Daron fidgeted in the entry hall, eyes hardly taking in the decorations as he waited for his final exam notes. For the most holy place in the world, it sure is tacky, he thought. The ancient domed room was ornately decorated with a variety of colorful tapestries, with the entire western wall adorned with a painted mural, celebrating the Foundation. The creation of the Order. In it dozens of warlords and feuding factions bent knee to the first Lord Commander.
"Depressing, isn't it?" Brynn asked, stepping up beside him before the vast painting.
"The foundation of the Order is depressing?"
She waved a hand in annoyance. "The painting itself. It's a seven hundred year old reproduction of a painting that was already itself ancient when this was done." She leaned in closer, scrutinizing the detail. "It's not even a very good reproduction."
"What would you put up here instead?" Daron asked, crossing his arms and giving her a sidelong glance. The rest of the recruits formed one group across the hall, near the great doors leading down into the caverns far below them. He caught a few of them staring at him, hushed whispers flitting between the group. Likely debating if he'd be forced to study for another year, or shuffled off to one of the other parts of the Order. One way or another he'd be done with the lot of them today.
"I don't know," Brynn mused. "Something more modern. Subjugation of an entire populace is just a bit... droll."
Daron laughed as he wandered back towards the main group. They would be given their final scores shortly, and the recommendations of Lord Commander Jacob on where they should be placed after taking their oaths. Would he be set as a healer? It wasn't a terrible prospect, though not as exciting as others. It would be unlikely he'd be added to the infantry, though he supposed they might have a position doing something other than fighting. Daron snorted. There hadn't been a war in five thousand years, and the infantry served as little more than a figurehead of power, rather than an actual fighting force. Even if he did get assigned there, he'd never see actual fighting.
The front doors boomed open as Master Callen entered the great hall. Immediately all the whispers ceased, the recruits forming a lazy half circle around the Master at Arms. Brynn jogged up beside Daron as he joined the group, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"Pryce," Callen said, the name echoing through the hallowed chamber. The Master scanned through the crowd, noted the recruit, and nodded to him, leaving through the sheaf of papers in his hand. "Eight out of ten. The Lord Commander recommends you for a Justice. Do you accept?"
"Yes, sir," Pryce managed to get out amidst the stuttered applause that rang out from the rest of his group. Callen waved an impatient hand to call order.
"Veren," Callen called. A short, long haired young man pushed forward through the crowd, his face filled with trepidation. "Seven out of ten. Based on your previous tests, The Lord Commander feels you would aid us well as a healer."
Veren's face lit up with an unabashed smile. "Oh, yes, sir. Thank you sir."
Callen ignored him. The list continued on, calling out the students and giving their suggested position. None rejected the recommendation of the Lord Commander, though they could petition to join another area if they felt they were being underutilized. Few ever did. The Lord Commander was usually quite keen in his observations. As the list grew shorter, Daron's anxiety grew stronger.
"Brynn. Justice. As if you had a doubt. Justice Amdel said you could have knocked his blade out of his hand earlier this afternoon."
"Justice Amdel is likely mistaken. Perhaps his wits are beginning to go, like his reflexes," she replied. To Daron's surprise, Callen barked a laugh, and the recruit rolled his eyes. Brynn had been a favorite of many teachers, and somehow had managed to win over the old goat.
"I accept the will of the Lord Commander," Brynn finished as she bowed.
"Daron," Callen muttered, fishing through the parchments for the appropriate one. Daron watched intently, a mixture of fear and hope stewing in his belly. How would Jacob rate him? How many times had the Master at Arms derided his ability to fight? Daron pushed the thoughts away.
Callen read the paper. Frowning, he read it again, and slowly locked eyes on Daron. Daron gulped.
"You scored a two on your swordsmanship," Callen said, his voice almost a whisper. Snickers tittered through the rest of the recruits. He felt Brynn's hand grab his, giving it a gentle squeeze, but he was too numb to really notice. No one had ever scored so low, as long as he'd been here. In the history of the Order, stretching back thousands of years, Daron was sure he had to be the lowest score. He tried desperately to shrink into the rock beneath his feet.
"However," Callen said. The mocking ceased, replaced with pregnant silence. "You were scored five points for originality, giving a final score of seven. The Lord Commander recommends you as a Justice." Callen lowered the papers, fixing Daron with a hard, cold stare. He could feel the disapproval radiating off of him. The Lord Commander had overruled him, and it didn't sit well with the Master at Arms. Daron swallowed hard.
"That's a passing score," Daron whispered to himself. Looking up, meeting Callen's eyes, he repeated much louder, "That's a passing score!"
"So it would seem," Callen muttered.
A Justice. He had never dared to hope.
The rest of the recruits fixed him with gazes that matched the Master at Arms, though kept their comments to themselves. A small blessing, at least. Likely he'd hear some comments later on, once away from prying eyes, but he didn't care. He was to be a Justice. No amount of jeering could take that victory away from him.
The Lord Commander had approved of his unique attempts. That alone was worth almost as much as becoming a Justice. Almost. It filled him with no small amount of pride. Let the others say what they wanted. None of them had caught the eye of the Lord Commander. He met their gazes steadily, with confidence he'd never felt before.
"As you all have passed," Callen growled, his gaze lingering on Daron, "we will head down into the inner sanctum for you to take your vows before the gods. Follow."
Callen strode across the entry hall and flung open the doors, revealing the sloped tunnel heading deeper into the holy place. As each passed through into the winding path beyond, they tapped two fingers to their throat and bowed their heads, a symbol of respect dating back to before the Founding. The remainder of the graduates followed, snatching glances over their shoulders at Daron, leaving him alone with Brynn.
"I can't believed that just happened," he breathed.
"Don't sell yourself short," Brynn said, clapping him on the shoulder to get his feet moving. They set off after the rest of the group. "I'm just glad they valued ingenuity."
"The other students don't see it that way," Daron said. Daron hastily tapped his fingers to his throat, almost forgetting the gesture before stumbling through. They passed the doors and into a wide stone hallway that angled sharply down. There were no electric lights down here, though he couldn't say why no one had bothered. On either side of the passage were inset alcoves, each containing a marble bust of the Lord Commanders back since the very first. They all shone brilliantly in the torchlight, scrubbed meticulously clean each day by the first years.
He smiled at the memory. He'd spent many nights down here, working away with a soapy bucket of water, as penance for a multitude of trouble he and Brynn had gotten in. It seemed so far away, now. A lifetime ago.
"They feel I didn't earn it," he sighed.
"Doesn't matter. You'll be on equal footing with them once you take your oaths. To the void with what others think, Daron." Her voice sounded thick to his ears.
He slid to a halt, a thought dawning on him. "We're graduating, Brynn. Likely we'll be assigned to separate teams." He turned and met her eyes, and saw they were shimmering with tears in the dancing torchlight.
"You just had to say something to dampen my spirits," she said. She abruptly turned away from him and strode down the corridor, leaving him behind. He raced to catch up, but they walked the rest of the way in silence.
They'd become fast friends upon meeting in classes their first year. Daron couldn't now imagine what it would be like to be separated. She was like a sister, though he had no siblings of his own. It would be strange to be separated now after so many years. A sliver of depression pushed through the excitement he'd been feeling.
Passing through a series of ancient archways, they caught back up to the main group. The corridor descended in a slow spiral, delving deep below the surface. Side passages vanished off into the distance to either side at regular intervals, vaults of the most ancient artifacts held by the Order, many under constant watch and guard. Eventually they emptied out into a vast cavern, and the entire group paused collectively in awe.
Light flickered about the expansive chamber, like a thousand torches dancing and twisting in the wind. The floor was polished marble with great blue veins running through it, catching and reflecting the light, giving the floor a holy glow. Each tile had been fitted with unmarred precision by the best the world had to offer. The stone walls of the chamber had been smoothed to perfection. The focus of the room, the thing that had captivated all the graduates, was the pillar of flame that roared in the center of the cavern, from floor to towering ceiling.
"Behold," Callen called, his voice a whisper above the furor of the blaze, "the power of the gods."
Daron's mouth went dry. Other recruits fixated on the flames, perhaps a dozen feet in diameter and towering upwards to the roof of the chamber, though it did not blacken the stone. No smoke rose from it.
"Wodyr's hand," Brynn swore beside him. Somehow her uttering profanities in the most holy place in existence seemed perfectly like something she'd do. Daron shook himself from his shock with a laugh.
The air felt charged, a tingling sensation that bored at his skin and set his fingers twitching reflexively. The marble floor ended in long, ornately detailed stone steps, seven in all that led to the pillar of fire itself. The floor of the original chamber had been on level with the base of the fire, but over thousands of years the Order had carefully whittled it down to create the steps, stripping away an unimaginable amount of stone to do so.
He'd read about it, seen paintings that had tried to desperately capture the majesty of it, but they paled compared to standing before it. Daron could only stare, his mind trying to form adjectives that would describe it, and failing. It was simply beautiful.
A few men and women in simple spun gray robes busied themselves about the chamber, paying no attention to the group's arrival. Callen strode confidently forward, and the group of students shook themselves from the hypnotic swaying of the flames and straggled along behind.
"Draw your blades," Callen commanded. Twenty swords slid out of their sheathes, the sound drowned out by the roar of the fire. The Master at Arms stood just below the first step, a few scant paces from the inferno. There was heat, but it was a pleasant warmth, like the fireplace his parents had cooked with in their inn, back when he was a child. A familiar, comforting sensation washed over him.
"Step forward and place the blades within the flames." Daron looked beside him to Brynn, who was gaze was transfixed on the holy display before them. He was the first to step forward. As if his action broke some hypnosis on them, the rest shambled forward and mounted the steps. The heat was no greater here, though the light was almost blinding. Daron squinted at the glare.
"Don't touch the flames," the Master at Arms said. He sounded almost amused to Daron. "I'd rather not have to have someone mop up your ashes and ruin this moment."
Daron gulped and took an unconscious step back, nearly toppling off of the top step. Cursing at himself, he took a deep breath to steady a hand he hadn't felt shaking, and thrust his blade into the dancing flames. The other students followed suit. The blade immediately began to glow, though it did not melt or buckle.
The warmth flooded through him, like the sensation that gathered when he called upon the gods for a cantrip or for healing. There was a hum in his ears, low and undulating, snaking through his body to a beat he could almost hear. It was beautiful and overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and fear swelling with each pulse and crescendo, filling him with the desire to never leave this spot and to run screaming back to the surface all at once.
Callen said nothing more. He'd taken them as far as he could, and it was up to the rest of them to complete the journey. Daron fought through his memory for the words, punching through the haze that filled his mind.
"By the Seven, and the strength of this oath, I commit myself to be the living will of the gods," he intoned. Others beside him repeated the same words in varying pitches, some full of strength, a few barely more than forced out whispers. "I will put the will of the gods first, and this blade shall be as strong as my faith, unwavering and unbreaking."
Daron wondered for a euphoric moment if the words themselves even mattered, or if the intent was good enough. Did the gods only grant favors in the face of the exact words, or was the meaning of the one saying them good enough? He doubted anyone would try anything different.
Nothing changed. Daron felt the same as before, despite the hum that pulsed through him. Shouldn't there have been something more? A fanfare of trumpets, a surge of divine power, or at least a feeling of having done something more profound?
"Withdraw your blades, brothers and sisters of the Order." Callen sounded different to Daron's ears. No longer the gruff teacher, the imposing master. He spoke as to a friend. He spoke to equals. Daron carefully pulled his sword from the flames, and marveled at it. The blade was pristine white, pure and unmarred, as if a perfect snowfall had been captured into a sword. He tapped a finger to the side, yanking it away hastily in case it was searing hot, but the steel was cool to the touch.
"We did it," he whispered to Brynn. He slid the blade back into its sheath and descended the stairs. Master at Arms Callen was watching him, and gave a single, terse nod. Daron responded in kind. That, at least, was different.
One by one the remaining graduates stepped away from the pillar of flames to join Daron. No further words were spoken. None needed to be. After a moment they began the ascent back to the surface, walking in silent unison.
Could anyone have said the words, or was there something more to it? He wondered if he could have snuck down here during his first year, after he'd first learned the oath. Was it more just the end of a ritual, or had the years of lessons and training instilled something vital to actually taking the oaths?
Stepping out into the late afternoon light, Callen dismissed them and left, leaving them standing there. His duty was discharged. Daron turned to Brynn and smiled at her. Her eyes were bright, and she grinned back. The two of them followed suit, heading back to the dormitories. They wove through the crowd of people, shoulder to shoulder. A few congratulated them as they passed, though Daron simply smiled and nodded, not hearing any of the words spoken.
Tomorrow they would be given their assignments, each member joining their respective groups. As a Justice, it was probable that he'd be assigned to a senior commander and sent out into the world. His heart sped up at the thought. He hadn't gotten to see much of it, having lived his first two decades in the secluded cedar filled woods of the Ashtarun Valley, and had traveled straight to the Order when he'd joined.
"We should so something to celebrate," Brynn said as they walked. She sounded odd to Daron, her voice thick with emotion, lost in thought.
"What did you have in mind?"
"This could be the last time we see each other for a while," she said after a pause. "Something memorable."
Nothing came to mind. There wasn't much entertainment to be had at the Order, if he had to be honest with himself. Most recruits took a carriage to Gathon, the nearest town, spending the nights drinking and gambling, or catching an occasional play. It wasn't exactly memorable, but it was all they really had available to them.
"We could take a coach to Gathon," he suggested.
Brynn came to an abrupt halt beside him. A look of anger flashed across her face. Daron stopped as well, confused by the change in tone.
"For someone apparently so cunning, you can be completely dense, Daron."
"It was just a suggestion."
"A poor one, Justice Daron," she snapped. "Forget it. I'll see you in the morning."
"I don't understand-"
"No, you don't," she said. Her tone softened for a moment, and the anger bled away from her, replaced with sadness. "You don't," she repeated in a whisper. Without waiting for a respond, she turned and walked away, her braid bobbing against her back.
He stood in the central plaza, a solitary unmoving figure against a sea of other members of the Order meandering about, staring after her. What was that about? Finding himself alone for the evening, he sighed and angled towards the main gate, where carriages lay in wait. Maybe he could find Aiden and head out for a drink. At least Aiden would be less confusing.
Chapter 5.
Daron stood on a field of verdant green, the swaying grass an unbroken emerald almost too vivid to look at. Above, the sky was dyed a perfect royal blue, clouds flowing like a surging river. Nothing blocked the horizon in any direction he turned, the carpet of grass fading into infinity. It was deeply unsettling, a far cry from the mountains and hills of his home.
He spun in place, trying to get his bearings. As he turned, a figure wreathed in flames appeared in the corner of his eye, appearing between spins. The fire flickered between oranges and reds too saturated to be real, fracturing like gemstones as the flames rippled over the form. The tips were pristine and unmarred white.
One arm of the flaming figure lifted languidly through the air, the hand twisting and beckoning him forward. He didn't remember moving, but found himself suddenly beside the being.
The hand spun again, fingers outstretched towards him. This close, he could feel the flame rolling over him, a bonfire of heat crashing into him like the tide, pounding and crashing then flowing away. Curls of smoke rolled from his clothes. The air was filled with whispers, soft and lilting, though he couldn't make out the words.
Daron reached up, extending his fingers and touched the flickering fingers. Pain lanced through him, white and overpowering, washing away his senses and leaving him in a void of scintillating colors. He screamed, though the sound was lost to the whispers.
Daron snapped awake with a yell, sunlight streaming in through his open window. He lay panting, heart pounding, trying to remember the details of his dream. They faded as he blinked sleep from his eyes, leaving him with a profound feeling of loss, though he couldn't say why.
Dreams were omens from the gods, he'd been taught, but Daron hardly believed it. What sign could dreams of being perpetually late for classes hope to impart?
His head throbbed, and his mouth felt like it had been heaped full of sand. He groaned and rolled to his feet. At least if he was assigned somewhere far away he could he could avoid further evenings like that one. Aiden had barely drunk, damn him to the void, even in celebration, but Daron had found that ordering more ale got significantly easier after the first few mugs.
He dressed slowly, moving carefully in hopes to appease the angry mutterings that pounded through his head, pausing to admire the Oathblade. It was the same sword he'd worn for years, chosen his first week at the academy, but somehow felt different once it had been strapped on. He belted it on so that it hung at his left hip. He glanced at a mirror and ran a hand through his short cropped hair. It would have to do.
A folded piece of parchment had been slid under his door sometime after he'd arrived back early that morning. He frowned, and snatched it up, ignoring the sense of vertigo that threatened to cast him to the floor. Inside it was a short typed summons, calling him to the front gate an hour after breakfast. At the bottom, it suggested he bring a pack with traveling gear. Daron pulled his pocketwatch from his pants and glanced at the time, cursing. It had stopped sometime during the early hours. Normally he wound it each night, but with the celebratory drinks stacking up, he'd forgotten. Hopefully his new commander was the understanding sort.
Daron snatched up a pre-knotted tie from where it hung on his chair, throwing it over his neck while he dashed about the room. He threw on his vest and jacket, awkwardly stuffing one arm through a sleeve as he hopped about, yanking clothes from his dresser and snapping them up off the floor.
On sudden instinct, he snatched open his top dresser drawer and pulled out two silver cufflinks, bearing the hourglass and flame symbol of the Order. He might be late, but he could at least try to look decent. They went into a pocket.
Hastily he packed the well worn travel pack he'd brought with him his first year. It managed to hold nearly everything he owned, aside from the typewriter he'd scraped and saved for to tackle assignments. He ravaged through the small room, thrusting everything his hands could grab into the bag, and jogged into the hall, ignoring the protest that erupted in his head.
Brynn. Daron slid to a halt with another curse. If he was being summoned with travel supplies, likely he'd already been assigned and would be leaving this very day. He couldn't leave without seeing her again, especially not after her confusing exit. He dashed down the hallway, down the flight of stairs and over to the building that housed the women.
There was no answer as he pounded on her door. A few others that shared the dorm watched him as he left muttering to himself. Of course she'd already have been assigned. She also wouldn't have been late. Likely she was already on a train to the gods knew where.
She hadn't come to see him before leaving, he realized. He was sure if she'd have knocked he'd have woken, excessive drinking or not. She'd left without a word to him. He snorted in derision. If she wanted to be that way, and then let her. He had other pressing things to fret about now. It wasn't his fault she'd been so damned cryptic anyway. Shrugging the pack higher onto his back, he took off at a near run. He fished out his cufflinks and threaded them through onto his sleeves, nearly dropping them twice in the frantic scramble across the breadth of the Order.
The front gates were towering wooden structures, banded across by iron and steel. A series of pistons jutted from a framework of aged metal that allowed a single man on either side to open or close them by spinning a giant wheel, set into well fortified towers that straddled the entrance. Gleaming whitewashed walls fled into the distance away from the gate, wide enough for three men to walk across side by side, mounted with crenelations at regular intervals. It was ancient, built in the first days after the Founding, five thousand years ago. Daron could make out dozens of scouts walking the length, a job he'd tended to many times over the years. The gates currently lay open as morning traffic shuffled in and out of the grounds.
Daron glanced at the note as he dashed through, weaving around the pedestrians and horse drawn carriages. Justice Jarod had signed the note. Daron eyed the crowd, trying to find his new commander, and pulled up short as someone caught his eye. A carriage nearly rode him down as he abruptly stopped, the wagon master yelling obscenities towards Daron as he passed out of the gates. Sheepishly Daron approached the group lounging by the wall.
Aiden and Brynn both stood beside a tall man, a well maintained beard dotted with gray covering a prominent chin. His suit jacket was a deep forest green, clean but worn at the edges, a black tie cinched at his throat. Steel eyes regarded him as Daron approached, weighing and analyzing. Brynn held the same icy stare she'd left him with, while Aiden was grinning. Brynn and Aiden? Had they all been assigned to the same group? For a moment confusion gave way to exultation, though both faded as he realized the first impression he'd just given.
"Justice Daron," his new commander said with a slight incline of his head. "I trust it wasn't too much trouble to rouse you this early."
"Of course not, sir," Daron stammered out, straightening a bit and cursing himself.
"It's nearly lunch time," Brynn added.
Daron felt his heart fall. He was over three hours late. He began to splutter out an apology, but Jarod held up a staying hand.
"Aiden told me of your indulgences last night," Jarod said. His face was stern and unyielding. Daron tried not to shrink back from the stare. He was a Justice now, not a schoolboy. If he was going to be reprimanded, he'd take it like an adult. "It can be forgiven, considering the circumstances." If it was possible, Jarod's countenance grew even firmer. "Once."