CHAPTER 15

Why We Fight

Throwing opposite-side strikes in cadence surely is an effective way to utilize a Grievar’s momentum to the fullest. Just as the pendulum swings back and forth, each strike can feed off the force of the previous. However, against an experienced opponent, a Grievar needs to consider switching cadence, attacking out of rhythm with multiple strikes focused to one side. Attacking out of cadence requires a greater expenditure of ki—a Grievar should practice doing so regularly.

Passage Six, Ninetieth Technique of the Combat Codes

Cego was tired and hungry—a trend at the Lyceum. Even as the semester approached its midpoint, he felt the constant strain of training.

As usual, the Whelps descended the stairs toward the dining hall together.

“Think there’ll be real animals down there?” Dozer had asked the first time they’d gone down those stairs. “I’m beat. But not so beat that I won’t be able to catch some dinner.”

Sol had given Cego a look that said, Is he for real?

The Lyceum’s dining hall was quite impressive, though Cego realized his primary frame of reference had been the cans of green slop they called food in the Underground. Of course, there were no animals, live or dead, as Dozer had hoped for, but there were several stations that served various forms of vat-protein and insta-carbs, along with dehydrated fruits and vegetables.

The other Level One teams sat along the same wooden table as the Whelps. For now, the lacklights and purelights coexisted without disturbance. Kōri Shimo sat alone at one end of the table, maintaining his trademark blank stare. Gryfin Thurgood confidently sat between two female students, regaling them with the tale of his first broken bone.

Even Knees sat at the far end of the table with the rest of the Bayhounds, though the Venturian had avoided eye contact with Cego or Dozer for several weeks now.

Professor Tefo had been speaking the truth at the start of the semester when he’d said that the boundaries of birthright and wealth would be broken down at the Lyceum. The intense class and challenge schedule had the effect of bringing everyone to the same baseline. Not to say that there wasn’t any discrimination. Shiar and most of the other purelights still walked around like they were superior beings—they were just too worn down to do anything about it.

There was a whole new way to discriminate here at the Lyceum, though—Levels. Those wearing their brand-new white second skins—Level Ones—clumped together and wearily watched the sea of bigger fish swarm around them.

The Level Twos, who wore blue skins, sat congregated among their own kind, as did the Level Threes, who wore purple, the Level Fours, in brown, Level Fives, wearing black, and Level Sixes, all in red. Here and there, Cego noticed an outlier sitting apart from their own level, but overall, the tables in the dining hall reminded him of the various monochrome patches of berries that used to grow on the island.

The segregation around him made Cego feel all the more fortunate to be a Whelp. He felt at home with his team, though his prior conceptions of home had unraveled at this point.

Abel was always full of interesting tidbits of foreign knowledge. Today, he was attempting to enlighten Dozer on the nude fighting rituals of the Thanti folk, an indigenous Grievar tribe that had gone unnoticed by the rest of civilization for thousands of years.

“Completely darkin’ naked?” Dozer exclaimed. “Wouldn’t that be… dangerous for, you know. Delicate parts?”

Sol slapped Dozer on the shoulder. “Oh, manliest of Grievar, I was under the impression that one such as you did not have any delicate parts.”

“You know what I mean,” Dozer protested.

Abel proceeded to stand and mimic how the Thanti folk would tuck their delicate parts to keep them out of harm’s way, eliciting raucous laughter from the rest of the team. Though he sometimes questioned the legitimacy of such tales, Cego had become fond of the way Abel told his stories.

Joba continued to stay silent, though Cego could sense the boy’s steady presence. No matter what the circumstances, Joba had a broad smile spread across his face. Throughout the toughest workouts or during the most mundane lectures, the boy’s smile remained steadfast. Cego often wondered if Joba was smiling because he was happy to be removed from whatever hardships he’d suffered in the borderlands.

Cego glanced at Sol from across the table. The daughter of Artemis Halberd was continuing to chide Dozer about his delicates, fluttering her sunflower eyes in what she called proper noble-lady fashion. Her braid swung across her back as she shook her head.

At this point, Sol seemed to accept her role as the team’s resident fight librarian. Though she did roll her eyes on many occasions, Cego had come to find that Sol wasn’t just a brain. She backed up her vast banks of martial information with flawless execution. In the individual Level One scoring sections, Sol was leading in every class with nearly perfect test scores.

Even Mateus Winterfowl appeared to have eased his reluctance in associating with the rest of the Whelps. At the start of the semester, Mateus would constantly complain about the great indignities he was suffering, sleeping amid a group of foreigners and lacklights. Now he mainly just grumbled, which Cego could more easily digest.

Part of Mateus’s acceptance of the Whelps came from the indisputable fact that the team performed well together. Team scores were an essential portion of each student’s total score, and the Whelps had been very successful so far. They currently stood second in the Level One standings, narrowly trailing the Bayhounds going into midterms.

The Whelps’ primary advantage had been the full use of their six team members. Because each challenge only used three Grievar, many of the other teams had come to rely only on their best three while the rest remained unused. Though this strategy was strong to start, the top three were fast to wear down because of their increased fight load.

Though the Whelps had a solid top three—Cego, Sol, and Dozer—the true strength of their team came from spreading out their fights based on each member’s strengths.

Abel’s ability to rapidly move in and out of striking distance made him the perfect matchup for slow-moving, heavy-hitting Grievar he could wear down. Joba was the best match against lanky strikers—the boy had the uncanny ability to absorb a barrage of strikes before bearing down on his opponent.

Unlike most of the cocky purelights on the other teams, the Whelps also found strength in their admission of weakness. They weren’t afraid to know where each member was lacking. Dozer was baffled by plotting opponents—those smart Grievar who came in with a bout-long game plan. He always fared better in slugfests. Sol performed fantastically against those same intelligent opponents. Somehow, she could always out-strategize them, thinking one step ahead for each of their moves.

Despite the Whelps’ current standing, Cego had not lost sight of his plan from the start of the semester. He glanced down the long table toward Knees, who had that same blank stare on his face as he slowly picked at his food.

Cego had attempted to reach out to his friend several times this semester so far; after all, they were in three of the same classes and it was difficult to avoid any Level Ones at such close quarters. Each time, Knees had responded to Cego with those bleary eyes, as if he didn’t recognize who he was.

Even if the Whelps did somehow pull the plan off—convincing the Bayhounds to challenge them at a huge risk and invoking the trade clause for Knees, not to mention winning the challenge against the leading Level One team—what then? That didn’t mean Cego would be able to help his friend with what he was going through. Even if Knees was on the Whelps, they couldn’t get inside his brain.

One step forward is one step where you are not standing still. Farmer’s voice cut through the surrounding clamor of the dining hall.

The old master was right, as usual. Even if Cego didn’t know how to help Knees, getting him onto their team and away from Shiar’s Bayhounds would be a step forward.

Like preparing for a fight, the Whelps needed to be methodical in their research and execution. He’d already discovered that Shiar and the rest of the Bayhounds had been sniffing around to evaluate the strength of the other teams.

Currently, though, there was too much at stake for the Bayhounds to challenge the Whelps. Shiar’s team could lose their coveted first-place spot going into the end of the semester. The Bayhounds needed more incentive—they needed to smell blood.

That’s just what Cego planned to give them.

On first attending Circles and Alloys, Cego had expected to walk into a large classroom; after all, how would they train within the wide variety of Circles without having access to each of them?

He’d been surprised to enter a tiny room, barely the size of Murray’s barracks, with a single Circle set at the center. Almost more surprising than the classroom was his teacher—he’d nearly gasped at the sight of Professor Adrienne Larkspur. She was the size of Murray-Ku in both height and breadth, her blond topknot collecting dust from the ceiling during her lectures.

Professor Larkspur’s size wasn’t her defining feature, though.

Larkspur had a gargantuan memory for all things relating to the Circles. With terrific clarity, she could recall every mixture of alloys, every set of engraved sigils, and every sort of clasp and gear that had ever composed a Circle. She knew the minutiae of every significant fight that had occurred in the last century—the nations the Grievar hailed from; each combatant’s biometrics, strengths, and weaknesses; every punch, kick, knee, or elbow that had landed during the bouts.

Though at times she could overwhelm her students with the sheer weight of data, Professor Larkspur wasn’t boring. She recounted famous fights with vigor—setting up each Grievar’s backstory, building the suspense, and finally drawing her students into the Circles as if they were actually participating in the bout.

Today, Larkspur was finishing her week’s review of emeralyis alloy by recounting a recent battle between Artemis Halberd and Yongl Floree, a Besaydian Knight.

“Artemis saw his opportunity—any Knight of his caliber would see the same. Though Floree’s limbs were intact, though his heart rate hadn’t fluctuated, though he wasn’t winded, Artemis could see something else was wrong with his opponent.” Larkspur flashed her eyes back and forth at the class.

Professor Larkspur stood at the center of the mimicry Circle, which was now glowing with the green hue of emeralyis. Cego’s question about the tiny classroom had been answered on the first day of class when he’d seen the mimicry Circle in action.

Though it wasn’t as powerful as a Circle built of a single alloy, the mimicry Circle could imitate nearly any of the other elements. Created from a low-level mixture of the entire spectrum of alloys, a Grievar could simply speak of a fight that had taken place in a specific alloy to will the mimicry Circle to assume its properties.

“Artemis had been watching Floree’s footwork,” Larkspur continued. “The Besaydian was a southpaw. He always circled to his right, away from Artemis’s power. Floree had already tried to pepper Artemis with jabs, as southpaws tend to do, though so far, they hadn’t amounted to much. That’s when Floree started to doubt himself. He started to let the emeralyis influence him. The Circle beckoned him to do something new, something creative to break Artemis’s defenses.”

There were only five students this semester in Circles and Alloys, each taking a ringside seat for Larkspur’s lecture: Cego, Mateus Winterfowl, Wilhelm Bariston, Tegan Masterton, and Kōri Shimo. Four of the five were enraptured by Professor Larkspur’s story. Kōri Shimo was staring out the window—the strange boy couldn’t seem to care less about the lesson.

“Floree suddenly decided to change directions. The Besaydian circled to his left this time. He surely knew he was moving toward Artemis’s power side, but he did it anyway. The emeralyis had convinced him it was a good idea.” Larkspur’s words were accentuated as several green spectrals lifted from the edge of the mimicry Circle’s glowing frame.

“We all know what happened next. You just don’t circle toward Artemis Halberd’s power.” Larkspur feigned a massive right-handed roundhouse. “Yongl Floree’s lightpath ended right there.”

Cego felt the need for an O Toh after Larkspur’s rousing lecture, but he refrained.

“Any questions before we wrap up?” Larkspur asked.

Tegan Masterton raised her fist in the air and Larkspur nodded at her. “I know you’ve covered lots of historical fights and the sort of Circles they took place in, but I’m just wondering about the spectrals. They’re always there, flying around the Circles, giving off different sorts of light. But what are they?”

“By the expression on all of your faces, I can see this is a good question.” Larkspur raised an eyebrow. “So… does anyone have any idea what the spectrals are?”

Mateus Winterfowl spoke up. “I hear they are spirits. Sent down to watch over us from the gods.”

The statement elicited a laugh from another student, but Larkspur frowned. “Mateus is not naïve to think this. In fact, many Grievar around the world believe that the spectrals are some sort of otherworldly spirit.”

“But it’s not true, is it?” Tegan Masterton shook her head in disbelief. “There’s no such thing as spirits, no one’s watching us, right?”

“Well…” Larkspur trailed off, seeming to consider Tegan’s question. “There are many mysteries that do surround the spectrals, and much even I don’t know, though I’ve studied Circles for the entirety of my life. But let’s start with what we do know. Where do they come from?”

“From the alloys,” Cego said. He knew for certain that each type of spectral was directly related to the type of alloy it was attracted to.

“Indeed,” Larkspur said. “We believe the spectrals are created in the reaction that occurs when the alloys are extracted. For example, when rubellium is smelted from ore to its base form, redlight spectrals are born. Those spectrals are continually attracted to rubellium, which is why we see them flocking around a Circle created from that alloy. The purer the Circle, absent of any other metallic mixtures, the greater the attraction.”

Cego thought about Murray’s Circle, Violet, a hybrid of two alloys that attracted the strange indigo spectrals. Cego hadn’t heard from Murray since the start of semester, but he could imagine the man still habitually polished Violet every morning.

“But weren’t the spectrals here before the Circles?” Tegan asked. “I’ve heard stories of the Ancients fighting in stone rings, and still there was light shining onto them.”

“Yes, yes,” Larkspur said. “It’s debatable how accurate those stories are. But some say the spectrals have existed since the beginning, that they were created from natural alloy reactions deep beneath the earth and in the ocean trenches.”

Cego was starting to notice a trend here at the Lyceum. Somehow, the more he learned about any subject, the less he realized he knew. He’d thought he was finally starting to understand the Circles, but he wasn’t so confident anymore. Cego looked across the class to Kōri Shimo to see if he was as intrigued about these revelations, but, like clockwork, the boy was staring off into another world.

“Looks like our time is nearly up. We can continue this discussion next class,” Larkspur said.

Cego stood with the rest of the class to receive their assignments via lightdeck.

“As always, we’ll be moving on to a new alloy next week,” Professor Larkspur said. “Onyx is one you’ve likely had little experience with, for good reason.”

Cego’s ears perked up. Ever since he’d discovered the onyx Circle in his Trial and felt the blacklight, he’d wondered if Larkspur would be covering the mysterious alloy in her class.

“Onyx compresses time,” Larkspur explained. “Your past, your present, your future—a strong onyx Circle can bind them together.”

Cego’s mind drifted to the Time Trial, when he sat in the ironwood grove for what seemed like weeks on end, though he’d discovered afterward he’d lasted less than an hour.

“I only fought in onyx twice during my path,” Larkspur continued. “I don’t remember much—that’s one of the effects of time compression. Some Knights come out of onyx not even remembering their own names.”

As Professor Larkspur spoke, the room seemed to darken, as if the shadows were growing like vines along the close walls. The green hue of the emeralyis had diffused, giving way to a strange new light. Cego couldn’t quite describe it. It almost appeared to be the absence of light, as if the glow from the mimicry Circle was sucking away at any external sources of brightness.

“Blacklight. An onyx Circle’s blacklight can do many things to a Grievar,” Larkspur said quietly. Her voice was getting softer. “Loss of memory, heightened memory, confusion, anger, insanity—we’ve had cases of nearly every ailment over the… In some cases, onyx has even…”

Larkspur’s words faded in and out, though Cego could still see her mouth moving. Darkness crowded the edge of his vision.

Cego could see himself then, wavering at the edge of the mimicry Circle. There was a smudge of blood staining the back of his white second skin.

He was looking in from the outside, pressed up against the window, peering through the thick glass into the classroom.

He saw Professor Larkspur waving her hands, commanding the attention of the class. He saw the mimicry Circle glimmering like wet coal. He saw dark spectrals rising from its frame like fleeing shadows.

The spectrals were hovering over his head. He saw tendrils of darkness reaching from the wisps, pulling at him. Cego wanted to bang on the window. He wanted to warn himself, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

Suddenly, two eyes met his, burning yellow embers staring directly back out at him through the window. Kōri Shimo.

Cego panicked; he was losing control. He was getting pulled away from the window. Why was he here? What choice did he have?

Cego breathed in deeply. He released the breath. Rolling like a wave.

He inhaled again, just as Farmer had showed him. He exhaled.

The darkness faded. The noise and light crept back toward him.

Cego was back in his body, standing at the edge of the Circle in Professor Larkspur’s tiny classroom.

“—so I’ll expect you to be ready for your end-of-semester test by that point, and as always, feel free to stop by for any extra help before then,” Larkspur concluded.

The others began to filter out of the room. Mateus was muttering about being late to the dining hall.

Cego turned toward Kōri Shimo. The boy was still looking out the window.

Murray made sure to remain unseen as he climbed the stairs of the Valkyrie toward Commander Aon Farstead’s study. Even under the guise of a harmless visit to one of his old mentors, Murray didn’t want to raise any notes of suspicion.

Aon’s door was open when Murray arrived at the end of the sixth-floor hallway.

“Commander Farstead?” Murray said as he entered. He scanned the room, which had remained exactly the same for the past few decades, still full of musty old bookshelves. Aon Farstead was nowhere to be seen.

“Murray Pearson, I thought you’d be paying me a visit sometime soon.” A voice suddenly fell from above Murray.

Murray peered up and saw the ancient Grievar perched at the top of a ladder set against one of the tall bookshelves. Aon had a small sack hanging off his shoulders. He carefully pulled a book from the sack and deposited it in an empty section on one of the shelves.

“No matter how much we think we know, there’s always some empty space up there,” Aon mused as he set another book in place.

“Commander, shouldn’t you be careful? I mean, let me help you…” Murray walked to the base of the ladder to make sure it was steady. A fall from that height would certainly kill the frail man.

Aon chuckled. “While I appreciate your worries, Knight Pearson, I can’t help but think I should be insulted by your lack of faith in my climbing abilities.”

“No, no. I wasn’t saying you can’t… I was just—” Murray stuttered.

“—just helping out an old Grievar.” Aon finished his sentence. “Yes, yes, I know. And I appreciate it, my friend,” Aon said as he began to climb slowly down the ladder.

Murray watched tentatively as Aon finally made it to the bottom rungs.

“Helping me more often than not involves stowing me in some corner where I can’t be a bother,” Aon said as he accepted Murray’s hand and stepped off the ladder. The old Grievar shuffled over to his chair across the room and fell back into it, breathing hard from the exertion.

“And they’re probably right. I’m more of a nuisance than anything now, always getting in the way. And yet I’m not really willing to stop,” Aon noted.

“Nor do I think you should stop, Commander,” Murray said, standing at attention in front of the old Grievar’s chair.

“You know better than to call me Commander, Knight Pearson.” Aon motioned for Murray to sit across from him.

Murray took his seat. “And you know better than to call me Knight a decade past my service.”

“Once a Knight, always a Knight. Even those Ancients buried beneath wet earth and dry leaves are still Knights, though they’ve certainly seen better days,” Aon exclaimed. “That’s where I’ll be soon, no doubt. I’m hoping at least I’ll take some honor to the grave.”

Murray nodded.

“In fact, Pearson, though you’re no longer active, and despite that stunt you pulled down at Lampai, you’re more of a Knight than most of those who walk the Tower’s halls today,” Aon said.

“That’s actually what I came to talk to you about,” Murray said.

“And that’s why I’ve always liked you, Pearson. You’re to the point. Direct. Not like these Command meetings I’m forced to sit through, wasting away my final hours,” Aon said.

“It’s about the Knight program. The way things are being run,” Murray continued. He wasn’t sure how he should broach the subject. “I know I’m just a Scout, but…”

“I don’t entirely agree with the Scout program, particularly with that fool Callen, but don’t use that to diminish your own self-worth, my boy. We both know that you are far more than a Scout,” Aon said. “And I sense that your visit here isn’t about you. It’s about someone else.”

“Yes, it is about someone else,” Murray said. “The talent I scouted this cycle. His name is Cego.”

Aon’s white eyes shimmered under the light. “Yes, I know the boy. He’s in my Codes class. Very perceptive for his years.”

A smile crossed Murray’s face. He hadn’t realized that Cego had applied to be in Aon’s class. Perhaps those late-night talks in his barracks had meant something.

“Yeah. Cego is different,” Murray said. “I’m not sure if you’re aware… or if the rest of Command has looped you in about what happened during his Trial?” Murray didn’t want to underestimate Aon’s position as commander of the Lyceum.

“Ah, yes, the Trials. Quite an anomaly that was. Your boy did exceptionally. The way he was able to sit through the Time Trial was quite a feat. Not the only anomaly during these Trials, though. And no, Callen and Memnon made a point of keeping any pertinent information from my ears, though I suspect they are keener than they look,” Aon said with a sly grin as he pulled on one of his bulbous, cauliflowered lobes.

“Not the only anomaly?” Murray asked curiously. “You mean Cego wasn’t the only one who was able to handle the Trials like that?”

“Yes. There was another. He didn’t get through the same way that Cego did—with such finesse in navigating each stage. The other one had more of a… brute-force technique for getting through the Trials,” Aon said forebodingly.

“Who was the other?” Murray couldn’t help but ask.

“As you said, you are here for one Grievar, and that is Cego. I don’t want your attention to be diverted.”

“You’re right. I am here for Cego,” Murray affirmed. “I wanted to see if you knew anything. I saw it with my own eyes, Aon. Cego was able to sit for nearly an hour in the Time Trial. This is a kid I dug up from the slave Circles. I think he was shipped in from the Isles, but he doesn’t have any memory of how he got to the Underground. It doesn’t make any darkin’ sense…”

“These are strange times, Pearson,” Aon whispered. “As I said after the Trials commenced, the Citadel is at a crossroads. There is a choice coming. A path in the light or a path in the shadows.”

“Yes. And I’m thinking whatever’s going on here stinks like the dark. Smells of Daimyo Governance pushing on the Citadel. I paid a visit to Memnon and Callen—they’re gone. It’s all about winning for them, for the good of the nation,” Murray said with spite. “Cego isn’t a part of all that, though. He’s different. He lives by the Codes.”

“Yes, I know he does. I’ve seen so much in my class already. He is already familiar with the way of the Grievar—he yearns to follow the path. And yet Cego has emerged from the shadows. He does not only fight in the Circle—he is battling something within. You need to help him find his path,” Aon said.

“How?” Murray asked, hoping that the wise man could provide him with a straightforward answer.

“Unfortunately, Pearson, my age does have its limits. Whatever darkness is at work here, it is not from my time. It is the machination of the new age. An age that I’m not so certain an old Grievar like me should still be living in,” Aon said.

Murray looked at the floor and sighed. This was the man who had taught Murray’s own Codes class decades ago. Aon had instructed Murray on honor and loyalty; he’d given him a path forward. He was one of the only people in this darkin’ world Murray could truly trust. If Aon Farstead didn’t know anything, Murray was lost.

“Do not lose hope,” Aon said, accurately reading Murray’s thoughts again. “Though I can’t tell you what to do, I believe I can provide some insight.”

Murray looked up. Anything would help.

“The Codes are like a blanket.”

Murray shook his head in confusion. “Not sure I understand how that helps, Commander…”

Aon chuckled and squinted his eyes, just like Murray remembered the man doing in his class so long ago. “You are someone who follows the Combat Codes rigidly, Murray. You’ve tried to live a life that complies with the words the Ancients wrote so long ago.”

Murray nodded, attempting to follow the old man.

“But you and I must admit, times have changed,” Aon said. “Look around the Lyceum. Students swiping into lightdecks in their classes, watching SystemView feeds up on boards. Though of course, we know tools and technologies were not to be a part of Grievar life, according to the Codes.”

“Yes, but they still can’t carry weapons—” Murray began.

“I’m not saying it is a bad thing,” Aon explained. “Sometimes what was written long ago needs to be interpreted for a new day. The Codes should not be rigid like a board, ready to break when the pressure of time is applied to them. The Codes should be like a blanket, changing shape over the time they cover.”

Murray thought for a moment about Aon’s words. “So… you’re saying I should change the Codes? That will somehow help me figure out what’s going on with Cego?”

Aon chuckled again. “Murray, even when you were young, you tended to meet your problems head-on. Like how you came directly to me today. You asked me straightforward what was on your mind, which I certainly appreciated.”

“How else would I do it?” Murray shrugged.

“Sometimes, Murray, you need to apply the Codes to the day you live in,” Aon said. “And today, you need answers. Ones that I cannot give you. But there are those in the Citadel that know more than an old man like me, those that are still active in their service, those that you won’t be able to ask straightforward questions.”

“You think I need to lie?” Murray shook his head. “Like some street hawker? Or like the way that coward Callen Albright follows his path, always slinking in the shadows?”

“I think you know your own path well enough, Murray,” Aon said. “It is with the boy, Cego. You are to help him find his place in this world. And to follow that path you’ll need the Codes with you. But you cannot use the Codes like a board, you must use them like a blanket.”

“Like a blanket,” Murray repeated softly.