Those Who Would Not Be Gods

8. First: Raff

He didn't sleep much that night. It wasn't until the darkness of his room settled over him and he was alone, save the gentle whisper of Sab's breathing, that the doubts came. High Priest. Could he really be the High Priest? He wasn't even the best mage in the Schola. He was good, no mistake, but the best? The High Priest. He brushed his hair back and stared at the bottom of the bunk above him. It was insane to even think about. But here he was, doing it anyways. Just some no-name from a no-name town, trying to become the highest-ranked priest out there. And the best part is, I'm not even a priest! He giggled quietly. It was insane.

He was going to be in charge of everything, if he won. Well. All the Shrines in the region. What else did he need, really? He'd practically be nobility! An evil grin spread over his face. Pasquale wouldn't be able to look down on him anymore. He'd be able to look down on Pasquale! That'd teach the asshole a thing or two about treating people with respect! He could see it already. Pasquale on his knees, his stupid oiled hair all messed up as he pressed his forehead into the floor. "Rise," he imagined saying, because he was a merciful man, after all. Pasquale's face was twisted with disgust, but the man held his tongue, because what was he going to do? Badmouth the High Priest?

"Fetch me some water," he said with a lazy wave, jeweled fingers glittering.

With the most horribly sour expression, Pasquale moved reluctantly to a crystal pitcher and poured him a cup of water. No—a glass. A glass of the finest wine. He'd be rich, after all. He took the glass, noting the way Pasquale's knuckles clenched white on it, and sipped it. His grin spread wider, and he threw the wine in Pasquale's face. And Pasquale could do nothing. Wine soaked into his jacket, stained the silver embroidery, and he could do nothing. Nothing but stare, as his teeth ground harder and his face went red with rage.

A chill went down his back. What if he made a fool of himself at the trials? What if he got too nervous and couldn't cast right, and his magic just fizzled? He imagined himself tripping as he walked out on the field, falling flat on his face. The sword fell away from him. Pasquale started laughing, pointing his stupid finger at Raff. Alessa and Alessi materialized behind him, and they were laughing too, heads tipped back as they howled, barely able to contain themselves. Raff scrubbed his face. No! It wasn't going to be like that. He'd do fine. It'd be fine.

He didn't even know where the trials were going to take place. What they were going to be. They wanted to keep it neutral, make sure nobody had an advantage, but that just made him more nervous. He'd like if it was a combat trial. Shrineguards had an advantage over most mages, since they practiced combat more than anything else. Unless... his stomach twisted with fear. Unless it was combat to the death. And even if it wasn't, he'd never been in a real fight before. It was all practice. And Pasquale didn't count, because they weren't actually trying to kill each other. All the little scraps with Sab and the other no-names, all the battle practice from the Schola, it was all the same. It was sparring. All of it, just sparring.

And what if it was something he'd never done before? Some kind of complex manipulation puzzle? Or worse, something he'd never been good at, like lighting a flame underwater? His head swam with the possibilities, none of them good.

When sleep came, it was restless. Pasquale's laughter mocked him from one dream to the next, as he walked onto the field with no pants, forgot his soulstone, slipped and fell on cow dung in front of a huge crowd. He frowned in his sleep, fighting his sheets.

"Raff!"

A slap to his face. He jolted awake, confused, a hand going to his face. Sab, concerned, stared down at him. "Don't you have to be at the Shrine by dawn?"

Raff blinked sleepily up at Sab, still annoyed at the slap. Why would he have to—Trials!

He jumped out of bed and just about threw himself into his clothes, yanking his pants up, slinging his jacket on, quickly buckling leather armor over his body. He'd have worn his dress uniform, except there was no guarantee it wouldn't be a combat test, and if it might be combat, he was wearing his armor.