Aki

Sil and Dako—more formally known as Silaani bitni Lore and Dakomir Bin Bainan—were a stroke of good luck. Whenever life seemed too doomed to continue, some god had sent me hope. I knew which of them had sent me Diloni. I knew which had sent me Merkus. I couldn’t help but wonder which had sent Sil and Dako.

My new friends and I followed our classmates north along the eastern hill. It was early and the shadows of The Academy and the hill it sat upon drenched us in a shade of its own making. Housing indistinguishable from our own lined our left. A dozen of them were behind us and more stretched to the south. On our right were mind arenas. They put the pedestals at the preparatory academy to shame. Slabs of stone—taller than I, flawless, smooth, and fifty paces on each side—were arranged into a series of stages capable of projecting incorporeal manifestation of Vapor arts at a fraction of the practitioner's sensus, all the while using Soulsmith matrixes to mimic real effects. One man pushed a wave of earth twice his height at a long-limbed woman. She punched through with a jet of water. I wondered how water could defeat earth without spending eons whittling away at it. On another, vines slithered around a man who kept them at bay with streams of fire gushing from his palms. I wondered how intense the fire would have to be to so thoroughly burn the vines to ash. Yet another showed a woman gliding in the air, moving with the grace if not the speed and agility of a swallow. Whims of soaring through the sky took hold of my imagination. There were more showings. Many more.

A hand grabbed my wrist and pulled me forward.

“You’ll be at The Academy for years to come,” Sil said. “Time enough to learn, if you can avoid wasting your time watching in dumbfounded amazement.” She dragged me along until we fell into step beside Dako, who, with his build, was easy to find among the thin crowd of students.

“So, you’re a prospective Vapor I take it?” Sil asked.

“I might be,” I said.

She quirked an eyebrow. “You mean to say you haven't decided? And exactly how many affinities were you born with that you have difficulty choosing?”

I peeled my eyes from the field, my interest drawn by the disbelief in her tone. “I thought specialization was only finalized in the last season of the cycle.”

“Gods, you are a Mud,” Sil exclaimed.

Dako put a hand on my shoulder. “Most have been training for specialization from birth. You can’t possibly learn enough to rank at more than two. It takes a lifetime to become adept at just the one.”

We came upon the Mundane building—a four-story construction of light-brown bricks and stained glass where the non-sensus-related subjects were taught. For all its size and elegance, which wouldn't have looked out of place among Heartwood mansions, it was rather meek amid the cusping towers and hulking trees of the academy. The lecture hall itself was a small amphitheater. Tiered rows of seating surrounded a stage pushed against the far wall. A man, older in appearance than even Diloni, stood hunched at the center of the stage, facing the incoming throng of students, his liver-spotted hands clasped before him. Our schedules had identified him as Jasom, master of the mundane and our instructor for languages.

When all had situated themselves, my friends and I on the leftmost seats a little further to the back than the front, a third of the room was occupied. Only three dozen or so of the hundred and twenty were present.

Jasom cleared his throat. “Sirs.”

I nudged Sil and Dako who were stuck in a heated debate about the merits of their chosen specialties. They both settled back into their seats, quiet and ready for instruction.

“Sirs,” Jasom called again, this time loud enough for it to be a shout. Some offered him a glance. A few offered more. Many persisted with their conversations.

Calmly, Jasom took out a grey medallion from within his grey robes. He scanned the room, offering gentle smiles to those few he met eyes with and cold indifference to those many he didn’t. Then he pressed a finger on the face of his medallion.

All chatter seized. Rich echoes hummed in the wake of the sudden hush. The boy seated next to Dako was the first I noticed. He quivered, fingers curled in tension, facial muscles stuck between an expression of pain and shock. A scream scrambled for purchase at the back of his throat. I looked about the room, finding many suffering the same fate. My companions and I were safe. As were those few who’d opted to listen to Jasom’s call. For a handful of breaths, we stared, stunned that highbred Branches were included in those inflicted with whatever mystical punishment Jasom had enacted. After a time, those affected sputtered, bursting out with violent exhalations. A few of the more feeble students slumped in their seats, breathless and near unconscious.

“I take it I have your attention now?” Jasom asked, his voice calm.

A commotion broke out. Sturdier students jumped to their feet. A wiry boy scrambled down the rows in an eager attempt to attack the instructor, shouting insults as he went. Another finger to the medallion and he fell into a rigid stillness, his momentum toppling him over like an overbalanced statue.

“A few things to note,” Jasom said. In a room of absolute quiet, his soft words seemed to bounce off the walls. “Master Klaral and Master Holden—heads of the Vapor and Architect schools respectively—designed this particularly useful tool to help me deal with unruly nothings who attempt to disrupt my class. Such behavior will not be allowed. Know that your sensus, except under the express permission of a true Master, is locked to you. Know that the rather unpleasant and debilitating sensation this ingenious creation can envoke is what awaits those who dare disrupt my class again.”

“He will pay for that,” Sil whispered, her voice hidden in a wave of others. “We’ll not always be nothings.”

“It sure is good to see such lofty creatures humbled though,” I said.

“From the look of him, he’ll be dead before any of us ascend,” Dako offered. “Why worry about a future you’ll never reach.”

“His well of offspring best be as dry as that of his life,” Sil said. “Because if they can't punish him for it, they’ll surely find the nearest substitute.”

When the humdrum of threats and complaints had died down, a sudden thing encouraged by Jasom’s theatrical stroke of his medallion, our new language assessor began his class. He was, surprisingly, a rather competent teacher—clear in his descriptions, entertaining in his method, and rich with praise.

Someway into the lecture, Jasom was expounding on the inadequacies of direct translations. “The ancient language is perhaps most notorious for such losses and gains.” He peered around the class, his gaze ultimately landing on the only Leaf who’d chosen to attend. “Would you give us an example of each if you please, Sir Vignil?” Jasom had shown an uncanny knowledge of all our names. I surmised it had something to do with our new marks and that medallion he carried.

The gangly Leaf shrugged. “It seems that, by asking us to answer these questions, you are neglecting your duties to teach, Jasom.”

Jasom smiled as though the boy's rudeness was part of a plan. “Anger at oneself is so often expressed as anger at others, don’t you think, Sir Vignil? It seems your ignorance, which, as with all my students, is what I wished to identify and correct, has you seeking faults in others rather than addressing your own.”

Vignil’s jaw clenched. “I would say you are committing the very act you accuse me of.”

Jasom’s eyes narrowed at the retort, but he made no move towards his already infamous medallion. “And where does my fault lie, Sir Vignil?”

“Atop your accusations.”

Jasom smiled. “Ah, yes. A calculated guess, I admit, but one you can refute simply by answering my question. So, good sir, care to prove me wrong?”

Vignil stood, rising to an impressive height, though not nearly in the realms of Dako and Farian. “The word for ‘tree’ and the word for ‘thing’ is the same in the ancient language. That is an example of a translation being deficient at providing the full meaning.”

Jasom yawned into his fist. “Not exactly. The issue persists in the original language. There is no loss in translation if the deficiency exists before the conversion.”

Vignil’s nostrils flared, the muscles of his arms flexing. “Such issues of clarity would be rectified by context in the original—”

“As would any translation.”

“Not if the translation is but an excerpt.”

“Again, the problem would exist before the translation. But fine, I grow tired of your excuses.” After a moment of silence, Jasom crossed his arms and said, “Well, I’m waiting.”

Vignil lowered his head, his eyes flickering about in search of an answer. After another few breaths, Jasom waved away his silence and shifted his attention to me. I hadn't considered it at the time, but his choice, to my detriment, was wholly deliberate.

“You there,” he called. “Yes, you good sir. Sir Aki, isn't it? Care to answer?”

My mind floundered through memories, not giving any thought to what these answers I searched for would cost me. “Placement. A placement can be used instead of a verb to illustrate the action. When translated, the action—and in some cases, an appropriate adverb—is added to clarify.”

Jasom nodded, pleased. “Not the clearest of examples, but sufficient enough to illustrate the point. And?”

Sil pinched my thigh under the table. I shot her a look of annoyance, not heeding the warning in her eyes. Too often do the unwise cut away at foresight for triumph.

I turned back to Jasom. “The word for ‘like’, as in being fond of something, though translated as ‘like’ in common practice, is more accurately translated as ‘found’. This says much of what the word means to them and a direct translation losses some of that meaning.”

Jasom clapped his hands together. “Excellent.” He turned to Vignil. “Observe, my dear sir, and learn.”

As I later found, it is never a good idea to tarnish the pride of a Leaf.

As with the first week of each month of our first season, my first week at The Academy was dedicated to subjects of the mundane. I attended classes in mathematics, science, history, and a litany of others. With fewer and fewer of the students choosing to attend, and with Sil and Dako filling my time in between with pleasant and near cheerful company, I found myself the happiest I’d ever been. It was thus, trapped in the complacency contentment brings, where I was taught another lesson in memory. Funny, how ineptly my perfect memory serves me.

The last day of each week was our own. The schedules dictated that we use the time to consolidate the contents of our lessons. None of us, though there might've been one or two studious persons I was not accounting for, used the time in such a manner.

It was the eve before our first free day. Dako and I waited for Sil by the broken statue outside our dorms. We’d gone back to our rooms after a grueling class with Hansool—mundane master of mathematics—to freshen up before touring The Academy.

“He has me questioning my decision to join the Administration Institute,” Dako said. He was shaking his head, dismayed by the boredom we’d suffered.

I smiled at him. It was an expression I was beginning to find more comfortable. “I suppose he takes pride in truly being a master of the mundane.”

Dako laughed, slapping my arm. He didn’t notice me wince in pain. “Ha, yes, a master of the mundane indeed. Another quarter-hour and I’m sure my ears would’ve bled in protest.”

A familiar voice cut through Dako’s laughter. “Administration? I’d heard you’d given up your martial heritage for softer pursuits but who would’ve thought you’d fall so low as to settle your ambitions on shepherding the common rabble.”

Dako’s shift was instant. One moment he was laughing, the next he was as still and cold as a mountain peak. I turned to see Vignil strolling towards us, five of his fellow Leaves with him. Four came up from behind, following his lead. Linus, taking an extra step for every two of Vignil’s, scurried by his side, unwilling to accept the implications of trailing his social peer. Last I’d seen of the petulant Leaf, he was on his knees, bawling against the backdrop of blazing fires, horrid screams, and animalistic cheers.

Dako offered a curt nod to Vignil and another to a rat-faced boy with a receding chin and accented nose.

“Must we continue this endless feud?” Dako asked.

Vignil shrugged. “If you had chosen your friends more wisely, our peace might’ve lasted. As it is, and knowing you, this conceited dungheap”—he waved a hand in my direction, not deigning to look my way—“has guaranteed the restoration of our enmity. I suspect you will attempt to protect him from me?”

Dako offered another curt nod, his eyes hard. “As you said, he is a friend of mine.”

Vignil reacted with another shrug. “Then there is nothing for it.”

Dako rolled his shoulders as if preparing for a fight. He interlocked his fingers and stretched out his arms until his knuckles cracked. “The reasons as to why you think Aki insufferable are the very reasons our enmity will never die, Cousin. So, are you here to act out these intentions of yours?”

Vignil’s smiled. I had seen many wicked expressions in The Muds, from the dissolute licking of lips to callous laughter. Vignil’s casual smile was far more chilling. “I am a Leaf, Dakomir. All I intend for today is a declaration of my intent. You, cousin, are owed that much.”

Linus stepped forward, eager to drag himself into the light of the conversation. “A Branch protecting a Mud against a Leaf? What heresy! Vignil, snap this lowly insect’s neck and be done with it. Even if Dakomir is a Fiora, he is not a Leaf, and so can do naught to stop you. Do not tell me you’ve taken all that babble about our lost status as anything but The Academy trying to tame our god-given rights to act as we so wish.”

Irritation flashed in Vignil’s eyes as he turned to Linus. “What would Uncle Silas say if you killed one of your cousins?”

“He would think nothing of it. Why?”

Vignil sighed. “I guess you’re right. I’d forgotten that all his children were nothing more than byproducts of his lustful experiments. Then imagine what my father would say. Imagine what he would do when I cut away a seedling whose potential very nearly ascended him into the Leaves and yet might.”

“Ahh, I see. I hear Uncle Bainan loves war too much to waste good soldiers on whims alone. Is it true Muraad is still not allowed to heal himself?”

Vignil nodded, then turned to Dako. “You are a stubborn man, Dakomir, but I urge you to reconsider. I will kill the boy for his disrespect. Jasom and he will see death as soon as I can arrange their meeting. Do not stand in the way when the time comes.”

Vignil turned and strode away to the gate, his four Leaves close on his heels. Linus laughed awkwardly at their departure. Though he eventually snubbed the idea of following Vignil’s lead, his feet faltered ever so slightly before taking him back towards the dormitories.

Once they were out of sight, I asked, “Was it me or him?”

Dako turned to me, his eyes still hard. “Was what you or him?”

“The reason you chose to stand between us.”

Dako’s gaze softened and he turned back into that affable giant I was starting to grow fond of. Still, there was a heavy measure of somberness left in him.

“I’ll not lie, Aki,” he said. “I hate Vignil. That is not to say I do not count you a friend, but…”

I smiled, surprising him. “As you are mine, Dako, which is precisely why that answer pleases me. And I understand we do not know each other well enough to be…better friends, though I do hope we are on a path that will lead us there.” A laugh removed the somberness from him. My next question, however, brought much of it back. “Will I escape his rage if I offered him a public and deferential apology? If he is anything like what I suspect Linus to be, enough groveling could very well excuse me.”

Dako shook his head. “Vignil is nothing like Linus. While Linus drowns his talent in decadence, Vignil sharpens his with diligence. Do not judge him for his linguistic ignorance—he, like me, has paid little effort into accruing mundane knowledge, choosing instead to perfect the paths our progenitor approves of the most. Only that man’s displeasure has stopped his hand this day. Nevertheless, Vignil’s ambition is too great to allow such an offense and we’ll both inexorably face the onslaught of his wrath. As much as it hurts me to admit it, fist to fist, I am not his equal.” The sadness in him reminded me of those bleak moments in life where all hope seemed lost and all effort pointless. In that sadness, small as it was, I understood why, despite his lineage, Dako was a man I could call a friend.

I put a hand on his shoulder, my fingers feeling fragile against his dense flesh. “Is that why you seek to harness power by other means?” I asked.

Dako turned his head, unwilling to meet my eyes. I think pity from a Mud would’ve shattered him. He was, after all, still a Branch.

They aimed for Dako first. Lost in his reverie, he was late to react. A fist caught him squarely on the jaw. I was even slower. Someone’s arms snaked under my own, their fingers interlocking against the back of my neck. I flailed against the hold, my sensus refusing my call and causing panic to set in. I’d known it’d been blocked but my instincts were a stubborn sort.

Another two came up from behind me and pounced on Dako. Dako kicked out, sending his first opponent stumbling backward. He struck the second’s throat with the outside edge of his hand, then ducked under the swing of the third.

My opponent pushed me to the ground and I no longer knew how Dako fared. Part of me was glad. His plight was distracting me from mine.

My forehead hit the cobbled stone, rushing pain down my temples, along my jaw, and into my teeth. I lost a second there. When I regained my senses, something long since locked away came rushing out. It wasn’t anger, though that came in abundance. It was the pure ferocity of my early youth where I’d been taught not the intricacies of combat, but the savagery of survival.

I stopped flailing and reached behind me, my thumbs trying to find eyes to dig into. The boy on my back leaned back and craned his neck to the side. It allowed me enough room to latch my teeth onto his forearm, breaking skin and digging into flesh. The bite hurt him as much as it hurt me. Pain shot into where my thoughts lived, blurring my vision. Still, when he loosened his grip, I had enough presence and will to dig my teeth into him again, finding the softer, less muscle-bound flesh nearer his wrist. This earned me a hammer fist to the side of my face, dislodging my teeth. I took a part of him with me. Another fist came down on the back of my head and the world flashed.

When I came to, I was on my back, the taste of blood in my mouth, the chunk of meat I’d bitten off lying beside me covered in my spit. A pale boy with dark, shoulder-length hair and thin eyes stood five paces from me, his hand clamped to his bleeding wrist.

The wild beast in me roared. It came out as a bubbling growl that sputtered from the back of my throat and spat out flecks of blood. The boy’s eyes widened and he scrambled back, floundering as he turned and ran.

Pushing to my feet, I cast a sweeping gaze that nearly put me back down. A score of students had gathered. I knew a few more watched us from the dorm windows. The spell of dizziness faded. I saw Dako sitting atop one of his opponents, his knees pinning down the boy's arms as fists hailed down a flurry of blows. His two other assailants were limping away. Mine fell in behind them.

I saw Sil next. She rushed down the steps of the dorms towards Dako. I had never seen concern on a royal’s face before. A surge of jealousy urged me to hate my handsome friend. I shook the thought away before it could take root.

My vision went black. The next thing I remember is a voice asked me a question. I turned to it.

“Can you walk?” Sil asked. She said it as though she was repeating herself. She probably was.

I looked down, woozy but still upright. “Yes.” As if to deny my claim, the world spun and my balance betrayed me. Oblivion took me before my body hit the ground.