A School For All

Shortly after the reconquest of the halls of the maidens, Secret Avalanche overheard the following conversation.

A crowd had gathered at one of the central posts of the tavern where a rider had just arrived from the Plum Blossom Retreat. He was hammering a sheet of parchment to a post in the center of the hall. Once he had finished, he strode quickly back out the door, and he could be heard galloping away to the east at a rapid canter.

In the tavern that night, at the edge of spring, a cross section of the populace of God Crossing was gathered for one last celebration before the planting. Probably half of the adults there, men and women, had the sunburst on their right shoulder that marked them as veterans of the Battle of Breaking Iron, but amongst them were more than few of the short, broad-shouldered hill tribesmen and even a pair of goat-headed men that kept to the outskirts of the crowd. A half a dozen children circulated in the hall as well; children of the manager of the tavern, they carried empty pitchers back to the bar while weaving between legs and under tables. At least twenty of them were elders of the town, greybeards and matrons taking their ease and worrying over the news of the day.

The keeper of the tavern, Father Bricks, put down his dish cloth and rounded the bar, looking over the crowd with concern. “Hey, what’s this now? I’ll not have any trouble here tonight.”

Selara, closest to the notice, focused her eye on the parchment and saw only a picture of the Retreat’s gates standing open, with an open book beneath them. She squinted, as though the words made some sense to her but were perhaps written in too fine a print. “I think… it must be another war coming!”

The crowd shouted, some in delight and some in fear, and everyone pressed closer to the notice. Secret Avalanche slipped out of his chair and hit the balcony floor like a ton of stone; the floor creaked menacingly. Nonchalantly he replaced his stool and sat once again, sipping from his mug with apparent disinterest.

“Now, now, let’s see what this foolishness is about. War, during the planting? Kings never ride till the mud dries. Clear a path, you loafers!” Old Maga Trapjaw shouted and pushed her way into the throng. Half as tall as any of the men in room, the years had not been kind to Maga. She had iron gray hair and eyes almost completely occluded by cataracts, fingers like old roots and legs that wobbled like a new-born foal. She beat and cursed her way to the head of the crowd until she bumped into the back of Selara.

“Hey, you thug, give me your great-grandmother a hand.” Selara obligingly lifted up the matron to eye level with the notice. She wrinkled her nose and pressed her face close until it almost touched the paper, while the whole crowd leaned in over her. She spoke at last, her rasping voice cutting through the room.

“It’s a school. There’s going to be a school at the Retreat.”

Old warriors like Selara cackled with laughter at the thought, while the children breathed sighs of relief and continued working. Jebber the Stammerer spit out, “Wh-what will they teach us at this school? Am I to learn to r-ruh-ride all over again?” Fresh laughter spilled over the tavern and mugs clattered on tables. Maga traced a finger down the list of courses. At a pause in the laughter, as Father Bricks was motioning that he had a particularly apt quip to share she broke in and said, “Maybe, you halfwitted oafs, but you’ll also learn to read!”

There was a moment of silence as furtive glances were exchanged through the crowd. Someone from the back of crowd asked, in a sheepish voice, “What else does it say?”

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A baby was crying. Its thin wails echoed over the amphitheater, over the hundreds straight-backed people seated in unruly rows about the amphitheater. Five hundred Marukan sat bolt upright, faces forward, twitching uncomfortably in their new robes of slate gray linen. An hour ago they had entered the Plum Blossom Retreat to the sound of thirty drums and sixty flutes, each receiving the materials that they would need for their training. Already, across the terrace, in their own charchoal uniforms, the martial school was beginning.

They sat in their families, in groups as small as two and as large as twenty. Grandmothers sat with five year old children in their laps, young wives sat with grizzled veterans. At the front of the amphitheater, Serrakeen was speaking to the crowd.

"Every afternoon, for the next two seasons, you will do as you have always done in the mornings. You will tend your fields, do your cooking, and run your businesses. At two in the afternoon, you are expected to be here, in this amphitheater, washed," laughter broke out in the crowd. "...Washed, and in your uniforms, with your quill, your ink, and your notebook. At that time we will sound this bell." The ifrit turned and pointed to the top of the civil school's tower. A great booming note pealed out over the crowd, and in a sudden wave of enthusiasm, the entire assembled body stood from their seats and cheered. Serrakeen motioned for the crowd to silence itself, first with a raised hand, then by waving both arms, then with a sudden gout of flame from both eyes. The crowd eventually settled down.

"If you are not here when the bell rings, you will not be admitted for the rest of the day! You must be ready to learn. If you are sick, you will report to the medical hospital. If you have lost your materials, you will need to pay a fine to the quartermaster. Stand and wave to the crowd, Quartermaster Ting!" Twelve men and women stood up in the crowd, and laughter broke out once again.

From the back of the amphitheater, Rivers Between Us stood watching with Nameless Ravine. The dawn caste turned to his circle-mate and said, "This is a bureaucratic nightmare."

Rivers smiled and nodded his head, waving to his sister in the crowd. He himself was wearing the lighter grey robe of a student in the Civil School. "You're absolutely right." He tried to seem concerned, but his excitement made him look like a reprimanded schoolboy himself. Nameless Ravine shook his head as he looked at the young sorcerer.

"Well, perhaps the Martial School is going..." At that moment, the exalt was interrupted by the sound of a second bell, followed by a booming roar. Its ferocity washed over the quiet retreat, setting birds flying and screaming into the sky. This time it was Rivers that looked worried... and Nameless Ravine that beamed with hope.

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Heaven's Mandate