Rebel Elements (Seals of the Duelists) (36 page)

Panting, Bayan stood up and slid his hands from the magical stone, which closed up behind them. Across the arena, his hexmates cheered and whooped, jumping up and down in the first row of seats. He raised a tired hand in acknowledgment.

“An excellent casting of Tegen’s Grave, Bayan,” came Mikellen’s voice, muffled inside her stone coffin. “You can let me out now; I’ve examined it quite thoroughly in here.”

Bayan released the spell.

Mikellen kipped to her feet, looking only faintly damp at the temples after her long battle with Bayan. She gave him a smiling nod. “Impressive. And innovative, using Sandstorm’s Earthcast on airborne sand. That’s a battle-spell if ever I saw one.”

“Battle-spell?” Bayan asked, as the two of them crossed the arena toward the rest of Bayan’s hex.

“Practical in a fight.”

They reached the others. Mikellen said, “You’ve all done very well in my class this semester. I haven’t spoken to the other instructors, but I can tell you that you’ve all passed your Earth Elemental class. Congratulations. Now, you all look like you’re about to fall asleep where you stand, in spite of those smiles. Go rest and relax. You’ll hear from the headmaster tomorrow.”

“That was amazing, Bayan,” Calder said as they headed toward the arena tunnel. “Earthcast Sandstorm and Tegen’s Grave! I still have a hard time with that spell. How did you get it to work so smoothly?”

“Cross your arms while you jump. It builds more Earth into the spell and makes the snap of the coffin happen much more quickly. Less time to counter it.”

“Instructor Mikellen has told us that more than once, Calder,” Kiwani said. “You should consider lighting some firedust inside your ears so all that earwax melts away.”

Calder gave Kiwani a couple of prods on the back and turned to Bayan, a look of mock confusion on his face. “Did she just make a joke at my expense? I think her spine might actually be bendable now.”

Kiwani snorted. “You all were right. A duelist is what I am. In fact, it’s
all
I am. I need to embrace that. I know I’ve not been the sort of person you really got along with before now, but Bayan’s right about us needing each other. That’s what hexes are all about. And I need you. More now than ever.”

Tarin gave her a tight hug. “And you have us. You always have, even when you dinna want us.”

Kiwani hugged her back. “Thank you.”

Eward grinned hugely. “Now this, this is a hex!”

Bayan, tired, sore, and triumphant, threw an arm over Calder’s and Eward’s shoulders. “This is
our
hex. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s the best thing in the whole empire. Except my next meal. Race you to the kitchens!”

~~~

Qivinga stood on the wide sea porch, enveloped by the windy darkness. Anuq stood by her side, silent. She stared toward the foaming waves, searching for movement against the faint white lines of froth. A natural stone cliff held the house above the reach of even the stormiest waves.

In the past, Qivinga had learned to enjoy watching the sea with Kobus. While he saw it as a threat to be overcome with stronger ships, she reveled in its wild, unfettered beauty and drew as much of its spirit into her soul as she could.

Tonight, though, she finally understood Kobus’ fears. The angry water god the Raqtaaq believed dwelt beneath the waters might reject the animal sacrifices she’d drowned to placate him. And if the Godsmaw did not deliver her men safely, all would be for naught. Yet she remained hopeful, for the sea had been calm for many days, at least in Muggenhem.

A slender, dark shape emerged from the darkness and nosed forward among the swells. Qivinga’s heartbeat quickened. “They’re here!”

Anuq stayed outside, holding a lantern on a pole, while Qivinga hurried into the house to awaken her staff and chivvy them outside into the chill wind. Together, she and a dozen servants tramped down the steps carved into the short cliff and out onto the narrow strip of beach.

Qivinga clutched a woolen wrap close around her shoulders, watching from a distance as her servants helped pull the strange-looking craft from the waves. Two pairs of wooden struts arced from each side of the main craft, supporting slender pontoons. They and the main boat section were disguised by debris above the waterline, so that the craft appeared as separate pieces of flotsam.

Men climbed from the low hull, moving slowly with muscles stiff from their long journey. They set their oars on the sand and began to haul out large packs of equipment and supplies. Qivinga’s servants lent their aid, and soon the catamaran was empty.

“Destroy it,” Qivinga ordered. “Saw it into fragments and store it in the woodshed.”

The leader of the men approached and knelt before her in the sand. His hair was dark and wet in the braid that lay down his back.

“Starflower, Tuq has willed that we arrive safely. We are ready to fulfill the remainder of our mission at the allotted hour. It is a blessing to see your honored self once more, and to hear the fading language of our people flow proudly from your lips.”

“What is your name, brave one?”

“My mother styled me Hahliq, Starflower.”

“Rise then, Hahliq, and take your ease inside. All of you are most welcome,” she added, raising her voice.

She led the way back up the steps, feeling for the first time like the true mistress of the house. Her dining parlor was full for the first time in her memory as her little army—servants, spy, and warriors—brushed against the light green silk walls and crowded around the fine wooden table beneath the iron chandelier.

The grizzled Tuathi spoke only a few words of Tilaa; the young Waarden man was fluent, but spoke with an accent. The Aklaa warriors passed the communal dishes of otter and saltfish to the two foreigners easily enough, but they conversed mainly among themselves.

As well they should
. She studied the Waarden Emperor’s older brother. He bore the same curls, the same broad brow and studious eyes, yet Caspar’s face also carried the unmistakable inner scars of abandonment and betrayal. Before Qivinga could begin to identify with him, however, she clapped her hands and called in her ladies.

They arrived, each bearing a chilled flask beaded with condensation. At everyone’s elbow sat a silver cup into which the ladies poured a small amount of dark liquid.

Qivinga raised hers, smiling in triumph. This moment was just the start of their plans. “Drink, my brothers,” she commanded, standing at the end of the table. “Let us taste victory in the way of our ancestors.”

She tossed back her cup, letting the cold, salty fluid run down the back of her tongue.

The Aklaa men knocked back the drink in a single motion. Even the Tuathi downed it without hesitation. But Caspar, unfamiliar with the ritual, merely took a hefty sip, then choked, spraying reddish fluid onto his platter.

Kuvi laughed and pounded Caspar’s shoulder as he coughed. “The Waarden, they never were cannibalistic.”

“What?” asked Caspar between choking gasps.

Qivinga flared her nostrils. “We celebrate victory and our continued living by drinking the blood of our victims, young Caspar. Normally we mix it with a fresh stream, but here we have only the Godsmaw.”

“Whose was it?”

“My husband’s.”

Caspar’s face greened, but Qivinga ignored him. He was Waarden. He was prey.

“Eat and rest, my brothers. You are safe here. The Waarden were foolish enough to shun me because of where I came from, and have not set foot on these grounds in years. You shall not be disturbed until Tuq’s day.”

Between large bites of food, Hahliq and Kuvi, his second-in-command, thanked her for her sheltering hospitality. She smiled fondly at them. Having her countrymen surround her table felt nearly as good as being home as a girl, with her brother and cousins around her.

Nearly.

Nothing could ever replace that idyllic time in her memories. It was gone forever and would never return. She could never walk the stone halls of her father’s palace, or run barefoot, splashing through his decorative fountains while her handmaidens darted around the edges, cajoling her to come down before he found out.

The smell of the soil during prayers had never left her heart, though her nose had been filled with salt every day here in Muggenhem.
One day, I will smell it again. Soil and blood, and I will be free.

“What did you pick for your flag symbol?” Calder asked Bayan and Eward as they left the barracks for the Hall of Seals.

“Wait and see.” Bayan distractedly folded up the letter from Surveyor Philo, which said the eunuch was handling things. “It’s supposed to be a surprise anyway.”

“Don’t be a wet fuse, Bayan. I’m just curious what all our flags will look like when they’re together. They say it’s good luck if we get all six colors from the Seal.”

Bayan frowned. When he’d gone to the campus Flagmaster before final exams started, he hadn’t known about the six-colors tradition. He’d chosen a design that had ratcheted up the Flagmaster’s eyebrows. He hadn’t cared then, but he hadn’t considered how his own hex would react, either.

The five hex members entered the campus-side door of the Hall of Seals, stepping into the large room with the benches and the dais. All six elemental instructors were present, each sitting in the front row of their color-coded bench sections. All of the other hexes in the class had come, and sat scattered throughout the benches. Many other staff members were there, too. Gerrolt sat in the Wood section, with the cooks who gave Bayan scraps to feed Bituin. Joos de Rood was there, sitting in the row behind Tjaard Staasen. The meditation instructors sat behind Wekshi in the Wind section. Even Doc Theo and Diantha had come; they sat with Mikellen. A double handful of villager students had popped in out of curiosity. And way in the back row of the Shock benches, Bayan spotted Taban Solahan, who slouched and rested his feet on the top of the bench in front of him.

On the circular dais stood Headmaster Langlaren. He invited Bayan’s hex to stand next to him. Bayan had mixed feelings about being in that room as he followed the others onto the dais. His first experience in there hadn’t been pleasant, but as he’d come in for celebratory meetings over the course of his stay, his experiences improved. This, he hoped, would be the best experience he ever had in here, for it would mean they’d all passed.

“Honored guests,” the headmaster began, “I present to you the Earth-level Elemental Duelist hopefuls. They have trained very hard, as have all our students. Yet, I regret to say that this hex cannot pass to the next rank as a whole, for one of the students has failed.”

Bayan felt a stab of worry in his gut. He looked at the others and saw his fear mirrored in their eyes.

“I speak of Diogenes Essendorp, sixth member of the hex, missing forever due to a foolish accident. Every semester, we lose at least one student from every class. This hex has lost Diogenes. They are incomplete without his presence.

“However, the good news is that all five remaining students have passed their Elemental Duelist exams, and have done so as the first hex of the semester. Kiwani t’Eshkin, Calder Micarron, Eward Raalgat, Tarin Hajellis, and Bayan Lualhati, it is my privilege to welcome you all to the rank of Elemental Duelist, and to the official employment of the empire. You may all report to the Marksman for your rank tattoos tomorrow.”

The watching audience clapped and whistled. Bayan noticed that the instructors clapped the hardest. In the back, Taban didn’t clap at all, but Bayan thought he saw a nod of respect.

“As Elemental Duelists, you may remain here at the Academy as long as you continue to advance in training, but as we are all aware, not everyone who reaches Elemental rank achieves Avatar rank as well. Thus, the Academy has instituted Talent Tournaments to showcase your skills in the event you do not advance further. You’ll compete in three days’ worth of skill duels with your hexmates in a city or town assigned by the Duelism Office, in the hopes of making an impression on the community surrounding the selected duel den and encouraging them to bid for your placement once you top out. Your Talent Tournament assignment will be decided in a few days’ time.

“Right now, however, it’s time for the presentation of the duelists’ flags,” the headmaster continued. “Flagmaster, if you will.”

He stepped backward into the center of the dais. From the outer edge of the circle of benches, the wizened old flag maker came down an aisle, bearing five shoulder-high staves, each with a fire-hardened point at the bottom and a narrow wooden cylinder attached to the top. Bayan had the oddest impression that Flagmaster carried undersized firedust rockets. The old man checked his tags and handed the staves to their new owners.

“These flags have been certified as unique among all living duelists,” the old flag maker said. “They will represent you for the rest of your lives. Duelists, present your flags.”

Kiwani, at the far end of the line, pulled the iron tab in the cylinder atop her stave. Out slid a square of dyed and waxed cloth, sewn to a length of wire at its top edge. The flag fully extended at Kiwani’s tug, and a small catch clicked into place, holding the decorated fabric open for all to see. The audience clapped politely as Kiwani held it up for view. Her design resembled a swirled version of the Elemental Seal that hung on the wall at the back of the room, except that Kiwani’s had only five color wedges: dark red, yellow, light brown, dark brown, and black.