1.2 – Temple of Promise

Inside the transport chamber, Maximilian already waited for her. He stood in the center of the circle, flanked by four waist-high pillars inscribed with arcane script. Only those with access to tremendous wealth—either in money or raw arcane resources—could afford the construction of a chamber like this one. Maximilian Blackstone was not a man who spared any expense.

“Good, you’ve finally arrived,” he said as Rika entered the chamber and took her place next to him.

“Ariadne found me in the hall.”

“Hopefully she’s reminded you of what’s expected, then.”

Rika shifted as if she could dislodge the mantle of her father’s attention. She’d never asked for this, but Ariadne hated her just the same. While Ariadne had followed the letter of their father’s demands and was constantly held up as the family’s golden child, she still found cause to focus her attention on Rika. Rika, a girl sired out of wedlock, to a mother she’d never even met, and allowed to stay in the manor as though she belonged. Sins for which Ariadne had never forgiven her.

Maybe it was the tacit understanding that should Rika do as she’d been told, and follow in her father and half-sister’s footsteps, she’d find a place among them. Find acceptance, and perhaps acknowledgment beyond simply being allowed to bear the Blackstone name. Not as if Rika had ever believed her father would truly accept her, truly treat her as a daughter worthy of the Blackstone name.

No, if she had to guess, Rika thought the truth behind Ariadne’s contempt was somewhat simpler. Upon reaching her own majority and gaining her class, Ariadne had been shuffled off to some out-of-the-way barony her father controlled. A barony where her resentment could forever fester, while the bastard enjoyed the manor itself. Tutored and trained, all while Maximilian dangled the carrot of true belonging before her. All Rika had to do was obey.

As if that had ever gotten her anything worthwhile.

Maximilian reached out to one of the four pillars that powered the transportation array. A pulse of elemental power leaped from his hand, arcing like the lightning that danced between the clouds off the coast in summer. All four pillars lit up with a brilliant shine, and a brilliant and blinding white subsumed Rika’s entire world. When the light faded, she found herself standing next to her father still, but they stood in a chamber far different from the one they’d left. The transportation array was identical, except for minor variations in the enchanted script powering it. Location indices, if she recalled her studies correctly. Begrudgingly, she admitted that her time in the library hadn’t been wasted after all.

The rest of the chamber made her think far too much of Ariadne. Pillars carved to resemble massive femurs supported the high, vaulted ceiling. Where the ribs forming the vault itself met, a skull peered down at any who dared enter via the transport array. Carved in exquisite relief, every surface bore skeletons, each of them grinning hollow-eyed at the new arrivals. Had she not already known better, Rika would have thought that her father had taken them to Ariadne’s stronghold.

Although she’d rarely left the manor grounds, and never her father’s demesne, Rika knew well where she stood. Had she not, the man standing in the doorway to the transport chamber would have given away her whereabouts. They stood within the Temple of Promise, the location where all were permitted to enter the Trial of Destiny, pass through the chambers within, and receive the fragment of divine power that granted access to their class.

The Deacon of Promise stood before them, clad in a plain woolen robe. His hands were clasped before him, kept hidden within his sleeves. He must have been old. What Rika could see of his face bore stern lines carved by the weight of age. The cowl of his robe was pulled low. A blindfold covered his eyes, the cloth marked by twin rust-colored stains. The deacon faced them. Rika suppressed a shiver as he spoke.

“Come,” was all the sound he made with a paper-thin voice, spoken like a whisper from a shallow grave. The deacon turned and walked. Rika and her father followed.

Just outside the transport room, they made their way through an antechamber of sorts. A collection of folk waited there, many of them of age with Rika and clearly awaiting their own trial. A few were accompanied, and of those few, a handful shot disdainful glances at Rika and her father. She kept her head high, as would be expected of her. She doubted any present had the strength or ability to truly confront her father. Given how quickly most looked away once they caught sight of him, it seemed she wasn’t mistaken.

The deacon ushered them through a thick wooden door bound with iron bands. Once through, he closed the door behind them with a dull thump, as if to mark the inevitability of what Rika was about to undertake. Ghostly blue flames sprang to life in empty sconces lining the stone walls of the chamber, one that showed itself to be much larger than Rika had first imagined.

Tightly masoned stone slabs lined the floor, forming a pattern of concentric circles and lines pointing inward to a freestanding metal basin fashioned of brass and ornamented with silver in the center of the room. The vaulted ceiling of this chamber was unornamented. The entire chamber, in all its cavernous austerity, was unadorned in fact, except for the far wall.

Upon the wall, a massive relief had been carved. It depicted the Watchers, the very gods of this world themselves. Central to the carving was Promise, the Lord of Beginnings and Keeper of the Uncertain Journey. He was robed much as his deacon was, and stood at the crossroads of life. The cowl of Promise’s robes was pulled low enough that his face remained hidden. But an emaciated hand extended from one sleeve, holding a lantern.

Beneath the Watchers was a set of double doors. Carved from the same stone as the chamber and set with massive bronze rings, Rika didn’t think they could be moved by any human, class and stats be damned. But aside from the entrance they’d just come through, they were the only other way in or out of the trial chamber. Whatever lay beyond, she would learn soon enough.

Rika wasn’t particularly faithful, the same as most. Sure, a few saw fit to make offerings or prayers, seeking favor from their uncaring gods. But the deacons taught one simple truth—the gods created the world for the mortal races to live and struggle. To climb ever higher by their own ambition or ability. The power they bestowed upon the Aspirants of the Trial was but a means to aid their ascent. The world the Watchers had made was neither kind nor cruel. It was simply a world where the strong could test and prove themselves by whatever means they had. It was a world Rika craved to enter.

“Approach the offering font,” the Deacon of Promise said.

Rika suppressed a shiver of excitement, the first she’d allowed herself to feel as this day had drawn ever closer. She knew what was expected—Thaddeus had at least been able to tell her that much. She took her place by the font, opposite the deacon.

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From within the sleeves of his robe, he drew a dagger. Adorned with only the motif of a lamp for its hilt, like the one Promise held to illuminate the journey ahead, the dagger was a plain thing, meant for one purpose alone. If she hadn’t been told already, the spattering of rust-colored stains at the bottom of the font would have been clue enough.

“Near-Aspirant,” the deacon breathed, “Nothing is gained without sacrifice. Give unto the Watchers that which you would harvest. The gods will know your desire, and judge according to their thirst.”

This part, at least, had been explained to her well. Nothing could be gained without sacrifice, just as the deacon had spoken. Those who spent their youth training to become craftsmen or farmers, who sought to live a quiet life bolstered by stats and skills, would offer of their own labor. A young man aspiring to be a blacksmith might offer the hammer his father gifted him when he became old enough to swing it. A peasant girl might deposit a sack of grain. An artist, the greatest work they’d yet created. But those who aspired to more, those who would join the ranks of the truly powerful, would offer something different.

Rika took the dagger from the deacon. She placed the edge against her palm and drew a breath as it glinted softly in the pale blue light. It was customary to prick a finger and let fall only a few droplets. She glanced first to her father, then to the deacon. Neither gave her any expression to betray their thoughts. She looked back at the dagger pressed against her palm. Already several glistening red beads had formed where metal met flesh.

So the gods were thirsty? Then let them drink.

She slashed open her palm. It hurt more than she’d expected, but she set her jaw against the pain. Calmly, she placed the dagger at the edge of the font and turned her hand over. She made a fist, squeezed, and let her blood flow. A steady drip pattered into the basin, vibrant and alive in the ghostly light of the trial chamber.

A grinding sound came from the double stone doors at the far end of the chamber. It was the only sign anything had changed, or that her offering of blood had been accepted. The two doors swung open, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. Above, the stone lantern held by Promise glowed with a pale light.

“Enter, Aspirant. The Trial of Destiny awaits.”

No other instruction was forthcoming. She wanted to ask questions. What was expected? What lay beyond? Had she done something wrong by giving so much as an offering? Would that be seen as arrogant, and thus worthy of punishment? Nothing had truly prepared her for any of this. She’d spent years studying in her father’s library, every damn day since she was ten years old. Now, on the precipice of everything she’d supposedly been preparing half her life for, she realized just how little she truly knew about what lay ahead. Packed with knowledge about magic and enchantments and what sorts of aspects and elements countered what—she was about to step into a test she knew almost nothing about.

She held her right hand at her side, clenched into a fist and still dripping blood onto the floor. She took a step forward. If there was anything anyone could say about her, it was that she would meet the unknown with her head high. She lifted her chin and took another step. And another. Soon, the darkness of the chamber beyond the Watchers embraced her. Stone ground against stone once again, and the doors closed.

It was dark. Rather, everything around her was dark. With her hands held before her, she could still see them. Looking down, she could see all of herself. One bloody hand, and the same loose poet’s shirt and fitted trousers she’d worn that morning. The stone beneath her feet through her boots still scraped against the hobnails, but she couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see anything. Somehow, she stood upon a firm nothing in an expanse of nothing. Nothing but black, but dark, but uncertainty and nerves that coiled in the center of her chest.

A musical voice cascaded out from the darkness. Rich and masculine, it seemed to emanate from all around her, rather than being spoken by a single source.