AKI:
Silaani kin Lore and Dakomir kin Bainan, better known to me as Sil and Dako, were a godsend. Whensoever life seemed too doomed to continue, some god had sent me hope. I knew which of them had sent me Diloni. I knew, too, who had sent me Merkus. I couldn’t help but wonder which of them, if any, had guided Sil and Dako into my path.
My new friends and I followed our classmates north. The Academy and the hill it sat upon drenched us in the tall shadows of early morning. Dormitories indistinguishable from our own lined our left, a series of replicas. To our right were mind arenas. Slabs of stone, flawless, smooth, fifty paces on each side, and standing half again as tall as me, were arranged into a series of stages, each capable of projecting incorporeal manifestations of Arts by using Auger and Vapor matrixes to mimic real effects, thus saving those who practiced on them from injury. They put the pedestals at the preparatory academy to shame.
One man, a Golem, a wielder of earth, held before him a shield of hardened soil as tall as himself. He stood against a long-limbed Alchemist, a weaver of souls, an extractor, a thief of abilities and traits. She punched through his advance with a jet of water, using some power she’d filched from an evolved sea creature. I wondered how water, soft and malleable as it was, could defeat hard earth without spending eons nipping and eroding away at it. On another stage, thin vines of metal sent forth by a Telum, a commander of minerals and ore, slithered around a Vapor who kept them at bay with streams of fire. I wondered how intense the blaze would have to be to melt the metal so quickly and thoroughly. Yet another exhibited a woman gliding in the air, moving with the grace of a swallow. Whims of soaring through the sky took hold of my imagination. There were more showings, many more, each vying for my attention.
A hand grabbed my wrist and pulled me forward.
“You’ll be at The Academy for years to come,” Sil said. “Time enough to learn—if you can avoid wasting your time watching in dumbfounded amazement, that is.” She dragged me along until we fell into step beside Dako, who, with his build, was easy to find among the thin crowd of students.
“So, what is your prospective Art?” Sil asked.
I shrugged. For all the time I’d spent contemplating the future, I had not spent long plotting the details of my ascensions to power. Most of the thoughts I projected forward into possible futures consisted of possessing an undefined yet vast strength and all the securities and fancies I’d spend it on.
She quirked an eyebrow. “You mean to say you haven't decided? And exactly how many affinities were you born with that you have difficulty choosing? I’ve heard commoners have a degree of talent in all the Arts, but aren’t most skewed towards one or two? Or are you one of those rare few who have equal potential across the board?”
I peeled my eyes from the field, my interest drawn by the disbelief in her tone. “I thought specialization was only finalized in the last season of the cycle.”
“Gods, you are a Mud,” Sil exclaimed.
Dako put a hand on my shoulder. “Most have been training for specialization from birth. You can’t learn enough to rank at more than two. It takes a lifetime to become adept at just one.”
We came upon the Mundane building—a four-story construction of brown bricks and stained glass where knowledgable Roots taught non-sensus-related subjects. For all its size and elegance, amid the academy's cusping towers and hulking trees, it was a rather humble building. The lecture hall itself was a small amphitheater. Tiered rows of seating surrounded a stage pushed against the far wall. A man, older in appearance than even Diloni, stood hunched at the center of the stage, facing the incoming throng of students, his liver-spotted hands clasped before him. Our schedules had identified him as Jasom, master of the mundane and our instructor for languages.
My friends and I took the leftmost seats in a row a little further to the back than the front. Only three dozen or so of the hundred and twenty were present. A disdain born of arrogance caused many of the godlings to underestimate the usefulness of mundane knowledge; servility born of fear caused many of the Roots to adopt a congruent perspective.
Jasom cleared his throat. “Sirs.”
I nudged Sil and Dako out of their heated debate about the merits of their chosen specialties—a conversation I’d begun to realize had no end. They both settled back into their seats, quiet and ready for instruction.
“Sirs,” Jasom called again, this time loud enough for it to be a shout. Some offered him a glance. A few offered more. Many continued to disregard his arrival.
Calmly, Jasom pulled out a grey medallion from within the folds of his grey robes. He scanned the room, offering gentle smiles to those few he met eyes with and cold indifference to those many he didn’t. Then he pressed a finger to his medallion.
All chatter seized. Rich echoes hummed in the wake of the sudden hush. The boy seated next to Dako was the first I noticed. He quivered, fingers curled in tension, facial muscles stuck between an expression of pain and shock. He gurgled softly as a scream scrambled for purchase at the back of his throat. I looked about the room. Many suffered the same fate. My companions and I were safe. As were those who’d opted to listen to Jasom’s call to attention. We stared for a handful of breaths, stunned that highbred Branches were included in those inflicted with whatever strange punishment Jasom had passed. After a time, those affected sputtered, bursting out with violent exhalations. A few of the more feeble students slumped in their seats, breathless.
“I take it I have your attention now?” Jasom asked, his voice calm.
A commotion broke out. Sturdier students jumped to their feet. A wiry boy with the golden hair of a godling scrambled down the rows directly at the instructor, shouting insults as he went. Another finger to the medallion, and the boy fell into a rigid stillness, his momentum toppling him over like an overbalanced statue.
“A few things to note,” Jasom said. In a room of absolute quiet, his soft words echoed. “Master Klaral and Master Holden—heads of the Vapor and Aedificator schools, respectively—designed this tool to help me deal with unruly nothings attempting to disrupt my class. Such behavior will not be tolerated. Know that your sensus, except under the express permission of a true Master, is locked to you. Know that the rather unpleasant and debilitating sensation this ingenious creation can evoke is what awaits those who dare disrupt my class again.”
“He will pay for that,” Sil whispered, her voice hidden in a wave of others.
“It sure is good to see godlings humbled, though,” I said.
“You mean to say you’d find pleasure in my pain?” Sil teased.
“Our pain?” Dako joined.
“Right now? Yes.”
Dako’s expression sobered before he spoke. “From the look of our master of the mundane, he’ll be dead before any of us ascend. Why worry about a future you’ll never reach.”
“His well of offspring best be as dry as that of his life,” Sil said. “Because if they can't punish him for it, they’ll surely find the closest substitute. Us godlings have a talent for holding grudges.”
When the humdrum of threats and complaints had died down, a sudden thing encouraged by Jasom’s theatrical stroke of his medallion, our new language assessor began his scheduled lesson. He was, surprisingly, a rather competent teacher, clear in his descriptions, entertaining in his method, and rich with his praise.
Deep into his lecture on languages, Jasom expounded on the inadequacies of direct translations. “…The ancient language is perhaps the most notorious for such losses and gains.” He peered around the class, gazing at the only Leaf who’d chosen to attend. “Would you give us an example of each if you please, Sir Vignil?” Jasom had shown an uncanny knowledge of all our names. I surmised it had to do with our new marks and his medallion.
The Leaf shrugged. “It seems that, by asking us to answer these questions, you are neglecting your duty to teach, Jasom.”
Jasom smiled as though the boy's disrespect was part of a plan. “Anger at oneself is so often expressed as anger at others, don’t you think, Sir Vignil? It seems your ignorance, which, as with all my students, is what I wished to identify and correct, has you seeking faults in others rather than addressing your own.”
Vignil’s jaw clenched. “I would say you are committing the very act you accuse me of.”
Jasom’s eyes narrowed at the retort, but he made no move toward his already infamous medallion. “And where does my fault lie, Sir Vignil?”
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“Atop your accusations.”
Jasom smiled. “Ah, yes. A calculated guess, I admit, but one you can refute simply by answering my question. So, good sir, care to prove me wrong?”
Vignil stood, rising to an impressive height, though not in the realms of Dako and Farian. “The word for ‘tree’ and ‘thing’ is the same in the ancient language. That is an example of a translation lacking the full meaning.”
Jasom yawned into his fist. “Not exactly. The issue persists in the original language. There is no loss in translation if the deficiency exists before the conversion.”
Vignil’s nostrils flared, the muscles of his arms flexing. “The context in the original would rectify such issues of clarity—”
“As would any translation.”
“Not if the translation is but an excerpt.”
“Again, the problem would exist before the translation. But fine, I grow tired of your excuses.” After a moment of silence, Jasom crossed his arms and said, “Well, I’m waiting.”
Vignil lowered his head, his eyes flickering about in search of an answer. After another few breaths, Jasom dismissed him with a wave and shifted his attention to me. I hadn't considered it then, but to my detriment, his choice was wholly deliberate.
“You there,” he called. “Yes, you, good sir. Sir Aki, isn't it? Care to try at an answer?”
My mind floundered through memories, not considering what these answers I searched for would cost me. “Placement. A placement can be used instead of a verb to illustrate the action. When translated, the action—and sometimes an appropriate adverb—is added to clarify.”
Jasom nodded, pleased. “Not the clearest examples, but sufficient to illustrate the point. And?”
Sil pinched my thigh under the table. I shot her a look of annoyance, not heeding the warning in her eyes. Too often are the unwise lured away from foresight by the allure of triumph.
I turned back to Jasom. “The word for ‘like,’ as in being fond of something, though translated as ‘like’ in common practice, is more accurately translated as ‘found.’ This says much of what the word means to them, and a direct translation loses some of that meaning.”
Jasom clapped his hands together. “Excellent.” He turned to Vignil. “Observe, my dear sir, and learn.”
I later found that it is never a good idea to tarnish the pride of a Leaf, least of all one from House Bainan.
***
As with the first week of each month, my first week at The Academy was dedicated to subjects of the mundane. I attended classes in mathematics, science, history, and a litany of others. With fewer and fewer students choosing to attend, and with Sil and Dako filling my time in between with pleasant and near cheerful company, I found myself the happiest I’d ever been. It was then, trapped in the complacency contentment brings, that I was taught another lesson in caution.
The last day of each week was our own. Ekolise advised us to use the time to consolidate the contents of our lessons. Though there might've been one or two studious persons I was not accounting for, none of us did as he suggested.
It was the eve before our first free day. Dako and I waited for Sil by the broken statue outside our dorms. We’d returned to our rooms after a grueling class with Hansool—mundane master of mathematics—to freshen up before touring The Academy.
“He has me questioning my decision to join the Administration Institute.” Dako shook his head, dismayed by the boredom we’d suffered.
I smiled at him. It was an expression I was beginning to find more comfortable. “I suppose he takes pride in truly being a master of the mundane.”
Dako laughed and slapped my arm. He didn’t notice me wince in pain. “Ha! Yes, a master of the mundane indeed. Another quarter-hour, and my ears would’ve bled in protest.”
A familiar voice cut through Dako’s laughter. “Administration? I’d heard you’d given up on your martial heritage for softer pursuits, but who would’ve thought you’d fall so low as to settle your ambitions on shepherding the common rabble.”
Dako’s shift was instant, as warm and boisterous as a happy child, then as still and cold as a mountain peak. I saw Vignil strolling towards us with three of his fellow Leaves. Two came up from behind, following his lead. Linus, taking an extra step for every two of Vignil’s, scurried by his side, unwilling to accept the implications of trailing his social peer. Last I’d seen of the petulant Leaf, he was on his knees, bawling against the backdrop of blazing fires, horrid screams, and animalistic cheers.
Dako offered a curt nod to Vignil and another to a rat-faced boy with a receding chin and accented nose.
“Must we continue this endless feud?” Dako asked.
Vignil shrugged. “If you had chosen your friends more wisely, our peace might’ve lasted. As it stands, and knowing you, this conceited dungheap”—he waved a hand in my direction, not deigning to look my way—“has guaranteed the restoration of our enmity. I take it you will attempt to protect him from me?”
Dako offered another curt nod, his eyes hard. “As you said, he’s a friend.”
Vignil reacted with another shrug. “Then there is nothing for it.”
Dako rolled his shoulders as if preparing for a fight. He interlocked his fingers and stretched out his arms until his knuckles cracked. “The reasons you think Aki is insufferable are the very reasons our enmity will never die, Brother. So, are you here to act on these intentions of yours?”
Vignil smiled. I had seen many wicked expressions in The Muds, from the dissolute licking of lips to the harsh cackle of callous laughter. Vignil’s casual smile was far more chilling.
“I am a Leaf, Dakomir,” he said. “All I intend for today is a declaration of my intent. You, Brother, are owed that much.”
Linus stepped forward, eager to drag himself into the light of the conversation. “A Branch protecting a Mud against a Leaf? What heresy! Vignil, snap this lowly insect’s neck and be done with it. Even if Dakomir is a Fiora, he is not a Leaf and can do naught to stop you. Do not tell me you’ve taken all that babble about our lost status as anything but The Academy trying to tame our gods-given rights to act as we so please.”
Irritation flashed in Vignil’s eyes as he turned to Linus. “What would Uncle Silas say if you killed one of your brothers?”
“He would think nothing of it. Why?”
Vignil sighed. “A bad example. I’d forgotten all his children are nothing more than byproducts of his lustful experiments. Alas, try to imagine what my father would say. Imagine what he would do when I cut away a seedling whose potential nearly ascended him into the Leaves and yet might.”
“Ah, I see. Father has told me how Uncle Bainan loves war too much to waste good soldiers on whims alone. Is it true Muraad still wears the scars of his punishment?”
Vignil nodded, then turned to Dako. “You are a stubborn man, Dakomir, but I urge you to reconsider. I will kill the boy for his disrespect. He and Jasom will see death as soon as I can arrange their meetings. Do not stand in the way when the time comes.”
Vignil turned and strode toward the gate, his two Leaves close at his heels. Linus laughed awkwardly at their departure. Though he eventually snubbed the idea of following Vignil’s lead, his steps faltered before taking him back toward the dormitories.
Once they were out of sight, I asked, “Was it me or him?”
Dako turned to me, his eyes hard. “Was what you or him?”
“The reason you chose to stand between us.”
Dako’s gaze softened, and a little of the affable giant I first met returned. Still, there was a heavy measure of somberness left in him. “I’ll not lie, Aki,” he said. “I hate Vignil. That is not to say I do not count you as a friend, but…”
I smiled, surprising him. “As you are mine, Dako, which is precisely why that answer pleases me. And I understand we do not know each other well enough to be… better friends, though I do hope we are on a path that will lead us there.” A laugh removed the somberness from him. My next question, however, brought much of it back. “Will I escape his rage if I offered him an apology? Enough groveling could excuse my reckless affront if he is anything like what I suspect Linus to be.”
Dako shook his head. “Vignil is nothing like Linus. While Linus drowns his talent in decadence, Vignil sharpens his with diligence. Do not judge him for his linguistic ignorance—he, like me, has, by design, paid little effort into accruing mundane knowledge, choosing instead to perfect the paths our progenitor approves of the most. Only that man’s displeasure has stopped his hand this day.
“Nevertheless, Vignil’s ambition is too great to allow such an offense, and we’ll both inexorably face the onslaught of his wrath. As much as it hurts me to admit it, fist to fist, I am not his equal.” His admission and the melancholy it inspired in him reminded me of the bleak moments when all hope seemed lost and all effort pointless. In that sadness, slight as it was compared to my own, I understood why Dako was a man I could call a friend.
I lay a hand on his shoulder, my fingers fragile against his dense muscles. “Is that why you seek to harness power by other means?”
Dako turned his head, unwilling to meet my eyes. I think pity from a Mud would’ve shattered him. He was, after all, still a Fiora.
They aimed for Dako first.
A fist to his jaw staggered my friend. I stepped forward. Someone’s arms snaked under my own, their fingers interlocking around the back of my neck. I flailed against the hold. Another two came up behind me and pounced on Dako as I struggled.
Dako kicked out, sending his first opponent stumbling backward. He struck the second on his throat with the outside edge of his hand, then ducked under the swing of the third. That was the last I saw of his battle.
My opponent pushed me to the ground. My forehead struck the cobbled stone. Pain arced across my brow, pulsed at my temples, ran along my jaw, and into my teeth. I lost a second there. When I regained my senses, something long since locked away came rushing out. It wasn’t anger, though, that, too, came in abundance. It was the pure ferocity of my early youth where I’d been taught not the intricacies of combat but the savagery of survival.
I stopped flailing and reached behind me, my arms stretched, my thumbs trying to find his eyes. He leaned back and craned his neck to the side. His grip loosened. I latched my teeth into his forearm, breaking the skin and digging into the flesh. The bite hurt him as much as it hurt me. My vision blurred. Still, when his hold loosened further, I had enough presence of mind to dig my teeth into him again, finding the thinner, less muscle-bound flesh nearer his wrist. This earned me a fist to the side of my head, dislodging my teeth. I took a part of him with me. Another fist came down, and the world flashed.
When I came to, I was on my back, the taste of blood in my mouth, the chunk of meat I’d bitten off lying beside me covered in my spit. A pale boy with dark, shoulder-length hair and thin eyes stood over me, hand clamped around his bleeding wrist.
The wild beast in me roared. It came out as a bubbling growl that sputtered flecks of blood. The boy’s eyes widened, and he scrambled back, floundering as he turned and ran.
I pushed to my feet and cast a sweeping gaze that nearly put me back down. A score of students had gathered. A few more watched us from dorm windows. The spell of dizziness faded.
Dako sat atop one of his opponents, hailing down a flurry of blows. His two other assailants were limping away. Mine fell in behind them.
I saw Sil next. She rushed down the steps towards Dako. I had never seen concern on a godling before. A surge of jealousy urged me to hate my handsome friend. I shook the thought away before it took root.
My vision went black. What felt like the span of a breath passed, but I knew it was more. A voice asked me a question. I turned to it.
“Can you walk?” Sil asked. She said it as though she was repeating herself. She probably was.
I looked down, woozy but still upright. “Yes.”
As if to deny my claim, the world spun once more, and my balance betrayed me. Oblivion took me before my body hit the ground.