by R. M Garino
“We’re waiting, boy!” Finlay said.
“I had my reasons,” Angus said. “It is not an excuse, and I will not tell you what those reasons were. That would defeat the purpose of the act. I can assure you, however, that wanton violence was not my motive.”
“And so he continues to lie,” Finlay muttered, indicating Angus with a wave.
Talon once again held up a hand to his brother. “We know that it was Thomlin, your cousin,” he said, “who initiated the prank.”
“Aye, he stood before us and admitted as much,” Finlay said, his face pained by the memory. “To temper the ego of a newly risen Elc’atar and bring him back to earth, or some other such nonsense. The fact is that my son was reprimanded for being tardy, and he took what he saw was his right to vengeance.”
A sparkle of pride suffused his father’s sin’del as his brother spoke, but it was soon darkened. “What we fail to understand is why you felt the need to go to such drastic lengths. That to me clearly denotes a desire to inflict serious harm.”
Angus let his head hang again. “Bowler was needlessly harsh,” he said. “He deserved what we did to him.”
“He deserved to have his skull broken in five places and then put back together by a pair of amateurs? Just for calling your cousin out for being late?”
“His treatment of Thomlin was the last straw,” Angus said. “Bowler had it coming for a while.”
“How so?”
Angus clenched his jaw shut, and stared straight ahead.
“Yer man enough to take offense, but not man enough to answer?” Finlay said with a shake of his head. “All the makings of a fool.”
Angus chanced a glance at his father and uncle. Finlay’s scowl had deepened, and his energy field shown a deep bruised purple. Talon, however, stared at his son. His face showed his sadness. Angus returned his gaze to his feet.
“Bowler has a thing for Demona,” Angus said, his voice projected to the ground. “He has since he began teaching us in Reven Marthal. She did not return his affections, but Bowler was never one to take no for an answer. He kept at it, and the more she refused him, the more obstinate he became. He took it out on the squad every time. None of us understood why he was being such a dick—forgive the language, please—until we found her sobbing in a lecture hall, and she told us what was happening. She made us swear not to tell anyone, that she would deal with it herself. We weren’t going to let him break her, so we decided to make his life as miserable as he made ours. The morning Thomlin was late, I had enough. I was not going to let him dishonor our House, regardless of his rank."
“Yer a bloody fool!” Finlay said. “I am not sure which of ye knows less; ye, or that fool of a son I have!” He moved away in disgust.
Talon stepped in front of Angus. “Think for a minute, will you?” his father said. “You are so good at solving those Magi riddles about triangles, ethics, and history, but you missed this one entirely. What do you think Bowler was trying to do? Disgrace your House? He’s Le’Manon, allied to Kal’Parev. So, no. Think, lad. He was pushing you. He was strengthening you all. Your actions caused this, not his. His treatment of you and his chasing Demona are not related. If they are, then the council will sanction him. Not you. Understand this: all Elc’atar push graduates. They are merciless. They are relentless. If they do not feel that a squad is learning what they should, they push all the harder. That is what we do in the Areth’kon; we build strength against the day we need to face the minions of the Sur.”
Talon rubbed his mouth as if struggling to hold on to his patience.
“You need to open your eyes, boy, and stop thinking you are so much smarter than everyone else around you. As you just proved, you are not. Bloody hells, Angus, you made the most common mistake of all! And yet you don’t understand what it is you did wrong.”
Angus felt himself blushing with shame and tried to still his thoughts. “What do I not understand?”
Talon faced him, his hand resting on his sword belt with casual familiarity. Concern and disappointment had blossomed throughout his sin’del and pushed everything else to the side. “The young often believe that honor is about perception,” Talon said after a moment studying his son. “They believe that they must be above criticism, beyond reproach, and everyone must treat them with the utmost respect and deference. They demand it. Have you ever wondered why the young are so quick to fight, but not the old? It has nothing to do with physical ability, let me assure you.
“What they are concerned with is their own self-conception, their hubris, if you will. None of us wants to feel we have done wrong, especially in public where others can see our shortcomings. Our pride is wounded, and we need to strike back, as strong as we can.”
“That’s why we call the squads Prides,” Finlay said. He stalked back and forth in the garden, walking a little way up the path, before heading back. “The young have their heads stuffed with pride, some more so than others. So we stick them all together in hopes to quarantine any outbreaks.”
“It is a reflection of our self,” Talon corrected, “and they help us hold our integrity by helping us to act rightly. Your uncle is referring to the joke.”
“The pride yer father is referring to is the one we cloak ourselves in, not the squad ye surround yerself with and grow with,” Finlay said. “I want ye to understand me, and not confuse my words. Pride is a perception. Honor is internal.”
“This is conceit. Be careful of it,” Talon said, splitting his attention between his son and his brother’s movements. “It clouds your perception of reality, and it can cloak even the foulest of deeds in a false sense of propriety. You are guilty of both these mistakes in your dealings with Bowler. You allowed yourself to be blind to his motives, and your pride made you believe that your own actions toward him were just. The arrogant man does not see the mistake in his actions, for he is incapable of accepting such a failing within himself. He holds himself above reproach, and demands that others do the same, even when he is wrong.
“Honor asks something different of you,” Talon said, spreading his arms.
“’Tis what I said, it is an internal construct,” Finlay said with a flip of his hand as he came closer. Most of his rage had burned away, though his sin’del still roiled from time to time. “It is the adherence to yer beliefs, even in the face of tremendous opposition. It means keeping yer word in all things, fulfilling the promises ye make, and not making those promises lightly. It means to admit yer mistakes, make amends for them, and correct yer behavior so that ye do not repeat them. Accepting the consequences of yer actions, accepting them as if they were yer own decision to begin with, is the true stamp of honor. That is the hallmark of our House. When ye have done wrong, ye admit it and amend the actions to make what reparations ye can. It requires a level of truth and honesty about yer self, yer world, and yer place in it.”
“Lying is detestable because it creates a false sense of reality,” Talon said. “In your actions, you sought to create an illusion of honesty for Thomlin that he did not deserve. Youth blurs your vision and distorts your understandings, making you think that taking the blame for your cousin was noble. It was not.”
“The impulse to protect yer House was commendable,” Finlay said as he thumped down on Angus’ shoulder to take the sting from his father’s words. “It was just stupid how ye sought to do so. By taking Thomlin’s guilt as yer own, ye denied him the chance to make amends and atone for his actions. By allowing ye to do so he has shown himself craven, and a disgrace.”
“Always remember, son,” Talon said. “You are the shield which protects your family. Your honor is your armor.”
Silence descended, engulfing the trio. Angus knew he had committed a most grievous crime; he had brought shame to his House.
“What must I do to make amends?” he said with his head hung low, and his voice just above a whisper.
“Put yer childish impulses behind ye,” Finlay said. His voice was rich and definite in its tenor, the voice of th
e Head of House Kal’Parev passing judgment. “Ye must rise to the level yer studies require of ye. The Magi have coddled ye, and made ye soft and ignorant of our ways. Ye must change that.”
“It will take a while for this stain to fade,” Talon said, “but you are young and you have many years ahead of you. Each day you live, you must be firm in your resolution that it is a life where you uphold your ideals. With enough such days, you can claim such a life.”
“A perfect past is not something that existed long ago,” Finlay said. “It is something that we build each day. With each day we live being true, our past becomes more perfect.”
Angus let the lesson settle in and find a home within him. They were right, of course. He had to adhere to the stringent dictates of personal nobility. He also had to become better at keeping his actions secret.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Challenge Issued
Arielle had begun to adapt to life at the Gates. A month rolled past, and then half of the next, pushing closer to the influx of winter. The first snows had dusted the air, but the massive storms thankfully stayed away. The brief hour she had spent with her grandfather weeks ago had helped. He had a way of putting things in perspective. After that, life had become bearable.
True, the physical exertion she was forced to endure surpassed the demands of her initial years at the Areth’kon, but nevertheless she still felt the glow of a certain satisfaction as she collapsed for the night. She was beginning to acclimate to the training, the mental exercises, the never-ending toil tending vegetable gardens, and the constant drill. As the weeks marched past with military precision, she felt she was beginning to put her shameful first days behind her.
She was determined to remain focused on the tasks in front of her and avoid any more missteps. Her performance at the bridge had helped a great deal. As with every test they underwent, the results were a matter of public knowledge. By the time they had returned to barracks, everyone knew that only two of their members had crossed. But everyone also knew that Arielle had taken on an Elc’atar and brought her to her knees. Impressed and appreciative nods, more like truncated half bows of respect, met her as she moved through the halls rather than snickers and pointing. This, she reflected, was how she had imagined her time here.
The Twelfth, now often referred to as Fel’Mekrin’s Pride, had climbed near the top spot of the leader boards posted in the communal mess. That was not much of a surprise here, as the House always held top slots. Nevertheless, as Arielle stood behind a small crowd viewing the latest stats, it felt good to see her own Pride holding the second tier ahead of older, more experienced Prides. She perused the board, searching for Angus’ squad, and was disappointed to find them still on the bottom tier.
“’Tis all politics,” Arielle overheard a pair in front of her say. Judging by their bright golden hair and the elaborate knotwork of their braids, they were Le’Manon.
“Aye,” his counterpart said. “Canna be skill, not that young.”
“That’s all ye need,” the first graduate said. “Connections.”
Arielle tried to ignore their grousing, and scanned the leader boards to assess their competition.
“Aye to that, my friend,” the second said. “The dark-haired one, what’s her name?”
“Gwendolyn.”
“Aye, Gwendolyn. She’s the only daughter to Endeara, the Head of House Fel’Mekrin. How’s that for connections?”
“Don’t forget she’s Logan’s sister.”
“Oh bloody hells. All we need is another Logan strutting about the place. They even look alike.”
“And the princess with the granny hair, Arielle?” the first graduate said while shaking his head. “She’s Rhen’val. Descended from Sui Rhen’val himself, the Areth’kon’s bloody founder.”
“Right! She’s the bloody granddaughter of the Commandant,” the second said. “Her parents are Field Marshals, and she’s fecking Logan’s girlfriend. Bet ye can tell how hard they are on those two little girlies.”
“Put them in my charge fer a night and I’ll show them how hard I am on them!” the first said.
Arielle felt her aggravation growing as she listened to their laughter. Determination, skill, and focus were the factors behind her team’s ascendancy. But these two dogs wrote them off with so little consideration.
“Wow! Interesting theory,” Arielle whispered as she inserted herself between them. “Would you care to test it?”
Both jumped back a step as she spoke. Arielle swung her silver ponytail over her shoulder to make sure they didn’t miss it.
“I was thinking the two of you on me at the commons,” she said. She flexed her palms over the pommels of the swords she wore, before raising her knuckles. “I call this fist Logan, and this one Granddad. I call my feet my parents. We all want to kick in your teeth.”
With such prominent and powerful connections, she knew such views were to be expected from the other Houses. Voicing such thoughts publicly was, however, taking things a step too far. Voicing them in front of her was downright insulting.
The two graduates stared at her, not quite comprehending what she was saying. Arielle returned their gaze with a defiant one of her own, and waited. She watched as their sin’dels stretched together in silent conversation. Arielle had issued the challenge in as quiet a manner as possible, so as not to draw outside attention to it. Only now was she able to enter a room without everyone pointing and staring, and she was hoping to relish the sensation for a little while longer. They had both been startled, and she could see them arguing about accepting. She could detect a certain amount of relief in them, however. Since no one else had heard it, they could decline without losing face.
The first graduate was obvious in his appraisal of her. To his companion, he said, “Field marshal’s daughter?”
“Aye,” said the second, “and Logan’s girlfriend.”
His companion shrugged. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, “another time, perhaps.”
“Thanks for the offer, though,” said the second.
With that, they left their place in the line, shaking their heads as they went. Arielle glared after them, indignant. Her ire increased and she sought something to strike and give voice to her vexation. After all this time! After all this distance! He still managed to worm his way into her life. What would Logan say, Arielle? I don’t think Logan would approve. She was sick to death of worrying about his approval and taking his opinion into consideration.
She called after the retreating duo. “Soldiers, what are your names, again?” It felt like forever since she had marched into the Gates in their company.
They each held a presumptuous air as they regarded her.
“I’m Nole,” the second said. Hooking a thumb at his companion, he said, “This is Padric. You can call on us any time.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I will,” Arielle said, her voice saccharine sweet before she, too, stalked away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Porcupined
The Third assembled for inspection outside the doors of their cells. Each member stood at attention while an Elc’atar strolled in and out of the rooms, and seven Yearlings stood ready to enter. The soul lights that floated in the center of the ceiling cast a bright, piercing light, dispelling all shadows. Angus watched them from where he stood without moving his eyes. Somehow he had managed to avoid tallying any infractions in the six weeks since his father’s visit. Not that he hadn’t committed any, he reflected, he just had not been caught. He had no desire to break that record today. Unfortunately, inspections occurred at least once a week, sometimes more, all unannounced. Today, they had the pleasure of being inspected by Gibson, a member of House Mer’Chien. As soon as he stepped back into the hallway, the Yearlings rushed in. A ruckus followed as they flipped the rooms. They knocked over beds, cleared the shelves with a swipe of an arm, emptied desks, and dumped foot lockers.
Angus knew it was not going to be a good day.
The Yearlings stepped out
of the cells to holler in their faces, as if their own personal Lo’ademn had descended to torment them.
“Who taught you how to make a bed?” one Yearling yelled in Demona’s face.
“That blanket is not creased!” screamed another at Hironata, even though he stood a good two heads shorter. “Do you call that a crease?”
“Is that your belt?” yet another spit at Ti’vol who flinched before the verbal assault. “I wouldn’t use this to haul wood!”
“Third!” Gibson called. He appeared pleased with himself, as he had since he walked in. “It looks like you failed. You know what that means. Dirty porcupine. To the river. Now! Move it! Move it! Move it!”
They fell into line with practiced ease, and ran from their barracks into the cold of the pre-morning dark. The Yearlings ran just to the left of them, decorating them with insults that perhaps passed for encouragement in their minds.
Their gear was polished and cleaned until it shone in the soul light, Angus knew. They did not have the best track record, and by now, they were becoming quite proficient at correcting their mistakes. Despite the hours of preparation and attention to detail, however, they had failed. They were never supposed to pass this inspection, Angus thought as he ran. Everyone faces the dirty porcupine at one time or another, and everyone hated it. His father told him it was designed to teach them to overcome a setback and keep moving, to face discomfort and overcome it. For the Third, however, this was to be their fourth dirty porcupine.
They arrived at the edge of the river Miu that flowed from the snowmelt in the mountaintops. Here, the river cut a deep canyon that meandered through the foothills and formed the southern and eastern borders of the Gates territory. A natural arc of rock formed a bridge that spanned the gorge and crossed the river. The waters were frigid. Towering pines appeared as they drew closer, their tops straining to reach beyond the shadow of the mountains to attain the sun. The air smelled of pine and pitch, and everyone drew a deep lungful in appreciation. A halt was called just as they neared the edge.