Chapter 3: Disciples
The Time: Present day, 720 AE
The Place: Kachai Fortress, on the outskirts of the city of Vaomeze, in the province of Shenevi
The next morning, Senior Disciple Ambren rises bright and early for recitations with High Priestess Jevani.
His master does not.
He doesn't see her at recitations, or at the mess hall for breakfast, or even at the small sparring grounds near the Queen's Garden that his sahan prefers for her lessons. By this time, the sun has risen well into the sky. Nonplussed, Ambren makes the short trek from the sparring grounds to the garden itself. His master is nowhere to be seen, but he doesn't even have to lay eyes on them to know that his creed brothers are in this garden somewhere.
Ambren swallows a sigh and changes direction, following the sound of increasingly unrestrained shouting.
"You're such a fucking twat! What is wrong with you?!" the first voice snaps belligerently. Its bearing is unpolished, but it is strong of timbre and strong of heart both.
That would be Ranan.
"What's wrong with me?" the second voice retorts incredulously. "What's wrong with me is that for six months I've been sharing a filthy, drafty dorm with a rotten-tongued mongrel who won't learn to keep his disgusting nose where it belongs! If you truly struggle so much to understand when it is or is not appropriate to read something, then this lord will be only too happy to relieve you of your feckless eyes!"
And… that would be young lord Tselai. In fine form, both of them.
There comes a terrible sputtering. "Piss off! You think I give a shit what's in your stupid fucking mail?! You think I wanna read you and your shitty uncle or whatever jerk each other off for twenty pages?! It fell off the dresser! I was picking it up!"
"You—!"
Oh no. Ambren hurries, but it's too late—the unmistakable sounds of two adolescent boys beating the stuffing out of each other drown out the sweet chirps of the songbirds. By the time he rounds the corner into a small clearing, two blue-robed figures are exchanging blows so furiously the energy of their strikes rustles the flora around them. If it's any consolation, Ambren thinks joylessly, his "younger brothers" have always been evenly-matched. In the event that their spats devolve into brawls (which is often), they can usually be broken up before either of them receives any significant harm.
He could throw himself between them, but the boys aren't yet coordinated enough to hold their blows mid-strike, and Ambren himself is really only a mediocre hand-to-hand combatant. His talents lie elsewhere. He has other ways to stop them if they prove too rowdy, but he'd rather use his words first.
"Daiheza!" he calls. "Enough, please!"
Ranan seems to process what he's said first and begins to withdraw, but Tselai—though ordinarily quicker to disengage when caught—uses the opportunity to land a swift and painful-looking palm strike to Ranan's gut.
Ambren swallows another sigh. Tselai is either very angry about his mail or very angry that Ranan referred to his lord cousin in such vulgar terms. Probably both.
Of course, once Ranan is struck, he yowls with rage and throws himself into the fight with renewed vigor. Tselai has naturally had more training than his creed brother, given his background, and he's also quite a bit quicker than Ranan. But Ranan is far more bull-headed and inexhaustible, and he hits harder.
Ambren is just raising his hands to pull the two apart by other means when a dark blur shoots past him, light on its feet but moving with such speed and force that it sets the hem of his robe fluttering. Tselai is the first to realize he's in trouble, but as fast and slippery as he is, he's nowhere near fast or slippery enough to evade the gloved hand that catches him about the forearm. Helpless in his momentum, Tselai barely has time to brace himself before the figure whirls once and then sends him sailing across the cobblestones to crash in an undignified heap onto a slightly softer patch of open grass nearby.
Ranan's fate is no better. In the same breath as Tselai is thrown, one of the figure's long legs casually strikes out and sweeps the boy's feet out from under him with breathtaking finality. It's only the other gloved hand catching him by the collar of his robes that saves him from crashing face-first on the cobblestone at full speed. It's still a painful landing, though.
As his two younger creed brothers groan pitifully while they roll around on the ground and catch their breath, Ambren bows over his hands. "Good morning, Sahan." He turns, then, and bows also—in gentle jest—to the black dog meandering down the path towards them. "Good morning, Baza."
The dog whuffs at him.
Sahan, it must be said, does not look as though she's been having a very good morning. Her skin is ordinarily suntanned and glowing, but today it's decidedly pale and sallow. Her uniform is rumpled, and her plait is loose in several places. She's still smiling, but there's a grim cast to it—thought that might be from having to forcibly separate Ranan and Tselai so early in the day.
Ambren frowns to himself. Had she overextended herself helping that little girl yesterday…?
Ranan, vigorous as ever, is the first to recover. He scrunches into a full kneel, forehead parallel to the ground. "This worthless disciple apologizes to Sahan," he rasps, still clearly a bit out of breath. "Sahan was right to punish him."
Tselai, not to be outdone, mimics his pose. Through gritted teeth, he manages, "This humble disciple… is also sorry. Many thanks to Sahan for her guidance."
Sahan, for her part, merely shakes her head. "I wish it was this easy to get you to apologize to each other."
The boys don't move.
"Which you should do."
The boys still don't move.
"Now."
Both junior disciples stand gingerly, their faces a little bloodless with lingering pain. With expressions as gruesome as two prisoners walking their last, the two face each other and bow as shallowly as they can possibly get away with.
"I'm sorry," they intone simultaneously.
"That sucked," Sahan says. "Do it again. Properly, or I'll make you hug it out."
Tselai turns a fascinating array of colors before finally settling on green. Ranan—who, despite his brashness, has always been more sensitive to Sahan's displeasure—merely purses his lips, dark blue eyes stony.
"I'm… sorry for picking up your mail, I guess," he mutters. "Even though it was all over the floor and definitely gonna get trampled. Should've left it there."
Tselai narrows his fox-like green eyes. "And I'm sorry," he says sweetly, "for not expressing to you earlier how vile and inappropriate it is to slander your Royal Governor with such language."
Ranan's auburn brows furrow, but before he can make any retort, Sahan strikes both of them upside the head. It's not a soft strike, either. Tselai yelps and then looks mortified at his own slip-up.
"You two," Sahan says through gritted teeth, no longer smiling, "are gonna clear this shit up or we're all going to have a problem. We're about to have bigger fish to fry than who said what about who or who looked at whose letters. Work it out." She frowns and delivers the killing blow: "I'm disappointed in you both."
Ranan flinches harder than he had when he was physically struck. Tselai just scowls, but a faint flush climbs up his pale neck over the high collar of his robes.
"I'm sorry, Tselai-daihe!" Ranan blurts. He can't quite make full eye contact with his creed brother, but he's at least staring in the vicinity of his face. "I really wasn't looking through your mail. I promise. I just—I knocked it off the dresser by accident and it went everywhere and I was trying to pick it all up before you got back from the baths but then you walked in and saw me…" He takes a breath. "And I'm… sorry about saying bad stuff about your uncle."
"Elder lord cousin," Tselai corrects him snippily, but then he bites the inside of his cheek and sighs irritably. "If that's the case, then I… apologize for assuming the worst. My—that letter is important to me. I…" he hesitates for a long time before finishing his sentence in a grumbling rush, "should have known better than to accuse you. You've never snooped in my things before."
There is a long, deeply awkward silence following this exchange during which the two junior disciples look everywhere but at each other, both of their faces stained with embarrassment.
"There!" Sahan says exasperatedly. "Was that so hard? Fell Empress preserve me." She claps both youths on the shoulder and steers them towards Ambren. "Apologize to your adaihe for not listening to him."
This round of apologies goes much more smoothly, and Ambren can't help but laugh. "This adaihe is only glad to see the two of you unharmed. Please be more careful in the future."
With things at least temporarily patched up, Sahan's irritation dissipates quickly, and she pats both junior disciples fondly on the head. Ranan endures this with a bashful smile; Tselai humphs but doesn't pull away.
"Ah, don't be so stuffy, Tseba," Sahan cajoles. "How can I resist? You're so cute." She pinches one pale-skinned cheek.
Ranan's face contorts with the effort of containing his laugh.
Tselai's expression, meanwhile, is absolutely thunderous. "Sahan…!" he chokes out.
"Tselai" was a proud name passed down over generations of northern lords. "Tseba" was a jam-filled sweet bun. It was also Sahan's preferred nickname for this disciple, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Once everyone calms down, Sahan gathers her little ducklings together in the Queen's Garden's sole gazebo. It's overgrown with flowering vines and the wooden floor is a bit rotted, but it's still a lovely place to enjoy the mild spring weather. Sahan leans against a railing while her disciples lounge across the benches (Ranan and Tselai are studiously pretending not to notice each other, which is… sort of an improvement).
"So," Sahan begins, crossing her arms over her chest, her tired but genuine smile slipping away. "The Grand Matron gave me some news last night. I'm going to share it with you, but let me make this very clear: everything I'm about to say stays between us until the Grand Matron makes a public announcement."
She stares hard at each disciple in turn (especially Ranan, who fidgets uncomfortably with the cream-colored sash on his outer robe). Evidently satisfied that her point has been made, Sahan continues. "Let's see if any of you have been listening in the High Priestess's divinities lessons. Do you know what Rites of Devotion are?"
Ambren knows the answer, but the question is really for his younger brothers. He keeps his mouth shut until Tselai lifts his chin and says, "They're part of a tithing ceremony."
"Mm," Sahan acknowledges. "What sort of tithe?"
Ranan puffs up, breaking his temporary truce to glare daggers at Tselai. "Any kind," he interjects, "but usually a blood tithe because they're fast and easy to offer and you don't need a priest to perform them."
"Very good, both of you!" Sahan says. "Now, what's special about this kind of tithing ceremony in particular?"
"It's witnessed by the god you're tithing to!" Tselai blurts out before Ranan can answer. "Usually people tithe to a priest and then the priest offers the power of the tithe back to their god, but during a Rites of Devotion ceremony the god accepts the tithe directly!"
"And what's the benefit of that?"
"A stronger tithing bond!" the junior disciples answer in hurried unison.
Ambren coughs lightly to disguise his laugh.
Sahan smiles too, her dimples appearing for just a moment before her expression dampens again. "Exactly right. A stronger tithing bond makes it easier for a god to command their subjects, doesn't it?"
"But it also gives devotees a direct connection to their god," Ranan adds. "So they can pray straight to their god and stuff and even get divine power from the source instead of through a priest."
At this, Sahan raises a finger and wipes away a phantom tear. "Oh my god. You guys actually do listen."
Ranan unfurls like a bloom after a gentle rain, his tan skin rosy under this faint but earnest praise. Tselai is less visibly pleased, but his usual sourpuss expression has been replaced by a vague half-smile.
Finally, Sahan turns to Ambren. "Alright, Adaihe. Bring it home. Why do you think I'm asking you guys about Rites of Devotion?"
Ambren thinks for a moment. "Well…" he begins slowly, "it's been five years since God-Queen Velnyr ascended. She hasn't held a public Rites of Devotion ceremony yet, but… Now that the realm is starting to stabilize, travel is safer, food is cheaper and more plentiful, and the lords are able to securely leave their seats of power. Could it be that Her Worship has decided it's time to host her first proper tithing ceremony?"
Sahan claps her hands. "Daiheza! Wonderful!"
It takes the junior disciples a moment to connect the dots, but Tselai is the first to figure it out. He bolts upright on the bench, his long, pale blond ponytail flopping over his shoulder with the force of his movements.
"Are we going?!" he asks breathlessly.
Sahan grins in response, but something about it feels… off. His younger brothers don't seem to notice, but Ambren does. He's well-practiced in hiding his emotions, however, and his expression remains smooth and placid.
"We're going," she confirms. "All three of you were invited by name. Congratulations."
There's a few seconds of stunned silence before Ranan leaps to his feet and whoops, eyes sparkling. Ambren shushes him to no avail.
"Really?!" he asks. "We're really—going to the royal capital? We're really gonna see the queen???"
"Really really," Sahan says. "The ceremony is set to start the week of the spring solstice, so… three weeks from now?"
The sudden burst of chatter is loud and incomprehensible. Sahan just shakes her head and chuckles, waiting until the excitement dies down. Ranan, unable to contain himself, vaults the railing and runs several laps around the gazebo, hooting gleefully the entire time, high auburn ponytail flapping in the breeze. Tselai is more restrained, but he still shoots up and vibrates in place, hands fisted eagerly in his robes. Ambren, as usual, is the mellowest of all, but even he breaks into an unrestrained peal of genuine laughter.
"This is the coolest shit ever!"
"Ah, I need to write Lord Etrezo at once—"
"We're gonna travel across the whole kingdom–"
"Hah! Rametam will be sick with jealousy; I can't wait to see his face—"
"Are we gonna see the queen's dragon? Sahan, are we gonna see the dragon??? What's her name again… Adaihe, what's the dragon's name?"
"Harasi. The Queen's Fury."
"Fuck yeah, that's cool as hell."
"I have to send for my diadem! Will it get here in time, do you think, if I ask my cousin for it now?"
Sahan rubs her temples, lost in thought. Ambren sidles up to her while the other two talk to themselves.
"Is Sahan well?" he asks quietly.
Sahan glances at him. "I'm fine, Daihe. Thank you. And thank you for leaving dinner last night."
Ambren tips his head. "This disciple was happy to help. He assumed Sahan would be tired after her long day."
Sahan sighs. "You have no idea."
After several long minutes, the junior disciples finally calm down enough to listen to the rest of Sahan's speech.
"The Grand Matron will give us all the finicky details later," she says, "but until then, remember: not a word to anyone about any of this. I'm serious."
"Yes, Sahan," the disciples chorus.
***
They spend the rest of the day as usual, practicing basic channeling and purification techniques with Ari until lunch. It's no use teaching anything more strenuous—the boys are all too antsy. They split up when the belltower tolls for lunch. It's the last Ari will see of them for the day; the rest of their lessons will be in other subjects with the rest of the acolytes of their skill level. She sometimes convenes with them for evening lessons as well, but today she lets them off easy: they deserve the chance to celebrate the good news.
She's… a little worried that the boys will be too obviously excited, but as long as they don't blab any specifics the Grand Matron won't get on her ass about it. Ostensibly, she has work of her own to do, but she instead spends much of her afternoon in meditation, working to purge her mind of the string of nightmares that plagued her all night. Unfortunately, it does little to ward off the waves of nightmares that follow her the rest of the week.
True to her word, the Grand Matron gathers the invitees together the next day to make her official announcement. It's clear from the expressions on every disciple's face that this is news to exactly none of them, but thankfully word doesn't seem to have spread past the assembled group.
It will take two full weeks to travel from Kachai Fortress to Tsimeda. With all of Kachai Coven's matrons and two of its preceptors headed south for so long, the Grand Matron has established strict protocols for the remaining preceptors to follow in her absence. For the attendees, the next week will be spent packing and preparing. They'll follow the royal highway from Vaomeze all the way to the capital, traveling in a convoy of carriages and mounted riders. The invitation included a list of inns and relay stations along the way that they might take advantage of if they wish. The royal highway will doubtless be heavily-trafficked, though. They might have to rough it some nights.
Ari's never been to the new royal capital personally, but she's familiar with the God-Queen's modus operandi. The celebration will last a full week, and the entire city will be dressed to impress in classic Elvish fashion. There will be duels, various martial games and arcane mastery competitions, parades, dances, feasts, public offerings—in other words, a lot of culture shock to prepare her poor little ducklings for. Only Ambren is familiar with the grandiosity of Elvish tithing ceremony celebrations, so she relies on him to help teach the juniors the basics of Elvish customs and etiquette.
The week passes in a blur. Ari frankly gives up on teaching properly and instead devotes her time to dancing lessons and Elvish vocabulary practice. It isn't just the excitement in the air that turns time into a slurry—Ari hasn't slept this poorly in a very long time. Every morning, she spends several minutes coated in cold sweat, hugging Varul as close as she can without crushing the poor beast's lungs. Once, she even startles awake in the middle of the night to find her spiritual weapon hissing and smoking in her bed: Varul, responding to her terror, had reverted to her bladed form to protect her.
But finally, the week passes, and the representatives from Kachai Coven set out from the fortress to begin their long journey south.