“I am ready.”
The master seer’s eyes searched his. Tight lipped and blank faced, he waited.
“I am!”
Still no reply. Around them the afternoon breeze brought over dust motes from the apprentices’ sweeping of the temple floor. Mordacai had been an eager apprentice once. He also had swept with vigor and hope, wanting to prove his worth. Now he was a frustrated acolyte. Why wouldn’t the master let him advance? He had done everything. Passed every test and trial. All that work, and still the master denied him.
The master looked over to the apprentices. They were fencing with the brooms and making jokes. One noticed the master’s attention on them and elbowed his nearest mate. The little group quieted, bowing their freshly shaved heads to their work again.
Such was the power of the master. He never chided, never raised his voice. His will filled the temple like a calm pool. When Mordacai passed the last trial, he too would have that power. He wouldn’t remain, however. He would establish his own better temple.
He would accept only the best students. Not like that bumbling Fayet. His eyes betrayed him and strayed from the master’s face to the corner where Fayet poked around with his broom.
The master made a small gesture with his hand and Fayet came bounding over like an awkward puppy. He bowed his head three times to the master and then knelt at his feet without acknowledging Mordacai.
Mordacai was practiced at keeping his annoyance hidden. He was, after all, a full acolyte. Only a few passed the rigors to reach his level. Above him were only the seers. And the master, of course. When master spoke, Mordacai couldn’t maintain his calm mask any longer.
“Fayet. Tell Mordacai what lies beyond.” The master gestured to the small black door that led to the final seer’s trial.
“Please, Master Jobe. I’d rather not.” Fayet touched his forehead to the master’s sandals.
“I know it is hard, but it is necessary.”
The apprentices swept closer, no doubt hoping to eavesdrop. If Mordacai was denied, even the apprentices would laugh at him at dinner. Oh, they would be sneaky, but yes. They would laugh behind their callused hands.
“He is not ready.” Fayet looked up at Mordacai. Those large brown eyes that more usually held the expression of a lost child had hardened into something unfriendly. Pitying.
“He claims that he is.”
Fayet gave a single shake of his head and Mordacai wanted to explode into rage. A deep calming breath reined in his temper enough to allow him to reply. But no amount of breathing could erase the contempt from his voice.
“A failed apprentice decides if I am ready or not?”
The master put a hand on Fayet’s head and then offered his hand, helping him to rise. Master and apprentice shared a smile. It was unbearable, Fayet clutching the master’s hand as though he were a fellow seer. Fayet turned to face Mordacai.
“There is no starlight beyond that door.”
Mordacai’s heart gave a little shudder as a stab of inexplicable dread passed through him. Then his rational mind resumed control. Fayet bowed to the master. Then the failed apprentice scurried off, returning to his corner and his broom.
What did it mean? Nothing. Ravings of a failed acolyte. A paltry trick to dissuade him, to rob him of his destiny. Some acolytes never dared the final trial. Those acolytes were still respected. He was himself the most competent and best of the acolytes.
“Let me tell you about Fayet.” The master folded his hands into the depths of his faded brown robe.
Though Mordacai had no interest in a recitation of a lesser man’s deeds, he nodded his head to the master in a show of respect.
“Fayet was a sage, once.”
Mordacai took a step back and knotted his own hands into his sleeves. How could this be? Everyone knew that Fayet was an incompetent fool.
“He was much like you. Proud. Ambitious.” The master’s eyes fell into sadness. “He passed through the door. Success was not enough for him. He wanted to prove that he was the best.”
Mordacai nodded. He would not be baited into an intemperate reply. This was another pretest, one of the moral tales of which the master was so fond.
“He went to the door again. He knew that the trial would be much harder a second time. But pride drove him, and so into the door he went again.”
“It is indeed a tragic tale.” An ambitious sage transformed into an idiot was enough to make even Mordacai pause.
“No, it is not. Fayet is still here with us. He survived and chose, with his newly humble heart, to start his learning anew. He knew that starting over would be a mountainous task. He knows that he might never finish. And yet he stays and strives even though some mock him for it.”
“I would never!” The lie burned his tongue.
The twinkle of sardonic glee in the master’s eyes chilled Mordacai’s ambitions for an instant.
“Very well. Go. The door is yours.”
There is no starlight beyond that door.
The words echoed in Mordacai’s head. The twenty steps to the door seemed like miles. No one looked his way, not even the master as he strode over to comfort Fayet. Even so, it felt like everyone’s attention was on him, waiting for him to fail.
Would he have the strength to start again, as Fayet had? Mordacai brushed self-doubt aside. He wouldn’t have to. He would make sure that he was prepared. He would not go through the door today. He would wait, and conquer. There were scrolls that he could study to ensure his success.
A snicker sounded in the hall. Mordacai whirled round, rage breaking free again. Fayet was sweeping alone, his attention on his task as he hummed under his breath. If not Fayet, then who? The acolytes were now in the courtyard. The master was gone. There was only himself, Fayet, and the door.
The snicker sounded again. The door stood open, just a crack. Fayet looked over at it, then to Mordacai. He smiled at Mordacai; a terrible, fierce stretching of his lips that transformed him from fool to madman. The moment passed. Fayet’s face returned to its usual slackness as he resumed humming and sweeping. The door snicked closed. Mordacai ran for the courtyard.
