Rebel Elements (Seals of the Duelists)

by Giacomo, Jasmine

  Calder sat up in alarm. “What in the name of all the sints are you doing?” As he spoke, he felt his new scar tug at the corner of his mouth, slurring his words.

  “So you are awake.”

  Calder froze for a moment, then relaxed. Stupid idea anyway, playing at sleep. “Aye. What are you doing to that plant?”

  “Feeding it. Four drops today.”

  “Your blood-guzzling plant has a feeding schedule? Sints preserve me. What sort of barbarian are you?”

  “The kind with trained blood-guzzling plants, of course,” Bayan replied. “Would it change your opinion of either me or the plant if I told you it was a seerwine pitcher?”

  Calder thought for a moment. “Of the plant, aye. Pretty certain you’re still off your nut.”

  “Fantastic.” Bayan put the pitcher’s pot back on the bedside table and lay down. “Then I’m a relieved barbarian.”

  Calder shifted uncomfortably. “About the ‘barbarian’, I dinna mean your people. I meant mine. My ancestors, the Tuathi. Pale raging horse lords, that’s us. Or so the wisps think.”

  “Pale barbarians? What sort of barbarians stay in their tents all day and get no sun? Or do they keep the tents on the backs of their horses, like giant snails?”

  Calder barked a delighted laugh. “Snail lords! I’m afraid I’m going to like you, Balang.”

  Bayan’s ropes creaked again as he turned toward Calder’s bed. “Can I ask you about the Academy?”

  “I’ve heard all the usual stories, but I don’t know anything more about it than that.”

  “No, I mean to say I don’t even know what a duelist does.”

  Calder blinked. “How far away do you live?”

  “Pangusay. It’s by the ocean at the south end of Balanganam. It took Surveyor Philo seven years to get down there.”

  “Really? You speak Waarden well.”

  “My teacher got there faster than Philo did.”

  “Well then: duelists. They’re servants of the empire, same as the lords and politicians and the like, only they’re more duty-bound. They’re duelists for life. If they serve a score of years, they can get a different title, work outside the duel dens. But many of them canna manage to serve that long… intact.”

  “Intact?”

  “It’s a dangerous business, magic. Flinging fire and rocks and ice at each other all day, every day. Injuries are bound to happen, and not even a den chanter can save everyone from everything.”

  “That’s madness! Why do we have to serve for life if it’s so dangerous? Why us?”

  “Because of the magic. During wars—and the empire’s had more than its share—the duelists are the empire’s main defense. But during times of peace, the emperor has to do something with all that magic, lest we who are gifted decide to claim some chunk of the empire for ourselves. So he puts us to work keeping that peace.”

  “And how are we supposed to do that?”

  “Duels. Our job will be to settle disputes. We keep in fighting shape in case of war, and we duel each other to determine which claimant wins.”

  “Like a legal court, but with magic and death, then?”

  “Exactly!” Calder beamed.

  “Ay, Bhattara.”

  “That’s how duelists become famous: by winning lots of duels. The best become celebrities, with entourages, nicknames, all the trimmings.”

  “Can they go wherever they want?”

  “Aye, sure.”

  Bayan’s face brightened. “Tell me more.”

  Calder frowned. “Well, most of the really good stories involve the Tuathi invasions, and some of the most famous duelists in history who returned to be teachers, especially right after the Academy was sacked—”

  “The Academy was sacked?”

  “Twice. In both the First and Second Tuathi Wars. Back when the original three Waarden kingdoms were finally becoming best mates, my ancestors lived a nomadic, raiding life up behind the Maam Ardcath. You know, the hills to the northwest? When the Waarden got fat and happy down here in the valleys, the Tuathi decided they wanted a share of that easy life. And they got it. They settled down across Marghebellen and Gallenglaas, and the Tuathi who still held to the old nomadic ways shunned them as Dunfarroghan—horse killers—for giving up their way of life and taking on the traits of their weak, soft enemies. A few hundred years later, the Tuathi forgot how much they despised their Dunfarroghan cousins, and they invaded again, greedy for fat cows and fertile soil. They took back Marghebellen and Gallenglaas, and even Helderaard fell to their spears.”

  “The capital fell to invaders? What happened to the emperor? Did they kill him?”

  “Nae. His court fled to Kemada, where the Shawnash’kote gave them asylum and the promise of an alliance to assist them in getting back their lands.”

  “So that was where the Shawnash and the Waarden first allied? When the Tuathi stole Helderaard?”

  “Aye. And the Shawnash never make big decisions lightly, so they saw something worthy in the Waarden. Hundreds of years have passed since the Tuathi last invaded, and in all that time, through good times and bad, the Shawnash and the Waarden have never parted ways. In fact, you’ll notice once we start seeing more nobles—and we will if we become duelists—most of them have a skin tone all their own: halfway between the Waarden, who are pale as milk, and the coppery cream of the Shawnash. I’ve heard the combination called ‘the noble tan.’”

  Bayan raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Sounds pretty.”

  Calder grinned. “Aye, it is. But only on the girls. Now, there are more imperial holidays on the calendar than you can strap onto a night caravan’s wagons. One city or another would hire my guild—my former guild—to make firedust flowers. Whenever I went, I hung in the background of the show and picked up a lot from a pack of history fanatics who loved to talk. Since I wasna allowed to fire off anything—” Calder paused to suppress a shudder, “I had time to stand around and listen to them. Some of the stories stuck.”

  Bayan was quiet a moment. “You think Balanganese history will ever get taught in imperial schools?”

  Calder heard bitterness in his voice, and wondered if Bayan thought the empire found nothing worthy in the Balanganese culture. His own Dunfarroghan background generally placed him below the Waarden and the Shawnash, and to the side of the Akrestoi, but above the Pinamuyoc and the ragtags. He knew he had a firm place in the empire and its history. Bayan had essentially no imperial history and might as well be a Tuathi or someone from the far eastern Corona, as far as having any sense of belonging in the empire.

  “Aye,” Calder said, turning onto his stomach and hearing his own ropes creak. “All you need do is have the Tuathi run around the mountains and invade from the south. The empire will send the duelists to fight them off, you’ll be a hero back at home, we’ll all get a new holiday, and Balanganam will be the best known battlefield in every imperial school.”

  Bayan laughed. “I’ll be sure to send the Tuathi a note.”

  The Duelist Academy

  The midmorning sun shone down into the narrow, sheer-walled valley ahead, and Bayan stared out the carriage window at the pale cliffs. The cliffs were much different from the dark, lumpy mountains around Pangusay. Their light color and height made him think of the dense white bread loaves the Waarden seemed to crave.

  The valley they entered was lush and green, and the trees and shrubs beside the road were unfamiliar to Bayan. Their leaves were lighter in hue and smaller than those from his homeland, and their bark looked rough, even scaly. The smell of the crisp morning air was both sweet and spicy, and Bayan found that he liked it.

  Philo, in a curly gray wig with red ribbons, buried his nose in more papers and seemed uninterested in the approach to the Duelist Academy. Bayan leaned out and glanced around at the riders, gratified that Frits, Fabian, and Joord seemed to enjoy the scenery as much as he did.

  The carriage followed the valley floor and climbed ever upward. Bayan caught sight of something large and dar
k looming above the trees ahead. He nudged Calder and pointed, and the pair watched silently as proximity revealed more detail.

  A statue made of black stone finally came into view. The figure was human in appearance, but its head and most of its torso were missing. The stub of its remaining arm pointed across the road. The carriage rode through its shadow, and the boys craned their necks as they passed.

  “Who did that used to be?” Bayan asked.

  Philo looked up from his papers. “One of the Duelist Academy founders, or perhaps a famous duelist from the First Tuathi War. The Academy was originally founded down here in the valley. After being destroyed twice, despite fortifications, it was moved to the cliff tops. The ruins of the original Academy are said to be sacred, or haunted, depending whom you ask, so they remain untouched, an elegy to the dead of wars past and a warning never to lose vigilance against the enemies of the Waarden.”

  Bayan looked back out the window. Through the trees, he made out shadowy ruins of tumbled stone and broad, straight lanes of weedy cobblestones. An air of quiet desolation pervaded the scene—of warriors lost to time and memory, whose deeds no longer mattered to the living. Bayan’s skin pebbled, and he wondered if he would fade from the world’s memory as completely when he had finished walking its ways.

  “How old is it?” he asked.

  “The Academy was founded during the first Tuathi invasions,” Calder answered, “almost two millennia ago. These rocks are about as old as the Waarden Empire itself.”

  Kipri grinned. “Someone’s going to do well in history class.” Philo let out a soft titter of amusement.

  Eventually, the carriage pulled up to a guard post carved from the cliff side. The sun hid behind the cliff, and the cool air of morning made Bayan wish he had warmer clothing. A dark cave loomed next to the guard post. The arch of its mouth looked too smooth to be naturally formed.

  “Are we going in there?” Bayan gazed into its shadowed interior. He thought he could see a dim light high up inside it.

  A guard approached the carriage and held up a hand. Philo’s riders gave him space to approach. The long iron tip on his spear had backward-pointing spines at its base and reminded Bayan of the boar-stickers back home.

  “Morning, Surveyor. What’s your business at the Academy today?” the guard asked.

  “I have two trainees with me who are eager to begin classes.”

  One, maybe, Bayan thought.

  “Two?” the guard echoed. “Then I believe you’ll give the headmaster cause to celebrate.” He turned to Bayan and Calder. “You boys take care up there. We’re honored to have you with us.”

  He stepped back and called an order to the other guards. One of them acknowledged the order and stepped into a back room. Moments later, a series of lamps lit within the cave, lining and illuminating an inclined stone road, and equally failing to brighten a broad, dark crevasse that sliced clear through it, leaving a broad gap across the stone’s surface from one cave wall to the other. A heavy, low grinding sound echoed inside the cave, and a wooden ramp made of pale planks rose into position, bridging the crevasse and completing the road. Several metallic clanks followed.

  When all was silent, the guard stepped aside. “The drawbridge is locked; you may proceed up to the cliff road. When you’re ready to return, speak to the guards at the top of the tunnel.”

  Philo nodded, then leaned out and asked Fabian and the other riders to wait at the bottom of the hill. They nodded and dismounted, leading their horses off the road.

  Nic urged the carriage horses forward onto the wooden ramp. They balked at first, then adopted a skittish trot. Their hooves thudded across the drawbridge. The road’s angle wasn’t steep, and the faint light at the tunnel’s far end drew elongated shadow streaks along the tunnel walls. Soon, the wooden section ended and roughened stone took them the rest of the way out into the darkness.

  When the carriage emerged into the light again, Bayan took one look out the window and barked a startled exclamation. The road ran right along the cliff’s edge, and the sheer drop seemed several hundred strides straight down. Within a few carriage lengths, they passed the upper guard post and turned sharply into the next switchback, which took them further up the mountainside.

  “I can see why the Academy is up here now.” Bayan clung tightly to his seat. “No one could pay me enough to scale the cliff and attack it.”

  Calder laughed. “You’re afraid of heights?”

  “I wasn’t until now!”

  Two more switchbacks and a short tunnel led them past a turnoff whose sign read Peace Village, to a cluster of buildings pressed against a sheer cliff. Three enormous but brief tunnels, much larger than the ones they’d driven through, led back through its face; one was lit with sunlight from the far side.

  The main building stood three stories high, towering over the smaller buildings on either side. The structure was broad and red-roofed, with three wide staircases approaching it from the front where the road ended in a circular turnabout. Staircases and raised walkways also passed between the main building and its neighbors. The largest building’s levels grew smaller toward the top, like a three-tiered festival cake, and each roof bore strange, downward-curling, claw-like bronze shapes on the corners. Above the highest roof, a walkway cut into the cliff face. Its visible side was latticed and had evenly spaced, narrow windows. Below it, similar walkways clung to the cliff face and angled into and between the large tunnels and down to the buildings.

  Bayan craned his neck to look up at the sheer cliff face that blocked the late morning sun. A broad, circular carving dominated the plain, smooth stone, formed of an outer ring surrounding six teardrop shapes, their slender ends pointing toward the center.

  “What’s that supposed to be?”

  “That’s a good question, son,” said Philo. “Why don’t you ask the headmaster?”

  Kipri grinned. “That means he doesn’t know either.”

  Philo gave the young eunuch a look of mock disapproval.

  Nic pulled the horses to a halt in the circular drive before the triple staircases.

  “End of the journey at last.” Philo eased himself forward on his seat. “Kipri, if you’d be so kind as to fetch the boys’ luggage?”

  Everyone exited the carriage. While Calder tucked his hands into his armpits, Bayan cradled the poor little pitcher plant close, imagining that it was shivering as well. We’re both out of our element here.

  Philo led Bayan and the others up the central staircase to the main building. Up close, the strange curved bronze shapes on the building’s corners resolved into stylized fingers.

  On the top level of the steps, they crossed a broad floor mosaic that mirrored the circular carving overhead. The mosaic’s teardrops were formed with colored stones in bright hues of red, white, green, silver, blue, and turquoise. The rest of the image was formed of smooth black obsidian surrounded by a thick ring of gold.

  “I like this one better.” Calder pointed down at the mosaic as they crossed it. “They should both be like this.”

  Bayan glanced upward, indicating the uncolored pattern in the cliff face. “You want to be the one to paint that thing?”

  “Aye, good point.”

  As Philo approached the crimson double doors and reached for a long bronze handle, the door swung open from within. A tall man in bushy white sideburns and a light blue tunic and pants beamed at them.

  “Welcome! Be welcome to the Duelist Academy. Please, come in.” He stood aside and let them enter. Bayan noticed round tattoos on the back of each of his hands; one resembled the mosaic pattern he’d just crossed.

  While Philo and the white-haired man exchanged pleasantries, Bayan moved a short distance away for a look at the interior of the building. Though hallways stretched in three directions from where he stood, a single, massive room took up a good portion of the ground floor. High-ceilinged, it sported a raised circular dais in the center, surrounded by six sections of benches. On the far wall, a deep purple
ribbon hung from ceiling to floor, and three large metal discs, each with a different pattern inset with colorful stones, were affixed to it. The bottom disc matched the mosaic outside, and the middle one matched the white-haired man’s second tattoo, a sort of multi-colored starburst. The top disc appeared oddly blank, a dull gray.

  The white-haired man joined Bayan. “I am Headmaster Tuur Langlaren, Hexmagic Duelist. I believe we have been waiting for you.” His gaze included Calder, as Philo ushered the blond boy over to them. Bayan wondered whether the old duelist had somehow known of his journey to the Academy.

  Philo introduced the trainees to the headmaster.

  “From Balanganam?” Headmaster Langlaren asked. “Well, that is unusual. You’ll be our first Bantayan from that province here at the Academy.”

  Bayan gritted his teeth at hearing his homeland called a mere province, but he said nothing.

  “I’ll leave you, then, my boys, in the headmaster’s capable hands,” Philo said. Kipri handed the boys their bags and wished them well.

  “Thank you for the ride, Surveyor Philo,” Calder replied.

  “It was the least I could do. Now, Bayan, as your sponsor, it is my pleasure to get you anything you need while you’re here. If you have anything you want to ask or tell me, don’t hesitate to write a letter. I believe there is a royal mail packet that makes express deliveries between the campus and the palace every four days. You may address it to me in care of the Department of Ways.”

  Bayan nodded, and Philo, Kipri, and their guards departed. Leaving Philo’s avuncular care for life on the cold cliffs of Helderaard suddenly seemed a poor exchange. At least he had Calder with him.

  A man and woman emerged from a door across the large room and approached with apparent eagerness. As they got closer, Bayan noticed both had tattoos on each of their hands.

  “Is this the one?” asked the tall man with light brown, kinked hair, as he indicated Calder.