The Test

by Todd Fahnestock

  The little glade went silent at that.

  “And I’m going to do the same to you,” Brom promised. “Every single one of you.”

  Olivaard, stunned by the announcement, shot an uncertain look at his comrades. “You realize your bravado doesn’t impress anyone.”

  “I wonder, how many Soulblocks do you feel inside you right now?” Brom asked.

  Olivaard’s white eyebrows came together so fiercely it seemed there were a hundred wrinkles bunched up on his tall, inhuman forehead. Wulfric drew his sword. Arsinoe put his hands together in one giant fist, as though he was about to cast some kind of spell.

  A loud clang sounded as another portal opened.

  Linza emerged from a ring of black flames, her black robes covering every bit of her except her thin hands and bony chin.

  Brom’s confidence sagged like a sail that had lost its wind.

  She walked silently to stand next to Olivaard.

  “Linza,” Olivaard said, “I confess to being relieved. The boy gave us a fright. He almost had me convinced. He said he killed you—”

  “He shoved a fucking spike through my heart.” She turned her cowled head toward Brom. “But he’ll pay for it, as will the incompetents who let him into the testing room.”

  “How...are you still alive?” Brom asked.

  “Because I’m Linza, you little bastard,” she said. “And you’re just a plague rat.”

  Arsinoe grinned, licking his lips.

  “The Soul of the World chooses her champion,” Linza rasped. “And if you’re the Champion of the Soul, you don’t live—or die—like anyone else.”

  Brom heard his own breaths, coming faster. He couldn’t seem to get enough air. The Soul of the World wouldn’t let her die? What did that mean?

  Did it mean the rest of them couldn’t die, either?

  This is suicide. It’s just me. Against The Four. I don’t have a chance.

  Brom had been ready to face three of them, win or lose, to dance with the Soul and fight to his last breath, but now...

  He glanced over his shoulder, longing to see the portal that would take him back to the academy, back to his Quad, back to his friends.

  But there was only dark, scaly Lyantrees all around, and The Four lined up in front of him.

  His chest seemed to open like a chasm, filling with despair...

  He suddenly realized he had slipped out of the Soul of the World, that Linza’s confidence-cutting magic was viciously at work already. It was the same thing she’d done to him during his Test.

  “Nice...try...” he growled, and he pushed himself down into the Soul of the World, plunging beneath the surface of that lake. He left Linza’s nasty magic behind like raindrops on the surface. Either he was going to die or he was going to take them all down.

  Linza hissed her frustration.

  The Four charged.

  Wulfric struck first, but Brom had learned a valuable lesson during his battle with Quad Phoenix. Oriana’s dusty, little-known theory had been true. An Impetu’s natural weakness was an Anima.

  He spun, ducking Wulfric’s sword by a hair’s breadth. He bent so low that his hand dragged the ground, and he grabbed a thick broken branch that seemed to have been dropped there just for him. It was as sharp as a dagger on one side. Brom snapped upright beneath Wulfric’s arm and stabbed the stick into the gap under the armpit.

  A half-dozen bugs showered onto Brom’s hand, and Wulfric stumbled past him at blinding speed, crashing into the trunk of a Lyantree so hard, his helmet caved in. Blood gushed from the mouth slit.

  Brom didn’t stop to assess Wulfric’s damage. The Soul of the World told him to keep moving, never stop moving. He heard music in the trees, coming up from the ground, thrumming from The Four themselves, and he had to dance or die.

  “You came to kill me,” Brom said. “But I’m going to kill you. Every last one of you. You’ll never enslave another student.”

  “How does he know this?” Olivaard demanded.

  Linza came for Brom next with a sucking hollow of despair, and then Arsinoe—a heart-spike of fear. They were raging beasts that wanted to eat him alive, but all they could do was splash the top of the lake.

  Brom felt like he wasn’t even in his body. The core of him, his very consciousness, was the Soul of the World, and everything else—including his real body—were extremities meant to be used. He wasn’t his own body any more than he was the grassy ground, the scaly trees, the horrible Four. Their attacks hit Brom’s body, but they couldn’t reach Brom.

  Linza cried out in rage. She leapt at him with bony hands like claws, dancing with the Soul herself, trying to anticipate his movements, but it felt as though Brom watched everything from above, from ten seconds in the future, seeing how the entire dance would go.

  Linza’s precognition would have kept her a second—even two—ahead of a normal person, but Brom saw more. Linza was suddenly predictable. They all were.

  He jumped over her first strike and kneed her in the head. As her head snapped to the side, making her second strike a limp swing of her arm, he rolled over her shoulders and landed right in front of Arsinoe.

  The Motus’s eyes went wide, realizing too late that his attacks had failed. Brom spun and flung out his heel, pounding into Arsinoe’s head. The man’s jaw flew off again, and his head cracked in half. Again, there was no blood, just flying wooden doll parts.

  Brom didn’t let up, and unlike Linza and Wulfric, he felt compelled to put Arsinoe down for good. He didn’t know why. No memories came to his aid, but he knew he hated this man more than he hated anything else.

  Brom landed in a crouch, spun, and kicked out Arsinoe’s knee. The knee folded in half, coming apart as easily as the jaw. A keen wail went up from Arsinoe’s jawless face as Brom spun forward, lashing out with fists and feet.

  Another kick, two punches, and a jump-kick with both feet to the chest, and Brom literally took the man apart. The disassembled body parts fell across the grassy ground, quivering.

  Breathing hard, Brom got to his feet, ready to face Linza and Olivaard. Only a scant few seconds had passed. Wulfric, beyond them, was shaking his head as he pushed himself up on all fours.

  “And now it’s your turn,” Brom growled.

  Olivaard, shocked, actually looked poised to run. Linza’s mouth hung open.

  Brom’s third Soulblock ran out.

  The music faded. His consciousness popped to the top of the lake. Terror, despair, and reality hit him all at once.

  “Gods!” he gasped, and he stumbled backward.

  “He’s out!” Olivaard crowed.

  A spike of pure pain drove into Brom’s head, and he crashed to his knees, grasping his ears with his hands.

  Linza leapt forward, her claws driving into his neck, slicing through muscle and driving his face into the turf. Brom grunted through clenched teeth. She yanked upward, lifting him off the ground with inhuman strength.

  Brom tried not to shout, tried to keep the pain inside, but a gasp escaped his lips.

  “Have you ever seen the like?” Olivaard said in awe as Linza slammed Brom into a Lyantree. Wulfric regained his feet, spinning, searching and finally spotting Brom. His crunched helmet made his head look lopsided. He roared and charged.

  The fourth Soulblock... Brom had to open his fourth Soulblock. It would cost him his life, but if he could destroy these monsters, it would be worth it. He could save all the other students in the academy. He could save his Quad mates. He could save Vale.

  He had to try.

  Clenching his fists, he opened his last Soulblock. Magic roared into him, so much that he could barely contain it, magic that even The Four couldn’t understand because only the dead knew what it was like to open their fourth Soulblock.

  Brom plunged back into the Soul of the World and he saw the future. The images came fast and furious, and he could barely sort them. He stopped, stunned, as they flowed into him.

  Arsinoe wouldn’t get up for long minutes. Linza
would try using her green fire to suck away his magic. Olivaard would hesitate. Despite his fear, his greed overpowered him. He wanted to enslave Brom, not kill him. And Wulfric—

  Brom’s gut twisted, and he started into motion.

  Wulfric’s charge had reached Brom while he had hesitated under the deluge of sudden knowing. Brom twisted desperately, but there just wasn’t time.

  Wulfric drove his sword through Brom’s chest. White-hot pain shot through his body, through the lightning storm of magic within him. Suddenly, he couldn’t think.

  “Wulfric!” Olivaard shouted. “No!”

  He heard music, and it seemed to tell him everything was going to be all right. The Soul of the World assured him there was a way through.

  He just had to keep moving.

  Linza dropped Brom, and he slid down the length of Wulfric’s blade to the hilt, coming to rest against the thick man’s giant fist.

  Brom twitched, trying to free himself, but the strength in his arms had vanished. The most he could do was grapple with the blade, cutting his hands.

  Wulfric kicked Brom off the end of his blade. The blade ripped through Brom as he fell off it, and he gaped. He thumped to the ground like a turtle on its back. He tried to get up, but his limbs wouldn’t work.

  It is okay, the Soul of the World whispered. It will be okay.

  But Brom’s magic leaked out of his body with his life. The lightning storm in his chest quelled, and the assurance of the Soul of the World went with it.

  “Nnnn...” he grunted. Blood bubbled out of his mouth. “Nnnooo.”

  “Dammit!” Olivaard growled. “Did you see what he did? Did you see him spin past Linza? Did you see him destroy Arsinoe?”

  “He needs to die!” Wulfric shouted. Blood stained the front of his square helmet and dripped from the neck onto his breastplate.

  “Idiot! You’re so thick you don’t see. No one can sink that deep into the Soul of the World. Not even Linza. He is the one. The one who invaded our Tower!”

  Brom’s body grew colder. His body was dying, and the Soul had no more suggestions for him. It had gone quiet. All roads had come together into one, and it was a dead end.

  Olivaard’s elongated face leaned close to Brom as he gasped for breath.

  “How did you keep yourself hidden from us?” Olivaard demanded. “How did you do it?”

  “He won’t tell you,” Linza rasped angrily.

  Brom coughed, and blood flowed down his chin. Gods! He was dying. He was dying!

  This was the vaunted overconfidence of the Anima. He’d truly thought he could fight The Four all at once, all by himself, and win.

  “Yes he will...” Olivaard said. Linza and Wulfric gathered behind the tall Mentis, looking down. “Tell me. How did you do it?” he encouraged.

  “Fffff...” Brom began. Mentis leaned closer, his tall form practically bent in half.

  “Fuck you,” Brom spat blood on the side of the man’s elongated face, all over those ridiculous earlobes.

  Olivaard rose to his full height, seeming not to care about the streaks of blood across his face. Instead, he looked victorious. “Ah...” he said. “You don’t know.”

  “What do you mean he doesn’t know?” Linza creaked in her old voice.

  “He doesn’t remember how he knows us. He doesn’t remember how he kept himself hidden from us.”

  “Kelto’s teeth, Olivaard,” Wulfric growled. “Speak plainly!”

  “His memories were stolen by a Mentis. Most likely the princess. She’s mastered mind control.” He pursed his lips, marveling. “Truly impressive. I daresay we didn’t pay enough attention to Quad Brilliant. Oriana is nearly as talented as this one.”

  “What?”

  “Who would suspect a second-year to have such talent?” Olivaard continued. “She made her Quad mates immune to our surface mind probes. They would have slipped by us.”

  Brom tried to get up and barely twitched. It couldn’t end this way. It couldn’t! Oriana, Vale, and Royal were vulnerable. They were lambs living with wolves. He had to warn them.

  “Ah,” Olivaard said. “He is only now thinking about the consequences of his actions. Rejoice, Brom.” He wiped the spit and blood from his face with the sleeve of his robe. “Revel in your little victory; it is the only one you shall have. The rest belongs to us. As do your Quad mates.”

  “No...” Brom rasped.

  “Oh, yes.”

  Brom tried to grab hold of Olivaard’s tunic, but his hand only twitched.

  His fourth and final Soulblock leaked out, going nowhere, and the dim forest became dimmer. He felt cold, so cold. He heard the music of the Soul of the World, but he couldn’t do anything with it. He simply didn’t have the strength to dance any longer.

  Olivaard leaned over him, so close. Brom wanted to spit on him again, but he simply didn’t have the strength. “We shall visit such horrors upon your Quad mates as you can scarcely imagine,” he whispered. “Again and again. And after...I’ll wipe their minds and send them into the two kingdoms as ordinary Quadrons.” He glanced at the pieces of Arsinoe lying quivering on the grass. “Of course, Arsinoe... Well. I think he deserves a little something for what you put him through. He is going to feast on that feisty little Motus of yours. I think it will be all I can do to restrain him, to stop him from devouring her entirely.”

  “D-Don’t...touch...her,” Brom said, and the forest grew darker.

  “Oh, he will touch her. He will take everything. Every. Bit. You’ve made that a certainty,” he hissed.

  Brom clenched his teeth, but soon he didn’t even have the strength for that.

  The dark forest faded to black, and Olivaard’s evil smile was the last thing he saw.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Royal

  The funeral procession left the Dome on the western side of the academy, beginning the march that would lead them along the wide main path all the way to the gate. The cart went first, with The Collector himself walking on the left side, as grim as The Ragged Man in his black robes. Behind him came Master Saewyne, Master Jhaleen, and Master Tohn Gelu. Black, red, blue, and white robes flapped in the breeze.

  It had been one short day since Brom’s death. Physically, Royal had recovered, but the specter of his failure lingered.

  He should be happy. He had succeeded. Fendir would have its Quadron. Moreover, Quad Brilliant had made history. They were the only second-year Quad to take the Test of Separation, and they had succeeded marvelously. They’d done as well as any fourth-year Quad ever to take the Test.

  And they’d lost Brom.

  Royal had prepared himself for the death of a Quad mate; they all had. But he had secretly hoped Quad Brilliant would break that barrier as they’d broken so many others, that they would succeed where all others had failed. He’d hoped they would become the first full Quad to graduate since The Four.

  But in the end, Brom had paid the price for their successes. Royal, Oriana, and Vale would be full Quadrons in less than an hour.

  And Royal hated himself.

  The cart which carried the coffin trundled on. Oriana, Royal, and Vale walked along the right side, opposite the masters. Magic coursed through Royal, and his senses took in everything with supernatural acuity. He heard and smelled the crowd of students lining every foot of the path between here and the gate. The blue of the sky was so rich he could almost taste it. A flock of seagulls gave their plaintive cries as they flew over the Dome.

  Oriana walked in front of him in a white dress with silver embroidery at the cuffs, hem, and neck. Her silver-gold hair had been twisted up into an artful mass on the top of her head with one spiraling lock trailing down her back to her slender waist. She wore her crown today, and it shone in the sunlight, a work of art comprised of beautifully interwoven bands of gold set with a large indigo stone at her forehead.

  Vale came next. She didn’t have fancy clothes, just the uniform provided by the academy for a Motus—a dusky red tunic and breeches with silver piping.
She cried freely as she walked, her gaze on her burgundy boots. Her little fists were clenched, and she did not look at any of the other students.

  Royal came last.

  This ceremony had been performed hundreds of times with hundreds of students. It was nothing new. A ritual. And all it meant to those students standing on the roadside, watching Royal carry his friend to the gate, was fear. Royal remembered that fear, remembered watching the nearly-destroyed Quad Moonlight only a year ago, reminding him that one day he might face this consequence.

  They marched the length of the academy, and Royal felt the minute grooves in the cart’s wood grain as he touched it. He felt every wisp of breeze across his scrubbed and clean-shaven face. He heard every sob from Vale like it was his sob. He watched every sway in Oriana’s hips, every step like it was his step.

  Brom had been the best of them, the most talented. It was a mystery to Royal how Brom could have failed while the rest of them had passed. He would have bet on Brom to be the first to emerge.

  Royal had fought a greenish replica of himself during his Test, and in the final exchange of blows, he’d barely won. He vaguely remembered turning toward the portal, seeing it open. Then he remembered green fire, an explosion... Then...nothing.

  He had been unconscious for the last part, and the haunted look in both Oriana’s and Vale’s eyes indicated there was a story there, but they’d not told him yet. He’d desperately wanted to find out what they knew, but he hadn’t had the chance. Since he’d awoken, there had been formalities for every moment between then and now. They had put Brom’s body in a coffin. The wagon would take it to the gate, and then to Brom’s parents in Kyn.

  They reached the gate, and the wagon paused just before the great portcullis, the wagoner turning in his bench above two hitched horses, waiting. The Collector and the other masters peeled off to the left, standing to face the long assemblage behind him. Oriana went to the right and turned, her impassive expression fixed on the coffin.

  The Collector nodded.

  The wagoner turned forward, flicked his reins, and the horses began to move. Everything about this felt so horribly wrong, and Royal wanted to charge after the wagon and snatch the coffin back, tell them they couldn’t have it. He would take Brom home himself. He would run all the way to Kyn to deliver the coffin, to deliver the news to his friend’s parents.