Aki

Master Pakur clambered into the room, his persistent perspiration and resulting stink suffocating those in his vicinity. From the way he almost prostrated before Froxil, pushing Kurash out of his way with no care, I’d have thought them the students and the fair-haired boy the assessor.

“Apologies, Froxil bin Yabiskus,” Pakur said. “I came as soon as I could. How is the injury?” While House Lorail was the most feared for all the devious and harrowing practices they employed, House Bainan was known for an arrogance that left people dead quicker than they knew why.

“My eye is without sight and still bleeding you putrid buffoon,” Froxil barked. “How do you think I am?” Like so many of his House, his hubris decreed he be loud and obnoxious.

Kurash came to stand before Froxil. “While enrolled in this academy, we are your masters and you will speak to us with the respect that entails.”

“This is your fault,” the boy accused.

“He's right,” Pakur declared, standing upright to face the stoic warrior. Almost half as tall and just as wide, the head assessor looked deceivingly weak. Despite his ailing appearance and wanton character, all agreed he was the oldest and strongest of the assessors. Only he amongst their number was counted in the reputable ranks of the Named.

The haunting look Kurash gave him—conflictingly tenuous and terrifying—said more than others could understand, delivering a reminder of something unspoken, something Pakur, the head assessor of the most prodigious preparatory academy in Evergreen, blanched at.

Pakur looked away, his bluster shaken. “Just contact the Yabiskus branch. I suspect they’d prefer he be treated with better care than our humble academy can provide.”

“Yes, Master Pakur,” Kurash said, stepping back.

I watched them with bated breath, worried they would lay the blame at my feet. When no mention of my part in the incident came to light, my attention returned to my hand, a ludicrous grin creeping onto my face.

Edon, plagued by his usual indigestion—a symptom of a prolific appetite he was unwilling to subjugate—suddenly but lightly tapped me on my back. “You have a story for me, right?” He burped before I could turn away, the musky garlic of whatever he’d recently eaten assaulting my nose. “With all…” he waved his hands at the clothes I wore, at my rugged but clean hair, at my unblemished skin. “I assume it’s a good one.”

I put a hand to my nose. “Could you please exhale your bodily gasses elsewhere? Anywhere but in my face would do.”

Edon chuckled, laying a heavy arm around my shoulders. “Nice going with my cousin by the way.” A lump formed at the base of my throat. Preoccupied as I was, I’d forgotten they were related. “I’ve been waiting for someone to cut off a piece of that oversized ego he lugs around,” he said, grinning at me, his plump cheeks pushed up in a way that allowed his smile to reach his eyes. “His snobbery was getting rather unbearable of late.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad I could oblige.”

Edon pulled me in close. Close enough our heads touched and I got another whiff of the garlic he’s smothered his breakfast in. “Been hearing stories,” he whispered. “They true?”

“Depends on the stories.”

“Heard Merk killed that gangly fellow from the House Silas hopefuls. What was his name? Jundeer? Gundeer?”

“Gundar.”

“Yes, that was it. Heard Merk nearly decapitated the boy.”

“He’s older than you are, Edon. Seems unfitting to call him ‘boy.’”

“Fine, fine. So you don’t want to answer the question.” Though he often played the fool, Edon was not nearly as dimwitted as he appeared. “How’s Merk?”

“Halfway to Partum if I had to guess.”

“Good.” Edon released his arm from around my shoulders and clapped a hand to my back. “Good.”

The day passed smoothly after Master Kurash’s class. Since all the theory classes were complete and the academy specialized in training fighters, the only subjects we were taught for the remainder of our enrollment were basic combat and soul manipulation, each taking half of each day. The soul manipulation class was a mix of good and bad: good in that I finally had enough sensus to practice, bad in that I needed more practice than the class could provide. I muddled through, my lack of control frustratingly clear. While my previous, more modest pool had given me an intricate control none of my fellow students could match, allowing me to create minuscule but meticulous matrixes, my new pool was a flood of sensus, the glowing, translucent power rushing out like an uncaged, wild beast.

Leahne was there. Her gaze lingered on me when I entered the room and drifted back every so often, always at moments of failure, always with that unnerving smile of hers. I was glad when the bell finally rang and I could escape her ridicule.

The headmaster’s aide waited by the door for me at the end of class, his expression stern. “Come,” he ordered.

I never liked the man. He always seemed too drunk on the paltry power his role allowed him.

The headmaster sat at his desk when his aide ushered me into his office. The odor that welcomed me was horrendous, like an invasion of my senses, the smell so strong I could taste it, so thick I could feel it crawl on my skin and clamber up my nose. I nearly gagged right there and then.

I surveyed the room to find the office clean. Littered and cluttered with pompous affectations, but otherwise spotless.

Pakur pointed to one side of his desk. “Stand,” he instructed.

I complied, resisting the urge to cover my nose.

I came to attention, spotting what had to be Froxil’s mother. She sat in one of the two chairs opposite the head assessor, placing her to my left and Pakur to my right. Knots of muscles pushed against her tight, warrior leather, illustrating where Froxil had inherited his build.

Across the room and in the corner, standing as though just another fixture of the room, stood a small girl no older than twelve.

“Why have you brought the boy?” Froxil’s mother asked, her deep tone harmonious with her hulking frame.

Pakur smiled, elbows on the table, fingers laced together. “Because…”

The woman stood, cutting an impressive figure. She had all the curves a woman should have—and some most couldn’t. “Do not test my patience, Pakur.”

Pakur’s eyes narrowed. “Or what? You have grown reckless, little Sofilia. Life in The Branches, stashed in the Yabiskus manor and away from any real conflict, has withered away your restraint. And now you come here, into my office, and throw weightless threats at me? Me?”

“And you? What of you? You’ve wilted behind the doors of this academy for half a century in the company of children, deluding yourself into thinking you are still as formidable as you once were. When was the last time you faced a true challenge?”

“Do not try to detract from my point,” Pakur said. The way he spoke, the way he sat, the way he watched the overbearing woman without concern, told of a man more remarkable than the one I knew. “We both know I could kill you with but a thought. Do not mistake the protection of your husband's reputation as your own strength, little Sofilia. Instead, remember what happened when last you earned my displeasure.”

The side of Sofilia’s fist struck the wood of the table. “Do not speak of long distant—"

I did not even hear his blow connect. Whatever he did, Sofilia crashed back into her seat, her nose broken, blood seeping down to run over her lips.

“Be thankful,” Pakur said. “So many decades of teaching children has instilled in me a degree of patience I did not have when you attended this academy. But…” He snapped his fingers. The wall behind him rumbled and began to slide away, revealing the source of the rancid stench haunting the room. “If you wish to join those reckless fools who chose to ignore my warning, you are welcome to do so.”

The room was well-lit. I wished it wasn’t. Half-a-dozen naked bodies tied with thick rope hung from hooks, blood, urine, and feces running down their legs. Some still dripped fresh with the fetid juices of their bodies. Some were emaciated and groaning for death, the horrid mixture hard and flaky on their skin. One man had his legs cut off mid-thigh, his wounds festering a decaying rot of an unnatural, glistening green.

I retched. The half-digested remnants of my midday meal pushed past my fingers and down my forearm as I turned away from the gristly sight.

Pakur ignored me, speaking to Froxil’s mother in a relaxed tone that belied the situation. “I did not bring the boy for any purposes that pertain to your futile objections, Sofilia.”

I swallowed what I could and used my new tunic to wipe at my mouth. When I turned back, Sofilia, wife to the Yabiskus branch patriarch, sat with her hands clenched to her chair's armrests, her face flushed by a wave of anger that set the veins on her temples and neck throbbing.

“What is my name,” Pakur asked.

“Pakur,” Sofilia forced out. She hissed and clutched at her upper arm. Blood ran a track down to her elbow.

“What is my name?” Pakur asked again.

“Pakur Razorstring,” she said through gritted teeth. “Are you sure you have the standing to treat me this way?”

Pakur smiled and snapped his fingers again. With a creak, the door behind him began to close. “Though I am one of the Named, no, I do not have the standing.” Sofilia leaned forward ready to throw him a violent rebuke. Pakur raised a finger before she could. “Permission would be more apt a description.”

The tall woman shifted back into her seat, swallowing her words. “And regarding my… ‘objections’, as you say?”

Pakur turned to me. “Young Aki, what led to Froxil’s injury?”

“A duel, Master,” I answered.

“Of which, who won?”

“I did, Master.”

“And of which, who first broke the rule of no sensus?”

“Froxil, Master.”

Pakur turned back to Sofilia. “As you heard, and with unanimous corroboration from other witnesses if so required, whatever objections you have are based solely on the grace of your husband’s standing. Such reasoning, by the standards set forth by The King himself, goes against the very nature of our fair Evergreen, all it stands for, and all it was built upon.”

A snicker came from the young girl standing in the corner of the room. Pakur and Sofilia ignored her like she was invisible, like she made no sound at all. I didn’t, and when I didn’t, she winked at me.

Sofilia stood, slow and stiff. “Yabiskus will hear of this. If this so-called ‘permission’ of yours is a ruse, you will come to know regret. Intimately. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Leave,” Pakur said. “Before I am forced to keep my promise,”—he jutted a thumb over his shoulder—“and you're forced to keep them company.”

Sofilia marched from the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Pakur trained his eyes on me. “Sit.”

I complied, noticing the girl remained in the corner. I took her for Sofilia’s servant. I was wrong.

Pakur glanced at the floor, frowning at my vomit. “I would’ve thought life in The Muds would rid you of a sensitive nose. A little whiff of death and you spoil my floor?”

A little? I peeled my gaze from the curly-haired girl and looked at Pakur. “Apologies, Master. My ambitions have always kept me from the more gruesome aspects of The Muds. I don’t much have the stomach for it yet.”

“No matter.” He waved the topic away. “So, I hear you’ve had quite the night, is that right?”

“Yes, Master,” I said. There was no need to answer any unasked questions.

“Starting with an altercation by the academy entrance if I’m to believe the reports. What can you tell me of the incident?”

“Whatever I can remember, Master.”

Pakur smiled. “You were always a quick-witted one. And what can you remember?”

“Most if not all, Master.”

He laughed. It had not even a hint of humor in it. “Do that again,” he said, a smile on his lips and danger in his eyes, “and I will hurt you, boy. I take it you are clear on my meaning.”

I nodded.

“Then answer my question.”

“Gundar, a Bark student of the academy, was injured trying to convince Merkus Farian to apologize to Corine bal Jentra. For what, I cannot say.”

Pakur took out a clay mug and a bottle of dark liquor from a drawer. I welcomed and detested its overpowering scent, thankful for the attention it took from decaying flesh while flustered by the memories it invoked. He poured until the dark liquid reached the brim, picked up the mug, and stretched his neck forward to sip from the edge.

“And why were you in The Bark so late at night?” he asked.

“Because I’d found my father half beaten to death and didn’t want to be there if whoever had done so came back to finish the task.”

Pakur’s initial sip had turned into large, successive mouthfuls and he placed a finished mug back on the table. “You did not see the person who attacked your father?”

“No, Master.”

“Very well. Tell me of your sponsorship.”

I pulled the wooden mark from beneath my wrinkled tunic. “Farian, The Bark reeve."

“How exactly did that come about?”

“Merkus’ mother, Adjudicator Addy Farian, decided her son's prospects were better in Partum. Being a friend, Merkus convinced his father to sponsor me after they’d left the capital.”

“I see. Well, as the head of the preparatory academy, I can find no reason to pursue any further action.”

I tried to stand, eager to flee the room. Pakur's eyes bore me back into my seat.

“However,” he said, “there are some issues you must resolve before you can resume your attendance.”

“Issues?”

He ignored me and struggled out of his chair, grunting with the effort. He faced the corner of the room and bowed as deep as his bulging stomach would allow. “Will you require anything else, Your Grace? Anything whatsoever?”

A hand stroked my unruly hair. I jumped—or tried to. The hand remained where it was, unmoving, clamping me to my seat.

“You may leave.” It was a child’s voice, lively and innocent and wicked all at once. I turned to its source.

The girl stood beside me. Of course, I thought, Lorail. I should have guessed earlier. It didn’t help she looked little more than ten cycles. This child, this…ancient god, appeared younger than I. Knite had told me not to believe all the statues, portraits, murals, and other forms of reverent art depicting her as a tall, feminine, long-haired goddess of uncanny beauty. He had described her instead as ‘small’. I wondered if he’d been imprecise on purpose. If Merkus was Knite, which he somehow was and wasn’t, I would say he never did anything without a reason—especially when the reason is recklessly trivial.

“You had me worried,” the young girl said.

My expression was blank. “And who do I have the pleasure of caring for my welfare?”

Lorail smiled. It would’ve looked endearing on most anyone else. She backed into the desk and hopped up to sit on its edge, then looked me over like a butcher would a slab of meat. “You really are the best of them.”

“The best?”

“No, I am not a recruiter. No, I am not from the academy council, nor any other such arm of the administration institute.”

I feigned panic. Some of it was real. When someone is reading your thoughts, some is expected.

Lorail waved her small hand in the air without the slightest hint of grace, joints all loose and careless like a child’s would be. “Do not worry about the rendition you gave the headmaster. It’s as accurate as he needs it to be.”

“Who are you?”

“I must, however, insist you answer my questions truthfully. Try your best to avoid the exclusion of details I might consider germane.”

I swallowed. “How—”

“Try your best and I will know.” She leaned forward, taking my eyes hostage with her own. “What happened to Rowan?”

I answered almost immediately. “Merkus killed her. Would you like to know how and where, or can you see the answers as quickly as I can think them?”

“My son, I can see everything, even those thoughts you're trying so hard to hide from me are within my grasp.”

My panic grew. Knite had told me she could pluck thoughts from my aura and read them like a flow of consciousness. But, as long as she didn't breach me with her sensus, anything I kept from my active mind was beyond her grasp. I held onto that hope without reaching for it.

My heart thumped. I forced my panic to keep away from any sensitive information—which is harder said than done and harder still when thought. Bile rose and knocked against the base of my throat. I stopped its advance by inviting that cold indifference I’d spent so many years befriending. It answered my call. I welcomed it like an old friend instead of the treacherous bastard I thought it to be.

Lorail laughed. The sound was somehow playful yet sinister. “As I said, you are the best of them. I would love to know what you are so competently keeping from me. Alas, I’m not one to burn my children with a scrying. Not unless they’ve done something to merit it.”

I was cold. Apathetic. Unmoving. I was as I used to be. “If you sought to make me afraid, I’m not.”

She smiled in satisfaction. “At last, a progeny I can proudly admit to.” She turned serious then—an odd look on a child, one easily misread as anger. “Yes, I see you aren't afraid. However, you are not ready to go without fear. Fear is good. Fear is a need, a tool. You must carry it with you, always subdued but always present until such a time where it becomes useless. That time is not nigh. It is far from now, far into an impossible future where I am not on this plane and you are too powerful to fear another.”

“I did not say I cannot be afraid, just that I am not.”

She slapped me. Hard. It stung my cheek with a blaze of heat. It did worse to my mind, for my hand had done the deed. Anger tried to creep from the cold shell I’d erected. It took all of me to beat it back down, to calm its heat with cold logic.

“Clever boy,” she said. “That will serve you well for what you must survive.” She waited for me to ask what ‘that’ was. I stayed silent. “Yes, very clever indeed. Never question power. I was intending to take you with me, but…”

And just like that, she was gone. It was not as if she blinked away or was there one moment and not the next. It was as if she’d not been there at all.