Why hadn’t Farmer prepared him for any of this? Though his training in the basics of combat had been thorough, it now seemed rudimentary, given the vast number of variables he would need to take into account going into the Trials and, if he got beyond that, training in the Lyceum. What if he failed?
Murray noticed Cego’s furrowed forehead. “Don’t worry, kid. I know it’s a lot to pick up in this amount of time. Most purelights you’ll be going up against have had a lifetime to learn this stuff.”
Cego stopped chewing. Murray sometimes had a strange way of boosting his confidence.
Murray looked up at Cego from his empty plate. “What I mean is… you’re picking this stuff up fast. Just keep your basics in mind; that’s where you have the advantage over these other kids.”
Cego nodded. Murray’s teachings were like his home—spartan. His house was made for efficiency. The things he owned, the heat pad, the small rooms, the training loft, Ruby—each served a singular purpose. Even the food they ate, though it wasn’t tasty, served the purpose of providing optimum nutritional value. Murray didn’t give much with his teachings, but what he did give was efficient, it had a purpose.
“All right, twins, you clean up here, Cego and I are getting a jump on Codes before lights out,” Murray said.
“Yes, Murray-Ki,” Masa and Mune replied in unison.
*
It was raining again.
Sitting on a small wooden stool in Murray’s room, Cego listened to the drumming on the tin roof. A fire was lit in a diminutive hearth in the corner of the room. Cego rubbed his hands together; even indoors, he could see his breath as Mercuri’s night air became colder. The fire didn’t seem to provide much warmth, not like the huge bonfires on the black-sand beach of the Island.
Murray sat at the edge of his cot, reading from a book with a worn leather cover. There were hundreds of similar books stacked in piles along the walls of his room.
Codes was another portion of his new training that Cego needed to pick up in time for the Trials. Murray took Codes very seriously, perhaps even more so than the combat training itself.
The Combat Codes were written in an old, flowery language. Murray said that the Ancients had written the Codes as doctrine for all Grievar to uphold—both in the heat of combat and during everyday life.
“A Grievar shall learn from the rainstorm. Upon finding oneself under a sudden downpour, there is the inclination to run below the eaves of nearby structures. But pacing between buildings, hiding from the storm, one will still find themselves involuntarily soaked. Standing firm in the rain from the start, a Grievar has made a choice, at least,” Murray read.
Cego nodded.
“What is the rainstorm?” Murray asked. He followed up each passage of Codes with a series of questions to test Cego with.
Though Cego hadn’t heard this particular passage before, he had a knack for interpreting the Combat Codes. They were strikingly similar to the words he often heard echoing in his head—Farmer’s words.
“The rainstorm is the opponent,” Cego answered.
Murray nodded for Cego to continue.
Cego thought for a moment. “The Grievar wants to run away from the rainstorm and hide under the shelter of the buildings. But if he does that, he’ll get wet anyways. He might as well stand outside in the rain, because in that case, at least he made his own choice to get wet, instead of the storm forcing him to take the action.”
Murray nodded, clearly impressed. “Spot on, kid. Now, what about combat applications?”
Cego was ready for this one. “Opening your guard. If your opponent is about to break open your guard, and you can feel that he is about to do so, there is no point in using your energy to fight it. You’re better off making your own choice to open your guard, which gives you the edge and timing, maybe leading to a sweep or attack as your next move.”
“Oss!” Murray responded in approval. “Great example, kid. Now, how about worldly applications?”
Cego wasn’t so sure about this one. Beyond the example in the passage itself, how did it apply to everyday life? “Hmm… When climbing a rock face, you need to make choices about which holds to grab onto?”
Murray shook his head. “You need to think about how the Codes apply to life. Being a Grievar isn’t just about fighting or learning techniques. It’s about the folk that we’re fighting for, as darkin’ foul as some of those folk may be modernday…”
We fight so that the rest shall not have to.
“You made the choice to fight for me,” Cego said abruptly.
Murray looked at him curiously, finally thrown off guard by one of Cego’s answers.
“You made the choice to fight for me, which changed everything. Going into the fight at Lampai, you knew you were standing in the Circle because you wanted to be there. Not because someone was forcing you to fight.”
Murray looked at Cego and then down at the floor for a moment, before letting out let out a deep breath.
“Kid, I don’t know where you came from, but you’ve got some wisdom in those years,” Murray said.
Cego grinned, happy to have finally given Murray something, though small, after everything the man had done for him. That question lingered in Cego’s head, ever since he’d met Murray—why had he done all this for him?
“Why did you make that choice, Murray-Ku?” The Jadean formality slipped out of Cego’s mouth without thinking. “Why did you fight for me?”
Murray paused, the flames from the hearth dancing in his yellow eyes. “I’m no Grievar Scout. You know that, everyone at the Citadel knows that, yet I keep doing it. As if I don’t have any choice, as if I’m aimlessly following this lightpath that’s been set for me,” Murray said.
The burly Grievar looked up at Cego. “But now, things feel different. It’s because of you, kid. You’re right. I did make the choice to fight at Lampai. I made the decision that you were worth fighting for, because I see something in you. Something I don’t see much of anymore.”
“I saw it when you were fighting Grinder, when you didn’t straight out put a foot through his skull when he was helpless on the floor. I saw it when you were watching the harvesters on the steppe; you were genuinely interested in what other folk did out there. You’re different than the rest of them. I don’t know where you came from, or where you learned to be the way you are, but that don’t matter now. I made a choice to bring you up here, and I’ll see that through. We’re going to get you into the Lyceum.”
It was the most Cego had ever heard Murray speak of himself, or of anything, for that matter. Cego realized he’d never said it before, though he should have so many times along the way. “Thank you, Murray-Ku.”
Murray nodded. “All right, on to the next,” the old Grievar said as he flipped the book to the next passage of Codes.
Cego stared into the fireplace, rubbing his hands together. He was finally starting to feel some warmth.
*
High Commander Albion Jonquil Memnon briskly walked the corridors of the Citadel.
He moved with a determined, long stride. Though far past his prime, Memnon was the epitome of a Grievar—tall, thick, and grizzled from combat. Out of habit, he wore his second skin, the form-fitting shirt still glistening from training this morning. He often didn’t bother to switch into his more formal Commander’s uniform.
Memnon didn’t slow as he jogged down the Keep’s spiral staircase, the same stairs he’d descended every day since he became High Commander nearly a decade ago.
Though Memnon no longer fought in the Circle as he did during his Knight’s service, he was meticulous with the upkeep of his body. Even on the busiest of days, he trained every morning. He was known to jump into the sparring sessions of his much younger Knights, both to ensure they were sharp and to test himself. He often left the bouts bruised and panting, though he never relented to the weariness until he was alone.
Memnon could show no weakness, not to his subordinates within the Citadel, nor to foreign
nations that would seek to diminish Mercuri’s influence.
The Keep was located at the very center of the Citadel’s walls, a circular tower that rose above the rest of the surrounding structures. The Keep served both as the living quarters of the Knights as well as the command center for all of Mercuri’s Grievar.
Memnon passed two of his newer cadets in the corridor, freshly graduated from the Lyceum. Both stood at attention and raised their fists in salute, followed with the combat cry of “Ossu!” Even for formalities like this, Memnon did not stop. He nodded as he passed but kept his brisk pace, heading toward the Keep’s command center.
Memnon couldn’t stop moving.
When he stopped, some Kirothian or Desovian Commander was still moving, strategizing and improving their Knight programs, getting ahead in the arms race. When Memnon stopped, he was failing his Knights, who were training at this very moment in the Pit of Circles at the base of the Keep. When Memnon stopped, he was letting down all the folk of Mercuri—those who depended on his team winning to ensure they had food, homes, medtech, or any other comforts in life.
The only time Memnon slowed down was to sleep, or to peer out from the window of his room at the top floor of the Keep. Even then, gazing out over the Citadel’s ancient grounds, Memnon’s mind was racing. When his hard yellow eyes swept over each of the storied branches of the Citadel, he could only dwell on problems.
PublicJustice was in dire need of talent and leadership. Though an old friend from service, Dakar Pugilio had become nearly uncontrollable. The Lyceum was growing old in its customs and training methods, along with its ancient Commander, Aon Farstead. The Scouts were still too young and brash under the leadership of Callen Albright.
Memnon turned a corner and walked through a pair of sliding doors into the Keep’s command center. The room was round, built in the exact dimensions of a Circle, ten meters in diameter. Shield windows looked out at the Citadel’s grounds in every direction.
The remaining three Commanders of the Citadel sat at a circular table in the center of the room. Aon Farstead, Dakar Pugilio, and Callen Albright. They stood and saluted Memnon in greeting before returning to their seats. Memnon did not sit. As usual, he paced the circumference of the room.
“Didn’t even have time to change out of his second skin!” Dakar shouted in his boisterous manner. “Albion, you need to relax every once in a while.” The Commander of Justice threw his legs up onto the table, leaning back in his chair. “I’m telling you, one hour at the Adar shrine and that tension will be gone. I have just the girl in mind for you, too. Real sweet lass…”
“Yes, because what we really need is for High Commander Memnon to relax. Perhaps we should all forgo our duties and take some time off. Why not take a jaunt to the pleasure shrine? Perhaps then we could be more like you, Dakar, and this place would really fall apart.” Callen sneered from his seat across the table.
Dakar stood up. He looked like an angry walrus as he stared down at the wiry Scout Commander, his cheeks bright red above his long, drooping mustache. Though he was even taller than Memnon, Dakar Pugilio had not cared for his body or mind as the High Commander had. His belly sagged from beneath his tunic, displaying the distorted edges of an old flux tattoo, and his shoulders hunched from many years of torpor.
“Why don’t you stand up, worm, and I’ll show you why this place is really fallin’ apart. Because of bit-rich kids like you who don’t know how to shoot a double, walking in here on daddy’s—”
“That’s enough. Sit down, Dakar,” Memnon said quietly as he continued to pace while looking out the windows.
Dakar slowly sank back into his seat, muttering and staring at Callen as he did so.
“Provide me with your reports,” Memnon said. “You first, Dakar.”
Dakar attempted to straighten up in his seat, but even then, he somehow looked slouched, as if his body had forgotten how to try.
“Yes, sir, Albion. Err, High Commander Memnon. Last several days, well… we won some, we lost some,” Dakar said.
“Win percentage?” Memnon asked.
“Forty percent,” Dakar said in a low voice as he tugged at his mustache. “Let me tell you, though, some of the wins we had, they were great. Old Byron took out some hotshot ArkTech hire—put the light of justice on him, all right. Just like the old days, Albion—remember Byron? How he’d always catch some poor sot off guard with that overhand right? Well, he’s still got it. He threw—”
“Stop,” Memnon said. The High Commander sighed audibly as he paced. He rubbed the long scar that ran across his eyelid and down to his square jaw. “I can’t hear more of these stories, Dakar. The only stories I need to hear are those of an improved win percentage. We need to get back to tolerable levels. Balance the weight of Justice. What do we need to do that?”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Dakar said. “We have good men on the team; it’s just that—”
Callen cut in, “That’s just the problem. He has so called good men. They don’t need good men in Justice. What they need are more killers. That’s who the companies are hiring, killers. ArkTech, or any sane person with the bits to spend, will hire the best that’s out there. Why settle for less? I’d certainly do so if it was my head on the line.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Dakar said, his face getting red again. “Some of my Grievar have served Mercuri for decades. They’ve given their entire lives to follow the lightpath. I can’t just throw them out on the street like some piece of trash.”
“What choice do we have?” Callen retorted. “It’s either get with times and completely overhaul our team at Justice or have the courts continue to rot, stinking as they have for years under your command.”
Dakar fumed. “Do you realize what you’re saying, boy? Fresh on the job and you think you already can tell me how to lead my men?”
Memnon interjected before Dakar had a chance to get too heated. “We do need to make changes, Dakar. I understand that you don’t want to put your men out of their path, but we can’t keep going with the way things are.”
Dakar began to speak again but closed his mouth as Memnon flashed his eyes at him.
“Start with the worst. The two Defenders on your team with lowest win percentage this cycle. I’m sorry, Dakar, but they are out,” Memnon said. “We’ll replace them with two of Callen’s fresh recruits.”
Dakar looked down at the table dejectedly.
“Callen, who have we got to spare that has experience from this cycle’s take?” Memnon asked the Scout Commander.
“Well. To start, I’d suggest the Falcon, Sit Fanyong. He has at least two years’ experience as a Knight, and I believe he also served in the Desovian justice system for a year,” Callen said.
Dakar looked up from the table with wide eyes. “We’re going to put a darkin’ Desovian on my team? There’s no way my boys will train with some ginar-fed, gen’d-up Grievar brood!”
Memnon stared down at his old friend, his eyes suddenly blazing. “Dakar, your team will train with the Falcon, and they will do so diligently. You will make sure of it. You are Mercuri’s Commander of PublicJustice. Your lightpath does not mean reliving your days of glory in the Citadel, bantering with your team of old-timers. Your path means putting together the best team possible. Your path means making sure the scales of Justice are balanced so that those folk that cannot afford their own Grievar will be adequately represented. And that will start with integrating Sit Fanyong into your team. We will reevaluate after the next report as to whether we need more transitions.”
Dakar looked at Memnon with his mouth slightly open. He bowed his head in concession. “Oss, Memnon.”
Memnon continued to pace around the room, his frenetic steps matching the pace he set in his command meetings. “On to the next. Aon, are we ready for the Trials?” Memnon turned to the Commander of the Lyceum, who had been silently observing the heated discussion.
Aon Farstead was ancient. Hunched over the command table, he looked diminutive, even ne
xt to Callen’s wiry frame. A few remaining wisps of white hair hung from Aon’s bald, wrinkled scalp, and two massive, cauliflowered ears hung by the sides of his head like Besaydian dragon fruit. Aon’s eyes no longer had yellow tinge of a Grievar; they were milky white—he’d been blind for nearly three decades now.
Aon spoke in a slow, deliberate canter, his voice a whisper that carried the strength of over a century of Grievar wisdom. “That we are, High Commander. One year to the next, the world changes around us, but the Trials remain the same. Like a stone lodged in a stream.”
Memnon nodded respectfully at the venerated elder member of Command. “Aon, what do you see in store for this year’s Trials?”
Aon chuckled. “High Commander, I see nothing in store.” The ancient Grievar batted his eyelids playfully. “But I do have a strange feeling of late. The light has been stronger these past few months. I can feel its gravity tugging on these old bones of mine. I can’t remember that sort of pull since… well, it’s been quite a while now.”
“What could it mean?” Memnon asked. “Could it be a good sign for us? Perhaps one of the Trial takers…”
Aon’s milky eyes whirled in their sockets as the ancient man took a deep breath. “The light often whispers. All Grievar can hear it if they just stop to listen. Not just in the Circle, under the bright arrays. Beyond the halls of combat, we all carry the light, walking, sitting, sleeping, breathing; it is there, whispering to us.”
From across the room, Callen let out an audible sigh as he rolled his eyes in disdain.
“Even you can hear the light, Callen Albright, though I sense you do not believe you can.” Aon flung his quiet voice in the direction of Callen’s seat, causing the wiry Scout Commander to stiffen up in his chair.
Aon continued, unperturbed. “In these recent months, the pull I’ve felt—the light is no longer whispering; it is roaring. I do not know what it saying, but I do know it is speaking to us, to the Grievar that are forever intertwined with it.”
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