AKI:
Three seasons came and went. In their wake, a pattern emerged. Wake up. Eat. Train. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. I grew taller. Dako reckoned I’d be taller than him before I was done. The smile following his prediction meant a great deal; height was a mark of prestige for those of House Bainan, and as few as his faults were and as much as he wished it wasn’t so, my friend cared deeply for the approval of his House. With my height came width. Lean muscles flowed onto my broadened frame. Thankfully, their growth had stopped long before they neared Dako’s. Though I admired his physique, I had no wish to emulate my friend’s colossal form. He was glad, too, not out of malice but because his upbringing had ingrained in him a deep sense of competitiveness. He knew my cunning worked better with speed than strength, thus making me a more engaging opponent—I’d begun to win half or so of our mundane bouts.
All in all, the monotony of the two seasons was only broken thrice, not including the breaks we received between seasons. Besides empty streets and a lack of official lectures, my routine remained the same during those times.
The first was perpetrated by an assassin. He’d come upon me at the height of summer and in the dead of night. Tired and alone, or so I must’ve seemed, the man deemed the moment too good an opportunity to give up. So good he missed Mistress Brittle coming out of the Pondus chamber moments after me.
The assassin, a whip of a man, paradoxically tall and dexterous, dropped down from overhead. Only the flutter of his loose clothes saved me from death. Instead of his dagger penetrating the crown of my head, my looking up caused his blade to slice down my face, the cut running from between my brows, down the side of my nose, and across both lips to nick at the bone of my chin.
I stumbled back. Like thunder to lightning, the pain arrived several heartbeats after the cut. I ignored the wetness of blood trickling down my face to watch my assailant ready himself for another go.
His second attempt never got the chance to begin.
“Ah, so this here is the newest of the incompetent cutthroats your mysterious enemy has sent after you.” Brittle walked around the hovering masked man, looking him up and down. She squinted. An odd affectation—the darkness of night did nothing to hinder her sight. “How foolish must you be to try for him in my presence.”
The man threw his dagger at the Pundos assessor. It stopped, reversed direction, and went to hover near his neck, the tip a mere fingerbreadth from his throat. The man craned his neck back but otherwise stopped moving.
“Yes,” she said, “quite foolish, indeed.”
“Mistress,” I called, sounding as though my tongue was too big for my mouth. The four lips he’d made of my original two made enunciation difficult, and I fumbled over the words. “Might I ask that you leave him in my custody?”
Brittle shrugged. Prolonged and frequent training sessions had made us amiable, if not entirely cordial. I absorbed her teachings; she utilized my aid. Like most relationships of relatively equal exchange, we made an effort to be polite for no other reason than to maintain the benefits the other provided.
“Very well,” Brittle said. “It’s no meat off my table. Take him.”
Under her direction, the man hovered closer, his eyes fixed on the dagger that never strayed far from his throat. Yanking his arms behind his back, Brittle placed his palms together and laid her hands on top. When she let go, nothing separated his left hand from his right; she’d merged them with Surgeon Arts so that each shared everything but their backs and bones. Then, pulling down the mask covering the lower half of his face, she swiped her hand over his mouth. Suddenly, the man no longer had a mouth. Or lips. The unified skin where they used to be stretched as the man lowered his jaw and tested the unnatural transformation.
“Don’t,” Brittle told him, gesturing with her hand. The airborne dagger pressed a dimple into his skin. “Trying will only cause you needless pain. Better yet…” She reached back into the bag where she carried all her tools and took out a medallion like the one The Academy had given me and all the other first-cycle students. She loosened the ties of his dark tunic until the V-shaped neckline laid bare the center of his chest, then pressed the back of the medallion to his bare skin where it embedded itself.
“I’ve blocked his sensus,” she explained. “He’s not as unskilled as his stupidity suggests. I suspect he might be a halfway-mediocre Zephyr—the matrix he used to catch his balance after your evasion and the one he just tried against my melding was decently executed if rather simple variants of basic matrixes.”
I offered her a faint bow. “Thank you, Mistress, for your assistance.”
“Consider it a reward for all your recent hard work.” Brittle ran a hand over my wound to heal it, adjusted her bag of tools more comfortably over her shoulder, and turned to leave. “Bring me back my medallion when you are done with him.”
Every student who saw us on our way to my dorms stared. And why shouldn’t they? We were an unusual sight. My prisoner was no student. That, by itself, was rare—visitors are few and far between in The Academy. But when you find a bound and mouthless man too old to be a student and too weak to be a master being escorted across The Academy grounds by a Heartwood who was once a Mud and may well be a Leaf, it is a little more than rare. And so they stared. Thankfully, none were so curious as to ask questions or otherwise hinder us.
***
Dako and Sil stepped in behind me. Illora and Malorey wished to join us, but I’d refused. Adamently. And more than once. Malorey had nearly begged. Her hunger for truths extended beyond the science of her Art. Still, she and Helena might’ve made decent companions during meals, and they might’ve been of use with the problem I’d tied to my bed frame, but we shared very little in the form of trust. In the end, trust was the only factor that mattered.
“Have you gotten anything from him yet,” Dako asked.
“Not yet.” I stood aside so my friends could see my would-be assassin.
Sil walked closer and pointed at the skin where the man’s mouth used to be. “Your work?”
I shook my head. “Brittle’s.” I pointed to his chest. “As is the medallion.”
“He tried for you in her presence?” Dako asked. “Whoever is sending these people must be running out of funds? The caliber of hirelings they’re engaging has deteriorated.”
“A mix of bad luck and fear,” I said. “He attacked just before she followed me out of the Pondus chamber. Not many would risk infiltrating The Academy. I imagine hiding in a school of students and Masters can fray one’s patience.”
“So,” Sil began, “we’re to interrogate him?”
“We’re to try,” I said. “In the event we fail, there’s always Fuller.”
Dako feigned the need to puke. “Gods, just his name ruins my otherwise iron appetite. Mark my words, Augers will be the end of us all.”
Sil snorted. “If we’d marked each occasion you found the need to reiterate the point, we’d need a library rivaling that of The Academy’s.”
“First things first.” I knelt before the assassin. A small line of compressed air bent around the tip of my forefinger.
“Wait,” Dako said. “You aren’t planning on cutting him a new mouth, are you?”
“As opposed to?”
Dako sighted. “Undoing the initial surgery. Here, let—”
“This man tried to kill me, Dako,” I said. “So, tell me why I shouldn’t cut him a new mouth? Go on. Tell me why I am to expend effort to save him some pain?”
“Uhm, he’d be harder to understand,” he tried half-heartedly.
I had enough skill in Zephyr Arts now that the simple matrix covering my index finger was hindered more by my medallion than it was by its limited complexity. Slow progress is still progress, and a season and a half is not so short a time that my improvements in the Arts were negligible.
The assassin, a plain man of around three decades, said nothing of whatever pain my cutting into him had caused. He watched me, the calm of resignation hanging off of him like a mantle. Finding yourself trapped in the heart of The Academy with your sensus locked and your hands bound can snatch hope from you like an eagle snatches fish out of a shallow river.
“Let’s start with your name,” I said, wiping my finger on his dark tunic to rid myself of his blood.
He tried to laugh. The attempt had him gnashing his teeth. After a deep breath, he looked me over and said, “They lied to ‘e. They said you were a weakling who sur’i’ed on nothing but luck. I should’a known better after I saw you were twice the size they said you were. You aren’t even a ‘ud, are you?” One of his eyes twitched as he spoke. And as Dako had predicted, his new, thin lips were unwilling to pronounce any sounds that needed them to touch.
Dako took a step closer to the man and cracked his knuckles.
“I sa’ose I’ under threat of ‘ain.”
“You suppose right,” I said, placing a hand on Dako’s shoulder to halt his advance. “Now, your name.”
“Hentree.”
“And the name of your employer?” Dako asked.
Hentree shook his head. “I don’t know who hired ‘e, just the man who handle’s ‘y contracts.”
Dako waved him on.
“He goes ‘y Ra’en.”
“Raben?”
“Ra’en.”
“Ramon?”
“Ra’en.”
“Ra—”
“For Gods’ sake, the man’s name is Raven,” Sil said.
“Raven?” Dako looked doubtful.
“Likely an alias,” I said. “You can’t very well go by your true name when dealing in murder; Admin holds nothing but contempt for those who commit crimes without their permission.”
Sil nodded in agreement. “Apropos. Ravens are carrion birds who pick at dead things as a means of living.”
I crouched down so the assassin and I were eye to eye. “Where can I find this so-called Raven?”
“Siren’s Call. It’s a ta’ern near the docks. He works out o’ the back room.”
“And your payment?” I asked.
Hentree sighed out of his nose. “Five, ten-wea’e synchronization tonics u’on success.”
“Five!” Sil was incredulous.
“Aren’t ten-weave tonics only possible for a godling of House Silas?” I asked.
Sil shook her head. “Not just a godling—they’d have to be Titled.”
“Titled?”
“Leaves who complete their trails and earn their leafdom are given a Title,” Dako explained, “much like how a Root or Bark is given a Name when he ascends into a Branch. And Sil’s right. Concocting a ten-weave synchronization tonic is, by itself, grounds for a Title.”
I returned my attention to my captive. “Security? Guards and the like?”
“Just S’elok.”
“One man?”
“Woman. A Tripler.”
I frowned. “How many assassins does he broker contracts for?”
Hentree shrugged. “Eight I know o’. Another three I’ve long suspected. It’s not like he’s got a roster ‘inned to his wall.”
I nodded. “Thank you for your honesty.”
I reached for him as if to free him from his bondage. A wince escaped my lips when I snapped his neck, not expecting the sound to be so loud or for my hands to feel the break so acutely. The technique was known to me, and I’d practiced it often enough, but…
“Why?” Sil asked. “There was certainly more he could’ve told us.”
“Maybe.” I was suddenly bone-deep tired. “But we haven’t the time. The refectory will soon stop serving supper, and we have another day of training ahead of us tomorrow. I can’t very well keep the man locked up in here while I go about my day.”
“What about Fuller?” Dako asked. “Surely, he’d have wrung every last drop of information from him.” He snorted derisively. “No doubt he’d have enjoyed it, too.”
“No.” I pulled my tunic over my head in preparation for a quick bath. “Whoever it is trying to kill me, this person who so very nearly took your lives in pursuit of mine,” I looked over my shoulder, pointedly locking eyes with both of them, “they are ours to deal with, and ours alone.”
“You know, Aki,” Sil said, smiling, “every once in a while, you scare me a little.”
I shook my head. “Not as much as you two scare me.”
***
“You’ll die next spring,” Froxil said.
The courtyard was empty. We were alone. It was early, and most students would not return until mid-afternoon with the transport The Academy had arranged. Those who stayed behind remained in bed, enjoying their last chance to indulge in sleep.
“And it won’t be quick,” he said. “Or painless.”
I knew, of course, but sometimes it is easy to forget the truth simply by acclimating yourself to it. I knew he hated me. I knew Vignil’s revenge was half a year away. Worst of all, I recognized my former friend, Edon, looked forward to the day those two fulfilled their threats. I witnessed their hate almost daily: their looks of disdain, the whispers of mockery, and the exaggerated manner in which they ignored my presence. So commonplace were the signs of their intentions that I’d relegated them to the background of my perception. Froxil’s blunt reminder put them back in the forefront.
I closed the book I was reading and stood from where I sat on the platform of the broken statue. Finding he had to look up to maintain eye contact, Froxil took an involuntary step back.
“By your hand?” I asked, trying to hide the satisfaction of seeing him flustered.
Froxil schooled his features, squared his shoulders, and straightened his back. “If he allows it.”
“Vignil?” I scoffed.
“You think whatever godling who disowned you will save you from him?”
“I am a Heartwood, Vignil. There are no hidden gods ready to come to my aid.” To fluster him further, I tried to sound like Merkus. Like Knite. He always had a way of making his enemies feel like children, as if they were inferior, less than.
“Then you’re a fool.”
“Or the very opposite.” I smiled. “Tell me, Froxil, if we met in the arena right now, this very instance, who would walk off the stage when all was said and done.”
“I’d grind you to dust.”
“Would you, now?”
“If not him, one of us will,” said a familiar voice.
Edon stood there, bulging gut and all. And though he mostly looked the part, he was not the Edon I knew; my friend was gone. In his place stood an enemy. The genial demeanor I knew him for was absent. It had been for a while. He was colder now, a well of icy bitterness.
I stepped towards him, his presence rendering Froxil insignificant. These were the first words he’d spoken to me since the incident, no matter how many times I had attempted reconciliation.
“Edon, I—”
“Do not waste your breath with apologies, kin Lorail,” he said, spitting out my rumored association with the House like venom. “I am as deaf to them as you were to mine. Come, Froxil, let him enjoy what remains of his life in peace.”
“Did I commit such a heinous crime that I deserve this,” I said. “We are friends, Edon.”
Edon whipped around to face me, his face red with anger. “Friends! You tried to invade my soul, you gods-forsaken fuck! And for what? Because I made the only realistic choice offered to me?” He spat the froth of his outburst at my feet, the disgust on his face painful to watch. “You were a better man as a Mud.”
My heart stilled for a painful moment, and I took a half-step back. Another truth pulled to the forefront. The nagging questions I’d buried deep: Was I the very thing I hated? Was I an Auger—a Lorail—in more than just lineage?
Seeing Edon’s words strike me like a physical blow, Froxil laughed in my face before he followed Edon into the dorms. I remained, riddled by a barrage of uncertainty and guilt. It was a long while before my pride pulled me out of my violent melancholy, promising I’d rise above my mistakes. That I’d do better. Be better. As was becoming a habit, I listened.
***
“Is that what you heard?” Dako asked. We were in the Duros chamber, and I’d just told him of the voice that had spoken to me during my assessment.
“And it helped.” I rubbed the sweat off my face and chest with a rag I’d brought for just that purpose. “For a time. Yet I find my speed of improvement is on par with the most mediocre of students despite—and forgive my lack of modesty—my superior harmonies and intellect.”
Dako laughed. “Dispense with apologizing for your lack of modesty, Aki. Otherwise, half your life will consist of apologies. As a matter of fact, I think your wanting to apologize is the problem you seek to discover.”
“How so?”
Dako’s face turned grave—an expression he wore with such solemnity that it commanded all who saw it to follow his example. “You treat your pride as if it’s an unwanted thing you need as fuel for your ambition, like a rotten trait you must bear rather than an advantage you should parade.”
He was right. I associated pride with godlings and the ugly conceit they wielded with domineering force. Did this explain my behavior? Did it explain why I’d done what I’d done to Edon? No, I thought. This was not a time for excuses. But could I use my new understanding to achieve the promises my pride had promised me? That question halted my thoughts. I had gone so far as to consider my pride a separate thing. Was it? Was my pride not a part of me?
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“I see you are beginning to understand,” Dako said.
“You knew?” I asked. “You knew and said nothing?”
Dako held up his hands. “I assumed you knew.”
“If I did,” I began but fell quiet.
“Knowing isn't the same as understanding,” he said. “All of us strive to bridge the gap between the two. What with your harmonies, I simply thought your soul so complex as to stump even you.”
I let loose a slow breath. “I’m sorry, my friend. It was rude of me to…”
Dako smiled, and I was glad to see it reach his eyes. “Think nothing of it. Shall we see what your recent insights have accomplished?”
I hopped to my feet, the fatigue of our practice suddenly far less restrictive. “Yes, let’s.”
Dako lumbered to a stand. “First, test your ready matrix.”
I nodded and closed my eyes.
A ready matrix was the primary matrix used by Reapers for instantly casting temporary changes, a base used to lay the foundation for whatever body-alteration matrixes you wish to apply. It offered a provisional medium between the soul and body. I was, at the time, aggressively average in all aspects of the ready matrix: speed of casting, uniformity of distribution, and flexibility.
First, I gathered my sensus. It roared, vast and voilent. Part of me felt my sensus was arrogant, a ferocious beast hungry to dominate. To control. To overpower. I thought it needlessly savage. But was that true? I watched the raging river of my sensus flow down my body and studied its nature, the way it moved with… passion? Vigor? There was a hunger there, indeed, but upon closer inspection, I sensed no wanton need to oppress, just an uninhibited eagerness to reach as far as possible as quickly as possible.
As soon as the thought came, a chaotic order infused my sensus, laying the ready matrix across my body with structured anarchy. I marveled. I’d tried to replicate Dako’s use of the matrix ever since he’d shown me; his version was the version to strive for. I’d done the same for all the matrixes taught to me, a progress of imitation. And why not? Everyone else found success there. That is, everyone but me.
That was my mistake, a single mistake that propagated into countless failures. Where Dako's sensus filled him like water, all even and clear, mine swirled, constantly moving, exploring, expanding. For once, I let it.
“Odd,” came Dako’s voice. He leaned in close, inspecting my unconventional matrix.
“I’m ready,” I said.
He cocked his head to the side questioningly. “Are you sure? It seems your matrix is far from what is expected from a ready matrix.”
“I’m sure.”
Dako took a few steps back and adopted a combat stance, weight on the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent, and hands raised.
I moved. My back leg swept forward, high and fast. The instance before I made contact, the bridge of my foot turned to pure bone. I’d never achieved the effect so quickly. It met Dako’s naked forearm. He winced, smiled, and pushed the leg to the side, hoping to upset my balance. I flowed with the force, leaning back and whipping my other leg toward his ribs. He dodged back. I followed.
The success of my next matrix almost lost me the match before it started in earnest. I’d commanded the muscles in my legs to grow dense. They grew too well. I darted forward. My knees and all the little bones in my feet protested, reprimanding me with pain. I grimaced through the agony, spent a moment to reinforce my legs, and darted a front kick at Dako’s chest.
Dako dodged. He converted defense into attack, ducking under my kick and trying to put his shoulder under my elevated knee. I raised my other leg, put my foot on his other shoulder, and pushed off of him and into a backward flip.
He was upon me before I landed.
A bone-covered fist came my way. I blocked. More blows came. Except for the scales of bone covering his fists, Dako’s arms had gone boneless, the limbs turning into whips of muscle and tendons that lashed against my defense. Some of his attacks made it through, the odd angles and sudden changes of direction sneaking past my guard. I covered my fingers in sharp protrusions of bone and swiped at his arm the first chance I got. Three of my makeshift claws dug deep furrows into his arm, slicing from elbow to wrist.
Dako healed the injury, booming with laughter. The battle-crazy fool was enjoying himself.
***
Dako studied my timetable while he guzzled on honey-sweetened porridge. Three empty bowls were stacked to his left. Five full bowls lay to his right like dejected prisoners waiting for their execution.
Sil sighed and shook her head, a slight tug on the corners of her lips diminishing her look of disapproval. “If I didn’t know you, I’d wager on you being a Bark.”
Dako’s head rose, a line of porridge drawing down his chin to drop back into his bowl. Sil shook her head again and turned to me.
“I meant no offense,” she said in response to my raised eyebrow. “It is the truth of things—bees make honey, the sun rises in the east, and Barks devour with a wild and unnecessary ferocity. Besides, you act more like a godling than any of us.” Sil nodded at Illora, who sat across Dako, the Lorailian’s prim demeanor a fine contrast to his uncouth comportment. “Except her, maybe.”
Illora’s face twitched ever so slightly, the movement imperceptible to all but those who’d grown accustomed to her stony expression.
“Okay, now that was meant to offend,” I said.
Sil smirked. “It might’ve… if I myself were not a godling.”
“Ah!” I raised a finger. “But you used the words ‘act more like,’ and that, my dear Silani, carries a distinctly different meaning.”
Sil frowned in the way a rabbit might wrinkle its nose—all charmingly harmless—and waved away the topic. An inapt gesticulation; we all knew the gesture was more a concession rather than the dismissal she intended.
Dako slid the parchment back to me, his perusal concluded. Printed upon its stretched surface were flowing lines penned by a rather talented Root. Whoever they were, they had a talent for art. It was not the art imagined by Painter Arts, which only required a decent memory and a passing ability to imitate, but an actual flair for originality, every flourish of every letter and word and line unique as though they were the grooves on a tree’s bark given form.
“How will they manage so many examinations within a day?” Dako asked. “We’re to be tested one by one. Granted, a fair few must’ve passed some of their examinations early, and a smaller yet still significant few must’ve passed them all, but…”
Sil inspected my schedule. “Many students have likely withdrawn from their assessments.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because withdrawing is considered a sign of wisdom,” Malorey interjected without looking up from her latest book. “Failure, on the other hand, is one of arrogance.”
Dako hummed his agreement as his large tongue circled his mouth to lick away the porridge on his lips.
“What’s more,” Sil continued, “even if they had enough talent to make it to the second cycle, they’d have to be confident they can make it to graduation.”
“Because of the bouts,” I said.
“And the other stipulations The Academy demands.” Sil held up a hand before I got a chance to ask my next question. “It’s forbidden to speak on the challenges The Academy sets. Not even Leaf candidates know what they entail for certain.”
“Of the two thousand students to enter The Academy every cycle,” Malorey added, “only a hundred-odd typically make it to graduation. Most of the others never make it to the second cycle. If I remember correctly, over twelve hundred failed or chose not to enter their second cycle last year.”
“One thing remains unclear,” I said. “Why attend at all?”
Malorey put a long, flat metal rod to mark where she’d left off and closed her book. “Attending is a mark of prestige. For four of the five Houses, it is a prerequisite for attaining the rank of Stipule.”
I frowned. “Stipule?”
“Stipules serve as adjutants for Leaves,” Dako mumbled, mouth half full.
“More like second-in-command,” Sil clarified. “Dako only thinks they’re adjutants because he was raised to think all godlings who aren’t Leaves are merely subordinates, regardless of rank.”
Dako swallowed. “Aren’t they?”
Sil shrugged. “Yes. But answer me this: is a Leaf the same as a Mud?”
Dako furrowed his brow. “I’m sensing a trap.”
Illora smiled and pushed her half-eaten plate of fruit forward. “It is. She’s trying to get you to admit they aren’t because, by your reasoning, both are merely subordinates to a god. And since Stipules are second only to their Leaf and God, you do them a disservice by categorizing them as adjutants.”
“Exactly,” Sil said.
I cleared my throat to get everyone’s attention. “I assume you have all taken your assessments.” Dako and Sil nodded. Malorey remained quiet because she’d long ago told us she had. Still did. Incessantly, though not often directly. “Any advice?”
“With the improvements I’ve witnessed you make in Alchemy lectures in the last season…” Malorey stopped speaking and watched me, clearly wishing for me to fill the silence.
“Yes?” I urged. The secret to my improvement wasn’t a great secret, but I wasn’t going to begin quenching her curiosity. There wasn’t a question we’d come across that the ravenous girl hadn't hungered for, and encouraging her would do me no good. As Merkusian had written in his treatise on the war between gods, ‘feed a glutton, and you do not satiate their hunger but merely grow the depth of their greed.’
Malorey sighed. “You have nothing to worry over. Your single-weave matrixes are among the best I’ve seen from the students in our class. Keep in mind, however, that besides me and that waste-of-air Linus, there aren't any Silas godlings of any note in our group. Most would be in the dorms that came here from Partum.”
***
My first assessment was for Aedificator Art and took place in the same room Master Ackhart held our lectures. Ten chairs lined the wall beside the door. All but the furthers were occupied. Another five lined the opposite wall. One boy sat there: Linus in all his petty glory. I gave him no more attention than what it took to recognize him.
Wiltos sat in the ninth chair, a mass of nervous ticks. His hands tapped an erratic beat on his knees as his heels beat another on the stone floor. He alternated between biting his upper and lower lip, his gaze fixed on a spot between his feet. He’d changed since the incident with Hunder, fearful where he had once been private, quiet where he had once been pensive.
“Wiltos,” I said in greeting.
He flinched and went stiff, only relaxing when our eyes met. “Uhm… ah, yes, Aki. How are you?”
“Are you alright? You seem a little out of sorts.”
He looked back down, back to the spot between his feet. “I… I’m not sure I should be here.”
I sat down beside him. “Because of Hunder’s kin?”
“Not just them.”
“Tell me something, Wiltos, why did others submit to the godlings even when they knew they’d not be here for a second cycle?”
“I do not know.” The bookish boy tore his gaze from the floor and looked up at me, his sudden stillness disconcerting. And in a whisper, as if confessing, he said, “Because, for all the knowledge I’ve consumed, they found more wisdom living their lives than I did reading mine away.”
“Maybe. That would depend on you?”
Wiltos shook his head.
The door to our usual lecture room opened. A boy shuffled out. A Root. I peered over the line of dark-haired students, noticing they were all Roots. Behind the sullen student who’d ostensibly just failed his assessment came a handsome man I recognized. He was a decade or so my senior, a Tripler, and one of Master Ackhart’s Fifths—a select group of people who voluntarily stayed on as personal disciples and teaching aides to the assessors. His appearance dissolved the last of my interest regarding how they’d managed so many assessments in a single day. My friends, godlings of considerable skill and potential, likely did not know many of the examinations were carried out by Fifths. I suspected theirs, including those for the Arts that weren't their own, were assessed by Named as a salute to their station.
The Fifth read a name off the parchment he held. No one answered. He called twice more and then did the same for the next name on the list. And the next. On the fourth, a boy in the middle of our rank stood erect.
“Come in,” the Fifth commanded.
The Root followed and fumbled the door closed behind them.
I looked back at Wiltos. His fidgeting had resumed.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“For knowledge.” His answer was instantaneous, almost practiced.
“Knowledge is a tool. What would you have it do for you?”
“Grow,” he said without thought. Or maybe the thought had long since transcended into intent.
“In power?”
Wiltos shook his head. “I wish for my knowledge to grow.”
I cocked my head in confusion but didn’t question his lack of sense. “Tell me why you resisted Hunder.”
He looked away. “I have my reasons.”
“I’m sure you do. Have those reasons been bested?”
Wiltos pursed his lips and refused to look my way. “No, but like the Roots, I am acting out of fear.”
Interesting, I thought, but considering how vague he was being, I did not pry. “The intelligent choose the best option; the wise choose the better option.”
Wiltos let his head fall into his hands. “Spare me your riddles, Aki. My mind is too occupied to find space for them.”
“You’re here, Wiltos, so you’ve chosen the best option. Now, you must wait for circumstances to present you with a better one. Or, better yet, create circumstances that offer you better options. Let fear inform your decisions, not rule them.”
Wiltos nodded, a little more like the rebellious boy I’d first met. “Where did you read that?”
“One of my very own.”
Wiltos’ smile was broken. Weak. Forced. “It’d be more fitting to say the intelligent choose the best option while the wise create their own.”
I smiled back at him. “But the greatest of sayings are always cryptic. It’s what makes them so great.”
Wiltos chuckled, the sound breathy and strained but genuine. “Yes, learned men do like to hide their teachings. I suppose lessons are better learned when they’re deciphered.”
As we waited, the door beside the fair-haired Linus swung open. Master Ackhart stepped out, followed by a Seculor who scurried off with his head hung low. Ackhart stared after the boy and sighed, then turned his attention to Linus. For the briefest moment, a hint of irritation fluttered across his expression.
“Come in,” he ordered.
Linus, too self-absorbed to notice Ackhart’s annoyance, walked into the room with his head held high.
The rest of the Roots who’d been there since my arrival were called one by one, most of their examinations lasting a fraction of what I’d expected. The quicker their tests, the harsher their expressions, and the grander their failure. Wiltos’ turn came before mine. I offered him a smile and a nod. He tried to offer me the same, but the stress of his worries turned them into a misshaped grimace and an odd jerk of his head.
Just as Wiltos’ examination ran twice as long as the longest I’d observed, Linus came out, beaming with the type of arrogant smirk it took a life deficient in hardship to attain.
Ackhart held the door open, his stoic expression marred by a faint sourness. “Congratulations.”
“It’s to be expected.” Linus began to strut away.
“But,” Ackhart said quietly enough to force Linus to stop lest the words fell outside his hearing, “I must insist you do not try to specialize in either of the Aedificator classifications. Let it be enough to say you qualified to do so.”
Linus spun. “Why?”
Ackhart shut the door.
Linus, seething, turned to me and the other students waiting for their examination. “You will not speak of this. Ever. Cross me, and I’ll have you and your family strung from the walls of The Bridge. Do you hear me, worms?”
The others nodded fervently. I remained quiet.
Linus, noting my silence, took a step in my direction. “I asked you a question, Mud.”
“Heartwood,” I corrected.
He leaned over me, his eyes flashing yellow. Ackhart had reactivated his medallion, and, being who he was, Linus likely did not have the know-how or the finesse to subvert the workings etched within. Yet his sensus overcame its restrictions with brute force —a sign of why you should never underestimate a Fiora, even the likes of Linus.
“I wouldn’t care if you were a Branch, worm,” he hissed. “Answer me.”
“I am not deaf.”
Linus celebrated his invented victory with a snort, then stalked off, his persistent and ill-concealed anger evident in his stomping steps.
Wiltos came out. Success had shattered his fear and uncertainty, and he walked out of the lecture room with a straight back and an unchecked smile.
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Thank you.”
Uncaring of our exchange, the Fifth behind Wiltos and read out my name.
“Good luck,” Wiltos said.
I nodded at him and followed after the Fifth.
The room seemed empty. All but one of the worktables had been pushed aside. The Tripler stood across from where he’d asked me to stand, the lone counter left in the center of the room separating us.
“Is this your first examination?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. His answering sigh angered me.
“The examination is simple,” he drawled. “As with all the other examinations, there are two tests—one of knowledge and one of skill. For the first, I will ask you five questions. For the second, you will get to choose between that which is expected from those who wish to specialize and that which is expected from those who wish to simply confirm they have a basic grasp of the two classifications.”
“Ask your questions.”
The godling's eyes narrowed at my tone, but he continued, “Explain the two Aedificator classifications.”
I did. Briefly, but with all the details I deemed most critical.
“For the next four,” he said, “simply name and describe the matrixes I create. There’ll be two from each classification.”
The first was simple: a two-weave matrix used to disintegrate and disperse.
“Lucky,” said the Fifth. “That must’ve been one you studied recently to answer so quickly.”
The second was a three-weave. With my memory, that, too, was easy. When my answer came just as quickly as the last, the Fifth lost his look of boredom.
“Are you cheating, Mud?” he asked, and in so doing, told me he knew who I was.
“No,” I said. “You may check my person if you wish.”
“I don’t need your permission, Mud.”
I shrugged. “So, shall we continue?”
The two I’d already answered were Golem matrixes. He was clearly more adept as a Telum; his next was a six-weave. The three-dimensional structure liquified, shaped, condensed, hardened, cooled, and imprinted a mass of metal into a staff. It was a waste of effort. It could far more easily be done in stages by employing a series of lesser matrixes.
“Fifth,” I said once I’d given my answer, “I had assumed the assessment only tested up to two-weave matrixes. No Aedificators, be they Golem or Telum, would use a higher order matrix in combat.”
“Specialized or rudimentary?” he asked, ignoring my question. A bead of sweat trailed down his forehead. I knew the six-weave was the limit of his abilities. An impressive limit, I had to admit, especially for a Tripler as young as he.
“I believe there’s a fifth question before we can move on,” I said.
“You’ve passed the question section. Specialized or rudimentary?”
“Rudimentary.”
“Then execute a single-weave matric of your choice.”
I did, then left. The Fifth did not follow me out to call on his next student.
***
Master Royce was leaning outside the Alchemy room when I turned the corner. He clapped and squeaked in an entirely undignified manner at the sight of me.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Come, come. Quickly.”
Two students—both godlings, both females, both attractive—threw me dirty looks.
“I should punish you for being late,” Royce said. “Lucky for you, you’re my favorite student.” The waiting godlings pursed their lips, and I wondered if Royce was angering them on purpose. No, I thought. Royce is more likely to cause harm by negligence than by malice.
“I came as soon as my Aedificator tests were done,” I said, making sure to keep Royce between me and the students. “Don’t you have other students waiting to be tested?”
Royce waved my question away. “Come, come. Let’s get started. I’ve been looking forward to this for a season.”
Royce pulled me inside and hurried to a table. “Go on. Take a blade of grass from that cup and extract as much as you can.”
“I thought the examination began with identifying matrixes.”
Royce pouted. An unseemly expression on a man so old and powerful. “Fine.”
He conjured a ball of matrixes, an exemplar of his status as a Master. Spherical matrixes were notoriously difficult but were known to, if mastered, optimize effects to their apex. Royce’s seven-weave matrix meant to extract one property, convert the rest to sensus, compress the physical remnants, use part of the converted sensus to give the compressed matter the semblance of life, use the other part to bestow the extracted property to the revived remnant, create a gateway to insert external sensus, and, finally, harmonize the external sensus so that the creation was exclusively linked to the owner of said sensus.
I told him as much.
“I reckon that counts as at least five,” he said. “Now, on to more interesting things. Please take a blade of grass and perform an extraction.”
“Properties or sensus?”
“Sensus First. Properties will come next. Specific properties third.” He rubbed his hands together. “I might have you repeat the tests a time or two, just so you know.”
I sighed. “Again, the test requires one sufficiently complex matrix.”
“Aki, Aki, you’re spoiling my fun here. Consider it a favor. You’ll do me a favor, won’t you?”
“And if I fail…”
Royce looked up, seemingly upset. “You think I’d deface my and The Academy’s reputation for you?” He smiled and leaned in conspiratorily. “I would, just so you know.”
“That’s not what I meant, Master.” As much as he acted a fool, I knew better than to let that influence how I interacted with him.
“Ah, I know what you meant. You really are sucking the joy out of this. Fine, fine. Only the first will count towards your examination.”
“I would like to take the specialization test.”
“Bah! Like I didn’t know. And as if I’d let you do differently. Now, before you drive me mad, please…” He indicated the cup of cut grass.
I started with the matrix—placing the blade of grass beforehand might’ve hindered my visualization. I called to my sensus and let its nature resonate with me. Recalling the fundamental single-weave matrix was child’s play. Letting my sensus run wild while aiming for control was harder. I managed. The sensation was odd, the dichotomy between creation and creator—order and chaos—baffling. Yet even as I sensed this, I felt my success nearing until, with a final push of sensus, I was done. One step remained. I placed the blade of grass in the center and willed my expended sensus to do what I’d designed it to do. The matrix shone. The green strand of nature’s hair withered to dust.
“Good, good, good,” Royce said. “Though your speed pleases me, understand that it has no bearing on your results for these tests. The first year tests your basics. Speed is a matter for later cycles. Efficiency is your goal. Now, proceed.”
The new matrix was larger but no more complicated than the last. When the process was complete, the blade of grass broke apart into ash. Many of the properties it once possessed now existed as marks of sensus wriggling in the spaces between the lines of my matrix.
“Interesting,” he said. “Very interesting, indeed. Please extract the ability to absorb from the next blade.”
I drew the matrix. This one was the most complex of them, bordering on being classified as a two-weave matrix. However, altering the limits of a matrix was considered an amendment and not an integration of a separate function. The matrix looked much like the first, with a few extra lines added to achieve the desired effects. Since the matrix was more complex, my overeager sensus wavered during its creation. In the end, it had trapped a few sparks from other properties.
“If you had taken a little longer, you might’ve gotten a perfect matrix,” he said, thinking my speed was a choice. “Do it again, and let’s see.”
I shook my head. “Forgive me, Master, but I must get to my next examination.”
“Nonsense!” Royce looked at me pleadingly. “You’re ahead of schedule. I made sure of it.”
“Master—”
“Ah, I know, I know.” Royce blew out a breath. “But you’re going to have to show me eventually. The way you…” He trailed off, the gales of his excitement abating into a breeze. “I’ve just never seen the like.”
***
With no Fifth or Named to aid Mistress Brittle, the hallway was crowded despite how quickly she concluded each examination, and my wait was long. After two turns, she beckoned me forward.
“Aren’t we going to get started?” I asked. I stood in the center of the room in front of a single black feather.
Brittle faced me, arms crossed. “Specialized or rudimentary?”
“I can’t,” I said. “But I will continue assisting you in secret.”
I did not think Brittle was capable of sulking.
***
Fifths assessed me for my Duros and Vapor examinations. Thankfully, the Duros Fifth, a well-built Seculor with a rumbling voice, seemed indifferent to the feuds I had with members of her house. The only issue for both examinations was my having to succeed without employing the bizarre method I used to wield my sensus. In the end, I made do.
My last examination was with Fuller.
“Would you like to have a meal with me, Aki?” he asked.
But for a red-eyed, white rabbit sitting in a cage atop a tall, slim pedestal, the room was empty. I pointed at the sinister-looking rabbit and asked, “What is that?”
“Fluffy,” Fuller said, looking over at the odd creature with fondness. “My pet.”
“Part of the test?”
Fuller nodded. “He is.”
“Is his size due to his evolving? He seems too big to be a male.”
“Fluffy used to be an evolved wolf.”
My eyes flew open in shock. “You transmigrated him?”
“I did.”
“But that’s a nine-layer matrix.”
Fuller smirked. “It is.”
I walked closer to the twice-caged beast. “I read somewhere that transmigration causes insanity.”
“Yes, for a while, but I’ve cured Fluffly of most of his. So, a meal?”
“It’s been a long day. I’d sooner get back to the dorms and sleep.”
“Can I join you?”
Letting his question slip out of my ears, I leaned in to study the creature. Suddenly, a pair of arms slipped around my waist. Long bouts with Dako had me react instantly. Muscles compressed, tendons tightened, and I moved like the wind. I grabbed a wrist and twisted the joint to duck under and behind my assailant, his arm locked in my grasp.
“Ouch,” Fuller said. “A little excessive, don’t you think.”
I pushed him forward and released my hold. “What are you doing, Fuller?”
“Your Duros Arts are coming along nicely.” He rubbed at his wrist. “Taltow seemed to think you’d barely passed. I think you’re almost as good as any Tripler graduate.” He kissed his fingertips and splayed them outwards, pulling his hand from his lips. “Mistress will be so pleased.”
“Taltow?”
“The Duros Fifth who tested you.”
“I thought the members of different Arts kept to themselves.”
“Well, I had to make sure you passed, didn’t I? Cost me a pretty penny.”
“Thank you, I suppose.”
Fuller spread his arms wide. “Congratulations are in order. Welcome to your second cycle, Aki. Now, the fun begins in earnest.”