by Sever Bronny
Jengo clutched his own satchel, overstuffed with scrolls and books and parchments, close to his hip. “They say he’s gifted at military strategy.” He waved vaguely. “The father, I mean. King Samuel Sepherin. Sepherin the Sufferer, as they call him, due to his skin deformity. Odd how he’s stayed behind in Canterra. Sent one of his sons along in his stead. Not only is this particular son head of The Path in Solia, he’s also in charge of the invading army. And he’s your age.”
“He’s seventeen, actually.”
“Well, you’re almost seventeen. Still, trained from birth to command by the finest Canterran strategists. A gifted, mesmerizing orator. Expertly mentored in advanced arcane studies—”
“I read the piece too, Jengo.” The Canterrans had somehow forced Cry Slimwealth—likely by threatening his father, for he was on the high council—to paint a rosy portrait of Prince Darby Sepherin in the Academy Herald, a piece that was quickly parroted by the Blackhaven and Antioc heralds. The entire kingdom was reading about the “brilliant disciple who is a bringer of peace and prosperity and who will lead Solia to a new dawn of enlightenment.” Darby the Diamond they called him, for he was supposed to be perfect in every way. Perfect in looks, perfect in arcanery, perfect in military matters, perfect in spirit. A crucial detail in the piece revealed that Darby had the final say on where The Path would spread in the Kingdom of Solia, for only he, the genius prodigal son, could interpret the words of the gods. He who had been appointed to the post not by the gods but by his own father.
“Though, it’s odd that he’s praised for being a warlock, considering The Path condemns the craft as witchery,” Jengo said.
Canterra thought of arcanery as no less than demon-worship, even though it was a tool no more dangerous than a sword. Yet Prince Darby the Diamond was an 8th degree warlock, an excellent level for his age; even Augum and the girls, who were advanced for their age, were only 7th degree. Augum wondered what element Darby was and, more importantly, what kind of warlock he was. As with a sword, arcanery came down to the wielder and his training. And his character. A person of good character used a sword to defend the weak, whereas a person of malevolent character used it to subjugate the weak.
“I gagged reading that piece, you know,” Jengo added in an undertone. “Everything we fought for is under threat. And people are too stupid to see it. Look at some of these fools jockeying for favor from their own conquerors. Poverty of the mind, I tell you. It’s what happens when kids forsake their education to work on the farm at fourteen instead of trying out for the academy.”
“Careful, they’ll cut out your tongue for speaking such things.” Augum didn’t bother reminding Jengo he had been one of those farm kids, only dragged away from a poverty-stricken mind due to the firm kindness of those who believed in the strength of knowledge.
“Right.” Jengo’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “And would you believe the nobles support this? Folded like cheap tents in a breeze.”
“Actually I do.”
“Greedy bastards.”
“Greedy bastards,” Augum echoed. He had made enemies of the nobles by choosing to become an Arcaner. Those nobles took exception to the second portion of an edict in the Arcaner’s chivalric code: Thou shall serve thy lord and king and kingdom with valor and courage and an open heart. But thou shall also root out corruption in all its forms and the sanctity of the truth shall vanquish any title. Although Augum had no intention of causing trouble, should he resurrect the order, he knew those gifted in quelling corruption, those who desired that specific path, would follow that edict to the death. Stories of learned, meticulous and patient Arcaners quelling corruption littered the history books—and history had a tendency to cycle. And that’s exactly why corrupt nobles feared that edict to their very bones, for Arcaners would always be an enemy to the corrupt. The irony was that a stronger and more just kingdom would come out of such a cleansing. But greed before kingdom, right?
Unfortunately, following that edict of the chivalric code was also what led to the demise of the Arcaners, for they had been targeted by Whisper Blades, the same assassins who were after Augum now. But Arcaners had also died out because they had been cheated by opponents who did not follow the honorable ways of combat. Bow before a fight. Show thy stripes. The usual ancient etiquettes. Why not strike instead of bow and claim that initiative?
Yet out of sheer stubbornness and foolhardiness, and although Solian nobles had already tried to assassinate him, Augum thought he could bring the order back and overcome the obstacles of the past.
Jengo sighed as a sharp winter wind made the tall Sierran draw his hood tighter around his head. “What are we going to do?”
“Tell the others.”
“No, I mean, what are we going to do?”
Augum’s jaw traveled to and fro in time to the steel-booted march of defeat. “Play along … for now.”
The Fickle Crowd
“Please hide, Your Highness,” an old man whispered.
Augum had watched recognition dawn on the man’s face. It was a common reaction. The man had made eye contact through the crowd and drifted close. He stank of wine and hay and wore the faded leathers of an old farmhand.
“They will find you and take you, Your Highness.” His red eyes darted to Jengo distrustfully.
“I am no longer a prince, sir,” Augum said.
“You will always be a prince to this kingdom, to those who know what you have done, what you have sacrificed for us. Please, hide. Hide now, before it’s too late.”
“I cannot do that, sir.”
The creases on the man’s face softened. “Then may the Unnameables bless you and Princess Bridget and Princess Leera. May they keep you safe in the times to come, for dark they shall be. Dark as the minds of the invaders. Dark as the heart of your father. Bless you, Your Highness. Bless you.” The man then faded back into the crowd.
“Still, kind of tempting to do what he suggests, eh?” Jengo said, wincing cagily as he glanced at Augum.
“I wouldn’t fault you if you did.”
“But you’d be disappointed.”
Augum let silence do the replying, and Jengo nodded to himself somberly before saying, “Refreshing to bump into a supporter for a change.”
“Agreed.” Most people fell into the well of superstition, as the mind was fickle and subject to the sway of ideas spoken forcefully. That was why The Path was running rampant through Solia, for people’s defenses had been weakened by war and starvation, by the lack of the written word, by a twisted understanding of history, and especially by generations of superstition exacerbated and exploited by the Legion and tyrants that came before.
That superstition, that lack of education, was also why the Lord of the Legion had had such an easy time selling people on eternal life—only for them to realize that what he had meant was turning them into undead minions who would forever be at his beck and call. That was the evil Augum, the girls and their friends had sacrificed so much to vanquish. And here it was again in another form, marching through the kingdom like a great karmic cockroach. The abysmal cycle of ignorance was repeating itself.
“At least we have Haylee’s womanhood ceremony to look forward to,” Jengo said. “Then in a couple tendays, academy exams followed by Endyear celebrations and an Advancement Ceremony. And a dance. Not much time left to prepare for exams though. Think you three are prepared for your 8th degree?” He cocked his head to eye Augum.
“Working on it.” Augum’s gaze returned to the marching army. With all that was happening, the last month had passed too quickly. Now it was the first day of the twelfth month—Market Day. But all commerce had stopped so people could gawk in disbelief or awe at the army before them. Yet Augum knew the subjugations would begin in earnest now. Few realized that Solian traditions were about to be tested in the most brutal manner.
Every kingdom had a long history of oppression, Solia no exception. Ordinaries and warlocks alike were burned at the stake, accused of wi
tchcraft—a misunderstanding, as witches and necromancers did exist, except they were demonic and had little to do with the warlock craft. But the distinction was difficult to explain to a chanting crowd raising torches and scythes. Those people thought a dog barking at the first sign of a moon foretold a poor harvest. Or considered the written word the tongue of the devil. Or believed that Sierrans, with their ebony skin, had been burnt by the gods for ancestral sins. Or rubbed mugwort on a pregnant woman’s belly so the baby wouldn’t become a witch. Or bathed their child in goat milk to prevent it from being blighted by the devil as a wayward, condemned to love the same gender. Sure, people would become more accepting when a healer saved a loved one’s life, or a warlock drove marauding bandits out of town, but then old superstitions would inevitably seep back in and the cycle would begin anew. The mind was a fickle thing indeed.
Augum was grateful to have escaped rural life, but he had seen too much since. He had witnessed the slaughter of innocents. Arcane miracles. Reanimated bodies. Strange beings from stories. It isolated him like a lone pine in the arctic tundra. Only Bridget and Leera could sympathize. They were his blessed tether to reality, his sanctuary in the storm of ignorance. But they suffered from that proximity, from his poor decisions, from his inability to express his feelings, from his deep desire to challenge himself in the arena of combat, and from his conviction that Arcaners needed to return at all costs. And they suffered from his undying belief in dragons, a belief that, in their eyes, undermined his sanity.
Despite everyone’s skepticism, Augum knew dragons were the answer. Dragons were the only remaining theoretical strength that could beat back the invaders. And as far as he knew, the path of the Arcaner was the only way to summon them. He believed that historical clues found in children’s tales, ancient parables, old tapestries and moldy books might lead to him flying in the belly of a dragon, being a dragon, as he struck terror into enemy hearts.
If only it were that simple.
Dragons had likely turned into mythical children’s tales a generation or two after their mysterious demise. People had a hard enough time believing things from one generation to the next, but something from thousands of years ago? Not even arcaneologists took the stories seriously. Only fools like Augum kept the idea alive. But that idea was hope, something more precious than gold.
Though he wondered if he’d even have a chance to resurrect dragons before it was too late, before Solian history ended, betrayed by its own greedy nobility and crushed in the grip of the Canterrans.
The crowd had thickened during Augum’s ruminations. Those sympathetic to The Path and its teachings were starting to notice Jengo’s face. His Sierran ebony face.
Augum, who had been scrutinizing people around them, always ready for another assassin, nudged Jengo. “Let’s head back to the academy.” He wanted to find Bridget and Leera, tell them about The Path Disciples and what they had been doing, and especially about the army. The girls had gone to the academy shop to refill inkwells, stock up on blank parchments, and recharge their Teleport rings. The shop mostly sold school supplies, but it also offered basic arcane services and even sold a few arcane items, though nothing like the pricey warlock markets of Antioc and Blackhaven, where one could acquire almost anything, from food to exquisite rarities—and even black market arcane items.
A woman’s grubby hand extended out of the crowd toward Jengo’s head. “Demon,” she hissed. But before she could repeat the word, likely in a hysterical shriek, Augum subtly twisted his wrist while whispering, “Flustrato,” taking care to hold back the full strength of the spell.
The woman’s eyes crossed. “Mother brain stomach chicken barf!” she yelled.
“Eh! A witch!” a man cried out, jumping back and pointing a finger in her contorted face. “She be speakin’ in tongues! We ’ave a witch ’ere!”
While curious onlookers gathered, Augum and Jengo hightailed it out of there.
“She’ll have some explaining to do when it wears off,” Jengo muttered as the pair hurried down a snow-encrusted alley. “Confusion?”
“Yes, and I tried to dilute the spell.” He was a practiced 7th degree lightning element warlock, an arcane battle warrior seasoned in war. She hadn’t stood a chance.
Jengo glanced over his shoulder. “Not enough, it seems. Blew past her unprotected mind like a spear through cloth. But a perfectly legal casting against an Ordinary considering she clearly presented a threat. I’ll back you if it ever reaches committee.”
Augum suspected the last thing they had to worry about right now was the academy disciplinary committee humming and hawing over the incident. He did chide himself for not weakening the spell further though.
“What do you think they’re going to do to the academy?” Jengo pressed.
“Nothing good I suspect.”
“Surely not raze it …”
“Might close it down. Or loot its treasures.”
“They might enslave us.”
“Then they’d have a fight on their hands.”
“We’d lose.”
“We’d run.”
“And hole up where? Your castle again? Come on …”
Jengo had a point. What could they do should things devolve? Castle Arinthian would be the first place the Canterrans looked. Not to mention it no longer had the same arcane defenses it had possessed during the war. Headmaster Byron should have fortified the academy as soon as Canterra stepped foot in Solia. All he need have done was trigger the existing ancient protections and the place would have turned into an impenetrable fortress. But for whatever reason, he had not done so.
“The quest has never been clearer,” Augum said as they turned a snow-trodden street corner.
“I know, I know—we’re to blend in, play meek and dumb,” Jengo said, checking over his shoulder again. “No one’s following, by the way.”
“Not quite what I meant. I’m talking about Arcaners. The order has to be resurrected … once it’s proven itself.”
“There’s only three of you. And you’re squires. And you only just became squires. And you—”
“I get it, thanks.”
“You need to let others join the order. Take those sacred tests. Study along with you.”
“Too dangerous.”
“The tests are dangerous, yes, but—”
“It’s not just the tests.”
“The assassins?”
“Yes.”
“They haven’t attacked you in ages.”
Augum’s guilt at keeping the continued attacks to himself deepened. Since his famous duel in the arena against Katrina Southguard Von Edgeworth, a duel in which he revealed he had become an Arcaner squire, others had petitioned him and the girls to join the order, but until he could prove Arcaners could make a difference, he would not allow others to become targets. Especially now.
“With all due respect, Augum, and at the risk of sounding insensitive, those assassins only went after you.”
“Did you know the girls and I recently received no less than ten separate letters written in different hands explicitly threatening that, should even one other soul become an Arcaner squire, all of us would be hunted down and brutally slain?”
“I … I did not know that.”
Augum flipped his hand in a Well there you have it gesture. It felt prudent to not propagate the Arcaner idea in public so the girls would be left alone and the assassins would continue to only come after him. Though the girls always carried antidotes to the assassins’ poison, as did he.
Yet Augum knew it was only a matter of time until they struck at Bridget and Leera. That was why he always made it a point to join the girls on any excursions outside the safe confines of the academy or their castle—not that those places were impenetrable, merely heavily fortified by arcanery, itself not a guaranteed ward against Whisper Blades. The thought of either of them lying cold in the snow kept him up at night. He had not been sleeping well of late because of it. Too many vivid nightmares.
; There was a long pause during which only their hurried footsteps could be heard.
“Wait, by ‘prove itself,’ you’re not talking about dragons again, are you?” Jengo asked.
Augum groaned. “Not you too.”
“Aug … children’s tales—”
“Leave it already, would you?”
Jengo gave him a look of pity as though Augum had lost his mind. “Anyway,” he said, “guess we should see if the academy’s still standing before we think about anything else.”
On the Way to Class
“Gods, have you heard?” Augum’s girlfriend, Leera Jones, asked, her expressive and sharp brows rising up her forehead.
“I can’t believe it was that easy for them,” their long-time friend and sister-in-war, Bridget Burns, added in hollow tones. “All that suffering. All that fighting … and for what? So another kingdom could just mosey on in?” She held her academy satchel tight as she hurried along, cinnamon ponytail swinging.
“That’s my sentiment too,” Augum muttered. “Why hasn’t Byron fortified the academy?”
“To what end?” Bridget countered. “King Rupert capitulated. Headmaster Byron is on the high council and serves the king. We serve the king. Come what may, the academy stands with the kingdom.”
Augum wanted to say something spiteful about Byron being in league with the Canterrans. He was among a select few who’d known Augum was interested in the Arcaner path before Augum declared his ambitions publicly. Augum had confronted Byron after his duel with Katrina, asking if he had told anyone about his intentions of becoming an Arcaner. Byron was so offended that he threw Augum out of his office, telling him if he ever dared to make such an accusation again he would be expelled.
“I still think he could be behind the assassins,” Augum said instead.
“We already looked into that and found no proof. Not to mention it simply doesn’t make sense. Just because he’s a grouchy noble doesn’t mean he’d turn traitor against his own students.”
