IMPERIAL CAPITAL OF PERCEPLIQUIS, TESHLOR GUILDHALL, WINTER, 2104 IR

The next morning Jerish woke to the smell of food and the sound of people talking.

“Him? I don’t know. Got here last night, I guess. New recruit, maybe.”

“Doesn’t look like much.”

“And you were indistinguishable from Novron when you arrived, is that right?”

“I’m just saying, he’s small.”

“He’s young.”

“Who is? Who’s that on the cot?” A new voice arrived out of breath. “Someone passed out from too much wine again?” A laugh.

“I’d wager he’s an orphan they found freezing to death outside. They do that you know. Poor women just leave their children in the hopes others will take them in.”

Jerish opened his eyes and raised his head to see several older boys lining up along the far wall of the large room. It had been dark the night before, and Jerish had seen little and cared less. Now he saw it was filled with wooden tables and benches all in neat, rows. The boys stood with their backs to the wall, most of them leaning. All stared at him.

“Well, he’s alive, at least.”

“Hey there?” called a tall brute with broad shoulders and long dark hair. He wore a fine white tunic with a real leather belt and boots. They all did. In comparison to the kids at seminary they looked to be little lords. “What’s your name?”

Jerish didn’t answer. Groggy and disoriented, he sat up to look around and found he was the only one in the big chamber on a cot. The room was a dinning hall—a nice one. Pillars soared to a high ceiling. Near the top, half-moon windows—with real glass—let in winter’s white light. Everything was bright, but dull. The stone, the old-wooden tables and chairs, the polished floor, all drained of color by the pale light. The boys in white waited in a line before a kitchen counter where bowls were being set out and filled with something that steamed. It smelled like the porridge Jerish had eaten the night before. More boys arrived making the line grow.

“Maybe he doesn’t understand. Could be he’s from Calynia.”

“They speak Imperial there to, Hanson.”

“Really? I heard they had their own tongue, something more a kin to goblin.”

“Maybe once, but not anymore.”

“Do you speak our language?” This time it was a shorter, younger lad, who said the words slowly.

Jerish nodded.

“He’s mute,” the boy concluded.

All the rest nodded in agreement.

“I’m not mute. I…just woke up.” Jerish used his still damp blanket to wipe his face.

“Are you an orphan?”

Jerish shook his head.

Loud heels approached. They hammered hard, the sound slamming off the stone.

All the boys shoved off the wall and stood straight as into the dinning hall entered a man with short, black hair, clean shaven face, and a dark green cape over an embroidered tunic. On his belt was a long dagger in a smart looking black and silver sheath. He came directly to the cot.

“Jerish Hale, you will report to Master Rawlings this morning.” He looked at the line of boys. “Spencer, you will see to it Jerish here gets breakfast, then escort him to Master Rawlings. Understood?”

The tall boy with the dark hair bowed his head. “Right away, sir.”

“Listen to Spencer,” the man told Jerish. “He’s a fifth year.”

“Is Jerish to be a new member, sir?” Spencer asked.

The man looked back at him. “That is yet to be determined.”

The man left the way he came, both in direction and speed. They all waited until the hammering-heel sound faded then Spencer directed Jerish to stand with him in line. The boys grabbed up bowls along with carved wooden sticks, pulling them from a wide mouth jug on the counter. Spencer told him to take a bowl and a stick, which he called a spoon, then directed Jerish to a table where they sat together. The rest of the boys gathered around watching him like a new pup. All of them used the wide end of the spoon to scoop up the porridge and carry it to their mouths. Seeing this, Jerish wasn’t certain if he should do the same, or just tilt the bowl like everyone did at the seminary—a method he felt far more sensible.

“Where are you from?” one of the youngest, who sat directly across from him, asked. Jerish guessed they were close to the same age. He too scooped porridge, and there was a little left on his upper lip.

“Rionillion.”

“That’s up north, right?”

“Your understanding of geography is astounding, Gareth,” Spencer chided.

“Geography is a third year discipline.” This was said by the language-expert, Hanson, who sat next to Jerish on the opposite side of Spencer. “I should know. I have it now and by Novron’s beard it’s a pain.”

Jerish stood up bumping the table and causing all the bowls to slosh and some to spill. “Take it back!” he shouted at Hanson pointing at him with the spoon.

Hanson looked stunned. “Take what back?”

“Your insult to god. Apologize this instant!”

Hanson ignored Jerish. “Spencer,” he said. “Master Lynch put you in charge of this pup, make him heel.”

Jerish dropped the spoon and punched Hanson in the face. The boy’s head snapped sharply to one side. “I told you to take back your insult!”

Hanson shifted his jaw, and got up off the bench. He was just as tall as Gibson had been. And he wasn’t simply bigger. Jerish recognized that Hanson—that all the boys at the table—were likely student warriors. Once more Jerish realized he ought to run, but once again, couldn’t.

Hanson didn’t hit back, instead he paused rubbing his chin.

“Take it back,” Jerish insisted.

Spencer remained seated and in an oddly calm voice said, “Hanson is a Third Year, Jerish. You got in a lucky punch, but he can take you apart if he chooses. You don’t want to fight him.”

“No, I don’t. But I will if he refuses to repent.”

“Repent?” Hanson said.

“You used the lord’s name in a curse. I can’t allow that.” Jerish stepped into his next swing.

Hanson avoided the blow and used Jerish’s momentum to throw the boy across the floor. Jerish clapped the back of his head on the ground making him wince and grunt.

Then they all froze as the sound of hard heels approached once more. Jerish was still on his back when the green caped Master returned.

“Spencer, is this how you follow my instructions?” Jerish expected him to shout, to accuse, to reprimand, to cast out punishment, but the man didn’t so much as pause. He continued in his route across the room toward another corridor. He was just passing through. “If Jerish is done with his meal take him to Master Rawlings.”

“He’s having a disagreement with Hanson, sir.”

“I can see that. But please do as I asked.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Little help, boys?” Spencer spoke to the others.

Five of those at the table rose and Jerish was promptly lifted off the floor. They held his arms and legs tight as they carried him down a corridor. Jerish kicked and pulled but it was no use. They paused outside a closed door. One of the boys knocked. “Master Rawlings, sir? We have a delivery from Master Lynch.”

###

Upon being unceremoniously dropped inside the room, Jerish immediately noticed two things. A man in armor holding a sword, and a boy tied to a chair. Spencer and the others closed the door on their exit leaving Jerish on his back, on a wool rug, at the feet of the armored man. From the floor, the warrior appeared a giant. He held the naked blade down at his side. At seminary they sometimes made swords out of branches that fell in the courtyard, but Jerish had never seen a real one. The weapon the man held gleamed in its perfection. He wore a helm with the visor down. All Jerish could see was an inhuman metal gate where a face should be.

“You are Jerish Hale of Rionillion?” the warrior asked. The words issued out from within the helmet in a deep powerful voice.

“I am.” Jerish made no effort to stand. He barely moved.

“I am Martial Master Rawlings. On your feet.”

Jerish stood up.

“I have been informed by a Deacon Kile of the Rionillion Seminary of Novron that he believes you are worthy of admission to this Academy. He also tells me that you are a troublemaker. That you have been in twenty-three fights, most of which you instigated.”

Jerish looked down.

“Look at me, boy!”

The voice coming from that metal mask terrified him more than the sword, but it was hard to forget the sword.

“Is it true?”

Jerish nodded.

“I see.” Master Rawlings lifted the sword. “As it happens, Jerish Grelad, we have only so much room here at the Academy. There are a finite number of admissions we allow in a year and they are all taken.”

Jerish stood as still as possible as Rawlings used the sword to point at the boy in the chair.

“This is Logan. He has been with us for over a month, and is a disappointment. You are both the same age, but you are larger. Given that you engaged in twenty-three fights, it seems you may also be braver. Logan is a coward who shies away from fights. He refuses to stand up for himself much less anyone else. He is not worthy of training here. The question I need answered is are you more worthy than he?”

Master Rawlings dropped the sword on the floor where it rattled. “Pick it up.”

Jerish bent down and lifted the sword. It was heavy. The handle still warm from Rawling’s palm.

“Part of being a warrior is the ability to kill to protect your emperor. Prove to me you have what it takes to be a Teshlor Knight. Kill Logan and you will be awarded his place here.”

“Kill him?” Jerish asked shocked.

“Yes.”

Jerish looked at the boy. Logan was lashed tight to the simple chair. Rope wrapped his chest to the back. His ankles and wrists were fastened in similar fashion to the chairs arms and legs. He was pale. His eyes wide. “Please, no,” he whimpered.

Rawlings folded his arms. “I understand you are not experienced yet with a blade so allow me to suggest that a good solid swing at his throat would be best, but if you are uncomfortable with that, a strong thrust with the tip high up under his ribcage will work as well. The sword is extremely sharp and will do the job.”

“Please, no…” Logan cried.

Jerish hesitated.

“We only have the one available bed,” Rawling pointed out.

“Can’t you get another one?”

“That’s not how it works, Jerish. Each year we take in only ten new applicants. Instructors cannot properly handle more. Becoming a Teshlor is an inflexible training. It is demanding, precise, and requires flawlessness dedication. As a fully inducted knight you will be respected, even feared, above all others except the emperor himself. You will speak with his voice and be endowed with the ability to judge and enforce his laws. You will be granted the power and authority to execute those you determine need to be eliminated for the greater good.”

Jerish felt the sword grow heavier as he looked at the crying eyes of the boy, this stranger he didn’t know. The kid was small, thin, and had short hair apparently cut with a bowl as a guide. He had freckles, his cheeks turning red as he sobbed.

“Jerish,” Master Rawling moved closer, his voice lowering. “Allow me to explain, that if you fail. Logan will be released, and you will be tied to the same chair. Then he will be given the sword and the same offer. Jerish…I have only one space available at this school. One of you will fill it. It is up to you which that will be.”

Jerish found it hard to breathe—harder even than when he’d been punched by Gibson. He too was starting to cry. He’d never had any trouble hitting boys for blaspheming Novron, but Logan hadn’t done anything. This was all—

“Decide now,” the faceless mask ordered, “Or your places will be reversed.

Jerish shook his head and let the sword fall. “I won’t do it. This is my fault. If I hadn’t hit Gibson Sikes, I wouldn’t be here, and you’d still have room.”

“Logan will kill you now—you understand that?”

Jerish nodded as his own weeping went into full flood. “I don’t deserve any better.” He hung his head sobbing, body shaking.

Deacon Kile was wrong, while faith had dropped him a rope, on the end was a noose.

Master Rawlings picked up the sword. “That will do.” He cut the ropes holding Logan and the boy got up.

“I won’t kill him either,” Logan declared defiantly. “You can’t make me.”

Rawling removed his helm revealing a old man. Once black hair had been invaded by white and was losing the battle. “Of course not. That was never in question.” He moved to the door and threw it open. Outside the boys from the dinning hall remained in the corridor.

“No blood?” Spencer asked, with a note of sarcasm, and an amiable smile.

“Funny boy,” Master Rawlings chided. “But thank you for volunteering to be their orientation guide.”

“Oh…crap. For how long?”

“A week.”

“A week!”

“Prefer it to be longer?”

“No, sir.”

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“That’s better.”

“Which bed?” Spencer asked.

“Give them Alphie’s old one.”

“Really, sir? The mattress—”

“Honestly, Spencer, keep this up and next time I’ll tie you to the chair.”

“Com’on boys,” Spencer called wearily. Neither moved. “Jerish, Logan, let’s go. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today. We’re gonna have to clean up Alphie’s bed, and that’s going to be job. Alphie was a wetter. We’ve got to get Jerish fitted for new clothes. Then we have to go down to the dungeon and locate proper pads for you both—and that’s always loads of fun.” He said this as if it wasn’t. “The good news is that I get to be the first one to batter both of you senseless.” He grinned. “So com’on move your feet.”

The two staggered out of the room following the older boy.

“I don’t understand,” Jerish said, wiping his face. “I thought…”

“This is the Teshlor Academy,” Spencer told them as they moved up the corridor. “They don’t teach people how to kill if they think you’ll become a murderer. To you, one day, may be granted the power and authority to decide the fate of many. The Academy prides themselves on helping to shape that judgment into an instrument of good, but like any sculptor, they need to inspect the stone they intend to use for cracks and other weaknesses.”

“But…” Jerish was still lost. “I thought—I thought I had to take an entrance exam before I would be allowed to join.”

“You did.” Spencer nodded. “And apparently you passed—both of you. Welcome to the Teshlor Academy.”

###

By late the next morning, Jerish was hopelessly lost. Spencer, his assigned guide, was no where to be found, and Jerish was running out of time, growing more desperate with each passing moment. He’d found the central courtyard, that looked like some disaster had befallen it. No shrubbery or trees, the lawn was covered in snow except near the center where it was torn up, worn to mud. Benches lined the perimeter. Wooden staffs, triangular flags of different colors, and other stuff he didn’t recognize were stacked in barrels under sheltered eaves decorated in icicles. This was a sporting field, he guessed as it had everything necessary.

But it didn’t have what Jerish needed.

He considered going back out to the city. He’d found his way to the front doors once, but the square surrounding the guildhall was all paved stone. No river, and the only trees were the fancy ones along the big street. He had eyed the fountain in the center of the square for a long time, but decided there had to be a better solution and ran back in. He was wrong. There was nothing, and now he no longer remembered which way led to the exit.

“Jerish?” Logan, the boy who Jerish had been ordered to kill the day before, stepped out into the courtyard. He trotted through the colonnade and out on the field. “Wanted to say thanks—you know, for not killing me,” he said wearing a silly grin.

The kid was even smaller than Jerish remembered. Logan was scrawny and pale to the point of sickly the way some of the boys at the seminary became when they got ranting fevers. He was wearing different clothes, too. Yesterday he thought Logan had a dark tunic on, but now the boy wore white. Jerish was probably wrong. No one had more than one set of clothes, and most of the previous day was hazy. Too much jammed into too little time. He couldn’t recall it all anymore than he could remember the way to the front doors. I was just there!

“I don’t think Master Rawlings would have actually let me kill you,” Jerish said. “It was just a test. Besides you refused to kill me, too. So we’re even.”

“That doesn’t count. I’m a pacifist.”

“What’s that?”

“It means I don’t like fighting. You heard Master Rawlings, I’m a coward.”

“How did a pacifist get in the premier school for combat?”

Logan shrugged his little shoulders.

Jerish was certain he did know, and was curious, not only about the answer but why Logan refused to share, but time was nearly up.

“Logan I…um.” Jerish bit his lip. “I’m desperate. Where do you go when you need to, you know…”

“What?”

“I’m sort of bursting here. Can you tell me how to ah…fertilize the flowers.”

“Fertilize the flowers?”

Jerish offered a self-conscious smile. “That’s what they called it in seminary. Normally I always just went down to the river, but I know some people—the rich ones—have actual pits outside. Some even have little houses for them. Is there something like that here?”

Logan’s eyes widened. “You need to use the lavatory?”

“What’s a lavatory?”

“It’s where you piss and—“

“YES!” Jerish shouted. “Please, where is this place? Is it far?”

“There’s several, all over the guildhall. Rumor has it Knights have private ones that adjoin their rooms.”

“Can you show me where?”

Logan shrugged once more, and led him out of the practice field, through the colonnade, back into the guildhall, and down a narrow corridor to an archway. Through it was a good size chamber with a stone tile floor. Colorful ceramics decorated the walls, and stone benches with holes cut in the seats at regular intervals, lined the room. Near the center was a big basin fed by a spigot that ran constantly. The water spilled out of the basin into a small canal that circled the space just in front of the benches, then completed it’s journey by running out through a hole in the floor.

Jerish just stared.

“This is the latrine,” Logan said. “Or lavatory—same thing.”

“How do I…”

“Depends, obviously. You piss in the channel or if you need to drop a more sizable deposit, you sit on a hole. What you dump falls into the sewers and is washed away. We’re civilized here, Jerish. We don’t squat on river banks. I’ll wait outside in case you explode or something.”

After successfully making his offering to the sewer monster—what he later learned was the proper term in the novice-end of the academy—Logan led Jerish to the Slop Shop for breakfast. The actual name for the dining hall was Pabulum Auditorium, but Logan explained that almost no one called it that. The two were late and the line short. They helped themselves to bowls of some hot porridge and another spoon, then sat together at the big table that was empty except for melted candles from the night before. Jerish wondered what they did in the hall at night that consumed so much tallow. He imagined grand battles where boys fought others on tabletops defending them like island fortresses. Or maybe they played music. Deacon Kile used to play the lute on occasion getting everyone to sing along, especially on long winter’s nights when there was a storm.

Truth was, Jerish had no idea what they might use the hall for. This was a whole new world to him, and he had few clues to guess by. He did notice a big sign of some sort on the end wall across from the great hearth. The thing was massive and filled with moveable plaques that looked to slide in and out of brackets. On the plaques were names.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Logan looked over. “Leader Board. Lists all the KITs in order of skill.”

“What’s a KIT?”

“Knight-in-Training. Everyone here fights each other in duals or tournaments. Winners go up; losers go down.”

Jerish counted twenty-five names on the board. Spencer was ranked sixteenth. Hanson appeared twentieth. Logan was last at twenty-fourth and there was a blank slot without a name.

“You’ll be up there as soon as they get around to carving the letters in the wood. Your name will be right below mine, but I doubt that will last long. You don’t look like a pacifist.”

“Spencer is sixteenth?”

“Yes, but the top two, Kendel and Osfelt, are eighteen and graduating this year, so he’ll be ranked fourteenth soon. That’s really good for a twelve year old.”

Jerish studied the board trying to learn the names. He forgot the spoon and tipped the bowl to his lips causing Logan to frown.

“Don’t let anyone else see you do that, or you’ll never hear the end of it. You’ll be forever known as Barbarian Boy. They’re quick with names here. Where are you from anyway?”

“Rionillion.”

“Where’s that?”

Jerish thought a moment then shrugged. He had no idea where the front doors to the guildhall were leaving him not even the knowledge of which way to point.

“Is it a city?”

Jerish nodded. “But not this big. It’s on the ocean. Lots of ships and stuff. Smells of fish all the time.”

“I’m from Mehan. That’s in the south. Smells like horse apples there.”

Jerish watched, and then imitated how Logan used his spoon to stir his porridge, lift it to his lips, then blow the stream off before shoveling the food in slurping as it went. “So are you good at fighting?” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

Logan pretended to spit out his porridge. “I told you, I’m a pacifist.”

“I know, but does that mean you don’t like to fight, or you can’t? I heard someone say you were here a month. That seems like a long time. You must be pretty good by now.”

“It was Master Rawlings who said that, and in that same breath also said I was a disappointment. No, I’m not any good. Haven’t learned much at all, except how to be hit.”

“I’ve learned that too. I’ve been beat a lot.”

“Well, then. If there is a trophy for getting whacked, we ought to team up and take it.”

“What’s a trophy?”

“By the beard of Novron, man, don’t you know anything?”

Jerish shot to his feet moving the long table so that it cried across the floor, and rocked the bowls. He made fists and glared. “Take it back.”

Logan looked up at him stunned and confused. The bewilderment was quickly replaced by fear when he saw the fists and the expression on Jerish’s face. “Take what back?”

“Your curse of Novron. Take it back, now.” He pounded on the table.

They were almost, but not entirely alone in the Slop Shop. Two workers were already clearing the deck for the midday meal showing how close they came to missing breakfast; and two other boys were lingering without plates in the corner. Everyone watched.

“Okay, okay.” Logan raised both hands, one still holding his dripping spoon. “I take it back. Whatever you want. I apologies, alright?”

Jerish nodded, took a breath, then sat back down.

For the next few minutes the two ate in silence. The hurried scrape of spoons on the bottom of their bowls heralded the meal was nearly done.

Jerish was certain Logan was about to declare he was finished, push away from the table, then proceed to put as much distance between them as possible, and keep it that way from now on.

They always did.

When Jerish left the seminary, he had hoped it was less an end and more a beginning. He’d already poisoned the pond in Rionillion, but no one knew him in Percepliquis. He could make a new start—make friends—at least one. One wasn’t too much to hope for, he reasoned, everybody seemed to have at least one friend. Now he heard his wish fading with each scrape of Logan’s spoon.

“It’s my mother,” Jerish offered, while keeping his eyes on his porridge. He’d never bothered to explain his actions before. They were too personal, but if he didn’t Percepliquis would be no different than Rionillion. “She made me swear to defend Novron. To challenge any who would curse his name. Said he would protect me as long as I stood up for him. It was her dying wish. She died in my arms, and those were the last words she spoke.”

Logan stopped moving his spoon and looked up. He wiped the porridge mustache from his upper lip. “Is that why you punched Hanson?”

Jerish nodded. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

“So, are you any good at combat?” Logan asked.

He was still talking to him, not running away, but his tone was different. The lighthearted fun had been replaced by the cautious concern of someone thinking they might be sitting across from a crazy person.

“Yeah,” Jerish told the truth. “I think I am. I’ve certainly been in a lot of fights.”

“I bet.”

“I’ll be better soon.” Jerish set his own spoon down. He was done eating. “If they’ll teach me, I’ll study hard, and practice night and day, rain or shine, snow or sun. I’ll do whatever they say, then I’ll do it twice more.” He pointed at the Leader Board. “I want to see my name at the top of that before I graduate. I want to be the best. I have to be.” He looked across at Logan. “Turns out Novron’s name needs a lot of defending and I’m tried of getting beat.”

###

“This is a sword,” Master Ipstich explained holding up a stick. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but you need to believe. You must accept it with all your heart because one day, one day soon, it will be. Someone desperate shall strike at you with a blade sharp enough to shave a peach, and if you don’t believe it now, it will be too late then.” He hefted the stick that was actually called a batte and made to look like a sword. “It’s also stupid to give razor sharp weapons to children. The costs in bandages, physician visits, and coffins would break us. All of you, come on up and arm yourselves. ”

Jerish ran up to the barrels with the other young boys in the interior practice field. They all wore tattered padded jackets, leggings, and helmets with holes cut at the ears so they could hear. Jerish appreciated the soft armor not because he was afraid of getting hit, but because it was still early spring and morning in the courtyard was cold.

For the last month, Jerish and the others his age observed demonstrations put on by the older boys. He listened to lectures about grip, balance, and the proper ways to deliver various swings and thrusts. Then they were shoved out into the snowy courtyard to employ these lessons against the likes of posts and sand bags that hung from ropes. They walked balance beams—forward and back. Wasn’t so bad at first. The snow was fluffy. As the lesson progressed, however, enough failed such that the snow around the beam packed and hardened adding incentive to get serious or get hurt.

This was a theme, it turned out.

At seminary Jerish remembered how students were punished for disobedience or doing poorly at their lessons. At the Teshlor Academy, the lessons themselves punished the inattentive, or the slow learner. The masters also made no concession for hazards, such as the morning when the balance beam was found to be covered in ice.

“Life is full of surprises like this,” Master Lynch explained. “You need to learn to accept and defeat any challenge no matter how unfair, or seemingly impossible.”

Three kids, including Logan were sent to the infirmary that day. Tucky—whose real name was Tucctrillo Rinalli—suffered a broken wrist because it wasn’t only the balance beam that had ice on it. Jerish expected Tucky would sit out training for a month or two, but again the masters stuck to the ideology of survival in an imperfect world, and Tucky received no allowance, no consideration for his injury. Instead he learned the techniques of the left hand early.

Jerish was the only one to successfully cross the ice covered balance beam, but fell when he tried to walk it backward. That night, when everyone else was asleep, he returned to the courtyard. In the moonlight, he tried again, and once more fell. He spent hours falling until managing to walk both forward and back three times without a misstep. He went to bed battered and bruised, but satisfied that the injustice of world had not beaten him.

The boys, having all obtained their weapons fanned out swinging them side to side and chopping the air getting a feel for their weight and balance the way the masters had taught. Today was the first time they would strike a live target—albeit targets encased in layers of padding. Despite the protection, Jerish understood getting hit would not feel good, and there were gaps in the armor. The face and neck were open, and the hands quickly became the target of choice. Broken fingers would soon be another one of life’s little inconveniences that had to be overcome.

Jerish paired up with Logan.

“You’re going to be easy on me, aren’t you?” Logan asked.

“Of course not.”

Logan looked shocked. “Why?”

“It would be wrong—like lying.”

Logan frowned as he held his batte up with both hands. “I thought we were friends. What’s a little lie between friends?”

“A real friend would want the truth. I would never ask you to lie. I want you to batter me senseless if you can. That’s the only way I can learn.”

“You’re more than just a little crazy, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

Master Ipstich called the start and all over the courtyard the battes clunked and kids cried out in pain and anger. Jerish made quick work of Logan. As a result his friend refused to pair with him the next day, and the one after. By the end of the third week, Jerish realized he no longer had a friend, if he ever really did.

PERCEPLIQUIS, SUMMERSRULE, 2104 IR

The Championship Tournament occurred once a year on Summersrule. Everyone fought everyone and the Leader Board was adjusted accordingly. New students were prohibited from the competition until the completion of their third year. They were, however, encouraged to watch, and Jerish didn’t miss a match.

The tournament was held in the center circle of the older boy’s training field, which was far nicer with more seating, but the field was just as torn up. Ages five through twelve used battes, but thirteen through sixteen wielded blunted metal swords. Seventeen and eighteen year olds used the real thing. The youngest fought first. At seven, Jerish and Logan would have been the first match, but as neither had finished three years training, that honor fell to Sigar and Easton, two eight-year-olds.

The whole guild turned out to watch the matches, although the first few drew smaller crowds than the later ones. Like everyone else, Jerish watched from the raised benches as Sigar and Easton circled one another clearly terrified of engaging. Soon the crowd complained with hoots and boos. Finally, Sigar rushed in, slipped on the mud and fell. Easton clapped him soundly with his batte, and the first challenge ended with Easton’s first victory. He went on to lose against nine year old Gareth, the boy who didn’t know where Rionillion was. Gareth lost to ten year old Hanson, the boy Jerish had punched on his first day, who was in turn defeated by Vicks, who was eliminated by Asurkan.

Most of these matches took little time, and were finished by midday when a break was called. The Slop Shop was packed. All the students were eating at the same time, including the older boys, and it wasn’t only students. Jerish saw men displaying the dragon emblems eating at the master’s tables.

“Who are they?” Jerish asked Sigur, who after his inglorious defeat sat alone.

Sigur looked over, then turned back to Jerish stunned. “Those are Teshlor Knights.” He laughed. “That’s what we’re training to be. Have you never seen one? This Academy only takes up a portion of the Guildhall. Have you never ventured over to the other side?”

Jerish shook his head. “Didn’t think I was allowed. Besides, aren’t the masters knights?”

“They are, or were, but their old. Those fellows in uniform are active knights—the greatest warriors in the world.”

“Are they here to compete?”

“No, they have their own tournament in the big arena down in West End—once a year on Wintertide. You know when that is, right?”

Jerish smiled. “It’s my birthday.”

“Oh, good for you.”

After the midday meal, Asurkan faced Spencer. This match was much longer, and instead of hoots and jeers, the crowd was quieter, exclaiming in sympathy in response to close calls. Jerish watched the moves and quickly determined Spencer would win. He was far more graceful. His strokes showing more confidence. He had a plan, and executed it, and Asurkan fell to his batte.

The next match up was Pester and Abbas.

“What about Spencer?” Jerish asked his question to no one in particular, but there were enough people squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder on the bench with him to hear and three replied explaining that Spencer was still thirteen, while these other boys were fourteen.

Jerish was about to ask what difference that made, when he saw the battes removed from the field and the blunted swords arrive.

From that point on, the battles were loud, as the swords clanged and echoed off the courtyard walls. The skill level was also far greater, or perhaps the weapons being real blades as opposed to clumsy sticks added a new degree of finesse. They no longer ran, stumbled, and slid across the mud. Instead they seemed to dance. Jerish watched captivated as Abbas disarmed Pester and took the match.

On up the Leader Board ladder they went. Without exception the older boys always won. And where they were the same age, the one with greater seniority proved the victor. The highlight of the day was the match between Kendel and Osfelt, the two Leader Board champions. Both were eighteen, both joined the Academy at the age of five within one month of each other. Jerish imagined them being like he and Logan in years to come.

They used real swords, and the difference was significant. The sound of their blades cutting air was thrilling. The metal cried, or perhaps it was the air, unable to get out of the way, that screamed. They also fought with three swords. This was the first time Jerish had seen that. They held the short sword in one hand, the hand-and-a-half in the other, leaving the great sword on their backs.

When they crossed blades, the crowd went silent.

Jerish was transfixed on the engagement. His mouth left open through the whole thing, never once did he remember blinking. Crash, strike, catch, ring, sweep, slice. Jerish understood only the basics of what he was witnessing. The rest, the dance that had become a ballet, the movement that turned into art, memorized him. These two were not fighting so much as having a debate in motion. Arguments were made, and answered. Disputes erupted, proof provided. And the conflict went on. Shadows grew long in the field, rain began to fall and light faded.

In the end, the two simply stopped. They stood a moment staring at each other as the rain came on. Then they scabbarded their swords, bowed to one another, and embraced.

“What happened?” Jerish asked.

“They called it a draw,” a man beside Jerish replied.

Turning, Jerish saw it was Master Rawlings. When he sat down, Jerish couldn’t say.

“That was amazing,” Jerish burst out. “The most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.” He was happy for the rain, as Jerish only then realized he was crying. Whether Rawlings noticed or not was unclear, but he did stare at him for a long moment. “I want to be able to do that. I wish to be that.”

“Wishes don’t make things happen,” Rawling said. “Look around you. Take note of all the students you see. They won’t be here for long.”

“What do you mean?”

“None of the boys that Kendel and Osfelt trained alongside are still here. Not one graduated. They all dropped out, or were expelled. Out of nearly fifty trainees, Kendel and Osfelt will be the only ones to wear the dragon emblem.” Rawlings stood up. “You have a long way to go, Jerish. And wishes won’t get you where you want to be.”