Honor's Price

by Sever Bronny

  “Then it was Katrina,” he countered. Katrina was the only other person outside of their group of friends who’d known about Augum’s intentions of pursuing the Arcaner path. But her eyes had only danced with glee when Augum confronted her on the matter. She had denied it, of course, then taunted him by asking how it felt to be so confused about what was happening.

  “Look, I know you’re frustrated, but, again, no proof.” Bridget withdrew a silver ring from her robe. “Oh and here’s your recharged Teleport ring.”

  Augum took it and slipped it on. The ring had ten charges and allowed him to teleport between the academy and his castle in the far east of Solia. It had been gifted to him by the high council in thanks for services rendered to the kingdom—for vanquishing his former father.

  “And we got something else,” Leera threw in, digging out what looked like a lump of fur emblazoned with a rune. She handed it over.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a coat.”

  “This furry cube is a coat?”

  “It’s an arcane coat. It’s a recent invention from up north.”

  “From the Kingdom of Ohm?”

  “Yes, it’s Ohmish. I thought all they did up there was freeze and meditate, but it turns out they come up with some nifty arcane inventions now and then. Usually ridiculously expensive, but the shop owner gave us a significant discount for being bold enough to pursue the Arcaner path … and for being heroes and all.”

  Bridget scoffed. “You whined, moaned and preyed on her sense of guilt until the clerk relented.”

  “Hey, a girl’s got to use her talents.”

  “It was unchivalrous.”

  “It was necessary. We’re not swimming in riches. Anyway, it comes with a rune activation word. Hold it firmly, visualize a fur coat, and say, ‘Expandio cota.’ ”

  Augum did as she instructed and the cube poofed into a full-sized fur coat.

  “Neat, eh? Now say, ‘Deflatio cota.’ ”

  “Deflatio cota.” The coat thwapped back into a small furry cube. “That is neat.” He stuffed it into his satchel. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  They rushed along the Hall of Rapture in the Lecture Wing of the Academy of Arcane Arts, with its polished black basalt floor, pristine white marble block walls, gaping hundred-foot-wide wall-to-wall corridor, and its yawning eternal ceiling. The hall was lit by dim amber light that fluctuated depending on the weather outside. Right now the light fluttered as if wind were blowing at candles.

  The academy arcane bell had already sounded eight times, indicating the eighth hour of the morn had arrived. They were hurrying to History, their first class of the academy quint. The Solian month was divided by thirty days—three tendays, or six quints. Each quint was comprised of four academy days and one study day. It was a term mostly used in the academy.

  They weren’t the only ones hustling—other students had been out watching the Canterran army march in. Everyone was nervous and cagey, worrying about what it meant for the kingdom and for the academy. So far, there was no sign of the Canterrans here, but everyone knew that would change. The academy was the most powerful resource Solia had, arguably more precious than its own army, even though many of its citizens thought it the heart of evil, brimming with witches and demons and who knew what.

  “Jengo and I were just out there,” Augum said. “Every Canterran column was headed by a warlock while our soldiers shivered in the cold, with not one warlock to lead them.”

  “Maybe our warlocks went into hiding,” Leera said, idly brushing aside a lock of shoulder-length raven hair from her face. “You know, in case that boar of a king grows a spine and—gasp—threatens to actually use them for what they’ve been trained for.”

  “War is not always the answer, Lee,” Bridget replied.

  “Excuse me, but we’ve just been invaded. Invaded, Bridge. Where do you think this is going? You think everyone’s going to lie down and—”

  “Shh—” Bridget hissed, nervously looking around the expansive hall. “Don’t want the wrong ears to hear. We’re in enough trouble as it is.” She was referring to their studying the Arcaner path without academy or royal consent. Not that they’d had much luck in their studies. The old Arcaner course material had been inexplicably lost, forcing them to bumble about looking for clues in the libraries. Most books on the subject had been destroyed or stolen, and the books the trio had tracked down had been defaced. Augum still carried one library book in his satchel that he had practically memorized, despite having needed help to translate it from the old tongue. And of course, Arcaners themselves had died out, leaving no one to pass on what needed to be passed on. No, it had not been going well at all.

  “Gonzalez will be displeased we’re late,” Bridget said.

  Leera scoffed. “That’s what you’re thinking about? Being late? The kingdom is under Canterran rule, the academy might be closed down, all of us could be de-robed … and you’re worried about being late?”

  Bridget gave her an unimpressed look.

  Leera shrugged. “In any case, Gonzalez is so jaded she wouldn’t care if we never returned to class. Should the academy close, she’d probably grumble that it couldn’t have come soon enough. Should’ve retired years ago.”

  “That’s no way to speak of an arcanist,” Bridget said. “It’s unchivalrous.

  “Bah, will you stop it with all this unchivalrous this and unchivalrous that talk? Arcaners weren’t doe-eyed goodie-goodies. They were ruthless warriors of and for the code, and were not beneath pranks, tomfoolery, cursing, or anything else of the sort. You’ve been reading too much of the romantic side of Arcaners. Aug and I have come across plenty of stories about crazy and very human Arcaners, haven’t we, love?”

  Augum, trying not to think of a dark puddle of blood nearing his feet, absently grunted his agreement.

  “Caveman,” Leera muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “Back me up, would you? I’m making a case here.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, for—never mind.”

  They passed a group of harried burgundy-robed warlocks, all looking young and small. Their eyes widened upon seeing the trio. One girl slapped a hand over her mouth while another yelped. A boy gasped before exchanging a flurry of words with his friend.

  The trio, well used to such reactions, kept their distance from the young warlocks. Years of being written and sung about for their heroic deeds in the Legion War had exhausted them. The fame, shadowing them like hunters prowling after fat elks, resulted in constant whispers and questions and letters of love and hate. Students wanted to measure up or be noticed or outshine them. Some craved the trio’s attention; others made a show of pretending how unaffected they were by their presence. Ordinaries were not immune either. The ones who tolerated—or worshipped, especially—warlocks begged for divine favor or healing or miracles. It was all so tedious. With the exception of their close friends, hardly anyone treated them like normal pupils. But as Bridget liked to say, that was the price they paid for saving the kingdom from Augum’s former father. And as Leera liked to jest, they could always retire from public life. Live the life of hermits and outcasts …

  A slow-moving middle-aged warlock neared. He wore a royal blue apprentice robe, indicating either the 3rd or 4th degree. “You didn’t fend the blasted Canterrans off!” he blurted as the trio passed.

  Augum, knowing this sentiment must be felt kingdom-wide by those who believed all the ridiculous stories and myths about them, didn’t stop or reply.

  The man swatted dismissively. “The three of you damned us all. Where you running to, huh? What’s the point?”

  They left him behind. Augum couldn’t block the hurt that buzzed in his chest while the girls only sighed. Off-handed comments and hateful letters had become the norm. As much as he wished otherwise, some of the more pointed barbs penetrated and left a mark. And the girls saw those marks on him same as he saw marks on them. In the fleeting looks,
downcast eyes, slight tremolo to the voice, the fidgety hands. People had no idea how cruel they could be. How everything had an impact.

  “History class is so boring,” Leera muttered. “Wish this place focused more on the arcane arts. I want more time practicing with my left hand to cast, for example.” She flopped her left hand about. “Still not nearly as proficient as I should be.”

  “That’s what after-class training is for,” Bridget said.

  Leera rolled her eyes, a well-practiced maneuver she used as a ward against what she called “Bridget’s nagging.”

  The trio soon reached the old door marked History, 8th degree, and the accompanying traditional non-arcane rune. The ancient black oak had a subtle cherry patina from a thousand years of young warlocks palming it.

  Bridget grabbed the worn brass handle.

  “Wait,” Leera said, turning to examine Augum’s face. “You’re not telling us something.” Her dark, mischievous, loving eyes studied him. The sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks all but disappeared in the dimness of the doorway alcove. She could read him like a book. Bridget was also appraising him, and he knew she could sense it too. The weight of the attacks against him was beginning to show.

  “What happened?” Bridget asked.

  Augum swallowed. “Nothing. Let’s go in—”

  Leera placed cool hands on his cheeks as she stared up at him. She straightened her usual slouch. “Aug, don’t you start lying to us. What is it?”

  “You ain’t goin’ to make out in the hall again, is you?” Carp Fowler interrupted as he tottered up to them. “Disgusting. But kind of hot too.” He was a brutish and notoriously lecherous middle-aged pupil on his last try at the academy. He had a stocky frame, pockmarked cheeks, a cantaloupe forehead, and rotten breath.

  Leera scowled, which to an enemy was a fearsome thing to behold, for it was like a hawk the moment before it snatched a mouse from a field.

  “Carp, please crawl back into whatever sewer you slithered out of and die,” she said.

  “That’s a right foul tongue you have there, little lady. I’d be careful with it, I would.”

  “And why must you always invade people’s space?” Leera drew a large invisible circle around her with one hand while shoving him back with the other. “See this space?” she snapped as he stumbled. “Never enter it. Ever. Same goes when you’re around other people. Two feet per person. Stick to it, you brute.” She sniffed. “And for the love of the Unnameables, take a bath.”

  Carp wiggled his eyebrows. “Oh, you is fun.”

  “And you’re disgustingly creepy. Take a cue from the other adult students, would you?”

  “Does that be meaning you won’t be my date to the Endyear dance?”

  Augum’s jaw tightened. “Do you want a punch in the face?”

  Carp stuck out his boxy chin and tapped it. “Sure, I’d love to see you expelled. It’d be legendary, yeah? Hit me, you pompous nothing.”

  Augum sighed. He did not feel like dealing with Carp, this jerk of a man who lived to annoy others.

  “That’s what I thought, you overblown, uppity little fiends. You think you is so smart, don’t you? You think you is better than me, that your night soil don’t stink just because you is Arcaners. Well you isn’t. You is young and stupid, and you don’t even see it none. And unlike every other dumb goat, I don’t believe a word they writes about you. Been around you three long enough in class to know that—” He stabbed an oily finger in Augum’s direction. “—you’s really an average nobody that was in the right place at the right time and your only real claim to fame is you had a famous great-grandmother and an infamous father—” He quickly moved that oily finger to Leera before Augum could respond. “You’re a whining, immature flake who thinks herself witty when you’re just an insecure little tart—” As she ballooned, he pointed at Bridget. “And you secretly think you’re smarter than everybody when you’re as bland and boring as rice. How many times have you lost a boyfriend now? There’s a reason nobody likes you—you’re about as fun as manure. But I’m just an immature and creepy old man, ain’t that right?”

  There was a ringing silence during which Augum thought Leera would bash Carp to a pulp. But doing so would instantly result in expulsion. Or at the very least a public whipping. Academy rules were strict—no fighting or unauthorized arcanery against another pupil, period. Not to mention that would truly be unchivalrous.

  Carp turned to Bridget and gleefully rubbed his hands. “So what about you, sweet thing, want to be my date for the dance later this month?”

  But Bridget, whose face had gone cherry red, raised her chin. “Grow up, Carp,” and she opened the door and stepped inside, but not before Augum saw the deeply hurt look that had settled behind her hazel eyes—Carp’s earlier remark must have struck true.

  Leera made a sudden motion toward Carp that made him flinch as she passed, while Augum gave Carp such a graveyard look that he stepped back.

  History Class

  The classroom was nearly empty. Most of their classmates were also late. The room itself was typical of the Lecture Wing. It had no ceiling, for it was infinitely high. It was also perfectly square, with black basalt floors, and had stepped tiers of joined desks carved with ancient initials and curse words and epithets. The seating was richly upholstered but stained. Charts, tapestries and scroll biographies of historical figures hung on polished walls. At the front was a worn desk occupied by a frowning Arcanist Gonzalez.

  “Stop gawking and take your seats, Your Highnesses,” Gonzalez mocked, for the new king had ignominiously stripped them of their royal prince and princess titles for daring to turn down a marriage proposal—and which was more a command than a proposal—between Bridget and the king’s son, Prince Eric Southguard.

  Eric was seated in the front row. He glanced at the trio with his usual expressionless gaze. He had formed an uneasy alliance with the trio when they had discovered him with his boyfriend, Iguyin. Being a wayward was forbidden in Solia, even before The Path came in, and punishable by torture, hanging, or being burned alive. Trapped in stuffy traditions and the choking expectations of being the only heir to the throne, he had adopted a cool and sullen countenance.

  Carp strutted past, a child in a man’s stubby body. He took his seat, the smirk never leaving his face. The man worshipped power and had declared he would become a commander in the king’s army. He was on his third and final try at the academy—if he failed his exams, he’d officially hit his ceiling.

  Gonzalez watched them with cantankerous eyes. Her leathery skin was so wrinkled and dark it resembled tea-stained parchment. She was pudgy and hunched as if life weighed heavily on her drooping shoulders. Some said she was Nodian, others Sierran. Nobody dared ask, for she discouraged personal questions by doling out more homework to the entire class should anyone pester her with them. Such questions went unanswered anyway.

  “Why bother coming if you’re going to be this late?”

  “Sorry, Arcanist Gonzalez,” Bridget said as they rushed to their seats. “There was a long line at the shop because the Canterrans—”

  “—are marching through the streets. Yes, yes, we’ve been expecting it for a tenday, thank you, Miss Brilliant. Perhaps the Canterrans will get you sorry lot to concentrate on the lesson at hand.”

  Bridget’s cheeks colored as she fiddled with her immaculate satchel. She withdrew a peacock quill and elaborate inkwell, a birthday present from Augum and Leera a while back. Then she arranged a blank parchment on the faded leather inset into the mahogany desk. Her eyes flicked to Augum, perhaps conscious that she was trying to hide the pain that hovered just below the surface.

  Augum wanted to say something cheerful, only to spy Brandon Summers, who had been his best friend and Bridget’s boyfriend, watching her. His once friendly eyes were now flat, his gaze dispassionate. Where there used to be a mischievous lopsided grin there was only a thin line. He had trimmed his shaggy walnut hair and sculpted it with grease. It looked like he had b
een slathered with butter. It was an attempt to reinvent himself. Augum missed his friend, but that friend was no longer there.

  Brandon had declared himself the trio’s mortal enemy after a bitter argument, one in which he had revealed his interest in Katrina because she had offered to sleep with him. Lashing out at a mortified Bridget, Brandon had appealed to Augum to talk some sense into her, as she was acting like a “complete cow.” But then Brandon went on to call Augum a cheap traitor and gutterborn, a taboo word. That had officially ended the courtship and the friendships.

  Leera noticed Brandon’s glare. “Don’t you start,” she hissed.

  “I didn’t say anything, did I? Mind your own affairs.”

  Leera was about to blast out a reply when Gonzalez sniped, “Stop boring us with teenage infatuations gone awry. Although some of you lost your parents in the war and thus lack guidance, and as amusing as it is to watch the lot of you struggle with your immaturities, you are still 7th degree warlocks. Act like it. And for the love of the gods, pay attention. There’s history afoot all about us.”

  Augum and Leera deflated while Brandon flashed them a wry sneer. Much like Carp, he was bent on poking and prodding the trio in vengeance for their supposed disloyalty.

  Carp tittered in the corner, then whispered, “They’re too used to people fawning over their hides, eh, Brandon?”

  Brandon nodded. He and Carp had previously not gotten along but found commonality in their loathing of the trio.

  Augum ground his teeth and forced himself to look away, lest he escalate the situation with a choice line or two. Instead, he calmed himself by telekinetically floating his satchel under his desk. He was set on building that telekinetic muscle that had saved his life many times already.

  Other students trickled in, each wearing the traditional amber robes of the 7th degree. They apologized profusely yet were still met with rapid-fire remarks from Gonzalez.

  “Couldn’t see the class door through that bush of hair, Lavo?”

  “Fall asleep in the hall again, Slimwealth?”