Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (10 page)

Once again, it seemed like a nice thing to say. Then came that familiar smirk painting Piter’s face, and Arek knew he was being ridiculed. His face grew hot from a flush of anger. Even though competition between apprentices was tolerated, at times even encouraged, it seemed Piter had a special dislike for him. What frustrated Arek more than Piter’s arrogance, was that deep down inside he knew Piter was one of the more gifted apprentices on the Isle. When given the chance, Piter would certainly earn the black uniform to mark him as having passed from initiate to adept.

Arek was not so confident of his own chances. Truth be told, he didn’t know why he was even on the list to test. In his opinion, he was far from ready. He stared at his notes, anger still clenching his jaw. Then, his ability to concentrate ruined, he gathered his notes and left the library. The confrontation with Master Kisan’s apprentice was the perfect interruption to what was becoming a truly pointless day.

Walking down the wide hallways, he made his way to the Hall of Apprentices. Divided into three levels, the lowest was a large area for the newest arrivals. Arek wove in and out of the small cots placed side by side, trying to get through quickly. The last thing he wanted now was to get waylaid by some youngster full of questions.

He rounded one bed, promptly smacked his toe into a footlocker, and fell. Out spilled school supplies and a white robe. He sat there for a moment, clutching his foot, his eyes watering. Massaging the pain out with a hand, he looked about the isolated carnage he’d wrought, then began grabbing things. He put everything back, knowing it didn’t look as neat and orderly as before, but better than it did a moment ago. New candidates would spend many years here, learning mathematics, reading, and writing. No sense in ruining someone else’s day because of his clumsiness.

Getting back to his feet, he brushed himself off and continued through the Hall. He still remembered where his cot had been and often checked up on its newest occupant, a small girl named Lissah. He did not see her as he passed, and silently thanked the Lady. He didn’t have the patience just then to sit down and engage in a conversation with that talkative little girl, barely eight summers old. He limped over to the stairwell, shaking his foot to lessen his toe’s throbbing, and made his way gingerly up.

The next level was dedicated to the intermediate apprentices, or “Greens,” those who were selected to stay after a rigorous testing of both basic skills and magical potential. They slept three to a room, offering a little more privacy than that of the Whites.

Greens studied the basics of the Way, armed combat, and a multitude of herbs, medicines, and other techniques for healing the sick and injured. They also began learning more complex mathematical concepts, for the instructors seemed to believe the Way was strongest in a logically trained mind. While Arek had learned quite a bit, he still couldn’t see the connection.

These Greens did not learn anything but the most rudimentary of fatigue-banishing spells, nor fight with anything but wooden weapons. They would stay Greens for as many years as it took to earn them the right to move on. No apprentice knew how long he or she would train at any level, and no promises were made that they would ever advance. When the right time came and their instructors felt they were ready, they traded in their uniforms of green and donned close-fitting dark brown ones, moving themselves up to the third level of the hall.

Each Brown slept in his own room and carried the responsibility of teaching the rudiments of mathematics, reading, and writing, as well as the basics of combat and magic to those below them. Arek himself conducted two classes in blade combat, a beginner’s course in mathematics, and an advanced course in multi-opponent combat strategy. In this way Browns kept their knowledge up to date, as they could be called upon anytime to teach Whites or Greens.

Browns also began rudimentary efforts at combining their combat training with magic. They learned the same spells, though of much less power, that they would use as full adepts. Their primary focus was to learn to create a path to the Way and sustain it. It took intense concentration at first, but as with all things, became easier as students practiced and time passed. Eventually the council recommended the more promising of these initiates to take the Test of Ascension and be recognized once they passed as a full adept of the council.

Unfortunately, the intervening years after the King’s Law had been enacted had seen fewer and fewer children with Talent born in the land. Fewer still found their way to safety from the Magehunters and whatever else preyed on those newly born to the Way. Many children disappeared into the rifts: unexplainable events never hinting about their appearance, and over the years growing more frequent.

The result had been a slow dwindling of students to teach and masters to teach them. These six adepts and the hundred or so students were the only ones left to carry on the knowledge and learning of a once proud and powerful Order. It also didn’t help that passing the Test to become an adept was extremely difficult, even if one were strong with the Way.

Arek’s knowledge of the Test was hazy at best and subject to the rumors that inevitably filtered throughout the school. If half of those rumors were true, becoming an adept required ludicrous feats of power, like slaying an elder dragon. Yet Arek didn’t doubt masters Silbane or Kisan could do something as legendary if necessary.

However, every student who aspired to don the black uniform knew one fact. They knew they were an adept when they heard their true name uttered for the first time. It came to them as they Ascended to the rank of adept, whispered on the wind, and with it came their power.

Arek continued his climb up to the third level. He paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, listening. He did not want to meet up with any of the other Browns, least of all Piter, who had a habit of inexplicably showing up at the most inopportune times, like in the library. Making his way to his door, he eased it open, careful not to make too much noise. Then he closed the door behind him and plopped down on his bed, staring out the window. To be an adept had been Arek’s dream since he had first begun his training.

He did not remember much of his life before the Isle. What he did remember came as brief flashes, a feeling, or a smell. He recalled someone with a gruff voice, and the smell of fresh cut leaves. Arek remembered a feeling like stone against his skin, but colored a strange blue and warm to the touch, as if alive.

They said he had been found by Master Silbane on the east side of Neverthere Bay, abandoned in the forest near Winters Thorn. For this reason the name “Winterthorn” became his last, shared with the other orphan of that same forest, Piter. Now, nearing the date of what he had adopted as his seventeenth birthday, he had spent all his life on Meridian Isle.

In all that time, he thought, I have yet to see any example of my power. Negating magic seemed to be the only evidence he could do anything at all. Every student learned minor spells, like how to clean dirt off their clothes, stay warm, heat water, or clear dust. These were necessary to help with upkeep and chores. Arek, however, could not even cast the simplest enchantment. It didn’t help his self-esteem that even Lissah, the little White of eight years old, could do more than he could.

The most perplexing thing about his time at the Isle was that he had been formally apprenticed to Master Silbane before becoming an initiate. This was an honor supposedly reserved for only the most gifted of students, such as Piter, whom Master Kisan had apprenticed when he was just a Green.

Arek was sure the only reason he had been apprenticed so early was because he was a danger to other students. Of course they would want him looked after, to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone else. He shook his head and pushed open the glass pane, breathing in the cool sea air that rushed in.

His room, much like any of the others on this level, was sparsely decorated, one wall dedicated to a bookshelf crowded with training manuals and texts he had accumulated with the passage of time. A small washbasin and mirror stood against the wall between his bed and the bookshelf. In the far corner stood a small sword stand holding his
bohkir,
a two-handed wooden practice sword, the handle worn smooth and dark with years of practice and sweat. At least in that, he knew he had some talent.

When he held his sword, a state of calmness came over him, a peace he could not explain. He had heard some other Greens say they dreaded combat. That made no sense to him. Why learn a martial discipline, but not wish to use it? It was like being a great swimmer, but not wanting to swim. The entire illogic of it frustrated him, and he tended to deal with those students who were afraid to fight more harshly than those who were clearly eager to test themselves, blade against blade.

Arek rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling. His ability to disrupt magic had been a constant annoyance in his life. More than once, he had ruined his study partner’s experimental conjuration in class, or caused an instructor’s example to go awry.

He knew Piter wasn’t the only one who called him a jinx. He was bad luck on anyone trying to cast a spell and as a result, rarely chosen as a partner for any schoolwork. Rarer still was being asked to participate in the festivals marking many of the most joyous times of year. Who wanted someone who could ruin an evening with a touch? Only Master Silbane seemed to care about him. Arek rolled onto his stomach and sighed. Some days, he thought sullenly, it just did not make sense to get out of bed.

Laughter drifted up from the courtyard, pulling his gaze. Sitting up, he braced his elbows on the windowsill and watched as two apprentices squared off for a game of
rhan’dori.
One he recognized immediately as Jesyn, her slight frame hidden beneath her leather combat uniform. In her right hand, she carried her bohkir, glowing faintly blue as she concentrated her magical power through the wooden blade.

This slight conjuration helped to teach each apprentice how to channel their power, and served as part of the rhan’dori rules. Whatever part of the body the blade touched would become temporarily immobile, paralyzed by the magic channeled in the wood. Unconsciousness was the result of a strike to the head. Arek often wondered what color his bohkir would glow if he could channel power the way his friends could.

The paralyzing effect channeled into the bohkir served another important purpose. Injuries were kept to a minimum since the victor was clear. It made the blade work easier to follow and learn from, as each blade would leave behind a quickly dissipating colored trail in the air. Instructors could then reconjure the trails and walk the students through the fight, showing where a strike or block was correct, or out of place. When two evenly matched opponents paired, the cuts and parries often painted an intricate image of their struggle that was beautiful to behold.

Arek didn’t recognize Jesyn’s opponent until he shrugged off his cloak and raised his bohkir, glowing purple in the fading light. That would be Piter. Even as he watched, Piter’s sword flashed brighter for a moment, an obvious sign he was channeling more power into the wooden blade, either to lighten it or to increase its speed.

Piter was always showing off, in one way or another. Arek grimaced at the thought. Even as the flash faded, the two combatants grabbed their swords in both hands and moved toward each other, measuring stance and pace. Soon the sounds of their blocks and parries echoed from the circle, along with the occasional cheer from one group of students or another, each supporting their favorite.

The game of rhan’dori was as ancient as the council itself, and Arek had heard rumor that it was part of the Test of Ascension. At the time a student became a Green, he or she began learning the basics of sword and spell. By the time the student was ready for Ascension, they would have gained enough knowledge to blend these two disciplines together.

Part of every formal test before Black was the rhan’dori, where a student faced multiple opponents. Only by successfully defending themselves and defeating their opponents with controlled killing strikes, could a student pass.

Of course, these were against real people. Arek had no idea what one faced when testing for the Black. The mark of a true master was to use nothing at all. They had trained to a point where their very bodies were honed as weapons. Arek assumed the Test of Ascension would be fought unarmed.

And he certainly would not be required to kill anyone. That would be an unsustainable way to advance the teachings, for it called for losing someone gifted with Talent at each test. Furthermore, he reminded himself, believing the rhan’dori was part of the final test was still purely conjecture, as no one except the one being Ascended and the adepts witnessed anything. Only they had an idea of what was required, and no one talked about their test after it concluded.

Those who failed their first attempt, and this seemed to be almost everyone, were unable or unwilling to voice any recollection of the test itself. They claimed they remembered everything, but just couldn’t speak it aloud. It was likely, Arek thought, that they took a Binding Oath that prevented them from speaking.

A few, a very few, were never seen or heard from again. The other students whispered that these unfortunate souls had failed and as a result, died. The thought brought a certain fervor to their training, for no student took the chance their life might be forfeit due to laziness.

One thing was clear. If they failed and survived, it was not considered a mark against them. They were encouraged to continue teaching classes, their knowledge invaluable to the younger students, until such a time when they were ready to test again. Strangely, very few ever did, and most left the Isle within a year.

Arek also reminded himself, being at the Brown rank did not mean one was not formidable. Indeed, Browns were accomplished and deadly fighters, dangerous to the extreme. Arek had once heard Adept Dragor say he worried more about facing Browns than adepts, because they would try anything, with little regard to their own safety.