Rebel Elements (Seals of the Duelists) (12 page)

“Here in training, of course, it’s not considered rude to leave yourself invoked, and indeed, we encourage it strongly, as doing so will improve your magical focus. Once you’ve perfected the motion, we’ll open every morning with the Invocation before practicing the sacred motions in their various forms. Each day will end with the Revocation. This physical focus, combined with the mental training of your meditation classes, will allow you more power in your magic as well as preventing wild magic events. Now, mirror my movements, if you please.”

Bayan and his classmates followed Mikellen through the Invocation motions: his forearms swept toward each other at waist level, palms down, then they swept away and arced into a circle in front of his chest, right arm forming the upper half of the circle. Bayan expected his darkness to leap forward, but it remained quiet.

Mikellen nodded approval as the students practiced, and he moved amongst them to correct an elbow here, a palm there. As Bayan repeated the motion with the class, his mind teased apart the six motions: a wave, a wedge, crossed arms, a straight arm, a bent arm, a circle. He began to envision the other defense moves he knew: those six sacred motions were everywhere in them! Bayan snorted aloud, then covered it by clearing his throat.
That’s how they defend the empire? Making shapes and beating people up? That’s not so special. I can do that in my sleep! This magic stuff is going to be easier than I thought!

But it wasn’t. Not at all.

~~~

“This is your fault, you know.” Calder tossed a clod of dirt at Bayan’s back as he crouched beside his friend in the soil next to the smoke house, an outbuilding of the campus kitchens.

Bayan didn’t look up from the small trench of troweled dirt in front of him as he buried another bulb in the soil.

“You need to pay attention in meditation class, or you’ll keep getting assigned extra chores,” Calder added.

“Maybe you need to stop sticking up for me and getting assigned your own chores,” Bayan retorted.

“Maybe I will.” Calder’s excuses for Bayan’s lack of focus, including a poor night’s sleep and having a head cold, had worked on Instructor Greer a few times. But today, his excuse for Bayan had irritated the teacher, and he’d given both boys duties with the Groundsmaster.

Bayan’s hands paused. After a moment, he spoke. “I’m sorry, Calder. Everything sounds so much more interesting when you teach me.”

“Is that an excuse for falling asleep during every meditation class we’ve had?”

“Yes.”

Calder glowered. The fool had no concept of consequences.

“But it’s probably a bad excuse,” Bayan said. “Can you just sum up for me?”

“Plant my rows, and I’ll consider it.”

Calder rested on a nearby stump and drank from a water skin while he watched Bayan plant all the remaining bulbs with skill and speed. “Right, then. Meditation. So, the six jewels on the seal, they’re the elemental magic inside us. And the blackness that surrounds them, that’s the Void, the meditative stillness that helps us focus.”

“So our emotions don’t cause wild magic.”

“You were listening after all!”

“That was the first thing Instructor Rina said. I was entranced by her bouncing curls.”

“I’m telling your lovemate.”

“Do that, and I’ll kill you and feed your corpse to my pitcher plant.”

“It’s not ready for people yet. Anyway, the Void gives emotional distance—”

“Like Head Duelist Cavan. He was in the Void the whole time we were talking to him.”

“Aye, was he ever. Can you stop interrupting me? Thank you. If we canna master the Void, we canna begin elemental training, and we’ll get potioneered. So, if you want to stir a beaker the rest of your life, carry on with your snoring during class. Me, I’ll at least be pretending to listen. Pretending until it’s real.”

Bayan’s fist squeezed one of the bulbs into pulp. Calder shook his head. If only Bayan could see the benefits in giving up that rage and blending in with the other students. Clearly, he needed a more practical, Dunfarroghan state of mind. Calder thought he might be the only person who had a prayer of instilling it in Bayan.

~~~

A few days later, Bayan was trekking across campus between classes, in mid-reminisce about another dream involving Imee and trying to decide whether he liked having such dreams anymore given the low odds of ever seeing her again, when he heard an anonymous classmate murmur behind him.

“He doesn’t even know the nine empires. How can you expect him to figure out when to wear a scarf and when not to? He’s as ignorant as a ragtag.”

Bayan’s cheeks burned. Everyone else wore simple, triangular yellow or white scarves for Gallenglaas Day, either around their necks or on their heads, in memory of some battle or another. He thought he’d heard that yellow was a mourning color, so someone important must have died during the conflict, but why should he be expected to celebrate that? The battle had happened before he was born, before his country was swallowed by the empire. He didn’t even own a scarf.

“Don’t worry,” Calder said. “I have a spare white scarf back at the barracks. I’ll get it for you at lunch. Sorry I dinna think of it earlier.”

“Oh look, the horse killer’s being nice to him,” someone said. “Must be nice to finally have someone to be superior to, eh, barbarian?”

“Shut it, wisp!” Calder turned and glared, and the anonymous voice quieted. Bayan saw Kiwani glance back as she walked a few strides ahead, next to the ponytailed Azhni who went everywhere with her but said little.
Like she’d ever stand up for the likes of me,
he thought.

“Oh, see that. The strawberry, she cares. Isn’t that touching?” came another anonymous voice.

Kiwani whirled, eyes flashing. “Who said that?”

Azhni paused, taking an alert stance.

The trainees behind Bayan and Calder kept walking, forcing the boys forward toward Kiwani. When no one answered her, she spun and strode ahead, and Azhni silently resumed her place next to Kiwani.

“Doesna want to be seen with us. Should I feel flattered?” Calder asked.

“Why a strawberry?” whispered Bayan.

“Red on the outside, white on the inside, and hollow in the middle,” Calder replied. “It’s a Shawnash insult for nobles with part-wisp blood.”

“Hollow?”

“Means they have no soul since they supposedly traded their native culture for Waarden power.”

“Bhattara, but you imperials are a rude lot.”

“Oi, that’s ‘horse killer’ to you.”

Bayan got lost and had to ask two students for directions to the kitchens before he finally saw the broad, low, multi-chimneyed building and its satellite outbuildings loom ahead through a small sloping tunnel. Though he ate in the attached dining hall every day, he’d never approached it from the meditation classroom, where he’d been held back by Instructor Jurgen and made to sweep the room’s corners for spider webs.
Is every main building hidden away in some secret little alcove of its own up here?

He rounded the corner of an outbuilding and saw the Groundsmaster waiting for him.

“There you are. I’m glad you didn’t get lost. This place is a maze, isn’t it? And you’ve got the pitcher plant.” His face lit up again at the sight of the small green shoot and its immature flower.

“Where do you want to plant it, sir?”

“Call me Gerrolt. An earthy man needs an earthy address, don’t you think? Here, let me show you what I’ve made.” Gerrolt led Bayan around to the south side of the building, where the low winter sun lit a small wooden addition to the stone wall of the kitchen. Its latticed sides and peaked roof held several dozen small, blurry glass windows.

“What is it?”

“It’s a glasshouse, of course.”

“What’s it for?”

Gerrolt laughed. “Ah, right. You live where it’s warm all the time. Glasshouses let us grow warm weather plants in the winter, when it’s too cold to grow them outside. Also, come feel this wall.”

Gerrolt pulled open the wooden door and stepped inside. Bayan followed, noting that the air inside was noticeably warmer. His arms prickled with gooseflesh at the sudden temperature change. He placed his hand on the rear wall and found it warm.

“It’s the back wall of the bakery ovens,” the Groundsmaster said. “The plant will grow right up this wall, which will help keep it warm. I’m planning on pounding in some little metal spikes when the pitcher starts growing upward. You think it’ll be able to cling to them well enough?”

Bayan considered, then nodded. “It can also push its tendrils into holes and anchor that way, but I don’t know if your bakers will want you poking holes in their back wall.”

Gerrolt squinted one eye in thought. “If I bribe them with some seerwine, I bet they would. But we can worry about that later. Let’s plant the little fellow, shall we?”

He pulled a trowel from his back pocket and handed it to Bayan. Together, they measured to the center of the bakery wall and knelt. Bayan dug a shallow hole one trowel-length from the wall. He set the pitcher plant’s pot into it, then removed the pot and dug a little deeper. When the hole was deep enough, he lifted the pot and rammed the trowel’s iron point against its base. The ceramic pot cracked.

Carefully, Bayan set the pot back into the hole, then wiggled the two ceramic halves of the pot from around the soil and patted the extra dirt into place around the plant. “I guess you need a name now, little pitcher. How about Bituin?”

Gerrolt grinned. “Good, you talk to plants too. I knew there was something about you that I liked.”

Bayan smiled. “You have water?”

Gerrolt fetched a can of water and handed it to Bayan, who poured plenty around the plant.

“It needs to be kept damp, but not soaking wet. The seerwine pitchers grow in the forest, not in the paddies. And it’ll need a maggot tonight.”

“Does it matter what sort?”

“As long as it’s not really acidic, no.”

“What does it eat after maggots?”

Bayan relished the moment of feeling smart, after days of feeling like the most ignorant student in class. “Crickets, baby mice, adult mice, rats, snakes, weasels. It’ll eat them all eventually.”

Gerrolt looked at him with an expression that hovered between disgust and amazement. “Fascinating. I suppose that gives me a whole host of other chores to assign. How many pitchers will one plant make?”

“A score, if you’re not draining it for seerwine. If you are, usually it stops at a dozen. One is drained for seerwine production, and the others are fed constantly, to keep up the sap production. Don’t worry, though. ‘Constantly’ means every several days. The pitchers take a while to digest their meals and open up again.”

“Bayan.” Gerrolt laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re an amazing lad. You’ve no idea how excited I am to get to help you raise this seerwine pitcher. It’s an opportunity I never expected to have. Thank you for bringing it with you.”

Bayan nodded, both glad and relieved that his gift was welcome on campus. His father had been right.

If only Bayan were as welcome.

~~~

“Welcome, class,” said Instructor de Rood as Bayan and the others filed in, damp from the early morning rain. “Today is another day on the subject of Theory of Duelism. The last time we discussed theory, we covered the rules of skill dueling, under which additional restrictions can be requested by either clients or duelists for the purposes of maximizing demonstration and minimizing injury. This time our topic is anima magic.”

The class murmured, both fear and titillation on their faces. Bayan sighed. Just one more empire term he didn’t know.

“My purpose today is to dispel rumor,” de Rood continued. “This is not only for your own protection, but for the dissemination of facts to the average citizen, because eventually someone will sidle up to you at your duel den and ask you if everything they’ve heard is true. I can guarantee you that it won’t be. Now, let us begin with the Tuathi. Can anyone tell me if they used magic in their first invasions, back around 250 I.C.?”

A boy named Eward raised a hand and answered. “Yes, they had anima magic. That’s why Gallenglaas joined the first empire; its indigenous people didn’t really know magic and wanted Helderaard’s protection.”

“True. The Tuathi used anima magic at least as long ago as our ancestors used elemental magic. Their persistence with such accursed rites allowed them to use unnatural means to prolong their wars with us. But anima has not been seen in the empire in centuries, and scholars believe that the determined and constant use of elemental magic has made anima spells impossible to cast within our borders.”

Calder glanced at Bayan and raised a hand. When the teacher called on him, he asked, “Could you go over what anima magic is? Just in case some of us aren’t completely familiar with it.”

Bayan gritted his teeth. He knew Calder was trying to be helpful, but his question was about as subtle and welcome as Kiwani’s taunt about not knowing defense moves.

“Indeed,” de Rood said. “Anima magic is not something whose details are discussed in polite company—which leads to all those rumors in the first place. So, what does anima magic
not
involve? It does not involve the eating of animals in order to absorb their essence. It does not involve, er, intimate relations with animals. What anima magic does entail is an unnatural bond between human and animal, allowing the person to take on the animal’s traits and use them in spells, similar to how we cast our spells using the elements. On a level equal to that of our elemental avatars, anima casters will bond with a living animal and share mind and soul in a horrible dehumanization process. Once this bond has been created, the caster can use magic to manipulate the creature’s very body, creating monstrosities with claws, fangs, venom, webs—any weapon or ability the creature already possesses. An anima caster can even cause the poor creature to suicide against its will. Over time, bonding with various animals leaves the anima caster in a state of permanent semi-humanity, unable to comprehend higher concepts like mercy or trust.”