Aki

The dream woke me. The same dream. I shot up, pain and fear, as though not shadows of a nightmare, pounding at my heart. I shook my head and turned toward the day ahead, hoping it would distract me from the ghosts of my dreams.

Merkus’ old clothes—those he’d worn when he was but thirteen years—lay in a simple wooden chest at the foot of the bed. More comfortable than I’d known possible, they fit surprisingly well. A sad thing when you consider my own seventeen years of age.

Breakfast was waiting when I made it downstairs. Farian sat at the dining table, a feast of boiled eggs, soft bread, and choice meat laid out before him. My mouth watered at the sight.

“Come, boy,” he said. “The first bell has already rung and you’ve yet to take a bite.”

I approached, pulled in by the delectable aroma. When I was was but a stride away, Farian’s hand shot up.

I jumped back, stumbled, fell, and curled into a ball. No thought, just reaction, just fruits of the harsh lessons marked into me. When no blow came, I looked up, seeing a confused Farian pinching his nose.

“Nor have you yet washed,” he said. “ And since birth by the smell of it.” I ignored his comment like it was nothing but air. The sting of an insult fades when you’ve heard it often enough.

Climbing to my feet, I approached the side of the table furthest from him, pushed onto my toes, and dragged two plates to the floor.

“What in The Old Queen’s name are you doing?” Farian asked.

I froze, half an egg jammed into one cheek, my neck craned upwards as strips of meat hung from my fingers and above my open mouth, the juices dripping onto my outstretched tongue. I watched him from the corner of my eye, waiting for a violent reproach that never came. He watched me in turn, bemused. After a tense moment of unmet expectations, I jammed the meat I held into my mouth, chewed, swallowed, and placed the plates back onto the table.

“My apologies, sir,” I said. “My hunger has gotten the best of me and I find I’ve insulted your hospitality.” I placed my right hand on my chest and bowed from the neck as was the custom for an apology. “Please forgive my manners, or more specifically, my lack thereof.”

Farian looked me up and down, eyeing me with interest. “You are a conundrum, my dear boy. How is it that in no more than a few breaths you exhibit the wildness of a Mud and the poise of a Leaf?”

I sensed an insult buried in his words. Somehow, his words had hurt. Stripped of ridicule, the truth can be a far sharper tool.

My first meeting Merkus came to mind. He’d voiced a similar observation regarding the incongruity between me and my appearance. For weeks I’d washed my garments daily and tried to stave off anything that might soil my efforts. It took far longer than it should’ve for me to realize the futility of remaining clean when my father and The Muds waited nightly to undo my work.

“At least you see what I see,” Farian said, smiling at me. “Some I’ve served with were dirtier than wild dogs, adamant they couldn’t smell the blend of shit and sweat that hung on them like a cheap whore on a wealthy merchant.”

A streak of shame ran down my spine. I found I liked the man well enough to want him to like me.

Farian laughed. “I don’t say this to mock you, little man. Long ago, I walked the world with marks of The Mud slathered on every inch of my body and soul. And to tell you the truth, I don’t ever remember noticing it without help.” Farian pointed to the empty chair. “Please.”

With weary caution, I sat, not moving my eyes from his; I’ve found violence always starts in the eyes. The smile on Farian’s face remained kindly, understanding, like Old Roche’s, like… Let's just say I knew better than to trust a smile. Not again. Never again. I pulled the two plates I’d originally taken closer to me, blindly grabbing a handful of meat and stuffing it into my mouth.

“Slow down.” Farian waved a hand over the assembly of food. “All yours, little man. I’ve already had my fill.”

Without a word, I pulled more of the plates closer to me, confident my hunger could down the lot. All the while, my eyes never left his. Despite trusting Knite, who told me Farian was a kind man who would understand me better than most, I was coming to appreciate knowledge over belief, evidence over faith.

Soon I was on my third plate and losing confidence. Still, I was more than willing to keep trying, aiming to discover what the opposite of hunger felt like.

“Your parents?” he said in a way that made it clear it was a question.

My mouth full, I raised a brow in question.

“Who made you eat on the floor?” he clarified.

I swallowed before I answered. “My father.”

“On a plate?”

I shook my head.

Farian nodded sagely. He understood more than my words conveyed. After a long silence, he said, “For me, it was my mother. So many years later, so much life lived, so many other memories created, scores of friends and enemies, loves and betrayals, and yet…”

I watched him, the food forgotten, my hatred spilling forth to compete with his claims. “I doubt your mother was as loathsome as my father. She probably pushed you to the brink in the hopes of using you to ascend. My father…did worse, and for no apparent reason.” I wanted to shout of his abuse, of the wicked ways he treated me, of the depths of his evil. I couldn’t. I told myself it was because of the lingering effects of Leahne’s tunnel. It wasn’t. But the truth, as it so often is, was too difficult to admit.

Farian held up his hands. “Calm yourself, boy. If you are to survive this world, you must find a way to calm yourself. Anger is an unwieldly weapon and can hurt you just as easily as your enemies.”

I took a breath. He was right of course. Before yesterday, when my rage had circumvented my command and had me attack Kalin, I was in control. Now that control seemed so fleeting, so difficult to keep a hold of.

Farian took out a square mark half the size of my palm. It was made of wood and carved with The Bark symbol: a circle within a slightly larger circle. “You’ll be living here until your assessment. So…“ He slid the mark across the table.

I pulled a frayed cord I’d worn for almost a full year from around my neck. My mark, scratched and chipped all over, hung from it, a much smaller version of The Bark symbol etched into the corner and the symbol for The Muds—three wavy lines atop one another—carved prominently in the center. I ran my thumb over the wavy lines, the memory of Diloni proudly smiling at me playing in my mind’s eye.

I slid the chipped mark across the table to Farian. “I’ll not be needing this then.”

“When you are done, go back to your room. A bath will be waiting for you. I won't have you carrying my name and walking the streets such as you are. A signed letter declaring you delayed by order of The Bark’s administration office and some clean clothes will be on the bed. That should assuage your assessors some.”

As he made to leave, I sprung to my feet. “Sir!”

Farian looked back at me over his shoulder. “Addy and Merkus?”

I nodded, mute.

“They’ve gone to Partum to enroll Merkus into the academy there.”

“What about his assessment?”

“His mother never wanted him to become a warrior,” he said. “Pure Architects and Alchemists are safe from The Old Queen’s war.”

“He could have become either in the Royal academy. Everyone knows they have the best instructors, the greatest funds, the most expansive syllabus.” There were hints of pleading in my voice.

“Not if his assessment showed his talent for battle,” Farian explained. “They’d never let him specialize in anything but war if they saw what he was capable of. Assessors at Partum won’t care about his combat prowess.” With that, he turned and left, and as his steps faded, I heard him mutter, “Better a father from afar than a father no more.”

The sun had crossed the boundary of the horizon but remained near, providing a sloping glow of tall shadows. And though the sky was uncommonly clear, giving way to the sun’s brilliance, it tricked the eye with hallucinations of warmth, the winter chill pervading the air behind streams of light. This chill, spurred by the brisk wind, bit at my exposed skin. I pushed the wide collars of my new-old cloak up and against my cheeks.

I blamed the bath. Partly my inability with sensus, but mainly just the bath. When at last I stood from the warm, oversized bucket of water, leaving behind the pool of sludge that the layers of dirt on my skin had left behind, I discovered it was they who had protected me from the air’s touch. The bath laid bare the scars of my childhood in all their glory, showing me the healed rips and tears, cuts and jabs, scrapes and burns written on my body like a story of my past, some still red and pink with ink. Again, the baths fault. Who knew being clean would feel so much like being naked—and in more ways than one.

The academy looked different. I don’t know if it was the wind fondling my clean skin, or the fresh, comfortable clothes I wore, or not feeling the burning ache in my calves, but the world looked different. Felt different. The large windows and soft stone of the academy had turned into childish displays of bravado. People I’d crossed who in days past would’ve mocked and taunted me for their amusement, remained out of my way. I found I stood straighter, no longer hunching in an attempt to appear smaller, less noticeable.

The near-empty courtyard of the academy greeted me with near silence; empty but for Old Roche kneeling on the steps, a bucket of water next to him and a dirty rag in hand; quiet but for the slow and sad tune he hummed.

“If you be wanting to thank me for washing after you, don’t,” he said, wringing the blood-soaked rag over the bucket. “You shouldn't thank a man for doin’ his duty.”

“Old Roche, I—”

“I rather you carry the weight of my words than offload the weight of your gratitude.” He picked up the bucket and walked toward his station. I gave him what he asked for, thanking him by way of not doing exactly that.

My footsteps were loud in the echoing emptiness of the hallway. I looked around at what was once impressive but now seemed drab. New and clean and well-constructed as it was, it was also cheap and pretentious. It’s a marvel, how much perception can change reality.

No one recognized me when I entered the room. Even Edon gave me a curious glance vacant of any recognition. Arranged around an improvised arena, everyone sat cross-legged, their eyes watching me with varying degrees of interest. That’s when my nerves began to fray. The ribbon tied about my shoulder-length hair began to feel tight, my scalp belatedly realizing it wasn’t used to the pull. My heart, as if sensing a danger I myself could not see, began to race. How had Merkus been so at ease with their collective scrutiny, I thought.

“New enrollees do not start for quite some time,” Kurash said.

“I’m exactly where I’m meant to be, Master Kurash, though admittedly much later than I ought to be,” I said, pulling on my courage and finding more than I was used to.

Recognizing my voice, Kurash's eyes widened a fraction, which, for the stone-faced assessor, amounted to an exclamation of astonishment. “Aki?”

I flourished a bow. “The very same.”

I couldn’t tell you what exactly had come over me, what pulled me away from the reticent observer that I’d always been. It might’ve been naftajar, the abolishment of Leahne’s tunnel, the lack of mud and blood crusting my skin, the Heartwood clothes I wore, or some other unseen change that had befallen me on that fateful day. It could have been any, some, or all of those things, but it mattered naught; I liked who I was becoming, liked that it took the best of me and left behind parts I detested, and so I embraced the new me and enjoyed the sense of freedom it brought.

Whispers snaked out, the students unable to restrain themselves from a wave of gossip. Edon watched me. His was the only face I looked for. His brows were raised, his mouth stretched into a smile of cheer and pleasant surprise.

“Quiet,” Kurash said, calm and clear, silencing the hushed chatter. He ran his gaze over the class, causing the students to shuffle and stiffen into position. Only then did he turn to me.

“Reeve Farian can account for my tardiness, Master,” I answered, getting ahead of his question.

“I will forgo asking for the letter or mark.” Kurash glanced at my usual seat, a spot that declared me the weakest. I couldn’t help but take it as a warning. “You may sit.”

“My thanks.”

Many of the students watched me, finding it hard to believe I was the Aki they remembered. They were right. I wasn’t. Or at least I felt I wasn’t.

Kurash’s class was the art of physical combat. With explicit instruction not to use our sensus, the students with superior standings were left without an advantage. My fellow students and I lined the makeshift arena, watching two chosen participants match each other with wooden weapons. So close to the assessment, Kurash preferred we concentrate on the practical sides of combat, teaching by issuing bouts and highlighting mistakes.

Clarosi, a slim girl with light-brown hair tied in a bun, faced Jarom, a dark-skinned boy of middling weight and height. She weaved around him, seeking to use her speed and sword to find an opening. After a particularly successful feint, she found what she was looking for, rushing in to take advantage of his unprotected back.

“Do not overextend your strike,” the combat instructor warned.

Refusing to heed his instruction, Clarosi swung at the back of Jarom’s neck with eager abandon, unable to adjust when he pivoted on one foot, turned, and used his staff to pin her sword hand to his chest. With superior weight, Jarom swiveled back, dislodging her sword from her grasp and throwing her to the ground.

“Stop,” Kurash called.

Clarosi clambered up, muttering beneath her breath.

“Why did you lose?” Kurash asked, walking into the square.

The girl snorted, brushing off her tunic. “Because I was refused my sensus.”

“You’re faster,” Kurash said, ignoring her remark—though with him, no one knew for sure. “So why was he the one to catch you?”

“With my sensus, he would’ve already been writhing on the floor, covered in his own—”

The slap was loud. It was meant to be, meant to shock rather than injure, to embarrass more than hurt. Clarosi placed a hand to her cheek, eyes loud but mouth silent.

“Since you don’t know, I’ll tell you.” Kurash pointed at Jarom but kept his gaze on the petite girl. “Because he fought smarter. He gave you that opening and you snatched at it like a hungry babe to its mother's teet.”

“You can’t—”

“I can, have, and will. Your mother sent you here to be trained, not cuddled. Now sit.”

Clarosi walked back to her mat, head hung low in humiliation.

Kurash looked about the square of students with a slow purpose. “I am not here to teach you full combat, you’ll be taught that in the real academies—if your talents are deemed worthy. I am here to lay the foundation of your skills in physical combat. Your namats and sensus abilities are none of my concern. The assessment for this class, of which I am your assessor, is imminent. Those who wish to pass, be they from The Muds or The Branches, plump or lean, strong or fast, will need to be sufficiently competent in strategy and skill.”

Kurash walked back out of the impromptu arena, circling the students’ backs for Jarom’s new opponent. His tall shadow soon fell over me, reaching towards the center of the square as if to foreshadow his coming order.

“To the center, Aki,” he said. “Let’s see if being better groomed, better dressed, and better fed has improved you any.”

Nervous as I was, something in me refused to show it. The wooden sword Clarosi had been using still lay where she’d dropped it. I picked it up on my way to stand across the dark-skinned boy. He nodded an acknowledgment. I returned the favor, choosing to overlook all the other times he’d opted not to.

Jarom was an average student in all ways except one: he was the most deceptive fighter among us. Many of the students despised his misdirections, thinking them an underhanded farce meant to disguise his mediocrity. I took them as the effective approach he’d honed for success. I’ve always respected success.

“Go,” Kurash called.

It was over quicker than anyone expected. I rushed in, feinting a lunge at his chest—which he expected and ignored—then twisted around and feinted a backhanded swing—which he did not. He held his staff vertically, planting it with both hands to block a swing that never came. I halted my momentum, spinning back to shoot a leg at his chest and catching him in the ribs. He grunted. The kick wasn’t strong, but it left him unbalanced. I took advantage. My sword thudded against the outside of his left knee and dropped him into a half-kneel.

“Stop,” Kurash called.

I let my arm fall to my side, my heart pounding with the invigoration of physical effort. My body had never listened to me so well. I was still too small, too weak, too slow, still breathless from that brief exertion, but damn it, my body, absent of the pains and aches it typically encumbered me with, had listened to me. It had listened!

Jarom looked up, half-kneeling. There was something different in his gaze, some measure of respect—and maybe a little of fear. The respect I would take. I reached out a hand. Jarom glanced at it before meeting my eyes again. After a pause, he took my offer and pulled himself to his feet.

“Well done, Aki,” Kurash said, stepping into the square. That earned a few murmurs from the class, so rare was his praise. “Jarom, why did you lose?”

Jarom turned to our assessor, sparing me one last glance. “He was the smarter fighter, Master.”

“Good. Now tell me how.”

“I didn’t think he would sacrifice the momentum of his backhanded swing. The first feint was obvious, and I think it was meant to be so that the second was not.”

“And?” Kurash prompted.

“And…I should have used the longer-reaching range of my weapon?” Jarom sounded uncertain, turning his answer into a question.

“Yes. But also, you’d committed to defending that feint without the option to change your stance. Always leave room for options, Jarom. It is of utmost importance for an effective fighter. Go. Sit.”

Kurash resumed his walk around the square of students. He started from where I sat, then walked past the weaker—poorer—students, slow and slowing as he went. When he reached the students from The Branches, my stomach began to ache, suddenly disagreeing with my breakfast. My blood pounded a mixture of excitement and worry. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he lingered behind Edon, causing my large friend to squirm in his seat, but then he took a step back and stopped behind the boy who sat beside him.

“Froxil, it has been a while since you’ve participated in any of these bouts,” Kurash said, something in his voice deviating from his usual tone. “Care to remind the class of your skills?”

“Must I face such low-standing filth? It would do neither of us any good.”

Kurash remained quiet.

Froxil closed his eyes and sighed. “Very well. Let's be done with this.”

Other than Edon, Froxil, son of a Bainan Seculor, was the highest-ranking royal in our class. Like many of his royal kin, he sported the blue eyes, blonde hair, and fair skin the island gods were known for, though unlike them, he possessed the muscular frame more common to the Golodanians. Picking up an ax from a weapon rack, he came to stand before me.

I took a deep breath.

“Go,” Kurash said.

We rushed at each other, each faltering when we noticed the other do the same. His superior speed meant we met off-center, closer to my side of the arena than his. He came in high and quick, both hands on his ax, ready to finish me with one heavy swing. I jumped to the side. He adjusted his downward stroke into a diagonal swing that chased me. I stumbled back, narrowly evading the edge of his ax.

Surprised I’d managed to escape, he stepped back and smiled. I staggered to my feet, swallowing lungfuls of air. Already I was breathless.

He stalked forward like a predator. I backed away like prey.

“Do not leave the square,” Kurash called.

I looked back. I shouldn’t have. Froxil came at me with a sideways swing. I ducked under. He reversed his grip. I leaned back, watching the head of the ax pass a fingerbreadth from my eyes, the edge painfully swiping at the soft tip of my nose. Nearly tripping, I put a hand to the floor and scrambled to the side, vaguely aware of distant laughter.

My breathing was a problem. I was used to long distances but never at any speeds that overworked my lungs. Now I sucked in rivers of air and flung out flecks of spit from my dry mouth.

Froxil walked towards me, sinister-like, slow in a way that was meant to inspire fear. I felt none. Just proud I lasted this long and keen to show I could last longer. I raised my sword and took a low stance. I’d studied all the combat forms and practiced them the best I could, hoping I would have the strength to use them one day. That day is today, I thought. A smile wrestled onto my lips. Froxil hesitated. Yes, today is that day.

I waited. He didn’t make me wait too long. He dashed in and swung his ax at my sword to remove it from his path, confident his strength and speed would do just that. I let go, allowing the heavy strike of his ax to throw my weapon across the arena. Before he completed his followthrough, I dove in, my leg stepping in behind his knee, my arm held out to strike across his chest. Froxil lost his footing, one leg following the other off the ground. He crashed onto his back. I hastened towards my sword.

When I’d turned around, sword in hand, panting, Froxil was already on his feet, sensus burning a soft glow along the grains of his weapon. He dashed towards me behind an angry roar of rage, no form, no skill, no technique behind his wild rush.

Like we’d been taught, like I’d been practicing for every spare moment I could find, I willed my sensus through my nape, down my arm, and into my hand. What came next surprised all of us, me most of all. Instead of the trickle I’d come to know and despise, my sensus attended like never before. The upper half of my weapon splintered, a rippling cone of force propelling the fragments towards the oncoming Froxil, who, in his mad rage, ignored the onslaught until it was too late.

Froxil stumbled and spilled to the floor. A few yelps sounded out from behind him, some unlucky students caught by whatever managed to get past.

“I can’t see,” Froxil screamed, panic in his voice, a hand cupped around his left eye.

Kurash appeared behind a flash of wind, kneeling beside the boy. “Show me.”

I looked down at my hand, at the broken handle I held. My sword arm felt like it’d been doused in acid, my lungs heaved, my muscles ached, my head throbbed. Despite it all, I was smiling.