Whoever was falling hit the side of the mountain, his head striking it at an odd angle. It flipped him in the air, realigning the fall’s trajectory. Up became down, left became right, and a fall became a tumble.
Every part of Ezril’s plan fell apart.
No, he willed himself, not yet.
His legs acted on their own. His toes spread within his boots. Rather than grab the rock in passing, he dropped to it, hoping it would hold his weight no matter how briefly. He thought of the moment, ignoring the future; the distraction of hope would be his death. He felt the rock beneath his boot as he landed, and moved. His feet barely registered the feel of the rock as moved, leaving it almost as instantly as he landed on it. It felt to him like gliding off it. His legs barely registered the impact.
They had no destination now.
Where Ezril wished to go was six strides away and he covered it in one step. Taking hold of the rock in one hand, he reached his falling brother with the other. His brother fell passed him and Ezril caught him by the hand in a firm and painful grip.
He didn’t hear the impact as much as he felt it. Unkuti jerked in his hold. His brother’s weight snapped at it. Unkuti bounced once, then twice more, then settled. From Ezril’s grip he dangled.
The boy’s shoulder had suffered the brunt of it all. Ezril knew these things. He had seen them a few times, not only in the seminary, but in the underbelly, too. Still, the feeling of a shoulder dislocating under his grip made him grimace. He’d never dislocated a person’s shoulder himself before despite all the trainings he’d had in the seminary. For a moment he wondered if this counted, then his mind returned to reality. Unkuti still dangled from his grip and it strained his hold on the rock.
He looked at the rock in alarm. The impact had weakened his grip. It continued to weaken, and he began to slip. Father Zakarid’s words continued to play in his mind as a reminder, like a storm that refuses to cease.
He looked down at the person he’d saved. I’m not even a Titan.
He had been right. Unkuti didn’t look back at him, didn’t meet his gaze, his head was lolled back, unmoving.
Ezril knew the look, or the absence of one.
A trail of blood flowed from a gash in Unkuti’s head, his eyes looked but saw nothing. Ezril had neither the time to wonder nor assess. Unkuti’s eyes were void. They reminded him of Father Ulrich’ one bad eye. The one he could hardly face without squirming. The thought to debate what he was seeing didn’t cross his mind; no one stared at the night sky and wondered if it was day time.
Unkuti was dead.
Ezril let go hesitantly and reached above him. He grabbed the rock with both hands, and steadied his grip. He didn’t look down, but he heard Unkuti cut through the air, bouncing against the mountain as he fell. Ezril banished the sound and pushed on. He had to make up for the possible ten feet he had lost. It would be harder than it had been. Saving a dead brother had cost him the strength in his arms. In them he felt only pain. But pain wasn’t new. Pain wasn’t the enemy. The seminary had not taught him this, they’d simply inflicted it upon him enough times for him to learn it. It made Ezril know that to live long enough with the enemy was to understand the enemy.
He didn’t learn to numb it—he never would—but he was learning to live with it; to accept it.
It was a long time when he reached his goal, and the dawn of a new day was breaking.
The top of the mountain proved more eventful than he’d anticipated. The rocks were black as the sand, and the sand coarse. But the dust proved to remind him of ash, and when it blew against his face it proved more annoying than distracting, staining him like sooth rather than simple dust.
The mountain in its existence was a labor. What stood at the top of it, however, was like a reward of the richest underbelly wine after a coarse drink of grime downed with vinegar. It was breath taking as the noon sun cast over it. The sight almost made the climb worth it.
Almost.
The grasses were green; greener than most he had seen. The breeze blew at them, and they danced in unison, displaying a beauty that seemed to draw his eyes in their direction, a soft undulation in the gentle air.
The way his boot sank into the soil birthed a temptation to abandon them and walk with his bare feet. Maybe even dance. Ezril shook the feeling away. Unkuti is dead, he scolded himself. It steadied him. It also reminded him of how much control he’d lost over his mind. Standing upon the mountain gave him a feeling of defeat… and freedom.
Only when his eyes landed on Father Fravis seated legs crossed and quiet on the ground did a modicum of control return.
Fravis regarded him with an expression Ezril couldn’t ascertain. It could have easily been amusement. It could’ve easily been caution.
Ezril walked up to him cautiously, stopping when he was before him. Fravis watched him all through the action. Unmoving. Unblinking.
Is this the stand?
Ezril held back the mental insult that sought to follow. No. It can’t be. He’s seated.
…Who said it can’t be done while sitting?
He frowned at his thoughts. They kept reeling out, bearing down on his mind. Fravis simply watched through it all.
“Father Fravis.” Ezril said, his voice low, unsure.
“Control is important,” Fravis said. His face betrayed nothing but the possible amusement. “You are the last one to reach the top, if I’m not mistaken.”
How many didn’t make it? Ezril wondered.
They deserved whatever death they got.
He started at the thought. It was familiar. It was a voice he always kept locked away, hidden from even his waking mind. It the thoughts people never gave a voice to, the ones they kept locked away even in their heads. He always had a tight rein on his own yet it had slipped out so easily.
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Something about the top of the mountain was wrong. He felt the last of his grip on his mind picking away, like thawing snow in the wake of the spring sun. Whatever was happening to his mind was being done to him by the mountain. It was weakening his mind, lowering his inhibitions. He refused to believe anything else.
Fravis studied him now. It was unhidden. It was a gaze that went leagues beyond simple curiosity. Ezril found it more than disconcerting.
He knows, the voice told him. Kill the priest. He can see it… He can hear it... He knows what you wish to do. He knows what you are. He knows you are Tainted not Hallowed.
“May I have it, Father?” Ezril asked softly. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew he was to receive something, proof for reaching the top.
Fravis observed him for a while longer and Ezril fought harder to rein in his thoughts. Fravis’s eyes narrowed. He seemed suspicious. His hand disappeared into a hole in his cassock and fear gripped Ezril. He hadn’t carried his Sunders. Even if he had, the idea of killing Fravis was like courting the moon. But he would not die without a fight. Teneri had raised him better and Urden would expect it of him. The seminary had trained it in him. He brought his feet apart slightly, his knees bent. He was ready, crouched into defense. His mind was clear, sharper than it had ever been. He was in agreement with the voice inside his head.
We kill the priest, he and the voice thought in unison. He will come, and we will guide him off the mountain. None of us will be better for it.
Fravis cocked his head to the side. He seemed to be studying Ezril again, his hand still hidden within his cassock. He seemed curious, almost confused. It was an easy trick, Ezril suspected, a move to lull an opponent into a false sense of security.
Fravis’ hand left his cassock but Ezril moved first. The true step was at the edge of his feet when he saw what Fravis held.
In his hand was a coin.
Fravis’ next movement was slow, cautious, as if approaching a skittish horse. His thumb eased beneath the coin, then he flicked it through the air.
It soared, flipping over itself countless times. Ezril’s hand snapped out instinctively and snatched it out of the air. Fravis watched him, his gaze still suspicious, mildly confused, assessing. Then he pointed behind him.
Ezril didn’t care to know what type of coin it was. He hurried to the edge, in the direction Fravis pointed, and began his journey back. He went ten feet below before he successfully reined in his thoughts. It was as though the war raged in reverse now. As if his mind fought to say under his control.
The Scorned didn’t fight here, Ezril thought with an eerie certainty on his descent, one he didn’t understand. They couldn’t have.
The task of climbing down proved less of an ordeal than going up but more of a nuisance. At some point Ezril considered how easily he could reach the floor if he simply let go and fell. To do that he would have to make sure he didn’t hit the rocks. It was a near impossible concept, which meant it was still likely possible. Ezril’s mind laughed and he discarded the thought. He had a better idea.
……………………..
Dusk had fallen when he reached the bottom. The sun cast a golden brown upon Vayla in its descent. And Ezril dropped from the stone he held with a wariness. His legs and feet poised, bracing for impact as he landed.
Five should do it, he thought as he dropped.
The drop was longer than what his eyes showed him. He’d miscalculated. The moment his boot met the ground he covered five strides in one Hallowed step before falling. He felt the pain of his error. He had mistimed his descent and had put too much weight on his feet. He moved his ankle gently, testing it. It hurt but it wasn’t sprained. Regardless, it was bad.
Father Jugen walked up to him with an outstretched hand. Ezril took the coin from inside his shirt and handed it to the priest. It was one Alduin gold. He ignored it. He had seen it often enough before the seminary and, since his arrival, he had stolen it often. Jugen looked at it, studied it briefly, then returned it to him.
“I haven’t taught you that.”
Ezril looked up to find Father Fravis walking up to him. A few of the boys there had been confused to see him, however, Fravis bore a look of surprise. In it was also suspicion. Now that his mind was clear, Ezril saw it for what it was. Not suspicion, confusion, he realized, he wonders why I act as I do… perhaps.
“What was your longest drop?” Fravis asked him, genuine curiosity in his voice.
“Ten,” Ezril answered, paused, thought again, then recalculated. “Twelve feet, Father.”
It was how he had gotten to the bottom of the mountain so quickly. He had employed the use of the Hallowed step. He would fall from a height and use the step the moment his feet touched a part of the mountain. It had worked when he had tried to save Unkuti and it had proved effective as long as the height wasn’t too much.
Fravis seemed impressed, too impressed to pay attention to the other boys as they came down the mountain. Some of them must have seen Ezril as he passed them on his climb down. He had seen them, too.
“How far do you think you can drop?” Fravis asked.
Ezril fought back a shrug. “I do not know, Father.” He stood straighter, then stretched the figures. “Maybe, fifteen.”
The priest nodded then turned away.
It was in the early hours of the night when Ezril and his brothers returned to the seminary—in lesser numbers than they’d left.
Sometime past midnight Ezril sat in the room.
The carriages were still dropping the other boys. So far Olbi and Raylin were not yet present. But Ezril had returned in the same carriage as Darvi and Takan to meet Olufemi waiting alone.
“That was something, wasn’t it?” Takan broke the silence.
Nobody offered a response.
Salem walked into the room with a slight limp. His hair was a mess, and his eyes seemed dazed. Aleroot, Ezril observed. Father Zakarid had taught them about it, and Father Yesuan used it quite often when treating major injuries. Sometimes Ezril wondered if the priest used it for the sake of the patient, or simply because he didn’t like the noise. It dulled the senses, leaving whoever it was used on in a daze similar to the one in Salem’s eyes. It was a natural anesthetic.
“Takan,” Ezril said.
“Yes, brother. Willing to talk about it now?” Takan was grinning.
Why am I doing this? Ezril wondered as he said, “Unkuti was right.”
Takan’s brows furrowed.
“About what?”
You feel you owe it to your brother for failing to save him… “… The black mountain,” Ezril said. “The Scorned didn’t fight on it.”
“Says who?” Takan growled.
In the years they’d been in the seminary the boy’s temper hadn’t left him. Ezril wasn’t sure if it came with being the oldest of them. In the Underbelly he would’ve understood it. Here, it didn’t matter how much older Takan was, he was an equal.
Ezril laid in his bed, offering Takan no answer. The night was old, and he was tired. But there was an answer, one he knew wouldn’t matter.
…Says Unkuti.
Takan didn’t know their brother was dead. Ezril doubted any of them knew. The empty mattresses made the room seem larger.
How long will it take for us to forget him too? He wondered as a dreamless sleep took him.
The next morning revealed the truth he already knew to the rest of his brothers. Unkuti was not coming back. His bed lay empty. It also revealed another truth: Raylin and Olbi had not returned either.
Father Talod came for them before the morning ended, silent as a wraith’s whisper, and they followed him in similar silence. They weren’t grieving, somehow, they couldn’t grieve. Perhaps they had forgotten how to. Their silence was a simple acceptance.
They lined up in front of a building along with other boys that had taken the test. There, the Monsignor addressed them.
“Those of you before me have passed this test,” he said. “Those of your brothers not here have found peace in Truth.”
Ezril found he was beginning to hate the concept. They’ve found nothing in Truth, he thought. They’re dead. An end would be a better peace for some than a continued life.
“… the coins you received from Father Fravis,” Crowl continued, “are proof that your lives belong to the seminary. When you become priests of Truth you will pay for your lives each month in no more than one Alduin gold.” He watched them with a solemn attention. “From here on, you are true brothers of the seminary. One step closer to the title of Priest.”
Ezril took no consolation in Crowl’s words. All it meant was that they would answer the title of “Brother” as the priest answered ‘Father’ to the general populace. Escape death and you get a title. He almost scoffed audibly.
The gold coin was a pretty thing. He pulled it from his pocket and surveyed it, letting it roll over his fingers. On one side was the face of the fourth king before king Criver, King Enuly, first of his name. The other held the insignia of the church: a circle with a flame in it.
This was his prize. And would one day become his price.