The game of rulla was so ancient no one could claim its invention. It was played in all the provinces by both men and women, old and young alike. Even the poorest had a set of rulla dice, carried in a pouch. 

            Upon arrival, each apprentice was given a green tunic, brown woolen leggings, and a small leather pouch. Within this pouch were two fourteen- sided dice, flattened at each corner. 

            “These are the ones you will use,” Strout had loomed over them, indicating they throw their personal die in a basket.  There were all sorts of dice: metal, wood, bone, rock, wood. “Empty your pockets of the old.”

            Each had thrown in their pouches, including Jessum.

            The new dice were made of poplar, and the apprentices rolled against themselves until they were comfortable with the new weight. Then they rolled against each other continually in the garret room, trying to reach the high roll of twenty-eight. 

            The game meant nothing and everything. Rulla was a game, but was now a predictor. Surely those who rolled higher numbers would be chosen to stay.

            A peculiar twist of the wrist, a certain cup of the hand, a tilt of the head, all tried and rejected in an attempt for a perfect roll. When the twenty-eight occasionally happened, all became still and the others would consider the roller with new eyes and try to imitate him.

            It wasn’t known if those who rolled high were chosen to stay or leave, but belief in that magic held strong. The fact was this: no one had ever out rolled Elymas.

            But Jessum had.

            It was custom that Earth Skyll would roll against them, but custom didn’t allow them to know when. The apprentices only knew that at some point, Elymas would take out the pouch he carried in his pocket and roll against each. 

            They been seated on the ground of the garden bailey, listening to one of Strout’s disjointed lectures, when Elymas strolled up, dressed not in crimson but wine red. He wore the expression of a man whose plans are going well.

            “Continue,” said Elymas, waving a hand. 

            Strout finished his sentence. Elymas walked to a small table on which some leaves had fallen, and brushed them to the ground. He reached in his pocket while nodding to a boy named Duncan. The boy sat, frozen. The Earth Skyll cast a rare smile, displaying his rulla pouch in the air. 

The others gathered round, watching as they rolled. Duncan had lost consecutively, but that was to be expected. Another boy took Duncan’s place, and on it went. There was joking, even laughter, and the clatter of dice in the air.

            Then, it was Jessum’s turn.