its legs, pinning it
in place.
“Got it,” Amrir called out as Amarl’s team appeared around the edge of
the mountain slope. “Amarl, withdraw. Burik, go get its attention before it
rips free. Meder, can you bind its muzzle?”
Amarl stepped back as the beast thrashed and twisted. Its bladed front
legs quickly cut through the grass binding them, but its rear legs remained
stuck in place. It hissed at Amarl again, its powerful front legs driving into
the stone path as it tried to reach him, then whipped its head sideways as
Burik’s halberd slammed down on its back and opened a shallow wound
there. The grass holding its feet slithered away, and the thing spun to face
its latest attacker. Amarl stood back and watched as Burik stabbed it with
the point of his halberd, holding its focus. Behind him, Meder waved her
hands and swayed gracefully about, her lips moving as she built whatever
working she was about to unleash, while Amrir stood to the side with her
wooden spear in hand, watching the combat carefully.
Meder brought her hands together with a clap, and a sudden rush of
wind swirled around Amarl, battering into the lizard. Its gaping jaw
suddenly slammed shut, and the thing thrashed its head from side to side as
if trying to dislodge something stuck on its snout.
“Burik, pin its head!” Amrir shouted. “Hold it down!” The larger boy
shoved the top of his halberd’s blade against the side of the monster’s neck
and lunged forward, jamming the spearpoint against the ground and setting
his feet wide. The creature thrashed and twisted, and Burik grunted as he
struggled to hold it in place. Amarl stepped forward, thrusting with his
crescent blades and knocking one of the splayed back legs to the side,
sending the beast crashing onto its stomach.
At the same moment, Amrir darted in and thrust her wooden spear,
piercing the reptile’s throat and holding the weapon in place. The creature
froze and started struggling even harder as sharp thorns erupted from its
throat with a spray of greenish blood. Amrir yanked backward, and the
spear tore loose from the monster to reveal that the sharp point had
blossomed into a bloom of hard, bladed thorns. Blood erupted from the
jagged wound left behind, and the beast’s throes stilled quickly and finally
ended.
“Nicely done!” Amrir said approvingly, smiling broadly at the novices.
“You each worked well together.” She glanced at Meder. “How did you
bind it?”
“I used the wind,” the girl said with a smile. “It’s already got a lot of
force behind it, so I redirected it to hold the peakdigger’s jaws shut.”
“Is that what it’s called?” Burik asked, wiping down the blade of his
halberd as he spoke.
“I think so, yes. I read about them in the bestiary. They’re fairly
common ambush predators here. They use those powerful front legs to dig
out a hiding place near a path, then chew up the stone into a mixture they
smear over the opening to hide themselves.”
“Exactly,” Amrir nodded. “Their burrows usually just look like a bulge
in the rock that’s a little smoother than everything else.” She glanced at
Amarl. “Good reflexes, by the way. Most second-years panic when
something like that attacks them.”
“It’s not exactly the first time something’s tried to eat me,” the hizeen
replied drily. “Probably won’t be the last, either.”
“Probably not, no. In fact, let me harvest this, and we’ll be on our way
so something else can have a shot.” The older girl flashed him a grin as she
knelt down and placed her hand on the peakdigger’s flank. Amarl could
feel the life inside it crying to be gathered, and he could almost see the girl
gathering that energy and drawing it to herself. The power flowed up
beneath her hand, and a crackling sound filled the air as a long, spiky
crystal erupted from its skin and rose up beside Amrir’s palm. The
crackling continued for a few seconds before the girl lifted her hand and
plucked up the crystal, holding it up and beaming. “Not bad for a
peakdigger!”
Amarl studied the deep green crystal and willed himself to understand
it.

He suppressed a frown as she rose from the corpse. He could still feel
the life in it, energy that the girl hadn’t collected. It called to him even as it
seeped out of the cooling carcass, drifting away into the atmosphere, lost
forever. He could have gotten more from it; that he felt sure of. He didn’t
know if it really mattered, of course. That extra energy might have just
made a more powerful feeble crystal. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what the
real difference was.
“Is that what we should expect to get from something like this?” he
asked loudly over the whipping wind.
“From something without sahr usage? Yeah, a feeble crystal’s about the
best you can expect here on Apirron.”
He nodded. “On Shadora, stuff like this gave us mostly weak crystals
—well, that’s what Andra was harvesting, anyway.”
 “The creatures there are stronger on average, so they provide more
energy,” she explained. “Weak crystals are easy to get there; in fact, you
have to be shit at harvesting to get a feeble one, even with a Tier A ability.”
“What’s the difference?” he asked. “I mean, between feeble and weak
ones? I know that weak crystals are stronger, but I don’t really know why
—or why they’re different colors.”
“It’s about the density of ithtu in them, basically. We’re still learning
about this, ourselves, but I guess that once the energy gets dense enough,
the actual structure of the crystal it forms changes to accommodate it.
Weak crystals are different all the way down at the most fundamental level
from feeble ones.” She shrugged. “That’s all I know, sorry.”
“That’s still really interesting,” Meder said.
“It is, but it doesn’t get us closer to our minimum,” Burik chuckled.
“Come on, you can ask her more once we’re camped. I want to see what
else we can fight—and what Amarl can harvest from something like this.”
“Could you have killed this, Amarl?” the older girl asked hesitantly.
“Yeah,” the hizeen nodded. “I was cutting it just trying to hold it off.
Pretty sure I could have taken it myself if I had to.”
“Okay, then if we find something else like this, Meder will bind it,
Burik and I will pin it, and Amarl, you can kill it. Let’s see how you do.”
Amarl moved forward again, this time watching the ground and walls
for more carefully. Once Meder had explained how the creature made its
hiding place, he could see the marks of its work on the ground. What he’d
thought were just cracks in the stone were actually deep scratches; the neat
piles of stone to each side that looked like the results of a rockfall were
obviously the excess material it dug out. Armed with those signs, he found
the next creature before it erupted and moved back to warn the others.
Burik used his halberd to crack the thin stone shell covering it, causing it to
rush outward, then held it at bay with his long weapon. Meder once again
funneled the wind to hold its jaws shut, while Amrir wrapped its rear legs in
thick grass so it couldn’t thrash around. Burik pinned its head down, and
Amarl hewed at its throat with his axe blades. Three chops to the same
place opened up its carotid, and he dodged the spray of blood that erupted
from the wound, letting it bleed it out.
 As the creature died, Amarl knelt quickly beside it. He could feel the
life pulsing within it, calling out to him and begging to be gathered. He
placed his hand on it and drew it, reaching into the body’s deepest depths
and pulling every ounce of energy he could. It gathered beneath his hand,
and he felt it trying to erupt, but he hesitated as he considered what Amrir
had just told him. If she was right, the real difference between a feeble and
weak crystal wasn’t the amount of power in it, it was how densely that
energy was packed. That tracked with what Rateso had told him as well:
ithtu functioned as it did because it was an incredibly dense source of
energy, so it made sense that the denser the ithtu, the better it would work to
power an ability. If higher-ranked crystals were denser, then not only
should they have more power in them, that power should transfer more
quickly and be easier to tap. If that were the case, then how much power he
got from the peakdigger shouldn’t matter, only how densely he could pack
that energy when he collected it.
He concentrated, holding the gathered energy inside the creature,
refusing to let it erupt. More power flowed to his hand, and he pressed it
into the forming pool, forcing the energy to pack ever more tightly
together. It screamed to break free, cried to be released, and he felt his
control of it slipping as it pooled thickly beneath his palm. Just before it
could slip his grasp, he drew it outward, and a sharp crack filled the air as
the crystal practically exploded from the body. It thrust upward in a rush
rather than growing slowly, shooting up into a tiny spike half the size of his
pinky—a spike that glowed bright gold. He analyzed it quickly and smiled
at what he saw.

“Holy shit!” Amrir said, kneeling down and picking up the crystal. She
touched the still body, and her eyes widened. “There’s nothing left inside of
it, Amarl! How did you do that?”
“I’m not sure,” he shrugged. “That’s how it always is when I harvest
something, though.”
 “Fuck,” she breathed, and a grin spread across her face. “Fuck, yeah.
We are totally going to kick everyone’s ass this hunt, and it’s going to be
easy!” She rose to her feet. “Okay, we’re just gonna keep doing this.
Meder binds whatever we find, Burik and I hold it, Amarl kills and
harvests. You guys were right, and I can’t wait to see what he gets from
something that’s actually powerful! Lead on, Amarl!”
The boy smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it. He felt certain that they
would have quite a harvest from this hunt, but he didn’t think it was going
to be as easy as the girl believed. In fact, he was certain it was going to be
an utterly exhausting few days.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 26
Amarl danced sideways as the stonereaver’s long jaws slammed shut
where his leg had just been a moment before. The grass at the monster’s
feet reached up and tangled its legs, but the crocodilian beast tore its bladed
limbs free and lumbered single-mindedly after the hizeen. Burik’s halberd
slammed down on its back with a loud clang, skidding off the metallic
scales, but it ignored the blow and snapped at Amarl again. Wind rushed
around it, trying to seal its jaws shut, but a pale glow appeared around its
mouth, and it whipped forward at terrific speed, ripping free of Meder’s
working as its glowing jaws crashed together mere fingerwidths from
Amarl’s side with a clang and a blast of pressure that pressed against him
and rocked him backwards.
Amarl barely noticed his friends’ efforts or the lack of effect. The song
of his ithtu rang quietly in his thoughts as he spun his axe, and he struggled
to see anything but the beast before him. The thing lashed its head
sideways, trying to drive the blades lining its jaw into him, but he slid back
and slashed with his crescent blades. Unlike Burik’s weapon, his axe cut
cleanly through the iron-dark scales along the creature’s neck, and green
blood dripped from the thin wound left behind. He caught the beast’s next
lunge with a thrust of his spearpoint, allowing himself to be pushed back a
few steps before setting his feet and driving the point into the other side of
its neck, opening a deeper and more serious wound.
The monster’s jaws gaped, and it let out a deafening bellow. The air
rippled before it as the force of its cry crashed into Amarl’s chest. The first
time that happened, it had knocked him sprawling, and only Amrir and
Burik’s intervention kept him from losing a foot to the beast. This time,
though, he was prepared for the assault. He ducked low and set his feet,
leaning into the blast and pushing forward. The shock wave rushed past
him in an instant, and as his weight came forward, he turned it into a
massive overhand chop that buried one of his axe blades in the back of the
monster’s neck. The beast shuddered and dropped as his blow damaged its
spinal cord, and he stepped close and slashed with his crescent blades,
taking the time to aim more carefully. A fan of green blood sprayed
outward as his axe sliced through the thing’s carotid, and its struggles
swiftly ended as its life drained onto the hard stone.
He quickly knelt and began harvesting it as its life force cried out to
him. Holding the energy inside the thing’s body to let it condense had
gotten easier with practice, although he still started to lose his mental grip
on the power at a certain point and had to release it. A deep purple crystal
shot up from the monster’s hide with a sharp snap, its spiky, treelike shape
gleaming and sparkling in the dwindling light surrounding them. He
plucked it up and glanced at it, mentally comparing it to the other crystals
they’d collected. It was a minor crystal, a rank above weak, and a rank 9
one, at that. It was the strongest crystal they’d harvested, but then, that
really wasn’t saying all that much. Their haul so far wasn’t really any
different from what he suspected Amrir would have gotten if she’d gone to
Shadora instead of Apirron.
So far, the hunt hadn’t been extraordinary. They’d faced a fair number
of monsters, to be sure, but nothing completely out of hand. Most of their
fights had been with burrowing and tunneling creatures that erupted from
the walls or dashed out of caves and crevices. Amarl had gotten pretty good
at spotting the signs of those, though, and they rarely took the students by
surprise. The aerial attacks were harder to predict; the first time something
swooped down on Amarl, he’d barely spotted it in time to leap out of its
way. The next time, he’d seen the monster as it suddenly appeared around
the side of the mountain, diving toward him. The creature’s attack was
swift as it rode the whipping wind and utterly silent as it glided on
membranous, scaly wings. The team had learned to watch in the direction
of the wind after that, and they’d been ready for the third flyer’s attack as it
plunged from the sky.
The stonereavers had honestly been the most dangerous things they’d
fought, and they weren’t all that dangerous. The crystals he’d gotten from
them reflected that, but Amrir seemed excited about this one nonetheless as
he tossed it to the girl.
“Nice,” she said with a smile. “Rank 9 minor crystal. I doubt anyone
else is going to come back with one of those this hunt.” She shook her
head. “Now I get why the malim said that we’d need a strong crystal to
even have a chance of top haul on this hunt. If we fought something really
dangerous, we’d probably already have one ourselves.”
 “That stonereaver seemed pretty dangerous to me,” Meder said wryly.
“We couldn’t hold it at all.”
“It wasn’t,” the older girl shook her head. “I could have bound it
myself if I really wanted to, and Amarl killed it all on his own without
really needing us. Its armor is strong, and it has limited sahr usage, but
really, it’s not a serious threat to anyone with a quickened ability.”
“I think I could have taken it eventually,” Burik nodded, squatting down
next to the corpse and running his fingers across its armor. “Its scales are
like iron, but that’s just like fighting someone in armor. I could have
punched through if I had to.”
“And if you’d gone all out with your sahr, you could have killed it, as
well, Meder,” Amarl added. “You could have burned away its armor and
bashed its skull in, or electrocuted it, or something. It just would have left
you wiped out for a bit afterward, is all.”
“That’s always a concern on a hunt,” Amrir agreed. “You have to
balance the threat of injury against conserving your resources.” She made a
face. “Which is why I didn’t hold the stonereaver. I’m getting fairly low
on my existing crystals, and using my ability full-out would drain them in a
hurry.” She glanced at Amarl. “How are you doing?”
He quickly pulled up his own ithtu screen and glanced over it.
 “My tak’s at 65%, but my crystal’s still good for a while,” he said.
She frowned. “So, why are you even on this hunt if you don’t need a
crystal? Not that I’m complaining, but I’m curious.” She looked at the
other two novices. “In fact, do any of you need one?”
“I’m close to the end of mine,” Meder nodded.
“Same here,” Burik agreed. “96% quickened.”
“And I can quicken two crystals,” Amarl shrugged. “So, I could use
another.”
“Well, that answers that. Not that it matters; you’re all doing well here,
and I’m glad you’re on my team.” She smiled and looked up at the sky.
“However, it’s starting to get dark. We need to find a place to make camp
before the light fades.”
“Is there even a sun here?” Meder asked curiously, looking up at the
lemon-colored sky.
“Who knows? I’ve never seen one. It still has day and night, though,
and nighttime’s a lot colder than daytime. We need to get in shelter and get
a fire going before we lose the light entirely. Amarl, let’s head back to the
last wide place on the trail. We’ll set up camp there.”
They trekked back to a spot where the trail had widened into a long,
flattish ledge. Erecting the tent wasn’t an easy chore; the whipping wind
kept trying to snatch the fabric away, and the stakes pulled out of the rocky
ground almost as quickly as they pounded them in. Digging out a firepit
was no simple matter either, and they kept having to deepen it as the
screaming winds snuffed out the kindling that Meder ignited with a touch of
sahr. By the time they got their camp fully completed, the light had all but
faded, and the chill in the air had grown truly uncomfortable. The four
students huddled around the meager warmth of the fire as Amrir set a pot
above it and began boiling water.
“It got cold fast,” Meder noted, clutching her arms around herself.
“It does every day here,” Amrir nodded, also huddled up against the
chill. “It’ll be better in the tent; that’ll keep most of the wind off us.” She
grimaced. “We’ll have to keep watch, though, and that isn’t going to be
fun.”
 “Does it keep getting colder through the night?” Amarl asked.
“For the first few hours. It bottoms out at that point, and it just stays
there until the sun or whatever it is comes up again.” The older girl shivered
slightly. “The problem is, when you’re on watch, you can’t stay by the
fire. It kills your night vision, and it outlines you for anything hunting us.
The secret is to keep moving and active, so you generate heat.”
“I’ll take first watch,” Amarl quickly volunteered with a grin.
“Nice try,” she snorted. “Standard practice on Apirron is to draw lots
for watch.” She reached down and tore a clump of scrubby grass out of the
ground, then pulled off four pieces. Amarl watched as the torn pieces
suddenly grew until each was a slightly different length. Amrir wrapped the
grass in her fist, concealing everything but the top end, then held it out.
“Pick one. Shortest gets first watch, longest gets last.”
“How do I know you’re not changing the lengths as we pick them?”
Amarl asked suspiciously.
“You don’t,” she grinned. “You’ll just have to trust me.” His face went
flat, and her expression quickly sobered. “Listen, Amarl, I know that last
year, your hunt—well, no one’s really talked about it, but we can all guess
that things didn’t go so well for you. I’m sure your group put you in bad
situations, harassed you, and did their best to scare the shit out of you.”
She looked at the others, her voice and gaze serious. “By all rights, that
should be happening to both of you this hunt, too. It happened to me and
everyone in my class.” She looked back at Amarl. “But all things
considered, I’ll bet it was way worse for you.”
“That’s an understatement,” he muttered darkly.
“Well, whatever happened, it’s not happening this year. Tapowa was
very explicit: no harassing you guys. No pushing any of you into danger;
no terrifying you into wanting to run back to the Mistway. He warned us
that there would be consequences if we did, and we wouldn’t like those
consequences. That’s why only me and Dashe volunteered, in fact; we
don’t really like pushing the younger students around. Some of the
others…” She shook her head.
“Point is, if we’re going to hunt together, we have to trust each other.
Otherwise, we’ll make dumb mistakes, we might get hurt, and we could all
end up failing. I’ll have your back if you’ve got mine. Deal?”
Amarl stared at the woman for a few moments, just searching her eyes.
He silently resolved to get the Truth Sensing skill from Geralz at some
point, but that didn’t help him now. He had to hope that his Perception skill
would substitute as he scanned her face, looking for any signs of deception
or betrayal. He didn’t see anything there, and his instincts weren’t
screaming at him the way they had during last year’s hunt. That didn’t
mean much—if the girl had the Deception skill ranked high enough, she
could probably fool them all without too much trouble—but it was better
than he’d hoped for. Hesitantly, he reached out and took a piece of grass,
then sat back while Meder picked one.
He held his piece of to Meder’s; hers was longer, meaning that he
definitely wasn’t doing last shift. Burik’s was even longer than Meder’s,
giving Amarl hope, but when Amrir took the last piece of grass from her
hand, hers was the shortest.
“Wow, this looks bad, doesn’t it?” she chuckled, shaking her head. “We
can do it again if you guys want…”
Amarl glanced at the others and saw them watching him. Both had
questioning looks, and neither seemed ready to say anything. Apparently,
the decision whether or not to trust Amrir was his, which he supposed made
sense. No one had any reason to want to bother either of them, at least not
any more than they did any other student. He sighed and tossed the grass
into the fire.
“It’s fine,” he smiled at the older girl. “So, you’ve got first watch, I’m
next, then Meder. Burik’s last.”
“That’s fine with me,” the larger boy shrugged. “First and last watches
are the best. The middle ones suck. For second watch, it’s hard to fall
asleep because you know you’re gonna get woken up soon, and for third,
you can’t really fall back asleep after.”
“He’s right,” Amrir nodded, looking curiously at the boy. “How do you
know that?”
“Military family,” he grunted. “I’ve stood my share of watches during
maneuvers.”
 “Then next time, you should get the worst watch,” Meder said sourly.
“Since you’re so used to it and all.”
“We won’t pick like this every night,” Amrir shook her head. “Now
that the order’s set, we’ll just rotate. Tomorrow, Burik will have first watch,
I’ll have second, and so on.” She glanced at Amarl. “Which means it kind
of sucks to be you, I guess.”
“It usually does. I wouldn’t know what to do if it didn’t.” He grinned
at her. “I don’t think any of this is going to matter, though. Judging from
my last couple hunts, I don’t think any of us will get much sleep at all.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 27
Typically, Amarl enjoyed being right. This time, though, he wished that
he weren’t.
“Burik, hold them back!” Amrir shouted. “Meder, wall on our flanks!
Amarl, hit them from behind!”
“Kind of busy, here!” Amarl shouted back, dancing aside as a creature
that looked like a two-reach-long snake with wings, a long mouth filled
with dripping fangs, and a pair of slim claws with long talons shot past
him. The creature turned its head toward him as it swept past, and he
twisted and ducked as a stream of fluid that steamed in the frigid air blasted
past him and splattered the stones of the peak. His axe swept up and sliced
through the creature’s membranous wing, and it crashed to the path with a
thump as it lost its ability to ride the winds. It twisted lithely toward him,
but a sweep of his crescent blades removed its head and ended it instantly.
He spun back toward the four peakdiggers all lunging at Burik. The
larger boy grunted as he jabbed at them with his halberd, barely managing
to hold them back. Grass whipped and curled around their feet, slowing
them down, but Burik was in danger of being overrun regardless. He could
pierce their armored scales with the spearpoint of his weapon, but he
couldn’t drive it in deeply enough to really hurt any of them, and the group
drove toward him with their powerful legs, slowly forcing him back.
Amarl leaped forward, his ithtu singing triumphantly in his mind as his
weapon swept low. An axe blade struck the back leg of the closest
peakdigger, cutting through the armor and bone with relative ease. The
creature stumbled as its rear foot went flying, and it twisted awkwardly
toward Amarl, hissing angrily as it did. Before it could move, a sharp crack
rang out, and a puff of smoke appeared from the end of Amrir’s rifle before
being whipped away by the wind. The wounded peakdigger stumbled as
blood spurted from the small hole that appeared in its side, then froze as
thorny roots shot out of the hole and wrapped around its body.
Amarl turned away from that creature and moved to the next, knowing
that the first peakdigger was dead, even if it didn’t realize it. The roots
from Amrir’s bullet weren’t just sticking out of the wound; they spread
throughout the creature’s body, ripping apart its internal organs. The
reptile’s armor didn’t protect its insides, and the thing would probably bleed
to death in half a minute or so, less if the thorns got a major artery or its
heart. Her ability was both powerful and extremely flexible, and several
times during their hunt, Amarl felt glad that she was on his side. He spun
his axe in an overhead chop, slamming the heavy blade down on the beast’s
spine and disabling both its back legs. He leaped back as the one beside it
whipped a clawed rear paw at him, then cut low to disable that leg, as well.
He twisted as movement flickered in the edge of his vision and rolled
away as another flying serpent blasted through the air where he’d been
standing. He came to his feet and spun the axe around him, letting it dart
out and stabbing its crescents at the snake as it twisted toward him. The
serpents were quick but fragile, and his weapon sliced completely through
the thing’s body, not killing it but rendering it harmless while it bled out.
He turned again at the sound of claws on stone and braced himself as
several dark shapes scrambled along the side of the peak above him, racing
toward the group, nothing more than silhouettes against the charcoal gray of
the sky. The creatures ran on two legs that bent backwards like a bird’s,
with crocodilian heads filled with sharp, bladed teeth meant for cutting off
hunks of flesh. They held their short arms close to their bodies as they ran,
their heads low and bobbing in an avian fashion and their thick tails jutting
out behind them. The closest of the creatures suddenly tensed itself and
leaped with a loud scream that made the hair on the back of Amarl’s neck
stand on end. The thing soared through the air, its light body riding the
winds to extend its leap as it arced toward Amarl, holding its clawed feet
outward to grab hold of him.
The creature that Meder had identified as a rockleaper shrieked as it met
the spearpoint of his moon axe. Amarl whirled the blade, flinging the
mortally wounded creature off it. He sliced through the next beast and
batted a third rockleaper from the sky. The creatures weren’t very large,
standing a bit below Amarl’s waist, and while their light bodies let them
jump much farther than they should be able to, they also made them easy to
damage and knock out of the air. Amarl’s axe spun and whipped around
him, slashing through the creatures as they reached him and either cutting
them too badly to keep fighting or knocking them down the peak, where
they weren’t a danger for a while.
 One of the leaping beasts squawked loudly as it seemed to spin in
midair. It tumbled backward as gusts of wind flung it heavily to the
ground. A second rockleaper whirled away as a wall of chaotic air erupted
on Amarl’s flank, grabbing the leaping creatures and hurling them from
him. The monsters kept flinging themselves at the invisible barrier, only to
be hurled aside again and again, and Amarl used the moment to finish off
the wounded creatures near him.
“On my way!” Burik’s voice rang out. Amarl stepped back as his friend
leaped over the last peakdigger corpse and set himself in front of the wall of
wind. “Drop it, Meder!”
The air barrier vanished, and three of the reptiles leaped at once at the
larger boy, only to be met in midair by a wide slash from his halberd that
bisected one and crushed the other two. His spearpoint leaped up to impale
a fourth, and his heavy blade swept sideways to cut into a fifth. Burik’s
weapon was a hard counter for the light, agile monsters, allowing him to
sweep them from the air before they were close enough to be a threat. Even
so, the rockleapers always attacked in large numbers, and a few of them
inevitably made it past Burik’s weapon to fling themselves at the boy.
The first few of those fell as Amarl moved to his friend’s side, his axe
leaping outward to stab and cut into them. His weapon wasn’t meant for
formation fighting, but he could do it if he had to, and its shorter length
meant he could strike creatures inside Burik’s reach with ease. Even as he
cut the beasts down on Burik’s left, he saw Meder leap nimbly over the
piles of corpses and take the boy’s right, her staff darting forth and crushing
the lightweight beasts. The three of them held, allowing the monsters to
hurl themselves to their deaths against their weapons, until at last, the night
fell silent.
“Well done!” Amrir said briskly. “Everyone, harvest what you can,
then we’ll reset before the next wave comes.”
Amarl suppressed a groan as he knelt and touched the rockleaper near
his feet. He’d been right that they weren’t likely to get any sleep. The first
group of monsters, a trio of peakdiggers, hit them less than an hour after
everyone but Amrir had crawled into the tent to sleep. A flight of six
windgliders, creatures with wide membranous wings and scaly, beaked
heads struck an hour or so after that. Since then, the creatures had come
with greater numbers and ferocity. The night was only half over, and this
was the fourth wave they’d endured without anything that could be called a
decent rest. There was no point complaining, though—at least, he didn’t
think there was. Apparently, Burik disagreed.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Amrir,” the larger boy said, standing
tall and giving the older girl a serious look.
“You don’t think we should reset for the next wave?” Amrir asked, her
voice confused.
“No, I don’t. I think we should break camp and move out.”
“That’s ridiculous, Burik,” she snorted. “We’ll be more vulnerable on
the move.”
“Not really. We’re barely holding as it is.” He swept a hand around at
the bare stone of the peak. “Look around, Amrir. This is a good location
for a camp, but it’s a terrible one from a defensive standpoint. Our enemies
have access to us from all directions, including above and below. We’re
fighting on multiple fronts, and every surge has more creatures in it.
Meder’s been keeping them off our flanks, but she can’t keep that up
forever.”
The older girl looked questioningly at Meder, who shrugged
apologetically. “That last wind barrier took a lot out of me,” she admitted.
“I don’t have much left right now.”
Amrir grimaced. “What do you suggest, then?”
“As I see it, we have two options. We can stay on the move and force
the beasts to come to us, or we can find somewhere more defensible.” He
turned and pointed at the low-burning fire. “I’ll bet that right now, the wind
is carrying the scent of blood all over the area and drawing creatures in, and
then our fire is pinpointing our location. They’re massing up and hitting us
in groups, each trying to take advantage of the distractions of the others. If
we keep moving, they’ll still find us, but they won’t be able to hit us with as
many creatures at once. We’ll fight more often, but each battle will be
easier, and we won’t have to expend as many resources on each one.
“Or we can find someplace more defensible and hole up. I’d suggest a
cave. It limits the number of directions they can hit us from and funnels
them into a kill zone—and it protects us from aerial attacks.”
 “Not a cave,” Amrir shook her head. “All the caves connect to deeper
tunnels in the mountains, and that’s where the more powerful creatures
live. We could draw something that we couldn’t remotely handle.”
“What about a bridge?” Amarl suggested. “Nothing could burrow up
on us there, and it would funnel creatures into just two directions rather
than them hitting us from all at once.”
“We’d be more exposed to flying creatures, though,” Meder pointed
out.
“True, but at least we could see them coming,” Amrir said thoughtfully,
rubbing her earlobe as she spoke. “And the bridge rails would shelter a
campfire.” She grimaced. “We’d never be able to get any sleep, though.”
“We’re not getting any now,” Burik laughed. “I say we make for a
bridge and try to hold there. If it’s not working, we make our way back to
the safe zone so we can at least get some sleep.”
“I’ll second that,” Meder agreed.
“Okay,” Amrir nodded, looking around. “I knew we might face more
creatures than normal, but this…” She shook her head. “Let’s break camp
and head out—after we harvest what we can, of course!”
As it turned out, Burik’s guess was correct. They journeyed for twenty
minutes, heading back toward the last bridge without facing a major
monster assault. Small groups of creatures struck at them sporadically,
swooping down from above or erupting from the stone beside them, but
they dealt with these swiftly and easily enough.
Amarl stayed in front but remained close to the others. Night in
Apirron was about as dark as it was in Askula, with the dark gray sky
bathing everything in a dim, silvery light that wasn’t quite the same as
moonlight, both paler and dimmer at the same time. His eyes strained to
pierce the darkness for the tiny clues that would warn the group of an
impending attack. He found ample signs of tracks: claw marks etching the
ground, torn stone where things had burrowed free of the earth, and
scratches from something dragging itself or something else across the trail.
All the signs pointed to creatures having crossed the path and moved on,
though. Peakdigger dens lay open, their occupants having burst free from
the stone. Tunnels boring into the ground showed where stonereavers had
emerged. Innumerable light scratches marked the passage of a pack of
rockleapers.
The group pushed forward grimly, until Amarl saw a lighter patch of
stone to his left that he recognized as a bridge. He led the others toward it,
then paused as he got close enough to see it clearly. The two railings still
stood at the edge of the plateau, as did half a reach of the walkway—and
there, the bridge simply ended. Amarl walked closer, staring at the stub of
bridge dumbly. In the distance, a dozen reaches away, the bridge began
once more, but in between, it looked like something really large took a
clean bite out of the structure, leaving a massive gap in it.
“What the actual fuck?” Amrir swore as she walked to the edge of the
peak and stared at the bridge. “But—how?”
“Looks like something attacked it,” Burik noted, shaking his head.
“Something big.”
“It doesn’t matter how big it is,” the older girl said, her voice slightly
panicky. “The bridges—nothing can hurt them! I’ve seen people with
strength enhancements hammer on them for half an hour without leaving a
scratch. Earth manipulators can’t shift the stone around. Hell, I can’t even
get a sprout to grow in it, and my plants can pierce metal if they have to!”
She stepped back, shaking her head. “This isn’t possible!”
“Obviously, it is,” Amarl replied grimly. “And something managed it.”
He looked around nervously. “We should move on before whatever it is
comes back and decides we look tastier than a bridge does.”
“We should check the other bridges,” Meder suggested. “Even if the
one we took isn’t usable, Tapowa said that most of them link up eventually.
We can find a way back if we keep going.”
“Yeah—yeah, we can,” the older girl said, seeming to recover herself.
“There are multiple ways to and from every peak, and all the paths link up
eventually. We’ll take one of those. Come on. I want to get the fuck out of
here. Something’s going on that I don’t understand.”
Amarl agreed heartily, and he led the way forward once more.
The next bridge, unfortunately, was in the same shape as the first, as
was the one after that. Amrir’s temper frayed more and more as they
encountered each severed bridge, and she stood at the edge of the third one,
staring off into the distance at the dangling piece of it fifteen reaches away
that linked to the next peak.
“I—maybe I could build a bridge out of wood,” she said in a voice
devoid of emotion.
“Could you get your spear to expand that far?” Meder asked. “And to
be wide enough and strong enough to hold us?”
The older girl lifted up her weapon and stared at it, then shook her
head. “No,” she said dejectedly. “At least, not in a reasonable amount of
time. It’d take a day, at least—and I’d run out of ithtu before then. Maybe
if I had an actual tree, but not with my spear.”
“While we’re wishing, I’d like a flying ability,” Amarl volunteered
sprightly. “Or maybe to be back in Askula, sleeping in my bed.”
“Shut the fuck up,” the older girl snapped. “I’m trying to think, here!”
“Not helping, Amarl,” Meder muttered, rolling her eyes.
“He’s right, though,” Burik pointed out. “There’s no point in wishing
for things we don’t have, Amrir. Has anyone seen any sign of a tree on any
of these peaks?”
“There—there aren’t any,” Amrir said heavily. “I’ve never seen
anything bigger than a bush anywhere in Apirron. I guess there’s not
enough water here to grow actual trees.”
“Then we need to keep moving. This is a terrible position. If
something attacks us here, it could push us over the edge.” The tall boy
stepped back, and Amarl and Meder moved to follow him. “Come on. We
keep looking for a bridge. If they’re all like this, then we find a cave and
hole up just inside the entrance.” He looked at his friends. “Amarl, you’re
on point. Meder, you’ve got our rear. Watch for anything following us.
Amrir, you’ve got overwatch. Keep a lookout for anything in the air.”
Amarl expected the older girl to protest, but to his surprise, she simply
nodded and stepped back, falling into line. Amarl glanced at Burik
curiously; the boy seemed to be more confident and certain than even his
usual self. He wondered if that was because Amrir was falling apart, or if it
was his mother’s training coming to the fore. Whatever it was, Amarl was
grateful; he was barely keeping himself from panicking, and he could see
the terror in Meder’s eyes. Somehow, Burik was holding the group
together.
The hizeen set out once more, leading his group along the curving path.
His eyes swept the slopes, noting the dark spots that marked caves
speckling the silver-gray surface. The next bridge, like the others, ended
abruptly after a reach or so—and as they approached it, a trio of
stonereavers exploded from the ground in front of them. Amarl’s axe
whirled and danced as he fended off the initial rush of the closest creature,
and the song of his ithtu soared as his axe blade chopped into the side of the
crocodilian beast’s skull. Burik leaped forward, jamming his halberd into
the gaping mouth of a second beast, holding it at bay and prying its jaws
open. A flare of orange light shot past the tall boy as Meder’s hurled fire
sank into its throat, scorching and searing as it plunged down its gullet.
Amrir’s rifle barked, and the third stonereaver whipped about as thorny
vines crawled out of the hole in the top of its head.
A scream echoed from above, and Amarl spun just in time as a pair of
large, winged creatures with pointed beaks and scaly skin swooped down at
them. The closer of the pair opened its long, slim beak wide, and Amarl fell
backward as a blast of wind slammed into his chest. He rolled to his feet
and slashed at the creature as it swept past, cutting its underbelly and
forcing it to withdraw the curved talons it reached for him. He leaped to the
side to dodge a blast from the second and batted it out of the air, as well.
“Rockleapers on the right!” Meder’s voice called out with mild panic.
“A lot of them!”
Amarl swore as one of the stonereavers used a burst of sahr to charge at
him, nearly bowling him over. He slid sideways and jammed his spearpoint
into the thing’s side, then hissed in pain as claws slid along his back. He
whipped around and cut down the first of the winged monsters, the one he’d
only wounded, then jumped back as the stonereaver beside him spun about
and snapped at his legs. He drove his spearhead into the top of the
creature’s skull, then leaped over it and rushed to Meder’s side as the first
of the rockleapers arced toward her.
“More stonereavers in front!” Amrir shouted in a wild voice. “We have
to get out of here!”
 “She’s right!” Burik growled. “We need to fall back to a defensible
position! Amarl, where’s the nearest cave?”
“A minute or so behind us and up the slope,” the hizeen answered
immediately, slashing through a pair of rockleapers while Meder crushed
the ribs of a third beside him.
“Fighting withdrawal!” Burik ordered. “Fight your way backward!
Amrir, can you slow them?”
“I’m nearly out of ithtu,” the older girl said desperately as she stabbed
her spear into one of the stonereavers, killing it. “Slowing them all down
will tap me!”
“I can do it,” Meder shouted. “I just need ten seconds!”
“I’ve got these things,” Amarl told the girl. “Go do what you have to.”
She stepped back, and he moved to fill the spot she’d left. His axe
whipped and blurred as he cut rockleapers from the air. The creatures raced
for him, flinging their clawed bodies at him, but his whirring blade found
each one, slicing through them with ease. As more of the creatures rushed
him, the song of his ithtu rose triumphantly, banishing his fear and doubt.
As it had the last few times, the power surged up into his skull and flowed
down his nerves, flooding his body. The panic that hung at the edges of his
mind vanished as confidence filled him; he was right. He did have the
rockleapers. There were many of them, but it didn’t matter. Numbers
without skill were meaningless.
He reset himself, dropping into his Nameless Form with his axe held at
the ready. His gaze lost focus, seeing all his foes without concentrating on
one. His weariness and the pain in his back both disappeared as the
monsters surged at him. He moved as they did, his weapon dancing out to
meet their rush. He could practically see how the creatures would attack,
the patterns they’d use to try and swarm him. His axe leaped out,
disrupting those patterns and causing the corpses of the creatures he killed
to tangle up the ones charging for him. He lost himself in the rhythm of
battle, his axe and body moving as one, but even as he did, he sensed that
something was wrong.
His Nameless Form was powerful and deadly, but as he moved into it,
he could see the gaps in its attacks and defenses. It was a smoothly flowing
form, a river hiding sharp rocks and deadly currents, but now, he couldn’t
be a river. It felt almost like one of the Rashiv’s labah games; he was the
front piece, claiming his territory, and the beasts were the probing attacks of
his enemy, trying to whittle down his influence. He couldn’t advance, or
he’d lose the support that made him strong and open the pieces behind him
to attack. He had to hold this spot. If he fell, they would swarm over
Meder and the others behind him, using the momentum of their victory and
the power they took from his defeat to drive over them in a wave.
Fortunately, Amarl had no intentions of falling, and he knew a way to
remain immovable. Drowned in the glorious song of his ithtu, he could see
how to bring that into his form, to add it to it and make it more.
He settled into the wide stance of Mountain Form without thinking; he
was the mountain, the shield between the horde of reptiles and his friends,
and he wouldn’t be moved. His feet clung to the stone beneath him, his
armor shielded his body from harm, and yet, his attacks still flowed
gracefully, guiding his foes and driving them together, away from the
others. This was his square, and he held it and those around him, just as in
the game.
He shifted his body, swayed and turned without moving his feet, his axe
cutting and stabbing his foes as they closed. Each attack flowed seamlessly
into the next; each blow disrupted the flow of his enemies and added their
strength to his. He caught one in the horns of his crescent and flung it into
another flying through the air, knocking both of them back into the press of
creatures. Rockleapers stumbled and tripped over their comrades’ bodies,
foiling their rush. Crippled beasts lashed out at one another, striking at their
own kind in their pain and fury, and through it all, he could feel the tide of
his attacks rolling forward, moving inexorably toward a swift conclusion…
A sudden surge of power rose before Amarl, and suddenly, the wind
around him died to a gentle whisper. He blinked in surprise at the sudden
silence, stunned out of his trancelike state. He readied himself as the
rockleapers flung themselves forward again, but when they reached the
shimmering curtain, they exploded into chunks of blood and flesh that
rained over the ground.
“Holy shit, Meder,” Amarl said in awe, staring at the bloody remains of
the reptiles as he understood where that power had come from. “What did
you do?”
“Same thing I always do,” the girl replied in a tired voice. “It’s a wind
barrier, just a lot denser and stronger. It won’t last long, though—and I
won’t be able to do anything else for a while.”
“It’s more than enough,” Burik said with satisfaction. “Amarl, show us
to this cave. We need better shelter.”
“This way,” Amarl said, turning and jogging back the way they’d come.
“What—hey, put me down!” Amarl looked back to see Burik scooping
Meder up onto his shoulder. “I can walk!”
“Yeah, but we need to run, and you’re exhausted,” the boy replied. “I’ll
put you down when we’re there.”
“This is so embarrassing!” the girl protested.
“Why? It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve had to carry you. At least
this time, you’re not naked, and it’s me, not Norag.”
“By the One Above, don’t remind me of that, you ass!”
“I’m just saying that you should be grateful.”
Amarl stifled a grin and ran onward. He knew what Burik was doing.
They were all terrified, exhausted, and at the edge of collapse, and by
treating the situation as humorous, Burik was dulling the blade of fear in
their minds. Amarl was okay, and Meder seemed to be handling it, but
Amrir looked to be on the verge of panic. She hadn’t spoken the entire
battle, hadn’t tried to guide and command them as she usually did, and
when he looked at her blank face and dead eyes, he knew that she was just a
couple steps away from breaking.
He wondered idly why he and his friends seemed to be handling the
danger so much better than the older student. A moment’s thought gave
him an answer. This wasn’t the first time the three of them were facing
almost inevitable death. They’d escaped those times, and there seemed to
be a tacit acceptance between them that they’d get out of this, too. Amrir
probably hadn’t truly faced the possibility of death before. She’d always
been able to count on the nadars and malims to protect her if things got that
serious, and now, that shield was gone. He could read the hopelessness in
her eyes; he only wished he knew what to do about it.
 The cave wasn’t far, less than a minute at a jog. It wasn’t large, really
little more than a crack in the mountain that led into darkness, maybe a span
taller than Burik and a reach wide. Amarl stopped outside it and peered into
the blackness. The cave seemed to widen quickly just past the entrance
from the way the air sounded, but the light from outside didn’t do much to
illuminate the interior. He looked back at the others as they pressed close to
him, Burik lowering Meder to her feet, ignoring the vengeful glare she gave
him.
“Meder, can you make a light?” he asked, holding his axe between him
and the cave. “I’d rather not go in there blind.”
“I—I’m not sure,” the girl hedged. “I’m pretty tapped, Amarl.”
“I can do it,” Amrir said in a subdued voice. “I’m a fair hand with
sahr. Not as good as Meder, but…” She began muttering, making passes
with her hands, and a moment later, a soft glow spilled from the tip of her
spear. “Will that do?”
“Good enough. Do me a favor and stay close to me in case I need it.”
He slipped forward and entered the cave as silently as possible.
As he guessed, the cave’s entrance quickly widened into a large gallery.
His eyes swept the room, looking for hidden creatures or tunnels leading
out. After a moment, he lowered his axe with a sigh. “I think we’re good,”
he said slowly.
“Only for the moment,” Amrir replied nervously, glancing around like a
trapped animal. “We can’t stay here long; we’ll attract something from the
depths if we do.”
“From where?” Burik asked, looking around the gallery. “I don’t see
any tunnels leading out of here.”
“There was one,” Amarl volunteered, pointing at a pile of tumbled
rock. “At least, judging from the tracks on the floor. I can only see a few,
and they all seem to head toward that rockfall. I’ll bet there was a tunnel
there, but the rockslide buried it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Amrir shook her head, her voice dull and flat. “The
burrowing creatures in Apirron can sense our footsteps through the ground,
remember? They’ll follow those vibrations to find us. If we stay here too
long, we’ll draw something.”
 “She’s probably right,” Meder sighed. “At least, the books I read about
this place agree with her. We can’t stay here for long.”
“Two hours,” Burik suggested. “That’ll give us enough time to rest,
warm up, and figure out what to do next. Meder, you should try to sleep
and maybe get back some of your sahr ability. The rest of us will take turns
standing guard at the entrance. It’s narrow enough for one of us to hold it.”
“Fine,” the girl sighed. “Although I’m not sure if I like this new ‘I’m in
charge’ Burik or not. You scoop me up like that again, and I’ll set you on
fire, you hear?”
“I promise nothing, and if you set me on fire, I might have to spank
you,” he grinned at her, then looked at the others. “I’ll stand guard first.
You two try to relax for a bit.” He turned and walked back to the entrance
to the cave, and Amarl sat down heavily, trying to ignore the throbbing in
his back from where the bird clawed him. It had hit him between armored
plates and got through the heavy leather there, but he didn’t feel anything
running down his back, so it couldn’t be too bad. The worst part was how it
let the cold in, but in the cave, even that wasn’t too bad.
He took a moment and luxuriated in the quiet of the cave. A low
whistling filled it as the wind screamed past the entrance, but that was much
better than the constant wind blasting in his eardrums. It was warmer, too,
much warmer than outside, and part of him was tempted to take his coat
off. He knew that was a stupid urge, though; it wasn’t really warm in the
cave, and he’d get cold pretty quickly without his heavy furs. Still, the
relative warmth was a balm, and he wanted to simply sit and bask in it.
He thought back to the battle earlier, when he’d stopped to fight the
rockleapers. He’d slipped into Mountain Form there, and now that he’d
done it, he could see how easily it meshed with his Nameless Form. In a
way, he mused, it was almost like the peaks the on Apirron. His body was
the mountain, and Nameless Form was the wind screaming around it,
battering anything nearby. The two meshed together almost perfectly, and
he wondered if Ranakar had foreseen that when he chose that style for
Amarl. Knowing the awal, he almost certainly had, which meant the other
two styles probably fit into his form just as easily. He just had to figure out
how.
 That would have to wait for a time when all their lives weren’t in
danger, though. He watched as Amrir sank slowly down three reaches
away, her elbows on her knees and her head bowed. He didn’t need his
Perception and Empathy skills to see the defeat in her posture, and he
sighed before getting up slowly to go sit beside her. It looked like he wasn’t
going to get his quiet time after all.
“You okay?” he asked in a quiet voice, trying not to disturb Meder as
she lay down at the opposite side of the cave, her head resting on her pack.
The older girl looked sideways at him, grimaced, and looked down once
more. “Yeah. No. Maybe.”
“Yes, those are all the possible options,” he laughed softly. “Want to
narrow it down a bit more?”
She lifted her head and looked up at the uneven ceiling with a sigh.
“Physically? Yeah, I’m fine. Tired, but okay. We’ve all been through
survival training where we have to go for days without sleep—at least, all
third-years have. You’ll be doing that soon, I think. I can keep pushing for
a while if I need to.
“Emotionally, though?” She shook her head. “I’m freaked the hell out,
Amarl. I’ve never heard of anything happening to the bridges. What if
we’re trapped here? What if all the bridges are gone? What if whatever did
it comes back for us?” She shuddered.
“Yeah, that’s freaking me out a bit, too,” Amarl admitted.
She looked at him critically. “You don’t look it.” She gestured around.
“None of you do, really. You all seem perfectly fucking calm. It’s kind of
pissing me off.”
“We aren’t,” he shrugged. “This just isn’t the first time we’ve been in
this kind of danger. I guess we’re getting used to it. Last year, we all got
captured by the assilians in Isolas. They were going to use us as food.”
“Seriously?” she asked, her eyes widening.
He nodded. “Ask Andra. They got her, too.”
“What happened?”
“We escaped. We broke out and fought our way out of the hive.” He
smiled. “That’s when Norag was carrying Meder naked, by the way.”
 She snorted. “I figured it had something to do with Sasofit’s Ale
House, myself.” She took a deep breath, then laughed quietly. “It’s really
strange. When I volunteered for this, I assumed I’d be carrying the three of
you the whole time. No offense, it’s just that I couldn’t imagine three
second-years without their abilities quickened being able to do much here in
Apirron. Instead, though—you guys are sort of carrying me.”
Amarl chuckled. “I wouldn’t say that, Amrir.”
“Well, maybe not, but I’m certainly not as necessary as I thought. You
can kill things even faster than I can, and Meder’s fucking amazing with
sahr. That wall she built? I saw enough to know that it was a multi-
dimensional array, which we haven’t even studied yet. I wouldn’t even try
to collapse something like that!” She shook her head. “Even Burik’s
leading better than I could. He was right that we needed to move, and I
think he’s right about the cave. We all need a little time to rest, and even if
a stonereaver or two busts in here, it’s better than fighting them plus the
rockleapers and stormsailers at the same time.”
“Stormsailers?”
“That thing that scratched you.” She frowned. “Actually, I was
surprised to see them. They come by their name honestly; they usually
hang out around storms.”
“There are storms here?” he asked.
“Sometimes. They aren’t that big of a deal. They blow through
quickly, dump some ice and hail on you, and they’re gone. No lightning or
downpours to worry about. Their biggest danger is that they draw
underground creatures up to eat the ice and hail for the water. That’s why
stormsailers and other flyers ride them; the storms bring prey to the surface
for them.”
“Maybe one was on the other side of the peak, and we missed it.”
“Maybe. That’s not very likely, though, even in the darkness. While
they don’t send lightning bolts to the ground, there’s plenty of it inside
them, and it lights them up. You can usually see them for marches.” She
leaned back. “What are we going to do, Amarl? If the bridges are gone, I
mean?”
 “What we’re doing.” He shrugged. “What else can we do? We’ll go
from shelter to shelter, fighting when we can, running when we have to, and
resting when we get a chance. At least, until Tapowa comes and gets us,
which shouldn’t be too long. I don’t think the bridges being out matters to
him considering his ability, and I know the malims check on us regularly on
these hunts. He’ll see that they’re out, come get us, and take us back
somewhere where we can keep hunting—or back to the safe zone to get
some rest.”
“That’s true,” she said thoughtfully, her expression lightening
somewhat. “I didn’t think about that. We aren’t exactly alone here.” She
looked over at him. “You’re smarter than you look, you know.”
“I’d almost have to be,” he laughed.
“True. Still…” She stopped and frowned. “Wait, do you feel that?”
Amarl rose slowly to his feet as the ground beneath him trembled.
“Yeah, I do. You don’t think…”
“I think we need to get out of here,” she said, leaping to her feet.
“Now!”
“Meder, Burik!” Amarl called out, hefting his axe. “We need to…”
He cut off as the trembling swelled to a rumble, the ground shaking
beneath him so violently that he struggled to stay on his feet. He staggered
backward, grabbing Amrir and hauling her with him. He saw Meder
scrambling to her feet across the cavern, her eyes wide and fearful. She
took a step toward him, then froze as the center of the cavern bulged
upward like a bubble, heaving once before exploding in a spray of stone
shards that stung his skin and forced him to look away. When he looked
back, he swore in dismay.
A head emerged from the gaping hole that now filled the center of the
cavern. The head was broad and wedge-shaped, almost like a turtle’s, but
its beak was longer and ended in jagged ridges that looked like they could
saw through flesh and bone. It was also huge, at least as big as Amarl, with
wide, unblinking eyes set beneath heavy ridges. A pair of thick, scaly legs
ending in claws as long as his forearm followed the head, hauling the
creature further into the cave and revealing either a long neck or a
serpentine body. The thing’s head stretched upward, nearly touching the
ceiling, then retracted quickly, swaying sideways until its open eye fastened
on Meder, standing only a reach away. The girl had her staff up, and her
lips mumbled as she tried to gather sahr, but before she could collapse a
working, it opened its mouth and unleashed a blast of air that flung her
backward, slamming her into the stone wall. Her eyes went blank as she
sank downwards, and the turtle’s head swung around, its beak opening as it
oriented on her.
“Meder!” Amarl shouted as panic flooded his body. The song of his
ithtu exploded in his mind, and power rushed through him. He tensed
himself to leap at the creature, but before he could, something surged past
him with a blast of wind and a loud, incoherent roar. Amarl blinked in
shock as he watched Burik charge forward, faster than he’d ever seen the
boy move, and slam the long, thin point of his halberd into the turtle’s neck
hard enough to knock the huge head backwards. The hizeen stared in shock
for a moment at the sight of his friend, glowing with power that Amarl had
definitely never seen in him before.
Amarl grinned as he understood and readied his axe. That turtle had
made a big mistake. It pissed off Amarl’s friend, and Burik was about to
make it pay.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 28
Burik stared out into the grayish darkness that passed for night in this
stupid world, trying his best not to think. His mother always said that too
much thought was the enemy of action, and he’d always thought that he
understood what she was saying. In war and battle, a commander could
plan too much, too far, too thoroughly, until they got locked in stasis. They
spent all their time refining their plans and never bothered enacting them.
When the enemy finally came, all those plans would go out the window
anyway, and the careful commander would be trapped, unable to act, a
victim of their own caution. He knew that a lot of people thought that he
wasn’t very smart, but that wasn’t the case. He just refused to let thought
triumph over action, and so far, he hadn’t regretted it.
Now, though, he wondered if he’d gotten it wrong. Maybe she was
talking about a specific kind of thinking, not thinking in general. He knew
that right then, he desperately wanted not to think. Thinking made him
think about their situation, how hopeless it appeared, and how little he
could do about it. When he thought, he started imagining how things could
go even more wrong, and instead of focusing on the moment, he got lost in
a spiral of “what ifs”. Too much of that sort of thought led to worry, worry
to fear, and fear to despair. He’d felt despair before; it sapped your
strength, ate at your will, made you want to give up. Maybe that was what
his mother had meant: too much thought could drain your will to act
entirely and make you give up without a fight.
The more he thought about it, the more he felt certain that both
interpretations were correct. His mother was an incredibly wise and
insightful person. She often said things that could mean different things to
different people, and she always said that everyone’s interpretation was the
right one. As another one of her sayings went, leaders guide followers,
while tyrants carry them. She had a million sayings, and he’d done his best
to learn all of them and follow them in his life. They tended to come in
handy at times when a person wouldn’t expect it. That night, her wisdom
had kept them all alive and given him the strength to lead.
Burik had never thought of himself as a star, one of the leaders of the
Imperial Army, or even as a commander. He was a soldier, plain and
simple. He’d always felt sure of his destiny: he’d breeze through basic
training, get assigned to the Flamewall down south to battle the nomads,
and serve there for a few years, working his way from footman to second or
third sword before getting the chance to take leadership training and
become an officer. The army wouldn’t put him there just because of who
his mother was; he’d have to earn that right by demonstrating the ability to
command. He’d spend those years learning to do just that, watching the
first spears and swords and learning how to lead.
Being drafted into Askula hadn’t changed his plans much. He would
still be a soldier, just one serving in a different way. He’d learn what they
had to teach him, go out and serve the Empire, and prove himself a leader
through dedication, talent, and years of effort.
That night, though, it had occurred to him: maybe he didn’t need those
years. His mother had been training him to command his entire life without
his even knowing it. She’d surrounded him with wise and able leaders so
he could learn by example. She’d taught him tactics and strategy, and she’d
instructed him how to guide others firmly without needing to resort to
brutality. Her sayings hadn’t been random utterances; they’d been designed
to teach him how to understand and motivate people. She’d been guiding
him toward leadership his whole life; she never meant for him to just be a
soldier, and he hadn’t even realized it.
At least, he hadn’t until he’d had no choice but to take charge. Amrir
was too flustered to lead; Meder was smart but had no grasp of tactics or
strategy; Amarl refused to take things seriously enough to command. That
left Burik by default, and when he did it—it felt easy. He could practically
hear his mother’s voice whispering in his ear, guiding him.
“Motion is the counter to despair. A wise commander keeps their army
moving, even if the war is lost. They engage and retreat, striking when safe
and avoiding battles they’ll likely lose. They keep their soldiers too busy to
realize that the war was over. Despairing soldiers desert or surrender, and
once that starts, only victory or brutality will stop it.”
He’d heard her words, and in that moment, he truly understood them in
a way he never had before. They weren’t just sayings. They were guides
on how to take command, so he’d done exactly that. He’d kept the group
moving without giving them time to think. Going forward and fighting to
the next bridge gave them hope and took their minds off their situation. He
kept them too busy to worry, too active to despair. He’d done the same
thing back in the assilian hive on Isolas without even understanding it.
He’d pushed the others to focus on escape, to make plans, and to try
anything, just to keep them from dropping into despair.
And they definitely had reason to despair. Burik might not be as smart
as Meder, but he wasn’t a fool or an idiot. He understood the situation as
well as anyone, maybe better than the others. He knew tactics when he saw
them, and someone was using a specific set of tactics against them. They
were being herded, no doubt about it. One bridge being out could be a
coincidence, but once he saw the second bridge, he knew what had
happened. Something had taken out all the bridges. Something wanted
them trapped here, isolated on this mountain. In fact, he was pretty sure
they’d been pushed to this exact cave.
Whoever or whatever it was, they were good, Burik had to admit. He
wasn’t even sure that his intuition about being herded was right, or if he
was just being paranoid. It was possible that their camp had simply drawn
ridiculous numbers of monster attacks—or Amarl had, as in Isolas—and
that by breaking camp and moving, they were staying ahead of the
creatures. The fire might have drawn them, or the blood all over the
ground, or even their scent on the wind that never seemed to stop. And it
was possible that the creatures just happened to catch up to them in time to
drive them back into this exact cave. It was possible—but it didn’t make
sense to Burik.
If the creatures were following their scent to their camp, shouldn’t they
have all come from downwind? And shouldn’t backtracking have led the
group into more of them, following their trail? Plus, they hadn’t been
moving that fast. The monsters could have kept up with them, especially
the flying ones and those jumping lizards. Those things were fast. If the
creatures had finally caught up to them, why hadn’t they followed the
students to the cave? He looked again into the not-really-night, seeing
nothing but gray sky and pale stone. Sure, Meder’s wind barrier was
incredible, but by her own admission, it wouldn’t have lasted long. The
monsters should have been on top of them the whole way to the cave. It
looked like they’d all withdrawn, though, which made no sense—unless, of
course, someone wanted them in this cave, wanted them to lower their
guards and rest. Unless someone had deliberately guided them here…
He straightened and forced the thoughts from his mind. He was
thinking too much again. Thinking about things he couldn’t control just
sent his thoughts spiraling. It sent his focus inward, not outward where it
belonged. The night looked calm, but he knew there was a threat here.
When it showed itself, he needed to be ready to act, not lost in
introspection. Thought was truly the enemy of action. That thought made
him pause and caused his hand to drift once more to the pouch at his side
where he carried the ithtu crystals he’d harvested from his kills.
He remembered when Amarl first told them all about quickening a
crystal. It sang to him, he said. All he had to do was accept its song, and it
bonded instantly. It wanted to be quickened and used. Burik’s experiences
hadn’t been remotely the same. His ithtu never made a sound. He felt its
presence as a heaviness in his stomach, just above and behind his navel.
That heaviness pulsed and tingled. It moved and shifted around
sometimes. It definitely didn’t sing.
And now, even that was gone. He’d quickened the last of his crystal
during the night, and without it, he felt—empty. He missed the density of
it, how it made him feel solider and stabler. It pushed him, keeping him
going when his mind and body wanted to give up. It invigorated him,
making him feel stronger and refreshing his stamina. With it, he felt strong
and confident. Without it, he struggled to hold it together and keep his
thoughts from spiraling.
His hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out a golden crystal. He
thought about understanding it, and his joining crystal quickly analyzed it
for him.

The crystal felt heavy in his hand, heavier than it should have. It didn’t
sing, but it pressed against his skin unnaturally. It had taken him a long
time to realize that pressure was the crystal wanting to enter him and join
with him. He gripped it in his fist, arguing silently whether or not he should
let it. The crystal wasn’t his, and he had no claim to it. He hadn’t killed
and harvested it. Amarl had. Burik could only harvest feeble crystals,
nothing more.
Unlike Meder, he was fine with that. She was jealous of Amarl’s
abilities and had been since she learned about them. Burik was glad he
didn’t have them, and he thought that if the girl really thought about it, she
would be, too. Amarl’s powers and talent came with prices. His friend had
to fight more than the rest of them. He never knew who he could trust, and
who was out to hurt or even kill him. He’d been hunted by older students,
monsters, and strange creatures from other worlds. People hated him
because of who he was and what he could do. Everyone knew him, and he
couldn’t escape any of the malims’ attention. He had to work twice as hard
as everyone else, whether he wanted to or not. Everyone expected
something from him, whether it was abject failure or utter miracles.
Burik understood what that was like. He’d gone through the same
growing up. As the only son of the First Staff of the North, he’d gotten a lot
of privileges. He’d undergone basic and advanced training years before he
was eligible. He’d learned how to fight almost as soon as he could control
his body. He’d gone on maneuvers usually reserved for the best of the best,
and he’d gotten the best military education possible. All that had come at a
cost, though. Everyone expected more from him than they did from other
soldiers. He had to be faster to learn, better with his weapons, stronger,
swifter, and tougher. His consequences for failure were harsher, and he
learned to live in fear of his mother’s disappointment. He was special,
different from the others, and he could never really enjoy the easy
camaraderie the other soldiers had. As his mother said, the greater the
blade, the larger its flaws will appear. All those extra expectations meant
that every mistake or weakness got magnified and blown out of proportion.
Most of that had gone away when he came to Askula. The Order was
filled with incredibly skilled warriors, after all, so Burik didn’t stand out
much. He was good enough that people knew him and respected him, but
no one looked at him with admiration—well, except for Lared, that girl that
Amarl tried to hook him up with, and that was mostly admiration for his
mother, not him. Plus, the simple fact was, it was hard to feel special next
to Amarl. The boy’s utter exceptionality dwarfed anything that he and
Meder might do. She fought hard not to resent it, but Burik felt kind of
relieved. He’d both loved and hated being the special one, and losing that
took a lot of the pressure off him.
He suspected that Amarl probably loved and hated his uniqueness in a
similar fashion. He knew that his friend basked in the attention, and he
took joy in tweaking the people who hated him. At the same time, his
nature caused him no end of problems. His sarcasm and refusal to take
things seriously landed him in trouble more often than not, but he seemed to
accept that with good grace. Even as he bitched and moaned about how
awful his punishments were, Burik suspected he was planning his next
ridiculous stunt or seduction.
Meder saw Amarl’s constant pushing of boundaries as recklessness, but
Burik thought she was wrong. Neither Burik nor the girl knew what it felt
like to grow up in a place that hated them and simply wanted them gone.
Burik was raised surrounded by people who challenged and supported him;
Meder had grown up surrounded by family who adored her. Amarl grew up
without family, friends, or a single person he could depend on for anything
but abuse. Burik thought that maybe Amarl’s recklessness was just a way
for the boy to regain some control of his life. He couldn’t stop people from
hating him, but he could demean and ridicule them until their opinions
didn’t matter anymore.
He paused as Amarl and Amrir began speaking. The older girl was on
the edge of breaking, he could tell. He heard the raggedness in her voice
and the weariness in her words. He’d heard the same from plenty of
soldiers on the verge of collapsing under the relentless pressure of his
mother’s training. That was purposeful. As she said, the first step to
rebuilding something better is to break it. Amrir, though, wasn’t going to
be rebuilt. She’d just break, and then she’d go from being an asset to a
liability. Amarl was handling it though, with his usual effortless charm. It
was easy to talk to Amarl when he wanted it to be, and the boy had a way of
making troubles and darkness seem lighter and easier just by his presence.
Or his Presence, Burik supposed; his stat there was awfully high, and it
showed as he drew Amrir out, got her talking, stopped her from thinking too
much.
 Burik listened as the girl talked, and her words struck a chord within
him. “Even Burik’s leading better than I could,” she said. “He was right
that we needed to move, and I think he’s right about the cave…”
She was wrong, there. Yes, they needed to move, and the cave was
their best option, but it hadn’t been his decision. That had been made for
him. And as far as leading…
He glanced down at the crystal in his hand. Part of his confidence and
leadership came from his ithtu. It pushed him and guided him, urging him
to step up and speak when he would have preferred to stay silent. He
wasn’t as smart as Meder. He didn’t have Amrir’s experience. He didn’t
even have Amarl’s ability to get people to go along with him. He did have
training, though, and skills that the others apparently lacked. Neither
Meder nor Amarl had the combat tactics skill, and Burik’s stood at rank
five. He also had military strategy at rank three. He’d been trained to
command in battle, and his ithtu seemed to drive him to use that training.
Quickening the crystal was against the rules. He was supposed to wait
until the end of the hunt and receive his allotment, not dip into their hoard
beforehand. It might not even work. He was only supposed to quicken
feeble crystals, not weak ones. This one might be too much for him.
Quickening one of the feeble crystals in his pouch would be safer, but he
didn’t know how a weak crystal might affect him. If a feeble one made him
more confident, what would a weak one do? How much solider and
stronger would he feel with that power flowing in his veins? He didn’t
know, but he did know that they were all in danger. Something was coming
for them, of that he had no doubt, and he needed to be as ready for it as
possible.
“A rule that’s never broken isn’t worth following.”
His mother said that, and he now knew what she meant. Rules
mattered; they were important. Without rules and regulations, an army fell
into anarchy. Soldiers followed orders, and so did their commanders. The
difference, though, was that a good commander had to know when it was
time to ignore the rules, when following them would cost more lives than it
saved. Burik wasn’t a good commander, not yet, but he had the greatest
example in living memory to emulate, and he knew instantly what she
would do in this situation.
 He gripped the crystal in his fist, closed his eyes, and reached out to it
with his mind. The crystal recoiled from his touch as always. He couldn’t
just allow the crystal to sink into him the way Amarl could. He had to coax
it and guide it into him. The crystal wanted to join with him, but it wasn’t
eager to. It always needed encouragement. It was even worse with the
weak crystal. Its power pulsed against his skin, and holding it felt like
carrying a cannonball in one hand. It was strong, and like all strong things,
it fought against anyone trying to force it. Burik didn’t give up, though.
Nothing worth doing ever worked on the first try. He could practically hear
his mother’s voice as she said that. He could see her stern, scarred face. He
felt her will, her strength, the strength that she’d passed down to him, the
presence and command that was to be his birthright.
“Don’t ask, Burik. A commander commands.”
The first lesson of leadership, she’d called it. A commander commands,
and their followers make it happen. He opened his eyes and looked at the
crystal in his grip. It was his soldier, his weapon, and he was asking it to
serve him. His mother would be disappointed, and that thought cut him
deeper than any knife.
He hardened his will and gripped the crystal more tightly. He sent the
command to it, demanding that it join him. He didn’t care how it happened,
so long as it was done. What the crystal wanted didn’t matter. He was in
charge. It would follow. Soldiers always followed.
The power surged into him in a rush. It was stronger than anything
he’d felt before, and it poured down his arm and pooled in his stomach.
The heaviness filled him, but this time, it radiated like heat out into his
body. It flooded his muscles and surged along his skin. It rushed up his
spine and washed over his brain. His entire body locked up, his thoughts
and muscles frozen as that power raced along him. It soaked into his bones
and burned through his veins. It seemed to make the entire world tremble
around him. The very ground beneath his feet shook and shivered as the
energy filled his body, following his command to serve.
The power released him, and he heard Amarl shouting. He dropped to a
knee as weakness washed over him, but the panic in Amarl’s voice brought
new strength to him. The surge of power flowed out into his body again,
but this time, he clamped down on it. He commanded it to serve him, not to
master him, and it obeyed. Power filled his muscles, strength beyond
anything he’d felt before. He straightened and gripped his halberd. It was
never as heavy as people seemed to think, and he was never sure why that
surprised them. Good weapons were meant to be used, after all, so they
were as light as possible while still being strong. Now, though, the polearm
felt like a feather in his hands, so light that he felt he could probably spin it
on a finger without trouble.
Amarl’s scream jerked him to awareness. He spun and saw Meder
slumped against the far wall of the cavern, her eyes glassy and glazed.
Something that looked like one of the big turtles from the Sea of Wanit only
ten times the size reared from a hole in the center of the cavern. This, he
knew, was why they’d been guided to this cave. This creature had been sent
or lured to kill them all, and it was going to start with Meder.
“A commander is both shield and blade, Burik. Shield your army from
its enemies and cut them down.”
He’d failed in that. He hadn’t been their shield, and he’d barely been
their sword. He’d let his enemy lead them here, and he’d let them be
separated so that Meder was vulnerable. He gripped his halberd and ran
toward the turtle monster, knowing as he did that he’d never make it in time
—at least, not alone. He had power, though, more energy than he’d ever
felt, if he could just figure out how to tap it.
“Don’t ask. Command.”
He was doing it again. He was hoping, analyzing—thinking too much.
The power was his. He was in charge. He commanded his ithtu to help
him, barking a mental order at it and demanding it respond to his will. To
his shock, it did just that.
Power flowed into his legs, and he raced forward faster than he’d ever
moved before. The walls of the cavern blurred as he rushed toward his
enemy. His brain tried to marvel at what happened, but he pushed his
thoughts aside. Thought was the enemy of action, and he needed action
now. There would be time to think later.
He roared to get his foe’s attention, and it swung its head back toward
him. He instinctively lowered his halberd into the thrust that was the
culmination of a standard infantry charge. The turtle’s head and neck
gleamed with thick plates of armor, but Burik ignored that. Armor could be
penetrated with enough mass or force, and his muscles practically quivered
with force. He set his feet, using his momentum to slide forward as he
jammed the halberd at the creature. The point struck with a loud crack and
punched through the thick scales, sinking fully into the monster’s neck.
The turtle reacted instantly, sucking its head back and yanking it loose
from Burik’s weapon. Its long beak swung toward him, and a jet of air shot
from it, crashing into his chest. Burik staggered back a step before he
caught his feet. The wind pushed at him, driving him back, but his
powerful muscles surged, and he shoved through the gale and stabbed the
beast again, this time cracking the end of its long beak. It hissed and lunged
at him, snapping fiercely, but he slashed sideways with his axe blade and
knocked the head away with a surge of power. As the turtle recovered,
Burik edged sideways, placing himself between the beast and Meder. He
was the shield, just as his mother said, but for once, he wondered if she’d
been wrong. He could be the shield, but Amarl—Amarl was the blade.
His friend pulsed with power as he rushed into the battle, his moon axe
blurring as he whipped it around his body. Burik didn’t much care for
Amarl’s weapon of choice. It was too complicated and utterly unsuited for
formation fighting. An unskilled person was more likely to cut themselves
with it than someone else, and most soldiers would be more dangerous to
their comrades than their foes with that in hand. Amarl, though, wasn’t
most soldiers. In his hands, the axe practically danced, weaving skillfully
through the air. It slashed and cut like a viper, striking its foe and
withdrawing so swiftly that the enemy had no chance to counterattack. It
was a weapon of pure offense, one that allowed the boy to strike dozens of
times in a row and whittle his foes down with a hundred or a thousand cuts.
And it was the perfect companion to Burik’s halberd.
“To my right, Amarl!” he shouted. “I’ll hold it, you cut it down!”
The turtle screeched and lunged sideways, blasting Amarl with a jet of
air that made the boy stumble, but Burik regained its focus with a stab to its
neck. It swerved back to face him and stretched its jaws wide. Burik
braced himself for a wind attack, but this time, the breeze that erupted from
the turtle’s mouth carried a torrent of stinging sand and gravel. The blast
ripped at Burik, the fine particles slipping through his clothing with ease,
but when it touched his skin, he felt—nothing. The grit bounced off him
like he was wearing full plate armor. It stung his eyes a bit, irritated his
nose, and crunched between his teeth, but it didn’t hurt him in the slightest.
Amarl responded with a series of lightning slashes to the turtle’s neck
that drew gouts of blood. Burik had force and power, but Amarl had speed
and skill. Burik could hurt the turtle, but Amarl could kill it. His friend just
needed the time and freedom to strike, and Burik would give it to him. He
roared again and stabbed, keeping its focus on him. He was slower, easier
to reach; the thing would see him as the better target as long as he kept
attacking. The turtle yanked its head back again, but before it could strike,
a crack echoed from the other side of the cavern. Something sparked
against the turtle’s beak as a bullet struck it with a whine, doing no
damage. A nest of thorny vines erupted from the impact point, though,
wrapping around the powerful jaws and trying to bind them together.
“I can’t hold it long!” Amrir shouted. “I don’t have the ithtu!”
“Quicken another crystal, then!” Burik shouted back. “We need you in
this fight!”
“But…”
“Quicken the damn crystal!” he roared his command, feeling energy
surge through his voice and making his words echo in the cavern. “Now,
soldier!”
He struck again with his halberd, not paying the older girl any more
attention. She would quicken a crystal, he knew. She was a soldier, and
soldiers followed orders. He was the shield, Amarl was the blade, but they
needed her to be the arrow. Archers and riflemen rarely won a battle, but
they controlled it. An archery barrage could slow an enemy attack and
force them to defend against the arrow storm. A line of riflemen could
break up a charge and open holes in the enemy ranks. He needed her to
keep the enemy off-balance, and if she needed ithtu, then she had to take it.
Resources were meant to be used in battle, not hoarded. A rule never
broken held no meaning.
A few seconds passed, and her rifle cracked again. This time, the
eruption of vines was thicker and denser, wrapping around the creature and
burying itself into the floor to anchor it down. Amarl took advantage of its
immobility and struck at its limbs, cutting deeply into them, hoping to drive
it back. The beast hissed again, and the blast of gravel that erupted from its
mouth ripped away a chunk of the vines binding it, allowing it to tear its
head free. Before it could turn to Amarl, Burik jammed his halberd into the
thing’s maw, using his strength to pin it down just as the vines had.
The battle was falling into a rhythm, a pattern that he could practically
feel. He stabbed it with his halberd, punching holes in its beak and neck,
keeping it from turning its focus to the others. Amarl danced in and out,
cutting and slashing, whittling it down. Amrir’s bullets cracked and
splattered against the beast, entwining its head and limbs, slowing its
movements. In return, it hit Burik with blasts of air and sand. It snapped at
him with its beak, not hurting him but driving him backward. Its claws
slammed into the ground, which shook and trembled with each blow,
ruining their balance and throwing them all out of step. A piece was
missing from his arsenal, and he knew what it was.
“Meder!” he said loudly. “We need you!”
“Burik?” The girl’s voice was confused, and he knew she’d rattled her
brain when she hit the wall. “What…?”
“Take an elixir,” he ordered. “Now. We need you in this.”
“I—an elixir?”
“Do it,” he commanded, firmly but gently, feeling another trickle of
power roll through his voice. “Now, Meder.”
He turned his focus back to the battle; he could tell he’d gotten through
to her. He couldn’t hear her moving around over the sounds of battle, but
he could feel it. Meder knew how to be a soldier; she was a damn good
one, in fact. He could count on her to hold up her end of the battle.
He felt his faith being rewarded as less than a minute later, a surge of
energy swelled up behind him. “Everyone, shield your eyes!” Meder
shouted.
He obediently averted his gaze and closed his eyes. A good leader
knew when to follow, after all. Energy rippled past him, and a sudden flare
of light touched his face, brilliant even through his closed lids. The turtle
screeched, and he opened his eyes, blinking away a few dark spots and
focusing on the creature. Its head thrashed about blindly, snapping at air,
and he grinned. They all played a role, and Meder had played hers. She
was the sahr.
 No smart commander relied on sahr to win a battle, his mother told him,
but no wise commander ignored it, either. Sahr was powerful and flexible.
It could fill gaps in a defense or exploit enemy weaknesses. It could call
rain to muddy a field, making cavalry useless, or cover it with fog so that
archers and artillery couldn’t see the effects of their attacks. It could also
shield against an enemy using those same effects against an army. Sahr
never won a battle, but lack of it could lose one.
“Focus on shielding against its attacks,” he called out to her. “See if
you can stabilize the ground.”
“On it!” she called back.
The turtle attacked, but Burik knew that it was doomed. He could feel
the pieces of the battle falling into place. Amrir’s vines bound it and
slowed it. Meder’s sahr would counter its abilities. He would hold it in
place, and Amarl would cut it down. It was a foregone conclusion. All it
needed was some organization. As the four battled, Burik called out his
orders, having Amrir target specific parts of its body, warning Meder of
upcoming attacks, and sending Amarl in to attack in vulnerable moments.
The turtle’s blood flowed freely, and its strikes became more frantic as pain
and blood loss weakened it. Burik refused to let it withdraw, though. If he
did, whoever sent it against them could use it once more, and this time, they
might be smarter about it. They’d underestimated the students, but they
wouldn’t a second time. This was a resource he intended to deny them in
the future.
He lunged forward, thrusting his halberd into the creature’s beak and
stabbing deep into it. The creature tried to yank its head back as usual, but
Burik kept pushing, driving forward with his newly empowered muscles.
He shoved the head upward, lifting it high and exposing its long neck.
“Now, Amarl!” he shouted, but his friend was already moving like the
two were fingers of the same hand. He darted in with a mighty slash of his
axe’s crescent blades, cutting deeply into the exposed throat. Once, twice,
three times in a row the smaller boy sliced until a fan of dark blood sprayed
from the wound. The turtle screamed, but Burik felt it swiftly weakening as
its lifeblood sprayed from the gash. He held it in place until its muscles
slackened, then dropped its head to the floor. Amarl leaped onto the skull
and drove the spearpoint of his weapon down into its brain. The turtle
convulsed, then died.
As it did, the power flooding Burik sank back into his core. He blinked
as the odd sense he’d gained of the battle vanished jarringly, staggering him
with the sudden feeling of disconnection. He lowered his weapon and
looked at the others. Amrir looked at him with mingled awe and
confusion. Meder’s eyes held pride and curiosity. Amarl simply grinned at
him in understanding.
“Nice work, Burik!” the smaller boy laughed, as unflappable as ever.
“What the fuck just happened?” Amrir asked slowly. “That—that was a
doom tortoise!”
“Kind of a dramatic name, don’t you think?” Amarl replied with his
usual flippant disregard for the danger they’d all shared. Burik couldn’t
help but grin; Amarl’s determination to take nothing seriously was
infectious, and it made how close they’d all come to death seem like no big
deal.
“It’s somewhat accurate, though,” Meder said slowly. “According to
what I read, doom tortoises live deep in the peaks, far below the surface.
They rarely come up, but the books advise running when they do. Even full
ithtaru usually avoid fighting them if they can.”
“It was tough,” Burik agreed. “But not as good as the four of us
together.”
“Especially not after you quickened your ability,” Amarl chuckled,
walking over and smacking Burik on the shoulder. Burik felt a brief surge
of power, and Amarl jerked his hand back with a wince, shaking it.
“Damn. That’s like slapping a wall!”
“Did you, Burik?” Meder asked. “Quicken your ability, I mean?”
Burik frowned. He wasn’t sure, but the sudden power he’d felt—could
that have been it? If so, how would Amarl know? After a moment, he
pulled up his ithtu screen.
 “Wait, what?” he said aloud, staring at his screen in confusion. “That—
that’s not right!”
“What’s wrong?” Meder asked in a concerned voice, stepping closer to
him. “What’s not right?”
“My ability—that’s not what it’s supposed to be!”
“What do you mean?” Amarl asked curiously. “Supposed to be?”
“It was ‘est’, and Meder already told us it means I’ll be able to
empower my body.”
“That’s a useful Tier A ability,” Amrir nodded. “It combines strength
and durability, so you’re stronger and harder to hurt. It’s at the very top of
Tier A, in fact.”
“That’s great, but it changed,” Burik protested. “Now, it’s ‘nest’, and it
says something about ‘commanding skill.’”
“Fuck,” Amrir said softly. “It evolved!” She walked over closer to
him, her eyes wide. “Burik, that’s incredible!”
“What do you mean, it evolved?” he demanded with a sudden surge of
irritation.
“You remember, Burik,” Meder said, her voice both enthusiastic and
tinged with the same jealousy that he sometimes heard when she talked
about Amarl. “Caterama told us about it. Abilities can evolve and get more
powerful as you use them.”
 “Yeah, but it normally doesn’t happen until after you’re a full ithtar,”
Amrir said. “And even then, they say it takes years. Yours quickened and
evolved at the same time? That’s insane!”
“Well, I for one am happy about it,” Amarl laughed.
“Why?” Burik asked with a touch of suspicion.
“Because with this, I won’t be the only special one anymore,” he
grinned. “Welcome to being weird, Burik. Trust me, it absolutely sucks.”
He turned his grin to Meder. “You’re next, you know.”
“I doubt it,” she sighed a little bitterly.
“You have to be. Then, we can all be stared at and whispered about
when people think we can’t hear. Don’t worry; it’ll happen.”
Burik grimaced as he realized his friend was right, at least about the
attention. This was going to get noticed back at Askula, and not all of the
attention would be good. As he looked at Meder and saw the flickers of
jealousy the girl tried desperately to hide, he couldn’t help but sigh.
Somehow, he suspected, Amarl was to blame for this. He didn’t know
how, but the coincidence was too much. His friend was the most
exceptionally gifted student in generations, at least. The attack they’d just
suffered had to be because of him, just as the umbravore attack was. Burik
and Meder simply didn’t matter enough for anyone to go out of their way to
hunt them. Now, somehow, that uniqueness had infected Burik and made
him special, as well.
He vowed silently that he’d find a way to get his friend back for that
eventually—and to thank him.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 29
The growing yellow light spreading over the peak was one of the most
beautiful sights Amarl had ever seen. It wasn’t really all that terribly pretty
—there was no sun that he could see in the sky, and that meant no pink-
hued sunrise greeted them. He didn’t much care about that. The rising light
meant that the night was over at last, and they’d somehow survived it.
After the doom tortoise’s death, they’d really had no choice but to leave
the cavern and head back out into the darkness. They couldn’t exactly sleep
in the thick pool of blood Amarl made by hacking into the thing’s throat,
and even if they could, they felt certain that the massive corpse would draw
predators.
Of course, Amarl took the time to harvest the huge beast before they
left. Its life energy practically screamed at him, begging him to take it, and
he happily obliged. He laid a hand on the thing’s neck and pulled, holding
the power below the surface of its skin as he drew it, forcing it to pack more
densely and tightly. It was more energy than he could possibly handle,
forcing him to split the massive pool into three smaller ones. When at last
he relaxed his hold on them, three dark blue crystals exploded from the
beast’s hide, and Amrir came up and stared at them in awe.
“Three strong crystals,” she murmured. “And close to peak strong
crystals!” She touched the tortoise’s hide. “And it’s totally empty. How do
you do that?”
“No clue,” Amarl replied, removing the three crystals one at a time. “It
just happens that way.” Each of them sang to him as he touched them, their
songs echoing in his mind and begging him to call on them and meld with
them. He could feel their stored power practically leaping out to pour into
him, and it took a huge effort of will to slip them into his satchel instead.
Burik wanted to lead the group out into the darkness, relying on his
newly awakened ability to protect him, but Amrir convinced him
otherwise.
“Newly awakened abilities are notoriously unreliable, Burik,” she told
hm. “They activate when you don’t need them to, and sometimes when you
do need them, they don’t work.”
 “Mine seems fine,” the boy said with a shrug. “It obeys my
commands.”
“Really?” She pointed at one of the nearby rocks, one far too large for
Amarl to move. “Can you lift that, then? With Tier B strength, it should be
no problem.”
“Sure.” Burik strode over to the rock, bent low, and gripped it. His
body tensed as he tried to straighten his legs, but the stone remained
immobile. The boy’s legs shook, and cords stood out in his neck as he
strained, but after several seconds, he released the stone with an explosion
of breath and staggered backward.
“I don’t get it,” he mumbled, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“Why didn’t it work?”
“It quickened because you were under extreme pressure,” the older girl
explained. “That happens a lot, actually, according to the malims. Our
ithtu wants to serve us, and dire need can force it to quicken our ability.
Activating it deliberately without some sort of extreme circumstances,
though, is much harder and takes a lot of practice.” She shrugged. “For the
time being, what matters is that you can’t count on your ability to aid you
unless you’re in real trouble.”
“Don’t worry, Burik,” Amarl said, giving his friend a half-hearted grin.
“Rateso will figure out a way to get it to respond. I’m sure you’ll be joining
me in his class after this, you know.” The large boy blanched slightly, no
doubt remembering all of Amarl’s stories about his time in the dungeon of
horrors, and Amarl noticed Amrir’s face pale slightly, as well. Apparently,
the older girl remembered her time with the malim about as fondly as Amarl
thought of his.
However, Burik’s ability vanishing meant Amarl had to take the lead, as
usual—which meant he drew most of the attacks for the rest of the night.
They didn’t face any more monster waves, but beasts still struck at them
regularly. Winged creatures swept from the skies and slashed at him with
their talons; burrowing lizards exploded from hiding beneath the ground
and rushed him as he passed. Rockleapers raced out of the night and sprang
at him, screaming and hissing. Much smaller and weaker versions of the
doom tortoise attacked from below, their wedgelike heads driving through
the thin stone concealing them and snapping at his legs and feet.
 None of the attacks were anything the group couldn’t handle, but
whenever the students tried to stop and rest, the assaults slowly increased in
frequency and numbers. They ignored conventional wisdom and grabbed
brief bits of sleep in various caves, two of them resting while one kept
watch in the cave entrance and another stood guard over the sleepers.
Twice, creatures interrupted that rest by burrowing into the caves and
attacking, forcing the students to abandon their rest and fight.
The constant strain wore at the group, and Amarl knew they couldn’t
keep it up. Meder lost all ability to handle sahr several hours into the night,
and Burik’s ability simply refused to activate unless he was in immediate
danger of being badly hurt. The new crystal Amrir quickened restored her
ability, but her tired mind struggled to use it effectively, allowing creatures
to tear free of the plants entwining them and causing her rifle shots to miss
more frequently. Amarl’s ithtu kept pouring strength into him, but he felt
the edges of fatigue tugging at his mind, as well. He missed obvious signs
of ambushes, and as his reactions slowed, he found himself getting slashed
and cut more frequently.
The bitter cold swiftly became their worst enemy. Sahr elixirs could
heal the wounds they took as weariness slowed their bodies and sapped
their strength, but they did nothing to close the gaping tears in the fur
wrappings the students wore to stave off the frigid temperatures. The wind
cut through those gaps with brutal efficiency, forcing the group to seek
shelter more frequently to warm up. Fortunately, all four students had been
forced to learn to repair their uniforms since Askula wouldn’t replace them
due to minor tears and rips, and Amrir had brought a sewing kit. The
ensuing repairs weren’t anything any of them were proud of, but they at
least kept the wind off their skin.
As the light slowly rose, the group paused for a short break. They
didn’t bother setting up their tent; they simply dug a firepit, lit a fire, and sat
around it, resting their tired bodies.
Meder looked up at the lightening sky, her face hopeful despite the dirt
smearing it and the scabbed scratch along her cheek and neck where a
rockleaper had gotten too close before she batted it from the air. “Think
it’ll get better now that the light’s back?” she asked Amrir.
 The older girl simply shrugged. “Honestly? No clue.” She sighed and
looked down at the fire, her face downcast. “This whole trip is way outside
my experiences here. I knew that we’d be facing more than the usual
number of creatures, but this is ridiculous. We’ve fought more in one night
than—well, than I’ve fought in all my other hunts here combined, I’d bet.
And a doom tortoise! I’ve never actually heard of anyone even seeing one,
much less fighting it!” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a
fucking quakeserpent popped out of the ground at this point.”
“Quakeserpent?” Burik asked.
“An extremely large and dangerous snake that’s only found on the more
distant peaks,” Meder answered promptly. “In addition to being able to
shake the ground, they can shoot lightning, spit an extremely powerful acid,
and animate stone around them to attack. Their scales are much harder than
steel and are razor-sharp, and they like to constrict prey, then rub their
scales against them until their flesh is torn off.” She shuddered. “The
books say they only appear every few generations, and when they do, the
Order organizes a hunt of full ithtaru to find it and kill it.”
“Sounds fun,” Amarl snorted. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and run into a
pair of them.”
“Again, it wouldn’t shock me at this point,” Amrir said. She looked up
at the sky. “Usually, the burrowing creatures are worse at night, and the
flying ones are worse during the day, but who knows? We might get more
of both now that they can see us better, and the air’s warmed up a bit.”
“I think we should finish checking out the rest of the bridges,” Burik
suggested. “Maybe there’s still one that we can use to cross to another
peak.”
“If you ask me, I say that we should stay on this peak,” Meder offered.
“There can only be so many creatures on it, after all, and with the bridges
out, more of them can’t come here. Eventually, we’ll kill all the burrowing
beasts within range of us, and then we can hole up in a cave until the
malims find us.”
“The beasts don’t use the bridges,” the older girl shook her head. “At
least, no one’s ever seen one crossing a bridge. The theory is that they have
some other way to get from peak to peak, probably using connections below
the cloud layer.” She looked around. “It’s possible that everything we see
is just the crown of a single continent-sized mountain, in fact, all joined
somewhere below us.”
“No one’s every flown down below the clouds to find out?” Amarl
asked curiously. “It seems like someone would have tried it.”
“They’ve tried, sure, but the flying creatures are a lot stronger in the
mist than they are up here, and there are a lot more of them. Plus,
something about the mist confuses your senses, I guess, so people who fly
into it always end up coming back out the top.” She shrugged. “It’s
possible that full ithtaru have gotten through, though. The school might
know a lot more about this place. In fact, I’m sure it does.”
“Why wouldn’t they tell us, then?” Meder asked. “Withholding
information seems like a bad idea if we’re supposed to survive here.”
“Because we don’t need to know,” Burik replied. “Soldiers don’t need
to know everything about a battle plan or the enemy they’re facing; they
just need to know enough to play their role in a battle.” He gestured around
at the peaks visible in the distance. “It doesn’t really matter to us what’s
below the clouds, does it? All that matters to us is fighting what’s up here,
so that’s what we know about.”
“Until it does matter, and then we’re just shit out of luck,” Amarl
chuckled. “Like right now, when it would be nice to know if we’re actually
going to run out of burrowing monsters to attack us or not.”
“The smart thing to do is assume that we’re not,” Amrir offered. “And
in that case, Burik would probably be right: we should find a bridge, if for
no other reason than it might offer us a more secure place to rest.” She took
a deep breath. “The problem is, there are only two more to check. This
peak only has six bridges leading away from it; all the local ones do.
We’ve already found four broken. I’m pretty sure the same will be true of
the last two.”
“It can’t hurt to check,” Amarl shrugged. “I say we look. Even if
they’re all broken, I think it’s smarter to stay as close to the bridge back to
the safe area as possible. That’ll make it easier for Tapowa to find us when
he comes looking.”
They sat for fifteen minutes or so, just long enough to rest tired muscles
but not long enough to start drawing larger groups to attack them, then set
off once more. Amarl again led the way, the increased light making it easier
for him to spot looming ambushes and incoming winged beasts. That made
their journey easier, as they could avoid the ambushes and take cover
against the flying monsters. Even Burik didn’t advocate fighting the beasts;
apparently, the confidence and command he’d shown in the cave had
vanished with his ability’s quickening.
Amarl still felt a shiver as he recalled that. Burik’s words held power in
them when he’d called out his commands, and a part of Amarl simply
wanted to follow them. He’d thrown that weird urge off pretty easily, but
he didn’t think the others had. Amrir had quickened a crystal from their
haul despite that being against the rules, and Meder had shaken off her
injury and gotten back into the fight, both simply because Burik told them
to. The boy’s ithtu had touched the others, Amarl guessed, lending them a
little of its strength in return for following orders. That felt like a
potentially powerful ability for a commander of soldiers to have, and Burik
seemed like he’d been practically born for that.
They avoided what attacks they could and dealt with the rest for the
next half-hour, until Amarl spotted a flash of paler white stone peeking
around the mountainside ahead. He edged slowly forward, creeping
forward, sure what he’d find and yet hesitant to actually find it. When he
rounded the mountain, he stopped and stared at the bridge in confusion.
“What’s wrong, Amarl?” Amrir asked in a hesitant tone. “It—it’s
destroyed, too?”
“No,” he shook his head. “It’s not. It’s fine.” He stared at the expanse
of pale stone stretching before him, reaching from the edge of the peak and
snaking off into the distance. The bridge was whole and looked unmarked,
although from this distance he couldn’t really tell.
“It’s intact?” the older girl asked, jogging up to his side and standing
beside him in silence for a second or two. “Ak-lahat be praised,” she
breathed, touching her forehead, lips, and heart with her head bowed. “It’s
intact!”
“Do you know where it goes?” Amarl asked quietly.
“No, but we can find a way back to the safe area from it, one way or the
other. That’s what matters. We all need some rest.” She laughed hoarsely.
“Besides, we definitely made our minimum already!”
 “Wait,” Meder said, walking up to Amarl’s other side. “If this peak has
six bridges, wouldn’t the one after this be close to our initial campsite?”
“I think so,” the older girl said irritably. “Why?”
“Because if it is, I think we should see if it’s intact, too.”
“What’s the point? We’ve got a perfectly fine bridge right here,
Meder.”
“Because if this bridge is intact, and the next one is, too—then
something strange is going on,” the younger girl replied. “What are the
odds that only the bridges in the direction we were traveling were
destroyed, while the one right in front of us if we’d just kept going in our
original direction is fine?” She shook her head. “That sounds like
something or someone was destroying the bridges in front of us just before
we could reach them, doesn’t it?”
“You’re talking like there’s some sort of conspiracy going on,” Amrir
scoffed. “Like the school or the malims are trying to kill us.”
“If it was the school, they weren’t trying to kill us,” Amarl chuckled.
“They might have done it to force us to get stronger, though—or maybe
even to force Burik’s ability to quicken.” He paused. “If it wasn’t the
school, though, what could it have been? Are there any intelligent species
on this world, like the assilians on Isolas?”
“No,” Amrir shook her head. “At least, not that I know of.” She
straightened. “And none of this matters. We need to get back to the safe
area and get some rest.”
“I vote that we check the next bridge,” Burik said. “If nothing else, it’ll
be closer to the one we crossed onto this peak on, which means it should be
easier to find our way back from there.”
“Agreed,” Amarl said. “Besides, we can always come back to this one
if it’s not.”
“And what if whatever broke the bridges comes and takes down this
one while we’re checking it out?” Amrir pointed out. “We could be stuck
here again!”
“If it’s still around, I’d think the bridges were the last place we’d want
to be,” Amarl laughed. “Seriously, you want to go crossing bridges while
something that can swallow big chunks of them is around? If we’re worried
about that, then we should just stay here. It’s safer.” He shifted his pack on
his shoulders until it was more comfortable. “Let’s head to the next bridge
and check it out. Whether it’s intact or not, we might even want to head to
our campsite and rest there for a bit. At least the firepit’s already dug,
right?”
Amrir muttered but followed behind as Amarl led them past the
gleaming bridge to the next. That one, too, was intact, and Amarl shook his
head as he stared at it.
“Looks like you were right, Meder,” he said. “Whatever it was took out
the bridges ahead of us, then stopped.”
“Why would it just stop?” Amrir demanded.
“Because the point was to get us into that cave,” Amarl shrugged as the
realization crystallized in his tired mind. “Probably so that turtle would
attack us.”
“I was thinking the same thing last night,” Burik nodded. “Something
pushed us into that cave. Did you notice that last beast wave stopped
chasing us once we reached it? And nothing else came after us while we
were there.”
“I think you’re all being paranoid,” Amrir groused. “We just need some
sleep. Come on, let’s take the bridge and find our way back to the safe
area.”
It took them the rest of the day to wind their way around the direction
they’d come toward the safe zone. They stopped in the middle of the day
and slept for a few hours, letting each of them get a quick nap. It didn’t
restore Amarl, but it sharpened his focus and lifted the fog from his brain.
They wound from peak to plateau, weathering whatever Apirron threw at
them. As talking to the older students suggested, attacks on the plateaus
were more numerous and common, but none were the overwhelming waves
they’d faced the previous night.
When night fell again, they picked up their pace. They all recalled the
destruction of the bridges from the night before, and none of them wanted
to risk it happening again. It was harder to avoid attacks in the darkness,
and even Amarl and Burik were flagging by the time they reached a bridge
with a splash of paint along the rails several hours into the night.
“Ak-lahat be blessed!” Amrir said feelingly. “This is one of the paths
back to the Mistway; that’s what the paint means. Let’s go!” The girl led
the way out onto the bridge, and the group followed. Amarl stared into the
darkness around them nervously. He couldn’t help but wonder if the thing
that took out the bridges the night before was still around somewhere,
waiting to pounce on the students. If it were, this would be the place to do
it. An image popped into his head of some massive fish leaping up from the
mists and chomping down on the bridge, swallowing it and the students
whole in a single gulp. He knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t shake it, and
he kept staring into the mists, waiting to see them surge and swirl as the
enormous beast erupted from them.
He almost stumbled as he stepped off the bridge onto solid ground, and
he looked around wildly for a moment. The group stood on a flat plateau
that looked like any other plateau he’d seen so far except for the spire
jutting from the center of it. A tent stood beside that spire, and the group of
students made for it. Amrir stopped before the tent, hesitated, then peeked
inside.
“Empty,” she said with a disappointed face. “He’s not here.”
“He’s probably out checking on everyone,” Meder suggested. “Why
don’t we set up our tent, maybe grab something to eat, and wait for him?
I’m sure he’ll be back soon enough.”
“Good idea,” Amrir nodded.
The group set up their tent with only moderate difficulty, mostly due to
exhaustion making their fingers clumsy. Meder managed to light a fire, and
Amrir once again grew some blades of grass to different lengths to
determine who took first watch. Amarl drew the shortest blade and settled
in some distance from the fire, watching the dark skies and hoping that
nothing would attack. His eyes burned with weariness; his head pounded;
the cold seemed to knife deeply into him despite the fire. He was on the
edge of exhaustion, and he suspected that his ithtu had been carrying him
all this time. In fact, he was certain of it; a quick glance at his screen
showed his tak was close to empty, and his crystal had lost another couple
of points from it.
 He quickly went through his other screens, checking to see if anything
else had changed. His stats had stayed the same, but his skill screen was a
little different.

He assumed those increases had come from his defense of Meder the
night before. He recalled the way he’d melded Mountain Form and his
Nameless Form together, and while he couldn’t quite recapture the exact
feeling of it, he had a sense of how they’d joined, how he’d felt like the
point of a labah triangle, holding the squares around him. He wondered
how easy it would be to do it again if he had to. He sighed and pushed
himself to his feet. There was only one way to find out. Besides,
movement would help him stay warm and keep his sore, tired muscles from
stiffening.
He first moved through the patterns of both forms individually, then
settled himself back into the stance of Mountain Form. He remembered the
feeling he had, how he refused to be moved, the idea that the space around
him was his area of influence, and anything entering it would have to battle
him for it, then began again, trying to meld the two forms together.
His first effort was, in his own opinion, absolute shit. The flowing
movements of his Nameless Form simply didn’t want to mesh with the
stable solidity of Mountain Form. His feet kept shifting and sliding; his
balance lurched constantly; his weapon kept jerking and coming up short.
He grimaced and started again, knowing that he shouldn’t have expected
anything else. He’d had the same issue with his Nameless Form at first.
He’d been able to merge Bear, Tiger, and Water Forms under the influence
of his ithtu almost effortlessly, but on his own, he’d struggled to combine
them into a single whole. It took time, practice, and almost being killed a
few times to finally get it, and he assumed the same would be true for his
new forms. Hopefully, of course, without the almost being killed part.
After a few minutes, he belatedly pulled connections from his tak to his
limbs and brain, allowing his ithtu to saturate his body, and that actually
helped. As he moved, he remembered how the mingling of the forms
reminded him of the peaks of Apirron, with his weapon being the wind
screaming about them. The concept was easier to picture, and with it in
mind and his ithtu flowing, he could feel his body settling into the same
mingling of patterns he’d felt the night before. Step by step, he began to
understand how he’d mixed the two forms without even realizing, and how
his ithtu had perfected them into something more. It didn’t match what
he’d managed last night—really, it wasn’t even close—but it was a start,
and he knew that the more he practiced, the better he’d get at it.
He moved through the forms for another thirty minutes before his body
started to flag. He stopped, panting and gasping as he realized that he’d
pushed himself as far as he could. His tak was down to almost nothing, and
his muscles trembled and shook with fatigue. If he kept going, he’d be
useless if they were attacked again. Instead, he settled the axe on his
shoulder, then began to walk the area around the camp. What he’d worked
out was enough for the time being, and it would serve as a base for
incorporating his other forms. He could almost see it in his mind: Mountain
Form was the base, the solid core that the others rested on; his weapon form
was the wind whipping around that peak; that made Drunken Form the river
flowing down its sides and washing away anything in its path, while
Cutting Hand was the storm raging around its peak, flinging ice and
lightning at foes. The image wasn’t perfect, but it was something to build
from.
However, that would be for another time. That sort of training, he
realized, took too much focus, and he was supposed to be on watch. It
would suck to make it all the way back to base camp, then get killed by
some flying horror that he didn’t see because he was too busy being a
mountain and a storm with a river or whatever. His eyes scanned the skies
—he wasn’t really worried about anything burrowing up beneath the base
camp, as he assumed the malims would have cleared this area—but as he
spotted no danger, his thoughts gradually drifted inward.
It had been a long couple of days, and his tired brain couldn’t quite
work out exactly what had happened. Something or someone had destroyed
bridges that Amrir thought were indestructible, which told him that whoever
did it was extremely powerful. That was fine, but what he couldn’t figure
out was why. One possibility was that the school really was testing him,
and that was honestly the most likely option as far as he could see. The
Rashiv had told him that stress and need would awaken his ability, and he
could see the malims driving the group into that cave knowing that a doom
tortoise was nearby, hoping that it would push Amarl enough to further
awaken his ability. As it turned out, it did awaken Burik’s, in fact, and the
fact that nothing had continued to harass them afterward suggested that
maybe the school had orchestrated the attack, decided that quickening one
ability was enough, and let the students be after that.
Of course, there were holes in that theory. The first was that the malims
didn’t need to herd the students that way. They could simply have made
that peak the group’s hunting ground, or even told the group to secure that
one cavern to use as a base. They certainly didn’t need to destroy the
bridges, at the very least. Plus, that tortoise was dangerous. If Burik hadn’t
awakened his ability, Meder might have died in that fight. Unless an ithtar
was very close—close enough that they could have intervened before the
turtle got Meder—then it was more of a risk than he thought the school
would be willing to take. The malims seemed to be fine letting the students
get close to death, but they didn’t want them to actually die. At least, not
unless they were the ones doing the killing.
That left one other option. Someone or something else was actively
trying to kill the students. The biggest issue he saw with that was that
anything powerful enough to destroy the bridges probably wouldn’t need to
resort to that sort of trickery. The same kind of force that would shatter a
bridge would turn four students into red paste splattered across a
mountainside. If all they’d wanted to do was kill the group, they probably
could have pretty easily. Of course, if Tapowa happened to be nearby,
they’d have to deal with the malim—and probably other instructors from
the school. There almost had to be a way for Tapowa to call for assistance
if something like that doom tortoise appeared.
That actually might explain it, he realized. If someone wanted them
dead, they probably also wanted to live through the act and escape. Making
those deaths look like the work of beasts would have kept the school from
hunting them down. He knew that his Joining Crystal recorded everything
he did, and that the awals could read it if they wanted. That was why Veter
insisted that Amarl leave Nihos to be killed by the beasts of Shadora; that
way, the boy’s death wouldn’t show up on Amarl’s Joining Crystal. If a
person killed them, their crystals might record that. If the tortoise did,
though, it would look like they’d foolishly sought shelter in a cave despite
knowing better and had paid the price for it. It would be a tragedy held up
as an object lesson for the others, the same way Nihos’ death had been
treated as a lesson for the rest of the students. The issue there was that
Amarl knew that Tapowa was keeping an eye on everyone. Whoever it was
would have had to somehow fool the malim or occupy him elsewhere, so he
didn’t realize something was wrong with Amarl’s group. That seemed
pretty unlikely, as well. An intelligent species like the assilians might make
sense if they could control the beasts somehow, but he doubted they could
hide from the malims…
“Back already?”
Amarl whirled in surprise, spinning his axe as the song of his ithtu
surged in his mind. His tired brain took a few moments to recognize the
muscular figure in the gray furs before him. Tapowa watched the hizeen
with a sort of wary amusement as the boy lowered his moon axe and
straightened into attention, his left hand pressed across his chest in a fist.
“Yes, sir,” he said briskly, hastening to explain. “We’ve been fighting
constantly, and we came back to get some sleep, that’s all.”
The malim waved a dismissive hand. “No need to explain. I’m not
accusing you of giving up the hunt. I guessed that you and your group
would need a break at some point—at least, after being told how your last
two off-world hunts went.” The man lifted a hand, and a second or so later,
a bowl sped through the air and landed on his outstretched palm. “Here.
Sit down and eat. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
“Thank you, sir.” Amarl took the steaming bowl and breathed in the
scent of the plain but filling stew that seemed to be the norm for base camp
on hunting trips. “I haven’t had a chance to make anything yet. I was
keeping watch…”
“Not very well,” the malim cut him off, briskly, then waved another
hand. “Just eat. You can explain after.”
Amarl quickly finished the bowl of stew. It was fairly bland and
tasteless, but as hungry as he was, he didn’t care. Each bite warmed him,
and he could feel some of the fuzziness leave his head. At last, he put down
the bowl with a sigh.
 “So, Novice. Tell me about your hunt.”
“It was—eventful, sir,” the boy sighed, launching into an explanation of
the past couple days. He explained about the beast waves, the broken
bridges, and the attack of the doom tortoise. The malim listened carefully,
asking no questions as the tired boy explained. The man’s impassive face
never shifted or flickered as Amarl spoke, and when the hizeen fell silent,
he simply nodded slowly.
“An—interesting story,” he finally said, his voice calm and his gaze
steady. “A student quickening their ability on a hunt like this isn’t too
unusual, although that ability evolving at the same time—and in that
fashion—is extraordinary. A doom tortoise appearing, though, is incredibly
unlikely, and the bridges being destroyed…” He paused, his face
thoughtful. “This can’t wait until morning. Come with me.”
“Sir?” Amarl asked. “I’m supposed to be on watch…”
“There’s no need. No creature of Apirron will approach the Mistway.
Besides, I need to see this myself. Let’s go see this doom tortoise and
shattered bridges.”
Amarl stifled a groan but rested his moon axe on his shoulder. “If you
want, sir. It took us a few hours to get there, though.”
“Fortunately, I can take us there a bit faster,” the man smiled. Amarl
jumped as the wind blasting past him suddenly strengthened, battering at
his body. The air curled about him, grabbing at his limbs, and a moment
later, he rose smoothly into the air, carried on a maelstrom of wind.
“I saw you make your first campsite. I assume that all this happened on
the same peak?” Tapowa’s voice carried easily into Amarl’s ears despite the
howling wind, and Amarl slowly nodded in response. “Good. Shouldn’t
take us more than a few minutes to get there.”
The wind blasted against Amarl’s back, and suddenly, he felt himself
soaring through the air, moving far faster than he could run, faster than any
horse could run. He stared in horror at the emptiness beneath his feet as the
wind carried him off the edge of the plateau, an emptiness that ended in the
dak mists swirling below. His mind couldn’t help but imagine the malim’s
power letting him go, the doomed plummet, vanishing into the mists…
 He pushed those thoughts away and tore his gaze upward, forcing
himself to stare straight ahead. He’d never been afraid of heights before,
but then, he’d never hung over a possibly bottomless chasm supported only
by currents of wind, either. The thought of all that emptiness below him
made his stomach clench and his body shiver uncontrollably. That could
also have been the icy wind blasting into him, he realized. In fact, he
decided to pretend that was what it was. It was easier that way.
As the malim predicted, it only took the pair a few minutes to reach the
group’s first campsite. Amarl led the man backward to the cave where
they’d fought the tortoise, and the malim stared at the cooling corpse with a
grim expression.
“A doom tortoise,” he said, walking around the beast and shaking his
head. “And the four of you defeated it.”
“If Burik hadn’t quickened his ability, sir, I don’t think we would have.”
“That shouldn’t have mattered. A newly quickened Tier B ability
shouldn’t have done much against a doom tortoise. They’re resistant to
both sahr and physical attacks; usually, it takes a team of nadars to deal with
one when they appear.” He ducked low and examined the slashes in the
thing’s throat. “Your work, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Amazing.” The man sighed and turned back to Amarl. “I take it you
quickened it after, then? What did you get?”
“They’re in here, sir,” Amarl replied, unfastening his satchel from his
waist and handing it to the man. “That’s all the crystals I’m carrying. The
others have their own.”
The malim opened the bulging satchel and peered inside. He reached in
and pulled out one of the glittering, dark blue strong crystals, examining it
with a shake of his head.
“Density 9 strong crystal,” he sighed. “And there are more of them.
Well, that’s going to take top haul this hunt, no question.” He sifted
through the pack curiously. “These are all weak and minor crystals. No
feeble ones?”
“I’ve never harvested a feeble crystal, sir. Burik and Meder have some
of those; that’s what they both usually get. Amrir might have a few, as well,
from some of the weaker creatures she killed.”
“They should have let you kill everything, so you could harvest better
crystals,” the man replied disapprovingly. “They could have crippled the
creatures and let you finish them off.
“We started doing that, but we couldn’t keep it up. There were too
many creatures during those waves, and then later, we were too tired and
worn out to risk crippling instead of killing.” He made a face. “Besides,
sir, I hate doing that.”
“Why?” the man asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity.
“Because when I do, the ithtu I harvest—it’s not right. It knows that I
didn’t earn it, and that it’s being stolen. It fights being harvested, and it
sounds wrong when I touch it.”
“Interesting.” The man rose to his feet. “Well, you’re going to have to
get over that, Novice. Your ability to harvest potent crystals is too valuable
for your feelings to factor in, I’m afraid. You’ll need to get used to
harvesting as much ithtu as possible, no matter how it makes you feel.”
“Yes, sir,” Amarl said, stifling the sigh he wanted to let out. He had a
feeling the ithtar wouldn’t care in the slightest.
“If this part’s true, then the rest of it probably is, as well,” the ithtar
said. “Let’s take a look at these bridges, Novice.”
With the wind carrying the pair, it took only a few seconds for them to
blast back past their campsite toward the destroyed bridge. When they
neared it, the malim stopped, hovering in the air, while Amarl gaped at the
span in shock. The bridge no longer ended after a reach or two; its length
arced outward toward the next peak without interruption.
“Doesn’t look broken to me, Novice,” the man observed, his voice grim
as it rang in Amarl’s ears. “How about you?”
“Sir—it was! We all saw it!” Amarl protested.
“Calm down, Novice. I don’t think you’re lying to me. At least, not
deliberately.”
“What—what do you think happened, sir?”
“I think…” The malim straightened. “I think it’s time to get you back
to the camp. You need some sleep. The others will be returning tomorrow,
but if you get a decent rest, your group can head back out in the morning
and improve your haul—and the take for this trip overall.” The man
seemed to catch Amarl’s grimace and flashed him a hard smile. “What, you
think that just because your past two days have been ridiculously hard,
you’re done? Think again, Novice. That’s the life of an ithtar. Every
mission is ridiculously hard, they all take you far too close to death, and
you’re only done when you’re dead. Best that you learn that lesson now.”
Amarl nodded as the wind raced him away from the intact bridge. He
glanced down involuntarily, then swallowed hard and slammed his eyes
shut.
“You’re only done when you’re dead.” Something about that struck a
chord with him, and as his thoughts drifted, he wondered why he kept
seeing the image of a dark purple flower that spoke to him almost lovingly
of death.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 30
“Come on, Amarl, wake up,” Meder said tiredly. Amarl winced as her
foot lashed out and cracked into his ribs, rocking him backward. A year and
more of unarmed training had taught her how to kick, to be sure.
“I’m awake,” he grunted. “And if you kick me again, I might just kick
you back.”
“That’s fine since you’ll have to get up to do it.”
“Rude,” he sighed. As Amarl rose grudgingly from sleep, he thought
back almost wistfully to last year. Sure, it had its rough spots. He’d been
beaten, stabbed, kidnapped, almost eaten, and he’d technically died. It
wasn’t something he’d really want to experience again, to be sure, but at
least he’d gotten one day a week to sleep in.
Akio was supposed to be a day of rest, the day that everyone in the
Empire set aside to honor Ak-lahat, the One Above All. In Tem, the mines
closed for the day, businesses shut down, and people gathered outside the
Church of the One to listen to Vernir or one of his acolytes preach about the
glories of Ak-lahat, and he’d come to learn that sort of thing was nearly
universal in the Umpratan Empire.
It wasn’t in Askula, though. Second-years had tasks in the Citadel,
while third-years worked in the village for the morning. Older students
woke early and went to Halit to spar for extra points for graduation. Even
the villagers worked, setting up the weekly fair or preparing their wares for
the students to purchase. Only first-years and young children truly got to
rest on Akio; for everyone else, it was just another day.
He grabbed his clothes and hurried out with the others to shower and
dress. The trio headed downstairs to grab a quick bite, and Amarl heaped
his plate with breads and meat that would tide him over until the early
afternoon since the Rashiv rarely let him stop for the midday meal.
“What do you guys have planned this afternoon?” he asked the others
through a mouthful of bread.
Meder made a slightly disgusted face and shook her head. “Chew and
swallow, Amarl. It’s not that hard.”
 “That’s what she said,” Burik mumbled around some bacon.
The girl rolled her eyes. “Seriously, you’re both children.”
“Pretty much,” Burik nodded, then took on an eager look. “I want to
head to Halit, myself. I’m excited to see how I do now that my ability’s
quickened.”
“I’ll probably end up there myself,” Meder said. “I could use the extra
points, if nothing else.”
“You think?” Amarl asked. “We just got fifteen from the hunt, Meder.
I think you’re probably fine.”
“Maybe, maybe not. We’ll know today, won’t we?”
“What do you mean?” Burik asked.
“This week was the end of the third moon of this year, Burik. The
malims should be posting our points today. We’ll all know how we’re
doing for certain then.”
“Are you worried, Meder?” Amarl asked with a grin.
“Of course. You should be, too. We’re only going on four hunts this
year, so even if we keep getting the top haul and doubling the minimum,
that’s only sixty points. Burik’s the only one of us who can count on
getting points from Sitjak, which means the Shashana’s share of our points
is going to come from the malims.” She gave Amarl an arch look. “And
you tend to piss them off.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” Burik argued. “Not that Amarl pisses off
the malims, of course. He obviously does…”
“Hey!” Amarl protested, but the larger boy plowed over him and kept
speaking.
“…But you’re forgetting about Halit. If you average three wins a week
there, with forty-eight weeks per year, you can make…” He paused in
thought, but Meder saved him from the math.
“144 points.”
“Thanks. So, 144 from Halit and sixty from hunting puts us over the
minimum by itself. Unless the malims give us negative points, we should
be fine.” He looked at Amarl. “Which still means you might be fucked,
and not in the usual way.”
Meder laughed as Amarl flashed the older boy a rude gesture with his
hand, then gave the boy a serious look. “Okay, that’s fine for you, Burik,
but I don’t average three points a week in Halit. It’s more like a point every
two weeks, so I need the points from the malims.”
“Personally, I’d rather have too much than not enough,” Amarl offered.
“I could see the awals deciding halfway through the year that we need
double points to graduate just because they’re so easy for us to get.”
“They wouldn’t,” Meder shook her head. “That would mean Herel,
Norag, and Hadur would be out. There’s no way they could make that
much.”
“No, I said WE need double points. Just the three of us.” He took a sip
of his kaffee. “In fact, I’ll bet the Rashiv tells me that today. He’ll say
something about us ‘rising to the challenge,’ but it’ll just mean that we’re
being screwed over.”
The three ended up agreeing to check to see if their points were up after
their duties ended, then to meet in the village. While Halit was probably a
better idea for points, the fact was, none of them were that eager to fight
after the hunt they’d just had. Burik was a little disappointed, but Amarl
was frankly relieved. He wasn’t looking forward to Halit. Every older
student with a quickened ability would probably jump to challenge him the
moment his name went up on the board. He knew that eventually, he’d
have to go. The awals wouldn’t let him avoid it, especially Ranakar.
Fortunately, that eventually would be another day.
To Amarl’s surprise, when he arrived at Renahisek’s office, the man
glanced at him almost dismissively.
“Novice Amarl. Report immediately to Awal Tekasoka’s office. You’ll
be spending the morning there in lieu of your normal duties.”
Amarl swallowed hard and bowed to the man before clumping back
down the stairs. Nothing good had ever come from his going to Tekasoka’s
office. The old woman seemed to hold that the less she saw of a novice, the
better, and she saw Amarl with far too much regularity. He assumed that
the summons had something to do with the hunt they’d just completed, and
he guessed that somehow or another, he was in trouble again.
Tekasoka’s office was at the top of a different tower, of course, meaning
he had to trudge all the way down to the first floor, then back to the top of
her tower to reach it. The malim in her outer office ushered Amarl past
silently, and he entered the room beyond with no small amount of
trepidation. The awal’s office looked like—well, like every other awal’s
office that he’d seen so far, to be honest. It had bookshelves, maps of
Askula, Umpratan, and the attached realms pinned to its walls, and its
window looked out over the Citadel and, past that, open farmland that
ended at the encircling mountains. The woman’s desk dominated the center
of the room, and the round-faced, gray-haired awal sat behind it, writing on
a paper and not even glancing up at Amarl. The novice stood before her
desk and snapped to attention, ignoring the nearby chairs. After a moment,
Tekasoka slid the paper aside and glanced up at him, her expression hard
and calculating.
“Do you know why you’re here this morning, Novice?” she asked in a
calm but slightly icy voice, and Amarl felt a flutter of nerves race through
his stomach.
“No, ma’am,” he said honestly, holding his body stiff and unmoving as
he spoke and staring straight ahead.
“You can’t think of a single thing you’ve done that might land you in
my office, Novice Amarl?” she scoffed. “Come now.”
“I guess that it has something to do with our hunt, ma’am,” he said
honestly. “I can only tell you what we reported to Malim Tapowa. The
bridges were destroyed, and…”
“Yes, I read that report,” she said dismissively, cutting him off with a
flip of her hand. “It was quite the read, in fact. Unending waves of
creatures. An attack by a doom tortoise. A surprisingly powerful
awakening and evolution of an ability. And invulnerable bridges seemingly
destroyed, then miraculously restored the next morning.”
“Ma’am, we saw the bridges. They were gone…” he protested
somewhat frantically. If the school thought that they’d been lying…
 “Calm yourself, Novice,” she snapped quickly. “And think. If we
thought you were lying, you’d be speaking to the Rashiv right now—or
kneeling before the Deeps, waiting for the axe to fall. Are you doing either
of those things?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, swallowing hard at the realization that had the
school just refused to believe them, all four of them would probably be
dead.
“Then obviously, we accepted your report. Most of it wasn’t even that
difficult to accept. We knew you’d face far more attacks than usual—it was
why Student Amrir accompanied you, as her ability is both very potent and
moderately well-controlled. I knew Novice Burik’s ability would awaken
soon, as it’s been showing signs of it during his battles at Sitjak and Halit. I
even expected that it would evolve, although I assumed that would be some
years in the future.”
“You did, ma’am?” he asked in confusion. “I thought evolutions were
rare!”
“Not at all. Most abilities evolve eventually, Novice. Your ability is an
outward reflection of your inner self, and as you grow, that self changes.
How could your ability continue to reflect you if it didn’t change to
match?”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that, ma’am.”
“No reason that you should, except to understand one more reason why
we push students so hard here. We want to guide the direction of those
evolutions and push them into a beneficial path, and that means forcing
students to grow in specific directions, not however they’d like. An ithtar
who’s selfish, mean-spirited, or hateful develops an ability to match, and
those abilities can be dangerous to everyone, including themselves.” She
shook her head.
“We were speaking of your report, though. As I said, much of it was
expected, but there was plenty of evidence to support the less plausible
parts. We found the remnants of your battles, obviously. The doom
tortoise’s corpse was also hard to ignore. Plus, the tracks of your hunting
party showed you approached several bridges, stopped at each one, then
turned away. It’s obvious that the bridges appeared to be destroyed at that
point. No one’s doubting your report.”
 Amarl calmed a bit at her words, then frowned as he considered them.
“Appeared to be?”
“You heard me, Novice. You can consider what that means on your
own time. For the moment, pull up a chair and take a seat.” She flashed
him a thin smile. “This time, at least, you aren’t in any trouble.”
He slid one of the chairs over and slowly lowered himself into it.
“Then—can I ask why I am here, ma’am?”
“You’ve been in Malim Rateso’s class for three moons now,” she said
crisply. “Tell me of your progress there.”
He sighed. “It isn’t going well, ma’am,” he admitted.
“I’d like significantly more detail than that, Novice. Exactly how is it
not going well?”
He grimaced as he thought about his failures in the class. “I haven’t
gained any sort of control or feel for my ability, ma’am. It’s an all-or-
nothing thing. It either fully activates, or it does nothing. I know that I’m
supposed to be learning how to sense my ability activating, but I can’t tell
what I’m supposed to be feeling.”
He fell silent, not sharing that, in fact, it was worse than that. The
constant stress of near-death experiences was getting to him. He
occasionally had mild panic attacks just entering the room, and he’d gotten
to the point where his ithtu now reacted any time he got near the dungeon or
saw Nadar Sototen. He’d accidentally attacked her twice, and the last time
he’d gone, he’d actually shattered the machine enclosing him before they
could even begin using it. At that point, Rateso pulled him out of the class
and put him in a private room to study, promising to give him some time
before bringing him back. However, the simple fact was that he’d failed to
learn what he was supposed to—and he had no idea what he was going to
do about it.
He expected to see disappointment or disapproval on the older woman’s
face, but to his shock, she simply nodded at him, her face filled with
understanding.
“Yes, I was afraid of that,” she sighed. “In fact, I warned the Rashiv of
this at the beginning of the term and counseled against you being in that
class at all.”
 “You—you did, ma’am?” he asked in a shocked voice. “Why?”
“Because while the malim’s methods do work—brutal as they are—I
doubted they would work for you simply because of their nature and
yours.”
“I don’t understand, ma’am.”
“Of course not. I haven’t yet explained.” She shook her head. “Do us
both the favor of sitting there quietly and patiently, Novice, and allow me to
do so.” She paused, and while he wanted to voice his agreement, he
decided it was best to remain silent.
“Excellent. You can listen. I wasn’t entirely certain that it was
possible.” She sighed and turned away, looking out the window at the
farmlands below. “I’m sure you’ve never considered this, Novice, but I
wasn’t always an awal at this school. I first taught here as a nadar, then
became a malim. And do you know what I taught?”
She paused again, but he kept his lips clamped firmly shut, holding
back the sarcastic reply of, “Probably how to make fire or invent the wheel”
that wanted to leap from his lips. She gave him a second, no doubt
tempting him to speak before continuing.
“I held Malim Rateso’s position,” she continued. “It was my job to
teach novices like you how to awaken their ithtu and control it. He
instituted his methods when he took the position, and while I originally
spoke against them, I have to admit that they do work.” She grimaced. “At
least, most of the time.”
She turned and looked back at him. “However, when they fail, I step in,
as my methods are quite different. They’re slower, to be sure, but less—
traumatic, shall we say.” She leaned forward. “And that’s why you’re here,
Novice. For the time being, rather than attending the malim’s classes,
which as I understand you’ve been essentially removed from anyway, you’ll
come here, and we’ll work together. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, doing his best to keep a neutral expression even
as twin surges of hope and fear swirled in him. He wasn’t exactly looking
forward to spending that much time with Tekasoka—the woman was one of
the few people in Askula who truly scared him—but he was desperate
enough to try just about anything to get away from Rateso’s class.
 “Good. I understand that Awal Ranakar has spoken to you about
channeling exercises, correct?”
Amarl frowned, trying to remember. “Maybe, ma’am, but I don’t
recall…”
“No matter. Channeling exercises are exactly what they sound like:
methods to help you better channel and control your ithtu. They involve
drawing on your ithtu, holding it, and moving it around your body without
losing too much of it. Most students spend the first half of their second
year learning them to ease the transition into calling on their abilities.”
“So, why didn’t I, ma’am?” he asked with a hint of suspicion in his
voice.
“Because we weren’t sure if they’d be useful for you—or even
possible. I’m still not, in fact.”
“Why wouldn’t they be possible?”
“You know, Novice, that naluni bodies aren’t designed to carry ithtu,
correct?” He nodded, and she continued. “Good. Channeling exercises are
designed to help remedy that. Moving ithtu through the body helps to
reduce a student’s inherent resistance to ithtu flow. It also teaches them to
recognize that flow within themselves and separate it from the background
of their body.”
Amarl frowned again, slightly confused. “What do you mean, ma’am?
I can always feel my ithtu in my body…”
“That’s not the case for most students,” she cut him off again. “I
believe that you hear your ithtu, correct? It’s a song that plays in your
mind. Can you hear it now?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “It’s not very loud, but it’s always there.”
“Most students can’t. Speak to your friends about it sometime; I’m sure
they’ll tell you that they have to concentrate hard just to sense their ithtu,
and moving it around is as hard as pushing boulders uphill. Or to use your
own sensory understanding as a guide, their ithtu is a faint whisper that they
have to concentrate to hear. That’s a large part of an ithtar’s training:
overcoming that natural resistance and joining fully with your ithtu so you
can use it easily, and channeling exercises can help with both of those.”
 She shrugged as she spoke. “That’s how Malim Rateso’s training
works, by the way. Most students struggle to sense their ithtu, much less
call on it. By forcing a response from it, though, we teach them what it
feels like, and they learn to duplicate that feeling to draw on it. Again, in
terms of an aural experience, their ithtu goes from a faint whisper to a roar
in an instant, and that sudden change is something they can use to try and
recreate the sensation. Considering that, can you see why it’s failing for
you?”
Amarl thought quietly for a few seconds before responding. “Because
it isn’t like that for me,” he answered carefully. “I can always hear and feel
my ithtu; it just gets louder and more intense.”
“Precisely,” she said, smacking her hand on the desk before her. “The
malim’s method requires a sudden and drastic increase in sensation from
practically nothing to something highly noticeable. For most students, their
ithtu activating is like a scream in a quiet room. Not only is it impossible to
ignore, it’s easy to find the source of it, especially if the person screams
more than once. For you, it’s like a single loud note playing in the midst of
a symphony, and while you can hear it, you can’t tell who played that note,
no matter how often they do so.”
“And these exercises will help, ma’am?” he asked a bit dubiously.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Typically, the entire point of the exercises is
simply learning to sense and move your ithtu. Obviously, that won’t help
you much, as you can do that more or less at will based on how easily you
quicken your stats and skills, correct?” He nodded, and she continued.
“As I suspected. However, Awal Ranakar and I have been discussing
this, and we believe that an altered form of these exercises could serve you
in the opposite way: they could teach you how to restrain your ithtu and put
limits on it, so that it only responds when you wish it to, and only as much
as you want. Once you learn that, then you can work on tapping it for
power when you desire rather than because your life is at risk.”
“I’m willing to try just about anything, ma’am,” he sighed. “Even if it
doesn’t work, I’m no worse off than I am now, am I? So, what do I do?”
“Close your eyes and relax,” she instructed. “Relax your mind and
relax your thoughts. If you have a Meditation skill, you may even with to
use it and quicken it, as that will make this far easier.”
 Amarl dutifully closed his eyes and let his thoughts sink inward. He
drew a single strand of ithtu from his still-depleted tak into his skull, letting
it spread out into his brain, then another down to his heart, the only two he
needed to quicken Meditation. With that done, he reached out and touched
his ithtu, holding it close and letting its song embrace him as he meditated.
The soft, drowsy melody washed away his anxieties and doubts, melted his
fears and frustrations, and stilled his racing thoughts. He was aware of the
outside world, but only dimly; hearing, smell, and touch faded to distant
sensations he could easily ignore.
“An impressive level of meditation.”
Amarl jumped as a voice spoke not in his ears but directly in his
thoughts as he felt an alien presence appear in his mind. His ithtu suddenly
surged, washing away his peace and tranquility in an instant. His eyes shot
open as he scrambled backward, falling out of his chair and landing on his
ass on the floor.
Tekasoka glared down at him, her expression irritated. “What are you
doing, Novice?” she demanded. “Get up off the floor. We haven’t even
started, yet.”
“You—you were in my head!” he blurted. “How…?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You sensed me?”
“Y-yes, of course! You said I had an impressive level of meditation.”
“Hmm. Interesting. Most students without explicit mental training
cannot, and you never have before when I’ve been in your thoughts.”
“You’ve been in my thoughts?” he demanded, feeling a flash of anger.
“Yes, I have, Novice. When you tussled with Student Dalat. When
Novice Herel attacked you. After your capture by the assilians.” She
paused. “When Student Nihos mysteriously died near your group.”
Amarl’s eyes widened, but she nodded crisply. “Yes, we know of that.
Between my ability and the Rashiv’s, there’s little that happens in this
school that we don’t know. Student’s Andra’s expulsion was discussed, but
instead, we decided to give her a chance to show her commitment to the
school and her fellow students on Isullon. She did so admirably, and we
felt she’d learned the lesson why ithtaru can’t be bought.”
 She stepped around the desk and reached a hand toward him. He took
it, and she pulled him to his feet with surprising strength. “You’ve never
sensed my presence before. Now, it seems, you can—at least while you’re
meditating.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “That could make things
more difficult.”
“Why?” he asked. “And why were you in my head?”
“To guide you. I can’t sense your ithtu that way, but I can see your
sense of it through your thoughts, and I can use that sense to instruct you.
That’s how I always taught students to call on their ithtu, in fact.”
“You mean, you didn’t try to kill them?” he asked unthinkingly.
“No,” she said shortly. “Malim Rateso’s method isn’t one I would have
chosen to use. Its effectiveness is unquestionable, and it’s faster than how I
did it, but the scars it leaves…” She shook her head. “None of that is your
concern, however. The point is that this will all be faster and easier if you
let me see your thoughts. However, if you aren’t comfortable with my
presence, your ithtu will attempt to drive me out, and while I could resist it,
doing so might be harmful to you.”
She took a deep breath. “Which means, Novice, that if you wish this to
happen in a timely fashion—you will have to offer me a small amount of
trust. Trust that I am simply there to observe and guide you and mean you
no harm.”
“What if I don’t?” he asked quietly.
“Then there’s no point in your being here,” she shrugged. “Awal
Ranakar can teach you the channeling exercises. You’ll likely struggle with
them, and it may take moons or longer for you to understand them, but that
simply means that you won’t be moving into your third year with your
friends—unless you wish to subject yourself to the malim’s methods once
more, that is.” She leaned closer to him. “Consider this, though, Novice.
I’ve been in your mind a half-dozen times so far without your knowledge.
Have I done anything to harm you? To control you? If you think of it that
way, perhaps I’ve earned a little trust.”
He hesitated at her words. She had a point. If she’d really been in his
head that many times and picked out his thoughts and memories without
doing anything malicious, then he probably could trust her. Of course, that
was assuming that she hadn’t actually done anything malicious. If she’d
altered his thoughts, would he even know? Or could she have removed the
memories of what he was like before those changes, as well? If she could,
he’d never know what she’d done…
He pushed those thoughts aside. He had a choice to make. He could
trust the woman or refuse her and let Ranakar teach him. If she was right,
that might cost him time, and if he couldn’t figure it out—well, he didn’t
want to think about that. Of course, he could go back and try Rateso’s
methods again, but he had a feeling those wouldn’t be any more successful
a second time, and he might end up actually hurting someone.
“I—I can try,” he finally sighed. “I can’t promise more than that,
though.”
“Then, we’ll see if that’s enough. Return to your meditation. I’ll join
you and guide you through the process.”
He once again closed his eyes and sank into himself, grasping his ithtu,
but this time, the song that washed over him had an ominous undertone to
it, and instead of losing himself in it, he found himself tense and wary,
waiting for the awal to show up. He didn’t have to wait long; a moment
later, he felt her presence hovering close to him. He couldn’t see her,
exactly, but he could feel her, like a blot in the harmony of his ithtu that
didn’t belong. As she appeared, he felt a slight surge of apprehension, and
his ithtu shifted as if readying itself to evict her. He returned his focus to
the song, breathing deeply and trying to relax, and it quickly settled,
although the foreboding notes in its melody didn’t vanish.
“This is somewhat less impressive,” the woman sighed. “However, I
suppose it’s to be understood.” Aloud, she asked, “Are you comfortable,
Novice?”
“Not entirely,” he admitted.
“Honest, at least. It will have to serve.” She sighed aloud. “Very well,
let us begin. Typically, the first thing I teach is how to locate your ithtu and
attempt to join with it, however—that seems quite unnecessary. You’re
clinging to it rather tightly.”
“Should I let go?” he asked.
 “We’ll see. It might be necessary. Typically, the next steps are to pull
your ithtu from your tak, then try to hold it in your body without using it,
but once again, that isn’t necessary. Yours is spilling out all around you as
it is, and you seem to be containing it quite effectively.”
“So, these exercises won’t help, then?” he asked a little bitterly.
“Don’t be dramatic. I never said anything like that. As I told you,
we’re going to have to modify the exercises for you. I’m simply working
out the best way to do it.” She paused. “I can hear your ithtu in your
thoughts, Novice. It sounds like a rather ominous symphony. Does it
always sound like that?”
“No, ma’am. The tone seems to depend on my mood and what’s
happening around me.”
“Not the tone. Does it always sound like such an ensemble? So many
different sounds and tones?”
“I guess, yes,” he shrugged. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
“We might be able to work with that,” she said thoughtfully. “Very
well. Here’s what I want you to do, Novice. Continue your meditation, but
try to focus on a single part of that song. A single instrument in that
orchestra, if you will.”
“I’m not even sure how to do that,” he admitted with a touch of
frustration.
“Which is why I’m here, Novice. I can help you.” She fell silent, and a
single, clear tone rose in his mind, one that almost blended with the song of
his ithtu. “There. Try to find that specific melody in all that.”
Even with the woman’s help, hunting down a single tone in the
cacophony of his ithtu wasn’t easy, and he searched for nearly an hour
before he finally began to hear the single tone she played for him. Once he
did, it took another thirty minutes to focus on that part of the symphony and
ignore the rest. At last, he felt he had it; that one high, clear tone sang out
from the melody of his ithtu, and the rest hummed softly in the
background. He could hear the song of his ithtu clearly, but it no longer
pulsed in his thoughts; only that one melody echoed in his mind.
“Excellent,” the awal finally spoke, almost jarring him free of his
concentration. He’d honestly almost forgotten that she was there; the only
sign of her presence was the song she played for him, and he’d become so
used to it that he forgot it came from her, not his own thoughts. “That
happened far more quickly and easily than I thought.”
Amarl wanted to respond that it didn’t feel quick or easy to him, but he
had a feeling that if his focus wavered for an instant, he’d lose the note he
held. Fortunately, she didn’t wait for his acknowledgment before speaking.
“Now, release that sound, and try to find this one.” A new tone played
in his thoughts, one that felt discordant with the one he held, and he almost
swore as the first song slipped from his mental fingers, and the full
symphony of his ithtu swelled in his mind once more.
“What am I doing, ma’am?” he asked, feeling a touch of mental fatigue
as he did. “What’s the point of this?”
“You’re learning to control your ithtu, Novice,” she replied crisply, the
note she played fading as she did.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple, really. You’re hearing your ithtu as a song, but it
isn’t, really. It’s your mind’s way of understanding it. Each part of your
symphony is a different aspect to your ithtu, and they all play together and
constantly because you lack control over them. Since every ‘instrument’
plays at once, all the time, your ithtu responds completely to any trigger,
without moderation.
“I have an idea that if you can modulate that symphony and only allow
specific instruments to play, you’ll also moderate your ithtu’s response.
With practice, you might be able to change the song, as well, controlling
your ability even more precisely and perhaps pushing it in new directions.
You could even learn to restrict it to a specific note or chord for incredibly
precise effects. If a certain chord empowers your Speed stat, for example,
you could play that note at a specific volume to control how much you’re
empowering your speed, and how much power you’ll draw doing so.”
He paused for a moment, slightly stunned by what she suggested. If she
was right, he could actually learn how to completely control his ability, and
maybe even draw out new aspects of it. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“Of course. My time is far too valuable to waste on something I
consider an inevitable failure. However, it isn’t something that you’ll be
doing in a matter of weeks or moons, Novice. It will be the effort of years
to get to that point. First, though, you must learn how to draw forth and
suppress the different flows of your ithtu so that you can learn which tones
have what effects, and how they all interact.” She snorted in his mind, and
he felt her amusement. “Your ability is a ridiculously complex one, as to be
expected from one with such a high tier, and that means that control of it
will be far more difficult—but it will also yield far greater results.”
The tone she’d played before speaking returned to his thoughts. “Now,
find this melody. Let’s see if having done it once makes it easier a second
time.”
The rest of the morning sped by. It took him somewhat less than an
hour to find the second tone, at which point she had him go back and locate
the first again. That took only about thirty minutes, but after that, finding a
third once again took nearly an hour. Once he’d done so, she had him
switching back and forth between those three melodies, and each time he
searched for it, it got easier. At last, she told him to stop, and he opened his
eyes, blinking rapidly as they adjusted to the light in the room.
“A fine first attempt,” she told him, shifting in her chair. “At least there
was some progress. How do you feel Novice?”
“I feel fine, ma’am,” he replied with a quick inward check of himself.
“Tired, though.”
“Good. Fatigue implies effort, and I would have been disappointed had
you not given me your best effort. Next time, though, I expect an even
greater one, now that you understand that I’m simply trying to help you,
and you’re in no danger from me.”
He grimaced a bit sheepishly. “I understand, ma’am.”
“Excellent.” She hesitated slightly before speaking again. “As I’m
certain you’re aware, today is the end of your first quarter of second year,
which means that your standings are being posted.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded. “Well, Meder remembered it, and she told
us.”
“Yes, I assumed today would be important to her.” She reached into her
desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Those standings will be posted in the
main hall in Sabila later today, but I do happen to have a copy here. Would
you like to see them?”
Amarl fought back a sudden twinge of nerves as he looked at the paper.
Intellectually, he knew he shouldn’t be worried. With the fifteen points
from the hunt, his wins at Halit, and the decent scores he thought he should
be getting at least from Nirecina, Tonokita in crafting, and Ranakar, he
should have plenty of points. However, Burik was right; not every teacher
liked Amarl, and he was failing Rateso’s class. If the malims really could
give out negative points, he assumed he’d get some there, and maybe some
from Noriseta, his goldsmithing instructor.
“Yes, ma’am,” he finally said, his mouth a little dry. She slid the paper
over to him, her face expressionless, and he picked it up, flipping it over
and reading the words on it twice before they really sank in.
Quarterly Points Report
Sitja Hali Tota
Student Academics Hunting k t l
Amarl 37 15 3 10 65
Burik 33 15 6 14 68
Hadur 27 10 0 5 42
Herel 33 5 1 9 48
Meder 42 15 0 7 64
Norag 30 5 0 6 41
“Wait—Burik got the highest score from our class?” he asked in
surprise.
“He did, and you should have expected that. Askula trains warriors,
first and foremost, and your friend is a talented fighter.”
“Meder will hate that,” he chuckled.
“Then she should work harder on her fighting skills to catch up,” the
awal said evenly. “However, I’m sure that you’ve noticed that each of the
three of you scored over sixty points this single quarter. That pushed your
group to a new record for any class in recent memory. Well done.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he smiled.
 “However, that success also means that you aren’t being challenged
appropriately. Your friends will find this out this afternoon, but beginning
this week, they will also begin receiving private training from Awal
Ranakar.”
Amarl nearly dropped the paper in his hand as his eyes shot up to the
old woman. “They—they will?” he stammered. “I thought that I…” He
fell silent as he realized that he was about to say something that couldn’t
help but coming out as arrogant. Sadly, he’d said enough for the awal to
realize what he’d meant.
“That you were special? Unique? Well, you are, Novice, but you aren’t
the only one. Many others here in Askula are just as special, and as it turns
out, your friends are two of them. Not only is Novice Burik an extremely
talented fighter, but his ability experienced a drastic evolution that shouldn’t
have been possible.”
“What do you mean, ma’am?” he asked curiously.
“Abilities evolve, Novice, but typically, that evolution is slow and is a
refinement of the base ability. Someone with a body-strengthening ability
like your friend’s will usually evolve to improve an aspect of it, gaining
greater strength or durability depending on how it’s used and how they
fight. Someone who fights defensively will improve durability, and an
offensive fighter improves strength. That’s the usual way abilities evolve:
they specialize. You understand?”
Amarl nodded; he recalled Ranakar saying something similar to him.
“Well, Novice Burik’s ability changed completely,” she said with a
shake of her head. “It didn’t simply make him stronger, faster, or tougher; it
gained an entirely new aspect of it: command. That means that the novice
awakened a latent part of his own personality, something strong enough to
be incorporated into his ability but that lay dormant his whole life. No
doubt, it has something to do with the training he received from his mother,
but whatever the reason, at that moment, he went from being just another
excellent soldier to someone who could potentially command entire armies
with unparalleled skill. That sort of potential needs extra challenges to
bring it out.
“Similarly, Novice Meder’s scores in Academics are absurdly high, and
all her instructors say that they’re finding it difficult to challenge her,
especially in sahr. She’s collapsed workings in a shielded sparring ring and
an assilian hive, where sahr shouldn’t function at all, and Student Amrir
reported that she was using fifth-year matrices without difficulty.” The
woman shook her head. “Someone with that level of intelligence and talent
is far too valuable to allow them to atrophy.
“So, they’ll receive special training, as well.” Her smile turned faintly
triumphant as she spoke. “You might also have realized that at the rate
you’re progressing, all three of you will exceed the number of points
needed to graduate by the end of the third quarter.” She gave him a thin,
slightly cold smile. “Meaning that we will certainly be adjusting that
threshold for the three of you to at least 250 points to graduate this year.”
He sighed and let his shoulders slumped. “We expected that, ma’am.”
“Good. Then you’ve learned one of the most basic lessons of being an
ithtar: the reward for success is greater challenges.” She waved a hand at
him. “You may keep that and share it with your friends. Now, I believe
that you have a rest day ahead of you, and after what we just did, I’m sure
you need it. Go, and I’ll see you again tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, turning and walking out of her tower. His
mind felt tired, but oddly, his thoughts felt strangely light and clear. He
certainly felt better than he ever had after Rateso’s classes, and he actually
found himself looking forward to working with the awal again the next
day.
He glanced down at the paper in his hand and hurried his steps. He
couldn’t wait to show it to the others. Burik would be excited, but Meder—
he couldn’t wait to see her face when he told her.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 31
“Wait, what?!” Amarl couldn’t help but laugh as Meder’s stunned
screech drew the eyes of every student and villager nearby. Her eyes were
wide, her face was pale, and her mouth hung open in amazement. She
stopped walking, her entire body frozen in place, and he guessed that at that
moment, a gentle nudge to her chest would topple her like a dead tree.
“Which thing’s got you freaked out?” he asked with a chuckle, also
stopping. “Me being right about them changing the point goals, Burik
beating us all in points, or your new lessons?”
“I don’t give a fuck about the points,” she snapped. “The whole points
system is rigged to favor strong fighters, which is why you and Burik both
did better than me. I knew that would be the case the entire time. And I
knew you were right the moment you guessed about graduation this
morning. The school’s not about to let us earn the points to graduate and
then just coast. Lessons with Ranakar, though…” She stalked over to the
hizeen, her eyes narrowing. “Did you do this, Amarl?”
“Not me,” he shook his head, holding up his hands defensively. “I
didn’t even suggest it. The awal came up with it all on her own—or maybe
the Rashiv. You can go yell at him if you’d like.”
She seemed to deflate, her shoulders slumping. “This is going to be
awful,” she moaned.
“That’s not what you said when it happened to me,” he accused. “You
said it would be good for me!”
“And it is good for you. I’m not you, though, thank the spirits. I’m
doing fine as it is.”
“You should be excited, Meder,” Burik said encouragingly.
“Excited?” She whipped around to stare at the larger boy. “You’ve
seen how Amarl comes away from those sessions! Bloody, battered,
limping, sometimes with healing wounds and broken bones! I should be
excited about that?”
“Absolutely. Did you hear Amarl say that Herel got a point from
Sitjak? That means he placed tenth overall, and you got nothing. You can’t
let him be better than you!”
She hesitated, then made a face. “He has gotten better than me,” she
admitted. “Still…”
“You know, Ranakar will probably work with you one-on-one on your
sahr,” Amarl added. “And your academics. Tekasoka implied that that’s
the whole reason for your training, in fact. He’s really good at it, and I’ll
bet he’ll teach you things and let you try stuff that the malims wouldn’t.”
“Oh, that’s true!” Her eyes lit up. “Maybe he’ll let me start working on
interlocked matrices and sahr triggers!”
Burik laughed. “And now, she’s excited.”
“Of course, there’s also the stabbings and broken bones,” Amarl said
airily. “Can’t forget those.”
She grimaced, then shrugged. “If I get to learn fourth and fifth-year
sahr techniques, it’s worth it.” Her eyes shone with new excitement, and
Amarl couldn’t help but laugh at the girl’s priorities as the three resumed
their walk into the village.
Summer in Askula wound down, and autumn moved steadily in. The
trees were starting to change colors, and the grass grew golden all around
them. The first harvests had come in, and the village smelled of fresh
spices, fragrant fruits, and warm bread. A few dried leaves crunched under
the students’ feet as they walked beneath a canopy of oranges, reds, and
yellows that blended into the pink sky overhead.
“I love this,” Meder sighed as she looked around at the village.
“What?” Amarl asked.
“The colors. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is when the trees start to
change. It’s amazing.”
“It’s pretty enough, I suppose,” Burik said with a shrug. “It looks like
every other autumn to me, though.”
“Well, not to me. I grew up in Dairon, remember?”
Amarl frowned as he recalled the map of the Empire they’d all had to
memorize the previous year. “Wait, isn’t there a massive forest near
Dairon?”
 “The Honeyed Forest, yes. It’s mostly full of honey pines, though.”
“You can get honey from trees?” Amarl asked with a laugh. “And here
I’ve been getting stung stealing it from beehives all these years!”
“You don’t know about honey pines?” the girl asked, her voice
surprised. When both boys shook their heads, she looked utterly stunned.
“That’s—I thought they were famous! They’re the main thing that Dairon’s
known for!”
“I didn’t even know where Dairon was until I saw it on a map last
year,” Amarl shrugged. “All I knew about it was that it was supposed to be
really wealthy and filled with snobby people.” She gave him a dark look
that he met with a flippant grin.
“I just never bothered to learn anything about it,” Burik added. “Too
busy with my mother’s training to care about pine trees.”
“That makes sense,” she sighed. “Well, the Honeyed Forest is,
appropriately enough, filled with honey pines. They’re called that because
their sap can be boiled down to make a very sweet syrup, and the tips of
their needles turn golden when the tree’s old enough, about a hundred years
or so. That means that the whole forest looks like it’s speckled in gold
dust.”
“That seems a lot more exciting than this,” Amarl observed, pointing at
the fall foliage overhead. “You can see this anywhere.”
“Not in Dairon. The forest is a big attraction; a lot of nobles and rich
merchants maintain estates in the province just so they can visit the forest.
Because of that, they don’t allow anything but honey pines to grow there, so
it doesn’t change colors at all. It’s just green with little gold specks all over
it. At best, you get more cones on the ground in the fall—and pollen in the
spring.” She shuddered. “Lots and lots of pollen.”
“What’s wrong with pollen?” Amarl asked.
“Pollen in Dairon is like—it’s like what I imagine a dust storm would
be like down in the Pashkit Desert. Come spring, a yellowish haze fills the
sky during the day, and that haze covers everything outside. Windows get
coated in it, so you can’t see outside; if you leave anything out, it’ll be
covered in it. And it’s in the air so thickly that you can practically taste it.
It gets in your eyes and makes them red and watery, your nose runs
constantly, and if you don’t cover your face, it makes you sneeze
uncontrollably. It’s like having a cold that lasts for a moon, and for some
people, it’s so bad that they can barely breathe.” She shuddered again. “I
don’t miss the pollen.”
“Well, if I ever visit it, I’ll make sure to go in the summer, then,” Amarl
said. “Knowing my luck, it’s probably deadly to hizeens or something.”
“You probably don’t want to go to Tannshin in the spring, either,” Burik
suggested. “We don’t have pollen like that, but in the spring and summer,
we get swarms of tiny black insects instead. They come up from the bogs,
and you can’t go anywhere without them getting all over you. Like she
said, they get in your eyes and up your nose, and if you’re riding a horse or
a wagon, you have to keep your mouth shut or you’ll end up eating some.”
“That sounds awful,” Meder shuddered. “Why doesn’t anyone do
anything about them?”
“There’s not much to be done,” the boy shrugged. “They come from
the bogs, so to get rid of them, you’d have to drain the bogs, which isn’t
possible.”
“Why not?” she asked curiously. “The Kalek River drains everything,
doesn’t it? You should just be able to run canals to the river to make the
water drain faster.”
“Nope,” he shook his head. “It would work the other way. The Kalek
is actually up higher than central Tannshin since it runs through the foothills
of the Goldspurs. It drains the melt coming down from those mountains
and not really anything else. If you cut a channel from the river to the bogs,
it would flood the bogs, not drain them. Same thing if you dug a canal out
to the sea; central Tennshin’s below sea level, so you’d just turn the bogs
into salt marshes. You’d have to actually fill the bogs in enough to force the
water to run outward, and that’s pretty much impossible.”
He let out a chuckle. “Of course, just because it can’t be done doesn’t
mean people don’t try. Every year, someone in the zahai caste with more
money than sense tries it. After enough of their workers die, they usually
give up.”
“Die?” the girl asked, her face startled. “How do they die?”
 “All kinds of ways. They drown when what looks like solid ground
turns out to be grass growing on the water directly. The digging releases
swamp gas that suffocates them or explodes if there are open flames
nearby. They get buried when their channel collapses since the ground
there’s just mud and rotting vegetation.”
He shook his head. “Despite all that, every year, some young noble
decides that they’ve got a better idea than anyone else has had before, and
they give it a try—and fail. Of course, the real problem is that the peat
from the bogs is one of the province’s main sources of income. If you did
manage to drain them, you’d cripple the economy. As my mother says, a
fool will win a battle that loses the war.”
“I like that one,” Meder nodded thoughtfully.
“Me, too.” He looked at Amarl. “What about your village? What was
it like in the spring?”
“Busy,” Amarl shrugged. “Every village everywhere is, I think. You’ve
got fields to prepare and plant, wells to restore after a winter freeze,
orchards to uncover, herds to move to pasture, and so on. I liked the spring;
there was always more work to do than people to do it, so there were plenty
of ways for me to make money. Same for the autumn, when it was time to
bring in the harvests, lay the fields out for winter, trim back the orchards,
and so on. I always slept inside and ate daily in the spring and fall; summer
was a little harder to make money, but winter was the worst.”
“Did you at least have trees that changed colors like this?” Meder
asked.
“Oh, yeah. The whole mountainside did, and so did all the mountains
around. By mid-autumn, the slopes were all red and orange and yellow, and
it kind of looked like they were on fire. I used to stare at it for hours when I
was little, but by the time I was in my eighth year or so, I came to hate it.”
“Why? That sounds amazing!”
“Yeah, but it also meant the end of the warm season when I could sleep
outdoors to save money and the harvest season when food was cheap.
When the mountains were orange, I knew that within a moon, the
temperatures would start dropping. Within two, there’d be snow on the
ground and food would start becoming expensive.” He gestured at the
trees. “These colors were like a warning sign that winter was coming, and I
never really knew if I’d live through the next one.”
“Would your village really have let you die?” she asked quietly. “I
mean, I know you weren’t popular…”
“Let me put it this way,” he cut her off. “In my twelfth year, I took a
bad fall while picking apples in Bandora’s orchard. I broke my ankle, and
that meant I couldn’t really work for two moons while it healed. That left
me pretty much broke when the snows came, so I snuck into the village’s
guest house to sleep at night—a fancy sort of house that we keep for
visiting merchants or bureaucrats so they don’t have to pay to stay in a
travel house. It’s empty most of the time except during harvest season or
when the tax collectors came around, so it gave me a warm place and an
actual bed to sleep in. I did that a lot during the winters, but that year, I got
caught.”
He chuckled darkly as he recalled that night. “Apparently, Axanor—the
Head Bureaucrat—was using it that year, as well, to meet with one of the
married women behind her husband’s back. I slipped in through the
window to find them both butt-naked, with Axanor tied to the bed and
Tessera straddling him, holding a riding crop.”
“What?” Meder gasped, her face turning pink. “The Head Bureaucrat
was doing that?”
“Sounds kinky,” Burik laughed.
“Oh, yeah. I guess he had some unusual preferences—or she did. I
didn’t exactly ask about it. He looked pretty excited to be there, though,
judging from the way his little staff was sticking up.
“The point—other than the one Axanor had, obviously—is that he lost
his mind and banished me from the village for a season in return for
breaking into the house. That meant I would have to spend the entire winter
out of the village, fending for myself.” Amarl’s face turned stony as he
spoke, and his voice flattened as he recalled that day.
“He made the announcement in front of the whole village the next
morning. Said that he caught me sneaking in during a routine inspection of
the place, and that if I couldn’t be trusted to respect the village’s property,
maybe a winter without its hospitality would change my mind.” He looked
at Meder, whose eyes were wide and startled. “Guess how many people
objected to the punishment? Zero. Not a single person in the village
complained that sending me out to freeze to death just for breaking into a
house that no one owned was cruel. Nobody suggested shortening my exile
to a moon, so that I’d be back in the village before the deep snows hit.”
“That—that’s awful, Amarl,” Meder said softly.
He shrugged again. “That was the first time that I really understood
that nobody in the village cared whether I lived or died, and that they’d
probably be happier if I died. It was also when I made up my mind to leave
Tem the day after my fifteenth Naming Day.”
The trio walked in silence for a few moments before Burik cleared his
throat. “So, what did you do?”
“What?” Amarl asked, startled out of his dark inner thoughts. The
anger he felt recalling that story surprised him. That moment had been
something of a revelation to him. Before that, he knew that the village saw
him as a pest of sorts, but he thought they saw him the way they would a
stray dog: mostly harmless, often annoying, and yet still an endearing part
of the village. He hadn’t spoken up when Axanor sentenced him because he
didn’t think he’d need to. He felt sure that someone would point out the
obvious: Axanor’s judgment was a death sentence, and no one would let a
child freeze to death over something so small.
He’d been wrong, and he’d spent that whole winter nursing thoughts of
anger, hurt, and vengeance. It cankered inside him, turning into a tiny bit of
hate for the village that cast him out. He thought that he’d put that behind
him and outgrown the hatred, but when he remembered that winter, it all
came rushing back.
“That winter. You obviously didn’t die, so what did you do?”
“I spent the winter in an abandoned spur in the mine. It’s chilly
underground, but nowhere nearly as cold as being aboveground would have
been. I snuck into the village at night and stole food, blankets, oil for my
lamp, firewood, and warmer clothing. Sometimes, I stole money, then
caught merchants on their way out of the village and traded with them for
things I needed.”
 He grinned. “You should have seen old Axanor’s face when I marched
back into town after my exile was up, wearing a bunch of things I’d clearly
stolen from the village. His face was beet-red, and he looked like he was
about to explode. I think he really hoped I’d freeze to death, so when I
survived, it pissed him off.”
“You came back wearing what you’d stolen?” Meder gasped. “Didn’t
he punish you for that, too?”
“He wanted to exile me again, for longer this time, but I told him if he
did, I’d tell everyone what I’d seen—in graphic detail, including
descriptions of size.” He extended his pinky and wiggled it around.
“Apparently, being Head Bureaucrat doesn’t have a minimum size
requirement.”
“Ha!” Burik snorted, while Meder burst out with relieved laughter as
the tension around them faded.
“Was it really that small?” she asked archly.
“Yep. And while not everyone would believe me if I told, enough
would that he’d be a laughingstock for a while. I guess the thought of being
called something like ‘Small-head Bureaucrat’ or ‘Tiny’ by half the village
was enough to make him forget about trying to punish me again. At least, it
was once I told him I’d make sure to suggest those names to people. After
that, he sort of looked the other way when I snuck into the guest house, and
I looked the other way when I caught him there with various women from
the village.”
“Various? He didn’t stick with that one?”
“I think it was more that she didn’t stick with him. A season later, she
was with someone else, and a season after that, I caught him and another
married woman together.”
“He must have been pretty charming if he could seduce them, all things
considered.”
“I don’t know about charming. From what I overheard, they went with
him thinking that he’d be able to give them some sort of special treatment—
reduced taxes, first access to merchants, that sort of thing. I don’t know if
they got it or not, though.”
 “Probably not,” the girl shook her head. “The Head Bureaucrat of a
small place like that doesn’t really have much power or authority. He
would have had to report to people in the nearby towns and cities, and I’m
sure they’d have gone over his reports carefully, looking for discrepancies.
If they caught him, he’d have been executed. I can’t imagine that someone
would risk death just for a tumble.”
“I can,” Burik laughed. “Hells, Amarl’s done it a couple of times!”
“Yes, but that’s because he’s an idiot,” Meder grinned at the hizeen.
“All I’ll say is, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Amarl grinned back
at the girl, receiving an eye roll in return.
Askula Village was a lot less crowded in the afternoons compared to the
mornings. At least, the main part of the village and fair were. Most of the
students who were going to shop already had, leaving only the second years
who spent the morning working to browse the stalls. Most of the students
had either settled themselves in places like Galiber’s bakery, Sasofit’s
alehouse, or Melefer’s eatery, or they’d left the village to head to Halit or
one of the training centers. That made it easier to shop, which Amarl hoped
meant they’d be done faster.
“I need to pick up more alchemy supplies, and some more thread for
my sewing kit,” Meder said as they passed under an archway decorated
with vines whose leaves were shifting colors. “Fixing everything we
damaged in Apirron used up a lot of thread.”
“I think we all need more thread,” Amarl agreed. “The holes in my
jacket have holes of their own at this point.”
“How can a hole have a hole?” Burik asked.
“It’s very complicated, but trust me, it’s true. And it takes a lot of
thread to fix.”
The three friends moved easily through the dwindling crowds, stopping
at various stands along the way. They’d all eaten a bit at Galiber’s, of
course, but they stopped at some of the food stands to sample what was
being offered, from candies made of wild honey to fresh fruits that were
something of a luxury. The school always provided fruit for the students
with meals, of course, but most of the year, those were dried rather than
fresh, and Amarl relished the taste of an apple picked that morning from the
tree, rather than the rather shriveled winter apples he normally ate. In fact,
he might have relished it a bit too much, he realized as he wiped juice from
his chin and licked off his sticky fingers.
“Amarl, how are you sixteen and still don’t know how to eat?” Meder
sighed, looking at him helplessly.
“I know just fine. I choose to ignore it. Besides, I was too busy
enjoying myself to care.”
“You know, Amarl,” Burik grinned, “for someone who’s supposedly so
good with his mouth, you did get an awful lot of juice on your chin.”
“If your face isn’t soaked after, it wasn’t a good time, Burik. Keep that
in mind.”
“And on that note, I’m going to go look for some alchemy reagents, and
buy some thread,” Meder said, her cheeks faintly pink. “Do you want me to
get some for the both of you, as well?”
“I’ll come with you,” Amarl offered. “I’m not really interested in
buying anything other than food—and apparently, there’s something wrong
with the way I eat.”
“Yes, there is,” she said, smacking his arm lightly with the back of her
hand. “You’re supposed to be eating the food, not wearing it.”
“Says you.”
“I think everyone over the age of five agrees with me,” she said
sardonically.
Amarl followed the girl to a table displaying a number of what looked
like variously colored crystalline powders. As the girl began to peruse the
powders, Amarl pulled up a pair of ithtu threads, connecting one to his face
and the other to his brain. To him, the fair was a chance to grow his social
skills more than anything, and that meant finding young, female apprentices
to practice Seduction on. He began looking around, then pulled up short
when the merchant, an older woman with hair starting to gray and faint
lines in her face, suddenly spoke.
“I don’t have a female assistant, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Amarl jerked his head over to see the woman staring at him, her arms
crossed over her chest, gazing at him with a slightly cold expression.
 “What?” he asked in confusion.
“My apprentices are all male. No female ones for you to play with,
sorry. And I’m too old, tired, and married to be bothered with that
nonsense.”
“I’m just here to help my friend,” he said, gesturing at Meder, who gave
him a slightly wary expression and took a step away from him.
“Yes, we’ve all seen how you help. While your friends shop, you
canoodle with every pretty apprentice and assistant you can.” The woman
shook her head. “Foolishness, but then, young people are always idiots. I
was once, too.”
Amarl blinked in surprise as he realized that his seduction practice
hadn’t gone unnoticed. Thinking about it, he supposed he should have
realized that it wouldn’t. He was the only non-naluni in all of Askula, so
people would watch and mark everything he did.
“Actually, it’s something I have to do as part of my training,” he said
with a shrug. “With the school.”
“Bullshit,” she snorted. “You’re a horny young man looking for a lay.”
Meder snorted with laughter, and he gave her a sideways glare that she
ignored.
“No, seriously, it’s skill training,” he said.
“Well, whatever it is, you need to be careful. Every girl you meet has a
mother in this village, and if you break someone’s heart, people will stop
wanting to sell to you or worse. So far, it’s been only talking, and that’s
fine, but you need to keep it that way—and keep your pants up—or you’ll
run into problems.” She cleared her throat. “Enough of the lecture. What
are you looking for, girl?”
Amarl watched as Meder and the older woman discussed the powders
displayed on the table which, it turned out, were various chemicals the older
woman collected, distilled, and reduced to powder for alchemy. He listened
closely, fascinated to discover that most of the chemicals had come from
various ordinary items, from tree sap to well water. Some had even come
from the droppings accumulated in the stables, or from collecting bat guano
in the nearby mountains. Amarl expected the girl to express revulsion or
disdain for those, but Meder seemed to have no problem handling the
various powders, examining them carefully and even waving a hand over
them to waft the scent toward her.
At last, the girl selected several powders, and the old woman nodded.
“All together, that’ll cost you an akat.” Meder reached for her purse, but
Amarl realized that while he might not be able to practice his Seduction
skill as much as he had—or at least, not as openly—there was another
opportunity that he’d been missing to practice a valuable skill.
“That’s a little expensive, Meder,” he said, making his voice sound as
regretful as possible. “Our stipend isn’t that big, after all, and we’ve got
other things to buy today. Maybe we should go get the things we really
need, then come back here to see what we can afford.”
She gave him a slightly startled look that quickly turned calculating,
then nodded. “That’s a good idea. You’re right; we have things that we
really need, and this is just something I want.”
“I’ll be packing up soon,” the old woman said gruffly. “I might not be
here when you get back.”
“That’s fine,” Amarl shrugged. “I mean, I’m sure you’ll still have all
this next Akio since we’re probably going to be the last people to buy from
you today, and I can’t imagine you sell a lot of this stuff during the week.”
He turned away, taking Meder’s arm.
“Hold on, now,” the old woman said, stopping them short. “What were
you looking to spend, then?”
“We could probably afford six akas,” Amarl shrugged.
“That’s half what I’m asking!” the woman snapped. “I couldn’t
possibly sell it for that!”
“That’s fine. Maybe Meder should just go visit the stables and the
mountains herself this week.” He looked at her, his face deliberately
ingenuous. “Learning to prepare all this stuff yourself is part of your skill
training, right?”
“It is,” she nodded.
“I thought so. Doing that might be better for everyone, then.” He
turned away again, but once more, the woman stopped him.
 “Wait a moment.” She paused, biting her lip. “I could do ten akas for
all this.”
“We could probably afford seven. After all, really what we’re paying
for is the convenience of having you do the work, so Meder has more time
for her other studies.” Amarl stepped closer and leaned over the table,
giving the woman his most charming smile. “And you’re getting rid of old
powders so that you make room for fresh ones, which I’m sure you can
charge the older students more for next Akio since they’ve got more money
than we do.”
“Nine,” she grunted.
“Eight,” he countered.
“Nine’s the lowest I’ll go,” she shook her head.
“How about this?” Amarl said thoughtfully. “We’ll pay eight…” The
woman’s eyes hardened, but he plowed on. “…but we also promise that
Meder will buy all her powders from you, every Akio, as long as your price
is fair. She’s a second-year and has the highest academic score any second-
year’s had for years, so you know she’ll be around for years. She gets a
nice discount, and you get a guaranteed customer for the next three years or
so.” The old woman hesitated, and he leaned a little closer, resting his hand
on hers and speaking in a low, confidential tone. “Plus, I think you can
count on Meder being the best alchemy student in all of Askula in a year or
two. If the best student is buying from you and making top-quality elixirs,
everyone will want to buy from you, hoping for the same result.”
The woman glanced at the girl. “That true, girl? How many points in
academics did you get?”
“Forty-two,” Meder said modestly.
“Really? Damn, that is high.” She tapped her chin for a few seconds,
then snorted out a laugh. “Why not? Girl, you promise to see me first for
your alchemy needs each week—and to tell people who you buy from—and
I’ll give you a third off your purchases. Deal?”
“Absolutely,” Meder said quickly, extending her hand and letting the
woman grasp it. “I’m happy to help people who are helping me in return.”
“Glad to hear it. Let me pack these up for you.” The old woman
poured the powders into small linen pouches, making sure not to mix them,
labeled each quickly, then placed them all in a larger burlap sack that she
handed to Meder, who slid eight small coins back to the woman.
“Thank you,” the girl smiled.
“Happy to do business with you.” The woman hesitated. “And girl, a
bit of advice?” She pointed at Amarl. “Keep him with you and let him do
all the haggling. Boy, your Presence is ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“It’s fairly high, yeah,” he admitted.
“Thought so, and you’ve got the skills to back it up, don’t you?” He
nodded. “Then you weren’t trying to cloud my eyes when you said that
flirting was skill training, were you?”
“No. I really do have to practice it for the school.” He grinned. “Of
course, it’s also fun, too.”
She barked another short laugh. “I can imagine. I’ll make sure the
other masters know that you’re doing it at the school’s behest—and not to
let the girls know about it. There’s been some grumbling, but if they know
that it’s your training, they’ll let you be, long as you don’t start slipping into
haylofts with the girls, that is. You won’t, will you?”
He shrugged helplessly. “I do what the malims tell me to do. If they
tell me to actually seduce someone…”
She gave him a wicked grin in return. “If they do, boy, you make sure
to come see me, first. Maybe I’m not too old, tired, and married to be bent
over my counter like a young lass after all.”
“I’ll be sure to,” he said archly, then lifted the woman’s hand and kissed
it gently. “A pleasure meeting you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine. Now go on, you two. Finish your shopping.”
As they walked away, Meder gave the boy a curious look. “What was
all that about?”
“My Persuasion skill,” he said with a smile. “I never thought about it,
but I think I can train it by helping you haggle—and it’s less likely to piss
off someone’s mother.”
“That’s a surprising amount of foresight coming from you,” she
laughed, shaking her head. “I can’t believe she just propositioned you like
that, though.”
 Amarl preened a bit, lifting his chin in what he felt was a fair imitation
of Herel. “And why wouldn’t she? I’m charming, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I haven’t. I’ve been too busy finding you annoying.” She flashed him
a grin. “Thanks for saving me money, though. Although it would just have
cost an akat.”
“Just an akat?” he laughed. “I’ll have you know that in Tem, I’d have
had to save up without spending anything for more than two moons to earn
an akat!”
“Yes, but you’re not in Tem anymore, are you? Here, you get two akats
a week, so one’s not that big of a deal.”
“Until you really need one, and then it is. Besides, you have other
things you want to buy, and blowing half of your stipend at one merchant
each week doesn’t seem like a great idea. The less you have to spend, the
more you can buy.”
“Yes, I understand how money works,” she snorted. “And the utility of
buying as cheaply as possible. I was being raised to head a trading
consortium, remember?”
“Then you should know that every ak matters.” He put his arm around
her shoulders. “Come on. Let’s see if I can save you more money at your
next stop.”
The pair moved through the fair, Meder stopping often to look and
occasionally buy. Each time, Amarl did the haggling for her, and while he
wasn’t always as successful as he had been with the powders, he managed
to talk the price down by at least a little bit each time. He didn’t save the
girl a fortune or anything, but she spent significantly less than she would
have normally, and he felt fairly proud of himself as the two rejoined Burik
and made their way to Sasofit’s for a drink.
“Meder, you look unhappy,” Burik noted as the three walked out of the
fair. “Did something go wrong?”
“No, not at all,” the girl said grouchily. “In fact, everything went fine.
Extremely well, in fact.”
“Then why do you look like you just ate some bad meat?”
“I saved her a bunch of money on her purchases,” Amarl explained.
 “And—that’s got you upset?” Burik asked in clear confusion. “I don’t
get it.”
“I’m not upset that he saved me money, Burik,” Meder sighed. “I’m
pissed that he just started doing it today.” She glared at the hizeen. “You
know how much I could have saved over the past year if you’d been doing
that all along?”
“How much did you save her, Amarl?”
“Maybe an akat in total,” he shrugged. “It won’t be like that every
week, though. I caught people off-guard today. They’ll be more prepared
to bargain next week.”
“Still, even if you doing the haggling saved us an aka or two a week,
that would be two weeks’ stipend we wouldn’t have spent this past year.”
She shook her head. “And three of the merchants propositioned him,
Burik. Three! All married women, probably past their fortieth Naming
Day! One suggested that he ‘sample her wares privately’ right then and
there!”
“Nice,” Burik grinned, smacking Amarl on the shoulder. “Are you
planning to do anything about that?”
“No. Sleeping with married women when you don’t know anything
about their husbands is a bad idea.”
“I would think it would be a bad idea no matter their husbands,” Meder
said drily.
“Not really. Not every marriage is a happy one or even a physical one,
Meder. If the marriage was arranged or done for political or financial
reasons, the woman and man might barely spend any time together, or they
might just be friends and nothing more. In cases like that, both people
usually find others to satisfy their needs, and they don’t much care.” He
shrugged again. “Sometimes, though, only one person’s looking for
someone else, and the other’s not. That’s when you have to be careful.”
“Like with Nolla,” Burik noted.
“Yeah, just like that. Which is why I was stupid not to learn more about
her first.” He flashed Meder a grin. “I may do dumb things sometimes,
Meder, but I really do try to avoid doing them twice.”
 “So, you can learn,” she chuckled. “No matter what they say about
you.”
“Exactly. It’s not like I’m Burik or something.”
“Hey!” the larger boy protested.
“No, you’re not, thank all the gods above.”
“I’m literally right here,” Burik exclaimed.
“Yes, you are,” she nodded, patting him reassuringly on the arm.
“That’s what the concept of ‘here’ means. I’m glad you finally worked that
out, Burik.”
“Ouch,” Amarl laughed. “Blood to Meder, there!”
“With friends like these, I should go find some enemies for company,”
the boy groused.
“Oh, don’t worry, Burik. It’s true that I’m glad that Amarl’s not you,
but I’m also glad that you’re not him. I might be able to deal with two
Buriks, but two Amarls?” She shuddered. “The whole world would shake
in fear at the thought of that!”
“And more blood to Meder,” Amarl laughed. “Although you’re
probably right. And sadly, the school and the Empire would both probably
love a hundred more Meders.” He gave the girl a sly grin. “And if there
were a hundred of you, I could pick one to be my friend and seduce the
other ninety-nine, so that would be a win for everyone.”
“And then you’d wake up from your dream and realize that a hundred
of me all turned you down,” she said airily. “You’d probably never recover
from the blow.”

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 Chapter 32
The three made their way into Sasofit’s, squeezing in and managing to
find a table at the edge of the room. The two boys each ordered a beer,
while Meder had her usual red wine. As they sat, sipping their drinks,
Amarl’s eyes scanned the room. He fastened on a group of young, nervous-
looking people huddled at a table in the middle, looking around in awe and
fear, and inclined his head.
“New group in. There’s a Joining tonight.”
Meder glanced back at the students and shuddered, looking quickly
back at the table. “It’s not a Naming Day Joining, so at least we don’t have
to be there.”
“What do you think they’re thinking right now?” Burik asked, gazing at
the newcomers.
Amarl glanced them over, taking in their body language, their
expressions, and their subtle movements. “They’re all scared,” he finally
said in a low voice.
“We all were, Amarl,” Meder said quietly. “That’s not much of an
insight.”
“Yeah, but not all the same amount, and not for the same reasons. I
knew something terrible was going to happen, and I was afraid of what it
was—and of dying. I was really afraid of dying. I was so scared I didn’t
even realize that the whole school was watching.”
“I was scared that I’d fail somehow,” Burik admitted. “I’d have to go
back to my mother in disgrace.”
“I was afraid that I wouldn’t fail,” Meder said in a small voice. “That
I’d be accepted and never see any of my family again.”
Amarl nodded. “See? Different fears for different people. I’m pretty
sure Herel was like you, Burik. He was afraid that he wouldn’t be good
enough, but he was more worried that others would be—especially me.”
“What about the other girl with the two of you?” Meder asked. “What
was her name?”
 “Betha?” Amarl asked in surprise. He hadn’t thought of the pretty,
brown-haired weaver’s daughter in a long time, and part of him suddenly
felt a bit guilty for that. “She was more like you, Meder, afraid of losing
her old life. I think that’s why she failed, in fact. She was too afraid to let
it go.”
They drank silently for a few moments before Burik cleared his throat.
“So, did the Rashiv have anything to say about the hunt?”
“Of course. He congratulated me on my fine performance and assured
me that I wouldn’t have to go on another hunt anytime soon—and that I’d
be made a full ithtar at the end of the year.”
“Was this the same dream with a hundred of me in it?” Meder asked
archly. “Did he tell you in it that Ranakar was going to be gentle on us all?
Did coins rain from the sky? Or just married women with uncaring
husbands?”
“I’ve actually had that last dream,” Amarl said thoughtfully. “There
was this one woman with enormous…”
“I really don’t want to hear about your dreams, Amarl,” she cut him
off. “Really, really don’t.”
“What? I was going to say that she had enormous tracts of land.
What’s wrong with that?”
“Sure, she did,” Burik laughed. “Seriously, though. What did he really
say?”
“He didn’t. I didn’t see him today. I spent the morning with
Tekasoka.”
“What did you do?” Meder asked in a puzzled voice. “Or was it about
the hunt?” Her eyes widened. “Did they not believe us?”
“No, they believed us. If they hadn’t, I guess we’d have known when
they had us all kneeling before the Deeps.” He shuddered, and he saw the
other two do the same. “It was about Rateso’s class.”
“Are they putting you back in it?” Meder asked in a slightly subdued
tone. “That seems pointlessly cruel.”
“No,” he shook his head. “I guess Tekasoka used to do Rateso’s job
before she became an awal, so she’s taking over my training personally.”
 “The awal’s trying to kill you?” Burik asked in a surprised voice. “That
sounds terrifying!”
“That’s not how she does it,” he shook his head. “I guess her ability
doesn’t just compel you to do what she says; it also lets her get into your
thoughts and read them.” He paused. “She did that to find out the truth
about Nihos, I guess.”
Meder’s face paled. “They know?” she gasped in a whisper.
“They knew all along, even about Andra’s part in it. They chose not to
do anything.”
“That kind of makes sense,” Burik noted.
“What do you mean, Burik?” Meder asked.
“Well, they’re supposed to be teaching us to be ithtaru, here, right? Part
of that has to be learning to make hard decisions. Amarl made one, and I
think it was the right one. The school must have agreed.”
“But if they know that Andra let herself be bought…”
“Tekasoka said they put her in Isolas as a test, to see if she understood
loyalty,” Amarl said heavily. “She passed. If she’d failed, though…”
The three fell silent for a few moments before Burik cleared his throat.
“So, what was her training like?”
“You guys know that my ithtu’s a song. Well, it’s more than that. It’s
like a whole orchestra playing in my head.”
“All the time?” Meder asked in surprise.
“Yeah. It’s playing right now, in fact. The song’s pretty quiet, but I can
hear it.”
“How is that not ridiculously distracting, Amarl? I couldn’t walk
around with an orchestra in my brain all day!”
He shrugged. “What choice do I have? The alternative is to never
quicken another crystal, and we all know that’s not happening.”
“So, your training?” Burik said. “What was it?”
“Oh, yeah. She used her ability to play part of the song in my head, just
a single instrument or two, then had me try to mute everything but that
part. The idea is to learn how to control the song instead of it playing
whenever and however it likes.”
“That’s clever,” Meder said admiringly. “Did it work?”
“Well, I figured out how to do it with her help, but I don’t think I’ve in
any more control of my ithtu than I was.” He shrugged. “She said not to
expect any changes for moons, at least, so I’m not disappointed. Plus, it
was a lot better than Rateso’s class.”
“Why—I wonder why they don’t do that for everyone, then,” Meder
said hesitantly. “It seems to be a lot less traumatic than Rateso’s methods,
if nothing else.”
“It’s also slower, I guess. Threatening to kill the students forces them to
figure out how to control their ithtu in a hurry rather than taking a year or
more.”
“That makes sense,” Burik nodded. “Besides, it’s not like that’s the
most traumatic thing we’ll ever experience. I’m pretty sure every ithtar
faces certain death over and over again.”
“Probably, yeah. We’ve already done it a few times, and we’re still
novices.”
“True,” Meder sighed. “Still, it would be nice to learn to control my
ability without someone trying to kill me.”
“It would also be nice if the school graduated us to next year without
making us earn extra points,” Amarl chuckled. “And maybe upped the
stipend to an akator a week while giving us two days off to rest. It’s all
equally likely.”
“Ass,” she said, flashing him a quick smile. “So, she didn’t say
anything about the hunt, then?”
“Just that they believed our report. They found a bunch of evidence
backing us up. Oh, she did say that she believed that the bridges ‘appeared’
to be broken. She didn’t explain what she meant, though.”
“Maybe…” Meder’s gaze turned thoughtful. “It sounds like she’s
suggesting that what we saw wasn’t what happened.”
“What do you mean?” Burik asked.
 “Well, we know that it’s possible to use sahr to alter what someone
sees. Furmeras showed us that last year with his invisibility working,
remember? And I can think of a few ways to alter that into changing
something’s appearance entirely if I needed to.”
“So, you think that someone—made the bridge invisible?” Amarl asked
dubiously.
“It’s possible. A powerful enough working could do it—or a lot of
small workings done together, each covering one part of the bridge. It
would be easier on something like the bridges since they don’t move, and
movement can spoil the effect. And it wouldn’t have to last long, just long
enough for us to move on.” Her eyes narrowed. “They’d have to have been
close, I think, but if they covered themselves with the same working, we
wouldn’t have seen them unless we were looking for them.”
“Furmeras couldn’t conceal his eyes,” Amarl recalled. “Anyone
remember seeing a pair of disembodied eyes floating around?”
“Not that I recall,” Burik chuckled. “And it seems like the kind of thing
you’d notice.”
“Would we, though?” Meder mused. “Really, would we? At night,
while all our attention was on the bridges—or the beasts attacking us? I
don’t think I would have—and I’ll bet neither of you would, either.”
“She’s right,” Amarl sighed, sipping his drink again. “People don’t
usually notice eyes unless there’s a face and head attached to them. That’s
why I don’t have to close my eyes when I’m trying to hide most of the
time. Unattached eyes just aren’t something you look for.”
“Maybe we should be,” Burik said, tapping his knuckles on the table.
“If someone did it once, they might try it again.”
“I doubt it,” she shook her head. “I’ll bet that the school is thinking the
same thing I am, and they’ll be on the lookout for something like that next
time. They might even set some Diviners to watch us on our next hunt.”
“Diviners?” Burik asked.
“The ithtaru who find potentials out in the Empire. They must have
some sort of sensing abilities, and I’ll bet they can use those to watch us,
even through the Mistway.”
 “Which just means that if someone did do this, they’ll find another way
to try next time,” Amarl sighed. He took another drink, finishing the beer,
then raised his hand to signal the server for another. “Of course, that
doesn’t really explain all the rest of it, like how they orchestrated and then
stopped those beast attacks, or how they arranged for the turtle to attack
us.”
“Or how they got into Apirron in the first place,” Burik added. “You’d
think someone would have seen them going through the Mistway.”
“Not if they were invisible—or if they came through a day or two
before we did,” the girl pointed out. “I don’t know if the Mistways are
watched all the time.”
“I doubt it,” Amarl shook his head. “If they were, how could that
umbravore have gotten in?”
The girl’s eyes suddenly widened, and she let out a little gasp. “You’re
right, Amarl! How could it have gotten in?”
“Didn’t the Rashiv say they come from Necronia?” Burik shrugged.
“He did, but that’s not my point.” She leaned forward, her face and
voice troubled. “The Mistways into and out of Askula only open to the
touch of ithtu. That’s what makes this realm so secure. No one who’s not
part of the order can get into it. So, how did the umbravore?”
“We only know that ithtu’s one way to get into the Mistways,” Amarl
pointed out. “Not that it’s the only way. Maybe with enough power or sahr,
you could do the same thing.”
“No,” she shook her head. “Amarl, have you ever heard of the Grand
Incursion?”
“Nope,” he shook his head.
“I have,” Burik volunteered. “A horde of spirits invaded the Empire,
tens of thousands of them. They killed millions and created the Pashkit
desert to the south before the Empire drove them back.”
“Exactly. And Shashana Sanithedana, who ruled at the time, blamed the
Order and declared war on them. Rather than fight their own people, the
Order withdrew to Askula, and the Empire laid siege to it for two centuries.
During that time, they tried everything they could think of to force open the
Mistways, including sahr workings crafted by hundreds of haros at once.
Nothing so much as budged them.” She shook her head. “If the entire
Empire couldn’t force the Mistways open in two centuries, how likely is it
that a monster weak enough for three novices to kill managed it?”
“You’re suggesting that someone let it in,” Amarl sighed.
“Not just someone. The Mistways to Necronia are locked somehow,
remember? Gehatina mentioned it the first day in Realm Lore. It’s too
dangerous for students to sneak into it themselves, so it’s sealed up. That
means that someone had to unseal it first, then go get that umbravore and
bring it here.” She leaned forward. “And that means it almost has to be a
malim or an awal. I don’t think anyone else could unseal something the
school locked up, do you?”
“No,” Amarl shook his head. “Probably not.”
“You’re suggesting that the school’s actively trying to kill Amarl,
Meder,” Burik said slowly. “That they’ve betrayed him.”
“Or that someone has. What if one of the malims is Lasheshian and
hates all non-naluni? Or a few of them? They could be trying to kill him in
a way that won’t show up if the Rashiv or awals examine their Joining
crystals.”
“There’s another possibility,” Amarl offered. “None of this could be a
conspiracy. It could just be the school trying to awaken my ability.”
“I don’t think they’d go that far, Amarl,” Meder said uncertainly. “That
umbravore could have killed all of us, and that doom tortoise would have
killed me if Burik hadn’t quickened his ability.”
“And?” Amarl shrugged. “What if the school considers that to be
acceptable losses? For all we know, they do this sort of thing all the time
when dealing with really high-tiered abilities. Or just for regular ones.” He
glanced at Burik. “Hells, it could have all been about you the whole time.
This could have been the school waking up your ability, not mine.”
“I can’t believe that they’d sacrifice students that way,” Meder shook
her head.
“You also couldn’t believe that Tem would let me freeze to death, but
they were willing to. What about Askula so far has made you think that
they’d care any more about you personally, Meder? About any of us? That
they wouldn’t happily toss us aside if we stopped being useful weapons for
the Empire?”
“A commander can’t care about the life of one soldier,” Burik agreed
grimly. “He could be right, Meder. This could all be something the
school’s doing to force our abilities to quicken faster.”
“And if it is, then you really are next,” Amarl added, taking another
drink.
The girl’s face paled, and she took a much longer and larger gulp of
wine than normal before setting it down with a shaking hand. “Well, if
you’re right, and they really are planning to force my ability to quicken
next…” She took a deep breath and forced a wan smile onto her face. “At
least I’ll have the two best fighters in the school here to help me. Nobody
else can say that.”
“We’re not the best in the school, Meder,” Burik laughed. “Not even
close.”
“Yet, Burik. You’re not the best, yet. You will be.” Her gaze hardened
as she spoke. “And I’ll be the best hara, and Amarl will be the strongest
ithtar. Askula will count itself lucky to have us. You’ll see.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Amarl chuckled, lifting his mug.
“Hear, hear,” Burik added. “To becoming the best this damn school’s
ever seen!”
The conversation shifted into far more innocuous things after that, as
the trio talked about their classes, what they expected in the next quarter,
and how things might change now that Burik’s ability quickened. He didn’t
seem too worried about moving into the ability class with Amarl, but Amarl
suspected that would only last until the first time Sototen tried to kill him.
“They might not move him right away, you know,” Meder pointed out.
“They might wait until more of our class has quickened their abilities, then
shift the whole group of them at once. Herel and Hadur both have Tier A
abilities, and those could quicken any time in the next quarter.”
“They moved Amarl right away,” Burik objected.
“Yes, but that was at the start of a year. For all we know, he moved up
with a group of students at the same time. Plus, he’s Amarl. Everything’s
different for him.”
“True.” Burik made a face, then shrugged. “That’s fine. I’ll ask
Ranakar to help me work on it if they don’t. It’ll probably be faster if he
does it, anyway.”
“You can ask,” Amarl chuckled. “I’m not sure I’d recommend it,
though.”
“The worst he can say is no.”
“No, the worst he can say is, ‘For bothering me, run the ropes course at
full speed while I fire a rifle at you.’ No is about the best thing he can say.”
“Has he ever actually done that to you?” Meder asked in a sickly voice.
“With a rifle? Not yet. Last year, he used weighted bags that can break
bone. This year, he’s moved up to darts and throwing knives.” The boy
shrugged. “I’m thinking bows or crossbows next year, maybe firearms the
year after.”
“He makes you dodge knives?” she asked, her face going pale.
“Yep.”
The girl looked at Burik, her eyes wide. “And we’re going to have to
do this starting this week…”
“Remember the sahr training,” Amarl said encouragingly. “Advanced
coital intersections and reverberating matrices and whatever the hells else
you were talking about earlier.”
She snorted, then drained the rest of her wine in one gulp. “Right.
Remember the sahr training.” She took a deep breath, then looked at them,
her eyes slightly bright. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Sure,” Burik nodded, finishing his drink as well. “Where do you want
to go next?”
“We could go grab some food at Melefer’s,” Amarl suggested.
“Actually—I was thinking we should stop by Halit,” Meder said
tentatively.
“Really?” Burik asked with a grin. “You want to go fight?”
“No, but I think it’s going to be necessary. Like I said earlier, the points
system is designed to heavily favor the best fighters, so I need the training.
Plus, if Amarl’s right about Ranakar’s training, I might as well start getting
used to getting knocked around.”
“Definitely,” Amarl nodded, draining his mug and rising to his feet.
“Halit it is, then.”
The three ambled out of the drinking house and left the village, turning
west and jogging along the mountains toward Halit. The sun was lowering
behind the distant peaks, shining directly into their eyes, but Amarl knew
that the fighting would go on well into the night, as older students
scrambled to get the points they needed to advance to the next year. Burik
and Meder did most of the talking as they walked, discussing other students
they might face and how to cope with what they knew of those students’
abilities. Amarl stayed mostly silent, his thoughts turned inward.
He wasn’t looking forward to Halit, not in the slightest. He’d been
putting off joining the general fighting as long as possible, in fact. It wasn’t
that he was scared, exactly—well, it was that he was scared, exactly, but he
also felt fairly certain he knew how things were going to go for him. The
moment his name went up on the board, every older second-year and early
third-year who thought he didn’t belong here—which was most of them—
would challenge him. He’d spend the night getting pummeled by abilities
that he had no real way to counter, losing over and over again. About the
best he’d be able to do is try to make a good showing of it so that some of
the weaker fighters thought twice before challenging him. He foresaw a
night of pain, frustration, and ample defeats, and the more he thought about
it, the more frustrated he became with the whole situation.
So, when a sudden thrill of danger raced up his spine, he almost
welcomed the distraction.

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 Chapter 33
He had just enough warning to duck his head as something hard, flat,
and unyielding slammed into his forehead. His feet went out from under
him, and he fell hard to his back. Meder let out a muffled cry beside him as
she thumped to the ground as well, while Burik’s mouth made a weird
croaking noise as the larger boy hit the road in a roll. This time, Amarl had
the presence of mind to keep his chin tucked, though, so when he crashed
down o his back, his head didn’t bounce off the stones of the road. His ears
still rang, and the impact against his forehead made his head spin a bit, but
he quickly shook it off and scrambled back to his feet as three figures rose
from behind a clump of boulders to the left of the road and stepped out into
their path.
As before, the three figures were clad entirely in black that shrouded
their features and hid most of the outline of their bodies. This time, though,
his head was clear enough to pick out some details about them that he
hadn’t before. The middle figure of the trio was tall, as tall as Burik but
much leaner. The one on their left was a bit taller than Amarl and had a
fairly average build; the last was taller than Amarl, wider in the shoulders,
and quite obviously female judging by how her hips moved when she strode
forward.
“Another bad fall, hizeen,” the middle figure said in a voice that Amarl
felt was unnaturally deep. It seemed familiar, but with the mask muffling it
and them obviously altering it, he couldn’t quite place it. “And this time,
you took your friends with you. A shame they had to suffer just because of
you.”
“Could we please not do this again?” Amarl asked with a sigh. “How
about this: you tell me how awful I am and how I don’t belong here, then
we all part ways. You get the satisfaction of calling me names, and nobody
has to visit the infirmary after. Sound good?”
“Shut the fuck up, half-breed,” the woman growled, taking a step closer
and lifting her fists. Amarl’s eyes narrowed slightly; he felt sure that he
recognized that voice.
“Quiet,” the middle figure snapped, and the girl fell silent instantly.
The tall figure looked back at Amarl. “I warned you that this wasn’t over,
and it’s not. Since you didn’t seem to get the message, we thought maybe
we should include your friends in it.”
“That was a stupid move,” Burik growled from beside Amarl as he rose
to his feet. The boy’s voice was slightly rough and raspy as he spoke, but
his tone could shatter stone. “There’s just more of us to kick your asses,
now.”
“Maybe if you all step back and leave, we’ll pretend this never
happened,” Meder added in a thick voice. Amarl glanced at her and
winced; she’d taken the impact with the invisible wall in the face, and her
nose was swollen and dripping blood. Her eyes were hard, though, and she
spoke and moved without showing the pain he knew she felt. “You
wouldn’t want the awals knowing that the three of you blatantly attacked
three younger students, would you?”
“You think they’ll care?” the middle figure laughed contemptuously.
“All three of you need a lesson, and we’re going to provide it.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Amarl asked in a flat tone. “This
didn’t go all that well for the three of you last time, and this time, I’m not
alone.”
“You surprised us last time. It won’t happen again.” The tall figure
nodded his head. “Take them.”
The three figures moved at once. Meder cried out and fell backward,
struck by another invisible attack that pinned her to the ground. Burik
leaped forward, but the middle figure just looked at him contemptuously.
“Stop,” the man said, his voice echoing sonorously as he spoke. Burik
stumbled as his feet froze, refusing to obey his commands. He pitched
forward, tucking his shoulder to turn his fall into a roll, but when he tried to
stand, his legs lay limply, unable to move.
Amarl noticed this but couldn’t really do anything, as the female figure
launched herself at him, her fists exploding into flames as she did. He
dropped quickly into his stance and slid past a quick jab, then ducked under
a hard right. She threw a low hook at his body, and he twisted to the side to
let it glide past. He couldn’t block her strikes; all he could do was dodge,
and she was fast and skilled enough that doing so took every ounce of his
focus and concentration. He shifted to avoid a punch, but something hard
hit his back as he moved blocking his retreat. Startled, he barely managed
to get an arm up to block the burning fist flying toward his face, and he
hissed in pain as the flames seared his forearm.
“Drop your guard, hizeen!” The words rang in his skull, demanding
that he lower his hands, and his stance shifted slightly in response even as
the song of his ithtu roared up, blotting out the echoing command. He saw
the fist flying toward his cheek but couldn’t get his hands up in time;
instead, he rolled with the blow as best he could, riding the impact to
minimize the damage. Even so, the punch rattled his skull and made his
vision narrow for a moment, and only the pain of the fire scorching his
cheek kept his mind clear and focused as he staggered back. Another hard
wall caught his legs, and he fell, dropping onto his back and rolling
backward to land in a crouch.
“There’s no point to fighting, half-breed,” the tall figure said
scornfully. “You might as well give up.” Those last two words rang in his
skull, but once again, his ithtu rose and drowned them out, and he
scrambled back to his feet, dropping into his stance once more.
“Have it your way,” the woman growled, moving forward. She
engaged Amarl again, and once more, he quickly found himself on the
defensive. As he fought, his ithtu sang in his mind, the song rising higher
and higher as he ducked around her blows, but a strange pressure settled
over him, and the song suddenly stuttered in his thoughts. It returned a
moment later, but the muffled and subdued melody barely resembled its
usual triumphant chorus, and the strength it lent him was barely enough to
keep him ahead of the girl’s attacks. He twisted and dodged, but once
again, a hard wall caught his feet, forcing him to fight to stay erect, and the
girl landed a solid punch in his stomach, then kicked him backward to fall
heavily onto his ass.
“Stay down, hizeen!” the middle figure roared, and this time, Amarl’s
ithtu struggled to sweep aside that command. His body fought against him
as he pushed himself upward, and he staggered to his feet just in time to
catch a pair of flaming hooks to his ribs that knocked the wind out of him,
followed by a knee to his crotch. Pain exploded in his body, and he
crumpled to the ground, clutching his balls and choking for breath. A foot
slammed into his chest, knocking him down, then settled on his sternum
and pushed him against the road.
 “This will keep happening until you get the fuck out of Askula, half-
breed,” the woman growled, lifting a fist. “Next, I get to mess up your
pretty little friend’s face. I wonder how…”
The girl’s rant turned into a sudden shout as Burik slammed into her,
hurling both of them backward at frightening speed. At the same moment, a
wave of power coalesced in the air in front of the other two figures,
erupting in a burst of brilliant light that washed away the darkness for an
instant, leaving glowing spots in Amarl’s eyes.
“Fuck!” the middle figure swore, staggering backward and covering his
eyes, clearly blinded. As he did, Meder charged into him, her knee crashing
into his stomach as she bowled him over, landing atop him. Her fists rose
and fell rapidly, crashing into the man’s body, keeping him pinned down.
He shouted incoherently, but her blows kept him from speaking, cutting off
his ability, and the surprise nature of the attack seemed to have shattered his
defenses.
Amarl’s ithtu suddenly roared into his body, as whatever pressure
muffled it suddenly vanished. The song washed away the pain filling him,
and he rose unsteadily to his feet, dropping into his stance and looking
around. To his left, Burik and the girl fought, and she was clearly getting
the worst of the encounter. Burik’s ability seemed to have awakened, and
the boy moved like a force of nature, blocking flaming strikes and
responding with powerful blows that hurled the girl backward. Meder
straddled the tall figure, battering him with fists and occasional flashes of
sahr that kept him too off-balance to fight back. The last of the attackers
was backing slowly away, looking back and forth between the others.
“I gave you the chance to stop this,” Amarl said to that boy in a cold,
hard voice. “You should have taken it.”
“F-fuck you,” the boy stammered. He flung out his hands, and twin
waves of force swept outward. One caught Meder on the side, knocking her
off the taller boy, while the other crashed into Burik, knocking him back a
couple steps and allowing the battered, swaying girl to retreat. Amarl took
a step forward, but as he expected, a wall of force appeared before him,
stopping him. He simply watched as the two standing figures hauled the
tall boy that Meder had been pounding to his feet. The tall boy swayed as
he stood, staring at Amarl with undisguised hatred.
 “Th-this isn’t over,” he spat, his words thick and clumsy as they
tumbled over his probably swollen lips.
“It better be,” Burik growled, stepping up beside Amarl. He clenched
his fists, and the tendons in his knuckles snapped and popped alarmingly.
“Next time, you aren’t walking away.”
“Any of you,” Meder added in an icy voice, also moving over to stand
beside Amarl. “If you want to fight, do it in Halit. If you try this again,
we’ll take you down and then drag you to the awals ourselves. Do you
really want to risk expulsion over this?”
“Screw you, bitch,” the tall figure muttered. In response, Burik raised a
fist, and Meder lifted her hand, her lips moving as she muttered beneath her
breath. All three of the attackers took a step back, and Amarl flashed them
a cold smile.
“If I were you, I’d run now,” he advised calmly. When they didn’t
move, he lashed out with a hand. His ithtu surged in his body, and the
invisible wall shattered as his knife strike slashed through it. Burik stepped
forward, through the now-broken wall, and the black-clad figures all began
backing away. “Run.” Amarl repeated. “Now.”
The three older students gave the friends a quick look before turning
and running into the darkness. As they vanished, Amarl’s ithtu quieted, and
the throbbing in his stomach and crotch both returned with full force. He
staggered slightly, and Burik reached out to stabilize him.
“You okay?” the larger boy asked in concern.
“I just got kneed in the stones, Burik,” Amarl said with a groan. “No,
I’m not okay. Not at all. My crotch feels like Meder’s face looks.”
The girl reached up and touched her nose, wincing. “I think it’s
broken,” she said with a sigh, her voice still thick. “I can’t believe that ass
broke my nose!”
“It could have been worse,” Burik shrugged, then grinned. “Besides,
from the way it sounded, I think you might have returned the favor. The tall
guy sounded like he was missing some teeth there at the end.”
“He was,” she nodded, glancing at her knuckles and holding them up
for the others to see the thin gashes in them. “I felt them give when I
punched him in the mouth.”
 “Good,” Amarl grunted, forcing himself to straighten. “How about you,
Burik? You okay?”
“My throat’s a little sore,” the larger boy shrugged. “And I’ve got a few
minor burns. Nothing serious.”
“Your throat?” Meder asked. “Why your throat?”
“That’s where that ambush caught me. It hit the two of you in the face
and caught me in the throat. Took me a few seconds to shake that off, but
I’m okay.”
“Might as well get it checked out while we’re at the infirmary fixing
Meder’s face,” Amarl sighed. “I know I’m going to ask them to make sure
nothing down there is broken.”
“It might be better for the world if something was,” Meder grinned,
then winced again and touched her nose. “Ouch. No smiling for me, got
it.”
“What happened there?” Burik asked as the three turned northward to
cut across the farms and fields toward the Citadel. “Normally, you’re a lot
better at fighting than that.”
The hizeen frowned as he recalled the strange behavior of his ithtu.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “It was like my ithtu didn’t want to help me,
the way it usually does. Or like something was pushing it down so it
couldn’t. Then, after the two of you started beating the shit out of those
guys, it went away.”
“A suppression power,” Meder said thoughtfully, touching her nose
again.
“A what?” Burik asked.
“Suppression power. It’s one of the abilities mentioned in that book
Amarl’s got. Some abilities can suppress sahr usage or even other ithtu—
although that’s rarer, I guess. It sounds like someone was using one of
those on you.” She grimaced. “Which means there was a fourth person
hidden nearby somewhere, watching. And again, I didn’t notice them.”
“You think is was the same person as in Apirron?” Burik asked
skeptically.
 “I have no idea, but it would make twice that someone we didn’t see
sent something to attack us.”
“Three times,” Amarl interjected. “Don’t forget the umbravore.”
“Right. Three times. It feels like that’s more than a coincidence, don’t
you think?”
“Why didn’t they use that suppression power in Apirron, then?” Burik
persisted.
“Maybe they thought they didn’t need it.” The girl shrugged. “I don’t
know, but it all feels related to me.”
“And it still all might be the school,” Amarl sighed. “What if one of the
awals put those students up to this, then tried to suppress my ability?”
“Why would they do that?” Meder asked.
“Well, if they were trying to force Burik’s ability to quicken in Apirron,
maybe this is them trying to do the same for yours.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” she shook her head. “The first time they
attacked you, you were alone, remember?”
“We’re not going to figure this out tonight,” Burik said firmly. “There’s
too much we don’t know. It could have been the school. It could have been
four students, and only three showed themselves. It could have been some
random person trying to kill us. There’s just no way to know.”
“You should mention it to Ranakar, though,” Meder suggested.
“You think he’ll care that some students attacked us?” Amarl asked
dubiously.
“Maybe not, but he might care about the suppression ability. That’s rare
enough that he might be interested. What can it hurt?”
“It could hurt a lot if he decides that I have to train even harder now.”
“You know, it’s kind of a shame that they used that ability,” Burik
mused. “I was hoping to see you do your fight dance again.”
“My what?” Amarl asked, slightly startled.
“It’s what we decided to call it when you start moving like that,” Meder
supplied. “Your fight dance, when you start moving like you’re dancing
with whoever you’re fighting, but they don’t know all the steps.”
 “It’s not dancing,” he objected.
“It looks like it,” Burik shrugged. “And you only do it in a fight, so—
fight dance.”
“Don’t I get a say in what it’s called?”
“Not in the slightest,” Meder said slyly. “Don’t worry, Amarl. You
look just lovely when you dance. Very elegant.”
“Like a maiden in spring,” Burik agreed with a grin.
Amarl scowled, then pushed the irritation aside and grinned at the girl.
“I’ll bet I look lovelier than you when you dance, Meder. You probably
look like a poleaxed cow.”
“If you are ever fortunate enough to see me dance—which is very
unlikely,” she said airily, “you’ll eat those words, Amarl.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 34
The first snow of the season came and went, leaving the small realm
covered in a blanket of white. Just as she had last year, Meder dragged
Amarl and Burik out of bed early the first morning to play in the snow;
she’d never experienced it before coming here, and she was like a kid
whenever it fell for the first time.
Sadly, that snowfall swiftly devolved into freezing rain that was a lot
less fun to be out in and that left the roads slick and icy. The snowpack
froze into a solid mass, and the three students discovered a new chore when
they appeared before Tautibal for physical training that day. When they
arrived, the woman stood before them holding a flat steel shovel instead of
her riding crop and wearing a wicked expression.
“Good morning!” she said cheerily as the students gathered. “Today,
each of you gets to take part in an annual ritual: the clearing of the roads!”
She chuckled happily, hefting the shovel. “Each of you will receive one of
these, and you’ll be joining the rest of the second-years and third-years
digging the snow off the roads so they’re passable. I’ll assign you to teams;
grab a shovel and a pick and get started!”
Amarl suppressed a groan, knowing that hearing it was exactly what
Tautibal wanted. Instead, he trudged over and got his shovel and a steel
pick he could use to break up the ice covering the road. He’d shoveled
frozen snow before back in Tem for some extra coin, and it was a job he
absolutely hated. Burik looked just about as unhappy as he did, but Meder
seemed to be in good spirits as she collected her equipment.
“Why are you so excited?” he asked her grouchily.
“I’ve never done this before!” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Shoveled
snow, I mean!”
Burik snorted. “I have. I used to have to help clear the barracks
grounds.”
“So have I,” Amarl nodded. “It’s not much fun.”
“We’ll see,” she shrugged.
 Her enthusiasm lasted for all of fifteen minutes or so, as she hefted
overly large loads of frozen snow and staggered to the side of the road to
dump them. Sweat beaded on her brow, and after the third time she paused
to stretch her back, Amarl took pity on her.
“Don’t try to pick up the entire shovelful at once,” he advised her. “Do
it in layers. Scoop a few fingerwidths up, dump it, then do it again.”
“That’ll be more trips, though,” she protested.
“Yes, but your back and arms will thank you, trust me.”
“And lift with your legs, not your back,” Burik added. “Just like when
Tautibal has us lifting weights. The snow’s heavier than you think, and
you’re going to hurt yourself if you’re not careful.”
The three labored in silence after that, simply focusing on the task at
hand. An hour passed, and to Amarl’s surprise, Tautibal didn’t stop them to
let them head to their classes. One of the younger, dumber students asked
her about that, and the nadar laughed throatily.
“Does this road look clear to you?” she asked, waving her hand at the
stretch of snow-covered stone that spread to the south. “It doesn’t to me!
You’re done when it’s clear, and not before.”
“But—our classes…” the young man protested.
“Don’t worry about those. You’ll make them up tonight after your last
class is done. Now, get back to work, and stop asking me stupid
questions!” Her lash appeared, and the students returned to their labor with
renewed vigor.
It took the group the entire morning to finish the road, meaning they
missed weapons and sahr classes, and Amarl skipped his time with
Ranakar. As the hours passed, the younger students slowed down more and
more, their bodies simply not used to handling that level of exertion for that
long. Amarl didn’t blame them. Despite all the training he’d undergone,
his entire body ached and throbbed by the time they finished. His back
screamed at him; his legs shook slightly beneath him; his hands burned
from the blisters he’d gained.
“Good enough!” Tautibal called out, looking at the road critically.
“Now, we run back to the Citadel to return those tools, and you’re off to
class!”
 Amarl couldn’t quite suppress his groan that time, and his sentiment
echoed along the line, as even Burik looked tired and disheartened. The run
back was more of a stagger than anything, and by the time the group
reached the Citadel, that stagger had turned into something that barely
resembled walking. The good news was that their next class, Realm Lore,
was one in which they got to sit down. The bad news was that it was one of
the more boring classes he had. They’d spent three moons discussing Isolas
before moving to Apirron, and he was honestly sick of talking about how to
use the realm’s wind to his advantage, what kind of creatures he might
encounter, and theories about the malleable nature of the realm. About the
only interesting thing he’d really learned was that Amrir was right: the
bridges couldn’t be destroyed. They were somehow an integral part of
Apirron rather than simple structures, which meant Meder’s guess that
they’d been hidden somehow made a lot more sense. Beyond that, he
struggled to stay awake and alert in the class at his best, much less when he
was exhausted.
To his surprise, when they wearily staggered into the class that day,
instead of the map of the explored areas of Apirron Nadar Gehatina had on
display for the past moon, a drawing that he quickly recognized as being the
entirety of Askula hung from the wall. As the students took their seats, the
brown-haired woman gave them a rare smile.
“I understand that this morning was difficult,” she told them. “It always
is, and students have a great deal of difficulty paying attention afterward—
and not falling asleep, something none of us want to happen. So, today,
we’re going to diverge a bit from our intended topic and do an overview of
all the realms attached to Askula. We’ll discuss their natures, hazard
ratings, and touch briefly on what you can expect from each of them. This
won’t be an in-depth discussion of tactics, survival strategies, or creatures
you might encounter, but hopefully, it will interest you enough to keep you
all awake.”
Amarl perked up as the entire class made a few interested noises. He
guessed none of them had been excited to hear about how to find drinkable
water in Apirron or the best ways to check a tunnel’s stability in Isolas
again. Anything new had to be better than that.
“We’ll begin our discussion today with a realm that most of you
probably never even considered: the Mistways.” Sounds of minor
confusion rose around Amarl, but the woman spoke over them. “Yes, the
Mistways are considered a realm of their own, at least by the Order.
They’re also the least understood of the realms, even though they’re the
most important in many ways.
“So, what are the Mistways?” she asked, tenting her fingers in front of
her and walking around the room. “It depends on who you ask. A scholar
from the Academy will tell you that the Mistways are conduits connecting
the shattered realms to one another. On the other hand, a priest of the One
will tell you that the Mistways are a gift from Ak-lahat to reconnect the
realms after the Shattering.” Amarl glanced over at Norag and saw the
devout boy nodding faintly at the malim’s words.
“Both of those answers are incomplete at best, though,” Gehatina went
on. “The former is correct in a sense, but it’s more a description of what the
Mistways do, not what they are. The latter may or may not be correct, but
again, it answers the question of where the Mistways came from, not what
they are. How do they function? Why are they stable? Why are they
keyed? Do they pass through the realm of spirits that surrounds every
mortal realm, or do they bypass it somehow? Are they a single connected
realm, a series of differing realms, or part of the realm of spirits? Are they
even part of the fabled realm of the gods?”
She stopped before the class and gave them a rueful smile. “The simple
fact is: we don’t know. And we may never know. The Mistways defy most
of our attempts to probe them. Sahr doesn’t function in them, and ithtu
abilities that sense, divine, or reveal information tell us nothing about them.
What little we know about the Mistways is conjecture and theory based on
observation, not a true understanding of their nature.
“First, the Mistways are stable, secure, and two-way. Each Mistway
connects a specific location in one realm to an equally specific location in
another, and those endpoints cannot be moved or altered. In thousands of
years of observation, we’ve never seen a one-way Mistway, and we’ve
never been able to budge one by as much as a fingerwidth. Destroying
what they connect to doesn’t matter; the Mistway exists independently of its
physical manifestation, and it will replace that manifestation in time. Burn
down the tree holding the Shadora Mistway, and in a year, a new but
identical one will grow to take its place. And yes, it’s been done; we’re
certain of that.
 “Second,” she continued, “the Mistways are sealed. Every Mistway
requires a specific key to open it, and no power or force we know of can
open a sealed Mistway. Once it’s opened, though, it’s traversable by
anyone and anything, requiring no special abilities to use. As well, once
you’ve unlocked a Mistway, you can bring anyone or anything in with you,
as long as you’re touching it. We’ve brought entire trees from Shadora,
wagonloads of stone from Isolas and Apirron, and even liquid iron and ice
from Malefican; that’s how much of Askula was built and is maintained, in
fact. You can bring plants and animals across as well, but nothing
intelligent. The Mistways only allow one intelligent creature within them at
a time, and each such being has to unlock the Mistway themselves to enter.
“Third, time moves oddly in a Mistway. Minutes inside equate to
seconds outside. However, every attempt to take advantage of that has
failed. It’s impossible to remain within a Mistway to heal, study, or train to
gain a year of practice in a week, as the Mistway won’t allow you to stand
still within it. You’re welcome to try it the next time you use one; remain
still, refuse to take a step, or even walk backwards, and you’ll still find
yourself pushed out the end.”
She smiled. “Finally, the Mistways are as safe as any place can
possibly be, with a hazard rating of 0. They seem threatening because you
can’t see anything in them, and no ability or technology will show you
anything beyond the path, but we’ve never recorded a person dying to a
Mistway in any fashion. You can’t step off the path, even with a movement
ability. No one’s ever encountered a creature or threat inside of one. There
is literally nothing within them that can harm you.”
Amarl couldn’t help but frown at that. He knew that last part wasn’t
true. He could see in the Mistways, after all, and he knew that there were
things in them, things that definitely weren’t safe. He’d always assumed
that he could see there because of his half-spirit heritage, but if that were
the case, then surely some other hizeen would have detailed what they saw
inside, and the Order would know about it. Part of him thought that he
should tell someone about his experiences, but he hadn’t even shared those
with Burik and Meder yet, mostly because he wasn’t sure anyone would
believe him. The school hadn’t taken the words of four students without a
thorough investigation on Apirron; would they accept his experiences, or
would they assume that he was hallucinating or lying?
 “Now, we won’t bother discussing Umpratan, Isolas, or Apirron,”
Gehatina said, disturbing his thoughts as she moved to stand beside the map
she’d hung on the wall. She reached out and placed her fingertip on the
mass of green that was the Kurlag Forest, smiling slightly as she did.
“Which means we’ll begin with the misty forests of Shadora.”
She lowered her hand, and her tone turned brisk and businesslike.
“Shadora, hazard rating 23. Most dangerous of what we call the three
livable realms that include Isolas and Apirron. Sahr is strong but unstable
there. Food and water are plentiful, the temperature is temperate, and
there’s nothing about the realm that’s inherently dangerous.” She glanced
toward Amarl. “You’ve been there, Novice. What’s the greatest danger in
Shadora?”
“The creatures, ma’am,” he answered after a moment’s thought. “At
least, that was my experience.”
“Good, yes. On Shadora, you’ll encounter monstrous versions of any
sort of animal you might find in a standard forest. Because of the strength
and stability of sahr there, many of them can use it, making them far more
dangerous than they would otherwise be. However, a well-equipped group
without any ithtu abilities can survive indefinitely there, and indeed, both
the shayeni and fernari have outposts in Shadora. It’s a steady source of
lumber and food for both them and Askula since any trees cut down there
regrow to full size in a matter of moons.”
“However, the same can’t be said of our next realm,” she went on,
sliding her finger up to the crafting halls of Tarmis in the upper right side of
the map. “Dorosha, hazard rating 40, with strong and highly stable sahr, is
the first inherently dangerous of the realms you’ll eventually visit. In
Isolas, Apirron, and Shadora, the creatures you’ll encounter are the greatest
enemies. In Dorosha, it’s the water.”
She smiled grimly as she lowered her hand. “Dorosha is a vast ocean,
hundreds of marches wide, dotted with islands both large and small.
Creatures and plants both abound on the islands and swim in the ocean,
mostly crustaceans and similar semi-aquatic invertebrates that can live on
land and water freely. They thrive there, but for any non-native, the water
is deadly. It looks and smells like salt water, but the ocean of Dorosha is
actually the most powerful desiccant we know, strong enough to suck the
water out of the air and thus out of your body. After a day in Dorosha,
you’ll feel a thirst that no amount of liquid can fully ease. In a few days,
that thirst will become overpowering. After a week, you’ll suffer from
headaches, dizziness, and lethargy. Two weeks, and you’ll be severely
dehydrated. Three weeks, and you’ll be another corpse washed up on the
beaches.”
The room sat in silence as she eyed them all gravely. “You need to
understand this. Every realm beyond Shadora is like Dorosha. They will
kill you if you give them the chance, and standard preparations won’t help.
Mundane protections will keep you safe in Isolas, Apirron, and Shadora, but
not in Dorosha. Sealed barrels of water will evaporate; waterskins will dry
up. Only sahr shielding or a protective ability will keep you safe. Dorosha
is a potentially lethal realm—and it only gets worse from here.”
She waited for a few seconds, then slid her finger to the left, to Marjan,
the sahr training center. “Next is Faeruna, hazard rating 73. It’s a realm
teeming with life, resembling one of the rain forests in Nicelia, except that
there’s no ground beneath you. Travel is from branch to branch and leaf to
leaf, and yes, some of the leaves of these trees are large enough and sturdy
enough to hold a hunting party without issue. Most every plant and
creature here is fast, brightly colored, and poisonous, venomous, or both,
but they aren’t the real danger in this world. That comes from the sahr
field.”
Amarl saw Meder straighten as the malim explained. “Sahr in Faeruna
is stronger than any of the other surrounding realms, and incredibly stable.
The power of it has mutated the creatures of Faeruna so that they no longer
look like anything you might see in Umpratan. Practically every creature in
Faeruna can use sahr in some way, and so can many of the plants.
Workings are easy to collapse there and have excellent longevity; a working
that lasts for minutes here could continue for days or weeks there.
However, the field is so strong that it seeps into everything it touches. It
sinks into your body, fills your blood and nerves, saturates your lungs. At
first, you simply feel energized by it. After a day, though, you’ll start to
feel light-headed and dizzy. Three days, and your muscles begin shaking
uncontrollably, and you have trouble focusing your thoughts. Five days,
and you feel sick and exhausted while your entire body throbs like a sore
tooth. A week, and you die of sahr poisoning.”
 Again, she stood for a few seconds to let her words sink in. Amarl
glanced back at Meder, who no longer seemed so enthusiastic about
Faeruna.
“Faeruna and Dorosha are dangerous,” Gehatina said in a quiet voice.
“Both are inherently deadly, and they will kill you eventually. However, the
lethal effects of each can be held out with sahr, sahrotik, or ithtu, so it’s
possible to meet members of other intelligent species traveling in either,
shielded by their own workings. For the last two realms, that’s not true.”
Her finger rose to the top of the map, touching a yellowish spot that
Amarl didn’t recognize.
“Necronia. Hazard rating 136. Sahr is very powerful there and
somewhat unstable. The only creatures here are the umbrals; nothing else
can survive. It’s an endless wasteland under a starlit sky—and it wants you
dead.” Her face turned grim, and she folded her hands in front of her.
“Necronia is a land hostile to life. The moment you step into it, the very air
around you leaches the life energy from your body. An unprotected person
feels weak after a minute or so; within a few minutes, their head spins and
their muscles tremble; in ten minutes, they’re dead, drained of life by the
realm’s inherent energies.
“Dorosha and Faeruna can be visited safely, even without protection, as
long as you don’t linger too long,” she added. “Spend an hour in either,
turn around, and head back through the Mistway, and you’ll be fine. Not so
in Necronia. Simply entering it gives you umbral poisoning, which ithtu
can’t heal. Even if you turn and leave immediately, you’ll still die in a
matter of days without treatment. Even with it, you could be left scarred
and permanently damaged.”
Amarl glanced at Burik and saw the boy’s face pale as the woman
talked about the umbrals.
“If you do manage to shield yourself, you still have to contend with the
umbrals, that realm’s native inhabitants,” she went on. “They can sense
life, and they have an unending hunger for it. They will find you, and
simply being in their presence will drain the life from you even more
quickly. To make things worse, like Isolas, Necronia has a native intelligent
species: the erkarren. The erkarren live in elaborate warrens dug into the
dunes of Necronia, and the greatest of them are as intelligent as a naluni,
able to use sahr and their own unique umbral abilities both. Needless to
say, Necronia is a lethal realm, and you won’t go there before your fifth
year.”
Meder slowly raised a hand, and the woman pointed to her. “Ma’am?
If Necronia’s so dangerous, then why do students even visit it?”
“A good question. Necronia isn’t the only umbral realm out there, and
the umbrals aren’t the only creatures that can drain your life just by being
near them. Many spirits have similar abilities, and learning to deal with
them is good training.” She smiled thinly. “Plus, the umbrals are an
excellent source of powerful crystals. A Tier A student can harvest minor
crystals from the weakest of them, and a fully trained ithtar with a Tier C or
D ability can draw major or even grand crystals from the more powerful
creatures there with ease.”
She paused and gave the students a serious look. “One of the simple
facts of being an ithtara is that you are dependent on crystals. They fuel
your abilities, improve your stats, heal you, let you train your skills beyond
the nalu limits, and slowly make you stronger just by drawing on them. We
bind the strongest possible crystals we can because those make us stronger,
last longer, and have denser, purer ithtu.
“The downside of that is that most living things only provide feeble
crystals. Kill and harvest a nalu, even a sword master, legendary
commander, or the highest of the Zahai caste, and you’ll be lucky to get a
low-powered weak crystal for your efforts. Strong crystals come from
powerful and dangerous beasts, and that means we of the Order have to
hunt and kill those beasts, no matter the danger. Thanks to the Mistways,
we can train you to hunt, to fight, to kill, and to deal with deadly threats, all
while enriching the Order with crystals. The crystals your hunts produce
feed the entire Order and are the most stable and dependable supply we
have. Even feeble, weak, and minor crystals can be useful in an extreme
situation, and places like Necronia or Malefican are the most reliable
sources of stronger crystals we have.”
She reached back up to the map and touched Sitjak, in the bottom left
corner. “Which brings us to the deadliest realm attached to Askula:
Malefican, hazard rating 377. Sahr is potent but incredibly unstable and
unreliable here, and even sahrotik and alchemical elixirs often fail in
Malefican. This is a realm of chaos and extremes. Seas of molten rock fill
Malefican, spanned by rivers of flowing supercold ice that act as bridges
between islands of superheated iron.”
She eyed them gravely as she spoke. “Entering Necronia will kill you
eventually without treatment. Entering Malefican will kill you in seconds.
A single breath of the air there will sear your lungs. Hold your breath, and
you’ll collapse from the heat in less than a minute. Run to one of the ice
rivers, and you’ll find that your lungs freeze, or you’ll pass out from
hypothermia in minutes. An unprotected person stepping into Malefican
will die, almost instantly, and even if you make it back into the Mistway,
the air there infects you with a wasting illness that turns your body into
sludge over a few days, whether you breathe it or not.
“To make matters worse, creatures do live there, vast things that require
teams of ithtaru to fight, and they don’t like intruders in their realm.
Because of that, no students ever travel to Malefican unless they’re part of a
party of itharu, are well shielded, and are extremely skilled with weapons,
sahr, and their ability. It’s likely that most of you will never see the inside
of it.” She smiled. “However, it’s also the only place where even a Tier C
ithtara can reliably harvest a grand crystal, the highest rank possible.
Without these, ithtaru with Tier E abilities wouldn’t be able to reliably use
their powers, so while it’s unlikely that you’ll visit Malefican, the chance is
non-zero.”
As she spoke, she eyed Amarl, and he forced himself not to swallow as
he understood. With his ability to harvest more powerful crystals than
normal, he might be able to pull several grand crystals from a single
creature—at least, eventually. The odds were that once he could do that,
he’d be dragged into Malefican and Necronia over and over just to harvest
powerful crystals. The idea didn’t exactly fill him with joy.
She lowered her hands and walked away from the map. “And those are
just the realms of Askula. Malefican isn’t the deadliest realm out there.
There are places so inimical to life that simply entering them will kill you.
There are places filled with creatures similar to a tier D ithtar in strength.
There’s even a realm that lacks anything—no air, no light, no matter—and
reduces anyone entering it to a similar state in short order.
 “Some of you find this course boring,” she went on with a thin smile.
“Learning about the rock formations in Isolas and the weather patterns in
Apirron isn’t as exciting as learning to fight or use sahr. However, you
aren’t just learning how to survive in these places; you’re learning how to
think like a survivor. You’re learning that there’s no such thing as being too
prepared, and how certain universal strategies apply to entering any realm.
Itharu often find themselves journeying to places far less hospitable than the
realms of Askula, and this training will teach you how to do so and return.”
She straightened, then moved back to the map. “Now, we’ll go over the
other realms in a little bit more detail, including the creatures you might
find, ambient effects, and whether they’re visited by other intelligent
species. We’ll begin with Sadora…”
“That was amazing,” Meder breathed as the three left the classroom at
the end of the lesson. “And more than a little terrifying. Necronia and
Malefican…” She shuddered.
“It was interesting, to say the least,” Amarl nodded. “Better than
learning more about using wind changes to predict Apirron’s storms, at
least.”
“I wish she’d talked more about the creatures in each realm,” Burik
shrugged. “Otherwise, it was okay.”
“I’m sure we’ll learn the rest in the next couple of years,” Meder said
confidently. “This was just something to keep our interest, I think—and to
keep us from falling asleep after this morning.”
“It worked,” Amarl laughed. “I don’t think anyone nodded off today.
That’s a first in Gehatina’s class, I think.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Burik sighed. “I’m sure it’ll be back to being
boring tomorrow.”
“Boring?” Meder asked archly. “You think learning how to survive in
these places—places we’re going to have to hunt again, by the way—is
boring?”
“Yes,” he shrugged. “I’d rather learn a little bit about all of them—
especially about the creatures we might face in them.” He grimaced.
“Things like that umbravore. If we’d known more about it when it attacked
us, we might have stood a chance against it.”
 “Or some of the realms that aren’t attached to Askula,” Amarl added.
“There have to be a lot of those, and once we’re ithtaru, we’ll probably
spend a lot more time in those than in someplace like Isolas.”
“We have to survive places like Apirron to get to those places, though,
don’t we? And so far, Amarl, your track record with staying out of trouble
in other realms isn’t great.”
“I’m still here, though,” he grinned. “And the things that tried to kill
me aren’t. Seems like a win in my book.”
“I’ll call it a draw. You’re alive, but we still have to put up with you.”
She returned his grin.
“Plus, just about everything we meet past the Mistways wants to kill
you,” Burik added. “At best, you’ve managed not to lose yet.”
“I’ll take it,” Amarl shrugged. “It’s better than the alternative—
especially when the alternative is going to a realm where some ancient
vulture rips out your soul and swallows it whole.”
Meder shuddered. “Thanks for that image, Amarl.”
“It’s not that bad, Meder,” Burik chuckled. “Actually, dying like that
sounds pretty good.”
“You think having your soul turned into vulture poo sounds good,
Burik?” Amarl snorted. “We need to teach you what ‘good’ means.”
“It would probably be quick and painless, at least. I can think of worse
ways to go.”
“I can think of a few dozen better ones, myself.”
“Do any of those ways not involve a naked woman?” Meder asked
archly.
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well, there’s the one—nope. Nope,
not a one of them.”
“I didn’t think so.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 35
Amarl’s spear blurred as he whirled it around his body. He could
almost see the phantom foes attacking him from both sides, shadowy
figures without real form or faces charging him from the front and back at
once. He swept the shaft sideways in a rising block, then ducked and thrust
behind him without looking. He spun the spear forward, slashing at an
enemy’s legs, then rose and blocked sideways to slide their weapon out of
line. He thrust again, stabbing the spearpoint into their midsection, then
pivoted on his toes to face the opponents behind him.
Ranakar called this exercise Holding the Gap, and it was one of the old
man’s favorites: Amarl perched on a narrow beam only a span wide and had
to defend that spot against attackers from the front and back. He'd done it a
hundred times; despite that, his heart hammered in his chest. The air
outside was bitterly cold; still, sweat beaded on his forehead. A single
glance downward would have revealed the reason for his distress, but he
refused to look. Instead, he focused on his footwork, moving his feet
carefully on the ice-covered arch of stone beneath him and doing his best
not to think about the six reaches of empty air beneath, ending in the
flagstones of the courtyard below. Still, it was hard not to imagine what
would happen if a foot skidded too far on an icy patch, hurling him off the
narrow bridge to plummet to the ground below. He could only hope that he
landed on one of the students sparring below him; he’d still be hurt, but
he’d probably live through it. Unless he landed on an upraised weapon, of
course. A spear like his that would tear through his armor easily, sliding
into his organs and punching out the other side…
He forcefully turned his thoughts away from his potential death for
perhaps the twentieth time that morning, telling himself insistently that the
exercise wasn’t likely to be truly deadly. After all, other students perched
on the same stone bridge as him, while more performed similar exercises at
different elevations all over Sitjak. Surely, the school wouldn’t risk the
lives of all those students. They almost had to have a failsafe that would
keep them all from dying if they fell—unless, he realized, those other
students all had abilities unlocked that would keep them alive. If they could
fly, had some sort of armor, or were just incredibly durable like Burik, a slip
wouldn’t be that big of a deal to them. He, on the other hand, had no such
protection, and a fall from that height…
He jerked his thoughts away from the emptiness below once more as a
rising wave of panic almost made him stumble. The sound of his ithtu
swelled slightly in his mind, and he quickly seized on that distraction,
focusing on a single tone of that music and forcing all others to recede into
the background. After moons of practice with Tekasoka, it only took him a
few seconds to quiet the symphony in his mind until a crisp, clear series of
flutelike notes rang in his thoughts. He quickly shifted from that to a
deeper, basso thrum, then released that and focused on a smooth, mellow
sound somewhere in the middle ranges. He shifted from one tone to the
next smoothly, no longer struggling to find a single instrument in the
orchestra of his ithtu’s song, but he knew that he still needed more practice.
Tekasoka wanted him to be able to shift tones instantly, not over a matter of
seconds, and he still couldn’t call up more than a single tone at once. He’d
improved a lot, though, enough to get a skill called Ithtu Channeling out of
it and push it up to rank 3 already.
The effort of shifting from tone to tone turned his thoughts away from
his precarious perch, and his body relaxed as he moved through the familiar
forms of Holding the Gap. Panic still tickled the edges of his thoughts, but
it no longer dominated them, and he could ignore it easily enough. His
movements smoothed out, and he flowed from one stance to the next
without effort. He barely felt the weight of his armor anymore, and while
the spear still wasn’t as comfortable as his axe in his hands, he handled it
far more competently than he once had in the Assilian hive. If he’d had the
kind of skill then that he did now—well, things probably would have gone
about the same for him, but fighting the queen would have been
significantly easier.
“Hold!” The call echoed over the courtyard, and Amarl slipped out of
the form with an audible sigh of relief. His legs shivered and trembled
beneath him as he straightened. His back ached, and his arms drooped
wearily as he turned and made his careful way down the arch to the
stairway leading to the courtyard. He didn’t recall ever being this tired
from the relatively simple form; the movements weren’t all that difficult,
the spear wasn’t that heavy, and he’d mostly gotten used to the weight of
his armor. The precise control he’d needed to move through the forms
without falling, though, sapped his stamina quickly and left him with
aching, shivering muscles. He knew he’d recover pretty quickly thanks to
his ithtu restoring him, but he moved slowly and deliberately as he walked
off the arched beam. It would be just his luck to get through the spirits-
damned exercise and then fall to his death while walking.
Once he reached the flagstones, he split away from the other students
who’d been perched up there with him and rejoined the rest of his sparring
group. It was a little different than the first day, as some students moved up
from third to fourth year, placing them in a more advanced group, while a
few new second-years joined them. Burik now stood at the top of their
group, sharing that position with an older third-year named Nykos whose
ability made him progressively better with any weapon the longer a fight
lasted. Amarl ranked near the top of the group, winning most of his
matches these days, and his skills had grown to match that accomplishment.
 He'd expected all his skills to go up in the past few moons, of course,
but not so many, or by so much. Between Ranakar’s grueling training, his
weapons classes, and the evening sparring at Halit, all his combat skills had
gone up significantly. Moon axe fighting and scimitars both reached rank
6, armor mastery had gone up to 3, and spear fighting jumped from 2 to 4.
His new unarmed combat skills were all at 3 or 4, and his Nameless Form
rose to match his moon axe skills at 6. He’d also gained a smattering of
new weapon skills; as promised, Wurynath had the students trying out all
sorts of different weapons to gain familiarity with them. He’d even learned
how to use a shield a bit, something Burik told him would pair well with his
spear fighting if he found himself fighting in formation. Amarl wasn’t good
with a shield, blunt weapon, bow, or sword, but he could at least pick one
up and use it without hurting himself—or blowing himself up in the case of
firearms. He guessed that he’d probably get those other weapons to rank 3
in the next couple moons, and after that, they’d only improve if he actually
found them useful.
Of course, his combat skills weren’t the only ones that had improved.
He’d gotten all his new crafting skills to rank 3, and the skills from his
Survival class were all rank 5 or better. He’d gained a rank in Sahr
Mastery, most of his Presence-based skills, and Running thanks to
Tautibal’s sadistic but brutally effective training. Best of all, he now had
four skills at rank 7: deception, endurance, hiding, and sleight of hand, a
level that most people in the Empire would consider an advanced
journeyman or early master according to Sengeloh, the Skill Training
malim. It also meant that advancement in those skills slowed way down for
him at that point, meaning the malims would let him ease off on those and
focus more on some of his weaker skills, bringing them up to the level of
competency.
Ithtu Channeling was the biggest surprise, though. Since getting it from
Tekasoka, he’d raised it to rank 5, something that should have taken him a
year or more, at least. When he mentioned his rapid advancement to
Tekasoka, she told him it was because it was a skill that drew heavily on his
Soul stat, meaning he had an incredible affinity for it and would likely grow
it with absurd speed, especially with his passive ability and his skill
quickening technique.
In fact, he felt pretty sure that a lot of his advancement came from using
that technique every time he practiced a skill, from sparring to engraving.
Making those connections was almost second nature to him at that point,
and he’d even managed to smooth most of the flows so that as long as he
didn’t make more than five of them, they didn’t flicker and pulse anymore.
Thanks to the technique, he’d picked up his new weapon skills in a few
days and gotten them to rank 2 in a couple weeks, and he hoped to have his
crafting skills to rank 4, where he could start learning sahrotik, before the
start of the spring quarter.
Skill training wasn’t the only area that had gone better for him recently
than he’d hoped. Survival class had actually become enjoyable, mostly
because after the hunt at Apirron, Nirecina kept Herel, Hadur, and Norag in
their individual groups and gave Amarl’s group three new second-years.
One of those, a boy named Temas, seemed to take issue with Amarl leading
their group, but after being “killed” in the first flag capture while the rest of
the group went on to succeed, he’d quickly decided to keep his mouth shut.
Amarl was fine with that; he didn’t care if Temas liked him as long as he
followed directions and was willing to learn.
His academic classes and Realm Lore still bored the shit out of him, but
he was doing fine in them thanks to keeping a flow of ithtu into his brain
the whole time. It seemed to help the esoteric knowledge stick in his head,
and he found it easier to recall what he’d heard after. The ithtu he’d
channeled into his Mind stat, bringing it to 6.2 overall, probably didn’t hurt,
either. He still couldn’t keep up with Meder or anything, or even Herel
academically, but the math, economics, history, and lore no longer made his
head ache and pound. At least, not very much. In fact, he’d managed to
bring most of his stats up a bit thanks to channeling ithtu into them, and he
quickly looked over his status to examine the changes.
 He'd definitely grown in the past year and a half, no question. His
Speed, Toughness, and Mind had all reached or surpassed 6, with Speed at
6.1 and Mind at 6.2. Force and Skill were close, at 5.8 and 5.9 respectively,
which was why he channeled one of his two crystals into those stats rather
than his much lower Will. That stood at 5.4, which at least put it above
naluni norms, but he knew he’d always struggle with that stat. Willpower
simply wasn’t his strong point, no matter how high he raised the numbers.
His inflated stats pushed his tak up to 63, and while it was rarely full thanks
to constantly channeling ithtu into his training, the 54 units left in it felt like
more than enough for anything he might need.
He closed his screens and looked around for his friends. They’d all
been practicing outside this morning, adapting to the cold and slippery
conditions. They’d trained firmly on the ground, though, rather than six
reaches in the air like Amarl had. He found the pair quickly enough and
moved in beside the girl, who looked over and gave him an appraising look.
“You look like the spirits’ hells, Amarl,” she said, flashing him a
grin. “How are you sweating when it’s below freezing out here?”
“You try doing your forms up on one of those arches,” he snorted,
pointing up at the narrow beams overhead. “You’d be sweating, too. Do
you know how far away the ground looks from up there?”
“She wouldn’t,” Burik argued. “She’d just use sahr to fly if she fell.
With all that training Ranakar’s giving her in it, she has to be good enough
for that!”
“Not according to him, I’m not. He says I’m still too much of a novice
to learn anything that advanced.” She made a face. “He didn’t say it that
politely, though.”
“Ranakar thinks that politeness and courtesy just slow things down,”
Amarl laughed. “He figures if he’s hurting your feelings, they probably
need to toughen up, anyway.”
“Well, he’s bruised mine a few times,” she sighed. “Along with every
other part of me, I might add. Who knew that a padded stick could hurt so
much—or break so many bones.”
“At least you get padding. Burik and I have to fight him with real
weapons. Not as many bruises, but a lot more blood.” He flashed her a
grin. “Which you’ll probably learn when he decides you’re ready for that,
too.”
The girl shuddered. “I’m good with his stick, thanks.”
“Are you, now?” Amarl asked archly. “And just how good with it are
you, exactly?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Amarl. That’s the kind of training Ranakar’s
putting me through. He’s teaching me fifty ways to pleasure a man—and
I’ll never show you any of them because I doubt you’ll ever be more than
an overgrown child.”
Burik snorted with laughter. “Point for Meder, I think. What’s your
sarcasm skill at, now? Must be 5 or 6, I’d imagine.”
“If I had one, it’d be at least 7, mostly thanks to all the practice Amarl
gives me.” She grinned at the hizeen, who laughed at her smile.
“Happy to be of service,” he bowed to her, his etiquette training
allowing him to perform a smooth, courtly one rather than the awkward one
he’d once attempted. “It’s good to know that all my efforts with you
weren’t wasted. Now, we just need to get you the flirting skill, and you’ll
be all grown up, yourself.”
“I flirt just fine,” she tossed her head. “At least, when there’s someone
around worth flirting with. Considering my roommates, that isn’t very
often.”
“Someone like, say, Dashe in fourth year?” Amarl asked slyly.
“I—what?” the girl stammered, her face suddenly going red. “What are
you talking about, Amarl?”
“I’m talking about a certain lovely and impressionable second-year who
apparently did some heavy petting with the handsome and dapper Dashe,”
he laughed. “And thought no one knew about it.”
“How did you know about that?” she whispered, one hand going to her
mouth in shock. “Did—oh, shit, he told people, didn’t he? He promised!
I’ll…”
“He didn’t say anything,” he interrupted soothingly. “At least, not that
I’ve heard. However, that dark corner in the lower level of the Citadel the
two of you chose wasn’t quite out-of-the-way enough, I’m afraid. You
should try the forest next time, instead. It’s a lot more secluded, trust me.”
“Nice, Meder,” Burik said, clapping her on the shoulder. “How was
it?”
“It—I…” She shook her head. “I’m not talking with you two about
this!”
“Why not? We always tell you about our trysts! As my mother says,
‘Don’t pick up a knife if you’re not willing to be stabbed in turn.’”
“First, there was no stabbing of any kind going on,” she said hotly, her
face still beet red. “Second, that’s totally different! You both like talking
about that. I don’t!”
“It must not have been all that good since no one’s seen the two of them
together since,” Amarl chuckled. “Did he slobber all over your face,
Meder? Bite your tongue? Did he have garlic breath?”
“No, nothing like that! He just…” She took a deep breath. “Not that
it’s any of your business, but I like to take things slow, that’s all. I’m not
you, hopping into bed with anyone who’s willing.”
“You shouldn’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” Amarl shrugged. “It’s
pretty fun, really.”
“I’m sure it is, but I’ll pass, thanks. I’ve got my dignity.”
“Dignity is highly overrated in my opinion. It keeps you from trying all
the really fun stuff.”
“You can keep trying it and telling me about it,” she smiled at him.
“That’s been working so far.”
Any reply Amarl might want to make was cut off as a white-robed
nadar appeared before the group, and the students fell silent instantly. The
man gave the group an approving nod and spoke in a clipped, brusque tone.
“Second-years, follow me,” he instructed. He turned and walked away
without saying another word, and after a moment, the group of students fell
in behind him. Amarl shot Meder and Burik questioning glances, but Burik
looked as confused as Amarl, and Meder simply shrugged helplessly. They
walked along after the man in silence for several minutes, until he led them
into one of the larger buildings that Amarl knew held sparring rings.
 As the group stepped inside, Amarl almost lost a step and stumbled as
his gaze swept across the room and met a hard pair of sea-green eyes that
blazed impressively above an equally impressive chest. For a moment,
memories of those breasts filled his thoughts, as he recalled how soft,
pliable, and exquisitely sensitive they’d been, and he stood there for a
moment, reminiscing happily.
“Stop smiling like that, ass,” Meder whispered hoarsely beside him,
jarring him from his thoughts, and he quickly jerked his eyes upward to
gaze at Nolla’s face. She was still beautiful, but a hardness marred that
beauty now. Her jaw was clenched; her eyes bored into his like agates
drilling into his skull; her fists clenched as she glared at him. He sighed
inwardly as he realized that the girl obviously still held a grudge over the
start of the year. Part of him had hoped it had all blown over, but
apparently, that wasn’t the case.
He pulled his eyes away from the girl and swept them across the room,
realizing that Nolla wasn’t alone. A dozen older students stood across from
the second-years, and he recognized a few of them. Robla stared at him
with just as much anger as Nolla, cracking her knuckles ominously. Amrir
stood impassively well away from Robla, and as Amarl met her eyes, she
gave him a grave nod. To his surprise, the tall, muscular figure of Tukos
grinned at him from one end of the group. He’d been on the disastrous hunt
with Amarl the year before, and the hizeen imagined that Tukos’ temper and
arrogance would have gotten him expelled long ago. Apparently, either the
boy had calmed significantly, or the school decided he wasn’t enough of a
problem to remove yet.
“Novices!” Amarl turned from his inspection of the older students to
see Wurynath stride in through an opposite door. The short malim walked
briskly to the center of the room and turned to face the younger group.
“You’re no doubt wondering what you’re doing here. Well, it’s
something of a tradition. Every Midwinter, before the start of the winter
quarter, instead of a hunt, second-years spend a day here in Sitjak getting a
taste of what Challenge Week will feel like.”
A few of the students muttered at that. Nirecina had organized the most
recent hunt, this time to Shadora, and only the third-years had gone. The
second-years stayed behind, and there’d been rampant speculation as to
why. Now, apparently, they knew, but a lot of the students seemed pretty
unhappy about missing the hunt. Amarl wasn’t; staying in Askula where he
wouldn’t be attacked by hundreds of creatures, go for days without sleep,
and wonder if he was being hunted by an invisible figure who seemed to
want to kill him without getting their hands dirty suited him just fine. At
least, so he thought until the malim continued speaking.
“Today, you get a pass from classes,” he went on. “Before you get too
excited about that, know that you’ll be spending the day here, receiving
challenges from the students behind me. Any student challenged will fight,
no exceptions. However, to keep a few students from being challenged
over and over again…” He glanced at Amarl as he spoke, and the hizeen
had to fight not to roll his eyes. “…each novice must fight once before any
can be challenged a second time, and no novice can be challenged by the
same student twice.”
His face turned grave as he faced the younger students. “The fights
today won’t be like your normal matches in Halit, either. There are no
restrictions on ability or sahr usage, and the matches aren’t to first blood.
You’ll fight until the nadar watching your contest judges that you or your
opponent are incapacitated, or until one of you is truly incapacitated. That,
by the way, is a real and even strong possibility. Sahrotik weapons can only
do so much.
“After each round, you’ll be awarded points based on your
performance. Those can range from 1 to 5, and these points matter, as any
points you earn go directly toward your graduation points.” The students
muttered a bit at that, and he smiled wanly. “Yes, some of you realized that
by taking you from the hunt, we denied you the opportunity to score points
toward graduation. You have the chance to earn those back and more.”
He paused, and his voice turned serious once again. “Let me be clear,”
he said into a sudden silence. “Today, you will be hurt. You’ll feel pain.
You might even be hurt so badly that you can’t keep fighting, in which case
you’ll stay and watch if possible, or be transported to the infirmary if
necessary. After each round, you’ll get sahr elixirs and ithtu healing to
restore you, then you’ll fight again.
“Obviously, this is unfair. You will likely lose each fight. The best
among you might win once or twice, but eventually, you’ll all lose, and
you’ll probably lose badly. You’re probably asking yourself: why?”
Amarl didn’t know about the others, but he certainly wasn’t wondering
that. Ranakar had answered that question for him long ago. Things at
Askula weren’t fair because the worlds beyond Askula weren’t fair. There
was no guarantee that an ithtar wouldn’t face something or someone far
more powerful and dangerous than them, and when that happened, what
would they do? Lay down and die? Flee, and let that enemy slaughter
innocents? The ithtar would have to find a way to win, and that meant
learning how to deal with people stronger than them. Apparently, the
malim agreed with the old man’s explanation.
“Because the Empire is not a fair place, and neither are the worlds
beyond the Mistways. They’re dangerous, even deadly, and there are things
in them that are a threat even to a powerful ithtar. If you’re facing an
incursion and a powerful spirit comes through, one far too strong to face
alone, what will you do? Run? Leave it to ravage the Empire?” He shook
his head. “No, you’ll fight, but you’ll have to fight with cunning, strategy,
and clever tactics. You’ll need to know how to eke every last bit of utility
from your ability, to use it in creative ways. You’ll need to endure pain and
injury to have a chance at victory because if you fail, thousands will die.”
He fell silent, letting his words sink into the assembled students.
“That’s why you’re here in Askula, and it’s why you learn to fight. Not to
jockey for rank. Not so you can show off your abilities and training.
You’re here to become a living weapon against the Empire’s deadliest
enemies, ones that even whole armies can’t face. And that means you’ll
need to know how to fight through pain, to face likely defeat or death, and
to keep going. If you can’t, then you’ll die, and the Empire will suffer for
it.”
He remained silent for several seconds before nodding. “Five of you
will fight at a time. If you’re not fighting, I highly recommend that you
watch the other fights. The more you learn about your opponents, the better
chances you’ll have against them. We’ll announce the first few challenges,
then give you a few minutes to prepare before we begin. Nadars?”
One of the white-clad men near the center glanced down at a piece of
paper with a bemused look, then lifted his chin high. “Novice Amarl!
You’ve been challenged by Student Worho!”
 Amarl looked at the older students and saw a boy with long, black hair
streaked with gold and a chiseled face step away from where he stood near
Nolla. He flashed the girl a smile that she returned almost shyly before
turning and gazing at Amarl with hard eyes.
“Yeah, no way this could go wrong,” he sighed internally. He had a
feeling it was going to be a very long day.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 36
“Well, this is going to suck,” he said heavily, looking at his friends.
“It’s absurd, is what it is,” Meder said sourly. “Honestly, it seems like
there’s no good reason for it except to be cruel.”
“You heard Wurynath,” Burik shrugged. “Learning how to handle
something more powerful than you is important, too.”
“Yes, I heard him, but that explanation’s a pile of shit, Burik,” the girl
swore with uncharacteristic ferocity.
“It’s not, though. There have to be things out there that are resistant or
even immune to ithtu abilities, or things far more powerful than we are.
Eventually, we’re going to face one.”
“Yes, we will. I accept that. But we won’t just be flung against those
things, Burik. We’ll have time to research and understand them first. We’ll
be able to learn about their weaknesses and develop strategies to exploit
them. We’ll have resources to counter their strengths.” She shook her
head. “If this was really about teaching us how to fight someone stronger
than us, they’d let us know who we’re fighting a day or two in advance and
let us figure out their ability and ways to deal with it.”
“That’s—that’s a good point,” Burik admitted after a few moments of
silence. “They really should give us prep time for this if they want to teach
us how to fight something stronger than us.”
“Unless the whole point is to force us into an unwinnable situation,”
Amarl offered. “The same way Rateso’s class does. This might be part of
learning how to call on and use our ability.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Meder hedged. “But why use fourth-years?
Why not nadars who have better control?”
“Because we know that the nadars aren’t likely to really hurt us,” Burik
said slowly. “The fourth-years might.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Amarl sighed. “We’re fighting no matter what, so
we might as well get ready. I’m going to go trade this for a moon axe; my
day’s going to be long enough as it is without making it worse, I think.”
“All of us are going to have a long day,” Meder sighed.
 “But not as long as Amarl’s,” Burik said quietly, jerking his chin toward
the older students. “Look at how many of them are eyeing him, Meder. A
lot of them are hoping to challenge him, and I doubt they’ll go easy on
him.”
Meder’s eyes flicked over to the older students, noting how many of
them glared at Amarl or eyed him hungrily, and the anger seemed to drain
from her face. “Oh. This really isn’t fair at all.”
“Nothing to worry about,” the hizeen shrugged with a grin he didn’t
feel. “I’ll probably get knocked out in the first match and get to rest while
the two of you fight all day. Worho looks to be a friend of Nolla’s, so I’m
sure he’s dying to take me out to impress her.”
Amarl walked away before the two had a chance to answer. He didn’t
really want to talk. He didn’t really want to even think. The more he
thought about how the day was going to go, the more he was likely to
panic. Despite his glib reply to the girl, he knew that the day was going to
be awful for him, and he couldn’t help but dread what was coming. He’d
seen the older students fighting in Halit; he knew the kinds of abilities they
had. Some of those students could throw fire or lightning, whip blades and
shields of pure force around, move faster than a normal eye could track, or
lift a ton and throw it like a pebble. As Wurynath said, there was only so
much that sahrotik could do against that sort of thing, and he had a feeling
that he’d be experiencing it all soon enough.
Amarl wasn’t afraid of fighting someone stronger than him. He did it
almost daily, in fact, every time he trained with Ranakar. The old awal,
though, wasn’t really trying to kill or even hurt him. He held back and
carefully controlled himself. As far as Amarl knew, the man never even
used his ability on Amarl, whatever that ability might be. The students
wouldn’t have that sort of restraint. Even the ones who didn’t hate him
probably didn’t have enough control of their ability yet to use it carefully.
He was going to be hurt, and it was probably going to be bad. His heart
hammered in his chest; his palms felt slick and sweaty; his stomach
trembled and quivered, and it was all he could do to move calmly without
running or screaming as he walked over to the equipment desk and traded
the spear for a moon axe.
 As it had before on the beam, his ithtu responded to his growing panic,
its song rising in his thoughts, and he grabbed almost desperately at that
sound, hoping to drown out his pounding heart. The music swelled in his
thoughts, drowning out everything else, and he quieted it with a quick
effort, pushing it down and holding it to a more reasonable volume. He
pulled up a single melody, one that was low and deep, sliding everything
else into the background. Some of his rising panic receded as the
thrumming bass notes enfolded him, cradling his mind against fear and
anxiety. By the time he’d reached his friends, his thoughts were more or
less his own once more, but he could read the same fear he'd felt in their
eyes.
“Try channeling your ithtu,” he suggested in a quiet voice.
“What?” Meder asked waspishly, starting slightly at the sound of his
voice.
“Your ithtu. Try channeling it, or at least holding onto it. It might help
you relax.”
Burik’s expression tensed as his face took on a look of concentration for
several seconds. Held in the grip of his ithtu, Amarl could practically see
the power nestled within him, coiled deep inside the boy. That energy was
lazy and heavy, and it rose slowly to Burik’s command. Without thinking,
Amarl reached out to it and give it a push, rousing it from its slumber.
Burik’s expression grew startled as a large stream of the energy in him
suddenly rushed upward, flowing throughout the larger boy’s body and
washing over his mind. His expression cleared instantly, and Amarl could
see the nervousness slowly leaching out of him.
“It does help, yeah,” he finally nodded. “You should try it, Meder.”
Meder concentrated as well, and once more, Amarl could see the power
nestled inside her. It felt far more dormant than Burik’s, though, as if it
slumbered and didn’t want to be awakened. He watched her struggle to
pull at it for several seconds before reaching over mentally and prodding it
for her, as well. A streak of power darted up into her throat, and her eyes
grew wide and startled.
“Wh-what was that?” she asked in a low voice.
“What was what?” Burik asked.
 “My ithtu—I’ve never felt it like this before. It’s so powerful—and so
warm…”
“Like Dashe?” Amarl joked, grinning at the girl.
“None of your business,” she said a bit primly, tossing her head and
trying to look offended before giving him a sly smile. “Although, yes.
Very much like Dashe, actually.”
Burik laughed, and all the nearby novices jumped, looking almost
accusingly at the larger boy. Amarl could sense the fear welling up in them,
and he jutted his chin toward the students.
“We should tell them to hold their ithtu, as well,” he said quietly. “It
might make them less afraid, and that’ll help them think clearly in their
matches.”
“We’ll do it,” Burik agreed. “You’ve got a match to fight, remember?”
“Right. Ho-ho, or whatever his name is.” Amarl glanced at Meder.
“You know anything about him?”
“He has a speed power,” Burik replied. “I’ve seen him fight at Halit.
He’s impossible to hit.”
“I—might be able to work with that,” Amarl said thoughtfully. “I’ve
fought Ricia enough times to be used to dealing with someone fast.”
“He’s faster,” Burik shook his head. “A lot faster.”
“First round of combatants to your rings!” Wurynath’s voice rang out,
and Amarl sighed.
“So much for preparations. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” Meder smiled at him.
“You don’t need it,” Burik shook his head. “Just do your dance.”
“My dance?”
“Yes, remember? Your fight dance. Do your dance, and you’ll be
fine.”
“Like when you kept the rockleapers off me in Apirron,” Meder said
softly. “If you do that, I think you’ll win.”
 He nodded, then threaded his way through the other novices to the
central ring. As he approached, he reached into himself and almost absently
connected his strands of ithtu to his limbs and mind. There was no point to
missing out on skill training, after all. While he did, he looked his opponent
up and down. Worho was tall, nearly as tall as Burik, with thin, whipcord
muscles and deep olive skin. He wore his hair back in a long tail behind his
head, and now that Amarl was closer, he could clearly see the signs of
rouging on his cheeks, henna on his eyelids, and paint on his lips. The boy
eyed him with an open sneer as he approached.
“I’ve been looking forward to this, half-breed,” the boy said coldly. “I
hoped I’d have a chance to punish you for the way you embarrassed Nolla,
and the lies you spread about her.”
“Lies?” Amarl chuckled, shaking his head. “Not sure how the two of us
being caught naked in bed together by half the dormitory could be called
lying. I’m sure other people told you what they saw.”
“Gowen has a mental manipulation power,” the boy said quickly.
“They repeated what he wanted them to.”
“Ah. And let me guess: you still think that Nolla’s a virgin, and that
she’s saving herself for you if you just defend her honor?” Amarl laughed
openly. “She’s no more a virgin than I’m a nalu, Worho. Less, really,
because I’m at least half nalu, and she’s definitely not half a virgin. She’s
using you, nothing more.”
“How dare you?” the boy snarled. “Spreading more lies about her?”
“What would it take to convince you? Would you like me to describe
the shape of her nipples?” Amarl asked innocently. “Or tell you about the
cute little mole she’s got on her left buttock? How about I tell you the
noises she makes when she gets really excited—those fake moans she gives
you when she lets you pet her aren’t nearly as good as the real thing. Would
that do it?”
“Bastard!” the boy roared, taking a step forward and lifting the three-
bladed spear in his hand menacingly.
“Restrain yourself, Student!” the nadar snapped. “Or I’ll disqualify you
before we start and award him the full five points!” The white-garbed man
snapped his gaze to Amarl. “And you! I think you’ve said enough. Be
silent.”
Amarl nodded and silently cursed his flippant tongue. Before, Worho
wanted to humble Amarl, mostly to impress Nolla. Now, though, he
obviously wanted to hurt the hizeen. He seethed openly, his jaw clenched
and his face purple. He held his weapon ready, obviously intending to run
Amarl through with it the first chance he got. Once again, his sarcasm had
made a bad situation worse, and once again, Amarl was likely to pay for
that mistake with pain.
“Take your places!” the nadar instructed, and Amarl stepped up to the
line marking his starting point. “Remember, the match continues until one
of you is incapacitated or I call it. Drawing first blood means nothing. Use
whatever abilities and skills you have as much as you’d like. Obey all my
commands—and for the love of the Empire, let’s not get the malim
involved in this. None of us want that.” He looked at Worho. “Ready?”
The boy nodded, and the nadar looked at Amarl. “Ready?”
Amarl wasn’t remotely ready, of course. He’d fought people with a
speed power before, and he always lost to them. His Nameless Form was
good, but it relied on speed and mobility, and he simply couldn’t keep up
with an empowered student. He couldn’t be faster than Worho—but he had
one form that didn’t need him to be. He wasn’t an expert with Drunken
Form by any means, but it was probably the closest thing he had to a
possible defense. Decided, he nodded at the nadar, who stepped back and
whipped his hand down.
“Fight!”
The moment the instructor’s hand lifted, Amarl let his body go lax and
loose. He slid his feet apart and relaxed his stance, letting his weight
balance almost precariously on the center of his feet. His body swayed
slightly as he loosened his core, barely keeping himself erect. As the man’s
hand snapped down, Worho charged forward, his spear blurring as he swept
it low at Amarl’s legs. Apparently, he meant to cripple Amarl quickly and
end the fight in a painful and humiliating fashion. As fast as it moved, the
blow could easily have shattered his knee, sahrotik or no, and damaged
joints healed far more slowly than most bones even with elixirs to help.
 The blade slammed into his leg, but as it struck, he allowed it to lift his
leg and sweep it sideways, rolling his whole body with the blow. It still
ached a bit, even through his armor, but he ignored the dull throb and spun
with the strike, swaying as he moved. The boy’s following thrust still
caught his shoulder, but he let it push him backward, leaning back and
sliding his feet to keep his weight balanced. Worho shifted and slashed at
his side, aiming for his back, but he leaned forward, and the blade skidded
along his armor harmlessly.
Worho pushed forward with a snarl, striking furiously, and Amarl let
him. Rather than blocking or dodging the blows, he accepted them, using
their energy to move his body out of the way. They still hit and hurt a bit,
but each strike felt like little more than a weak punch, and none of them did
any real damage. He twisted past cuts at his stomach, rode slashes at his
feet and legs, and spun with thrusts to his body. He moved like a feather
being blown on the breeze, never offering enough resistance to be wounded.
As he fought, his ithtu swelled in his mind, and with it came the image
he’d had when he’d first combined Mountain Form with his Nameless
Form. Then, he’d imagined himself as a mountain, with Nameless Form
the wind screaming around it and Drunken Form a river splashing down its
sides. As he fought, riding the edges of Worho’s empowered strikes and
letting them push him as they would, he realized that image was wrong.
Drunken Form was the mist shrouding the mountain, hiding its flaws and
weaknesses. So far, he’d been letting Worho push him around, being the
mist without being the mountain.
“Sometimes, to control the flood, you have to let yourself ride with it,”
he thought, recalling Ranakar’s words when he’d first taught the boy about
Drunken Form. What the old man hadn’t said was that eventually, that ride
had to end, and Amarl had to control where and how it did. That was where
the two forms met: where the raging flood crashed pointlessly against the
mountain.
As power flowed into his body with his ithtu, he settled into a more
solid stance. It was time to see if the mist could actually shield the
mountain.
Worho struck again, this time far more coldly and efficiently, and Amarl
let his body flow with the attack without thought. Worho, he realized,
moved quickly, but his actual strikes weren’t all that much faster than
Amarl’s. His body seemed supernaturally lithe and limber, letting him
strike from odd angles and recover quickly from missed blows, but his
attacks only moved about as swiftly as Ranakar’s when Amarl sparred with
the old man—except that Worho wasn’t nearly as good as Ranakar.
The boy struck with a low feint that turned into a slash at Amarl’s head,
followed by a strike with the spear’s haft at Amarl’s knee. Amarl saw the
feint in the boy’s eyes and ignored it. As the slash flew at his head, he
moved with it, keeping his feet still but leaning his body just enough to slap
the blow aside with his axe. His weapon spun and caught the following haft
strike, guiding it into his armored ribs. The blow ached a bit, but it wasn’t
anything Amarl couldn’t ignore after all his training and sparring.
As Worho attacked, Amarl fell into his new form. The more he used it,
the more he understood it. Mountain Form was all about immobility and
endurance; Drunken Form focused on fluidity and lightness of body. The
two seemed wholly incompatible, and in their purest forms, they were.
What he used, though, was an amalgam of them. It reminded him a bit of
crafting; he took the base material and removed the dross, the impurities,
the flaws in the stones and metal that would ruin his final result. What was
left only loosely resembled the original, but it was far more useful and
much more beautiful. Instead of a mountain, he envisioned a great tree,
rooted in place but swaying in the storm of his attacker’s fury. Drunken
Form was the leaves surrounding that tree, obscuring it and blunting the
force of the wind, shielding the trunk and guiding attacks into places that
were strong or unimportant. And his weapon—that was the branches,
hidden in the leaves, waiting for a chance to lash out and strike an attacker.
As he fought, though, he wondered if he’d ever get that chance. That
was the weakness of both Drunken and Mountain Forms: they didn’t offer
many methods of attack, and most of those were weak, glancing blows that
relied on surprise to hit a vital spot. He might get lucky, but doing so might
give Worho an opening that would let him finish Amarl off. He wanted to
attack, to lash out, but Worho was simply too fast, and it took all of Amarl’s
skill and focus to fend him off. Even as he considered that, the spear
slashed across his face, making his helmet ring with the blow, then slashed
down his chest. Neither blow was dangerous thanks to his armor, but
without it, Amarl would be dead, and he knew it.
 With that knowledge, the song of his ithtu swelled in his mind, and he
unthinkingly embraced it, letting it crest in his thoughts. Even as he did,
though, he recalled his fight with Rotet, and an image of Worho’s battered,
bleeding body flashed in his thoughts along with a surge of panic. He
didn’t want the fight to end that way; while he wanted to make a statement
to the older students, it wasn’t that he’d try to kill them for fighting him.
He quickly pushed at the song with his thoughts, trying to suppress it, but it
fought against him, rising slowly in his mind and threatening to overwhelm
him. Desperately, he focused on a single part of it, the high-pitched tones
that sounded like reed flutes; if he couldn’t repress the whole song, at least
he could minimize most of it. As the thin, high notes soared in his mind,
the rest of the song settled into a dull murmur, receding into the
background, and he almost sighed in relief as he focused on those notes,
clinging to them desperately.
A loud clang almost jarred him from his thoughts, and he refocused on
the fight to see Worho’s spear pressed against the ground, trapped between
the crescents of his moon axe. Startled, he lifted the axe and stepped back,
the song in his head returning in force as the older boy retreated a few steps
as well, his expression surprised and confused. Amarl hadn’t deliberately
done that. In fact, he didn’t think he could do that, at least not to someone
as fast as Worho. The boy’s ability had to be wearing off, and Amarl’s
training reacted to an opening he’d been too busy fighting his own ithtu to
see.
Worho quickly proved that assumption false as he moved in again, his
movements swift and his blade streaking out like a bolt of metallic
lightning. Amarl’s ithtu surged in his mind once more, and even as he rode
the edge of that attack, letting it flow past him, he refocused on the high
notes of the flutes in his skull, forcing the rest of the song to descend into a
dull murmur. He retained his concentration on the fight this time, though,
sliding his axe up to guide the slash at his midsection into a high cut that he
swayed beneath. Worho’s following downward slash was much slower, and
Amarl leaned aside easily, deflecting it away from his body without letting
it touch him.
He couldn’t help but grin at the grim-faced boy. While Worho might
not have been out of ithtu entirely, he was running low enough that he was
starting to conserve it and use it for individual attacks. That put them on a
much more equal footing, and while Amarl would probably still lose to the
more experienced and skilled boy, it would be close enough to look good.
Worho continued to strike at him, surging forward with impressive speed,
but without the speed ability active, Amarl redirected the blows easily,
letting them slide around him and using their momentum to keep his foe
off-balance.
He rode the edge of those strikes, watching carefully as Worho thrust
and cut, keeping Amarl back with his extra reach and speed. At last, Amarl
saw an opening and moved in, leaning back and letting a high thrust pass
over him while sweeping low with his moon axe. Worho slid backward,
and Amarl’s blow missed his feet, but that shift let him seize some of the
momentum of the fight and move toward the boy, shifting more fully into
his Nameless style. He slashed and cut at Worho, whipping his axe around
and doing his best to keep the boy off-balance. The older boy retreated,
trying to regain the distance he needed to fight effectively, but Amarl
followed him. He thrust and chopped, swept low kicks at the boy’s feet and
knees, and never gave Worho a chance to recover. The piercing notes of his
ithtu twittered cleanly in his mind as he struck, and he saw a tiny hint of
panic on Worho’s face as Amarl continued to press the boy, his axe shifting
and moving faster than his longer spear could keep up.
He almost stumbled as the boy slid the spear backward, choking up on
it and letting his axe blade slip past. Worho stepped forward, holding the
shaft a mere two spans below the blade, and thrust at Amarl’s chest. He
managed to shift into Drunken Form and leaned back, letting the blow push
him backward, but the boy spun quickly, sweeping the long shaft jutting
behind him against Amarl’s legs and knocking them out from under him.
He controlled the fall, landing well on his back, and tried to roll to the side,
but the boy thrust his spear downward, slamming the point into the hizeen’s
chest brutally. The weapon pierced his armor, and pain lanced through him
as it slid a finger-width into his flesh.
“Hooooold…” Amarl blinked in surprise as the command rolled
sonorously out of the nadar’s lips, and he glanced sideways to see the man
moving slowly toward him. Worho quickly lifted his spear and stepped
back, his movements equally slow and awkward and his face troubled.
Amarl rolled backward and came to his feet, and as he did, the thin song of
his ithtu sank back into him, receding into the depths to join the rest of the
symphony in the background.
The world seemed to shift into normal speed as his ithtu quieted, and
the nadar strode swiftly between the pair, lifting his left hand. “Worho wins
with a fatal thrust to the chest,” he proclaimed. “Worho, three points.
Amarl, four points.” A few scattered cheers and a smattering of applause
rose at his words, and Amarl looked around to see most of the students who
weren’t fighting gathered around the ring, wearing expressions that ranged
from surprise to concern and even anger. “Bow to one another, then clear
the circle.”
Amarl bowed to Worho, who haltingly did the same. As the boy
bowed, Amarl noticed Worho’s legs trembling slightly. He really had been
low on ithtu, after all. Amarl had lost, but he’d made it a good enough
showing for everyone to realize that he wasn’t easy meat. Worho spun,
wobbling slightly as he did, and stalked away. Amarl just shrugged and
strode past the fights to where Meder still stood. She gave him a wide-eyed
look as he approached, then grabbed his arm and pulled him back, away
from the other students.
“Amarl, how did you do that?” she asked him in a low whisper.
“Do what?” he chuckled. “Lose the fight? It was easy, Meder.
Worho’s better than me.”
“No, not that—although I think he just got lucky and surprised you.”
She stepped closer to him. “How were you keeping up with him?”
“I wasn’t, at least, not at first. All I could do was take the hits on my
armor.” He shrugged. “Once his ability ran out of power, though, it was
easy.”
The girl shook her head slowly. “He didn’t run out of power, Amarl. At
least, not until the very end. He was using his ability the whole time—and
you were moving just as fast as he was. Faster, there at the end. How did
you do that?”
Amarl blinked in surprise, then frowned. The nadar’s slowness at the
end of the match suddenly made sense to him; he thought he’d imagined it.
“It had to be my ability,” he finally answered.
 “Of course, it was your ability, ass,” she sighed, rolling her eyes.
“Usually, though, when you use your ability, you kind of become—more.”
“More?” he laughed.
“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s as if there’s more of you, or you’re
more present somehow. Like your existence has been magnified all out of
proportion. Everything about you just expands.” She shook her head
again. “Whatever the case, it didn’t feel like that this time. You were just
faster. It’s like you only used part of your ability somehow.”
“I was using Tekasoka’s technique,” he answered slowly, remembering
the fight. “My ithtu wanted to take me over the way it usually does, but I
didn’t want it to. I didn’t want Worho to end up the way Rotet did.”
“Good call,” the girl shuddered. “That might not have gone over well.”
“Agreed. Worho’s an ass, but I don’t think he deserves to die for it.”
“That’s good because if being an ass was a death sentence, you’d have
been gone a long time ago.” She flashed him a weak grin. “So, what did
you do? You said you used what Tekasoka’s been teaching you…”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “I focused on one part of the song—the flutes, in
this case—and made the rest go away. It makes it much easier to control.”
“And made you faster,” she said with a sharp gasp. “Amarl, can you do
it again?”
“What?”
“Can you focus on the flutes in your song and suppress the rest? Right
now?”
“I suppose,” he shrugged, turning his thoughts inward. The song of his
ithtu was quiet in his mind, but he could still hear it. He focused on the
shrill twittering of the flutes, and they grew slightly louder while everything
else faded to near-silence.
“Done—hey!” He leaned back as Meder’s staff swept through the air
where his head had just been. “What was that for?”
“It didn’t work,” she sighed, setting the staff back on the ground, her
eyes turning thoughtful. “Or maybe it did, but since you weren’t in combat,
the change wasn’t enough to notice. You’re pretty fast naturally.”
 He frowned, then his eyes widened. “You think…?”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “I think that concentrating on your flutes made
you move faster. If that’s the case, then maybe…”
“Sirin challenges Meder!”
The girl jumped slightly as the call echoed through the room, then set
her shoulders and lifted her staff. “We’ll talk later, but for now, if you get
challenged again, do the same thing. Focus on your flutes. Let’s see if it
makes you faster.”
As the girl strode away, Amarl considered what she’d said. It was
possible that she was wrong, he realized. His ithtu might have acted with
restraint simply because he was trying to restrain it, giving him only what
he needed to stay in the fight with Worho. The actual tone he chose might
not have meant anything. Of course, she might also be right, and if she
was…
He grinned as he began to walk over to watch her match. If she was
right, today might not be so bad after all.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 37
All things considered, he decided he’d gotten lucky facing Worho the
first round. The rest of the first round of challenges was frankly brutal.
There was simply no other way to put it. None of the fourth-years held
back in their fights that he could tell, and it showed. Students soared bodily
out of the rings, crashing nervelessly to the hard floor beyond. One girl
screamed as flames wrapped her body; a boy shivered and shook as frost
sheathed his skin. Students cradled bleeding stomachs or shattered limbs;
one sobbed quietly in the corner, clutching his head and rocking back and
forth in the aftermath of whatever mental power his opponent used on him.
Amrir had challenged Burik, and she hadn’t been too rough on him, but
she’d still broken the boy’s arm and three ribs by making her spear shoot to
twice its length in an instant. Sirin, it turned out, had an ability that left
Meder’s weapons, armor, and body all weakened, and while Meder
managed to scorch the older girl with some sahr-generated lightning, Sirin
finished the match with a contemptuous kick that shattered Meder’s lower
leg. He judged that at least half of the students wouldn’t be able to fight
again without some form of healing, while two or three were probably too
injured to keep going without spending some time in the infirmary.
Those, Amarl decided, were the lucky ones, and part of him wished that
he’d let Worho put him out. It was too late for that now, though, and Amarl
wasn’t one of the ones wounded so badly he needed time to heal.
“Naros challenges Amarl!”
Amarl sighed and rose to his feet from where he sat with his friends.
Burik’s arm was almost healed already, although Meder’s leg needed quite a
bit longer, but none of them had felt like standing around watching the
fights. Part of him knew it would have been a good idea to see what the
older students could do before facing them, but he supposed that it wouldn’t
really matter. Knowing that it was an axe instead of a sword headed for his
throat didn’t help if he couldn’t stop the blade from cutting him, after all.
“Good luck, Amarl,” Burik told him a little bleakly.
“Remember the flutes,” Meder gritted, wincing as the bones in her leg
shifted as the sahr elixir healed them.
 “The flutes?” Burik asked.
“It doesn’t matter. Go do your best, Amarl.”
The hizeen trudged over to the ring he’d been summoned to. His ithtu
sang quietly and softly in his mind, and he quickly tuned out everything but
the high, clear flute notes trilling in his thoughts. He didn’t feel any
different, and the world didn’t slow down around him the way it had before;
he wondered if maybe Meder was wrong, and it had just been a
coincidence. Lost in his internal thoughts, he barely even noticed as he
reached the ring and saw an average-sized boy waiting for him there. Naros
had dark brown skin and long, flowing black hair pulled into a tight braid
that ran down his back. His face was long and narrow, with a sharply
pointed chin. He also stood wearing nothing but hardened leather armor
strapped to his arms and legs, leaving his chest bare, and carried no weapon
that Amarl could see.
As Amarl stepped to his line, the tall boy gave him a thin-lipped smile.
“I’ve been looking forward to this all year, half-breed,” he purred,
flexing and opening his fists somewhat ominously. “The malims can’t
protect you now! Are you ready for pain?”
“I asked your mother the same thing before I bent her over yesterday.”
In his distracted state, he barely heard the words flowing from his mouth,
and they slipped out before he had a chance to stop them. “She said she
couldn’t wait for it.”
“What the fuck did you say?” the older boy hissed, taking a step
forward and clenching his fists as his face quickly purpled.
“What? She’s the one who wanted to take it that way,” Amarl said with
a grin. He’d already pissed the boy off. A little more probably wouldn’t
hurt. At least, not much. “She said it’s the only way she can feel it when
your father does it.”
“You disgusting, filthy half-breed!” the older boy roared, taking another
step toward Amarl. He spread his arms, and power flowed over his chest
and down to his hands. The energy thickened and darkened over his bare
skin, hardening into a sheet of glossy obsidian, while two short blades of
the same material grew like crystals from his fists. “I’ll kill you for that!”
 “Step back, Student!” the nadar snapped. “Control yourself, and turn
those into blunt weapons! Now!” Naros paused, then stepped back, his
twin blades crackling as they shifted into gray stone cudgels. The
instructor’s angry gaze snapped over to Amarl. “And control your tongue,
Novice!”
Amarl’s tongue almost betrayed him once more as the song of his ithtu
surged inside him, forcing him to fight to keep everything but those high,
clear notes suppressed. He managed to clamp his jaw shut without letting
his control slip, but the damage was done. Once again, Amarl had goaded
his opponent into a rage. Naros wouldn’t hold back, and Amarl realized
he’d be lucky to simply end up in the infirmary afterward.
He barely heard the nadar’s instructions as she spoke, lost in his rising
fear and the swelling song of his ithtu. It fought to break free of his control,
and it took most of his concentration just to restrain it. He nodded absently
when the nadar spoke his name, hoping that she’d asked him if he was
ready. He wasn’t, of course. He didn’t think there was any way to be ready
for what he suspected was about to happen, but he also knew that there was
no point to refusing to fight. He had to trust that the nadar would intervene
if things got out of hand—no, he corrected silently, when they got out of
hand. Things were about to become the very definition of “out of hand.”
“Fight!”
The word had barely left the nadar’s mouth before Naros moved. The
boy charged forward, his twin stone clubs gleaming as they lashed at Amarl,
one darting low while the other went high. Amarl moved without thought,
slipping into his altered Drunken Form, his moon axe spinning as it parried
the knee strike with a loud clang. He ducked low, slipping beneath the
higher blow, then staggered backward as something slammed into his chest,
knocking him sprawling. He rolled with the fall and came to his feet, his
weapon moving to slap aside the cudgel soaring toward his skull. He
reversed the spin and knocked the second blow free, but once more,
something crashed into him, this time catching him in the chin and snapping
his head back. He stumbled back, then curled up as a stone cudgel
slammed into his stomach, knocking the wind from him and dropping him
to a knee.
 “Not so arrogant anymore, are you, half-breed?” Naros snarled. “That’s
just the beginning. I’m going to break every damn bone in your body…”
The older boy leaped backward as Amarl’s axe spun low, slashing at his
ankles, and Amarl rose to follow him. His weapon slashed and chopped,
ringing as Naros parried his blows with his clubs. He feinted a high thrust,
drawing the boy’s guard up, then reversed and cut low. The axe blades
soared toward the student’s ankles—then clanged as they struck a layer of
obsidian that wrapped around Naros’ leg, shielding him from the blow.
Amarl was already moving into the next attack, a cut at Naros’ arm, but the
boy simply accepted the blow, letting the steel ring harmlessly off the band
of obsidian that formed over his limb. Another blow clanged off the older
boy’s thigh, and the following thrust to his face slid off the glassy mask of
volcanic glass that swirled before his eyes, shielding them from his blows.
Amarl reeled as something hard cracked into his forehead, knocking
him backward and dazing him for a moment. Pain flared in his left arm as a
cudgel cracked into it, then again in the back of his right knee as the other
club slammed into his leg, bringing him to that knee. The first cudgel rose
up high, and Amarl’s eyes widened as he saw it flatten and shift from a
blunt stick of stone into a shimmering blade. The blade leaped forward,
propelled toward Amarl’s throat with lethal intent.
The song of his ithtu roared in his thoughts, the merry flutes shifting
into a shrill, piercing cry that shivered his body. Energy surged through
him, filling his limbs, and the descending blade seemed to slow in its deadly
plunge as if moving through thick honey. Anger erupted in him with that
song; Naros really was trying to kill him, and the nadar hadn’t reacted in the
slightest. Did they want Amarl dead? Or did they just not care? Fury raced
through him, and the flutes sounding in his mind rose to a trilling
crescendo. The blade moving toward his throat slowed to a near-crawl, and
the pain in his arm, stomach, and leg dimmed to a dull sensation he could
easily ignore.
He burst up from the floor, his axe whistling loudly as it spun into the
descending blade. It struck with a clang, knocking the stone weapons
sideways, and he spun with it, bringing the axe blades around to crash into
the other boy’s stomach. The blade chimed as it struck the obsidian there
and rebounded, knocking a chip flying and sending the older boy backward
in a staggering half-step. Naros’ body shifted as if moving to attack, but it
moved with ponderous sluggishness, as if the boy were drunk or exhausted,
and Amarl slipped into his next strike before the student could react. The
crescent blades whipped around at the back of the boy’s leg and sang as
obsidian burst into being to intercept them, knocking his leg forward. The
axe spun into his stomach, tearing loose another chip of black stone.
Amarl whirled and slashed, striking at the boy’s legs and arms. Black
glass formed to block each blow, but chips flew with every strike, and the
force of the blows knocked the boy around, staggering him and keeping him
off-balance. A bulge rose in the center of the boy’s stone armor, quickly
forming into a razorlike shard of obsidian that leaped forward, moving
steadily toward Amarl’s face, which explained the blows that had hit him
out of nowhere. The hizeen spun and ducked below the swift projectile. He
cut low again, whipping his weapon out with brutal force—and the axe
blade struck with a loud crack as it cut through the obsidian armor of the
boy’s ankle. Amarl felt a tinge of resistance as the axe’s sahrotik tried to
restrain it, but the terrible momentum of the attack pushed through that
barrier and sank the blade deep. A second crack echoed dully through the
weapon as the blade cut into and through bone before dragging to a halt
more than halfway through the boy’s leg.
Naros screamed and collapsed as blood burst from the side of his half-
severed ankle. The foot folded with a sickening crack beneath him, and he
fell hard to the ground, dropping his weapons and gripping the horrific
wound. Amarl staggered backwards at the sight of the ankle flopping
around, lowering his weapon as his rage suddenly shifted into horror. The
song of his ithtu stuttered and faded, and as it did, the world suddenly
surged back to normal speed around him. A shimmering field of force
appeared before him and pushed into him, firmly and insistently shoving
him backward as the nadar leaped forward, dropping to a knee and
crouching beside the boy, holding a metal vial in their hands.
“Drink, Naros!” the woman said harshly, bringing the vial close to the
boy’s lips. “Now!” When the older student didn’t respond, she reached
down and pressed a thumb into the boy’s throat. Naros’ screams quieted
instantly as she cut off the blood flow to his brain. The boy’s body relaxed,
and the nadar began pouring the elixir down his unconscious throat.
“Hold, Novice Amarl!” Amarl straightened to attention at the sound of
Wurynath’s voice, and he did his best not to look as the short malim strode
over to face him, his face grim as he took in the bloody scene. “Tell me
what happened here.”
“It was an accident, sir,” Amarl said earnestly. “I didn’t know that…”
“Was it now?” the malim cut the boy off. “Or did you taunt Student
Naros into a state of fury hoping that he’d give you the chance to do
something like this?”
“I—no, sir. Nothing like that. I admit that I taunted him when he
threatened me, but it wasn’t for any specific purpose.”
“Too bad. It seems to be an effective strategy.” The malim looked over
at the crouched nadar. “Any irregularities, Nishepa?”
“No,” she shook her head. “Student Naros did lose control, though.
Turned his cudgel into a blade. That was when Novice Amarl’s ability
activated. It looked like the novice didn’t realize that all that extra speed
translates into extra power in each blow, as well.”
Wurynath nodded. “Novice Amarl gets the win, then. Points?”
“Two for Naros. He spent too much time taunting his opponent when
he should have just taken him out early. Four for Amarl. He won, but he
waited too long to use his ability.”
“That sounds fair. How bad is the injury?”
“Not a complete amputation. He’ll be out for the day, but he’s not in
any real danger.”
“Move him off to the side, then. We’ll send him to the infirmary at the
end of the day. Oh, and assign him disciplinary duty when he recovers.”
The malim turned back to Amarl. “A good fight, Novice. Go rest and grab
an elixir. I’m sure you’ll be called up again soon.”
Amarl turned and walked away, ignoring the glares from most of the
older students on his back. The younger ones looked at him with mixtures
of curiosity, dislike, and faint respect, but he ignored all those as well. Only
Burik’s face showed actual glee at his win, and the larger boy clapped him
on the shoulder as he approached.
“Nice fight!” he exclaimed.
“Thanks,” Amarl nodded, walking back with his friend toward where
Meder still sat, favoring her injured leg.
 “How did it go?” she asked as he approached, looking him up and
down. “You don’t seem to be too hurt.”
“I’m not. Bruises on my chin, leg, arm, and stomach, that’s all.”
“And he nearly severed Naros’ foot in the process,” Burik said evilly.
“You what, Amarl?”
“It was an accident,” Amarl shrugged. “I misjudged how hard I hit
him.”
“He deserved it, Meder,” Burik shook his head. “From what the nadar
said, he made a serious effort to kill Amarl.” He looked at the smaller boy.
“What did you say to him at the beginning to get him that mad, by the
way?”
“I made fun of his mother. I guess he didn’t appreciate it.”
“No one ever appreciates that, Amarl,” Meder said wryly. “In case you
were wondering.”
“Kind of the point, Meder,” he grinned tiredly as he sat down beside
her. “I didn’t say it hoping Naros and I could be friends. Once someone
calls me half-breed, I know that’s not an option.”
“I could see that,” she sighed. “He and Nihos were friends, you know.”
“I had no idea, no.”
“They were. He’s made veiled suggestions that it was your fault Nihos
died to anyone who’ll listen, which is a lot more people than you might
think. He’s come up with some story that the malims were helping you on
the hunt, Nihos found out, and they killed him for it.”
Amarl snorted. “That’s absurd on the face of it. The malims don’t help
anyone.”
“Not as absurd as it could be. You do get private lessons with Ranakar
and Tekasoka, after all, so you don’t have to do the classes with Rateso like
everyone else. Plus, you’ve got duty with the Rashiv on Akios, which is
usually something that only senior students get.”
“We get the same lessons with Ranakar, though,” Burik pointed out.
“And we’re his friends, aren’t we?”
 “That ‘special treatment’ also puts my life in danger a hell of a lot more
often than it does theirs,” he said a little hotly. “You know how many times
my being ‘special’ has nearly gotten me killed, Meder! The way it draws
danger and death to me whether I like it or not! The way it’s almost gotten
both of you killed in the process three times that I know if!”
“Yes, I know all that, Amarl. They don’t, though. No one tells them
about those things. They just see what they want to see.” She shook her
head. “I’m not saying that it’s right, Amarl. It’s not. But you need to
understand why people might think that about you.”
“Why? They can believe what they want. I don’t much care.”
“You should care because it makes them target you, the way Naros has.
It makes it easier for people like Nolla and Gowen to convince other people
you don’t belong.”
“What can he do about it, though?” Burik asked. “He can’t exactly
refuse the treatment the awals or Rashiv gine him, Meder. As my mother
says, ‘Don’t waste soldiers on a battle you’ll never win. Save them for the
ones you can.’”
“Maybe if he got to know some of them and let them get to know him,
it wouldn’t be so easy for them to believe the worst,” Meder countered.
“With his Presence and skills, getting people to like him should be easy.
What does your mother say about picking battles that you have a chance to
win?”
“Only a fool fights on another commander’s battleground,” Burik
sighed. “She’s got a point, Amarl.”
Amarl wanted to argue, but he was too tired. Besides, he thought that
Meder might just be right. He didn’t exactly reach out to others, especially
older students. He’d learned that lesson in Tem. Reaching out just gave
people a chance to reject him. However, this wasn’t Tem—and he wasn’t
that scared, angry orphan anymore. At least, he hoped he wasn’t.
“You might be right,” he sighed. “I probably should try to make more
connections with people.”
“Ones that don’t involve beds, haystacks, or lonely forests,” she
clarified.
 “Right. No fun ones.” He flashed her a tired grin. “But it’s too late to
do that today. Besides, I thought you’d want to hear how your suggestion
went.”
“The flutes?” she asked hopefully.
“What the hells are the flutes?” Burik demanded.
“The ones in the song of my ithtu. Meder suggested I concentrate on
them to see if it makes me faster.” His smile widened. “It worked. When
Naros tried to kill me, everything slowed way down, and fighting him
became pretty simple.”
“That’s amazing,” Meder said after a brief pause, obviously accepting
his attempt to change the subject. “I wonder if the other instruments have
similar effects? Maybe one of them boosts your strength, for example,
while another makes you harder to hurt.” She frowned. “I also wonder if
they work for your mental stats. Can you try them and see?”
“I can, but I don’t know if it’ll work. The speed boost didn’t come until
I was in real danger from Naros. I think I have to wait for my ithtu to react
on its own before I can recreate the speed effect.”
“Well, then it’s simple, isn’t it?” Burik laughed, clapping Amarl on the
back hard enough to hurt a little. “You just have to practice it during the
fights today, is all. I’m sure plenty of other people will try to kill you
before it’s over.”
“Gee, that’s comforting, Burik,” Amarl said drily.
“He’s probably right, though,” Meder grimaced, rubbing her still-
healing leg. “You’ll have lots and lots of chances to practice today, Amarl.
People like Naros will make sure of that.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 38
The hours flowed past in a haze of pain, combat, and misery. Amarl
was the first one challenged each round, and most of those rounds, the
student he faced seemed eager to put him out of the matches for good.
He’d learned quickly to end the matches as swiftly as possible to give
himself as much time to rest as he could while the other novices fought, but
that haste meant that he suffered more injuries and used up his ithtu faster.
His body throbbed from a host of tiny fractures that sahr elixirs weren’t
quite healing anymore; his muscles ached and burned; his head pounded
from the amount of ithtu he’d expended; exhaustion tugged at his mind and
made his thoughts sluggish. And he was one of the lucky ones.
He watched impassively as a novice girl named Vatna fought a fourth-
year girl named Sirin. Vatna had quickened an ability that let her reflect her
attacker’s blows back on them, and she’d used that to great effectiveness so
far. Sadly, Sirin’s ability was a hard counter for that, weakening her
opponent’s defenses and armor so she didn’t have to strike hard to do
damage. Vatna bled from a half-dozen slashes to her arms, legs, and face,
and as Amarl watched, Sirin’s blade leaped forward, dancing past Vatna’s
block and plunging into her stomach despite the sahrotik that should have
prevented that. Sirin twisted the blade as Vatna screamed in pain, then
stepped back, letting the girl collapse into a writhing heap on the ground.
“Sirin wins with a disabling cut to the stomach!” the nadar proclaimed,
lifting his left hand high. “Four points for Sirin; three points for Vatna.”
He stepped back as two more nadars grabbed the fallen girl, placed her
gently on a stretcher, and carried her out of sight. Amarl knew she’d be
getting a dose of sahr elixirs before being brought to the infirmary by the
waiting medical wagon. A cut to the intestines would quickly fester if not
treated, and sahr elixirs alone wouldn’t stop that. She wasn’t the first to be
carried out that way; she wouldn’t be the last, he guessed.
Norag had been the first of his group to be carted off to the infirmary
when Dyfen’s ability to vastly magnify the impact of her strikes crumpled
his helmet and cracked his skull. Six more of the novices had been dragged
out to be healed when their injuries were too severe for sahr to fix them—
seven with Vatna, he amended. Three of those left covered with burns; one
had a leg severed at the knee that would have to be regrown; the last had
her ribcage crushed when Tukos hit her far harder than he probably meant
to. At least, Amarl hoped that was the case, but he couldn’t be sure. Too
many of the fourth-years seemed to take odd satisfaction in humbling the
younger students, and Tukos had always had a mean streak.
Of course, those were just the novices wounded so badly they needed
urgent healing, not the only ones badly injured. Twenty-seven novices
started the day. With Vatna’s loss, only six were still able to fight. The
other fourteen sat or lay around, nursing injuries too severe to let them
continue but not bad enough to require immediate healing. Burik was one
of those; a student named Riryn used some sort of mental control to
paralyze his body, then shattered both his knees before the novice could
break free. Hadur was down as well; he’d lasted for a bit but ended up
losing his right hand at the wrist to a girl named Dewla who could empower
her sword with ithtu, overpowering the sahrotik protections.
About the only upside to the day was that the novices weren’t the only
ones to suffer injuries. The first three rounds or so eliminated the novices
without abilities or great fighting skills, but that meant the ones who
remained were dangerous in their own right. Two of the older students
ended up being carried out, and five more were too badly hurt to fight.
Amarl was responsible for two of those: Naros, whose foot was mostly
healed but not well enough to stand on it; and Riryn, the boy who’d
shattered Meder’s knees. Riryn tried to use his ability on Amarl, but the
hizeen’s ithtu quickly broke it, and the student had been too shocked to
defend himself from Amarl’s axe. The speed-boosted blow crushed the
boy’s ribcage and drove some of the bones into his lungs. Burik took out
another before he was hurt, Robla’s friend Howik who had a skill-boosting
ability like Herel’s that wasn’t quite good enough to protect him when
Burik’s ability activated.
He supposed there was another upside to the day: he’d gotten a few
definite gains from it. His Drunken and Nameless forms both gained a
rank, no doubt from him working out how to combine them. Ithtu
Channeling had, as well, which he guessed came from partially restraining
his ithtu while it wanted to overwhelm him. Probably more importantly, his
Soul stat went up another tenth, bringing it to an even 10. That no doubt
made his abilities a little more powerful, but according to his ithtu status, it
also opened up a spot for him to quicken a third crystal if he wanted.
More importantly, he’d learned a bit about his ithtu in all that misery.
He’d tried Meder’s idea of focusing on different instruments in the song of
his ithtu for a couple battles without any real success before Burik offered
another suggestion. Taking the larger boy’s advice, during his next battle, a
match against the same Dewla who’d taken Hadur’s hand, he let his ithtu
flow as it would rather than restraining it. Instead, he focused on how the
various instruments played, fighting defensively to drag the match out so he
could listen to his music with a critical ear. He won that match and lost the
next, but he gained a sense of which instruments played with more vigor
when his ithtu empowered him. The flutes, as he knew, trilled impressively
when his ithtu accelerated his body. The brassy horns blew a fanfare
whenever power rolled down his arms, strengthening his blows. Strings
thrummed in his thoughts as his movements smoothed out and grew fluid.
Pounding drums beat a rhythm in his body when it absorbed blows.
Thanks to that knowledge, he’d won most of his remaining matches.
He used speed to dodge blasts of fire and lighting; he weathered
empowered blows by strengthening his skin; he smashed through his
opponents’ defenses with enhanced strength. Doing so had tapped his ithtu
deeply, though, leaving his tak drained below a third of its maximum.
Of course, he wasn’t about to let anyone else know about any of that,
not even Burik and Meder. Burik was grumpy that he’d been taken out so
early; Meder grew steadily angrier as the day passed despite managing to
hold her own. They wouldn’t want to hear that he’d managed to grow from
what they’d all went through, and he felt certain no one else did, either. He
doubted any of them wanted to hear a single positive thing about the day, in
fact—or probably the school in general at that point.
Amarl took a moment to look around at the other students who could
still fight. Herel was one of those; he hadn’t won much, but he’d managed
to keep from being too badly injured. The same was true of Meder, who’d
used her sahr skills to keep her opponents from putting her out completely.
Both looked as bad as Amarl felt, though, with ripped uniforms, shadows of
bruises that wouldn’t quite heal, and streaks of dried blood on their skin that
neither had bothered to clean off. Amarl assumed he didn’t look any better,
and he quite honestly didn’t care. He’d won enough of his matches to
almost make up for the points he’d lost hunting—13 so far instead of 15,
assuming he would have performed the same way he had last hunt—and he
hoped that he’d shown enough skill and presented enough of a threat that
the older students didn’t see him as an easy target anymore. That was about
all he wanted from the day, to be honest. Well, that and not being beaten
senseless each match, which was what he suspected many of the older
students hoped would happen. He was happy to disappoint them.
Once he’d unlocked the key to using his ithtu a little more effectively,
he’d faced a boy named Wefel who could create bursts and beams of light
that burned and blinded his foes. Amarl won that match by empowering his
Toughness stat, enduring the barrage of energy and closing quickly with the
boy. Wefel was a solid fighter with his hooked polearm, but his weapon
couldn’t get past Amarl’s empowered skin, and eventually, Amarl felled him
with an axe blade to the center of his back that the nadar ruled a crippling
blow. After that, he beat Dyfen, the girl who’d taken Hadur’s hand, by
dodging her attacks and eventually slashing her across the stomach swiftly
enough to cut through her armor and flesh, even with the sahrotik protecting
her. Amrir managed to defeat him by flinging a cloud of seeds at him that
she grew into a web of vines. He ripped through those with his empowered
strength, but they slowed him enough so that she managed to stab him in
the throat with her spear. He won three more matches after that, the one
against Riryn, another by choking out a boy named Tosaw who could drain
the force of a foe’s attacks and add it to his own strength and speed, and the
last by powering through Tukos’ strengthened skin and cutting the boy’s
thigh deeply.
Part of him knew that he’d gotten lucky so far. He’d mostly faced
people whose abilities he could handle by boosting his stats. While most of
his foes except Amrir and Tosaw seemed to have a personal problem with
him, he hadn’t faced someone like Robla, who he guessed would have
delighted in not only beating him but hurting him badly in the process
judging from the dark looks she gave him. Plus, his ability wasn’t all that
reliable, and only his training with Ranakar let him keep up with the older
students.
He also knew that despite what he’d learned about his ithtu, he’d only
scratched the surface of what it could do. He had no clue what the other
instruments in his symphony did. He couldn’t focus on more than one of
them at a time. He couldn’t shift smoothly between them, still needing a
couple seconds to go from one to the next. The individual aspects didn’t
feel as powerful as when he simply let his ithtu loose. He still didn’t know
how to draw his ithtu up without need. Plus, he had a feeling that the song
his orchestra played had something to do with the effects of his empowered
aspects. He knew he had a long, long way to go before he could say he’d
even come close to mastering his ability. Still, what he’d worked out was
enough to keep him alive and mostly healthy, and he called that a win.
“Any idea what time it is?” he asked tiredly, looking at Meder.
“An hour past when I stopped giving a shit,” she said a little bitterly, not
looking up at him.
“It must be after sunset,” Herel said quietly from beyond her, his voice
weary and lacking its usual animosity. “The air’s cooled off a bit in here, so
I think the sun’s gone down outside.”
“How long do you think this will go on?” Amarl asked, looking toward
the center ring where a female novice named Lache fought an older boy
named Kafwi. He could tell at a glance that she wasn’t going to win. As far
as he could tell, she had a combination speed and skill ability that made her
very fast and deadly with her twin curved swords. Kafwi, though, could
turn nearby stone into something very much like lava, and he’d surrounded
himself with a wall of it. It wasn’t as hot as real molten stone, at least not
according to Meder, but it was hot enough to burn the shit out of any novice
that touched it. Kafwi stood behind his barrier with a pair of pistols, firing
them at the girl and forcing her to dodge and twist to avoid the shots. Even
as Amarl watched, the girl tensed and leaped, trying to clear the barrier with
a look of desperation on her face. He winced as a slim pillar of lava shot up
from the wall and intercepted her, knocking her from the air and plastering
liquid rock all over her. She screamed as the lava seared her skin, falling to
the ground and writhing madly. The nadar stepped forward and held out a
hand that unleashed a spray of water, washing the stone away quickly and
cooling the girl’s skin, but Amarl doubted she’d be able to continue the rest
of the night. Just like that, another novice had fallen, and only five
remained.
“Who knows?” Herel replied after the whimpering girl was carried out
by a pair of fourth-years, shaking and shivering on the stretcher. “Maybe
they’re waiting until there are a certain number of us left.”
“Or until we’re all carried out of here,” Meder added sourly. “That
seems to be what they’re going for. They want to humble us all and make
sure we know how weak we are.”
Amarl gave the girl a sideways glance, feeling a thread of concern in his
gut as he did. Meder was usually the optimist of the group, especially when
it came to the school, but as the day progressed, her mood turned darker.
He could feel the anger coiled in her, hear it in the bitterness of her words,
and see it in the icy, flat expression on her face. It had gotten worse the
longer the day progressed, and he suspected that something about the day
had changed her. He wondered if it would be for the better or worse, and if
there was anything he could do about it. He couldn’t think of anything, so
he simply reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. She
looked up at him, her face startled for a moment, then gave him a weak
smile that he knew was fake. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he
could, a nadar’s voice called out.
“Dashe challenges Meder!”
He forced a grin on his face as he looked at her. “Sounds like your boy
toy’s calling you again, Meder.”
“He’s not my anything, thank you very much,” she snorted.
“Perhaps not, at least after you defeated him so easily last time,” Herel
noted slyly.
“If my beating him hurt his ego that badly, then he’s not worth my time
anyway,” she shrugged. “Besides, I caught him by surprise that time. He
didn’t know I could use sahr to sense him, or that it would negate his
illusory attacks. He’ll be ready this time, and I’m almost tapped.” She
sighed. “At least he’ll probably be gentle about it.”
“Gentle’s good,” Amarl agreed. “Of course, sometimes, hard and fast is
even better, you know.”
“No, I don’t, but I’ll take your word for it.” She gave him a wan smile,
then reached down and clasped his hand for a moment. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck,” he shook his head. “Go kick lover-boy’s ass,
then come back so we can get this over with.”
 “I’ll do my best. I’ll go talk to Burik, first. He’s been watching the
fights. Maybe he’ll have some ideas for me.” He watched as she trudged
wearily off, her shoulders slumped and her entire posture radiating defeat.
“We can’t keep this up.”
Amarl turned to look at Herel as the noble boy spoke, his voice quiet.
He was watching Meder walk away, as well, but instead of the usual
admiration and lust Amarl read on the boy’s face when he watched the girl,
he saw only weariness and frustration.
“We can’t,” he continued in the same low tone. “Meder’s losing her
ability to use sahr. I’m pretty much out of ithtu, and I’m sure everyone else
is the same way. Another round of this, and we’ll all be no better than
unquickened first-years.”
“You’re probably right,” Amarl agreed, not admitting that he still had a
bit under twenty units of ithtu left, probably more than Herel’s normal
maximum. “You think they care?”
“No. I know they don’t.” He sighed and laid his head back. “I just
wish I understood what the point of this is.”
“You don’t buy Wurynath’s bit about this prepping us for unbeatable
foes?” Amarl chuckled.
“No. At least, not anymore.” The boy’s mouth twisted into a grimace.
“Maybe at first, I did. I thought of it like a motivator. We’d all lose badly,
see how far we have to go, and work diligently to prepare for this Challenge
Week. For that, though, they only needed to have three, maybe four
rounds. By then, we’d all lost at least once, and we’d seen others being
crippled and carried out. I don’t know about you, but I was plenty
motivated by that point.”
“I’ve been motivated like that more or less since day one,” Amarl noted.
“Yes, I suppose you would be. This is what you have to look forward to
every Halit, isn’t it?” He sighed. “Still, this could have ended long ago and
gotten the message across. What do you think the point of keeping it going
is?”
“No clue,” Amarl admitted. “Although part of me wonders if it’s not
meant to help awaken some abilities. Put us in a day-long version of
Rateso’s class and see if anyone’s ithtu quickens their ability in the
process.”
“That’s possible, I supposed.” The noble winced at the mention of
Rateso’s class. “Although this isn’t quite that bad.”
“For you, maybe.” Amarl gestured at the older students. “A lot of them
would love to treat me the way Rateso’s treating you and Hadur right now.”
“Perhaps if you quit insulting their mothers and insinuating that you had
sex with them, they’d be less inclined to kill you, hizeen.”
“Meder said something similar,” Amarl chuckled. “You might both be
right. I’ll work on it.”
“I won’t hold my breath.”
The pair fell silent, and Amarl shifted until he could see Meder’s fight.
As the girl predicted, it didn’t go the way the first one had. Dashe’s ability
was insidious because not only could he create illusions, he could give them
a touch of solidity. His usual attack involved duplicating his wide-bladed
spear so his opponents didn’t know which attack to block, then making at
least one of them semi-solid so that if the opponent didn’t block, it would
hurt. Meder defeated that the last time by fighting with her eyes closed,
using her sahr to sense the dangerous spears and ignoring the others. This
time, the tall, handsome boy duplicated himself, and from how Meder
seemed unsure which of the duplicates was real, he’d given each a bit of
solidity to fool her senses. She managed to stay in for a couple minutes
before he stabbed her in the stomach hard enough to double her over, then
rested his spear on the side of her neck. The match ended, Meder got three
points, and she trudged back toward Amarl and Herel, looking angry and
dissatisfied.
Amarl opened his mouth to console her, but before he could speak, a
very familiar voice rang out, silencing the room instantly.
“Attention!”
Amarl scrambled to his feet, his training overcoming his body’s
exhaustion, and stood erect, his left hand over his chest. He gazed silently
at the center of the room, staring in mingled confusion and suspicion at the
familiar form that strode into view.
 “For those of you who don’t know, my name is Awal Ranakar,” the old
man said, looking imposing with glittering black armor over his dark awal
uniform and with a heavy sword belted at his waist. “I’m the awal in
charge of all special training, from your hunts to your end-of-year
challenges. That includes today and the Challenge Week you’ll face in six
moons.”
Amarl suddenly realized that he’d never actually known what
Ranakar’s duties in the school were. He’d assumed that like the other
awals, the old man oversaw a dormitory, but he’d been to each of the
schools multiple times in the service of the Rashiv, and Ranakar wasn’t in
charge of any of them.
“First, let me assure you that Challenge Week will not be like today,”
the man continued. “As the older students here can attest, today was much
harder. We pushed you to your limits and beyond, and most of you rose to
that challenge. As a reward, all second-years have their Akio duties waived
tomorrow. The fourth-years you faced will perform them in your stead.”
A few novices cheered weakly at that, but Meder simply snorted
contemptuously.
“As if any of us will be fit for duty tomorrow anyway,” she said
bitterly. “That’s not a reward; it’s a necessity.”
“One they didn’t have to acknowledge,” Herel shrugged. “They could
have forced us to fulfill those duties regardless.”
“And we would have done them poorly, so they would have needed to
be redone. It’s a shit reward.”
Amarl stayed silent, but the girl was right. There was no way he’d be
able to run up and down stairs all day tomorrow for the Rashiv. He’d be
lucky to get half as much done as usual, and without the time to heal, he
probably wouldn’t be in any shape for Shimio and the start of a new
quarter. Many of the other novices were hurt a lot worse; he doubted that
poor Lache, for example, would be fit for any sort of duty tomorrow as her
skin regrew over a large portion of her body.
“As well, each of you will be provided with an appropriate crystal as if
you’d participated in the hunt,” the old man continued, bringing another
snort from Meder.
 “However, while each of you fought hard, only a few of you managed
to last until almost the end of the challenge. Those who remain, come
forward when I call your name. Amarl. Herel. Lared. Meder. Mepil.”
The three novices rose tiredly and half-walked, half-staggered into the
center ring to stand before the awal. Lared, the muscular girl from a
military family who’d dallied briefly with Burik joined them, as did Mepil,
a dark-skinned boy with greenish eyes and curly black hair. Mepil, Amarl
recalled, had an ability to raise walls and shields out of stone, and he’d used
those effectively to disrupt his opponents and hold them back while he used
a longbow to take them out.
“Each of have done well today,” the awal told the group once they’d
gathered before him. “And you have only one more round to go. One more
fight, and you’re done.” Amarl expexted to hear Meder snort again, but the
girl remained silent. That was probably wise; making a contemptuous
sound right in front of Ranakar wouldn’t have been a good idea.
“This final round, though, there won’t be any challenges. Each of you
will face someone that I deem a worthy test of your skills and a challenge to
your ability. Endure, and you’ll receive an additional day of rest, a bonus
equal to double your normal stipend, and a high-density crystal of the
highest rank you can quicken.” He paused, his gaze lingering on Amarl
and, strangely, on Meder as he spoke.
“While endurance is valuable, however, winning is always the goal.
Win your match and do it well, and you’ll gain ten extra points toward
graduation, double the monetary reward, and a chance for a special reward
based on your performance. You’ll also gain my respect, which isn’t an
easy thing to earn and can have its own benefits that far outweigh any
physical rewards.”
Amarl actually felt a surge of eagerness at that. He didn’t care about
the crystal or money, although an extra day of rest would be nice. The
thought of gaining the old man’s approval, though, warmed some deep part
of him that hadn’t felt anything but cold for as long as he could remember.
“The final matchups are: Mepil versus Kafwi. Lared versus Dewla.
Herel versus Dashe. Meder versus Amrir. Amarl versus Nolla.”
Some of the students nearby muttered a bit at the names, but Amarl
ignored them. The matches were unfair, as he’d assumed they would be.
Nothing about the day had been fair. He didn’t know why anyone would
expect anything different.
“You have five minutes to prepare,” the awal finished. “Go, and
remember: an ithtar doesn’t need luck. They make their own.”
“Well, this isn’t going to go well,” Herel sighed as the group walked
away.
“You think?” Meder barked a sharp, acid spike of laughter before
pointing at Mepil. “I’m betting that Kafwi’s lava can melt through your
stone barriers, right?”
“Probably,” the boy sighed. “And if not, I’m nearly out of ithtu.”
Meder’s finger swung to Lared. “Dewla can probably cut through your
protections, too.” The girl nodded glumly, and Meder pointed at Herel, who
sighed.
“And Dashe’s illusions negate my skill boost,” he said tiredly. “While
Amrir’s ability is simply overpowering, period. That was my point.”
“Exactly.” She looked at Amarl. “I’m not sure what Nolla’s ability is,
but I’ll bet it’s a counter for yours. They’ve set us up to fail.”
“Yes, they have. They’ve been doing it all day.”
Meder didn’t reply, and Amarl took a look at her face, then swept his
gaze over the others. His Empathy skill made reading them fairly easy.
Mepil’s eyes shone with the cold light of fear. Herel and Lared seemed
resigned, as if they knew they were going to lose and just couldn’t wait for
it to be over with. Meder’s face, though, burned with anger as she glared
back over her shoulder at the old man, and Amarl understood. This wasn’t
remotely a fair match. Part of him just wanted to let the older students win
to get it over with; after all, he’d already gotten a day’s rest, the only reward
that mattered to him. The rest could burn, as far as he was concerned.
Which meant there was no real reason for him to even try to win this
match. Just lasting through the fight would give him another day of rest.
The smart move would be to throw the fight and let Nolla win. It would
make her happy to beat him, and it would be easier on his body. He’d
already shown himself dangerous and capable, and if an older student didn’t
see that yet, one more fight wasn’t going to matter. Losing well was
probably the best option, to be sure. There was only one problem with that
idea, and that was the strange tightness in his chest that accompanied the
very thought of throwing the fight in front of Ranakar.
He took a deep breath as he recalled the feeling he’d had when the awal
offered his admiration as a reward. He’d never really craved the old man’s
respect, or anyone’s for that matter. In fact, he’d never even thought about
whether or not people respected him. He knew they didn’t, and he’d long
ago resigned himself to that fact.
Now that the old man offered it, though, part of Amarl wanted it. In
fact, that part craved it desperately. He knew that if he simply gave up, that
chance would be gone, possibly forever. Plus, if he and the others just gave
up, he didn’t know what it would do to Meder. The girl was angry, and a
crushing loss might drive her anger into an active dislike for the school and
teachers. He didn’t know how that would affect her performance and future
there, but he couldn’t imagine that it would be good.
“Come on,” he said after a few moments, gesturing to the others. “Let’s
go see Burik.”
“Burik?” Meder asked, her voice startled. “Why Burik? He’s hurt…”
“Because he’s the only person I know who might come up a with a plan
for you and I to win our matches,” Amarl said grimly. He stared at her,
seeing the anger in her eyes and feeling it spill into him. Today wasn’t fair,
but he was used to that. Meder, though, had always had hope that the world
really was fair and a decent place, and he watched that hope dying in her
eyes. She’d lost something that day, and that hurt her. He felt his own
anger rise to meet hers, and when he spoke again, he felt his ithtu rise up to
fill his voice.
“You and I? We’re going to win this damn thing, Meder,” he vowed,
hearing but not caring as his voice rolled out into the room, carrying into
the farthest corners of it and silencing the murmuring students there. “I
don’t care how fucking unfair they set it up to be. We’re going to show
them that however they push, we’ll push back harder, and that they’ll be the
ones to break, not us.”
He glanced over at Ranakar and saw the old man staring at him with an
expression that was simultaneously grave and thoughtful. Beyond the awal,
the pair of nadars standing by stared at Amarl with obvious unease, but
Amarl ignored them and met the old man’s gaze steadily. He knew what
the awal was trying to do, how he was trying to push Amarl. He was fine
with that; he’d been pushed since his first day in Askula, after all. Pushing
Meder like that, though, just to get Amarl’s ithtu to react—that crossed a
line for the hizeen. In that moment, he had no doubt that the umbravore and
doom tortoise weren’t the work of some mysterious ithtar trying to kill
them. They’d been the school, pushing Amarl to get a reaction. One had
almost killed Burik; the other almost killed Meder; this time, they’d hurt
Meder’s spirit.
It was time to show the school what would happen if they pushed him
too far.
He looked back at the girl, reading the shock and awe in her eyes as his
ithtu receded. “Now, let’s go. We’ve got plans to make.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 39
Amarl stood at his line, staring at Nolla almost absently, barely seeing
her. Any other day, in any other situation, he might have appreciated the
fight ahead. While Nolla’s armor hid her more memorable assets, he could
still recall them clearly, and a fight like this could easily lead to a grapple,
which could lead to all sorts of things. At the moment, though, his mind
was about as far from the girl’s body as it could possibly be.
Burik had been fairly helpful, and Amarl’s thoughts flitted across what
the boy had told him about Nolla.
“Honestly, I have no clue what her ability is,” Burik admitted. “I’ve
been trying to figure it out, but it doesn’t really show much. She’s good
with her bladed staff, but not phenomenal. People fighting her just seem to
lose, and I’m not sure why.”
“Some sort of fear effect?” Meder guessed. “Or strength drain?”
“No, I’ve seen both of those. Tafyn can create fear, and Sirin saps your
strength and stamina while weakening your equipment. They’re both pretty
obvious. Tafyn’s opponents looked terrified, and Sirin’s get slower and
more sluggish until they can’t keep fighting. Nolla just fights defensively
until her oppponent makes a mistake, which they always seem to, and then
she wins quickly. It’s like if you make a single mistake against her, you
lose, but her technique’s not good enough to make me think she’s got a
skill-based ability.
“If I had to fight her, I’d fight cuatiously, not overextending myself and
wearing down her defense. Don’t go for quick kills or an all-out assault;
everyone who does that loses.”
The boy’s advice was good, and Amarl intended to follow it. That
meant controlling himself and his weapon, but he was good at the second
one, at least. His ithtu sang in his mind, the song soft and muted and oddly
wary, as if it, too, wanted to be cautious around the girl. He let it ring in his
thoughts, not bothering to control it; until he knew more about Nolla’s
ability and how she fought, he couldn’t be sure what stat would serve him
best, so there was no point to focuing on any of them.
 Nolla, in return, glared openly at him from across the ring. He could
feel the anger pouring from her body, and a faintly triumphant sneer hung
across her face. It looked like she’d wanted to fight him all day, and she’d
finally gotten her chance. She also looked extremely confident, which
seemed strange to him. After all, he’d won more than he’d lost that day,
and he’d beaten some skilled fighters in her class. She should be at least a
little nervous facing him. She didn’t look to be, though, and that made him
nervous, instead.
He pushed his feelings aside as the nadar judging the match spoke to
them both. He barely heard the man. He held tightly to his ithtu, letting the
song comfort him and ease his anxiety. His body ached; his muscles
throbbed; his head pounded, but in the depths of his ithtu, all that washed
over him without touching him. The song soothed his pains and lent him
strength, and he stood straight, feeling oddly at ease as he studied the girl.
“Student Nolla, are you ready?” the nadar asked at last.
“Yes,” she said in a voice filled with the promise of pain, fingering her
staff and glaring at Amarl.
“Novice Amarl, are you ready?”
“Yes,” he replied simply, still floating in the melody of his ithtu.
“Then fight!”
Amarl moved forward as soon as the nadar’s hand dropped, his axe
whistling as he spun it in the air. He whipped it at Nolla, trying to take the
intiative in the fight as quickly as possible. Her staff blurred as she shifted
it down and cracked it against his axe, then whipped it back to block his
following strike. He struck twice more, and each time, she blocked or
parried the blow.
He slid toward her, his ithtu singing merrily as his axe slashed and cut
at her. He slid it forward in a thrust, then pulled it back and whipped it
around his back to slice at her legs. She parried the thrust and dropped the
weapon low to catch his slash, but he’d already moved on, cutting at her
face and slashing down toward her chest. She retreated, sliding backward
and moving her staff swiftly and surely, managing to knock aside or stop
each attack.
 Amarl suppressed a frown as he struck at the girl again. Burik was
right. Nolla was good, but she wasn’t all that good. Meder was almost as
skilled with her staff, in fact. The older girl fought defensively with a fair
amount of skill, but Amarl knew that with a little time, he could get through
that defense. He was just a bit faster and stronger than her, and that meant
that eventually, he’d draw her out of position and land a telling blow. If he
empowered his Speed or Force stat, that would happen even faster. There
wasn’t really any reason that Nolla should have been chosen to fight him...
Amarl almost stumbled as the song of his ithtu stuttered in his mind,
missing a beat for a moment. Dizziness swept over him and passed almost
instantly, but in that moment, his weapon slowed briefly, slashing past the
girl harmlessly. She reacted at once, her staff leaping forward, driving the
short sword blade at the end toward his throat with a gleam of satisfaction.
His ithtu surged back to full strength in his mind, and power flowed into his
arms as he twisted, letting the thrust slide past him. He struck at her again,
but she returned to her defensive form, blocking his blow and taking several
steps back to disengage.
“Oh, Amarl, this promises to be fine,” the girl said in a purring voice,
her eyes bright. “Your ithtu is so strong—I’ve been looking forward to this
all day!”
He didn’t bother to respond; instead, he moved on her once more,
cutting and slashing. Her staff spun to block, and he swore that it moved a
little faster than it had before. He ignored that thought and continued to
attack, whirling his axe around and striking at her from every direction.
She fought back, blocking and dodging, but again, he knew that he could
beat her. He was simply faster than her, stronger, more skilled…
He stumbled again as his song once more dimmed almost to silence,
and dizziness flooded his mind. Her staff leaped up toward him, and his
song returned in force, letting him parry her thrust and the follwing slash.
The music seemed less potent, though, the song no longer ringing in his
thoughts. His mind felt fuzzy as he struck at her, and it took him a moment
to concentrate his thoughts on her. She struck at him several times,
thrusting and slashing, her movements faster and stronger than before, but
he drove her back, seizing the intitiative again and pushing her away from
him.
 He spun and slashed, cutting and stabbing, but as he pressed her, the
song of his ithtu stuttered again, and another wave of confusion swept
through his thoughts. Her staff lunged at him, and this time, he barely
managed to bat it aside. His brain felt muddled and cloudy, and he dropped
into a defensive stance as he struggled to focus enough to bring the attack to
her. She slashed and cut, pressing the attack, but he guided her strikes past
him or took them on the strong points of his armor. Once again, he was the
tree, rooted in the ground, shrouded in a concealing layer of leaves, swaying
with the wind but never uprooted…
The image in his mind shuddered and winked out as his ithtu once again
went silent for a moment, this time returning with significantly less
voulme. He staggered backward as she swept toward him, fighting with
power and skill that rivaled Burik’s. He struggled to hold her at bay, and as
he fought, his mind scrambled to understand what was happening. Where
had his strength and skill gone? His muscles didn’t feel weak; his body
wasn’t tired. Why was he fighting just to hold her back, and how had she
gotten so good, so quickly? It was all related, but his foggy mind couldn’t
seem to make sense of it.
His song stuttered again, and he grabbed hold of it almost desperately,
hurling himself into it. He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew
that Nolla’s ability weakened him and strengthened her somehow. His
mind struggled to pierce the fog enveloping it, and he fought on pure
instinct, something that he knew he couldn’t maintain. Instinct was good,
but he needed to concentrate to beat the girl; whenever he tried, though, it
felt like pushing through a wall of thick mud or cold molasses. Something
in him warned that giving himself to his ithtu was a bad idea, but his
clouded mind couldn’t process that. His senses screamed danger, and his
ithtu shielded him from that.
The song in his mind surged as he threw himself into it, no longer even
trying to hold it back. A deep, throbbing horn echoed in his miind, and that
sound cut through the fog, clearing his thoughts instantly. With the haze
gone, he could feel the fingers of power reaching out from the girl, touching
him and leaching—something from him, some combination of strength and
ithtu that he didn’t quite understand. Energy seeped away from him in
pulses, and with each pulse, the girl shone brighter in his thoughts. She
moved faster and gained greater skill, growing stronger from what she
leeched away from him.
He reached out without thinking and siezed that power, halting the flow
leaving his body. Nolla’s eyes widened, and he felt her tugging on the
energy, yanking it with terrific force. That sonorous horn rumbled in his
mind again, though, and with it came a surge of clarity. He pulled back,
dragging the power from her grip and hauling it back into himself. Nolla
gasped and staggered, barely managing to bring her staff up in time to block
a slash at her side.
She fell back as he drew more power, refilling what she’d taken from
him, and his thoughts burned with depth and vibrancy as the last of the fog
burned free. He pulled more power, and the energy that came through had a
different flavor to it, a taste that seemed oddly like the power he pulled
from his kills. He wasn’t just recovering his own power, he realized. He
was pulling hers just as she’d drawn his. She’d made the connection, and
now he used it, sucking power in as fast as he could. Nolla staggered as his
axe knocked her staff aside, and his blade slashed across her armored arm
with a clang.
Her face paled, and he felt her trying to drop the connection between
them, but he held it tightly and continued to pull. Power spilled into him,
trickling toward his tak, but the energy felt weak and ephemeral compared
to his song. He grabbed it and held it just as he did the power he took from
his kills, forcing it into a small shape and holding it there. The energy
struggled and thrashed in his grip, but with his new mental vitality, he had
no problem holding it. It thickened and throbbed in his mind, shivering and
pulsing in a way he'd never seen before but that felt—right. The power
shuddered, resisting him as he pressed it inward and drew even more deeply
from the girl.
Nolla staggered backward, and a sweep of his axe knocked the staff
from her trembling hands. Her mouth moved, but in the grip of his ithtu,
her words were less than a whisper, and he couldn’t be bothered with them.
He hooked his axe behind her knee and jerked, and she tripped backward
and landed heavily on her ass. He stepped forward, but as he did, the ball
of power in his chest suddenly froze, pulsed once, and collapsed inward.
 Energy erupted in him as what felt like burning syrup poured down his
chest and flowed into his tak. He lurched backward in pain as the power
rained down on the energy inside him. The misty ithtu curled up in his tak
shivered before collapsing as well, flowing down to mingle with the blazing
fluid in his gut. He dropped to a knee, clutching his stomach as that energy
roiled and twisted in him. Nausea surged in him, but the sickness wasn’t in
his stomach. It was in his tak, a heaviness in part of him that had always
felt light and airy before.
The song of his ithtu faded to silence, and weakness swept over his
body as every drop of ithtu in his body suddenly sucked inward, plunging
into his tak and joining the haviness there. Darkness shrouded his vision,
and he fell to both knees as his eyes slid closed. Silence filled his thoughts
for a moment, and cold epmtiness rippled through his body, like icy air
running through his veins. His breath caught in his throat from the pain of
it, and he struggled to take in a single breath. For a moment, a dark purple
flower seemed to hang in his thoughts, beckoning him, but he turned away
from it, dashing the image from his mind with a mental hand. He forced his
lungs to work, to suck in a deep gasping breath, and as he did, awareness
returned to his mind. His eyes snapepd open, and a sense of danger washed
through him as he saw Nolla standing above him, her staff held high,
confusion, fear, and anger warring on her face as she readied herself to
plunge the blade into his upturned forehead.
The song of his ithtu roared back into his thoughts, and power exploded
from his tak, flooding his body. The energy burned as it rolled out into his
limbs, but the burning swiftly faded to a pleasant warmth that soaked into
his muscles, seeped into his bones, and flowed along his nerves. The power
ambraced him, sinking into his skin, and a surge of it flowed outward into
the distance, beyond his grasp and control. The sound of flutes trilled in his
mind as the staff practically ground to a halt in midair. Horns blared in his
brain as he surged from his knees to his feet, strength flooding his body as
he luanched himself upward. Violins resonated through his thoughts as he
grasped the staff, tearing it from the stunned girl’s grip. Drums pounded
inside him as his fist shot out and slammed into the girl’s chest, hurling her
backward with a loud crack.
He tossed her blade aside and swept up his axe, moving toward the
fallen girl. Someone shouted his name, but his ithtu raged with new fury
and power in his mind, drowning out anything but its song. Something
grabbed him, and he reacted without thought, twisting to lock the offending
appendage and levering the person attached over his body to crash to the
ground. His axe swept up over the cowering girl, and he readied himself to
bury it in her broken chest.
Amarl gasped as a blast of light as bright as the sun exploded in his
eyes, and a surge of power rippled over him. He spun toward the source,
lifting his axe to face this new threat, then stood in amazement, blinking at
the brilliance of the new sun that hung over Meder’s arena and the aura of
strength that radiated from her, washing over the entire crowd—a crowd
that cursed and cringed as her power slammed into them.
The song of his ithtu faded and stilled as glee filled Amarl’s heart. He
didn’t know what happened in her fight, but it looked like his friend’s
ability had finally woken up—and he was just glad that he wasn’t Amrir.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 40
Loathing. There was no other word to describe what Meder felt as she
listened to Burik and Amarl plan out a possible strategy for his coming
battle. Loathing. Perhaps mixed with a small amount of anger. Truly, it
was a great deal of anger, but the loathing dominated her thoughts.
She was used to anger. She’d dealt with it all her life, just like any
other nalu, or any other thinking being, she supposed. She’d been angry at
boys who courted her because of her status and station. She’d been angry at
her siblings and cousins when they hurt her or talked abouther behind her
back. She’d been angry at her parents for planning out her entire life for
her without so much as asking for her opinion. She was angry when she
was selected—no, discovered by Tethatov back in Dairon and taken away to
Askula. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d been angry at Burik
or Amarl, especially Amarl, who turned being an ass into an art form.
Loathing, though, was new to her. There were plenty of things she
didn’t like, obviously. Herel and Hadur topped that list, especially Hadur
with his disgusting insinuations. She knew why he made them; he
projected his own desires and hungers onto her and her friends. By
demeaning her in his mind, he turned her into an object, not a person, an
object he wished he possessed. Herel was simply arrogant. Hadur was
depraved, and she suspected he wouldn’t last at Askula. She wouldn’t be
sad to see him gone, but she wasn’t eager for it to happen. She’d be
perfectly content if he simply left her and her friends alone and kept his
disgusting thoughts and leers to himself. Still, while she didn’t like Hadur,
she didn’t truly loathe him. She didn’t think she’d ever loathed anything
before.
She’d never be able to say that again, at least not without lying to
herself. Loathing seethed in her mind, growing like one of Amrir’s seeds.
That seed buried itself last year, when she and the others escaped the
assilian hive. They should have been commended for it. She should have
been lauded for what she’d accomplished. She’d managed to unleash an
incredibly delicate and complex sahr matrix involving multiple dimensions
and stacked arrays inside of a room designed to limit sahr and ithtu. She
doubted many fifth-year students could have done that, but she had, and she
expected some sort of recognition of that.
Instead, they’d been threatened with expulsion, which was utterly
ridiculous. She knew that the school deliberately gave Burik and Amarl
instructions that required them to break the rules. Her friends suggested
that to her, but she’d already worked it out. The school placed Andra, who
owed Amarl a huge favor, in exactly the right place to help them both
accomplish their goals. True, the awals probably hadn’t foreseen the
assilians kidnapping the students, but the school had put them all in the
position to have to escape from the hive. The idea that they might be
punished for doing what the school forced them to do rankled her, and at
that moment, the seed split open, and a tiny black shoot of hatred emerged.
It only grew a little over the past six moons, and most of that came from
Tautibal’s cruel training. That day, though, the sprout grew swiftly, winding
its way through her heart and blossoming in her mind. At last, that small
tree bore fruit: she loathed Askula, loathed the awals and their cruelty, and
loathed having to be there whether she liked it or not.
Despite what she knew Amarl thought, she knew that life wasn’t fair.
She’d been sheltered by her wealth and privilege, but she’d seen enough to
understand the reality of wealth inequality. She knew that power and
privilege were self-sustaining: having it gave her access to a better
education, more training, and more choices than someone like Amarl—or
someone with Amarl’s background but lacking his gifts. All those benefits
made it easier for her to earn more wealth and power, thus giving her
offspring an equal chance at success. Naluni without money and influence
simply lacked the resources they’d need to excel in the Empire, especially
with the caste system holding them down. People like her family hoarded
those resources, making sure that very few people rose to the highest levels
to threaten their power and prestige. It was a patently unjust system, and
she’d known that since she was a child.
However, it also served a purpose. If all that wealth were spread out
equally among every naluni in the Empire, they’d all have something, but
no one would have enough to accomplish anything. It was a basic principle
of science: work required a gradient. Water flowed from a higher elevation
to a lower one to power a mill wheel; steam moved from a pressurized
chamber to a low pressure one to drive a steamwagon; sahr had to be
concentrated into arrays and matrices to accomplish anything. By
concentrating wealth and power in the hands of a few, the Empire allowed
wealth to flow from the rich to the poor, and that generated more wealth in
the long run. It wasn’t fair, but it worked, and that seeming cruelty served a
purpose, which made it acceptable to her. She’d learned from her mother
that sometimes, cruelty could be a hidden kindness that others might not see
or understand.
Threatening them all with expulsion, though, served no real purpose
that Meder could see. It wouldn’t dissuade Amarl and Burik from doing the
same thing were they in that position once more. It didn’t frighten Meder
or Andra into reining the boys in, at least, not any more than she usually had
to. It simply blamed the students for something that the school had done
and made them all think it was their fault. Even then, it failed. Amarl had
realized that the school was forcing them to break the rules while they were
still in Isolas, and he’d convinced her and Burik to go along with him. He’d
known the whole time what was happening, and once he explained it to her,
she saw it, as well. It was a pointless cruelty, and she hated pointless
cruelty.
This year had been filled with cruelties, but she saw the point to most of
them. Tautibal’s training was ridiculously harsh, and in any other
environment, it would be abusive. After all, nalu bodies had limits, and
there was only so far a person could push beyond those before they injured
or crippled themselves. Thanks to their ithtu, the students didn’t have to
worry about that. They healed overnight, so their bodies could take more
punishment the next day, and that sort of crucible purified and strengthened
them. Physically, she’d grown leaps and bounds in the past year-and-a-half,
far beyond anything she might have experienced back at home, even with
the best trainers. Rateso’s classes were barbaric, but they helped a student
to quicken their ability, so they had meaning. Ranakar’s training was
brutal, pushing her to the edge of what she could handle each time, but
she’d benefitted from it, and he carefully never gave her more than she
could manage. Those cruelties held kindness, and she could stomach them.
That, to her, was how the world worked. It was harsh, unfair, and often
cruel. However, she believed that most of that served a greater purpose,
one that she might not be able to see but that others with more wisdom and
experience had coldly calculated. She’d trusted the school to be the same.
It allowed the older students to bully and beat the younger ones, but that
helped rouse their abilities. It practically tortured its students, but it did
that to make them better. It executed those who failed, but that was because
a rogue ithtar was a terifying thought. Everything worked toward a
purpose, and as long as she could believe that, then the world wasn’t as
terrible a place as Amarl seemed to think it was.
That day, though, didn’t fit into her view. She’d suffered cruelty
without purpose. Wurynath’s excuses were, to be frank, a pile of shit as tall
as Amarl as far as Meder was concerned. She knew that as an ithtara, she’d
have to face terrible challenges. However, this didn’t prepare them for
that. If they truly wanted to teach the students to deal with such challenges,
they would have shown them how to prepare for a battle like this. They
would have given them time to research potential foes, and they would have
offered strategies for dealing with different ability types. She knew that
was part of the curriculum; Andra had told her about it already. If the
school had done that, Meder could have swallowed the lies about how it
challenged and prepared them for the trials they’d face.
The day wasn’t about teaching the students or preparing them, though.
As far as she could tell, it was about breaking them. Each student fought
until they physically couldn’t. Their bodies were beaten; their wills were
battered. They were abused until they broke and couldn’t go on. Even the
injured and crippled didn’t escape. With her alchemy training, she knew
that they were all getting weak elixirs that would heal them just enough to
make sure they didn’t injure themselves further, and they didn’t get enough
of those to heal them fully. A stronger elixir would have already repaired
Burik’s knees enough to at least let him stand and walk around, if not fight.
An ithtar with a healing ability probably could have restored all the students
to full health by now if the school wanted. They didn’t, though. They
wanted the injured to suffer, and she couldn’t see a point to that.
At first, she’d thought that perhaps the day was meant to be a
demonstration, something she’d discussed with Herel during one of Amarl’s
fights. Maybe the school was trying to show the novices how weak they
still were and motivate them to get stronger. That made a certain amount of
sense, in fact. Askula obviously favored great fighters over crafters and
thinkers, as evidenced by their graduation point system. As soon as
Wurynath explained how it worked, Meder understood that. Students got a
point for each win in Halit, two if their opponent was a higher grade. That
didn’t seem like much, but it could add up quickly. If a student fought daily
in Halit and won one match per day, they’d earn enough to graduate in a bit
over half a year. A good fighter who won four matches a week fighting
only on Akios would still earn 192 points, almost what they needed to
graduate, and that didn’t take into account points from Sitjak and hunting.
Someone like Burik could breeze through second-year without learning
anything in classes simply by being better at fighting than everyone else.
Obviously, Askula wanted the best fighters to excel, and today might have
been a good motivator.
However, if they wanted to do that, the school should have selected the
matches and made sure everyone got humiliated. Burik was a great fighter,
but he’d lost easily facing Riryn’s ability to telekinetically control another’s
body. Even Amarl lost badly to Amrir and probably would have done the
same to Kafwi. Once everyone tasted a stinging defeat or two, the lesson
would be over, and Wurynath could use those losses to spur the students to
train with greater intensity. They also might have arranged for the best
fighters like Amarl and Burik to win a couple rounds just to motivate the
others. Instead, Burik, the best overall fighter in their year, was out early,
while she was still in. And now, as a reward for surviving that torture, she
was being forced into a fight she simply couldn’t win.
Amrir’s ability was powerful and flexible. Plus, the girl likely had
nearly a full tak to draw on. Even at her best, Meder couldn’t beat the girl
in a fight, and she defintely wasn’t at her best. Her leg and arm throbbed
from earlier breaks that had mostly but not fully healed. Her head
pounded. Her eyes felt gritty. Her muscles and back ached and pulsed with
fatigue. Her fingers trembled on her staff. She was running near the dregs
of her stamina, both physical and mental, and she knew it.
“Amrir’s biggest weakness is that she needs those seeds,” Burik finally
said to Meder. “And she needs to get them close to you for her ability to
work. If you can hold them at a distance, maybe even burn them, then
she’ll have to rely on her spear work, and you’re better with your staff than
she is with her spear.
She only half-listened, nodding but saying nothing. His observations
were patently obvious. Of course, her only chance was to keep Amrir’s
seeds at bay. She’d planned that the whole time. His suggestion to burn
them or at least dry them out so they couldn’t sprout was a good one, but
she could see the rest.
As far as she could tell, she had exactly one shot to win this match. In
labah terms, she needed to use Nekinda’s Wave, a counter to a swift attack
that involved isolating the lead enemy piece, then striking behind it on
multiple fronts. Amrir would strike quickly, trying to bind Meder before
she could use her sahr. Meder needed to absorb that first strike, then
counterattack from directions the older girl might not anticipate.
The problem was, Nekinda’s Wave required a player to have significant
support in the layers above and below. In fact, that was the whole point:
while your enemy marshaled an attack on the central layer, you built up
above and below them so that when they attacked, they met a defense they
couldn’t easily penetrate. In Meder’s case, that meant support from sahr,
elixirs to heal her and refresh her mind, and maybe sahrotik to shield her
from the initial attack. She had none of those. Her sahr ability was almost
exhausted, and without it, she had no chance. The wave would break
against Amrir’s ability, and when it did, Meder would be crushed. There
was no other possible outcome, and that knowledge burned in the back of
her mind with a dull glow and a heat that she could actually feel.
She trudged over to line up for the pointless match, calling up a stirring
of sahr as she did. It came to her easily, the power flowing out of the air
around her and through her mind without effort. The gentle warmth of it
comforted her. It wasn’t as personal or intimate as the rainbow colors of
her ithtu, but the presence of it still soothed her. Learning to use sahr was
the only truly good thing about Askula, as far as she was concerned.
Meeting Burik and Amarl was wonderful, but she wasn’t Amarl, alone and
friendless before coming here. She’d had plenty of friends in her past life.
They weren’t as good of friends as the two boys, but if she’d never come to
Askula, she wouldn’t have been unhappy or lonely. She’d always been
fascinated with sahr, though, and there would have been no way for her to
learn it in the Empire. Sahr usage was heavily restricted there to make sure
that the field the towers generated remained stable, so it wasn’t something
she could simply take classes to learn. Plus, haras, the wielders of sahr,
were relatively low-caste, so her family never would have allowed her to
learn even if she’d had the opportunity. Here, though, her sahr usage was
embraced and encouraged, and her teachers praised her constantly for her
skills with it.
She never understood why Burik and Amarl struggled so much to wield
the energy, especially Amarl. He was bright enough to handle the matrices
in his head, but when he tried, the energy responded sluggishly to his call.
It didn’t for her. It moved however she commanded, yielding easily to her
will. In preparation for the upcoming match, she pictured a simple array in
her mind, one she used to heat up the air around her and the surface beneath
her. It was a familiar array for her since she used it all winter to warm her
blankets and shower and deal with cold floors in the morning, and that
made it easy to manipulate into a sheet of condensed heat. She channeled
just a smidgen of power into it and fought not to wince at the ache in the
back of her mind, as if she were using a strained muscle.
She sighed internally. In a way, channeling sahr was like using a
muscle, and just like any muscle, her ability to do so grew tired and weak
after overuse. She’d used sahr extensively that day. In fact, it was the only
reason she was still around. She should have been out in the early rounds;
she just wasn’t that great of a fighter, and sahr wasn’t that powerful
compared to ithtu.
Somehow, though, she’d made it work. She’d used her sahr to
confound her foes, to hamper and control them. She made the ground soft
and sticky, tripped them with ribbons of air, flashed illusions to distract
them, and blinded them with bursts of fire and light. It came easily to her;
in fact, it came far more easily than it usually did, and her sahr seemed to
have extra impact, allowing her to use less of it. Everytime she thought she
was getting close to being tapped out, a warmth in her skull seemed to clear
her thoughts and ease the strain in her mind. She should have been drained
a long time ago, but she managed to eke more out than she thought she
could.
She’d felt that warmth that morning, when she’d first tried embracing
her ithtu, and she did it again, hoping for more of the same. The power
flowed into her thoughts in a kaleidoscopic display of soft, soothing light
that illuminated the darkest corners of her mind and settled some of her
anxiety. No warmth flowed from it, though. Whatever benefit she’d gotten
from that seemed to be gone, exhausted by the constant strain.
 She was at her limit, and she knew it. The ache in the back of her head
would grow worse. Soon, it would become dizziness and nausea, and if she
kept pushing, she’d fall unconscious. Waking up from that was never fun.
The headaches were worse than those she got from a long night at Sasofit’s,
and her body felt weaker than an hour of training with Tautibal. Plus, if she
passed out, Amarl would have to carry her out of the ring. Burik doing it in
Apirron was humiliating enough; Amarl doing it in front of both years of
classes would be devastating.
“Sorry about this.” Amrir’s voice sounded contrite, and Meder turned
her thoughts away from her own misery to notice the older girl standing
across from her. Meder wasn’t Amarl, able to judge someone’s inner
thoughts just by glancing at them, but Amrir looked genuinely sorry to be
fighting Meder. That fact simply irritated Meder more; she’d fought her
way to this point! She didn’t deserve anyone’s pity.
“It’s not your fault,” she finally said, proud of how calm she kept her
voice. That was one of her mother’s lessons. Members of the zahai weren’t
supposed to let their emotions show in their voice. They should always
appear cool, calm, and collected, as if everything were ahppening as they
planned, and that applied doubly so to the head of a house or clan.
Anything else would panic the lesser castes and create disruption. Meder
didn’t quite see it the same way, but she’d learned to hide her emotions
when necessary.
“I’ll finish it as quickly as possible,” the older girl said after a moment’s
pause. “At least you’ll get the bonus for lasting to the end.”
Anger flared in Meder, burning in the back of her mind with its own
heat, but none of that made it into her face or voice. “I’ll do the same for
you, Amrir. It’s the least I can do for a friend.”
Amrir looked disbelieving for a moment before shrugging and falling
silent. Part of Meder wished at that moment that she was as good as Amarl
at goading people. She’d have loved to needle Amrir, to mock her so much
that the older girl rushed Meder, hoping to beat her down instead of using
her ability. She wasn’t, though, and if she were, she wouldn’t have done it.
Amrir was a friend, of sorts, and Meder didn’t like mocking others. Well,
except Burik and Amarl, but they were her true friends. They teased her,
and she teased them. None of them took offense. It was simply how things
worked, and she was glad of it. Still, it would be nice to be like Amarl, able
to use her words to control the match if she so chose.
“Student, are you ready?” Amrir nodded at the nadar’s words, and the
man turned toward Meder. “Novice, are you ready?”
Was she? No, not really, but time wouldn’t help with that. She idly
wondered what would happen if she said, “No.” Would they pause the
match? Cancel it? Could she say that and walk away? She doubted it. The
school wouldn’t let her get away from the fight that easily. She’d probably
get in trouble for asking, which made the whole questions pointless. Did it
matter if she was ready? She was going to fight no matter what.
“Yes,” she said coolly.
“Then—fight!”
Amrir moved at once, flicking some seeds into the air, but as she did,
Meder added the last element of the matrix she’d been holding, a targeting
array, and powered it with whatever sahr she could gather. Her head
throbbed as the power flowed out, but to her delight, most of Amrir’s seeds
burst into flames, while the rest withered and dried out.
That was the thing she loved about sahr. It was wonderfully flexible
and malleable. She couldn’t oppose ithtu directly, but she could find ways
to nullify or weaken its effects. Fire attacks didn’t work well when she
sucked the air from around them; having enormous strength didn’t matter
when her foe couldn’t see her; being incredibly fast made a student
incredibly easy to trip. It required creativity and a swift mind, but she had
both of those. She couldn’t beat Amrir, power versus power, but she didn’t
have to. She only had to cut the girl off from her ability’s greatest utility,
then try to win the match in melee combat.
The older girl grinned at Meder, planting the butt of her spear in the
ground before flicking more seeds at her. Meder caught these, as well,
doing her best to ignore the strain in her mind. They didn’t all flash into
flames, but the ones that didn’t dried out, hopefully becoming inert and
useless. Amrir lifted her rifle, leaving her spear in the ground, but Meder
quickly built another array, a fairly simple one, and flared it in the girl’s
face. Amrir swore as a blast of light blinded her for a moment, ruining her
ability to us her rifle.
 Meder couldn’t help but smile. Perhaps she had a chance, after all. If
she could blind the girl, keep her off-balance, and hold her seeds at bay, she
might be able to take the fight into melee range, and Burik was right. She
was better than Amrir in combat. She lifted her staff and readied another
array to blind the girl, holding it until Amrir looked her way again.
Before she could take a step, something lashed about her body,
grabbing her legs and hips. She yelped as thin tendrils coiled about her and
pulled down with relentless force, reaching up to her arms and drawing
them to her sides. She fought to stay erect, but the tendrils yanked her to
her knees. More of them snaked around her body, pinning her arms to her
chest and binding her legs to the ground. She glanced down and saw
dozens of woody tendrils entwining her tightly, holding her firmly enough
that she couldn’t break free but not so tightly that they hurt.
She looked over at Amrir, and her eyes narrowed as she saw the base of
the girl’s spear jammed into the ground below her. Meder understood
instantly. The older girl had realized that Meder would destroy any seeds
she spread, so she sent her attack through the ground instead. It was clever,
and Meder had no way to combat that sort of attack, at least not without
knowing it was coming. Even so, all she could have done was slow the
girl’s ability down. Amrir once said that her roots could burrow through
metal. Nothing Meder could raise would have stopped them if that were
true.
The sense of loathing swelled in her mind, burning in the back of her
skull. She’d failed in spectacular fashion. She’d hoped to at least put on a
good showing against the older girl, to show that she belonged in this final
group. Instead, Amrir handled her with ease. She gathered sahr, thinking to
burn herself free, but the effort sent knives stabbing into her skull and
brought a wave of sickness with it. She was tapped; she had no more sahr
left.
She’d been a fool to think that she could manage Amrir with nothing
but sahr. She loved working with it, but it simply wasn’t powerful enough
to stand against ithtu. Without her ability, whatever it was, she was simply
too weak. She wasn’t Burik, a great fighter, or Amarl, a rare talent at
practically everything. She was just Meder, bright, clever—and ultimately,
useless.
 She glanced sidwways at Amarl’s fight, her eyes drawn there without
being able to help it. To her surprise, Nolla looked to be winning. Amarl
was on his knees, clutching his stomach, no doubt badly wounded, while
Nolla stood unsteadily, moving toward him. It looked like the match should
have been called, but it hadn’t been. Maybe the nadar thought Amarl still
had a chance. That, she realized, was possible with Amarl. No matter what
happened to him, he kept fighting. She knew that he believed they could
each win their matches, believed it enough to make a vow with his ithtu.
He probably could. When Amarl unleashed his ithtu, he became a force of
nature. If he really went all out, he could handle Nolla, and probably Amrir
and Dashe and half the damn class by himself. He’d killed the doom
tortoise; compared to that, these students were probably nothing. She’d
failed—they’d all failed—but Amarl could still succeed…
The loathing in her surged once more, and with a sudden flash of
insight, she understood it. Yes, she hated the school and awals for their
cruelty. Yes, this day served no purpose but to break and punish the
students. Both of those disgusted her—but not as much as she disgusted
herself, and with that momentary clarity, she knew why she did. She hated
herself for failing when others succeeded. Especially Amarl.
Before Askula, she’d always been the best. The best student. The
popular child. The favorite of the adults and teachers. The one destined to
take over the family. Everyone admired her, even adored her. She never
knew how much she basked in that adulation until it was gone.
In Askula, she was just another student. Oh, she was good with sahr
and brighter than most, but the school didn’t reward students for those
things. It cared about two things: fighting skill and the strength of the
student’s ability. Everything else was dross at worst, useful trappings at
best. In Dairon, she’d been the golden child. Here in Askula, that was
Amarl, and she simply stood in his shadow. In Isolas, he fought the
assilians and let them all escape. He went back for Andra and defeated the
queen one-on-one. When the umbravore attacked, she’d broken its
darkness, but he killed it, something she couldn’t have done. In Apirron,
Amarl ended the doom tortoise. She, Amrir, and Burik distracted it for him,
but he probably didn’t need them. He could have killed the thing alone.
They were all just along for the ride.
 That day, she should have felt at least a small measure of triumph.
She’d endured when even Burik hadn’t. She’d used every bit of cunning,
skill, and creativity to keep from being eliminated. Instead, she felt nothing
but disgust because where she’d endured, Amarl thrived. He discovered a
new aspect to his ability. He avoided any serious injuries despite always
being the first challenged each round. He even managed to win most of his
fights, when she’d been lucky to win three out of twelve, and she suspected
one of those was Dashe hoping that she’d follow him to another dark corner
out of gratitude.
As always, Amarl had faced the hardship and come out the better for it.
That, she realized, was why he always thought he could beat whatever
challenge faced him. He refused to count anything as a loss. When older
students beat him, well, he learned from it. It made him a better fighter.
When Ranakar tormented him, well, his skills grew faster, and it made him
stronger. When the school put him in impossible situations, he found a way
out of them, and he usually gained from it. He’d probably win his match
despite looking like he’d lost, gain another boost to his Soul stat, maybe
some skill ranks—and she’d be carried along once more, little more than a
bystander, a side character in the story of his life.
That wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t good enough. If she wanted to
thrive here—if she wanted to be more than just the pretty face following in
Amarl’s wake—she had to be like him. She had to be more. No, she would
be more. She needed it, more than anything she’d needed before. Amarl
didn’t let limitations stop him; she wouldn’t, either.
She closed her eyes and reached into herself, pulling sahr into her
body. The power burned in her mind, but she ignored the pain of it and kept
pulling, pushing it down into the center of herself and gathering it there.
The pain was a knife in her skull, but she shoved it aside and pulled harder.
She couldn’t fight the way Amarl could, but that didn’t mean she was
helpless. Sahr was her weapon, and she would use it. The school wanted to
break her; it wanted to break them all. Amarl hadn’t been broken, and she
wouldn’t be, either. She would show them that she wasn’t useless. She
wasn’t just a figure in Amarl’s shadow. She was Meder um’Goranda
Dairon, hara, warrior—and ithtara. She had power. She just needed them
to see it and understand.
 A wave of power suddenly plunged into her, a river of warmth that she
sucked greedily down into herself. She didn’t know where the rush of
energy came from, and she didn’t care. It was power, and she needed as
much as she could get. The burning in her mind suddenly flared into a nova
of fire that exploded in her thoughts, washing away her fatigue and driving
out the stabbing pain. Energy flooded her core, a surge of rainbow-hued
power that she recognized as her ithtu. That power mingled with her sahr
for a moment before somehow subsuming it, shifting into pure white light
that warmed her core and thrummed in her body. The power was
enormous, far more than she’d ever managed with sahr, but when she
touched it with her thoughts, it moved and shifted just as easily as sahr ever
had.
She tentatively formed her array and eased a tiny bit of that power into
it. She didn’t know what was happening, but her best guess was that her
ithtu responded to her need and empowered her sahr somehow. It was
supposed to serve her, and so far, it always had. She had to trust that it still
was. Even so, that was a lot of power, far more than she’d accounted for in
any of her field equations. If things went wrong, they would go very, very
wrong. Part of her, the cautious part that calculated everything and took no
risks, warned her to let it go. She ignored it. The part of her that wanted to
be like Amarl demanded that she take the risk, use what she’d gotten no
matter where it came from, and hope for the best. If she wanted to reach
greater heights, she had to stretch beyond her grasp. There simply was no
other way. She guided the energy into the array and watched, ready to drop
it from her thoughts if things went wrong.
Power surged into the array, far more than she’d intended, flooding it
and overflooding it instantly. She fllung it away from herself with a spike
of panic—overpowered matrices usually collapsed explosively—but rather
than imploding or shattering, the array unfolded, rising as intended. It shot
into the air above her and collapsed into itself before rebounding with a
blast of heat that washed over her face and light that she saw even through
her closed eyelids. Someone screamed, a scream that a dozen voices
echoed, followed by harsh curses as her working exploded into life above
her. The warmth of it bathed her face, and the light glowed through her
eyelids. She waited for it to pass, but as the power continued to throb, and
no attacks came from Amrir, she cracked open her eyes and squinted in awe
at what she’d created.
A new sun hung above the ring, hovering between her and Amrir. That
was really the only way to describe it. An orb of brilliant white light burned
in the air, a reach from Amrir, bathing everyone around them in glorious
light. Amrir stumbled around on the other side of the light, barely visible
beyond it as she rubbed her eyes and swore loudly. Smoke rose from the
older girl’s hair and clothing, and tendrils of it wafted from her upright
spear. The nadar crouched to the side, shading his eyes and grumbling
similar curses. Everyone nearby covered their faces, some shouting in pain
while others simply hid their eyes and bitched about the blazing globe that
had manifested before them.
That—that was not what Meder had meant to make. Her array was
designed to create a bright flash of light, one nearly as bright as the sun but
that lasted for no more than a fraction of a second. That was the tradeoff
with sahr. There was a hard limit to the power she could manifest with it,
one set by the tower regulating sahr in Askula, and power was a matter of
energy and time. If she wanted to produce more energy, it had to be over a
shorter time. This sun violated that rule. It had to be drawing more power
each second than the field produced in this whole area, possibly for dozens
of reachs in each direction. Meder was good, but she couldn’t pull that kind
of power and store it.
The tendrils holding her loosened, and she yanked her arms free of
them, ignroing the sting as the rough wood scraped her hands. That had
been her whole purpose. She knew that Amrir needed to actively control
her creations; without the girl’s guidance, they just became normal vines.
Meder had intended to pour everything she could into the flash, making
hopefully stunning and blinding the older girl for a few seconds and
breaking her concentration enough for Meder to tear free. A few seconds
was a long time in a fight; it was enough time for Meder to spring the
distance to Amrir and brain the girl with her staff, for example. Now,
though, she had more than that, and it was time to see how she could best
use it.
Meder smiled as she felt the core of power roiling in her center,
undiminished by what she’d used to create that sun. Amrir would recover
quickly, meaning Meder had to work fast to win this. First, she needed her
legs free of her restraints. She didn’t have a working to specifically affect
plants, but that was fine. That was the great thing about sahr: she didn’t
have to memorize an array to use it. It just took creativity, patience, and a
bit of cleverness to craft a matrix to do whatever she wanted. It also took
power, but right now, she had plenty of that.
Building an array that sucked the moisture from the plants holding her
took no more than a few seconds, and she cautiously channeled power into
it when it finished. The array collapsed onto her, and the tendrils holding
her shivered as her working dried them out instantly, turning them into
brittle sticks. She yanked her legs free, shattering the restraints, and rose to
her feet. She tried to open her eyes fully, but her sun seared her vision,
forcing her to squint once more.
That was fine. Thanks to Dashe, she’d already worked out how to see
without her eyes. She built the matrix that allowed her to sense with sahr
and trickled more power into it, and instantly, it collapsed around her. As it
did, she gasped in surprise. The working was designed to detect disruptions
in the sahr field, meaning solid objects that held it out, and report those to
her. It didn’t replace vision; she couldn’t see colors or details with it, and it
only spread about a reach in every direction. At least, it had before; now,
the working rushed outward and filled the room. Instantly, glowing,
featureless figures of every person and object in the room filled her mind,
nearly overwhelming her for a moment.
A cloud of tiny objects wafted toward Meder, and without thinking, she
hurled a blast of wind at them to divert them. That was her go-to shielding
technique; if she could breathe, she had air to work with, and wind was
good at diverting things and holding them in place. Power surged from
within her and washed out, and instead of the stiff breeze she’d meant to
create, a blast of air exploded from her, almost sucking the oxygen from her
lungs. She saw Amrir fly backward in her sahr-vision as the wind flung her
from her feet. The girl landed hard but slapped a hand on the ground, and a
moment later, more tendrils exploded beneath Meder. Hard vines covered
in sharp thorns slapped at her, plunging through the gaps in her armor and
stabbing into her skin as they hauled her down toward the ground once
more.
Meder hissed and quickly built a new array. Wind swirled around her
body, screaming with intensity as she honed it to a razor edge. The wind
tore at her clothes, ripepd at her hair, and made it almost impossible to
breathe, but it also severed the tendrils beneath her, allowing her to leap free
of the rest. She lifted her hands and clapped them together, and a blast of
flame erupted from them, carried on another column of air. The bright
white fire seared the lashing roots and turned them to ashes in an instant,
ending that threat, at least for the moment.
More seeds came her way, and this time, Meder built her screen of
heat. More power surged from her core, and a wall of shimmering air
exploded before her. Her skin tightened from the warmth, and she pushed it
out away from her until it was a comfortable distance. The seeds hit it and
burst into tiny sparks of flame, destorying them utterly.
Another set of tendrils exploded below her, and she flung a blast of cold
at them, freezing them solid and chlling herself in the process. She shivered
as she once again leaped away from the icy tendrils. She didn’t have a
handle on this new power, and the intensity of it was getting away from
her. She couldn’t keep creating arrays without thought; if that last one had
been fire or force instead of cold, she might have been badly hurt. She
wasn’t any more protected from her own workings than those tendrils
were.
She used wind to fling aside another spray of seeds, then built a stone
disc beneath her feet. That wouldn’t stop Amrir’s plants, but it would slow
them down and give Meder what she needed: time. She needed to adjust to
this new power level, to adapt her matrices to accommodate it. She had to
think, not to fight on instinct. She wasn’t Amarl, after all, a natural fighter
who took to everything like a fish to water.
She glanced sideways at the thought of the boy and saw him standing in
his ring, watching her. Nolla lay on her back at the edge of the ring with the
nadar hovering above her; obviously, Amarl had won, just as she’d
predicted. Now, he was watching her. She wondered if he was jealous of
the power she’d shown, or if he was wishing he could do what she did. As
she thought that, a grin split his face, and he winked at her.
She would never admit it aloud—his head was big enough as it was—
but she understood why girls and women fell for Amarl. He was handsome,
to be sure, with his gray skin and bright blue eyes, but it was more than
that. He was likeable, and something about him just drew a person to him.
She’d noticed it when she first met him, and it had grown stronger as he’d
learned how to use his Presence like a weapon. She thought a big part of it
was his smile. She liked his smile; when he smiled at her, his whole face
took part in it. His eyes sparkled, his teeth gleamed, and he simply exuded
happiness. This grin was happy, playful—and proud.
“You’ve got her, Meder!” he called out happily. “Kick her ass!”
She turned away as a wave of shame flowed over her. She’d grasped
this power out of jealousy and self-loathing. She’d taken it to herself to
prove she was as good as Amarl, and in a way, she had. He couldn’t have
done what she had so far, for certain. She’d proven that she was powerful
and important, too, and his response…
Was pride. He was proud of her for what she’d done, not jealous that
she might take some of the attention away from him. He’d been proud of
Burik when his ability awakened, too. He really thought she could beat
Amrir, someone who’d already won against Amarl earlier. He was being
her friend, supporting her no matter what.
Could she say she did the same?
She pushed aside the shame and focused on Amrir. She could deal with
her shortcomings later. For now, she meant to uphold his belief in her. It
was the least she could do.
The sun overhead winked out as it finally ran out of power, and as it
did, Amrir lifted her long-barreled rifle. The weapon spat, and Meder once
again wove a barrier of heat to catch the bullet. Shimmering waves of
superheated air formed before her, and the bullet flashed as it struck the
barrier and melted, splattering hot lead and burnt slivers of wood on the
floor. She almost struck back with a blast of air, but she stopped. She liked
Amrir. The older girl was friendly to everyone, even Amarl, and people
respected and admired her. Meder didn’t want to hurt her, and a blast of
wind or force at her—or worse, fire or lightning—could hurt the girl badly.
She wanted to win, but not at any cost.
Another bullet flared against the heat barrier, and Meder refocused her
thoughts. She needed to deal with Amrir without harming her. The
problem was, her sahr arrays were all far too powerful for that. She’d built
them taking the relative weakness of sahr into account; with this new power
source, they were simply too strong to be safe. She didn’t have time to
rebalance the power equations. She needed to do something that would
incapacitate the girl without hurting her. She smiled as an idea popped into
her head, one that she knew would work because it had been used on her
before.
The matrix she needed was elaborate, with arrays stacked in multiple
dimensions, arranged at various angles to one another so that when they
collapsed, the cumulative effect would be more than the sum of its parts.
Normally, she’d have needed anchors for it, other people to hold parts of the
matrix so that she could focus on powering and guiding the core, but with
her new power, that wasn’t an issue. It took time, though, and she wasn’t
sure how long her new shields would last.
Pain flared in her shoulder, and she almost dropped her matrix as she
realized that her barrier had fallen, and Amrir had just shot her. Panic
followed that as woody vines erupted from the shallow wound in her arm
and began to wrap around her body. She’d seen Amrir rip a creature apart
from the inside out with those vines, and while she knew the older girl
wouldn’t do that to her, the image of those vines burrowing inside her still
nearly made her abandon her working to once again desiccate the vines and
rip them free.
That, though, was a trap, she realized. If she did that, then recreated her
barrier, would she have time to forge another sahr working before she was
exposed again? Probably not, and creating her barrier probably took a lot
more power than growing those vines did for Amrir. Meder didn’t know
how much power she had to call on, but she bet that Amrir had more. In a
battle of attrition, the older girl would win. Meder had one chance to finish
this, and that meant she had to ignore the older girl’s attack.
Vines wrapped around her as she closed her eyes and refocused on her
matrix. She’d lost some of it, and she quickly rebuilt those parts, adding to
them as swiftly as she safely could. The vines encircled her body, quickly
binding her limbs, but she ignored them. They wrapped around her legs
and squeezed her chest and stomach. She nearly fell, but she managed to
hold herself upright as the last pieces of the matrix fell into place.
“Amarl! Burik!” she shouted as the vines wound around her neck and
began to creep toward her face. “How the assilians got us!” That was all
she had time to say before a woody vine wrapped around her mouth and
gagged her. Hoping that her friends understood just in case this spread
farther than she intended, she took as deep a breath as possible, then
collapsed her working.
A loud thump pounded her ears, followed by a deep and utter silence as
her matrix drove every particle of air away from her. The power moved
outward in a visible shockwave, washing over the arena and continuing on
into the crowd beyond. She hadn’t intended that, but she wasn’t too
worried; it wouldn’t hurt anyone for a while. Amrir staggered as the air was
sucked from her lungs, and her eyes grew wide and panicked. They got
even wider when Meder desiccated the vines and tore herself free, then
lifted her staff and charged the girl.
The older girl lifted her rifle again, but Meder flung a blast of force, not
at her, but at the ground beneath her, making her stumble and stagger long
enough for Meder to close. She lifted her staff and struck, whipping the
butt at Amrir’s face, then slashing with the other end at her side. The girl
blocked with her rifle, and Meder swung low, forcing her backward. Meder
wasn’t Burik or Amarl, but she was a warrior, and her staff could be just as
deadly as their blades. Besides, she’d spent hundreds of hours fighting her
two friends, and both of them were better than Amrir. This wasn’t even a
contest.
Meder moved on the woman the way Amarl usually did, striking
constantly. Blows rained on the girl’s sides, slashed at her feet, and thrust
toward her face. Amrir blocked and dodged, her eyes wild and panicked as
she swiftly ran out of air. Meder dropped a low feint at the girl’s knee, then
spun her staff and thrust it into Amrir’s midsection. The girl’s eyes bulged
as the blow knocked the last of the air from her lungs, and she dropped to a
knee, clutching her throat. Meder tapped her on the back of the head, hard
enough to show that she could have knocked her out but gently enough not
to hurt, then straightened and looked around.
Most of the crowd had backed away, clearing the air void she’d
created. Only Burik and Amarl remained, no doubt holding their breaths.
Burik clapped soundlessly at her. Amarl, ass that he was, just stood there
grinning at her, leaning on his axe and giving her another saucy wink. She
felt a surge of warmth as she looked at them. They were her friends, and
they’d been better friends to her than she had to them. She’d fix that,
eventually, but for the moment, she simply basked in the knowledge of it.
 Amarl waved a hand, grabbing her attention, then pointed at his throat,
and she grimaced as she understood his meaning. Her chest ached, and her
head pounded by the time she managed to undo her working and restore the
air in the ring. As breath and sound both rushed back, the nadar walked
over, glaring at her for a moment before lifting a hand.
“Disabling blow to the back of the skull,” he said in a flat voice.
“Meder wins. Three points for each.” He glared at the girl. “You won, but
you need to control this ability.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, not bothering to argue that she’d just discovered it.
The nadar wouldn’t care. None of them cared about reasons. They just
wanted results.
As she walked toward Burik and the crowd slowly crept back in, Amarl
came up beside her.
“Nice work!” he laughed, smacking her shoulder. “You did it—
although you’ll have to explain what you did sometime, I think.”
“I think—I think my ability quickened,” she said hesitantly, pulling up
her ability report to check.

“Well?” he asked.
“I…” She blinked rapidly as she realized that not only had her ability
quickened, but it was exactly what she wanted. It made her better at sahr,
and the first passive effect explained why sahr came so easily to her. It
hadn’t evolved, the way Burik’s had, but that didn’t matter. It was perfect
as it was.
 “Yes. It quickened.” She took a deep breath. “And you’re wrong. I
didn’t do it. We did.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around
the startled boy, hugging him close and resting her head on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she whispered to him. “For being my friend. I’ll—I
promise to be a better one.”
His arms wrapped around her in return, pulling her close. “I don’t
know how that’s going to be possible, but I’ll take it,” he said quietly.
In the background, she heard Ranakar speaking, calling out the winners
of the matches, but she didn’t care. Her shame and self-loathing were still
there, but there, holding her friend and being held in turn, they didn’t
matter. She would deal with them, and she knew that her friends would be
there to help, no matter what.
The three of them would show the school that they couldn’t be broken.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 41
The day of challenges had been something of a shitshow as far as Amarl
was concerned. After it ended, the remaining injured students received
what Meder informed them were real healing elixirs. Apparently, they’d
been getting weak versions that kept them from getting worse but also left
them in pain most of the day. He assumed she was right. She usually was
about things like sahr and alchemy. Whatever the case, though, with the
final elixir, Burik healed enough to walk, and the group of exhausted,
hurting students marched back to Sabila. They all crashed into bed without
even cleaning up.
Akio was a welcome day of rest afterward. Despite the elixirs and the
healing effects of their ithtu, all three students were sore and tired. Burik’s
legs still bothered him, and both Meder and Amarl found they couldn’t do
much before their muscles began to tremble with fatigue. They tossed
around the idea of heading into the village early, but none of them really
wanted to leave the room, so they spent the morning talking about the
previous day, instead.
“I really hope that’s the last time we have to do anything like that,”
Amarl said with a groan, lying on his bed with an arm flung over his eyes.
“By the way, Meder, in case you’re wondering, that was the spirits’ hells.
You owe Tautibal an apology.”
“I’ll be happy to,” the girl replied. “Right after she apologizes for
ripping my clothes with that riding crop of hers.”
“Not your skin?” Amarl laughed.
“My skin healed. I keep having to sew up my clothes, though, and
that’s a pain in the ass. You’re right about it being the spirits’ hells, though.
That was a shit day.”
“That’s a good name for it. Shit Day, the lead-in to Challenge Week.
We should suggest it to Ranakar to see if he’ll make it official.”
“I’d like to say it wasn’t that bad,” Burik laughed. “I’d be lying,
though.”
 “At least you didn’t have to fight twelve rounds,” the girl said a little
waspishly.
“No, I had to sit there, in pain, watching you guys fight and wishing I
could,” he shook his head. “It made me feel helpless, and I hate feeling
helpless.”
“I felt the same way,” she sighed. “And I’m sorry for snapping at you.
I’m just frustrated about the day. Shit Day really is a good name for it. It
was just so—stupid. And pointless.”
“I don’t know about pointless, Meder,” the larger boy said reasonably.
“You did quicken your ability, after all.”
“Which I’m sure I would have done in the next quarter anyway,” she
countered. “I’d much rather have waited for a few moons than endure that,
thank you very much. And while Amarl figured out that his instruments
control which stat he’s boosting, again, I’ll bet he would have worked that
out eventually anyway. We didn’t get anything from that that we couldn’t
have gotten with a little patience and a lot less misery.”
Amarl didn’t bother to argue, although secretly, he suspected she was
wrong, there. Sure, the gains to his skills and stats were something he’d
likely have gotten in time, as was the realization of how to control his ithtu
—something that he felt Tekasoka would be overjoyed to learn. His final
match with Nolla hadn’t gone quite as he planned, and he hid a wince as he
recalled what he’d found once he’d come out of his ithtu trance.
Nolla had lain there on the ground, clutching a shattered sternum and
weeping, and he thought it was from pain. Once he listened to her words,
though, he realized that it was a lot scarier.
“My crystals!” she wept. “You bastard! You took my fucking
crystals!”
The nadar—who it turned out had tried to restrain Amarl and gotten
tossed on his ass as a result—just stared at the boy in shock and a little
revulsion. Amarl couldn’t quite recall what had happened in his ithtu
trance, but he remembered Nolla pulling something from him, and then
pulling it back, instead. Apparently, somehow, that battle drained her
completely of ithtu, and she blamed him for it. He wanted to point out that
when she used her abilities, she had to expect to lose ithtu and crystals, but
a glance at his altered status reminded him that it might not have been that
simple.
 Even as he lay in bed, he could feel the heaviness in his core as the new
liquid ithtu sloshed around inside him. The song in his mind hummed with
extra intenstiy, and when he focused on hearing a single instrument, it came
to him far faster than it had before. The boost from the liquid improved his
skill learning rate from about four hundred percent to almost seven
hundred, allowed him to improve his stats by four points each instead of
two, and increased his regeneration by almost three hundred percent. That
increased his quickening rate to nearly thirty percent, which he assumed
meant he was going to go through crystals a lot faster than normal.
He hadn’t otld the others yet, mostly because they were all tired, plus he
thought they wanted to bitch about yesterday for a bit, first. He’d tell them
later, once the initial venting was done. Burik would probably be happy for
him; Meder, he wasn’t sure about. Fortunately, he knew how to stall the
time he’d need to find out by giving her another thing to complain about.
“Especially since it means you’ll be starting Rateso’s class next week,”
he told her with a grin. “I’m sure it’ll be even more fun when you’re
recovering from yesterday.”
“Shit. Thanks for reminding me of that, ass.” The girl groaned. “I
definitely would have preferred to wait a moon.”
“My mother always says, ‘Fight with the blade you have, not the one
you desire,’” Burik replied.
“That’s another good one,” Amarl said with a laugh. “I’ve got one like
it. Sometimes, good enough is good enough.”
“I like hers better,” Meder observed. “It sounds wise. Yours sounds
like an excuse for doing just enough to get by.”
“I suppose it might since that’s more or less what it is,” he admitted.
“Still, it’s the same meaning, isn’t it? Do the best with what you’ve got.”
He paused and uncovered his eyes to look at her. “And speaking of that,
what did you get?”
“What do you mean?” she asked curiously. “What did I get when?”
“Your ability. What did it turn out to be?”
“Oh. It’s still ‘baj.’ The meaning is, ‘thought guides power.’”
“So, it didn’t evolve?” Burik asked.
She made a sour face and shook her head. “No, it didn’t. Still, I like it.
It suits me.”
“What does it do, though?” Amarl pressed. “Obviously, something to
do with sahr from the way your workings were smacking Amrir around.”
“I wasn’t smacking anyone around,” she protested.
“You literally knocked her onto her ass with a blast of wind. How is
that not smacking her around?”
She winced. “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to knock her seeds
away.” She sighed. “Actually, while I’m happy with my ability, it’s going
to take a lot of getting used to. It’s pretty dangerous.”
 “All abilities are, Meder,” Burik pointed out.
“Yes, but I mean to me specifically, not just other people. I could have
blinded myself with that sun I created, or burned myself with my own heat
screen, or gotten frostbite from freezing Amrir’s vines. The workings don’t
care who they affect, so if I don’t figure out how to use my ability correctly,
I might end hurting myself more often than not.” She grimaced. “I don’t
want to start winning at Halit by putting myself in the infirmary each
week.”
“You’re right. A Hetarisan viuctory is no victory. Some costs of
winning are too high.”
“A what?” Amarl laughed.
“Hetarisan victory. It’s where you win the battle, but you sacrifice so
much to do it that you lose the war. Smart commanders avoid it if at all
possible.” He shook his head.
“It’s named after Hetarisada um’Pretengal Timmot. When the nomads
breached the Flamewall two centuries ago, she led a full great axe, five
thousand soldiers against double that number of invaders. She should have
withdrawn and slowly bled them until she could meet them on favorable
ground, but she didn’t want them to sack Okkal and Sanjor, so she faced
them on the open plains between the wall and the border of Marriketh.
That’s their favored terrain, so while she ended up routing them, she lost
more than half her command in the process. Because of that, the next
season when the nomads tried the wall again, she didn’t have enough
soldiers to hold them back. She lost the wall, the nomads sacked Okkal
anyway, and they made it deep into Marriketh before reinforcements came
and drove them back. It’s held up as an example of what not to do in war.”
“I actually knew that—the story, at least,” Meder sighed. “I never
thought about it applying to ithtu, but in a way, it does. My ability really
enhances the power of my sahr workings, so they come out about six times
as powerful as they should be, but it means I have to drasitcally cut the
power requirements and rebalance all my arrays to use it.”
“Or just not use your ability most of the time,” Amarl added.
“Well, yes, I won’t most of the time. I doubt that I can most of the time,
at least right now. That core of power isn’t there at the moment. However,
I’d rather have them balanced for when I’ve got my ability under control.”
“Smart,” Burik nodded. “Does it do anything else?”
“It’s got a passive effect that helps me use sahr more effectively, which
explains why it’s always been so easy for me, and a second that makes my
alchemy better.”
“That’s a useful ability,” Amarl whistled. “As good as you are at sahr,
if you can make it that powerful, you’ll be really dangerous.”
“Too dangerous, really. I was worried about using any offensive or
damaging workings against Amrir because I didn’t want to hurt her. That’s
why I took the air away, instead. Even though it affected more of an area
than I intended, it didn’t really hurt anyone.”
“It did make a dozen or so people pass out,” Burik noted. “Not to
mention the fact that the little sun you created blinded almost everyone.”
“You’re not making me feel better, you know.”
“I’m not really trying to.”
“You’re a bigger ass than Amarl is, you know,” she accused.
“I’m a bigger person. It stands to reason every part of me is bigger, as
well.”
“You’ll learn to control it,” Amarl interrupted confidently. “And once
you do, you’ll be able to hit Amrir as hard or as gently as you want.”
“I don’t really want to hit Amrir, though.”
“Then how about Naros? He’s kind of a dick.”
“He’s not the problem, Amarl, and you know it. Nolla is.” Meder
paused. “Although she might not be after that fight. What happened to
her?”
Amarl grimaced, considering telling only part of the truth, but he’d
decided a year ago not to do that with them.
“Turns out, her ability is some kind of ithtu and mental drain,” he
explained. “The longer we fought, the harder it got to concentrate, and the
less my ithtu wanted to help me, while she kept getting stronger and faster.”
“She was almost beating you there, for a while,” Burik nodded. “I was
wondering what was wrong.”
 “It was hard to focus on her, and about all I could do was struggle to
keep my defenses up. I knew I was going to lose, so I just sort of let my
ithtu take over.”
Meder sucked in a dismayed breath. “Amarl, you know how dangerous
that is,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, but I wasn’t really in any state of mind to think about it. My
whole brain felt like it had a fog wrapped around it.” He shook his head. “I
don’t fully remember what happened next—you know I rarely do when the
ithtu takes over like that—but I remember feeling her trying to drain me.
Instead, I yanked back and retook the power she stole from me.”
“You countered her ability?” Burik asked. “How?”
“No clue. I just did it. However, I think I overdid it and drained all of
her ithtu, including whatever crystals she’d quickened.”
“Shit,” Meder murmured, her face pale. “Amarl, that’s incredible—and
frankly terrifying.”
“Yeah. It gets worse, though.” He took a deep breath. “You know that
I’ve been practicing holding the ithtu inside a creature when I quicken it,
right?” They nodded, and he went on. “Well, I think I did that with Nolla’s
power, too. I vageuly remember squeezing it together, but instead of just
getting denser, it changed into—into a liquid.”
“What?” Meder gasped.
“Damn,” Burik grunted. He looked at Meder. “Liquid ithtu. Is that
even a thing?”
“I—I have no idea, Burik. I’ve never heard of it, but that doesn’t mean
much. There’s a lot about ithtu that we just don’t know.” She looked at
Amarl gravely. “Are you going to tell Tekasoka?”
“I think I have to. She’ll be in my head, so if I think about it or see it as
a liquid, she’ll know anyway.”
“So, how is your new ithtu piss different from your ithtu gas?” Burik
asked with a grin.
“First, it’s liquid, not piss—at least, I think. I didn’t notice anything
different when I went this morning, anyway.”
 “Do you really examine it all that much when you’re using the
bathroom?” Meder asked critically.
“That depends on what ‘it’ you’re talking about,” he grinned at her.
“The actual piss? Not so much. What it comes out of? Well, yes, pretty
regularly, although I’d used the word ‘admire’ rather than ‘examine’.”
“That’s because you’re easily impressed,” she said with a roll of her
eyes. “So, answer the question. How incredibly powerful did it make you
now?”
“Well, it did increase my skill learning speed from 430% to 668%.
Plus, my stat boost is four now instead of two, and I get a boost to
harvesting and quickening speed.”
“Can you teach me how to do it?” she asked hopefully.
“I can try,” he shrugged. “I’m not sure how I did it, to be honest, but
I’m willing to give it a shot.” He looked at Burik. “You want to learn,
too?”
“I wouldn’t mind. Anything that makes me stronger, and all.” He
glanced at Meder. “You know that there’s a good chance he’s the only one
who can do it, though, right?”
“Yes, but if I don’t try, I’ll never know.” She hesitated. “You know that
after that, she’s likely to be even more unhappy with you, Amarl.”
Amarl shrugged. “That’s a problem for tomorrow Amarl. Today Amarl
is too busy relaxing to care.”
They headed to the village later in the day, where Amarl again helped
Meder with her shopping before joining Burik at Sasofit’s. When they
returned to the dormitory, they found the other second-years gathered
around several pieces of paper stuck to the wall of the main sitting room.
“That’s right!” Meder said with a grimace. “It’s time for points to be
awarded again. I’d forgotten about that.”
“Really?” Amarl laughed. “You sound unhappy about it. Last time,
you were so excited you could hardly wait to read them!”
“I don’t really need to see my score, now. I’m pretty sure my
Academics score is about the same. I got twenty-two points from
yesterday, so that’s my Hunting score, and I’ve got nine wins this quarter
from Halit. I don’t think I’ll get anything from Sitjak, so my final score
should be around seventy-three.”
“You’ve been counting your Halit wins?”
“Of course. It’s my weakest area—well, that and Sitjak. I’ve been
trying to get at least enough to stay close to you and Burik in case the
school really does increase our requirement.”
“Let’s see how close you are,” he grinned at her, weaving through the
other students toward the papers. He scanned them until he found the one
for their group.
Yr
Sitja Hali Tota Tota
Student Academics Hunting k t l l
Amarl 38 24 7 12 81 146
Burik 34 11 10 19 74 147
Hadur 27 7 0 7 41 83
Herel 36 11 4 12 63 111
Meder 42 22 2 9 75 139
Norag 32 6 0 8 46 87

“You were wrong,” Burik chuckled, pointing at Meder’s name. “You

got points from Sitjak after all. They ranked you ninth overall. Nice
work!”
“Seventy-five,” she nodded, then grimaced. “It would have been sixty-
five without the bonus from yesterday, though. I need to do better at Halit.”
“You will,” Amarl assured her. “Now that your ability’s quickened,
you’ll be able to win a lot more matches.”
“Except that sahr is prohibited in matches,” she sighed.
“I’ll bet that doesn’t count for you anymore,” Burik shook his head.
“It’s your ability, after all, and the whole point is to teach you to use it. I
guarantee they’ll relax that rule for you.”
“I hope so.” She reached out and punched Amarl in the arm, and he
gave her a look that reflected his surprise.
 “What was that for?”
“Eighty-one. You got eighty-one points, ass.” She flashed him a grin
and patted the arm she’d just punched. “Good job.”
“Honestly, I don’t care,” he shrugged. “In fact, I’d rather get less. You
saw what happened yesterday. The better you do here, the harder they
make things for you. That eighty-one is going to come haunt me, I’ll bet.”
“Probably,” Burik agreed.
“So, Herel lsot his final match?” Meder asked, looking at the sheet
again.
“Yeah,” Burik nodded. “Dashe had him totally confused about which
image was attacking him, and he finally turned his back to the wrong
image. It wasn’t even close, really.” He grimaced. “None of them were
except you two. Kafwi swamped Mepil with his lava, and Dewla cut right
through Lared’s defenses.”
“It almost wasn’t for me, either,” Meder said quietly.
“Almost doesn’t count,” Amarl shrugged. “What matters is that you
won.”
“That’s true, I guess.” She pointed to the sheet again. “Look at Norag
and Hadur’s scores. They’re both well below where they need to be to
graduate.”
Amarl nodded as he read over the other boys’ numbers. “Neither is
doing that well academically, and they’re not getting enough points from
Halit to offset it. If they don’t do something, they won’t make it to next
year.”
“Maybe I can talk to Norag,” Meder said in a concerned voice. “I could
tutor him and maybe bring his Academics score up…”
“He needs to do better in Halit,” Burik shook his head. “There are only
so many points you can get from Academics, but there’s no real limit on
Halit points. If he wins more, he’ll catch up quickly.”
“Maybe you could ask him to join our sparring sessions,” Amarl
suggested to Meder. “He’ll probably get more from that than whatever he’s
doing now.”
“I will,” she nodded.
 “What about Hadur?” Burik asked in a neutral tone.
“I’m not helping him,” Meder said adamantly. “He’s a disgusting,
lecherous Lasheshian, and I don’t want him anywhere near me.”
“What she said,” Amarl chuckled. “Plus, do you think he’d join us if
I’m there?”
“If it was that or expulsion?” Burik frowned, his face thoughtful.
“Honestly, I don’t know. Herel would, though.”
“Herel’s doing fine on his own,” Meder said dismissively. “And if
Hadur wants help, he can find an upperclassman to do it.”
“What if he apologizes and promises to behave himself?” Amarl asked
lightly.
“First, he’ll never apologize. Second, he can’t behave himself.” She
paused, then sighed. “If he did, though, I guess I’d give him the chance to
show me he could.”
“You’re nicer than me,” Amarl laughed.
“Well, that’s not really much of an accomplishment, is it?” she grinned
at him. “Almost everyone is.”
“Except Hadur,” Burik noted.
“Well, yes. Except Hadur.”

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 Chapter 42
The next morning, Burik bid them both a bit of a grudging goodbye as
he set out for classes, leaving the pair to enjoy a morning of rest. They
ended up back in Askula Village, which was much quieter and emptier
without the fair and the students filling it. They headed to Galiber’s first,
finding the rotund baker busy baking bread for the rest of the village and his
selection of pastries far more limited, then browsed a few shops before
settling into the nearly empty Sasofit’s.
“It’s strange seeing the village like this,” Meder murmured as she
sipped her glass of hot mulled wine. “The last time I saw Sasofit’s so
empty was right before the Joining.”
“This is actually more what I’m used to,” he chuckled. “Tem was like
this seven days out of eight. Once the sun rose, everyone went to work,
with most people heading out to the mines or the fields. Only the
merchants and crafters stayed in the village during the day, so it was pretty
empty.”
“Dairon’s never empty,” she said with a shake of her head. “It’s busy
all day and most of the night. There are always people moving about and
wagons and carriages rolling through the streets.”
“What’s it like?” he asked curiously. “The city, I mean. I’ve only ever
seen Devald, so I can only picture that when you talk about it.”
“The two are totally different,” she laughed. “For one thing, Devald is
about a quarter the size of Dairon, which is the most populous city in the
Empire. It’s also the second-richest behind Shujish, which is the closest
city to the Crystal Palace.”
Her eyes went vacant and soft as she spoke. “For all practical purposes,
the Empire is split in half, the East and West, with the Silverbands between
them, and Dairon is the political and economic capital of the eastern half. It
controls all trade in the East: raw materials, food, and livestock from inland
float down the Porumpir River to Dairon to be shipped to the West, and
finished goods from the West come in through Dairon to be carried into the
East. It’s also the only port the Nicelian traders will enter, so all trade with
the Protectorate goes through it.”
 She laughed lightly. “Which all goes to say, it’s very, very wealthy, and
that wealth shows. The walls surrounding the inner city are made of silver
stone inlaid with decorative brass to make them shine in the morning sun.
All the buildings in the inner city are sheathed in white marble so they
glow, as well. The streets are wide and lined with trees and flowerbeds, and
the roads are made of stone, not cobbles or packed dirt like in Devald. The
city reaches over you when you ride through it, but it doesn’t loom the way
the buildings do in Shujish, where the roads are narrower.”
“Inner city?”
“Yes. Dairon’s been around for a very long time, since the time of the
Great War, in fact. The original city was wooden, built from honey pine
wood, in fact, and surrounded by a stone wall. After the Empire’s founding,
as Dairon became the trade capital of the East, the city grew, and the people
had to build beyond those walls to accommodate all the new citizens. A
few hundred years into the Empire, most of the original city burned down,
and we took the opportunity to use all the money coming in to rebuild in
stone.”
“That does seem smarter than making an entire city out of something
that burns,” he grinned at her.
“In hindsight, absolutely, but there’s a legend that the spirits can’t abide
the touch of honey pine, which is why the city was originally built that
way. It may or may not be true, but Dairon never fell to the spirits’ armies
during the War, so there might be some truth to it.”
She shrugged. “In any case, the outer city just sort of grew organically,
so it’s chaotic and a little confusing. Streets curve and twist for no reason,
buildings are built right up against one another, and the roads tend to be
narrow. The rebuilt original city was carefully planned. It’s laid out like
the spokes of a wheel all radiating from the Forum, where the City Council
meets. The avenues are broad and lined with trees, and the streets are
smooth and well-maintained. Everything shimmers from the marble
sheathing it, and at noon, it’s almost like the city throws the sun’s light back
at it.”
“Sounds amazing,” he said honestly.
“It is. And because it’s a center of trade, you can meet people from all
over the Empire in it. They bring their customs, art, and foods with them,
so there’s always something to catch your eye or stimulate your senses.
When you travel closer to the harbor, the scents of the Nicelian spices being
unloaded hit your nose all at once, mixing with the salt air…” She sighed
again. “There’s really no place like it.”
“Sounds like you miss it,” he noted quietly.
“I do,” she admitted. “Not all the time, the way I used to. But
sometimes, I miss being in the city, where there was always something to
do and somewhere to go. Here, everything is about training, growing, and
getting stronger all the time. There, I only spent a few hours a day in
classes and a couple more learning from my mother, and the rest of my time
was mine to do as I wanted with. I miss spending it with my cousins and
siblings, joking and laughing in the family gardens or riding horses on our
estates. I miss listening to young men singing us songs as they courted us,
trying to impress our mothers…”
She paused, and Amarl caught a flash of shame on her face that he
didn’t understand until she continued. “And I miss being Meder
um’Goranda Dairon, daughter of Goranda um’Shevereta Dairon, heir to and
favored daughter of the House of Lesepis, one of the leading houses of
Dairon and thus of the entire East. I miss being the one who was first and
best at everything. I miss being the golden child that every adult notices
and admires.” She fixed him with a slightly miserable gaze. “The way you
are, here.”
He couldn’t help but snort. “I don’t think everyone admires me,
Meder.”
“They do, though. People talk about you all the time, you know, about
how fast you learn everything and how quickly you excel at it. The
students from your crafting and skill classes complain that you’re already
better than them when they’ve been doing it for years. Students grumble
about how quickly you’ve risen in Sitjak, and how often you win in Halit.
Even the ones like Gowen, Robla, and Herel who don’t want to can’t help
but be impressed by you. They’re jealous and angry because they want
what you have. I know; I used to be the one that people were jealous and
angry of.”
“And you want to go through that again?” he asked in mild disbelief.
 “Yes. No. Both, really. I didn’t like people being unhappy with me
just because of who I was, but at the same time, I loved being that person,
and a part of me enjoyed that they felt that way.” She made an unhappy
face. “I know. It’s stupid and selfish and arrogant, but it’s the truth, and it’s
why I get so jealous of you sometimes, Amarl. You have what I used to,
and sometimes, I wish I had it back.”
He sat silently, staring into his cider—it was too early for beer, at least
for him—and thinking. He understood what she was saying, of course. She
didn’t really want to be him; she just wanted to be the exceptional one. She
wanted admiration and the jealousy of others, not their animosity and
hatred.
“Honestly, I don’t blame you,” he finally said with a shrug.
“That—was not what I was expecting you to say,” she laughed weakly.
“I thought you’d point out how much harder you have it because of being
special, and how you wish that you could be more like Burik and me.”
“Except that really, I don’t,” he admitted. “I mean, yeah, I’d like for
people to stop hating me at first sight just because of my heritage, but I’m
going to face that no matter where I go in the Empire. Here, at least, my
nature gives me a lot of advantages, and I wouldn’t want to give those up.
And I do like when people admire me because of them.”
He looked up and met her troubled gaze. “But the truth is, Meder, that
back in Dairon, people weren’t really admiring you, were they? They were
admiring the favored daughter, and that happened to be you. If you’d been
born in a different order, one of your sisters would have gotten all that
attention. It’s the same for me. I didn’t really do anything to earn that
attention except be born. I had no say over it, and it wasn’t anything I
achieved.”
“I suppose that’s true,” she admitted. “But…”
“And,” he cut her off, “you have a chance to get all that again, you
know. Once you’ve graduated from Askula, you’ll be able to go back there
as someone far more admired, respected, and feared than Meder um-
whoever ever was. And that’s something you’ll have earned, not that was
given to you. It won’t be because you were born to it—or not entirely
because of that, at least. It’ll be because of the work you put in, the blood
you shed, the thousands of hours of training and pain and loss that you
endured. The Shit Days and Challenge Weeks and doom tortoises and
assilian hives that you conquered.”
He leaned forward, looking into her thoughtful eyes, and took one of
her hands. “And on that day, when you go back and look at your mother,
and she looks back at you not as her child or even an equal but as a figure
of awe and admiration, you’ll know that it’s you, Meder Askula, that she’s
in awe of. The person, not the daughter. And that’ll be a lot sweeter, trust
me.”
He let go of her hand and leaned back, and she remained silent for
several seconds before taking another sip of her wine. “That’s probably the
best argument I’ve ever heard,” she finally admitted. “You’re totally right.
I can be that person again, can’t I? I just have to work for it instead of
being given it.” She made a face. “And when the hells did you become
wise?”
“I’m not,” he chuckled. “I’ve just had the same thoughts for the past
year or more, and that’s the conclusion I reached. One day, I’ll go back to
Tem, and when I do, I won’t be Marl the orphan and half-breed. I’ll be
Amarl Askula, ithtar. They’ll beg for my forgiveness for the way they
treated me, and that’ll be something I’ve earned. Just as you’ll go back to
your family one day, and they’ll welcome you back and brag about you to
everyone they know.” He grinned at her. “Unless, of course, you bring me
with you. Then, it might not go so well.”
“You think?” she returned his grin. “I’ll have Amarl Askula, the hizeen
ithtar and most powerful member of the Order at my side.” She took his
hand again. “And my extremely dear friend who I’d never trade for
anything, not even the adoration I used to have.”
“Okay, this is getting maudlin,” he laughed. “What say we go hit Sitjak
and smack each other around a bit? That’ll lighten things up.”
“Deal,” she laughed back, pulling her hand away and tossing back her
wine. “And thanks for listening. Even if you are an ass.”
“Anytime, Meder,” he smiled at her. “That’s what friends are supposed
to be for, after all.”

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 Chapter[MG6] 43
Amarl’s fingers moved slowly and delicately as he twisted a small,
golden ring through a pair of identically sized loops of the same metal with
a pair of steel pliers. He had to hold the link firmly enough to be able to
thread it through the twin hoops, each a fraction of a fingerwidth in
diameter, but not tightly enough to mar or compress the soft metal. He
could probably fix any deformity in the metal later while polishing, but
each defect he had to repair later was a chance to miss something—and he
definitely didn’t want to hear what Noriseta would have to say about that.
He slid the loop through and closed it, then did the same for a second
link. His hands worked nimbly as he slid loop after loop onto the growing
chain, pushing each one shut before moving to the next. It was slow,
painstaking work, but if he did this wrong, he’d end up with gaps or ridges
in the finished product that would mar the work or even add a kink to the
chain. At last, he sealed the last link and gently lifted the whole thing to the
bright blue flame of the soldering torch. He held each link in the flames
until the cut edges melted and sealed shut, then placed the chain back on the
table. He carefully twisted the chain to remove the natural kinks in it and
flatten it out, pounding out any remaining bumps or warps with a lead bar.
He took the shavings he’d left behind and returned them to the small
clay kiln, heating them until they liquefied, then began the laborious
process of hammering the remaining disc into an ingot and drawing it back
into wire. He used two sections of that to fashion a simple hook clasp, then
began shaping the rest into a pear-shaped setting. It took him another hour
to mold that into the perfect shape to hold the deep blue topaz sitting to the
side. With that done, he dumped the whole thing in a bath of hot acid to
remove any lingering impurities on the surface and to shine it up a bit, ran it
under a cloth polishing wheel, and placed the stone carefully in the center
of the setting. A few gentle nudges sealed the clasps over the stone, binding
it in place, and he leaned back, examining his work.
He'd spent hours creating this relatively simple chain. He’d started the
day before by faceting and polishing the topaz, which looked like a rough,
ridged quartz crystal in its natural state. That was a chore in and of itself.
When he’d first started the class, he’d assumed that he’d be hammering
away at gemstones with a chisel and mallet, but he found that was only to
break off the best possible chunk of stone for cutting. Most of gemcutting
involved using spinning, wet stones with the proper grit applied to
laboriously grind away the desired shape and facets, then using
progressively smaller grits to polish it into a clear, glossy finish. It was
meticulous, painstaking work, as he had to apply exactly the right amount
of pressure and hold the stone at just the right angle. Too much pressure,
and he’d mar the stone; too little, and it would end up looking hazy and
occluded; a twitch or jerk at the wrong moment would change the facet
shape and size.
With the stone in hand, he’d taken an ingot of gold, cut it into squares,
melted it down, and mixed it with silver, copper, and zinc to make it harder
and give it extra luster. He reformed that alloy into an ingot, then
hammered and drew it into wire, wrapped it around a thin steel rod to create
his links, and threaded each one together individually. As he worked, he
understood why gold and silver jewelry was so much more expensive than
forged iron and steel. The gold was softer and easier to work, but it was
also too soft to be useful—if he’d made his chain out of pure gold, it would
deform too easily, and anyone wearing it would probably damage it through
normal activity. Of course, if he added too many base metals to it, it would
change the color, and he didn’t want white or rose gold for his work. Even
with the metal hardened, it was easy to push it a bit too far and damage it,
leaving tool marks, dents, and twists that would ruin its value and beauty.
Gold’s softness meant it tolerated far fewer mistakes than steel, and every
step of forging it required delicacy and care.
He clasped the chain shut and hung it on the black velvet stand
designed to show his finished work. It wasn’t perfect, he realized with a
touch of regret. A couple of the links weren’t quite flat enough. He’d left a
few tool marks in the gold; he attacked those with a polishing cloth, but
they were still signs that he’d pushed too hard and needed to be even more
careful. The stone’s facets had a faint irregularity, not enough for most to
notice but something his critical eye picked out. The prongs holding them
in place were ever-so-slightly misplaced, with one of them being the
thickness of a fingernail too low.
Even so, it was the best work he’d done so far, and he couldn’t help but
feel proud of it. He wouldn’t be ashamed to show the necklace to his
friends, and he thought he could probably sell it to a wealthy but not rich
merchant or lesser member of the zahai caste. At least, he could if it were
his to sell, which it wasn’t. The necklace, like everything he made, used the
school’s metal, stone, and tools, and it belonged to them. He could only
admire it before Noriseta inevitably came by and told him how awful it was
and ordered him to melt it down. He felt a pang at the thought of that; he’d
worked hard on the piece, and the idea of destroying it actually hurt.
As if his thoughts summoned her, the nadar suddenly appeared over his
shoulder, looming above him like a specter of judgment.
“Finished, Novice?” she asked in her crisp, cold voice. “Let’s see what
sort of disaster you produced.”
He wordlessly lifted the necklace from its display and handed it to her.
She took it indelicately and held it up, lifting it to the light and examining it
with a critical twist to her lips.
“Hmm. Slight occlusion in the stone, mostly hidden by the prong.
Placement of the lower left prong is off. You’ve got kinks in the chain here,
here, and here, and I can see where you used a cloth to polish out tool
marks.”
His heart sank at her appraisal, but she continued on.
“Still, the pattern’s done well, without gaps or breaks in the chain. The
setting matches the stone almost exactly, and the stone hangs smoothly and
swings without hanging up or catching. The chain’s polished well, so it
won’t rub or chafe, and the hook’s blunted correctly.” She handed it back to
him, and for a second, a gleam of approval sparkled in her eyes, startling
him.
“I’d call this high journeyman work. Put it back on the stand and place
it over with the finished pieces.” She jerked her chin toward a table that
held a handful of gleaming pieces of jewelry on it. “It’ll fetch a decent
price.”
“Ma’am?” he asked, slight stunned. “What do you mean? Fetch a price
where?”
“What? Did you think that your creations were just for your own
benefit, Novice?” She snorted deirisvely. “Not at all. We sell them, along
with all the best crafts from the students. This piece will bring ten to twenty
akatos in someplace like Dairon or Shujish, depending on the buyer. It
would do better with a more precious stone, and I’ll speak to Nadar Sererin
about getting you a better stone next time.”
He goggled at her in disbelief. An akato was worth over 800 aks, and
he’d considered himself rich when he stole five or six of them from Tem on
Naming Day. He knew that a decent merchant or talented crafter made
about an akato a week; that meant his necklace was worth three to five
months’ worth of earnings for a blacksmith or vintner.
“That can’t…” He froze as she flashed a dangerous gaze his way. “I
mean, that’s hard to imagine, ma’am.”
“Good catch,” she grunted, looking back at the necklace. “And decent
jewelry is always worth more than you think it should be. There’s the value
of the gold and gem in it, of course, plus the time and effort spent making it,
but the fact is that people with coins like to spend them, and they’ll do it on
the most foolish things just to show that they have enough coins not to
care.” She shook her head. “Idiocy, but it’s an idiocy that pays well, at
least.”
She paused and looked down at him with a speculative gaze . “Are you
certain that you want to continue into sahrotik, Novice?”
“I—yes, ma’am,” Amarl nodded slowly. “Why?”
“Because I saw the look on your face when you finished this piece.”
She moved closer to him and rested her hands on his workbench. “I
recognized it. It was pride, yes—but it was also satisfaction. Making this
felt good, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “It did.”
“I thought so. And that’s the main point of crafting, Novice. Not to
make something valuable or powerful or useful. It’s to balance out the
anger and frustration and death of being an ithara—or ithtar, in your case.
You need to make things that bring you happiness and contentment, and not
just because they’re useful.”
“Can’t they be both, ma’am? Can’t something be useful and
satisfying?”
“Of course. However, that rarely happens. Most of the time, if you’re
doing something because you think it’s going to benefit you, you don’t have
the same passion for it as for something that you do because you want to.”
He gave her an easy smile. “That’s not why I want to learn sahrotik,
ma’am. I just think it looks interesting, is all. It’s not because I think it’ll
give me an advantage.”
“Good. Never pursue a craft because you think you’re supposed to,
Novice. Do it because it excites you.” She shook her head. “It’s a shame,
though. You have talent at this. If you stuck with it, you’d probably
become a master of it one day.”
“Can’t I make jewelry as well as learning sahrotik, ma’am?”
“Probably not, no. ‘Tik is a complicated and convoluted skill to learn.
You’ll need to learn the inherent properties of different metals and gems,
how to turn sahr matrices into lattices, how to layer and meld lattices into
something greater…” She shook her head. “You’ll likely spend a year just
learning how to form a simple light lattice and make it work, Novice. You
won’t have time to make necklaces.”
She seemed to shake herself. “However, that’s an issue for next year
and some other nadar. I’m keeping you here until the end of the year. You
can start sahrotik next year, assuming you don’t change your mind.” She
smiled thinly. “Which gives me three moons to convince you, I suppose.”
Amarl didn’t argue, but as she walked away, he silently wondered if she
was right about him having to stop goldsmithing and gemcutting. With his
boost to skill learning speed, what took others a year might be a matter of a
few moons or even weeks for him. That might give him time to keep
making jewelry. He gazed at his necklace appreciatively before picking it
up and carrying it to the display table. Noriseta was right about one thing.
Making that necklace did feel good.
He went back to his table and set to work making a pair of white gold
earrings. He had to mix a fair amount of silver and platinum into the gold
to give it the whitish sheen he wanted, which made the metal harder and
slightly more difficult to work. He didn’t have matched gemstones to place
into them, so instead, he mixed up an ingot of rose gold by alloying more
copper into some gold and crafted a pair of simple balls to dangle from the
hoops. They weren’t as elaborate as his chain, and without stones mounted
into them, Noriseta didn’t think they were worth keeping to sell, but he was
still happy with how they’d turned out.
 It was late by the time he stepped out of the crafting hall, and he
stopped and breathed in the fresh, damp spring air. It was still cool outside,
especially at night, and the chill air felt good after spending hours
surrounded by molten metal and burning lamps. He took a few deep
breaths before setting out toward Sabila. As he rounded the next building,
though, a familiar figure appeared in his vision.
“Norag!” he called out to the round-faced boy. Norag halted and
turned back, then stood and waited for Amarl to catch up to him.
“You’re here late,” Amarl observed.
“So are you,” the boy said a bit shortly, moving into a jog that Amarl
easily kept pace with.
Amarl glanced over the boy, reading his body language and
expressions. After so much practice in skill class, it didn’t take him long to
see the wiggling fingers, tense shoulders, and tight jaw that indicated the
boy was stressed and maybe frustrated.
“Tough crafting session?” he asked as neutrally as possible.
“Yes. It was.”
The boy didn’t elaborate, so Amarl just nodded. “Been there. I can’t
count how many times Noriseta’s told me that everything I make is trash
and not worth the time it takes her to look at it.”
Norag winced slightly. “That seems—harsh.”
“Oh, Noriseta’s a bitch,” Amarl chuckled. “And at least she’s just as
hard on everyone else, so she’s not singling me out or anything. She’s a
master at goldsmithing, and she’s got no patience for anyone who’s not.”
Norag looked dubiously at Amarl. “Then why does the school have her
teaching? She sounds like a terrible choice.”
“Someone might say the same thing about Burik with you,” Amarl
chuckled. “It’s helped you though, hasn’t it?”
As she’d suggested, Meder had invited Norag to train with them in the
evenings. To his credit, he turned her down unless his friends could join,
which Amarl could at least respect. However, after about a moon, he
tentatively reached out to the girl and asked if the offer was still open.
 A single night of training under Burik made Amarl understand why
Norag wasn’t doing better in weapons class and Halit. The boy quite
frankly sucked at fighting, and he’d chosen a bad weapon to start with. His
hammer wasn’t terrible, but it needed someone with more muscle to make it
work effectively against armor. Burik was teaching Norag how to use a war
hammer, basically a hammer with a narrow, almost pointed head atop a
reach-long pole. The extra leverage added power to his blows, and the
extra reach and spearpoint atop it let him hold back enemies, but he
couldn’t use a shield with it as he was used to, and Amarl wasn’t sure if he
was going to take to the weapon.
Even worse, while Norag said that he and the others sparred regularly
and paid an older student to help coach and train them, he obviously wasn’t
used to fighting with the same intensity that Amarl and his friends had. The
first several times he’d faced Meder, he’d called for a halt after less than a
minute, battered and frustrated by the girl’s constant, probing attacks.
Eventually, Burik told the boy in no uncertain terms that if Norag wanted to
learn, he had to get used to pain and failure and not quit when it got hard.
Norag hadn’t shown up the next few sessions after that, but when he
did, he stopped complaining and fought until Burik called a halt to the
match. He left most days with his shield arm purpling with bruises, his
hands shaking from exhaustion, and drenched in sweat, but once he’d
started putting in the actual effort, he’d improved significantly. He wasn’t
going to place in the top ten in Sitjak or anything, but at least he lost a little
less often in Halit and was on track towards making enough points for
graduation.
“Yes, it has,” Norag admitted after a moment.
“Plus, her lack of patience for fools keeps some of the older students
who don’t really want me in the class from doing more than bitching quietly
about it,” Amarl added. “Early on, one of the third-years ‘accidentally’
spilled a crucible of molten silver on my hand as she was walking by.”
“People are still doing things like that to you?”
“Oh, yes, although it’s gotten better after Shit Day. I think my fight
with Nolla scared a few people into leaving me the hell alone.”
“I know it scared me,” Norag snorted. “And I’ve used it to remind
Hadur to keep his mouth shut around you more than once.”
 “Thanks for that. He’s a lot easier to deal with when he’s not talking.”
Amarl flashed the boy a grin. “The point is, Noriseta saw it happen and
knew it was on purpose, so she slapped the girl hard enough to break her
jaw and let everyone else know that was their only warning.”
“Well, it’s good that she’s looking out for you, at least.”
Amarl laughed. “Oh, she doesn’t really give a shit about me. She just
thinks everyone should be focused on crafting all the time and not
disturbing her with trival things like bullying.”
“How was your hand? Did you have to go to the infirmary?”
“No. My hands were wet when she did it. Keeping your hands wet is a
good idea when working with molten metal. If some of it lands on your
skin, it’ll boil the water instead of you, and the steam will keep it from
touching you for a second or so, which is usually long enough to get it off.
I got a steam burn, but it wasn’t that bad.”
He paused for a moment, then spoke as nonchalantly as possible. “I’m
sure you’ve had things like that happen to you, too, though. I mean,
accidents, not being bullied. What’s your craft, again?”
“Sculpting,” he said a little glumly. “And yeah, I’ve had both.
Accidents and bullying, I mean.”
“Which one was today? If you want to talk about it.”
Norag remained silent for a moment, then sighed, his shoulders
slumping. “Neither. It’s just…” He glanced at Amarl. “Do you like
crafting? I mean, do you like what you’re doing?”
“Yeah, for the most part. It’s hot, and it takes patience and careful
fingers since gold won’t tolerate a lot of force or carelessness. I do like
seeing something I made, though. It’s satisfying.”
“My father says the same thing,” Norag said in a morose tone. “‘Art is
its own reward, Norag. There is no greater power than creation. Take joy
in your work, and your work will be joyful.’”
“Kind of sounds like Burik’s mother,” Amarl laughed. “She’s got a
bunch of those sayings, too.”
“Maybe. I’ll bet her reasons were different, though.” He snorted. “I
think you know that my mother and father are artists, and that my father, in
particular, is fairly well known.”
“Meder mentioned that, yeah.”
“I assumed she would. She’d know. Her family probably has one or
two of his pieces.” He made a face. “There’s a price to having a famous
parent, Amarl. Everyone expects you to match only match their
accomplishments but to surpass them. Even your parents. It doesn’t help
when you’re the youngest of three, and both of your older sisters are poised
to do exactly that.”
“But not you,” Amarl guessed.
“No. Not me. Not for lack of skill—I’m good at sculpting, actually—
but because it bores me. My father and I have fought about that for years,
and all those things I said? They’re things he’s used to try to convince me
that I’m the problem, and that if I just grew up and stopped being so selfish,
things would be easier.”
“So, why did you pick sculpting here, then?” Amarl asked curiously.
“Because—because I think everyone expects me to.” His face twisted
into a sour frown. “And because I know that there’s a chance that my
father’s right. I’d never say that where he could hear it, but maybe if I just
gave myself a chance to enjoy it, I would. Plus, learning a new craft from
scratch really doesn’t appeal to me. I remember the early years learning
sculpting, and how boring and monotonous it was. I don’t want to go
through that again with some other craft.”
Secretly, Amarl thought it sounded like the boy was simply lazy—or
maybe just uncaring. He didn’t say that aloud, though.
“I take it it’s not going well, then?”
“Oh, no. It’s going fine. That’s the worst part. I’m a good sculptor,
Amarl. I always was, and I think my ithtu’s making me even better. The
stone’s never been as easy to work, and I’m carving pieces that could
probably be sold in major cities.” He sighed. “But it still bores me.
Crafting is my least favorite class, even behind Physical Training, and even
though my pieces are technically good, Difolluha—she’s my instructor—
always tells me that there’s no heart in them.
“In fact, that’s why tonight was so rough,” he continued. “I’ve spent
the last week working on a sculpture of one of those centipede-things from
Isolas, and I’d almost finished it tonight. I just needed to polish it. It was
good, really—techincally, it was probably some of my best work—but
when I looked at it, I hated it. So did Difolluha. She said it was ‘soulless,’
then smashed it to pieces.”
Amarl winced. “That’s rough.”
“Except that she’s right. It was soulless, and I was secretly relieved
when she smashed it.” He shook his head. “There was no joy in it, as my
father would say, and I’m afraid that there never will be.”
Amarl frowned at the boy’s words. “Why haven’t they moved you,
then?” he asked slowly. “I mean, enjoying your craft is supposed to be the
whole point, right? If the nadar knows you’re not enjoying it, why are they
letting you do it?”
“Who knows why the school does anything?” Norag shrugged. “Maybe
they’re waiting until next year—but I’m not any more excited about the
idea of starting over again than I am at continuing to sculpt, really. The
early years of learning a craft really suck, Amarl.”
“They did out in the Empire,” Amarl corrected. “I’ll bet they wouldn’t
be so bad, now. I know that a lot of what I learned at first was how to take
my time and be patient with the metal and stones, and I’m sure that’s part of
any craft. You already know that. Second, you’ve got your ithtu to help
you now, and that’ll make those early days of struggle breeze by, right?”
“That’s possible, I suppose.” The boy let out a heavy sigh. “I know
I’m making a bigger deal out of this than it probably is, but I’m so
frustrated. I mean, I’m umanai caste, or I was. I’m supposed to be an artist
in my soul. So, why am I not feeling it?”
“I don’t know,” Amarl said honestly.
“Neither do I.” The boy shook his head. “I’m being a fool, I know. I
need to give up sculpting and try something else until I find the thing I
enjoy. It just…” He paused. “The stone’s the last thing I have from my old
life, Amarl. It’s the last thing I have of my parents and family. If I turn
away from it, then who am I? What’s left?”
Amarl opened his mouth to answer, but as he did, he felt a thrill of
danger surge down his spine. His ithtu swelled within him, and he
unthinkingly muted it, calling up the trilling flutes. The world seemed to
slow around him just enough for him to see a shimmering plane of energy
hovering just before his face, while another rose from the ground to his
knees. He reacted instinctively, diving between those two planes and
rolling to a squat. A muffled cry came from behind him as Norag crashed
into the barrier, and he glanced back to see the boy rolling on the ground,
clutching his bleeding face and nose.
“You haven’t learned your lesson, half-breed.” Amarl turned back to
see three familiar masked and hooded figures emerge from the shadows
near the road. His eyes narrowed as he saw that all of them carried
weapons this time, one a short spear a reach and two spans long with a
small shield and the other a pistol. “Time to make sure you understand
once and for all.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 44
Norag groaned from behind Amarl, but the hizeen couldn’t spare a
glance back at the other boy. He kept his gaze steady on the three masked
figures dressed in charcoal black as they spread out around him, the pistol-
wielder and unarmed girl moving to flank him while the spearman stood
before him.
“You don’t belong here,” the leader of the group growled, his voice
again muffled and unrecognizable as he spoke. “We’re going to keep doing
this until you leave.”
Amarl couldn’t help but snort. “Doing what? The last times you tried
this, it went worse for you than it did for me, remember?”
“You don’t have your friends this time.” The boy hefted his spear, and
as he spoke, his words suddenly seemed ponderous and heavy, slamming
into Amarl’s mind with palpable force. “Run away, half-breed. Run to
Tenestra’s Leap and keep going back to Umpratan. With the skills you’ve
stolen from the school already, you can make a living there. Run away.
Now.”
The boy’s words crashed into Amarl’s skull and pounded their way into
his brain. He was right, Amarl realized. He could just run back to the
Empire. With his skills and talents, he could make a name for himself
anywhere. The Order might hunt him, but there were other Mistways
leading to other places…
His ithtu surged within him, the song deep and brassy as it pushed past
the blocks he’d laid on it. The thrumming sound shattered the echoing
voice in his thoughts and scattered its power, driving it from his skull. He
blinked in surprise, realizing he’d already risen to his feet as if in
preparation to run. The boy’s ability was insidious, and it had almost gotten
to Amarl that time. Amarl shook off the last remnants of the ability and
fixed the boy with a hard gaze.
“Okay, you had your turn to talk. Now, it’s mine.” He straightened and
glared at each of the older students in turn. “This shit? It ends, tonight.
I’m not letting you run away again. One of us isn’t walking away from this,
understand?”
 The girl snorted. “You’ve got that right, half-breed. And it’s you.”
She moved suddenly, her arms bursting into flames as she charged him,
but with the flutes in his mind still trilling sharply, Amarl saw her charge as
sluggish and slow. He shifted slightly, dodging a flaming punch, then
responded with an elbow that cracked sharply into her chest. Ribs popped
with an audible crack, and she fell backward, groaning and clutching her
side.
Amarl moved toward the stricken girl, but a shimmering field of force
appeared before him, blocking his advance. Movement in the edge of his
vision made him spin, and he saw the spearman lunging for him, stabbing
with his weapon. He shifted again, smacking the thrust aside with a
forearm, then kicked away a low jab at his knee. The spear darted at him,
but in the grip of his ithtu, he had no trouble swatting away the almost
ponderous attacks. The weapon leaped toward him once more, but this
time, he grabbed the haft and pulled, yanking hard. The surprised attacker
almost let go of the spear but managed to hold it as they stumbled forward,
directly into the kick Amarl flung at their chest.
Another field of force popped into his vision, and he managed to barely
avoid crashing into it. As he caught his balance, the third attacker fired
their pistol with a roar. Pain flared in Amarl’s side as the bullet buried itself
in the flesh below his ribs, and he hissed and staggered backward. The girl
charged him again with a roar, snapping her flaming fists at his head and
body. He pushed aside the pain in his side and dodged the blows without
too much difficulty, then spun away as a surge of his ithtu warned him of
the spear-wielder’s return to the battle. He dodged another thrust and
slapped away a burning foot hurled at his side, trying to guide one attacker
into the other. They separated swiftly, though, foiling that plan and trying
to take him from the front and rear simultaneously. That forced him to
move to keep them both in sight, disrupting his stance and driving him to
fight more defensively. The pair worked well together, and Amarl sank
deeper into the song of his ithtu as he worked to dodge fiery blows and
spear thrusts at the same time.
Panic rose anew as the song of his ithtu seemed to dim slightly in his
head, its power lessening and its fury receding. He reached for it with
mental fingers, trying to pull it up, but his ephemeral hands slowed as if
wrapped in thick mud. Energy still spilled into his body, but a much
smaller amount, and he felt the world speed up around him as his ability
faded slightly.
“Give up, half-breed!” The spearman’s voice roared over Amarl,
pounding against his skull, and he stumbled as an urge to drop his guard
and surrender flooded his mind. He pushed it aside, but pain flared in his
lower back as his inattention allowed the girl to slam her flaming knuckles
into his kidney. He staggered forward, barely managing to dodge a
folllwing kick, then twisted away from a spear thrust at his face only to hear
a loud crack and feel a bullet tear into his left calf with a stab of burning
pain.
“Drop your guard!” The words crashed into him again, and while his
ithtu battered them aside, they froze him for long enough for the girl to kick
his foot out from under him, hurling him onto his back. The spear rose
above him, its deadly point shimmering in the pink moon, then plunged
toward his chest.
Panic filled Amarl, but he shoved it aside and desperately called up the
sounds of the drums pounding in the back of his mind. That same muffling
force shrouded them, but his screaming need seemed to cut through that
blanket, and the sound returned in force. The flutes began to recede, but he
gripped them fiercely, even as the rhythmic beating of the percussion
exploded into his consciousness. The two instruments seemed to fight one
another, as if each of them alone wanted ascendancy in his thoughts, but he
held them tightly, forcing them together. They each swelled, then receded
almost petulantly into a melody that didn’t echo quite as loudly as the
original flutes had but sang harmoniously in his head.
The spear struck, piercing his clothing—and stopped, held at bay by the
power surging through his skin. The two students seemed to freeze for a
moment, and he took that time to kick upward, slamming his foot into the
spear and knocking it away. He used that momentum to roll backwards
onto his feet, then rose and dropped back into his stance, watching the pair
warily. Another crack sounded behind him, and something slapped against
the skin of his lower back as the last student’s bullet flattened itself against
his skin without penetrating.
The students hesitated for only a moment before attacking once more.
The girl flung her blazing fists at him, no doubt expecting him to shift and
sway to avoid them. Instead, he twisted only slightly, guiding the blow
from his face down to his chest. The fist landed but felt like little more than
a burning tap as his ithtu absorbed the blow.
As her fist touched him, he felt a sudden connection, and without
thinking, he pulled on it, just as he had three moons ago against Nolla. The
girl’s flames guttered and dimmed for a moment as power rushed into him,
a short burst that quickly collapsed into the same viscous fluid as the rest of
his ithtu and dripped into his tak. She gasped and leaped backward, staring
at her fist. The flames renewed themselves instantly, but when she moved
forward again, he could sense her hesitation as she snapped a low kick at
his knee.
“On your knees, half-breed!” The command from the spearman roared
in his mind, but once more, Amarl’s ithtu surged up and shattered it with a
deep, brassy tone that cleaved through the power with ease. As the ability
shattered, Amarl grasped the crumbling remnants of it and yanked, drawing
them into himself. The student shivered as power flowed from him into the
hizeen, and Amarl felt the connection torn free in an instant as the boy
deactivated his ability.
The spear-wielder moved toward his back, and Amarl shifted, keeping
the pair in sight. He twisted and blocked, guiding blows into areas where
he could absorb their impact without slowing him down. He shifted and
dodged, keeping his base solid, the roots of the tree of his form planted
firmly in the ground while the leaves whirled about, protecting his core
from the storm of blows. He moved carefully, his mind watching for an
opening, and when it came, he lashed outward, snapping a sharp punch at
the overextended spear-wielder. In his mind, a branch whipped at his foe,
its hard surface streaking toward their skull, but the blow never landed.
His hand stung as it cracked into a plane of force, shattering it in the
process but also leaving the spearman unharmed. He moved seamlessly
into his next attack, whipping a low kick at the girl’s knee, but again, a
shield of force intercepted his blow, shattering at the impact but ruining his
attack.
“Surrender, hizeen! Now!”
The words raged in his skull, but Amarl barely heard them over the
song of his ithtu, paying only enough attention to scrounge a few drops of
power from the crumbling ability. He sank even deeper into his song as the
pair renewed their attack. He held them at bay, then lashed out with savage
counterattacks, but shields of force intercepted each of them. His body was
starting to ache as the impacts he’d absorbed piled up, and his skin stung
from the burns the girl gave him. With each contact, he pulled a flicker
more power from her, but it wasn’t enough to counteract what he was
burning through. He couldn’t let this turn into a battle of attrition; if it did,
he'd lose, and he doubted they’d just let him walk away with a minor
beating this time.
The problem, he realized, was that despite his speed, the third student
seemed able to anticipate his attacks. He needed to strike faster and harder,
to give the boy less time to react, and to power through his shields when
they did appear. He had a form for that, but he’d never worked out how to
incorporate it into his fighting style. He reached for the brassy horns in his
ithtu, thinking to add strength to his speed and armor, but discordant notes
echoed through his melody instantly, and pain flared in his side as his
protection dropped and a spearpoint slid through his skin, drawing a line of
blood. He refocused on the song and turned his thoughts toward his
wayward form.
His hands relaxed and extended away from his body slightly. Cutting
Hands, despite the name, wasn’t about him trying to use his hands like
blades. It was about striking so swiftly that his hands cut the air, and
stirking from such short distances that he sliced through an opponent’s
defenses before they had time to respond. In his mind, his strikes were still
the branches, but now, instead of hardened shafts of wood, he imagined
them to be supple and flexible, almost like the arms of a willow. He swept
aside two more attacks, then lashed a fist at the girl, trying to use his
knowledge of his advanced form to power the strike.
Blows in Cutting Hands were short and brutal. They required a span’s
distance or less, but to have any effect, they needed to draw power from his
entire body. The blow started with a shift of his feet, magnified by a twist
of his hips and a stiffening of his spine. The energy rolled through his
shoulder, pushed forward by his chest and stomach, and rippled like a whip
crack down his arm. His hand darted out, clenching at the last second as it
traveled the span from where he’d blocked the girl’s blow to her chin. In
his imagination, the power rolled up from the roots of his tree, drawn from
the earth beneath, shivered up the trunk, vibrated down the branch, and
uncurled the tip of the branch like a whip.
The girl cried out and staggered backward as his fist crashed into her
jaw, knocking her head sideways. He moved to follow her, but the
spearman lunged for him, thrusting at his side and forcing him to turn to
face them. He blocked and slapped away blows, his limbs moving far more
fluidly and swiftly than they had before. The boy slid forward to deliver a
butt strike at Amarl’s knee, but Amarl flowed toward the boy rather than
retreat, accepting the strike to his thigh while lashing out with his other
foot. The blow was short, traveling only half a span, and caught the older
boy’s ankle, knocking it sideways and hurling him off-balance. He tripped
and almost fell, twisting away from Amarl, but the hizeen moved forward,
striking out a swift fist that crashed into the boy’s chest. The boy staggered
and spun, sweeping his spear low to drive Amarl back.
A footstep behind him alerted him, and Amarl spun as the girl crashed
into him, her flaming hands grasping at him to attempt to pull him into a
grapple. He smelled burning hair and clothing as he fell backwards, but he
managed to twist in midair, snapping his knee into the girl’s stomach to
hold her back. She grabbed his shirt and lifted her arm, trying to slam a fist
into his face, but his hand darted out, flying half a span into her cheek as he
twisted his whole body to add power to it. Her head snapped back, and he
rolled off her as he sensed danger behind him. The girl cried out as a crack
sounded, and the bullet that had been aimed at his spine plunged into her
stomach instead.
He moved toward the spearman, but a shimmering wall of force
appeared before him, blocking his advance. He snapped a fist at it without
thinking, pushing power through the blow, and the shield shattered
instantly. As the pieces of energy skittered away, he grabbed a few in his
mental fingers and pulled them into himself, dribbling drops of liquid ithtu
into his tak. Another wall rose by his feet, but a sharp kick slashed through
that one, again drawing from the fragments of it and replacing a bit of what
he used. The spearman scrambled back, jabbing at him to back him off, but
Amarl slid toward them, grasping their thrust spear with one hand and
slashing a fast kick at the back of their front knee. That leg crumpled, and
he hauled them toward him. His free hand whipped out and caught the boy
on the side of his head, and the older student’s legs folded beneath him as
he collapsed to the ground.
Amarl spun toward the third boy, who scrambled backward. He lifted
his pistol with one hand while holding the other toward Amarl, and a
translucent plane of force sped toward the hizeen’s head as a bullet leaped
at his stomach Amarl’s fist shattered the barrier, and the bullet crumpled
against his defenses, but the boy used that moment to turn and run.
Amarl hesitated, then let him go. If he chased the boy, the other two
might escape, after all. Plus, with the danger passing, his ithtu began to
slowly recede, and the pain in his body started returning. His side throbbed;
his skin burned; his wounded leg screamed with every step. He squatted
laboriously and painfully, scooped up the fallen student’s spear, then walked
past the semi-conscious pair toward Norag.
The boy sat on the ground, his hands propped behind him. Crusted
blood coverd his chin and soaked his shirt, running like a fan from his
swollen, purpling nose. He held one leg extended stiffly before him, and
his wide eyes stared at the fallen students as Amarl approached.
“You okay?” Amarl asked the boy as he knelt beside him, touching the
boy’s stiff leg gently. Norag hissed and flinched beneath his touch, and
Amarl nodded. “Broken?”
“I think so, yeah,” Norag nodded, his voice slow and thick as he stared
at the students. “I can’t stand on it, at least. They—they attacked you,
Amarl!”
“It happens,” the hizeen sighed. “More often than you might think.”
“They’re not supposed to, though! Older students aren’t supposed to
attack younger ones without provocation!”
Amarl snorted. “Pretty sure the awals only care about that when the
younger student doesn’t have their ability unlocked, Norag. Once it is, it
doesn’t really matter what people do, as long as everyone’s fine to make
their next classes.”
The injured boy shook his head. “That can’t be right, Amarl. They
can’t just let the older students do whatever they’d like!”
“You think?” Amarl chuckled. “Well, the first time these guys attacked
me, I reported it to the malims. Guess what? They didn’t care in the
slightest. Didn’t even react.” He shrugged. “Sounds to me like it doesn’t
matter to them as long as no one dies.” He lifted the spear and touched the
hole in his side with a frown. “Although with these guys using real
weapons instead of sahrotik ones, they’ll probably care a lot more.”
“Who are they? Do you know?”
“Nope. It’s time to find out at last, though.” He rose to his feet,
moving slowly and painfully, but before he took a step, a shimmer swept
through the air around him. Everything wavered in his vision for a
moment, growing hazy and fuzzy. It cleared just as quickly, but when it
did, the two students were gone, leaving behind only a few traces of blood
spatter and plenty of scuff marks as evidence of their presence.
“Wh-what the fuck?” Norag gasped. “Where did they go?”
Amarl’s eyes narrowed, and he hurried forward as quickly as he could
toward where the students had fallen. He knelt down and felt around, but to
his dismay, they really were gone. He rose to his feet and began to hobble
around in a circle, sweeping the spear in front of him.
“What are you doing?” Norag asked.
“The first time we went to Apirron, someone made it look like the
bridges had disappeared on us,” the boy said flatly. “I have a feeling they
did the same thing, here, making those students disappear so they could
carry them off.” He grunted as he stopped and lifted the spear. If he was
right, whoever it was had plenty of time to drag the students off in a random
direction, and Amarl wasn’t likely to find them, at least not with his leg
injured.
“I wish Meder was here,” he sighed. “I’ll be her sahr vision could see
through this.”
“Give me a second,” Norag said, closing his eyes. “I’m decent with
sahr, myself.” He lifted his hands, waving them around himself the way
Meder used to back when she was first learning how to use sahr. She didn’t
do that anymore, and Amarl wasn’t sure why; he assumed that she simply
didn’t need it for her workings.
A ripple of energy washed out from Norag, and the air near Amarl
shimmered again, shuddering and flickering. The ground near him
wavered, and he dimly saw a line of footprints in the dirt, leading back
toward the school. That line shimmered and vanished as Norag’s working
swept away, leaving the ground as untouched as before.
“S-sorry,” the boy gasped. “Best I could do. Whoever did this is
strong. Too strong for me.”
Amarl sighed and walked back toward the boy. “It’s better than I could
have done. Come on. I’ll help you get back to Tarmis. They’ll have elixirs
there. Besides, I have a feeling that the awals are definitely going to want
to know about this.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 45
Amarl sat on his cot in the infirmary, looking anywhere except at the
old woman who stood in front of Norag and him, scowling fiercely.
The walk back to Tarmis hadn’t been too difficult. Fortunately, they
hadn’t been that far from the crafting hall when they were attacked, and
both he and Norag had some practice in pushing through pain and misery
thanks to Tautibal. Having to support half of Norag’s weight made it a lot
harder, though, and Amarl’s wounded side and leg both burned fiercely, and
his head spun sickeningly by the time they pushed through the first door
and got the attention of a nadar. A couple sahr elixirs took the worst of the
pain away and strengthened Norag’s leg enough to support him, but Amarl
still felt dizzy and light-headed as he rode in the wagon to the infirmary.
He’d only been barely aware as one of the healing nadars dug the bullets
from his side, and he thought he might have passed out when they stitched
the wounds shut.
Apparently, though, that wasn’t enough to keep Tekasoka from glaring
angrly at the pair as though somehow, they’d done something wrong. The
old awal had stormed into the infirmary after Amarl awoke, chased
everyone nearby to other parts of the infirmary, and stood before the two
boys, quivering with rage. Amarl was just glad that she didn’t demand that
they rise to attention; while his wounds no longer burned and throbbed, the
nadars had determined that he’d heal well enough on his own, so they still
hurt. Plus, he still felt vaguely dizzy, and he wasn’t sure if he stood up, that
he wouldn’t tumble over.
“Can one of you please explain to me why I am here in the infirmary,”
the old woman said in a quiet but dangerous voice. She looked over at
Norag, her eyes blazing. “Novice? Speak, and tell me the truth!” Her
words echoed in Amarl’s mind as she spoke, and Norag’s eyes went blank
instantly as she used what he asssumed was a much stronger and better
developed version of the power the spear-wielding student tried to use on
him.
“I’d finished late crafting training,” the boy said in a flat, emotionles
tone. “Amarl called my name and caught up to me. We were talking about
crafting when something hit me in the face and leg, brooke my leg, and
nearly knocked me out. I didn’t see what happened for a while, but I heard
Amarl fighting and the sounds of pistol shots. When I looked again, Amarl
was fighting three students in black suits wearing masks. He beat them,
then came to check on me. I asked who they were, and he went to check on
them. When he did, they disappeared. Amarl thought they’d been hidden,
so I tried to use a sahr working to reveal them, but it only worked for a
couple seconds. He helped me back to Tarmis…”
“Enough,” she said, turning away from the boy. Norag blinked as
expression returned to his face, and Tekasoka swiveled her gaze to burn into
Amarl. “Well?”
“Norag told the important parts, ma’am,” Amarl said evenly. They both
knew that Tekasoka’s ability didn’t fully work on him, but he also knew that
she could slip into his mind and see if he was telling the truth. “Except that
this was the third time these three attacked me, which he didn’t know. Also,
they weren’t using training weapons.”
“So I gathered from the holes in you, Novice,” she said coldly. “Do
you, by chance, know who your attackers are and why they might do such a
thing?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” he hedged.
“But you have a guess?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t want to guess and be wrong. That sort of thing has
a way of getting around.” He deliberately didn’t glance at Norag, but he
suspected the awal was in his mind at the moment and would understand.
“True.” She turned to face Norag once more. “And why were you out
so late at Tarmis, Novice?”
“I—I have to go an extra three times a week, ma’am. The nadar says
that while my skills are excellent, my crafting is lacking emotion.”
“And it wasn’t because Novice Amarl was there, and you happen to be
friends with two novices known to be antagonistic to him?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “N-no, ma’am!” he said fervently. “Nothing
like that! The others, Herel and Hadur, they haven’t said anything like that,
ma’am! We didn’t have anything to do with what happened, I swear by the
One Above All!”
 “Hmm. A convincing oath, at least from you. Very well. Are you
healed?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded quickly. “At least, I think so.”
“Then return to your room at once. I believe that you and your friends
are blameless in this, but know that the school is watching you all very
carefully.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” He rose a bit stiffly and hobbled out of the
infirmary, glancing back at Amarl with a bit of pity as he left. Once the
door behind him closed, Tekasoka turned back to Amarl.
“Now that we’re alone, who do you suspect, Novice?” she asked in a
voice that didn’t brook argument or deception.
Amarl sighed. “Gowen, ma’am,” he said. “The leader of the three has
an ability like his and yours that lets you command people with your
voice.”
“Student Gowen’s ability isn’t a command, Novice,” she corrected.
“It’s a suggestion, albeit a very strong one. It makes his orders seem
plausible and encourages your miind to obey them without questioning.
Anyone with sufficient will can resist it, at least for a time.” She reached
up and tapped her chin. “And yet, there are several students with similar
abilities.”
“Not that have a reason to hate me enough to attack me, ma’am.”
She smiled thinly. “You believe so? Do you truly think that some of
our Lasheshian students don’t hate your presence enough to try to drive you
out? That some of those who’ve watched you excel while they struggle
might not wish you humble you? You must be forgetting the day of
challenges last quarter, when students practically lined up to fight you and
try to humiliate you.”
“I haven’t forgotten, ma’am, trust me,” he said dryly.
“Then you know that there are many reasons for hatred, Novice.
Student Gowen’s infatuation and embarassment is one, and a potent one at
that, but it isn’t the only one.” She shook her head. “Are you healed?”
“Not completely, ma’am. I’m still dizzy and light-headed, and the
nadars said that the bullet wounds would heal on their own without help.”
 “It’s the best way, at least with bullet wounds. Sahr or ithtu healing on
those can leave scarring, and you don’t want scarring inside your abdomen,
Novice. Trust me.” She nodded. “Very well. Remain here. I will return
shortly.”
He lay back down as the woman left, and a sense of relief swept over
him. He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, but the school didn’t always
seem to care about that. Either that, or it didn’t agree with his definition of
right and wrong. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift, but they shot
open as a new voice spoke in the quiet of the infirmary.
“Well, Novice Amarl. In the infirmary again, I see.”
The boy sat up swiftly as he recognized the Rashiv’s voice. His head
spun and swam as he moved a but too quickly, and he slapped a hand down
to keep himself from tumbling off the cot.
“Relax, Novice,” the old man said with a chuckle. “I think it’s best if
you lie back down. I don’t want to explain to Malim Midoral how I undid
all his fine work.”
Amarl gratefully slumped back onto the bed as the old man walked up.
To his surprise, the Rashiv settled onto the edge of the bed and laid a hand
on Amarl’s chest.
“Sir?” he asked cautiously. “I didn’t get hurt there—at least, not
really.”
“I’m not checking your injuries, Novice,” the old man replied. “Now,
be silent and let me concentrate.”
Sudden power flared from the old man, far more than Amarl had ever
felt from anyone before. He swallowed hard as that power flooded him,
washing through his body and pooling around his tak. Without thinking, he
reached out and touched that energy, drawing a bit of it away from him and
funeling it toward his core. The power swiftly collapsed into liquid and
plunged into him, restoring some of his energy.
The Rashiv lifted his hand with a sudden frown. “That was quite
interesting, Novice,” he said in a cool, low voice. “Could you perhaps tell
me what you just did?”
“Sir?” Amarl asked as a sudden spike of fear washed through him.
 “My ability. You weakened it. Not much, but a tiny fraction.”
“He what?” Tekasoka gasped. “How?”
“That’s what I’m hoping to learn, Tekasoka. Well, Novice? What did
you just do?”
“I…” Amarl took a deep breath. Part of him wanted to lie and say he
didn’t know, but the thought of lying to the old man’s face petrified him.
“I’m not totally sure, sir. I could feel the energy that you were using with
your ability, and I just pulled a bit of it into my own tak.”
“And have you always been able to do that?”
“No, sir. I did it on accident on Shit Day…” His eyes widened as he
realized what he’d just said, and he hurried to correct himself. “I mean that
day with all the challenges! Against Nolla. She was trying to drain my
ithtu away, and I puleld it back, then kept going.”
“That’s quite the appellation for that day,” the old man chuckled.
“Oddly fitting, as well. Is that why the young woman insisted that you took
her crystal?”
“I think so, sir. I didn’t realize it right away, but I figured out what I did
afterward.”
“And can you draw power from me now?” The Rashiv held out an
arm. “Go ahead and try. Touch me and see if you can take ithtu from me.”
Amarl very tentatively laid a hand on the old man’s and reached toward
him. He tried to recall that feeling of pulling, how he drew the ithtu into
himself, but nothing happened. He couldn’t sense the old man’s energy or
feel it within him. He shook his head.
“No, sir. I think it only works when you’re using your ability on me.”
“That makes sense. Very well, I’m going to try again. This time, please
leave my ithtu alone, if you would.” The man placed a hand back on
Amarl’s chest, and the boy again felt a flood of power pouring through his
body. He felt an urge to siphon some of that flood into himself, but he
pushed it aside. He couldn’t imagine the old man would be pleased if he
did it again.
After several seconds, the Rashiv lifted his hand away, and the river of
energy vanished from Amarl’s body. The old man shook his head.
 “There’s very little to grasp, I’m afraid,” he sighed. “Whoever did this
is quite clever and good at circumventing my ability. I can tell you that the
students who attacked you were carried off, placed on an animal to throw
off trackers, and then brought through the Faeruna Mistway, where I lose
their threads.”
“Dead?” Tekasoka gasped.
“No, I don’t believe so. If they were, I’d see the severed ends. They
were simply hidden at that point somehow. I assume that they’ve since
been brought back to Askula and returned to wherever they were before all
this.”
“Can’t you just see who used that Mistway, sir?” Amarl asked curiously.
“Not if they were hidden, no. The Mistways are watched, of course, but
whoever did this is good at hiding themselves.”
Amarl paused, weighing his words, then plunged forward. “I’m pretty
sure that it’s Gowen who’s doing it, sir,” he said. “He has reason to dislike
me, and he’s got a power like the one they used on me.”
“That seems to be logical,” the old man nodded. “And we’ll question
him and his current cronies, obviously. However, I doubt much will come
from it.”
“Sir?” Amarl asked, honestly surprised and suddenly suspicious. “They
used real weapons! They could have killed me!”
The Rashiv seemed to rouse himself and looked down at Amarl with a
faintly amused expression. “Tell me, Novice. Do you truly believe that
three students would face certain expulsion just for the chance to chase you
away or eliminate you? If they succeeded, their Joining Crystals would
have recorded the deed, and they know it. One student might be that rabid,
I suppose, but three, willing to give up their lives to remove you?” He
shook his head. “There’s another hand in this, and as effectively as they’ve
hidden themselves so far, I’m certain they’ve left nothing in those students’
memories for us to find.”
“You mean…” Amarl swallowed hard and glanced at Tekasoka. “You
can do that? Erase memories?”
“With the correct ability, it’s easy. Even without it, a powerful enough
application of sahr would achieve the same result. That’s likely why they
took the students to Faeruna, where sahr is exceptionally potent. I assume
whoever this is, they’re a grandmaster at sahr working, at the very least.”
He shrugged. “Which is why I’m certain that all three students will
remember nothing of their encounter with you. In fact, they’ll likely recall
having a private sparring session that got out of hand, which would explain
their injuries.”
“So, basically, they’ll get away with it,” Amarl said bitterly. “And
they’ll be able to do it again.”
“I feel certain that’s the last time you’ll encounter those three, Novice,”
the old man chuckled, patting Amarl’s arm. “Whoever’s doing this no
doubt watched the entire fight and realized that those students aren’t going
to be able to do what they want them to. You somehow managed to not
only hold them off but to actually defeat them. I’m actually impressed that
you managed to avoid critically injuring any of them in the process, to be
honest.”
“Were you controlling your ithtu?” Tekasoka asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded. “Although if I hadn’t figured out how to
focus on two instruments at once…” He fell silent, remembering the boy’s
spear plunging toward his chest, and he shuddered as he realized how close
he’d been to dying.
“You worked out how to draw forth a second instrument?”
“Yes, ma’am. Drums and flutes. I couldn’t manage a third, though.”
“No matter. The principles you used to call up two will apply to
additional ones.” She smiled at him. “Our training next week will be
interesting. After you return from your hunt…”
“I don’t believe that would be wise,” the Rashiv cut her off. “At least,
not without a nadar being present at all times, and that would invalidate a
great deal of the purpose of the hunt. Whoever’s doing this would certainly
take advantage of another hunt, after all. You and your friends will sit this
one out, Novice.”
“But the points, sir,” he protested.
“You’ll receive the same fifteen points you did for your last hunt, which
I’m sure is what you would have gotten this time, anyway.” The man
paused, tapping his chin. “And if I’m not mistaken, thhis quarter pushes all
three of you over the graduation mark, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not sure, sir, but it might.”
“I’m fairly certain it does.” He smiled at Tekasoka. “You’ll adjust their
requirements appropriately, I take it?”
“Of course, Rashiv,” she replied, giving Amarl a cold smile. “I won’t
have any of my Novices resting on their accomplishments.”
“Excellent.” The man patted Amarl on the arm, perhaps noting the
boy’s sour expression. “I thouhgt you’d learned this already, Novice.
Excellence brings rewards, but it also brings greater challenges—at least, it
does for an ithtar. I suggest you get used to that now, as it will only get
worse.”
“Did he say how many points we’d need to graduate?” Meder asked the
next morning as the three sat at breakfast, speaking quietly to keep from
being overheard.”
“That’s what you’re taking from all that, Meder?” Burik snorted. “Not
that Amarl was attacked again? Or that he suspects Gowen?”
“I assumed it was him,” the girl said dismissively. “At least, after our
last encounter with them. Plus Robla, and likely Wesho. He follows
Gowen around like a puppy, after all.”
“Wait, you knew?” Amarl asked her.
“Well, I didn’t know, obviously, but it fit. Robla has a fire ability,
Wesho can generate force shields, and they both cling to Gowen like ticks.”
She paused. “Neither of you did? Really?”
“I suspected Gowen, but I’ve never seen Robla’s ability, and I don’t
even know Wesho,” Amarl shook his head.
“And I wasn’t really worried about it since I assumed the school
wouldn’t do anything,” Burik shrugged. “Although, they’ll have to, now.
They attacked you with lethal weapons, Amarl. The school can’t let that
sort of thing keep happening.”
“The Rashiv says he doesn’t think anything will happen to them,”
Amarl said a little glumly. “He says it’s likely that whoever’s behind all
this removed their memories of it. I guess if they don’t remember it, they
won’t be punished for it.”
“That makes a certain amount of sense, Amarl,” Meder sighed. “What
if they were forced to do it, the way Herel was last year? They shouldn’t be
executed if they didn’t have a choice.”
“They should still be punished,” Burik shook his head.
“If they were forced, Burik?”
“Absolutely. Think about it, Meder. If you really wanted to hurt or kill
Amarl, and you could force anyone to help you do it, who would you pick?
Gowen? Or you and me?”
“Oh…” Meder’s eyes widened.
“Exactly. We sleep in the same room as him. We spar with him every
day. How easy would it be for one of us to stick a dagger in him in the
middle of the night?”
“Wow. That’s really not making me feel better, Burik,” Amarl laughed
nervously.
“No, I see his point,” Meder said thoughtfully. “He’s right. Why use
Gowen? Why not Andra? Or one of us? Someone you trust? That would
make more sense—unless they can’t, of course.”
“Can’t?”
“Abilities are powerful, Amarl, but they all have limits, and so does
sahr. Maybe the person can encourage someone to do something they want
to do already but can’t force someone to do something totally against their
nature.” She shrugged. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“It makes even more sense when you realize that if the school could
totally remake our personalities with an ability, they would just do it,”
Burik agreed. “They could remove any part of us that would make us a bad
ithtar, like laziness, selfishness, greed, and so on. We’d all be model
students, eager to learn and working as hard as the school wanted without
complaint.” He laughed. “Hells, my mother would give half her command
for an ability like that!”
“That’s terrifying, Burik,” Amarl shuddered, imagining an entire school
of students like that. “Probably true, though.”
 “Exactly. So, it’s likely that Gowen, Robla, and Mesho all want to hurt
you, maybe even kill you, and this person just amiplified that beyond
reason, and if they’re that easy to manipulate and eager to hurt you…” He
shrugged. “Then they probably deserve some sort of disciplinary duty.”
“Something like cleaning the privy pits,” Amarl suggested. “By hand,
not with shovels.”
“Thank you for that utterly disgusting image, Amarl,” Meder sighed
again. “And you didn’t answer my question. Did he tell you how many
points we’ll need to graduate?”
“No. I think Tekasoka’s the one making the decision, not him.”
“Good,” she said in a relieved tone.
“Why is that good?”
“Because she’ll be fair.” She glanced sideways at them. “I’m probably
twenty points behind both of you thanks to Halit and Sitjak, you know.
Maybe thirty. You’ll both probably get 300 points by the end of the year
just by doing what you’re doing. I don’t know if that’s possible for me,
though, not without spending every free hour in Halit, and if I do that, I
won’t be sparring and training with you, so I won’t be getting better, and I’ll
lose more.” She shook her head. “I could make 275 or 280 without a
problem, so hopefully, she’ll make that my target.”
“You’ve spent a lot of time figuring this out, haven’t you?” Amarl
laughed.
“It isn’t that hard, Amarl. I can’t get many more points out of
Academics, I don’t think my Sitjak ranking has changed much, and we
always get fifteen points from hunting. Halit’s the only significant variable,
so I just have to track my wins there to know where I stand. The rest is
simple arithmetic.” She grinned at him. “Which is why you think it’s
hard. It probably takes a long time to count that up on your fingers.”
“Hey, I use my toes, too. That speeds things up by…” He slowly lifted
one finger, then the other. “Two times!”
“It’s not like it matters,” Burik snorted. “They’re not going to let you
fail, Meder.”
“What do you mean?”
 “The graduation standards aren’t that high, at least not for us second-
years. Let’s say that I get average scores in Academics, just make the
minimum in hunting, and win twice a week at Halit. How many points
would I get?”
“211,” she said after a few seconds.
“Exactly. That’s enough to graduate right there, and I didn’t have to do
anything special. I think the graduation requirements are just there as a
bare minimum. As long as you’re putting forth an effort, you’re fine.”
“Except that not everyone wins twice a week at Halit, Burik. Some
people hardly win at all.”
He shrugged. “And those are the people that the Order probably
doesn’t want. It’s harsh, but an ithtar who can’t fight probably isn’t much
good to anyone.”
“Unless they are,” she argued. “There have to be students who could
have become incredible crafters, or the greatest researchers of their times,
but because they couldn’t fight, they were killed.”
“Assuming they are,” Amarl said thoughtfully. “I mean, the Order has
to have a use for people like that, right? And if Burik’s right, and the whole
point of the graduation requirements is to weed out the lazy and stupid, then
the school might let people with other gifts graduate if they’re still putting
in the work and trying.”
“Maybe,” she said flatly. “Have you counted the number of
upperclassmen, though?”
“What do you mean?” Burik asked.
“I mean, there are currently twenty-nine students in second year. There
are only twenty-three in third year, twwenty in fourth year, and seventeen in
fifth.” She eyed them gravely. “Where do you think those students are
going?”
“I’m not saying they aren’t expelling people, Meder,” Burik said
grimly. “I’m sure they are. I’m just sayying that it’s probably not as simple
as, ‘You didn’t have enough points.’ I’ll bet it’s all up to the awals and
Rashiv. If they think a student isn’t cutting it or isn’t going to be a
trustworthy ithtar, they probably expel them, no matter how many points
they have. If they think a student has potential, I bet they’ll keep them
around, no matter what. As my mother says, ‘Never throw away a weapon
just because it needs sharpening.’”
“I’m sure Tekasoka will tell us about it once our points are released this
Akio,” Amarl cut in. “And I’ll bet that you’re both right. The points do
matter, but in the end, it’s going to come down to whatever the awals say.”
He slammed back the last of his kaffee. “And Challenge Week, I’ll bet.”
“Challenge Week?” Meder asked.
“I’ll bet that’s the real graduation test. Not points, not hunting, and not
academics. Why else would they make such a big deal out of it?” He
shook his head. “Even the third-years who haven’t done it before are going
to be participating, Meder. Why would they go through that much trouble if
not to decide who’s really worthy and who’s not.” He tore a hunk off the
sweet bread on his plate and pointed it at both of them.
“Mark my words. Challenge Week is going to decide our fates, one
way or another.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 46
Amarl leaped into the air, twisting over the bladed staff that whipped
toward his feet. As soon as he left the ground, his hand darted out, grabbing
a nearby cable and pulling him toward it. He let go almost instantly and hit
the ground in a roll, and he was glad that he did as something metallic
pinged off the cable where he’d been gripping it.
He sprang to his feet once more and leaned sideways to let another
gleaming steel spike dart past his chest. The spikes, he knew, were dull and
had a lip so they couldn’t pierce too deeply into his flesh, but they still hurt
like the spirits’ hells when they hit. Even worse, he wasn’t allowed to pull
them out until after the exercise was over, so every movement jostled them
and made them burn in his flesh. It was, he mused absently, a good
motivator to simply not get hit. The threat of them was also enough to call
up the song of his ithtu, which he knew was the main point of using the
spikes.
“Speed!” Ranakar barked, and Amarl quickly suppressed the song of his
ithtu until only the trilling refrain of the flutes echoed in his mind.
Instantly, his perception of the world sped up, and when the next spike flew
toward him, he could see it spinning in the air and arcing toward his chest.
He kicked sideways, grabbing a pole and using it to spin around,
changing his trajectory. Ranakar’s hand was already moving as the awal
flung another spike, and Amarl knew that if he kept going in the same
direction for a reach or so, he’d take one of the metal darts to his chest or
leg. He ducked below the gleaming projectile and dove over another cable,
twisting sideways as he landed to dodge another spike. He sprang to his
feet and leaped for the wall, his enhanced speed making it easy for him to
run along the wall for a few steps before leaping into the air and grabbing
another pole near the top. He heard a spike ping against the wall where
he’d been, and he let go before a second slammed into the wooden pole and
lodged there with a thunk.
“Add Toughness!” the awal shouted, and Amarl focused on the
pounding rhythm of the drums in his mind. He partially released the sound
of the flutes as the drums swelled; he knew now that the only way to hold
both was to hold each a little less tightly. The world sped up a bit around
him as some of the energy flowing into his muscles diverted into his skin
and bones.
Another dart whipped toward him, moving faster in his perceptions
now, but he lifted a hand and slapped it away as he raced across the room,
dodging and ducking to avoid more spikes. They came faster now, as
Ranakar tossed them with both hands, and some of them impacted his skin
despite his best efforts. Those burned and stung but didn’t penetrate, as the
armor of his ithtu held them out. He still kept moving, though; when he’d
first done this exercise, he’d trusted his armor too much, and Ranakar
showed him what a bad idea that was. As it turned out, the old man could
get through Amarl’s protection if tried hard enough, and the lip on the spike
wasn’t enough to keep one hurled at horrendous speeds from punching
completely through Amarl’s leg and cracking his femur in the process. As
long as Amarl kept moving, the old man threw the darts slowly enough that
his armor could hold them out; if he got even a little lazy, Ranakar punished
him for it.
He leaped around the room, avoiding the darts he could and twisting
about so that the ones that hit him didn’t strike anywhere important. He
wasn’t wearing armor for this exercise, but the principles were the same: if
he had to take a hit, he took it where it wouldn’t kill or cripple him just in
case.
As he kicked off a wall, a thrill of danger raced down his spine, and he
spun away as a slim blade cut the air where he’d been standing. He
dropped into a ready stance as Ranakar stood before him, closing the
distance so quickly Amarl hadn’t even seen it. The old man held one of his
favorite weapons, a long, two-handed saber that Amarl knew could shear
through the steel cables in the room with ease and that was much faster than
a straight blade of similar length.
“Drunken Form, and add Skill,” the awal commanded. Amarl
obediently brought forth the music of the strings in his mind, letting the
flutes and drums recede a bit to accommodate the new instrument. Again,
the world sped up a bit in his senses as more of his energy flowed down his
spine and into his nerves, but he instantly felt more composed and confident
as he moved into the stance of his Drunken Form.
 Ranakar’s blade darted forward, but Amarl eased sideways, letting it
slide along his chest. He moved with the thrust, then let the following slash
push him aside, rocking with it so that it passed above him instead of
cutting into him. He weaved and twisted, swaying out of the way of most
attacks and riding the momentum of those he couldn’t dodge. In his mind,
he was a cloud of leaves swirling on the wind, formless and without
resistance, unable to be cut or stabbed. Thanks to the power of his ithtu, his
movements were crisp and precise, one flowing into the other with ease as
he drew power from his opponent’s aggression and used it to stay ahead of
the swordsman’s attacks.
“Mountain Form!” the man barked, and Amarl’s feet stabilized
instantly. The blade slashed at him, but he moved toward it, away from the
dangerous cutting edge, letting it impact harmlessly against his side. He
turned away from a thrust and guided a low slash into one he could absorb.
In his thoughts, he stood as a mighty tree, his branches shielding his core
and his trunk absorbing the blows that made it through.
“Cutting Hands! Add Force!”
Amarl relaxed his hold on his song a bit more and drew forth the brassy
sound of the horns, struggling a bit to do so. Four instruments were the
most it seemed he could handle at the moment; anything more, and the
whole thing collapsed. More power fled from his armor and nerves,
flowing into his muscles and strengthening them. He shifted once more,
blocking another slash, but this time, he responded with a short punch at his
foe’s shoulder. Ranakar dodged the blow, but Amarl was already moving
forward. Cutting Hands worked best in close, inside the dangerous arc of
the old man’s sword, which meant he had to stay in the man’s guard.
Ranakar sheathed the blade and pulled out a pair of long daggers, slashing
and stabbing at Amarl. The boy twisted and dodged, letting the blades drag
along his arms and sides harmlessly as he whipped short, fast punches and
kicks at the old man. None landed, but he came much closer than he used
to.
“Your form!” Ranakar commanded, and Amarl shifted once more,
dropping into the stance of his Nameless Form. As the old man attacked,
Amarl swayed out of the way, then responded with a fast kick at his ankle.
The awal slipped past it, and the two began to exchange blows, snapping
incredibly fast kicks and punches at one another, striking with knees,
elbows, and gleaming blades. Amarl could see the battle in his imagination;
Ranakar struck like a dark storm, battering the slim tree that was Amarl. In
turn, the tree swayed and rocked, moving with the storm rather than
opposing its fury, shielding itself with its limbs and trying to tear the storm
apart with its whipping branches.
As they moved, Amarl could feel the power of his ithtu growing and
swelling inside him. Rather than exhausting him, the battle energized him,
filling his muscles with more strength and power. The liquid energy in his
core roiled and swirled, flowing into his body in stronger and thicker
rivulets, while another trickle of that power drained from his three crystals
into the reservoir of energy there. He still couldn’t pull on it at will, but it
seemed to serve him even more effectively as his control over it grew, and
rather than losing himself to the song in his mind, he remained sharp and
focused thanks to the concentration needed to hold most of it in
suppression.
He sensed the flow of the battle, the way the storm surged around him,
battering him incessantly, swirling around his whipping limbs. It was a
stalemate; the storm couldn’t uproot him, but he couldn’t harm it in return.
Still, he fought, letting the power flow through him in ever-deepening
streams, trusting it to support him as he battled. He sank deeper into the
rhythm of the contest, moving and fighting with only the barest minimum
of thought.
He moved even before his conscious mind understood the sudden break
in the storm, the eddy as one of Ranakar’s feet skidded a fraction of a
fingerwidth on the smooth floor. It wasn’t much of a mistake, but it was
enough to shift the man’s balance and draw his hands out of position, and
Amarl struck instantly at that moment of weakness. His right hand darted
high, drawing the old man’s guard up; his left foot swept out, impacting the
man’s heel and knocking it sideways; his left hand snapped out, a fist aimed
directly at the old man’s chest in a blow that Ranakar couldn’t possibly
dodge…
Amarl almost fell out of his trance as the old man swayed out of the
way, moving in a manner that defied the boy’s understanding of gravity and
anatomy. His body flowed like water, moving supplely and fluidly not just
past but around Amarl’s strikes, coming up inside the boy’s guard. Pain
flared in the boy’s stomach as the old man’s knee struck him, the impact
punching through his armor, and Amarl staggered then froze as he felt a
cold, sharp blade pressed against his throat. His ithtu surged within him,
but before it could drive him to act, the blade vanished, and so did the
feeling of threat and danger.
“Good!” the old man said approvingly, stepping back away from the
boy and letting Amarl straighten. “Your form has improved significantly,
Amarl.”
“Thanks,” the boy said, rubbing his stomach and grimacing. “Not
enough, though.” He paused, then gave the old man a curious look. “How
did you do that? How did you dodge that punch? I didn’t think it was
possible.”
“The River Meets the Mountain,” the old man smiled, moving back to
the center of the room and sitting on one of the cushions there. He pointed
to the other, and Amarl dutifully walked over and sank into a sitting
position a little gratefully. Now that the fight was over, his body started to
ache and throb from all the tiny impacts he’d accepted. His muscles
trembled with weariness, and his whole body felt worn out. That was better
than the exhaustion he normally suffered after using his ithtu that hard, but
it still sucked.
“What’s that?” he asked once he’d settled. “A form?”
The old man nodded. “A very advanced one, almost master-level. It
uses sahr and ithtu both to let a person do things that would normally be
impossible—like dodging that punch, for example.”
“Will I learn that?”
“Maybe. You still have a long way to go before that point, though. You
still need to work on incorporating your advanced techniques into your
form and making them your own.”
Amarl frowned. “I thought I’d done that.”
“No, not yet. I can still see each form individually when you fight.
Once you’ve melded them into your technique, there won’t be any sign of
them. It will all just be your style. Once you’ve done that, we’ll work on
incorporating sahr and ithtu into that style to make it a true technique, and
once you’ve done that, you can name it.”
“Name it?”
 Ranakar snorted. “What, you think that form is called ‘Nameless’? No,
that’s what your crystal calls it because it’s a style unique to you, and
you’ve never named it.” Amarl’s face took on a thoughtful expression, but
the old man held up a warning hand. “Don’t worry about that now. Once
you see its final form, then you’ll have a better idea of what to call it. Once
you name it, your crystal will lock that name in, and you don’t want to get
stuck with a name that doesn’t represent it well in the end.”
“Does it really matter what I name it?” Amarl chuckled. “It’s just
words, after all.”
“It’s never ‘just words,’ Amarl, as you more than most should know,”
the man said sternly. “Words hold power, and names even more so. You
know how much impact your words can have, and how you can use them to
sway others. You can start or defuse a abttle with the right words; you can
calm an enemy or enrage them so that they fight foolishly. That’s what
you’ve been training your skills for all year, after all.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Amarl admitted.
“You should. Always be aware of the power of your words, and use
them carefully and wisely. In the same way, you should treat the ability to
grant something a name with respect and care. The name of your technique
will define it, not just for the world, but in your mind. If you name it
frivolously or foolishly, you might find yourself treating it the same way. If
you name it poorly, you might try to alter it to match its name, which could
ruin it. Names are important, and even a small change in one can matter.
After all, Marl Tem and Amarl Askula are two vastly different people, aren’t
they?”
Amarl frowned. He hadn’t really considered that, but the old man was
right. Marl Tem was a scoundrel, a thief, and quite often a nuisance. He
lived at the edge of society and took whatever scraps of companionship and
community the village tossed his way. Amarl Askula was a warrior and a
hunter, educated and highly trained, and he was an accepted and even
integral part of his community. He was also still, he admitted, a bit of a
nuisance, and her wasn’t close to universally liked, but he wasn’t a near-
outcast and pariah, either.
“They are, yeah,” he admitted.
 “And that’s just a change of a single letter. The River Meets the
Mountain was named that because it’s a style that flows around an
opponent’s defenses, wearing them away and eroding their strength until it
undercuts them completely, just as a river will eventually do to a mountain
in its path. Its name represents it completely. If it had been named
something different, the style might have shifted to match that name, and
something would have been lost in the process. Understand?”
The boy nodded. “I understand. I won’t worry about naming it until
you tell me it’s ready.”
“You’ll know when it’s ready, Amarl. Trust me.” The man
straightened. “Enough of that. Show me your skill gains from the past
moon.”
Amarl nodded and pulled up his full skills screen, knowing that the old
man could see it as well thanks to the training band he wore.

“Not bad,” the old man said after a moment’s silence. “So, no gains yet
on Ithtu Channeling?”
 “No,” Amarl shook his head with a grimace. “It’s still stuck at rank 7. I
thought that all the practice I’ve had holding multiple instruments would
have improved it.”
“It sounds like you need to make a qualitative change in handling your
ithtu, not a quantitative one.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” Amarl admitted.
“Most skills hit a bottleneck around rank 6 or 7, Amarl. That’s what we
call the ‘adept’ levels in the Order, and it’s the level you’d have to be to be
considered an expert at something in the greater Empire. At that point,
growth either comes slowly from painstakingly using it and understanding
it, the way you have with your Presence-based skills, or from using it in a
unique way.”
“And going up to four instruments wouldn’t count?”
“Apparently, not,” the old man shrugged. “You gained rank 7 by
figuring out how to hold two instruments at the same time. Adding more
didn’t really change that technique. If you want to grow it quickly, you
have to make a significant improvement in the way you handle your ithtu—
such as by working out how to call on it at will instead of needing it to be
summoned by danger.”
Amarl grimaced; he still couldn’t do that, and Tekasoka had started
working with him on it, saying that being able to control multiple facets of
his ability at once should be enough for him to safely draw on it. None of
her techniques had worked, though, and he felt no closer to tapping his
ability at will than he’d ever been.
“Your other weapon skills also haven’t risen,” the awal continued.
“They reached rank 4, then?”
“Yeah, a couple moons ago,” he nodded. “I stopped working on them
then, like you said, and only train them a little each week so they don’t get
rusty.”
“Good. Later, when you reach a plateau in your primary combat skills,
you can go back and work on those, but for now, it’s better to keep focusing
on your moon axe and scimitar.
“Go ahead and close that screen,” he continued, “and let’s take a look at
your stats.”
 Amarl dutifully shut that screen and called up his main status.

“You’ve managed to get your stats fairly blaanced,” the old man said
approvingly. “Force, Speed, and Skill all at 6.1; Toughness and Mind at
6.3; Will at 6.1. And your Presence went up to 6.6.”
Amarl nodded. “It took three units of ithtu to get it there, though,” he
complained. “It takes two to move anything these days, in fact, and three to
bump Will up.”
“And it’ll keep getting harder, I’m afraid. Every time your ithtu
improves you, it’s refining and purifying you, in a way. When your stats
are low, it’s easier to do because there’s so much that can be improved. As
they get higher, though, they’re harder to perfect, and it takes more power
to do so.”
“The same way it takes more heat to remove the last bits of flux from
really pure metal,” Amarl sighed. “And more time.”
“Precisely. Once your stats hit 7, it’ll take five or more units to improve
them, and at 8, it might take ten to bump them up by a tenth. The road to
becoming a true ithtar is a long one, Amarl, and it requires patience and
dedication.”
 Amarl bit back another sigh, knowing that the old man wouldn’t want
to hear it. At least his ability made channeling ithtu into his stats a fairly
fast process. He got the same boost to it that he did to skill learning, so he
could improve one in a week or two rather than a moon or more like most
students.
“And speaking of improvements, I was watching your stats during that
training session,” the awal continued. “When you were just using Speed,
the stat was boosted to around 7.7. By using all four, that dropped to 6.9, 7
for Toughness.”
Amarl grimaced. “I still haven’t figured out how to get the full boost
that my ability is supposed to give,” he admitted. “I think that until I can
draw on my ithtu on command, I won’t be able to.”
“We’ll find out when you get there. However, even that small of a
boost will help greatly next week for Challenge Week. Do you feel ready?”
“Not remotely,” Amarl admitted, shaking his head. “I remember Sh… I
mean, the day of challenges. I can’t imagine a whole week of it.”
“It’s not as bad as that. At least, no single day is. If we did a whole
week of that, students would die.” The awal paused for a moment. “Tell
me about Student Terit.”
“Ehe, a Tier A speed ability,” Amarl replied promptly. “High end of the
tier, too. She’s fast while moving and attacking, although not as fast as
others at either. Uses a short spear with a weighted ball at the end so she
can hit with it like a mace. She attacks fast and hard, using her speed to
knock an opponent down, then finishing them with her spear.”
“And how would you fight her?”
“Force and Toughness; absorb her blows, then strike back hard enough
to take her out quickly.”
Ranakar nodded. “Good. Doeba?”
“Id, Tier B telekinetic ability. She can control anything inanimate,
including an opponent’s weapons or armor. Uses a recurved bow and
daggers; she likes to control the daggers mentally to keep an opponent at
bay, slow them down by controlling their equipment, and finish them with
her arrows.”
 “And to counter her?”
“Speed and Toughness. Plow through the daggers with too much
momentum for her to slow down.”
“Excellent. Padim?”
“Ode, Tier B mental ability. She can stun you briefly. She uses a heavy
maul to take advantage of that; dazes you, then breaks your legs or arms so
you can’t fight.”
“It’s an effective tactic. How would you fight it?”
Amarl sighed. “The best would be to boost my Will, but I don’t know
how to do that, yet. Instead, I’d boost my Toughness so that she couldn’t
take me out easily while I was stunned and leave the rest of my stats alone.
I think I can take her without the stunning effect.”
“Good. Don’t rely on speed or power against her; her ability is fast, and
she can activate it with a thought. It takes a lot of ithtu, though, so she
doesn’t use it often.” He smiled. “Cosef?”
After his training session, Amarl trudged down the stairs of the old
man’s tower and rejoined his friends on their way to Realm Lore. As he
approached, Meder looked him up and down appraisingly.
“You look in surprisingly good shape for one of Ranakar’s sessions,”
she noted. She reached out and touched his sleeve, slipping her finger
through a clean slice in the fabric. “Although your clothes didn’t fare so
well. He’s still using real blades with you?”
“It’s the only way to get my ithtu to respond, still,” Amarl shrugged. “I
have to feel that there’s real danger, or it doesn’t do anything.”
“You’ll work it out,” Burik said confidently, giving him a gentle punch
in the shoulder. “Although, he could at least let you wear armor, to protect
your clothes if nothing else.”
“If I do, he has to throw or slash harder to work my ithtu’s armor, and
that means that when I do get hit, it’s a lot more likely to do real damage.”
Amarl shuddered. “I’ll stick with fixing my clothes, thanks.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Did he talk to you at all about Challenge Week?” Meder asked
hesitantly.
 “A bit. We reviewed most of the older students—you know, their
abilities, weapons, and how they fight.” He grinned at the girl. “Thanks to
you, I could answer every question.”
After his last tussle with Gowen, Robla, and Wesho, Meder had
suggested that the three spend more time at Halit, not sparring but watching
the older students spar and learning their abilities and how they fought. It
was a good idea, and while it meant they all got a few less points in Halit
that quarter, it left them far more prepared for Challenge Week.
“Oh, and he did say that Challenge Week will be better than Shit Day.
More specifically, he said that each day will be better than Shit Day.”
“It would almost have to be,” Burik chuckled. “Otherwise, that ‘week’
would last about two days before we were all in the infirmary, along with
about half the older classes.”
“And we’d spend a day there before they healed us up and sent us right
back out again,” Amarl grinned. “Although, he did say they don’t do it
because they’re worried someone might die. That’s something, at least.”
“It’s not much,” Meder said sourly.
“Relax, Meder,” Burik told her reassuringly. “This isn’t the same as
Shit Day at all. First, you have your ability unlocked. Second, you know
what you’re facing, and you’ve prepared for it.”
“And the fourth-years have done the same thing, Burik. I’ve seen them
watching our fights the same way that we watch theirs. Dashe even
admitted that they’ve been working out how to beat the three of us,
specifically.”
“Probably me more than the two of you,” Amarl replied.
“Probably, yes, but he specifically said all three of us. They even have
a betting pool going on each of us. First one to beat one of us wins the
pool.”
“Did he bet?” Burik grinned.
“Of course not. If he did, that would be the last time he’d see me.”
“Or he said that he didn’t,” Amarl laughed. “Keep on eye on him,
Meder. If he suddenly turns into a big spender after Challenge Week, you’ll
know something’s up.”
 “Something would be up, all right: my staff up his ass.”
“Kinky. So, that’s what he’s into? I never took him for the type, but I
guess you never know.”
She rolled her eyes as they reached the door to their class. “No, Amarl,
you never do—and you never will. What goes on between Dashe and me is
our business.” She flashed him a grin. “Well, and my staff’s, of course.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 47
Amarl wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to see when he walked
into Halit for Challenge Week. Part of him wondered if it would be
something like a Naming Day celebration, where everyone gathered to
watch, there was food, music, and drinking, and the school put on festive
airs to enjoy seeing the novices beaten and humiliated. Another part
realized that couldn’t be the case since last year, he and his friends hadn’t
even known this was a thing, much less come to celebrate it. It would
probably just be the second-years and fourth-years with some nadars to act
as referees and nothing more, despite the huge buildup over the entire year.
Reality, it turned out, was somewhere in between his imaginings.
Shimio, the first day of the week, had dawned clear and bright that
morning, and Amarl and his friends rose and dressed in relative silence,
each lost in their thoughts. The other second-years participating in
Challenge Week sat at breakfast the same way, their heads down as they
poked at their food and peered at their tables. Amarl saw fear in most faces
and near-panic in a few. Hadur’s face was pale, and he kept opening and
closing the regrown hand he’d lost on Shit Day. Norag looked to be on the
verge of panic, while a glimmer of fear in Herel’s eyes betrayed the mask of
determination he wore.
Amarl didn’t blame them. His own stomach fluttered and twisted
sourly, and he felt fingers of fear crawling up and down his spine. Meder’s
face was practically white as she barely nibbled her food, and even Burik’s
expression was grim and nervous. None of them had slept well the night
before, and the dark circles under everyone’s eyes suggested that none of
the other second-years had, either. The second-years who hadn’t yet
quickened their abilities just watched commiseratingly but didn’t say a
word, while the first-years seemed to look confused at the deep and
pervading silence.
After breakfast, the novices headed out toward Halit, moving in a group
that was quickly joined by some third-years. Amarl looked at those
quizzically, but Meder just shook her head.
“These are the students who quickened their abilities after Challenge
Week last year,” she reminded him. “Everyone has to do it once. No one
gets out of it.”
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t think of that,” he nodded. They fell back into
silence, jogging along near Herel, Norag, and Hadur, who stayed equally
quiet. Some of the third-years muttered to one another, but for the most
part, the group of students ran along without comment, heading for the start
of what they all suspected was going to be a week of the spirits’ hells.
Halit stood silently before them as they neared, and the novices slowed
as they approached the entrance. Amarl followed the larger group inside,
noticing that a group of nadars manned the armory counter, then kept
following as those instructors waved the students through into the main
yard. He passed through the arched doorway into the main yard and had to
fight not to react as a flash of steel caught his eye. His body tensed for a
moment before he realized what he was seeing and forced himself to relax.
Two lines of older students flanked the doorway, one to each side. Each
was already dressed in gleaming armor and carried their weapons, and they
gazed balefully at the younger students as they passed through. All the
fourth-years were present, of course, but there were also a scattering of
fifth-years in the mix. His heart sank a bit as he saw Gowen and Robla
mingled in the lines, but it rose swiftly as he recognized the short, brown-
haired Andra standing to the right. Apparently, she’d returned from
whatever she’d been doing for the Empire and hadn’t bothered to tell him,
which probably wasn’t a great sign. He tried to catch her eye, but she
simply glared at him for a moment before her gaze continued on, and he
suppressed an internal sigh. It seemed that whatever they’d had before she
left was done, now.
The students walked toward a raised platform near the center of the
yard and spread out before it. A group of white-robed nadars and gray-clad
malims stood along the back of the platform, watching the novices
impassively. Amarl recognized Rateso and Tautibal among his instructors in
that group. Midoral from the infirmary stood in the line with two other
nadars Amarl remembered from there. A couple of the rest he knew from
Sitjak, but he didn’t recognize any of the others. Wurynath stood toward
the front of the platform, with Tekasoka near him, both of them flanking the
familiar form of Ranakar. Once the novices gathered, the old man stepped
to the front of the platform, and what little muttering there was died out
instantly.
 “Good morning, and welcome to Challenge Week,” the awal said in his
clear, deep voice. “As a reminder, I’m Awal Ranakar, in charge of all
special training for the academy, so Challenge Week is part of my purview.”
The man moved into a relaxed, easy stance. “The rules of Challenge
Week are simple and similar to the day of challenges you’ve already
experienced. Challenges will proceed in rounds, five rounds per day, with
each round lasting an hour. No novice may be challenged more than once
per round, and no student may challenge the same novice more than once
per day. All combats end when either one contestant is unable to continue
or the referee rules that a strike would have rendered them unable to
continue.”
The old man’s gaze turned a bit harder as he continued. “Ability and
sahr usage are freely allowed and even encouraged. Each contestant may
use the weapons and armor of their choice. You will, of course, follow all
commands of the nadar or malim judging your match. Failure to do so will
have swift consequences, both for you and your opponents. And to make
sure that abilities don’t get out of hand, Malim Rateso and his assistants will
be watching the matches and will step in if they feel it necessary.”
Amarl frowned as he suddenly realized that he had no idea what
Rateso’s ability was. Obviously, it had to be something that could contain
ithtu or render another ithtar powerless—that just made sense considering
what he did in the school. However, the boy had no clue what it actually
was, and he’d never heard anyone else talking about it.
Ranakar’s expression relaxed slightly. “Like the day of challenges,
you’ll receive points toward graduation based on your performance. Each
fight, you’ll be awarded zero, one, or two points by the referee. Two points
means you fought well and won your match. One point either means you
won but in poor fashion, or you lost well. No points…” His smile turned
cold. “Well, I think you can guess what that means.
“This means that it’s possible for you to earn up to sixty points toward
graduation this week,” he proclaimed, and some of the novices near Amarl
began muttering excitedly. He glanced sideways and saw Hadur’s face light
up at the man’s words; the boy still wasn’t on track to graduate, Amarl
guessed, and this probably felt like a chance at a last-minute reprieve.
Norag also looked hopeful, although Amarl knew he likely had enough
points to graduate on his own. A few extra, the hizeen supposed, never
hurt.
“However,” Ranakar went on, silencing the crowd instantly, “you can
also use those points if you wish. After each fight, every novice will be
provided basic healing elixirs. However, if you’re injured more than those
can fix, you can purchase more advanced elixirs from the armory.” He
swept a hand behind him. “Malim Midoral and his team are on hand for
more extensive healing should you need it—for a price. You can even
purchase additional crystals should you drain yours. Again, it simply costs
points to do so. It’s up to you to decide how many points you wish to keep,
and how many you need to spend.”
Hadur’s face turned bleaker at that, and even Meder looked a little
disheartened. Amarl only felt relief; he was pretty sure he was graduating
either way, and being able to buy better elixirs, get complete healing, or
replace a lost crystal might be vital.
“I know that many of you have been dreading this day,” the awal
finished. “In fact, I’m certain that most of you have. However, you’ve
known this was coming for moons. You’ve been trained for this sort of
combat, and you should have taken the time to study your opponents. I can
assure you that they’ve been studying you and are as prepared as possible to
deal with you. If you can’t say the same…” He shrugged. “Then you’re
likely going to have a very bad week. If you can, then this can be a major
opportunity for you.”
He spread his hands wide as he spoke. “Either way, Challenge Week
begins. Malim Wurynath, who are our first six challenged?”
The malim stepped forward, his voice ringing across the yard as always
as he read from a piece of paper before him.
“Nolla challenges Meder!” the man bellowed. “Tosaw challenges
Burik! Navma challenges Herel! Widno challenges Farba! Kafwi
challenges Timar! Andra challenges Amarl!”
Amarl couldn’t help but frown. He, Meder, and Burik all being
challenged at the first chance probably wasn’t a coincidence, especially if
there really was a pot going for who would beat each of them first. Nolla
had a decent shot at taking Meder; the older girl was skilled at fighting,
probably more so than Meder, and her will-draining ability might seriously
interfere with Meder’s ability to use sahr. In a similar vein, Tosaw’s ability
to turn kinetic impacts into his own strength was a decent counter for
someone with a body-strengthening ability like Burik. Andra challenging
him, though—that seemed odd, and he wasn’t sure what it meant. Was she
angry at him for something? Had she come back totally changed form who
she was? He didn’t know, but he couldn’t imagine that it was a good thing.
“Excellent,” Ranakar said, clapping his hands together. “Challenged
novices, go retrieve your weapons and armor, then return to receive your
ring assignments. Challengers, take your places and prepare yourselves.
Challenge Week is about to begin!”

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 Chapter 48
Amarl strode over to his assigned ring, wrapped in his usual armor and
carrying his moon axe on his shoulder, then paused at the sigh that awaited
him. He’d expected to fight in a standard ring, three reaches across and
filled with coarse sand over rock. He was wrong. The ring was twice its
normal size, and it looked like someone had taken a patch of ground from
Apirron and stuck it in the ring. The ground was bare stone overlaid with a
fine layer of gravel mixed with rocks ranging from the size of his thumbnail
to his fist. Larger boulders jutted up randomly around the ring, each
varying in height from his knee to well over his head.
Andra stood across the circle from him, watching him as he
approached. She held a long spear with silk pennons dangling from it by
her side, and her armor looked both heavier than his and more worn. Both
were something he hadn’t seen her use before; she usually preferred lighter
armor and a sword to a spear. He began to flash her a grin and welcome her
back, but something in her stance stilled the greeting before it could
emerge. His eyes swept over her face, reading the tenseness in her posture,
the rigidity of her expression, and the stiffness of her back. Her face was
blank, and she stared at him without a hint of expression.
All that told him quite clearly that she hadn’t challenged him to
exchange pleasantries. Either her time in the Empire had changed her, or
something that happened since she’d returned changed her feelings toward
him. He suppressed a sigh as a dagger of pain stabbed his chest. He knew
that she and he weren’t forever, obviously, and he hadn’t wanted anything
like that. He’d hoped that whatever happened, though, they’d stay friends.
Apparently, that wasn’t to be, and the loss of that friendship cut far deeper
than ending any imaginary relationship they might have had.
He pushed those thoughts from his head as he walked up to his line and
readied his moon axe. A dark-skinned nadar walked into the ring and stood
between them, looking back and forth between the pair. He began to speak,
but Amarl ignored him. He knew the rules, obviously, and didn’t need to
hear them again. Instead, he let his gaze drift over the fighting ring,
analyzing it almost without thought.
 His first thought was that the terrain favored Andra far more than him.
The ring’s layout would definitely hamper his faster, more aggressive
fighting style. The gravel and rocks on the ground would make footing
treacherous. The large boulders would hinder his axe and force him to
move through narrow paths between them while she could use them for
cover. Her spear could strike over and around boulders, making it easier to
hold him at bay. Of course, that would require her to fight defensively,
which had never been her style. She tended to favor a mildly aggressive
type of fighting that involved constantly pressing her foes, using her ability
to stop them from defending effectively while cutting them down. At least,
that was how she used to fight. She’d been gone for a while, so that might
have changed.
He paused at that thought. She had been gone for a while, and while
her style might have changed, his definitely had. The addition of his new
forms to his technique had altered his combat drastically. She wouldn’t
know that, though, and he could use that to his advantage. She’d expect
him to charge in, striking swiftly and fighting with pure aggression as he
tried to get inside her weapon’s longer reach. He wasn’t totally sure what to
expect from her, but she couldn’t be sure what to expect from him, either.
The nadar called Andra’s name, and she nodded in reply. The referee
turned to him and spoke, and Amarl nodded as well. The man’s hand lifted,
and as it did, Amarl reached down into himself and suppressed the song of
his ithtu, pulling up only the beating drums in his mind.
He was glad that he had as the moment the man’s hand dropped,
everything seemed to speed up around him as Andra’s power enveloped
him. He tried to lift his axe as she charged him, her spear leveled, but it felt
like she’d encased his body and thoughts in thick, wet clay. The song of his
ithtu surged in his mind as she raced toward him, moving with unnatural
speed, and he tore himself free of the grip of her power, but she’d already
reached him. Her spear lanced out, the point slamming into the center of
his chest and punching through his armor with ease. He felt the blade
dimple his skin, but power flooded that spot as the percussion in his mind
roared its fury, and the impact merely knocked him back a step.
His axe whipped up, knocking her spear away from him, and she
quickly withdrew it, sliding backward a few steps as if expecting him to
attack. Instead, he dropped into his new form, shifting the song in his head
from the pounding of drums to a combination of trilling flutes and blaring
horns. Energy surged down his veins and filled his muscles, giving him
extra strength and speed, but instead of using it to attack, he waited,
watching the girl warily.
Seeming to realize that he wasn’t going to press her, Andra slid forward,
her spear darting toward his throat. He leaned slightly sideways and let the
blow pass, knocking it away with his axe and returning to his original
position. The spear slashed sideways, but he slid under it, then twisted to
ride the edge of the blade as she thrust again.
She watched him warily, caution and confusion warring in her eyes as
she attacked him probingly, her spear dancing around him, feeling out his
defenses without trying for a killing blow. He understood her concern.
Fighting defensively with a moon axe against a long spear was foolish and
doomed to failure. She could strike at him with relative impunity, while he
couldn’t reach her at all. He might have a stellar defense, but eventually,
she’d pierce it, and the fight would be over. At least, that was normally the
case. Thanks to his Drunken and Cutting Hands forms, though, he could
turn his defense into an offense in an instant. He simply had to wait for his
moment.
That came as her ability wrapped around him again, and she lunged
forward, driving her spearpoint at his throat. Even with his Toughness
boosted, that might have been called a crippling strike, and with her ability
dragging at his limbs and thoughts, there should have been no way for him
to react in time. There wouldn’t have been, if he hadn’t been empowering
his Force and Speed, in fact. His body reacted without thought, spinning
the axe up, dragging it through the heavy mass wrapped about his limbs and
knocking her blow away. He ducked low, moving at normal speed thanks
to his ability offsetting the slowing of hers, and whipepd his axe out in a
wicked backslash. The girl reacted instantly, slamming her spear down at
him while leaping backwards, but his blade still dragged across her leading
thigh as he leaned sideways to avoid a strike to the head. Sparks flew as his
axe struck, but to his surprise, the blade simply left a scratch and didn’t
pierce the chain links covering her leg.
“She’s got better armor,” he thought silently and appreciatively.
“That’s not standard Askula issue stuff.”
 He ignored the failed attack and moved on her, slashing and cutting in
short, wicked strokes rather than his usual broad, spinning ones. She
retreated, hitting him with her ability again. He tore himself free of it
quickly, but the delay allowed her to slide back enough to put a boulder
between the two of them. She stood behind the waist-high rock, her spear
leveled in his direction, and to his surprise, she flashed him a quick grin.
“That was unexpected,” she told him.
“So was your armor,” he grinned back at her. “New?”
“Gift from a third star, commander of the southern forces.”
“Sounds fancy. He must have really liked you.”
“Hated me, actually, but I saved his life, so…” She shrugged. “This
was his repayment.”
“I can’t wait to hear the story—maybe at Sasofit’s when all this is
done?” he asked hopefully.
“Sounds good to me,” she grinned before her expression shifted back
into the carefully neutral one.
He moved toward her, and her spear darted out, stabbing at him to hold
him at bay. With his enhanced speed, though, he slipped around the strike
and dove sideways, rolling to his feet on the other side of the boulder. She
recovered swiftly, but he was already inside her reach, and he attacked
instantly. She retreated as she defended, blocking with the haft of her spear
and trying to drive him back outside her reach. His axe blurred and spun as
he struck at her, the blade ringing against the spear’s haft with a sound like
steel striking iron, not wood. He swayed and twisted with those counters,
letting them push him around without ever losing his balance.
She’d gotten better, there was no question about that. She’d always
been a skilled fighter, probably the top in her year, but she’d improved
dramatically in the past year. She’d also gotten more skilled with her
ability, using it to counter his effectively. With two abilities boosted, both
his Force and Speed stats should be around 7.5, high enough that the world
moved slowly around him and the axe felt like a feather in his hands.
However, whenever he used that speed and strength to get inside her reach
and strike at her, she hit him with a flash of her ability. Each use only lasted
a fraction of a second before he tore free, but that was enough to disrupt his
attacks and allow her to create some space. Once, when he thought he had
her with a wide, low cut to her stomach, his blow pulled up short as she
whipped the pennons around the haft of his axe, tangling it for a brief
moment to give her a chance to slip out of the way. The two were fairly
evenly matched; at least, they would be if he didn’t do something to change
things.
As she disengaged another time, he shifted the song in his head, letting
the flutes and hrons subside while drawing forth the pounding drums and
thrilling strings. Power surged into his skin and raced down his nerves as
the world seemed to return to normal pace around him. She seemed to
sense the change and shifted her stance, striking at him aggressively, but
rather than dodging the attack, he absorbed it, letting it slide off the side of
his neck. His axe spun up fluidly, tapping her spear just enough to knock it
sideways. She regained her balance swiftly and cracked the haft of her
spear into his skull, but again, he soaked up the impact, ignoring it and
slashing at her side. Her ability wrapped around him, but he shifted back to
boosting his Speed stat, letting everything else fall away, and the world
returned to normal speed and then slowed down as his ability overpowered
hers. His axe slammed into her side with a loud clang, cutting through the
armored links there and sinking a fingerwidth into her skin.
“Hold!” the nadar called, his voice impossibly slow and deep to
Amarl’s sped up senses. The boy stepped back, lifting his spear, and
relaxed his grip on his ithtu. The world returned to normal speed instantly
as his ithtu receded to a murmur. Andra moved back to her own line as the
nadar stepped between them.
“Amarl wins with a disabling cut to the side!” the man proclaimed.
“Two points.”
A few people clapped and cheered, and Amarl turned to see that most of
the students had gathered around their ring. Several of the older students
simply glared, and he noted that not all those glares were directed at him.
“Come on,” Andra said, jerking her head sideways. “Let’s clear the
ring for another fight.” She looked down at her side distastefully, poking a
finger into the gash there. “Now, I’m going to have to get this repaired,
Amarl. Do you have any idea how expensive it is to repair sahrotik like
this?”
 “Nope,” he shrugged as he followed her out of the ring. The other
students parted for them, a few of them grudgingly after she gave them a
hard glare. “Although, I might next year. I should be starting sahrotik
training then.”
“You’re going to learn to make ‘tik?” she asked in surprise. “I assumed
you’d take up herbology as your craft.”
“Why?”
“Aphrodisiacs, of course. Stamina enhancers. That sort of thing. It
seems more—you.”
He laughed. “It does, but I’m learning a lot of that in Seduction class
anyway.”
“Really? They’re actually teaching you how to make aphrodisiacs?”
“Yep. They aren’t all that effective, though. I think there are
alchemical ones that work better, but…” He shrugged. “That’s more
Meder’s thing than mine.” He gave her a wide grin. “Glad to have you
back, by the way.”
“I’m glad to be back—although I could do without the politics and
maneuverings. I didn’t miss all that.” She glanced at him. “I heard you
were mired in it all year.”
“A lot of it,” he agreed with a sour expression. “Mostly, though, it’s
just been people trying to kill me. You know. Normal stuff.”
“Sadly, yeah.” She gave him a grave look. “You know that the older
students intend to humiliate you, right?”
“I heard that there’s a pool going, yeah.”
She shook her head. “No, not that. That happens every year, and it’s
just normal idiocy. Reswa won a full akato for beating me when I did
Challenge Week.”
She stopped and shook her head. “A bunch of them came up with a
plan to make sure you lose and lose badly. Kafwi’s going to challenge you
next, and he’ll wait until the very end of the round to do it. Then, while
you’re still tired and hurt, they’ll challenge you first the next round, then
they’ll do it again for the last two rounds.”
 “That’ll give me a really long rest between those, though,” he pointed
out.
“Yes, but if Kafwi beats you, then you’re too hurt to win your next
match, you won’t have enough points to buy good elixirs and heal up in
time to fight again. You’ll fight wounded and exhausted, and if you do that
twice in a row in quick succession…” She shook her head again. “You
could be out of the whole week on the first day, Amarl.”
“Well, at least I’ll get to rest all week,” he chuckled, but her face turned
even graver.
“You can’t afford that. Challenge Week—there’s more to it than just
points and showing off. There are hidden prizes for doing well, but more
importantly, the people who do really poorly?” She grimaced. “They don’t
make it to their next year most of the time.”
He took a deep breath as frustration swelled in him. Of course, the
older students had to try to find a way to hurt him this week.
“Gowen or Nolla?” he asked quietly.
“Planning it? Nolla. Gowen’s not much of a planner. He’s good at
getting things done once someone else plans them, though.”
Amarl nodded. “Well, there’s only one solution. I’m going to have to
beat Kafwi—and I’m going to have to do it without getting hurt.”
“Or exhausting yourself or your ithtu,” she added.
“Or that.” He paused and gave her a curious look. “You know, I was
actually worried that you were pissed at me earlier. You looked pretty
upset.”
“I was. I’d found out what they planned.” She took a deep breath. “It
reminded me too much of last year, and I was angry. Just not at you. At
them.”
“They asked you to go along?”
“Of course. I’m one of the best fighters in the class. If we’d fought
after you and Kafwi, with you wounded and tired…” She let the words
hang, but he nodded in understanding. If he’d been in a state like that,
she’d have won, and she’d have likely won easily.
“I’m glad you turned them down,” he said sincerely.
 “Oh, I didn’t. I agreed to go along with them. That’s why I looked so
pissed at you at first. I told them that I’d start things off by blowing a
shitload of ithtu, trapping you in place, and giving you a bunch of injuries
to start the day. If I’d been smiling and joking with you the whole time,
they would have guessed that I just meant to fight you normally.” She
grinned. “This way, I got to see the pissed-off looks on their faces when
they realized that I wasn’t playing along.”
He laughed and patted her affectionately on the shoulder. “I really am
glad to have you back, you know.”
“Good. You can show me by kicking some ass today and teaching the
schemers that messing with you is a bad idea.” She grinned at him. “Same
way you taught me.”
What was left of his good mood vanished with her words. She was
right. The older students had conspired to take him out of Challenge Week,
and it wouldn’t just be for the day. They’d keep doing it again and again—
unless he showed them that it was a bad idea. He needed to make a
statement, one that they couldn’t ignore.
At last, he nodded. “I’ll need to hit the armory, then,” he said slowly,
holding up his axe. “This isn’t going to work. I need something different.”
“You should get a spear,” she suggested, lifting her own weapon.
“No, I’ve got something else planned.” He paused. “Where’d you get
that, anyway?”
“Another gift,” she shrugged. “From a second staff who appreciated
me saving half her axe from getting wiped out. Spears rule the battlefield
when it comes to formation fighting, so I’ve gotten a lot of use out of it.”
“You really have to tell me what the hells you’ve been up to,” he said
curiously.
“Later,” she laughed, pushing him toward the armory. “Go get a new
weapon—and maybe something ranged, if you’ve got the skills for it.”
He turned and walked toward the armory with a cold anger churning in
his gut. He was sick of playing their stupid games. It was time to change
the rules a bit.

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 Chapter 49
He quickly realized that there was no need for him to hurry. If what
Andra said was correct, he had almost two hours before his next match.
He’d been one of the first to fight, but he’d also been one of the first to
finish his fight, and if each round lasted an hour, he had a long wait ahead
of him. He hadn’t realized how fast the battle had been; it felt like several
minutes had passed, but it lasted a bit more than a minute in total. He and
Andra had both fought with extreme speed and intensity, it seemed.
He changed his mind about fetching weapons from the armory; he
didn’t want to change things up until the last minute. After all, if he
suddenly started carrying a bunch of new weapons, people might ask
questions or suspect that he knew what was coming. Of course, anyone
who’d seen Andra and him talking and had half a brain would probably
guess that, but he didn’t want to make it too obvious.
Instead, he headed over to watch the ongoing matches. Kafwi’s fight
with Timar went fairly predictably. The younger boy, half a year behind
Amarl’s group, had just quickened his ability to turn his body into a sort of
living crystal, and it wasn’t very reliable yet. He managed to endure a
couple of Kafwi’s attacks and plowed through the older boy’s defensive
wall—which apparently tapped what little ithtu he could manage. Kafwi’s
next blast practically crippled the younger boy and left him writhing on the
ground with burns all over his face and arms—and no points to buy an
elixir to heal that damage.
Herel fared somewhat better against Navma, who wielded a long axe
with an edge that crackled with dark energy. Amarl knew that edge would
shear through armor and weapons like they were paper, but Herel’s skill-
boosting ability let him glide around the older girl’s attacks, parrying
against the axe’s haft rather than the blade and sliding blows away from
himself. Unfortunately, when he finally managed to land a blow on her, her
armor took on the same dark shimmer, and his longsword shattered when it
touched her. She responded with a shallow cut to his side that ended the
match, and Herel walked away with a single point.
 The match between Widno and Farba was more interesting. Farba was
one of the third-years in the same group as Lared, with a Tier A strength
ability. While it wasn’t that powerful, the girl had quickened it almost a
year ago, which meant she’d had a lot of time to practice using it and knew
it fairly well. Widno, on the other hand, had a rare Tier D ability that
Amarl didn’t understand but that usually drove his foes into a mindless
frenzy. Somehow, Widno fed on that rage, empowering him and healing
whatever damage he took, so he usually fought defensively with a sword
and large shield, letting his opponents wear themselves out against him and
finishing them once they were exhausted. That was dangerous against
someone as strong as Farba, and at first, the battle looked like it was going
the girl’s way. She slammed her heavy maul into Widno’s shield, knocking
him around like a rag doll, but no matter how hard she hit him, he got up
ready to keep fighting. As the fight progressed, though, it became obvious
that Widno would win. The more Farba’s rage built, the sloppier and less
cautious her attacks became. She overextended, and her own strength
yanked her out of position. At last, Farba slashed his sword across the front
of her throat, drawing a line of blood and ending the match.
Burik and Tosaw were fairly evenly matched. The older boy’s ability to
empower his blade with the energy of his opponent’s blows limited Burik
somewhat, forcing the larger boy to fight with finesse rather than relying on
his overwhelming strength to win, but Burik’s skill was unrivaled among
the second-years. They fought back and forth across the ring, Burik
stabbing and thrusting lightly with his halberd while Tosaw did the same
with his two-pronged fork. It was something of a stalemate. While Burik
fought with control and skill, Tosaw couldn’t drain the power he needed to
get through the younger boy’s defensive ability, but that same control kept
Burik from doing more than harassing his opponent, unable to strike with
enough force to land a finishing blow. In the end, it became a matter of
attrition: Burik didn’t have enough ithtu to shield himself indefinitely, and
Tosaw finally ended it with a crippling stab to the older boy’s thigh. Burik
still got a point for the match, but Amarl could tell his friend was
disappointed in the outcome.
“Next time I fight him, I won’t hold back,” he told Amarl grimly as the
pair walked away from the ring. “I’ll hit him with everything I have right
away.”
 “That’ll just make him stronger and faster, though,” Amarl pointed out.
“Yeah, but it’ll also force him to use his ithtu. That’s why I lost: I had
to use mine the whole time, and he barely had to use his at all. I’m pretty
sure that the harder I hit him, though, the more ithtu he’ll have to use to
absorb the impact. Hopefully, he’ll run out first, and I’ll be able to finish
him off.”
“It’s as good a plan as any I can think of,” Amarl shrugged as they
walked toward Meder’s ring. They realized they were too late as they ran
into the girl halfway there.
“How’d it go?” Burik asked the girl, whose frown answered the
question for Amarl.
“She won,” Meder admitted. “It was close, though. I blinded her and
kept hitting her with sahr attacks to hold her back. The more I fought,
though, the harder it was to concentrate on my workings, and the cloudier
my thoughts became.” She shook her head and looked at Amarl. “It’s
insidious, isn’t it?”
“If that means, ‘it’s a pain in the ass to fight while you can barely
think,’ then yeah, it’s that,” he laughed.
“No, I mean, it creeps up on you. You don’t even know it’s happening
until it’s too late, and you can barely concentrate.” She shuddered. “That’s
a nasty ability.”
“It is, yeah. Did you at least get a point for the fight, though?”
“I did, which is something. Plus, I’m not really injured, so I don’t need
anything other than a simple healing elixir.” She touched her stomach and
winced. “She got a good cut in on my stomach, but it’s not deep. It just
stings. So, how did the two of you do?”
“I lost,” Burik said sourly. “Tosaw outlasted me. My tak’s almost
empty right now, which means I should probably go meditate and try to fill
it as much as possible before the next round.”
“Probably,” she nodded before glancing at Amarl. “Let me guess. You
won?”
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “It was a close fight, though. Andra’s gotten a lot
better. If I hadn’t worked out how to empower my stats and learned my
new forms, she would have handed me my ass.”
“Serving at the Flamewall will do that,” Burik said sagely. “The
nomads are skilled warriors, and they’ve got some sort of abilities of their
own. Soldiers down there get good fast, or they die.”
“Well, she didn’t die. I guess she even got a couple gifts; a spear from a
staff and armor from a star. Or maybe the other way around. I still can’t
remember the military ranks.”
Burik whistled appreciatively. “A staff is an officer, kind of like my
mother. A star, though, is a senior officer, what my mother would be if the
damn High Command cared more about ability than appearances. If one
gave her a gift, she must have impressed them.”
“She said she saved his life, so that might have been a good reason.”
“And all she got was armor?” Burik asked with obvious disapproval.
“Sounds like he doesn’t hold his life as very valuable—either that, or he
gave her the bare minimum to keep up appearances.”
“Well, she did say that he hated her, so that’s probably it,” Amarl
chuckled before sobering instantly. “That’s not all she said, by the way.”
He quickly told them about the older students’ plan for him. He expected
Meder, at least, to be shocked or upset, but both of them seemed to take his
news in stride.
“That’s actually not a bad plan,” Burik mused. “If they can keep you
from getting points, then you can’t get what you need to heal up and
recover. How much do those better elixirs cost, anyway?”
“No clue,” Amarl shrugged. “I’d think a few points each, though. That
way, you have to suffer for a bit before earning an elixir.”
“I’ll bet there are decent elixirs available for a single point,” Meder
shook her head. “You can fight well, buy an elixir, be healed, and be ready
for your next match almost immediately. If you do that, though, then
you’re getting no points toward graduation, and I’ll bet a lot of people need
those points.”
“That seems likely,” Burik nodded. “But there are probably better ones
available for a few points, too, so if someone is winning a lot, they can
spend those points for better healing and a stamina boost.”
 “Or a crystal,” Meder added thoughtfully. “Actually, if you think about
it, this point system makes a lot of sense. Without it, the smartest thing that
we can do is forget about winning, fight defensively, and try not to get hurt
badly. With it, we can take more chances, use up some of our resources, try
to win, and then resupply with points. It’s a decent incitement to do more
than just not lose badly.”
“Not losing badly still feels like a decent strategy,” Amarl chuckled.
“Well, yes, especially if you’re someone like Herel who doesn’t need
points badly. Honestly, it’s probably smarter for him to try and eke a point
out each round without getting hurt. Of course, if he does get hurt, it might
wipe out whatever points he’s earned, but he doesn’t need many to ensure
that he’s over the graduation threshold.
“However, for the people at the top and bottom, it’s different. If Hadur
can get an extra thirty points from this week, he’ll just slip over the
threshold, and Norag needs twelve to be sure. To get that, they need to try
and win. On the other hand, we know that some of the older students will
single us out and try to injure us, so we have to try and win each match and
bank points against when we’ll need them.”
“I was planning to try and win anyway,” Burik laughed.
“Of course, you were. So am I. But do you really think everyone is?”
She shook her head. “There are plenty of students in the middle of the pack
who are just trying not to be hurt this week. They know they don’t have
much chance of winning a match unless they get lucky, and they don’t need
too many points to graduate. The system’s set up for the ones at the top and
bottom: it gives someone like Hadur a possible lifeline, while it gives us the
ability to cut loose in order to win more matches and bank up points.” She
frowned. “Of course, that does depend on how many points things cost, so
we should probably verify the prices before we make any plans.”
“You do that. I’m going to try and recover my tak as much as
possible,” Burik said, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders.
“Good idea. I should probably do the same. Amarl, how’s your tak—
as if I need to ask? Has it hit a thousand yet?”
“A bit over two thousand, actually,” he said casually, enjoying the
startled look on her face before he chuckled. “No, it’s around 250 right
now. I’m fine. Don’t worry; I’ll go take a look at the prices, while you two
go sleep and pretend you’re meditating.”
As it turned out, the armory didn’t just have a price list, they had it
posted on the wall for anyone to check out. Few students were looking at it
yet, but Amarl suspected that would change as more battles happened and
the novices found themselves in need of healing or restoration. Meder was
right, as usual. There was an “average quality” healing elixir available for a
single point, and he assumed that would be the most commonly purchased
item. There were stronger elixirs available for three and five points, and an
ithtu healing cost seven points, meaning the people who would likely most
need it were probably going to be unable to afford it.
A feeble ithtu crystal also cost a single point, but from there, the prices
rose sharply. Each additional tier of crystal cost three times the points of
the one below it, meaning he needed twenty-seven points if he wanted to
replace one of his strong crystals during the week, and Meder and Burik
would need nine points for a new minor crystal for either of them. That was
possible, of course, but they’d have to win a lot of matches to get to that
point.
He memorized the prices, then headed back out. He left Meder and
Burik to meditate, trying to refill their tak a bit before their next match, and
watched the rest of the first round. As he could have guessed, most of the
novices lost their fights, but for the most part, it was closer than he’d have
imagined. The youngest group fared the worst, of course. Only two of
Timar’s classmates had quickened their abilities yet, and none of them had
much control over that ability. Hesva could give her ranged weapons extra
speed and force, but it only worked about half the time, so her opponent
was able to close with her and crack her leg with a long, two-handed mace
of some sort. Nirth had a power like Andra’s that slowed things around
them, but it only worked on objects, not people, and her opponent simply
attacked her without a weapon and beat her senseless. Neither fight lasted
long, and in both cases, the novices ended up fairly injured without any
points to buy decent elixirs.
A few of the novices did manage to hold their own, though. Lared
faced a student named Romsa who could increase her size, mass, and
density, but the younger girl managed to win thanks to her greater skill.
The battle was fairly intense and lasted several minutes, but in the end,
Lared walked away with two points and a sea of bruises that she ended up
buying an average elixir to heal. Riroa’s earth manipulation ability let her
trap Terit, as the older boy used his speed ability to try and take her out
quickly and found himself plunging neck-deep in mud that hardened into
solid dirt in an instant. And, to Amarl’s great surprise, Hadur managed to
pull off a win against a flying student named Pimer. The younger boy had,
it seemed, finally realized that he needed a weapon with reach and had
settled on hand crossbows. He used his ability to create repulsion fields
that pushed opponents away to keep the flying boy at a distance, then
whittled him down with crossbow bolts. It wasn’t the best win, but it was
enough for two points, and Hadur managed to get little more than a few
scratches in the process.
Once everyone finished fighting, Halit settled into a kind of calm as
Ranakar let the timer on the first round run out. A nadar moved up to the
board that usually held students’ names for challenges and began to write a
list of names on it, with a number next to each. Amarl, Riroa, and Hadur
stood at the top with two points. A long list of novices with a single point
came next, and Amarl felt somewhat proud to see that it included most of
the younger students. Apparently, they’d acquitted themselves decently, at
least for that round. As the days wore on, he doubted that would last,
though.
The next round began, and again, Meder and Burik were challenged
fairly early on. Amarl wasn’t, which he supposed was evidence that Andra
was right. He ignored the growing flutters in his stomach as he watched his
friends fight. This time, Burik got challenged by Naros, who Amarl had
wounded so badly on Shit Day. It was a better matchup, as Naros’ ability to
sheathe parts of his body in obsidian armor made Burik’s life much harder,
while Naros’ stone weapons equally struggled to penetrate Burik’s
defenses. In the end, though, Burik’s skill won out, and he finished the
fight by driving the tip of his halberd into Naros’ solar plexus, an injury that
was both crippling and possibly fatal. Meder faced Tafyn, who could
generate crippling fear in his opponents. As it turned out, panicking a
novice who could create powerful sahr effects was a bad idea. Meder ended
up flinging a blast of force at the older boy that carried him up and out of
the ring entirely to crash into the crowd. The boy bounced off several
armored figures and lay on the ground, limp and unmoving, while Meder
was declared the victor. Lared lost her match to Cosef, a fifth-year who
caused each of her blows to rebound against her, damaging her instead of
him. Hadur lost, as well, to Padim who stunned the younger boy before he
could set up one of his fields and then smashed his knee with her maul.
As the matches wound down, Amarl felt eyes on him. He glanced over
and saw Kafwi watching him, almost staring at the hizeen. To his surprise,
though, the older boy’s steady gaze held no animosity. If anything, he
looked curious and speculative, not hostile or even particularly eager.
Amarl returned that gaze as calmly as he could, trying to exude as much
confidence and surety as possible.
“He looks pretty sure of himself,” Burik noted from where he stood
beside Amarl, also looking curiously at the older boy.
“He’s got reason to be,” Meder pointed out. “He’s very hard to beat if
you don’t have a protective or ice-based ability.”
“Hard, sure, but not impossible,” Burik shook his head. “And he’s seen
Amarl fight. He has to know that if Amarl can close with him, the fight’s
over.”
“Sure, if Amarl can close, which he probably assumes he can prevent.”
“I don’t think it’s any of that,” Amarl shook his head slowly.
“What do you mean?” Meder asked.
“I think that he’s curious. We didn’t fight on Shit Day, and I’ll bet he’s
wondering how it’s going to go.”
“That could be,” Burik nodded. “I would be, in his shoes.”
“I’m sure the lure of winning the pot doesn’t hurt, either,” Meder said
dryly. “And being able to say that he beat Amarl after even Andra
couldn’t.”
At last, the matches wound down, until only Amarl was left of the
novices. More and more stares had drifted his way as people realized what
was happening. Some of those were hard and calculating; those, he
assumed, were the students working with Nolla. Some looked pitying,
coming from people who knew what was happening but weren’t part of it.
Most of the novices simply looked confused.
“Kafwi challenges Amarl!”
 The call went up, and Amarl glanced up toward Ranakar and Wurynath,
standing on the dais. Both of them had understanding looks on their faces,
and he felt a minor surge of anger. They knew what was happening and
what the older students plotted, and they weren’t going to do a damn thing
about it. In fact, Ranakar almost looked satisfied, like he’d expected this to
happen and was glad of it.
Amarl pushed that aside and trudged up toward the armory to get ready
for the battle. It was time to show the older students what he could really
do if he tried.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 50
Amarl walked toward the ring assigned for the fight, ignoring the
curious looks of the students watching him past. A few of the older students
jeered him quietly, but he ignored them, staring straight ahead. The weapon
on his shoulder was heavier and a bit longer than he was used to, and it
wouldn’t lend itself to his normal fast style of slashing his foe to pieces. It
was what he needed, though, as were the slime steel spikes stuck in a pouch
at his waist.
As he neared the battlefield, he let his eyes sweep across it. Once
again, it wasn’t a simple arena filled with sand. Instead, the ground looked
soft and muddy, with pools of water standing in it in several places. It
honestly looked like a relatively even battleground to him. At least, it was
one that hampered them both equally. Kafwi would have to work harder to
heat and liquefy the sodden ground, while Amarl would find the footing
treacherous and unstable.
He shifted his gaze over to his opponent, examining the other boy
somewhat clinically. Kafwi was mostly average for a nalu, standing a few
fingerwidths taller than Amarl and looking a shade bulkier. His hair was
dark, almost ebony, and pulled back into a short club behind his neck. His
skin was deep olive, and his face was wider than normal, giving him
rounded cheeks and a wide mouth. He had several pistols belted to his
waist along with a short blade that Amarl suspected he would use if fighting
got close somehow.
“Amarl,” the older boy said as the hizeen approached, turning his gaze
to the weapon on the hizeen’s shoulder. “That’s different. I haven’t seen
you fight with one of those before.”
Amarl lifted the reach-long club from his shoulder and let it thump to
the ground. The weapon consisted of a wide shaft of extremely hard wood,
capped with a metal spike at the butt end. Blackened steel sheathed the top
half of the weapon, creating six fluted ribs that widened to a span-wide
head at the top. Another span-long spike crested the top of the weapon,
although as top-heavy as it was, Amarl didn’t think stabbing with it like a
spear would be practical. It was heavy, almost twice as heavy as his axe,
and when he’d first arrived in Askula, he doubted he could have swung it
more than a handful of times without exhausting himself. Now, while he
still felt its considerable weight, it just felt awkward, not ponderous or slow.
“Did you pick that for this fight?” the older boy asked. “I think a long
spear would have been better.”
“This’ll do for what I need,” Amarl said in a slightly cold voice, and as
he spoke, understanding shone in Kafwi’s eyes.
“Ah, I see. Andra told you what’s happening?”
“Yeah. She did. Although, I’m a little surprised that you went along.
You don’t seem like the type to fall for Nolla’s bullshit.”
“Oh, I don’t care about her. She’s not exactly my type,” the boy
chuckled.
“Then why are you doing this?”
Kafwi shrugged. “Politics, mostly. I have to deal with Nolla and her
little toys on a daily basis, you understand. I have to pick my battles, and
this one just wasn’t worth fighting.” He paused. “However, there’s no need
to make things worse than they have to be. Don’t fight back, and I’ll just
burn one leg badly enough to take you out. It’s the best I can do.”
“I’ll pass,” Amarl said in a frosty voice, hefting his club again. “I
suppose I should offer you the same deal, though. Don’t fight back, and I’ll
only do what I have to to win.”
Kafwi gave the younger boy a thin smile. “Well, then, looks like we’re
doing this, I guess. Your funeral.”
“Are the two of you finished?” the nadar asked, her voice somewhat
annoyed as she spoke. Amarl nodded, as did Kafwi, and the woman began
to go over the rules.
Once more, Amarl tuned the instructions out and instead focused on the
song of his ithtu. This time, though, rather than calling forth a part of it and
suppressing the rest, he simply allowed himself to sink into the song. He
hadn’t done this in moons, giving himself freely into the embrace of his
ithtu, but as the song washed over him, all his anger and fear faded,
replaced with the comforting melody of his power. He let it fill his
thoughts, pushing aside his worries and anxieties. For a blissful moment,
he simply existed, lost in the song of his power and sheltered in its embrace.
He dimly heard his name being called, and he nodded his head in
response to the nadar who had hopefully asked him if he was ready. The
woman’s hand rose and seemed to hang there for a long time before finally
dropping out of the way.
Energy surged around Amarl as Kafwi’s power sank into the ground
near him. The hizeen leaped sideways, rolling in midair and landing lightly
as a pillar of faintly glowing liquid stone exploded where he’d just been
standing. At the same time, a wall of fiery rock rose between Amarl and the
boy, shielding Kafwi from a frontal attack. Amarl could leap the wall, of
course, but he knew that doing so would result in getting a column of hot
stone in his face.
Power flared beneath him again, and once more, he leaped away as the
older boy called up another blast of burning stone. This time, though, the
pillar twisted and lashed at Amarl, who barely managed to spin aside and
leap backwards. He moved swiftly, twisting and dodging as lashes of liquid
stone whirled around him. A feeling of danger surged in his mind, and he
kicked himself backward just as Kafwi’s pistol roared, spitting a bullet
through the air where he’d just been.
As he slipped past another tendril of burning rock, a sense of familiarity
stole over him. The battle so far wasn’t much different from running
Ranakar’s ropes course, really. The hot stone was like the ropes and cables
he had to dodge, and the boy’s pistols were like the awal’s hurled darts. He
took an odd comfort in the normality of it all, dodging another pistol blast
and twisting around several more eruptions of hot stone.
The song of his ithtu swelled in his mind, flooding his thoughts, and he
fought the instinct he’d developed to push it down, controlling it tightly.
For this fight, he didn’t want control. He wanted the older students to see
what he was really capable of. He wanted to make a statement, and losing
himself to his ithtu was the best way he could think of to do just that.
As the song washed through him, he realized that it was time to end it.
There was one difference between the battle and Ranakar’s training; for this
fight, he was allowed to strike back. His hand darted into the pouch at his
side and slid a heavy steel dart out, then whipped forward at the older boy.
He barely had to look to see that he’d thrown correctly. His body knew
exactly how to move, and his target loomed in his vision like the side of a
building. Power surged down his arm as it lashed out, then rolled down into
the dart before he released it. It sped forward unerringly, whistling slightly
as it ripped the air and struck its target precisely.
“Shit!” Kafwi screamed, his voice suddenly thick and fluid as the dart
punched through the side of his cheek and buried itself in his face. He
staggered backward, grabbing the dart and plucking it free from his face.
Amarl’s hand whipped forward again, and the older boy swore a second
time as the dark spike punched through his gauntlet and lodged in his hand.
As he doubled over around the wound, the wall of shimmering rock
between them sank back into the ground.
Amarl moved instantly, barely aware of the world blurring around him
as he sped toward his foe. The song of his ithtu pounded in his brain, its
melody a call to battle and a cry for victory. The heavy club felt like a
feather in his hand as he lifted it and lashed out as his enemy, striking
almost delicately. Kafwi flew backwards as the club crashed into his
stomach, knocking him off his feet. The older boy rolled quickly to his
knees and leveled a pistol at Amarl, but the hizeen’s club whipped out,
striking like a serpent at the other boy’s weapon. Kafwi cried out as the
blow smashed the pistol from his grip, no doubt breaking a few fingers in
the process. Kafwi’s unbroken hand lifted, and Amarl leaped forward to
avoid another blast of liquid stone beneath him. He landed and swept the
club around, catching the older boy in the stomach again, then darted
forward and snapped a kick at the boy’s back that knocked him to his
knees. He dodged another blast of burning rock and responded with a club
strike to the boy’s kidney that made him scream with pain. Another blow to
Kafwi’s ribs knocked the wind from him, while a sideways slash crushed
the bone of the arm whose hand he’d broken already.
This wasn’t just a beating; it was a brutalization. Every strike was
carefully calculated to hurt but not cripple the boy. It was vicious, but that
was the message Amarl wanted to send. He wanted the older students to
see what he was capable of if they pushed him. He wanted them to be too
afraid to listen to people like Gowen and Nolla in the future, or at least to
do so cautiously. Kafwi was strong, one of the stronger students with a
dangerous ability. He wanted them to wonder what Amarl might do to them
if he brutalized Kafwi this easily.
His club whistled as it spun around him, cracking against Kafwi’s body
and legs, damaging him without crippling him. The older boy’s lashes of
flaming stone grew smaller and weaker as his injuries piled up and his tak
drained, but Amarl didn’t care. The song of his ithtu pounded in his brain,
and lost in the sound of it, he only cared about sending his message and
making sure it was clearly understood. He knocked aside another pistol,
then drove his knee into the boy’s stomach, lifting him into the air. His club
spun and caught the boy in midair, batting him aside. Kafwi staggered to
his knees and held up a hand once more, and Amarl slashed twice. The first
blow shattered the older boy’s hand, while the second swept low and caught
his legs. Kafwi screamed as both legs crunched beneath the power of that
blow, and he fell to the ground, holding a twisted, broken claw of a hand up
in supplication.
The song of Amarl’s ithtu pounded in his brain, washing away all
thought, but even as he lifted his club again, a sense of wrongness surged in
him. An image of Rotet’s body lying on the ground in a pool of blood
flashed in his memory, followed by the nightmares he’d had of seeing Burik
and Meder in the same state. He heard Tekasoka’s voice in his thoughts,
warning him about control and the danger his ithtu could present. The
symphony of his power swelled in his mind, trying to drown those thoughts,
but Amarl grasped it and shoved it back. It resisted, but he’d spent moons
learning how to control it and keep it from overwhelming him. The battle
for his thoughts was fierce but short as he focused on the pounding rhythm
of the drums and slid everything else back to the recesses of his mind. The
song turned plaintive as he dragged it away from his thoughts, then settled
into a muted hum at the edge of his mind, freeing him from its grip.
As the power fled him, Amarl’s awareness returned, and he staggered
back from the older boy, seeing the nadar standing close to him and feeling
the blaze of her power wrapped around her as she prepared herself to
intercede if necessary. He took a deep breath and stepped back, ignoring
the slight weariness that dragged at his body. Silence surrounded him, and
when he looked around, he saw a sea of shocked, dismayed, and angry
faces watching him. He ignored them and turned his gaze back toward his
beaten opponent.
 Kafwi lay huddled on the ground, shuddering with the pain of his
injuries. One arm and both legs bent at odd angles. His hands curled up
into broken, twisted claws that twitched and shook. Blood streamed from
his mouth and nose, and his crumpled armor looked like a giant had
grabbed it in their fist and squeezed. His blackened eyes barely peered out
of the swollen, torn skin of his face, and from how his jaw twitched without
opening, Amarl guessed that he’d broken it at some point.
The nadar watched him for a few seconds, her face guarded, before she
let her power relax and knelt beside the fallen boy. She examined him
quickly, then lifted her head.
“Healer,” she said in a loud but calm voice. One of the nearby nadars
pushed through the crowd and walked swiftly over to the boy, dropping to a
knee beside him. The man laid his hands on Kafwi’s side and shoulder with
a frown.
“Dozens of fractures,” the man muttered in a voice that Amarl had to
strain to hear, even in the silence. “Ruptured kidneys. Bruised lungs.
Bleeding in the liver.” The man shook his head. “I’m amazed he’s still
conscious.”
“So, nothing that can’t be healed easily?” the female nadar asked in an
equally quiet voice.
“No, but we’ll need to transport him to the infirmary. This’ll take a
while, and he won’t be in any shape to fight for at least two days.”
“Okay, make the arrangements,” the nadar nodded before rising to her
feet and speaking in a loud, crisp voice. “Amarl wins with a disabling blow
to the legs. Two points.”
“Two points?” a voice shouted from somewhere in the crowd. “He
should be disqualified for that!”
The nadar snorted loudly. “What, for doing to Student Kafwi what you
all planned to do to him? He followed the rules, and he won fairly. Two
points. If you want to argue, come here and do it to my face.”
Some of the students grumbled quietly, but no one seemed willing to
take her up on her offer. He turned and walked toward the edge of the ring
in complete silence, choosing his direction quite deliberately. The students
before him parted, revealing Nolla and a few of her hangers-on. He ignored
the followers and walked up to the girl, locking his eyes with hers. For a
moment, he simply stared, seeing the sudden fear and uncertainty in her
gaze. As he looked at her, the song of his ithtu swelled within him, its tone
bleak and foreboding, but he pushed it back down and forced himself to
remain calm.
“This ends. Now.” He looked at the others, who stared at him with a
mixture of fear and anger. “That goes for all of you. I’m done playing. If
you come for me…” He pointed back toward the ring. “That’s what’s
waiting for you. I’ll keep doing this until you get the message.”
He looked back at Nolla, staring without blinking into her eyes once
more. “If you’ve still got a problem with me, come find me. We can work
it out. But this? All this shit is done.” He leaned closer to her, and she
flinched back from him. “Because if it isn’t, I know who to find to make
sure it does. Do you understand?” She nodded shortly, and he grunted,
pushing past her and her cronies without looking backward. The song of
his ithtu still crooned grimly in the back of his mind, no doubt fueled by his
anger and frustration, and he had to fight to keep it under control.
His friends watched him silently as he walked over to join them after
switching out the club for his axe once more. Burik’s face looked grim,
while Meder’s appeared startled.
“I have to say, that was interesting,” Burik said mildly as Amarl drew
close.
“We have vastly different ideas of interesting, Burik,” Meder
shuddered. “That was—brutal, I guess is the best word for it.”
“Yeah,” Amarl said shortly. “It was. I meant it to be.”
“Why?” she asked. He glanced at her, expecting to see judgment, but
her face reflected only honest curiosity and concern. He stopped to gather
his thoughts, but before he could speak, Burik did it for him.
“He just gave the older students notice, Meder. He’s been holding back,
and he wanted them to know that. He also wanted them to see what
happened when he stopped.”
“And to at least stop to think before listening to someone like Nolla or
Gowen when they try to turn them against me,” Amarl said quietly. “They
might never like me, but if they’re afraid of me, at least they’ll leave me
alone.”
“Or conspire against you,” Meder pointed out in a soft voice.
“Then, I’ll keep giving them examples,” he replied, his voice turning
hard. “I’ll show them what happens when they push me far enough that I
decide to push back.” He glared at her, feeling the anger burning in his
chest. “I’m sick of being pushed, Meder. I’m sick of tiptoeing around
people and trying not to make waves. Now, I’m pushing back.”
She remained silent, staring into his eyes, and to his surprise, a smile
slowly spread across her face.
“Good,” she said at last, nodding toward him.
“Good?” Burik asked in surprise. “I thought you’d argue with him.”
She shook her head. “One thing I’ve learned this year, Burik, is that we
can all be pushed just so far before we either break or fight back.” She
smiled at Amarl, and he could see the anger burning in her eyes. “I think
it’s time we all pushed back. And this week seems like the time to do it.”
“When did I become the calm, rational one?” Burik asked in a
complaining voice.
“Oh, Burik, it’s because you’re growing up at last!” Meder said,
reaching up and patting his cheek. “Soon, you’ll hit puberty, and you and
Amarl will have to have ‘the talk.’”
Amarl snorted. “If that’s how big he is before puberty, I don’t want to
see what happens after. How’s he even going to fit in a bed?”
“I’m sure the school can bring in an extra, so his feet don’t hang off. Or
he can sleep on the floor. He’s the one with the Toughness ability after all,
right?”
“Or I can take yours, and you can make one out of sahr,” Burik
suggested.
“You can have mine, Burik,” Amarl said grandly, feeling some of his
anger evaporate as the song in his head mellowed slightly. “I’m sure I can
find other beds to sleep in, instead.”
“That’s what got you into this mess in the first place,” Meder said
archly. “Haven’t you learned anything?”
 “Not if I can at all help it, no,” he grinned at her. “And I hope that as
far as that’s concerned, I never do.”
“Don’t worry,” Burik said, slinging an arm around the hizeen’s
shoulders. “I’m pretty sure that you never will. Now, get some rest and
recover what you can of your tak. The next round’s starting soon, and I’ll
bet you’re the first called this time.”
“I’ll bet he’s not,” Meder shook her head. “The whole point was for
him to be hurt too badly to be dangerous in this round.” She gestured at
Amarl. “He’s obviously not hurt, so their plan won’t work. They’ll wait
for the end of the round and hope that he gets hurt this time.”
“Want to make it interesting?” Burik grinned at her. “An actual bet?”
“That depends on the wager,” she said with a scowl. “I remember how
you tricked me last time, Burik.”
“You tricked yourself, as I recall. But we’ll make it simple this time.
Loser pays for the winner’s shopping this Akio at the fair.”
Her scowl flashed to a grin. “Deal.”
Amarl shook his head. “That’s a terrible wager, Meder. You’re betting
on the older students doing the smart thing.”
“No, I’m not,” she said slyly. “I’m betting that Nolla’s stubborn enough
to give her plan one more try but smart enough to realize that she has to
alter it a bit. I’m also betting that at least some of the older boys are dumb
and horny enough to ignore what happened to Kafwi for a shot at seeing her
chest.”
Amarl stared at her for a second before laughing lightly, his foul mood
evaporating even further. “I think she might have you there, Burik. Nolla
is smart but stubborn, and it’s always a good idea to bet on people being
horny.”
“It is.” Meder turned to face the larger boy again, rubbing her hands
together excitedly. “We’re going to have a great shopping spree together
this Akio, Burik! I’ve got so many ingredients to buy—and I could use a
nice dress for the next time Dashe and I go walking, plus maybe some of
that perfume that Lisudara sells…”
 Amarl turned away, heading toward the armory to exchange his mace
for his far less brutal axe. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he
glanced back and saw the rueful expression on Burik’s face as Meder
continued to list items she intended to buy on Akio. Watching the boy’s
face fall further and further pushed that last of his anger and frustration
aside, and he took a deep, cleansing breath.
He'd let himself go and given in to his ithtu—and his anger. It had felt
good, but it was also dangerous. He’d barely been in control of himself
during the fight with Kafwi, and he’d had to fight to restrain himself at the
end. He couldn’t afford to do that every battle, or even for most of them.
Having the older students a little afraid of him was a good thing that would
hopefully make them cautious. Having them so afraid that they saw him as
a menace and banded together against him would be a very bad thing
indeed.
He pushed the last of his foul mood aside. This week was going to be
bad enough, after all. There was no need to make things worse.

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 Chapter 51
“Wake up, Amarl! Get your lazy ass out of bed!”
Amarl came to abruptly as something slammed into his face. He shot
up out of bed, ignoring the protests from his sore muscles as he grabbed
whatever had struck him and yanked it away. He paused as he saw Meder
sitting up in her bed, grinning at him, and realized that he was holding the
girl’s pillow in his hand.
“And you say that I’m an ass?” he groaned as he tossed the pillow over
his shoulder onto the floor. “What time is it?”
“Time to get up,” Burik said from his bed. “At least, if we want to have
time to stretch and warm up before the matches today.”
Amarl was about to argue until he straightened and his tired back
protested the movement, eliciting a soft groan from his lips.
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’m up.”
“We need to eat more than we did yesterday, too,” Meder added.
“Healings and elixirs require energy from the body to function, after all.
That’s probably why we’re all so sore today as much as anything.”
The first day hadn’t honestly been all that bad, in Amarl’s opinion.
Meder had been right in her guess; he was again the last person called up in
round three. This time, Tosaw challenged him, no doubt hoping that if
Amarl tried to beat him down the way he had Kafwi, it would simply make
Tosaw stronger and more dangerous. Unfortunately for the older boy, it
hadn’t worked that way. Amarl once again gave himself wholly to his ithtu,
this time using his axe, and he quickly discovered that Tosaw’s ability to
absorb impacts had an upper limit. It didn’t take Amarl long to plow past
that limit, at which point he slashed the older boy’s face and body a few
dozen times before cutting off his arm at the elbow. While it wasn’t as
gruesome and brutal in appearance as his battering of Kafwi, Tosaw did
have to be carried to the infirmary at the end and didn’t fight again the rest
of the day.
After that second demonstration, though, the coordinated effort against
Amarl seemed to fall apart. He guessed it helped that while he won his next
match against Romsa, he didn’t cripple or badly injure her in the process.
He won with a cut to the neck that the nadar determined would have been
lethal but didn’t even break the girl’s skin, and he and the older girl parted
amiably at the end. That had been Meder’s suggestion: to show the older
students the condequences of treating him fairly so they could judge what
they wanted to do themselves. It either worked, or Nolla simply realized
that her plan wasn’t going to. Either way, in the fourth round, Amrir
challenged him a bit less than halfway through and won by tangling him up
in her vines again. She’d been pretty excited to secure the pot for beating
him, and he was glad that it was someone he liked who got it.
Halit didn’t look quite the same as it had the day before when the trio
jogged up to it. The dais had been removed, for one. For another, the older
students no longer lined up in a weird sort of escort formation for the
novices. Instead, Amarl saw them spread around the training yard,
stretching, moving through forms, and chatting quietly with one another as
they prepared for the long day as well.
“This looks a bit more normal,” Meder observed.
“It’ll go back to looking fancy on the last day,” Burik told her in a quiet
voice. “I’ve been to a bunch of tournaments like this, and they always save
the ceremony for the first and last days.”
“You think this is a tournament?” Amarl asked curiously.
“Of course, it is. You just have to look at that to see.” Burik pointed
toward the leaderboard, and Amarl examined it with a small smile.
Amarl 7
Burik 6
Leria 6
Meder 6
Herel 5
Lared 5
Hadur 4
Hotet 4
Lache 4
Riroa 4
Vatna 4
Mepil 3
 Nirth 3
Norag 3
Becia 2
Feneh 2
Tegin 1
Hesva 0
Loden 0
Temas 0
Timar 0

Like him, Burik and Meder won more fights than they lost yesterday,
each coming up with three wins and two losses. Burik fell to Padim, whose
mental ability still paralyzed the older boy each time it was used. Meder
lost to Ricia, whose rapid attacks plowed through the girl’s defenses and
ended it quickly. They’d each spent a couple points on elixirs as needed,
but they’d still ended at the top of the roster.
“You know, if we keep up this pace, we’ll each have around forty points
at the end of the week,” Amarl noted.
“Won’t happen,” Burik shook his head. “We needed elixirs yesterday to
keep going, and that was day one. It’ll get worse as the week goes on.
We’ll be lucky to end up with half that, I’ll bet.”
“That’s pretty pessimistic for you, Burik.”
“No, it’s practical. Like I said, I’ve been in these tournaments before.
The injuries add up, and the strain of fighting hard for a few minutes with
an hour or more of nothing to do in between wears on you. Sword masters
end up looking clumsy by the end of a week like this.”
“Not to mention using ithtu this much will drain our crystals,” Meder
added. “We’ll probably need to buy new ones at some point.”
“Maybe. The point is, we’ll spend points, Amarl. Trust me. Now, let’s
find a place to stretch out and warm up before everything starts.”
The three ran through some of Tautibal’s conditioning exercises to work
out the lingering stiffness in their bodies, then moved into some simple
forms with their weapons. They continued until a disturbance near the
armory drew their attention, and they paused to watch the students clear a
path for Ranakar, Tekasoka, Wurynath, and Rateso. The four instructors
moved to one of the central rings, and Wurynath lifted his face into the air.
“Atten-TION!” the man bellowed, and every student in range snapped
into the stance, their bodies straight and their left fists pressed to their
chest.
“Good morning, students,” Ranakar said in a calm voice that
nonetheless carried just as easily as Wurynath’s had. “Welcome to day two
of Challenge Week. I hope each of you are prepared for what’s to come.”
The man folded his hands behind his back and stood with his feet apart.
“Some few of you may be looking forward to today,” he said. His gaze
turned toward where Nolla and her hangers-on stood, and Amarl noted that
fewer people clustered around her than had the day before. “Some of you
who thought you would be are no longer, I’m certain. However, I’m sure
that most of you, especially among you novices, are dreading the day and
wish it would simply be over.”
He smiled grimly at the quiet mutters that passed through the novices at
that. “And for some of you, exactly that will happen.” He gestured over
their heads at the leaderboard behind them. “As you can see, some of you
did fairly well for themselves yesterday. A few of you, though, ended the
day with few points, or even zero. Most of those are students with newly
awakened abilities, of course, and no one truly expects you to excel against
students who’ve been using your abilities for years. For you, this contest is
truly unfair.”
Many of the novices nodded, especially those half a year behind Amarl,
who probably had less than a moon’s worth of experience with their
abilities.
“In fact, it’s so unfair that at the end of each day starting today, anyone
with zero points will be given a choice. You can continue in Challenge
Week and try to earn more points, or you can drop out and resume your
normal class schedule.”
A few of the novices whispered excitedly at that, but Amarl couldn’t
keep a frown off his face. That didn’t seem like the way Askula operated,
in his experience. They never gave a student an easy out.
 “Of course, doing so will cost you any chance for points or rewards this
week,” the awal continued. “You’ll also be required to participate again
next year, but that gives you a year to train and learn to use your ability.”
The old man held his hands out to the side. “At the end of the day, the
choice will be yours—assuming that you have no points, of course.”
He smiled widely at the students. “And for the rest of you just wishing
to get this over with, the best way for that to happen is to simply begin.
Let’s start with round one!”
Wurynath stepped forward once more, lifting up a piece of paper.
“Padim challenges Herel! Tafyn challenges Lache! Wesho challenges
Meder! Andra challenges Burik! Nykos challenges Norag! Necat
challenges Hotet!” The malim stepped back, and Ranakar nodded.
“Challenged, equip yourselves if you haven’t already, then report here
for your ring assignments! Challengers, to your assigned rings! Fight well,
and good luck!”
Meder frowned as the awal stepped back and the crowd began to
disperse once more. “You don’t think that they’re trying it again, do you?”
she asked Amarl. “That they’re going to call you last again to try and
exhaust you?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Maybe no one wanted to challenge me
in that round.”
“That’s a possibility,” Burik chuckled. “You’re points leader, after all,
and nobody likes to lose.”
“Some of them have to believe they can beat Amarl, Burik. I know that
Dashe’s convinced he’s figured out a way. I’m sure there are others who’ve
planned how to beat him.”
“Really? Dashe said that?” Amarl laughed easily. “Did he tell you
what he thinks will work?”
“No, because he didn’t want me to be in a place where I had to choose
between keeping his secret or being honest with you.”
“Damn,” Burik chuckled. “That’s pretty decent of him.”
“Yes, it is,” she smiled. “In any case, I’d think Padim at least would
think she’s got a shot. If she could paralyze Amarl, the fight would end
pretty quickly.”
“There are many students whose abilities would be difficult for Novice
Amarl to counter,” a familiar voice spoke, and all three novices froze as
Tekasoka approached the trio, her expression as flat and emotionless as
always. “And he’ll face them over the course of the week.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Meder agreed. “I just thought that…”
“I’m aware of what you thought, Novice. However, you should be
thinking that if you don’t hurry to report to your ring, you’ll forfeit your
match and lose any possible points from it.” She eyed Burik as well. “Both
of you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Burik said immediately, stiffening to attention before
meeting Meder’s eyes and jerking his head toward the center ring.
Tekasoka watched the two walk off with an impassive expression before
glancing down at Amarl.
“Walk with me, Novice.” She began to stride off, and Amarl quickly
hurried to catch up to her. She led him past the rest of the students into an
area that was quieter and further removed from the battles. At last, she
stopped, and he fell into place beside her, remaining silent. She obviously
had something to say, and he was sure it was about his display yesterday.
However, he also knew that trying to hurry her would simply draw her ire,
so he waited as calmly as he could while she stared at nothing.
“Well, at least you’ve gotten better at remaining patiently silent,” she
finally spoke, her voice faintly amused. “A year ago, you’d have asked me
why I brought you out here more than a minute ago.” She waited for him to
reply, but again, he simply remained silent, and she nodded.
“Very well. I admit to some concern over yesterday’s performance,
Novice.”
“You mean, the way that I won four of my five matches, ma’am?” he
asked glibly, wincing even as the words came out of his mouth.
“And there goes any small amount of respect for you I might have
gained by your silence,” she said evenly. “You know what I’m talking
about, Novice. You relinquished control yesterday. Twice. Did you not?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am. But only…”
 “I understand your reasons,” she cut him off. “The older students were
attempting to put you into a very difficult situation. They do so to at least
one of the top students each year, and you’ve hardly made any friends
among them to discourage them. You intended to put an end to it, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. I wanted them to be too afraid to band against me like
that.”
She turned to face him and gave him a very serious gaze. “That’s a
dangerous gamble with potential ithtaru, Novice. Remember that we teach
all of you that impossible and dangerous challenges exist to be overcome,
not avoided. You could just as easily have convinced half the class to join
in on Student Nolla’s little scheme just to bring you down. In fact, had
Student Amrir not beaten you yesterday, I suspect that’s how it all would
have played out.”
She shook her head and took a deep breath. “However, it didn’t. Your
performance was sufficiently savage—and your following gracious defeat
of Student Romsa sufficiently ordinary—to convince Student Nolla that
working against you like that is a bad idea.”
“Good,” he sighed, feeling a sudden spike of tension slide out of his
shoulders and back. He hadn’t considered that his display might have
actually caused more students to band together against him. He was glad
that it hadn’t, though. If they’d done that, the coming week might have
been bloody.
“I’m glad you feel that way.” She paused. “However, releasing control
like that is dangerous, Novice. You’ve worked hard to gain a measure of
control over your ithtu, and in doing so, you’ve been teaching it to remain
controlled.”
Amarl blinked at her in sudden surprise. “I have?”
“Of course. You’ve been told repeatedly, Novice: your ithtu wants to
serve you. Left to its own devices, it will do so at it sees fit. However, part
of training it is to teach it that what it wants and what we want might be
wholly at odds. It wants to protect you with as much force as possible; you
want it to serve you with as little force as required. The more you force it to
behave that way, the more it learns that control is what you want, not sheer,
unadulterated power.”
 He frowned. “So, then, letting it loose…”
“Undermines some of the training you’ve given it, yes,” she nodded.
“The more you let it free, the harder it’ll be to regain control.” She gave
him a hard glare. “But now that your point is made, you’ll have no need to
release it like that, will you?”
“No, ma’am,” he shook his head.
“Good.” She paused. “To help you regain full control of it, for your
first match today, I’d like you to boost all four physical attributes at once,
not focus on any given one.”
He grimaced. “But, ma’am, what if I’m fighting someone like Andra,
where I need to empower a couple at a time?”
“Then, you’ll likely lose. However, I think you underestimate just how
much an increase of a single point to your stats gives you. Doing so
increases that stat by almost three times on average.”
He frowned. “Three times? It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Because you’re fighting against students who’ve been training and
improving their stats for two more years than you, Novice. Having stats of
at least six is normal for a fourth-year student. If you fought a normal nalu
soldier or warrior with all four stats boosted.” She snorted. “You’d
understand the difference. Try it against your friend Meder sometime and
see how it feels. In the meantime, though, I want you to fight your first two
matches today with all four stats improved.”
“I thought you said just the first match, ma’am,” he protested.
“Would you like it to be the entire day?” she asked coldly. His mouth
snapped shut, and she nodded. “Good. Now, I’m sure you want to watch
your friends, so go see how they’re doing, and remember that no single
match or even day really matters this week. How you manage your
resources and comport yourself matter as much as the points do.”
“They do?” he asked in surprise.
“Of course. We aren’t just training fighters, Novice. We’re training
strategists, tacticians, and leaders. Speak to your friend Andra about her
year, and you’ll understand a bit more.” She waved a hand dismissively.
“Now, go. I have a great deal to do this week, and this contest is only a
small part of it.”
Amarl turned and walked away, his mind whirling. He’d had a feeling
all along that how well the novices performed at Challenge Week would be
a big deal, probably affecting their potential graduation. He hadn’t
considered, though, the possibility that Ranakar might be judging him based
not just on how well he did in each match but on how he handled his
various resources over the week. Ithtu wasn’t an issue for him; his tak held
over 200 units at the moment, and while it wasn’t full, a week’s use
wouldn’t deplete it by much. However, if he squandered it pointlessly,
would he be penalized for it in the end? What about points? If he hoarded
too many, building up injuries, would that reflect badly on him? What if he
spent them too freely? Would he seem wasteful?
The more he thought about what she’d said, though, the less he
understood. The awal said that the school created leaders. How would
using his points more carefully or guarding his ithtu show leadership? It
might show that he understood tactics, but then, so did playing labah
against the Rashiv. In fact, playing labah took even more tactical awareness
since he didn’t just have to worry about one piece; he had to see the entire
board, think about what his opponent might do, and plan which pieces he
could safely sacrifice and which were too important to lose…
His eyes widened as he understood her words. He looked around for
Andra for a moment before remembering that she’d challenged Burik. He
wanted to confirm something, and she was the only older student who
might tell him the truth. He grimaced as he realized that might not still be
the case; she probably didn’t feel she owed him anymore, and they’d been
apart for a year. Instead, he jogged over to the group of younger novices,
who looked at him curiously as he approached.
“Temas,” he said to the square-faced member of his hunting team. “I
need to talk to you for a second.” He jerked his head to the side. The
black-haired boy gave him a puzzled look, shrugged, and followed Amarl as
he led the pair off away from the others.
“Interesting week, isn’t it?” Amarl finally asked in a quiet voice.
“I don’t know that I’d say interesting,” Temas snorted. “More like
terrifying and brutal.” He gave Amarl a cautious look. “Like what you did
yesterday. That was a lot more—violent than I’d expect from you.”
Amarl shrugged. “I was sending a message. The older students were
conspiring to make all this even harder for me, and I was letting them know
I wasn’t going to let them.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. Some of them really don’t
like you.”
Amarl couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “You have no idea, Temas.”
He hesitated briefly. “So, I couldn’t help but wonder. Why don’t you have
any points?”
“What?” Temas asked in confusion.
“You have zero points right now. I was wondering why? Didn’t you
get any yesterday?”
Irritation crossed the younger boy’s face. “I’m doing my best, Amarl,”
he said hotly. “We’re not all like you three, you know. I’ve got zero chance
of winning a match against the older students, and I can’t even count on my
ability to work half the time. I’m lucky that I’m still standing right now,
and that’s only because I spent all my points on fucking elixirs!”
Amarl nodded, keeping his voice calm and amiable as he spoke.
“That’s kind of what I guessed. You’re a good fighter. Good enough, at
least, to get a point from each match. If you don’t have any, you must have
spent them.”
He stopped, and the younger boy stumbled to a halt, his face reflecting
a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and confusion.
“What will you do if you end up the same way today?” he asked softly.
“With zero points. Will you drop out?”
“I—I don’t know,” Temas stammered. “Why? What fucking business
is it of yours?”
“You’re on my team,” Amarl shrugged. “We’ve hunted and fought
together a dozen times and more. Have I ever given you a reason not to
trust me?” Amarl could see the boy visibly fighting to control his temper.
Temas had never really liked Amarl, but he’d always followed orders and
worked well with the team. Amarl hoped that he’d still show that same
willingness.
 “I—no, you haven’t,” the boy finally sighed. “Fine. No, I probably
won’t drop out if I’m still at zero. I want to finish this week with
something, you know? Even if it’s just a couple points. Why?”
Amarl nodded. “That’s what I was hoping.” He rested his hand on
Temas’ shoulder. “Next time, after your fight, if you need an elixir, come
see me, Burik, or Meder. We’ll get it for you.”
The younger boy’s eyes narrowed again. “You’ll what?”
“We’ll buy the elixir for you. Save your points.”
The younger boy stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Why would you offer something like that, Amarl? You think I need your
charity?”
“I think that you’re on my team, Temas. I take care of my team. I’ll be
making the same offer to Tegin, as well.”
Temas shook his head. “That doesn’t answer the question. You’re in
first fucking place, Amarl, but not by much. You can’t afford to give away
points.”
“Why not?” Amarl laughed. “I don’t give a shit about being in first
place, not really. Neither do Burik or Meder.” He paused. “Well, Meder
would probably like it, but not so much that she wants something bad to
happen to you or Tegin for it.”
“Something bad?” the boy echoed, his eyes widening. “What are you
talking about?”
“Think about it, Temas,” Amarl sighed. “Ranakar’s offer to let you
drop out. When has the school ever given anyone the easy way out? Of
anything? Imagine Nirecina giving us the chance to forfeit a hunting
competition just because the other team was too good. Would you trust
that?” Temas’ face clouded, and Amarl nodded as he saw the younger boy
understood.
“Exactly. And I don’t trust this. The school is always pushing us to
suck it up, ignore pain and suffering, and face whatever impossible
challenge they give us without even complaining about it. They never give
us the chance to quit. Now, suddenly, they’re being fair?” He shook his
head. “It’s too good to be true.”
 “When you put it like that, it kind of is,” the boy agreed slowly.
“Exactly. So, if you need an elixir, come see one of us. We’ll help you
out. Tegin, too.”
“What about Hesva and Timar? They’ve got zero points, too.”
Amarl hesitated. “It depends on why they’ve got no points,” he said.
“If they’re like you, good fighters who are just way out of their depth, then
yeah, we’ll help. If they’re getting zero points from their matches, though,
it might be better to let them get so hurt that they have to stop.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. Hesva’s decent, but Timar—he just plows
through everything, hoping his ithtu’ll keep him safe. Sometimes it works,
but mostly, it doesn’t.” The boy ran a hand through his black hair, and a
look of shame crossed his face. “Amarl, I—this is pretty decent of you.
Thanks.”
“Like I said, we’re a team, Temas,” Amarl grinned. “And teammates
watch out for one another, right?”
“Yeah. They do, Amarl.”
“Good. Good luck today. Oh, and will you let Tegin know the offer
I’m making—and maybe any other novices you think deserve it?”
“Yeah. I can do that.”
“Thanks.” Amarl turned and began walking away, his mind racing. He
didn’t know if this was what Tekasoka meant about managing resources,
but even if it wasn’t, it seemed like a good idea. He really didn’t give a shit
about the points. Plus, while he hadn’t openly said it to Temas, he was
pretty sure that dropping out of the week—or even finishing without points
—might be the last thing that any student did at Askula.
Amarl glanced up at the leaderboard. He liked seeing his name at the
top of it, to be sure. However, he hated the idea of seeing Temas kneeling
over the altar at the Deeps, waiting for the axe to fall, a whole lot more.

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 Chapter 52
Amarl jogged back to the main rings just in time to see Meder finish off
Wesho. The girl kept raining blasts of fire, ice, and lightning at the boy,
who blocked each almost contemptuously with his force shields. That was
only a distraction, though; with his attention firmly focused on her barrage,
he didn’t notice the stone spike she summoned until it shot up from the
ground and skewered him—directly between his legs. The boy squealed in
pain and dropped to the ground, writhing and grabbing his crotch, and
Amarl winced in sympathetic pain. That had to have hurt, especially since
unlike normal weapons, Meder’s sahr creations weren’t restricted to the
amount of damage they could do. About half the students watching
flinched the same way he had, while a few of the girls seemed to grin with
delight.
“Disabling stab to the groin!” the nadar called, seemingly unaffected by
witnessing the injury. “Meder wins. Two points.”
The girl smiled almost wickedly as she left the circle, spotting Amarl
and heading over to stand beside him.
“That looked like it hurt,” Amarl noted, looking back at the boy who
was just now rising to his feet with the assistance of the nadar.
“I hope so,” she replied. “I meant for it to.”
“Really? Why? Because he was one of the ones who attacked us? The
Rashiv said he probably wouldn’t remember doing it.”
“True, but I still believe that whoever’s affecting them can only force
them to do something that’s in their nature,” she shrugged. “But that wasn’t
why. It was what he said before the match started.”
“What did he say?”
“The sort of thing you’d expect to hear from Hadur.” Her eyes
hardened. “Hopefully, he just learned to keep those sorts of suggestions to
himself from now on.”
Amarl snorted. “You think that’ll work?”
 “No. Just like what you did yesterday won’t get people to leave you
alone.” She shook her head. “Idiots will always be idiots.” She paused.
“So, what did Tekasoka have to say?”
Amarl glanced around at the nearby students, then beckoned her to
follow him. She walked after him, her face curious. When they left the
immediate circle of students, he paused.
“First, she said that while she understood why I did what I did
yesterday, I shouldn’t do it again,” he said in a voice just loud enough to
carry over the other cheering and jeering students nearby. “Then, she told
me that how we do on any given day doesn’t matter as much as showing
how we can manage our resources this week.”
The girl frowned. “So, they’re testing how well we use our ithtu? That
makes sense. I should probably be a little more judicious in using it, I
guess.”
“Maybe, but I think it’s more than that.” He quickly explained what
he’d guessed about the hidden meaning behind Tekasoka’s words, and what
he’d told Temas to do. Her expression grew colder as he spoke, and her
eyes took on a flinty gaze for a moment.
“You volunteered my points, Amarl?” she asked in a frosty tone. “And
Burik’s?”
Amarl shrugged. “We don’t need them. We’re graduating, no matter
what, Meder. They aren’t going to expel the best sahr user in a generation
just because she didn’t score a lot of points one week.” He leaned closer to
her, and his voice hardened a bit. “Temas and Tegin don’t have that
assurance. Would you really let them get expelled just to be higher on a
leaderboard?”
Her expression shifted from annoyed to startled, and she quickly shook
her head. “No, of course not. It’s just…” She sighed. “I like seeing my
name near the top, is all.”
“Me, too,” he grinned at her, leaning back. “But not enough to watch
Temas lose his head over it.”
“Agreed.” She frowned. “What if they need things like crystals,
though? Or real healing? We might not have enough points to help them
with that and still keep enough for ourselves in case we need it.”
 He shrugged. “We can only do what we can do, I guess.”
She nodded, her face thoughtful. “We should go tell Burik—and maybe
talk to Andra. You might be wrong about what happens to people who
quit.” She made a wry face. “Although probably not. You’re right. This
feels too good to be true. Like the cave we found in Apirron.” She shook
her head. “Looking back, that was so obviously a trap, and so is this.”
“Yeah. Hopefully, now that we’ve seen it, though, it’ll turn out better
this time.” He turned and began heading toward the central ring to find out
where Burik was fighting when a cry stopped him in his tracks.
“Robla challenges Amarl!”
“Damn,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I was kind of hoping she
wouldn’t get the chance to challenge me.”
“The odds of that weren’t very good,” Meder said sympathetically.
“You’re fighting thirty rounds, and there are twenty-nine older students.
You have to fight five different ones per day, and some of those aren’t going
to want to fight you twice, like Kafwi, or at all, like Nolla. It was almost a
given that you’d fight her eventually.”
Amarl gave the girl a sideways glare. “Really, Meder? Trying to
comfort me with math? When has that ever worked with anyone?”
“Shut up, ass,” she laughed lightly. “And who says I was trying to
comfort you?” She shoved his arm. “Now, go deal with Robla and come
find me.”
“You’re not going to watch?”
“I want to go find Burik and tell him what’s going on. After that, we
can both come watch you—assuming you don’t finish her off in less than a
minute, that is.”
Amarl headed to the center, where he was directed to his ring. This
time, the ring was filled with a layer of fine sand, one that looked to be a
span deep and lay in rippling waves across the surface. The sand swirled
around in the light breeze, shrouding the ring in a faint haze that didn’t
leave the outer boundaries of it somehow. He crossed the boundary, then
paused and squinted his eyes as fine sand blew against his skin and swirled
around his face.
 This match wasn’t going to be fun, he realized immediately. The sand
blowing about would irritate his eyes, and it was already making his nose
itch. It would probably coat his weapon, as well, making his grip
uncertain. The sand wasn’t deep at the edge of the boundary, but the depth
increased quickly as he walked in, shifting beneath his feet and throwing off
his footing. Plus, his opponent glared at him from where she waited, her
dark eyes the only visible part of her face, with the rest hidden behind a
scarf that he bet shielded her from breathing in sand, protection that he
didn’t share.
As he approached his line, a set of dark stones strewn across the sandy
surface, he looked the girl up and down. Robla was larger than him by a
fair amount, standing as tall as Burik. Her body was heavily muscled,
making her at least as wide as Amarl if not somewhat wider. A heavy maul
sat at her side, its head half-buried in the sand. He’d assumed that she had a
strength-based ability when he first met her, and while he’d been wrong, he
still felt certain that her Force stat exceeded his, and her Toughness stat
probably did, as well. That wouldn’t be the case once he empowered his
stats, hopefully, but with him boosting all four at once, he wasn’t sure.
“Novice Amarl,” the female nadar said as he reached his line, her voice
muffled by the veil and her eyes hidden by the goggles she wore. “Student
Robla has asked for an additional condition that this match be fought
unarmed.”
Amarl frowned. “Is that allowed? I thought these fights were just free-
for-alls, without restrictions on how we fight.”
“They are, and you’re welcome to refuse, in which case you can fight
however you want. However, if you agree, any points you gain from this
match will be doubled.”
Amarl considered for a moment. He’d fought Robla bare-handed
before, although she probably didn’t remember that. Of course, those
times, he’d either given into his ithtu fully or boosted his speed to the point
that she couldn’t really touch him. This time, he’d be fighting her with a
much smaller improvement to his dodging ability, and with her flames, that
could get dicey…
“Fine,” he finally said, refraining from shaking his head. He jammed
his axe into the sand beside him. “I agree.” While he wasn’t sure he could
beat Robla bare-handed with the lowered stat boosts Tekasoka ordered him
to use, the doubled points made it a no-brainer. Even if he lost, he’d get
two points, and if he won, he’d get four. Before his chat with Temas, that
wouldn’t have mattered to him, but now, he realized he was going to need
all the points he could get.
“Very well. That means that if either of you draw a weapon, you’ll
forfeit the match. Novice, that will mean zero points for you; Student,
you’ll receive severe disciplinary duty. Do you both understand?” Amarl
nodded, and the woman shrugged. “Then let’s begin. The match is to…”
Amarl tuned the woman out as usual and focused on the song of his
ithtu. It sang softly in his mind, and he quickly quieted everything but the
four instruments boosting his body. Drums pounded quietly in his thoughts;
muted horns rang in his ears; a gently trilling flute poured forth a barely-
heard song; quivering strings shimmered their trembling notes. No power
rushed into his body yet; he still couldn’t draw his ithtu forth whenever he
needed it. Once the battle was joined, though, it would.
He took a moment to examine Robla once more. He knew from past
experience that she was a brawler at heart. She liked to close with her
opponents and grapple them, letting the fire of her ability burn them while
she pounded them into submission. She stood in a relaxed pose, her hands
at her sides, but he saw the hidden tenseness in her muscles. She gazed at
him with a hard, contemptuous expression that promised him a world of
pain if she could manage it.
The nadar’s hand lifted, and Amarl forced himself to remain calm and
loose. As the woman’s hand dropped, flames erupted from Robla’s body as
she exploded into motion. The sand sprayed behind her as she kicked
toward him, driving forward with her powerful legs, her hands lifted before
her, ready to block any strike he might make. She crossed the two reaches
between them in an eyeblink, lashing out with a fiery fist while barreling
into the smaller boy at full speed. Amarl barely had time to think before
she was on him; fortunately, with all his training, thought wasn’t necessary.
The song of his ithtu soared in his thoughts, and power flooded his
body as she lunged for him. The world seemed to slow slightly around
him. His muscles trembled with power; his bones and skin throbbed with
energy. His body felt sure and confident, every tiny movement of it under
his utter control. In the grip of that power, he moved without thought,
flowing with her attack rather than opposing it and letting her drive him
back and sideways out of her way. His feet slid through the fine sand, but
his balance never wavered in the slightest as he leaned back, letting her
momentum flow past and through him.
Robla stumbled briefly as her charge unexpectedly met no resistance,
and for a moment, he considered using her misstep and momentum to drive
her into the ground. She recovered quickly, though, halting her charge by
slamming her feet into the sand and sliding around to face him. Her fist
darted out, whipping at his head, followed by another. He slipped past both,
feeling the heat of them against his face as he barely managed to dodge the
blows.
The girl continued her assault, driving her fists at his face, shoulders,
and body. She interspersed her punches with low, fast kicks at his legs,
trying to topple his balance. He rode with her attacks, relying on his
Drunken Form heavily as he dodged and slipped around the blows. He was
faster than her, no doubt, and as he blocked an elbow strike and twisted,
shoving her aside, he knew that he matched her in strength, as well. Even
so, he couldn’t keep fighting defensively. After less than a minute, his
forearms burned from blocking the flaming impacts, and his cheeks felt
tight from the heat passing by them. He needed to shift the momentum of
the fight. He knew how to do that, but he also knew it was going to hurt a
bit.
He shifted his stance, driving his feet down into the sand to secure
himself as the girl snapped a punch at him once more. This time, instead of
slipping around it or riding the impact, he ducked his head and moved
closer. His skull rang slightly as the blow clipped his helmet, but as he
slipped under her guard, he lashed out with a pair of sharp, fast blows to her
midsection just above her liver. Power filled his muscles as his strikes
crashed into her, and she grunted as some of the impacts made it through
her armor.
A heavy weight crashed onto his back as she dropped an elbow on him,
then followed it up with a knee strike at his groin. He absorbed the impact
of the elbow and shifted, taking the knee on the outside of his thigh as he
snapped three more punches at her, catching her on the bottom of her
ribcage. His own knee snapped upward, slamming into her navel, and she
again grunted as the force of the blows drove her backward half a step.
He moved with her, no longer dodging her strikes but using the
flexibility of Drunken Form and the solidity of Mountain Form to guide
them into places where his armor and natural endurance could absorb them.
In return, he slammed his own kicks and punches into her legs and body,
not bothering to attack her head. Back and forth the pair battled across the
sand, crashing blows into one another. At first, the battle felt fairly even.
They had similar strengths, and while Amarl had speed on his side, Robla
had reach, height, and mass on hers.
As a couple minutes passed, though, Amarl realized that he had two
definite advantages. Thanks to his improved Skill stat, his punches landed
almost precisely where he wanted them to, allowing him to pound on the
same parts of her armor over and over again. While it shielded her from
most of the force of his blows, some still got through, and it added up
quickly. On the other hand, he was able to shift around to keep her from
targeting the same spots repeatedly. Plus, his increased Toughness meant
that while her blows hurt, mostly due to the heat of her flames leaking
through his armor and defenses, the injuries didn’t go more than skin-deep.
Her fist slid past the side of his head, grazing his skull, while her leg
whipped up at the side of his knee. He ignored the punch, shifted his leg to
take the kick on his thigh, and snapped a trio of fast punches at her lower
ribcage. As the third hit, he felt something give, and she staggered
backward, doubling over as the floating ribs on her left side finally
shattered beneath his blows. She dropped her elbow to cover the injury, but
he kicked swiftly at her knee, forcing her to step back, then slid forward and
cracked a pair of jabs into her unguarded head. Her skull snapped back,
and she staggered backward in sudden confusion. She recovered swiftly
and charged him with a bellow of pain. This time, he let her; instead of
moving out of the way, he absorbed her rush, blocking her right arm from
wrapping around him while slamming his right fist into her wounded side.
She groaned and grabbed at her ribs with her left hand, but her mass still
crashed into him, bowling him over. He fell well, using the sand to cushion
the landing.
He drove a knee up as they fell, keeping her full weight from slamming
into him, but she still ended up atop him. She snarled like a beast as she
lashed blows at him, but he responded with faster, shorter punches to her
body. He twisted, rolling her sideways and ending up atop her. Her face
turned triumphant as he dropped his knee so he could pin her down, and her
legs whipped up, wrapping around his lower back and pulling him close. In
another circumstance, it would have been an interesting position for Amarl,
but lost as he was in the battle and the song of his ithtu, he only dimly noted
the way their bodies entwined. Even that awareness vanished a moment
later as Robla’s entire body exploded in flames as a sheath of fire wrapped
around her, fire that crawled over Amarl with deadly purpose.
Pain erupted all over his body as the fire wrapped around him. The
flames invaded the seams and cracks of his armor. Leather scorched, and
the scents of heated metal and burning hair filled his nostrils. He bit back a
roar of agony; opening his mouth would let the flames in, after all, and he
didn’t want to deal with a burned tongue. He held his breath and slammed
his fists, elbows, and knees into the girl, crashing them into her body. She
fought back with her own elbows, but compared to the pain of her flames,
the blows to his chest and shoulder barely registered. He felt more of her
ribs give, but her grip around his waist didn’t relax in the slightest, even as
she coughed, and a spray of blood flew from her mouth.
His head began to spin as his chest screamed at him to take a breath.
His vision narrowed, and the pain started to feel more distant as his body
used up whatever oxygen his lungs held. The song of his ithtu surged in his
head, giving him more strength, but he knew from experience that it
wouldn’t shield him from passing out. That was how the assilians captured
him a year ago. Part of him felt amused by that; he was in the same
position he’d been a year ago, unable to breathe and locked in battle. A
year of training, growing, and becoming stronger, and he was still about to
lose to his own need for air. It was as if the whole year didn’t matter, as if
nothing he’d done changed anything.
His mind reached almost desperately for his ithtu, trying to pull more of
it up to empower his blows, but it fought him, refusing to flow at his whim.
Instead, it beckoned him, urging him to lose himself to it again. If he did,
he knew he’d have the strength to finish this fight quickly; with the power
of his ithtu fully unleashed, he could cave Robla’s entire ribcage in or
knock her out with a single sharp blow to the chin. He was tempted, and
his ithtu surged in his grasp, trying to break free and overwhelm his
control.
He fought back, holding the notes he’d chosen tightly and pushing the
rest back, but as he did, a single deep horn slipped his grasp and flooded his
mind with its powerful notes. For a moment, his senses sharpened, and the
pain fell away, and in that instant of clarity, he felt the power of the girl’s
ithtu wrapped around him. She was literally burning her ithtu to fuel her
ability. The flames that wreathed him weren’t true fire; they were tendrils
of searing ithtu, driven to burn him by the power of her will and the force of
her intent.
His mind recalled what Ranakar and Tekasoka kept saying about
abilities. They were nothing but a projection of an ithtar’s self out into the
world, according to the awals. Amarl hadn’t really understood that, but he
did now. Robla’s flames were just extensions of her will, bending her ithtu
into a shape that suited her. Or maybe her soul; he wasn’t sure what the
difference was, or how he’d be able to tell. In either case, though, what
mattered is that the flames sheathing him were only fiery because Robla
commanded them to be. Without her will, they would just be ithtu.
He reached out the same way he had long ago against Nolla, grasping
the power of the flames surrounding him. He felt them burning in his
mental grip and sensed Robla’s will holding them in place. He threw
himself against her, tearing at her grip. He felt the sudden shock emanating
from her as she felt his essence battering hers. She fought back, but her
grip felt puny and insignificant, and he tore the power from her grasp
almost effortlessly, then drew the lingering ithtu into himself.
The flames vanished instantly as power surged into him. He
compressed it tightly, turning it into a liquid that flowed down into his tak
before pouring back out through his body. Robla’s face reflected shock as
he not only shut down her ability but took her ithtu as his own, but that only
lasted for a moment before his fist snapped out and caught her in the head.
Too dazed to react, the girl didn’t even try to defend herself, and his punch
slammed her skull back into the ground with a loud crack. Her eyes rolled
up in her head, and her body went limp beneath him, twitching and
spasming slightly.
 “Hold!” Amarl had barely heard the cry before the nadar grabbed the
back of his armor and hauled him off the insensate girl. He flew backward
and landed on his ass, hissing with pain as he rolled over burned and seared
skin. He staggered to his feet as the nadar dropped to her knees next to the
girl and pulled up Robla’s eyelids, peering into each.
“Healer!” the woman shouted, and a moment later, another white-clad
nadar rushed into the ring. The man crouched beside Robla and rested a
hand on her forehead with a grim expression. Amarl felt the power flowing
out of the man into the girl, tightly focused on her head. He watched in
silence as the ithtu sank down into the girl, the tendrils of power probing
her skull for long seconds before withdrawing. At last, the man nodded and
rose to his feet.
“She’ll be fine,” he said. “Skull fracture, minor bruising, and a bit of
bleeding, but I patched it. She’ll wake up with a nasty headache, but that’s
it.”
The female nadar nodded. “How long will she be out?”
“Probably a couple hours, but she won’t fight again today. I took her
out of danger, but her ithtu will have to heal the rest. Her tak’s basically
empty, though, so it’ll be a while before she’s recovered.”
The woman nodded again, then lifted a hand in the air. “Amarl wins
with a lethal punch to the head,” she said loudly. “Four points!” The
nearby students muttered at that, but Amarl wasn’t so sure he’d made the
right choice. His entire body throbbed and burned, making his movements
stiff and painful. He’d need a couple elixirs before the next match, which
meant two of his four points were gone. He’d gone through all that and
ended up exactly where he would have been if he’d fought the girl with
weapons, except that this hurt a hell of a lot more. He glanced down at
himself and grimaced at the blackened state of his armor. He’d also have to
replace that, and while that didn’t cost points, it was still going to be painful
to change armor with his skin healing.
He walked away from the ring, headed for the armory, but he paused as
he saw Meder, Burik, and a group of other novices standing off to the side.
He frowned as he recognized most of them. Herel, Norag, and Hadur were
familiar, of course, but he also recognized Lared, the slim, dark-skinned
figure of Vatna, and the lithe, brown-haired Lache. Meder was talking
animatedly, her hands gesturing as she spoke. Amarl wanted an elixir—no,
he needed one—but he decided he could suck up the pain for another
minute to see what was going on.
“…all of us,” he heard Meder saying as he approached.
“What’s going on?” Amarl asked curiously.
“We’re just—holy shit!” Meder gasped as she turned to face him.
“Amarl, what happened?”
“Long story that involves me fighting Robla hand-to-hand, her setting
me on fire, and me winning four points for beating her.” He tried to shrug,
then winced. “Two of which I’ll be spending on elixirs since right now,
most of me hurts like the spirits’ hells. So, tell me what’s happening
quickly so that I can go heal up.”
“Meder told me your idea about sharing points,” Burik replied. “It’s a
good one, but I suggested that we include the other point leaders.” He
gestured at the other students. “And these are them.”
“I don’t buy it, frankly,” an older girl with short, black hair said,
crossing her arms over her chest to reveal cuffs the blue of Libba School,
marking her as a Tier C or D ithtara. It took Amarl a few seconds to
remember that her name was Leria, meaning she was tied with Meder and
Burik for second place. “The school has competitions like this all the time.
They’re designed to show the best of the best. This is the same thing.”
“Earlier today, I’d have agreed with you, Leria,” he nodded. “If you’d
asked me yesterday what the point of this week was, I’d have said to see
who the best fighters are—and to get Wurynath off by watching us get
slapped around all week.” The others snorted or chuckled at that, and he
plowed on.
“However, I was talking to Tekasoka this morning, and she told me that
any given fight or even any given day this week doesn’t really matter. She
told me that just as important as how we fought was how we managed our
resources.”
“That could just mean not overusing our ithtu,” Lared observed. “I
mean, that’s the simplest answer, Amarl.”
“Then why not say that? Why say ‘resources’ when she could have said
‘ithtu’? Because ithtu’s not our only resource. Points are, too.”
 “Perhaps she meant that we should be willing to spend them at need,”
Herel said dryly. “For example, the way you need to, now. You also need
to change that armor and maybe shower. You reek of burning hair.”
“Yeah, your mom got kinky earlier,” he grinned at the former noble.
“Last time I’m letting her tie me up, I can tell you that.” Herel just rolled
his eyes at the hizeen, who plowed on.
“Seriously, you’re right. It might mean that. But it also might mean
that we have to be willing to spend them not just for ourselves.” Amarl
took a step closer, trying to project utter sincerity into his words as he
spoke.
“Tekasoka said that the school isn’t just training the best warriors it
can. It’s also training strategists and leaders, and if you think about it, that
makes perfect sense. Sure, when we’re out in the Empire, we’ll have to
fight. But we’ll also have to command. We’ll have to use whatever
resources the Empire gives us as efficiently as possible. We won’t fight
alone, and the odds are that whoever is fighting with us won’t be as strong
as we are.”
He waved vaguely at the leaderboard. “That board is showing us who
the best fighters are, but the Order doesn’t just need good fighters. It needs
people who can plan, organize, and lead. That’s what Tekasoka meant.
This week is a chance for us to show that we can be leaders, that we can
carry our whole team with us.” He looked at Herel. “Think of it in terms of
labah, Herel. What piece is the most important: the lead one with all the
influence, or the supporting ones that give it that influence? What happens
when one piece extends so far that it loses that support?”
“It gets taken,” the boy sighed, then paused. “Wait, when did you learn
labah?”
“The Rashiv’s been teaching me,” Amarl said dismissively, ignoring the
startled look on the boy’s face. “That doesn’t matter, though. What does is
that this week is just another labah game. We’re the pieces with the most
influence, but the others matter, too. The better they fight, the more they’ll
drain the older students of strength, stamina, and ithtu, and the easier
everyone’s fights will be. They’re supporting us, and if we let them fall,
then we’ll be alone, swamped by the other side’s pieces. One by one, we’ll
all get taken out.”
 “Damn,” Leria said, running a hand through her short hair. “That
makes fucking sense. And the school does value leaders over followers.”
“Plus, setting us up to fail just by doing what they told us to do is
exactly the sort of thing Askula would do,” Meder pointed out.
“Shit. Yeah, it is,” Lared nodded.
“Fine. Let’s say I agree,” Leria said. “Will we have enough points for
all the lower novices? We need to save some for ourselves.”
“We do,” Burik agreed. “As my mother says, a commander can’t lead
if they’re dead.”
“Does she really say that?” Lared asked with a hint of awe in her voice.
“All the time. Usually when I’m training too hard or not taking good
care of myself.”
“She’s so wise,” the girl sighed.
“She’d agree with you,” Burik chuckled.
“She is, and it’s a good point,” Meder nodded. “We have to take care of
ourselves first, for certain, or we won’t be able to earn the points that we
need to help out. But if the other novices need an elixir or crystal they can’t
afford, and we can, then we help instead of hoarding points.”
“What she said,” Amarl grinned. “And those of you worried about how
you’re going to place, we can just agree that whichever of us has the most
points has to buy whatever’s needed. That way, we’ll still mostly end up in
the same ranking. Over the course of a week, I’m pretty sure the point
differences are going to increase pretty fast.” He looked around. “So, are
we agreed?”
“Yes,” Leria sighed again. “I agree. Not that it matters. I wasn’t going
to take top spot anyway, not with you slapping the older students around.
I’ll do it.”
“The Book of the One tells us that riches that aren’t shared are a curse,
not a blessing,” Norag shrugged. “I don’t know that I’ll have all that many
points, but I’m willing to share as I can.”
“Hold on,” Lared said, lifting a hand. “I’m fine helping out some of the
others, especially the ones with new abilities. They shouldn’t even be here.
But what about someone like Feneh, who’s barely even trying? I don’t
want to give points to him.”
“A good commander has to know when to shield their soldiers, and
when to send them to die,” Burik said quietly. “We shouldn’t help someone
who isn’t interested in helping themselves. They’ll just take points away
from someone who could use them more.”
“Is that another of her sayings?” Lared asked eagerly.
“No. I just made it up. It seems pretty obvious, though.”
“He’s right,” Amarl nodded. “If people are getting zeroes in their
matches, then the best thing we can do is keep letting them lose until
they’re too hurt to keep fighting.”
“Then, I’m in,” the girl said. “This is how it should be, anyway.
Soldiers fighting together against a common enemy, not against one another
for damn points.”
“Herel?” Meder asked.
“I’ll go along,” the boy sighed. “This does seem like a sort of hidden
test.” He nodded at Amarl. “I’m glad you saw it before we all failed.”
“Well, I won’t,” Hadur said harshly, folding his arms over his chest. “I
need those damn points myself!”
Amarl just nodded; Hadur did need the points, to be sure.
“That makes sense.” He looked at the others. “Then, we’re agreed. If
one of the novices needs an elixir or crystal they can’t afford, whoever has
the most points gets it for them.” His gaze hardened. “This week isn’t
about us against one another, or even us against the older students. It’s
about us showing the school that we can stand together, and that they can’t
catch us with their little schemes. This week, we show them that they can’t
break us, no matter how hard they fucking try.”

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 Chapter 53
“Last day,” Meder said tiredly as she listlessly stirred her bowl of thick
porridge to mix in the large dollop of honey she’d added. “Finally.”
“You’re going to be hungry if that’s all you eat,” Burik advised her.
“You need some meat.”
She shook her head and touched her chin. “My jaw’s still too sore to
chew. This is about all I can handle right now.”
“Burik could pre-chew it for you,” Amarl suggested with a weak grin.
“Like a mommy bird.”
“Eww. Amarl, I’m trying to eat here,” she said with a disgusted
expression. “This is bad enough. Don’t make it worse.”
Amarl wanted to replay sarcastically, but he simply felt too tired to
bother, so he let the matter drop. Instead, he dug into his own breakfast,
noting in passing how empty and silent the room around them was. Only
nine novices remained in fighting shape, and those sat in the middle of the
room. The other novices ringed them, shielding them from the gazes of
first-years, while the remaining fighters huddled around three tables, eating
listlessly and without speaking to one another. Dark circles ringed their
eyes, and while none of the novices showed any visible injuries, all of them
moved slowly and winced often as partially healed fractures, muscle tears,
and joint damage flared up with every motion. A few of them had the same
porridge as Meder, and Amarl assumed that meant that, like the girl, they
nursed a partly healed jaw fracture that wouldn’t let them bite with any real
force.
Ranakar had assured Amarl that Challenge Week wasn’t going to be as
hard as Shit Day. In a sense, the old man had been right. No single day
was that bad, and the first few days really weren’t terrible at all. The
novices only fought five matches a day, and while they got hurt, the
availability of better elixirs and ithtu healing kept them all on their feet.
Spare crystals kept the students from running out of ithtu. There were even
stamina elixirs to stave off the inevitable exhaustion. The students who
kept getting points used them to help everyone, and the better fighters
worked with the weaker ones to help them figure out strategies not to win
but to lose well and without serious injury. Most of the novices entered
each round healed, with at least one crystal, and mostly prepared for their
fights.
As the week dragged on, though, all that changed. While the elixirs
helped, they never healed all of a significant injury. Even the best elixirs
simply healed faster, not more completely. Ithtu healing could do more, but
it also drained the healed novice of strength and energy, leaving them
susceptible to worse injuries. One by one, the weaker novices were
winnowed out as they simply lost the ability to fight effectively and
received injuries that elixirs and ithtu couldn’t heal, at least not in a timely
fashion.
Feneh dropped out with zero points and a shattered femur at the end of
the second day since one of the higher ranked novices would buy an elixir
for him. Hesva was next, getting crippled early in the third day in a battle
with Tafyn where the older boy paralyzed her exhausted brain with fear,
then lopped off both of her feet at the ankles. Hadur was forcibly removed
by Robla with a crushed spine on the fifth day, while Norag was unable to
continue when his elbow shattered halfway through the fourth. Temas fell
to Andra, who took the boy’s hand; Tegin lost badly to Dewla, taking a
sword thrust to her liver that nicked her lungs as well and landed her in the
infirmary to heal. As the days passed, the injuries piled up, and half of the
novices were either too injured to possibly fight or carried so many
lingering injuries that fighting again would land them in the infirmary.
Those spent their points to help someone else, leaving them with zero and
the ability to drop out at the end of the day.
Part of Amarl couldn’t help but cringe every time that happened. He
was certain that there would be a consequence for every student who’d
dropped out, but the simple fact was, there wasn’t anything more he could
do about it. He and the other point leaders had spent what they could to
help the other novices, but no amount of healing would restore a severed
limb or fully repair a fractured pelvis in an hour. Plus, he had to admit,
those novices were probably right to drop out. They’d mostly lost the
ability to fight effectively, and if they’d continued on, they’d have just
drained resources that someone else could use more effectively. The
novices had fought as hard and long as they could, for the most part, and he
couldn’t blame them for finally quitting.
In all honesty, he’d love to be able to do it himself. His muscles ached
and burned, and he had to be sure to stretch between matches or they
cramped on him in the middle of a fight. The bones of his chest, arms, and
legs throbbed with every movement and ached when he stood, walked or
swung his weapon. His joints protested every motion, his eyes felt sandy
and tired even though he’d just woken up, and his head pounded with dull
pain. He wasn’t alone, either. Every novice suffered quietly in the silence
of the mess hall. Burik had a minor limp that wouldn’t heal without more
time and rest. Meder’s jaw had been broken three times this week, as some
of the older students mistakenly thought that taking her ability to speak
would hamper her sahr workings. Herel favored his left arm, weakening his
ability to use his shield. Lared didn’t show any outward injuries, but from
how she winced every time she took a deep breath, Amarl knew that she
nursed several broken ribs. The novices were all walking wounded, and if
Challenge Week lasted another day, he’d bet that half of those remaining
wouldn’t be sitting around eating right now.
The group ate silently, then jogged listlessly to Halit. None of them had
the energy or strength to keep up their normal walk-eating pace, and half of
them limped and winced with every step. It took them twice as long as
normal to reach the training ground, and none of them looked at or spoke to
one another as they requisitioned their weapons and armor, then trudged
outside to face what awaited them.
Amarl took a moment to look around as the group exited the armory.
As Burik predicted, the dais had returned, and Ranakar, Tekasoka,
Wurynath, and Rateso all stood atop it, talking to one another quietly. The
older students huddled in groups on the other side of that dais, and Amarl
felt a surge of satisfaction as he looked them over. Just like on Shit Day, the
novices hadn’t been the only ones to suffer this week. Of the thirty or so
students who started the week, only nineteen remained. The rest were too
badly injured to keep fighting safely or, like Kafwi, ended up in the
infirmary and never returned. Amarl had put a few of those out, but so had
Burik, Meder, Leria, and even Herel, who’d managed to stab the flying
Pimer in the knee hard enough to overcome his longsword’s sahrotik,
severing the older boy’s calf in the process.
 His gaze settled at last on the leaderboard, which he read with a certain
satisfaction.
Amarl 19
Burik 19
Leria 18
Herel 17
Lache 17
Lared 17
Hotet 16
Meder 16
Vatna 16

The leaderboard had shrunk significantly over the week as novice after
novice fell or dropped out. For the first few days, the top spots varied
wildly, as anyone with points spent them to help themselves or others, but
as the week passed, those spots stabilized. Fewer novices fighting meant
the top fighters kept more of their points, and those who remained needed
less help to stay in. The actual top spot switched back and forth between
Amarl, Burik, and Leria regularly, but the nine names up there had mostly
held some spot in the top ten for the past three days.
He couldn’t help but grimace as he saw his total of nineteen points.
While it was enough to tie him for the top spot with Burik, in reality, he’d
earned more than forty this week, probably close to fifty. He’d won most of
his fights, only losing consistently to Amrir, Cosef, and Padim. Amrir’s
plants still tied him up each time they fought, and he hadn’t figured out how
to keep free of them long enough to close with her. Cosef’s ability to
reflect damage back on his attacker made it hard for Amarl to do any real
damage to him without getting hurt by his own ithtu, and Padim’s stunning
attack froze Amarl for just long enough each time to disrupt his attacks and
weaken his defenses. Of course, he could have won all of those if he’d
simply given in to his ithtu and let it control him, but he remembered
Tekasoka’s advice. He’d come a long way learning to tame his ithtu, and he
wasn’t about to undo any of that just to win a few more points, especially
when he was just going to spend them helping one of the other novices.
“You were right,” Meder said quietly beside him, and he glanced over
to see her examining the board the same as him.
 “About what?”
“About the leaderboard settling down, even though we spent all those
points. I think that’s pretty much the order it would have been if we
hadn’t.”
“He was,” Leria grunted as well, not even glancing back at the board as
she plodded forward. “It might have been a little different, but I don’t think
the top three would have.”
“You don’t sound very happy about that,” Meder observed. “Even
though you’re in the top three.”
“I wanted to be in the top one.” The third-year spat sideways on the
ground. “My ability’s Tier D. It was the last one to quicken among my
whole class, which means I missed last year’s Challenge Week. I’ve been
waiting for a whole spirits-damned year for this, thinking that I’d take the
top spot easily.” She glared at Amarl. “And then, this asshole—and that
one…” She waved a hand at Burik. “…came along and fucked my plan
up.”
Amarl couldn’t help but grin. “Glad to be of service, then.”
The older girl gave him a sour look. “Meder’s right. You really are an
ass.”
“He can be,” Burik chuckled. “You can’t think that the prize is going to
be that good, though.”
“Navma won it last year, and while she wouldn’t say what it was, she
assured me it’s worth fighting for. So, yeah, I think it might be.”
“You’ve still got a chance,” Amarl pointed out. “We’ve got a whole
day left, after all. That’s five fights for you to pass Burik and me.”
“Won’t happen,” she shook her head. “I’m hurt worse than either of
you, and my ability drains my tak faster. Plus, you’re both better than me.”
She sighed. “We all know what’s going to happen without us spending
points on other people, Amarl. You’ll take first; Burik will be second; I’ll
be third.”
“It depends on who challenges us, though. There’s a lot of luck
involved.”
 “Not really. There are, what, three students who can take you
consistently? There are a lot more that can take Burik or me, so we’re more
likely to lose than you are.” She sighed again and waved her hand. “It’s
fine. I’m just bitching because I’m tired, hurt, and ready for all this shit to
be over.”
“I think we all are,” Herel said dryly, flexing his left hand and wincing.
“I’m not sure I’ll make five more fights.”
“The same,” Lared nodded, rubbing her chest. “Another set of busted
ribs will take me out, I think.”
“Atten-TION!” Wurynath’s command rang out, startling Amarl. He
hadn’t realized how close they’d gotten to the dais, a sign of how exhausted
he was. Despite their weariness and injuries, though, the novices all moved
immediately to form a line, standing erect as the older students leaped to
their feet and did the same. Amarl watched as Wurynath stepped back, and
Ranakar moved to the front, eyeing the novices with a gaze that Amarl
found distinctly troubling. The awal seemed entirely too happy, and the
gleam in the old man’s eye had never boded well for the hizeen.
“Congratulations,” the awal said, eyeing the novices standing before
him. “The nine of you have faced one of the more difficult challenges
you’ll meet at Askula and made it to the final day. That’s a feat of which
you can be proud.” The old man flashed them a smile that didn’t reach his
eyes. “Especially since typically, only four or five make it this far. That
nine of you still stand is quite impressive.”
He paused, and the smile dropped from his face. “And that’s not the
only anomaly this year. Your fellow novices remained in the challenge for
an exceptionally long time; usually, half of them drop out or are forced out
after three days. That’s led to far more battles than typical over the week.
We’ve lost twice as many older students as normal because of that. And the
overall leaders have far fewer points than I might expect, especially
considering that overall, this group of novices significantly overperformed.”
The old man’s smile returned, this time less friendly as he turned to face
the older students behind him. “For those of you who don’t know, there’s a
reason for all of this. These novices you see behind me arranged to work
together this week. Rather than competing for the top spot, as usual, they
agreed to share their points with the novices who needed them, purchasing
elixirs and crystals for them so they could heal in between rounds. The
more skilled fighters among them also helped their peers with tactics and
strategies. This meant that you faced mostly healed novices prepared to
deal with your fighting styles and abilities, significantly raising the
challenge level for you this week.”
Amarl noticed that while about half of the students seemed unsurprised,
the rest wore expressions that varied from thoughtful to incensed. Those,
he guessed, hadn’t worked out what was happening, and now that they
knew, they realized why this week had been harder on them. The
thoughtful ones probably appreciated the idea; the angry ones, he guessed,
not so much.
Ranakar turned back to face the novices. “In a way, what you did this
week is admirable. While ithtaru work alone, we seldom work in true
isolation.” His gaze hardened slightly as he continued. “At the same time,
your actions also ran counter to the purpose of Challenge Week and biased
the outcome. The point totals don’t remotely reflect your abilities and
skills, and neither do the number of wins among the older students. We
can’t award prizes based on either of these.”
The old man’s smile returned, this time harder and thinner than before.
“So, I’ve decided to ignore the points you’ve earned to this point. They’re
meaningless for the most part anyway, so there’s no reason to pay attention
to them. I’m also changing the format of today’s challenge. Instead of five
rounds, there’ll be only one—a grand melee.”
Several of the older students began muttering at that, and Burik
stiffened beside Amarl, but the hizeen felt nothing but confusion. He’d
never heard of whatever the awal was talking about, but from the eager
expressions on some of the older students’ faces, he doubted it was anything
good.
“If you’ve never heard of a grand melee,” the awal explained, “it’s a
simple thing. All nine of you will enter the main ring, along with nine
students. You’ll fight until there’s only one of you left. Your final ranking
will be determined both by how long you last and the number of people you
remove from the melee.
“In addition, there will be no awards for anything but first place. The
last one standing wins everything; everyone else walks away with nothing.
It’s simple enough.”
The old man’s smile hardened even further. “Now, go prepare, spend
whatever points you wish on elixirs and crystals, and return to the largest
ring. The greatest challenge of this week awaits you.”

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 Chapter 54
“Okay, anyone know what the hells a ‘grand melee’ is?” Amarl asked
with forced cheerfulness as the novices turned and began trudging back
toward the armory.
“A mass battle,” Burik sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Usually, it’s a
free-for-all: everyone for themselves, and last one standing wins. They’re a
staple of large tournaments.”
“That sounds pretty chaotic, both to be in and to watch. What’s the
point?”
“It’s something of a spectacle,” Herel answered. “Typically, only the
worst fighters in the tournament are part of it, the ones who nobody would
want to watch in individual combat. Pitting them against one another like
that is more entertaining than watching a pair of farmers whack at each
other with swords they barely know how to use.”
“It’s brutal, is what it is,” Meder added quietly. “Normally, fights in a
tournament are like the ones at Halit, fought to first blood. The contestants
are professionals, and it’s more about showing off their skill than anything,
so people rarely get badly hurt. Like Herel said, though, the people in a
grand melee don’t really have the skills to fight cleanly, so there’s a lot of
blood, injuries, and even some deaths in one.” She shuddered. “I saw one
once, a few years ago. I never wanted to see another, much less get tossed
into one.”
“At least we’re not fighting one another,” Amarl offered.
“We could be,” Leria said in a tight voice. “The awal said that the last
of us standing wins. Taking one another out could be another way to win.”
“A pretty stupid way,” Burik snorted.
“Why? The point is to win, Burik.” Leria gave the others a hard look
as she spoke. “We tried banding together. All that got us was in this mess.
Maybe it’s time that we stood alone.”
“That won’t work, Leria,” Amarl shook his head. “Not at this point, at
least.”
 “Why not?”
“You really think that the older students are going to sit back and let us
fight with one another?” Burik asked. “Dissension in the enemy ranks is a
commander’s dream, and only an idiot wouldn’t take advantage of it.”
“He’s right,” Amarl nodded. “You’ll be fighting us plus the students.”
“Maybe, but the faster we end this, the less likely we are to get really
hurt.” The girl stopped walking, and the others paused to turn toward her.
As Amarl looked at her, he saw the deep weariness in her face, the hidden
pain in her eyes, both of which he could see in the postures of all the
novices. “The awal said that only one of us gets the prize. The rest of us
get nothing. So, what’s the point of fighting and risking being crippled or
worse for nothing?
“And we will be hurt. None of us are in fighting shape. We’re hurt,
tired, and done. We don’t stand a chance of winning. If I’m going to be
taken out, I’d rather it not be by a pissed-off fifth-year. Think about it.
Would you rather get taken out by one of Meder’s workings or Herel’s
sword, or would you rather take one of Kafwi’s lava blasts to the face?
Who will try to hurt you more?”
“She—she kind of makes a good point,” Lared said with a twist of her
mouth. “I’d rather have one of you take me down than someone like
Dewla.”
“You only think that because you’ve never had Burik or Meder mad at
you,” Amarl chuckled. “The thing is, though, that if we do that, it doesn’t
matter who the last one standing is. We’ll all lose.”
“What do you mean?” Herel asked. “Not that I’m agreeing with Leria,
but it does seem like a valid way to win the match. In fact, it almost sounds
like what the awal wants, based on what he said.”
“It’s not, though. Because this melee? It’s not a punishment. It’s a
test.” He stepped away from the others and turned until he could look them
all in the eye as he spoke.
“You know that the school never does things for just one reason.
Everything’s a test, and we’re being judged based on all sorts of things, not
just how well we perform. This week is no different. It was a test, and so is
this final fight. Ranakar deliberately worded the rules in a way that would
allow us to fight one another, and I’ll bet the older students have orders to
stand back and let us turn on each other. Ranakar wants to see if we’ll do
it.”
“Why would he tell them to do that?” Lared asked. “They could take
advantage of it.”
“Because the real point of this is to see if we can deal with the
consequences of our choices. We all made a choice to stand together. And
now, Ranakar’s putting that choice to the test. We can work together, but
can we fight together? Can we stand as one even knowing that only one of
us can win the prize? Or will we turn on one another for the prize…” He
glanced at Leria. “Or just to get it over with?”
He looked at Herel and Meder. “This is still just a labah game. We’ve
advanced into Ranakar’s sanctuary, and in return, he’s threatening our base
pieces, trying to get us to alter our strategy to slow down our advance and
weaken our influence.” He focused on the others. “Or you can think of it
like a game of Flag Capture. We just spent the past week working our way
toward the other team’s flag. We’ve got it in sight, and while it’s heavily
guarded, we can probably reach it. Suddenly, another path to it opens up,
one that looks a lot easier. Would you take it?”
“Fuck no,” Lared snorted. “That’s a trap.”
“And so is this. Are we going to fall for it?”
“Shit,” Leria said heavily, shaking her head. “You’re right, Amarl. It
sounds just like the kind of thing the school would do.”
“You said that about Challenge Week being a hidden test,” Herel
observed, “and it turns out that he was wrong about that.”
“Who says he was wrong?” Meder laughed weakly. “It probably was a
test, just for us individually. Who would hoard their points for themselves,
and who would use them to help others? They didn’t foresee that we’d all
stand together and abandon the whole idea of winning, is all.”
“And once they saw it, they adapted today to challenge that unity,”
Amarl nodded. “Ranakar’s testing whether or not we have the courage of
our convictions. It’s the kind of thing he loves to do.”
“How do you know?” Leria asked suspiciously. “Nobody knows much
about Awal Ranakar. He’s kind of mysterious.”
 “He’s been training me for about two years now,” Amarl shrugged. “I
spend a few hours a day with him every day. He loves dangling what look
like easy outs in front of me to see if I’ll take them, then punishes me if I
do.”
“So, it’s true?” Vatna asked in a flat voice. “You really are getting
special treatment?”
“You don’t want it,” Meder told the older girl in a pained voice. “Trust
me. Ranakar’s training methods are brutal. I’d rather spend a day with
Tautibal than a couple hours with Ranakar.”
“Wait, you’re getting special training, too?”
“Burik and I both are, yes. But it doesn’t feel special when I walk away
from it with broken bones, drained of my sahr ability, and barely able to
stand.”
“It’s that bad?” Lared asked Burik, her eyes wide.
“It’s rough,” he shrugged. “There are benefits, though. My skills have
gone up a lot faster working with him, and I’ve gotten a lor more control
over my ability than I think I would have otherwise. I just have to pay for it
in pain, is all.”
“The point is that I know Ranakar pretty well,” Amarl broke in. “Trust
me when I tell you that if we turn on each other, we’ll lose. If we work
together, even if we all fall, we’ll still win.” He looked at Burik. “So, how
do we work together?”
“Why are you asking him?” Leria protested. “Hotet and I have both
taken six moons of tactics and strategy…”
“Burik’s taken about ten years of that,” Meder cut her off. “His
mother’s the most famous and respected officer in the Empire, and she’s
been training him since he was old enough to understand it.”
Lared nodded enthusiastically. “First Staff Alowenatera is a legend in
the army. When she faced the Incursion of 1598…”
“Fine. I’m convinced.” Leria crossed her arms over her chest. “So,
what do we do?”
“There’s no way to know until we see who we’re fighting,” the boy
shrugged. “If we’re facing a bunch of body strengtheners, we’ll adopt a
basic anti-cavalry formation. If we’re dealing with mostly ranged, we’ll
form a flying wedge to take them down fast. For a bunch of fast strikers,
we’ll use a light cavalry defense, and…” Seeing the lack of comprehension
in the others’ eyes, he sighed. “Okay, let’s start by assuming a balanced
group. The standard formation for a hand in battle is…”
Amarl listened as Burik began to explain the different types of
formations they’d be using, formations that the larger boy was intimately
familiar with but that he’d never heard of before. Lared seemed to know
what he was talking about, but no one else’s face showed even a hint of
comprehension. He suppressed a sigh. Knowing these formations wouldn’t
make them good at them, obviously. They’d need practice, and he doubted
Ranakar would give them the hours they’d need to try them out. If the awal
had given them even a day’s warning, they could have spent the night
training, but Amarl suspected that wouldn’t have suited the old man’s
purposes. Ranakar wanted this to be a struggle; he wanted the novices to
perform poorly. Amarl didn’t know why, but it seemed clear that was the
ultimate purpose.
And really, the why didn’t matter. They would be unprepared, barely
able to work together, and facing students with far more training and
experience. One way or another, this promised to be a shitshow.

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 Chapter 55
Amarl walked into the large central ring, following behind Burik and
Lared with Leria at his side. Ranakar stood in the center of the ring with
Wurynath beside him, watching the novices approach. Tekasoka stood
beyond him, at the edge of the ring, while Rateso had taken up a spot
opposite the old woman. The older students stood in rough ranks past the
ring opposite the novices, all armed and armored, which Amarl found
strange. After all, if the novices were only facing nine students, it didn’t
make sense for the rest to be geared up.
As Amarl and the others neared the line marking their starting point, he
glanced at Ranakar, trying to read the old man’s expression. He kept his
face closed off, but the awal didn’t look annoyed, at least, which was
something. It had taken Burik a bit over fifteen minutes to explain the
basics of four formations to the novices and to have them drop into those
formations a couple times each. That wasn’t nearly enough time for them
to be even close to competent at them, of course, but it was as long as they
thought they could push it, and Amarl worried that even that delay might
anger the awal. If they annoyed Ranakar, he’d definitely find a way to
punish them for it. Fortunately, it seemed that he’d expected them to spend
a little time talking. Either that, or he was hiding his irritation well.
“I assume that you’ve all learned how a grand melee works,” the old
man said without preamble. “If you haven’t, then you’ll figure it out
quickly. However, there are a few additional rules for this match that aren’t
in a standard melee event.”
He gestured at Wurynath, who turned to face the massed students.
“Nykos! Ricia! Howik! Terit! Wesho! Tafyn! Riryn! Sirin!
Doeba!” As the malim called out each name, the student strode forth, lining
up across from the novices. Each of them looked as weary and battered as
the novices, and Amarl eyed them with a frown. They didn’t look any more
eager to fight than he and his friends. A whispered phrase from Meder
made him realize why.
“They’re the students with the fewest wins this week,” she said in a
voice so soft that it barely reached Amarl’s ears.
 “What?” he whispered back.
“Those students. They’ve lost the most this week. Ranakar picked the
people we’d find easiest to beat to fight us.”
“How do you know that?”
“I was paying attention, obviously.”
“That doesn’t make sense! Why would he make it easier…?” His
voice trailed off. He could see what the old man was doing; at least, he
could see what the awal might be doing. Before he could explain, though,
Ranakar cleared his throat and began to speak again, facing the novices.
“The rules of this match are simple. A fighter is removed from the
battlefield if they’re deemed unable to continue, as judged by one of the
malims. You cannot forfeit or surrender. The battle continues until only
one novice is left standing and able to fight.”
He gestured at the waiting students. “You’ll begin fighting against
these students. However, if one of them falls, another will step in and take
their place in an order dictated by malim Wurynath. The only time a
student won’t be replaced is if doing so means there are more students than
novices in the ring.
“Do you understand the rules as I’ve explained them?” Amarl joined
the others in slowly nodding his assent. “Good. You each have one minute
to prepare.” He stepped back, and Amarl turned and walked back a reach or
so, following the others.
“This is a pretty simple lineup,” Burik began. “Ricia’s fast, a good
fighter, and has her glaive to hold people off, so she should be in the center.
Nykos is a decent fighter, but he gets better the longer a fight lasts, and
Sirin needs time to weaken her opponents, so they’ll both fight defensively
and tank for Ricia. Howik’s pure offense, and Terit’s got a better speed
ability than Ricia, so they’ll be the flankers…”
Amarl listened to Burik with one ear, watching Leria, Herel, and Vatna
at the same time. All three seemed troubled or thoughtful, and he thought
he had an idea why. It was something that he needed to cut off before it had
a chance to grow, but time was limited.
“Don’t,” he interrupted Burik, glaring at the other three.
 “What?” Herel asked, blinking in confusion. “Don’t what?”
“I can see what you’re thinking. These are the lowest ranked students
we could face. It’ll just get harder as Ranakar puts better ones in to replace
them. The longer the fight lasts, the worse it’ll get. Maybe trying to take
one of us out early really is the smartest move.” He shook his head.
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t thinking anything like that,” Herel lied glibly.
“I—I was,” Leria sighed.
“Me too,” Vatna agreed. “Except I was thinking that it might be better
to just get out early before the better students started to fight.”
“Like I said: don’t,” Amarl repeated in a flat voice. “For one thing, if
you try it, the rest of us will make you very sorry for it. For another, this is
just another of Ranakar’s little traps to get us to turn on each other. If you
take the bait, then he wins, not you.”
Herel’s eyes narrowed slightly, but as his gaze swept the others and saw
the hard expressions on Burik, Meder, and Lared’s faces, he took a deep
breath. “Fine. I don’t like being threatened, though.”
“Oh, that wasn’t a threat, Herel,” Amarl grinned. “It was a warning.
Remember what happened to Kafwi on the first day? That could be you.”
“And Amarl isn’t the only one who could do that,” Meder said coldly.
“There are all kinds of ways I could hurt someone with sahr, and Burik?
You really don’t want him to be angry with you.”
“I get it,” Leria said with a grunt. “Let’s get on with this.”
They spent another half minute discussing tactics before Ranakar called
them back to the line. Amarl joined the others, his stomach churning
nervously as he stood facing the older students. The idea of fighting didn’t
bother him much; he’d been in too many battles in the past year to feel
more than a touch of nerves about that. What concerned him was fighting
with the others. Burik and Meder he knew he could count on, and he
suspected that Lared would rather get roasted by Kafwi than turn on Burik.
He didn’t really know the others, though, and he actively distrusted Herel
and Leria, both of whom struck him as people who would do anything to
win. Amarl was honest enough with himself to admit that he was a good
fighter, but he couldn’t face nine older students by himself, or even with
Burik and Meder backing him up. He had to count on the others to do their
part, and that was what made his stomach churn.
He took a deep breath and sank into the song of his ithtu, calling up all
four of his instruments at once. The melody swelled in his mind, easing his
worries and washing away his fears. Empowering all four stats made each
of them weaker than choosing one or two would, of course, but it also gave
him more flexibility. Burik and Lared would be their defenders, holding the
center of the formation. Herel and Lache had offense-type builds, so they
would flank the center and strike at the enemy. Meder, Hotet, and Leria
could all fight at range and would hang back, raining attacks on their foes.
Amarl, on the other hand, could do a little of everything and would take
whatever role was needed at the moment.
Once again, he barely listened as Ranakar went over the rules for the
match, keeping his body loose and relaxed and scanning his opponents. His
ithtu crooned in his mind, softly purring a soothing song. He watched the
older students almost impassively, going over Burik’s initial strategy in his
mind and imagining the steps he’d need to take to fulfill his part. He knew
that it probably wouldn’t matter; Burik had planned based on what he
thought the older students would do, so if they reacted unexpectedly,
everything went out the window. Even if they did what Burik anticipated,
things likely wouldn’t go exactly as planned. Amarl had learned from his
hunting class that no plan went exactly as it was supposed to.
The awal’s hand rose, then dropped, and Amarl and the others moved
instantly. Burik and Lared stepped forward, leveling their weapons, while
Leria and Hotet dropped back. Herel and Lache spread out to flank the
others, readying their weapons, while Meder moved into the center.
Technically, she was the most flexible of all of them and could do the most
to disrupt the battlefield, and shielding her was a top priority. Amarl and
Vatna slipped to the back of the formation, hanging behind Leria and Hotet
and watching, ready to react as needed.
The older students moved just as quickly, dropping into their own
formation. Ricia moved out in front of the others, with Howik and Terit
flanking her. Nykos and Sirin shifted to the edges of the formation, while
Wesho, Tafyn, and Riryn slipped in behind the front lines. The students
moved forward at a fast pace, Ricia’s glaive extended forward.
 “Wedge!” Burik shouted. “Brace! Meder, counter! Amarl, Vatna, deep
strike!”
Amarl readied himself, shifting the song in his head. Blaring horns and
trilling flutes clamored in his mind as the rest of the sounds faded away. No
surges of power accompanied the sound, at least not yet, but once the battle
actually started—once he was in the midst of it, at least—his speed and
strength would both swell, giving him a serious offensive punch. He
watched as the students rushed forward. Power swelled around everyone,
wrapping around Burik and Lared’s bodies as they readied themselves to
receive an attack and growing in Meder and Hotet’s hands. Leria pulled out
a simple recurved bow and nocked an arrow that began to glow with a
sickly aura in Amarl’s senses. Equal amounts of energy erupted from the
onrushing students as they activated their own abilities. A wave of fear
swept over the novices as Tafyn’s power triggered; energy surged around
Riryn as he prepared to reach out and paralyze Burik and Lared;
glimmering fields of force appeared above the students to shield them from
ranged attacks. Sadly, those shields didn’t slow Meder’s first working.
“Now!” she shouted, and Amarl quickly closed his eyes and turned his
head away. A flare of brilliant light blasted through even his closed eyelids,
bright enough that he felt its warmth on his face. It lasted for only an
instant before vanishing, and he popped his eyes back open to see the
results of the girl’s ability.
Ricia, it seemed, had anticipated the attack; either that, or she’d closed
her eyes at just the right moment. Either way, she still moved forward,
unaffected by the blast of light. Her support, though, lagged behind her.
Wesho’s shields now hung directly over his head as he rubbed his eyes;
Tafyn’s fear ability still poured forth since he didn’t need to see his targets
to affect them, but Riryn’s power faded as he shook his head and blinked
rapidly. The organized wedge stood in shambles, and while the students
would quickly recover, for that moment, they were basically helpless.
“Now!” Burik roared, and Amarl felt a tingle of the boy’s power race
through his mind, energizing him. Leria’s bow thrummed as she released it,
hurling a tainted arrow at the incoming students and nocking a second.
Power flared in Hotet’s hands as a shimmering crescent of force leaped
forth. Burik and Lared’s weapons darted out, intercepting Ricia as the girl’s
speed suddenly increased, holding her at bay with their reach while Herel
and Lache moved forward to slash at the stumbling, blinded students
flanking her.
Amarl ignored all that as he rushed around the edge of his formation.
Nykos seemed to sense him coming and raised his short spear, but as Amarl
joined the battle, the song of his ithtu swelled in his ears, and power flowed
into his body. Nykos’ movement slowed abruptly as Amarl’s ability
boosted his speed, and the hizeen slipped low, ducking beneath the older
boy’s spear and whipping his axe around in a vicious arc. Nykos tried to
dodge, but the axe flashed out too quickly for him to avoid and buried itself
in the back of his knee, the speed and power of it ripping through the
sahrotik protections. Nykos cried out and fell, but Amarl was already
moving past him into the no-longer-protected back line.
His ithtu sang in his mind as the older students turned to face him, still
blinking away the spots in their vision. Wesho flung a force construct in his
direction, while Riryn’s power lashed out at him, and Tafyn slashed at him
with his poleaxe. Amarl’s song surged as he threw off Riryn’s ability, and
he slipped past Wesho’s shield and Tafyn’s blade with ease. His axe
practically hummed as it blurred through the air, slashing at the still-
hindered students. Tafyn cried out as the spearpoint punched into his
abdomen; Wesho screamed as an axe blade slashed at his foot, shattering his
ankle. Riryn gagged as the crescent blade slid across his throat, opening a
thin line of red but nothing more. Amarl retreated as quickly as he'd
attacked, withdrawing before Howik or Terit could respond, but he left four
crippled students in his wake.
“Tosaw! Naros! Romsa! Dyfen!” Wurynath shouted, and the four
students called rushed in to drag their fallen comrades out of the way and
take their places.
“Flying wedge!” Burik shouted. “Now!” Again, Amarl felt a thrill of
energy roll through him at the larger boy’s command. Burik stepped
sideways as Lared moved away from him, opening a gap between them.
Herel and Lache dropped back, while Amarl slipped through his formation
to the front, taking the spot between the two defenders and moving out in
front of them. The shift was ragged and awkward, but thanks to Meder’s
working and Amarl’s efforts in the back ranks, they managed to fall into
position just as Tosaw, Naros, and Romsa moved to flank Ricia, while
Dyfen fell in where Nykos had been. The first three students all had
abilities that made them tougher or harder to hit, while Dyfen’s power let
her cut through defenses with ease. Burik’s counter to that was Amarl’s
ability to slice through those sorts of defenses, which meant he was going to
be in the thick of combat. Amarl let his flutes fade and focused instead on
the pounding rhythm that boosted his Toughness.
“Advance!” Burik shouted, and Amarl moved forward, not spinning his
axe but leading with the spearpoint. Ricia countered at once, thrusting with
her glaive, boosting the strike with her speed ability. He shifted slightly,
letting the glaive slide along his skin without cutting, then lunged forward,
inside her reach. He sensed as much as saw Naros’ bludgeon sweep toward
his side as Tosaw’s fork stabbed at his leg. He ignored the club, shifting to
take the impact on his armor, and slipped past the stabbing fork, still driving
Ricia back. He wanted to lash out to the sides, but he knew that if he
stopped, the others would, as well, and the whole point of his attack was to
break up the students’ defensive line. Burik rushed in to his left, while
Lared moved in on his right, each of them using the gap he’d made to push
Naros and Tosaw into the fighters beside them.
Seeing her line falling, Ricia lunged forward, trying to use her speed to
shove Amarl back, but he simply dropped low and stabbed with his axe.
Ricia grunted in pain as the spearpoint punched into her stomach, her own
speed shoving it through her armor. She staggered backward, clutching the
wound, and Amarl stepped through the hole, turning to face the backs of the
two nearest defenders. He spun his axe once more, releasing the drums and
repowering his Speed. He slashed at Naros’ spine and cut at Tosaw’s legs,
damaging neither of them as Naros’ stone and Tosaw’s draining ability
absorbed his attacks, but that wasn’t the point. Both boys’ powers had
limits to what they could handle, and Amarl’s furious assault quickly
overloaded them. Naros turned to face the hizeen, and in response, Lared
drove her spear through his stone armor and punched it into a kidney.
Tosaw whipped around, using his boosted speed and strength to push Amarl
back, but that opened him to a brutal chop from Burik that cut into his
shoulder.
A brief surge of triumph filled Amarl but died as Lache screamed in
sudden pain as Sirin’s ability shattered her armor, and the older girl’s sword
plunged into the younger one’s lower chest. Sirin’s head whipped
backward as Hotet’s force blade slammed into her skull, and Vatna darted
forward, slashing with twin sabers and cutting into the older girl’s legs. At
the same moment, Herel roared as Dyfen’s sword lashed through his
upraised shield and cut into the boy’s side. Just like that, two of them had
fallen, and there wasn’t anything Amarl could have done to prevent it.
“Redor!” Wurynath called out.
“Standard formation!” Burik bellowed as the new student rushed onto
the field. “Vatna, left flank! Amarl, right!” Amarl dropped back through
the gap he’d left in the main line, then moved to flank Lared, once again
holding his axe like a short spear. Romsa shifted into the center of the
broken formation, swelling in size until she towered two spans over even
Burik, while Howik, Terit, and Dyfen spread out along their flanks. Redor
joined Doeba in the center, his hands crackling with lightning.
“Shut their ranged down!” Burik called over his shoulder. “Pincer!”
Amarl felt power rising from Meder, Hotet, and Leria as he stepped
away from Lared and moved forward, his axe spinning as he empowered
his Speed and Toughness. Terit blurred as she activated her speed ability
and charged him, her short spear whipping around the same as his axe,
while Howik slid to the side, trying to flank Amarl with his rapier and
dagger combo. Amarl slipped past Terit’s spear, not quite able to match her
speed but willing to take a few blows to get around her attack, nullifying
Howik’s flanking maneuver. He charged at the rapier-wielding boy, who
danced back, his slim blade darting around like a wasp.
Amarl sank himself farther into his ithu as he battled the pair. They
were good, he had to admit. Howik hung back, letting Terit use her
superior speed to tie Amarl up, then striking at his sides and back with skill
and precision. Amarl wanted to slip into Drunken Form, but he had to keep
himself between the pair and the novices behind him; if he moved out of
position, they’d have a free shot at Meder. Only his boosted Toughness let
him stay in the fight, allowing him to shrug off Howik’s needlelike blade
and focus on Terit. He wasn’t as fast as her, but he was better with his axe
than she was with her spear. He used that to his advantage, keeping modest
pressure on her and not letting her drive past him or turn him aside.
A loud crack ripped through the air as a blast of lightning tore from
Redor’s hands. Hotet shouted in pain, but the sound also made Terit flinch
for an instant. Amarl drove forward, his axe beating down her lowered
defense and slashing across her chest, tearing through the armor there and
drawing a thin line of blood. She swore and dropped back, and he spun
quickly to face Howik. The older boy’s rapier flashed and whirled, stabbing
and slicing at Amarl as his ability boosted his skill with it. Amarl ignored
the blade, letting it slide across his empowered skin, and drove into the
older boy, his axe whirling. Howik tried to parry with his twin weapons,
but as the blurring axe struck the twin blades, the rapier snapped with a loud
clang. Amarl’s weapon reverse in an instant and slashed through the meat
of Howik’s thigh, dropping the boy and taking him out of the fight.
“Padim!” Wurynath’s voice rang out as Amarl heard two screams from
the other side of the line, one of which he recognized as Vatna’s. “Dewla!”
He glanced sideways to see Vatna and Dyfen both crumpled on the
ground; apparently, they’d taken one another out. Hotet lay on the ground,
shivering and shaking as smoke from Redor’s lightning rose from his
clothing. They were down to five novices.
“Amarl!” Burik shouted. “Deep strike! Meder, barrier on the right!”
Amarl once again boosted his Speed and Power as the two new students
ran into the ring. Dewla moved to intercept him, her massive two-handed
sword moving as easily as Howik’s rapier had in her fist. The edges of it
glowed with her power, and he knew that he couldn’t block it or parry it
without losing his own weapon. Instead, he ducked below her first thrust,
danced away from her following slash—and then darted past her, leaving
her standing behind him in stunned amazement for a moment. She pursued,
but she didn’t have a speed ability, and without it, she had no chance of
catching him as he charged at the remaining ranged students.
Redor reacted first, flinging a bolt of lightning at Amarl that he
narrowly dodged. Doeba’s floating daggers whipped toward him, even as
the girl herself nocked an arrow to her bow and drew a bead on him. Padim
moved back, fingers of his power streaking toward Amarl and grasping at
his mind, trying to freeze his limbs and render him helpless. In response,
the song of Amarl’s ithtu surged, a deep horn blaring in his mind as it
shattered the boy’s grip on his thoughts. Amarl dove under the daggers
slashing at his face, rolled past another flare of lightning, and whipped his
axe at Padim, who he judged to be the biggest threat of the three. Redor
couldn’t risk attacking Burik and Lared without hitting Romsa, and while
Doeba’s mental control of her arrows gave them deadly accuracy, Mered
could block them with a shield of force or air. Padim, though, could freeze
Burik or Lared in place, which would weaken their entire front line.
Amarl’s axe batted aside the older boy’s attempt to parry, and his crescent
blades whipped out, cutting a line across the boy’s chest from his hip to his
shoulder, leaving his armor hanging and spilling a thin sheet of blood down
his chest.
Even as Padim screamed and fell backward, clutching his chest,
Amarl’s world lit up with pain as a bolt of Redor’s lightning tore into his
back. He dropped to a knee, but fortunately, the pain cut off an instant later
as Redor shouted in surprise. Amarl staggered to his feet to see the older
boy gripping an arrow buried in his shoulder, an arrow that radiated an
unhealthy energy to Amarl’s vision. He could see the dark lines of that
power radiating out from the wound, spreading into the boy. Redor
stumbled and fell to a knee, tearing the barbed arrow loose with a scream of
pain, and the fell energy inside him began to ebb immediately. Before he
could rise, though, Amarl lunged forward, jamming his spearpoint into the
boy’s stomach just below his solar plexus.
“Amarl! Withdraw!” Burik’s words tingled in Amarl’s skull, and new
energy flowed into his battered body as Burik’s commanding ability
wrapped around him. He staggered backward, dodging Doeba’s dagger
slashes and belatedly boosting his Toughness instead of his Power. He fell
back, expecting to see Dewla, but the girl seemed to have abandoned her
attack on him and now pressed Lared. Amarl raced toward the pair, but he
arrived too late; Dewla’s sword cleaved through Lared’s armor ability and
buried itself in her side. He struck a moment later, slashing the older girl
across the back and cutting through her armor, then flew sideways as
Romsa’s overlarge maul slammed into his shoulder and knocked him
sprawling. She took a step toward him, but before she could attack him,
Burik lunged forward, burying the spearpoint atop his halberd in her side.
She groaned in pain and dropped, shrinking back to normal size as she lost
her grip on her power. Leria unleashed another sickly pulsing arrow at
Doeba, who used her ability to guide it off to the side, but the older girl
cursed a moment later as a wave of sahr-created fire washed over her,
blinding her temporarily. Leria’s bow twanged again, and this time, the
arrow landed, dropping Doeba as whatever affliction the third-year’s ability
caused spread throughout Doeba’s veins.
For a moment, the battlefield was quiet as the four remaining novices
faced no challengers. That moment didn’t last long, though.
“Nolla!” Wurynath shouted. “Robla! Gowen! Andra!”
“Amrir!” Ranakar added a moment later. The older girl, the last
remaining student, looked at him in confusion for a moment before joining
the others in the ring.
“So much for keeping the numbers equal,” Meder spat bitterly. “That
makes it five to four.”
“When has anything about Askula been fair?” Amarl chuckled. “At
least that’s the last of the students. If we beat them, we all win.”
“The bastards have been healing the others all along,” Leria replied.
“They’ll send more in if we beat them.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Burik cut them off. “Fight today’s battle first, then
worry about tomorrow’s. Amarl, do you need an elixir?”
“I’m okay. Leria got Redor before he really caught me. Thanks for
that, by the way.”
“I’d say you owe me one, but who the fuck’s keeping count at this
point?” she grinned at him. “You can buy me a drink after all this if you
want, though.”
“Deal.”
The last group of students moved forward carefully, falling into
formation before they approached the novices. Andra and Robla stood at
the front, with Gowen and Nolla flanking them and Amrir in the rear,
holding her rifle. Amarl took a deep breath and sank even further into his
ithtu as he stepped up beside Burik. This was going to be a hell of a battle,
he knew. Burik could handle Robla, he felt certain, and he could barely
take Andra, but that was facing her solo, and she definitely wasn’t alone.
Amrir’s plants could tie him up and slow him down enough to let Andra hit
him, and that wasn’t counting Nolla and Gowen. He wouldn’t normally
worry about the older boy’s command power, as he knew he could fight it
off, but he didn’t know if he could with Nolla’s will-sapping ability active.
If she overcame them with her ability, Gowen could probably command
them to drop their weapons, and they would.
He took a deep breath and half turned to tell Leria and Meder to target
Nolla first—without her will-draining power, Gowen’s would be a lot less
effective—but before he could speak, a shadow passed over the ring, and a
feeling of sudden heat washed over Amarl. He blinked in surprise and
glanced up, wondering what power or ability the others had that he’d
somehow missed, then froze as he stared upward. The students halted their
advance, also staring into the sky, and Amarl felt Burik’s confusion as the
larger boy peered up as well.
A huge shape swept through the air above them, blotting out the pink
sun high overhead. The shape looked vaguely like a bird, with massive,
outstretched wings, but its skin gleamed like obsidian, and if it had a face or
beak at the end of its neck, he couldn’t see them through the mass of
brilliant white flames that burned there. A red-orange mist drifted from its
skin like fog, shrouding the air around it and shimmering with heat as it
dropped toward the ground. The creature screamed once, the sound ear-
piercingly loud and seeming to slice directly into Amarl’s skull, sending a
jolt of terror surging through his body.
As if that scream had been a signal, dozens of bestial cries sounded
from the direction of the mountains. The air in that direction wavered and
shimmered for a fraction of a second before clearing, revealing a horde of
creatures filling the valley. The beasts seemed to pause for a moment
before surging forward, racing toward the students and novices alike,
screaming for blood.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 56
Amarl couldn’t help but stare at the veritable wall of creatures facing
the students without reaction. One moment, the space beyond the older
students had been empty; the next, a horde of creatures filled it, practically
blotting out the training grounds beyond. He recognized several types of
the beasts—giant ants and centipedes from Isolas, reptilian peakdiggers and
windgliders from Apirron, and huge spiders and black-furred squirrels from
Shadora—but he had no names for most of the monsters. Rainbow-hued
worms with crocodilian heads reared a full reach above the ground,
belching clouds of shimmering energy. Featherless birds with slime-
covered skin and long tubes replacing their beaks circled above the mass,
drifting about without flapping their wings somehow. Clouds of inky
shadow writhed about here and there, concealing whatever lay within.
Panic filled Amarl’s brain, and the song of his ithtu surged within him
as the mass of creatures surged forward with a mixture of roars, squeals,
screams, and whistles that assaulted his senses and made his ears ringing.
He readied his axe knowing that there was no point; he couldn’t possibly
fight that many creatures. He doubted all the students together could.
Fortunately, the students weren’t alone in the valley.
Power exploded from all around Amarl as a sea of ithtu ripped forth
from the gathered nadars, malims, and awals. He gaped in awe at the
beacons of energy that burned in his senses, felt but unseen. Ithtu swirled
around them like living fire, burning with colors, sounds, and sensations
that bypassed his eyes and ears and slid directly into his mind. If the other
ithtaru stood as pillars of power, though, two mountains of it reared above
the dais as Ranakar and Tekasoka unleashed their abilities. Each of them
flared like a new sun in his mind, stunning him for a moment and blinding
his unnatural senses as their auras blotted out everyone else, even the
malims around them.
“Ambush!” Ranakar shouted, his voice hard and cold. “Tekasoka, deal
with the lesser beasts! Wurynath, Rateso, with me on the flame reaver!”
“Students, retreat to the armory!” Tekasoka’s voice rang out. “Nadars,
to me! Defensive line!” The old woman stepped to the edge of the dais and
leaped off it, stepping lightly as if dancing. Despite her delicate motions,
she soared several reaches through the air, flying above the heads of the
students and landing lightly between them and the onrushing horde. She
snapped her fingers, and a glittering, gleaming quarterstaff with shining
white blades on each end appeared in her grip, glowing with power. She
snapped her other hand, and black armor that looked to be made of
overlapping scales of some sort wrapped around her, also pulsing with
energy in Amarl’s sight. Several nadars blurred to her sides, moving so
quickly they seemed to appear from nowhere, and she began flashing hands
signals at them. They quickly spread out, leaving gaps for the other nadars
to fill as those without movement abilities pushed through the press of
students, shoving them roughly out of the way as they charged to the front.
Each produced a weapon of their own, although none blazed the way the
awal’s did, and Amarl noted that those closest to the old woman gave her a
wide berth.
Another flare of power caught Amarl’s eye, and he spun back to face
the dais just in time to see Ranakar leap into the air—and keep leaping as a
gust of wind grabbed him and lifted him toward the massive featherless bird
overhead. Wurynath and Rateso sprang up behind him, and the same blast
of air caught them and carried them up, as well. As the old man ascended,
he held out his hands, and a pair of shimmering, black blades flowed from
his fingers like liquid. They seemed to harden, forming into a pair of long,
slim, curved swords that pulsed with cold power in Amarl’s senses.
Wurynath pulled out a long, sharply pointed spear that crackled like ice,
while Rateso produced a halberd like Burik’s that sparked with lightning.
“You heard her!” Andra suddenly snapped, her voice carrying a note of
command he hadn’t heard from her before as she spun to face the other
students, shoving those around her and slapping a few of them to wake
them from their stupors. “Fall back! If you can stand, grab anyone who’s
too wounded and carry them! Move your asses, or I’ll move them for you,
you shits!”
“Let’s move!” Burik roared a moment later, his power rolling through
his voice and stirring Amarl from his awed fascination. The larger boy
waved his halberd toward the line of nadars. “Forward!”
“The awal said to run!” Leria protested.
 “No, she said retreat, not run.” He pointed at some of the less wounded
students, who were following Andra’s directions and scooping up those who
couldn’t walk, novices and students alike. “We’re covering the
withdrawal. If some of those things get past the nadars and catch up to the
wounded…”
“He’s right” Andra shouted as the novices caught up to her group. “We
cover the withdrawal! Burik, Robla, Amarl, you’re with me as front line.
Defensive formation. Everyone else, be ready with supporting fire!”
“Who do you think you are?” Gowen snapped back at her. “Ordering
us…” He froze as she spun and rested the blade of her spear against his
neck.
“I think I’m the person that’ll jam this into you and feed you to those
fucking monsters if you don’t follow orders, soldier!” she bellowed. “That
goes for all the rest of you! Now, move, or I’ll kill you myself!”
“Fall in!” Burik commanded, boosting his words with his ability and
stirring Amarl to action. “First rank to the front! I want Meder and Amrir
in the center, with Gowen and Nolla flanking! Leria to the rear!”
Amarl moved forward to stand beside Andra, but she shook her head.
“To the wings, Amarl,” she ordered. “Robla and Burik will hold the
center.” She shoved him, and he moved quickly to the side to let Burik take
the central spot. Robla glared at him as she rushed past to move beside
Burik, but she remained silent, for which Amarl was eminently grateful.
An explosion rocked the air, and Amarl glanced up to see a whirlwind
of green flame wreathing the giant bird overhead. He felt a spike of panic
before he saw Ranakar appear in the whirlwind, his dual weapons spinning
around him. The blades seemed to suck in the verdant fire, drawing it
toward him and taking it into their depths. Wurynath appeared above the
bird, dropping like a rock with his spear pointed downward as he crashed
into the creature. The bird screeched in pain as the spear seemed to punch
through its obsidian skin, then responded with a blast of reddish light that
burst from one eye and washed over the malim. Amarl’s heart lurched
again, but his fear faded as the light rippled past Wurynath, leaving the
malim smoking but seemingly unharmed.
Another blast of power shifted his focus once more, and he turned to
see Tekasoka standing before the beast horde, holding out a hand almost
nonchalantly. A wave of ithtu rolled from her palm and washed over the
monsters, and as it touched them, they erupted in panic, screaming in fear
and slashing at those around them as they fought to escape. A flood of
energy washed over the creatures a moment later, coming from somewhere
Amarl couldn’t see, and the beasts fell still, turning their focus back to the
nadars and rushing forward once more.
“They’re being controlled!” Meder gasped. “Someone’s guiding them
—just like in Apirron!” She closed her eyes and lifted her hands, waving
her arms around herself as Andra lifted her chin and began to shout out a
command.
“Never mind that! For…”
“On the right!” Meder’s shout cut off Andra’s command as a wave of
energy rolled off the girl. She twisted and pointed her staff past Amarl.
“There!”
Amarl spun as Meder’s power leaped from her and lanced outward
toward seemingly empty air. It slammed into a shimmering curtain, and he
could practically see her working clawing at the barrier. The wall twisted
and writhed for a moment before a thin crack ripped down it, spreading into
a spiderweb of fractures. The entire wall seemed to flinch, then shattered to
reveal another couple dozen monsters hidden between the retreating
students and the now-dubious safety of the armory. The monsters stood,
frozen and seemingly startled by their sudden revelation, but Andra and
Burik both reacted instantly.
“Wheel right!” Andra commanded even as she charged forward.
“Wheel right!”
“Front rank, wheel right!” Burik said, moving quickly to come to
Amarl’s side. “Back rank, fall in! Go!” The larger boy grabbed Amarl’s
shoulder and twisted him roughly to face the stunned beasts, while Andra
grabbed Robla’s elbow and hauled her around to keep the line solid. Amarl
heard the others scrambling into position behind him, still moving as the
monsters seemed to gather themselves. The small horde roared almost in
unison before rushing forward, their claws tearing up the ground as the
swarmed toward the students.
Amarl’s ithtu rang in his ears, but he grabbed it and pushed most of it
down, leaving only the pounding of drums and echoes of strings
shimmering in his mind. He set himself as energy rushed through his body,
hardening his skin and sharpening his senses. His feet slid effortlessly into
position as his axe lowered, the spearpoint facing outward. Part of him
wished that he had an actual spear, but he pushed that errant thought aside.
He had what he had; it would have to do.
“Amrir, Meder, disrupt their charge on the flanks!” Andra shouted.
“Nolla, Gowen hit them with your abilities when they close! Leria, pick off
wounded targets on the edges and don’t let them flank us! Brace for
impact!”
Power surged around Amarl, and he barely noticed a field of whipping
tendrils sprouting from the ground to his right while a blast of frost battered
the monsters far to the left. He held his focus entirely on the monsters
skittering toward him. The insectoid monsters of Isolas were faster than the
creatures of Apirron or Shadora, it seemed, and a pair of giant centipedes
rushed him, their pincers snapping and the stinger on their rears dripping
venom. He stepped sideways from Burik, giving himself room to work, and
waited until the beasts closed before spinning his axe and slashing it into
them.
He'd been doing this same thing a year ago, he mused. He and his
classmates were in Isolas, fighting swarms of that realm’s giant insects—
well, he, Burik, and Meder were. Then, he’d found one of these centipedes
a dangerous challenge. Their exoskeleton was hard to pierce, and he had to
watch both their front and rear since they could curl in half and attack with
both ends with ease. He, Burik, and Meder working together could take a
pair of them without too much danger, but alone, he’d have struggled.
That wasn’t true anymore, apparently. His sahrotik axe should have
made killing the creatures harder since it was designed to minimize lethal
wounds, but the power behind his blows blasted through that protection.
His axe hummed through the air as it slashed at the first centipede, barely
hesitating as the crescent blades sliced through the beast’s shell, severing
the front part of its body cleanly. Its tail whipped up toward him even as it
died, and he caught it with the other end of his axe, slicing off the stinger.
The second one died just as quickly, as his empowered blade sliced through
it with ease. A trio of huge ants fell to his blade next, followed by a
creature that looked like a cross between a scorpion and a water skimmer,
with long legs and a curved, barbed tail.
 Beside him, Burik’s halberd thrust and cut, tearing through the creatures
as easily as Amarl could thanks to his incredible strength. Amarl saw a
flicker of fire in the corner of his eye and assumed that was Robla, burning
down the monsters as they approached. Another wash of power rolled
outward from behind Amarl, one that he quickly recognized as Nolla’s.
“Give them ten seconds, then hit them, Gowen!” the girl shouted even
as Amarl felt her move to stand behind him and to his right.
“Got it!”
A streak of darkness darted over Amarl’s head as Leria fired one of her
noxious arrows at a large, multihued worm. The shaft barely sank into the
beast, but that would was all it took as black lines spread from the shaft
through the monster’s flesh. It thrashed around as her ability seemed to
poison or corrupt it; Amarl honestly wasn’t sure exactly how the girl’s
power worked, just that it was a bad idea to get hit with it. However it
functioned, the result was the same: the worm’s struggles steadily weakened
as her ability drew the life from it. More power surged past Amarl, and a
blast of fire exploded in the center of a group of ants, charring them and
leaving them badly wounded. At the same time, Amrir’s rifle cracked, and
a scorpion-bug fell as a mass of vines exploded from it, grabbing every
insect nearby and ripping them to shreds.
Amarl swept aside another centipede, then reversed his axe as a
rockleaper descended toward him, its reptilian jaw gaping wide and its legs
held up before it, so its curved rear claws pointed at its prey. It squealed as
his spearpoint took it in the chest, not killing it but wounding it horribly.
He flung it into another descending lizard, then swept his axe down as a
stonereaver erupted from the ground before him. The axe blades cut
through the back of the monster’s neck with relative ease, killing it
instantly, and he knocked it away as he stabbed down into the skull of a
second one that appeared from the same tunnel.
The students held as the reptilian beasts of Apirron assaulted them.
Amrir, Meder, and Leria shot soaring windgliders and stormsailers out of
the air. Burik and Amarl cut through peakdiggers and rockleapers. He felt
the surges of power from Andra and Robla as they did the same. The
monsters’ attacks weakened as Nolla’s ability drained their strength and
will, and once the girl judged those weakened enough, Gowen’s ability
poured forth from his throat.
“Be still!” he shouted, his voice carried on his power and the edges of it
ringing in Amarl’s ears. The hizeen didn’t know how that ability worked;
the beasts certainly couldn’t understand Gowen’s words. That didn’t seem
necessary, though. The creatures froze up as his power touched them,
paralyzing the nearest of them and causing the ones a little farther back to
stumble and hesitate. The effect didn’t last long—Amarl guessed that the
more the boy spread it out, the weaker the power probably was—but it was
long enough for the front rank to cut through those creatures and end them.
The students were holding, but Amarl wasn’t sure it could last. The
creatures of Apirron fell to them, but the beasts of Shadora took their place,
and these were far more dangerous foes. A black-furred squirrel rushed at
him in a blur, using some sort of sahr power to enhance its speed. A weasel
that crackled with electricity struck at Burik; a two-reach-long snake with
fangs dripping venom lashed past Amarl at Nolla. Giant spiders sprang at
them, drifting down on filaments of web that they hurled at the students to
tangle their weapons. None of the attacks were individually dangerous, but
to counter them, the students had to call on their ithtu, and none of them had
endless reserves.
“Tak’s running low!” Nolla shouted. “I’ve got enough for maybe
another minute!”
“Same!” Leria echoed. “I can handle three more shots, but then I’m
out!”
“Conserve what you’ve got!” Andra ordered. “Regular attacks only.
We’ve got a long way to go yet! Robla? Burik? How are you?”
“I’m below half. Flames are good for another three minutes, tops.”
“I’m good. Almost two-thirds full.”
“Everyone, use as little ithtu as possible! This is a marathon, not a
sprint! We just have to hold until the nadars can come clean up!”
Amarl wasn’t sure if that was going to happen anytime soon.
Explosions still rocked the sky, and when he glanced up, he saw Ranakar
slashing away at the giant bird, which didn’t really look that much more
injured than it had at the start. He could still feel the bursts of power from
Tekasoka, and the lesser ones from the nadars, so he knew they still fought
their own battles. The students would need to kill all the monsters facing
them, or at least hold for a few more minutes, and he didn’t know if they
had that long. He sank deeper into the song of his ithtu, shifting the song in
his mind as needed. The pounding of the drums never faded, but blaring
horns replaced the refrain of strings when he needed more strength to cut
through a hardened shell and then were replaced by the thrill of flutes to
give him the speed to cut down sahr-infused beasts before they could
unleash their powers on him or the others.
He slashed through a strand of webbing and cut down a giant spider,
then twisted and slashed through the neck of a snake that lashed toward
him. As he turned, a sense of danger flooded his mind, and his ithtu surged,
trying to break free of his thoughts and fill him with its essence. He fought
it, hesitating for a moment as he did, and in that moment, something that
looked like a two-reach-tall mantis with an oddly humanoid face and
iridescent butterfly wings rose from the ground, hovering in the air above
the students.
“Bloomwing!” Andra shouted. “Everyone, down! Meder, shield!”
Amarl dropped at once, as did Burik and Nolla. A surge of power swept
past Amarl as the huge butterfly pulsed with energy. The swirling rainbow
patterns on its body darkened for a moment before erupting with brilliant
light. Colored beams shot out from it in all directions. The air froze around
a streak of bluish light and shimmered with heat around a red-hued one.
Caustic vapors rose from a green blast, while electric sparks danced around
a yellow one. A violet beam struck a nearby stone and cracked it into
rubble, while an orange blast swept over a pair of giant weasels and turned
them into withered husks.
The beams racing toward the students slammed into an invisible barrier
hovering in midair and seemed to deflect off it. He heard Meder grunt
behind him as the power of her field fluctuated and shivered.
“Can’t—hold…” she gasped. “Too—strong!” The shield shuddered,
and Amarl sensed the cracks forming in it a moment before it shattered
completely. Nolla screamed behind him as a blue beam flashed past him
and slammed into her, and Leria shrieked as an orange blast swept through
the air behind him. The beams lasted for a second or so before winking out,
and Andra leaped to her feet.
“Now, while it’s recharging!” she screamed, holding out a hand toward
the creature. “Bring it down! Use whatever you have to!”
Amarl sprang upright with Burik beside him and charged the
shimmering butterfly. Amrir’s rifle cracked, and a javelin lanced out from
Gowen, but the creature pulsed with shimmering white radiance, and both
attacks shivered into ash and molten metal before touching the beast. Burik
reached it first, stabbing with his halberd, but the creature knocked the
weapon aside with one of its bladelike forearms. A tendril snapped from its
mouth at Burik’s head, but the boy ducked beneath it and thrust again, with
the same result. As he thrust a third time, though, the thing suddenly
slowed down, as if the air around it thickened to molasses, as Andra’s
ability wrapped around it.
Without its beam attacks, the bloomwing was doomed. It slashed and
cut at the students with its claws, but trapped in Andra’s ability, it couldn’t
move fast enough to deflect most strikes. Its armor shed Burik’s and
Andra’s weapons, but Robla’s fire burned it, and Amarl’s axe cut through its
shell with ease. Its huge wings shielded it, though, making it hard to land
blows to vital spots on its body, and as they fought, Amarl could feel the
power building up inside of it once more. He traded Skill for Speed,
shifting the music in his mind from strings to flutes, and hacked at it
desperately, trying to bring it down before it could use its ability once
more. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite fast enough.
Power erupted from the bloomwing as its beams shot out once more,
seemingly unhampered by Andra’s ability. Burik and Robla both cried out
as blasts caught them, flinging them backward. Gowen roared in pain, and
Andra screamed a curse. A violet blast slammed into Amarl, hitting his
chest with the force of an ox running into him. The pressure drove him
back, but as it did, the song of his ithtu roared in his brain, and the pounding
of drums filled his thoughts. Power surged in his skin, and the purple light
rolled around him, shoving his chest with terrible pressure but an odd lack
of pain.
He slipped sideways, letting the blast of force roll past him, and ducked
low beneath a strobing orange beam that swept through the air. Energy
surged into his axe as he spun, bringing it upward in a powerful slash. The
weapon cut across the mantis body of the creature, which hung motionless
in the air, seemingly frozen as its power streamed forth. The blade sliced
through its armor like cutting fabric, spilling thick, white ooze all over the
ground. The beams shut off instantly as the thing screeched loudly and fell
back away from Amarl. He followed it as it dropped back, though, slashing
sideways as he surged forward. Its arm rose to block, but his axe cut
through the arm with ease before slicing through its neck, severing its head.
The bloomwing dropped to the ground, lifeless and unmoving, and Amarl
spun around to check on the others.
He hissed at the aftermath of the butterfly’s attack. Meder looked to be
unhurt behind another shimmering shield, but everyone else had taken at
least a single blast. Burik lay curled on the ground, his skin smoking and
scorched from the heat beam he took. Robla shook and trembled in the
aftermath of the lightning she absorbed. Nolla lay unmoving on the ground,
her body far too still. Gowen shook and shivered, coated with frost. Andra
sat with one withered leg stuck straight out to the side. Amrir moaned and
grasped a leg that was obviously broken. And Leria…
Amarl swallowed as he looked at the dried, withered lump of flesh that
had been Leria. The girl’s skin was shriveled and looked like thin
parchment wrapped over her bones. Her hair lay in piles around her;
sunken sockets gaped were her eyes had been; her mouth hung open in a
silent scream. She was clearly dead; at least, he hoped so. If she lived, he
doubted it would be for long.
The good news, if there was any to be had, was that the bloomwing’s
blasts had finished the battle for them. The radiant beams slaughtered the
remaining creatures as easily as they’d torn through the students, leaving
piles of frozen, smoking, crushed, melted, or withered corpses lying all
around. The fight was over—their fight, at least.
“Amarl, help me!” Meder cried out, scrambling toward Burik. “They
need healing! We have to force elixirs…”
The girl froze as a sudden wave of darkness swept over them all,
followed by a deep, aching cold that Amarl recognized at once. He was
wrong. The fight wasn’t over, and whoever did this had one more beast up
their sleeve.
 Amarl spun and readied his axe as something huge and horrifying
rushed him in the darkness.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 57
The song of Amarl’s ithtu exploded within him, doing its best to tear
itself from his grasp as a feeling of danger raced along his spine. He held it
desperately as he dove sideways and rolled, coming to a crouch and
whipping his axe blindly around him. The blade cut only air and shadows
as it slid around him, and he kept it moving as he backpedaled. His eyes
strained vainly to pierce the icy darkness around him, a blackness that
clawed at his body, slowly drawing away his strength and vitality. He felt a
chill that had nothing to do with the umbral cloud as he realized that same
darkness was probably draining the other students, as well, most of whom
were already badly hurt. He had to end this quickly, or more of them might
join Leria.
He kept his axe moving and shut his eyes tightly. Last time, Meder had
managed to dispel this blackness with a working, and her sahr was a lot
stronger, now. He assumed that she’d do the same quickly enough, and he
didn’t want to be blinded when it happened. He moved sideways, hoping
that the creature would follow his motion and not attack the nearly helpless
students. As he did, he settled his mind and focused on his senses the way
Ranakar had taught him to do.
Sound was all but useless. With the song of his ithtu doing its best to
break his control, he’d never hear any lesser sounds. The umbravore could
probably pant in his damn ear, and he’d never notice. He took a deep
breath, testing the air. He could smell the dry, acrid scent of the beast easily
enough. It smelled like bitter ice on the coldest day of a Tem winter or the
scent of a blizzard when he was caught without shelter. He could taste its
scent on his tongue, and each breath filled his mouth with a dry, sour flavor
that made him want to gag and spit. Sadly, he couldn’t mark the creature
just with its scent, so those didn’t help much. He could feel the currents of
air drifting across his skin, but the icy bite of the darkness numbed him to
much else…
He sensed the beast’s closeness too late to do more than hurl a panicked
slash at it. Its body crashed into him, and he felt its fangs clawing along the
armor of his leg for a moment before punching through. The pounding of
the drums in his mind swelled to a thunderous beat as he jammed the axe
down at the beast, feeling the crescent blades slide along its hide for a
moment as its teeth pressed on his skin. The jaws clamped tightly, but the
power of his ithtu held them back. He spun the axe and crashed the axe
blades on the opposite end against the beast, and it quickly let go of his leg
and withdrew. It struck again almost instantly, this time grabbing at his
ankle, and once again, its fangs ripped through his armor with ease but
stopped at his skin. He responded with another hard cut at it, and this time,
he thought he felt the blade sink a bit into the beast. It hissed as it released
him, retreating beyond his senses.
He circled away from it, keeping his axe moving. Apparently, his ithtu
was strong enough to hold out the damn thing’s fangs, which was
something of a relief. That gave him a little bit of time, but he wasn’t sure
exactly how long. He could feel the icy fingers of the umbral cloud
dragging at his skin, trying to work their way into him and sap his strength.
His ithtu held it out for the moment, but each second drained a bit of his
power, and his tak wasn’t inexhaustible. If his tak ran empty, he’d either
have to surrender to his ithtu and hope not to completely drain all his
crystals—or he’d probably die.
The creature rushed him again, and once more, he only got a sense of its
approach right before it struck him. He spun away and slashed at the
creature, and its fangs slid along his side as he moved away from its attack.
His axe slipped past it without touching it, but as it rushed toward him, he
slammed the blade into its side, once again feeling the weapon sink into its
body before it jerked back and vanished from his thoughts. His ithtu raged
again, and he battled with it, trying to hold it in check as it struggled to
burst his control and defend him however it could.
He barely held it as the creature struck once more, this time grasping his
leg below the knee. He struck at it as its teeth ripped through his armor,
feeling the spearpoint on the end punch into it with the second blow, but it
refused to release him. His ithtu surged as the drums in his mind roared a
staccato rhythm—then suddenly quieted. He felt a brief surge of panic as
the song of his ithtu muted for a moment as if someone had thrown a
blanket over it. Pain flared in his leg as the fangs suddenly pierced his skin,
and icy numbness spread from the wound into his body. He slashed at the
creature, cutting into it with each blow, but it ignored his strikes and lunged
again, this time tearing into his arm. More pain ripped through him as its
fangs sank into his flesh, followed by the same feeling of ice flooding his
veins.
He slammed his axe down on the thing’s head, and it let go and
retreated at last. As it did, the song of his ithtu surged once more in his
mind, banishing the pain in his arm and leg but not entirely dispelling the
ice in his veins. He staggered back, slashing a little wildly, then spun as he
felt the creature draw near him again. His axe lashed out, sliding along its
hide, but it ignored the blow and grasped his unwounded leg. Once more,
the song of his ithtu faded briefly as its teeth landed, and he hissed in pain
as its teeth sank into his thigh. It retreated at once, allowing the song to
return in force, but as he staggered away from it, he felt a cold thrill in his
heart.
This thing was going to kill him. He knew it, and he had a feeling it
did, as well. It was playing with him, savaging his limbs and pumping its
venom into him when it could have torn out his throat already or borne him
to the ground and savaged him. It was muffling his ithtu somehow, and
without that power, he couldn’t keep its fangs from his flesh. It was only a
matter of time before its poison overtook him; he could already feel the ice
of it in his veins. That was probably what it was waiting for; once the toxin
brought him down, it could finish him at a leisurely pace. And without
being able to sense it, he didn’t know what he could do to stop it. Part of
him irritably wondered what the hells Meder was waiting for until he
recalled her words earlier.
“They’re being controlled!” She’d realized that someone was
controlling the beasts, sending them after the students and teachers. He
supposed it made sense. After all, how the fuck could so many monsters
make it into Askula and hide from everyone, even the awals, if they weren’t
under tight control? The blood of ithtaru drove the creatures of the other
realms into a blood frenzy, and left to their own devices, they would have
swarmed every student and teacher they saw—and probably been
eradicated fairly quickly. Someone brought them here; someone guided
them to Halit; someone hid them from the awals.
The problem was, whoever did that was smart, and that meant that after
the last umbravore attack, they probably realized that Meder was a hard
counter for the creature. If he’d been controlling the beast, he would have
sent it after Meder first. With her too hurt to collapse a working—or worse
—Amarl’s chances against it would be very close to zero. He was a good
fighter, but how could he fight something that he couldn’t even see?
He frowned as he realized that was wrong. He was sensing the
creature, in fact. Every time it drew close to him, he felt it. With his eyes
closed, he wasn’t seeing it; with the song of his ithtu screaming in his mind,
he couldn’t hear it. Somehow, though, he knew when it approached, feeling
it the same way he felt surges of ithtu and sahr. Like those, though, it
seemed he could only feel it when its power crested as it attacked him,
which wasn’t enough notice to fight back.
“Our senses tell us much more than we know—or choose to know.”
Ranakar’s words suddenly rang in his ears as if the old man spoke, and a
memory flashed in his mind with crystal clarity as he recalled his blind-
fighting training. Then, he’d had to learn to pay attention to his senses and
teach his mind to stop ignoring so much of them. It was just a matter of
focus, concentration, and tuning out everything that didn’t matter. Of
course, that was hard when he was bleeding, terrified, and fighting his own
ithtu…
Darkness surged in his thoughts as the umbravore rushed him once
again, giving him only the barest warning before it was on him. Its teeth
slid along his outer thigh as he twisted away, and it followed him. He drove
his axe at it again and again, trying to force it back, but it surged
relentlessly at him. As it did, he examined his sense of it; the thing felt
almost like a hole in the darkness to him. The umbral cloud draining his
vitality was a thing of ice and death, but it still held some energy within it.
The umbravore was a blank spot, a place where no energy existed, at least
not anything he could feel. As he backpedaled and spun, staying ahead of
it, he let himself feel the thing, giving his mind the chance to understand it
and giving him a sense of its presence.
He slashed hard, and the thing roared and retreated as he felt the
crescent blades cut into it. It retreated, fading from his senses, but as it did,
he deepened his focus. He’d never really paid much attention to the strange
sense of power he got when someone used ithtu or sahr, but now, he
concentrated on it as if his life depended on it. Seconds passed, and he felt
nothing; no gaping void in the blackness, no deeper darkness, no sense of
danger or death lurking beyond his sight. He strained every sense, focusing
on that feeling as hard as he could.
 Blackness flared in his mind, a darkness that seemed to rush toward
him, gathering strength as it came. He lurched sideways and slashed with
his axe, feeling a sense of triumph as the beast’s charge took it past him and
his weapon slid along its side. He felt it twist around to face him, and the
darkness in it deepened into something blacker as it gathered itself for
another attack. Once again, he moved out of the way, this time with a bit
more finesse as he thrust his weapon hard at it, feeling the blade sink into
its scales. It clambered around to lunge at him again, but once more, he
slipped out of the way and slammed his axe down on its back, feeling the
blade bite deeply into it and hearing it roar with pain. He felt a sudden
spike of hope; if he could sense this thing, he could kill it, or at least drive it
off. All he needed was time.
His senses reached out, and as they did, something tickled his mind, an
odd fluctuation in the field around him. He curiously turned his focus to it,
then pushed it aside as the beast charged him once more. He slipped aside,
moving somewhat confidently in the darkness thanks to Ranakar’s training,
and slashed at the beast as it passed. His axe dragged along its side once
more, again feeling like it opened little more than a minor wound thanks to
the monster’s armored skin and the sahrotik restrictions on his blade. It
turned swiftly and lunged for him, but he caught its rush on his spearpoint
and shoved, driving the tip deeper into it and pushing it aside so its attack
missed. It leaped back, pulling itself free of his axe, then retreated swiftly
into the surrounding blackness.
His sense of it faded to nothing once more, and he stretched out again,
concentrating hard on the feeling the beast gave him. As he did, he once
again felt that faint, tiny disturbance in the energy around him. He
examined it curiously, moving slowly closer to it as he did. The faint
energy felt strange in his mind, almost like Meder’s sahr workings but far
more powerful. He amended that thought afte a moment. The energy
wasn’t stronger; it was just incredibly tightly woven, leaking no power at all
into its surroundings. It felt like a bubble in the energy around him,
creating a hole inside of it—a hole where someone could hide if they
wanted.
He reacted almost without thinking, spinning around and leaping at
what he suspected was the person controlling the umbravore. Before he
took two steps, though, he felt the umbravore’s presence moving toward
him swiftly from behind. He hesitated, torn between defending himself and
attacking the hidden figure. If they controlled the umbravore, then hurting
or killing them might break that control and make it easier to fight the
thing. As he felt the beast gathering itself behind him, he flung the axe,
sending it spinning toward the hidden figure with a surge of power. The
axe vanished as it struck that barrier, but he felt a surge of satisfaction as the
bubble popped, and a muted cry of pain rang in his ears. At that moment,
he felt a surge of ithtu, one that dwarfed what he’d sensed from Ranakar
and Tekasoka, and as he stared at it, a screen flashed in his vison.

He flicked the screen away as the umbravore leaped in the air, taking its
paws on his chest rather than his back. He lost his grip on his axe as he fell
backward, and in the darkness, he couldn’t quite manage to twist to keep
the thing from slamming him down onto his back with its paws pressed
against his chest. He flung an arm upward and felt its jaws wrap around his
forearm, punching through his armor and resting against his empowered
skin.
“Ungrateful brat.” The voice that spoke echoed in his mind rather than
his ears, and his ithtu surged as he felt a foreign presence in his thoughts,
trying but failing to drive it out. The voice felt dry and clinical, giving
away nothing of the person behind it except a quiet anger. “How dare you
attack me?”
“T-Tekaosoka?” he grunted as he slammed a fist into the side of the
umbravore. The thing growled but held him down, pinning him in place.
“As fun as it might be to let you think that, it wouldn’t fool the Rashiv.
No, boy, I’m not that silly awal with her telepathy. I’m as far beyond her as
you are beyond your peers—or should be.”
Amarl thrashed, again slamming a fist into the side of the umbravore,
but the beast simply clung more tightly to him and held him pinned.
 “What are you waiting for?” he gasped aloud. “If you’re going to kill
me, kill me!”
“Kill you? Child, I could have killed you any time I wanted.
Observe.” As the voice spoke, Amarl suddenly felt the song of his ithtu
quiet in his mind, fading and becoming muffled. In that instant, the
umbravore’s fangs punched into his arm, and its clawing legs ripped gashes
down his thighs. He screamed with pain before the song of his ithtu
returned in force, mercifully blunting the agony in his limbs.
“You see? The moment I wanted you dead, you would have been, idiot.
You are meaningless to me. The power in your blood, though, is precious.
Your bloodline can’t be allowed to die out, and I won’t let it be. First,
though, it must be awakened—and you’ve barely touched the surface of it,
even with my aid.”
The voice turned colder as the person spoke. “However, you’ll pay a
price for daring to strike me. I’m withdrawing my control from the
umbraline.” The voice laughed in his mind. “You can consider this my
final exam for you this year. To survive, you’ll have to finally give yourself
to the power within you and embrace it. Pass, and you’ll begin to prove
that you’re worthy of the bloodline within you. Fail, and die.”
The figure vanished from his senses, and he felt their mind slip out of
his. At the same time, the beast atop him exploded into furious motion,
seemingly freed of the figure’s control. His ithtu surged in him as the
creature savaged his body. Its teeth gnawed at his upflung arm; its claws
ripped the armor from his legs. His ithtu kept it from piercing his skin, but
he doubted that would last long. Its poison surged through his veins,
draining his strength and fogging his mind, and he knew that soon enough,
he’d be too weak to hold his power unless he gave himself willingly into it
as the figure suggested. The fact that it wanted him to do so, though,
seemed like more than enough reason to keep it under control.
That control, though, faded swiftly. Already, his ithtu twisted and
bucked, doing its best to tear itself from his grip as power surged into his
shaking limbs and flooded his burning nerves. Agony washed over him as a
claw slipped through his defenses and slashed down his thigh, while its
fangs finally gained purchase in his arm and sank down to the bone. He
could feel the power slipping from his weakened mental grasp. He couldn’t
fight the poison, the pain of his wounds, and his ithtu at the same time. His
only hope was to give himself to it and hope for the best.
“Sometimes, the only way to control the flood is to ride with it.”
Ranakar’s words echoed in his mind, again seeming to float into his
thoughts from nowhere. Once more, a memory flashed in his vision, an
image of the old man dodging Amarl’s Nameless Form with fluid ease,
riding the attacks instead of opposing them.
As more pain flared, this time in his shoulder, Amarl realized he had no
choice. With little more than a thought, he released his grip on his ithtu.
Instantly, the power exploded within him, washing over him and
overwhelming his thoughts. Part of him wanted to sink into it; there was no
pain in the depths of that song, no fear, and no thought. He pushed that part
aside, though. As the song poured through him, he imagined himself riding
the wave of it, carried on the surge of power—or buoyed by the storm of
sound ringing in his thoughts. He didn’t fight the force of his power, but he
held himself above it, trying to keep his thoughts clear even as the power
roared into his body.
The power continued to rise within him, trying to drag him down into
it. His liquid ithtu was potent, and he felt the pull of it drawing him down
into its depths like a whirlpool. Rather than fight, he floated with it, letting
it whirl him around but holding himself just free of its grasp. He spun and
twisted as the power lifted him to the edge of his consciousness, then
plunged him down into his deepest depths. The power flowed as it would,
and he simply rode along with it, a log floating in the river of his ability.
Even as he did, though, he knew it had to end. Just as with his forms,
the river couldn’t be allowed to rage unchecked. There had to be a place
where it met the mountain, where the flood of his power met his control and
merged with it. He drew himself higher above the flow, clearing his
thoughts even more, until the song once again rang in his mind rather than
blotting it out. As he felt himself separate from it, he pushed it, nudging it
gently along the way the land guided a river. If his form was a mighty tree,
his ithtu would be the spring feeding it, giving it life and strength beyond
what it had naturally. It resisted at first, but he pressed it with his will. He
knew that ultimately, it would have to submit. His ithtu wanted to serve
him, and this was how he needed it to serve.
 Slowly, almost grudgingly, the power began to move at his command.
He kept the pressure up, ignoring the attacks he knew the umbravore had to
be unleashing on his body, and gradually, fingerwidth by fingerwidth, the
flow shifted, cycling around his mind without overwhelming it. As his
thoughts cleared at last, he felt himself rise from his depths, his thoughts
clear as strength filled his body, the song of his ithtu bright and clear in his
mind but a sound that he knew he could control or diminish at need. He
doubted it would be easy; learning to command the lesser form of his song
hadn’t been, and this would likely be a lot harder. Still, that was just a
matter of time and effort, two things that Askula forced him to become good
at anyway.
He bucked beneath the umbravore as new strength flooded his muscles,
and his body arched upward like a drawn bow. The creature’s bulk whipped
into the air, connected to him by its teeth in his arm, and Amarl lashed out
with his free hand, driving a short, powerful blow into its jaw. He felt the
bone shift without breaking, but the pain caused the creature to release him,
and it flew into the air as it lost its hold on him. He moved with it, flowing
fluidly to a crouch. He felt the beast twisting in midair, and he moved
toward it. He’d lost his axe, and that meant he had to fight the thing hand-
to-hand. Its claws and fangs probably wouldn’t hurt him anymore, but the
damage was done. He could still feel its poison in his veins, and while his
ithtu held it at bay, it couldn’t seem to burn it out. He needed to end this,
and he needed to do it quickly.
As the umbravore regained its feet, it turned toward him, then paused as
if realizing that he was already on top of it. It lunged for him, its jaws
snapping, but he flowed out of the way and flicked a quick fist at its skull
that knocked it sideways. The beast staggered but recovered and flung
itself at his leg, only to receive a kick to the jaw. It stumbled backward, and
Amarl followed, flinging short, fast blows at it that carried far more power
than they should have. The beast responded by breathing out a wave of
deeper darkness that made his wounds burn like fire, but he pushed the
sensation aside and drove himself at the monster. For the first time, it fell
back, seemingly stunned by the ferocity of his attack, and as it hesitated, he
flung himself forward, diving onto its back. One arm wrapped around its
throat, while his legs encircled its midsection, pinning him in place.
 The creature went mad as it felt his weight on its back. It bucked and
thrashed, whipping its tail around, clawing, and snapping wildly to dislodge
him. He felt its barbed tail slide along his skin, while its claws slid down
his thighs and calves painlessly, held out by his ithtu. He slammed his free
fist into its skull, staggering it, then twisted his body, yanking it sideways.
Another punch dazed it, and another twist hurled it from its feet to send it
crashing onto its back, landing atop him. His arm tightened as he rained
blows on the thing, focusing his senses on it to try and judge weak points.
He felt the blackness erupting within it as it belched out another cloud of
shadow, sensed its panic as it struggled to right itself or free itself of its
imprisonment. He paused as within the creature, he felt something else,
something far more familiar.
Ithtu.
The monster was a thing of nightmare, a creature of darkness and
hunger, but it still lived, and anything that lived held ithtu within it. Amarl
felt the life force of the creature buried within it, filling its body, and
without thinking, he called to it. He laid a palm flat on the beast’s
underside and pulled, drawing that power to him. The power resisted,
clinging to its body, and he pulled harder. Still, it denied him, refusing to be
drawn forth from its shell as long as the beast’s mind and soul clung to it.
He drew with all his might, and as he did, he felt a single deep horn note
thrum in the depths of his skull, a basso that reverberated in his mind and
sharpened his thoughts. It seemed to echo along his mental fingers as he
pulled once more, rising in volume until the entire creature vibrated with
the force of it.
He yanked one final time, and something in the beast seemed to snap.
Its body thrashed and convulsed as the energy followed from it, surging
toward his hand. As usual, he held it at the edge of the creature’s skin,
pulling it closer and closer. He felt it starting to crystallize, but the deep
horn sounded once more, and his grip on the power tightened until it
collapsed in his grip, shifting into a thick, reddish liquid. He pulled on that,
and to his surprise, it flowed from the creature directly into him, pouring
through his body and flooding his tak. The power surged within him,
coiling in his center and refilling what he’d used and more. The flow lasted
for nearly a minute before it cut off, leaving him with a feeling of fullness
he’d never sensed before.
 The umbravore fell still as the last of the ithtu seeped from its body, and
the darkness around it faded instantly. Light stabbed at Amarl’s closed
eyes, and he shoved the beast off him as he squinted them open. The
umbravore lay still beside him, dead at last. As he saw its body, the song of
his ithtu quieted from its crescendo into a soft murmur, and with it went the
strength flooding his body. Pain slammed into him as he realized how
badly he’d been hurt, but even worse, ice flooded his body as the poison his
power held at bay swept through him. Darkness shrouded his vision as
every last bit of warmth seemed to flee the world at once. The last thing he
saw as the curtain of blackness swept over him was Ranakar’s face
appearing above his, shouting something he couldn’t quite hear.
“Well, at least that means we won,” he thought glibly before gratefully
settling into a blanket of unconsciousness.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 58
Awareness returned to Amarl slowly. He seemed to recall having
terrible dreams about dark things chasing him, followed by equally awful
dreams of being consumed from within by fire. There was also something
about a purple flower that kept telling him it had warned him, whatever that
meant. He tried to recall more, but as his mind drifted out of the fog of
sleep, the dreams fled his memory until they were gone entirely.
He took a deep breath, using the action to settle his scattered thoughts.
The first thing that he noticed was the relative lack of pain. The umbravore
tore his body up pretty badly, but while he felt tired, stiff, and sore, pain no
longer screamed at him the way it had just before he passed out. The next
thing he noticed was that while he wasn’t exactly warm, he no longer felt
the bitter cold of the umbravore’s poison flooding his veins. Both of those
things suggested that someone had healed him, which meant he was
probably in the infirmary, a guess backed up when his nose caught a whiff
of something sour and astringent and his senses felt small surges of ithtu all
around him.
That made his last realization a lot easier to deal with: he was starving!
His stomach growled and clenched as if he hadn’t eaten for days—which,
he supposed, was distinctly possibly, depending on how long it took them to
heal him. That was a simple fix, though. He just had to get up, and one of
the nadars would either bring him something or let him go eat, depending
on his condition. He blinked open his eyes and tried to sit up, then froze as
a final realization struck him.
He couldn’t move. His arms, legs, and even head refused to respond to
his commands.
For a moment, panic raced through him. Had the umbravore paralyzed
him? Was it something that could be healed? If not, why did they even
restore him? Just to be expelled and executed in front of the school? That
was cruel even for the awals. With his rising panic, the song of his ithtu
swelled in his thoughts, threatening to wash over him. Instead of letting it,
he once more grabbed it and guided it around his mind, leaving him free of
its hold. The exercise took some effort and several seconds, but the focus it
required calmed him, and as the power surged through him, he once again
tried to sit up. He felt pressure on his wrists, legs, head, and chest, as if
something held him down, but that quickly vanished as his limbs came
free.
He sat up with a feeling of relief and looked down at himself as the
song of his ithtu faded once more. As he guessed, he sat on one of the
fairly uncomfortable infirmary beds. What he hadn’t seen before were the
leather straps hanging from the sides—straps that he’d apparently just
broken when he sat up. A blanket covered his lower torso and legs, and a
glance underneath revealed that, yep, he was naked under the covers. He
lay back down, rubbing his face and trying to put together his scattered
thoughts.
He remembered the monster attack; in fact, he clearly remembered the
umbravore attack and how he’d fought it, something that didn’t usually
happen when he let his ithtu flood him like that. Apparently, his new
technique had some benefits, although it was also a lot more unwieldy than
his previous method and much harder to control. It still felt like a last-ditch
sort of thing, something to use when he had no other choice. For most
situations, his normal method of controlling his ithtu seemed to work just
fine. At least, judging by how well he’d done against the older students on
Challenge Week, it did. His ability gave him at least a level of equality with
students two or more years above him, which once again reminded him how
ridiculous a Tier F ability truly was.
He shuddered even as he thought that. He remembered the start of the
monster attack, when the full ithtaru truly unleashed their abilities. Each of
them had burned like a bonfire in his senses, while Ranakar and Tekasoka
felt more like miniature suns. He had a long way to go to reach that sort of
level, if he ever could. Perhaps his Tier F power wasn’t so amazing, after
all.
As he thought of his power, he pulled up his ability screen to see if it
had changed at all with his recent discovery.
 He frowned as he read the new status. Apparently, not only had his
ability grown a bit, it had changed, from “Mez” to “Mezy”. Y, he knew,
was the letter associated with draining, controlling, and containing things.
It seemed like working out how to sense the umbravore and draining its
ithtu evolved the ability, giving it a new power. He couldn’t help but snort
at that. He still hadn’t figured out his original ability’s active power, and he
now had a secondary one. That had to be an epic fail of some sort.
Besides that, his other ability effects had nudged up a little, while his
boosted stat ability had gone up quite a bit. He pulled up his stat screen to
see if anything had changed there to explain why.
 He winced at what he saw. Apparently, his Soul stat went up by two-
tenths of a point to 10.2, but he’d used up two of his crystals in the fight,
probably while he’d let his ithtu run unfettered in him. That left him with
only one. At the same time, his tak, which hadn’t been full almost since
he’d unlocked his ability, now stood at complete capacity. That, he
assumed, was thanks to the influx of liquid ithtu he’d taken directly from
the umbravore to kill it. It felt like he’d gotten more from the creature by
absorbing it directly like that than he would have if he’d harvested crystals
from it, but he had no real way to know if it was that or his passive liquid
ithtu effect coming into play.
“Well, you’re awake at last!”
He dismissed his screens and opened his eyes to see Midoral’s familiar
face looming above him. The man’s graying hair was far less tousled than
it had been the last time Amarl saw him, and his face looked far less grave
as he gave the hizeen a faint smile.
“You and your friends need to stop visiting here so often, Novice,” the
man said somewhat jovially. “It’s becoming an unhealthy habit.”
“My friends?” Amarl asked. “Sir, Burik and Meder, are they…?”
“Fine,” the man nodded absently as he reached down and touched
Amarl’s bare chest. “Novice Meder had faint umbral poisoning from being
in the umbral cloud, but a dose of liquid fire cured that easily enough.
Novice Burik was more badly injured thanks to the bloomwing’s fire beam,
but burns are one of the more common injuries we deal with here—as
opposed to umbral poisoning. That’s supposed to be a rare condition for
students, not something to be cleansed twice in one year.”
“I wasn’t exactly meaning to get poisoned, sir,” Amarl said with a
shrug.
“I would hope not. At least, not as badly as you were this time.” The
gray-haired malim shook his head. “I’m honestly amazed you lived, in
fact. I’ve seen full ithtaru succumb to that much umbral poisoning.” He
paused, then pulled up one of the torn leather straps, his eyes turning a bit
colder. “Did you do this?”
“Yes, sir,” Amarl admitted. “When I woke up, I couldn’t move, and it
panicked me. So…” He shrugged.
“And it never occurred to you to call out? Ask for help?” He shook his
head. “Next time, simply say something, and someone will come unbind
you, Novice. These straps aren’t precisely cheap, and it’s likely that
replacing them will come out of your stipend.” He tossed the broken strap
down with an expression of disgust.
“Sorry, sir,” Amarl said without any real sincerity. He’d woken up in
hostile places far too many times to simply call out without knowing the
exact situation. bent down over Amarl and peered into his eyes, lifting each
eyelid in turn.
“Can I ask how long I’ve been out, sir?”
“Several hours.” The man leaned back. “It’s still Nashio, if that’s what
you’re looking for. Fourteenth hour or so.” He clapped his hands together.
“So, how are you feeling?”
“Fine, sir. Sore, tired, and starving, but nothing serious.”
“Any dizziness? Lightheadedness? Weakness or tingling in your
extremities?”
“I’m not sure what those are, sir.”
“Your limbs, Novice. Any tingling or weakness in your arms or legs?”
“Oh. No, sir.”
 The man leaned back, seemingly satisfied with what he saw there. He
laid a hand on Amarl’s chest, and the boy felt a surge of ithtu sweep through
him. In fact, he could practically see the ithtu washing through his body,
rippling along his veins and bones. On a whim, Amarl thought about
understanding the man, and a screen flashed up in front of him.

“Some lingering damage from the distilled liquid fire,” the man said
thoughtfully as Amarl dismissed his screen. “That explains the soreness.
And the hunger is a natural result of such an extensive healing…” The
malim nodded as he took his hand away. “You seem to have recovered
nicely. I’m pleased.”
“Didn’t you know, sir?” Amarl asked with honest curiosity.
“You had severe umbral poisoning, Novice. Purging that much poison
requires some extreme measures, and those measures can be rather painful
and damaging to the body. That sort of damage can hide traces of umbral
toxin remaining in your system.”
“Oh. Is that why I feel so sore?”
The man nodded. “Indeed. This is a case of the cure being useful only
because the problem is so much worse. Distilled liquid fire damages the
body if used improperly, and even in the hands of an expert, it leaves
significant trauma behind. Healing that took almost as much effort as
healing the umbral damage.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen someone
that severely poisoned live through it, in fact. Perhaps it’s part of your
heritage…”
“More likely, it’s his ability,” a familiar voice spoke, and Amarl looked
past Midoral to see Ranakar striding toward the pair. The old man was back
to his usual black awal uniform and looked none the worse for his battle
with the flying monster. His smile, though, was grim and hard, and Amarl
shivered a bit at the barely concealed anger in his eyes.
 “It strengthens and boosts him as needed,” the awal added as he drew
close to the bed. “In this case, it either fought off the umbral toxin or
sustained his body against it until it could be healed.”
“Useful,” Midoral said, rising to his feet. “I assume you need some
privacy, Awal? Should I clear the infirmary?”
“No,” the old man shook his head. “I can take care of it. No need to
move so many injured.”
“Thank you for that,” the malim bowed his head toward the older man
before turning to Amarl. “You’re as healed as you can be here, Novice.
The rest, your own ithtu can handle. You’re free to leave once the awal is
finished with you.”
“Thanks, sir,” Amarl nodded to the man.
“It’s my duty.” Midoral turned and walked away, leaving Ranakar
alone with the boy. The old man simply stared at Amarl, his face a mask,
but Amarl knew him well enough to see the anger burning there. He
swallowed hard; he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, at least not
anything bad enough for the awal to be angry with him.
Ranakar lifted his hands, and Amarl felt a burst of sahr ripple out from
him, enclosing the two of them in a transparent bubble. He moved to the
foot of Amarl’s bed and looked down at the boy grimly.
“What happened, Amarl?” he asked in a soft but dangerous voice.
“Sir?” Amarl asked, coughing against the sudden dryness in his throat.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just the two of us. Nobody else can hear, so you can dispense with
the formality.” The man pulled over a chair and sat down, and Amarl
suddenly noticed the weariness on his face. “Today was a disaster, Amarl.
A horde of beasts from various realms slipped into Askula without tripping
a single alarm or alerting a diviner. They waited silently, hidden by ithtu or
sahr, until a set moment, then attacked. They worked together, something
even creatures of the same type rarely do, fighting in organized waves. I’ve
never even heard of such a thing, at least without a powerful tamer being
involved.”
“Tamer?” Amarl asked.
 “An ithtar with an ability to bind and control lesser beasts. They’re
uncommon, but there are two in the school right now, one a student and one
a malim. Neither of them could have done what we saw today, though.”
The man shook his head. “I didn’t think such a thing was possible.
Controlling that many beasts would take a ridiculous amount of ithtu.”
“Would…” Amarl hesitated, then plowed on. “Would a Tier G ability
be able to handle it?”
“Tier G?” Ranakar snorted. “It’s possible, I suppose. A Tier G ability
would be several hundred times stronger than a Tier A one. Too bad there’s
never been a record of one before.” His eyes narrowed. “Why, Amarl?”
“Because I saw one.” Amarl took a deep breath, then told the old man
about the hidden creatures Meder spotted, the students’ defense against
them, and the umbravore’s attack. He explained how he used his Blind-
fighting skill with his new ability to sense sahr and ithtu to spot the hidden
figure as well as the results of his analysis of them. He told the awal how
the figure spoke to him, hinting that they were there to help him awaken his
ability, and how they controlled the umbral cat.
“I assumed that they were the ones who brought the beasts into
Askula,” he concluded. “And that they were the ones who made it look like
the bridges were gone in Apirron and sent all the creatures after us. They
were probably the ones who convinced Gowen, Robla, and Wesho to attack
me, as well. Once they left, the umbravore went crazy, so I guess they were
right about controlling it.”
“That would explain a great deal,” Ranakar said thoughtfully, gently
rubbing his beard. “Tier G…” The man shook his head. “You’re probably
right that they were the ones controlling the horde. At one point, the
creatures stopped fighting as a group and turned on one another, which
made it easy to finish them off. That’s probably when they left.” He shook
his head. “I only wish you’d been able to find them sooner. It would have
made today much better.”
“You and Tekasoka killed all the creatures, right?” Amarl asked a bit
belatedly. “Including that giant bird?”
“The infernal raptor? Yes, although it wasn’t easy, and Wurynath and
Rateso’s help was invaluable. It’s a creature of Malefican, and one of the
stronger ones. And yes, all the beasts are dead.” The old man leaned
toward Amarl. “However, that wasn’t my question. I want to know what
happened to that umbraline, Amarl.”
“I killed it,” the boy replied evenly.
“Yes, and from the look of things, you killed it in hand-to-hand combat
with your axe reaches away from you. I admit that confused me until you
explained about sensing the hidden figure. However, the creature wasn’t
just dead. It was utterly dead and empty of ithtu. Did you harvest it?”
“Yes,” Amarl nodded. “At least, I think I did, in a way.”
“What do you mean, in a way?”
“I harvested its ithtu…” He paused, hesitating. If he told Ranakar how
he’d drained the umbravore—umbraline, he corrected silently—the awal
would either be very upset or very excited. However, if he didn’t tell the
man, Ranakar would find out eventually, and then he’d just be a lot more
upset. “I took it while it was still alive.”
The awal leaned back, his eyes going wide and his blank expression
shifting into one of astonishment. “You what? How?”
“I grappled it and took its back, hoping to break its neck or crush its
windpipe. While I held it, I felt its ithtu inside of it, calling to me, so I
pulled on it. It didn’t want to come, but I kept pulling until I felt something
break inside it. Its ithtu flowed out, and when I took the last of it, it died.”
The awal sat silently, staring at the boy. “You said you felt something
break,” he said after a handful of awkward seconds. “Could that have been
its neck? Maybe you did kill it…”
“No,” Amarl cut the man off firmly. “It was still alive. It was fighting
and thrashing to get free. I took its ithtu, and then it fell still and died.”
“That…” Ranakar fell silent once more, his face reflecting both doubt
and eagerness in an odd combination. “That’s utterly amazing, Amarl.” He
frowned. “What crystals did you get from it? Did you quicken them? I
didn’t find any near its body.”
“I didn’t get any.” Amarl said softly.
“What do you mean? No crystals formed on it? What happened to the
ithtu, then?”
 “I—I took it.” This was the explanation he most dreaded. “It flowed
directly into my tak and filled it up.”
The awal’s eyes widened even further. “How? That shouldn’t…” The
man fell silent, his eyes calculating as he pulled out a crystal and bracelet
from his pocket, the training bracelet that he used on Amarl during their
lessons. He tossed the bracelet at Amarl. “Put this on.”
Amarl quickly wrapped the sahrotik bracelet around his wrist, and the
old man peered at the crystal for a few moments. His eyes narrowed, then
widened again as he looked at Amarl.
“Your ability changed,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” Amarl nodded. “It reads, ‘Soul strengthens and draws all’
now. It’s still Tier F, though.”
The man nodded. “That makes sense. ‘Y’ can mean drawing, draining,
and controlling things.” He shook his head. “And your tak is full, which I
honestly thought would take years to happen.” He fell quiet, and Amarl
simply waited while awal lsot himself in thought. After another few quiet
seconds, the man seemed to rouse himself.
“I’ll have to think about what this means and how best for you to use
it,” he said after a moment. “Obviously, there are advantages and
disadvantages to your new ability.”
“What do you mean?”
The man gave Amarl a speculative gaze. “I’ll let you think about that.
You can give me your thoughts when we meet again on Shimio.” He rose
to his feet. “In the meantime, go get some food and speak with your
friends. I’m sure they’re anxious to see you.” He paused. “Oh, and report
to the Rashiv’s office directly tomorrow morning.”
Amarl couldn’t help but groan at the thought of running up and down
stairs all day. Ranakar flashed him a knowing grin. “Don’t worry. You
won’t have any duties tomorrow. None of you who made it to the last day
of Challenge Week will. He just wants to speak with you about all this.
“Now, get up and go eat. I can hear your stomach growling from here.”
“Umm,” Amarl said hesitantly, lifting the blanket and looking
underneath. “Could I possibly get some clothes, first?”
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 59
Fifteen minutes later, Amarl walked out of the infirmary, dressed in one
of the green Sabila uniforms that the malim kept for just such an occasion.
Apparently, the total destruction of a uniform—or the need to cut someone
out of theirs to heal them—wasn’t that uncommon of a thing at Askula.
While losing a foot or hand wouldn’t ruin a uniform, he knew from
experience that he could only wash out so much blood, and sewing couldn’t
really fix a shirt that was slashed open from shoulder to hip. Amarl guessed
that the Challenge Week injuries dug deeply into the infirmary’s supply of
extra uniforms, though, because the only one available in his size was rather
battered and threadbare. It was better than running back to Sabila naked,
though.
‘Running’ could only loosely describe his trip back to the dorm. His
body still ached too much to actually run, so he ended up in a slow jog that
wasn’t much faster than walking would have been. It took him much longer
than normal to make it back to his dormitory, and true night had fully fallen
by the time he arrived. The mess hall was mostly empty at that point, but
the evening meal was still out and only slightly cold. Disciplinary duties
kept students out late enough that the kitchen had to make food available
until at least the fifteenth hour, and the few novices scattered around the
room this late ate silently and sullenly, looking bedraggled, dirty, and
generally unhappy. He supposed that he didn’t look much better in his
threadbare clothing that didn’t quite fit him.
He grabbed a plate and piled bread, meat, and vegetables on it, far more
than he normally took, ignoring the looks from several first-years as he
passed by them and settled at a table. The food was greasy, cold, and
mostly tasteless, but hunger made an excellent sauce, and he’d stopped
being picky about food around his fourth year. He’d eaten so many
leftovers, table scraps, and almost-spoiled food over the years to stave off
hunger that a little congealed grease meant nothing. As he ate, he
considered the events of the day.
His first thought was one of relief. Midoral said that Meder and Burik
were fine. He’d been worried, especially about Meder; he’d expected her to
wipe away the umbral darkness earlier, and when she hadn’t, he’d feared
the worst. Apparently, though, they made it through the battle without too
many injuries besides Burik’s burns.
That reminded him of Leria’s crumpled body, though, and his relief
turned into a sense of mourning. He hadn’t known Leria that well or for
that long, but they’d gotten along well enough this past week. He mourned
the loss of his chance to know her more than anything. She seemed like
someone he might have been able to consider a friend one day, the way he
did Andra or Norag. That would never happen now, though, and he felt a
sense of emptiness at the thought.
He pushed that away quickly. He was pretty sure that Leria wouldn’t be
the last person he liked that he’d say goodbye to in the coming years. The
life of an ithtar was dangerous, and he doubted most of them lived long
lives and died peacefully in their beds. He couldn’t afford to bleed every
time someone he knew died. He, Meder, and Burik would have a drink to
the girl’s memory, and he’d never forget her. That was about all he could
do.
He scarfed down his food quickly, barely tasting it as he ate. The food
in the mess hall wasn’t terrible, but it certainly wasn’t worth lingering over.
He finished one plate, then went back and grabbed a bit more food to fill
the aching void of his stomach. After clearing his plate of food a second
time, he tossed it into a water-filled wooden basin and walked tiredly out.
He noticed a few of the younger students watching him surreptitiously, and
as he did, he couldn’t help but snort. He only had a week left in his second
year. That meant that pretty much every student in Sabila was younger than
him at this point.
He shoved that thought away quickly, as well, and strode up the stairs
toward his room. With his stomach full and his gnawing hunger abated, he
felt the ache in his muscles far more prominently, and weariness tugged at
his mind, urging him to lay down and rest despite having just spent hours
asleep. Normally, his friends would be at Halit sparring or Sitjak training,
but considering the day they’d all had, he felt certain he’d find them waiting
for him.
“Amarl!” Meder’s voice was one of the sweetest things he could recall
hearing as he opened the door and stepped inside, and the feeling of the
girl’s arms wrapped around him as she leaped off the bed and embraced him
was even better. “You’re back!” She pulled back and held him at arm’s
length, eyeing him critically. “Are you okay? Really?”
“I’m fine,” he assured her.
“You know, you’ve told me that when you were bleeding with multiple
broken bones. Define ‘fine.’”
He chuckled as she stepped back, allowing him into the room. “I’m
sore, and my whole body aches, but I’m okay. Midoral wouldn’t have let
me leave if I wasn’t.” He froze as he stepped into the room and stared at
Burik, seated on his bed behind Meder. “What the hells happened to you?”
Burik winced as he reached up and rubbed his bald skull with a forlorn
expression. At least, Amarl thought it was forlorn. It was hard to tell since
the boy’s eyebrows were gone, leaving him looking perpetually surprised.
“That butterfly’s heat attack,” he said mournfully. “Burned off all my
hair.”
“And a lot of his skin,” Meder added, stepping back and sitting on her
bed while grinning at Burik. “It took the nadars a couple hours to grow it
all back.”
“They grew back the skin, but not the hair?”
“They couldn’t,” Burik shrugged. “Ithtu can only regrow things that
are living. Hair’s dead.” He glanced at Meder hopefully. “Meder thinks
there might be an alchemical solution, though.”
“There are a few elixirs designed to encourage plant growth,” she
explained. “I think I could adapt them to work on hair.”
“It might be easier just to let it grow back naturally, Burik,” Amarl
chuckled. “Do you really want to be one of Meder’s experiments? What if
it works but makes all your hair grow—everywhere, all over your body?”
“I would never give Burik something unless I knew it wouldn’t hurt
him!” the girl protested indignantly.
“But you might if it only embarrassed him,” Amarl grinned. “And
having his chest hair grow to a span long would be pretty embarrassing.”
“Good point,” the larger boy said with a heavy sigh. “Enough about
that, though. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back. What happened with you and
that umbral?”
 “What do you mean, what happened?”
“No one saw what happened inside the cloud, Amarl. Once it hit, even
the awals couldn’t see anything.”
“Andra and I both wanted to help, but we couldn’t,” the girl said in a
quiet voice. “Her leg was too injured, and her ability needs line of sight to
work properly. And something kept suppressing my ithtu and disrupting
my sahr workings before I could collapse them.”
“You can do that to someone?” Amarl asked in surprise. That explained
why she hadn’t broken up the darkness, at least.
“Well, I can’t, but it’s theoretically possible. Assuming you knew what
sort of working the person was building, you could send in a disruptive
field to shatter theirs. You’d have to be really good with sahr, though, and
somehow know exactly what sort of working a person was creating to do
it.” She shrugged. “At least, that’s my best guess.”
“It doesn’t make any sense to me, but she’s been thinking about it all
day,” Burik chuckled. “So, she’s probably right.”
“Or I’m totally wrong, and someone or something has an ability to
disrupt sahr. Either way, though, once the cloud hit, I kept trying to build
matrices to disrupt it. Then, it just kind of vanished, and there you were,
lying on your back with a dead umbral laying on top of you.” She
shuddered. “You were so cold, and your skin was turning blue. Even
Ranakar seemed worried. I thought for a second that it killed you.”
She fell silent, and he watched her, seeing the worry and grief in her
eyes. He reached over and laid a hand on her shoulder, giving her a gentle
smile.
“Meder, seriously, I’m fine. I promise. My ithtu mostly held the poison
at bay until the end of the fight, then it all hit me at once. That’s why I
passed out.” He chuckled and took his hand away. “Honestly, I was more
worried about you than anything.”
“Me?” she asked in a startled voice. “Why me?”
“Because when the darkness didn’t disappear, I worried that whoever
was controlling that thing sent it after you first—or maybe Burik and the
others, to finish off the wounded.” He made a face. “Not that I’d have
missed Robla, Gowen, or Nolla—at least not that much. I assume they all
made it?”
“They did,” she nodded. “The umbral left us alone. Leria, though…”
She shuddered again, and Amarl nodded soberly.
“Yeah. I saw it happen. The bloomwing got her.”
“It was awful. That beam hit her, and she just died, screaming…”
Meder’s face was pale, and her hands shook as she spoke. Amarl rested his
hand atop hers, and she clutched it, her head bowed.
They all fell silent for a few moments before Burik cleared his throat.
“It was awful,” he agreed. “We’ll drink to her memory at Sasofit’s next
time we’re there, and we’ll invite anyone who was close to her to join us.
We’ll tell stories about her and remember her life with us. That’s the way to
honor a fallen soldier.”
Meder took a deep breath and nodded. “That—that sounds like a good
idea, Burik.” She smiled sadly. “I have a feeling we’ll be doing that more
and more as the years go by.”
“You’re probably right. That’s the burden of being a soldier—or an
ithtar, I assume. We live surrounded by death, and one day, it’ll take us,
too.” He smiled, the expression hard and cold. “But it didn’t get us today,
and that’s what matters.”
“It almost got me,” Amarl sighed, moving away from Meder and sitting
on his own bed. “That thing nearly killed me, Burik.”
“It didn’t, though, and ‘nearly killed’ is just another way of saying you
lived to fight again.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Amarl grinned sourly.
“So, what happened?” Meder echoed Burik’s earlier question. “Once
the cloud hit, I mean?”
“I killed the umbral before it got me,” Amarl shrugged. “Seems pretty
obvious.”
“How did you kill it, you ass?” she said with a roll of her eyes, but the
sarcasm seemed to jat her out of her melancholy a bit. “Your moon axe was
reaches away, and Wurynath said it didn’t look like you beat it to death, or
it bled out.”
 “Well, like you said, once the cloud hit, I knew what we were facing,”
he sighed, giving them a brief description of the fight, including figuring
out how to sense the creature and the hidden figure. He told them how he’d
sensed the ithtu in the umbravore and drew it out at the end, killing it.
Unlike when he told the story to Ranakar, he explained the way he’d taken
control of his rampaging ithtu, as well.
“And when the darkness vanished, I saw Ranakar above me, and
then…” He shrugged. “I passed out. And that’s pretty much it.”
Meder and Burik both stared at him. Her eyes were wide, her
expression clearly shocked; his face looked thoughtful, a look that might
have been comical without his eyebrows were it not for the seriousness of
Amarl’s story.
“Tier G, huh?” Burik finally asked, opening and closing his fist
seemingly without realizing it.
“Yep. At least, that’s what my crystal told me. I suppose it could have
gotten it wrong.”
“Maybe, but if it can tell that you’re a Tier F, it can probably tell who’s
Tier G.” The boy shook his head.
“They do,” Meder said, still staring at Amarl. “Technically, there’s no
limit on how high they can go since each tier is just a range of ability
strengths. Tier F like Amarl contains abilities that are 150 to 400 times as
strong as a basic Tier A, roughly. Tier G starts at 400 times that strength
and should go up to about a thousand.”
“So, there could be a Tier Z, then?” Burik asked curiously.
“Theoretically, but it would require billions or even trillions of units of
ithtu,” she shook her head. “I’d have to sit down and do the math to be
sure, but if someone had an ability that strong, they’d never be able to use
it. You could harvest everyone in the entire Empire and not get enough
ithtu for a single use.”
“That’s a lot of ithtu,” Amarl chuckled. “Still, 400 times the strength of
a Tier A seems bad enough to me.”
“I’d say it sounds like it’s the school’s problem, but from what you said,
they’re here for you,” Burik said. “I guess that makes it our problem.”
 “And the school’s, as well. I’m one of their students, after all.” He
glanced at Meder, who still seemed lost in thought. “You okay?”
She blinked in surprise before her face cleared. “I’m fine. I’m just—
well, I guess shocked is the only word for it.”
“I admit, knowing that there’s a Tier G ithtar running around doesn’t
make me happy, Meder, but shocked seems a little…”
“Not that,” she shook her head at Burik before turning to face Amarl.
“The umbral. You’re sure you drained its ithtu while it was alive?”
“Pretty sure since it kept trying to kill me the whole time,” he
chuckled. “Why? Ranakar seemed a bit surprised by that, too.”
“I can imagine. That’s supposed to be impossible, Amarl.”
Burik chuckled. “Which means for Amarl, it’s just another Shimio. He
does impossible things all the time.”
“No, Burik, this is different. Most of what Amarl does isn’t impossible,
just really unlikely. He’s fundamentally different from any other ithtar, not
really. Your ithtu makes you stronger and tougher; his does the same, but it
also makes him faster, more skilled, and improves his mind and will at the
same time. Mine helps me control the sahr field; his pushes the sahr field
away, so it doesn’t affect him. Robla’s imitates fire and damages people;
his does the same thing by coating the edge of his axe or his hands and feet
so he can hurt things that would otherwise ignore his attacks.”
“I never really thought about it like that,” Amarl said.
“I hadn’t before, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot in the past year.
Your ability’s powerful, Amarl, but really, it’s no different than anyone
else’s at a fundamental level. This, though—it’s different.”
“Why?” Burik asked. “We can all drain ithtu, Meder.”
“Free ithtu, Burik. Not ithtu bound into a living thing. Remember?
Caterama told us that the Order’s been trying to figure out how to liberate
ithtu from living things forever, and no one’s ever been able to do it. The
Order believes that it’s a fundamental concept of ithtu: the ithtu in a living
creature is impossible to touch, much less drain.” She shook her head. “At
least, it was until now. Amarl, this is the most impossible thing you’ve
done yet, and it could change the entire Order. It could change the world.”
 “It’s not that big of a deal, Meder,” Amarl scoffed.
“No? Think about it. Ithtu is just life energy. If you can drain it from
something living without killing it, it should eventually heal and replace
whatever you take. Then, you could drain it again, over and over. The
Order could capture something like that doom tortoise and let you harvest
strong crystals forever without killing it.” She shook her head. “If you
could teach other ithtaru how to do it, then the Order could farm crystals
instead of hunting for them. It could change everything.”
Burik frowned at Amarl. “She’s right, you know. And if she thought of
it, you know the school has. I’ll bet they start bringing you creatures to
drain of their ithtu to see if you can control it and what you get from them.”
“That sounds moderately awful,” Amarl sighed. “If you’re right,
though, I’ll probably find out about it tomorrow when I see the Rashiv.”
“There are no duties tomorrow, Amarl,” Meder shook her head. “At
least, not for any of us who fought yesterday.”
“Oh, and we’re all supposed to gather tomorrow night by the Deeps,”
Burik added. “Us and the older students. I’m guessing it’ll be something
about Leria and maybe about rewards for whoever made it to the end.”
“I’ll be happy if the only reward is never having to do that again,”
Meder said with a heavy sigh. “We’ll have to, though, won’t we? In fourth
year.”
“Probably,” Amarl nodded. “But I’m still meeting the Rashiv
tomorrow. Ranakar told me. First thing in the morning.”
“Maybe he wants to hear your version of what happened,” Meder
suggested. “Or congratulate you on killing the umbral and saving lives.”
“Really, Meder?” Amarl snorted. “You think that?”
“No, not at all,” she sighed. “You’re probably in trouble again, Amarl.
Somehow, I’m sure the school will find a way to make all this your fault.”
“That does sound a lot more like them,” Burik agreed.
“Well, they can try,” Amarl said, his voice turning hard as he lay back
on his bed and draped an arm over his face. “This time, though, I’m not
going to let them.”
OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 60
Amarl’s body hadn’t quite healed overnight. He’d slept restlessly, his
brain filled with nightmares about the umbraline and a mysterious, all-
powerful ithtar hunting him for his blood, and he’d woken with his eyes
gritty and a pounding ache in the center of his forehead. His body still
ached from the battering it took the day before, and when he stepped into
the shower, he noticed red scar tissue on his legs. It seemed that Midoral
had healed him just enough to be functional but not enough to undo all the
damage to his body. His ithtu would probably get rid of those scars in a few
days, and his aches would likely be gone by the end of the day, but seeing
them irritated him. It wouldn’t have taken a lot of ithtu for Midoral to
finish the job, after all.
The headache and lack of sleep added to his irritability, as did the fact
that his friends got to sleep in when he had to get up. The Rashiv could
have summoned him at a later hour and let him rest. Granted, Amarl
doubted he was close to the most important person the Rashiv had to deal
with that day, but the old man could have had a bit of concern for the boy.
He doubted it ever occurred to the Rashiv that Amarl might want to sleep in
and recover from the grueling week he’d just had, and if it had occurred to
the man, it wouldn’t have mattered.
He snatched a quick breakfast, ignoring the other second-years who
hadn’t made it as far on Challenge Week and thus had to fulfill their normal
duties. He got a few odd looks from people, and Norag looked like he
might try talking to the hizeen. Apaprently, something in Amarl’s
expression convinced the boy otherwise. Amarl was secretly glad of that;
he liked Norag just fine, but he wasn’t in any mood to talk that morning.
Instead, he ate in silence, then headed out for the Citadel at a normal
walking pace. It was a petty act of rebellion, he knew; walking instead of
running made the Rashiv wait a few minutes longer, nothing more. Still,
the pettiness suited his mood, and he had to fight not to walk at a snail’s
pace. He could explain a bit of delay as his still-sore body; too much, and it
would be obvious that he simply stalled.
He trudged up the stairs to the Rashiv’s tower and knocked on the steel
door. It swung open a moment later, and Renahisek motioned toward him.
 “Come in, Novice,” the awal said, not even looking in Amarl’s direction
as he gestured toward the opposite door. “You can go in. He’s waiting for
you.”
Amarl nodded wordlessly and walked across the office. The inner door
swung open of its own accord as he approached, revealing the Rashiv’s
office and the old man himself, seated behind his desk, staring at a labah
board with pieces strewn across it.
“Enter, Novice,” the old man said absently, beckoning toward Amarl
without looking in his direction. Amarl stepped in, ignoring the door
swinging shut behind him, and stood before the Rashiv’s desk. The old
man ignored him as his eyes moved around the labah board, and Amarl took
a moment to examine the board itself.
It was a full board, with all three levels attached. Stones lay across all
three boards, and unlike the stones that he and the old man usually used,
these weren’t simply black and white. Half the stones were pale, while the
rest were dark, but each stone seemed to have some sort of decoration or
flaw that distinguished it from all the others. It was also far more complex
than any board he and the old man had ever played. Long, twisting lines of
black and white stretched deep into enemy territory, looking far too
vulnerable to him but presumably supported by the pieces in the layers
above and below them. Those boards spread out in crazy patterns of their
own, each somehow pulling influence from the adjoining central layer
while adding their own to the pieces below in a way that he couldn’t quite
understand. The whole thing looked ridiculously complicated, and he
couldn’t begin to untangle the various connections, relationships, and
values attached to each piece. Somehow, though, he had a feeling the
Rashiv could see all of those at a single glance.
A full minute of silence passed before the Rashiv leaned back and
looked toward Amarl with a thin smile. “Ah, did I keep you waiting? How
rude of me, after you hurried here to meet me.” The man’s eyes flashed a
bit, and Amarl swallowed hard. The old man somehow knew that he’d
taken his time getting there. Suddenly, he regretted giving in to his
irritation, and he resolved to ignore it at least until the end of this meeting.
“Sit down, Novice,” the old man said after a few moments that Amarl
guessed were meant to give the boy a chance to realize that his petty
rebellion hadn’t gone unnoticed. Amarl quickly pulled out a chair and
settled into it, and the old man leaned back, resting his elbows on his chair’s
arms and looking through Amarl as if not quite seeing him for a moment.
He focused on the boy, and a frown creased his face, one that made Amarl’s
heart jump slightly.
“Your ability,” the old man said in a soft voice. “It evolved.”
“Yes, sir,” Amarl nodded, swallowing hard. “It’s ‘mezy’ now.”
“And the description?”
“Soul Strengthens and Draws All.”
“Did it happen after you drained the umbraline of its ithtu?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you took that ithtu directly into your tak? No crystals formed?”
“No, sir, they didn’t. I know that I’m supposed to harvest crystals for
the school, but…” He fell silent as the old man waved a hand dismissively
in his direction.
“It wasn’t intentional, obviously. And it’s a potent ability. Being able
to fill your tak directly, rather than relying on a slow quickening from
crystals, is quite useful. I can see a few downsides to it, though.”
“Like what, sir?” Amarl asked curiously.
“For one, you use the crystals to improve your stats, and next year,
you’ll learn how to use them to strengthen your ability and level. We don’t
know how to do that using the energy from your tak, only from crystals.
Without crystals, you’ll need to work out how to do those things on your
own—or you’ll fall behind as the other students strengthen themselves
beyond what even your ability can give you.” He shrugged. “It feels like a
way to quickly fill your tak in a situation like Apirron, when you needed
energy and couldn’t afford to wait for it to trickle in from your crystals, not
a replacement for them.”
Amarl nodded slowly. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, sir.”
“Well, I’ve had far more experience analyzing abilities and the best
ways to use them,” the man smiled. “So, how did the description of your
ability change?”
 “It gained a new passive and active effect. The passive effect lets me
sense energy around me, and the active one lets me drain ithtu from what it
calls ‘inaccessible sources,’ which I think means living things.”
“Incredible,” the old man breathed. “How many passives do you have,
now?”
“That’s the fourth one, sir.”
The old man chuckled, a wry sound that made Amarl relax a bit. “Do
you know how passive abilities work, Amarl?”
“Only what you’ve told me, sir,” the hizeen shrugged. “I know that
everyone has one, and that our ithtu powers them all the time without
needing to draw on our tak for them.”
“That’s half accurate.” He looked up at the ceiling. “This is something
that you’ll learn next year, but it’s not technically true that every student has
a passive ability. That’s because passive abilities, at least as far as we’ve
been able to determine, aren’t an inherent part of an ithtar’s power. Instead,
they’re a reaction to an ithar’s power.”
“I don’t understand the difference, sir,” Amarl admitted.
“Let’s take an example, then. Your classmate Herel. His power is
‘ene,’ a high Tier A ability that boosts his physical dexterity and agility.”
“I thought it improved his Skill stat,” Amarl frowned.
“You have it backwards,” the old man chuckled. “Most students do.
Your stats don’t grant you strength, or endurance, or intellect. They
measure it. Herel’s ability boosts his agility and dexterity, both of which
are measured by the Skill stat, so his apparent Skill stat increases
proportionately. And whatever your stats become, your base stats—the
ones you had before you began improving them—will always measure how
easily certain things will come to you and your natural affinity for certain
skills.
“However, the point is that you’ve trained enough and become skilled
enough to know that fighting skill isn’t just about agility and coordination.
You have to be able to see the openings your opponent provides you, realize
that they’re there before he closes them up again, and only then can your
improved skill take advantage of that. It’s why, despite having an ability
that should make him a much better fighter, Herel loses most of his matches
at Halit and wouldn’t stand a chance against someone like you or your
friend Burik—or even young Meder if she were to use her ability. His
power improves him incompletely, in a manner of speaking.”
The man looked through Amarl again. “And that’s where passive
abilities come into play. As a student uses their ability, their ithtu learns the
weaknesses in it, and it fills those in with passive abilities. Young Herel
will probably gain faster reflexes and improved mental processes over time,
as his ithtu discovers what he needs to fully utilize his ability.”
The Rashiv smiled at Amarl. “What this means is that for most
students, they quicken their active ability first, then they develop passives
over the course of years of practice. One reason that fourth and fifth-years
have so much better control of their abilities, other than the fact that they’ve
trained more with them, is because they have those passives. Take Robla,
for example. When she first quickened her ability, it burned her as much as
it did her opponents.”
Amarl’s eyes widened. “It did?”
“Oh, yes. Every time she used it, she ended up with burns across
whatever part of her body the flames touched. She had to take healing
elixirs constantly, and the near-constant pain gave her what you might call
anger issues—or, in her case, took existing ones and made them worse.”
He shook his head. “She endured that for half of her second year and much
of her third year before she developed her first passive, which as you can
imagine is a resistance to fire and heat. To say that she was relieved is
something of an understatement.
“And most students go through something like that,” the old man
sighed. “Those with great strength suffer constant bone fractures and
muscle tears until their ithtu reinforces their bodies. Those with speed
abilities trip, fall, and knock themselves unconscious running into things.
Your friend Andra was constantly affected by her own power each time she
used it, which you can imagine made it close to worthless for a while, and
your not-so-much-a-friend Nolla had the same issue, draining her own
willpower even as she sapped others. She made some rather poor choices
under the effect of her ability until her passive resistance developed.”
“But, sir…” Amarl paused. “Burik and Meder. They both got passive
abilities when they quickened their active ones…”
 “And they both quickened their abilities earlier than expected, as well,”
the Rashiv said with a thin smile. “I believe they have you to thank for both
of those things, Novice.”
“Me? I didn’t do anything, sir.”
“Directly? No, you didn’t. However, they’re your friends. You care
for them, and you want them to succeed along with you. In fact, I’d say
you need them to.” The man spread his arms. “Ithtu responds to need. You
needed your friends to rise with you, so your ithtu made that happen.
They’ve both been touching their passive abilities since last year because
your ithtu started improving their bodies to handle it. You’ve been waking
up their abilities bit by bit whenever you felt a need for them to be at your
side. You’ve even helped them to grow stronger than they should have
because you wanted them to be like you.” He smiled. “And that was
without even trying. Imagine what you’ll be able to do when you truly
master your ithtu and take control of it.”
Amarl sat back in his chair, his face reflecting his amazement. He
hadn’t meant to do any of that, and part of him refused to believe that he
had. After all, surely Burik and Meder could have done all that on their
own. It was hard to argue with the utter certainty in the Rashiv’s voice, but
it was just as hard to accept that his friends had come as far as they did
partially because of him.
“Are you thinking that this takes something away from them?” the
Rashiv chuckled. “You shouldn’t. Your ithtu nudged them, true, but it
simply pointed them in a direction you wanted them to go. They were the
ones who got there. Meder’s talent with sahr and Burik’s ability to lead
have nothing to do with you and are their own accomplishments. You
simply aided them a bit—and haven’t they aided you in return? Without
Burik’s training, would you be half as competent at fighting as you are?
Without Meder’s guidance, would you have realized how to use your ithtu
to improve your body? You helped them along, but they’ve done just as
much for you—as it should be among friends.
“The point, though, is that you’re progressing quite differently, Amarl.
You’re developing passives first—and quite a few of them—and still
haven’t quickened your primary active power. It’s as if your ithtu knows
what you’ll eventually need and is preparing your body for it so that your
ability doesn’t destroy you. Improved growth, increased stats, the ability to
draw ithtu faster, and now an ability to sense ithtu and drain it from living
things to fill your tak faster. Your ithtu’s giving you the ability to gather the
power you need to use it and the strength and skill to use it safely and well.”
“That seems like a good thing, sir,” Amarl ventured.
“Very good, yes.” The man cleared his throat and leaned forward once
more. “We’ve gotten a bit off-track, here. This wasn’t why I called you
here today, Novice. Can you guess why I did?”
“Probably about the attack yesterday, sir—and the ithtar I met.”
“Precisely. There’s another matter, as well, but that involves a few
others. They should be here within a half-hour. In the meantime, tell me
what happened yesterday, from the moment that the beast horde first
appeared.”
“Sir, I’m not sure I know anything more than anyone else. The awals
probably saw more than I did.”
“And I’ve received their reports. Now, I wish yours. Proceed. What
happened the moment that the beast horde appeared, from your point of
view? And be as detailed as possible, please.”
Amarl swallowed again and cast his thoughts back to the previous day.
“When the beasts appeared, sir, the awals took charge. Ranakar—I mean,
Awal Ranakar started issuing commands to the others, and they followed
his orders. All the ithtaru activated their abilities…”
“Wait,” the old man held up a hand. “How do you know they used their
abilities?”
“I—I could see them, sir. Or feel them, I guess. I can feel ithtu and
sahr being used, if there’s enough of it, and there was a lot around the
nadars and malims—and especially around the awals.”
“Interesting,” the man nodded, placing his hands together once more.
“How long have you been able to do that?”
“I guess—I guess always, sir. I could feel it in Danmila when I first
saw her. I can feel it in you all the time. Once I learned how to mute my
ithtu a bit, though, it became a lot clearer.”
 “And if you had to judge which of the two awals was stronger, who
would you pick?”
“Awal Ranakar, sir,” Amarl said without hesitation. “Awal Tekasoka
was powerful, but Awal Ranakar felt almost like a second sun hanging in
the sky when he fought that bird.”
“So, you can judge tiers and evolutions,” the Rashiv mused. “Useful.
Proceed.”
Amarl went on, explaining what happened as best as he could. He told
the Rashiv how Andra had assumed command of the students and novices,
and how Burik convinced her to cover the wounded before withdrawing.
He mentioned how Meder noticed the hidden beasts before the rest of them,
giving them a chance to form a defensive line. He talked about the tactics
of the creatures, and how the students fought against them. The old man
asked numerous questions, getting far more information from Amarl than he
thought he’d remembered. When he spoke of the hidden figure unveiling
themselves and his crystal’s analysis of it, the old man leaned forward
interestedly.
“And could you sense their ithtu? The way you could the awals?”
“Yes, sir,” Amarl said with a short nod. “It was stronger. A lot
stronger.”
“Stronger than both combined?”
“Easily, sir.”
“Hmm.” The Rashiv leaned back, steepling his fingers in front of his
face again. “Then your crystal was likely right. I hoped it was mistaken.”
“Our crystals can be mistaken, sir?” Amarl asked with surprise.
“Absolutely, Novice,” the old man chuckled. “Your crystal is joined to
you, and it knows little more than you do. It’s designed to extrapolate an
ability’s tier based on the energy output it detects, but that’s imprecise and
prone to mistakes.” He gestured at Amarl. “Your own ability is an example
of that. Your crystal ranks it as a Tier F ability because that’s what it’s
projecting based on the name of it, but since it’s an ability we’ve never seen
before using a letter we’ve never seen before, it could be wrong. It's
possible that your ability could turn out to be a Tier G or even H itself.”
 “I’d be happy with it staying at Tier F, sir,” Amarl said feelingly.
“That’s enough trouble for me.”
“I doubt you’ll get your wish,” the old man shrugged. “Your ability is
all about growth, after all. I’m sure it will keep growing, as well.
Hopefully, though, it will give you a chance to grow with it.” He waved to
Amarl. “Go on.”
“The ithtar spoke to me, then, sir. In my head, the way Awal Tekasoka
can.”
“Yes, telepathy is a common passive for dominators,” the old man said
solemnly.
“Dominators?”
“Those with an ability to take over and control the minds or bodies or
others. We call them dominators, just as we call any ithtar with an ability to
see or sense things at a distance diviners. Whoever this person is, they can
obviously control the minds of non-sapient beasts, and since those creatures
don’t understand Imperial, being able to send your wishes directly into their
minds is quite useful. What did they say to you?”
“They got mad at me for attacking them. I told them to go ahead and
kill me, and they said that if they wanted to do that, they could have
anytime they liked. Then, to prove the point, they quieted the song of my
ithtu, which let the umbraline rip me up a bit.”
“A suppression ability as well,” the man murmured, his eyes going
distant for a moment. “It could be part of a greater power…” He seemed to
rouse himself. “Did they say why they hadn’t?”
“My blood, sir,” Amarl replied in a quiet voice. “They said my
bloodline couldn’t be allowed to die out and hinted that they’ve been
helping me to quicken it. Then they said that I had to pay for attacking
them, and that if I wanted to survive and prove myself worthy of my blood,
I’d have to give myself to my ithtu.”
“And did you?” the man asked, lifting an eyebrow quizzically.
“Sort of, sir. I did what Awal Ranakar suggested about my forms, and
instead of fighting my ithtu, I let it carry me along. I let it go, but I held
myself above it, so it didn’t control my thoughts.”
 “I assume it had better results than suppressing part of it?”
“Much better, yes. However, it drained my tak really fast, and I ended
up using two of my crystals to keep it going.”
“So, partially suppressing your ithtu gives you better long-term results,”
the man said with a nod. “That makes sense. It’s rare that an ithtar fully
unleashes their ability—at least, once it’s fully trained and mastered. We
usually use just enough of it to do what we have to. The less we use, the
more efficient our ithtu is at powering it.” He tapped his fingers together,
staring into space for several moments, then straightened.
“Ah, I believe the others are here,” he said with a smile. A moment
later, the door behind Amarl swung open. The boy turned in his chair and
had to suppress a smile as he saw Meder, Burik, and Andra all enter the
room. The Rashiv gestured the three toward the chairs, and each of them
sat without uttering a word. Amarl’s smile faltered as Tekasoka and
Ranakar entered behind the trip, both of their faces flat and expressionless.
“Each of you are here today because your actions have merited notice,”
the Rashiv said as Ranakar and Tekasoka walked around the desk and stood
to flank him. The old man turned toward Andra. “Student Andra, when the
beast horde appeared, you took command of the other novices and students
and organized a withdrawal. Is this correct?”
“Yes, sir,” the girl replied without elaborating.
“And Novice Burik, I understand that you took the role of second-in-
command and had the idea to cover the withdrawal of the wounded, yes?”
“Yes, sir,” Burik replied evenly.
“Novice Meder, you detected the second horde of beasts that might
have intercepted the wounded. How did you do that?”
“I’ve been building a detection working since our hunt in Apirron, sir,”
she said in a crisp tone. “I guessed that a concealment working wouldn’t
leak sahr that could be detected by someone since that would defeat the
whole purpose. However, a sahr working powerful enough to hide
something as big as Apirron’s bridges would require the sahr field in that
area to be exceptionally dense, meaning the field around it should be
weaker. My working looks for that sort of imbalance: an area of thick sahr
surrounded by an area of thin sahr.”
 “Ingenious,” the Rashiv said with a chuckle. “I presume that you can
turn this working into a set of equations? The school would profit greatly
from them.”
“Yes, sir. I’d be happy to.”
“Good.” He favored the three students with a smile. “Typically, Askula
isn’t prone to giving out compliments and rewards to students, as you’ve
probably guessed. This is deliberate. The fact is that the life of an ithtar is
often a thankless one. Those whose lives you save will rarely thank you for
it. The powers in the Empire won’t reward you for your service. We teach
our students to look to themselves for praise and encouragement because
it’s likely the only kind they’ll ever receive.
“However, the fact is that what the three of you did this year has to be
acknowledged,” he went on. “You fought off deadly attacks from older
students with far better control of their abilities. You faced a doom tortoise
and somehow killed it. You’ve earned more points between the three of you
than any similar group in generations. You faced not one but two umbrals
and killed both, something that even advanced students would struggle
with. And, of course, this past week, you convinced a group of ambitious
novices, all of whom wanted to be the best, to put their own interests aside
and sacrifice for others, which might be the most impressive feat of them
all.”
The man smiled slowly as he looked at the three. “You all know that at
the end of second year, instead of remaining together, you’re sorted into
dormitories based on the tier of your ability. Tier A students like your
classmates Herel and Hadur go to Risha School.” He gestured at Burik.
“You’ll be heading to Baqena School with the other Tier B students.” He
glanced at Meder. “And you and Novice Amarl will be heading to Libba,
the school for Tier C and higher abilities.”
Amarl’s heart sank at the old man’s words. He actually hadn’t thought
of that, but it was true. Starting in third year, the students split up based on
abilities. They wouldn’t be able to room together anymore. The thought of
losing them as roommates felt like a knife in his chest, although he
imagined that it was worse for Burik. At least Amarl and Meder would be
in the same school; Burik might have a totally different schedule, and he
might not see the others very often.
 The Rashiv cleared his throat. “However, what you don’t know—or
shouldn’t, although I wouldn’t put it past Novice Meder to have discovered
this somehow—is that there is a fifth school, a hidden one: Khana School.
Khana School, unlike the others, isn’t about tiers. Only the most dedicated,
talented, and skillful students join this school. Those who do receive extra
training, greater resources, better crystals, and more opportunities than
other students. In return, they’re held to a higher standard.” He smiled and
glanced at Meder. “Although sometimes, no higher than the standard to
which they hold themselves.”
The girl blushed slightly, but the Rashiv ignored her and kept speaking.
“Each year, Awal Tekasoka decides if any among her novices show the
requisite ability, talent, leadership, and dedication to be nominated for this
school. Awal Ranakar, as the head of Khana, then selects those candidates
he feels would be a worthy addition to the school. This year, she selected
you three as the sole candidates among the novices, and Awal Ranakar
accepted each of you into his school. Congratulations. You are now
members of Khana School; at least, you will be after graduation.”
Amarl glanced at the others, seeing equally confused and astonished
looks on their faces. Meder looked at the Rashiv and straightened.
“Sir? If I might ask, what exactly does that mean?” she asked. “Will
we be able to stay together?”
“Sadly, no,” the old man replied. “There are enough accusations of the
three of you receiving favoritism without making it worse. What it does
mean is that you’ll have a slightly altered class schedule, one tailored to
your abilities. There will be certain events you’ll attend that are only for
students of Khana, and you’ll receive opportunities that other students
might not.” He nodded toward Andra. ““As you might have guessed,
Student Andra is a member of this school, which is why she was chosen to
serve with the military for much of this year. It was an opportunity for her,
one that she made the most of, and I believe that she learned and grew a
great deal from it. With that experience, she was able to quickly take
command of your group yesterday and lead it against a creature as powerful
as a bloomwing. Her opportunity might have saved many lives.”
The old man’s face hardened. “And that’s also what it means, novices.
As members of Khana, you’ll have additional responsibilities and duties,
and failure of those will be far more severely punished. It means that your
teachers, who’ll know of your status, will push you harder than they would
others, knowing that you can handle the pressure—and that if you can’t,
you aren’t worthy of Khana. It also means that you’ll keep the existence of
Khana a secret and never speak of it where anyone not of the school might
hear. No malim or nadar will acknowledge your standing in any way.
Khana is the Shadow School, and anyone who breaks the silence about it
will have a very short life in which to regret it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” the novices said at once, Amarl pushing the words through a
dry throat.
“Good.” The old man leaned back again. “Now, you have a day of
rest. I suggest you enjoy it. Tonight, at sundown, we’ll gather at the Deeps
for a special ceremony.” The man waved his hand. “Dismissed. Enjoy
your day together. I’ll see you at sundown.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 61
Askula Village bustled with people as the four students made their
silent way to it from the Citadel. Amarl hadn’t really felt like speaking, too
overwhelmed and lost in his own thoughts, and it seemed the others had
similar attitudes. They stopped at Galiber’s, one of the few times this year
they’d been able to visit the bakery early enough to enjoy the rotund man’s
sweet pastries, then made their way to the fair. Instead of walking around
and shopping, the four chose an out-of-the-way spot under the shade of a
tree and sat down, nibbling on their food and watching the crowd pass bay.
Amarl’s eyes swept across the students, analyzing them and reading
their body language almost without thinking. The first-years were the
easiest to spot; even without their green uniforms, he could recognize them
by how warily they moved around the older students, being careful to avoid
giving them a reason to harass or abuse the younger ones. There weren’t
many second-years around; most either had their duties to perform or were
recovering from Challenge Week. He spotted Vatna and Lache walking
together, and when the two met his eyes, they nodded at him but didn’t
approach. He was fine with that; he wasn’t really looking for much
company at the moment anyway.
“I don’t see Hotet,” he observed after a moment. “Or Herel. They
should be off, too. Think they’re sleeping in?”
“I don’t know about Herel,” Meder replied in a quiet, subdued voice.
“But if Hotet’s here, I’ll bet he’s in Sasofit’s. He and Leria were in the
same group together, and they were pretty close.”
Amarl winced at that but didn’t reply, turning back to his examination
of the students. The third and fourth-years he saw mostly walked about in
small groups, talking to one another, laughing, or arguing without any real
heat that he could sense. He could see their training in their motions; each
of them moved lithely and gracefully, and their eyes swept around them
constantly as if looking for danger. Few of them touched one another, and
he could sense coiled readiness in them, no matter how seemingly relaxed
they might be.
“You know, this place is pretty fucked up,” he finally said with a sigh.
 Burik chuckled aloud, and Meder let out a snort of laughter, but Andra
just nodded her head.
“Yeah, it is,” she agreed in a quiet voice. “I think it’s meant to be.”
“To toughen us up?” Meder asked with obvious anger in her voice. “To
get us ready for the oh-so-hard life of an ithtar?”
“Maybe,” Andra shrugged. “But I think it’s more than that. I think that
they want us to hate this place.”
“Why would they want that?” Amarl asked. “It seems like they’d want
us to feel loyalty to the Order, not hate its guts.”
“Have you ever heard any of the malims or nadars praising the school,
Amarl? Or the Order?” She shook her head. “I haven’t. They all
acknowledge how horrible and unfair this place is, and they bitch about
being an ithtar as much as we bitch about being students. Then, they keep
making things as unfair and hard as they can be.” She reached down and
plucked a few blades of grass from the ground, playing with them idly.
“I used to hate them for it,” she admitted. “Everything the school did
made me angrier and angrier—especially in my second year. That
Challenge Day was the spirits’ hell, and it was obviously designed to be.”
She tossed the grass into the wind, her eyes watching the blades float away.
“I’m not sure I do after this year, though.”
“Why?” Meder asked, her voice curious and oddly hopeful.
“I spent the last year serving on the Flamewall.” She seemed to notice
Burik’s wince, and she gave him a rueful smile. “Yeah, you’d know about
serving there, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve listened to the stories,” the boy shrugged. “It’s not the same as
being there, but it’s the worst post in the Empire. Fighting the nomads and
the desert at the same time.”
“It’s not, but you probably have a better idea than most. I was given
rank equivalent to a staff leader, but instead of commanding a knife of forty
soldiers the way most do, I was attached to the second staff there. I was
supposed to watch and learn about commanding and organizing troops.”
She shook her head. “I thought I was ready for it. I’d taken the combat
tactics classes. I’d led my group in successful hunts and mock battles—
you’ll see those next year—and I’d fought monsters that made the nomads
look like helpless babies.”
She took a deep breath. “I was wrong. It was a fucking nightmare.
The second staff got his position from his family name, not ability, and he’d
put his friends and cronies into most of the leadership positions. None of
them had a fucking clue what they were doing, but they didn’t care as long
as they got their stipends and the privileges of their rank.” Her voice turned
disgusted as she spoke. “I had to watch as men and women, good ones
who’d earned their ranks, died to the nomads and their spirits because the
fuckers in charge couldn’t be bothered to actually lead them. I saw people
I’d gotten to know ripped open and slaughtered, then had to turn around and
kill them a second time when the nomads animated their bodies and sent
them against us.”
“That sounds horrible,” Meder breathed.
“It was, but it was better for me than most.” She waved a hand behind
her, in the direction of the Citadel. “One thing this school does: it teaches
you how to endure, and I think that’s the whole point. I think all of this is
designed to break us, over and over again, and force us to rebuild ourselves
into something that won’t shatter in a place like the Flamewall. We’re not
just learning how to accept abuse, brutality, and cruelty; we’re learning how
to push back against it.”
She smiled bitterly. “Like what you three did last week. You took their
fucking Challenge Week and turned it around on them, and I don’t think
you realize how much it changed things.”
“What do you mean?” Meder asked.
“Normally, Challenge Week isn’t a whole week,” the older girl replied
with a grimace. “Half the novices are usually out by the second day, and
three-quarters by the third. Fewer novices means fewer matches per round,
so the fourth-years have more time to heal and recover ithtu between fights,
so they can go all-out. The novices get less time, so they have to spend
points to be in shape for the next fight. They fight worse, get hurt more,
spend more points and earn less.” She laughed quietly. “When I did it, it
lasted four days. Three of us were left: me, Amrir, and Kafwi, and we were
the only ones who won regularly against the older students. They had the
three of us fight one another, and I ended up winning. I had fifteen points
toward graduation; most of the novices had none.”
She looked over at the silent novices. “This week, most of the novices
were still in after those same four days. That meant that the older students
kept having to fight, without getting the time to recover. At first, when they
didn’t realize what was happening, they kept going all-out, which meant a
lot of them started running low on ithtu. They started conserving it, but that
just meant they won less often and got hurt more. We’re given an allotment
of healing elixirs and crystals, but by day four, some of them had run out
already, and most of us were out by day five.
“That’s why they changed the format, by the way,” she laughed. “Only
a few of us still had any elixirs left, and none of us had spare crystals if we
used one up. Most of the students remaining wouldn’t have lasted two
more rounds, much less five, especially with nine of you still left to fight.
The awals had to change it, or you might have run out of students able to
challenge you. One big fight was their only real option.”
She laughed again. “And yet, despite that, no one’s punished you. Last
year, we all broke the rules and almost died. We should have been expelled,
but we weren’t. We killed Nihos—which I know the awals know about,
and which also should have gotten us killed—but they let it go. What does
all that tell you?”
“That maybe, the school’s pushing us, hoping that we push back,”
Amarl said slowly as the realization crystallized in his mind. “They want
us to find ways to fight against them.”
“And as long as we succeed—and don’t go too far—then they’re fine
with that. If we do it openly, they have to discipline us, like they did last
year and like I’m sure they’ll do to you guys over Challenge Week, but
from what I’ve seen, the school wants us to fight back, at least a little bit.”
“Did you fight back at the Flamewall?” Meder asked softly.
“Yeah. I did. It was messy, and if I’d been an actual staff leader, I
might have gotten demoted, imprisoned, or even executed for it.” She
chuckled. “But I was successful, and I’m part of the Order, so they couldn’t
do anything but issue me a formal reprimand and give me some lashes.”
Meder opened her mouth to ask another question, but the older girl shook
her head. “I’ll tell you all the story some other time. The point is that while
I still don’t like it here, I think I get it now. They’re turning us into people
who can endure when necessary, fight back when needed, and get the job
done either way. At least, that’s my guess.”
“It’s as good as any,” Amarl said with a sigh. “And better than anything
I can come up with other than that maybe the awals get off torturing us.”
“That’s possible, too,” Andra laughed.
“It’s probably both,” Burik suggested. “A lot of officers in the army are
like that. Their superiors bullied them when they were junior officers, so
when they become senior officers, they bully their juniors, too.”
“I noticed that,” Andra nodded. She looked at the novices. “I’m
surprised none of you are asking about what you just found out. I know I
had a ton of questions for Dodra when I learned about it.”
“I’m curious, but I’m not sure what I can ask safely,” Meder replied
slowly.
“Don’t mention the name, what it is, or anything about secrets, and you
should be fine,” Andra chuckled. “At least, when you’re talking to me and
no one’s around.”
“I could probably make sure no one else can hear us with a working.”
Meder’s face turned thoughtful, but Andra shook her head.
“You’d also have to hide us. Reading lips is a skill, after all, and a
useful one that a lot of older students have. Plus, you never know who
might be using a stealth-type ability to hide nearby and listen in. Always
assume everything you say is being overheard, because it probably is.”
“Fair enough,” the younger girl sighed. “What exactly is involved in
it? The Rashiv gave us some hints, but he didn’t say anything really
concrete.”
“Mostly training. You’ll see when you get your class schedules next
year, but you’ll have a unique courseload. Once a quarter, there’s an outing
of some sort into another realm or the Empire.” She shrugged. “Sometimes
longer, like mine was this past year, but that’s not a possibility until fourth
year, at least.”
“What sort of benefits are there?” Amarl asked.
 “For one, the malims and nadars stop looking the other way around
you,” the girl chuckled. “If a fifth-year tries to bully you, they might
suddenly find themselves doing disciplinary duties by cleaning out the
privy pits and scrubbing the wagons by hand. Of course, no one will ever
say a word to you about that; it’ll just happen.”
“That’s useful,” he grinned. “Although, we didn’t really get as much of
that this year as it is.”
“Because the third and fourth-years aren’t stupid, Amarl. Everyone
suspects what happened to Nihos, even if no one talks about it, and Amrir’s
spread stories about her hunt with you. She’s got one of the strongest
abilities in fourth or fifth year, and she’s told everyone that she wouldn’t
want to piss you off. They know that the three of you are dangerous, you
especially. Pushing younger students around isn’t as much fun when they
can push back hard.” She shrugged. “And this past week probably
reinforced that in people’s minds. What you did to Kafwi was fucking
brutal, Amarl.”
“That was the idea, Andra.”
“I know, but I didn’t think you had that in you.” She grinned at him.
“It was kind of hot, actually.”
“Oh, by the One,” Meder said, rolling her eyes. “Can you two not do
this until you’re alone? Please?”
“I don’t know, Meder,” Amarl said slyly. “It might be more fun if you
joined us.”
“The day that happens is the day that the Rashiv apologizes to all of us
for how the school’s treated us, and Ranakar decides to teach us dancing
instead of combat, Amarl.”
“So, you’re saying it’s possible, then.”
“Ass.” She looked back at Andra. “What’s one thing you wish you
knew about it when you were like us?”
“Damn. That’s a good question.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully.
“Only this. As much as the school was watching you before, they’ll watch
even more closely now. Be careful, and think about your actions before you
take them. The consequences for screwing up just got worse.” She
shivered. “Trust me. I was a single breath away from expulsion last year,
thanks to that bit with Nihos, and if I do anything like that again…” She
slid a finger across her throat. “People like us don’t get to make the same
mistake twice.” She looked at Amarl as she spoke, and he nodded slowly,
then let out an overly dramatic sigh.
“Great. More attention. Just what I needed.”
“You love it, and you know it.” She reached out and punched his arm,
then looked at Burik. “No questions?”
The larger boy simply shrugged. “They asked the important ones.
We’ll find the rest out when we need to know it.”
“Damn army brats. You take all the fun out of everything.” The older
girl rose to her feet. “Come on, let’s hit Sasofit’s. First round’s on me.”
“Actually, the first round’s on Meder,” Amarl grinned.
“Me?” the girl asked, her voice both surprised and suspicious. “Why
me?”
“Your bet with Burik, remember? Who would get control of their
ability first.” He pointed at the other boy. “He’s had his down pretty well
for moons, and the fight yesterday showed that you still need to work on
yours. Couldn’t even dispel one umbral cloud.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone dispelling an umbral cloud,” Andra noted.
“That’s not really fair, Amarl.”
“She’s done it once already, and that was without her ability.” He
shrugged. “It should have been a snap for her. Obviously, she’s got some
work to do.” The girl opened her mouth to protest, but Amarl held up a
finger and wagged it in front of her. “Ah, ah, ah. You agreed that I’d be the
judge, and I’m judging. In my judgment, Burik controlled his ability faster.
BUT…” He spoke loudly to interrupt her. “Your ability is crazy
complicated, so it’s not really fair. Instead of buying his drinks for a moon,
you have to buy the first round today and next Akio. Deal?”
“Fine,” she sighed. “That’s fair. First round’s on me.”
“Glad that’s settled. You guys can tell me about your year—and when
Meder faced a fucking umbral. Even I haven’t done that.”
“Oh, it’s quite the story,” Amarl chuckled. “There’s also the doom
tortoise and Gowen and Robla trying to kill me. Buy me a drink, and I’ll
tell you about it.”
“Don’t forget your fight with Nolla,” Burik added. “That scared the
hells out of everyone.”
“Damn, I missed a lot,” Andra said with a low whistle. “Fine. After the
first round, Amarl, your drinks are on me. But these better be some damn
good stories.”
“Oh, they are,” he assured her. “You really should have been there.”

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter 62
Amarl wasn’t sure what he’d expected from the evening’s ceremony.
He wasn’t even sure what it was about. It couldn’t be an end-of-year
graduation party since different groups graduated each quarter. At least, it
couldn’t unless the school had one every quarter for the graduating groups
from each year, and if it did, he’d somehow missed all of them. When he
asked Andra about it, the girl just shook her head.
“They always do this after Challenge Week. It’s supposed to recognize
the winners among the novices and students.”
“There are winners among the students?” Meder asked.
“Yeah. Challenge Week isn’t a test for the novices. We get scored for
our performances, as well, and the top three students get prizes. Although I
doubt it’ll be the same this year with how you three screwed everything
up.” She paused. “There’s probably more to it, as well, but I’m not sure
about that. We’ll have to see.”
The pink sun hovered behind the distant mountains as the four students
walked through the Citadel’s halls, heading for the Deeps behind the
fortress. Other students and novices walked with them, and when they
exited out the rear of the Citadel, they joined a small but growing group.
Amarl glanced around and recognized everyone present; they’d all
participated in Challenge Week. Vatna and Lache stood with Lared, talking
quietly to one another. Hotet stood alone, his grief evident on his face.
Gowen, Robla, and Wesho eyed Amarl with hard glares as they saw him,
but none of them spoke a word or moved to bother him. He even saw Herel
and Norag standing together, although there was no sign of Hadur. Had the
other boy been wounded badly enough that he was still healing? Amarl
didn’t remember him being hurt that severely, but he hadn’t really been
paying attention to the obnoxious merchant’s son either.
“I’m going to head over there,” Andra said, pointing to where Dewla
and Amrir stood together. “I’ll talk to the three of you later.” She gave
Amarl a sly smile. “And maybe more than talk, assuming you’re healed
enough for it.”
 “I’m never too injured for that,” Amarl laughed. “By the way, my
Seduction skill went up this year. It’s 9 now.”
“Really? You’ll have to show me what you learned.”
“I look forward to it—eagerly.”
She laughed, then walked away.
“You two are ridiculous,” Meder sighed. “How can you both just get
together like that?”
“It’s easy,” Amarl shrugged, then flashed the girl a grin. “And it gets
easier every time you do it—and better.”
“I’ll take your word for that.” She rolled her eyes, then stiffened. “Oh,
no. Amarl, look.”
Amarl glanced in the direction the girl pointed and tensed as he saw
Nolla headed his way. The girl’s jaw was set, and her eyes looked
determined. He forced himself to relax, though. The girl wouldn’t start
trouble here, with so many people around, right before an important event.
If she just wanted to spar verbally, well, he could handle that just fine.
He noticed other students drawing back as Nolla approached him, most
of them looking in his direction, no doubt eager to see a show. He sighed
internally and forced himself to look the older girl in the eyes rather than
letting his gaze drift lower as she stopped directly in front of him.
“Nolla,” he said with a smile, his voice as friendly as he could make it.
“You’re looking particularly well tonight.”
“And you look like the spirits’ hells,” she said simply. “I’m not here to
trade insults, though—or compliments.”
“Then what can I do for you, since I suppose doing something to you is
off the table?”
“I…” She paused, seeming to steel herself for what she had to say. “I
wanted to apologize. I blamed you for things that were my own fault and
then took things too far.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I hope we
can just put this past year behind us.”
He stared at her, blinking in surprise. “Why?” he asked after a moment
of silence.
 “Why what?”
“Why apologize now? Or at all? You could have just let it all go, and I
would have done the same.”
“Yesterday…” She paused, and he saw a flash of fear deep in her eyes.
“That bloomwing almost killed me, Amarl. Those creatures almost killed
us all, and they would have if we hadn’t worked together.” She shook her
head. “What happened between us was petty and stupid compared to that.
It’s not worth being angry about, and I should have realized it long ago.
We’re not here to play games. We’re here to learn how to survive shit like
that.” She gave him a serious look. “You could be a powerful ally, Amarl.
And you’ve proven that you’re a dangerous enemy. I’d rather have you as
the first one.” She extended a hand, and after a moment, he gripped her
wrist, feeling her squeeze his in return.
“I’d prefer the same,” he agreed, then glanced sideways. “What about
Gowen?”
“He’s an idiot,” she sighed, releasing his hand. “But a useful one. As
you saw, my ability and his work well together, and that’s a synergy I can’t
ignore. I’ve mended fences with him, but I doubt you’ll be able to do the
same.”
“I probably could if you’d just take a roll with him, you know,” Amarl
grinned at her.
“Ugh. And then, I’d have to deal with Robla, and he’d think I loved
him or something.” She shook her head. “I think you’re on your own with
him, but I’ll try and convince him you’re more trouble than you’re worth,
assuming he hasn’t figured it out by now.” She smiled at him. “One thing
all this has taught me is the importance of discretion, at least.”
“I’m glad one of us learned something,” Amarl laughed. “I’ve never
been a fan of personal growth, myself.”
“That’s a shame. If you ever do decide that discretion’s the better part
of valor…” She smiled at him. “Maybe we can talk about it.” She turned
and walked away, and Amarl decided to take her advice, refraining from
staring openly at her rather shapely backside and the hypnotic swaying it
made as she walked.
He jumped slightly as Meder smacked him on the arm. “Stop that.”
 “Stop what?”
“Staring. You think you’re being subtle, but you’re not.” She shook
her head. “And I can’t believe she propositioned you after everything that
happened this year.”
“She didn’t, not really,” Amarl laughed, rubbing his arm. “She was just
letting me know that it might be a possibility in the future, once people stop
talking about this year.”
“Would you take her up on it?” Burik asked slyly.
“Of course. I’ll be a lot more careful next time, though.” He laughed
again. “I guess I actually did learn something this year: don’t get caught.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but before she could, a familiar voice
rang out over the crowd.
“Good evening, novices and students.”
The gathered students fell silent instantly as that voice rolled over them,
followed by a pulse of sheer power that cowed everyone into stillness.
Amarl looked around and quickly saw the Rashiv standing near the Deep’s
altar stone, his multi-hued uniform shimmering in the waning sunlight.
Ranakar and Tekasoka stood behind him, but Amarl’s surprise, so did the
other three awals. Regalusa, awal of Risha School for Tier A students, had
a long face with a weak chin and kept her gray hair tied back behind her in
a complex braid. Sohathat, of Baqena, wore a heavy beard that matched his
reddish-black hair. Ninolow, awal of Libba School and soon-to-be the awal
in charge of Amarl and Meder, kept her graying brown hair in a tight bun,
making her thin face look almost knifelike. Each of them stood behind the
Rashiv with a somber expression, and seeing them, the students drew back,
leaving the area around the stone clear. A subtle tension arose among the
students, one that made Amarl’s heart hammer in his chest.
“Every year, we gather the Akio after Challenge Week to celebrate the
winners of that event,” the Rashiv said, his voice carrying over the crowd
despite the fact that he spoke in a normal volume. “This year, however,
we’re gathered for a different reason, and a much less happy one.”
The old man’s face was grave as he spoke, and his eyes swept the
crowd. “Yesterday, Askula faced an assault, something that hasn’t
happened since the time of its founding,” he said quietly. “While we
destroyed that attack, not all of us survived.” He lifted a hand and looked
over the crowd, and Amarl turned to see a nadar carrying a cloth-wrapped
white bundle in her arms. The woman strode through a corridor that the
students quickly opened for her, and Amarl felt a chill in his spine as she
passed him. She walked to the altar and laid the bundle atop it, opening it
to reveal the shriveled, withered corpse of Leria.
“Student Leria gave her life as an ithtara should,” the Rashiv continued
in a solemn tone. “She fought to protect others, her fellow students. She
shielded those of you too wounded to fight, and she stood beside the few of
you able to stand against the beast assault. All of you here owe her your
lives, and so, we gather here in part to honor her death and remember her
life.” The man fell silent, a silence that hung heavily over the crowd.
Amarl simply stared at the remains of the girl he’d fought beside. He
hadn’t known her well, but he’d spent enough time with her in the past
week to have trouble associating the sarcastic, biting girl with the shriveled
corpse before him. A chill passed through him as he realized that could
have been him, had the bloomwing’s attack been aimed differently. It could
have been any of them. His stomach churned as he imagined Meder or
Burik’s shriveled body on the altar instead of Leria’s, and the song of his
ithtu swelled slightly in his thoughts, its music grim and foreboding.
After several long seconds, the nadar lifted Leria’s body and stepped
back from the altar, carrying her remains toward the Deep and a wooden
raft that floated there. Amarl guessed that they’d push the raft into the lake,
then set it ablaze, as they did for the bodies of those who failed the Joining,
but instead, the nadar laid the corpse down, then strode back through the
corridor of students toward the Citadel, her face still grim. Amarl felt a
sinking sensation as he glanced toward the altar, its gray stone stained dark
pink by the setting sun. The ceremony wasn’t over, and he had a feeling he
wasn’t going to like the rest of it.
“Leria showed us all what a student of Askula should be,” the Rashiv
went on, drawing Amarl’s attention away from the grisly stone. “As did
many of you this week. You fought for one another, sacrificed for each
other, and were willing to trade personal glory and safety for a greater
good. That is the life of an ithtar or ithtara: a life of service and sacrifice,
even at personal cost. It requires dedication, effort, ambition, and a sense of
duty to something greater than you. While those of you who showed this
over the past week and especially during yesterday’s brazen attack will
receive neither acclaim nor reward, know that your actions were seen, and
Askula recognizes you.
“Leria’s sacrifice and the valiant efforts of those who shielded you from
the beast assault show you what a student of this school should be.
However, not everyone who comes to Askula can hold to that standard.
Some lack ability, others drive or ambition to push themselves beyond what
they thought possible. Some are simply unsuited for the power and
responsibility that goes with being ithtaru. Some strive but fail to meet our
exacting standards—and yesterday’s assault demonstrated why those
standards are so exacting.”
The man lifted a hand again, and once more, Amarl looked back to see
the Citadel doors swing open. This time, six nadars emerged, each pair
half-carrying, half-dragging a student between them. Amarl recognized all
three. Tukos had gone with him on his first hunt and attacked Amarl in a fit
of rage. Amarl sparred against Rotet earlier in the year and nearly killed the
boy, who’d relied entirely on his ability and didn’t seem to care about
learning to fight without it. And beyond those two…
Meder’s hand reached out and gripped Amarl’s arm as the three of them
saw Hadur being dragged along by two implacable nadars. The boy’s face
looked dazed and unseeing, as if he didn’t understand what was happening,
but Amarl suspected that somewhere, deep down, he knew and simply
lacked the power to fight against whatever bound his thoughts. Amarl
looked past the boy at Herel and Norag, both of whom looked away from
the grim procession, their eyes focused on the ground before them.
“He didn’t make it,” he thought silently, faintly stunned by the
proceedings. “He didn’t have the points to graduate. I didn’t know if
they’d expel him, but…” He let that thought dribble off as he watched the
boy being hauled to his doom. He stared numbly as the Rashiv spoke more,
something about duty and ability that Amarl ignored. Meder’s grip on his
arm tightened as Tukos was led to the altar and forced to bend over, pinned
by the two nadars holding him. Ranakar stepped up to the boy and slid out
a gleaming blade. The sword flashed once, gleaming red in the dying sun,
and Tukos’ head thumped to the ground. Amarl watched in horrified
amazement as Rotet followed, and a moment later, the stocky boy’s
lifeblood burst into the grass as his head rolled about. Hadur was brought
up last, and Amarl could only stare as the boy that had never been his friend
but was still his classmate was bent over the altar, pressed down and held in
place. Ranakar’s blade rose, and as it did, Amarl swore he saw a spark of
understanding fill the boy’s eyes, as if in the last moment, he realized his
fate. The sword flashed in the last glimmers of sunlight, and everything
that Hadur was or could have been simply ended in a spray of crimson that
doused the darkening ground.
The Rashiv spoke again as the three bodies were hauled away, where
their Joining crystals and ithtu harvested from them. They were tossed
unceremoniously onto the raft to join Leria, then the craft was shoved away
from the shore to drift into the lake. Amarl felt a surge of power flow from
Awal Ninolow, and the raft erupted in flames that quickly spread across it,
consuming the bodies.
“That—did that really happen?” Meder whispered in a soft voice.
“Yes,” Burik replied grimly. “It happened. That’s the price of failure in
Askula.”
The three of them stared as the fire flared high, then began to burn
down. As they did, Amarl felt something brush his mind, and a moment
later, a voice spoke within it, one that he recognized.
“This is the fate of all those who fail their bloodlines, hizeen,” the voice
of the hidden ithtar whispered in his thoughts. “You passed, for now, but
the time will come when you’ll have to choose between your blood and this
place. And when that time comes, I assure you: blood will flow.”
Amarl looked around wildly, trying to sense the hidden presence, but it
retreated from his mind as swiftly as it came, and he felt nothing but the
gathered power of the ithtaru and students around him. Meder gave him a
questioning look, but he simply shook his head, a silent promise to tell her
later.
As he watched the fire burning low, though, he considered the ithtar’s
words, and he decided that they were right.
“Whoever you are, whatever power you have,” he vowed silently,
feeling his ithtu surge triumphantly within him as he did, “I will find you.
And when I do, I promise you. Your blood will absolutely flow.”
OceanofPDF.com
 Epilogue
The Rashiv stared out the window that looked upon Askula, his eyes
vacant and his thoughts meandering aimlessly. He deliberately chose not to
think about anything, a skill he’d mastered while getting his Meditation
skill to rank 10. His labah board sat beside him, untouched since Amarl’s
visit a week prior. He knew the move he had to make, but he hesitated to
make it. It was a move he’d had no choice but to make ever since Amarl
uncovered the hidden player and revealed that player’s strength, but the old
man, old far beyond his years, refused to make it until it was absolutely
necessary. He’d glimpsed at the likely futures beyond that move, and all of
them ended in blood—very often, his own, torn from his body to fertilize
the same grass that devoured the last life of three students last Akio. No
future he saw promised anything resembling peace or tranquility. All were
writ in violence and pain, descending with the fury of a silver-haired boy
who, like the Rashiv himself, had seen and lived far too much for his short
years.
He roused himself as a silent chime sounded, then touched his ability to
see who approached his office. His smile turned to a frown as he saw that
instead of Ranakar, as he expected, Tekasoka ascended the stairs to his
tower. He sighed silently. He could feel the anger rolling off the woman—
well, off her future self—and he knew that she had reason to be angry. If
she knew what he planned, she’d be even angrier, but in every future in
which he told her, she ended up either a broken corpse or abandoning the
Order. He could afford neither—and he didn’t need more grief to add to the
ever-growing pile in the center of his soul.
The door swung silently open to admit the woman as she swept inside.
He had to admit that of all his awals, only Tekasoka and Ranakar ever
managed to intimidate him, him with his power and her with her simple
demeanor. Displeasure literally radiated from her, carried by her ability,
and her eyes burned brightly enough that he honestly didn’t even want to
meet her gaze. He did, though, managing to keep his demeanor calm and
friendly as she loomed over him.
“Tekasoka,” he said in as amiable a tone as he could manage. “Always
a pleasure to see you. Please, be seated.”
 “I would prefer to stand Rashiv,” she said crisply, her voice cold enough
that he was surprised it didn’t frost his windows.
“As you’d like, of course,” he smiled at her. “To what do I owe the
honor of this visit?”
“I’m here for an explanation, Rashiv.”
“An explanation? Of what, precisely?”
Her nostrils flared, and the sense of irritation welling out from her
increased substantially, making him wince internally.
“You know precisely what I mean!” she snapped.
“Ah. Young Hadur, I take it.”
“Yes!” She took a step closer to his desk, her face furious. “Hadur! He
was but ten points away from the threshold to graduate. He’d put forth
effort, taking extra training, fighting more in Halit…”
“Only after realizing that he wouldn’t graduate if he continued as he
was,” the old man interrupted quietly.
“That’s the case for half the students, and we both know it! Second-
years never take graduation points seriously until they realize that they
might not graduate without them. Spirits’ hells, they took them so lightly
that Amarl managed to convince all the top fighters to give them up just
based on a casual comment I made!”
His eyebrows rose in surprise; Tekasoka rarely swore, so when she did,
he took it seriously. “Do you think that I had him executed capriciously,
Tekasoka?” he asked in a calm voice.
“I…” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to
think, Rashiv. It feels—it feels like you had him executed to protect
Amarl. I know that Hadur disliked Amarl, but I also know that he had
neither the ability, skill, nor influence to do more than bandy words with
him, and Amarl is certainly skilled in that arena.”
“Far too skilled,” the Rashiv chuckled. “I’d hoped that the etiquette
classes would help with that, but…” He shrugged. “Hope is a game for
fools and priests, as they say.”
“I simply want an explanation,” she said, stepping forward again and
slamming her hands on his desk. “The entire second year is terrified.
Tukos, people can understand. He was constantly angry and lost control of
himself, and he’d been given multiple chances. Rotet is understandable as
well; he hated the Empire, and he did the bare minimum to get by. But by
all rights, Hadur should have been given a warning and a chance to redeem
himself. He wasn’t, and now all the students fear that they could be next!
If I have to deal with them, I want to know why I am!”
The Rashiv turned his gaze from her to the board in front of him. “It’s
been an interesting year, hasn’t it, Tekasoka?” he asked idly.
“Yes, it has.”
“Beasts in Askula. Doom tortoises. Older students making a diligent
effort to kill a younger one…”
“As I told you, Rashiv, Gowen, Robla, and Wesho have no recollection
of attacking Amarl,” she interrupted. “They thought they’d earned their
injuries in sparring.”
“Yes, and I believe you,” he nodded. “However, I think we can both
agree that all this difficulty revolves around one person, yes?”
“Amarl,” she nodded.
“Not precisely.” He looked at the board, picking up a piece and holding
it in his hand. “Some people call labah the game of life. Some even insist
that it is life, distilled to a gameboard.”
“I’m aware.”
“Of course. However, I think they’re wrong. Labah is nothing like life,
for one reason. In labah, you control your pieces utterly. You never have to
explain to them or tell them what you’re planning. You never have to
encourage them or punish them. If you sacrifice one for the good of the
game, the others don’t feel fear or anger.” He sighed. “Sadly, in life, things
are rarely so cut-and-dried. People aren’t simply pieces on a board.
They’re far more complex, and that makes dealing with them far more
complex.”
“Are you insinuating that Hadur—and I, by extension—are simply
pieces on your labah board?” she demanded, her nostrils flaring again.
“No, I’m suggesting the opposite. You aren’t pieces on a board, and
you can’t be treated as such.” He turned back toward her. “You’re wrong
that all the difficulties we faced this year revolve around Amarl. They
center upon him, but he did nothing to bring them upon himself—well,
nothing but existing, I suppose, but you can hardly blame him for that.”
“Many do, Rashiv.”
“And many people believe that the spirits caused the Shattering. Many
believe that the One Above gifted us ithtu to fight them. That doesn’t make
them right.” He leaned back in his chair. “No, the blame for all this rests
on the shoulders of a single person, and it isn’t Amarl.”
“His hidden ithtar,” she said, her mouth twisting sourly. “The one he
believes is Tier G.”
“I’m prone to believe it, as well,” the old man chuckled. “And you
should, especially. As powerful as you are, Tekasoka, could you have
bound that many beasts under your command? Controlled them that
tightly? And still had enough power to speak to Amarl telepathically with
such subtlety that he couldn’t sense you?”
Her mouth twisted like she’d bitten a lemon. “No, I couldn’t. A couple
dozen of the creatures, yes. But not that many. It would take more power
than I can manage.”
“And yet, we have proof that they did so. That seems to be a clear
indicator that they’re at least a Tier F, and I think that Amarl’s crystal would
recognize an ability the same tier as his. They are the nalu responsible for
all this.”
“It doesn’t make sense, Rashiv,” she shook her head. “A Tier G ithtar!
There hasn’t been one of those since the founding of the Order!”
“That we know of, you mean. You’re right, there hasn’t—however,
there also haven’t been any pure-blooded naluni since the founding of the
Order, and yet, we have Amarl, living proof that this isn’t so. Perhaps this
is a limit to our knowledge, not the power of ithtu.”
“A Tier G ithtar wouldn’t have to hide from us,” she pushed. “With that
much power…”
“Power isn’t the final arbiter of battles, Tekasoka, as you well know.
Skill plays a role, and so do flexibility, resources—and numbers. A single
ithtar, even a Tier G or H, wouldn’t stand a chance against all the powers
that the Order can raise against them.” He smiled. “However, in this case,
my guess is that our hidden player has no interest in opposing us or even
harming Amarl. It seems that their only intent—at least for now—is to aid
him.”
“Aid him? How is nearly killing him aiding him?” she protested,
flinging her hands into the air.
“We nearly kill our students on a regular basis to aid them,” he
reminded her. “Something that, while I know you dislike it, does have its
results.” He closed his eyes and tapped his fingers together. “Think about
it, Tekasoka. The hidden ithtar brought an umbravore into Askula and sent
it after Amarl. Why not something greater, like an umbralisk or
shadewalker? Either of those would have killed the boy with ease? An
umbravore, though, was powerful enough to force his ithtu to react but
within his ability to kill, obviously.”
He smiled gently and opened his eyes to look at her. “The same could
be said of the doom tortoise. They could have summoned the creature to
attack while the students were dealing with the other monsters, but they
chose not to. As we saw from the sheer number of beasts they commanded,
it wasn’t a lack of ability that stopped them. And why did they choose
Gowen, Robla, and Wesho, when they could have picked far more powerful
students to attack Amarl?”
“I can answer that,” the woman said, her voice troubled. “Controlling
beasts is far different from controlling naluni. We’re harder to command
and fight against the control, even without ithtu. It’s much easier to
convince someone to do something they already want to do than to force
them to do something against their will.” She frowned. “Still, you’re
right. There are more dangerous students they probably could have
convinced. Amarl has a potent inherent resistance to mental control, his
fighting skills are excellent, and his ability lets him cut through most
barriers. Those three would give him trouble, but they wouldn’t truly
threaten his life.”
She looked back at the old man. “To what end, though? Why would
they be helping Amarl?”
“They already told us. They wish to awaken his bloodline, meaning the
power inside him. They did exactly what we do, pushing our students just
beyond their limits without putting them in fatal danger, forcing their ithtu
to respond and their minds and bodies to adapt.” He laughed darkly. “In
fact, it’s possible that they’re doing that better than we are. He’s grown
from each of those attacks. Perhaps we’re being too gentle on him.”
Her expression was disapproving as she pulled out a chair and sat
down, to his immense relief. “What does this have to do with Hadur,
Rashiv?”
“While labah and life aren’t the same, Tekasoka, there are similarities
between the two,” he sighed. “And in a way, right now, we’re enmeshed in
a game against this hidden player. They made a move, a bold one, bringing
those beasts to Askula, but it was also a mistake.”
“A mistake?” she asked.
“Yes. I don’t think they wanted anyone to die, you see. Leria’s death
was an accident, a chink in their armor.” He grimaced. “Whoever they are,
they know me and my ability, Tekasoka, and so far, they’ve worked hard to
make sure I can’t use it to find them. A death, however, acts like a
lodestone for my power. You see, at the moment of death, every path
leading forward or backward from the slain vanish, all except one: the link
to whatever killed them. And that shines like a beacon to my ability. At
that moment, I touched them, just enough to mark them.” He smiled. “And
that let me untangle a few knots.”
He sighed. “Hadur’s death was critical, Tekasoka. I can’t tell you more
because I don’t know more, but I can tell you that had he lived, the future—
for Askula, not just Amarl—would be far bleaker. His death saved
countless lives in the future.” He chuckled. “Oddly enough, I’m not sure if
Amarl’s was one of them.”
“You haven’t looked at the boy’s future?” she asked, her face startled.
“I try not to. He’s far too powerful, so I see so many potential futures
that any sort of prediction is useless. Does he save us all? Kill us all?
Deliver us to the spirits? Somehow undo the Shattering?” He shrugged.
“I’ve seen all those and more—including ones where you’re his faithful and
devoted follower, I might add.” He laughed at the startled expression on
her face. “And ones where you violently oppose him, if it makes you feel
better.”
 “Neither of those are pleasant to contemplate,” she muttered, then
sighed. “So, what do we do, Rashiv?”
He suppressed a smile of triumph. “Do? There’s not much we can do,
I’m afraid. We watch. We prepare. We make sure that when our foe moves
again—because they will—we’re ready to counter them. That’s all we can
do, at least until we know more about our opponent. And putting those
three into Khana is the best preparation we can give them.”
She made a face. “I’m not sure about Burik,” she admitted.
“I am, and so is Ranakar. Thanks to his mother, he’s far more than he
appears. He simply has to come into his own.”
“Very well.” She leaned back and rubbed her face. “I accept that
Hadur’s death was necessary. I don’t like it, but I accept it.”
“Thank you.”
She pushed herself to her feet. “However, I would ask that you explain
this to me before the student’s head rolls on the grass next time.”
“You know I can’t promise you that, Tekasoka. The future is at it wills,
I’m afraid.”
She sighed. “I thought you’d say something like that. Good day,
Rashiv.”
“Good day, Tekasoka.” He watched as she strode out the door, then
leaned back, taking several deep breaths. He’d had to tell her more than he
wanted to, of course. Tekasoka was the most perceptive of his awals and
always had been. He’d managed to keep enough to himself, though.
In truth, Hadur died because he was weak, hateful, and just good
enough at manipulation to be dangerous. The boy had been forming a
Lasheshian group in the school, including buying weapons using money his
family funneled through the school’s delivery system. His death ended that
threat. Without him, there was no money, and without money, there was no
group. Telling her that would have been disastrous, though. Tekasoka had
been on the edge of retirement for years, ever since Rateso took over her
position. Knowing that such a group formed right under her nose would
have pushed her over that edge, and she’d have turned her back on the
Order entirely once she realized he’d let it happen.
 Hadur had also died because his death was necessary. If he’d lived, he
would have come into conflict with Amarl’s friend Meder in a way that
would have enraged the hizeen. That path left over half the students in
Askula dead at Amarl’s hands. Telling her that would have pitted her
against Amarl, and he only saw one future for her in that scenario. One
exceptionally short future.
He sighed as he reached over and picked up the silver and gray piece
he’d picked up earlier, then slid it forward one space. Doing so took it out
of the reach of a great deal of protective influence and exposed it to the
enemy. They’d certainly move to take it, and he wasn’t sure if he had
enough influence to hold it. If he succeeded, their attack would shatter, and
the victory would be his. If he failed, then his own defense would be
compromised, and he’d likely end up desperately clinging to the pieces he
could while watching his forces be whittled away. Either way, there would
be violence, pain, and blood in plenty.
He sighed and placed the piece with regret. Blood would flow, and he
could only hope that it wasn’t his own.

[MG1]Ithtu and living things

[MG2]More about Challenge Week
[MG3]When Amarl uses ability, drained and side effects afterward. Force him to use it sparingly.

[MG4]Add part about his senses sharpening after learning to quiet his ithtu
[MG5]And about training in the darkness after umbravore.
[MG6]Remove melee from Shit Day. Amarl’s last fight is against Nolla, and his ithtu stops
working for him (Rateso invisible). Meder vs. Amrir; she gets frustrated and quickens her ithtu.

Lower everyone’s points. Make graduation harder. Say it’s because for them, things are easier, so
the standards are higher.

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