Chapter 1

Aden cradled his head in his hands, letting the humiliation and embarrassment of his defeat drown any worthwhile thoughts. Admittedly he had not held any illusions about his prowess, but the final blows had been beyond anything he had experienced. At least with physical blows, one can see the punches flying into the face but the power of phyzeec was nigh invisible to the naked eye unless one knew to look for the spark or the edge of an active field. Even then, one had to be quick.

His right eye was nearly swollen shut and the orbital bones throbbed down to his jawbone. At forty years, he was too old for this crap. The final battle to ascend to the Prime was supposed to be a test of skill, finesse and knowledge, and not a pounding of one’s opponent. His suppositions had led him to his defeat and Brule was the victor.

He could hear the shouts of celebration outside of his door. Aden wanted to believe that they were celebrating Brule’s victory rather than his defeat as was proper for the selection of the Prime. Even he did not accept that notion as true, not anymore. The hyperbole leading up to the final confrontation had been deafening and confounding, all of which he had done his best to ignore as he held true to the higher ground of integrity. Brule’s supporters had not let an opportunity pass to piss on Aden’s good name, vilifying and denigrating him everywhere they went for six weeks.

The last ascension had been a different, more dignified affair. Aden had been a novice at the time, still chafing against the rough fabric of his white robe. Thallius prevailed with a blue spark that forced a bramble to bend and trip his opponent. With his victory declared, the bramble had burst into bloom with vermillion flowers that released a sweet perfume. Aden remembered the scent with a heavy sigh.

There was no beauty in his defeat. All he could picture were the wretched blows of an all-powerful fist that sent him flying backwards to land on his back, dazed and nearly unconscious. The world went silver for a moment. The only sound was a metallic buzzing in his ears.

His travel sack was packed with pitifully little and yet, his room was empty. His life was reduced to one sad looking bag after two decades as a practitioner in the Order. He stood up, straightening his jacket. The loser of the ascension traditionally left the temple complex in voluntary exile. After twenty-five years living in one temple or another, Aden was about to face the wide-open world without a bed or a kitchen upon which to return.

Why him? Why did Aden rise to the heights in this contest for prime? He was a little too studious for most and he had never taken a mate. He had not joined in the beer-fueled bragging fests over sexual conquests nor had he given his best at rowdy free-for-alls at taverns in towns or steads. He laughed, he sang, he sat somewhere near the back and chose his liaisons discretely.

Why had he risen among his peers in the last few weeks? Most of the contests had been simple to overcome as was natural for a phyzeec practitioner for over two decades. He was not conventional enough to be the Prime; he rejected the title Priest. Since nothing he did was some sort of mediation with a god or a power, why should he lie about it? Phyzeec was nature itself and not something to be worshipped in his opinion. To all who followed Brule, Aden was a phony.

His face hurt and now his sternum ached too. He had fortified his body enough that he should have been able to repel most of the blows, but the strengthening had failed. How?

The pain made it difficult to think.

A knock sounded at the door and it swung slowly open. Lasta had a devastated look on her face. Aden wondered if he had the same pasted on his, at least the parts that were not swollen. She was a full decade older than him with greying hair that still fell about everywhere. Keeping herself fat and unkempt was one of her deliberate choices. Aden had learned not to ask, but he pieced together clues over the years and guessed she was a victim of something terrible earlier in her life. Her appearance was one of her responses. Still, she was his best friend and confidant among the practitioners.

“You don’t want to know,” Lasta said in her shorthand manner. “If you are ready, the casters are opening a portal for you. I’ll walk with you.”

“I’m ready,” Aden said. “I’m numb: my body, my brain, my spirit. All of it is numb.”

“All of us are. There are no words to describe what we just witnessed. Brule should not have won. Something is...”

Aden held up his hand to silence her. “Whatever that something is, I can no longer help you. I am going into exile.” He buttoned his black jacket, a master practitioner’s garb, and tied it with a black belt with white tips. Then he wrestled himself into a traveler’s robe with hood.

“You could go back to your family lands,” Lasta said, breaking the silence.

“The wind riders of Ligossa have no need for a broken practitioner. I’m not going to spend my days sitting in front of the women’s tent watching the men fly off into the horizon. I’m too old to relearn their ways and I walked away from their superstitions a long time ago.”

“You lost, Aden. You are not broken.” Lasta said as she helped him lift the strap over his shoulder. “Two days of concerted effort and your face will be healed.”