Mercy's Trial

by Sever Bronny

  Leera wiggled her fingers in an Off with you manner. “Give us some space, would you? You got a whole desert to get lost in.”

  Pigface smacked his gums at her but sauntered off to the rest of his group, taking the others with him.

  Leera turned her back to them and presented the parchment to Augum like a royal servant presenting an item to a king, complete with bowed head and a lilted, “Your Majesty …”

  Augum couldn’t help but smile at her antics before reading the parchment. It was a story about an Arcaner who had also dimmed his shield by casting the same witch ritual as Augum. The Arcaner had carefully studied the codex on pilgrimages and, combined with knowledge gleaned from the Leyan library, came up with a set of ten specific tasks that, upon completion, successfully repaired his shield. Augum read these tasks aloud to the others:

  One. Walk barefoot until the pilgrimage is complete.

  Two. Confess a wound of the soul to a friend or intimate other.

  Three. Help someone in need in a meaningful, lasting way.

  Four. Lie still for one full day without uttering a word.

  Five. Eat and drink nothing and say nothing and be seen by no one while walking the desert barefoot from Absalon to the Shrine of the Ancients, where thou shall kneel and ask for forgiveness from one’s ancestors. Depart at sunrise, return at sunset.

  Six. Spend an entire day in service to the Leyans as per proata mentora.

  Seven. Review all the Arcaner course lessons to the satisfaction of your Arcaner companions.

  Eight. Humbly wash the feet of your Arcaner companions and ask for their forgiveness.

  Nine. Humbly wash the feet of a sworn enemy without offering provocation, ill will, or anger.

  The second feet-washing task made him squirm and flash an angry look toward the Canterrans, knowing exactly who he’d have to choose. Even the thought of it made him nauseous. It also had him wondering what enemies the Arcaners of old would have found in Ley, if they had been followed in, or if the enemies found their own way in.

  Augum concluded the reading. “Last one. ‘Ten. Kill a necromantic dragon.’ ”

  His friends stared at him the same way he stared at the words before him—with mouths agape.

  Leera circled the parchment with a finger. “Sorry, uh, could you, uh, could you repeat that last part again?”

  Augum instead flopped backward onto the sand and gazed at the brilliant field of stars, squinting against the hot sun. Then he sat up on his elbows, looked at the desert horizon, and finally back at the parchment. “What do you think life would be like if I traipsed about with half a shield instead?”

  Leera punched his shoulder. “This is no time to jest, Augum Stone.”

  Jengo nervously scratched an old scar on his chin. “I’m concerned your half-dimmed shield might affect you being able to get into the dragon realm, or even summon a dragon.”

  “Seems you’re right,” Augum said after reading ahead. “And I quote, ‘The Arcaner in question, who will not be able to summon his inner dragon, must nonetheless perform the task without external aid. If he deems the challenge too difficult, it is recommended he return to Sithesia and attempt a standard pilgrimage there.’ ”

  Jengo stopped scratching. “I hate being right.”

  “No you don’t,” Haylee countered, only to frown. “Hmm, inner dragon. Strange way to put it, isn’t it?”

  Olaf snorted. “Imagine the quest is metaphoric, as in ‘finding the dragon within,’ all so that your soul could be more wholesome or whatever. If that turns out to be the case, you can just carve me a Nodian smile on the spot.” He drew a finger across his throat for emphasis.

  “Might as well put us all out of our miseries then,” Leera threw in.

  “What else does it say?” Bridget pressed, ignoring them.

  “Here’s the conclusion,” Augum replied with a numb voice. “ ‘The tasks are to be performed thoughtfully and humbly, with intent erring on the side of caution, without rush or malice, disinterest or apathy, for otherwise the pilgrimage shall fail. Upon completion of the final task, the Arcaner must ask their own soul to forgive them. Should their soul agree, the shield will reignite to its former glory.’ ”

  Augum lowered the parchment and rubbed his forehead then his eyes. He had so many questions, the biggest one being how could he possibly kill a necromantic dragon on his own? He sighed, feeling the weight of the impossible task ahead.

  “Jests aside, how determined are you to do this?” Olaf asked.

  “Huh? What do you mean? Very determined, obviously.”

  “Really? Because you don’t look it.” Olaf smiled cheekily.

  Augum opened his mouth to reply only to realize that Olaf was right—the tasks were not the challenge, but rather his own attitude was! He stared at his friend in disbelief, the epiphany having lifted a great weight off his shoulders. Then he ceremonially removed his turnshoes, placed them in his rucksack, and dug his feet—one missing two toes—into the sand, feeling its heat. This small act put a smile on his friends’ faces.

  “Here comes one of the cultist fiends,” Jengo muttered, and Augum hid the parchment in his pocket as the muskrat-faced young man tromped over, furtively glancing back now and then at his cohorts, who kept waving him along.

  He stepped before the companions and cleared his throat a few times. “Excuse me, but His Highness Prince Gavinius demands—er, requests—that you share your reserves of water.”

  “Tell that slob to get stuffed,” Olaf replied.

  The young man’s face went red. He turned around and was about to return to his group when Augum realized an opportunity lay before him, one he may not get again. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The young man turned back around, brows traveling up his forehead in surprise. “Edwin. Edwin Baker, Son of Paul Baker.”

  Augum pointed at himself. “Augum,” then pointed at each of the others in turn. “Leera, Bridget, Olaf, Haylee, Jengo.”

  “Yes, I am aware of who you all are,” Edwin replied coolly. “We study our enemies.” Although he presented as meek, with a weak chin, Augum saw a doggedness behind his eyes, a will to survive.

  “And how old are you, Edwin?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “All right, Edwin Baker, Son of Paul Baker. I’ll share my water with your lord on one condition—” Augum tensed, disbelieving that he was actually going to do this. “—that he … that he permits me to wash his feet.”

  “I … I beg your pardon?”

  Augum ignored the confounded looks of his friends. “I’m serious, Edwin. Tell him it’s an Arcaner principle.”

  “He will think it’s a trap.”

  “Tell him I can swear on my shield if he wants a solemn promise that it’s not a trap.”

  Edwin gaped at Augum. Then he turned around and, while scratching his head, argued with himself in a mutter while walking back to his comrades.

  “You sure about this?” Olaf asked. “Maybe we should just duel them all instead and get it over with.”

  Augum cracked a grin, knowing he was jesting. “Wouldn’t help my pilgrimage. And yes, I’m sure.” He was tired of battling himself and wanted to try something else, something he didn’t quite understand yet but occasionally glimpsed on a fundamental level, such as when he meditated, or the peace he found between lazy thoughts. It was a strength that he possessed inside himself, the same strength he used to practice Telekinesis in his spare time or when meditating or pondering tactics or arcane concepts. Perhaps it was time he began applying that strength on other fronts.

  He reread the conclusion of the parchment. The tasks are to be performed thoughtfully and humbly, with intent erring on the side of caution, without rush or malice, disinterest or apathy …

  The parchment was guiding his way.

  “There’s that determination I was looking for,” Olaf said, watching him. And he wasn’t the only one—the others were studying him, though perhaps in a manner that suggested he had lost his mind.r />
  Edwin soon returned, fighting a smile. “His Highness heartily accepts, Lord Stone. He says for you to do it in front of his subjects.”

  Augum stood. “That’s fine.”

  “Er … do you want us to come?” Leera said, as if unsure she wanted to see him perform such an act of humility before their sworn enemies.

  “I’ll be fine,” and he walked alongside Edwin, who kept looking over at him with what Augum swore was at least partial admiration.

  As Augum approached, he saw Gavinius standing before another Path Archon, the waifish man with thin spectacles the group had seen in the Antioc Library. The prince had his palms flat on top of the man’s closed hands while the man randomly dropped stones and Gavinius snatched each before it hit the ground.

  So that’s how you train your reflexes! Augum thought, the exercise now engraved into memory.

  Gavinius ceased the moment he saw Augum. “Come begging for some sort of weak Arcaner forgiveness, did you?”

  “No.” I’ve come to learn a lesson in humility, but he didn’t mention that part aloud. Instead he said, “It is an Arcaner requirement I must fulfill.”

  Gavinius snorted. “Summon your shield and swear it isn’t a trap.”

  Augum summoned his shield.

  “Look it, Your Highness, it’s gone as dim as a Solian brain!” said the pudgy pig-faced young man as he wheezed with laughter. “Reckon it means his Arcaner powers are halved too!”

  When they stopped laughing, Augum said, “I swear on my shield that this is not a trap, and that I will share my water after I have washed Prince Gavinius’s feet.” Simple, to the point. And amazingly, their laughter didn’t trigger his rage, which usually bubbled underneath the surface, ready to explode.

  Gavinius stuck out a foot. “Then get to it, servant.”

  Augum felt the rage stir from its slumber but coaxed it back to sleep by returning a serene smile. He kneeled before Maxine’s killer, took his royal turnshoe in hand, and removed it, careful not to allow any maliciousness to enter his thoughts—though not without difficulty, for he kept seeing flashes of Maxine gasping upon him spearing her.

  Gavinius grinned at his cohorts. “I wish I had the court painter to document this scene.”

  “We ought to pass on the details when we return, Your Highness,” the waifish man said. “Her Highness Princess Katrina would certainly enjoy seeing it. And it perfectly illustrates the Solian ideal of service to one’s superiors.”

  The Canterrans laughed at this.

  “She’d hang it in Castle Von Edgeworth!” one of the other boys sang, and the lot of them devolved into knee-slapping laughter.

  The rage bolted awake, for they had struck a nerve, but Augum was determined to succeed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, commanding it to go back to sleep. Once he conquered it, he withdrew his skin of water and very lightly doused Gavinius’s foot, which smelled of fine oils. Then he took his time scrubbing it with sand.

  “Make sure to get in between the toes there,” Gavinius added to howls of laughter, wiping his own tears of mirth with an embroidered cloth.

  But Augum was now an old hand at humiliation and, as he glanced around at them all, realized that this was not a reflection of him, but of them. This was how they treated their servants—and worse, as he had heard over the orb. Hatred was being taught to them.

  “Oy, don’t stop now,” the waifish one snapped.

  Augum calmly moved on to the other foot, placing the shoe alongside the other. He poured only the water that he needed and carefully washed the prince’s foot.

  When the mirth died down, Gavinius rubbed his goatee. “I saw you floating your rucksack earlier. That’s how you train, isn’t it?”

  Augum felt a hot flush but did not respond. Gavinius had been watching and studying him, meaning he too wanted to improve—he truly was dangerous.

  He finished washing the foot in silence. Then, though feeling he had probably done enough, he took the extra measure of putting both shoes back onto Gavinius’s feet, all done to more barbs.

  “What happened to your toes?” the waifish Canterran asked, elbowing Pigface. “The blasphemer only has three toes on one foot.”

  “I reckon a dung cart gone and run over it,” Pigface replied, and they all laughed once more.

  The task complete, Augum stood. “It was a bad ’port.” He tapped the pommel of Burden’s Edge. “Had to cut them off.” The twenty Path Archons ceased laughing as he looked each of them in the eyes, ending his gaze on the prince, heir to the murderous empire. “Necromancy will never lead to peace,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “In the end, your empire will crumble. I look forward to our next duel.” And I will be ready.

  Then he turned his back on them and walked off, hearing renewed laughter that was now strained and forced, for they had glimpsed a strength they themselves did not possess … a strength they feared.

  That night, he vowed to train like he had never trained before.

  Seventeen

  Augum woke to an early Leyan sun lighting his tent’s walls, body sore from the prior day’s walking and training. He had enlisted the help of his friends, who were far more keen with the reflex exercises than the telekinetic strength exercises—so keen, in fact, that they concocted variations on the one Gavinius used, including a particularly difficult one that involved tossing a handful of pebbles over one’s shoulder and telekinetically snatching them all before they hit the ground.

  The Path Archons tried to keep up with their own exercises, including some telekinetic holding exercises, but, having had no nourishment since Gavinius’s advancement ceremony, they tired of them long before the Arcaners.

  He’d also studied more of the codex in the tent by palm light, delving more into his order’s lore. One thing that particularly stood out was that Arcaners were allowed to learn new simuls at staggered intervals at the following degrees: 3rd, 5th, 7th, 10th, 13th, 16th, and 20th, hence why Jengo, Olaf and Haylee each only knew two simuls and the trio three. And once a simul was chosen, no other simuls in that degree could be learned.

  When he had flipped ahead, he had seen glimpses of stuff that he couldn’t wait to learn—how to properly set up the order from the ground up; how to choose Arcaner titles within the order; how to give awards to deserving fellow Arcaners; how to stage an Arcaner-themed but open-to-all-comers warlock tournament; how to play certain games popular in olden days; how to throw festivals, feasts, and parties; and even how to throw an Arcaner marriage ceremony! And that was only a fraction of the vast amount of knowledge contained in the fat tome.

  The night had been utterly frigid, and Augum lingered bundled in his bedroll, enjoying the warmth and watching his breath fog. None of his pebble alarms had triggered, nor had his friends woken him during their watches, telling him the Canterrans hadn’t tried anything during the night.

  It was a special morning, for he had finally turned seventeen years of age. He thought of everything that had happened in his life so far, all the battles he had partaken in, all the friends he had lost, all the lessons he had learned—and the ones he had not learned. He thought of captured Ulfric and the sacrifices of Naoki and Maxine, and wished their spirits well.

  He exited his tent, stretching and yawning and rubbing his sore muscles, thinking he’d surprise Leera by sneaking into her tent and snuggling with her—only to see that a woman was staring at him from about thirty feet out. For a moment he just gaped, then he rubbed his eyes to make sure it wasn’t some desert mirage.

  No, there was definitely a woman standing there and watching him. She looked to be in her early thirties and wore a pristine white robe embroidered with lightning that flashed now and then. She had long and luscious chestnut hair, her face was smooth and strong and artfully round, and her eyes were as blue as a Solian sky.

  The more he watched her, the more his hopes rose and swelled, until the realization of who she was crashed over him like a morning wave that had traveled the oceans only to finally come
to rest upon a sandy beach.

  The Leyan plane had made her young again, though she had not turned completely Leyan yet, for she still had hair and her eyes were not night black, nor was her skin metallic, all things that happened to Leyans over time.

  The legendary Anna Atticus Stone, his great-grandmother, watched him with the barest hint of a smile on her newly young lips—or was the smile only his imagination?

  Augum wanted to jump for joy. He wanted to shout victory. He wanted to burst out laughing. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream that they had found her—rather, that she had found them.

  Instead, he raised a hand and gave a tepid wave, as if saying hello to someone who’d been gone for only a short while, even though it felt like an eternity had passed since he’d last seen her.

  Mrs. Stone’s smile widened—she had indeed been smiling—and Augum took the opportunity to approach. He passed a snoring Olaf, who was supposed to be taking his turn at watch but lay curled in his bedroll. Augum barely paid him any attention, keeping his gaze on his great-grandmother. He didn’t want to wake the others yet in case the entire thing was an illusion.

  When he stopped before her, she looked even more radiant. Her face was even younger, her eyes even bluer—the bluest thing in all of Ley. Her hair was the richest brown, like a fine chocolate cake. And her skin was smooth with youthfulness. Her gentle and understanding smile made his entire being light up like a bonfire.

  She opened her arms in welcome and he allowed her to wrap him in a loving hug … and he was ashamed to cry into her shoulder, for she was almost as tall as him now, even though he remembered her as being shorter from her perpetual hunch.

  “Oh, my sweet, dear, beloved great-grandson,” she whispered. “Nary I thought that this day would come …” She extended him before her, grasping his shoulders with strong hands, and looked him over. “And yet here you are. My, how you have grown.” She felt his muscles. “And become strong like an ox! But mercy me, what in Sithesia has happened to your toes, young man?”