Chapter 1

  Buenos dias, mi hijo.

  Moonlight cast itself into the room and lit the sketches of sundials pinned to the walls.

  Aquiles’ eyes opened fast. A single candle burned light against the wall, flickering shadows popping into existence behind his boots and wardrobe in the opposite corner. He bent up at his waist, short hair bristling at the movement, and made a quick turn to sit on the edge of the bed. A pair of slippers waited for him below his hanging feet. He pushed off the bed with a rigid back and slid his left foot into the left slipper. Then, he slid his right foot into the right slipper. The slippers were of smooth leather, and his feet padded over to a curtain hanging on the wall. He placed his left hand on the left curtain and his right hand on the right curtain. He spread his arms, and the curtains split with a whoosh.

  Aquiles judged the altitude of the moon, the time of year, the suffocating air of the summer, drew in a sigh in his longing for the cold and annoyance at the heat, and determined it was the fifth hour. He was not surprised at this assessment. Aquiles awoke at the same time every day, and he did not employ one of those door-knocking Young Ones to wake him like some of the old Children barely holding on to life. He woke himself. At the fifth hour. Every single day.

  He heard door latches echo in the hallway. Many other Children were waking to go about their daily tasks and business of the Monastery. Young Ones were shuffling around their superiors, head lowered, heading to breakfast or tutelage or to a devious punishment concocted by one of the Children. The people that grew up in the Monastery were held to a high standard, publicly and in the privacy of the pyramid, and Aquiles held himself highest of all. He stood, facing the opening in his quarters out to the city below, and studied the black pyramid across the valley.

  “Good morning, Mother,” he responded aloud. That dark shape in the distance, the Ministry, housed the Parents whose praises the Monastery sang. A high standard indeed.

  Aquiles turned around and strode to the wardrobe on the right side of his room. The candle was burning low. He pulled on his woolen robes and went over his schedule for the day. Several lectures - to be received, not given - then likely some writing - result of said lectures - and finally, training. And training just so happened to be what made him famous among the monks of the Monastery. That’s part of why he did it every single day.

  He cinched the cord to hold his brown, woolen robes together around his waist, and he donned his boots. He discarded the slippers, placing them back at the side of his bed where he would use them the next morning. It was unsanitary to walk barefoot on the dirt floors. It was likewise prudent not to brush the robe sleeves against the dirt walls. Really, every surface was dirt, so Aquiles was simply mindful to not make more of a mess.

  His own door latch clicked behind him. A swath of Young Ones froze in step at his appearance, eyes wide like prey sighting the open maw of its predator, then scuttled along with eyes averted and downcast. He was a head taller than every other monk in the Monastery, sometimes two, except for some of the reclusive Storms. Fluttering whispers flitted about in the wake of his passing by the monks-in-training.

  “Arm of Us.”

  “Arm.”

  “Aquiles.”

  Aquiles didn’t enjoy the treatment, that would be too prideful for the Parents’ guidance, but he didn’t mind it. Often, he-

  “Pendejo!”

  The thought fled, and Aquiles’ chest tightened. “Buenos dias, Socorra.”

  Child Socorra hobbled down the dirt hallway, periodic lamplight casting her bent shadow onto the walls, hair like a thunderstorm wrangled by the Parents sitting on her shoulders trapped in a thick braid. The faces of Young Ones froze in fear. Aquiles knew that fear growing up in these halls. The rumors about the old Arm of the Monastery were enough to dash the head of any wild spirit on a rock.

  “It’s Child Socorra, to you. Your recent nomination does not preclude you from using the correct titles,” Socorra replied in an unnerving, measured tone. Very uncharacteristic. “You should lower your head when addressing a superior as well.”

  “Lo siento,” Aquiles bowed at a shallow angle and lowered his head, “I will not-”

  Socorra smacked the back of his neck and tipped him forward onto the dirt floor. Aquiles grunted and quivered at the thought of all the feet passing over right where his face now contacted the dirt. He stood and brushed himself off, and Socorra, Child Socorra, the shriveled puta, was nowhere to be seen.

  Her voice barked behind him, and Aquiles jumped and spun. She continued, “Tell Horacio to make your training miserable today!” Socorra cackled. “I’d hate for this lesson to go unlearned, pendejo!” Very characteristic.

  “Yes, Child.”

  The cackles carried on down the hallway as the true Arm of the Monastery disappeared from view. She was shorter than just about every person living in the pyramid, likely by as much as Aquiles was taller. So, it was easy to lose sight of her… but not the sound of her. A little girl cried out further down the hall and a string of raspy cursing and scolding gave the vieja away again.

  Warm torchlight wavered on the dirt walls and dirt ceilings and dirt floors, shifted on the dirt now covering Aquiles’ robes and face, heat flaring that hot temper rising in him. A compliment to the warmth of the Mother’s greeting, a contrast to that of Socorra’s.

  Perdon. Child Socorra.

  Aquiles made his way to the Childrens’ mess hall. His nomination to apprentice to the Arm of the Monastery, a position he hoped would not turn him into that foul woman traipsing around the pyramid that very moment, weighed on his mind. He scowled. Then, realizing his own foulness, stood up straighter and walked true and put on a smile. The Young Ones in the halls seemed to shy away even more at that expression when compared to his typical deadpan. Aquiles was well on his way to mastering the sword, perhaps he should train in this too.

  Monk quarters, old and young, Child and Young One, made up much of the first level in the pyramid with the higher levels devoted to teaching and study. He walked past many hallways shooting off the main thoroughfare to the heart of the pyramid. Given the shape of the structure and necessity to house as many people would live in the Monastery, the Parents had perfectly designed the pyramid. Had the Ministry been designed in much the same way? El Sonando de Metal housed all the guards for the government, but the Ministry’s Storm quarters still must make up some good portion of the twin pyramid. The Monastery’s own Storm quarters were located close to the peak, but very few lived in the religious center when compared to the government. Then, of course, the Monastery peak held gardens up to the sun while the Ministry’s held executions. Best those Greatstorm babies not grow to destroy La Terra and the Parents.

  Aquiles made it out of the quarters and into the Main Square of the pyramid. Monks in brown, woolen robes bustled in every direction, carrying every assortment of items imaginable, ink and paper, sword and spear, cafe? and pán, goat and sheep. Rather impressive wrangling both animals under each arm. Stone benches rimmed the square, and a great staircase cornered up the narrowing walls. Bald, balding, and tightly bound hair on bobbing heads poked out over thick stone rails as monks went about their business. The floor of the Main Square was stone, the only place besides the great stair with that solid, and mostly clean, footing in the whole pyramid.

  The Childrens’ mess was a mass of the same brown, woolen robes bent over bowls and plates. Smells of charred meat and tortillas scratched through the air on a light smoke making a haze of the faces of the quiet monks. He walked past all those popular dishes. Bland porridge made a hearty breakfast. Aquiles did not waste time enjoying his food, he just needed the nutrients and energy for his day. A curved crack in the spoon annoyed him and deigned to leave a splinter in his lip. Young Ones and Children were permitted to drink coffee in the mornings. He never understood why someone would let themselves rely on a drink to begin their day. Wake up and begin. It was not a difficult prospect.

  Bowl empty, stomach satisfied yet not too full for he was not a glutton, Aquiles stood and nodded at the trio of reticent monks he was sitting beside. They simply followed his movements with their eyes, chewing their food. Many of them weren’t fond of him anymore. Youngest Arm in, well, ever. They should direct their anger to Child Socorra for the nomination; few of the monks had ever been fond of her. And yet, each of them respected her. The explosion in religious outreach the Monastery had fostered under her leadership was inspiring. Aquiles wished she didn’t have to be so… difficult.

  “Gracias,” Aquiles bowed to the still seated monks, “for letting me dine with you this morning.”

  “By the Parents’ guidance, nin?o,” the eldest looking of the three responded past a mouthful of charred carne cecina and dressed porridge.

  Nin?o. Aquiles would not be called a boy any longer. His jaw clenched and his head jerked in a nod, and he strode off to his first lecture of the day.

  The profesora was covering star and sun charts in today’s lecture. She faced the board sketched with an analemma of the sun over La Valle de Las Tormentas, the bowl of earth where the Capital resided. She spoke how an astronomer would expect the lopsided infinity shape to slant and stretch in the north over the rainforests or to the east over the fishing towns. Aquiles was interested, to be sure, astronomy was his favorite of the subjects, yet his distractions won his attention. On one hand, the pilgrimages would begin, and his new position would require him to lead mass with the ‘country folk’. To be polite. The new Arm’s face had to be known to the public. The Ministry got to rely on the Parents for authority in governance, but the Monastery had to rely on a trusted leader to guide worship and religious thought. Aquiles could stare down five sharpened and singing swords, but five hundred dirty faces sounded a death sentence.

  He tried not to think of the other, more unique, responsibilities of the Arm. Namely, speaking with the Father directly to solicit his guidance for the Monastery. But never mind that. His training today would now be difficult thanks to Child Socorra. On top of it all, another new Child had been following at his heels like a yapping stray. If Emilia could just give him a chance to breathe, he might think about speaking with her past frivolities.

  “Arm?”

  Aquiles shook himself. The profesora held an inquisitive look, one eyebrow arched like Aquiles hadn’t shown up to class with any robes on. He glanced down at his clothed body and breathed out in relief. “Si??”

  “My, my. The new position going to your head already? Responding to Arm and not your name. Que lastima.”

  “I was distracted. I apologize, Child Lola.”

  “No matter, I’ll ask the question a third time. What is the significance of the relationship between the alphabet and the hours past astronomers set to time the days?”

  Aquiles gulped. Twenty-seven letters, twenty-seven hours, twenty-nine other newly promoted Children in their final astronomy class. Wait, that last one was unimportant. Emilia, short, light hair on a shorter, lighter frame watched him expectantly and winked. He wanted to scowl at her. He answered, “I do not know.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Good, we do not know either. Clearly, our ancestors were quite taken with the movement of the sun, and some of the driving aspects of our culture share characteristics due to this. Thank you for admitting your ignorance, nin?o.”

  There it was again.

  “Thank you as well.”

  The profesora spun from making new marks on the board. “You train today, yes?”

  Of course he did. Aquiles sighed, “Yes.”

  “Tell Child Horacio to make your training miserable.”

  “Yes, Child.”

  Smug and satisfied, she turned to make more marks on the board with her chalk. Leaning forward and dipping his reed into the inkpot, Aquiles forced himself to take notes, now a welcome distraction from the beating he was going to take this afternoon with Horacio.

  Aquiles’ back was stiff after sitting through his lectures. Child Socorra told him he was stiff all the time, however he doubted she had the same meaning in mind. He reached behind himself to untie the knots on the waist cord. The robes dropped off his shoulders, flaring in the air. He caught them and shook them out, dirt from his run in with the judgmental hag this morning drifting to his feet. He shook those too, rolled his ankles. Had to be pristine when he would walk up the ramp to the training ground and ask for his own culo to be handed to him by Horacio.

  Well, the Child would try.

  The hangers placed along the ready room held robes of Young Ones and Children of every rank and type. They all mastered combat forms. Some weren’t as zealous as Aquiles, he tried not to think less of them. A pinch formed in the fabric as Aquiles added his own robe to the fine collection. He smoothed the irking peak and turned, shirtless, and indeed stiff, watching shadows of the Children above tango in a deadly dance, mariachis of ringing metal and clattering clubs and the grunts of men.

  This ready room was lit with the same torches as the rest of the Monastery, dirt ceiling held high by the same dirt floors, but smoldering with a feeling, an instinct, a fire that was all its own. Aquiles cocked his head right then left. He pulled his right knee to his chest, pivoted his left foot, and extended his right leg to the wall. Aquiles felt a satisfying and familiar stretch as he applied more and more pressure. Then, he did the same on the other side of his body, the same depth and stretch, a strong and even balance. An indent on the wall cradled his foot. He liked his routines.

  The ramp was a slight incline carrying its passengers from the belly of the towering Monastery into open air beyond its sloped and terraced walls. Fresh air filled Aquiles’ lungs, energy flowing into his shoulders and chest, into his core and back, down into his toes. Those he wiggled and shifted, then tensed his legs and bounced on the ball of his feet, sun baking the left side of his face. It was low in the sky now, nearly blocked by the ring of mountains fortifying the Capital and its inhabitants. There were no enemies to fortify against, but a fortress they made, nonetheless.

  There were no enemies to fight against, but the monks trained, nonetheless. It was not a thing of combat, but of art. These Children and Young Ones did not learn to fight a faceless foe. They learned to dance with their fellow man, by the Parents’ guidance. A martial art was an honorable dedication for a monk’s life, inspired by the Father’s own mastery of weapons. Oh, how the sun baked in this summer afternoon, but that was a good thing. It made sparring easy in better conditions. Aquiles’ sought out Child Horacio.

  Horacio was not hard to find. A ring of students stood around some sparring match, clicks and clacks echoing about the training square. This duo must be seeking real blows then, no sense in killing each other with real metal when you can beat the mierda out of each other with wooden practice swords. Aquiles approached the ring, the youngest students turning and relieving their position to him, heads bowed, and he took a spot at the inner diameter of the circle to watch the match.

  And find Horacio he did.

  Aquiles watched with pride in his master’s performance. Horacio’s opponent was another of the zealots of the sword, a hopeful for the council of weapons masters presiding over the training grounds: Child Izan. There was a breath in the clash, a brief pause to size up the state of the opponent. Horacio, wiry with grey, bushy eyebrows and a jaw jutting from his face like he was always tilting his head up in a laugh, his lower teeth protruding from his lip and just hidden by a mustache to shame his unruly eyebrows. The man came up to Aquiles’ chest and had fifty years on his star pupil, weighing as many pounds less. Izan was a master in his own right, square jaw, clean shaven, and pure black hair, squat and sturdy and surprisingly fast, but he was heaving breath while Horacio could not have been breathing at all. The clash began again.

  Stereotypes of the old master fighting with caution and fighting slow did not influence Child Horacio’s style with the sword. He lunged forward, off-hand retaining his balance and front leg extending to nearly a split, a misdirection to seem as if he extended himself too far. Izan swept for it and sprung the trap. Seeming to grasp at an invisible hand hold in the air, Horacio heaved himself back with another quick jab in his retreat, catching the younger master in the gut with the poke. Izan dropped his stance and hung his head. The ring of students cheered and wooted at the final display.

  “Ay, los Padres mi?o. I fell for that again.”

  “Not to worry, you got a hit on me this time around.”

  “I knicked your arm with my sword point as I fell… after you kicked me where you had just stabbed me!”

  Horacio smiled, the underbite now successfully poking through the rainforest of hair on his upper lip, “And I should have been aware of where your sword was when I did so. Could’ve been a nasty scratch.”

  Izan sighed, “Gracias.” He bowed slightly and began to walk away.

  “You pass, Izan. Welcome to the council.”

  Izan stopped mid-step and turned; shock written on his face as clear as a sundial writes the time on stone. “Verdad? Are you joking?”

  “I do not joke,” Child Horacio replied as a matter of fact. Aquiles snorted. That was certainly a fact. Horacio continued, “You scored a hit. Eberardo over there couldn’t do that.” Horacio gestured with his sword without looking beyond the ring to a seated monk with a fistful of berries and another fistful of queso blanco.

  “Que??”

  “Nothing, Eberardo.”

  The portly monk harrumphed.

  Horacio patted Izan on the shoulder, and the crowd’s cheering doubled over when the match had ended. “Felicidades,” Horacio cheered with his great smile. Izan nodded at Horacio then looked around the ring of cheering students. He saw Aquiles and grinned.

  “Child Horacio, your next plaything has arrived.”

  Horacio’s back straightened and he looked over his shoulder at Aquiles. The crowd stopped cheering. Aquiles’ heart sank.

  “Back to training, all of you,” Horacio called out to the students. Then, he addressed Aquiles as Aquiles so wished he wouldn’t, “I heard the Arm say she wanted her new apprentice to train hard today.” Horacio’s smile took on the cast of some devious child looking to kick a puppy, or pull the legs off a defenseless spider, or spit in its mother’s cafe? when she wasn’t looking. Aquiles shuddered.

  “Si?. And…”

  “And?! Do we have a treat today!”

  Aquiles shouted in a proud defiance. “And Profesora Lola expressed a similar interest!” He could handle whatever Child Horacio had to throw at him.

  Horacio reached into his robes and rummaged around. Really, this didn’t make any sense. The robes had no pockets or places to store anything. But that didn’t matter as Horacio produced a spoon with a familiar curved crack in it. How could he have possibly planned this?

  Horacio threw the spoon at him.

  With a decidedly spooky smile now, Horacio spoke, “En garde.”

  “I haven’t warmed up!”

  Horacio swiped his sword and turned to a fighting stance, extending his off-hand behind his head. “Suit yourself.”

  “Mierda.”

  Aquiles was a sword master in all but official title, and Horacio agreed to hold the test Izan had just passed in no less than a month’s time away from this punishment. Yet, he was not a spoon master.

  Air swished past his neck, Child Horacio’s sword tip a blazing log in the waning sunlight. Goosebumps rose on Aquiles’ skin at the cool current of the close pass.

  Spoon master was not yet an official title of the council. Perhaps he could make it so.

  A grin, then a smirk pulled, then tugged, then yanked at his lips, hair on his neck bristling with a new vigor and his heart pumping that adrenaline he so came to care for and to long for. Aquiles threw himself down and rolled over his back and shoulder, putting ten extra paces between him and the wry old man.

  “En garde, maestro.”

  At that, Horacio smiled too, then wiped his face of cheer.

  Child Horacio sauntered forward then lunged with an elegance no man of his age should possess. Aquiles slid his right foot behind and bent forward at the waist. The flat of Horacio’s sword, in turn, slid along Aquiles’ back. He shivered at the soft touch of the wood worn by years of training. Horacio’s wispy hair caught the wind, and his grey eyes showed no strain or emotion. The Child was dark, wrinkled skin and bones, but Aquiles knew his strikes were devastating. Blocked blows could jar hands and rattle bones. A spoon would just be ruined, so blocking was out of the question regardless.

  Three quick swipes of the blade, and three near-misses, as Aquiles bent and spun around the sword, but his eyes were on his master. He watched the feet, but not too closely, the feet could lie. He watched the hips, but not with trust, the hips could deceive. He never watched the eyes. Horacio could fight with those closed.

  Instinct and experience drove his movements. Aquiles spun his breathing into his steps and glides, and that burn of his muscles with the dance caught him all the same. He didn’t much care. He’d learned to work past it. Horacio lunged again. Aquiles sidestepped left then ducked hard and rolled up to the right, and spoon whistling, knocked Horacio in the ear lobe as the old man adjusted. He’d meant for that to hit the Child’s temple. He’d fallen for the same farce as Izan.

  Aquiles sucked in, movements and breath timed to work past the burn, and spun into Horacio, gambling the retreat jab would follow the same trajectory as he’d seen minutes before. The poke that caught Horacio’s former victim in the stomach only grazed Aquiles’ own. A crowd formed about them now. The crowd had likely been there longer and simply escaped Aquiles’ notice. His eyes were on Horacio’s feet and hips and sword and hands and all the things that told Aquiles what would happen when he knew those events could not possibly come to pass. Yet, his focus, his attention, and his guile were on the tell Horacio had developed at the beginning of the week when the ignoble Socorra had whacked him with the flat of a sword over a thinly veiled jibe. Horacio should be more careful. Students were taught to be observant in the Monastery. Aquiles caught the limp in the Child’s left leg when he faced Izan.

  A tendon flared as Horcaio’s weight shifted on his well-hidden bad leg, and Aquiles feigned to the right in response before sweeping in, spoon stretched to scoop the sword from Horacio’s weak grip and win-

  Horacio punched Aquiles in the face with his off-hand.

  A tender warmth dripped over Aquiles’ lips as his vision focused on the sky and his shoulders adjusted to hard packed earth beneath him. The crowd laughed and jeered, yes in good faith, but Aquiles still angered. Blood stained his teeth and tainted his tongue, and Aquiles spat on the ground and rolled over and stood. His nose throbbed and a thousand daggers stabbed his forehead when he took a breath through his messy nostrils. Broken.

  “We do not teach that sort of thing here, maestro.”

  Horacio shook his hand from the blow, “You do not teach anything here at all. Allow me to lecture and lead, nin?o.”

  “I would teach we are not brutes, nor do we fight for no reason! There are customs. There are rules. That was not a fair fight.”

  “Oh, si?? You would teach. Que bueno! Teach me how to become a better swordsman in a life of fair fights, nin?o.”

  Nin?o. Nin?o, nin?o, ni?o.

  “Enough! Enough with this talking down to me! I am a Child of the Parents and of the Monastery and the next Arm to hear the words of the Father directly. I deserve respect!”

  Aquiles wrenched a practice sword from the hands of the nearest student in the stunned crowd, broken nose forgotten. Horacio’s eyes saddened and his head shook as those sad eyes met his own feet. Aquiles attacked.

  Horacio blocked each blow effortlessly, feet shifting and head bobbing, off-hand placed in space, gaining him leverage with each counterstrike and movement. Aquiles struck forward, violent swipes of the thin blade catching on the wall of defense that was Horacio’s stance. One blow too many, and Horacio swung out his blade and took Aquiles at the ankle, the great Arm of the Monastery on his back again in the dust.

  Horacio bent down to meet Aquiles eye to eye. “Any man shouting for his respect shall not receive it from the horses in the stable, nor the pigs in their filth,” Horacio whispered the statement for Aquiles alone. A silent crowd watched on. Then, loudly, “You are a fantastic swordsman. Do not shame yourself by fighting with anger. We are none of us true opponents here,” Horacio gestured about himself to the crowd. Whispering again, Horacio hissed in Aquiles’ ear, “News of your temper tantrum here will spread. Nin?o.” He held out a hand to Aquiles.

  Heart burning in his chest, teeth pressed together as a vice in the smithies, Aquiles flinched back from the offer. Horacio reached forward, insisting, and Aquiles felt a tear well in his eye. He took Horacio’s hand and wiped his eye as he stood, hiding it behind wiping sweat from his brow. Aquiles should feel anger for this humiliation. He should feel shame for putting himself in this situation. He should know what to feel.

  Child Horacio watched him intently, then patted him on the back, “Run the training ground until the last Young Ones leave for the night and think on it.” Aquiles did just that.

  Dirt floor. Dirt ceiling. Dirt walls. Wooden door. A relief. Aquiles slunk into his room, legs and lungs on fire from hours of running and vomiting. Horacio had not relented in the punishment. Aquiles hadn’t wished him to. Sweat flowed freely over his flint and steel as Aquiles tried to light his candle. He could not sleep without it. The flint refused to spark with several more strikes, and Aquiles flung it across the room. Despite his exertions, he had not worked through his thoughts on the utter derision from the Children he’d experienced through the day, and, truly, the weeks since his nomination. He wanted to earn respect, but what did he need to do other than what he’d already accomplished?

  He spent hours of tossing under the rough covers of wool in his bed before the moon rose to a height enough to trickle luminescence into the gloom of the dark room. Aquiles took comfort in that. He slept.

  Buenas noches, mi hijo.