209 AS (After Sundering)
It had been thirty years since Holt went through his Initiation, but looking at the cautious faces around him, he remembered every second, the pulling and tugging on his organs and the burning pain consuming his body—It was all they had to look forward to.
The five children, forming a half circle around him, looked up at him with eager eyes. At eight years of age, each one was deadly—more deadly than most grown men left in the array of worlds his kind guarded. He knew most would die in their Trials and not even see Initiation.
He took a moment to survey the land around them and was pleased to see them turn their heads and observe.
"Laila, what do you see?"
She was the smallest of the group and the quietest. She never spoke unless asked, but beneath her shyness lay the most gifted of the children. She was a Second Blood, like him.
Her deep blue eyes stared into him, her long silver hair curling around her face creating a strong contrast from the near black matte armor that wrapped around her, as if forged to her body rather than being part of it. Seeming to see his intention to bring her into the group, she rejected it with a nod and kept her response short and to the point. She raised her arm to point at the rock formations behind Holt, "Creation—manipulation."
The red rock rose from what looked like craters in the ground, twisting like a wet rag. The loops and whirls from its forming motion rose seven feet in the air, ending in a spike. Time had worn it down, but even after a hundred years, it was deadly. The top of the formation was a darker red than the rest of the rocks.
"Chaman, what is the significance of this?"
The tall Illara boy looked surprised, "This was the ambush that started the First War."
Holt nodded, "Yes, but why do we come here? Why do we study it?"
Chaman squirmed and the girl next to him, Serra, sighed, "We study it because this is the Origin of the First Blood. The war made her, and she made us. Without this, we would not be Palors."
Holt nodded again, "Yes, but why do we care? Isn't it just ancient history?"
Sera huffed, "We care because we guard the balance of the worlds. Without knowing the story of when they were unbalanced, how can we prevent it from happening again?"
"Good." Holt turned and walked through the source-forged stone, waving for the children to follow. Approaching the nearest twisted stone, he reached out and placed his hand upon it. The children gathered around and did the same. "Close your eyes. This rock has a story to tell. Find it."
Obedience was the first thing they learned; they all closed their eyes and fell silent. He heard the shift in each one's breathing as they each found the answer he had asked them to seek. Laila was the first to settle into the slow, deep breaths as she attuned herself to the formation. There was a catch and a near inaudible gasp. Good. She opened her eyes and dropped her hand back to her side, standing quietly while the others searched.
After each child had finished the task, they gathered in front of him. Holt turned again to Laila, "Tell us the story."
"It was cold that night. The rock was part of the shelf, until it was ripped apart—into dust—then put back together, forming the sharp section first and the rest behind it, thrusting it up into the air. It happened so suddenly, the guards couldn't get out of the way. The dark sections are from the blood of the soldier that stood on the ground as it collapsed beneath him, then impaled him. The blood mixed into the stone as the source remade it."
Holt heard Chaman sigh. He had likely not realized the blood was the reason the top of the stone was a deeper red. He said nothing to the children, but turned to look over the field before them. He knew they were looking too, seeing the story of the stone repeated all around them. The field stretched in front of them for several hundred feet, just as wide as it was deep and filled with the strange formations. Where one crater ended, the next began.
The silence pressed against them for several minutes. Behind him, he heard a shuffle. One of them was growing bored. Likely Chaman. He emphasized the point of what they saw, "How many died here? How many sisters, brothers, fathers, and mothers bled into this stone, Chaman?"
"Um, a thousand?"
Holt held in the growl of impatience that threatened to escape, "I asked how many died here, not to guess how many source formations there are. Sera, you will probably interrupt anyway. Do you know the answer?"
"One thousand, two hundred and fifty-one."
"Chaman, you get another chance. How many lives were lost in the war that followed?"
He heard the shuffling behind him again, but eventually Chaman answered, "Ninety-six thousand, three hundred and six."
"Good. You get another, Chaman. This one is easy. How many people do you love?"
"Well, my family and my two best friends and—"
"I want a number not a list."
He heard the boy's shoes scraping over the stones again.
"Um, seventeen."
"Each of you, come up with your number of everyone you love. Picture their faces." He waited a minute for the children to conjure up their loved ones inside their minds. "Leila, how many died in both the wars and the Sundering combined?"
Holt had barely asked the question when Leila answered in a quiet but clear and firm voice, "Sixty-two billion, seven hundred and ninety-seven million, eight hundred and twenty-five thousand, five hundred and seventeen."
He said nothing and let the number hang over the children as they looked at the spire filled valley. He wanted them to feel the weight of death. It was an important lesson to learn before they were free to kill.