Magi'i of Cyador

II

RISING ABOVE THE bay and the Great Western Ocean to the south are puffy white clouds, clouds not dark enough to forecast rain at any time soon, nor high enough to block the sun that casts its mid-day autumn light upon the playing fieldthat had been carved from the hillside generations earlier. There on the field, with a gentle sea-breeze cooling them, a score of students alternate jerky bursts of speed with sudden stops, their polished wooden mallets glistening as they jockey for position on the reddish surface. All wear white trousers and undertunics, but the undertunics bear green collars and green borders upon the sleeves.

“Lorn!” calls one student as the polished wooden oval skitters from his mallet toward another youth.

“Thanks!” With his dark-brown hair and wiry frame, Lorn is neither the largest nor the smallest on the playing field, but he streaks past a defender, his mallet almost lazily precise as it strikes the oval that is weighted unevenly. Lorn slips one way, and the oval flashes the other way, yet both Lorn and the oval meet at full speed beyond the defender as Lorn sprints inward and toward the trapezoidal frame in the middle of the circular field of play. His eyes take in the last defender and the smaller redheaded player dashing toward the goal. Lorn smiles and flicks his wrist, calling, “Tyrsal, it’s yours!”

Lorn’s mallet strikes the oval, and it skitters over the packed clay toward Tyrsal.

The small and redheaded Tyrsal darts around the taller and more muscular young defender and swings his mallet. The oval spins, but lifts off the clay and accelerates toward the trapezoidal goal. When it strikes to one side of the goal frame, it veers sideways and skids into the net of the opening.

“Goal!” The redhead jumps up in glee. “I got by you, Dett!”

“That’s the last time, Tyrsal!” The tall and heavily muscled blond student drops his mallet and tackles the redhead, whose polished wooden mallet skids across the smooth red clay as both students lurch toward the ground.

Despite Tyrsal’s struggles, Dett handily dumps the smaller youth onto the clay and raises an arm as if to strike Tyrsal.

“Bruggage! Bruggage!” Four other youths jump on top of the two who struggle.

The dark-haired Lorn is the second to slam into the pile,but the first to put his shoulder and then his elbow into the midsection of the larger Dett.

“ … oooffff …”

Dett struggles to take his hands away from the squirming Tyrsal, to fend off the hidden attack on himself.

A low voice whispers in the muscular boy’s ear, “Don’t do it again, Dett. Ever.”

“Says who?” The bully gets his knees under him and one hand on the clay and starts to elbow his way clear, unsure of who has spoken to him.

Snap … snap!

The other students fall away from the larger figure, who bellows, then staggers upright holding an injured hand, coddling two fingers that have already begun to swell. “Barbarians! Sheep-loving swill-drinkers!” Dett turns toward the students who had piled on. “Cowards! You just wait … You’ll see.”

“Dett … hurt his hand.”

“ … couldn’t happen to a better fellow …”

“ … bullied enough … deserved it …”

“ … careful … get you …”

Even before he rises, neither the first nor the last, Lorn slips the polished pair of wooden rods back inside his belt. After he stands, he limps slightly as he walks toward the mallet he abandoned, bending gracefully and scooping it up left-handed.

Tyrsal, the last to scramble up, quickly extinguishes a grin and avoids looking at the injured Dett.

“That’s it! Over here!” orders the schoolyard proctor, a tallish man with a pointed goatee and wavy black hair that stands away from his head. “All of you. You know the rules! Bruggages are forbidden!”

The score of students slouch toward the proctor and the columns of the low white stone building behind him. None move to brush away the smears of reddish clay upon their student garments, nor lift their eyes to the shimmering white of the Palace that stands farther to the south and which dominates the gradual slope rising from the harbor, nor even tothe white structures that lie uphill of the school, the dwellings of the senior Magi’i and Mirror Lancer commanders.

“Line up! All of you.”

Lorn somehow materializes in the second rank, nearly in the middle, the expression on his face one of mild concern.

“What happened? How did Dettaur’alt’s hand get injured?” demands the proctor. His eyes travel the youths, picking out a stocky student. “Allyrn’alt? You always know.”

“Ser … Dett fell on Tyrsal, and everyone tripped in the bruggage. When we got untangled, Dett was holding his hand. I guess he fell on it.” Allyrn’alt’s face is carefully blank.

“Tyrsal’elth?”

“I made the goal, and I jumped around. I must have bumped into Dett, ser. We all got tangled in the bruggage. Maybe Dett’s hand got kicked by someone’s boot.” The small redhead looks apologetically at the proctor.

“Ciesrt’elth?”

“No, ser. I wasn’t even in the bruggage, ser.”

“ … never is …” murmurs someone.

“Quiet!” The proctor turns to another. “Shalk’mer?”

“Ser … I got tangled up, but I didn’t see anything.” The square-faced merchant’s son looks directly at the proctor.

“Lorn’elth? You wouldn’t know … of course, you wouldn’t.” The proctor shakes his head. “You never see anything.”

“I’m sorry, ser.” Lorn looks contritely at the proctor.

“All of you, except Dettaur’alt, get back to your studies.” The proctor sighs and motions for the muscular injured student to follow him toward the healer’s room.

Before he turns to follow the proctor, Dett’s eyes rake over the other students, but each in turn meets his eyes openly, without flinching.