13. The Challenge (Gadarien)¶
The rasp of the opening doors awoke Gadarien just in time to protect his ears. The titanic bell that hung from the ceiling of the School’s entry hall was loud enough to be heard all the way in the Cantereian Quarter. Its vibrations penetrated deep into his skull, rattling his teeth in their sockets. The bell only rang on holidays and special occasions, or when the city was threatened, which hadn’t happened in living memory.
Gadarien rose and did a light warm-up, the cold prickling his bare torso. He glanced over and saw the Anashi gracefully flowing through a Kravadi form. Her movements were smooth and well-balanced, quick without being rushed, generating a lot of power from her compact frame. It would be a privilege to spar with her.
He finished his routine, working the cold out of his joints before pulling on his shirt. As expected, he caught the Anashi staring. She averted her gaze and began packing up her camp. Gadarien suppressed a grin as he stowed his bedroll and approached, maintaining a respectful distance.
The Anashi was using her dagger to scrape the layer of ash off her bread, which she had warmed up on the coals. “You’re not planning to put sliced Cantereian on that, are you?” he said with mock solemnity.
“Never tried it,” she replied, not looking up.“Could be delicious.”
He laughed. “I have some chili oil that might go down easier. I’ll trade you for a piece of bread.”
The Anashi finally looked up. Her eyes were the rich orange of honey-noodle broth. A ghost of a smile curved her dark lips as she gestured with her dagger for him to sit on the bench across from her.
“I’m Gadarien,” he said.
“Vaye,” she replied, scraping away at her bread. Her voice held some nervous tension, which he put down to flirtation. “Are you participating in the Challenge?”
“Yeah,” he said, surprised. “How did you know?”
The Anashi furrowed her brow. “Isn’t that why we’re all here?”
“It’s why they’re here,” he said, nodding at Hainzu and his wealthy friends. The Sarmalans had somehow slept through the bell, probably thanks to the empty jugs of strongwine beside them. “I might be the only Cantereian here who’s not a servant. There aren’t many of us in the Sihiri.”
“Hmm. Now that you mention it, I suppose I haven’t seen a lot of Cantereian Sihiri. Aside from Jovadão, of course,” Vaye said. If she noticed Gadarien’s expression harden, she said nothing, distracted by her own thoughts. She frowned at the sleeping Sarmalan youths and their cold fire pit. “Doesn’t seem like they’re taking this very seriously. Is the Challenge that easy?”
“For them, maybe,” Gadarien said. He handed her the jar of chili oil. “If you’re a rich aristocrat, you don’t even have to enter. Careful with that stuff, a little goes a long way.”
The Anashi paused midway through slathering the oil on her bread. She shrugged and took a bite, then immediately spat it onto the coals. “Devil’s tits!” she gasped, coughing.
Gadarien laughed and offered her his water skin. “We like it spicy in Rilão.”
She took a swig and fanned her face, chuckling ruefully. “Yeah, no shit.” After scraping off the excess chili, she took a cautious bite. “It’s good, though. Warms me up.” She handed him the bread with a rueful smile. “You’re from Rilão?”
He nodded, tearing off a chunk. The bread was over-toasted, but moist, stuffed with olives and several kinds of seeds. “It’s the greatest city in Telua. Not that I’m biased.”
“Yeah? What’s so great about it?”
Gadarien chewed thoughtfully, staring into the embers. “The food, for one thing. Best honey noodles in Cantereia. And the weather—it’s nice and warm all year, never too hot like in Tenoava or too cold like here. But mostly it’s the sound. You can tell which neighborhood you’re in by the harmonies. Deucanta’s Gate, where I grew up, had this, this buzz of creativity. A mix of locals and foreign traders colliding and sharing ideas. The Arbor District sounded raw and drunken, and the old Anashi Quarter was quiet, a little melancholy.” He paused. “That was when I was a kid, though, before the occupation. Now the city all sounds the same.”
He looked up. Vaye chewed her lip as she listened, her pale curls framing her face. Like anyone who hadn’t been born rich and Sarmalan, she’d probably been told she was ugly, and had probably believed it. Her face didn’t bear the scars his did, but he was certain she had scars of her own.
She pressed her hands against the rough timbers and straightened, looking away. “Must be nice, having a home to miss.” Her bitter tone told him that his instincts had been correct—there was a good chance she’d be receptive to his message. But he’d have to be patient. Her guard was up, and it wasn’t just from talking to him. Something else was haunting her, a wariness that extended to him despite his considerable charm.
All around them, the courtyard was buzzing. A queue was forming in front of the wide, chest-deep pit where the Challenge would be held. In the distance, the Eyewall had come aglow with morning sunlight. “We should get in line,” Gadarien said, glancing meaningfully at Hainzu’s group, who were finally starting to stir. The Anashi nodded, pressing her lips together.
A stream of onlookers had begun to trickle through the gate, gossipping and rubbing their hands together against the chill. A barricade separated the queue of Challengers from the pit and the long bench on the opposite rim where the judges would sit. “Which series are you performing?” Gadarien asked.
Vaye looked at him blankly. “Um. The first one?”
He laughed, then stopped when she didn’t join in. “Wait. Did you not prepare one of the Seven Salutations?”
The Anashi looked stricken. “Which Seven Salutations?” she whispered.
Gadarien pursed his lips. Perhaps he had overestimated this woman. “What did you prepare?”
Her answer was cut off by a second toll of the massive bell. Gadarien scowled, covering his ears a moment too late. It would be at least a half day before he could hear at full sensitivity again.
The crowd quieted as the School’s head instructors, known as Preceptors, emerged from the colossal doorway, escorted by a column of Sihiri. The Preceptors wore white robes and colored sashes, each color representing one of the School’s disciplines: strategy, military history, espionage, geomancy, and more. One by one, they sat on the bench overlooking the pit, talking quietly to each other.
The last instructor to sit was Jovadão, his mottled skin contrasting with the pale iridescence of the Sarmalans. Gadarien briefly caught the man’s eye, but forced himself to appear calm and impassive. Hopefully he could pass off his hatred as nerves.
The crowd quieted as another rank of Sihiri marched out of the School escorting two figures. Preceptor Yobaza, the School’s chief instructor, strode in front, clad in white robes and a pure white sash. Behind her, in dazzlingly expensive and blatantly impractical witchglass armor, strolled Tadevi Kenem, Healer of Sarmala and younger brother of the Vorkyrda. He grinned and waved, tossing his long hair and stroking his luxurious mustache like a dockside pimp.
The Healer and Yobaza took their places in the center of the bench. Yobaza glared at the crowd, straight as a spear and half as friendly, while the Healer slouched, grinning at the more attractive audience members. The Vorkyrda’s brother had all the charisma that she herself lacked, and was quite popular among upper-class Sarmalans, a few of whom dared smile back at him.
An attendant handed Yobaza a witchglass speaking horn. “Welcome, honored Challengers,” she said. The horn, obviously Cantereian-made, amplified her resonant frequencies and gave her voice an eerie, hollow tone. “This School is a forge. Those who enter are raw and unshaped, like witchglass fresh from the harvest. What emerges are the sharpened blades of the Empire.” Gadarien suppressed the urge to scoff at her awkward metaphor. “The Challenge will assess not only your ability, but the purity of your intent. Do you truly seek to serve the Empire? Will you dedicate your life to the word of the Vorkyrda?”
Yobaza raked her gaze across the crowd like a spear-fisher peering into the water. Beside her, the Healer stifled a yawn, jaw muscles flexing. “The Challenge consists of several tests. First is the Test of Prowess, to ensure you are physically capable of enduring the rigors of the School. Next is the Test of Knowledge, to ensure that you have dedicated yourself to study. Third is the Test of Capacity, to ensure that you have sufficient ability to manipulate witchglass. And finally, the Test of Purity, to ensure that your spirit is free of defects. Prowess, Knowledge, Capacity, and Purity: these are the requirements.”
Vaye released a near-inaudible whimper. “Are you well?” Gadarien whispered. She smiled uncertainly, looking a bit peaked.
“Let all who seek entry make their Challenge!” Yobaza proclaimed with a pompous flourish. The crowd cheered as Cantereian servants dragged the barriers aside, exposing the pit. The sand was bisected by a line of witchglass tiles, channeling a meridian of flowstream from the School.
The first in the queue was a young Dzharian woman with short-cropped spikes of red hair. She descended and stood on the tiles as she bowed to the judges. “Ladrana Karanoya, from Odravitza, Dzhar. I seek entry to the School,” she said, her outward confidence belied by her anxious melody. She stepped back and lifted her arms into the opening of the Third Salutation, her baggy blue clothes snapping crisply. Kicking her leg high above her head, she held it there for a moment longer than necessary before smoothly lowering it to the ground and beginning the defensive series. The Third Salutation was a good choice, showcasing her graceful movements as she fought off an invisible army.
“Am I supposed to do that?” whispered Vaye, craning on her tiptoes. Despite the chill, beads of sweat dotted her forehead.
Gadarien was starting to question the Anashi’s competence, but kept it to himself. “From what I saw you do last night, you’re proficient in Kravadi. Second or Third Ring, at least.”
Vaye nodded absently, still watching the Dzharian, but turned to him incredulously as she registered what he’d said. “You could tell my rank from one move?”
He shrugged. “I’ve studied a lot of styles. Anyway, you might be able to get away with a Kravadi form. They just want to see your athleticism.” He frowned, looking back at the pit, where the Dzharian was finishing up her routine. “Not sure how you’ll manage the next part, though.”
Ladrana bowed to the Preceptors. “I beg you to honor me with your questions.”
A Preceptor with a purple sash straightened in her seat and knocked sharply on the bench. “Name the two central meridians of the upper leg.”
“The Crusal and the Daradal,” Ladrana answered without hesitation.
Another Preceptor, this one with a yellow sash, knocked. “Name the three most auspicious Celestial Winds.”
“The Franal-Pusan. The Golanadal.” The candidate paused for a moment, then said, “The Elyrial?”
Gadarien scoffed. “Trivial.” Vaye chuckled nervously, bouncing on her toes.
Preceptor Yobaza knocked on the bench. “What are the three essential virtues for a novitiate?” she asked coldly, as though the candidate’s very presence offended her. Which it probably did, since Ladrana wasn’t Sarmalan.
“Um… Dedication. Humility. And…” The Dzharian trailed off. Just when it seemed she wouldn’t come up with an answer, she exclaimed, “Obedience!”
The questions continued in this vein until eventually the Preceptors seemed satisfied. Yobaza broke the silence, clearly disappointed that Ladrana had succeeded. “Your answers were acceptable. Now for Test of Ability. You must draw forth a thorn from a brick of raw witchglass. The thorn need not be perfect, but it must be sharp enough to puncture flesh.”
A servant brought Ladrana a knife and a small chunk of refined witchglass as Yobaza turned over an hourglass. The Dzharian pricked a fingertip and squeezed a few drops of blood onto the witchglass, which grew milky. She pinched a corner of the brick, sweat soon dampening her clothes.
“What the hell is she doing?” Vaye said under her breath, peeking through a gap in the crowd.
“What do you mean?” Gadarien said.
Vaye pursed her lips. “It’s not clay. You can’t just pinch off a piece. You have to ask it to take shape and let it flow on its own. It wants to obey, you just have to give it the opportunity.”
Gadarien stared at her, baffled. The idea of talking to witchglass was absurd. Was she out of her mind, or did she know something he didn’t?
In the pit, the Dzharian was trembling. She had only succeeded in pulling out a tiny nub from a corner of the witchglass. Yobaza knocked twice on the bench. “A dozen beats remaining,” she said. Ladrana didn’t look up, but the crowd held its breath.
Finally, the witchglass began to elongate. The Dzharian tugged sharply and a drooping tail separated from the block, beginning to straighten as she poured her will into it.
The Preceptor rapped thrice on the bench and Ladrana fell to her knees, exhausted and trembling. A servant ferried the rough thorn to Yobaza, who frowned as she held it to the light. The Preceptors passed it around, murmuring to each other, not looking at Ladrana at all. An attendant brought Yobaza a chunk of raw animal flesh on a platter, complete with skin. Gadarien had expected this, but Vaye covered her mouth, looking nauseous.
The Preceptor slowly pressed the thorn into the flesh. The witchglass bent with the pressure, but didn’t quite puncture the skin. The crowd muttered as Yobaza pressed harder. Then, as if on a whim, she pressed down one more time, and the needle popped through the surface. The crowd let out a collective cheer, but hushed as she rapped on the bench.
The Healer gestured for the platter. The thorn clung nauseatingly as he withdrew it from the skin. He examined it, then gave a perfunctory nod and handed it back to the servant for disposal.
“This test was a failure,” Yobaza said. In the pit, the candidate brought her hands to her mouth. “However,” she continued, glancing at the Healer, “given your performance in the other categories, we’re willing to allow continuance.” Ladrana let out a half-sob, half-laugh, bowing deeply.
“All that remains is the Test of Purity,” Yobaza said. “Preceptor Jovadão will hear your profession of faith. Be forewarned: if he detects any hint of deception, you will be remanded to the Sihiri for questioning.” Beside her, the Healer’s eyes glittered. His presence was a reminder that, among his other duties, he commanded the inquisition.
Vaye’s gasp was lost in the murmuring of the crowd. The Test of Purity had long involved a profession of faith, but in the past, candidates who failed were simply denied entry. This level of scrutiny was new. Gadarien had, of course, been forewarned by Feiçeira intelligence, but that didn’t mean he was looking forward to it. Gadarien’s training gave him the ability to mask his true emotions, to make the melody of his words a lie. He had to hope it was good enough to fool Jovadão.
The tall commander descended into the pit and stood before Ladrana. They bowed to each other, and Gadarien cursed the bell again for blunting his senses, preventing him from hearing Jovadão’s prompt. Ladrana murmured a response and Jovadão smiled warmly. He stepped back, bowing once more, then nodded to the Healer and Yobaza.
This time, it was the Healer himself who spoke. “Novitiate Ladrana Karanoya, welcome to the School of the Storm.”
The crowd cheered. Ladrana bowed deeply and ascended the steps, grinning and dabbing her eyes with her sleeve. She looked a bit wobbly as a pair of Sihiri escorted her to the area set aside for successful novitiates, where she suddenly leaned over and vomited onto the flagstones. The Sihiri danced out of the way with good-natured disgust. They had once been where she was standing.
“What the hell is he doing over there?” Vaye said, glaring at the space next to Ladrana. Hainzu and his friends were already there, patting the Dzharian on the back condescendingly.
“Yeah,” Gadarien said, sucking his teeth. “Their families probably gave large donations to the school, or they have legacy status, exempt from the Challenge. Explains why they didn’t bother sleeping.”
Vaye stared, dismayed. “That’s so unfair.”
Down in the pit, the next candidate began his Salutation. “Sure. But this is Sarmala. If you come from the right family, they just assume you’ve got the training and the purity and everything else,” Gadarien said.
Vaye looked crestfallen, as though she had somehow expected better from the empire. But nothing about this place was fair, a lesson that had been burned into Gadarien at a young age, literally and figuratively. He realized suddenly that he was touching his scars, and that Vaye had noticed.
“That’s just how it is,” he said, dropping his hand. “The rich kids don’t usually make it to graduation anyway. They only stay long enough to say they studied here, so they can get appointments as overpaid government ministers.”
Gradually, the queue of Challengers made their bids. A few passed, but far more failed, often during the Test of Ability. Vaye seemed mystified at the difficulty people were having with witchglass—which was, in itself, mystifying. It was obvious that she couldn’t pass the Challenge, but he’d have to see where she went afterward. It would be worth finding out what she knew.
Finally, Gadarien arrived at the front of the queue. He rolled out his shoulders, giving Vaye a final reassuring smile. “See you on the other side.”
“Good luck,” she whispered. Her concern sounded genuine, a curiosity he noted for later.
He skipped the stairs and vaulted down into the pit, hoping the showmanship would cover his nerves. As he walked to the center, he kept his gait calm and relaxed, focusing on the soundscape. He was, indeed, the only Cantereian candidate. Even with damaged hearing, it was easy to pick up the gist of the crowd’s muttering.
He bowed with a flourish. The judges thought Cantereians were beneath them, so he needed to show them that he wasn’t just any Cantereian. He’d give them a rationale for accepting him, a balm for their bigotry. “Relotea voa Gadalão Gadarien, from the City of Rilão,” he said, dialing in his accent—exotic, but educated—and tempering his voice with just enough bravado to be charming. The murmurs grew at the mention of Rilão, known to be the heart of the insurgency. “I seek entry to the School.”
“You may begin,” said Tadevi Kenem, leaning forward. For the first time that day, the Healer looked truly interested, contrasting with Yobaza’s expression of annoyance.
Gadarien opened with a looping, dance-like step, quickly turning it into a series of spinning kicks and acrobatic hand-stands. It was a slight modification of the notoriously-tricky Sixth Salutation, demonstrating that he understood the rules well enough to break them. The crowd burst into applause when he was done. Gadarien bowed, only slightly out of breath, as several Preceptors nodded their approval, including the Healer.
The Test of Knowledge gave him a bit more trouble. He had already swayed some of the Preceptors, but others remained averse to admitting a Cantereian, no matter how skilled. Or perhaps they disliked his flamboyance. Either way, their interrogation was tougher than he had expected. He had known his performance would be divisive, but as long as he swayed the Healer, it would pay off.
One Preceptor in particular made a show of pressing him with hard questions. “What are the properties of Vargashi that make it superior to other systems of thought?” Jovadão asked, staring him down. His tone stopped short of outright animosity, but made it clear that Gadarien would receive no favors, countryman or no.
It was time to step off the ledge. After this, there would be no going back. “Vargashi places rationality above sentiment, knowledge above superstition. It’s the Way of Reason,” Gadarien said, layering his words with a melody of conviction. He dialed his accent down a notch, making himself seem a bit less foreign. “And it’s why the Vorkyrda deserves to rule.” He was rewarded with nods and tentative smiles from a few more Preceptors, even as the expressions of the Cantereian servants began to curdle.
Teira had warned him about the weight of their hatred, and he had thought he understood. But imagining it and carrying it were two different things. In the eyes of those lived under the heel of Sarmala every day, he had betrayed his nation. His people now believed him to be the worst kind of traitor, a true believer rather than a simple opportunist.
He took a deep breath and focused his thoughts. There would be plenty of time later for doubts. The Preceptors soon ran out of questions and moved on to the only part of the Challenge he was truly worried about: the Test of Ability. Unlike the other Challengers, he hadn’t grown up around witchglass. All of it that was produced in Cantereia was shipped off to Sarmala, stripped away like the rest of his nation’s wealth. The only material he’d had for training had been stolen or scavenged from pre-war caches.
The Cantereian attendant who handed him the block was middle-aged, his piebald scalp shining as he bowed. He could have been one of Gadarien’s uncles, save for his ill-concealed contempt. Gadarien ignored him, just like the Sarmalan candidates had.
He pulled on a corner of the block, willing it to soften. The witchglass resisted like a mule refusing to be led to water. The preceding rounds had tired him, but working with witchglass was exhausting in a different way, a drain on his spirit. The stuff seemed to absorb his will, sapping his emotional strength like an argument with family.
Distantly, he heard Yobaza knock. His time was slipping away, and he still hadn’t managed to soften the block more than a fraction. He wanted nothing more than to lie down on the sand. Instead, he forced himself to keep going, sweeping away his rising tide of panic and ignoring the sweat dripping into his eyes. He couldn’t fail. Everything depending on him.
The Preceptor knocked twice, signaling the final moments of the test. Suddenly, Gadarien remembered what Vaye had said: allow the witchglass to flow into shape, give it an opportunity to obey. He had little reason to trust her, but he was out of ideas. He exhaled fully and held his breath, listening as deeply as he could with his wounded ears. A parent hushed her child. The breeze rustled the Preceptors’ robes. A flock of starlings landed on a nearby tree. He stopped pulling on the witchglass, and instead visualized what he wanted from it and, feeling like a fool, silently asked it to comply.
Yobaza knocked a final time. Gadarien opened his eyes and looked down. The witchglass hadn’t separated at all. Instead, a comically-large point protruded from the side of the block, more akin to a stiletto than a normal thorn. He knelt and offered it up for judgment, gritting his teeth at the bald servant’s condescending smirk.
Tadevi Kenem at least had the good grace to keep from laughing outright at the monstrosity Gadarien had created. Shaking her head, Yobaza took the “thorn” and platter and perfunctorily touched the tip to the block of flesh.
To the surprise of everyone watching—Gadarien most of all—the gargantuan thorn parted the meat like hot wax, clinking against the platter below. Yobaza looked even more upset than before as she passed it to the Healer, who laughed out loud as he replicated the test.
“Unconventional, but effective,” he said.
“Indeed,” Yobaza said flatly, looking like she had swallowed an eel. “Technically a success. But now you must pass the Test of Purity.”
The crowd murmured as Jovadão descended and strode grimly across the sand. He stood a head taller than Gadarien, the stylized foliage on his throat symbolizing levels of mastery that had taken decades to attain. But it was the force of will in his expression that made him so intimidating. Behind him, the Sihiri surrounding the pit stared down like a flock of crows, hungry and merciless. If Gadarien failed to convince Jovadão, there would be no hope of escape.
“You have come here to enter the School of the Storm,” Jovadão said, loudly enough to be heard by the Preceptors, who couldn’t miss his skepticism. “Serving in the Sihiri is a hard life, a life of danger and bloodshed, a sacrifice of all that is good and safe. For what reason do you seek such a life?”
“To serve the Vorkyrda,” Gadarien replied, desperately brushing aside his thoughts of failure. Thankfully, he was already sweaty from the rest of the Challenge, or that alone would have given him away. “To fight in her army, and bring the light of reason to the world.”
“So you claim. But I hear another truth behind your words,” Jovadão said, his voice hardening. “What is your real purpose, boy?”
Gadarien’s pulse was a war drum, his fingers tingling. The void yawned beneath him as the moment slipped out of his grip. Jovadão saw right through him. He’d been a fool to think he could deceive such a man. His only chance was to reveal another hidden truth, something else he didn’t want to admit, something he was truly ashamed of. For it to work, his shame had to be real.
He took a deep breath. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not doing this out of duty or love of country. I’m doing it for glory. The Sihiri are the most powerful fighters in the world, and I want that power for myself. I want my enemies to fear me. I want to prove that I’m a hero.” It was a motivation the Preceptors could understand—one which mirrored Jovadão’s own. Gadarien was disgusted with himself, and he let that disgust hang from every word.
Jovadão glared, stretching out the moment. Then, finally, his posture relaxed just a bit, and a hint of a smile emerged from the hard planes of his face. “Ambition is no weakness. Understand, though, that once you enter these doors, your life belongs to the Vorkyrda. Any glory you achieve will be in her name.”
A rush better than the finest Tenoava-grown nownow rushed over him. It had worked. He was in. “My life is hers,” he said, dropping to his knees. He had no need to fake his relief. “Glory to Sarmala!”
Jovadão grinned and offered him a hand up. “Welcome to the School, Novitiate.”
The crowd—or at least the Sarmalan majority—applauded as he made his way to the area set aside for victors. The Sarmalans loved nothing more than a loyal attack dog, proof that even those of lesser blood could occasionally be turned into something useful. The reception from the other Challengers was more muted, but he’d win them over, through whatever means necessary.
As he took his place, he scanned the crowd for Vaye, but she had disappeared, probably having finally grasped that the Challenge was beyond her. Her trick had worked, though, and he was curious about what other secrets she held. He was sure she wouldn’t be hard to find. For now, he allowed himself a moment to enjoy his victory, which was marred only by the loathing etched on every Cantereian’s face.
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