Many weeks later, the ship docked at the piers of Kalanduguba. He has grown quite fond of the crew and their captain, but the task was incomplete. Although the vessel might present a few challenges untested, the sight of Kalanduguba only cemented the worthiness of the University in his mind. The city was beyond the limits of his new vocabulary to describe. He had once thought that Bahar was the limit to how many people could exist in such a close quarter, but this place made that city a forger's camp in comparison. How could he have possibly fathomed this many people even existed, let alone lived crammed together in this one place?
The captain and a few crew escorted him along the stone-paved streets teeming with people. After losing sight of land for the first time and the crew's wry laughs when he gawked, Tafari had decided not to openly gape like a child. Though he kept his face smooth, inside, he was in awe.
Near the docks, the city was crowded with low square buildings of tan brick. Each building seemed to have a purpose, from selling fish to making tables. But beyond that was the noise. From the sellers crying their wares to horses neighing, chickens and other birds squawking, children screeching, men shouting, the creak of wagon wheels, and the swish of sails coming from ships entering the harbor. The din overwhelmed the senses. Tafari wanted to shut the noise out, but as they traveled further into the city, it was a minor nuisance compared to the splendor.
Buildings, the size of which he had never seen, loomed over him. With their dome-shaped roofs and sprawling towers, these edifices could fit his entire village under their ceilings. One round construction lacked a roof but encircled a long oval field, to what purpose Tafari could not fathom. Structures made of the whitest marble soared over him. Towers of pale gray stone stretched towards the heavens like the fingers of giants. They traveled under bridges with masterfully carved balustrades spanning hundreds of paces and extending from one marble-paved pathway to the next.
Tafari was surprised to find green spaces nestled amongst the buildings in this city so densely populated with stone structures. Trees grew here, perfectly spaced with red brick lanes, with verdant bushes and colorful flowers growing along the sides. In the center, with a wide promenade circling, a large fountain inlaid with blue and white tile, the stone rim carved with reliefs of books and quills. Children played in the spring, laughing and splashing each other. On a marvel plinth in the center stood a statue of a solemn-faced man, one hand clutching a pair of tables, the other outstretched in front of him. Water spouted from the quill he grasped in his outstretched hand, spraying the laughing children frolicking in the pool. His stone eyes radiated knowledge as he looked over the city.
While he marveled at the city, he did spare a few glances for its inhabitants. The people here were no less resplendent than the city in which they lived. Some were dressed like the people of Bahar with the same honey brown skin. Others were darker than Tafari, dressed in flowing robes of rich cloth. Stranger still were people with pale skin and long pale hair. Some of those pale-skinned men's hair hung limply down past their shoulders. Many different people spoke a multitude of languages, all coexisting in the same place.
The captain led him to a large compound surrounded by a tall sandstone wall. Over the top of the wall, he could just make out tall towers and large buildings. They stopped in front of a tall gate in a thick sandstone brick wall. Leaves worked in iron bordered either side and the top of the open gateway. A wide footpath of light brick led inside towards a long, low, slung square building with a colonnade of pale white columns adorning its facade. At the gate, the others stopped and bid him farewell. He walked through alone and strode confidently down the pathway towards the most prominent building before him.
Movement from the corner of his eye caught Tafari's attention. At speed matching his purposeful pace, floating next to him was a kibiri. The kibiri. He was confident that this was the same he had encountered before. Tafari halted. It halted. The little mask-like face turned towards him. Perplexed, Tafari spoke.
"Honored spirit, I mean no disrespect, but why do you follow me?"
The kibiri cocked its head in that peculiar way.
"This is not your home."
"I am aware." Tafari resisted the urge to tap his foot or shake his spear in frustration with the spirit. He was sure that the kibiri could not hurt him or did not want to, but threatening a sprite was dishonorable and could lead to great misfortune.
"You are far away from your home. How much farther will you go?"
"As far as I must." Without waiting for the spirit's response, Tafari continued on. Leaving in mid-conversation was not necessarily considered being rude to a kibiri. Tafari thought it couldn't be regarded as rude. Well, he hoped it wasn't.
Two sturdy wooden doors with large golden handles, worn brown with years of use, marked the entrance of the building. The same knowingly solemn man from the fountain was carved in relief on one of the doors. On the other, an owl with its wings folded in, clutching a snake in one talon and laurel wreath in the other. He pushed the heavy wooden doors open and walked through. He entered into a vast foyer with floors of polished black marble stretching off to either side of the room. The large building was actually several smaller structures connected with red silk awnings. Straight back from the door, the roof opened up to the sky, casting bright sunlight upon a grassy knoll between two long sections of the building. Men in various colored robes walked to and fro, entering or exiting one of the many doors that lined either side. Some lounged on the grassy yard in the sunlight studying scrolls or other parchment or idly chatting in small groups.
A long dark mahogany desk, carved with ornate owls, stood directly across the door Tafari entered. With his sparse grey hair cropped short, a wizened man sat at the desk hunched over a piece of parchment and quill scratching furiously. He had the same look as the translator from Bahar but with a stoop back as if he had spent many years hunched at the desk. As Tafari approached, he looked up briefly from his work, his mouth turning down in distaste. His scratching resumed without giving Tafari a second glance.
"And why are you here?" He spoke the same language as the captain and his crew. Thankfully the man spoke slowly so he could understand all his words.
"I am here to learn," Tafari attempting to pronounce each word accurately. The old man let out a short, bitter laugh.
"This is not the place for uncouth tribesmen. Go back to where you came from." He paused his scribbling to wave a dismissive hand. Tafari stayed rooted in place.
"I was told that this is where you come to learn. So here I am. I will not leave."
The shriveled old man scowled at him, his face screwed in disgust as though he just took a giant bite of a rotten íṣin and then tried to swallow its seed whole.
"We will not teach you how to hunt gazelle or how to weave baskets or, or whatever you rustics do. We teach the knowledge of the world. Study the ponderous words of the great philosophers. Formulate equations with numbers so vast that they outnumber the stars in the sky. We bend the Sirhidan energies of the gods to our will. A simpleton like you could not possibly understand. Go back to your mud hut, goatherder."
Again, the old clerked waved him away like a bothersome fly and returned to his scratching. Enraged, Tafari slapped the tip of his spear onto the desk. The clang boomed, filling the foyer with its piercing sound. Students lounging in the green spaces looked up at the commotion. The old bent man jumped in his seat and knocked the inkpot over. The ink oozed across his parchment. Tafari pressed the tip of his iklwa to the man's throat. The man froze. Fear and shock quickly spread across his face. A tiny well of blood blossomed from the end of the spear tip. If the old man moved just a hair, Tafari's iklwa would pierce his throat.
"I am Tafari Okoro of the T'enikaralibi clan! I have slain the great beast, Ganeni Mereti! I have walked to the edge of the world! You will not insult me any further." Tafari's voice rang clear, echoing off the walls. Others emerged from the numerous doorways gawking awkwardly to see the cause of the tumult. The ancient secretary gave the barest of nods. Tafari pulled back his spear just enough to provide the man with room to move. "I have come here to learn, and I will learn all you teach me. I decide what my mind can and cannot handle, not you or any other man. Can your mind fathom my meaning?"
Another slight dip in the man's head signaled his agreement. Tafari removed his spear from the man's throat and put on his best, most charming smile.
"Good. Where do I begin?"
His hand trembled. The old clerk pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from a drawer. He dipped the quill in the spilled ink and hurriedly scribbled onto the new page. The parchment writhed in his shaking hands as he offered it to Tafari.
"T-take this to the Mistress of novices. She's in the dormitory. The t-tall building across the square. T-the one to the left of the g-gate."
Tafari plucked the sheet out of the man's trembling hands and offered him a formal bow.
"I thank you for your assistance, honored elder." Tafari turned on his heels and marched out the heavy wooden doors.
Tafari found the Mistress of novices quickly. She was a tall woman of middle years with skin as rich and dark as his. She wore her long thick black hair dreaded and woven into three braids that ran to the nape of her back. A woman with a severe pinched face and a perpetually upturned nose. Command clung to her as surely as any veteran warrior back home. Her manner commanded obedience and brooked no argument. She was a regal monarch, her domain the tall cylindrical dormitory which held all the University's newest students. A fife that she ruled with an iron fist.
Tafari presented the parchment to her. She gave it a cursory glance, but her piercing brown eyes flayed him to the core. She measured, weighed, and judged him all with that one look. A short nod of her head was the verdict. It seemed he passed the first test.
"The University does not allow its students to carry weapons while enrolled. Give them here, and I will have them stored for you. You can request them when you leave the premises, but you must give them back when you return." She thrust out her hand expectantly. Her tone offered no question or debate. One by one, He handed over his iklwa, bow, belt knife, and quiver. Even burdened by his gear, the Mistress, in her long dark red dress with frilly white collar, remained regal and nonplused, aptly carrying his implements while showing Tafari to his room.
The tower dormitory was a circular building with an open atrium in the middle that rose to a glass ceiling many paces above them. Ramps on either side led up to each floor. Each floor was a ring with a wooden walkway and iron railing guarding the inner circle and preventing the students from walking into the open air. They switchbacked their way up the ramps and up five floors. The levels had a thick exquisite carpet, a different color for each tier. The Mistress showed Tafari to a floor with a green runner with a silver border lined the floor. She led him around the circular walkway. Thin doors lined the wall. Nothing more than plain brown wooden slats in arched openings. Most were closed, but some were opened, showing a student sitting at a desk pouring over papers or writing feverishly on parchments.
She showed him to a room that was larger than his mother's hut. A lush emerald carpet with complex grey embroidery covers the stone floor. There was a big four-post bed in the center of the room and a small window letting light in on the far curved wall. A small writing desk with a ladder back chair and an ample wardrobe were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. The stern-faced woman nodded towards the chamber, and Tafari entered. He hid his awe at the size of the room, not wanting the Mistress to think him a rustic, but he did lay down on the large bed, inwardly marveling at its comfort. When he returned home, he would get a bed like this for his wife. The girl he left behind's face drifted into his thoughts, and he allowed himself a small smile. Then, realizing the Mistress was still standing there, he sat back up.
"On-premises, the student will wear the robes of the scholar." She opened the door to the wardrobe and gestured towards it. "Take off your other garments and place them in here. Someone will be along shortly with your new robes."
She left, closing the door behind her. Doing as instructed, Tafari removed, with some great reluctance, the cords around his arm and his medallions. He laid them neatly in a drawer inside the wardrobe, then removed his skirts. He only had a few moments of standing there awkwardly in his breechcloths before a knock came at the door. Before he could answer, a man pushed his way in carrying an armful of robes the same color as the rug lining the outside walkway. The man hung most of the robes up in the wardrobe before handing him one and then leaving without saying a word. Tafari donned the new set of clothing with the same pride as when he put on his cords and medallions. Then, with his goal firmly fixed in his head, he walked out the door.
The next few weeks were a challenge that took everything Tafari had to accomplish. His classes were demanding, each teacher requiring different skills to achieve. He found out that some needed very little from him than to participate in the very dense discussion held at each meeting. Others required him to write out long dissertations about the subject and which they studied. Some actually taught very little, preferring him to find the answers in their vast library before returning to them with his conclusions.
The most challenging part wasn't learning the whats of any particular subject but the hows and whys. Tafari had to explain why Veriod the Plunderer's lost at the battle of Broken Trees, even though he had the superior force and tactical advantage. Or how ninroot reacted poorly to being mixed with crushed basilisk scales but was able to form a stable poultice when the scales were powdered. He pondered over the blunders in trade deals between nations, then discussed the histories, essential peoples, and negations of borders for those very nations. He filled his head with facts and figures, tactics and strategies, arguments and reasoning, recounted and recited them. Pontificated over their merits and deductions even if the things he learned were, in fact, actually true.
Standing in front of a small crowd of his peers, with the teacher raptly looking on, he performed a complex piece of magic, materializing an image of a boar that shuffled around the dais of the small room they used for that subject. He then had to recite what colors of magical energies he used to create the illusion, why they were helpful in that creation, and what effects adding other color energies might have if he chose to add them. For example, with too little blue power, the image would become unstable, looking less tangible. Too much of the red could create an entity with physical properties, which could affect or even harm something or someone. He also explained the effects of using the energies of the magic spectrum that they were forbidden to touch. Adding in gray discord would change the spell into something different entirely, something that would be an abomination that could possibly kill a person or even the caster. Even dashing a hint of the brown energy of fear could cause cataphoric results. He was allowed to discuss combining the two, though that route led to necromancy and was an expressly forbidden magic school.
He spent four years at the University, taxing his mind to the limits. He pushed his thoughts beyond what he could perceive imaginable, starting to analyze things beyond what he thought capable. When he returned home and placed a bridal wreath at the feet of the woman that he loved, he could recite her poetry in half a dozen languages from nearly four times as many poets or even compose one for her himself. He could tell her the names of the star and for which heroes they were named. He would dazzle her with his impressive spellwork, conjure for her birds to sing to her when she wakes, transfiguring the dirt under her feet into a promenade of stone so colorful that it would fit the finest palace. They would not have to live in the huts like his parents, but he could make for her a home so magnificent it would rival that of all the noble kings and majestic emperors that he had learned about.
These thoughts warmed Tafari as he went to the Ceremony of Receiving. He no longer wore the student's robes but donned his original clothing. The only difference was a thick black sash across his chest. The University had a building that students only entered once, and it was only when they were about to leave. It was a short, round, windowless building with only one thick wooden door as its entrance. Carved upon it was the solemn visage of Grand Master Aristotle the Enlightened, the founder of the University and the subject of the many carvings and statues around Kalanduguba. Inside was just one round room with a polished marble floor. Columns circled the room from floor to ceiling, with polished brass braziers in front of each. The fires in the braziers were kept low, casting most of the space in deep heavy shadows. Arranged in a horseshoe inside the circle of columns raised on small platforms were twelve high back chairs, each carved from different woods and in a different style. Sitting in each chair was a robed figure, their robes just as different from one another as the thrones they sat upon.
The ceremony was explained to Tafari many times throughout his tutelage. He knew that a master of a field of study sat in each chair. To be considered a graduate of the University, one must receive a pendant from at least three of the twelve masters perched in the room. Most were beyond proud if they could achieve a pendant from one or two additional masters. Tafari was not content with being like everyone else. He presented himself to the first chair, the master wearing deep blue robes lined with silver lacework, the master of history. He dropped to one knee before the master bowing his head reverently.
"Great master, have I gleaned an understanding of events long past?" The robed figure rose from his seat and approached Tafari.
"You have gained the wisdom of times long gone." He said and then pinned a brooch made of gold in the shape of books to his black sash. Once the master regained his seat, Tafari moved to the next throne and knelt before him. This one was in light gray robes with black lacework. The master of war strategy.
"Great master, will soldiers follow me onto the battlefield?"
As with the first, the figure rose and approached Tafari. He pinned an iron brooch of two crossed swords to his chest.
"You could lead them into the heart of the forsaken lands, and they would follow."
Next was alchemy. Another pin, a copper one shaped like a cauldron. With the third pin, he was officially a University graduate. He could stand up and walk out the doors, and that claim would hold. But he had not come this far just to graduate. He needed the honor of being one of the best. Of being the best. No other way would make him worthy. No other way could save him from his bride wreath being thrown back into his face. He knelt in front of the next seat, Master of Healing.
"Great master, can I help the poor souls with their afflictions?" Another brooch was pinned to his sash, a lead one in the shape of a staff. He knelt before the next and received a pin and then the next and the next. He continued his way around the room, and not one master hesitated to adorn his sash with a brooch. When he knelt in front of the final sitting figure, brooches crowded his black casement. A silver sword hilt for the study of religions, a set of steel scales for law and justice, a bronze abacus for mathematics, two heads facing away from each other cast in tin for philosophy, a jade looking-glass for the sciences, a harp made out of mahogany for the arts, and an open book carved in obsidian for literature. But the last was his crowning achievement. The skill he prized most of all. Tafari knelt before the robed figure in the sharpest of green. The master of the Sirhidan.
"Great master, will the energies of the universe bend to my need?"
In imitation of the other masters before, the Sirhidan master stood and placed a platinum brooch of an eye on his black sash. The man positively beamed.
"Young man, only the great A'wakis have more skill than you." The man clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations. A cheer arose from the other masters, each coming to offer their own congratulations to him on such a monumental achievement. Only a scant few could claim to have mastered all the twelve disciplines in the University. He left the chamber with his head held high, though some of him still felt that it was not enough. Though it was rare, others have mastered all the disciplines. He could not return home to the woman he loved without achieving more. But he was at a loss. Where did he go from here?
He collected his prized iklwa and other things from the Mistress of novices. He was a novice no longer. Although he had not touched the weapons for four long years, the feeling of the spear hilt in his hands still felt familiar. The Mistress' stern-faced cracked into a rare smile when she gazed at all his earned medals. He bid her farewell, unsure of where he would go next. He headed towards the gates of the University, thinking of getting lost in the streets of Kalanduguba. Maybe he'll find his next challenges on those well-worn streets.