I'd always known my Da worked a dangerous trade. Since the Geonian merchants first began their exchanges with our harvesters, lochsilk has been a valuable commodity in the Imperium. In the past, the silver fragments mined from the Wound were the primary source of our trade income, but once Geonian miners exhausted the ore a generation ago, the profit from this textile became crucial to us.
Contrary to its name, lochsilk isn't an animal product. It's a plant that grows in the very heart of Loch Ras herself. Spooled from the gossamer fronds of the lochsilk plant, Loch Ras guards the secrets of her threads jealously, for there are no other known places where this silk may be found or grown. The plants are easy to identify; the leaves are long and hair-like. They give off an indigo ambiance, which Hakham Ekene calls bioluminescence. Lochsilk is readily found, but it's dangerous to harvest. Loch Ras is over a hundred fathoms deep in places. Lochsilk plants like to grow along the edges of those deepest trenches best obscured from the daylight above.
Our method for harvesting the plant is simple but quite dangerous. It takes four curraghs, each carrying teams of at least three. One remains onboard each curragh to cast a fine mesh net, usually enough to cover a quarter furlong of the surface. The other two secures stones to their ankles to drop to the necessary depths. Once there, they use knives to trim the filaments away from the stalk. Lochsilk is buoyant, so the filaments float to the surface and into the netting.
These lochsilk divers are well renowned in our region. Retrieving the silk demands a lot from those who would reap its benefits. Few could do it, especially before Ekene invented the air bladders we now use to extend the lung capacity of our divers. Before then, divers who wanted to be harvesters began training as children, spending a decade or more building up the stamina required to hold their breath for the duration needed to reach the plants.
During harvest season, Loch Ras's surface becomes a canopy of cast nets and bobbing Curraghs. There were so many nets that the loch assumed the patchwork look of farmlands, though it traded the browns and greens of the earth for the silvers and greys of water. The ruling houses strictly regulate the season length and quantity of silk.
A mere two months are permitted during the high point of summer, which allows the plants to recover their foliage over the year. All fishing ceases during those months. Our harvesters spend weeks on the water, sleeping only hours at a time during the season to bring in the greatest share of the profit they can manage.
Da was one of those seasonal harvesters, though not a full-time fisherman. He gathered silk during the summer months at the loch when the season opened; he raised and bred horses the rest of the year. The horses were his passion, but they rarely brought in more income than I thought worth the effort. Certainly not enough to provide for the three of us. Da became a harvester to offset the difference. He took it in stride when my brother and I worried. He smiled and soothed us with promises to return in time to stoke the hearth before supper.
Should I live to be an old man, I will never forget the evening he failed to keep that promise.
***
Da's work kept him at the loch for long hours, and he only returned at the evening's insistence. Though we missed him, we looked forward to our evenings together. Da must have been exhausted, but he never allowed fatigue to keep him from spending a couple of hours with us every night.
After supper, Da taught us about our history, the establishment of our village on the loch, and those first brave souls who risked the unknown depths to find the glowing silk in the trenches. He believed it was important that we knew about his people should we end up going to live with our mother. Da always had a way with stories that made his lessons engaging.
That last harvesting season was to be no different from any before. I was seven, a day shy of Rhys's and my eighth birthday. Rhys was the elder, though only just, for we were born not twenty-four minutes apart. We had no way of knowing that morning was the last time we would ever be a complete family again. My final memory of Da was the feeling of him stirring me awake to hug me goodbye. I was so comfortable I pretended to sleep through his voice. Da gave me a brief kiss on my temple, and then he was gone.
What I wouldn't give to relive that moment again. To fix things. Tell him how much I love him. Make him stay home that day. But I was a selfish, stupid child, and there are no second chances in death.
Only a week into the season, Cian, my Da's diving partner and family friend, returned to us alone, Da's chieftain's torc gripped in his shaky hands. "Odhran... your Da. He was..."
Cian never finished; there was no need. Death beneath the depths of the loch was a constant reality. I knew this; we were all raised with this truth, this constant. But I was a boy and still thought like one back then. I was stubborn and refused to accept the truth. "No! No!" I first threw myself onto his thighs, the rough material of his fisherman's leggings scratched against my palms. I shoved against him with all my strength as if preventing him from speaking this horrible truth into being would somehow make things better. Cian stilled but didn't leave. "Don't lie! He's coming home! He promised!"
"Rigby, Rhys, lads. I'm so sorry." Cian tried to lay his hands on my shoulders, but my denial wouldn't stand for his platitudes. I pushed myself out of his reach; the torc came away in my grip. I hadn't meant to take it, but I pressed it against my chest as I bolted.
I didn't go far before my tiny lungs could no longer support both my sobbing and panting. I found shelter by an oak and sat, knees folded to my chin. The gold torc was warm in my hands, having borrowed heat from my body. I stayed there blubbering, not caring about the dangers of being outside the meager borders of the Culchie village.
It didn't take Rhys long to find me; I was making enough noise that it was easy for him. He said nothing, choosing to settle beside me. His eyes were red but already drying. How was he so much more grown-up than me? My embarrassment worsened my tears.
But Rhys didn't judge me; instead, he offered comfort, pressing his shoulder into mine. Rhys let my fit run its course. Once it had, we stayed there until the sun was well and truly set, and the Silver River had taken over the sun's duty of illuminating the sky. Its currents bowed an arching path from one horizon to another, forever flowing in its eternal circle.
Rhys finally broke the stillness between us. "Riggs, it's getting late. You know it's not safe out here after dark. The great wolves have been reported in this region recently. They'll be hunting, and we don't have many Āyah to keep watch right now."
The forest rustled with the wind's breath. At night, it became an impenetrable world of grey and purple shadows. I wondered if being found by a wolf was worse than returning to an empty home.
Rhys must have figured I was thinking something along those lines. I recognized the sudden look of concentration on his face, the look he got when he was about to come up with something lyrical. "Brothers..." he began.
My eyes narrowed. "What?"
"We came as brothers... no." He tapped a finger on his chin and spoke slowly, feeling the words out.
"We came into the world as brother and brother." His face lifted, and his eyes twinkled as he put the rest of the verse together. "Now, let's go hand in hand, not one without the other."
"Promise?" I sniffed.
"I promise."
***
It was the evening before our departure. I lay curled up by the hearth, determined to enjoy the last of its dying embers. I knew a year would pass before I'd lie here again. I wanted to remember all of it: the wood-smoked warmth of the hearth, the rhythmic lapping of the waters against the shore, the mossy flavor of the tree-filtered breeze. But the first gray specs of sunrise were already lending their illumination to the dim longhouse.
I tightened the sheepskin around me, trying to ignore it. I don't want to go. All last week, my innards had been constricting like drying sinew, and they'd done so exponentially over the last hour. I was wound so tightly that I believed my spine would no longer be able to straighten out.
"Rigby?" Drowsy though the voice was, I knew it well. I lifted my head to peer behind me to find Rhys awake. He lay on his bed, torso propped up on his elbow, head perched on his hand as he regarded me with sleep-blurred eyes. "Did you rest at all?"
It was just Rhys and me in those last moments of pre-dawn. Our longhouse was modest, with only one large room built of lumber and thatch. Our beds lined the southern wall, simple wooden pallets topped with padding. The lone pallet on the north wall was bare and dusty from disuse. It used to be Da's.
The west side of the hut shared a wall with the stable. A folded fishing net and spear hung next to our cooking tools and a wooden table. The east wall held a shelf of books, Rhys's leatherworking tools, a series of half-completed pinewood carvings, and a single entrance with only an elk hide separating us from the spring morning.
Our home was built around the flagstone hearth. A rectangular indentation into packed earth allowed it to be open to the rest of the room. A bronze cauldron hung empty and unused over the center. We'd eaten lightly last night, just a smattering of leftovers. The stores of our home now lay empty, save for a jar of honey. We'd given whatever else that wouldn't keep to Cian and his family when we said our goodbyes last night. There was no sense in leaving perishables behind to be wasted.
"No," I whispered, afraid any loud noise would break the last vestiges of tranquility I clung to. It hadn't been the sort of night agreeable enough to permit rest.
Rhys yawned and scratched his head, further ruffling his disheveled hair. "Don't worry, Riggs," he arched his back and stretched before rising. Draping his sheepskin around his shoulders, Rhys padded over to join me at the hearth, bumping his shoulders against mine as he sat. "We both go today. We'll look out for each other."
"What if you come into your power months before I do?" I sounded cowardly, but the question needed to be asked. Rhys rarely considered the finer details of his plans.
"You worry too much. If it happens, I'll ask to stick around until your time." Rhys was unfazed by my skepticism.
"No one's ever stayed in the Proving Grounds past their Emergence."
"That's because no one ever asks to stay."
"Rhys, what if one of us-"
"-That won't happen." Rhys cut in before I could finish, but we both knew the big question: What if one of us becomes cursed? "Our Da's blood is untouched by the Reformation. That's why she chose him. It won't happen. I promise."
Lacking anything to add, I let the argument lapse. Rhys never seemed worried, not when Da passed and not now. He often knew when I was still uneasy, though. "Just think, after this, we'll be able to join House Vesta formally. We'll be full Imperium citizens; we'll live in the city spirals and have servants to bring us apple cakes all day. All we must do is make it through this trial."
He was right. I should have been focused on the prize and not the trial. "I suppose then there's nothing to do but be escorted." I tried to smile, but the effort was half-hearted at best. "The sun's up." I pointed to the brightening band of gold light reaching over the threshold. "The Caretaker is a prompt man; he'll be here soon."
"Then we should pay our respects now." Rhys rose and crossed the room to our father's bunk. Carved into the wall above it was a square alcove, our house's Sinsear shrine. Fitted into the shrine wall were the collected skulls of our Da's parents and their parents, and so on, with skulls dating back four generations. They'd never recovered Da's body; his bones would never be worked into the wood with our other departed. Da would have no light to guide him through the mists to us. It was on our father's fathers to continue to lead his soul from the lands of the dead to home.
The shrine held two candles and the carven figure of a man roughly hewn from pine. Its boxy features were primitive. Its mismatched legs gave it a hobbled tilt. It was an early creation of Rhys'. He'd whittled it the week after our Da's death, now nearly four years past. Even though Rhys had long since learned to coax far more delicate features out of wood, we decided that this first carving would please our Da the most. So, we left it there in place of his true remains.
Rhys poured the final bit of sima into a well-worn ram-horn cup and placed it before the carving. I lit the two candles and joined Rhys as he rested on his knees in front of the effigy.
"We come to you humbly and with grateful hearts, ancestors of Clan O'Faolain. We thank you for your protection and humbly ask for intercession on behalf of the last sons of our line. We ask that you continue to walk with us as your unseen hands guide us through the great current to find safe harbors and full nets." Rhys paused, considering his words, then added. "Odhran O'Faolain, find your sons worthy; help us navigate the coming trial. Or if it be time, lead us peacefully through the mist between this world and the next so that we may dwell with you in the Summerlands hereafter."
I rarely spoke during our communions. Rhys's voice was so much more melodic than mine. His words were as much poetry as prayer; my voice almost seemed profane by comparison. However, my need for reassurance gave me breath to my mouth. "Da, if you're listening, keep us safe. Make our Emergence come swiftly. We miss you."
Rhys's head remained bowed, allowing me my say. With the prayer complete, we spent the last minutes sharing a bag of smoked fish and walnuts. We spoke little, dressing in the plain beige and white attire the heralds had provided for us yesterday: trousers, cloth slippers, and simple torso wraps.
My brother looked good in them, which was no surprise. He managed to pull off most clothes well. Though we were full brothers, you wouldn't guess this by our appearances. In many ways, we were a study of opposites. Rhys heavily favored our noble-born Geonian mother, and I borrowed more from our Iournian father. His eyes were the brown of warm earth of freshly tilled soil; mine, the color of glacier ice that coated the loch during winter. He was shorter and stockier; I was taller and lean. Rhys's nose was pronounced, an outsized feature on his face, a common trait among the Geonians, but I suspected he would grow into it soon enough. His skin was a light olive, contrasting handsomely with his tunic's white cotton. On the other hand, I looked washed out beneath the undyed fabric. I was pale as morning mist and blessed with freckles, not just a few. They spread so densely across the bridge of my nose and cheeks that I looked to have splashed specks of mud on my face.
Rhys wetted his hands and ran them through his sable hair, which effortlessly lent itself to styling. My hair was red like our Da's, the color of embers in a cooling hearth. I wouldn't have minded it save that it was perpetually caught between straight and curly, refusing to be yoked to either extreme. It did as it pleased atop my head. I let it be.
If you looked more closely, there were similarities. We had the same slight S-curved eyebrows over similarly shaped brows and high cheekbones. We went about our chores with the same long fingers. We shared many expressions, body ticks, and a love of some of the more exotic spices imported from the Imperium. We laughed in the same deep-chested cachinnations—all those we inherited from Da.
From our mother... well, we inherited power. In the coming year we would learn the nature of it.
"Are you finished fussing over your appearance?" I asked, folding my arms.
Rhys's grooming brought his hands to his collar. He felt along the back of his neck, fingers tracing over a band of paler skin that marred the uniformity of his darker complexion. Since Da's death, he'd hardly ever taken Da's torc off. Rhys grimaced at its current absence. "Yes. I suppose I am." Though Rhys wasn't a chieftain, the torc had been passed to him as he was the elder brother. The torc was now among the items we'd given Cian for safekeeping.
Rhys did a final pass around the home, hands brushing over the gnarled wood of the walls, the furs, and nets. He paused over his leatherworking tools, opening a wicker basket and withdrawing a leather spaulder. He'd crafted it himself. The sheen on its umber surface accentuated the molded knotwork expertly etched along the edges. Simple fish and horse patterns wove themselves seamlessly inside the knots, blending into the overall design and invisible to the casual gaze. There was a matching one for me resting in the basket beside it. They were too large for us, but Rhys expected us to grow into them.
All children were given or allowed to make ceremonial spaulders, a symbol to celebrate reaching their thirteenth year. Rhys rested his fingers over his handiwork, eyes closed. He was no doubt imagining ceremonial mementos dangling off the rings. Mementos he'd earn once he was of age. "I hate that we'll miss Cian's expedition. I was looking forward to pike-spearing along the creeks this year. That would've netted me an osprey talon for certain."
In past years, at the beginning of the summer before Lochsilk harvesting season, Da took us, along with Cian and his three children, on a four-day trip out on the loch. Sometimes, we journeyed to the far shore, where they spent mornings schooling us on hunting with a bow and arrow or constructing traps for hares, pheasants, and even boars. In the afternoons, we gathered oysters, played games along the shore, and collected shells and brightly colored stones that could be found nowhere else.
In the evenings, after supper and clean-up, they entertained us with stories about epic heroes battling legendary beasts and entreating with the gods. Da's storytelling and Cian's skill with the pipes made for memorable entertainment for us children. We sang songs about the loch, love, life, and the tall Spinal Mountains that rimmed the world to the north. Cian was to thank for Rhys's love of singing and my skill with the pipe. Da was to thank for Rhys' affinity for storytelling and pros.
Even after our Da's passing, Cian kept the tradition alive, watching over his children and us during those adventures. Those trips with Cian and his children, Ren, Bryanna, and Syf, were among the best days I can remember since our father drowned. Cian made us feel wanted. As if we were part of his family. Missing out on another adventure with them hit me hard, too. But judging by the longing on Rhys's face, he felt it especially keenly.
"You know, the water will still be there next season, Rhys." My eyebrow arched. "I promise the pike aren't going anywhere."
Rhys returned the spaulder to its basket. He smirked at me. "With wit like that, you're a shoo-in for the raven feather of academics and oration."
"Good thing too. With your track record, I'll need a quick wit to handle all the apologies I'll be offering on your behalf once your antics are important enough to matter."
Rhys couldn't stifle the snort that escaped his lips, which made me giggle. Soon, we were one-upping each other in a contest of insults, which managed to occupy us for the rest of the wait.
***
At precisely one hour past sunrise, we heard the -click-clack- of horse hoofs and wooden wheels creaking. I swallowed; it was time. Rhys faced the entrance before turning back, grinning, and offering a hand. With far less self-assurance, I returned the smile and accepted.
The Caretaker was an elderly man, garbed in the long robe of a Geonian scribe, though it was common knowledge that he was born of the Culchie. His face was kind and grandfatherly, an asset in this role, for he was there to ensure the children came willingly. I looked past his shoulder at the two guards. They were there for the unwilling.
"Lads," the Caretaker bowed at the shoulder, a gesture of courtesy, "despite the level of decorum we must observe during this time of transition, I don't believe it's profitable to stand on more ceremony than is strictly necessary. If you'll present yourselves?"
For the second time that morning, Rhys stepped forward first. The Caretaker smiled at him and carefully fitted a simple white tabard over my brother's shoulders, then did the same to me. They marked us as among those bound for the Proving Grounds.
After ensuring we were ready, the Caretaker unrolled a length of vellum. "Tyber Rigby and Jeno Rhys, the provisionally-born sons of Aurelia of House Vesta, recognized under the common law of the ruling House Drusus of Dun LochRas, fiefdom of the Geonian Imperium," he paused to draw in a breath. "As confirmed inheritors of a lineage of power, you are to accompany me to the Proving Grounds, where you will be required to remain for the duration of your twelfth year or until such time as your Emergence during that year. Do you understand what is expected of you?"
"Yes, sir," Rhys and I said simultaneously, obediently falling in line behind the man. Emergence escorts weren't uncommon occurrences. The number of children born with the traits marking them with power was becoming more prevalent each year. I'd heard some census takers remarking that the numbers had reached nearly one in ten of all those born within the last decade. Rumors held that the percentages were even more severe in the Imperium homeland. It wasn't surprising as their borders were far closer to the lands ravaged by The Reformation.
"Since no others are bound for the Proving Grounds this morning, we three will have the wagon all to ourselves." The Caretaker gathered his robes and ascended the steps, settling into one of the benches at the front. Rhys climbed in and sat cross-legged on the opposite side. With a sideways glance at the guards, I followed. The escort took their positions at the front and back of the wagon. The horses whinnied in their yoke, jerking the wagon to motion.
I craned around, wanting to keep home in sight for as long as possible. Moment by moment, our longhouse grew distant. The air was still thick with the damp smell of moss. We passed several other homes. Despite the presence of the sun, no one was outside. I spotted the glints of eyes from behind folds of hanging furs and cracks in walls, spying on us. I had to laugh; I'd done the same to others in this position.
We all did.
Ahead was the gate, a simple gap in the stake wall, nothing grand like the gatehouses to the walls of Dun LochRas. The pair of city watchmen nodded to the driver. They avoided meeting our eyes as we passed from the bounds of the Culchie village and the loch. The mist that blew in from the loch curled and billowed, swallowing home, obscuring it from my eyes. The terrain rose, sharp hills funneled us to the narrow pass separating the loch and our village from the adjacent valley beyond. I hunched in on myself, willing my face to remain impassive.
For most of our ride, I found my tongue no longer worked. Even Rhys now sat straight-backed in his spot. The Caretaker acted as though we were bound for a routine visit to the market. He took sips from a wineskin, eventually offering some to Rhys and me. "Drink?" Neither of us was particularly thirsty, so we waived the offer. "Suit yourself." He was perfectly happy to pass the time in silence.
"Sir?" I blinked. Was I the one who'd spoken? Sometimes, my curiosity acted as a surrogate for bravery. "May I ask a question?"
Rhys watched me from the corner of his eye, cautioning me without drawing attention to the fact.
"But of course, dear boy."
"What is the ratio between the children blessed and cursed?"
The Caretaker's smile took on a slightly more sympathetic hue. "About a third of the marked children are cursed. My census records date back to the very founding of Dun LochRas. They have remained remarkably consistent even as the overall numbers of those marked has been on the rise."
I swallowed. A third? That percentage was high, a great deal higher than I'd realized.
The Caretaker leaned forward. He spoke as a patron over his wards, which today, we technically were. "Don't fear, young man. You will be well cared for during this season of your life. And should the worst befall you, you will not be allowed to suffer for long."
I nodded, eyes scrunched shut. Rhys was right; sometimes, knowledge brings no comfort. On my left, Rhys pressed into me, sharing the warmth of his side, a ward against the chill of the hazy day.
Dun LochRas was less than a morning's ride from our fishing village. The paved road connecting them was now well-worn. Though considered a modest frontier colony by Imperium standards, I could imagine no other city as magnificent as Dun LochRas. The mist had obfuscated it from afar, but now the road wound close enough that the edges of its outer petal walls were as dim shadows in a sea of white. It drifted nearer like some behemoth of the deep approaching a swimmer.
Surrounded by miles of farmland, its walls rose into the air, a full three stories in height. Peeking out high above the crenelated battlements was the long, four-pronged tower of the temple of The Melegin Yolu. His temples were the fulcrum of all Geonian cities. His priests were uniquely gifted with the power to divine the invisible Paths of Melek. Temples were erected at the convergence of two or more paths. The power they collected was the wellspring that allowed the Āyah to work their miracles. Control of this flow of power was a significant part of the Imperium's dominance over a great deal of the known world.
We'd been to the city many times. I longed to see where we would live. I imagined once again what living in those high-rise apartments would be like. Our mother resided there, but Dun LochRas wasn't our destination this morning. The road ahead split. The left branch veered to the main gate. We kept to the right, circling the borders of the wall separating the city from the countryside. By now, the fields were awake with farmhands. The aqueducts that channeled water from the loch to the settlements and fields were open. Water bubbled through the trenches, providing for the fields. The livestock pastures lay dotted with goats and sheep.
It was half a day-hour circling the perimeter before we sighted our destination. Beyond the city's border lay a smaller structure, the Proving Grounds compound. It was small compared to Dun LochRas, though I would've wagered it was comparable in size to our village. Like the city, it had its wall, just as tall and sturdy as LochRas but unlike any other fortification I'd ever studied.
Flights of winding steps spiraled up along the outside face of the wall at equal intervals. These steps ran to the top. Not only that, but the battlements and armaments were all directed inward, a constant reminder of their true purpose.
The gatehouse was a proper defensive structure, with doors built of lumber capable of withstanding a siege. The timber bar drew across the door, locking it from the outside. Guards, dressed in battle leathers, many armed with heavy crossbows and short swords, milled about the gate and the walls with the characteristic haste of militaristic discipline. These were no simple farmhands given a pitchfork and a few lessons on thrusting. These were city-funded professional soldiers.
The Caretaker presented his documentation to the waiting female guard at the gate. "Just two this day."
The guard captain took a moment to examine the scroll. Her face was lined. I noticed a few scarred nicks at the bottom of her chin; she was a seasoned fighter. I wondered how many of these people were Āyah and what rank they held. The captain's armor was decorated with a crest, identifying her with one of the lesser governing houses.
The captain finished verifying the orders, lifting her eyes to us. It took effort not to shrink away from the intensity of her gaze; even Rhys's smile was wooden. The captain's cyan eyes held no warmth; her mouth remained set. Her middling complexion was halfway between the olive inclination of native Geonians and the paler hue of native Iournians. She must have been a half-breed like us. I wondered what her life was like now that she was a full citizen. I hoped to find out, pending our successful Emergences. The captain didn't speak to us. Instead, she raised her voice to the men around her. "Alright, let them through."
We passed under the archway and into the bailey beyond. I stole one last look through the narrowing gap between the closing gates. The sun had burned most of the mist away. I stared at the open countryside and the gray mountains beyond, trying to preserve the image in my memory as if it were a plaster painting I could take inside. It might be a year before I'd see anything but the white-washed walls of the Proving Grounds again.
Beyond the archway, the wall opened to a forum at the compound's center. About the size of a squared furlong, it could have housed dozens of huts. The rest of the compound was laid out in a simple grid. The buildings were all Geonan-style stone structures with posts and lintels. Simple stone dwellings and communal gathering areas were divided into semi-separate wards. In the center of the forum was a fountain carved into the visage of a leaping Pike from whose open mouth sprang the waters collected in the fountain's basin.
I examined the people who would be our neighbors over the coming months. Children. Boys and girls, all in their twelfth year, milled about. Some occupied the open spaces of the forum. Others sat on the stone steps of their dwellings. Some treaded in the placid water of the public baths. Few eyes bothered to look up at us; wagons brought new members in daily. We were routine to them.
All was static inside the compound, absent of the bustle you'd expect in a town full of children. No one gathered into groups to play games, speak to one another, laugh, or even nod to passers-by. Everyone was going out of their way to keep their distance. Individuals were spread about like pawns on a chess set. I'd never realized how natural it was to gather into groups until I was placed into a community that did none of that.
We pulled into a ward semi-isolated from the others. Waist-high walls, more for symbolic separation than practical, sectioned off the facilities inside. These buildings looked more ornate, luxurious, and cared for; their occupants were children from families of higher privilege and means. It seemed that our mother arranged for upgraded accommodations.
The wagon pulled up to the apartments, labeled 'IV.' The Caretaker climbed out, beckoning us to follow him up the few steps. The building was circular, with a raised stone hearth at the center, and a single shaft of light shone down through the oculus to the sky above. The area around the hearth was communal, with several benches circling the inner walls. Open doorways led to sleeping chambers sectioned off as spokes from the center room.
The Caretaker paused beside the hearth. "I'm afraid our current occupancy exceeds the number of sleeping accommodations. We have broken ground on a second walled compound, but it won't be completed until late next year. For now, we have to double up on quarters."
Staring into the openings, I could see the other rooms had bunk beds crammed into what was designed to be a single-person living space.
"Since you're brothers," the Caretaker continued, "I'm sure you won't mind sharing this space." He pointed to the opening nearest to us. "You're fortunate. In some cases, the other wards have three or four to a room."
Without hesitating, Rhys strolled in. "I claim the top bunk!" Rhys was forcing his excitement, no doubt for my benefit. I didn't mind; I preferred the bottom anyway.
The elderly man smiled at our evident eagerness. "Wonderful. Breakfast will be provided one hour after sunrise, supper an hour before sundown, and a midday meal will be available at high noon. All food is served from the galley. Curfew is at sundown. There are public baths and latrines for each region of the compound. Your daily provisional lessons will continue during the three hours of high noon as you are already accustomed to. You will be expected to assume responsibility for basic maintenance and care of your ward while living here. Shifts will be assigned to you tomorrow."
The Caretaker continued, reciting what must have been a well-rehearsed speech by now. "Leisure items such as books, art supplies, games, and the like are provided at the library and gymnasium." He stepped over to the doorway, pausing at the threshold. "Take some time to settle, then feel free to introduce yourselves to your neighbors, form new friendships, and enjoy yourselves. Remember, this is not a prison; you are not being punished. You are guests of the governing houses of Dun LochRas. Try to enjoy your time here, and it will pass almost without notice; soon, you will find yourselves rejoining society as full adults." Having completed his tour and obligations, the Caretaker returned to the wagon. He paused long enough to incline his head in a parting gesture, then left.
Once we could no longer hear the wagon, I plopped down on my bed, back hunched, arms resting on my lap. The padding was softer than my bed at home. This bed had actual fresh linen sheets spread over the top, a luxury not typically found in Culchie villages. I missed my bed.
Rhys sat next to me, bumping against my shoulder with his. "I know. I'd rather be home too." He studied our new room. "But we're lucky to have this place. I've heard tales of the people who weren't prepared for the arrival of The Reformation in the more remote lands. They didn't even know how to identify their marked children. They've got no idea how to deal with an Emergence, especially when-"
"- I understand, Rhys!" I cut him off, my words sharp as daggers. "I'm awash with gratitude! Can't you tell by my cheerful disposition?!" Rhys folded his arms and watched me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to realize I was being an ass. I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. "I'm sorry."
Rhys's smile was quick to return. "I know." He took my hand in his, intertwining our fingers. He spoke with the familiar cadence he favored when reciting poetry. "We came into the world as brother and brother."
"Now, let's go hand in hand, not one without the other." I finished the verse, smiling despite myself.
***
Those who oversaw us provided everything the marked children could've needed during our year in the Proving Grounds. As the Caretaker promised, we had tutoring and municipal facilities that were uncommon outside of the white walls of Dun LochRas—everything we needed—so long as we never approached the gates.
The year of Emergence was viewed with equal measures of dread and excitement. All the children marked for power entered here, waiting for their calling. Some were from our village; many more came from the surrounding countryside and within the Dun LochRas herself. For the first time, I was surrounded by people my age—peers who could understand what it meant to be marked and who must have been looking for the same camaraderie.
But we didn't interact beyond nods and reserved smiles.
We spent our days avoiding one another as much as possible. Paranoia, not camaraderie, drove our behavior that year. The Emergence could come upon us at any moment, but there was no known way of determining if you would be cursed or blessed. That fact was never far from our minds; it hung over us like a shadow. We tried to avoid each other, but the flow of newly marked children had been rising faster than expected. Faster than could be compensated for. Try though we did to keep away, this place was a powder keg just waiting for the slightest spark to set it off.
It wasn't just Rhys and me that shared a sleeping space. Greater numbers of children from the countryside were being sent in, all confirmed to have inherited power. The congestion of people went beyond the living quarters. Every facility was stretched to its limit. Lines wound far, often necessitating hours-long waits for a latrine or bath. Children waited even longer for food, and missing out on meals wasn't unheard of. The housing situation was so severe that several bedrolls lay outside the living accommodations; children slept there when weather permitted.
Rhys and I avoided the worst overflow due to our connections with our mother's house. Our ward was less crowded and better cared for than the others. The children here were either born into nobility or sired by a parent selected explicitly by the elite to thin out the magic potency of a family line. The people of the Imperium were the first to be touched by its spread nearly four hundred years ago. Subsequently, their children have been receiving the mark of power for generations. It was believed the infusion of non-Reformation-touched blood pushed the odds in favor of producing blessed offspring. We privileged enjoyed better access at the cost of greater scrutiny by the powerful families we were born from.
But no place inside the grounds was truly saved from the growing pains of our time. Even the compound itself wore at the seams. From a distance, it was all high walls and crisp stonework. But the longer I stayed, the more I saw why we were really here.
Children sat on chairs whose legs had been torn off and haphazardly replaced. The walls of several sleeping quarters looked as though the bricks had been partially dislodged. They bowed out in pockets as if pushed from the inside. Then there were the scratches - more like deep trenches that marred surfaces everywhere. Some had been hastily filled in with plaster, but they did a poor job hiding the scarring on the stone. The cursed children's emergence was always violent.
Then there were the guards.
No one, high-born or otherwise, was spared their paranoid stares. Armed men and women were permanently stationed along the battlements. More took up arms at the gate. Groups of three were on regular patrols around the wards. We all knew they weren't here strictly for our protection. Every guard carried arrows and blades tipped with Aconite.
***
Two months into our stay, no new child emerged. It wasn't unheard of for there to be long gaps between occurrences, but two months was unusual. With more children coming in and none leaving, we were beginning to feel like sardines. More children were forced to sleep outside. Meals had to be cut to just breakfast and midnoon to spread the supplies out to the growing crowd of mouths.
Spring had given way to a sizzling summer, much hotter than usual. Usually, these heat spells were broken up by the breezes that flowed down from the mountains, but nothing got through those gates, not even that occasional relief. The very air seemed as much of a prisoner here as we were. It churned and roiled, but with nowhere to go, it was forced to linger around us, a soup of claustrophobia and human perspiration—one more thing to add to our growing unease.
"How can you read this?" Rhys tapped the corner of my copy of A History of the Imperium Expansion with a finger. I'd discovered a decent way to pass my time with the reading materials stored in one of the communal buildings. This library was stocked with a good selection of books and scrolls whose pages granted me a temporary escape.
Rhys received the same education I had. We read at the same level, and he was every bit as sharp as I was. But he was more interested in songs, stories, and ballads. Provincial history and more classically academic subjects were my favorites, not his.
I peered over the rim of my book at Rhys drumming his fingers. His forehead was creased, and his grimace was more severe than was warranted for the situation. Rhys's patience was limited when it came to sitting at a desk. He'd always been more for doing than studying, but his restlessness had worsened in the last week. His usual easygoing disposition had eroded, leaving him with a shorter temper and a darker mood.
Despite the situation, I felt a bubble of smugness. For once, I was the one handling the stress better than he. "Rhys, I know space is limited, but there's still plenty of room outside to take a lap or two."
Rhys looked fleetingly interested in the idea but snorted, pacing back and forth. "No. We should stay together."
"You're irritated; go expend some of that excess vitality." Rhys's only response was to grunt.
I rolled my eyes, though I was enjoying the feeling of being the more mature brother. "How about some water? I'm thirsty. I'll bet you are, too." Rhys's scowl deepened.
"Please?"
My brother let out a long sigh. "Fiiiine. I'll be right back." He trotted out to the public fountain. He just needed the excuse to leave. I was sympathetic. We were all suffering.
I was several pages deeper into my book and quite content sitting in my little corner when I heard shouting outside. The cries grew in volume and alarm before the air split with a feral roar, deep and mighty enough to rattle my eardrums.
Everyone inside was instantly on their feet. I couldn't see the cause of the commotion, but I heard footsteps scattering from the center of the square—the same place as the water fountain. Guards shouted orders from above, accompanied by the sounds of archers nocking their arrows.
My blood froze.
A cursed emergence.
Rhys!
Children scattered from the fountain, and several poured into the opening of the library enclosure. I pushed through them, heedless that I was the only one heading towards the danger. Oh gods, please don't let it be Rhys! Please don't let it be Rhys! Elbows and torsos smashed into me; it was a fight to swim upstream. I couldn't see the fountain over their heads, but the archers atop the wall were in plain view. They were already releasing their arrows down into the forum.
Black darts converged upon their unseen target. More roars erupted from the fountain, more vicious and terrible. But it must not have fallen, for the archers wasted no time reloading their bows while keeping a bead on the target. Its footsteps resounded through the ground. The creature must have been massive. There was more crashing and snapping as great chunks of wood from the outdoor benches flew across the air, tossed aside like so much flotsam amidst the growing cloud of dust.
"It approaches the gate! Don't let it escape!"
"It takes our volleys and continues to move!"
I squeezed through the crowd but caught my foot on the last stone steps. I tumbled, collapsing on my elbow. Dust clouded my eyes and scratched the inside of my lungs. I was dimly aware of the shooting pain from my elbow, but none of that mattered. All I could think about was my brother. "Rhys!" Please! Not Rhys, please, not him! I prayed to every deity that I knew of.
I'd never seen a werewolf or any Therian before, but thanks to the spread of The Reformation, everyone knew of the cursed side of being marked. Children native to our land almost always became wolves if cursed, though a few from the remote mountain villages were known to have produced bears. I fancied myself well-read on the subject. I'd studied the artistic renderings and learned about their strength, speed, ability to heal in moments from wounds that would be fatal to anyone else, and most importantly, their insatiable hunger. But no book, no reassurance from clinical knowledge prepared me for my first Therian.
Its body was a nightmarish hybridization of man and wolf. It was bipedal; the forelegs better resembled arms. Its head was lupine, its muzzle curled back to bear dagger-sized fangs. Foam and bloody drool dripped from its black lips. It was massive, maybe twelve feet, maybe more. It was far larger and more powerful than any recorded werewolf I'd encountered in my studies.
Despite their preparations and practice, it was more powerful than the guards could manage. The archers continued to fire at it. Paw-like hands, tipped with black talons as long as my hand, swatted at the air, batting away several arrows the way I might swat at a fly.
The creature was now within feet of the wooden gate. Four guards armed with spears blocked its way; one of them was familiar. I recognized her face from the day we arrived. The captain commanded the guards still with a swift hand signal.
Spear at the ready, she knelt, hand spread over the ground before her. From beneath the shadowed rim of her helmet, I could make out twin points of illumination, the tell-tale mark of an Āyah channeling their supernatural talent. The dirt undulated like the surface of water, then caved, softening into pudding beneath the beast's feet, though no moisture was at play. The affected area remained as dry as the surrounding landscape.
The creature sank to its knees.
The captain was an earthmover and one of some skill. The monster seized, trying to leap as soon as it realized what was happening, but it had nothing to push off from. The ground was too malleable for it to gain perch. Its body rippled with inhuman muscle. Its tail whipped back and forth, but the thrashing only hastened its encapsulation, now thigh-deep.
The captain raised her hand again. The archers leashed another torrent of arrows at it. With the beast now held and distracted, the arrows landed. But all bounced off the matted-wet fur covering its hide. Without penetration into the bloodstream, the arrow's Aconite poisoning was ineffective.
Those bows were merely a prelude to the mounted crossbows. Each crossbow was so large that it required a tripod and three men to operate. By then, the archers had four in range, each tipped with iron arrowheads slick with the black stain of Aconite extract.
I wasn't sure how the beast understood. None who changed ever regained their human mind. The curse wiped away the person who was, leaving only a brutal and savage animal behind. Even so, I recognized the undeniable cunning in its subsequent actions. It moved at such speed that I didn't realize it had happened until after the fact. It reached sideways and grabbed one of the mostly intact chairs it had tossed earlier. It flung the table directly at the nearest crossbow with little more effort than a grunt.
The guard had no more ability to react to the attack than I did observing it. The mounted weapon was obliterated, along with the guards manning it, in an explosion of wood, stone, and gore. Several archers, unfortunate enough to be nearby, were toppled, and a couple fell from the battlements to the ground below. Everyone else was either stunned or ducking for cover.
Capitalizing on the distraction, the beast snatched a round table and used it as a wooden shield against the next two bolts that flew its way. They burrowed into the wood with a heavy -thoc thoc-. The guards scrambled to reload the turrets, but the beast didn't allow anyone time to recover before it threw the table like a discus at the four guards between it and the gate. The captain saw it coming and pulled one of the others down with her. The other two men found their bodies severed at the waist, dead before they had time to realize what happened.
By then, the final of the four turrets launched its projectile; their position was just out of the beast's sight. The bolt streaked to its target, looking to hit him just below its left shoulder blade. The beast's lupine ear twitched, and with that same impossible speed, the creature whipped its shoulders around and clamped its outstretched hand around the shaft. The tip halted mere inches before it would have sunk into its flesh.
The young guard whom the captain had saved recovered first. When he saw his fellows' severed corpses on the ground, he whirled on the beast, raised his spear, and charged the monster. Taking advantage of the beast's momentary distraction, the guard thrust the spear forward and sank its tip into the monster's side, wedging it between two massive ribs.
The creature threw back its head and roared; the agony was evident in its lupine features. But even the Aconite, known to be the only natural poison that did any lasting harm to Therians, didn't immediately drop it. Far from falling over, the beast's pain darkened to deep rage as its golden eyes dropped to fully focus on the tiny human who had dared to harm it.
It lurched forward. Even with its legs buried, its towering stature handily bridged the distance between them. The poor soul didn't have time to draw his sword before the beast had him. It bit down with jaws large enough to engulf the doomed guard's head and shoulders.
The guard's chainmail did nothing to stop the creature's fangs from sinking into his chest. My stomach turned at the sound of crunching bone as the beast ripped the man asunder. His blood sprayed as the bottom three-quarters of his body plopped onto the ground. Several of the remaining organs rushed out of the ragged hole along with the torrent of blood.
With the guard dispatched, the beast turned its attention back to the spear still hanging from its side. Black veins had begun to spread out from the wound like some necrotic web. The poison was beginning to take effect. The monster clawed at the spear, clumsily ripping it out, bits of Aconite-tainted flesh still clung to the tip. A fresh expulsion of blood and tissue dripped from the open wound, soaking into its fur.
The captain was back on her feet, spear in hand. Her face was a mask of grim determination as she faced off against the goliath. The beast brought its shaggy head to bear, staring at the final impediment to the gate and its escape. Arrows continued peppering its hide uselessly.
The captain bared her teeth, the lines of her face creased with effort. The dirt around the creature liquefied further, pulling the monster down to the waist. She intended to smother it under the very earth.
The beast roared, spewing flecks of red spittle and meat over the captain as it did. Bereft of tables, it reached for the mangled remains of the dead soldier and hurled it. The captain tried to jump to the side, but rag-dolling corpses don't fly predictably. A flailing leg, held to the torso by nothing more than tendons and skin, slapped across her chest, splattering more viscera. They careened into the wall in a gruesome tangle of body parts.
The captain hit the stone hard. Blood seeped down her shoulders from a wound somewhere under her helmet. The chainmail was soon stained burgundy down one side of her collar. I watched the glow of her eyes wink out as she crumpled to the ground; whether from losing consciousness or life, I couldn't tell.
With the Āyah down, the ground around the beast solidified once more. It wrenched itself to and fro, trying to free its lower half. With its newly acquired leverage, it coiled its legs and exploded out of the ground. Its body shot into the air, dragging dirt trails in its wake before landing in front of the gates. It staggered, falling to one knee. The poison in the spear was finally having some effect. Even so, it should have been nearly paralyzed by then. What kind of cursed emergence was this?
Weakened or not, the monster was nowhere near defeated. It drew tree trunk-sized arms up and brought them crashing against the wood with enough force to splinter through most walls. These doors were designed to take a beating and held under the barrage. The beast hammered several times at them, and though the gate rattled on its hinges and bowed under the incredible strength of the monster, it didn't shatter.
After several tries, the beast halted its attack. Lowering its arms, it lifted its head to take in the immediate surroundings as if planning its next move. By then, the archers were regrouping but not yet ready to fire. The beast crouched and leaped again.
With nothing to hinder it, the jump crescendoed two-thirds up the wall's total height. The beast latched onto the rough stones. Hands with opposable thumbs dug its scythe-like claws into the rock. It braced itself again and took a second leap, this time reaching the battlements and the very unprepared archers standing atop it.
There were more screams, and more people were tossed to their deaths. Soon, there was no one nearby who could stop it. The monster threw its head back and howled in triumph before disappearing over the side and out of sight.
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to my feet, stumbling towards the fountain. There wasn't much left. The Pike were snapped into chunks of stony flesh. The basin was shattered. Water had already escaped from the cracks, darkening the ground in a spreading circle of mud.
Rhys wasn't there. Maybe everything was alright! Perhaps he was just hiding like everyone else!
Then I found them—Rhys's shredded clothes, split at the seams. I collapsed to my knees. "No! Gods no!" It would've been better if Rhys had been killed!
I stared at the spot on the wall where the beast had escaped—the beast that had once been my brother. In its golden eyes, there hadn't been any trace of the gentle, charismatic boy he'd been. There was only animal instinct.
Rhys's Emergence had come; he was Therian. A werewolf. Cursed.
The guards slowly collected themselves, several tending to their fallen comrades. Others gathered the bodies. I noticed several carrying their captain to the barracks. It looked like she survived. Everyone moved as if in a daze. None of the remaining guards gave chase. With the captain down, there were no trained combat Āyah with enough power to lead a team, and it was suicide to try and face a Therian without proper supernatural aid.
There was nothing I could do. Nothing but slump in the mud and stare dumbly at the death and gore. I knew of the spread of The Reformation and the heralding of those touched by it. I knew why the Therians had to be put down, and I'd thought I understood—but that dark day taught me a new language of horror.
I gathered the remains of my brother's tattered clothes in my arms and pressed them against my chest, just as I had with my Da's torc years ago.
At some point, hands pressed against my back and shoulders. There were voices, but they were distant and vague. I don't really remember much of the events after or what I said. I spent the evening alone in the healing ward before being cleaned off and sent to my quarters later that night. Rhys's rags were still bunched in my arms. I spent the night curled around them in a room that was too large, too empty. I buried my face in the rags – I don't remember anything of the night after that.
***
The captain returned about two weeks after Rhys's escape. Her face was marred with scars from her encounter. Under her direction, they tripled their patrols. New crossbows were brought in to add to the armament already there. If the guards had seemed unfriendly before, they'd grown downright hostile following their defeat.
During the rest of my stay, I witnessed forty-three other Emergences: twenty-six Āyah and seventeen Therians. The newest cursed children were smaller than Rhys and not nearly so powerful. But that only meant they were cut down with more alacrity; our watchers took no further chances.
They shot one girl six times before her body could complete the metamorphosis. I was nearby when it happened. The arrow piercing her throat silenced her screams, but that didn't mean I couldn't hear her choking as she spat up blood and phlegm, skin crisscrossed with black veins from the Aconite poisoning. Nor did it prevent me from watching as her body spasmed in its final moments before death unburdened her.
The captain kept a particularly close watch on me. We never spoke, but her form was often the first thing I saw upon my morning rise and the last as I went to sleep. Her presence was a near-constant companion to my daily routine. Her shadow hung over me, a death shroud waiting for me to show signs of the change.
She never got that chance. My Emergence came upon me three months later. I became Āyah, one of the blessed. It was a strange sensation. Euphoric, alien, and somehow familiar. Some dormant part of me, who had always been there, was finally awake. There was no pain, no physical change, but I knew with absolute clarity that I was different.
Freedom from that damned prison soon followed. I was no longer simply marked; I was Proven, officially acknowledged as a man by the Caretaker. He spared me a conciliatory smile at my loss as he let me through the gates.
***
Shortly after being released, I was brought before my mother to demonstrate my new ability. I hadn't been face-to-face with her in years. Our father raised us in the fishing village. Children born under provisional contracts were expected to earn their place in high Geonian society. Life in the upper echelons of the city's towers was not a door that admitted the weak and unremarkable.
The servants brought me to the arena erected near the center of LochRas. When the space wasn't used to house sport and gladiatorial combat, it served as a popular place to bring new Āyah to demonstrate their power. The guards directed me to stand in the center.
Aurelia, my mother, hadn't changed in those intervening years. She was beautiful in the way a marble statue was. Strong, idyllic, pristine, but unapproachable on her pedestalled finery. Even sitting, my mother managed to look elegant. Her silks draped around her as if carefully arranged that way. She wore the broad features of Geonian nobility. A strong jaw, an aquiline nose, and golden-hued skin. Her eyes were large and dark beneath the twists of her mane of hair.
At times, I saw so much of Rhys in her. But her eyes were always stoic, piercing in intensity, and lacked his warmth. Her lips never wavered, not to smile or even to frown. They were sculpted on, impassive and unmoving. I tried to imagine my brother with that hardened expression, but the image refused to come into focus.
She dipped her head, not in greeting, but to urge me on. Everything I'd been through came down to this moment. This was when I would finally be allowed to become a son to her. To become part of the white towers of the noble families. All that I'd recently been through would be worth it.
I'd been taught how to recognize and properly channel my power. All the marked children were given these lessons early on. I knew, in theory, how to center myself and what hints to look for as it manifested. I went through the steps, felt the energy flow, and released it around me. Nothing happened.
My heart was pounding. It all came down to this demonstration. I couldn't fail now, not when I was so close. I tried again. Again, I felt the power, touched its ebb and flow within me, but even as I willed it into the world, nothing happened. I strained until my eyes stung with sweat, but still, nothing happened.
Newly emerged Āyah were usually only capable of crude manifestations, not unlike a musician's first attempts at playing an instrument or a baby uttering their first trills of language. Most of the blessed were gifted with an ability of humble stature, but even the slightest power should have had some measurable effect on the world around me.
Aurelia's demeanor darkened. Her poise and expression remained as fastened as they always did, but there was a narrowness to her eyes that hadn't been there before. She gathered her silken finery and stood to leave.
"Wait!" I slapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late. I'd only spoken to her a handful of times, which was always through rehearsed and carefully ritualized visits. I'd never raised my voice to her, had never dared.
Aurelia stilled, watching me. I wilted under her stern gaze. "I can do it." I was much more reserved in my speech this time.
With my eyes closed, I lifted my arms as if to hold the air around me and concentrated. The power surged within. I felt the insides of my eyelids burning, as I knew the energy radiating from my eyes must have been intense. I preferred the discomfort to seeing the way she watched me now. I pushed more power and effort into the effect until it felt like my blood would boil.
I released the collected power into the room. I felt the wave spread from me. Nothing was visible, but Āyah could always sense when another was channeling. She would have felt it, too. I opened my eyes again. We waited—one second, then two, then five.
Nothing.
My throat choked. I made a noise that sounded like something between a sob and a hiccup. I took a step towards her, my hands uselessly extended towards her. I tripped over my foot and slammed face-first into the sand-covered stage. There was a spike of intense pain over my left eyebrow and the sound of two solid surfaces striking against one another.
I lifted my head only to be overcome by a surge of nausea. I rolled onto my side and managed to place an exploratory hand over the spot where the pain radiated. I didn't need to pull my hand away to feel the warm blood trickling out of the wound. Next to my head, the jagged side of the rock I'd hit was tipped with the same.
I couldn't gather myself enough to stand. I tried to look up at her, at the woman who would have taken me from all this, but a blurred halo of her body was all I could make out through teared-soaked eyelashes.
"A shame that my efforts have been wasted on you." Aurelia's voice was a smooth contralto. I listened for the slightest hint of compassion, but there was only detached disdain.
I stayed silent. There wasn't any point in speaking now.
Aurelia was a powerful Āyah known throughout the land. My Āyah blessing disappointed her. Aurelia didn't suffer fools, and she didn't waste time with me. As I lay there, she invoked the provisions of my birth arrangement that allowed her to disassociate with her unwanted offspring and formally disown Rhys and I. Bad enough, she had to endure the humiliation of producing a powerful Therian offspring, but also to have the other son blessed with a power that did nothing. She was only too happy to wash her hands of it — of us.
The ceremony was quick and without pomp. It was designed to be. Designed to spare any noble the shame of a more public declaration. Her blurred outline faded from my limited sight. No one came to help me up. I lay there until my nausea forced me to wretch bile; it burned my throat and soaked into the sand around my cheek.
I couldn't speak, but I kept mouthing 'Please' repeatedly. I remained where I was for a while until one of the arena slaves took pity on me, pressed a cloth over my forehead, and helped me out of the stadium.
***
I was stripped of my provisional name, no longer Tyber, and no longer part of House Vesta, even tangentially. Rhys's name was posthumously stricken from the line. I could still use my father's clan name, but what use was a clan of one? I was just Rigby of the Culchie now.
I was sent back to the fishing village of my birth to be forgotten. I wished that I could have been forgotten. It would've been preferable over living with the stigma of both my failure and my brother's. Few people wanted to associate with me, even in the Culchie village, to say nothing of the treatment I received when I had cause to visit Dun LochRas.
Seasons swept by.
There were few options for a man in my position. I couldn't stand the loch anymore; it had taken my father. I hated the forests; they had taken my brother. I couldn't rely on a skilled trade; I had no training beyond being a stable hand for Da's horses.
The specters of my past haunted the Culchie village, my longhouse, even the stable. I no longer went on Cian's lake trips, though he invited me yearly.
I scrounged a living managing the few horses and farm animals left to me. After my twelfth year, there were few joys to be had. I often went to bed hungry. Without Cian and his family, I wouldn't have lasted those first few winters, but I could hardly stand to be around them anymore. It was the constant pity, and it tainted every interaction I had with them.
I crossed paths with the captain of the guard a few times in the intervening years. I learned her name was Oriana of House Naevia. I did my best to stay far away from the barracks. She never came out as far as the village, but whenever I had business in Dun LochRas, she was always there on the battlements studying me as if I were still a child in the Proving Grounds. I think she wanted me to see her, to know I was under observation. She made no effort to hide her contempt, and her scarred scowl assured me that I'd still be there if she had her way.
***
Things didn't only get worse for me. The entire countryside suffered the consequences of Rhys's emergence. The merchants whose trade routes led through our territory began arriving with news of a roaming pack of werewolves that kept to our little part of the world. This pack was said to be led and protected by a great wolf, the largest they'd ever seen. I knew who it was the moment I heard the story from that first frightened caravan. As tales of the pack spread, people began calling him The Beast of LochRas.
This pack was adept at evading tracking parties and ruthless in the hunt. Like all other Therians, they ate ravenously, picking off herd animals, wild boar, and larger game like elk and deer. Even animals that would have otherwise been apex predators, like bears and cougars, weren't safe. And like all Therians, they were not averse to sating their hunger with the flesh of men.
Trade slowed. The road to our valley became treacherous, and our developing economy deteriorated. Rhys's escape and identity were well known throughout the land. As his only living relative, I shared a portion of the resentment that built in our community.
I never ventured far into the forests; that would have been especially dangerous for me. Since the beginning, when The Reformation marked the first children, those cursed to be Therians displayed a strong preference for the flesh of Āyah. They've been known to ignore easier prey in pursuit of a single Āyah for miles. I never encountered the large wolf or his pack, though I often found myself watching the borders for imagined signs of their passing.
The pack's reputation grew. We began to attract hunters seeking to make a name for themselves. They were not like the merchants and peddlers that had once graced our markets; they were a rough lot. Much more likely to be found frequenting the mead halls than the economic centers of our squares. They quickly developed nasty reputations for their unruly behavior. Families avoided them, as did anyone not confident in their combat prowess. Their drunken revelries were often at the center of the rise in violence along the darker streets of Dun LochRas.
The hunters came for one reason: to slay the Beast and his pack. These men and women were full of pride. They boasted they would be the first to bring the Beast of LochRas's pelt back.
None succeeded.
Several were slaughtered and eaten in the attempt; the rest either fled or returned to the city (not always under their own power), shaken, often missing party members or limbs. I learned to avoid mead halls and drinking holes during those times.
***
It wasn't until two years ago that things began to turn around for me. Ekene, the man who would become my new teacher, arrived at the fishing village. Born the son of two war slaves, Ekene had earned his freedom and Geonan citizenship as a young man, even attaining a place among the Saoithe philosophers.
Ekene took a shine to me. I will never know precisely why. Perhaps it was because he hadn't grown up here, hadn't lived through the last several years with the fear of the Beast of LochRas and the realm's economic misfortunes, and hadn't had time for resentment to build and blame me for all of it.
We met during the first week of his arrival. He approached my home on a rickety wagon pulled by a mule. It was a wet morning; the rain had come late the previous evening. The storm left behind its trails of fog which the sun had yet to burn away. I was occupied with replacing some of the worn thatch on my roof and hadn't heard him approach.
"Excuse me, are you the Farrier of this village?"
His voice was deep and rich. He spoke the Iournian tongue with the accent of someone from the Imperium homeland. The man the voice belonged to was wizened, with skin the texture of wrinkled paper over his broad face. The rest of him was as well worn. His hair and beard were bleached by time. His eyes seemed to have escaped the wear and tear of the rest of him. They were bright and alert, following me with perfect clarity.
He was night-skinned, a man from the far south, a kingdom shrouded in legends. The people were rumored to have built their civilization beyond the Barrier Escarpments, though information on them this far away was aggravatingly scant.
No kingdom had ever successfully laid siege, not even the Imperium. The people of that land keep to themselves, with only hearsay tales to provide the barest scraps of lore. Their kingdom is said to be one of wonders, knowledge, and secrets unknown to any other nation of man. It is said that even the knowledge of the Saoi is thought to have its roots there.
He wore robes ill-suited to this climate. They were light and billowy, something to weather hotter suns and brighter skies. Draped over his shoulders was an oil cloak, powdered by a fine layer of wet dust from the road, a concession to the cooler surroundings.
I discarded my work and slid down the roof, landing in a shower of straw. I was wary. I didn't get many requests for my skill as a farrier, and never from a traveler. "Greetings. I'm Rigby; I can shoe your horse, though I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you there are better stables back in the city."
The man waved off my concern. "If I wanted to spend more time among Geonian trappings, I needn't have come this far. It is the Loch and her people that interest me. Please, my belt is burdened with coin, and I'd be grateful if you could help me dispense with some of it."
The corner of my mouth ticked up despite my efforts to keep the conversation professional. "In that case, honored traveler, allow me to lead your mule to my stable."
"Please, I am Ekene." He slid off his horse with a grunt. He heavily favored his left leg and leaned on a staff.
I led him and his mule past the single living area, sparing a glance at the wall to make sure the old Sinsear shrine was still covered. I couldn't imagine what a man from the center of the Imperium would have thought had he seen such a superstitious relic of the outer territories.
I was eager to hear about his travels. Once in the workshop, I lifted the mule's hoof off the ground, tucking my hip against the hock. I began picking dirt out from the center while we spoke. I learned about his trip from the very capital of the Imperium, his service in the military, and his later business ventures as an inventor.
Ekene settled onto a stool and rested his elbows along the wooden rail of the stable. He spoke easily enough, though he seemed uninterested in his own life. He answered my questions as a courtesy rather than out of any personal enjoyment. His eyes wandered around the longhouse while we spoke, at times watching my work and other times looking at my workshop, the longhouse, and my meager collection of possessions.
I was nearing the end of driving the nails in the final hoof when Ekene changed the subject. "So, tell me, why is a young man such as yourself content with merely fixing roofs and tending to a farmstead?"
"It's hard to find work in LochRas," I spoke in an even tone, but I didn't like that the conversation was now about me.
"Really? Even for an Āyah?"
The question caught me so off guard that I missed the nail and nearly flattened my finger. Had he already spoken to people in the city? If that were the case, how much did he know? "I was -am- an Āyah, but my power hasn't manifested."
"So, you were rejected by your noble relatives." Another statement, not a question. "You were a provisionally born child."
I dabbed at the beads of sweat along my hairline. "Yes."
"But it wasn't just you, was it?"
I eased the mule's hoof down and faced him. My throat was tight. I wanted to speak as if I weren't bothered, but my voice was as strangled as my throat, and my shame turned into irritation. "If you already know all this, why are you here? To mock me?"
Ekene blinked, head tilting back as if I had missed the point. "What? No, of course not. I'm here because I wanted to meet you, young Rigby. I wanted to see how the myths surrounding you and your family matched the real you."
He came to see me? By now, I didn't know what to feel. "And how do I measure up?"
Ekene looked pleased that I'd finally asked the right question. He pointed to some stacked papers on my table. "You've been trained in both the spoken and written word. You know arithmetic and clearly have a good head on your shoulders. And simply because your blessing hasn't been understood, doesn't mean it hasn't manifested."
By now, my reserves of patience were low, and I was defaulting back to my defensive caution. "What do you want from me?"
If Ekene noticed, he didn't seem the least bit disappointed. Wordlessly, he plucked his staff from its resting spot beside him and tilted it so I could see it.
The staff was smooth ebony, with no carvings; not even the woodgrain marred its linear surface. It wasn't the staff itself that held my attention, but the stone affixed to its head. It was a long hexagonal prism. I'd seen this shape in the quartz caves before. This one was as obsidian where those had been clear and glass-like. But calling it Obsidian wasn't right, either. It was black. Completely black. Its outline was sharp and clear, but its shape shifted as Ekene rotated it. No matter how much I studied it, I couldn't make out any of the planes that formed its sides. There was no sheen to the surface, no details to be gleaned. It was as if a geometric hole had been torn in the fabric of the very air itself.
"Do you know what this is?"
"A sunstone." I couldn't keep the awe from my voice.
Ekene looked pleased. "Very good."
Sunstone was a product of alchemy—an advanced method of crafting and purification known and practiced by the Saoithe. Their order's name is ubiquitous with wisdom and hidden knowledge. An order whose ranks, past and present, included the best philosophers, scholars, and inventors of their time.
The pinnacle of their craft was the Decknamen, the secretive method they employed in their alchemy. With it, they could purify and uplift several materials to their Prime forms. This was one of those creations—a gem that collected all light that touched it. With the proper knowledge, it could be stored and used as a source of illumination.
"You are a Saoi." I was sure my mouth hung wide open.
Eken pulled back a fold of his oil cloak to reveal a robe beneath. It was a shade of orange that I had only ever seen matched in the waning hours of sunset. Only the Saoi wore that color.
"I am," he pulled his outer covering back over his robe, "and I have come to this village to meet you. May we now speak with all masks cast aside?"
I told him my story—of my father's death and our mother's deal with him, of my time at the proving grounds, and that dark day when the curse consumed my brother. I told him more than I'd intended; I told him everything. There was something disarming in his demeanor. He never acted disinterested or uncomfortable with the details of my lost brother's life as the Beast of LochRas.
On the contrary, he was even more interested in me by the story's end. He rested a calloused hand on my shoulder. "Rigby, you've told me of your past. Now, let us speak on your future."
"My future?"
"Yes. It is my intention to make this place my home. I'll need an assistant," he patted his bad leg, "someone young and agile to aid me in daily tasks. Someone intelligent that I can take on as an apprentice. This is also a paying job, I offer."
I couldn't believe what he was proposing. I didn't know how to answer, so my tongue cemented to the roof of my mouth.
Sensing my hesitation, he gently waved the staff between us. "Study under me, and I may teach you how to make one."
That loosened my lips. "I'd be honored!"
To my great fortune, he took me in as his apprentice. The Saoithe were a revered caste, and with that respect came opportunities to improve my life. I would have the chance to expand my knowledge and understanding of the wider world I thought I'd never see, perhaps even to earn my way back into those high halls of nobility. Maybe even my mother would see me differently.
I labored that year and the next. Nothing he said was too medial to disregard—no task, too arduous. I threw myself into learning all I could from him. Most of my chores were of a mundane variety. Cleaning, repairs, tending to his small garden, and running errands at his request. Between it and my small stable, my days were full. But in the evenings, he would sit with me by his hearth and teach me advanced mathematics, reading, and writing in the scholarly language. Eventually, we spread into metallurgy, botany, and mnemonic techniques. I'd never been so challenged intellectually.
As my tutelage continued, the people of my village slowly began to look at me with more than pity or aversion. Even in LochRas, the overt jeers and harassment quieted.
This, my sixteenth year, I was to become a journeyman learner, and I planned to finally leave this village and its ghosts behind for the city.
Things were finally coming under my control again.
That is until the night Rhys returned.