Aki

I found myself in a circular room of grey stone, the faint tang of blood and sweat in the air. To my left were racks of weapons. They lacked the dullness of wood, reflecting light from the various matrix lanterns that hung about the room. All manner of weaponry, from thin daggers to bulky maces to elbow-length gauntlets, were cataloged on the rack, all shining with a polished brilliance.

On the other side, opposite the weapons, lay a table stacked with sensus tools: tablets for ingraining matrixes, runners for quantifying streams, and pendulums for weighing density.

Pakur cleared their throat. Leahne and Kurash stood deferentially behind him.

“You may choose which of them you undergo first,” Pakur said. “Soul or combat?”

“Combat,” I said. It was an easy choice—the easier choice.

Kurash stepped forward. He’d exchanged his usual robes for form-fitting leather and the riding-whip he punished us with for two long daggers strapped naked and flat to his thighs. I stared at his weapons, entranced by their gleaming beauty and intimidated by their lethal luster.

“They’re blunted,” he said, watching my gaze. “Choose your weapon and prepare yourself.”

A fortnight had gone by since my return to the academy as a resident of The Bark, the time almost entirely lost to the practice of sensus and sword. My fitness improved monstrously—more than time and effort should’ve allowed—but I knew it wasn’t enough. My only hope was in letting my technique and tactics shine past my weakness.

I picked out the smallest shortsword I could find. The fishskin hilt felt cold against my palm. Though well balanced, its weight took getting used to. I hadn't known we would be using weapons of metal. Another facet of the test, I thought.

“The rules are simple,” Kurash said. “I will start slow, increasing my speed, power, and skill in increments, each by a factor higher than the last. I will do so five times—that is, if you last long enough. If you score a hit, I will pause and increase the difficulty, otherwise, I will do so every ten clashes. Any questions?”

“And if you score a hit?”

“We stop.”

“And when you score a hit…?”

“Trust I have enough skill not to injure you,” Kurash said. “Any more questions?”

“No.”

“Then we begin.”

He took out his daggers and rushed at me. He backhanded a swipe at my sword arm, forcing me to dodge back. He reversed his swing. I ducked and dashed in low and fast. Fast enough to strike the tip of my blade on the center of his chest before his sword met my neck. He stopped his attack as soon as mine landed. In a way, I’d cheated. If this were a real fight, I’d have paid for the victory with my life.

“Next phase,” he said, stepping back. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

He rushed again. Faster. A little faster than I. I didn’t panic. Reading his attacks would make up for it.

It did.

I evaded what I could and blocked the rest. He did the same to me. While I quick enough in thought to read his moves, he could quick enough in body to react to mine. We’d clashed eight times before the counter I beat him with landed. I’d raised my elbow and held my sword downwards, swiping left to deflect his thrust wide, then twisted with the force, dashing past his guard and landing a punch to his abdomen.

“Next phase,” he said, unfazed.

I shuffled back into position. My breathing was coming hard now. I tried to keep it even, deep, effective, but my hunger for air spoiled my rhythm.

“Ready?” he asked.

My answer came in pieces, labored breaths interspersed between them. “Would I…be granted…a break?”

He shook his head and rushed at me. His speed was on par with Froxil now. Not good. While I was relatively fresh for that encounter, fighting an opponent who gravely underestimated me, Kurash would grant me neither of those benefits.

The assessor came in hard, merciless, swinging his sword at my neck. I dipped under the blow. An uppercut nearly punished me for it. If I wasn’t too tired to drop straight, the weight on my left leg shifting me to the side, it would’ve.

I stumbled back. He pushed forward. I leaned left, then weaved right, flicking him a half-hearted blow at him to keep him at bay. He slapped my sword aside and kept closing.

I forced strength into my limbs. The pain doubled. Suffer with purpose, I thought.

Kurash fainted a slash to my thigh, then whipped a fist at my ribs with his free hand. A blend of luck and skill helped me evade, half dodging, half stumbling back. I lost my balance and crashed to the floor. Kurash stood over me, flat-footed. A sweep of my leg caught him on his ankle, my shin pulsing in pain.

I slumped. My chest rose and fell like the wings of a hummingbird. I looked up at Kurash. He was unfazed by my kick, but just for a moment, just for an almost imperceptible upward turn of just the corner of his mouth, the stone-faced assessor smiled at me.

“Next phase,” he said.

I remained where I was.

“Next phase,” he repeated.

I clambered to my feet, swayed, and nearly crumpled back to the ground. The wheezing had stopped but I still gasped for air, rushing lungfuls in and out. For the sake of my recovery, I took my time getting back into position. It barely helped.

“Ready?” Kurash asked.

I wasn’t. Not in any way that mattered.

Given you had the requisite results in the other stages, passing the second phase won you the right to reside in The Roots where you could find apprenticeships in whatever your proficiencies allowed. The third qualified you for any of the Island academies—except the Academy. For that, and for me, the fourth stage was a must. The fifth was reserved for those too good for me to know of. During its long and prestigious history, not a single one of the preparatory academy graduates had reached it.

“Ready?” Kurash asked again, pulling out his second dagger.

I realized his asking was a favor. I didn’t know why he cared enough to offer it. I stayed quiet, abusing the gift. I had to. He might’ve given me time to catch my breath, but he would not go easy on me once we clashed; it was beyond him to go outside the lines of his duty.

“I will not ask again,” he said. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Kurash circled me, slow, his movements methodical. I wondered if he was granting me another favor or just imitating the caution of a more accomplished fighter. Either way, it helped. Pain throbbed in my leg but my breathing was improved. Not much, but enough. Enough to think. Hopefully, enough to find victory, I thought.

I lunged forward, hoping to catch him off guard. Surprised, he froze. It wasn’t enough. He wrenched his torso to the side, my sword sliding harmlessly under his arm. I tried to push the blade towards his chest, hoping to score a touch. He dashed back and I missed again. My feet should have carried me forward, should have followed my command to chase him down.

They didn’t.

The stone was cold against the side of my face. I wanted it so much. Needed it. Years of hate, of patience, just for a chance, and in that moment my legs and arms deserted me, it’d all crumbled to ash. I had failed. I had—

“Next phase.”

Surprise took me, then relief washed away my anguish. At some point, I’d managed to score a hit so faint, so insubstantial, that I’d not felt or seen it happen.

I looked up.

“Ready?” Kurash asked. There was no mistaking the smile he wore now.

Newfound strength pushed me up from the ground, sword in hand. “Ready,” I said, matching his smile. It was a strange sight; we were, usually, men of stoic disposition.

Kurash laid me out with a swift blow to my shoulder. I was laughing before, during, and after. Footsteps approached to remind me all was not finished.

Leahne stood over my prone form. “First is the test of purity,” she said. There was no rest between the stages. Yet another facet of the test.

I shuddered. Despite my practice, my sensus still came like an angry flood, gushing forth without care for my wishes. Before I faced its unruly and wild defiance, I’d never failed without improvement. This shortcoming gnawed at me. I found failure tasted far more bitter without the sweetness of progress.

I clambered to my feet and staggered behind Leahne to the table. The first tool she picked up was the pendulum: a hollow, metallic ball of mesh hanging down from a three-legged structure by a thin wire.

“Inject sensus into the ball,” Leahne ordered.

I did as she asked, putting a finger to the outer mesh and trying my best to restrain myself.

My efforts were in vain.

Sensus poured into the sphere, the excess bleeding over the surface. I jerked my hand back as if burned.

“This is not the test for control,” Leahne reminded. “You needn't worry about oversaturation.”

I looked away in embarrassment, noticing Kurash behind me. He watched the pendulum with interest. Pakur had not moved. He hadn't even bothered to open his eyes, but where once I’d have seen an incompetent man dozing on his feet, I now saw an aloof master who need not see to be aware.

I turned my eyes back to the pendulum. Leahne had cut off the excess sensus clinging to the outside of the mesh, letting it dissolve away. Then, with the barest of touches, she tapped the sphere.

The measure of the test lay in how many times the pendulum could swing back and forth without losing momentum. Mine came to ten. It was above average, superb if my goal was one of the private or city academies. For The Royal Academy, it was barely adequate.

Next came the runner. A simple circular enclosure with a grooved track about its perimeter measured the speed at which I could release sensus. Another ball was placed on the track, this one solid and painted white. All I had to do was provide a burst of sensus to propel it around the indented course. Small obstacles would be erected to hinder the ball. The more obstacles the marble conquered, the larger the streams.

Mine did not stop.

“Oh my,” Pakur said. He approached and plucked the marble from the enclosure. “A welcome surprise. You are but the third in this cycle's graduates to achieve the highest mark for this test—and in a more spectacular fashion than the other two if I do say so myself.”

The praise was welcome, but something about his words and manner seemed dubious to me. With the examination still underway, I let my doubts recede behind the task at hand; I would need all of me for what followed.

The third and final part of the sensus stage. A test of control. Without control, however great your density, however wide your stream, you might just as well have no sensus at all. The Named few, the greatest figures of The Island—besides those uttered for the sake of their royal purity—are the men and women who'd achieved exquisite mastery over their sensus. The division between the common rabbles and lauded champions of Evergreen lay decidedly on the vast plains of control.

The test itself was simple. Leahne would imprint a matrix on a clay tablet. My task was to fill said matrix without letting my sensus go beyond. It sounds easier than it is. Freehand drawings of sensus are notoriously difficult.

Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead. My heart pounded. My fists refused to unclench. This was it. All my efforts, all my anger, all my dreams rested on this moment.

Leahne chose the matrix for heat. It was a favorite among soldiers, most commonly used to lightly warm cold food, slowly bleed away the wet of clothes, or help resist the true cold of the lands outside Evergreen.

Leahne lay the finished imprint on the table in front of me. Most of the matrix is comprised of looping, broad curves of chaos—as was common for the element of fire. Some of the lines in the middle were rigid and even, there for the more orderly purposes of direction and distribution.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. My heart did not calm. The sweat on my brow redoubled. I ignored both as best I could. My hand hovered over the clay tablet. I touched my pool of sensus and it roiled in excitement, rushing down the streams of my arm. I blocked it as it came to my hand. It burned me in protest. I gritted my teeth. Real control came from the source, not the outlet. What I was doing was akin to a layer of logs trying to stop a raging river. Sooner or later, the logs would be crushed.

Someone seized my wrist, the grip an iron vise. My eyes flew open. Pakur stood beside me.

“You will not make a mockery of the assessment!” he said, anger coloring him crimson. “I will not have a student of mine be so reckless!”

“I-I was merely trying to pass,” I said. The admission sounded weak. It made me sound weak.

“You imbecile! Do you mean to tell me that you’d cripple yourself to delay your failure? That you’d sacrifice your lasting potential for fleeting power?” He shook his head.

He was right. I let my trepidation push me into desperation and then into lunacy. I remembered Kalin begging for mercy, wearing his weakness like it was armor. Was I more like him than I realized? The question terrified me. Enough for me to shy away from the answer.

Pakur released my wrist. “Do not shame me and this school with your recklessness. Fail if you must, but take the test as it was meant to be taken.”

My fingers were numb. I clenched and unclenched my hand. Do not dwell on failure, I told myself. Forge onwards, towards success and away from anything like…him.

I closed my eyes again and held my open palm over the tablet. A gentle whisper and my sensus rippled at my quiet call. That was the easy part. I tried to lure the sensus at a gentle pace, easing it forth. At first, it came calm, taking my lead and lulling my concerns to sleep. Then it pounced, hurrying down my stream as though to escape. I tried to keep calm, tried to let my calm extend to it. I failed. It exploded forth and pushed the soft clay thin beneath my hand.

“Stop,” Leahne ordered.

I pulled my hand back and cut off the connection to my pool.

“Given the stress you’d put your streams under, I will grant you one more try,” she said. “Let us count this attempt as a recalibration. Now concentrate. You will not get another chance.”

As much as she mocked me, I knew she was on my side. More accurately, I knew she was on Knite’s side. With her soul injured, her loyalty broken, and her life in danger, she had little choice but to align her interests with his, and in turn, mine.

A whisper entered my ear. “Do not fight your nature,” it said.

I whipped my head around and found Kurash, impassive as ever. “Did you say something, Master?”

“No,” he said. “Keep your mind on the task.”

Again, the unfamiliar voice spoke, whispering in my other ear. “You are not calm. You are anger. You are pride.”

I swung back. Leahne placed a new clay tablet on the table in front of me. Pakur stood beside her. Both were silent. Both gave no sign they heard the soft, genderless voice. Leahne placed her hand on the tablet. A moment later it came away, leaving an imprint of the cooling matrix on the clay.

The matrix for cooling was more complicated than the last. Cold is an absence, the lack of warmth, the evacuation of heat. There were several forms, but the most basic version included much of the same patterns found in the heat matrix and much that wasn’t. It had the same looping arches, the same uneven patterns, but with them were the rigid straight lines that called for extraction and diffusion—both functions of order.

“You are your sensus,” the voice continued. “Your sensus is you. Serenity is not in your nature, and thus, not in that of your sensus.”

“Others are waiting,” Pakur said, “and we’re already behind schedule.”

My hand lay gently on the tablet. The clay was cold and soft to the touch. ‘You are anger,’ the voice had said. ‘You are pride.’ I wasn’t so sure.

Kalin came to mind. His hunching form. His cowardice. His malice. For him, I thought, I am anger. Something in me stirred. Next came my mother, a figureless form of dark intent. For her too, I thought, I am anger. Memories of life in The Muds flashed: The time urchins broke my leg and tore my arm from its socket, nearly gouged out my left eye, and chased me as I’d limped half-blind into the library; the long, difficult, hungry days I spend absorbing all the knowledge Diloni and the library books could give me; the harassment I suffered every morning from the bored guards before the sun even touched the sky; the shunning from all the student, which hurt me more than I cared to admit; the beatings and…other tortures that awaited me when I got home. I remembered it all.

A fury consumed me. I am anger, my thoughts screamed. I will escape my troubles. No, I will transcend them. I will make it so no other could reach high enough to cause me any. Not my father, not those scoundrels from The Branches, not my mother and her fellow gods.

The sensus came out in a rush. I made no move to slow it, instead, letting it move me. My mind sped. Time slowed. My control, though shaky and erratic, came to being. The sensus sloshed across the grooves Leahne had made, a controlled pouring of energy so quick the entire pattern took half a breath to trace. I pulled my hand away, clenching my hand into a fist as my sensus retreated.

For what felt like an eternity, I watched the assessors stare at the clay tablet, all three silently scoring the nooks and chinks I’d added to Leahne’s imprint. After a torturous silence, Leahne finally spoke, and her words doused me in relief.

“By my estimation…you’ve passed."