AKI:
I sat alone, leaning against the vast outer wall beside the thick iron of the southern gate, nibbling on a loaf of bread and watching the others arrive in gaudy, lavish carriages. As though they’d organized their order of arrival, each came more extravagantly dressed than the last, each with a larger trunk banded to their more decadent carriage, each surrounded by one or two more in their adulating entourage.
Four years with these pompous fools, I thought, shaking my head.
The caravan to the academy stood next to the only Bark gate to circumvent The Muds and Roots. A garrison especially created to keep watch of the bypass watched us from their barracks—old but well-maintained two-story buildings surrounding the ample space in front of the exit. The Royal Academy’s metallic caravans, twenty diverse passenger carriages, and five luggage carts made of polished wood, all proudly hanging flags from their rears, lined the wall. This would be the second and penultimate such caravan—twenty passenger carriages, a hundred and twenty students per trip, three hundred and sixty from the capital alone. Then there were the other Evergreen cities, the free cities, and those from vassal states. Altogether, The Academy was said to take nearly two thousand new students every spring.
Edon arrived relatively early, and the company he found himself in stiffened his usually carefree demeanor. He did not approach me nor offer words of greeting. A quick and discreet nod was all I got. I did not resent him for it. He was as weak to resist the world and its machinations as I was.
After the last passengers arrived, The Academy coaches began to move, twisting about like a slithering snake. They moved with a fluidity I thought was exclusive to constructs of flesh. No rider sat atop them to provide direction, and no animal or beast was hooked to them for impetus, and yet they moved as though they were the limbs of a single creature, twisting and moving with sourceless power and grace.
“Attention,” a voice boomed beside me. The young man—I should say, an outwardly young man—who’d spoken stood atop the leading carriage, waiting. His eyes locked onto mine with utter contempt, content to ignore the hundreds of others who watched and waited for him to continue. Dark shadows under heavy brows tried to push my gaze down into submission. The weight of his aura and sensus bore down on my soul. I did not shy away.
As if finding some answer in my resistance, the man from The Academy gave me a knowing smile and turned his gaze to the crowd, his face drooping into bored neutrality.
“I am Lokos,” he said to the crowd, “the head groundskeeper for the prestigious Royal Academy and your escort for the journey. We will be leaving shortly. Any excess luggage unable to fit your allotted space on the carts must travel by private means, which, I would be remiss not to remind you, will not be under my protection. There are no assigned seats aboard the carriages. Decide your seating arrangements amongst yourselves. You have a quarter-turn.”
He dropped down from the carriage and landed next to me. “Aki, is it?”
I shifted back, eyes hard. “You know me?”
“Well, of course,” he said, amusement curling his lips. “You are the first Mud to attend The Royal Academy. Did you think being the first to transgress into the realm of your betters would not earn you the recognition of infamy?”
“I suppose if they were my betters,” I said, looking back at the mass of royal brats as they lashed their servants with orders. Roots rushed to pack away the erected tents, tables of food, and jugs of water and wine. I remained where I was, reluctant to suffer their company until the carriages were ready to depart.
The bald man came closer and sat beside me. “They are your betters. Time, if you are given any, might see you rise above them. Until then, thinking yourself their equal will be dangerous.”
“I have always thought time was a currency only the weak spent and the strong could afford.”
The man screeched a laugh that bellied his masculine features. Like the pitch of the now-dead Rowan, it stung my ears.
“Why did you attack me?” I asked.
“Attack you,” he said, taken aback. “Oh, you mean my little test? Well, to assess the veracity of your mother's claims, of course. Forgive my curiosity; I couldn't help myself. She speaks so highly of you.”
It took a moment for me to register his meaning. When I did, I leaned away from the man, the sudden urge to flee seizing my limbs. “She—”
“There’s no cause for concern. I am only here to deliver a message.”
“A message?”
“A brief list of duties you must complete to stay in her good graces. Well, she didn’t exactly say ‘good graces,’ but I think you clever enough to catch my meaning.”
“And?”
“And there are simply four of them.”
“And?”
The man smiled. “You must know it is dangerous to be so curt with those who could take your life as easily as I can.”
I quirked a brow in question. “And?”
His smile disappeared, and irritation furrowed his thick, hairless brow. “Am I to assume you’ve grown tired of living? Such reckless irreverence could mean little else.”
“I am no fool, Groundskeeper. I know The Academy has tasked you with my safety. A task that could see you punished for its failure. More importantly, you know my mother. I believe her punishments make death seem like ecstasy. And so it is you, not I, who offers reckless irreverence.”
“I can hurt you in ways that leave no mark and have you wishing for death.”
Anger boiled. I worked to keep it off my face. “Do as you please. But remember, if you mean me harm, make sure death follows—either yours or mine.”
He laughed again. Again, it sent a sharp slice of discomfort down my spine. “What can I say?” He shrugged. “I just can't help myself. She was entirely too infatuated with you for me to resist. Now I know a little of why.”
I waved away his empty words. “Tell me the message.”
“It's rather simple. Two objectives—the smaller of which is inherently achieved by the larger—and two rules you must follow in their pursuit.”
I sighed. “You have issues with brevity.”
He ignored my remark. “Your duty, should you wish to earn her approval and avoid her displeasure, is to win a commission into the Royal Institute of War. She assures me this does not deviate from your own plans.”
I nodded. They didn’t. No one could accuse me of aiming low. Yet the familiarity of her instructions was more than a little disconcerting; Knite shared her goals for me, and it did not speak well of him. But then again, it did not speak well of me, for I, too, shared them.
“Her only restrictions are for you not to speak of your lineage or swear allegiance to another,” the man continued.
I shrugged. I had no plans of the like. In my mind, I had no family. No parents. No kin. I planned to kill her and Kalin to render that thought more true. And swearing allegiance to another? Such an act went against the very reasons I found myself here.
I stood to leave.
The bald man nodded to the bustling crowd of students. “They hate you, you know?”
“They always have.”
“No, they haven't. Those you’ve interacted with in the preparatory academy have only been annoyed by your presence. Even then, most were failures the Branch families had sent away to avoid having to spend any serious time and resources on them. To an extent, they accepted your presence as punishment for their inadequacies. Those you will soon meet are a breed apart, and they will hate you for trespassing into their world.”
“I am not trespassing. I earned my right to be here with blood and sweat.”
He shook his head at me like a world-weary elder would at a callow child. “They will see it differently. Roots and Barks will suffer until they submit. You, not only being a Mud but having to deny them your submission, will see the worst of it. Do not waste your first cycle, for that will be the only one you have to prepare yourself for the onslaught.”
I nodded. They could do no more than Kalin, I thought. Let them do their worst. “Tell my mother I will do as she asks.”
“If you think she gave me questions to deliver, then maybe you are not as smart as I was beginning to believe.”
I left without responding to his taunt.
Naturally, the students seated themselves in order of hierarchy. The six Leaves took the front, their order decided by factors unbeknownst to me. Those from The Branches came next. They organized themselves not by strength, as I suspected the Leaves had, but further still by sequential pedigree. Behind them were the students from The Roots, who seemed to place themselves by way of monetary wealth. My place, as was decided for me, put me beyond the carriages and in the foremost cart, sitting among the luggage. Though there was an empty seat on the last of the carriages, the occupants, all of them Roots or Barks, all from the preparatory academy, refused me entry. I hadn’t the strength to oppose their decision.
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And so there I was, squeezed between chests and coffers and trunks, the small sack of Merkus’ clothes and other provisions held tight between my cramped legs. I’m better off, I told myself. Better this than their company. That was a lie. Deep down, I hurt. I had spent the days after my acceptance into The Academy basking in my success. Dreams and reveries of climbing up from the dirt, past the roof of my station, and into the warm rays of privilege had brought the light of happiness to my bland and vengeful existence. They had given me a harsh reminder when they threw me from the carriage. I had landed hard, crushing the resurgence of my naivety beneath me. I’d thought I’d killed it long ago, but then again, it is hard to destroy what lives in the mind.
At some point, before we began to move, but after the sun’s light broke through the opening gate, the soothing thoughts I nursed myself with were replaced by cold anger. Not at them, but at myself. It quietened my aching pride and cleared my eyes of budding tears. Privilege is a childish pursuit, I told myself. Power is the channel that directs the rivers of life. My passing into The Academy was no longer a momentous accomplishment but merely a minuscule victory, a single step on my ascension into true control.
What met us on the other side of the gate was a stone road cut into the very face of the crag, a thin lane hugging the gargantuan, multi-level cliff of the capital, its surface flattened by age and covered in dust by recent obsolescence. Unlike the plateaus, which, excepting the stairs leading to the gates, had near vertical declines, the road was an even slope, winding down below the adjoining city and its walls, then rising at the end with the dip of The Muds as the city ended and the cliff joined the rest of the island. For much of our smooth descent, I saw nothing but the ocean and sky pushing against each other like lovers. When I finally released my eyes from the lovers, it was to witness the sky sharing a similar, more chaotic embrace with the land. Fields of green farms stretched into the distance. Beyond them were hills of darker greens. Further still, undulating waves of trees composed forests of near-black. Yet further, obscured by the mists of distance, were snow-tipped mountains.
I was a city boy. My whole life had been spent between tall walls that protected me from the true scope of my insignificance. Herein lay my ambivalence. Whereas my mind swam with the freedom of such vast and open spaces, by that same quality, I struggled with how truly paltry my fears and ambitions were in the face of time and space.
The Royal Academy was not far from the capital. The journey took an able caravan no more than five days. Located on the southern coast of the capital island, the road there flanked the edge of the land, the beaten track always in sight of the calm sea. For half of the first day, we passed farmlands sporadically peppered with the estates presiding over them. Sometime in the late afternoon, we left the region surrounding the capital and entered into the island's wilds.
The winds were quiet the first night we camped. The carriages and carts were clustered together and enclosed by scores of tents. Raised flags waved a warning to night-dwellers of ill-intent. Larger tents of colorful sheets tied with golden ropes and embroidered with complex matrixes made up the inner camp. As the concentric grouping spread outwards, mundane tools replaced matrixes, linen replaced silks, and tents grew smaller, ending with those provided by The Academy.
I sat by the carts, chewing at the tough, dried meat I’d packed for the journey.
“Is it wise to remain alone?” Lokos asked. His voice came from somewhere to my right. I did not look to see. My eyes remained on the erected tents, shining matrixes, and constant lights of the camp. “You must try to win the support of the lesser students.”
“They will not risk associating with someone like me,” I said. “It’d bring them nothing but strife.”
“You will need allies to survive, and anyone above your official status as a Heartwood would, at the very least, demand your allegiance by way of a lesser bond.”
“I will not need allies; I will need strength.”
“You can use theirs.”
“Godlings have long proven that the strength of others can only be used by a greater strength.”
“So, you are thinking on the matter?”
“Without wisdom, one will wander through life blind, each step carrying the risk of being the last. I understand the scale of my undertaking.”
“Without doubt, wisdom will turn to arrogance, hiding pitfalls.”
I looked at him, surprised. “You’ve read the King’s writings?”
Lokos smiled. “Though I may not look it, I was not always of The Branches.”
“You are a Named, then?” It was a question that didn’t ask the question it asked.
He nodded. “As are all The Academy masters of commoner blood, few as they are. Mine was bestowed to me long ago. I have your mother to thank for it.”
I grabbed my small sack of clothes and placed it against the bottom of the cart's wheel, then shifted down to lay my head on it. “Will you tell me how you earned your Name?”
He looked down at me, meeting my gaze. “No,” he said, a hint of anger in his voice. “I’d almost forgotten your age. Only a child would—”
Lokos’ head jerked east. He closed his eyes and tilted his head, listening to some far-off noise. He’d covered ten paces before I registered his movement. I lurched up from my makeshift bed, leaped to my feet, and made to follow.
Most of the students in the inner circle of tents remained a rowdy lot. I could hear their careless carousal as I rushed past the glowing, silken flaps of their tents. A few more vigilant and sober students had come out into the open, having sensed the disturbance. They caught sight of me and chose to follow. One of them grabbed me, thinking me the cause. I pointed at the wave of embers that had just floated into view. Slackjawed and wide-eyed, he released me.
I found Lokos a little outside the row of humble tents making up the border of our camp, his dark figure delineated by the gruesome sight of fire and death that blazed several hundred paces east of us. The wretched screams of men and women, the wild neighing of horses, and the crackling of burning wood pierced the night sky. Hundreds of figures atop squat horses pounded through and around the camp of guards and attendants who’d followed us.
A Leaf tried to run past Lokos. The bald man grabbed him by the scruff of his burgundy silks and threw him back into the crowd of spectating students.
“No one leaves the camp,” he stated.
The boy struggled to his feet. “I command you to save my Mud. I’ve only just broken her in.”
Lokos looked at the boy, communicating without words.
“You are a Branch,” the boy argued. “I am a Leaf! Damn you, you will save my Mud!”
A few others stepped forward, all of them dressed luxuriously, all of them blonde-haired and fair-skinned.
“Linus is right,” one of them said.
“We order you to save what is ours,” another said.
Lokos remained quiet.
The godlings grew indignant, their shouts of protest rising into a crescendo of outrage. One of them pitched forward, rushing towards the groundskeeper. Several followed. Lokos blurred. Three fell before anyone could blink. The others, seeing this, halted.
“No one leaves the camp,” Lokos repeated, his voice booming with enough volume and clarity to reach both camps. “I do not follow your orders for the same reason your caravans do not carry the marks of your houses. Until you have proven your worth and graduated into your entitlement, you are no longer nobility.” Lokos turned to the carnage. “As such, you have no authority whatsoever, let alone the authority to make demands off me.”
A deafening scream took my attention from Lokos. A man on fire ran from the retinue camp and threw himself off the cliff and into the sea, the first but not the last. The deaths of those who followed his lead were certain. I think they wanted that certainty. Barbarians rode horses around the motley group of guards and servants, shepherding them as if they were cattle, saving them from the predator that was their fear. I doubt their fates were more palatable for having been rescued from themselves.
Linus, the boy who demanded his Mud be saved, fell to his knees and slammed his fists to the grassy ground. He wailed, tears streaming down his face as snot bubbled from his nose. No one cared. His was not the anguish of grief but the petulance of intemperance. Not that anyone would've cared either way.
I looked behind me. Branch students stood dejected. They’d conceded their loss. Roots fought to keep smiles from their faces lest they were punished for their delight. They knew better than to allow their cargo to travel without a banner of protection. More godlings approached. They either watched blankly as though the loss meant nothing or laughed as if the whole ordeal was a piece of entertainment someone had organized for their pleasure.
At some point, the screams died, and much of the camp retired for the night. Lokos and I and a few others remained to watch the rest of the drama unfold, the howls, cheers, and pounding hoofs of the bandits ringing in our ears. It was not an easy victory for them. They’d lost a few of their number in the attack, some of the servants having been Roots who had some ability to defend themselves. The barbarians were unaffected by the cost. They cared more about celebrating their win than dealing with their loss. In fact, they danced atop their fallen as they rejoiced in their victory. A few did not celebrate. They scoured the battle site, jamming sharp spears into dead bodies and rummaging for anything of value.
Suddenly, two women scrambled to their feet from among the dead and bounded toward our camp. Their strides were ones of panic. All the penned-up energy and fear they’d kept silent while they’d played dead pumped through their legs.
Four barbarians took notice, reached for their horses, and gave chase.
One of the hopeful escapees, a slight girl with russet hair and a pinched face, turned to see how well she fared. That was the last mistake she ever made. Her foot snagged on a dead body, and she tumbled forward. The leftmost Barbarian peeled away from his companions to deal with her. A lash of his whip wrapped around her leg as she scrambled to her feet. Her screams died before he managed to drag her halfway back to the conquered camp.
The other woman ignored everything but her target. It wasn’t enough. One of the horsemen approached her at an angle, swiping a heavy club at the back of her head. She buckled twenty paces from Lokos.
The two that followed pulled short of the woman's body. The third, the one who struck the blow, veered back in a loop, slowed his horse, and rejoined them.
I could see them better now. They wore clothes and boots of tanned leather, coats of thick fur, and jewelry of coarse gems and polished bone. The largest of the three bore a bear pelt. The gnarled face of the animal set atop his head cast an ominous shadow over his flat face.
The bearish man dismounted. He bent down to the unconscious form of the attendant, grabbed a fistful of her dark hair, and pulled her up until she hung from his grip, her feet dangling. The pain of having all her weight supported by the roots of her hair whimpered her awake. She tried to struggle free. His man's strength was too great. She tried to claw at his face. His reach was too long. She went for his arm. HHHis pelts were too thick. She tried to beg for her life, then pleaded for a quick death. He had no mercy to spare. He held her up until despair zapped away the fury of her struggle. She went limp, sobbing, tears joining the blood trickling from her aggravated scalp.
“Your people are so fragile,” the bear-man said. He spoke the island language with an accent I couldn't place. “Mine grow strong in the wild while yours grow weak behind walls.”
“Take your empty words and leave,” Lokos said.
The hulking man, eyes glued to Lokos, buried a knife into the woman’s neck. He dragged the blunt edge across her throat, ripping more than cutting. The blood gushed out, and she gurgled her last breath. Much of it soaked into her dress. What remained slid down her over-saturated garments and dripped from her hands and feet to form a puddle beneath her dangling feet.
I decided I was not fond of this wild beast and his kin. Though less insidious than the godlings, he and his kind were just as ruthless and, to my dismay, entirely more brutal. I had a sudden understanding of why they called the land between the cities The Wilds, and it had little to do with wilderness.
“If you’ve grown fearful enough not to take action against me now,” the man said, “soon you will flee when I attack the camps you protect. The difference in our strength is fading, hairless dog of Evergreen.”
This time, Lokos Laughed. It was a derisive laugh if ever I’d heard one. He stepped forward, his arm whistling through the air in a blur. Both the barbarian's companions sank to the ground, eyeless.
The bear-man released the woman and dove back.
“I let you attack the camp,” Lokos said. “Now, return to your pack of mongrels before I find you more troublesome than useful.”
I shrunk back from the scene. While the barbarians were brutal, the Named and, by extension, Evergreen were far more lethal. I had begun to like Lokos despite his penchant for hurtful games. His impulsive nature and boorish manner reminded me of Merkus. They were far from alike. This man was a Named. A faithful servant of Evergreen. A favorite of Lorail.
The wild man did as he was told, forgetting the horses in his mad dash to escape and join his fellow barbarians. It wasn’t long before they, too, took off, hurrying inland and fading into the distant forest, leaving behind a wreck of carts and bodies.