AKI:
No one could defeat me. A part of me was proud. A more foreign but quickly growing part thought it was to be expected.
Master Fuller had paired us off to practice our defense. My first partner was a dark-haired Root. She was initially timid; my pale features had her thinking I was a Branch. Recognition ruined that.
We sat across each other, our backsides resting on our heels. Beneath us were soft mats made of some elastic plant matter. Scores more of these mats were arrayed about the room, each bearing the weight of a student.
“I’ll go first,” my opponent said, and before I could agree, she came for me.
My defense barely went up in time. I waited for the intrusion, then waited some more. The pressure was there, pushing against the bundle of sensus I’d hastily erected, but where I expected the pressure to mount, to dig further, to penetrate, it remained outside my defenses, unable or unwilling to invade.
“So it’s true,” she said, ceasing her attempts. “You’re a cast-off.”
Anger came to me, swift and hot, and I responded in kind. My sensus lashed out. If the violent thing had one redeeming quality, speed was it—that, size, and purity. A thick whip of sensus latched onto her naked nape. She squealed in surprise.
I don’t know what I had expected. My only thought, so bright with anger that no other could compete for my attention, was to punish, to teach her the folly of arrogance. I had certainly not expected to penetrate her soul so easily nor planned for what to do if and once I had.
My sensus came in like uncontrolled chaos, spreading wherever there was metaphysical space to spread. Rocked by the force of my invasion, the Root leaned back, then slumped forward, unconscious.
I felt more than I saw. Understood more than I knew. Broken pieces of who she was came to me: Her father was a native whose family had built a merchant empire with the contacts he and his ancestors had fostered during their long history in Evergreen; she loved fruit, the sweeter, the better; a younger brother, useless and spoiled; a mother more cold than cruel, lost to endless bouts of intoxication. I felt my sensus sink deeper. She was a Root. I had known this, but I hadn't understood. The pressure of her father’s hopes, her brother’s jealousy, the—
Something yanked back my sensus. It recoiled and slapped my consciousness back into me. My eyes drew open. The Root had collapsed. Master Fuller stood over her, trying his best to hide his smile.
“The exercise is to break her defense, not to rampage through what she is defending,” he said.
I bowed my head. “Apologies, Master.”
He glanced down at the unconscious form of the Root. “Well then, we’ll have to find you a new partner.”
Servants came and carried the Root away, likely to the infirmary. A familiar face took her place.
Edon smiled at me, the expression strained. “It’s been a while.”
I shrugged noncommittally. “I suppose so.”
He frowned. “If I could’ve helped…”
“There’s no need to explain.”
“I suppose if anyone would understand, it’d be you.”
I shook my head, making plain my disagreement. Just because I understood didn’t mean I approved.
Sensing my disapproval, Edon said, “First Froxil, and then Vignil, both of which are of my House and line. You must see—”
“I understand.”
“But you—”
“Let's begin.”
Edon sat, jaw clenched. “Very well. Would you like to go first?”
“You may.”
He smiled, and I almost forgave him. Recollections of our time in the preparatory academy came forth. Their number constituted the bulk of what I held in my scarce repository of pleasant memories. But then I remembered his willingness to throw away our friendship, and the felicity of our time in the preparatory academy only served to cut me deeper.
“I’ll be gentle,” Edon said, and my anger burned away the last of my urge to pardon him.
True to his word, Edon was gentle, even when trying not to be. I felt little of his efforts despite his apparent exertion. The pressure was there, more than the Root’s, but not so much as to worry me.
“Gods, Aki,” Edon said. “If I didn’t know you better—”
“Are you ready?”
With a sigh, Edon closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and retrieved his sensus to build his defense. “Yes.”
His resistance crumpled in an instant. What little control I had made sure I didn’t recklessly delve too far, not as I’d done with the Root, but it was enough to see, to sense the shame at the forefront of his thoughts. I was about to retreat when more of him brushed past, the chaos of his soul shifting new parts of him into the small space my intruding sensus occupied: The insidious pain caused by a dismissive mother, her every word a token of her disappointment; the simmering anger and frustration of being underestimated; the nagging regret of having to hide his abilities; the pleasure of why he did. I flinched. There was a darkness to that last fragment, filled with a malevolence I’d never have associated with my old friend. It piqued my interest.
I went a little deeper.
“No!”
Edon’s sudden cry drove me out of his soul, more from shock than force. What was I doing? I had always feared becoming my father, indulging the limits of my station, but the horrible possibility of being beguiled by the nature of power had never occurred to me. Not until now. Not until I so casually decided to invade his soul. Edon’s soul. Someone I’d called a friend. Belatedly, I realized I’d violated that dark-haired Root and thought nothing of it. There was a part of me giddy with levying out that violation, a part that rejoiced in meting out what I considered due punishment.
“Again?” Master Fuller asked.
I paid him little mind; a haggard Edon watched me. There was a look in his eyes, some hard emotion far removed from the tentative hand of friendship he’d approached me with. He climbed to his feet, gave me a withering stare, and stalked off without a word, fighting for balance as he did. I stared after him, ashamed of myself.
My third partner, who’d elected herself as such, was a Lorail Seculor—besides me, Fioras from House Lorail always came from Halor and wouldn't be in my dorms. I didn’t recognize her, but in a class of over a hundred, there were bound to be a few I’d not yet seen. Tall and thin and fragile, she still struck me as deadly. It was in her calmness, her surety, the way she wore her fragility like a weapon, a trap to ensnare unsuspecting fools.
She came and sat across me. Master Fuller, who’d chosen to stay and observe, jerked like he was resisting an impulse.
“So,” the Seculor said. “Shall we begin?”
I nodded, numb with the guilt of being my mother’s son.
“Please do not cause injury, Illora,” Master Fuller said, unusually polite.
My eyes widened. Illora’s narrowed in response.
“Leave,” she commanded, a whisper, quiet and sure. It was clear she wasn’t talking to me. And as though he had to wrestle free from the idea, Master Fuller nearly did as instructed, taking a few steps back before unshackling the urge to obey.
“You’re Illora kin Lira?” I asked, stealing her attention.
“Yes.”
“How do you know him?”
A dainty crescent of pearly teeth adorned her face, a playfully wicked thing that’d strip the apathy from the most stolid of men. “He’s… an employer of sorts. And you?”
“A friend.”
Illora barked a laugh. “Not likely. The man has no friends. The closest thing to a friend he has is my crazed cousin, and I hear that is because her brand of insanity amuses him.” She looked toward Fuller like she wanted to share more but couldn’t.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“You’ve met him?” I asked.
“I have.”
“Then you know he’s not at all like they say he is.” I’d taken the opportunity to peruse the library for mention of him. If he were anything like the man portrayed in the libraries, I’d fear the man, the god. Maybe I did.
Maybe I should.
Illora shrugged. “In some ways.”
She tried for my soul then. Her attack lacked a matrix to give it direction, the same blunt sort we, as first-cycle students, were practicing. Still, it packed a far greater force than Edon and the Root offered, even combined.
“Ah,” Illora said, then in a much quieter voice, “a fellow pinnacle.” I felt the hum of a complex matrix being weaved.
“Stop.” Master Fuller's delicate voice suddenly became far more assertive.
“Did I not tell you to leave,” Illora said.
A furious Master Fuller grabbed her wrist, wrenched her to her feet, and leaned in as he pulled her closer. Softly, soft enough not to be overheard by the mass of students who’d noticed his sudden and near-violent action, he said, “I serve House Lorail. Try for him again, and in the name of my master, I’ll serve you death.”
Illora pulled back and stared into his eyes, shocked. “You serve my grandmother? Directly?”
Master Fuller gave her the faintest of nods. “As we of our House all do, in one way or another.”
A tense breath or two passed before Illora took her eyes off Master Fuller, turned to me, and said, “We will speak again.”
***
Many had taken the Pondus assessment. There wasn't much to learn with much of the Art lost or undiscovered. Besides Dako, all the Fioras had taken the Pondus test before the first lecture was given. By our fourth, only six students remained besides me and my friends.
“Would you mind waiting outside?” I asked Sil and Dako. The lecture had ended, and the other students were leaving.
Dako got up with a heavy sigh. Sil, as expected, was far more comfortable with expressing her discontent.
“More secrets?” she asked. “After the incident with Illora, I’d have thought…”
I looked at her, hoping the sincerity of my guilt was a good enough apology. “If I had a choice—”
“You do.”
“Not if it’s predicated on my survival.”
Sil’s shoulders slumped. We’d had the same conversation a dozen times in a dozen different ways. And as mysterious as the dangers I faced were, she was careful never to pester me into disregarding my safety.
“Fine,” she huffed. “We’ll be outside. Don’t keep us waiting too long.”
I went to stand before Mistress Brittle, hands clasped behind my back, a little nervous and more so for the amused smile she wore.
“I take it you’ve solved the rather obvious riddle?” she asked.
I nodded. If I got a letter, it also stood to reason she did. “It is only obvious to those who—”
“Don’t make excuses, Aki. It’s unbecoming.”
I bit down a cutting response, the metaphorical gums of my pride bleeding in protest.
Mistress Brittle tapped the corner of her mouth with a finger and furrowed her brows, an oddly youthful gesture that added to her youthful appearance. “How about Black?”
I chuckled, amusement easing the swell of my irritation. “Apt, if not aptly inscrutable.”
Brittle smirked. “I think he’d appreciate the choice. Don’t you?” Knite's penchant for all things dark was evident to anyone who’d ever laid eyes on him.
“So, Mistress Brittle,” I began, my expression turning serious, “what does Black have planned for me?”
She shrugged. “For all his plans, few are ever known before their time of completion.”
“I see. Well, seeing as he’d told me to trust you, I’ve come to accept your advice.”
Brittle clapped her hands, and the air shrilled as if in pain. “Delightful! Then let’s get started.”
I shook my head. “Not yet. My friends are waiting.”
“Send them away.”
“I can’t.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I won’t,” I corrected.
“But we have so much to do.”
I remained silent.
Mistress Brittle sighed. “Fine. Go.”
The walk back to the dorms was quiet. My friends seemed willing to wallow in their brooding, punishing me with silence, an emptiness where my guilt could fester. Unlike Sil’s, Dako’s was difficult to bear. Silence grated on him, but he was willing to bear the discomfort to ensure I understood his dissatisfaction. He had every right; I’d not have been so patient if the roles were reversed.
Upon entering our dormitories, Sil and Dako headed toward their rooms without a word.
“As usual?” I asked. Meeting in the refectory an hour after supper to avoid the initial crowd had become a habit of ours.
“Not today,” Sil said. Dako stood in silent agreement.
I watched them leave, hoping they’d turn back and change their minds. That hope still lived when I went to the refectory an hour later. My hope withered to nothing after my third supper.
Someone called my name as I crossed the dorm courtyard. I lurched to a stop and whipped around, eyes scanning the courtyard. Brittle stood by the broken statue in robes the orange of fire, arms crossed and tucked into loose sleaves.
“I take it you are free to begin?” she asked.
I relaxed, closed my eyes, and drank in the humid night air of spring. The thick breeze brushed against my skin and through my hair, calming my nerves. When I was ready to exhale, words followed. “If I may ask, Mistress, why the urgency?”
Brittle stepped closer. “I’ve already told you.”
I gnashed my teeth. “Either tell me the truth or say nothing.”
“Fine,” she said. “If you must know, I’m keen to put to bed the matter of your ability to use Meaning in Pondus Arts. To use meaning in any Art for that matter.”
“Could you not have tested us in class?”
“And let others know?” she asked, almost disgusted by the idea.
“Why?”
The mistress kissed her teeth. Patience was not a virtue her House was known for. “You’re too clever to ask such a question.” And I was. No godling would advertise their abilities. Their power? Sure. Their abilities? Not so long as they had enemies, and they’d forever have enemies.
Brittle strode towards the dorm's gates without a word, a wave of her hand gesturing me to follow.
Despite the late hour, The Academy was far from quiet, the busy to-and-fro of erudite students choking the wide streets with crowds and conversations. Chatter seized, and traffic parted before us as we walked up North Guri, a little past the Duros Chambers, and onto a side street I’d never taken. At last, we came to a heavily warded building, smaller than its neighbors by half.
“We’re here,” Mistress Brittle said.
I looked around for an entrance. There was none until Brittle pressed her palm onto the smooth, flat wall. The stone groaned and parted, curling inwards.
Inside, the air was heavy. Not stale, just… cumbersome. There were no hints of any scent to give reasons as to why. Glowing surfaces lit the room. Tools and weapons hung from racks or lay on shelves along one wall, obscuring the lower edge of one of the four Auger matrixes etched on each of the four walls. On the ceiling was a grand Pondus design, the fulcrum on which the room's functions were set.
Brittle pointed to the middle of the room. “Stand over there.”
I walked to the spot she indicated and turned to face her.
“What do you know of namats?” she asked.
“They are natural matrixes born from one’s soul.”
Brittle nodded. “Yes. They’re a product of nature and nurture, a confluence of who the person is and what they’ve been through during their early cycles. Each person’s namats, if they have any, vary in number, complexity, and range, usually coming into existence sometime at the beginning of their journey from childhood to adulthood.”
“What does this have to do with Meaning? Are you saying the ability comes from a namat? Is a Namat?”
Brittle shook her head. “No, on the contrary, the theory that namats inhibit the use of Meaning has significant merit.”
“Then why broach the subject of namats?”
“Because they are tested the same way.”
“My namats have never been tested.”
“What are academies for but to test you?”
“To indoctrinate and control.”
Brittle stiffened. Words of heresy tended to have that effect, even among godlings of high standing. “What I was trying to say,” she said, overlooking my blasphemy, “is that namats can't be taught, just used.”
“I would think using them effectively can be taught.”
“Yes, but such lessons will not be covered until your second cycle.”
I threw up my hands, my lousy mood refusing to entertain her any longer. “Can we please get on with this?”
“Patience, boy.”
“Funny. Did you not drag me here in your haste to get this done?”
Irritation creased between her smoldering eyes. “The Pondus matrix takes time to trigger.” Her eyes flickered up at the ceiling.
My gaze followed. Half the Pondus matrix was filled with the yellowish orange of Brittle’s sensus, spreading outwards along the crevices of the complex matrix, not an iota of it spilling out or over the template.
“What does it do?” I asked, too awed to keep the wonder from my voice. It was the first time I’d seen such fine control exercised from so far away—the ceiling stood over ten times her height.
“It takes sensus, converts it into pure Pondus energy, and compresses it into a mist.”
“Why?”
“For one, the mist, an ownerless manifestation of Pondus sensus, will reflect whatever matrix you draw from Meaning, resonating with whatever purpose your intent supplies. Any matrix drawn from memory will not be reflected. For another, it’ll measure which of the two classifications you lean towards.”
My eyes narrowed. “Is this your way of trying to find out which House I’m from?”
“Black can be so miserly about sharing information.”
… I woke up on the floor, half-deaf, vision blurred, and with a thumping headache that refused to let me think. Brittle stood over me. None of it made sense until I remembered trying to leave.
“I grow tired of your tantrums, boy,” she growled.
Brittle lowered herself to a knee and reached for me. I flinched away, the sharp pain the movement caused eliciting a hiss from me. She hesitated, then reached for me again, laying her hand over my ear and part of my cheek. I was in too much pain to resist. Somehow, I’d been too self-involved to remember she was a Bainan Fiora.
Brittle healed me. Fully. Once my ear had stopped bleeding and the cracks in my jaw and cheekbones had mended, she stood.
“You may leave, but so too may I punish you for wasting my time,” she explained. “Now, go or stay—the choice is yours. But remember, if you choose to stay, I will no longer suffer your disrespect.”
…I was on the floor again, the haze lifting from my mind, the rage, the frenzy, the thirst for blood, all of the emotions that had bombarded me just moments ago fading into something like a distant memory, like a dream or a well-told story, seeming more a product of imagination than reality. It scared me. I scared me. Deep down, I reveled in that madness, in that sense of freedom, in the lack of fear and control.
“A stubborn one,” Brittle said. She was laughing. That was Bainan Fioras for you: a capricious lot who hovered between goodwill and animosity, violence and gaiety.
“Why didn’t you kill me?” I asked.
“Because Black wouldn’t want me to.” She shrugged. “He’s not an enemy I can afford. Few, if any, can contend with him.”
I labored to my feet but made no move to leave. “So…”
“Make yourself weigh less with the matrix I taught you in my lectures.”
I looked down at myself, noticing my weight and feeling heavier than I ever had. “Then?”
“Will the power to do more, to lift you up or sideways or however you please. Just make it do more.”
I tried.
I failed.
“Again.” Mistress Brittle crossed her arms, resignation bracing her for further disappointment.
I obliged. Nothing happened. We continued late into the night, running test after test, all to no avail. We moved on to other matrixes and other Arts, each time with the same result—there was no way to prove to her I had no talent in Meaning for the other Arts without that Art’s equivalence of the room’s Pondus matrix, but it was clear to me. In the end, I found I had no talent for injecting Meaning. None at all.
We left the room a few turns before dawn. Fatigue and discontent hung off me like invisible weights, sagging my skin, slumping my shoulders, and slowing my step.
“A pinnacle is nothing to sneeze at,” Mistress Brittle tried. “And with your intellect, you could do very well in bridging the gap between you and the Leaves.”
Her words did nothing to redress my state, and I labored back to my room, growing increasingly despondent.