by Aaron Crash
That night, with her lust running wild, Della would play with a glass phallus she kept for special occasions. Giving in to her urges just might clear her head. “So we’ll watch him.”
“I’ll spy on him for you,” Siteev said. “Now, about that glass of wine for me.”
Della found herself liking Siteev’s sexy smile. “Well, is there anything to report?”
“Ymir asked about an archaic word for sky. The translation isn’t clear, but it seems to be an old word, aszeculum, something about the sky, but not the sky. I’ve done some research, and it appears to reference the night sky but reflected on the ocean.” Siteev paused. “Should I tell him what I’ve learned?”
Della knew the word and the text where it had come from. She’d just pulled a book, recently, which used that exact word. “Perhaps not yet.” The Princept sighed. “This is why we have to watch him. If he delves into forbidden lore, if he finds himself touched by a demon, it might corrupt his dusza. Then, if that happens, we might have more to worry about than barbarians riding otelkir descending upon us. We might have to worry about hell itself returning to Thera.”
The Princept had started off by sounding ominous, and she’d ended the conversation the same way. They didn’t need to be terrified, but they did need to careful. All ages ended. Most of the time, they ended in blood.
Della Pennez would not let that happen.
Siteev nodded at the warning. “It sounds like you could join the Midnight Guild. If it existed.”
“If it existed,” the Princept agreed noncommittedly. She liked Siteev. That didn’t mean she trusted her.
Chapter Thirty
THREE WEEKS PASSED quickly for Ymir.
Each night he watched the two moons change. By the Monday of the First Exam, the Axman and the Shieldmaiden were nearly the same size. Things were lining up nicely for the clansman.
The First Exam week was easy. Classes were suspended while scholars from all years underwent the test. Jenny told him how it would go. Four examiners would proctor the tests in the dungeons beneath the four colleges. With nearly four hundred scholars, the shifts would be constant. The one hundred post-domini scholars didn’t have to take the First Exam.
Ymir found the schedule on his Knowing mirror. He’d go last on that Friday. Saturday night there would be the Harvest Festival—food and wine and music for all. Maybe not for all, since that was the night Ymir and his friends planned on creating the Black Ice Ring regardless of the moons issue.
With no classes to attend, Ymir had ample time to eat, rest, swim in the ocean, and study in the Librarium. He’d finished two books on courtly manners and had started a third that focused on nothing but art, from Ohlyrran poets and painters to Gruul war songs to Morbuskor myth stories. He read about the plays of some great Homme writer from the Holy Theranus Republic. Willmur Swordwrite had lived in Four Roads, out in the desert between two mountain ranges, in the center of the continent. His plays, however, had found an audience across the continent.
Siteev was busy tutoring scholars, yet she still found time for him, always in a classroom, never in her room in the Imperial Palace. Ymir had gotten used to her big, wall-like coral golem. The thing seemed harmless enough.
Lillee passed her First Exam on Wednesday. Jenny passed it on Thursday. When Ymir asked the nature of the tests, the two women couldn’t quite remember. All the scholars, from imprudens to dominists, had individualized exams. Special magic stripped most of the experience from their minds. However, both women had come out of the dungeon underneath the Flow Tower shaken.
In the afternoon, at four o’clock, Ymir stood in the Flow courtyard. He was alone for a moment, and he gauged the sky, trying to figure out if it was going to rain or not. Reading the clouds of the Sorrow Coast seemed impossible. On the tundra, he could tell if rain was on the way, or snow, by the feel of the air, its scent, and the patterns of the clouds. It was as easy as reading a book on courtly manners. No, it was far easier than that.
He’d learn the weather here, eventually, if he stayed. More and more, it appeared to him that his path was at Old Ironbound, despite his longings to leave and the wound that split his heart.
Cold put a tingle up his spine and lifted the hairs on his nape. He prepared himself either for a vision or to float off the ground. Ha—he didn’t need to worry, not anymore. “Jelu inanis.” The icy feeling left him.
An instant later, he felt a sharp pain in his back. He whirled to face Siteev Ckins, Nelly, and Jenny. He’d been so caught up in dispelling the magic that he hadn’t noticed them. Had one of them touched him? He wasn’t sure.
Siteev smiled warmly. “We came to wish you good luck. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with the language portion of the test. But your courtly manners? That might be more difficult, since you haven’t attended Denalia Fisherking’s very excellent class.”
“He read books instead,” Jenny put in. “Ymir is quite the reader.”
“And it’s softened his belly some,” Nelly teased. She tittered at her own little jest. She’d passed her First Exam that morning. Was she standing a bit too close to Siteev?
Ymir smacked his stomach. “Not so much. I’ve found a new way to exercise.”
“Climbing up the Flow housing, correct?” Siteev asked. That smile never left her face, and he thought he knew why. The night before, he’d taken her from behind on the steps of the Moons Tower. Her coral golem towered above the three women.
The Flow bells rang, marking the top of the hour. His right arm felt numb, and he flexed his hand to get feeling back into it.
Issa Leel stepped out of the Flow Tower. “Ymir, it’s time.” She tilted her head at the three women.
Siteev nodded at her.
Ymir shrugged off his Flow robes, a patchwork of leather and gray cloth. “Can you hold my robes, Jenny?”
The swamp princess took them, leaned in, and kissed his cheek. Her hand fell on his right shoulder, and he hardly felt it, which was strange.
Professor Leel pointed. “All weapons, except for magic, are forbidden. Give your hatchet to the girl.”
“That’s me,” Jenny sighed. “The girl.”
“One of them.” Siteev chuckled. It seemed fairly brazen.
Nelly laughed a little, her eyes bright on the Moons professor.
Ymir had to wonder if the two had been intimate. He couldn’t think about that. He undid his belt, slid the sheath off, and gave it to Jenny.
He turned and followed the professor into the tower.
Jenny shouted, “Good luck!”
He threw a wave over his shoulder. Professor Leel led him through the open gate and down into the dungeon of the tower. The two descended the spiraling stone staircase deep underground.
Professor Leel keyed them through a rusted iron door, and they walked down a narrow corridor of old stone lit by Sunfire torches.
They stopped at another door made of solid iron hinged into the rock.
“I will not wish you luck,” Leel said. “I wish you failure. A brute like you doesn’t belong at this esteemed university. I would be surprised if you passed. You don’t have the magic for it.”
Ymir gave her a laugh. Her words meant nothing. “Good thing you are not grading me. Bringing in an outside examiner is wise.”
The professor sniffed. “I will wait here. The minute you pass through that door, the exam begins. Every word, every action, is part of the test. I hope when you return, instead of laughing, you will be weeping.”
“Don’t bet on my sorrow. Bet on my anger. And don’t forget...you and I will be dancing at the Harvest Festival.” Ymir pushed through the door and slammed it closed behind him.
A simple square room greeted him, about ten feet by ten feet. On the other side, an archway topped a dark corridor. A mosaic of the Flow sigil covered the floor: an open black hand on a background of gray. A lone figure stood in Flow robes. Their face was covered by an ornate mask, a sculpted open palm. Through holes, strange dark eyes peered at him, as if
the hand had eyes. No hair, no exposed skin. The examiner only had the gray palm mask and a hood behind it.
“Hail and well come, Ymir, son of Ymok, of the Black Wolf Clan,” the figure said in Homme, speaking slowly and carefully. The examiner raised a gloved hand. “I hope both the weather and the world have treated you in accordance with your fate.” The voice was feminine, yet deep and powerful, filling the room.
Ymir didn’t speak right away. He’d read about this greeting, part of the Akkridorian high court, back when Four Roads had a different name, thousands of years ago. He recalled the response, which he’d read in Pidgin, and translated it into Homme. Luckily, Homme was the closest language to Pidgin, and the responses were well worn. He’d practiced a greeting with Lillee the night before.
“Hail and well come, Examiner.” Ymir raised his right arm. It still felt numb. He saw a bit of black creeping down his skin from the short sleeve of his leather shirt. He must’ve gotten something on him at some point. Maybe he’d accidentally brushed a chimney on his climb up from his sea cell, though it looked more like ink than soot. He didn’t have time to ponder that.
He continued. “May your fate have fallen from the Tree, and may the weather of the Tree of Life’s branches bless you. When you need rain, may it rain. When you need warmth, may you walk in the sunlight.”
This was ridiculous. No wonder the Akkridorian Empire had come to an end. If every time you met someone, you had to spout poetry, you would get nothing done.
The examiner bowed. “In this exam, you must cross Thera, from west to east. You must enter where the Vempor Aegel Akkridor landed his fleet to crush the Sorrow Coast and leave where Nallin Nansal defeated Uganesh of the Grass City.”
Part of this was a trick, Ymir knew, but they were caught in the dance of courtly manners. Any impoliteness on his part would mean failure, and yet, this was part of the test. “Honored Examiner, may I speak a word of disagreement?”
“Honored Ymir, you may,” the examiner said.
“Uganesh wasn’t from Grass City. Uganesh the Grass Eater was from Lake City, also known as Goyyoat. He crossed the Sunrise Mountains in the winter, a rare feat. Some say he might’ve been aided by the Morbuskor there. There is no love between the races, and while the dwarves hate the orcs, they also don’t have much love for elves. I do not wish to insult you by disagreeing.”
That last sentence was critical. Such a weak people, to banter about, and to be so concerned about one another’s feelings.
“I am not insulted in a correction full of wisdom. Pass beyond me and into the exam room. I will be watching from afar. Here is the nature of your test.” The examiner switched from Homme to Ohlyrran, speaking quickly. The soft consonants poured over Ymir, smoothly, like a deep stream, one word merging with the next. He caught most of the meaning only because Lillee liked to sing in Ohlyrran so much.
The examiner said something about the courtly dance, the sword, the faceless warrior, and the map of the world. There were 10,311 tiles in the exam room divided into three sections. Ymir almost didn’t catch that large of a number in Ohlyrran. Counting in elvish was a chore since they put so much emphasis on prime numbers. Morbuskor mathematics was so much simpler. Everything was based on the number ten.
The examiner mentioned the damning touch, and Ymir knew what that meant. If the faceless warrior touched him, it was over.
Again, there was mention of the Vempor Aegel Akkridor and Uganesh the Grass Eater. The two were separated by thousands of years. Aegel Akkridor died at the end of the Age of Discord. Uganesh was a rogue Gruul during the last years of the Age of Withering as the empire lost control and splintered. Uganesh was killed by Nallin Nansal, an elven poet, not the king.
Nallin Nansal had written a famous poem about Aegel Akkridor and the siege of the Sorrow Coast, though it was far more about the color of the wine-dark sea and less about the actual battle.
Ymir would deal with the history in the exam room.
He had to get past the examiner. In courtly dances of the Akkridorian Empire, the subordinates would pass on their superior’s right side to show respect. According to the old culture, superiors could strike their servants whenever they wanted, and since most people were right-handed, vassals were supposed to pass on the right side.
Ymir’s pride bristled. If he walked by on the examiner’s left, it would be an insult. He had to play this game. And so, he passed on the examiner’s right, ready to duck a strike.
The examiner let the clansman pass without incident.
Ymir walked on through the dark corridor, which wasn’t dark for long. The sound of water gushing echoed across the underground stone. He moved into a vast chamber and found another mosaic, which showed the entire continent of Thera from the Weeping Sea on the west to the Green Water to the east. Every tile was perfectly colored.
Pieces of paper swirled in the air, as if caught in a tornado, in the middle of the room. The paper storm whipped around on the Blood Steppes between the Sunset Mountains and the Sunrise Mountains, in the exact middle of the room. Each piece of parchment had words on it, though they were flying around too much for Ymir to get a good look.
A curved Ohlyrran sword dangled about twenty-five feet off the ground. A single gold thread connected the weapon to the yellow rock of the ceiling a hundred feet above. The bottom floor of the tower must be right above them. Such a vast chamber; it was a hundred steps wide as it was long. Along the three walls waterfalls splashed noisily into their basins.
Ymir walked across the blue tiles of the Weeping Sea, heading to Kreenn, but he stopped. No, in Nallin Nansal’s poem, the poet got his facts wrong. He’d said it was Kreenn down in the south. Actually, the vempor had laid siege to Serenity Bay midway up the coast in what later became the Sorrow Coast Kingdom. It was a famous mistake. The poet said he wanted to capture the feeling and not the truth. Why shouldn’t the elf try to capture both?
Though Nallin Nansal’s poem was two hundred years old. Aegel Akkridor had lived two thousand years ago. Most people forgot what happened to them the day before.
Ymir knew that Kreenn wasn’t right. He’d enter the mosaic continent by walking across Serenity Bay. He’d follow the vempor’s path and walk across Four Roads, which lay between the Sunset Mountains to the north and the Judgement Peaks to the south.
Then he’d have to face the whirl of paper, which probably wasn’t just paper.
As he stepped onto the continent, he noticed glowing numbers above each of the tiles of the mosaic. He walked through the numbers like they were mist. The numbers increased, counting up to 3,437, which gleamed above Four Roads.
Before he stepped across Four Roads, he thought of the number the examiner had given him—10,311. She’d been very precise, and she’d emphasized that the room was divided into three sections. There was nothing to show that except for her warning.
The whirlwind of paper was in the center of the room, probably around the 5,155 mark.
Grandfather Bear loved numbers, and they’d played games all the time. Grandfather would give Ymir the biggest number he could think of, then ask Ymir if it was divisible by three. If all those digits added up to a number that could be divided by three, it was. All the numbers summed, 10,311 added up to six. Six was divisible by three.
3,437 was one third of 10,311.
The minute Ymir passed over Four Roads, he knew that paper whirlwind would do something. But what? It would have something to do with the sword hanging above him.
A sword meant a fight, which he’d probably have to win from what he’d learned in his Classic Warfare class. The examiner had mentioned a faceless warrior, but so far, Ymir didn’t see any sign of one.
Nevertheless, the sword must be necessary. Why else have it dangling there? It was twenty-five feet up in the air, too great a distance to jump. Only his Flow magic would get him up there. He would gather the water from one of the falls, direct it to the center, and then freeze it. It was powerful magic, beyond his skills, and dangerous with
his lack of control.
And his damn right arm kept going numb. He checked. The ink had flowed down to his wrist. He’d been poisoned clearly, by one of the three women—that had been the sharp pain he’d felt. Siteev wouldn’t do it, nor would Jenny. The likely candidate was Nelly, but the other two might be working with her.
If the poison was lethal, the First Exam wouldn’t matter. If it wasn’t? He’d pass this stupid test and find out who had tried to sabotage him.
He charged across Four Roads.
The paper fluttered together, creating something.
Ymir couldn’t focus his attention there. “Jelu jelarum!” He meant only to pull water from the southern wall. Instead, all three waterfalls splashed down into the center of the room. Wet paper probably couldn’t hurt him. At least, that was the hope.
Ymir jumped into the middle of the water, bringing the ice up to push under him. He felt the frost chill his spin. His dusza seemed like winter inside of him.
Sweat still poured down his face. He rode the ice upward. Again, too much power flowed into the liquid. He snatched up the sword, breaking the thin cord holding it aloft.
He leapt and slid down his tower even as the frosty top crashed into the ceiling. The cold shattered. Icy debris plinked down.
Ymir watched as a thousand pieces of paper in the middle of the room folded themselves, growing, changing, slowly becoming a man, complete with a nose but not eyes and mouth. Folded paper fingers reached out. Ink ran off the paper and coalesced into a solid black sword in the fist of the thing.
“Damn the Ax!” Ymir cursed, his skin crawling at the sight of this new flavor of golem. “And he’s not a faceless warrior. He has a nose at least.”
The paper man danced around, striking different poses that Ymir recognized from his Classic Warfare class with the very breasty Korga. When she lectured, those wolf cubs were free to roam under her shirt. In a fight, she strapped them down.