Those Who Would Not Be Gods

7. Ritual: Raff

-Two months after Fabio's death-

Raff wandered down the street, hands in his pockets, relishing the odd sensation of freedom. For so long he'd been a student, beholden to the Schola and its rigors; up at the crack of dawn, breakfast, classes, lunch, classes, practice, dinner. If he was lucky, he'd be able to grab a few drinks with Sab and Giada at the Dancing Lights, or wander off on a small adventure on the town. There was never any time for himself.

Now that he'd found himself with an excess of it, he was rapidly discovering he had no idea how to spend it.

Everyone had been offered a stay of appointment if they wanted to stay and watch the trials. The fire mages in particular, since this was their High Priest, and this a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see the next one appointed. The top fire mages were encouraged to apply to join the trials to become next High Priest.

Raff had high enough scores in the practical courses that he was sent the letter alongside his more bookish compatriots, not that he'd needed the encouragement. He'd signed up long before he'd received the letter. Before his hands had healed, even; his signature had been a mess. The warmth of the Godstone... he'd had dreams about it. About owning that power, feeling it course through his veins. He hungered for it like he'd never hungered for anything before.

Once his hands had healed, he'd spent most of his time training, practicing his magic as much as his combat technique, but there was only so much training a man could do, and so much time in a day. A few bad hangovers had turned him off of spending every afternoon at the Dancing Lights. He'd tried hanging out with Sab, only to find that he was more than happy to spend all day playing a mind-numbing game of shesko with the old men, moving tiny pieces across a board, or hanging out at a smithy, or fishing. Old man things. Giada had her family. Milo liked to paint, or write poetry, or something boring and noble like that. He'd gone and read some of the old epics over again, the record of the Tenebraean war and the Lost Godstone, or the story of Andrea the Dragonslayer, but as short as they were, they didn't take two months to read.

In the end, he'd gotten himself a job at the Shrine. It wasn't a real appointment. He swept the floors, cared for the albero d'ambra, filled in whenever anyone couldn't make it to their guard shift, but it kept him occupied during the morning, and he didn't mind the coin, either. He trained in the afternoons. The evenings were open, but he could handle that much free time.

Now, at last, the trials were finally looming. Entrants had gathered from all over Bosco, filtering in over the weeks. Pale-haired and -skinned mages from the northern regions, mages with skin darker than Giada's from the southwest, mages from the center, near the capitol, draped in the lavish coats and robes of what he presumed must be the cutting edge of fashion, mages with the sunbleached light-dark hair of the eastern coasts, and everything in between.

Tonight was the final night before the trials began. Not only that, but also the Return. Everyone was out tonight, the streets busy as they waited for the ritual to begin. All around him, people babbled in dialects he could just barely understand, unfamiliar styles of clothing from the far corners of Bosco all on bold display. Buskers haunted every corner, looking for handouts from the newcomers. Some played music, while others just sat and looked pitiful, even as they pocketed coin after coin. The street vendors, too, were out in force, hawking anything they could think to hawk, from ribbons to cheap food and drink to soulstones, tiny ones full of just enough power to last a night's worth of light. Raff couldn't keep his hand from drifting to the sword on his hip, and he found himself grinning. He had a real soulstone now. A real weapon. Those stones were trinkets in comparison. Child's play.

"What're you grinning about?" Sab asked suspiciously.

Raff spun and found the man standing just to his left, an eyebrow cocked. "Your grandpa outfit," he shot back, nodding at Sab's attire. Sab wore a flat cap, a loose white shirt under a loose tweed vest, and baggy trousers paired with worn brown boots. Even his war hammer was tucked under his arm like a cane. Raff himself wore a peacock blue shirt that fit tight around the chest and loose around the sleeves, mahogany trousers that bloomed above the knee and tightened with buttons below, and polished black boots with white spats, those borrowed from his usual uniform since he hadn't the coin to buy more than one pair of good boots. He blended in with the majority of the crowd, most of the Castelfiamman youth decked in bright colors and clothing that billowed only where it needed to.