Rebel Elements (Seals of the Duelists) (17 page)

Back at the abandoned estate, Savitu leapt from the wagon without waiting for the loyalist to place the portable steps, and strode through the overgrown flower garden toward the main entrance. With barely enough time to change out of his borrowed raiment and a mind full of disappointment, he nearly bowled Marco over on the narrow flagstone steps as he exited again onto the porch.

“Problems?” the Waarden asked.

“You could say so. Now we need a water route. Or perchance we can all learn to fly.”

“A water route?”

“No other option remains.” Savitu took a calming breath. “But I will have
tilaa,
one way or the other. I need a map.”

Shortly, he, his cousins Mitlik and Qisuk, and Hahliq and Marco gathered around an imperial map in a dusty study. The fact it was out of date and showed Aklaa and Nunaa as independent nations, immediately endeared it to Savitu.

“One sea route is down the western coast of the Twervel Sea. Perhaps we could land in Zeenend—” Mitlik began.

“Or we could move down into the Shadow Canyons.” Qisuk tapped a broad swath of rough terrain at the southern end of the Shawnash peninsula.

“Wouldn’t that simply be exchanging one hideout in neutral territory for another in enemy territory?” Hahliq asked.

“
Aa
.” Savitu glared at Qisuk. “It would. What if we could slip north to the Gyre, sail west?”

Marco snorted. “Sail west? From the Bay of Verkeerde? Impossible.”

Mitlik raised an eyebrow. “You think Aklaa don’t sail?”

“I think the Godsmaw—the Gyre—is a nightmare of epic strength and hate. Pleasure craft are a light snack; it toys with fully-laden merchant vessels for entertainment. The screams of the dying are its personal fanfare. I should know.” Marco reflectively lowered his eyes to the map. “Not even the Aklaa can force your vaunted
tilaa
against the Godsmaw. It does as it wills.”

“Your Godsmaw spared you for a purpose, Marco,” Savitu said. “Can a skilled captain make sail west from the Bay of Verkeerde?”

“If you can find a skilled captain insane enough to challenge the Godsmaw westward from Verkeerde, you’d bury him within three days—if you ever found the wreckage. The winds of the Godsmaw are the strongest in the world, and the most unpredictable. The current itself flows so fast, it can outpace a horse over the course of a day. You simply cannot sail west.”

More loyalists slipped into the manor, flickering past the corner of Savitu’s eye as he chased down a fleeting thought. “What if we took another direction?”

“The Gyre only flows one way,” Qisuk said.

Marco leaned forward. “The Godsmaw is an endless circle.” He traced a finger in a circle on top of the Godsmaw, indicating the endless swirl of current. “While I lived in Tynouria, I noticed on a few occasions the same wreckage floating by, every score or so days, before the Godsmaw took it into its depths. That tells me there’s at least some chance of surviving a full revolution atop its waters without sail power.”

Savitu examined the map. “You’re saying we float the long way around? Past the Fortune Coast?”

Marco nodded.

“Tuq guard us,” Qisuk muttered. Mitlik shot a worried look toward Savitu. The Fortune Coast, along the western side of the Gyre, was a cursed shore to the Raqtaaq—the eternal resting place for lost souls.

“Tuq will guard us,” Savitu said in a level voice. “We do his bidding after all, do we not? Qisuk, we need someone who can tell us where the current will send us. We must be able to make landfall at our safe location. Find me someone—a ship captain, a tradesman—who can tell us all about the Gyre. And make sure he doesn’t mention our conversation afterward.”

Qisuk smiled darkly and left the room.

Mitlik looked at the map. “You’re sure you saw the same wrecks floating past? It couldn’t have been similar ships?”

“They were the same. One was a Karkhedonian pleasure skiff. The red hull was unmistakable.”

Savitu nodded. “Let us check the plausibility of the plan, in any case, though how we might survive a score of days at sea, and on the Gyre no less, I do not know.”

“Proper supplies and precautions will increase our chances of success. Fresh drinking water and shade are essential. And…” Marco paused, then swallowed hard. “Don’t bleed into the water.”

Savitu opened his mouth, then shut it. “Duly noted.”

Bayan’s seat in the Wind Arena’s stone benches was high enough to catch the muggy breeze that dragged streaks of ragged cloud across the Academy’s perch on the mountain. Calder sat beside him, and his other classmates surrounded them, occupying the curve at one end of the arena. Dozens of elemental students sat next to Bayan and his classmates, clustered together in their hex groups. On the far side of them sat nearly three dozen avatar students. Teachers and staff filled the remaining seats on Bayan’s side of the arena. The rest of the arena was packed with villagers from Peace Village and travelers who’d made the trip to see the historic event.

In the arena’s center, the smooth dark pebbles were damp from a rain that had since moved eastward. A table was set up across the arena from Bayan, next to the tunnel that led under the arena seats. Instructor witten Oost, Headmaster Langlaren, and Pim Aalthoven, the Wood Instructor, stood around it.

Instructor witten Oost, usually dressed in a formal tunic, sported the same style of workout tunic that Bayan himself wore to class every day. Something about the way the man held himself in that outfit made him look dangerous.

Headmaster Langlaren walked to the center of the arena and addressed the crowd. “Welcome, students, instructors, and visitors. Today we shall witness the bid of Ignaas witten Oost for the rank of Master Duelist.”

He paused while the crowd clapped and cheered. Bayan glanced at witten Oost. The man was having a snack of nuts and a casual cup of tea with Aalthoven at the table. He didn’t look at all worried.

That level of confidence must be refreshing.

“The test we are about to see will be in two parts,” the headmaster continued. “The first will involve a demonstration of mastery over all six elements at the same time, in the form of creation and control. If successful, this will make an unforgettable display that will put even the most resplendent avatar to shame. The second part of the test will involve performing the same act on a single person, confining magical creations to the tegen’s mind alone. Aalthoven has been randomly selected from among the instructors to be tegen for this portion of the test. I’m afraid that, should witten Oost successfully perform the second part, there will be absolutely nothing for you to see.

“With no further ado, I call forth the examinee. Ignaas witten Oost, prove your worth.”

Witten Oost nodded to Aalthoven, then strode forward a few paces and bowed to the headmaster.

“Your avatars, if you please, Ignaas.”

Witten Oost gestured his way through the six elemental avatars. A walking candle whose head was its lit flame towered over the two men in the arena. It vanished and was replaced by a corn plant that rustled its draping leaves and angled its ears at various places around the arena as if it literally listened to its surroundings. After the corn vanished, witten Oost revealed a massive glittering spider made of bluish crystal. Its fangs were so thin as to be translucent, but Bayan guessed them to be nearly as long as he was tall. Next, the testing instructor formed a floating body of water that appeared to be contained within an invisible goblet. Its substance swirled in refractive calm, until a small bloop of water hurled itself upward, like a water drop the size of Bayan’s head falling in reverse. Before it could land again and rejoin itself, the water faded away. A small thundercloud filled with sheet lightning replaced the invisible goblet, zooming around the arena at a height even with the top row of benches and flashing in a manner more amusing than threatening. Finally, a spinning disc of howling air roared into existence, turning on its end and chopping a path through the pebbled floor of the arena. Gravel flew high into the air, but settled back exactly where it had been, avoiding both witten Oost and Langlaren. The last avatar vanished.

“Why the avatar check?” Bayan asked Calder.

“You’re asking me?”

“Cheeky Dunfarroghan.”

“Thank you,” Langlaren boomed from the center of the arena. “You may begin.”

Witten Oost bowed to him and to the watching audience. “Welcome, all.” His voice carried across the arena floor and up into the stands. “It has taken me more than a score of years of intensive study here at the Academy to strengthen myself enough to take on this challenge.”

As witten Oost trod a winding path across the pebbled floor, Bayan turned to Calder. “He’s just talking. Where’s the magic?”

Kiwani, seated behind the pair, hushed Bayan, and he glared at her, irritated by the worshipful expression on her face.
Sure, Instructor witten Oost is powerful. But it’s not like he’s a sint or anything.

“Much of my work was done in solitary meditation, for it is true what we learn as soon as we arrive here: without the Void to shelter us from our emotions, we cannot control our own magic. And only within the Void can we explore the vastness that magic holds.”

Suddenly, a twisting green light flared next to witten Oost, solidifying into a date palm tree whose fronds waved in the breeze. The audience gasped in delight. Witten Oost held out a hand and a cluster of dates sprang into existence just below the palm’s leaves, then ripened in seconds. One fell into his palm and he ate it, spitting out the stone moments later.

“Not a single gesture,” Calder breathed. “He truly is a master.”

“What?”

“We have to do the sacred motions to make any magic. Weren’t you watching? He just stood there, and the tree appeared. No invocation, no avatar manifestation, nothing.”

Bayan sat up straight. After endless days of having his elemental instructors drill the six sacred motions into his head, he learned it was possible, at the highest rank, to make magic without using any of the motions at all.

Witten Oost continued around the arena, talking to the audience as if they were his close friends. He spoke of his time training with various duel dens around the empire; a white-hot jet of flame appeared in the center of the arena, roaring as high as Bayan’s head and melting the little pebbles around its stride-wide base into a sheet of perfectly smooth, dark glass. Witten Oost reversed direction, speaking of the support of his fellow instructors, and a light rain fell from the cloudless air at the top of the arena, hissing where it struck the jet of flame. Witten Oost approached the flame and waved some of the melted glass up into the shape of a stained-glass vase patterned with five-petaled red flowers. As soon as it had formed, he took the molten vase in his hands and set it down at his feet. He stepped a stride away and stood perfectly still. A lightning bolt shot down from among the raindrops and appeared to strike witten Oost directly on the head, before dispersing in miniature crackles around him. One of the miniature bolts shattered the vase as it sought the ground, but Witten Oost seemed entirely unscathed, though his ear-length gray hair stood out from his head.

“So you see,” he said, strolling again, “this is much more than just my effort. Others have helped me along the way. Some without even realizing it. And to each and every one of them, I am profoundly grateful.”

He dipped his head in another bow, and all of the magical constructs vanished, leaving the air quiet and dry. After a moment of stunned amazement, the audience cheered loudly. Bayan felt shivers run down his back as he clapped.

Witten Oost walked back across the smooth gravel to the table and poured another cup of tea for himself and one for Aalthoven. The audience buzzed with a pleased, impressed murmur. As the two instructors drank, Bayan noticed that witten Oost wiped his brow a few times. Clearly, he had expended a massive effort in summoning without motions. Perhaps he’d developed that ability through all his meditations in the Void.

Witten Oost and Aalthoven walked together to the center of the arena for the second part of the test. Witten Oost stepped back from Aalthoven, and they stood still, facing each other. For a while, nothing seemed to happen. Then Aalthoven raised his hands as if to ward off an unfocused attack which, to Bayan’s eyes, looked like he was swishing away a swarm of harmless gnats.

Moments later, Aalthoven backed up several steps, then squatted down and smoothed a hand across the tiny stones at his feet.

“Is it plants, or an animal?” Calder wondered aloud.

“Can elemental magic make animals? That sounds like anima magic.”

Kiwani leaned over. “Clearly, you know very little about elemental magic,” she hissed. “Maybe if you just watched instead of trying to teach, you’d learn something.”

It wasn’t her words so much as her tone that aggravated Bayan. As if she knew everything and thought he was worth no more than swamp mud.
Is she like this with all the common folk too, or is it only common duelist students she feels this superior to?

“That’s amazing!” Aalthoven cried, sieving pebbles through his fingers. “A river of emeralds! Can’t believe you managed—whoa!” He dived sideways and skidded through the pebbles as nothing whatsoever whooshed over his head. The Wood Instructor glanced up as he got cautiously to his feet, dusting himself off. “Flying stone hat… with four arms…” His voice trailed away as he remained still, listing to the side, staring up at the sky.