Rebel Elements (Seals of the Duelists)

by Giacomo, Jasmine

  Duelist Savant

  Bayan entered the Earth arena tunnel with his hex, not expecting to see Instructor Eithne Mikellen until the group had reached the center of the arena floor. But the curvy, blonde-braided instructor stood in the tunnel talking with Takozen; she waved distractedly for the hex to precede her into the arena.

  “What’s going on?” Odjin asked.

  “No idea,” Calder replied.

  Bayan’s belly clenched. Something about the way Takozen had looked at him as he’d passed by was worrisome.

  Soon, Mikellen joined them in the arena. “Before we begin today, I want to cover a facet of duelism that’s rarely mentioned: the Duelist Savant, a rare breed making up the most powerful demographic of all duelists the Academy releases. Many of our Hexmagic Duelists are, in fact, Duelist Savants, despite how few of them survive to complete their training.”

  “Survive?” Eward repeated.

  “Aye. Unfortunately, what makes a Duelist Savant different than other students is that their magic becomes bonded to a single, powerful emotion. We believe this occurs because the student spends so much time in this emotional state prior to mastering their magic. This leaves them unable to perform their spells unless they are feeling that emotion. And I don’t need to tell you what happens when you invoke magic while emotional. Every few years, we get a Savant at the Academy. Sadly, most do not survive to graduate, at Hexmagic Duelist or any other rank. Sometimes, they injure or kill other students as well.”

  Bayan felt his stomach shrink into a cold marble of fear. Mikellen was describing him. Had Takozen told her something about his Flame class with Calder?

  Bhattara save me.

  “The symptoms of Savantism are evident early in a duelist’s training, though often it’s hard to distinguish Savantism from an incomplete Void, or even having an off day in the arena. If any of you feel you might have a strong emotional barrier that’s keeping you from your magic, you need to tell an instructor right away.”

  Class continued as normal after that, but Bayan’s mind whirled with questions. He managed a few mediocre Tremor spells and even knocked Odjin to his knees once, but his mind wasn’t on the Earth element.

  When class ended, he approached Mikellen.

  “Aye, Bayan? You did better in class today. Did you have a question?”

  Trying to sound normal, he asked, “I was just curious about the Savants. If you find a Savant in one of your classes, how do you help? What do they need to do to be safe with their magic?”

  A look of discomfort crossed Mikellen’s face. “Well, most of the students who do come forward have difficulty accepting their condition, making it harder for them to continue at all.”

  “You mean they wash out.”

  “Aye, unfortunately, though we do everything we can to prevent it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Much of our prevention and control involves intensive Void meditation. Greer is trained to deal with potential Savants.”

  “What else does the Academy do?”

  “We have a few ancient techniques that I’m not allowed to discuss. Ultimately, the issue comes down to whether the Savant can master his or her emotion, or whether the emotion continues to master the Savant.”

  “He… he never gets rid of it?”

  “Well, there is a last resort, used for the protection of the Savant and everyone he interacts with. But whatever emotion has bonded to his magic, it’s there to stay. If he is to remain a Duelist of any sort, he must conquer his emotional link to it. As I understand it from Greer, that emotion replaces at least part of the Void, in some way.” Mikellen shuddered, a look of distaste on her face.

  Bayan felt a desperate, horrible rage flare up within him. A small part of his mind screamed, Worst possible moment! The rest became consumed in a bitter magma of resentment. You drag me here, he wanted to shout, against my will, and then because I don’t want to leave my nice, happy life behind, my magic gets poisoned by anger and sooner or later it’s going to kill me or someone else! How is that in any way fair? None of us wanted this, but you’ve made it happen anyway! This is your fault!

  For the first time in months, Bayan felt his magic building out of control. Not in front of her! he ordered himself. But the blackness would not be denied. Desperate, Bayan nodded a quick farewell and jogged down the arena tunnel toward the other end.

  “Bayan!” Mikellen called after him. “Be careful!”

  At the outer archway, he glanced back through the tunnel. Mikellen stared after him. Fear rippled through him, and the blackness receded abruptly, leaving him weak and shuddering in its sudden absence.

  ~~~

  Bayan wandered the campus, his mind in turmoil. What am I going to do? They know what I am. Instructor Mikellen basically said if I don’t handle this myself, they’ll torture me until I’m a potioneer! Unless I kill myself first.

  “Bayan, isn’t it?” came a deep voice.

  Bayan turned to see the Master Duelist, Ignaas witten Oost, sitting on a bench backed by young velvet spruces whose slender limbs were trained into open spirals. The Master sat in a pool of warm, golden sunlight despite the heavy cloud cover. “Yes, Master witten Oost.”

  “Come and sit with me a moment.”

  Bayan obediently joined him on the bench, feeling his nervousness deepen in the duelist’s presence.

  “You’re upset,” the master observed.

  “You know, too?”

  “I know everything, Bayan. It’s part of the job.”

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone, Master witten Oost.”

  “And we don’t want you to hurt yourself, either. You’re a valuable member of your hex and a precious commodity to the emperor. Now, I see how troubled you are after your little talk with Eithne. Becoming a potioneer or committing involuntary murder aren’t very good options, are they? So let’s focus on that third option: successfully becoming a Duelist Savant.”

  “How do I do that?”

  Master witten Oost sighed and folded his fingers together. “Let me tell you the story of Headmaster Zenikwa. He ran the Academy during the Second Tuathi War. Akkeraad had just been sacked. The Kheerzaal was in ruins. The heir to Waarden Prime was on the run. You remember this story from your lessons last semester?”

  “Yes, sir. Hubrecht fled to Kemada and begged for sanctuary from the Shawnash. But what does that have to do with Headmaster Zenikwa?”

  “When the Shawnash ruler made a pact with young Hubrecht of Helderaard, part of the agreement allowed Shawnash magic users access to Academy training. There were very few duelists still alive by that time. Zenikwa was grateful for all the new students, but he desperately wanted to keep them alive long enough to fight successfully against the Tuathi anima casters. He needed strong hexes that would survive training together and be able to wield stronger group magic as Avatar and Hexmagic Duelists. And he got them, by asking someone no one had thought to consult before.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone who had inhabited this mountain far longer than the Academy.”

  Bayan frowned. Inhabited the mountain? Not merely lived on it? Then it struck him.

  Master witten Oost saw his expression and smiled. “I hear Sint Esme likes freshly cut honeysuckle blossoms. And I happen to know right where you can find some.”

  A honeysuckle vine sprouted into existence at his feet, coiling upward until it was three strides high. Dozens of brilliant orange trumpet blooms burst open all at once, glistening in the Master’s artificial sunlight.

  Bayan inhaled the blossoms’ sweet scent. If magic had a smell, he was sure it would be honeysuckle.

  ~~~

  Bayan stopped beneath the massive oak tree and stared up into its thick, dark foliage. His hand reflexively tightened on the honeysuckle stems he held. I hope I’m doing this right. Bhattara, if you know this Esme, put in a good word for me.

  He approached the tree’s enormous trunk and stepped up onto a trailing limb, finding the smooth, seat-shaped spot in
the limb’s bark just where Master witten Oost said it would be. Next to the seat, he saw a narrow divot; Bayan slid the honeysuckle stems into it and waited. His palms began to sweat.

  A brightening of the gloom beneath the tree’s many limbs made him catch his breath.

  “Sint Esme, thank you for coming. I hope you don’t mind me speaking to you. I’m not Waarden, not even close. But I’m an elemental student at the Academy, and I really need your help.”

  The lightness said nothing, but Bayan felt encouraged to continue.

  “You see, I think I’m… I mean, it’s possible… am I a Savant?”

  The bright air focused into a long, thin beam that harmlessly pierced his chest. He gasped, nearly falling off the wide branch. An inexplicable anger welled up in him, and moments later a dozen saplings shot up from the branch’s bark.

  Fear sliced his mind. “Stop! You’re right, I already knew that.”

  The saplings withered to dust and drifted to the leaf litter below.

  Bayan gulped. “But, please, how do I control myself? How do I control the magic, instead of letting my anger decide when I can use it and when I can’t? I don’t want to be a potioneer. But I don’t want to kill anyone, either. What can I do?”

  The light hummed, a buzzing that grew louder and closer as the light grew brighter, filling his sight with a painful, intense yellow. He winced, blinking at the bright purple afterimage. The buzzing and light faded, leaving him in dimness.

  The sint’s presence had left.

  “Some help you were,” he muttered, feeling cheated as he hopped off the broad branch. He trudged through the thick dry leaves until he emerged from beneath the oak’s spreading branches. He squinted and rubbed his eyes, blinking a few times.

  His vision had gone blurry. Scrubbing at his eyes again, he wondered if it was some sort of punishment by the sint. Had he offended her?

  On my own again, he thought, walking carefully along the narrow trail back to the campus proper. Even the Waarden sints tease me.

  Bayan tried to stick to the back paths as he returned to campus, in case the instructors were out looking to nab him for some intensive meditation or torture therapy. By the time he returned to his room in the barracks, his vision still had not improved. He lay down on his bed and put his pillow over his eyes, shutting out the blurry room. Kah squawked a welcome, and Bayan smelled taffy which led him to suspect that Calder had eaten the rest of the latest bag sent from Philo. He sighed and felt a pang of guilt for not writing to thank the eunuch for his gifts.

  “You all right, Bayan?” Calder asked from his desk.

  “I’ll live. My eyes are just tired.”

  “Have you tutored with Taban recently?”

  “A few days ago. Why?”

  “Did he happen to mention the Marriage of Flame?”

  “Is that the one where Aideen and Berilo got married after they graduated from the Academy, were highly successful as a dueling pair during the War of Steel, then died together in a fiery conflagration when one of them was dosed with a jealousy potion by a rival?”

  “Aye, that’s the one!” Calder scribbled details.

  “No, sorry. He didn’t mention it.”

  Calder’s quill jabbed into Bayan’s ribs like a tiny spear.

  “Hey. Quit making more work for the laundry crew.” Bayan felt around for the quill and tossed it blindly toward Calder’s general location. It clattered off Kah’s platform; the bird chastised him with a few snippy squawks.

  “You’re not going to work on your own report?” Eward asked.

  “I’ll get to it later,” Bayan replied. As soon as I can see well enough to read, that is.

  ~~~

  “No, Lord Eshkin spent a year in Nunaa after the war, brokering negotiations. The Raqtaaq shouldn’t frighten him.” Philo leaned on the edge of his desk and faced his three cricket co-conspirators. “And he certainly wouldn’t fear our dear Kipri and his fluffy Raqtaaq tresses.”

  Kipri shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does when you consider your dangerously untidy hair.” Cassander smoothed his pale blond braids.

  “I can lend you a lovely dark wig, Kipri. Just say the word.” Philo grinned at the look of stifled discomfort that crossed Kipri’s face.

  “No, thank you. I’ll keep the hair I have.”

  “Alas. Well, the one thing we learned from this foray, my lads, is that there is indeed something Lord Eshkin fears. And surprisingly, it’s naught to do with coin forgery.”

  Kipri shook his head again. “He has a steel ring, and he’s not worried about getting in trouble for it? What does that mean?”

  “Do we truly know that Lord Eshkin is behind this?” Cassander asked. “He could be one of many, or be the unaware, legitimate front for a bad business arrangement.”

  “We do need more answers,” Philo acknowledged. “The emperor requires irrefutable proof of wrongdoing, but we’ve nothing to implicate the minister except possession of the ring, which, alone, doesn’t prove anything other than petty theft. And we don’t know what truly worries him, unless it’s Kipri’s lamentable hairstyle. If I could only speak to him without him knowing me, I might be able to discern some more information.”

  “You’ll need more than not being yourself, Philo,” Gael said. “If you want information from someone who’s keeping a secret, you need to be someone he trusts.”

  Kipri looked Philo up and down. “How do you feel about… perfume?”

  ~~~

  Early the next morning, while dawn was still an idea the eastern horizon was mulling over, Bayan made his way to the Chantery. The two-story building was made of massive stone blocks rising from the first floor to meld seamlessly with the rock face on the second level, which had large windows carved from living stone, and an outer surface that bore the semblance of dressed stonework. Bayan crossed the broad stone porch, inlaid with curlicue symbols he took to represent chanter magic, and entered the open door.

  The room was large and ran to the far end of the building, deep within the rocky promontory that loomed over it. A few neat patient beds lined one wall, all empty. A desk and a few large cabinets and shelves marked the opposite wall. Bayan found Doc Theo in a small room off the main one. Doc Theo wore his traditional brown tabard and sat penning a letter at his desk.

  “You’re up early, Bayan. Doing all right?”

  “Something’s wrong with my eyes. They’re not focusing.”

  Doc Theo frowned and stood up, reaching into one of the three narrow pouches in his bag. He pulled out a slender crystal and held it while he peered into Bayan’s eyes.

  “Wayl, they look all right. Let’s see what the crystal finds.”

  He held the crystal up before Bayan’s eyes and chanted at it. The resonance Bayan was used to feeling while being healed echoed through his bones again. Suddenly, the crystal shattered. Clear shards slivered away across the room, touching neither Bayan nor Doc Theo.

  The chanter’s eyes widened indignantly. “Why didn’tcha tell me you’d been to a sint?” he demanded.

  “I—I didn’t know…”

  Doc Theo hissed through his teeth to calm himself. “It ain’t your fault, Bayan. My ’pologies. You couldn’ta known. Sint magic is stronger than either song or elemental, or even anima. Ain’t nothing we can do to alter it.”

  Bayan closed his aching eyes. “Does this mean I’m stuck like this forever? I can’t train this way!”

  “Tain’t a punishment, if that’s what you’re thinking. The sints don’t communicate directly with us mortals. They exist on some other plane of consciousness, where ideas mean different things than they do here. Whatever you asked of the sint, this was your answer. You may not understand what it means, but once you suss it out, it’ll all come clear. Literally and figuratively.”

  Despite not receiving healing, Bayan felt better. The blurriness was a puzzle, not a penalty. “I should get to class, for all the good it’ll do me today. And I’m sorry about your
crystal.”

  “Don’t worry ’bout it, Bayan. I can chant another one. Just tell everyone with Southern Common blood in the morning arena classes I tend that they should avoid getting badly hurt.”

  “Um. Right.” Bayan slipped out, feeling another burden climb onto his shoulders.

  He was useless in classes all day, and had to abandon his tutoring session with Taban that evening. When he told Taban about his poor eyesight, the older student teased him about needing someone to write his homework for a change. When he left Taban’s room, he headed down to the barracks porch instead of going back to his room. He couldn’t do his homework anyway.

  Soon, however, his roommates came down in search of him.

  “Bayan, what happened?” Odjin crossed his arms and leaned against one of the posts holding up the porch roof.

  “Can we help?” Eward asked.

  “Did you do something stupid like crack your head?” Calder asked.

  Bayan glared in Calder’s general direction. “No. But I have cracked my shins more times than I can count today, and I’ve slammed my shoulders into half a dozen doorways and corners, too. Sint Esme is trying to teach me something. I have no idea what it is, but it hurts like everything.”

  Eward’s tone was incredulous. “You went to a sint?”

  “Why didn’t you talk to us first?” Odjin said.

  “Because it’s none of your business!” Bayan barked. Fuzzy little dark spots flared in his vision, dancing in a sphere around him. Bhattara, even the blackness is fuzzy now.

  “Did… anyone else see those?” Calder asked in a faint voice.

  The other two murmured confirmation. Bayan’s stomach flipped.

  “All right, Bayan, out with it,” Calder demanded. “We’re your hexmates. Let us help, or we’ll strand you on a cliff tonight. Maybe that one right over there.” He pointed.