AKI:
The dining hall appeared as grand as it had that first day I’d stumbled into its yawning embrace; few survived two cycles of The academy, many lost to death or cowardice or both, and so our dorm’s refectory seemed all the more cavernous for its unusual emptiness. A good number of my fellow students had taken their results from the second cycle and run for the hills—such an accomplishment was worthy of praise among the lower rungs of Evergreen’s divine population and a mark of prestige for Roots. Those who remained, bar none but my motley crew of friends, were themselves Leaves or attached to one by bonds of service. We numbered barely two dozen, all that remained from our original hundred and twenty.
I sat with my friends. Samiel, Linus, and the other three Leaves—besides the more recently ascended Dako, who, along with Wiltos, Sil, and Malorey, kept my company—were dispersed about the room, surrounded by their oldest and most successful of followers.
Then there was Edon, who I had not seen since the day we had returned. He sat apart and alone, staring into and absently stirring his bowl of honeyed oats and milk. Despite how his modest breakfast inspired in me a sense of concern for all that I knew of his appetite, I knew it was not dejection or low spirits that held him in this state; the look in his eyes was not the daze of despair but the resolute concentration of someone who was contemplating an action he’d cherish. He had the same look on his face when he dismantled his uncle, Spenten, taking inches at a time until only the boy’s flayed head remained. I’d have been mortified by the display if I hadn’t known I was capable, willing, and guilty of similar horrors.
“Will you ever tell us what transpired?” Sil asked. She’d caught my lingering glance at Edon. I returned my attention to my breakfast. My third and likely not the day’s last.
“If Edon ever allows it,” I offered.
“Rather curious,” Dako said. He was on his fourth meal and trying his best not to let me catch up—his competitiveness, goodnatured as it was, remained a prominent facet of his character. “How is it you left The Academy as enemies and returned as… friends? Edon hated you good and proper. That sort of enmity is near impossible to displace, let alone replace with goodwill.”
“He was a friend once,” I said.
“It’s one thing to build something,” Malorey said, “it is quite another to rebuild from the ashes of what it once was.”
“That’s why we started with a clean slate.”
“And built something in the few days you were away?”
I shrugged. “Death, or the threat of it, makes haste of any relation, be it of enmity or goodwill.”
“That explains why we all became fast friends,” Wiltos said, monotone and without the lyrical flair we knew and loved him for—more than a year spent in The Academy, away from family and poaching in the guilt of his sister’s death, had zapped him of his lively spark, transforming that naïve curiosity that inspired his artistic exploration into a deathly determination to grow strong, hence his presence among the few survivors who’d chosen to brave a third cycle.
Sudden gales funneled into the large refectory, whistling and howling. Heads snapped toward the now open double doors to find Ekolise standing there, his olive skin fading into the backdrop of early dawn, his robes buffeting against his slim form.
“Stand and follow!” The wind, as if at his beck and call, brought Ekolise’s words to our ears, muting itself to do so. And as soon as they had, the master spun on his heels and marched off into the light of dawn.
We leaped to our feet, one and all, and hurried after our quartermaster. Cycles under the tutelage and governorship of The Academy had whipped the expressions of overt entitlement from even the most pompous of the Leaves, though they still enjoyed their thinly veiled privileges and sense of superiority. A quick run caught us up to Ekolise, after which a brisk walk kept us in pace. We marched all the way out of The Academy, past its gates, into the city proper, and then kept marching still. Citizens stared, but none seemed surprised to see a gaggle of students striding after a master of The Academy. I supposed this was a yearly occurrence worthy of quiet gossip but not much more.
I knew where we were heading. I knew because our destination loomed ahead long before we reached its steps; its bulk oppressed the skyline, its many paneless bay windows as pristine as the day they’d been built countless cycles ago. As we drew closer, the architraves atop its tall columns came into sight, each carved with figures representing the greatest of Evergreen’s warriors, past and present. Between the two thickest columns, above the main entrance, was Merkusian, a muscle-bound, bearded, armored giant crowned by a ring of leaves and wielding a greatsword near his own height.
I had visited the Colosseum exactly once. The battles they exhibited were more a showcase of blood and violence than of skill and sport. Once was more than enough, and not even the beauty of its construction or the volatile hum of its vast crowds could convince me to return.
Master Ekolise led us through the main gates where a quartet of Roots stood guard, each of who bowed upon catching our approach, and into a wide hallway of flagstone meant to accommodate the many who streamed in to watch the nightly displays of gore. At the end of the hallway was another, wider still, curved to encircle the outer edge of the building, its outer wall furnished with matrix lanterns. Every so often, we’d pass corridors where shafts of the morning sun broke in, behind which were stairs leading to the tiered seating. We passed them all until we came to a path obstructed by reinforced metal bars and another quartet of Roots. Then we walked upon the sands of the arena itself.
We were neither the first nor the last to arrive. Other students and masters were already present, milling about in clots, tense or laughing, bored or nervous. Others came after us, each group numbering about a couple of dozen, some less, some more. Three of the groups were anomalous; they included no more than four, and each was distinctly foreign. First came the Kolokasians, who were lean, graceful, hooded females who pressed against each other as they walked and did their utmost to keep their distance from any of the Leaves. The Golodanians, who, by their state of dress and demeanor, were clearly godlings native to their lands and nothing like the commoners who’d migrated here, were a boisterous mix of different heights and genders but uniform in their pale skin, dark hair, loud demeanors, and sturdy constitutions. They beelined to one of the Leaves—a niece of mine I had yet the misfortune of meeting—the moment they arrived. The third group was the most curious. They came from a people I had not yet encountered, though I was acquainted with them because of the many days I spent perusing the library I’d built in my mind. One was a Hilsey. From Hilsa, a land laid low by the ravages of war, having been the battlefield for the conflict between Golodan, Kolokasi, and the westmost vassal state of the eastern empire. She, like the people of her land, had broad cheekbones and thin lips, a complexion molded of dimmed sunlight, and eyes like holes into an endless abyss. The other two were a pair from the islands of Kintalas, their short stature made near unnoticeable by their auras, which seemed to electrify their immediate surroundings into an air of static. Kintala was a range of islands off the eastern coast of Kolokasi that hosted a collection of offshoot tribes who adopted many of the harmonic teachings espoused by their neighboring cousins.
Last to arrive was Headmaster Ricell, beside which walked the bald groundskeeper, Lokos. I took a moment to appreciate how these two Named had come here to dictate to an assembly of godlings.
“Gather your wards, quartermasters!” Lokos had a talent for projecting his voice; he needed no sensus to echo his command throughout the immense arena.
Under the direction of our respective dorm masters, we shuffled into a semi-organized assembly.
“Sit,” Lokos barked. A few of the Leaves grumbled at the thought of sitting on the ground, but all heeded his instruction.
Master Ekolise and the other masters lined up behind Ricell and Lokos; my dorms were one of eighteen who sat before them, all of us eager to find out what challenges awaited us this coming cycle of seasons. There were around four hundred of us if I had to guess. Sixty-nine were Leaves, twenty were Roots, if that, and the rest were godlings, most of them Seculors. If things stuck to their pattern, half our number would fall before year’s end.
“Greetings,” Ricell began. “As you might well know, I am not one to mince words. Your tuition fees for this cycle are double your last. All of you may enter whichever lectures you choose—none are barred from you. If you are willing to expend additional funds, you may purchase personal instruction from masters or fifths, though acceptance is still at the behest of whosoever you seek instruction from. Keep in mind that they may, if they so choose, levy their own prices beyond what is to be paid to The Academy.
“Challenges can still be offered. The mandates regarding offers and acceptances have expired and no longer apply. However, in place of the second cycle’s system, there will be tournaments held every full moon. These tournaments, which shall fall under the purview of Master Lokos here, will keep track of your status among your fellow students. The initial rankings shall be the ones you achieved at the end of the last cycle.
“Every full moon, a number of the lowest-ranking students will be marked as having failed. Failure is final and will definitively mean expulsion. There are no tasks or debts that might redeem you, nothing you can do to remain on the path.” Muddy cast a gaze around the collosium. “This here arena shall be your dueling grounds.” He pointed at a sequestered region of the tiered seating set high and apart and covered in a Painted mirror. “You shall have a worthy audience. All will be members of the institute, godlings with the power to grant you placements, should you elect to forsake your houses and enter the House of The Old Queen. Remember, a full moon is expected tomorrow night.
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“And with that, I welcome you to your third cycle.”
Lokos stepped forward to take the headmaster’s place. “In case you need a reminder, your current rankings will be on the back of your marks.”
As one, hundreds of marks were pulled out from beneath tunics to be inspected. My own was marked by the number fifteen. Sil retained her seventy-first ranking, Dako his fifty-third, while Malorey and Wiltos rose scores, settling on two-hundred-and-fifty-second and three-hundred-and-ninety-seventh, respectively.
“The tournament will run from dawn to dusk,” Lokos continued. “In truth, it shall be a series of tournaments. You will be split into groups of ten, from first to tenth rank, eleventh to twentieth, twenty-first to thirtieth, and so on. Every group will participate in their own tournament, starting from the weakest ten to the strongest. Rest assured, mobility is possible. Those who find themselves at the top or bottom of the ranking within their group after the tournament will face one another the following day to determine if their positions will be exchanged. Nine bouts each. Bouts are to forfeit, incapacitation, or a twelfth of an hourglass. A win is two points. A draw is one. You may spectate any bouts from any group. It is recommended that you do.
“Today is the first day of lectures for those in their second cycle. We recommend you do not impede on their practice.”
Without another word, all the masters filed out behind Lokos. Chatter among the students began the moment the last of them disappeared beyond the underpass.
“Riddle me this.” I wove a lattice of force matrixes to lift me to my feet, a question bubbling out of my thoughts as I watched students stand and brush off the coarse sand of the arena from their clothes. “By my estimate, there cannot be many more than three thousand students in The Academy at any given point. Why is it then that—”
“And how did you come by that number?” Malorey interjected.
“Well, if there are roughly two thousand in the first cycle, eight hundred in the second, and—”
“Aki,” Sil said, “those numbers represent those who remain on the path of ascension.”
“Path of ascension?” I asked. “Do you mean the path of Leafdom?”
“And that of Branches,” Dako said.
“But I thought Roots ascended to Branches because of a meritorious act of loyalty and service?” I said.
“They do,” Malorey said. “As do Leaves, though their convention is one of power and cunning, not of obedience.”
“A rather muddling analogy, my dear Malorey.” Wiltos smiled a little. He always did at the prospect of correcting Malorey. Something about the way she sulked amused him, not least, I suspect, because he found her pouting attractive. “There is no path to becoming a Branch.”
“Not officially,” Malorey argued, “yet there is a path to follow all the same.”
“Yes.” Wiltos’ smile told us his concession wasn’t without contention. “However, most Branches earn their Names without ever walking this path, yet no godling who treads outside the realm of Leafdom has ever gained a Title. And as you know, all the Houses prohibit entry into Leafdom once godlings graduate from The Academy."
Malorey huffed and seemed about ready to prolong her loss. While she was usually quick to concede if and when her argument failed, Wiltos’ smug amusement encouraged her to persist.
“As I was saying,” Sil said, speaking before the argument could proceed. “Many who chose not to move onto the next cycle stay in Discipulus as outer students. They are refused accommodation and have limited access to resources but are, for an exorbitant fee, allowed entry to the premises for the remainder of their four cycles. Considering many of the masters and fifths provide far more aid than they are permitted to those of their house, many of the students, including Roots who’ve subjected themselves to a godling, remain in the city the full term.”
A silence interlaced by far-off whispers stole our attention. A rising tide of space surrounded us, empty as if it were a surging moat of death. Beyond its reach, students shuffled back and away, eyes fastened on us and the five godlings who walked our way.
Power rolled off the Leaves, surety personified, their strength so vast as to wield predestination. An invulnerability of providence shielded them. My senses, both mundane and spiritual, agreed. This was Meaning. It laced around their auras, their every action, making storms of their breaths, earthquakes of their steps, bliss from their smile, agony from their displeasure. It wormed into the air, seeped into souls, brought forth an acute sense of mortality, battering against us until we crumpled into the small, insignificant crumbs of creation we were.
But we weren't. Not me. Not Sil or Dako or Malorey. Not even Wiltos, who stood on wobbly knees, teeth gritted, but remained undaunted. He had gotten much better at facing his fears—well, some; the notion of facing his parents was a summit he had not dared glimpse.
The five figures came to stand across us. A heavy stillness befell the world. Dispersed along the steep walls marking the arena’s boundary, the weakest of them hiding within the shadowed lips of the cardinal underpasses, students stayed to watch, a grinning Samiel closest of all. I was audacious. Dangerous. A man who fought against divinity. A savage. A heretic. Someone who just might be mad enough to face off against the five strongest godlings of our cycle, for that is who had approached me and my friends.
Zalzii, the strongest Duros of our cycle, the same Zalzii who’d thought to recruit me into her entourage the day I’d defeated Vignil, stood at the fore. She stood with her hip thrust out to the side, her lips quirked, her feline gaze locked on me as though I were a bountiful slab of meat.
“I’ve been outvoted,” she said.
“And so you’ve come to fulfill your promise?” I asked.
Zalzii grinned. “That you’ve ascertained my meaning so swiftly only hardens my resolve.”
“What promise?” Another of the Leaves stepped forward. A Lorailian Seculor. The same Leaf the Golodanian students had aligned under. All the women of House Lorail I’d met were of two types, except Lorail herself, who was of both: The sultry, venomous seductress or the aloof, charismatic oppressor. This niece of mine was conclusively the former; in every aspect of her presence, from the tightness of her uniform to her purposefully titillating comportment, she exuded a lascivious beauty.
Zalzii turned her smile on the Lorailian Leaf. “I’ve merely put words to all our intentions, Lamila.”
“Do not be coy.” Lamila’s nose twitched with scorn.
“You spent too much time with your lessers. Being privy to their every thought has you thinking you are entitled to mine.”
A tall boy with a cleft chin hunched forward so his face slotted between theirs. He put a hand on both their shoulders, spindly fingers reaching indecently down their chests. “Easy, ladies.” He turned to Lamila. “You can very well imagine how Zalzii responded to Heretic’s refusal. I’d imagine it’s the same way we’ll respond if he chooses another. There’s no need to ponder, however. Not when the choice is nigh.” He looked at me, long neck craned forward. “So, my dear Heretic. Who shall it be?”
The fourth Leaf stepped forward. A behemoth of a man, all of his extraneous size lent to his width. Bulging slabs of muscle made a tight fit of his crossed arms. The thick handles of his axes peeked over his shoulders and framed his broad face. An arsenal of knives was tucked along his hefty belt, their number striking the first threat, their dangerous gleam the second, and their impression of sharpness the third. All of these things marked him as a son of Grono. “I say we each get a turn to sell him our offer. An uninformed decision does us all a disservice.”
“A sound idea, Jacksel,” said a soft voice. Out from behind the hulking figure of Jacksel came the Leaf from House Manar. He had average height, average build, and average looks, yet it was easy to tell he was anything but. The world around him shivered under the strain of his Ignis Meaning, shimmering and distorting like the blurred edges of a fire.
“Vey well.” Lamila struck me with a look that bordered on lecherous. “Be mine, and you shall know pleasures the likes of which you’d never imagine. Serve me well, and those pleasures will last a lifetime.”
“Typical,” Zalzii scoffed.
“Quiet,” Lamila said. “You’ve already made your offer. And it goes to show how little you know of men who aren't related to you. They are simple creatures with simple desires.”
As the pair continued their bickering, Dako leaned into my ear. “What’s the plan?” he asked.
“Do I need one?”
“I’d think so,” Sil offered.
Dako held up a hand as Wiltos and Malorey made to join us. Sil erected a Zephyr barrier. Or tried to. The maelstrom of Meaning had not subsided, and Sil’s sensus was ripped to shreds before she could fully construct the matrixes.
Sil winced away the pain of the backlash. “Yes, I most certainly think you need a plan.”
The unassuming godling from House Manar approached. The heat of his aura popped and sizzled, pressing into us with a suffocating weight. “You are aware of my House’s reputation,” he said, his gentle smile and suggestion a stark contrast to his menacing advance. “I’d think the choice is obvious.” He waved a hand over his shoulder at the two squabbling Leaves. “They are not worth considering for reasons I need not expound upon.”
“Valen,” Zalzii and Lamila hissed in unison.
“Nor is Aelinder,” Valen continued, unconcerned by their ire, “as he is dreadfully whimsical and, driven by whatever mood intoxicant he’d induced that day, is likely to take your life.”
“Or worse.” Aelinder shrugged. “What can I say—I tend to break my toys quite often.”
Valen pointed at the Aedificator, who thumped over to stand by his side. “Jacksal is worth consideration, but he is an absentminded man, lost to his fervor for weaponry. Then there is me. I—”
“Whoever I choose,” I said, “the others will try to see to my death.”
“It is the way of things,” Jacksel said.
“Then what is the difference between four or five more enemies?” I asked.
“The shield the fifth offers,” Zalzii said.
“A shield attached to chains,” I said.
“You’re a Root.” Lamila seemed genuinely confused. “You’re already attached to chains. All that remains to be decided is who holds them.”
“Then I think I’ll keep them for myself, thank you.”
“You think defeating Vignil and Linus makes you our equal?” Zalzii asked.
I shook my head. “No, not at all. I think being fifteenth in the rankings means I’ll not have to face you until I am good and ready.”
“Unless we orchestrate it to be so,” Lamela said.
“And endure the shame of losing to those weaker than you?” I asked. Her disdain for me was reflected twofold in my expression. “I think not. Besides, rest assured, I’ll not be idly wiling away my time in fear. Before year’s end, I’ll be coming for you.” I took a moment to look at each of them in the eyes. Lamila was on the verge of going for my soul, her body shaking with the effort to resist. Jacksel looked bored, as though he were here out of ceremony or some sense of duty. Valen shook his head in disappointment as if he’d failed to rescue me, but nothing could hide the embers of anger for my daring to cut him off. Zalzii seemed excited by my threat, almost proud.
Valen smiled. A gentle smile. Sad, accepting, and utterly deceitful. “When you inevitably find no other option left but to kneel,” he said, “I’m afraid whoever finds possession of your leash will not leave this spurning unpunished.”
My smile was foul. A hard smile. Giddy, rebellious, and utterly genuine. “What sort of heretic would I be if I was bound to anyone but myself?”