AKI:

  I stepped onto the arena barefooted. The stone was cold beneath my feet. I tried to let the cold creep into me, to let it cool the heat and sweat of my trepidation and slow the thumping of my heart. My opponent was an unknown. Not a Leaf candidate, I knew. There was something about a Leaf’s aura, a sort of indescribable heaviness, as though the juices of their souls, stifled by their bodily anchor, leaked out of their pores.

  A week and a day had passed since the new cycle started. I’d forgone the company of my friends to complete my offered challenge for the month. They, in turn, went in search of their own opponents. Dako and Sil were safe, I knew. As was Malorey, though I had less reason to worry over her in the first place—we had gotten closer, but not nearly in the realms of the friendship I’d come to share with Dako and Sil. Wiltos was a different story. He’d lost his first battle. And to a relatively weak Tripler, no less.

  Dawdling reduced the pool of willing opponents. Even actively searching, I did not meet mine until a turn before I was to meet with Mistress Brittle. Time. Another worry I had to contend with.

  Julow kin Ileye was a Seculor of House Silas, gaunt like a man who had a purely practical relationship with sustenance. Hailing from Partum, he was not from our dormitory—word of my victory over Froxil had spread, and few who knew me were likely to accept my challenge.

  Julow’s teeth lengthened. Sourceless thews wrapped about his frame. His mouth and jaw grew to accommodate his new, sharp, wet fangs. Hair sprouted. The mop atop his head grew wilder, the dull gold mane falling to the small of his back. Claws replaced nails. Extra joints formed along his arms and legs and fingers. He dropped to all fours, his posture animalistic. Unnatural, even. He was an Alchemist. An Arcanist. Unnatural was their forte.

  The flag dropped.

  I went for his soul. The remnants of a horde of evolved beasts stood against my sensus. Souls he’d ransacked and spliced together manifested before him in outlines of what they had once looked like. I put my training to use. A two-weave matrix wrapped around the thick root all my Tunnels sprang from. This matrix was the bedrock of Tunneller Arts, one to make my obscure my Tunnels against sensight.

  Tendrils flew towards Julow. His stolen power stood in my way, a coagulating mass of bestial sensus. Even as the souls blocked my attacks, Julow galloped towards me, his form flowing like water. I tried another angle. Again, the creatures got in my way. Julow smiled. I tried again and saw his amber eyes follow the trajectory of my attack moments before the outline of his horde moved to intercept my Tunnels.

  Just my luck; Julow’s sensight was somehow being enhanced by his Alchemical Arts.

  It did not matter.

  He was close now. Two more loping strides put him in range. I pulled my Tunnels back and threw them all to his left. They dragged his attention there. I threw myself in the opposite direction.

  My fist took him in the jaw. Bone shattered. Fangs snapped and fell out. They shifted back into human teeth upon clattering to the cold stone of the arena. He wobbled, dazed. I did not waste the opportunity.

  ***

  “You are an enigma.”

  I looked up from my meal to find Samiel rocking on his feet as he watched me. The rat-faced godling wore his vulpine smile, undercurrents of an almost innocent curiosity drowned out by the callousness he so openly exuded.

  “I have a love-hate relationship with puzzles,” he announced. “I love indecipherable conundrums yet hate to leave them unsolved. It is an infuriating combination.”

  “I’m a puzzle, am I?”

  “Indeed you are.” His lips stretched, and the sharp crescent of his smile was a danger of its own. “A rather confounding puzzle.”

  “And you wish to unravel the mystery?”

  He nodded, eager as can be, as though my question had somehow endorsed his desire.

  I gestured to the seat across from me. “I suspect you have more to say. You are welcome to join me if you so wish.”

  Samiel waved over a servant and took the seat I’d indicated. “So, are you a product of incest?”

  I nearly spat out the food I’d just spooned into my mouth. After some tightlipped coughing, I wiped away the few grains that had escaped onto my face and looked up at the amused Fiora. “Incest?”

  He waved my question away. “I thought as much. Besides being an utterly boring revelation, no son or daughter of Bainan would stoop so low as to bed a Lorail. Although…” He took on a thoughtful pose and looked off into the distance, two fingers tapping his cheek. A shudder broke his contemplation. “Whatever punishment they’d face for such a heinous sin would surely be anything but boring.”

  The servant approached. Samuel pointed at my meal and said, “I’ll have whatever he's having, only half as much as what he has left.” In a whisper, he added, “The glutton eats almost as much as my brothers do.”

  “Does Vignil know you are here?”

  Samiel snorted. “Much as he likes to think me his underling, I’m not. His penchant for making enemies and his otherwise entertaining comportment are the only reasons I offer him my company. Be that as it may, the man doesn’t care about you, per se, just how he might bring about your death and heal the wound to his reputation your continued existence brings about.”

  “The new moon cycle is only days away.”

  Samiel’s smile turned into a smirk. “It is.”

  “Are you to be my opponent?”

  “And if I was?”

  “I’d ask how you can refute being his underling while following his commands.”

  Samiel shook his head. “If I were to face you, I’d do so because I find you interesting. Your display of Duros Arts did not make you interesting, just more so. I’ve wanted to spar with you ever since I first laid eyes on you. A Mud-turned-Heartwood who has the look of a Fiora? It’d be strange if I weren’t curious.”

  The servant returned and laid out Samiels’ simple yet hearty meal.

  Samiel held up his bowl and sniffed at its contents. He nodded approvingly, took a bite, and then hummed his appreciation. “I had never thought to try such a… quaint supper. Perhaps I ought to try commoner cuisine more often.”

  “So,” I began, “will you or won’t you?”

  Samiel took another bite and shook his head. “I’m afraid my brother doesn’t care to take any more chances.”

  “And what of my rights of refusal?”

  “For all that he seems simpleminded, Vignil is not the mindless brute he portrays to be. He may be rash, unreasonable, and all too eager to emulate our father, but for all that, and not unlike our father, he is rather astute. I trust he’ll find a way.”

  “You’re afraid of him,” I accused.

  Samiel laughed a little, the sound so breathy that it barely qualified as a laugh. “Because I do not fight him for the right to face you? No, little lamb, I do not find you worth the cost. He, however, does. Besides, one way or another, Vignil will draw out more of your skill, and that, my dear Mud-turned-Heartwood, is the chief reason I wish to face you in the first place.”

  I recounted a memory that seemed ages past but was only a little over a year ago. “A friend once told me, ‘Cost is a matter of sacrifice; price is a matter of value.’”

  “Indeed. Your friend sounds to be a fount of wisdom.”

  “Vignil will try to kill me,” I said. “He might.”

  “He will,” Samiel corrected. “So?”

  “A mystery is far harder to unravel when its source is dead.”

  “As I said, you aren’t worth the cost. Much as I hate unsolved puzzles, I loathe the coin flip my life will balance upon if I so choose to stand against Vignil. Though my half-brother is not my superior, nor am I his.”

  I got to my feet, ready to depart. Mistress Brittle did not care for tardiness. “Very well. Then I bid you farewell.”

  “Ah, come now, one or two more questions. I feel you’ve bested me in this conversation. If you leave now, you’ll rob me of the chance to draw even.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to forfeit victory?”

  He shrugged. “I was hoping to pull on your sense of fairness. I hear commoners are incorrigibly more susceptible to such notions.”

  Feeling a little insulted, I leaned in close. “Whoever said I was a commoner?”

  He was still laughing when I exited the refectory.

  ***

  I’d met Zo’el on my third outing into the city, a week before our first monthly fees were due. Dako, Sil, and I had been fruitlessly searching for any word on Uorago. We had tried to speak to Svelok’s associates. None entertained our questions without needing to be convinced. We managed, however; violence can be mighty persuasive. But in the end, the only reactions we observed were befuddled silence or unconvincing lies. We ventured ever further, delving into the seedier parts of Discipulus. Still, we met with little success.

  Then, one day, I met Zo’el. That in itself was a sort of success.

  Our search had taken us to the city's northern reaches where many of Discipulus’s Roots resided. One of the smugglers we’d found near the docks had said there was an information broker by the name of Finicky who operated in those parts. There was, and he was a broker, just not of information. The only truth the squat and oily man possessed was his naked cowardice.

  As we’d made our way out of his place, a commotion broke out in the center of the street. A woman of average height with a worn-out rag tied about her hair stood facing a bald fellow with black tattoos snaking up and around his burly arms. He stood beside his cart, picking at his crooked teeth with a dagger, a boot resting on a wooden crate.

  “Think twice,” the woman said.

  “Or what?” The man countered.

  Zo’el jabbed the man in the throat. His blunt knife slipped from his grasp, cutting a thin line of blood down his chin. He fell back, both hands on his throat as he struggled to breathe.

  “Or that.” Zo’el stepped forward and picked up the crate. With it over one shoulder, she reached into the pocket of her oversized coat and threw a silver coin at the man’s head. “Here’s your payment. You’ll not be seeing me again. I’ll be finding another source.”

  My monetary woes had not strayed far from my thoughts. At the mention of ‘payment’ and the sound of the glass vials in the crate clinking together as she stalked off, I hurried after her. My friends followed me without question.

  I caught her as she slipped into a narrow alleyway and jerked to a stop. She stood a few steps away, peering at me, all but the lower half of her face darkened by deep shadows.

  “Do I know you, boy?” She looked behind me as my friends rounded the turn. “Or you two?”

  I raised empty hands, palms facing her. “Not yet. I wondered how you might feel about me becoming your new source?”

  “Source?”

  Slowly, I lowered one of my hands and pointed at the crate she’d placed down to the side. “Healing tinctures.”

  “You’re an Alchemist, then?” Her eyes scanned me from head to toe and back again. “Second cycle, if your uniform is anything to go by. Hmm, perhaps. Your wares will likely be too expensive for me. Certainly, they will be before the season is over. Desperate, are you?” The question showed a better understanding of The Academy than most.

  “I am,” I admitted.

  “Very well.” She sheathed the dagger she’d hidden in the loose sleeve of her coat. “How much?”

  “First, tell me what you’d use them for.”

  Zo’el shrugged. “Does it matter?

  “Maybe. I don’t know yet.”

  “Not much of a secret. I’m an ascended Root.”

  When she didn’t add anything, I glanced back at my friends. They were as confused as I was.

  “And?” I asked, turning back to her.

  Zo’el snorted. “Fucking godlings. Not all Roots live to serve you people, you know? Some of us ascend to serve others less… fortunate.” I had a feeling that wasn’t the word she wanted to use.

  “You give them to Muds?” I asked.

  Zo’el tensed as if readying for violence. “Is that a problem?”

  “For free?” I asked. She glared. I raised my hands a little higher. “No, not a problem at all. Far from it.”

  “So, how much?”

  “How much can you afford?”

  “What can I afford, or what am I willing to pay?”

  “What can you afford?” I repeated.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve never known a godling to be generous.”

  “I’ve never known a Root to care about Muds, yet here we both stand.”

  She watched me closely, then ran her gaze over Dako and Sil. “You lot from House Bainan?”

  I jerked my thumb in Dako’s direction. “He is.”

  “And you two?” She pointed at me and Sil.

  “What’s your name?” I countered.

  “Zo’el.”

  “Aki.”

  She frowned. “Aki?”

  “Yes.”

  “No Aki bin this or other?”

  “Au Farian, actually.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she took another close look at Sil and Dako. “You expect me to believe you’re a Root?”

  “A Heartwood, though I suppose I’m nothing until I graduate.”

  For the first time, Zo’el smiled. The lines it drew on her face were deep from use. “Interesting. You may call me Zo.” She looked over my shoulders at Dako and Sil, one at a time. “They’ll call me Zo’el. Or Miss. Their choice.”

  ***

  It was the first day of a new moon. I’d avoided Vignil that morning using a trick I’d not be allowed to use again. A handful of students had witnessed me sneaking out of my window and over the back wall, and one of them had surely informed my aggressor. But more than Vignil’s vigilance, my self-worth banished any thought of repeating the cowardly act, the shame too much for me to bear a second time. It was, as such, with pride stoking the coals of humiliation in my chest, a lousy day until fortune pushed opportunity onto my path. She came in the shape of a godling. I knew her; she did not know me. That and my mood decided my choice. I suppose the memory of when I’d last seen her had a little to do with it, too. Of her invading a mind. Of the Root’s tears. Of her forcing him to grovel at her feet.

  I changed direction midstride.

  “Where are you going,” Malorey said, the first words she’d spoken to me since we’d left behind the summer-intermediate field. Failure wears on your mood much like muck wears on your boots, and with the sweat of my shame adding to the fuel, my mood was altogether sour.

  I did not reply. My eyes were fixed on the godling. Two men accompanied her, both low-standing godlings—besides, the darker shades of their hair, my advancing talent in detecting auras, and the long year I’d spent amidst their ranks were beginning to afford me an accurate sense of these things. They chatted like godlings are taught they ought to: primly, their conversation filled with fake laughs and stiff gestures that meant both everything and nothing. All three looked my way when they saw I did not intend to walk past them.

  “Good day,” the shorter of the two men said. He was smaller than my target, too. Average, really. It was just that my target was tall for a female Tripler. I reckoned she had some Golodanian in her, enough for the height but not so much as to have inherited their ugly bulk.

  “Good day,” I said. “Excuse my interruption, but I wondered if I might be so bold as to steal the lady’s attention for a time.”

  Malorey came to stand by my side but said nothing. Her decision to follow me evidenced our growing fellowship. Even in the haze of my bad mood and murderous intent, I took note.

  “By all means,” the short man replied, looking between us. “Who am I to stop you if you succeed? It isn't my attention you are trying to steal.” He laughed that fake laugh the godlings practiced. As expected of them, the other two joined in.

  “My thanks.” I turned to the tall godling.

  She smiled. I hated how much prettier it made her. If the world was fair, godlings would be as ugly of flesh as they were of soul. But the world wasn’t fair. It never would be, not least because we never would be.

  “I have to admit, I’m intrigued,” she said. “What it is you wish to speak about?”

  I held out my hand. She placed hers in it. I leaned forward and lightly brushed my lips to the back of her hand. Casually and copiously dispensed beforehand, courtesy gives insult a far greater depth.

  “To start with, your name,” I said, almost flirtatiously.

  She giggled. “Bacnam kin Julee, of house Fralk.”

  “Fralk?” I let my tone convey an admiration I did not feel. “As in Fralk kin Lorail?”

  “The very same.” She smiled, thinking I was playing the game of etiquette. She was correct; this was a game.

  Mine, and she was losing.

  “You’re a Tripler?” I asked.

  Bacnam frowned. I got the feeling she was suspicious of the question. Too late, I thought.

  “What of it?” Her cordial demeanor frayed. Break a rule, and the game collapses, and I’d broken a rule: never ask if someone is a Tripler. A Seculor? Fine. A Fiora? If anything, that’d be seen as a compliment, regardless of whether or not they were one. But a Tripler? Such a question could only mean you thought them too far removed from divinity. Godhood. Perfection, as they saw it. Even if you were right, one never accused a godling of being a Tripler unless they wished to throw fighting words.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Forgive me,” I said, feigning contrition. “It is just that I’d never come across such a weak godling. I had thought you were a Faded.”

  Bacnam’s eyes flew open. A gasp came from her two companions. Malorey gripped my elbow.

  “What is your name?” Bacnam asked, the words hissed through gritted teeth.

  “Aki au Farian.”

  “Au? Au!” Spittle flew from her mouth. “You’re a Root!” She stepped in close but held herself back from violence. “I, Bacnam kin Julee, challenge you, Aki au Farian. Do you accept?”

  “Thank you,” I said, and the realization of how she’d been played worked its way across her expression. “I, Aki au Farian, accept your challenge.”

  The arenas were busy. The scheduled lessons had ended for the day, and many students who had not done so already went about fulfilling their mandatory bouts. Sil and Dako, who had been scouring the field for prey, somehow managed to find me among the throng of students.

  “She looks familiar,” Sil said, uncaring of the Bacnam’s proximity.

  “It’s that Auger,” Dako said. “You know, the one who bout preceded Aki’s last moon cycle.”

  “Ah, I see. Come, Dako. Let us find a good vantage from which we might enjoy the show.”

  My friends left me to join the swarm of spectators. Others who knew of me had congregated, calling forth others they wished to share their curiosity with—I spotted many a familiar face: Samiel, grinning; Vignil, expressionless; Helena, bored; and Edon… His gaze chilled, slipping around me with the numbness of his disdain. I stood breathless. And then, just as suddenly as the wash of enfeebling attention had threatened to drown me, I wasn’t. One thought freed me, a promise remembered. The weight of Edon’s resentment slid off me like it was never there. Pride took its place, making light of my challenges—both the Tripler I faced and the looming figure of evil oozing out of my potential, shadows of the many ways I might be corrupted.

  My opponent and I stepped into the arena. She still thought me a Root. Despite this, despite her crimes, I’d stopped thinking of her as dead.

  The flag came down.

  I smothered Bacnam’s sensus. She was not my equal. Not in sensus, harmony, skill, or any other factor that mattered. She tried to inject Meaning into her defense. I tore her efforts apart. Her defenses shattered. She dropped to her knees. The last of her exhausted sensus barricaded the gate to her soul. I stepped up to her.

  “I surrender,” she whispered, a mix of fatigue and embarrassment softening her voice.

  I stuck my right foot forward. “Your lips atop my foot shall grant you my mercy.”

  Gasps. More than a few. Some thought me cruel. It’s funny how cruelty can only be inflicted on godlings. Kill a Root for the fun of it, massacre Muds so they, as inferior lifeforms, might remember their place, or order an ascended Branch to their death and claim their worthless life was given meaning, and all is well. And why not? It is the natural order of things.

  No!

  Like for like, to keep me straight, to protect me from becoming the personification of my fears, that is what I’d decided. Like for like.

  “Do you know who I am?” Indignation replaced Bacnam’s shame.

  “I care not who you are,” I said, calm in the face of her threat. “What you’ve done, however…”

  “Do this, and you’ll suffer untold misery,” she hissed. “My house will be glad to stand against your protector, whoever they are. Then you’ll be mine, and the deluge of pain I’ll steep you in for the rest of your miserable life will define your existence till the day you expire.”

  I snorted in disgust. “Unlike you, I’ll live and die standing on my own two feet. Now, quit stalling.”

  “I won’t.”

  I stepped forward, fist clenched.

  “I-I can’t.”

  “That can’t be,” I said, “because you will.”

  “I-I can’t. Please, I beg of you, do not make me do this. It will ruin me.”

  “You will do this,” I repeated. “And next time, when you think to remind a Root of how worthless you think they are, you’ll remember this moment.”

  “Please—”

  “Now, or I’ll breach your soul and make you do it anyway.”

  Bacnam pushed her tear-stricken face down, shoulders hunched and hair dangling down, and placed her lips atop my foot. I, in payment, accepted her surrender.

  Like for like.

  ***

  The mixture bubbled. Boiling water broke down the plant matter, absorbing its color and properties. The less alive the medium, the easier it is to perform an Alchemical extraction. I poured the green water into a beaker I’d prepared, one more suitable for extraction—conical flasks were good at keeping air flowing without too much loss, but cubed cups were more in line with the shape of most Alchemy Matrixes. The shapes of my matrix sprung up around the beaker, parts interacting with its content, parts with the glass beaker itself, and parts hovering over the surfaces. This was a four-weave matrix: One extracted, one filtered the extraction, one protected the integrity of the beaker, and one contained the process. Many in my class had not even tried to attempt a three-weave yet. Only Malorey had dared. Well, ‘dared’ isn't quite the right word; she was already pushing for five, and her four-weave matrixes had put mine to shame. I did, however, have her soundly beat in matters of speed.

  The vapor of my extraction flowed up and into a prepared container. I sealed and placed it among the fifty or so others I’d made and put aside.

  “Another one,” Royce said. He stood behind me, watching me work.

  “Survival is more important than progress, Sir,” I said.

  “So it is. Tell me again why you are using such mundane ingredients. The better the components, the more taxing the extraction, the better it is for improving your skill, and that is to say nothing of the exponential increase in price.”

  “Survival, Master. The inaccuracies of my matrixes would waste the efficacy of better materials. Hew-grown plants are cost-effective and abundant in the Alchemy district.”

  “Then why is it you refuse to take my advice?”

  “Because my sensus does.” I looked back to see him nodding.

  “Listening to your sensus is always advisable,” he said.

  “Then why insist otherwise?”

  “Because convincing you might convince your sensus.”

  Malorey leaned in from the workstation beside mine, done with a half-successful five-weave brew she’d been concocting. “You know, I envy you sometimes.”

  “No, you don’t.” I chuckled. Malorey was an abysmal liar. Odd, considering she could spot a drop of falsehood in a hailstorm of half-truths.

  She smiled back at me. “You’re right, I don’t. An Alchemist does best with preparation. Accuracy is our greatest tool, not speed.”

  “Just think, my young Aki,” Royce said, “given how accurate you can make your matrixes in but a few heartbeats, how accurate would they be if you took your time?”

  I shrugged. “We’ll likely never know.”

  Somewhere around noon, many of the students and Masters had left to enjoy a midday meal or otherwise take a break from their Alchemical work. I picked up my bag and stored the vialed extracts I’d made for the day. Fifty-six, all told.

  “Lunch?” Malorey asked.

  “Not today.”

  “You can eat off my plate.”

  “Are you waving your riches at me?” I joked. She’d already amassed what many of the students would consider a fortune. “But no, I’d rather not risk it. Besides, I have other plans.”

  “You’re off to sell those extracts? What poor fool is so desperate as to need such substandard goods?”

  The answer stole the smile from my face.

  Like all my other items of clothing, the winter cloak I’d found in my chest the first day of winter sat snuggly on my frame. None of the errant strands or funnels of tumultuous wind found their way past the heavy garment as I strode out of The Academy. My creations were nestled into a padded box of wood stored safely in my bag; it, too, was safe from the wild gales of winter. I tugged the fur-lined collar of my cloak up to my cheek and trekted towards one of the many horse-drawn carriages waiting for students by the large, circular cul-de-sac leading up to The Academy’s entrance. The driver pursed his lips when I told him where I was heading. Not many cared to find themselves there without a good cause, and he must’ve deemed the coin he'd earn for traveling such a distance barely sufficient because he grumbled his dissatisfaction all the way there.

  The drive cost me all I had left. Traveling the breadth of the entire city wasn’t expensive, per se, but nor was it cheap, especially in the light of my cavernous purse.

  Eventually, we’d left behind homes and buildings of stone for those made of wood. Further yet, wood gave way to wattle and daub. Yet still, the houses grew smaller and smaller until we came upon a region almost exclusively filled with small huts barely big enough to fit a lone man. By now, the air was thick with smells I did not care to think about, the sky dark despite the hour and clear skies, and the new winter chill more pervasive. Spend enough time in a place so abundant with matrixes like The Academy, and you begin to consider all the luxuries as commonplace.

  I got off the carriage, slipped the irate driver his payment, and went about finding Zo’s place. My worries about getting lost were misplaced; her place was the largest building in the area by a factor of ten. It had to be. And more. The structure of hardened clay mixed with straw and mud sat crooked, the winds and rains of Evergreen having slowly pushed it off kilter. Protruding from the side of the building was an outhouse, a stand where Zo had set up a dispensary of sorts. Ailing Muds—those too healthy to be housed in the main infirmary—queued around the building, waiting for the only treatment Zo could afford. Before we’d met, she’d given them one-weave tonics that took the edge off their pain and hunger. Many still subsisted on this; my creations were reserved for the most poorly of her visitors, most of whom resided in the infirmary.

  “How many?” Zo asked from behind the counter as she dispensed her treatments, one stained leather glove eagerly reaching for the bag I carried.

  “Fifty-six.”

  Zo’s hand froze. “I can’t afford that many. Not so soon after my last purchase.”

  I sighed. I had hoped to earn this month’s fee in one transaction. A place in the dorms and two daily meals cost me a gold per month. Celestial gold, that is. Evergreen’s currency was not so ordinary as mere metal. If so, Telums would’ve flooded the market and rendered them useless. No, celestial coins contained a small emerald orb in the center with vein-like stems sprouting outward. Grono’s doing. None could replicate the feat. No one even knew what the sphere was made from.

  “How much do you have?” I asked.

  “At two coppers a piece?” Zo reached into the pocket of her dirty apron, pulled out a coin purse, loosened the drawstrings, and upended the thing. Seven coins spilled onto her open hand, six gray and one brown. “Thirty. And a half if you can manage splitting one.” She looked up at me, pleading, the sadness of her hopeful smile the greatest of her weapons. “Every little helps.”

  I held out my hand. Zo gave me the coins. I placed the bag onto the counter and removed all fifty-six tonics I’d slaved over.

  “I’ll be wanting the vials back,” I said.

  With an open-mouthed smile, Zo snatched at my offering. “Of course.”

  I looked behind me at the long queue of limping, bleeding, slouching, mud-covered men, women, and children. Against my will, I remembered the many times Diloni treated my wounds, the pain, the humiliation, the seething anger at the injustice of it all. I had suffered over the years, but I had never taken a moment to appreciate I was not alone in my misery. Diloni treated that, too, with education and hope and the promise of a better future if only I were willing to endure. Each of those memories came to mind with sickening clarity. There were times I hated my mind’s ability to recall the past. I understood Diloni better now. But my soul was not feeding me these memories because of Diloni. My last conversation with her came to mind with a pang of regret. I did understand her better, and in some ways, in some very few ways, I was beginning to do more than understand. My experience with my sensus played a big part; it had taught me that sometimes, as Merkusian had said, ‘it is up to the strong to buy freedom for the weak, for strength may elude them regardless of an iron will and an inordinate effort.’ I decided that he spoke of the freedom to try, to be as unobstructed by the evils and biases of others as possible.

  “Do you need any help?” I asked, my eyes scanning the crowd.

  “With what?” Zo was too busy to lend me anything but her ear as she assessed patient after patient, carefully but promptly deciding which of them warranted one of the few available healing tonics and which had to make do with a kind word and whatever advice she could offer.

  “I’m a Pondus.” A half-truth meant to convey how I might help.

  “Nothing needs moving.”

  “Many need healing.”

  Zo’s head whipped to face me. “You’re a Surgeon?”

  “I dabble.”

  She smiled. “You’re a fountain of good news today, lad.”

  My first patient was a boy no older than five cycles. His mother tried to run from me with him in her arms. Everyone had kept a healthy distance since I’d arrived. Some had left altogether. The rest had deemed the chance of death my complexion warned of more acceptable than the certainty leaving brought about. I chased the woman down. An easy task I managed in three brisk steps. She fell. I treated him as she sat on the ground, her eyes shut and body trembling, her fear of me doing nothing to stop her from clutching her son to her chest, a promise she would not let him die alone. An invisible force stung my heart. I breathed in deeply and ignored the phantom pain.

  I had not put much effort into training Surgeon Arts. Thankfully, Dako had shown me the basics, and the application was much the same as Reaper Arts. There was little resistance when the ready matrix suffused throughout the boy’s body. From there, a simple all-purpose healing matrix sped up his natural healing using my sensus as fuel. Color returned to him, and his eyes flicked open. He looked up at me as I worked. The pain in his expression pushed my gaze away. The Muds back home was filled with his like, I knew, yet I’d never seen them. Why? Lorail, I thought, answering my own question. How far had her meddling delved? How much of who I’d become was her doing? The thoughts thundered into me. My sensus faltered. The boy whimpered. I took a deep breath to retrieve my concentration and continued my work.

  I did not spend long with the boy. Too many required my help. His mother kissed me a hundred times, her fear displaced by gratefulness. Not an inch of my face escaped the blessing of her rough, dry, mud-caked lips. I spent more effort getting her off of me than I did getting her to let me treat her son.

  My actions brought me tentative trust with the other Muds, and my second patient did little to hinder the aid I offered. He was a lone man a few years my senior. Death was at his door, knocking hard and loud. A broken rib had punctured a lung. His left arm hung awkwardly. Some of his insides were bleeding into the empty cavities between his organs. I did enough to send him away for the night. He would die before the day ended; all I managed was to make sure he died oblivious to the agony of his failing body.

  My third was a young girl on the cusp of adulthood, pretty but for the signs of her poverty. Bruises covered her. Her father scowled at me even as he brought her into my care, and I knew a godling was to blame for her injuries.

  On my seventh patient, I noticed a change in my Surgeon Art.

  The boy, five, maybe six, wailed, a mix of pain and anguish no child should know pulsing from his soul. His mother hugged him and refused to let go. Her other son—older, around my age, though a lack of health might’ve put years he didn’t own on him—pulled him from her arms and onto my lap. He had been crying, too. Tears dried into tracks of cleaner skin. He looked at me like the father of the girl I’d treated earlier. Wetness spread over my lap. I picked the boy up and saw the blood-soaked back of his loose breeches. I froze, but only for a moment. Only for long enough to remember and forcefully forget the pain this boy suffered. I planted my ready matrix. It came like never before. It was, as usual, chaotic and fast, but something else was there, another aspect.

  The boy gained weight, the browns of his teeth vanished, and his hair grew long, thick, and robust. His cries ceased, some weight or injury lifting from his soul.

  I did not spend long to move on to the next victim. That’s what they all were. Victims. And so the day passed, hour after hour of healing, until night came, and I was spent. Stumbling, I got to my feet. Many remained, hoping to be next. Where once they kept their distance, now they fought to be closer. They huddled around me with reaching arms and pleading shouts. Zo held them back with one arm and led me away with the other.

  “I can’t leave,” she said. “I wish I could help you back to The Academy, but I can’t—there is still much to do, and as sad as it is true, you are far down the list of those who need me the most. I’m afraid you’ll have to make your way back alone.”

  I nodded and lurched forward, only half listening. One step. Another.

  “And Aki,” she called. I turned back to her, eyes half-closed. “Thank you.”

  I resumed my stumble. Tired, empty of energy and sensus, and far from my comfortable bed, I staggered into the night, smiling. Tears rolled over my lips for the truths I’d confronted and the horrid memories of my past they provoked, but I was smiling.

  Near the end of my endurance, I ventured into an area with cobbled streets. The distant sounds of laughter and shouts pulled me onto a main road. Mundane lanterns over taverns and brothels and inns, and those hanging from tall poles set evenly along the populated sidewalks, faded the light of the stars and moon. Finally, arms flailing, I found a carriage and hailed the driver.

  ***

  Someone shook me awake. Dako stood over me. My back hurt; carriage seats do not make for a comfortable bed, and I had grown used to comfort. Dako paid the driver and helped me climb down.

  “Did you find a bosom so sweet as to risk wandering home alone in the dark?” he asked. There was no humor in his smile, only relief.

  “Aki and a night of debauchery?” Sil’s smile was a prettier version of Dako’s, both for the humor she managed and because any expression of hers was prettier than Dako’s regardless. “Look, he’s gone red. No way a lady of the night would’ve left so much of his innocence intact if she’d lain with him.”

  Sensing my mood and fatigue, my friends walked with me in silence. Neither of them commented on the dry blood staining my clothes, though Dako had taken a moment to check none of it was mine. They kept me company as I ate a simple meal. Then we’d left the refectory and climbed the stairs to our common room, all without a word. As we separated and approached our respective quarters, Dako spoke up.

  “Another attack?” he asked

  I shook my head. “Worse.”

  He frowned. “A visit from… her who shall not be named?”

  I shook my head again, the move stunning me with a stab of pain and vertigo. “Not that bad. An ugly truth is all.”

  “The Muds? Malorey had said you’d gone to visit Zo’el.”

  “I did.” I stepped into my room and readied to close the door. “It has been a long night. I’ll see you both in the morning.”

  I closed my door and fell into bed. Nightmares filled my sleep.

  ***

  Fuller sat before me. About the large and unfurnished Auger hall, small crowds of students clustered around the score of Masters and Fifths who were there to provide instruction. Roots who showed talent for the Art inevitably chose to pursue the path if only to learn more adequate methods to protect themselves from true Augers, unable as they were to rely on a greater harmony. All the Roots sat before Fifths. As did many of the Triplers who weren’t from House Lorail—Masters only attended to the more promising students. I was the only student siting before Fuller. He’d not worded his refusal for others to join, but the eight senseless students lying around us exhibited his intent and deterred others from coming too close.

  “Now that we’ve dealt with that,” Fuller said, “do you mind telling me why you’ve avoided attending Auger classes?”

  “Auger Arts aren’t the most profitable.”

  “Trust me, they are.”

  “Well, not in any way I find financially tenable.”

  “I assume you’ve dealt with this month’s fees, then?”

  “I have.” Following Royce’s advice, I spent my earned coins on better material. By the time I’d succeeded in concocting a salve for toughening skin from the carcass of a newly evolved tortoise, there was only enough material left for one more try. Thankfully, Royce offered me a favorable price, earning me a gold and four silvers.

  “Good. Then, let’s proceed with your training. From what I hear, your Tunnels, though effective, are disgustingly crude.”

  “This is the mental shield class, is it not?”

  “It is, but that is of little concern to us.” One of the students lying unconscious woke from his stupor. Fuller took a moment to chase him off with a glare. “I’ll be teaching you in every Auger class you attend and will be doing so in an orderly fashion. No skewing your training towards particular subjects, no learning techniques in the wrong order, and most definitely no taking instruction from the substandard Fifths apprenticed to those less capable colleagues of mine who dare call themselves Masters.”

  Fuller ran through everything he’d taught us in the first cycle, assessing if and where I lacked knowledge. The tests came and went without comment.

  “Given your tight grip over your memories, I thought it best to teach you all the theory I know before we move onto practical applications,” he said.

  I nodded my assent.

  Blue lines flared to life. Fuller drew the matrixes with Painter Arts without a gesture. I recognized the individual parts and intuited the overall function.

  “Why not the actual matrix?” I asked.

  “It is easier to draw the perfect version of the matrix visually. Tell me why.”

  “The flow.”

  Fuller gestured for me to continue.

  “It is easier to control your imagination than your sensus,” I said.

  Fuller nodded at my answer and then at the matrix he’d drawn. “Any idea?”

  “A truth bridge.”

  “Correct. And it’s function?”

  “To bridge thought and speech, circumventing creativity and thus the ability to lie.”

  “Parts?”

  “One to locate surface thoughts, one to link to the mind’s speech vectors, and the last to isolate the connection.”

  “Correct again.”

  Another matrix followed. Then more. We reached the fifth-order matrixes before my first unsatisfactory answer. Fuller explained each function, how they were connected, why they were connected the way they were, and any weaknesses one might use to exploit. Then came the next. Every once in a while, he’d redraw one of the earlier matrixes I’d not known. He did that less and less often—no one who questioned my memory questioned it for long.

  Halfway through, he dragged his Painted chair closer, the scraping of wood on marble all too realistic. I scooted back and out of his reach.

  “Pff,” Fuller exhaled, sulking. “I’m not so crass as to publically court you.”

  “Nevertheless,” I said.

  “Aki, I need physical contact.”

  “Need? Now, I’m sure I’ve acted wisely.”

  Fuller grinned. “You were unsure before?”

  “I was—I’ve just reached a level of certainty I’d never before achieved.”

  Fuller’s lips curved, emoting his dejection. “You wound me. But no, the need is not born out of my… desire. I need to Tunnel a Painting directly to you. You might not be aware, but tuition only covers some of the knowledge available here at The Academy.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Have you not wondered why the Fifths have chosen to stay?”

  I shrugged my uncertainty. “Because they thought they had more to learn.”

  “Everyone has more to learn. Why do you think Grono and Silas spend so much time experimenting?”

  “I meant from their respective Masters.”

  “Yes, but that is only part of the answer. The gifted are often sponsored by the powerful,” Fuller explained. “They ensure their investments receive all the knowledge and training they can handle from the Assessors.”

  “I see,” I said. And I did. This was but another reason Roots fell into submission. “I take it knowledge is kept locked unless such a sponsor provides a key.”

  Fuller nodded. “Many Master’s require something for their troubles.”

  “Master Royce doesn’t. Or Ackhart. They’ve long ago shown me complex matrixes.”

  “Some don’t. Though you should’ve realized the matrixes they give freely are almost all flawed and as generic as can be. Better, more efficient, and more powerful matrixes are not so freely given, mostly because the way the weaves have been connected is utterly elementary. Talent decides how much the sponsor is willing to provide. Fifths are those who were talented enough to secure some knowledge but stayed to serve those they wished to learn from in the hopes of earning more. But worry not—you will not want for anything.”

  We continued. Neither of us took a break. Despite my recent monetary gains, I could not afford a midday meal. I also didn’t care to prey on my friends’ generosity nor deal with all the dangers that entailed, both from within and without. As for Fuller, I was sure he was beyond the need for mundane sustenance.

  “That was quick,” Fuller said an hour before sunset.

  “We’re done?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure you noticed, but we’ve reviewed all the standard Tunneller matrixes.”

  “Standard?”

  “Everything but recipient-specific and the more niche matrixes require extensive research or the ability to inject Meaning.” The chair he’d Painted into existence faded as he stood and stretched. “We can cover Painter matrixes next time. After that, all that remains is to master execution.”

  ***

  I found him on the bed—a bloodless, half-mummified corpse, his severed parts unnaturally well-maintained and organized with gruesome and anatomical precision. That Vignil had gotten him there without anyone the wiser frightened me far more than the butchered body.

  My sharp and admittedly high-pitched inhale of surprise called my friends to me. All three crashed into my room. Only Dako did not share my reaction.

  “Vignil,” he said. “A message.”

  “A reminder.” My eyes did not stray from the face. Pain had added to the deep lines of his advanced age.

  “Surgeon torture,” Dako added. “He died slow and hard.”

  Wiltos stepped back, hand over his mouth, his face turned away from the grisly sight. “Fucking godlings,” he barked, his voice muffled. He ran out, green with nausea and cheeks bloated.

  Sil approached and leaned over the dead body. “He sure is meticulous.” She picked up what was once our mundane master’s left hand—the dead own nothing, not even the bodies they once wore. She turned it over, inspecting the clinical cut. The lack of blood had turned the flesh into a pale pink. Thin bones, brittle though they must’ve been, were undamaged except where whatever Vignil had used to sever the limb had passed, leaving behind a perfectly flat cross-section.

  “He has a talent for Surgeon Arts,” Dako said, surprising me—I had assumed Vignil was primarily a Reaper. “The Muds we…”

  Sil and I turned to him, distracted by the hitch in his voice. A chill crept into me in anticipation of what horrendous memory he was having trouble sharing.

  “The Muds,” he continued, “the ones they brought for us to practice on. His subjects screamed the loudest. The longest. The day after we… fell out, I’d watched him dissect a girl for five days. He’d kept her alive for five whole days. They forced us to watch, to see what they expected from us. She screamed so loud, so hard, and for so long… I never knew someone could cough out their lungs.”

  Sil slipped her arm around Dako’s waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. I ignored my jolt of jealousy.

  “What happens if I kill him?” I asked, redirecting my negative thoughts. Healing the Muds had taught me a few lessons. Dismissing or burying my emotions, whatever they were, did me more harm than good. My sensus demanded I stop constraining myself. The poor Mud boy I’d treated showed me that—memories of my greatest pain had healed his.

  “Kill who?” Sil asked.

  “Vignil.”

  “Only if you surprise him and lay bare all your tricks,” Dako said. “And even then, I cannot say for sure.”

  “I don’t need you to calculate my chances.” I held up my fist to him. “I just need to know you’ll not think ill of me for taking his life. Scum that he is, he is still your brother.”

  Dako smiled at my open show of pride. “I don’t think family means much to any of us.”

  “Don’t you fear your family will retaliate?” Sil asked.

  Dako shook his head. “Vignil is a Fiora—Bainan is more likely to thank Aki for culling his herd than to punish him for killing his son.”

  “Exactly why our families mean less than nothing to us,” I said.

  Dako’s fist bumped against mine. “Your contest has been certain for some time. I knew then his defeat would mean his death. Just promise you’ll not face him until there is no other choice.”

  I nodded at my friend. “You have my word.”

  Vignil had schemed my death. He orchestrated every opportunity to bring my my life within reach of his reaping grasp. I would do the same.

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