AKI:
No one hindered our escape from the city. Our journey through the farmlands, on the other hand, presented a series of hurdles, some innocuous, a few downright lethal.
We trudged the usual route, the same taken by The Academy’s caravan, a path beaten into existence by years of trodding feet. It was deliberately the only road leading out of the capital’s territories and into The Wilds—all of the subordinate offshoots ended in farmsteads. The shore and the Dead Sea were to our left, the acres of grass and the Surgeon-carved cattle that grazed upon them, the fields of planted produce and the stout farmhands who tended over them, and the small shacks, slaughterhouses, and sporadic gated estates were to our right. Icy winds licked at us wherever we dared to expose our skin. We wrapped our coats tighter and tucked our hands between our chests and arms to fight the chill seeping into our bones.
Some way into our journey, as we crested a particularly steep hill, a patrol of guards came into view: five men, spears resting on their shoulders, batons hanging from their belts, and the glint of ready violence chiseled onto their watchful gazes. One of them spied our approach and pointed. It wasn’t long before the other four took heed, and at once, they marched towards us.
The thinnest of the men, younger and more inclined to rush to his duties, reached us first. “Halt!” He had not lifted his spear from its perch on his shoulder, but his grip was tight around the haft. “Who goes there?”
“Travellers,” I called.
“Without a flag?”
“We carry no merchandise nor claim the protection of a house,” I said. “We only seek to be on our way.”
“Thieves, then?” A swarthy fellow with strands of grey in his hair spoke as he and the rest joined the eager fellow who’d arrived first.
“Here to steal meat and carrot and milk, are you?” This man could’ve been the other’s twin, a little shorter, a little wider. Then again, their grim countenance and dull liveries made them all look alike.
Edon scoffed but did not speak.
“We only wish to head east,” I said.
“To where?” It was the youngest guard again, his crooked teeth facing every which way and adding an odd lisp to his speech. He stood firmly in our path, narrowed eyes watching us.
“That is our business.” What little patience Edon had quickly ran dry. “Move aside, or I shall move you.”
The young guard looked back at his older colleagues. “Faded?”
“Or disowned. Either way…” The stockier twin put a whistle to his lips and blew a high-pitched call of warning towards the nearest estate—a red-bricked mansion a quarter-league up the road that presided over the nearby farms.
Edon, nearly healed after a day's trudge, cracked his elbow against the back of the man’s neck. He flowed then, like a twist of wind, through the other four men, delivering stunning blows as he passed. All fell victim to his vicious ministrations.
“Why?” I asked him, astonished both at his attack and the grace and skill with which he executed it.
“We cannot afford to be slowed. Not this close to the city.”
“But we could’ve dealt with it. Now word will spread, and all who cross our path will have reason to detain us.”
Edon looked at me as though I was a fool. “Who do you think is chasing me?” He waved a hand over the downed guards. “Did you think they had merely thought us suspicious? Why do you suppose they stood watch on the road rather than the estate they were hired to guard?”
“I’d think it strange to see two mountless godlings strolling through the countryside.”
“But would you dare risk offending them if, by chance, you were them? I mean, would you, as a Root, dare to hinder a godling if you had not been given permission by another whose authority you knew would protect you?”
“Forewarned?” I asked.
Edon headed towards the mass of men and women hustling towards us from the estate. “Come. We have Roots to fell.”
“No killing,” I said.
What followed was… enlightening. I was powerful. Nowhere near as powerful as I’d like, but gods, was it easy to take down the Roots. Most were Herbalists, Golems, or Surgeons whose poor skills and aptitudes made the prospect of earning their keep in The Roots daunting, and so it was not their strength that made me feel powerful but their number and the speed with which I took them down. Like a newly forged and sharpened sickle harvesting a field of dry crops, I tore through them with ease. Sixty men and women faced us. We walked away untouched.
***
Night descended. The Wilds howled with silent screams. The green of the capital tinged the sky behind us, its glow dwindled by distance. We did not stop. Fatigue was not an issue. Nor was the darkness. Fuller had taught me a Painter trick where you believed the light entering your eyes was thicker and brighter than it was. It made a sun out of the moon. I was sure Reapers had some trick that achieved much the same; Edon did not seem bothered by the darkness.
The first I saw of them was the torches they carried. The fires shone brightly to my augmented sight, a dome of white hiding their faces behind a blinding haze of whites, oranges, and reds.
“Marauders,” I warned. Their rough-shorn fleeces identified them easily enough.
“I see them.” Edon led us onwards on a course that would see us cross their path.
“Do you mean to face them?”
“They will expect us to head straight to The Academy.”
“Our pursuers?”
“Yes.”
“And you want them to chase the ghost of their expectation as we trail behind them. Clever.”
“I’ve always been cannier than you gave me credit for.”
“I’ve always thought more of you than you suspected.”
His expression wavered into scorn. “So much so as to invade the sanctity of my soul?”
I sighed. “A grave mistake—an admission I’ve confessed time and again.”
He looked at me, expression hard as stone. “A confession does not excuse the sin.”
“I did—”
“But it is a start, and it does put you above my other enemies. As does your presence.”
I stared at him wide-eyed.
Noting my shock with a rueful smile, he said, “My anger is not so fierce as to blind me to your efforts. Words are never as convincing as actions.”
“If that were true, House Bainan would long ago have smothered House Lorail into insignificance.”
We drew closer to the band of barbarians. Adjusting the Painter matrix was a matter of fine control. I was not yet accomplished in that field, so my attempt to lessen the light I believed into my eyes in accordance with the brightness and proximity of the marauders left spots in my vision. Only after I had released the matrix and rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand did I recognize the group we faced.
They wore clothes and boots of tanned leather, coats of thick fur, and jewelry of coarse gems and polished bone. At their front stood a man who bore a familiar bear pelt, the gnarled face of the animal set atop his head, his flat face hidden within its shadows.
“Godlings,” the barbarian leader spat.
“It’s that fellow,” I said to Edon.
“First year.” Edon nodded. “The lesson The Academy prepared for us. I remember.”
“For you and the other godlings,” I corrected.
Edon shrugged away my point and, for the first time I could remember, turned a dangerous glare at someone other than me. “You killed Nully.”
“Nully?” I asked.
“A friend of mine. She was there that day.”
“A Root?”
“A friend,” he insisted.
“One can be both.”
“One is more important than the other.”
My silence portrayed my understanding and agreement, and I let him continue his confrontation.
“You two cubs have wandered rather far from your pens.” The bearish man seemed amused. The thirty or so marauders behind him, eager to show their allegiance, chuckled at the mirth in his tone.
“Where is your camp?” Edon asked.
The chieftain, or whatever the barbarians called him, inspected Edon. “Hefty, aren’t you. You’ve got a lot of meat on those bones of yours. We’ll have to smoke half your weight. The other will cover tonight's feast. The capture of godling meat deserves a celebration.”
The man’s followers cheered at the news.
“Do you want the honors?” Edon asked me.
Memories played: a dangling girl, her whimpers a strangled call of desperation; the jagged line across her throat pulsing a flow of blood; the Roots jumping to their death; the howls and hollers and hoots and laughter as the horde of barbarians delivered their carnage.
“Except for disgust at his dietary choices,” I said, “I have little stake in causing him pain. Of the two of us, it is you he has wronged.”
Edon stepped forward, the gleam of his glare full of malice.
“Do not break his skin or use too much sensus,” I said. “Better we do not leave tracks for our hunters to follow.”
***
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Their village was far inland, hidden within a ring of dead and dying trees. Of the forty-odd huts, four were of the larger variety. Of those four, three were placed apart, almost outside the line of trees, a pile of unrefined hashla burning at their center. Curiosity drove me to investigate.
“I’ll join you in a moment,” I called to Edon as he led the cowed chieftain toward the center of the camp.
I found a prison of women, half-naked, half-starved, drugged, and compliant. The numbness of their involuntary intoxication dulled them from the horror of their existence and locked them in place without the need for chains. Even as I watched, a brawny man with an unkempt beard streaked with the juices of undercooked meat came and pulled one of the women out, ready to use her for his urges. I ripped out his throat with my bare hand and watched him bleed out as he choked to death. Once the light of life departed his feral eyes, I stomped out the flames burning the hashla, tossed the dead man’s corpse over the smoldering ashes as a warning to those who watched me, and vowed to check on the women later.
The chieftain’s home looked far better on the inside than it did on the outside. Like the rest of their dwellings, his was a dome of cured hides held up and in shape by a crisscrossing of wood. The floor was covered with more hides. On the far side lay his bed, a hill of soft furs. A thin flap of cloth hid a makeshift chimney at the midpoint of the ceiling, below which was dug a fire pit surrounded by seats of cushions.
Edon sat cross-legged. A bruised and battered and tamed Gree—leader of the marauders—sat across from him, head bowed, knees pressed together, hands flat on his thighs.
“Can you believe he coined his group the ‘Band of Predators?’” Edon asked. It seemed he was warming to me again. It had taken me a day of danger to achieve what I could not in cycles filled with apologies. “Predators! The gall!”
“How long are we to stay?” I asked. “And do they have anything edible?”
“We’ll leave in the morning.” He waved his hands towards a platter filled with miscellaneous bits of half-charred, half-raw meats. “You may partake, but I think it wise not to eat anything these cannibals have scrounged up.”
I hunted that night and discovered The Wilds was harmless to me. Better than harmless: inviting. A thought bubbled to the surface as I struck the killing blow, the edge of my flat hand snapping and cutting open my prey’s neck. The evolved deer squealed its last breath, half of its final exhalation bubbling out of its open throat. As I settled the evolved deer’s head onto the ground, its blood gushing onto the hard soil of the dry planes, I wandered, with my mind’s eye, into a future where I left behind my goals, the thirst for vengeance, the machinations of godlings, the wars of empires, and the all-consuming need to grow stronger. There, I lived a life of simplicity, of peaceful existence, taking sustenance off the land, protected by my isolation and unbothered by the happenings of the outside world. The vision broke when my imagination brushed against the inconceivable. Lorail would not let me. The world would not let me. I sighed away my nugatory fancies and dragged the buck back to the camp.
Edon and I ate well that night, and come morning, after I’d spent the twilight hours escorting a group of broken women beset by cravings as close to the capital as I was able and willing, we set out for The Academy once more.
***
Midday. The sun had just crossed its zenith. The skies were clear, the air brisk, the winds wild. We’d made it to the sloping regions of the capital island’s southern reaches. The Academy was half a day’s run along the coast. Edon could no longer keep the pace we’d kept the past day; despite his skill, there was little he could do about his exhausted pool of sensus. And so The Academy was, depending on Edon’s stubbornness, three or so days distant.
“They’ll catch us soon,” Edon said, the words rushed out in one labored breath. “Let me rest.”
“We do not have the time. Once our pursuers find we have not reached Discipulus, they’ll double back.”
“They have mounts. Warhorses, if not evolved. Even by my most conservative estimation, our time has already expired. I do not wish to face them tired and weak.”
“Shall we travel north?”
Edon shook his head. “They’ll be fastidious with their tracking once they discover our trickery.”
I stared for a long moment at my old friend, saw his conviction harden his features into stone despite the slack of fatigue, and knew he spoke with grim certainty.
“Then we will wait,” I said.
Edon took off his long robe, spread it over the mud, and sat. “What good will you sharing my fate bring either of us.”
“Are you asking me to leave?”
“I am telling you it is the wiser choice. If it is your wish to be forgiven that binds you to my fate, consider yourself forgiven.”
“Why do you think I wish to be absolved?”
He shrugged, though it was not so clear to me if the gesture was meant to show uncertainty or disinterest. “It does not—”
“Finally!” The shout was giddy, a mix of excitement, relief, and joy. It echoed from the top of the hill to the east.
Edon and I looked up in unison. There was Spenten, panting, his smile delirious. The boy Edon had beaten before our departure from The Academy beamed with the glory of his imminent revenge, his sickly glee driving the corners of his mouth towards his eyes.
Four more figures crested into view, warriors one and all. Two were Named, the white of their symbol flaring in the wind. Two were godlings, the gold of their heritage tied neatly into braids. Edon had been right twice over; Spenten and the Named rode warhorses, and the godlings sat upon evolved beasts—tall, lithe jackals with spidery limbs and long, teeth-infested snouts.
“It appears as though your time to escape has elapsed.” Edon got to his feet, his movements arduous. “As has my chance to rest.”
Besides Spenten, who hopped and skipped like an exitable child, the others trotted down the hill lazily, assured we were beyond escape. For all his enthusiasm, Spenten rode at the back, buffered by the quartet of men he accompanied. The two Named circled around, covering our rear, while the godlings dismounted and approached our front on foot.
“Cousins,” Edon greeted. He knew them both.
“First and second,” The one on the left commented with a look of disgust. He was a quintessential Bainan: long framed, heavy of bulk, and carved in wide angles.
“Who knew you were more than you appeared.” This godling was tall, too, but that was the only similarity he shared with the other Bainan. In truth, he shared more with the jackals, graceful and sharp-eyed like his soul had a touch of wolf. “Had I known, I’d have spared you more than a passing glance.”
The giant scoffed. “Do not make light of the transgression he represents, Flurin. He is an abomination.”
“I’d heard most came out… incomplete,” Flurin said, seeming unconcerned. “But he had the presence of mind to go undetected whilst in the midst of those whom he wished to be undetected by. I say he’s got all his mental faculties. Then there are the rumors of him possessing the skills and strength of those on the path. Do you not find him curious?”
“I’ve already told you—I find him to be an abomination.”
Edon leaned in close and whispered to me as the two men bickered. “I fear trying to advocate for your noninvolvement will only serve the contrary.”
“How strong are these two?” I asked.
“Stronger than we can handle.”
“Leaves?”
“No.”
“Academy graduates?”
“The slimmer of the two.”
“How old?”
“Both are closing in on their second century. But that is of little consequence.”
“Stronger than the Named?”
“A standard Named? Yes. The two behind us? No.” Edon glanced back at the impassive pair arresting our flight. “It’s why we have no hope. The Laminae brothers are my uncle Velusni’s greatest Named. Many agree the older of the two is on par with an adjudicator. We cannot hope to win.”
I opened my mouth to reply when the two godlings ceased their chatter and turned their attention to me. Both sets of eyes took me in. The giant glanced over my physique and noted how I stood, the placement of my feet, my balance, how I distributed my weight, and how close I kept my hand to the handle of my sword. Flurin’s gaze, on the other hand, never left mine. He watched me as if he might glean my thoughts from every blink and shift of my eyes.
“I do not recognize you,” Flurin said. He turned to the giant. “Any clue, Bujn?”
“He carries himself like one of us. But no, I’ve never seen him before.”
“So then, stranger, who are you?” Flurin smiled. It did nothing to flatter my sense of security or my willingness to answer.
“A Lorail cast-off, though no one is quite sure.” Spenten watched from the back, happy as a dog with a new bone.
I turned to Edon. “When this is all said and done, you might tell me about the conflict I’ve just joined.”
And then I attacked.
My sword slipped out of its sheath and flickered toward Flurin. The man was quick, but his speed was useless; my attack was a feint.
Bujn blundered into my blow in his haste to aid Flurin. The force of my front kick caved in his chest, the jagged ends of his broken ribs puncturing his lungs. I reached into the fold of my tunic, took out a throwing knife, and went to plunge the thing through his eye socket and into his brain.
One of the Named seized my wrist. I twisted. My leg arched forward and cracked against Bujn’s neck. He was alive but out of the fight. Reaper healing only did so much so quickly, and a broken spine was nothing to scoff at.
The Named reached for me with his free hand. I flicked the throwing knife I still held at his face. He dodged. That was fine. He was not my intended target, though I had hoped to distract his attack in the same movement.
The knife sank into Spenten’s back as he fled to safety. He yelped like a hound does when it’s kicked by its owner. Satisfied, I ducked under the sweeping arm of the Named and stepped back. Just as I meant to continue my assault, I noticed Edon.
My friend was on his knees, hands shackled behind his back. Flurin held a blade to his throat.
“I take it you’d prefer Edon stay alive?” the godling asked.
“I do.” My willingness to battle them was proof enough.
“Are you a Leaf?” Flurin shook his head. “No, of course you are. Only a Leaf can be as casually daring and unreasonably powerful. House Lorail, is it?”
“So they say.”
“You don’t much fight like one. Nevertheless, this is a matter for House Bainan. Your matriarch will not support your interference.”
“I’d not seek her support even if she were guaranteed to give it. Besides, that is a moot point—she is not my matriarch.”
“Can I not dissuade you from continuing on this course?”
I shook my head. “Leave him here, unharmed, and the matter will end. Take him, and I’ll hunt you to death.”
Flurin sighed. “So be it. You are an odd one for one of your House.” He gestured at me with a nod and spoke to the Named. “Capture him. He shall be coming with us.”
The Laminae brothers came at me in earnest. Whatever reservations they had were unleashed the moment their handler gave the order. Both were Reapers. Earth groaned beneath their feet as they pounded toward me. The closer of the two, the one I’d briefly scuffled with, reached me first.
I blocked a punch. Regret came soon after—the man hit like a falling boulder. My forearm snapped. Bone punctured out of the leather of my sleeve. I fell back a step, arm dangling. Another blow came at me. I slipped to the side. The mere pressure of his attack ruptured my eardrum. Blood began to leak from it. Another step back.
The brother arrived. He came in low, arm outstretched, gleaming nails sharpened to a point reaching for my throat. I leaned back. The other Named capitalized, striking my ankle with a kick and sending me to the ground. My arm and ankle shrieked. I ignored the wailing waves of pain and rolled just in time to avoid a stomp of a foot aimed at my thigh.
The hailstorm paused. I got to my feet. The brothers stood together, watching me, smiles on their lips. Then they spoke.
“You’re a good—”
“—fighter. Better than—”
“—good. There aren't many who possess—”
“—your level of technical skill. It’ll be an honor—”
“—to defeat you.”
“There’s little honor in a victory achieved by numbers,” I said.
They looked at each other, communicating in whatever manner allowed them to share sentences.
“I shall go first,” the one on the right said.
Bujn struggled to his feet, a hand over his collapsed chest. “Do not play games,” he wheezed. “Kill him.”
The brothers looked over at Flurin.
“Care to place a wager?” Flurin asked.
Bujn snarled. “He tried to kill me.”
“The brothers will succeed in their task. It is only a matter of time. So, the wager? I shall put a score of gold on the boy lasting at least a quarter of a turn. He is quite talented.”
Bujn remained silent, the angry lines on his face his only reply.
Flurin sighed before he addressed my opponents. “Do not kill him. And yes, you may test his martial skills however you wish, on the condition that you do not take so long as to vex Bujn overmuch. Unless, of course…”
They turned to me. All. Even Edon, who watched me blankly, his defeat too great to allow any emotion but numb despair. Spenten, too, rose from the ground, groaning, the utter hate of his gaze boring into me.
“You expect me to surrender?” I asked.
Flurin shrugged. “I’d rather you not, but given you’ve seen the skill the brothers wield, and considering you have Bujn and me to contend with besides, I’d have figured you were no longer so blind to your odds.”
“You’re a gambling man, are you?” I asked. “Good with odds?”
The pretty bastard shrugged. “I’m fair.”
“Then how is it you’ve overlooked the two most significant factors working in my favor?”
Flurin quirked one eyebrow, a mixture of confusion and amusement. “Do tell.”
“I need not face you all at once. When I threatened to hunt you to death, I meant it.”
The godling chuckled. “What has that to do with your odds of defeating us here and now. And how do you know such threats will not convince me to end you before you grow powerful enough to fulfill your promise?”
I smirked, my pride on full display. “Well, you also seemed to have forgotten my rumored association with House Lorail.”
Reality warped.
I’d not been idly watching their interplay—my sensus had been building a Painting, a framework within my soul, a readied template. I’d have drawn the matrix directly onto reality, but I knew my enemies had sensight. Then, the moment had come; the matrix had distended out from my soul, reality forgot who and where I was, and I had disappeared.
Flurin’s amusement evaporated. Spenten’s narrow-eyed scorn was replaced by fear. Spittle flew from Bujn as he spat a diatribe at Flurin. The brothers, professional killers that they were, instantly went on alert, their weights on the balls of their feet, their gazes scanning every mote of dust, their ears perked for any sound besides the screeching huff of Bujn’s tirade.
I shuffled off as quickly and unobtrusively as my broken ankle let me. Though I masked my being, my talents were not enough to mask my passage. My busy mind—it took most of my mental capacity to maintain the complex Painting holding back reality’s notice—spared little for my struggle, the pain and effort of my escape pushed to the fringes of my consciousness.
The sun dropped below the horizon. I did not notice until it had disappeared, and only in so much as a passing thought about how dark it had gotten. Winds played as though they were unsupervised children given free rein. My injuries grew insensible. A darkness unrelated to the night encroached on my vision. I fell to my knees, exhausted. My Painting dissolved and let reality reclaim my existence. As if its hold on the matrix was its only anchor to the waking world, my mind fell into the darkness of oblivion.