Rist followed Brother Garramon through the embassy, through a set of winding corridors, and down a long staircase that dove further into the ground than Rist would have thought possible. The bottom of the staircase opened into a stone tunnel with oil-burning lanterns set into evenly spaced alcoves in the walls, their dim glow flickering shadows across the stone.
The tunnel didn't look much different from any of the corridors in the embassy of the palace, except there were no windows or doors. Their two sets of footsteps echoed down the long corridor, bouncing off the walls, reverberating in Rist's ears. Sweat slicked his palms and his throat felt as though he had swallowed dust. The trial would have been less intimidating if he had any idea what to expect.
"Brother, I—"
"Today," Garramon said, turning his head to Rist, "you speak only when spoken to. Understood?"
Rist nodded.
"The Battlemage's Trial of Will is one that has been performed by mages for aeons, as far back as the birth of The Order."
"The Order? I thou—" Rist closed his mouth at the sight of a raised eyebrow from Garramon.
"There are some traditions worth keeping. To become an acolyte of the Battlemages is no small thing. Only those with the greatest power over the Spark are chosen, for that power is necessary to defend against the empire's strongest enemies. I need you to understand one thing." Garramon stopped, placing his hand on Rist's shoulder. "Battlemages cannot become Alamants. The emperor granted amnesty to all those who could not pass the trials of their affinity, granting them the title of Alamant. That is, with one exception – Battlemages. Any who are chosen to become apprentices of the Battlemages possess offensive and defensive powers that simply cannot be allowed to roam free in the lands. The ability to touch the Spark is burned from all those who fail the trials of a Battlemage. I am telling you this so you know what is at stake. Do you understand?"
Rist's mouth went dry, and his throat felt as though it were closing in. The idea that the Spark might be taken from him, burned from his body, terrified him to his core. The Spark was as much a part of him as his arms and legs. To lose it… The idea of running flashed across his mind, but he quashed it. They would not allow him to leave for the same reason they would not allow Battlemages to become Alamants. And they would be right, for that kind of power was too dangerous to go unchecked. He would just have to ensure that he passed his trials. That was the only way.
Rist nodded, his palms no longer the only part of his body slicked with sweat.
"Now, come. It is time."
Rist followed Garramon wordlessly, as much from an inability to form coherent sentences as from his instruction not to speak. Eventually, the long tunnel came to an end, and the pair stood in front of an enormous stone door. Great circles and spirals were cut into the stone, forming patterns of such complexity they left Rist awestruck, lost in the intricacy. But he felt Garramon reaching out to the Spark, drawing on threads of Air and Earth. Garramon pushed the threads into the door, weaving them this way and that, in motions equally as complex as those etched in the door. At first, nothing happened except for creaks and groans of stone moving within the door itself. But then the patterns on the door began to shift, sections of the door moving, spinning, turning. The different sections of stone, defined by the ornate patterns, began to separate, pulling apart at the centre, receding into the walls of the tunnel. And as they did, a wash of orange light spilled out from the other side.
A massive circular chamber stood on the other side of the receding doorway. The roof of the chamber stood over fifty feet at its centre, curving in a dome-like shape. Braziers lined the outer edges of the chamber, burning with bright orange flames that cast an incandescent glow across the stone.
At the centre of the chamber was what looked like a large pool of water as black as jet, rippling like the surface of a lake. Fifty mages surrounded the pool, all in long, black hooded cloaks, some with a silver lining, some without.
Directly opposite Rist and Garramon, on the other side of the pool, stood a man with trim of ornate golden thread all along his black cloak, his hood pulled back, his skin pale and wrinkled, his hair white, thin, and frail. But the man himself looked in no way frail. He oozed power. Rist could feel it radiating from him. There was no doubt in Rist's mind who the man was: Andelar Touran, Primarch of the Battlemages.
As Rist and Garramon drew closer to the rippling pool of black, Rist could see it was ringed with smooth grey stone broken into segments about five to six inches long. A glyph was carved into each segment, though they were not any of the glyphs Rist recognised from the books he had read in the library.
Garramon stopped about ten feet from the pool, gesturing for Rist to do the same.
"Who comes before this gathering?" Andelar Touran's voice resounded through the chamber like rolling thunder, amplified by threads of Spirit and Air.
"I, Brother Garramon, and my apprentice, Rist Havel."
"And what is it you seek?" The Primarch's words were slow and purposeful. His lips looked paper thin, as though they might tear if he spoke too swiftly.
"We seek the Trial of Will, so my apprentice may take the first step towards acolyteship of this affinity."
"Step forward, Rist Havel, apprentice." Andelar Touran opened his arms wide, his long sleeves drooping down.
Brother Garramon did not speak, but he gave Rist a look that Rist knew meant he should do as commanded. Swallowing, Rist took a few steps forward, until he was only a foot or so from the ring of stone that ran around the pool's edge. Each of the mages surrounding the pool had their eyes fixed on him, their black hoods drawn up over their heads.
"Speak your name." Again, the Primarch's voice echoed through the chamber.
"Rist Havel." Rist's voice sounded like that of a mouse compared to the Primarch's, but he figured he had good reason.
"And do you understand the consequence of failure in these trials?"
"I do."
"Good. The consequence of failure must always be understood for a Battlemage. It is no more and no less now than it is when you are on the field of battle. For our affinity, failure, at the very least, will result in death. And with the power we wield, some may burn themselves out in search of victory. For most, to never feel the embrace of the Spark again is a fate not worth living. We must never forget the cost of what we do. Apprentice, remove your robes and step forward."
Remove his robes? Rist hesitated for a moment before setting his jaw and removing the brown robes that were draped around his shoulders, leaving him in nothing but his smallclothes and sandals. Deciding to also remove his sandals, Rist took another step forward, until his toes were less than an inch from the glyph-marked stone ring.
"Apprentice, do you wish to start down the path of acolyteship to the affinity of Battlemages? Do you wish to fight on the front lines against the enemies of men and drive back those who would do us harm?"
Rist swallowed. "I do."
"So be it."
The Primarch turned to one of the other mages, who produced a small wooden chest enamelled with gold and silver. From within the chest, the Primarch pulled two metallic discs that glowed with a vibrant blue light. Reaching down, the older man slotted each disc into two ready-made grooves that had been etched into one of the stones. As he did, each of the glyph markings along the ring of segmented stone began to radiate the same blue light, shimmering with life, and the pool of black water pulsed before turning completely still.
"Now, Apprentice, you may step into the Well of Arnen and let the waters take you to your trial."
Rist ran his tongue along his lips, trying desperately to add some moisture to his dry, cracked skin. He took a deep, trembling breath before glancing back at Garramon, who simply stared ahead as though Rist was completely invisible.
There is no turning back now. I am ready. Rist didn't entirely believe his own thoughts, but he didn't have much of a choice. He stepped forward.
As soon as Rist's bare foot touched the surface of the black pool, a wave of energy surged through him. It was as though he had been struck by lightning. The energy permeated every inch of his body, seeping through his skin and into his bones. It hit him so hard that it took a moment for Rist to collect his thoughts before he realised that no matter how much weight he placed down on his foot, it never sank more than an inch into the black liquid, but at the same time, it did not feel as though he was standing on anything solid. It was one of the strangest sensations he had ever felt.
Steadying the tremble in his hands, Rist followed his right foot with his left. His legs shook as he tried to establish some semblance of balance, both his feet resting just below the surface of the black liquid. The surging wave of energy continued to pulse through him from toe to head, numbing all other senses. Then, just as he realised he didn't know what to do next, the black liquid shifted, crawling up over his feet, covering them, then up his lower legs, towards his knees. Immediately, panic set in. Rist wanted to scream, to beg the others to pull him free, but his mouth obeyed no commands, staying firmly shut as fear consumed him.
The black liquid continued to rise, moving past his knees, covering his hips, and pushing on toward his chest. Rist trembled, his lungs scrambling to drag in air as though it would be the last gasps of the precious substance his body would ever consume.
He glanced towards Garramon, but the man stayed firm, his gaze unwavering. I need to trust him. I need to trust him.
Rist slowed his breathing, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat. Then, as the black liquid moved up over his throat, Rist closed his eyes.
I need to trust him.