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The sharp knock at the door startled Oskar. He looked up from the book he was reading and frowned. “Who could that be?” It was late, almost time for lights out.
“Why don’t you open the door and find out?” Whitt asked.
Oskar flashed a dark look at his friend, rose and went to the door. When he opened it he was surprised to see inceptor Dahron standing there.
“Novit Clehn, you are summoned to the office of the prelate.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but turned and strode down the hall.
Oskar shot a confused glance at his roommates, all of whom gaped at him, before following along. What had he done to draw the prelate’s attention? Did Denrill somehow know about Oskar’s secret excursions into the archives or his late night meetings with Lizzie? Was Oskar about to be turned out from the Gates? His stomach turned somersaults and his mind raced as he followed along behind the inceptor. By the time they reached the prelate’s office he feared he would vomit.
Darhon turned to face him. “Remove your cloak and hand it to me.”
With trembling hands Oskar complied. This was the end. It had to be. Why else would he be stripped of his cloak? What would he do now? What use did anyone have for a half-trained novit?
“Step inside.”
Head hanging, Oskar shuffled into the candlelit chamber and stopped just inside the door. He heard it close behind him like the sound of a prison cell.
“Novit Clehn,” Prelate Denrill’s voice rumbled through the dimly-lit room, “you may approach.”
Sighing, he walked forward. As he moved through the semi-darkness he quickly realized that he and the prelate were not alone. A long, narrow table ran in front of the prelate’s desk and behind it sat the seven proctors. To their left, all of the masters stood ramrod straight. What was happening?
He stopped a few feet shy of the table and waited.
“You are here because the masters believe you are ready to be raised to initiate,” Denrill said.
Oskar’s knees nearly gave way from surprise and relief but he managed to remain upright, and he gave a single nod.
“Today you will be tested to evaluate your fitness for your new rank. I must now ask you if you are ready to proceed.” The prelate’s gaze bored into him. “Before you answer know that you may refuse once and return to your studies as a Novit. If you refuse twice, you will be turned out from the Gates. Now I ask you, are you ready?” He said the last three words in a booming voice that nearly made Oskar flinch.
“I am ready.” He wished he had managed to put more confidence into his voice, but it was all he could do to answer at all. Now a new kind of fear coursed through him. He had had no time to prepare. What if he failed? He decided against asking that question, fearing it would somehow count against him. Do your best, he told himself. That is all you can do.
“Master Ashur, you are first.”
The soft-spoken master of sorcery stepped forward and Oskar moved back a few paces to give him room.
“Explain the difference between sorcery and magic.”
Oskar knew this one. Aspin had taught it to him as one of his first lessons. Behind Ashur, he saw Proctor Basilius make a face, clearly disapproving of such a simple question.
“The sorcerer channels life force, converts it into energy and redirects it to a place and purpose of his choosing. The magician makes a plea to the gods.” It was an overly simplified answer, but it seemed to satisfy the master.
Ashur reached into his pocket and pulled out a live mouse. Holding it by the tail he handed it to Oskar. “Drawing life force from this creature, boil the water in that pot.”
Oskar looked in the direction Ashur pointed. A cauldron stood on stone blocks near the window. It would take a great deal of power to bring it to a boil, but he could do it. The trick, he knew, was to draw upon the mouse’s life force without killing it. The life force of a living creature, when handled properly, could provide substantial energy. Only the tiniest fraction would be required to perform the task at hand. It was considered reckless, if not evil, to kill a living thing by drawing too much of its life force, save in the direst of circumstances.
Carefully, he focused his will and reached out to the mouse dangling from his fingers. He connected with it, felt its energy, felt its beating heart. And then as if unraveling a single thread from a garment, he drew a trickle of energy and directed it toward the cauldron. The mouse didn’t make a squeak, so delicate was Oskar’s touch.
The next bit required a measure of care as well. Direct all the energy onto the cauldron at once and he would bore a hole through it. Exercising control, he slowly heated the pot until wisps of steam rose from the surface. He increased the flow of power only a bit and soon came the welcome sound of boiling water.
“Excellent. That will be all.” Ashur made a small bow which Oskar returned.
Next came Master Zuhayr, who quizzed Oskar about the nature of magic before asking him to perform a few tasks of increasing difficulty, all of which Oskar managed with ease. Master Sibson peppered him with questions about history, his favorite subject, and Oskar thought he acquitted himself well. And so it continued until the only master who remained was Master Lang.
The burly combat master turned, grabbed something that was leaning against the wall, and tossed it to Oskar. A quarterstaff! His weapon of choice! Oskar had only a moment to get a proper grip on it before Lang drew a knife and leaped forward.
Surprised, Oskar scarcely deflected the blade and danced away. He immediately knew he had done the wrong thing. In an actual fight, the proper move would have been to follow up the deflection with a blow from the staff to keep his opponent off balance. His instinct had told him not to hurt Master Lang, but he immediately realized how foolish that thought was. Lang could beat him with ease. This was about Oskar displaying his skill.
Lang thrust with the dagger and Oskar cracked him across the back of the wrist and followed with a stroke aimed for Lang’s ankles. The master avoided the attack and struck again, feinting low and thrusting high. Oskar had seen the move countless times but still scarcely managed to dodge it. He sprang to the side and struck out, aiming for Lang’s elbow. The master moved like a cat and the staff whistled through thin air. Oskar, however, had anticipated the dodge and thrust with the butt of his staff, managing to catch Lang on the kneecap. He was gratified to see that Lang actually gave the slightest wince when the blow struck home.
His success was short-lived. Lang double-feinted and then kicked Oskar’s staff, loosening his grip on the weapon. Before Oskar could recover, Lang lashed out with his other foot and sent the staff clattering across the floor.
An inexperienced fighter would have moved away, but Lang had taught his students better than that. The moment he lost his grip on his weapon, Oskar struck with a short jab that caught Lang in the throat, followed by a kick to the stomach that sent his instructor stumbling backward.
Lang raised his dagger, poised to bring it down on Oskar’s head. It was not a move an experienced fighter would try, and Oskar knew in a flash that this was part of the test. He crossed his arms, caught Lang by the wrist, and drove his knee into the master’s groin. A lesser man would have collapsed, but Lang merely grunted, roughly shoved Oskar away, and stepped back.
“Well done,” Lang said.
Oskar nodded in thanks. He had feared the blow to the groin might get him in serious trouble. The standard move was to control the opponent’s wrist and twist the arm until your opponent released his weapon, but Lang was much too powerful for that to work. Apparently, Oskar had made the right choice.
“Novit Clehn, you may approach.” The prelate beckoned to him and Oskar, weary but relieved stepped forward, trying not to wobble as he walked.
“Do the proctors have any questions for this candidate?” the prelate asked. One by one the proctors shook their heads. Oskar's shoulders sagged with relief. It was over. But then Basilius cleared his throat.
“I have questions for this candidate.” The looks of surprise on the others’ faces told him that this was an unusual request. “Novit Clehn, tell me what you know about the Silver Serpent.”
Proctor Greguska interrupted. “Forgive me, Prelate, but history is my purview.”
“Forgive me,” Basilius replied, “but magic and sorcery are my areas.”
Prelate Denrill gave Basilius a long, hard look. “Novit Clehn will answer the question,” he finally said.
“The Silver Serpent is a weapon of unknown origin. It is prophesied that the bearer of the Silver Serpent will unite the clans of Lothan. Tradition holds that the bearer will also fight in the next Frostmarch, but no known prophecies explicitly state such.” Basilius continued to stare, as did the other proctors, so Oskar went on. “It was formed in the shape of a longsword and contains power.”
“Sorcerous or magical?” Basilius asked sharply.
Oskar’s reply was automatic and came before he had a moment to think. “Both.”
“Impossible. Magical power is derived from the gods and thus cannot be stored inside any object. A limited amount of sorcerous power, however, can be stored within the proper vessel.” Basilius crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. “I think perhaps this candidate would find further study useful.”
“Shanis Malan, the bearer of the Silver Serpent, has used its power to heal people. I have seen it.” He immediately knew he had overstepped, and the small smile on Basilius’ face told Oskar that the proctor believed he had just won whatever game he was playing.
“Objection,” Basilius pronounced each syllable, “withdrawn.”
“Very well.” Denrill sounded relieved. “What say you, proctors?”
Proctor Subal rose from his chair and said, “I say Novit Clehn shall be raised to initiate.” The next five prelates stood and repeated the words. Finally, they reached Basilius, who remained seated.
“I abstain.”
Denrill frowned. “I would have it be unanimous.”
Basilius would not meet the prelate’s eye. “Still, I abstain.”
The expressions on the other proctors’ faces ranged from discomfort to outright anger. Clearly this was more than an unusual occurrence. It was apparently a serious breach of protocol. Perhaps even a personal affront to the prelate.
Denrill regained his composure at once. He stood and proclaimed in a loud voice, “I declare Oskar Clehn be raised to the rank of initiate. Kneel, Initiate Clehn.”
Oskar dropped to one knee. The prelate came forward carrying a pitcher which he upended over Oskar’s head. Oskar shivered as the cool water sluiced down the back of his neck and soaked his tunic but inside he felt warm. He had been raised to initiate! What was more, now he could freely use the archives.