Rist sat on a bench in the gardens outside the embassy kitchens, a large oak tree hanging over him, blocking out the glaring light of the sun. He held a deep wooden bowl filled with beef stew in his left hand and a spoon in the other.
Mages of all affinities sat around the garden, chatting and eating their lunch in the midday sun. They were mostly of middling rank, their colours proudly displayed in their robes and cloaks, but some wore garments touched with silver, marking them as High Mages.
Rist drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment, the low hum of chatter setting a baseline in the back of his mind. The gardens beside the kitchens were his favourite place to eat lunch for precisely this reason. At times he preferred the silence of the library or his quarters, but there were just days when the background hum of life set his mind at ease.
If I'm quick eating this stew, I can get some reading in before I meet Garramon.
Rist had reached that point in Druids, a Magic Lost where he spent every moment he wasn't reading thinking about reading. He was about halfway finished – while also being a fifth of the way through The Forging of an Empire, which was incidentally turning out to be exactly the sort of read he had been looking for. He was starting to see what Garramon had meant when he said the writing in Druids, a Magic Lost became little more than babble and lost all structure after a while. Though it seemed there was more to it than that. Duran Linold was throwing around wild claims to do with Druids and the Varsund War, old gods, and the altering weather patterns. The strangest things were mentions of the Varsund War, which happened over a thousand years after Duran Linold had written the book. All the while, the writing style had begun to slowly change from a factual recording to more of an informal journal. On the surface, Rist could see why anyone would brush it off as babble. Duran's words certainly wandered, but the man's observations were still astute – even in the wanderings.
Stop letting your own mind wander. Eat.
Rist dipped his spoon into the stew, salivating as he lifted it back out, seeing a hunk of beef dripping with oil-glistened sauce. The muscles in his stomach threatened to spasm as he brought the spoon to his mouth – not from hunger, but from overuse. Sister Anila had asked Brother Magnus to let Rist and Neera observe formational exercises and allow them to join in once he had deemed their knowledge competent. Instead, he had let them watch once and then tossed them into the mix. It hadn't only been formational exercises in relation to the Spark that he had tossed them into. No, he had included them in combat formations, close-order and extended-order drills, stamina and endurance training, and even the 'fine art of latrine digging', as Magnus had insisted it be called – in its entirety, every time it was mentioned.
A pair of hands clapped down on Rist's shoulders, and he let out an aching groan, his hand jerking, the hunk of beef and spoonful of stew falling to the ground.
"It goes in your mouth, Rist." Tommin dropped himself down on the bench beside Rist, his smile as broad and unrelenting as ever.
"Tommin, you're a bastard."
"Now, now, no need for foul language. I'll have Neera wash that mouth out with soap." Tommin winked. "So this is where you ran off to after Brother Pirnil's lecture. Speaking of bastards, he cut me deep today. I'm going to have to get one of the other healers to look at it."
Sighing, Rist lowered his bowl of stew down to his lap. "Tommin, he asked why you were late and you said, 'Wouldn't you like to know?' What did you think was going to happen?"
"I was telling a joke, clearly."
"Have you met Brother Pirnil? He doesn't joke."
"I can't let you be the one taking all the lashings. You give him reasons to strip the skin on your back so often I'm beginning to think you enjoy it." Tommin winked again, letting out a laugh. "Anyway, how's the stew?"
Tommin reached over and grabbed Rist's spoon, dipping it into the stew, then lobbing it into his mouth.
"I wouldn't know." Rist glared at Tommin, snatching the spoon back from him. "I haven't tried it yet."
"Ish good," Tommin managed to say, his mouth still half full of stew. Tommin reminded Rist a bit of Dann – he was a bit nicer, far less coordinated, and he probably had no idea how to skin a kat, but he had that same natural cheekiness to him.
Rist grunted, shaking his head and lifting the bowl of soup from his lap, licking his lips as he dunked his spoon back into the stew.
"How're you feeling?"
Rist leapt forward as Neera stuck her hands between his arms and tickled his ribs. He tried desperately to keep his grip on the wooden bowl of stew but watched in agony as it slipped from his fingers and clacked against the ground, the stew spilling out into the well-maintained grass. "Fuck!"
As soon as the word left his mouth, Rist's body tightened. All around him, mages turned and stared at his outburst, more than a few eyebrows raised. They all knew who he was. They knew each apprentice. There were only four apprentices in the entire embassy, after all. The entire city, for that matter. But it was not simply them knowing him that was the problem, it was them knowing that Garramon was his sponsor. 'Need I remind you that your insubordination to other mages reflects on my ability as a sponsor?' Rist flinched as Garramon's words floated in his mind. Garramon, unlike Brother Pirnil, was not quick to inflict direct physical pain, but he most definitely had other methods of admonishment.
Rist looked down at the spilled stew in the grass, chunks of beef and potato staring back at him, steam wafting. His stomach rumbled, and he let out a sigh. He turned to Neera, noticing Lena standing beside her, blonde hair draped down over her green-trimmed brown robe.
Neera must have seen the frustration on Rist's face because she actually apologised, which was about as rare a thing as a blue moon.
"It's all right," Rist said with a sigh, dropping down to pick up his bowl and spoon from the ground. "I wasn't hungry anyway."
"I don't know," Neera said, wrapping her fingers around Rist's bicep. "You're going to need it to fill these arms out. I've never seen a skinny Battlemage."
Rist jerked his arm away from Neera, his jaw clenching reflexively.
"Rist, I didn't mean it like that."
"Yeah." Rist snatched up his pack, suppressing a groan as his muscles spasmed – the effects of so much training with Brother Magnus and Sister Anila. "I know. I just need to go. Brother Garramon asked me to meet him after I'd had lunch, and he doesn't like waiting."
Neera reached out, touching Rist's hand, but he pulled it away, giving her a weak smile and nodding to both Lena and Tommin as he walked off towards the main embassy. Lena had an awkward look on her face as though she had just watched a grown man kick a puppy, but Tommin looked as clueless as ever, beaming from ear to ear as he waved after Rist, looking shocked as Lena slapped him in the back of the head.
Rist's heart pounded against his ribs as he made his way through the embassy, his eyes fixed on the gilded black carpet that ran the length of every floor. He focused on the elaborate patterns of red and gold woven into the black fabric, not allowing his mind to fixate on Neera's words. He knew she had not meant it the way it had come out. At least, he didn't think she did. But that had not taken any of the sting from her words. He didn't want to be skinny, or frail, or small, or whatever other way people chose to describe him. He'd never asked for it. He would have given most anything to be as strong as Calen, or any of the other men in the villages, but it just hadn't been something he was gifted with.
Rist clenched his fist as he walked, his eyes tracing over an elaborate depiction of a pride of red and gold lions worked into the carpet. He had tried to put on weight, tried to eat more, but it had never stuck. Perhaps it had been because back home his diet had always been limited to whatever food they could afford at the time. The food in the embassy was like nothing he had ever seen. Braised beef with carrots, potatoes and thicky gravy; roast chicken stuffed with breading and salted bacon pork; duck slow cooked in its own rendered fat; baked rabbit served with layered potatoes, all soaked in a sauce made from wine. Whatever Rist wanted, the kitchen provided. On one hand, it brought him a deep comfort to know that he wouldn't be going hungry any time soon, but on the other hand, it felt wrong that so much food was at his fingertips here while some people back in the villages could go weeks on just grains, tubers, and whatever they could hunt. And often the portion sizes he received in the embassy were the same as would be split between two or three back home. It was the way of things. Some people just had more than others. But just because it was the way of things didn't mean it was right.
Over the past month or so, Rist had spent nearly every spare moment training. Be it honing the Spark with Brother Garramon, training in the sword with Sister Anila, battle formations with Brother Magnus, or the many, many hours of sword forms. Strength and muscle had not been gifted to him, but it would not be kept from him either. Nothing worth having is ever easy, son. And nothing that's easy is ever worth having. Rist could almost hear his father's voice speaking the words.
"Rist."
Rist looked up to see Brother Garramon standing before him, silver-trimmed black cloak draped over his shoulders and a curious look in his eye. Rist inclined his head. "Brother Garramon, please excuse me, I was lost in my thoughts."
"Not much different than usual then," Garramon said, giving Rist a soft smile that had once been as rare as Neera's apologies but seemed to be slowly growing more frequent. "Come, I wasn't expecting you so soon. I thought you'd still be eating. But now is as good a time as any. I was on my way to arrange one last thing."
Rist followed Garramon through the corridors of the embassy and out into the palace gardens, squinting at the glaring sun overhead, nestled snugly in blue skies.
"Brother, what are we doing?"
Garramon simply smiled again and nodded towards the doors of the library that lay across the garden, its many storeys rising high, its slate grey roof cresting over the palace walls. Naturally, Garramon's response – or lack thereof – served only to ignite a plethora of new questions, but Rist held them at bay. If Garramon had wanted to give answers, he would have. That was something Rist genuinely appreciated about his sponsor: he was straightforward. There were no games or twists or turns. If Garramon wanted to tell you something, he told you.
Once they had entered the library, Garramon spoke to one of the librarians, who looked at Rist with a narrowed gaze – likely because he knew Rist hadn't returned a number of his books to their shelves – then scuttled off to gather whatever Garramon had asked him for.
"Come," Garramon said, gesturing for Rist to follow him. "We are going to the top floor."
Rist hesitated. He had never been on the top floor. The library was an enormous building, longer than it was wide, with its two ends curved. It rose five storeys, each storey crammed with seemingly never-ending bookshelves, benches, tables, and small nooks. Candles sat on tables, the wicks only lit when someone was reading, while glass-encased oil lanterns stood on sconces fixed into the walls at evenly spaced intervals along the bookshelves. Despite the fact that having the flames so close to all those books set knots of anxiety in Rist's stomach, he did have to admit that the warm ambient glow combined with the earthy scent of ancient pages added an extra depth to the beauty of the library itself.
If Rist was being honest with himself, he had likely spent more time within the library's walls than he had his own quarters in the last while, but he had still never been to the top floor. The top floor was usually reserved for those who had been granted their full colours. The moment of hesitation faded away quickly, Rist's curiosity more than piqued.
Rist followed Garramon up the staircase on the opposite side of the long hall, then further up through the storeys, all the while admiring the sheer volume of knowledge contained within the great building. There were few thoughts that excited him more than being given a week alone in one of the reading nooks, any book he wished at his fingertips – something he thought best to never tell Neera. He didn't suppose he would ever be given that opportunity, but it was a worthy dream to have.
When they reached the top of the staircase, Rist was surprised to see it wasn't guarded whatsoever. The only sign that it was even restricted was a red velvet rope that hung between the two posts. Rist shook his head, letting out a low laugh. He had always thought the top floor would be guarded, but he had never actually looked for himself. He had been told it was off limits until he received his colours, and so he had simply left it alone. For the same reason he had never left the bounds of the palace until that night with Neera, he had never actually considered even attempting a journey to the top floor. It was off limits. Rules were rules, and breaking them would inevitably lead to an awkward situation – which even the thought of caused his stomach to turn in anxiety – and likely a completely avoidable reprimand.
"Are you well?"
Rist lifted his head to see Garramon standing on the landing of the top floor, the red velvet rope unhooked from the post and now in his hand.
"Hmm?"
"Are you well, apprentice?"
"Apologies, Brother." Rist made his way up the last few steps and onto the landing, Garramon re-hooking the rope behind him. "I was just…"
"Lost in your own thoughts again?" Rist nodded, and Garramon shook his head. "You're going to have to learn to control that lest it happen at a more inconvenient time."
"Why isn't the top floor guarded?"
"Guarded?" Garramon laughed. "There is nothing up here to guard, apprentice. The restriction is simply so that those who have been granted their colours have a place to sit in peace. A benefit of achievement, if you will. No," Garramon said, before Rist could even ask another question, "we do not keep restricted books on this level, or anywhere, for that matter." Garramon gave Rist a knowing look. The man seemed to know Rist a lot more than Rist had given him credit for. "Emperor Mortem believes that no knowledge should be restricted, for that is simply an obstacle to advancement. Now, come."
"If no knowledge should be restricted, then why can't I find any material on the trials or Alamants?" Rist had meant to keep that question to himself, but it had somehow slipped out, as most of his questions tended to. He braced himself for Garramon's answer while following the man along the balcony of the top floor that overlooked the rest of the library.
Garramon didn't turn. "Reading materials on Alamants are scarce, not restricted." Garramon turned a corner around a bookshelf. "It is simply a topic not many have pursued. I would recommend The Weak Are Many, the Strong Few by Gorgamel Alteer or The Weakest Link by Brinna Sonoen – though, as you can likely gather from the titles, neither are exactly unbiased accounts. With regards to trials of Faith and Will, materials are not restricted, they simply do not exist, for reasons that I hope are now clear to you. Had you known what to expect in the Trial of Will, it would not have been the same test."
"I suppose that makes sense." Rist frowned. Garramon's answer did indeed make sense, but it still wasn't one Rist was happy with.
"Here." Garramon stopped at a doorway covered over by a red velvet curtain, oil lamps fixed to the walls on either side, the glass that encased them blackened by smoke. He pulled back the curtain and gestured for Rist to enter.
"Oh, by Elyara." Rist got about two steps past the curtain before he stopped, staring around the room with awe. To anyone else, the word 'awe' might have been a touch dramatic, but for him, it was perfect. The room was about half the size of Rist's quarters, illuminated by glass-encased oil lanterns fixed to the walls. The wall on the right was obscured by a bookcase of dark, striated wood, every shelf full edge to edge with heavy leatherbound books. An L-shaped couch was pressed against the left corner of the room, upholstered with red velvet and golden tacks. The walls behind the couch were adorned with vivid tapestries woven with threads of various shades of red, black, gold, and white. A long table stood before the couch, crafted from the same dark wood as the bookshelf, thick and sturdy-looking. Four stacks of books sat on the table, each consisting of at least ten separate volumes.
Rist picked up the top book of the nearest stack, running his finger across the debossed title on its front – Lifeblood, the Blood of Life.
"Take a seat."
Rist set the book back atop the stack, then sat himself down on the couch as Garramon closed over the curtain behind him. His eyes lingered on Rist for a moment before he walked to the other side of the table and lowered himself onto the couch, moving a stack of books to the edge. He reached into his pocket, producing a small, black wooden box, placing it on the table, his hand hovering over its top for just a moment before he pushed it towards Rist. "Within this box is your Trial of Faith."
Rist's mouth grew suddenly dry, every drop of moisture fleeing. He swallowed reflexively, a hurricane of butterflies twisting in his chest. "I… al-already?"
Rist wanted to progress. He wanted to be raised to Acolyte, to earn the colours of the Battlemages, to feel the touch of the black robes draped over his shoulders. It was what he was training for. But simply hearing the words 'Trial of Faith' sent Rist's mind back to the horrors of the Trial of Will. A shiver ran through him, his breaths catching in his chest.
Memories flitted through his mind. Neera's dead body, her skin and lips pale and blue. The people of The Glade, broken and twisted, butchered. Tharn Pimm's body pinned to the wall of Iwan Swett's butcher by a blackened blade. The faceless man dragging his blade across Rist's mother's throat.
Calen.
'You should have been by my side.' Calen's words echoed.
'You've become a monster.' Rist's own voice was familiar yet foreign.
'I had to become one to defeat one.'
Rist drew a deep breath, settling himself, his chest trembling. He examined the box without touching it. It was small enough to fit in his palm and comprised two sections of black-stained hardwood joined together by a golden hinge at the back. But curiously, there was no clasp set at its front, no way to open it without breaking it. "What is it?"
Rist felt Garramon reaching for the Spark, drawing in thin threads of Air. The man funnelled the threads into the front of the box, moving them in a clockwise pattern. An audible click emanated from within, and Rist's heart stopped, his breath holding, his eyes staring. With the aid of a thread from Garramon, the lid of the box opened, and a deep crimson glow radiated from within.
Rist stared for a moment, his eyes wide, his mouth ajar. A small red gemstone, no bigger than a grape, sat within, nestled snugly on a bed of purple satin. The stone glowed with a crimson light that pulsated and moved. "I've seen one of these before."
The words took Garramon by surprise, his eyebrows raising. "Where?"
"In Ölm forest." Rist reached out, letting his hand hover just above the gemstone, the crimson light washing over his skin. "Set into the blade of an Urak's axe."
"Hmm." A deep rumble resonated from Garramon's throat, and he shifted in his seat.
"What is it?" Rist turned his attention from the gemstone, meeting Garramon's gaze. "Brother," he added hastily when he realised his tone had been rather curt.
"It is an Essence vessel. The gemstone has the very particular ability to bind Essence to its structure – the red glow you see is the light of the Essence."
Rist looked at the glowing gemstone. When he had first seen the gemstone in the Urak's axe in Ölm Forest, it had been translucent, but at some point a red glow had begun to radiate from it. Given that the axe was used to kill the wolfpine and take the Urak's head from its body, it didn't take a genius to connect the two threads. The question was one he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to. "Brother Garramon, what is Essence?"
"The day you shy away from asking questions is the day I will be truly concerned. Essence is the life force of all living things. It flows within you and me both at this very moment. But it cannot be used until it is free from its physical constraints."
"Until someone dies for it."
Garramon's mouth twisted, but he gave a short nod. "It's not as simple as that, but yes."
"It's Blood Magic." Rist pulled his hand away from the gemstone, suddenly feeling as though he would need to scrub the taint of its glow from his skin.
"That is a name for it, yes. But it is a name used by those who do not understand what it is."
Rist stared at the pulsating gemstone, his chest tightening.
"Let me ask you a question, Rist. When is it noble to kill?"
"I…" The question caught him off guard. Was it a trick? "It's never noble to kill."
"Not even in defence of the defenceless? What if you come across a man, a rapist, a murderer? And you find him in the motion of committing his next unspeakable act. And the only way to stop him is to kill him. What then? Is that noble?"
Rist ran his tongue across his now increasingly dry lips. "I… I'm not sure."
"When armies go to war. Hundreds die. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Blood spilled only to feed the soil – bodies returned to earth. Those who are victorious return home, hailed as heroes, champions of their people. But to those whose loved ones were slaughtered, they are murderers – despicable people who should be cast into the void. It's not so black and white, is it, this world we live in?"
Garramon's question was a rhetorical one, but Rist shook his head anyway. He wasn't feigning interest. Discussion of morality was a truly fascinating thing – at least as far as Rist was concerned. But with Garramon's words repeating in his head, Rist realized he hadn't asked the truly pertinent question. "Brother, you said my Trial of Faith was within the box. What is the trial?"
Garramon ran his tongue across his teeth, the fingers of his right hand tapping against the dense wood of the table. "The Trial of Faith is for any who wish to be granted Acolyteship of the Imperial Battlemages. It is to tap into a vessel and draw on the Essence within. It is to show faith in your Brothers and Sisters and in Efialtír himself. To trust in them."
The blood in Rist's veins turned to ice, his breath catching in his lungs. "You… you can't ask that of me. To be given my colours, I must open myself to Blood Magic? Brother, surely you see how wrong that is."
"You must be willing to challenge your preconceptions, apprentice. Do you believe every story you are told?"
"Of course not." Rist's voice was shaky, his throat and mouth dry. Blood Magic? What in the gods is happening?
"Then why do you hold so unshakingly to the poisonous words whispered in your ear as a child? To call Essence Blood Magic is the same as a hero branded a villain. The ability to harness and wield Essence is Efialtír's gift to us. I know in the South you call him The Traitor, for his refusal to abide the laws of the other gods in the time long past, but he truly is The Saviour, my apprentice. Through the gift of Essence, Efialtír allows something to come from death. He allows the act of creation to be born from destruction. With the wielding of Essence, no death is in vain." Garramon let out a sigh, then gave Rist a weak smile. "If I have learned anything of you, it is that you take nothing and nobody for their word. You question. You poke and prod. You yearn not simply for answers, but for understanding. You refuse to follow. These are not just qualities of a good man, apprentice, they are qualities of a leader, and they are qualities I admire. That is the reason I brought you here and not to some ceremonial chamber or the rickety chair in my study. These books before you are the deepest, most complete accounts of the wielding of Essence. They are the most objective texts I know of. There will still be bias within their pages, but I trust you to see through that. You are not limited to these texts. I have asked Gault, the librarian, to provide you with any other texts you wish." Garramon pulled himself to his feet, his eyes briefly gazing at the gemstone. "You have one week to make your decision. Have faith in me and The Circle and draw from the vessel, or refuse. The choice is yours, and I am convinced you will see the correct path."
Rist's stomach was doing somersaults, threatening to empty itself onto the table before him. "Brother?"
Garramon stopped with his hand on the edge of the curtain. He didn't turn. "Yes, apprentice?"
"What will happen if I refuse?"
"You already know the answer to that, Rist." Garramon pulled back the curtain, stepped through, then closed it, not waiting for Rist to ask another question.
The Spark will be burned from my body, and I will be cast from The Circle. It wasn't much of a choice, but at least it was a choice.