​Qualification Day – Part I

Qualification Day! My heart sings for joy. I’ve passed all the theory tests, so it’s only the practical demonstration that will be required, once we are opened fully to the divine stream of magic. I have learnt all the forms that I could find, even those that are deemed too complicated for beginners. I am confident in my ability to manage divine energy, no matter which god claims me. Even with the barest trickle that is all we can access without a god, I have proven the top of my class in every aspect of magic.

A thought whispers through my head, and I push it away as I have every other time. I will be chosen by a god. I have been devout all my life, preparing for this since I was first able to understand that what the priests did was magic given to them by the gods. I have prayed to every known god, not to request or pledge, but just so that they know I am here.

There are hundreds of us here today, preparing furiously, praying to the god they wish to serve, or just waiting until it’s all over and they can go home. Not everyone wishes to be pledged to a god, but the income that their families receive while they train can be a deciding factor for some poor families. My parents could have cared less. They have their two perfect children already. A son to carry on the family business, and a daughter to marry off to the highest bidder.

They will come for the celebrations tomorrow if – no, when – I succeed, to publicly applaud my success and to wish me a happy birthday. Technically, my birthday is today, but it was registered the next day to avoid ill omens. Happily for me, otherwise I would have been too old to pledge. The rules are strict, and perhaps I should have said something, but this is my one chance to be something different in a world that calls for conformity. Only the mage priests and mercenaries are allowed to travel the world and study magic. I cannot fight to save my life, but I have an aptitude for book learning, so a mage priest it is.

Ah, the horn has sounded. Time to begin. I shiver in excitement. It’s so close I can taste it! I join the stream of children and near-adults flowing into the amphitheatre, give my name to a dark hooded priest and clamber up to the assigned mechanical chair. They are designed so that they can lift the occupant away from the rest of the crowd and into the central arena for the pledge.

While the others are still being seated, I practice the variations on the acceptance pledge that name and honour each god. Most pledgees will give the standard address, but I wish to honour the god that chooses me by showing how much I have learnt and how much I can be capable of in their name.

CLANK! The first chair is away.

I watch the crowd as the others are called, quickly performing the cantrip for clear vision so that I can see the other side of the amphitheatre as if they were right in front of me. The others’ pledges hold no interest for me this day. I spy the house seneschal and the cook, sitting in our family’s box, supporting me in my family’s place. I feel a moment of crushed hope that my family might have turned up to surprise me, but it is enough that they are there. The seneschal, though he is not particularly affectionate, has spent more time raising me than my father. He was the one that helped me apply for magehood. And the cook saw in me her long-lost daughter, cooing over my achievements with such delight that even my treasured brother and sister were jealous. They are my real family.  

I know they will not be able to see me wave, so I move on to looking at the rest of the audience. There are all kinds of people here today. Nobles, farmers, peasants and beggars alike – even mercenaries attend. Noone is barred from entry, and all are entitled to a share in the feasts. Anyone is allowed to sell their wares in the city and make purchases that would be forbidden normally. The only restriction is that here, on this day, there are no feuds or warfare allowed. Those that wish to supply weapons or skills may attend as spectators and purchasers only. The mercenaries complained at first, but they were quick to realise that they could make contacts outside of their normal reach. After all, what is one day without income to a potential year’s worth of noble employ?

As I scan the rows, my gaze hooks on a spot of colour I didn’t expect to see. No-one but gypsies and the forest people wear green. Technically, they are allowed to be here so long as they do not break the peace. But they usually have nothing to do with cityfolk. Law enforcement are far more likely to target them with suspicions of wrong-doing, and more likely to punish without a full investigation.  Part of it is that they do not care for our laws, which makes them dangerous. Part of it is that they have a reputation for magic and evil-doing. And part of it is that they are more free – in thought, speech, movement and living – than any of us can hope to be.

There’s no way they would be here for a candidate, since gypsy folk disagree with our notions of magic and gods, boycotting it on principle. Not to mention that anything they need they can create for themselves from the forest, or hire someone to deliver. The mystery intrigues me.

As I study their faces, I realise there is an old woman sitting in their centre. All of a sudden she catches my eyes as if she can see across the intervening distance just as well as I can, breaking out into a big gap-toothed grin. The man sitting next to her turns as if she has spoken, though her lips don’t move. He looks directly into my eyes. Part of our study is to read people, so I can tell that the woman is thoroughly satisfied with herself for spotting me amongst the others, but all I can read from this man is a cool sort of recognition, as if to say ‘Oh, that one.’

My chair wobbles as the seat next to me clanks out of its spot, and the distraction is enough to knock my already-shaken attention out of the spell. It’s no use me casting it again, because I will be next to go up, so I sit and gather myself. I focus on my breathing as I have been taught. I ground and centre to the point of divinity and settle myself solidly on the chair.
Once I am calm, I allow myself to look around. I watch as the pledgee on the platform takes his sheaf of grain and steps off towards the others who have been chosen. There are only a handful of people this year who have not been selected, and all of them look relieved to be there.

My turn.

The chair clanks and groans its way up to the centre platform. I step off and pause for a second, mind blanking as my eyes close. My hands move automatically into the initial greeting, and I breathe a sigh of relief for the hours spent drilling the forms until they became second nature. Now it is time for the test. To the audience who don’t know the forms, it will look like a minute of silent meditation with a few odd hand gestures.

But this is the most intense test we will ever have to face. We are not allowed to speak or open our eyes until the gong is sounded to confirm that we have been either chosen or rejected. We are only allowed to move or respond using the ritual formations. No-one has died in the test since it became mandatory for all initiates to undergo the theoretical training before the test. But there’s always the worry that you might be the first.

So. You come to us as supplicant.

Who are you, to even dare to think you are worthy?

What do you offer to such as us, little one?

These voices sound nothing like I imagined the gods to sound, but I race to find relevant responses to answer them. A hand swept out and down with a bow of the head – I am your servant. One hand reaching out in supplication, the other hand rising to the brow, palm out covering the eyes – I seek to learn from your magnificence. And lastly, a variation I found obscured in a book hidden in the library; right hand palm down over my heart, left hand palm down over my power centre, both sweeping up to meet at my third eye and out in front of my chest, palms up as if to suggest a book – I give all that I am to you, to fill me with your wisdom.

A beat, a breath upon my face. Then. A laugh.

Oh my, a clever one. Whatever are we to do with you?

This sounds more like what I was expecting, and my hand stutters in recognition, accidentally forming the sign for the Trickster. I hold my breath, hoping that I haven’t messed up. Nothing happens for a moment more, and then I feel a pressure on one shoulder and a whisper tickles my ear.

We are going to have such fun, my dear.

I involuntarily try to inhale in surprise, the only thing stopping me from making a noise the fact that I’m already holding my breath.

Leave the poor girl alone, trickster. See who she would prefer before you go pawing all over her.

The feminine voice sounds at once like the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen and the sound of a hundred hounds baying at the scent. My fingers twitch again, without my control, forming the sign of the Huntress.

It seems you are well versed in the theory of the priests.

But can you hold all the power of creation in your mind?

My fingers flick, identifying both of the speakers. I’ve given up on being surprised now. What more can I do but continue as I’ve begun. My hands fly into response. You honour my teachers. I am ready to be tested. And before I can stop them – an obscure gesture that I only learnt as a joke – do your worst. My heart stutters, and I can feel my face heat. What have I done? Only my training keeps me on my feet.

All at once, I feel the ground drop away, and the air rises around me. Someone is laughing, great peals of laughter that lift my heart, and there is a sound like an entire forest come to life to attack an intruder.


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Originally published in Volume 4 , issue 6 of The Australia Times Fiction eMagazine.