The Demicolors of Law

I trudge through creeping fog toward the Yarbil. Bells toll in the distance—I’m late. Blue lanterns sway from their chains attached to iron posts. Shadowy figures watch from their porches, hissing a word that I hate. Up in the dim sky, beneath a layer of clouds, floats a house. Its orange panels mimic fish scales and large tan cloths wave between long wooden spines like fins. Seol must have come down and is waiting for me at the gates, but he'll head inside before I get there.

Near my turn is a dark alley, where the stench of rotten produce lingers. I hold my breath and hurry past, then a small silhouette emerges from the darkness. The blue light softens his grimy feet and tattered cloak. Dirt coats the sliver of chin that juts out from under his hood.

“Sir,” he croaks. “Do you have any food?”

He's one of the Tzirak, a being incapable of channeling tzirem. I step back and touch the lump in my pocket. The apple I brought from home is meant for Netil. If someone sees me talking to or feeding this child, then I'll be shunned.

“Please,” he wheezes, coughing into his hands. “My sister hasn't eaten in days.”

My fingers push into my jeans, then I stop myself and withdraw my hand. Even if he's dying on the ground, I’m not allowed to save him. I tighten my jaw and rush into the swirling mist. Each step is a battle as my heart tells me to turn around and give him the fruit. But one apple becomes two, two into more, and soon I'll be feeding everyone in the slums. This is how things have always been. My kind and their kind don't mix. It just leads to problems.

The path leads into an unlit forest, where trees bend out of shape and walls of fog carry the whispers of formless creatures, who speak of elements I’ve yet to master. Ox, the most malleable of material, isn't just stone, it's crystal and metal. Our village was built out of ox. And ov, the wild blaze, which burns everything in its wake. Few have unraveled the mysteries of fire and hardly anyone can contain it once it spreads. I've studied rem all my life, yet I'm no good at casting them. Coming to the Yarbil when I'm past the age of ascension is pointless. But my friends are there. Where else can I go?

A pink gleam soars through the air, then vanishes with the plunking of water. What was that? I run to the pond and see someone standing on the water. They’re hidden by a haze, yet their long blue hair grasps at me. Woody scents fill my nostrils, then a melodic voice sings my name. Mom? Tears swell along my lashes as I lean forward and lift my foot. Something bumps my shoe.

I look down at a patterned emerald shell. It's Netil. Is he trying to stop me? My eyes shift back to the pond, but the strange figure has vanished. Could my mom have tried communicating with me? There's certain rem we aren't allowed to practice, like communing with the dead. It confuses them and can weaken our connection to tzirem.

Netil nips at my pant leg. I wipe my eyes, then kneel beside him. Algae has formed on his shell. He'll need to be cleaned after my studies. I reach into my pocket and reveal the green apple to him. Netil stands against my leg, his long neck stretches up, and his mouth opens wide. I let him eat from my hand while stroking his head.

Every day he looks a little bigger. I remember when he was the size of a pebble and as pink as the flowers during spring. He is the only rem I've managed to perform, and it was by accident. I sat on some big rocks across the pond, feeling sorry for myself after failing the final exam a second time, and skipped stones on the water. I thought about Mom, and how easily she could cast rem. The Chitzah tell me she was a master of all, and it's true.

Mom was the Bognunrach, a diplomat, who traveled the continents and unified people. They say her power flows through me. But my mother was a fully realized Chitzah, her tzirem manifested in ways beyond our understanding. She was a prodigy. Something I'll never be.

From this thought, I found myself wishing for a taste of her power. I wanted to know what it felt like to hold the world in her hand and be unlimited. My voice carried out, small and broken, and I cast a rem that I'd studied countless times. Tzet, the template for life, it's the oldest rem there is. It didn't work at first, so I threw my last stone against a rock, then it rebounded and struck me in the face. With a bloody nose and fiery rage, I picked up the stone to throw into the woods, but it began to crack between my fingers. A tiny, blushing creature emerged from the rubble.

I don't know how or why my rem worked. Or why none other work now. But Netil’s existence must mean that I can channel tzirem. I take his life as a sign that I must continue studying and caring for him. The day will come when my abilities flourish if I just have patience.

Netil finishes off what's left of the apple, then scurries into the pond. I wonder what it'll be this time. He brings me his favorite plants or the occasional fish. Sometimes people throw things away without realizing how valuable they'd be to a turtle. Netil seems to think I'd appreciate someone else's garbage. Maybe he'll bring me a coin so I can save it for a cold drink on a hot day.

He resurfaces with a glowing object and spits it at my knees. It's a pink stone. Was this what I saw flying through the air? I reach out and my fingers tingle. Someone put a rem on it. As I pluck it off the ground, the sensation climbs up my arm. I can feel a deep sense of love embedded within it. The figure on the water flashes through my mind. Could this have been the reason I saw her? There's something else. I sense sadness. Were they longing for someone they lost?

Familiar symbols are etched into the face. Where do I know these from? They aren't typical of our writing. Each one has a flare to it, like someone personalized every line. The represent fortune and health. Whoever wrote these must have wanted to find another love like that. I should return it or else my misery might undo their work.

Netil peers up at me with his little round eyes. He wants me to have it. Is it right for me to keep something this important? He waddles off and sinks into the water. I wonder why he'd bring me someone's wishing stone. They threw it away for a reason. I stand up and go on my way.

The rem intensifies as I near the Yarbil. I think the caster is inside. Where did they find a pink stone? My village only has blue or green. Could they be a traveler? With a complex rem like this, they're probably a Chitzah.

I'm greeted by short, thick, viny bushes and a tall, rusted iron fence. A towering building sits on the other side. The Yarbil is looking as strange as ever with its pitch black walls that sparkle like stars in the night sky, and dark winding spires that pierce the clouds. A low moan carries over the breeze as if warning me to leave.

I look around for Seol, who isn't waiting for me, and neither is Irāvah. She's usually late, too. I take a deep breath, then push open the gate, which shrieks in agony, and whines as it clangs shut. The air is saturated with a sweet, spicy aroma and the morning fog fades into a giant garden that spreads across the ground.

Long, dull robes block the path, whispering to themselves. Their dark maroon color near grey. I hope they don't notice me. My fist tightens around the stone as I push past them.

They mutter under their scratchy breaths, “Bogenach.”

It makes my blood boil. They know that word has a double-meaning, and the way they use it means something bad. I have half the mind to whip around and shout at them.

“Yatzir!” An old voice calls from the steps of the Yarbil.

It's Setzah. His silver beard sweeps across his round stomach, and his white robe flaps behind him as he runs to me.

I'm about to answer him, but his arms wrap around me in a tight embrace.

“I’m so happy you're back,” Setzah says, squeezing me tighter.

“Good to see you,” I choke.

He lets go, then steps back and assesses me.

“Have you gotten taller?” He asks, poking me in the abdomen. “You certainly haven't gotten wider since the last time I saw you. Are you eating enough?”

“I'm fine,” I answer, rubbing my stomach. “It hasn't been that long.”

“Forgive me,” Setzah laughs. “Four months can feel like a long time for an old man.”

“You're not that old,” I lie.

“Why, thank you,” he chuckles, scratching his bald head.

Setzah is one of the few Chitzah who welcomes me when I return to the Yarbil. I can't deny that seeing his wrinkled smile and glossy head fills me with relief. If I'm ever in trouble, he's the first to come to my defense. Maybe it's because of my mother. From what I’ve heard, they were close.

“We have a transfer,” Setzah says. “He's tall and handsome. Quiet, too.”

“You don't expect me to show him around,” I blurt. “Do you?”

“Of course,” Setzah replies, twisting the silver strands of his beard. “He'll need a guide, and who better to lead him than the Yarbil’s oldest student.”

I snort and cross my arms. “That's a kind way of putting it,” I say.

“I’ll let the Chitzah know that you'll miss class for the day,” he adds.

“Fine,” I huff, trying to conceal a smile. “I'll babysit the new kid.”

Setzah pats my cheek, then waltzes off.

Not that the Chitzah would mourn my absence, but having the day off allows me to go to my favorite spot—the Avportzet. I think I'll start with books on the classical uses of tzirem. The Chitzah back then left nothing to the imagination. They believed tzirem was a gift from the divine and should be used to make the world a better place, whereas the current Chitzah care more about their prestige and mastering new abilities.

I climb the slick, black steps of the Yarbil, then push through the large wooden doors. Floating blue candles flicker at the top of the hall, hand-laid tiles mirror ocean waves, veins of silver and gold sprawl across the walls. I trace my fingertips over the reflective bricks, leaving behind a faint oily streak. Mom used to stroll these same halls every day. Was she overwhelmed by the Yarbil’s magnificence?

The pink stone rattles between my fingers. I'm getting close to the caster. I rush around a corner and smack into a firm chested man. His heavy crimson uniform simmers to burgundy in the shadows. The tint of the candles strip away the warmth in his russet skin, cooling him to an ashy blue. Spiraling locks of fiery pink hair are brushed to the side of his head. And I'm held captive by his burning orange eyes, which stare widely at me.

“Pardon me,” his deep voice booms. “I didn't see you there.”

I can't form words. He doesn't look like anyone I've ever seen. The heat in his eyes and the depth of his skin make him look otherworldly. Setzah was right about him being handsome, he'd turn heads off their shoulders.

“Are you all right?” He asks, leaning forward to meet my eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

“Uh, no.” I reply shyly.

“You look hot,” he states, glancing at my cheeks. “Are you sure you're okay?”

I strain a gulp, then step back and avert my gaze. “Yes,” I squeak.

He straightens up and brushes stray curls behind his ear. “My name's Vuhtzev,” he adds. “I'm from Doem.”

Doem? He's from the South! That explains his unusual appearance.

“I hate to be a burden,” he says. “I'm somewhat lost. This place is larger than it appears.”

Oh, right. Setzah asked me to show him around.

“I can give my name,” I sputter. “I meant my name is tour—Yatzir! And I can give you a tour.”

“Nice to meet you,” he laughs.

We walk down the corridor, where others are heading to their next lesson. Vuhtzev’s large bicep catches my attention. His blazer could burst open from the amount of muscle he's packing. How did he manage to fit into it?

“Yatzir,” he says, his eyes fixed on the ground. “Did you grow up here?”

“Yes,” I reply.

He rubs his neck, then checks over his shoulder.

“Do you know Imazet?” He asks quietly.

The question makes me freeze and my skin prickles. How does he know that name? Mom may have been the Bognunrach, but that's all anyone's referred to her as. Him saying her name is too familiar.

“It's been a long time since I’ve seen her,” he explains. “She used to teach at Etirvet when I was younger.”

“Yes,” I admit softly. “I knew her.”

Vuhtzev's eyes narrow and his lips point downward. “Is she here?” He asks.

He doesn't know? I thought everyone knew. Mom died protecting us from… My gut clenches and I steady myself against a wall. How do I tell one of her pupils that she's gone?

“I'm sorry,” he whispers. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

“It's not that,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Imazet…isn't here.”

“Oh,” he breathes, his voice catching in the back of his throat. “I was hoping to see her again.”

I open my fist and peer down at the stone in my palm. It's humming. I feel the sadness resurfacing, but I can't tell if it's mine.

“Do you want to continue?” Vuhtzev asks, his tone deadening. “With the tour?”

I shove the stone into my pocket, then steady myself and nod.

Rows of arches crawl past us, leading to an open courtyard with a tall, viny tree next to a small pond. Feet dangle from a branch and smoke sails between leaves. We approach it, then a golden ball of fluff zips towards us and leaps onto my face. I fall backwards and a rough tongue scrapes against my nose. Two large yellow eyes glisten over me.

“Seol,” I groan.

“You're back!” He cheers, his claws digging into my chest. “I missed you.”

I grin and stroke his head.

“Erm…” Vuhtzev scrunches his brows. “Do all cats talk here?” He asks.

Seol’s fur puffs, then he backs onto my stomach. “Who're you?” He hisses.

“I'm Vuhtzev,” he replies, squatting beside us.

“He's from Doem,” I chime. “He just transferred today.”

Seol's fur flattens, his claws retract, and he points his chin up. “I'll let you know if I have a bellyache,” he purrs.

Vuhtzev forms fists and snorts.

I shift my focus to the tree, where Irāvah rests lazily and puffs on a long pipe. Purple braids roll off her shoulders as she cuts me a glance, then turns away with a smirk tugging at her lips. Her mossy skin nears blue in the shade. The rolled up sleeves of a green blazer swallows her arms. Her jeans have been styled into a messy pair of shorts. I bet she got an ear full from the Chitzah for chopping up her uniform.

Irāvah blows a cloud of smoke in the shape of a turtle. “A southerner?” She teases. “The Chitzah must be depressed.”

Setzah appears below the branch, clears his throat, and glares up at her. “Irāvah,” he calls, his tone sounding annoyed. “Your coursework won't do itself.”

Irāvah rolls her green eyes, huffs, and drops to the ground. “Actually, it can,” she scoffs, tapping out the contents of her pipe. “But I was going to check on it anyways."

They exchange looks.

"Come on, Seol.” Irāvah commands, strutting toward the Yarbil.

Seol nudges my nose, then chases after her.

Setzah watches them leave with a scary glare. He faces us and says, “Don't dawdle, Yatzir.” He's gone before I can breathe a word.

Vuhtzev helps me stand, his hands are warm and his skin is smooth. The stone buzzes against my hip. I hold it still and try to act natural. Vuhtzev raises a brow, then shrugs it off.

We shuffle through the Yarbil. I point out the facilities and different rooms. We could observe an ongoing lesson, but I'm not sure what he'd enjoy. Nechev should be preparing his pupils for the final exam, but they'd only study material. Merketz would have her’s write rem until they know it by heart. That leaves Zarilah and Revah.

“Vuhtzev,” I ask. “What level are you?”

“Level?” He repeats, holding his chin. “I don't understand what you mean.”

“There are thirteen levels at the Yarbil,” I state. “Didn't Etirvet have levels?”

“No,” he answers. “We didn't age out if that's what you mean.”

“How did you know who was a biluh and who was a Chitzah?” I ask, tilting my head.

“The older generations would teach the younger ones,” he explains. “I taught a few lessons within my discipline.”

“Which is?” I press, eager to see what he's mastered.

“Well,” he stammers. “It's mostly just stuff for battles.”

“Battles?” I ask intrigued. “Did you fight in tournaments?”

“Not exactly,” he admits, hesitating to go on. “Imazet drilled me on all sorts of rem for battle. It's all I ever learned. She forced me to practice them day and night.”

My mother taught him how to battle? She never taught me a rem. I was left to study on my own. My chest seizes. What made him so special? Why would she train him and not me?

“What's your discipline?” Vuhtzev's voice slices through my daze.

“Let's keep moving,” I growl, marching ahead.