The Fate: Book 1: Tournament Wysteria

by Ko, John

  Poe nods reluctantly. He’s the first to have bothered at guessing the answer rather than being annoyed.

  “Really?” He closes his eyes, still nodding his head. “Can you hear the beat?”

  Poe shrugs and begins to play it again. Whenever Poe’s father worked on a song, he’d play it for anyone willing to listen. So that’s how Poe tries to do it now.

  The new fan whips out a stick and begins to tap it against the ground in rhythm with the song. His simple cadence frames the melody perfectly. The beat matches the time kept in Poe’s head until the boy pauses and begins again. The stuttering of the beat gives new meaning to the melody. He broke the beat, if I change scales there …

  The odd boy begins to bob his head again. The movement makes its way down his arms and to his legs as he begins to step to the rhythm. One foot after another and then he’s sprinting across the Square. Already a blur, he leaps into a series of endless somersaults and handsprings—all in perfect rhythm to the song. He returns just as quickly, flipping and spiraling the length of the field all in time to Poe’s song.

  It’s the first time the bard’s seen anything like it. Feeling it, Poe begins adding to the end of the incomplete song. This is it. This is why I’m here.

  The determined guitarist has been trying to finish the song for so long now, only to realize effort and desire aren’t enough. But right now, at this single moment in time, Poe could finally feel it.

  “SHUT THAT CRAP UP!” bellows the waking brute.

  Oh no, I forgot about Kearney! Poe looks all around, but there’s only one who’s ever stood up for the bard before and right now Kase Shake is nowhere to be found. I can’t stop now, though. I’m almost there.

  “Didn’t I tell you last time, don’t play that junk when I’m around?” Kearney screams, stomping his way closer.

  I will finish no matter what, Poe decides. The musician continues to strum, eyes closed to the world.

  “Please continue,” the new boy whispers.

  “What are you looking at?” the brute demands, tongue hanging out of his mouth and breathing hard. Kearney turns back to the musician and bellows, “Why are you still playing? I told you to shut that crap up!”

  Poe feels the song coming to an end as well as the oncoming fist. Keep playing. Just keep playing … Smack! What was that?

  “You dumb bastard! Get out of my way.” Smack! Another thunderous blow echoes from near by.

  Poe strums the final chord, letting it reverberate through the still morning air. It’s the most lovely note the bard has ever heard. The newly minted songwriter opens tear-filled eyes, ready for Kearney’s worst. Instead, the bard is met with an unexpected, smiling face, one with two swollen eyes. “Congratulations,” he says.

  A whistle blows from nearby. The Sitters are finally here.

  “Nobody move! What’s going on here?” the tall uniformed man asks. He looks directly at the new boy, whose eyes have already begun to swell shut. “You again? Are you causing trouble already?”

  “No, sir, there’s no trouble here,” he replies cheerfully.

  The Sitters look Kearney Dim up and down before turning back to the new boy. “What happened to your face, did he do that?” The Sitter points to Kearney.

  “Nothing happened, sir. I am just out here getting in a little early morning training and enjoying some good music.”

  “Well, stay out of trouble, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The taller Sitter looks at the shorter one and shrugs. He inspects the Tearstones of each boy. “You two are already on The List. If you get caught so much as looking at someone funny, you’ll both be banned from Greenwood.”

  The two known troublemakers nod. The Sitters look them up and down before finally saying, “No rules were broken—this time. But we have our eyes on you two.”

  “Don’t think this makes us even. Best watch your back—the both of you,” Kearney whispers vehemently. The brute turns and stomps towards a trio of jeering friends.

  “Are you okay? Why’d you do that?” The bard’s voice trembles and cracks, but even that cannot disguise the voice of a perfect soprano. The wide-eyed bard clasps both hands over their mouth in surprise. No, how could I be so stupid?

  “I am fine. I just wanted to hear the end of that song. It was worth it.” The new boy smiles back at the bard.

  Poe begins to cry.

  “Are you crying because you are happy or sad?”

  Poe keeps quiet and carefully studies the older boy. He looks Bae … or maybe not. The bard can’t tell. He’s tall, but not that tall. He looks strong, but not really that strong. He’s handsome, but not as classically as someone like Poe. He knows music, but he’s obviously a fighter, not a musician.

  But most peculiarly of all is that the older boy isn’t affected by Poe’s voice—a voice that caused any to hear it, to do … strange things, to say the least. Could he be like Father? My voice never affected him, either.

  “Are you a bit babo? No worries, I am too,” the boy says. “They call me Fate. What do they call you?”

  Fate? “Oh, I’m Poe … just Poe.” The musician studies the boy carefully for the slightest hint of the unusual. But Poe’s voice seems to have no effect upon the Fate. He remains the same smiling boy.

  “Well met, Poe.” He looks all around and then back at the small bard. “Will you be fine getting out of here?”

  “Thank you … for everything, but I’ll be okay,” the bard whispers back.

  “I thought so. You remind me of someone I know. You guys are about the same size. Same age too, I’d guess.” The Fate gestures towards the east entrance where Kearney stands, pretending not to look their way. Standing just outside the west gate are his three friends. “I can tell you are pretty strong, but that guy is pretty big and he has friends. Do you have friends?”

  This is bad. Kearney’s staying at the same inn as I am, too. What should I do? I don’t need to go back for my stuff. As long as I have Desi, I can just leave. There’s really no reason for me to stay now that the song is done. But I’ve just found someone I can talk to.

  “Can you watch my guitar for me?” Poe asks the older boy. He’ll be the first other than family to touch Desi, but there’s no other choice. “I’m just going to get it over with and let him beat me up before things gets any worse.”

  “So you are alone?”

  Poe nods.

  “I suppose you will be coming with me then,” the Fate says with a shrug. “Come on, I have to get back to my teammates. They are probably up by now. We will go as soon as they turn their backs.”

  Why is he helping me? Can I trust him? The answer doesn’t matter. Poe’s already decided. “When you find it, grab it and hold on with everything you got for as long as you possibly can. Don’t sleep unless you have to, don’t eat until you have to, just create … but most importantly, enjoy.” That’s what father said, Poe remembers. That’s what you do when you find inspiration.

  Poe looks at him closely. It’s all around him, swirling back and forth, so strong I can almost see it. No, not just surrounding him; it’s coming from him.

  “Coming?” the Fate asks.

  Poe looks at him oddly.

  “The ones by the west gate are busy arguing about something. Now is the time to go. Are you coming or not?” the Fate asks again.

  Poe nods, cries, and smiles the charming smile you’d expect from a bard.

  Chapter 13

  WAKE

  [Stewards & Raiders Inn]

  Wake, only half awake, stumbles down to the main room. His sister was so kind as to try to rouse him, but he isn’t quite up for completing the task. He didn’t sleep that well and his body is already feeling the aches from the day before.

  At the bottom of the stairs the scent of fresh bread baking fills him. He ignores it. Someone has opened all the windows, allowing in the morning sun and fresh air, which annoys him. The sight of the Fate balancing precariously on a chair is downright maddening. Argh. It�
��s too early for all this.

  “Morning!” the Captain calls out, crunching into an apple and somehow maintaining his balance.

  Wake mumbles something in reply. He can barely open his eyes, but somehow an errant hair finds itself into his left one. His irritation grows. F’ing hair! Failing eye … hurting. Just leave me alone.

  “He’s not a morning person,” his sister warns the others.

  “Catch.” The Fate tosses him a fresh apple. “We have waited long enough. It is time to get started.”

  Wake grumbles something about an apple not being a proper breakfast. Riser slaps him on the back and laughs in condolence.

  The Captain points to the empty plates. “Would you like for us to sit around and wait for you to eat?”

  He guesses not.

  “No worries. If we have a good session, there will be a big lunch.” What if we don’t have a good one?

  “Come on then.” The Fate is on his feet and his chair is back on four legs. “The Office is giving Sensei mornings off, but we do not have all day.”

  “Wait a minute. What happened to your eyes?” Wake asks, just noticing that both of them are dark and bruised.

  “A fist.” The Fate waves thanks to the innkeeper and leads them out.

  Wake is the last one out the door and somehow forgets the single step at the entrance. As he tumbles forward, a dozen thoughts cross his mind: hands forward, break the fall, turn, tuck, roll, save the apple … He can’t decide on any of them and lands flat on his face.

  He curses up a storm.

  “Oh my goodness! Are you okay, Wake?” His sister hurries over.

  He looks around and realizes he’s causing a scene. “I’m sorry, I just can’t think clearly when I first wake up, and this hair got stuck in my eye.”

  “Tomorrow, I will wake you before the others. This will give you some time to shake away your early morning madness,” the Fate tells him. Wake agrees with a sigh. When he turns to apologize to the rest of them, he almost runs into Sensei’s case.

  Why is Sensei carrying a guitar case? He rubs the last of the sleep from his eyes and realizes it is not the clerk at all.

  “Hey, you’re not Sensei! You’re that bard from the Lobby.” He recognizes the scar. “Why are you here and where’s Sensei?”

  “He went on ahead to file the paperwork,” his sister explains.

  “This is our new friend, umm … what is your name again?” The Fate asks the bard.

  The small boy leans close and whispers something into the Fate’s ear.

  “Poe,” the Fate relays.

  “I’m Wake. Nice to meet you,” he says quickly before his own name can get butchered.

  The Fate scratches the back of his head. “I got us into a little trouble. He will be staying with us for a while. He cannot talk with his mouth, though. If he does, bad things happen. Fortunately, I am immune.”

  Wake greets the new boy and prepares himself for another day as surreal as the one before.

  They find the little clerk banging away on his drum in the very same clearing he showed them the day before. His arms windmill like broken vanes as he tries to maintain a new beat. When he sees them, he stops and waves.

  The Fate gathers them together and asks them to take a seat. Most of them are happy to, all except for Wake, who settles down in the tall grasses with little joy.

  He hugs his knees tight to his chest in an attempt to prevent as much unnecessary contact with the itchy stuff as possible. Despite his best efforts, he can already feel an unbearable tickle growing along the underside of his right arm. Other than that, it’s a relatively glorious morning with the chill of autumn muted by a particularly brilliant sun.

  The Fate looks over at Poe, who seems unsure of what to do. “Bard, you are welcome to join us.”

  Poe nods and unhooks the case on his back from the strap running diagonally across his chest. Wake can’t help but notice that the bard wears his Light Blue Tear set into the thick leather strap. Once his guitar is gently unpacked, Poe attaches the very same strap to either end of it. The bard notices him staring and gives him a questioning look.

  Wake doesn’t know what to say. “Um, I was just noticing that you wear your Tear on your strap. It must mean a lot to you …”

  The bard shrugs.

  Wake tries to say something nice. “That’s a fine guitar you got there. I bet it’s as nice as The Maestro’s.” For an instant, Poe looks back at him wide-eyed before getting up and sitting as far away from him as possible.

  “I was just trying to be nice,” Wake huffs to himself.

  Poe’s right hand flashes across the guitar’s strings, and the other tunes the pegs with quick precision. Poe looks towards the Fate to see if it is okay to continue. A moment later he does, playing an all too recognizable song. Though as he continues, Wake realizes there are some parts of it that are not as recognizable as he first thought.

  The Fate claps his hands and says, “First of all, Team Rules.”

  He holds up a finger. “Rule One. No touching the Captain unless you absolutely have to.”

  “Rule Two. Do right by each other.”

  “Rule Three. Do things together.”

  “And last but not least, Rule Four. We are not allowed to lose.”

  “What kind of rules are those?” Wake asks. “And just how are we supposed to know how to do right by each other? That’s just too vague.” And what does he mean by, we’re not allowed to lose? Like ever? That’s just ridiculous.

  The Captain shrugs. “Please try your best. I am sure that will be good enough.”

  “Unusual, but reasonable enough,” Rachel muses aloud.

  They all agree to follow the rules.

  “There will be more. I just have yet to think of them,” the Fate says. “But for now, I have a little story …

  “It takes place long ago, before the Age of Tears and after the Clash of Champions. It was a dark time, long before Tournaments and Tearstones—a time during which victory was attained through warfare and grievance settled in bloodshed.

  “The world was a scramble after the Clash of Champions. After their disappearance, many lands lost not only their heroes but their Kings and Queens as well. And in their place they found chaos and strife.

  “Territories changed hands as quickly as the wind changed direction. The cunning and ruthless reigned triumphant and those vicious enough claimed the glory. Until finally, one nation stood above the brutal throng, threatening to conquer them all.

  “From a village at the edge of the world was born a great leader of men. One who could outwit the cunning and match the vicious with his resolve. First, he freed his own land and then those that surrounded it. But it did not take long before he realized that this was not a victory, but rather a challenge issued to their oppressors.

  “So he marched. Village after village and then nation after nation he set free, and all the while his army grew. All were free to join: man, woman or child, just as long as they could follow orders.

  “But a battlefield is fluid and ever-changing, and on more than one occasion the day was saved by those acting in defiance of their orders. What was he to do with these defiant heroes? Dismissing those too selfish or cowardly to do as commanded was one thing, but these men disobeyed in order to do what had needed to be done. When he called upon these defiant ones and looked into their eyes, he had no doubt of their bravery, or that they would do it again. And the next time they may choose wrong. Either way, he knew he could not depend on these men.

  “All he knew for sure was that they had no place in his army. At least within his main ranks, he finally decided. So he created a special unit just for them, a place for those too valuable to dismiss, but not disciplined enough to be relied upon.

  “It did not take long for the defiant ones to become known for their skill, bravery, and … unreliability in battle. His generals hated even the idea of such a unit. Everyone knew that well disciplined soldiers were the key to victory and that exceptions b
red complications.

  “In order to set an example of the unruly bunch, his generals assigned them the most undesirable of duties, from digging ditches to the most dangerous of missions. To their surprise, the group of soldiers known for their defiance on the battlefield did not rebuke these commands. They took to these tasks, lowly or dangerous, with equal ardor.

  “But where they could not be depended upon was where it mattered most: the battlefield. The defiant ones infuriated the generals, doing questionable things such as ignoring a besieged commander to save a group of lowly commoners or breaking rank to fight wherever they pleased.

  “Regardless of the respect they garnered, no one actually wanted to join their ranks. Who in their right mind wanted to be sent on the most dangerous missions only to have to clean the latrines as their reward?

  “This worked out well enough for the generals. Though they were mystified by how a group could fight so well with no chain of command, everyone doing as they wished, without even speaking a word to one another. The leader, however, was satisfied. If it worked, it worked. And at this point his army had swelled to such a size that it was being called the mightiest the world had ever seen.

  “Finally, they reached their enemy’s own city at the center of the world. Their enemy, however, still possessed the other half, and too had marched their troops back to partake in one final, decisive battle.

  “When that day came, so too did the great leader’s first taste of defeat. He saved nothing for another day, not even himself. The leader led the charge himself. He did not need to see tomorrow, only victory that day. But what he saw instead was a nightmare. Their enemy had developed a fantastic new weapon—a horrible magic of unimaginable power.

  “It was not the first time he had seen a volley of arrows turn day into night, but these scratched the sky, making the heavens bleed brighter. The arrows flew neither true nor straight, but slithered bloodshot like crimson serpents through the sky. They hissed promises of death with ginger tongues and glared with eyes as bright as the sun.