Into the Fold

by Chase Blackwood

  “Good,” Zabel exclaimed, “Rafe’s found the ideal composition for brightness and safety.”

  Aeden’s face turned red. He knew his wandering mind had allowed Rafe to win.

  Rafe was smiling. He casually looked about the room until his eyes found Aeden’s. His eyes momentarily looked insane as the orange and yellow flames were reflected in them.

  Aeden lit his own solution. He felt the warmth of the candle’s flame as his arm erupted into a blue-tinged flame.

  “Master Cassius,” Adel called out.

  Master Zabel turned to Aeden, a barely concealed grimace marked his features as he nodded once.

  “Not surprised,” Cassius stated, “yet, you forgot to use the salt to increase the brightness of your flame.”

  Across the room, Rafe’s hands were still alight. Aeden and Rafe locked eyes as Aeden felt his arm get uncomfortably hot. It was the time-eternal stare of two men competing for their very manhood.

  The moment was broken as the tent was filled with a series of curses. Laurent ran from behind the table, his arm alight with a brief flash of sparkling, white light. He had mistakenly used the iron filings.

  “Laurent, on the other hand…” Cassius said, shaking his head.

  Laurent mumbled some more curses as he quenched his arm in a bucket of water.

  Aeden used the moment to put out his own fire. He watched as Rafe stared at him, waiting a moment longer to do the same. Shame colored Aeden’s face as the bitter flavor of losing soured his mouth.

  Adel, meanwhile, was smiling openly as some of his nervous tension bled out. He didn’t notice Rafe or Aeden. Instead, he had been watching Laurent as he splashed about at one of the water barrels.

  “Aeden and Rafe, on to the next tent,” Zabel commanded.

  Rafe smiled an oily smile. Aeden nodded to Master Zabel. Adel squeezed Aeden’s shoulder, wishing him luck. Aeden watched Dan move to Laurent’s side, examining his arm as they walked out.

  Thea lingered for a moment. She glanced from Rafe to Aeden. Her face was a painted mask of indifference. Her eyes were another story. They held all her emotion. They were rimmed with anger. They watered with sadness. They narrowed in frustration.

  She looked away and walked out, following Dan and Laurent.

  Aeden tore his gaze away like a wounded animal, only to see Rafe standing there, watching him.

  “After you,” Rafe said, holding the rear tent flap open, an odd expression drifting across his features.

  Aeden didn’t say anything as he passed. He had lost. Rafe had won. Instead, Aeden took in a breath of fresh air. He attempted to find atori as they waited before the second trial.

  He failed miserably.

  His thoughts lingered on the first test, the test of bravery, the trial of fire. On Rafe’s fire-lit eyes. How had Rafe won?

  Aeden had been thrust into the bitter arms of conflict since birth. He had the unmistakable burden of fighting for the kovor’s approval, for his father’s love. Now, before the watching eyes of his father and his extended Thane family, plodding through the pains of purgatory, Aeden only demonstrated failure.

  Self-absorbed thoughts broke upon the weight of a braggart’s words.

  “Did you hear Cassius?” Caine said, “He’d rarely seen such a display of excellence…”

  Caine’s words fell away as his eyes fell upon Aeden. There was a terse moment of silence as Aeden turned toward him. Aeden’s gaze had become a veil of unbridled fury.

  Janto looked nervously from Caine to Aeden. Rafe smiled a wide, lazy smile.

  Caine’s arrival had added its own unspoken weight to the air. It hovered over the incessant beat of the drums. It coiled its oily mass about those gathered before the second tent. It marked them with its insipid touch. It besmirched them with its dark energy.

  Sakhira stepped out, cutting through the tension like a ship through water. A wake of discomfort echoed outward in a ripple of smoky waves. The unseen rivalry crashed upon the shores of awareness.

  Aeden’s fingers tingled in anticipation. He was reminded of his tests of the gevecht under the eyes of his master and the watchful gaze of the kovor.

  Clearly, Caine, Janto, and Sakhira had passed the first trial.

  Aeden nodded to Janto and Sakhira, yet Janto ignored him. Sakhira nodded almost imperceptibly. Caine glared at him defiantly. Rafe stood back, watching it all.

  Master Hob Towne stuck his head out of the tent and smiled.

  “Welcome to the next trial,” the novus master declared.

  The mounting antagonism slowed to a rolling simmer. The students eyed each other warily as they entered the tent one at time. Towne held the flap open a moment longer, his bald head peeking about for any others, before slipping inside, behind the line of students.

  “So good to see a few of my former students, even if you have left novus for bijenna,” Master Towne said, looking from Caine to Sakhira and finally to Aeden, a hint of laughter tumbled about his eyes. “Let’s see how your new teacher has prepared you.”

  Master Towne became more serious as he studied the group.

  “I have a puzzle for you, for in the spirit of Hearvest Eve, we are celebrating the trials Ansuz underwent before his eventual banishment and imprisonment.

  “It’s a busy night, so, let’s begin,” Master Hob took in a deep breath, “This is a solitary puzzle, with five competitors, you each have vellum, ink, and a quill. The first four to solve the puzzle will move on to the next trial.”

  Master Hob watched as his former students took positions behind standing desks. Aeden grabbed his quill and dipped it in ink. He adjusted his vellum and looked up expectantly at Master Hob.

  Rafe left his quill beside his vellum and looked once about the room before too looking at the master. Caine cleared his throat and looked down his nose at the vellum, waiting impatiently.

  For some reason, everything Caine did annoyed Aeden. He couldn’t help but watch him, his movements, facial expressions, body language. Everything screamed of a deeper lacking. It spoke of a glaring inadequacy, carefully masked through charm, admonishment, and false confidence.

  “Good, so here it is, and listen carefully, for I will say this only once,” Cassius began, reading from a small book. “Ansuz greeted the First Sage of Umbra in this manner: ‘May you live long, as long again as you have lived so far, and as long again as your age would be then, and then to three times that age and let Enlil add seven more years and you’ll be the age I left the destruction of my home at one hundred and six.’ How old was the first sage when Ansuz greeted him?”

  Immediately Aeden began scratching key words onto his vellum, inking his quill as the nib ran dry. It was a math puzzle. He simply needed to work backward to get to the sage’s original age.

  One hundred and six minus seven was ninety-nine. Aeden wrote the number onto the vellum, as he heard others scribbling about him. This time he didn’t look up. He was focused. Intent upon his outcome.

  He couldn’t let Rafe beat him again.

  Ninety-nine was three times the age, so Aeden divided by three and arrived at thirty-three. It seemed almost too easy. He glanced at his notes: ‘as long again as your age would be then,’ which meant twice the sage’s age. Aeden divided thirty-three by two, yielding sixteen years and six months.

  “Master Hob,” Rafe stated aloud, looking directly at Aeden, his eyes narrowed, his lips smiling.

  “Already?” Master Hob asked, genuinely surprised.

  Master Hob worked his way over to Rafe. Caine looked up, apparently annoyed at the noise. Sakhira continued to work undistracted. Janto scratched something out in frustration. Aeden resumed his math in earnest.

  ‘As long again as you’ve lived so far,’ was the final piece. Once again, he divided by two. Eight years and three months.

  Aeden had arrived at the answer.

  “Master Hob,” Aeden blurted out.

  Rafe was leaning on the desk and looking at Aeden. He mouthed the words, ‘too slow.’
r />   How? How had Rafe finished ahead of him?

  Aeden’s ears burned as he stared at his work, looking for a way he could have been quicker, more efficient.

  “Correct,” Master Hob said, “Great Aeden.”

  Aeden knew when he had been beaten, but the trials weren’t over yet. There were still two more. Two more tries to beat Rafe. Two more tries to show Thea he was the better man: smarter, more capable, fittest to earn her trust.

  “One more minute,” Master Hob stated, counting the distant drum beats to calculate the passage of time.

  Sakhira had completed the puzzle just before the allotted time. Janto was still scribbling upon his sheet. With frustration upon his face, Janto lay down his quill. He sighed heavily, uttered a congratulation to Caine, before he sauntered out of the tent like a wounded animal.

  That left Master Towne with Aeden, Sakhira, Caine, and Rafe. It was a group that would never have come together on their own. They were like a pack of unfamiliar dogs, who had smelled the others and found them less than desirable.

  The uncomfortable looks reminded Aeden of Sha’ril. He remembered being paraded through the Grand Archway of Caliph Rajah and down the main street to the Anwar Slave market, bound in shackles. He recalled the scathing looks of the populace, the apathetic and amused stares of the children. Even the subversive, disinterested looks of the elderly had made an impression. It was enough to make his skin crawl.

  Master Hob’s voice cut through Aeden’s memories like a sickle, “You’ve passed the trial of acumen. Now you will face the trial of fitness. Good luck,” the last was said with a wink as he ushered them out of the tent, oblivious to the tension that now filled the group.

  There was little time for Aeden to think, for as soon as they had exited the second tent, Master Sam Glass was there, waiting before the entrance to the third tent. He didn’t say a word as he waved them in. Aeden watched Caine nudge his way in first, ever self-important. Caine was followed by Rafe and Sakhira. Aeden took in one last breath of Hearvest Eve air before stepping in behind them, glancing about, hoping to see Thea.

  “I knew you’d make it this far,” Master Glass whispered, clapping Aeden once on the back.

  Aeden nodded out of respect to his teacher. Once inside, Aeden oriented himself and drank in his surroundings like a thirst-laden traveler.

  Master Xuban stood within the tent. His massive frame seemed overly large for the relatively confined space. He wore his master’s robes, with the arkeinist symbol of a serpent eating its own tail stitched into the back. Unlike Master Glass, who had a silver serpent with a triple helix in the center, Xuban’s sigil was gold and empty. The symbol was as still and silent as the great avauncen master himself.

  “You’ve been tested on your courage and your wit. Now you’ll be tested on your physical skill,” Master Glass began, “Welcome to the third Trial of Ansuz…”

  Aeden looked about as he listened, feeling strange to be in a tent with his two private tutors.

  The tent was remarkably simple. A single brazier burned, providing light. It flickered brightly. A lone table sat at the center of the tent, momentarily stealing Aeden’s attention. To the side was a rack, within which, rested several different swords. Aeden could make out a simple Bodigan straight sword with a red hilt, a blue tinged sword from Gemynd, a curved sword from the A’sh and two he could not place.

  The weaponry lulled Aeden to a familiar place. Images of his childhood fell like broken shards past his mind’s eye.

  He was back in the S’Velt. It was another day of instruction. He and Devon had raced to choose their favorite weapon, ready to resume their training in the martial forms of the gevecht.

  The memory changed.

  Aeden blinked and he was in the kovor’s house, standing before the armory. He had to choose his weapons for his third trial. He had chosen the Templas blade and a bodark bow. He had been so excited to show his friend, Devon.

  The memory soured as Aeden remembered the last time he had seen Devon. His former friend, who had worn the mask of the Razzia. Devon had worn one final mask behind the carved wood. It had been one of pain and loss. It was the unfathomable understanding of betrayal as Aeden had killed the eastern caliph and fled the topmost chamber of the Dome of Arak, within the very heart of Sha’ril.

  Aeden had abandoned the faith of friendship and the bonds of his greater family. He had killed because the Jal had asked him to. He had killed to save Neri and Adel. He had killed because he knew no other way. Yet, Aeden still couldn’t shake Devon’s final expression of forsaken denial and mental anguish.

  Aeden’s actions had tormented him. They haunted him right up to the present moment.

  “You don’t look well,” Rafe whispered, just loud enough for Aeden to hear, “It’s not too late to quit,” Rafe’s tone changed, it was almost soothing, “Why don’t you just give up and let go of your burdens.”

  Rafe leaned in close, “You need to recognize when you’ve been beaten,” he said, placing a hand on Aeden’s shoulder.

  Aeden stepped back in repulsion as his muscles twitched instinctively, and a burgeoning headache formed on the horizon. Thoughts of Devon flared anew, tenaciously clinging to his awareness like the sticky residue of old blood.

  Aeden was alone.

  His village had burned. He had left the Church of Salvare after witnessing the deaths of Thomas and Odilo. The archduchess had asked him to leave. The University at Galdor had been destroyed, along with a sense of peace.

  He was the last of the Thane Sagan, in a foreign land, competing for the love of a woman. Love he so desperately needed.

  Master Glass’ voice slowly filtered through Aeden’s mental tirade, “…fitness can be defined globally as one who demonstrates the greatest ability for survival. Today we are testing the fine motor skills, speed, and dexterity of each competitor.”

  Master Glass looked about as he spoke, his eyes lingering momentarily on Aeden.

  “The test is simple,” Master Glass said, spreading his hands wide, before gesturing to the table before them, “We’ll place an item upon the table, and you’ll cut it to the best of your ability.”

  Aeden’s brewing headache moved in like an approaching sandstorm. He rubbed at his eyes. He blinked and saw Rafe watching him. Aeden dropped his hands and looked to the other students for distraction.

  Caine had his chin thrust forward and was rubbing it as if in thought. Sakhira remained silent, lurking half in shadow.

  “There are three rules,” Master Glass stated soberly, “One, you mustn’t cut the surface beneath the object placed on the table. Two, you are only allowed a single cut per item, and three, you must complete your cut within the allotted time.”

  It didn’t sound so difficult. Aeden had played games like that as a child. For him, swordplay was a way of life.

  He took in a slow breath and watched as Master Xuban moved silently toward a chest. The large master pulled out a Vintas melon, about double the size of the master’s large fists.

  “Master Xuban is placing the first item upon the table. For safety, you will go one at a time. You can use any weapon from the rack,” Master Glass’ eyes paused on Aeden for a moment, “and the weapon can only be from the rack.”

  A list of concerns bubbled to the surface. They posed themselves as fear, manifested in the shape of the unknown. Aeden was beginning to feel his confidence erode under the weight of his thoughts.

  Caine was the first student chosen.

  He walked to the sword rack with his eyes slightly narrowed, his chin thrust forward and a slight frown upon his lips. Aeden watched as Caine tried different swords, swinging them absentmindedly. His feet were set wrong, his grip was poor, his posture was off. The more Aeden watched, the better he felt about his chances.

  Caine made a few more clumsy swipes at the air before stepping up to the table. Caine eyed the Vintas melon down the length of his nose before he raised his sword above his head. His arms already shook slightly, unaccustomed to the
weight of a sword.

  Caine swung. The sword teetered through the air and cut clean through the side of the Vintas melon and straight into the wooden table. Caine’s mood instantly soured and he dropped the sword, letting it clatter to the cobblestone floor.

  The sound grated at Aeden’s ears.

  Swords were less impervious than myth would have you believe. They needed to be treated with care, to be respected, to be understood. Each weapon had a soul of its own. They weren’t delicate, yet they did require delicacy. Improper use could cause rivets in the blade, affecting its ability to cut. Moisture could cause rust. Even blood shouldn’t be left to linger, lest the salts within strip the bluing from the blade.

  So, for Caine to so casually drop a sword, demonstrated yet again his apathy and disinterest in anything other than himself. It disgusted Aeden. It angered him. It stirred at his brewing headache, causing it to throb behind his eyes.

  As Caine explained how unfair the test was, Sam Glass escorted him out, and Sakhira moved to the weapon’s rack. Sakhira chose a different sword than the discarded one Caine had used. He hefted it and swung it a couple of times, assessing its weight and heft. His movements were surer than that of Caine.

  Sakhira stepped up to the table and took a breath. He only glanced once about the room before focusing on the Vintas fruit before him. He lifted the blade and swung in one clean motion.

  He cut through the melon and stopped shy of the table.

  A small hint of relief was evident upon his aquiline features. Sakhira then stepped to the weapon’s rack and replaced the sword in its cradle.

  It was now Rafe’s turn.

  With the cool, casual confidence he always exuded, Rafe retrieved the same sword Sakhira had used. He didn’t even test it. With one glance at Aeden and a smirk, he swung. He sliced cleanly through the newly placed fruit, pulling the blade back, before touching the surface of the table.

  “Well done,” Master Glass stated, cleaning up the fruit, as Master Xuban grabbed a fresh one. “Skip the melon,” Glass called out to him.