One in Three

Damon Lyn sat alone at the small wooden table.

His lightly-clenched fists rested on his muscled thighs and his solemn brown eyes were fixed on the three ornate drinking bowls placed before him. His father was waiting outside.

For the hundredth time that day, Damon took a deep breath and let his gaze sweep between the three carved bowls. A clear and still liquid rested just below the rim of each, its glassy surface reflecting the dim candlelight like the placid waters of a forest pool at sunset.

Only it wasn’t water in the bowls.

Damon’s right hand unclenched, his fingers twitching, and he raised his arm ever so slightly. Slowly, deliberately. The one in the middle, he thought. Maybe. No. His heart began to pound in his ears and he lowered his arm back to his lap.

Not yet. He wasn’t quite ready. But soon.

He let out the long-held breath slowly, allowing his eyes to drift from the table – letting them wander about the proudly decorated cabin. He looked to the back wall first, as he always did. There, a round slice from the trunk of a young redwood tree was fastened to the wall, its bottom edge resting on the polished wooden floor, its upper edge nearly lost in the darkness of the rafters. Sunken into its rich sienna timber were small black-iron disks, some smaller than a fingernail, others the size of an apple. Damon’s chest swelled with pride.

Each one of those disks represented a slain demon – the bigger the iron disk, the more powerful the Hell-spawn defeated. There were hundreds of them. His ancestors had been prolific. Damon knew that his father had placed twelve. His grandmother, twenty-five. But as decorated as the redwood plaque was, it represented only a portion of the work done by his venerable and dedicated family line.

The Lyns had been knights since before the Reaving, and well back into the grey days of the Godless Times. The plaque, and the cabin it rested in, had been built less than five centuries ago. Roughly half the distance back in time that Damon could trace his family history. No other noble family Damon was aware of could claim an uninterrupted line of classically-trained knights even two-thirds as old. They were a very minor family within the fabric of the Empire, certainly, but the Lyn name was uttered with respect and reverence from Hightemple to Hamad.  

Damon’s eye left the plaque and wandered along the walls that led away from it, curving gently back towards him. They were lined with the trappings of the past. Swords, shields, breastplates, chain shirts, banners, capes, tapestries and scrolls, each layered in preserving enchantments so that their dignity and memory would never fade.

Many families that had entered the nobility as knights had climbed beyond that rank. Indeed, few other high-ranking Arvairian families bothered with knightly titles even if they could claim them. Demons weren’t as active as they had once been after all. But, as Damon’s father was fond of saying, they only stayed that way thanks to the efforts of families like theirs.

Damon’s eyes flickered back to the bowls and he swallowed hard. If his family’s knightly lineage were to continue, he needed to choose.

The young knight was an only child. His mother had passed years ago, and his father had never remarried. His aunt had died in battle, and his uncle had chosen the life of a merchant. Most of his cousins had followed after his uncle. Tora, the one cousin who had untaken the training, had died last year in this very cabin.

Killed by the potent brew of herbs and poisons contained within the carved wooden bowls.

Damon didn’t have to drink all three at once – just one every other day for the next month – but choosing from three bowls on the first day was a Lyn family tradition. One of his ancestors – he wasn’t sure who – had started the practice as a superstitious way of settling their mind before downing the brew. A third of all humans who undertook this final stage of knightly training died before its completion. Another third of the trainees gave up once the pain grew unbearable. The agony the elixir caused was that bad. The final third would have to endure a month of terrible suffering before becoming true knights.

Damon flexed his hands and swallowed again. One in three. Three bowls, three outcomes. But which was which?

The tradition was supposed to ease the mind by having the prospective knight choose what they thought was the “death bowl” and the “quitters bowl” on the first day, and throw them away. Damon’s father had told him that after he’d passed this part of the process, he’d been able to set aside his fear and pull through until the end. But Damon thought the very idea was ridiculous. He’d watched his father fill the three bowls from the same cask. He had just as much a chance of dying no matter which one he chose to throw away. It was empty symbolism as far as he was concerned.

And yet he still couldn’t choose.

He didn’t have to, technically. His inheritance and training made him a knight even without drinking from the bowls. With his skills – the swordsmanship, battle strategy, armor maintenance, wound treatment, and so much more – he could still join the Imperial military and likely gain an officer’s post almost immediately. He could fight for the Empire, battle evil foes – serve justice. Do what his heart had yearned for from the first time he’d seen his father return home in full battle gear, carrying two new black iron disks for the family plaque.

But if Damon did walk away from this final challenge, he would no longer be a Lyn.

It wouldn’t be the first time a parent of his line had been forced to disown a child.

Damon nodded and lifted his hand again, reaching slowly towards the bowl on the right. Any one would do. It didn’t actually matter, he reminded himself.

One outstretched finger traced the carvings etched into the side, a depiction of an armored warrior engaged in single combat with a grotesque beast limned in red. If he did this and came out the other side alive, that would be him. Stronger, faster, resistant to pain and poison, and most importantly, able to withstand the life-draining magic that made demons so dangerous. A true and complete knight.

All it would cost was a month of unbelievable suffering. Or worse.

Damon’s hand recoiled, ever so slightly. He wanted this, he told himself. He wanted this. He wanted this.

Why did he want this?

Damon heart throbbed in his ears once again. The image of his father, riding down the lane victorious, flashed before his eyes. But what was it about that image that had led him here? The glory? The honor? The idealist morality? Battle-lust? Wanderlust? Pride? Pride. That felt closest to true. Was that a good thing? It didn’t seem like it. Damon’s fingers trembled and he leaned back in his chair.

What exactly was he proud of?

The image of his father flashed again, but his view was broader this time. This time he saw the other people. The ones lining the road with outstretched hands bearing flowers and bright banners. The young, the old, the weary and the helpless. He nodded, letting his thoughts crystallize.

He was proud of his family’s steadfast devotion to their duty. Proud that they hadn’t succumbed to the lure of vain nobility. That the people under their protection loved them – celebrated them. Trusted them.

He was proud of his father. Proud of his aunt. Proud of Tora. Proud of his grandmother. Of his ancestors. Of the legacy. Of the hope for a kinder and safer future that they had helped to build and continued to inspire. And most all, Damon realized…

He was proud that he was willing to die for it.

The young knight cast one last look over his family’s ceremonial cabin, the glittering past fueling the swell of emotion building in his chest. He swung his hand over to the bowl on the left. This was the one that would kill him, he decided. Damon snorted as he lifted it towards his lips.

He dared it to try.