True Colours

"You're sure?" Garramon sat behind his desk, his right leg folded over his left, fingers stroking his chin. He looked down at the small black wooden box Rist placed on the desk.

"I'm sure, Brother." Garramon had given Rist a week to decide, and even after Emperor Mortem's visit, Rist had waited, and studied. The day before, Sister Ardal had given Neera the same trial – her own essence vessel. Neera had told Rist immediately, which twisted a pang of guilt within him because he had kept the vessel a secret as Garramon had asked. It had made sense at the time. Telling Neera about it would have unfairly led to his own bias creeping into her mind when it came time to make her own decision – and yet, something still felt wrong about lying to her. Well, not lying, but omitting. But despite the differences in the definitions of the words, it still felt the same. And she had neither lied nor omitted anything to him. "I have taken my time and weighed the information. Though I would be lying if I told you the emperor's visit hadn't played a big part. I'm ready to move forward."

"Fane?" Garramon's face twisted in a look of surprise that he quickly tried to hide.

Rist raised an eyebrow. "Yes… Brother?" For a split second Rist worried he'd said something he shouldn't. "Did you not know?"

Garramon frowned, then shrugged. "I was aware he wished to speak to you, but I wasn't aware he had already done so. Either way, it does not matter. This choice must be your own."

"It is." Rist shifted in the wooden seat, leaning forwards, his heartbeat slowly rising in his chest, thumping the blood through his veins. He would be lying if he'd said he wasn't nervous. But nerves were a good thing, they told him he was still thinking clearly. "I'm ready."

Garramon gave a slow sombre nod. Rist wasn't sure how he'd expected the man to react. Garramon wasn't a particularly emotional man, at least not outwardly, but Rist had expected something… more. After a few moments of silence, Garramon lifted himself from his chair and walked around to where Rist sat, resting his hand on Rist's shoulder. "Today, when you feel the touch of Essence in your blood, you will cease to be an apprentice, and you will rise to become an acolyte of the Imperial Battlemages." Garramon looked down at Rist, their stares meeting, the slightest hint of a smile touching the man's face. "I have never before seen someone rise so quickly and so effortlessly. And I do not use the word 'effortlessly' to diminish the sheer determination and dedication with which you've trained, but simply to emphasise the level of your potential. Yes, this rapid progression is, in part, due to the circumstances we find ourselves in, threatened by war on all sides, but I feel it is important to stress that you are, in no uncertain terms, exceptional. Your swordsmanship needs work – a lot of work – and as a whole, you are still rough and unrefined, but your only obstacle is time. Your…" Garramon paused for a moment, pondering. "Your 'friend', Neera, will likely rise to acolyte shortly, but she will never touch the heights you will one day reach. The same stands for the others – Tommin and Lena. All of this, Rist, is a long-winded way of saying I'm proud of you. I often tell you how your insubordination and tardiness reflects on me as a sponsor, but I do not tell you often enough how proud I am of your dedication."

Rist stared back at Garramon, dumbfounded. That was, quite simply, the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. Calen and Dann had always looked out for Rist, protected him. His mother and father had always loved him and had supported him in all he attempted. But he was protected because he was weak and frail, because he was a 'bookworm', because he was just that little bit different. But here in the Circle, where Garramon had found Rist weak, he hadn't protected him, he had given him the means to strengthen himself. He had pushed Rist and believed in him. When Garramon had seen Rist's tendencies towards books and study, he hadn't derided him or mocked him but found him more books and even pretended not to notice when Rist snuck tomes from the library – he understood, or at least, he made every effort to do so. When it came to Rist, where everyone else saw weakness, Garramon saw strength. Where everyone else saw a peculiarity, Garramon saw a uniqueness to be fostered. Every step Rist had taken along this new path, Garramon had been there by his side, not protecting him, but pushing him forward. "Thank you, Brother Garramon."

The man nodded, his expression returning to its usual stoniness. He gestured towards the desk.

Rist drew in a deep breath then stood, staring at the wooden box, knowing what lay within.

"Essence is the power, Rist. You are simply the conduit. Reach out with your mind, touch the vessel with your consciousness. It is known as 'tapping' into the vessel, like tapping a spring for water or a tree for sap."

Rist opened himself to the Spark. He felt the elemental strands twisting and turning in the emptiness of his mind, radiating power, pulsating their distinctive light. He savoured the feeling for the moment, letting the Spark fill him. Then he pulled on a thin thread of Air, weaving it through the wooden box, pushing and pulling at the internal locking mechanism. Click.

The lid popped open, and there, sitting on a bed of purple satin, emitting a red glow, sat the grape-sized gemstone that had been the focus of his thoughts.

"Essence is not like the Spark. You consume it from the moment you tap the vessel. It burns like firewood. It strengthens you, nourishes your body, makes you faster, stronger. What is within that vessel is only a taste."

Rist's hand hovered above the stone. Garramon's voice faded into the background, dulling at the edges of Rist's mind. The only sounds that touched Rist's ears were the slow, methodical breaths that filled his lungs and the thumping of his heart. He could feel the sweat beginning to form on the palm of his hand, his cheeks warming. Nerves are good. This was not a small step. In his mind, stories and tales battled. Legends of good versus evil. Black versus white. That was how stories were told. But what was white in Illyanara was black in Loria, and so the other way around. It all meshed into grey. The truth was grey – an amalgamation of both sides. All truths are nothing more than the amalgamation of lies.

Rist played his conversation with Fane over in his mind. He watched the power of Essence bring life back to the broken hummingbird. 'And so, death breathes life anew.' And with that, he came to his decision: Essence, regardless of where it was sourced, was not good or evil, just as the Spark was not good or evil, for nothing is inherently evil. Good and evil are in the doing of things. It is not Essence or the Spark that makes a man evil. What matters is what a person does with the power they are given. And Rist would use this power to do good. He knew it in his heart.

Rist slowed his breathing and did as Garramon had instructed. He focused on the small, glowing gemstone that sat before him, watching its red light pulse, the edges of his vision dulling. In truth, he wasn't sure what he was actually meant to do. Telling someone to reach out with their mind was one thing, knowing how to actually do it was another thing entirely. Patience. Breathe.

Time was measured only by the thumping of his heart. He pushed out with his mind, imagining his consciousness touching the cool surface of the gemstone, imagining it pushing through – tapping in.

Frustration welled when nothing happened, but then his vision faded to black, and panic took hold. A ripple of ice washed over his skin, his blood going cold. Then all feeling left him, touch, smell, sound. He was floating in a void.

After a few moments of nothingness, the world snapped back into focus. Sound crashed against him in waves. Light scorched at his eyes. Scents and smells flooded his nostrils, from the leather of Garramon's chair, to the earthy aroma of the books on the shelf, to the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass from the gardens. More than that, Rist felt power. Power unlike anything he had ever felt in his entire life. It coursed through his veins, his muscles feeling as though they had been carved from stone.

Before him, the gemstone sat in the box, resting atop the purple silk, its crimson light vivid and bright. With each breath, Rist felt as though he would suck the air from the room.

"Incredible, isn't it?" Garramon's voice was crisp and clear, resounding in Rist's ears as though amplified by a score of horns. The Exarch stepped in front of Rist, looking into his eyes. "Efialtír's gift. A feeling like no other. Now, I know it is difficult, but you must let go. Do not waste the Essence within the vessel. It is not easily obtained."

As Garramon's words echoed in Rist's mind, he realised something: someone had died to give him this power, and he could feel his body burning it, wasting it. He pulled his mind back, gasping as the essence fled his body. The power drained, his senses dulled, and the world around him lost its new-found sharpness. A twinge of sadness tweaked within him at the loss of strength, but he pushed it aside.

Rist looked down at the gemstone, his chest heaving, beads of sweat forming on his hands and brow. The light of the gemstone already looked weaker, dimmer. The strength it had given him had been intoxicating. Like lightning searing his veins, demanding to be unleashed. Rist may have decided that Essence was not evil, but at that moment, he also made the decision to use it sparingly and only when he truly needed it. He could see how addictive that power could be.

It is not easily obtained. Every drop of Essence was drawn from the taking of a life, and so it must be cherished and respected. That was a vow Rist would not break. Not for anything or anyone.

Simply feeling the power of the Essence, then having it dragged from him, had taken more out of Rist than he had anticipated.

He tried to steady his breathing as he looked up to see a soft smile on Garramon's face. The man reached behind his desk, opened a drawer, and produced a folded bundle of black, a touch of brown visible along the edges. Garramon placed the bundle on the desk, then moved to Rist, pulling Rist's black-striped brown robes from his shoulders – the robes of a second tier apprentice. "Rist Havel. Your strength of will was tested, pushed to its limits and tempered in the Well of Arnen. Your faith in those around you was pressed and tried. The true tests of a person's strength are not physical, but mental. In this, you have shown yourself strong beyond measure." Garramon unfurled the bundle, revealing robes of jet black trimmed with brown – the robes of a Battlemage acolyte. He slipped the right sleeve over Rist's arm, pulling the robes over Rist's shoulders until Rist himself slid his left arm into the other sleeve and shrugged the robes into place. Black. Pride swelled in Rist's chest. He was still not a fully-fledged Battlemage, but he had finally earned his colours.

"Let me see you." Garramon stood back, clasping his hands on Rist's shoulders. "You wear it well."

"Thank you, Brother Garramon."

"It's just Brother now, Acolyte. Or Garramon, whichever you prefer."

"Thank you, Brother."

Garramon inclined his head, smiling. He moved back behind his desk and produced another, smaller, black bundle, along with a smooth, double-edged dagger with a gold crossguard, a black leather handle, and a hollow golden ring for a pommel. "This," Garramon said, touching the other bundle, "is your cloak. Tomorrow morning I will bring you to the armourer, and we will have a breastplate fitted and arrange any other armour that should fit your combat style. When you are to march to battle you will replace the robes with your cloak."

"To battle?"

Garramon nodded, biting his bottom lip as he looked down over the robes. "For an acolyte to become a Battlemage, like a blade, you must be tempered and tested. By the week's end we will, both of us, be marching with the First Army to meet with the Fourth Army at Fort Harken, and then onwards to connect with the Second Army at Steeple. There is trouble along the eastern coast, and Supreme Commander Taya Tambrel has called for a joint response."

Rist didn't move, certain a dumbstruck expression occupied his face. Battle? Already? He was to go to war? Rist had always known this would happen. There was no depth of naivety that could leave someone unaware that a man with the title of Battlemage would one day have to walk towards battle – he just hadn't thought that day would be soon. Neera… Tommin, Lena.As though reading Rist's thoughts, Garramon spoke. "It is likely Neera, Tommin, and Lena will join us with the First Army. Each of them should become acolytes before we march." Garramon picked up the dagger and moved back around the desk to where Rist stood, plucking the dim gemstone from the box as he did. "That fear in your heart, don't fight it, embrace it. Fear is good. It keeps you sharp. Just make sure you never let it rule you." Garramon lowered his head, raising an eyebrow as he met Rist's gaze.

Rist nodded. He felt the sensation of Garramon reaching out to Spark. The mage drew in threads of Fire and Earth, funnelling them into the hollow circular pommel of the dagger, heating the metal, drawing it out, expanding it. After a moment, Garramon placed the Essence vessel into the hollow, which had been expanded to accommodate the gemstone, then pulled the metal tighter around the stone, moulding it with Fire and Earth, fixing it in place. Once it was done and the heat was pulled from the metal using threads of Fire, Garramon handed the dagger to Rist.

"What's this for?" Rist asked, turning the dagger over in his hands, admiring the craftsmanship of the carved lion heads that roared on either side of the crossguard.

"An integral part of being raised to the rank of Battlemage involves one last step. You have opened yourself to Essence, but to truly be counted amongst the ranks of this affinity, you must give as well as take. A vessel does not have to be fused with a weapon in order to draw in Essence, but in this particular case, it is important that the deed is purposeful, and so this dagger must be used. When we do march to battle, Rist, you will be given the chance to take the final step on the first stage of this journey. You must refill what you have taken from the vessel."

"You want me to…" Rist looked back down at the dagger – its smooth, steel blade; its ornate, golden crossguard; the tough, black leather. His gaze stopped at the dimly glowing gemstone set into the pommel. Suddenly the weapon took on a new meaning.

"I want you to take something from death. We are marching to war, Rist. Thousands will die. Tens of thousands before this is over. At the very least, we can take something from all that death."