Doppelganger

5 Test [Miryo]

Miryo was on the roof again when Eikyo found her, this time on a slope that had her facing Star Hall directly.

“You’re brooding,” her friend said in accusation, when she rounded a gable and found Miryo there. “And you made yourself hard to find.”

Miryo just shrugged.

“Don’t think you can get rid of me that easily.” Eikyo came up and sat on the tiles next to her. “What’s wrong?”

“Just thinking.”

“While staring at Star Hall.”

“I’m worried about the test, okay?”

Eikyo peered at her. “No, not okay. There’s more to it than that. Has something happened?”

The sun-warmed tiles were soothing against Miryo’s hands. She picked at a leaf that had become caught between two of them. “Maybe. I don’t know.” She caught sight of Eikyo’s face, and sighed. “All right. I talked to Ashin-kasora a while ago, because I was thinking about maybe joining the Air Hand.”

Eikyo’s expression became sympathetic. “Did she ton you down?”

Miryo laughed without much humor. “She may not have to.”

“What?”

“She…” Miryo searched for words to describe the Key’s behavior. There really was no gentle way to say it. “She thinks I’m going to fail the test.”

Eikyo stared at her in complete shock. “You can’t be serious.”

“And the funny thing is,” Miryo said, not finding it funny at all, “just a few days before that, Narika-kai was telling me she thought I would be fine.”

“Well, there you go,” Eikyo said. “Who says Ashin’s right? And for the love of the Mother, why would she even tell you that?”

“She didn’t say it outright. Just acted like it.”

Eikyo brightened. “See? You were probably just imagining it.”

“I wasn’t.” Miryo shook her head, eyes on Star Hall again. “I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t quite that. But… she was on edge about something having to do with my test. And she did a miserable job of hiding it.”

Her friend ran her fingers down the cracks between the roof tiles, one by one. “Maybe she did it on purpose,” she said slowly.

Now it was Miryo’s turn to stare. “What?”

“Well,” Eikyo said, “most of the time I’ve seen you fail at something, it’s because you didn’t think it was going to be a problem. So you weren’t prepared. But if you expect a challenge—well, that’s the quickest way to make you succeed. You put your head down and run at it, and Goddess help anything that gets in your way.”

Miryo rolled her eyes. “You think she did it just to make me work harder?”

“Maybe.”

It was better than the alternative. And Eikyo’s right about me, I guess. I left Ashin’s office and went straight back to my room to look over my notes again.

She was only up here brooding because that morning she’d received her script for the ritual that framed the test. It told her some, but not much. From the terse lines of her responses, she guessed that the test somehow involved trials of character, before it opened her to power.

Do I really think I’m going to fail that? Do I think my character isn’t strong enough? Given some of the witches I’ve known here at Starfall?

But that wasn’t really the question.

Am I going to back down from this—from what I’ve worked for all my life—just because I might fail?

Even if she could, she wouldn’t.

Miryo smiled at Eikyo, and meant it. “I’ll find out, I guess. In the meantime, it’s back to studying for me. I’m damned if I’ll fail the questioning, and miss the chance to prove Ashin wrong.”

“Why is amethyst unstable in certain Fire spells, and which are those it can be used in?”

Miryo’s heart clawed its way into her throat. Amethyst-Fire—Misetsu and Menukyo help her, she didn’t know! Given time, maybe, but they would tolerate no delay!

And, for the thousandth time that day, even as Miryo’s mind froze in terrified paralysis, her mouth gave the answer. The Fire Hand Key who had asked the question showed no reaction whatsoever, but Miryo knew it was correct. Again. Luckily.

The room was cool, but she was drenched with sweat, as if she had run a dozen circuits around Star Hall. And all she had done was sit in a chair and answer questions! Miryo felt drained. And still the questions came, steady and remorseless, and still she gave the answers, without quite knowing how.

Arrayed against her were fifteen women, each with a gaze piercing enough to have nailed her to the wall twenty feet behind her. Three from each Ray of Star Hall; they were the Keys to the Paths, and stood subordinate only to the Primes who led the five Rays. They must be passing some manner of signal among themselves, for the questions never paused, and no two witches ever spoke at the same time; they merely continued at the same measured pace, wringing every last drop of knowledge out of Miryo, including some she never knew were in her. Ashin was among them, of course, but her unusually dark eyes betrayed no hint of anything.

“When will the next lunar eclipse come, and how extensive will it be?”

“It will come forty-three days hence, and cover three-quarters of the moon, Itsumen-akara.”

“During what part of the year is the constellation of the Hunter visible in the sky?”

“From the spring equinox to the winter solstice, Kimeko-akara.”

Two in a row from the Void Ray. There was no pattern to the questions, no rhyme or reason to how they came. Miryo could never be sure where the next one was coming from, or what it would concern.

“Eliseed can be used for treating shortness of breath, but never with pregnant women, or those suffering heart troubles, Atami-makiza.”

Without so much as a glance, the cue passed from the Water Hand Key to the Earth Heart. Would Atami be upset that Miryo had given too much information? The witch had not asked for exceptions to the use of eliseed Even as Miryo said how many hot springs were in the domain of Trine—“Seventeen, Ueda-chakoa”—she slipped a glance back at the witch who had asked the previous question. Atami did not look irritated. It was probably better to tell more than less.

Miryo spared a moment to think of Eikyo. She hoped her friend was studying hard. The questioning was far more brutal than either of them had expected. How had Gannu ever passed?

“Lightning may be directed only in conjunction with Earth, Onomita-nakana. If the witch is not properly grounded, it may recoil back on her.”

It took a heartbeat for Miryo to realize that no one had followed the Fire Head Key’s question with a new one. She reached for her water glass; her mouth was dry from speaking, and these pauses came all too infrequently.

The Keys stood.

Miryo stared at them for an instant before leaping to her feet. The questioning was over. Now the Keys would announce their evaluation of her performance. Except that they hadn’t discussed it among themselves at all; didn’t they need to talk it over?

Then Miryo remembered her part, and turned to look behind her.

The five women who served as Primes for the Rays stood behind her in an impassive line. Miryo bowed to the Keys, then to the Primes, and moved to one side, out of the way.

“This one has brought her mind to you for testing,” Satomi-aken, the Void Prime, said into the quiet of the room. “How do you find it?”

Hyoka-akara answered her, the Key of the Head for Satomi’s Ray. “Her mind is sound and well-prepared. We commend her to your trial.”

First stage down. Now, the one that matters.

Miryo approached the Primes and bowed again, trying to keep her face calm. They did not speak to her, but merely turned and led her out of the room.

The six women passed down a hallway and through a door, emerging into the crisp evening air. To her surprise, Miryo saw that full dark had just set in. Even though she was aware of the prescribed timing, it felt as though it should be noon the next day. The questions had gone on forever.

The Primes split up. One by one, they walked to the four doors of Star Hall, until each stood at the door for her Ray. Miryo was left a few paces behind the Void Prime. Satomi stepped forward at last, and Miryo saw with some interest that the woman chose the arm of the Hall dedicated to Air. Rumor had it that the branch you approached from was indicative of which had shown the most interest in you, the one they believed you showed the most talent for. But it was only rumor.

In silent procession, Satomi walked down the lofty corridor of Air. Miryo restrained her urge to gape around; she and the other students were in here only rarely. She kept her eyes glued to the Void Prime’s rod-straight back, until they stood in the center, where the arms of the Hall crossed.

The witch guided Miryo up onto the dais at the center, then turned to face her.

“Remain here in vigil, and contemplate that which you face. At midnight, the ritual will begin.”

And then I find out what Ashin was afraid of.

“I hear and obey, Satomi-aken,” Miryo said softly. The witch turned away and left the dais, walking out through the north and the door of Earth.

Leaving Miryo alone in Star Hall.

From now until midnight, when the Primes would return, she would not speak. The silence of the Hall was oppressive, suffocating, until she wanted to talk, shout, sing, anything to break it—and yet she was forbidden to do so.

Miryo realized her breathing was quickening. Concentrating, she forced herself to calm down, and looked around the Hall.

It was a work of breathtaking beauty. Crafted from silvery stone, the Hall soared upward on impossibly slender supports, until it seemed to be reaching for the very stars it was dedicated to. Graceful rib-vaulting made a delicate pattern across the ceiling, fanning out across the bays, until at the crossing it leapt even farther upward, into a blackness the witchlights could not even touch. The crossing was devoted to the Void.

The four arms of the Hall, by contrast, were a riot of color. Each was built of the same silvery stone, clean and unadorned by even the simplest sculpture, but the walls between the piers of the arches were almost nonexistent, replaced instead by rank upon rank of exquisite stained-glass windows. In the west, where Miryo had entered, the colors of Air were all of the most delicate hues, barely even detectable, but the light that came through them turned everything sharp-edged and preternaturally distinct. She wondered what spell managed that. It was full dark outside, yet somehow the windows still shed light, still touched the silvery marble with their colors.

In the south, the hall of Fire was colored in all the hues of its namesake, red and orange and gold, until the light falling on the floor seemed to be pure fire itself. North was Earth, resplendent in rich greens and warm ambers; East was Water, all shifting blues.

And in the crossing itself—

The heart of Star Hall, dedicated to the untouchable emptiness of the Void, defied all the laws of nature. Somehow the color of the four branches, their light, their life, did not reach here. The air was peculiarly gray and washed-out, and the arches soared upward from the clerestory level into blackness. In the four arms, the windows depicted symbols of their Elements; in the center, Miryo could not even make out the windows, despite her best efforts. They faded away in an odd and disquieting manner, although she was sure they were there.

She shivered and looked away.

They wanted her to meditate on her future. What a wonderful idea that is. All I can think about is what might go wrong.

As far as she knew, there were two ways to fail the test. She didn’t know how either of them happened—just the results.

She might die. It wasn’t common, but it did happen, and supposedly in a variety of ways. Though that might just be student rumor. Certainly Hinusoka had died.

The other possibility would make her a Cousin.

Most of those who served the witches had never been witch-students. They were the children of other Cousins, as Miryo was the child of a witch. Mostly daughters; a rare scattering of sons, which was more than the witches had, but not many. But ultimately they were all descended from failed students, and sometimes—when something went wrong in the test—new ones joined them.

Eikyo feared that more than death. Miryo wasn’t sure which way to feel. If you ended up a Cousin, you didn’t remember anything, which presumably meant you didn’t care about your failure. But there was something appalling about the thought, about losing your mind—

Miryo’s breathing had sped up, and she forced herself to calm down. Don’t think about that. Maybe fear is how it happens.

You’ll find out soon enough.

She concentrated on her breathing, focusing her mind, slipping into a light meditative trance where she thought about nothing at all. And, without her being aware of it, time passed.

Between one heartbeat and the next, they were there.

Miryo’s breath caught in her throat. The five Primes had appeared silently, simultaneously; they might have been statues were it not for their glittering eyes.

Satomi was on the dais with her. The others stood at four points around the dais, each on a circular patch of floor inlaid with the color of her Element. In wordless unison, without so much as a sound to direct their power, they began to rise, until they reached the level of the dais, each standing on a coruscating column of Elemental light.

“Who comes?”

The sung phrase, five voices blending as one, broke the crystalline silence.

“A sister.” The solo response came from Arinei-nayo, the Fire Prime.

“Who comes?”

“A student.” This time the Air Prime, Shimi-kane, answered.

“Who comes?”

“A daughter.” That was the Water Prime, Rana-mari.

“Who comes?”

“A candidate.” Koika-chashi, the Earth Prime.

“Who comes?”

“One of ours, who is not one of us; one who would join us under the stars, who has not been tried.” Satomi’s voice rendered the peculiar intervals of her response without hesitation; the words floated upward to be swallowed by the blackness above.

The four other Primes sang in return. “Let her be tried; let the testing begin.”

There was a pause. Miryo took a deep breath and braced herself.

“Aken, I stand in protest.”

The chanted line stopped Miryo’s heart. Shimi looked across at her with eyes like chips of palest blue ice; the woman’s expression was antagonistic as she addressed the Void Prime in a monotone.

Was this what Ashin feared?

“This student is not fit for testing. She must not be allowed to continue.”

“Shimi-kane,” Miryo responded before she could think, “the Keys passed me in the primary testing.”

The Air Prime gave her a frosty look. “They are Keys, and not Primes.” She continued to speak in a single tone; Miryo had unconsciously echoed it. The music was the framework of the ritual, and despite this interruption—her heart skipped another beat in horror—it must not be broken entirely.

“That may be so,” she said as steadily as she could. “But the Law of this Hall states that a student who has succeeded in the initial testing is eligible for the final stage. You may not agree with their decision, but the Law grants me the right nevertheless.”

“The Law is not supreme. I am the Prime of the Air Ray; I have the power to alter it.”

Arinei broke in now. “Sister, do you challenge a Prime?”

Miryo’s jaw worked up and down a few times. Contradicting a Prime was unthinkable—but she couldn’t let Shimi destroy her chances! “Arinei-nayo, my apologies, but the Law gives me the right to undergo this testing, and I cannot allow that to be taken from me. I have not come this far to give up.”

“As my sister says, it is within the power of a Prime to alter the Law.”

“But is now the time to do it?” Miryo shot back. “The ritual has started. It should be finished.”

“It is not the place of a student to dictate policy to us, candidate,” Koika said in a frigid voice.

Miryo spun to the north to face the Earth Prime, then bowed her head at the rebuke. “I understand, Chashi. But I will not back down from what I believe is right.”

“Even though it may bring more trouble than you expect? Even supposing you pass the ritual, I fear my sister may never accept you. You build difficulties for yourself, candidate.”

“I hardly expect every witch of the sisterhood to view me as a friend, Koika-chashi.” Miryo lifted her chin. “If I cause trouble with authority, so be it; better that than to relinquish my convictions.”

“Why do you wish to continue?”

The question, almost whispered in the chant all the Primes and Miryo were continuing to use, echoed fleetingly around the crossing. Miryo shifted to look at Rana.

“If I may be blunt, Rana-mari, I have not spent all twenty-five years of my life studying for nothing.”

“You may die.”

That short declaration made Miryo’s skin crawl. She remembered what little had been left of Hinusoka when the ritual was done, and the other students who had not survived. Her fate might be like that. Or worse.

“Perhaps, Mari,” she said quietly. “I am willing to take that chance.”

“The Goddess smiles; the ritual continues. The sister, the daughter, the student, the candidate; she has been tried, and not found wanting.”

What—oh, Misetsu and Menukyo, the ritual—that was it, port of it—all a test—

“Let the testing continue,” the other four Primes sang in response to Satomi, in melody once again. “Will you begin?”

Miryo just barely remembered her own part. “I stand ready for Earth. May the Goddess as Crone be at my side, and lend me determination.”

The Hall disappeared.

A crushing, lethal pressure was on Miryo—not physically; there was no physical element to this, but it was nevertheless horribly real and present, moving inward, forcing the life out of her. Its strength was terrifying. Miryo shoved back reflexively, trying to fight against the deadly attack.

Determination. Strength. Attributes of Earth—

Miryo braced herself, no longer trying to push the pressure back, merely concentrating on holding her own. It made the heaviest burden she’d ever shouldered feel light.

Goddess, Crone, I’m not strong enough—

That defeated thought sparked a sudden reaction in her; perversely, it made her that much less willing to give in. Eikyo had been right. I made it this far; I’m bloody well not going to give up now. She hardened her focus even more—

The pressure vanished. The Hall reappeared.

“I have mastered Earth,” Miryo sang unevenly, her voice barely able to render the response. “Its strength is mine.”

“The Crone smiles,” sang Koika. Did she look pleased? Impossible to tell; the Primes were all impassive.

“Let the testing continue.”

Miryo was not ready. She wanted nothing more than a moment to catch her breath, to recover from the ordeal of Earth. But she feared that any hesitation might undo her, might allow the terror to take control.

“I stand ready for Water,” she sang before the doubts could rise up further. “May the Goddess as Mother be at my side, and lend me flexibility.”

The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the Hall went away.

A fierce wind sprang up, seeking to rend her apart, to snap her in half. Miryo felt like a tree in a hurricane-force gale. Trees—they broke in storms, they were too stiff. She tried to bend with the wind.

She couldn’t make it work. Like a tree, with its grained wood, she could not give way. The wind increased in force, and Miryo felt pain, as though her spine would snap, her branches break off.

Mother, Goddess of Water. I know what I should do—these tests are, in a way, straightforward—but I can’t do it!

Slowly, painfully, she relaxed the nonphysical part of herself, moving in the direction the wind drove her. Be a willow, not an oak. It was working. The Goddess was with her.

“I have mastered Water,” Miryo sang when the Hall was once more in her vision. “Its flexibility is mine.”

“The Mother smiles,” Rana sang. Two Primes had passed her; leaving three. And then—

Don’t think about that.

“Let the testing continue.”

“I stand ready for Air. May the Goddess as Bride be at my side, and lend me clarity.”

This time Miryo was assaulted, not by a wind, but by an unreal barrage of—she could not put a word to it. Ideas, images, sounds, all flocked around her, flashing back and forth too rapidly to be comprehended, blurring into a demented collage, a howling demon of chaos.

It began to erode her sanity.

Like studying—information—all those bits and pieces—all at once—too many to control!

The torrent continued. Miryo fought to put the thoughts into order, to force them into some kind of sanity; she fought and failed. Her own mental balance was rapidly disappearing beneath the onslaught.

I have to stay calm!

She felt a scream building in her gut, fought it back. She could not make a sound. It was forbidden to do so, except in the responses. Not just for discipline; any extraneous noise could disrupt the power of the ritual. The wrong sound could be death.

This and a thousand other thoughts flew past in a maddening flood.

And then it was over. Miryo drew a deep breath. “I have mastered Air. Its clarity is mine.” Or so I hope. Misetsu’s faith—that was closer than I would have liked.

Shimi appeared to find her performance good enough. “The Bride smiles.”

“Let the testing continue.”

She feared this one more than all the rest—all the rest save Void. Singing the next lines took more courage than she could have imagined. “I stand ready for Fire. May the Goddess as Maiden be at my side, and lend me courage.”

Frigid chill. And a wind, again, this time bringing the ice of the far norm, like a blast of air off a snow-covered mountain peak. Miryo’s first instinct was to curl in on herself, pull her insubstantial body into a ball, but it did no good; there was no shelter.

This was not what I expected. Goddess, I’m so cold!

The more she tried to hide, the worse it became. Her bones ached at the cold. It grew steadily more painful; her body was freezing solid, turning her into ice. Miryo huddled in on herself, almost weeping at the cold.

I’m going at it wrong. Obviously. Maiden, Lady of Light, what must I do?

Fighting back at the ordeal of Earth had failed. But Earth was not about fighting; it was about enduring. Fire, on the other hand—that was where you fought.

The fury she had held back, slowly building since Shimi had pretended to deny her right to be here, came bursting forth. It was more than anger, more than determination; it was her burning drive to undergo this ritual, and the dedication that had carried her through twenty-five years of training. To this point. This test.

I’m not going to give up now.

The passion of her emotions flared against the cold, pushing it back. Miryo straightened, lifted her chin. She had barely held on in the trial of Air, but this one was hers.

The Hall appeared once more.

“I have mastered Fire,” Miryo sang, and this time there was real conviction in her voice. “Its courage is mine.”

“The Maiden smiles,” Arinei responded. She did look pleased; Miryo could see just a hint of it around her eyes.

“Let the testing continue.”

This time the response was not Miryo’s. She faced Satomi, who met her gaze as she sang the words. “No one stands ready for the Void. The test begins. May the Goddess as Warrior have mercy on your soul.”

Everything vanished.

There was nothing. Not only was the Hall gone, and the Primes who stood in it, but nothing came to replace it. There was no wind, no images, nothing at all. Miryo had been struck deaf and blind—more, even; her skin felt no sensations, she smelled no odors, even her own sense of her body was gone. There was nothing.

And Miryo knew it was the Void, but even that thought would not come, would not form in the emptiness. There was nothing.

Not even herself.

Her heart would have beat faster, had she a heart. She would have been terrified, had fear been able to exist. Her mind, were it not gone, would have dissolved into shrieking insanity. But it was gone, they were all gone; there was nothing except the Void, and the Void was nothing.

Her scream rang in the vaulting of the Hall.

Miryo stared around at the five women, the stones of the Hall, her own body. Her eyes drank in the images. The sound of her own panicked breathing was music; the touch of the air pure bliss. The world had returned.

She had screamed. Perhaps she had failed. But at the moment, Miryo could not bring herself to care; nothing mattered except the return of the world.

“You have glimpsed the Void, for an instant only, and it has marked you,” Satomi sang. An instant? Eternity, and no time at all. Miryo’s mind flinched back from it. “The Warrior has tested you, and you have not been destroyed.”

“Let our newest fly on the wings of power.”

The five women sang that phrase as one, and as the last syllable was released, something flooded into Miryo.

Pain annihilated the world.