by Sever Bronny
“Then I want him to swear on his shield that he had nothing to do with this latest death.”
Shoot, trapped. Augum stopped to face Cry directly. His group reflexively took up defensive positions around him. “If I swore on my shield … it would dim.”
“Damn it, Aug!” Leera cried, punching him hard in the shoulder. Haylee face-palmed, Bridget gasped, Laudine gaped, Caireen’s brows rose, and Isaac shook his head, muttering, “All right, that’s … kind of impressive, actually. Taking the assassins out all on his own, I mean.”
Augum cursed himself for opening his foolish mouth at all. But the Arcaner’s chivalric code demanded he be truthful when swearing on his shield. And should he ever break the code, the sacred Arcaner motto inscribed on his summonable shield would dim. And each betrayal of that code would dim it further, until he lost his status as an Arcaner squire … and walked in disgrace. No, honoring the truth had him pinned against the wall on this one. Cry had him pinned.
The throng parted around them like a river around a rock. Augum’s friends kept watch.
“What’s the story?” Cry asked quietly.
“They’ve been hunting me. I go on walks so they don’t target my friends.”
“Why’d you stop reporting their attacks?”
“Because of your stories.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What do you think he means by that?” Leera interjected hotly. “Every single time you write about another assassination attempt, his reputation grows. Do you even have the vaguest idea how much mail we get, or what it says? People are crazy. Crazy. No wonder he’s been hiding it. And your gushing piece about Augum kicking Katrina’s butt didn’t help either—nor did your coverage of the assassin fight that followed the duel. Did you have to quote some know-nothing constable’s theory that Augum ‘painted the walls with the assassin’s blood’? What’s with you? You go from one extreme to the other. At first you vilify us and now you can’t get enough, with your constant playing-up of the heroic ideal. Can’t you just leave us be?”
It was true, his latest pieces sang about how the trio were “Arcaner jewels of hope in a dark sea of corruption.” It was a screaming beacon fire for the nobles who were cagey about Arcaners returning.
Cry blinked lazily. “Leave you be. Right.” He spoke slowly as if to a dumb child. “My job is to report, Leera. Because I’m a herald. That’s what heralds do. Report stuff. Do you understand?”
“But you don’t have to sensationalize everything,” Haylee threw in, making Augum’s cheeks warm with gratitude that his friends had his back.
“Just be sensitive with what you’re writing, Cry,” Bridget added in a compassionate tone. “Your pieces affect us greatly.” She gave Augum a meaningful and stern look he interpreted as Keep walking. We have to discuss this assassin business. She would surely lambast him for keeping the assassins secret.
But before they moved on, Augum rubbed his eyes. “Look, if you’re going to write a piece on how I’ve been leaving assassin bodies around the city, fine, it’s the truth and I’m all right with that.”
“No—!” Leera blurted. “I mean, please, Cry, don’t write that. It could result in Augum’s arrest.”
Augum sighed. “Whatever you decide to do, Cry, just know the authorities haven’t been able to stop them and putting guards and enchantments around me hasn’t worked either because Whisper Blades are trained to sniff them out. And now that the Canterrans are here, well …” He shook his head. “Just don’t put my friends in any more danger than you already have in the past,” and he strode off with his friends in tow, leaving Cry gawking, quill twirling in an ink-stained hand.
“Why’d you lie to us?” Leera asked in a troubled voice. She gently punched his shoulder for good measure. “What, think we can’t handle ourselves in battle suddenly?”
“Of course you can,” Augum replied. “You’re the best damn duelers I know. But they don’t strike when we’re together.” Yet. “And I never lied to you. I just … didn’t volunteer the truth.”
“Oh, that’s so much better!” Leera said. “Lord Augum Stone protecting his poor, weak ladies. Get off your high horse, mister.”
Augum winced from the sting of her words.
“So, wait,” Isaac interrupted as they strode along, eyes vigilantly flitting from face to face in the crowd. “Are you saying they only strike when you’re alone?”
“Yes. They’re only going after me right now. But I suspect that’ll change when whoever hired them figures out how much you all mean to me.” He was rather surprised they hadn’t already.
“How many?” Bridget asked, stopping the group and folding her arms across her chest. “Aug? How many?”
He swallowed. “Three new ones that you don’t know about. Which makes eight in total since it all began.”
Bridget paled, Leera choked, and Laudine and Caireen exchanged incredulous looks.
“Seems those silly songs about him are deserved,” Isaac said to Haylee, who only sighed with a weary heave of her shoulders.
“ ‘No mercy shows he thus to enemies so’,” Laudine crooned. “But really, Augum, that is a risky strategy akin to gambling.”
“It’s not right,” Caireen said in her light Tiberran accent as they resumed their pace. “You should have said something. We’re your friends, Augum.”
“You should have said something,” Haylee echoed, limping along. “Come on, you’ve known us long enough. We can take it. And we can help.”
“I’m disappointed, Augum,” Bridget said, shaking her head, arms still folded. “Disappointed.”
Augum allowed the condemning silence to thicken as they walked, feeling it was completely deserved. As he struggled with his decision to keep the attacks from them, he once more saw himself step away from the pool of blood creeping toward him in the snow. But the blood kept oozing forward, forcing him to keep retreating.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I had told you. I wish I had made a lot of different decisions. I don’t really have an excuse.” Stupidity. Naivety. Inexperience. Youth. He could think up countless more reasons.
Behind their eyes, his own troubled pain reflected back at him, same as his image in the pool of blood.
They said nothing more on the subject, and the crowd thickened as they got closer to the massive ancient academy portal that would take them to the courtyard. From there, they would travel on to the theater.
Perfect
Augum took his place amongst his small group of friends—now joined by a nervous Jengo—near the back of the grand theater of the academy. Dim arcane light from massive iron candelabras suffused the vast room. Banners and tapestries of plays and acting troupes hung on block-stone walls and from the high-trussed ceiling.
But that was not what their attention was fixed on. Augum counted no less than one hundred Canterran warlocks crowding the stage. They were dressed in sapphire robes, the edges embroidered with shiny crimson thread, a Canterran crest sparkling on the chest, faces obscured in loose dark hoods. There were also about a dozen white-robed Path Disciples, all older men, and all with shaved heads. What interested Augum most was that all the Canterran warlocks wore the same color robe, which concealed their true degrees and broke an ancient warlock tradition that called for all warlocks to wear their proper colors, with few exemptions, such as those for arcanists or those who held office.
Headmaster Cuthbert Byron tottered forward with his ale-gut belly and stout body swinging, hands raised, urging the audience to settle down. Students quickly took their seats amidst an anxious susurrus.
Byron’s wolfish black brows crossed as he surveyed his pupils from the stage. Then he placed a hand to his throat and mouthed, “Amplifico.” He raised his double chin. “Following the lead of our sovereign king, and in order to prevent needless bloodshed, the Academy of the Arcane Arts will henceforth be under the peaceful control of the Canterrans.” His arcanely amplified booming voice was strained and spiteful, his bulldog jowls
quivering with each word. And he had emphasized the word peaceful, as if a deal had been struck.
The whispers picked up and Augum and his friends exchanged dark looks. As Byron went on to describe the rich history of the academy, perhaps to remind the Canterrans of their responsibility to keep it safe, Augum placed a hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, “I think they got to his family.” It was an age-old tactic. Why fight an entire besieged academy when you could get them to bend to your will with a single—albeit crude—display of power? And if he was right—and by the tone of Byron’s tremulous voice, he thought he was—then the man certainly wasn’t working with the Canterrans.
“Add another one to the pile,” Laudine muttered.
“What do you mean?” Caireen pressed.
“There are countless historical examples of the academy falling in this exact manner, even as recently as the Legion War. That’s why we warlocks must always hide our families. It’s, like, mentioned in every play. Take Founder’s Folly. And I quote, ‘Their closest shall feel the sting of the knife before they do.’ ”
“You know it could have been much worse,” Bridget whispered.
“Indeed,” Haylee said. “The academy could have been shut down, and we could have been put in chains or outright slaughtered. We should be thankful we’re not rabidly fighting for our lives in this very moment.”
Augum kept idly brushing the backs of his fingers against his lips as he studied the stage. “Since they haven’t arrested us, I’m guessing they need us for something.”
“Bet you they’ll be better masters than Iron Byron, am I right or am I right?” Leera jested with a small snort, trying to solicit at least a smile from Augum and Bridget, only to crinkle her nose when she received worried looks instead.
“… and although I will stay on as your headmaster in name only, it is my … duty … to introduce to you Prince Darby Sepherin, son of King Samuel Sepherin, ruler of Canterra.” Byron added a slight contemptuous twist to the word duty, cementing Augum’s suspicions. The man had not wanted to hand over his precious academy—no headmaster would.
The audience stirred as Darby the Diamond strode out in a pristine flowing white robe, the tips of his porcelain-white hands pressed together in a pyramidal fashion. The hundred warlocks clicked their heels together and stiffened as he passed. He was shorter than Carp, stumpy, had bright golden eyes, perfectly sculpted and thick brows, and a completely shaved head. But other than those mesmerizing eyes, his face was unusual, for it was remarkably plain, the kind of face one had a hard time remembering, like a word on the tip of one’s tongue. It was extraordinary in its ordinariness, a blank parchment. Yet it was a face purported to be “perfect.”
Augum knew little about him, but plenty about his father, a ruthless and intelligent leader who studied history in his spare time and kept tabs on every slight ever committed against Canterra. The man had many sons and daughters from whom he expected great things, prizing each like a precious trophy.
Yet the idea that this seventeen-year-old had been appointed Head Path Disciple of Solia gnawed at Augum. It felt off. Further, Path Disciples hated arcanery, yet here was this 8th degree warlock prince surrounded by a hundred warlocks. It made no sense and was supremely hypocritical.
Darby’s golden eyes flicked from student to student. That unsettling gaze lingered on the trio before it danced off to the next victim. At last, after a tense silence, he touched his throat, mouthing, “Amplifico.” He took one more ponderous moment before speaking in an arcanely amplified voice. “Fair morning, Solian barbarians.” His voice was clear, accented by the snooty and lilting tongue of the upper crust of Canterran society.
“Yes, you are indeed barbarians,” Darby added after seeing their restless reactions. “You are barbarians of the mind.” He allowed that thought to settle in before calmly continuing. “Prior to us stepping foot into this kingdom, we asked of you a simple thing—your acceptance of The Path as your central faith.”
“Not true,” Leera whispered. “They also demanded monthly payments.”
Which turn out to never be enough, Augum thought.
“Hush,” Bridget said.
“You have spurned that simple request, forcing us to intervene and ensure compliance,” Darby went on. “After all, a dog needs a master lest he roam feral.” He spread his hands. “But take heart, for a new era is upon this soulless kingdom. An era of propriety. Rules. Decency. And worship. Warlocks will no longer be allowed to freely dally in the witch arts. They will be made to serve a higher purpose, which is to help The Path—” He gracefully opened his palms as his voice softened. “—blossom.”
“I don’t like where this is going,” Augum murmured. There was something about Darby’s stare. It reminded him of …
He shivered. It reminded him of the assassins’ flat gazes!
Leera’s hand found his and their fingers intertwined. She glanced down in alarm, perhaps noticing how cold and clammy his palm was. Then she looked up at him. Her sharp brows rose a touch in concern, but she said nothing. Little about him got by her, even the subtleties. She knew him so well it sometimes annoyed him. It was a miracle he had kept the assassin attacks from her as long as he had.
“The Unnameables, in their glorious perfection, have given men and women clear roles,” Darby continued in his methodical voice. “Women are meant to bear children and tend the home while men are built strong so they may provide food and ensure the security of that home. This has been the way for eons prior to arcanery running rampant and breaking family bonds. You in your collective barbaric arrogance have simply forgotten that.”
Darby slowly wagged a finger at the crowd. “No more. A new era of civility and propriety is upon us. All of Solia will undergo a peaceful transformation toward a cultured state. Rest assured, you will not have to serve a diabolical necromancer. Quite the opposite—you will serve life itself. All people will serve life, from Ordinaries to warlocks. And as warlocks, your former primary duty will be obsolete. You will no longer train for war. You will now learn peace and service. You will be meek and compliant. You will do as you are told.”
The audience sat rock still.
Darby folded his hands before him. “A long time ago, a ruthless Solian king imposed upon Canterra a nefarious rule—one of many. Should a man and woman come together without the blessing of Solian constables, they would be flayed in public.”
The theater rustled with whispers.
“That sounds like a twisted interpretation of what happened in the Great Solian Reprisal,” Bridget quietly noted to the friends.
Darby raised a slender finger, quieting his audience. “Your history books have been rewritten to show Solia in a better light. Many a Canterran couple in love bled to death on plank platforms before vomiting crowds.”
Augum spotted their history teacher, Arcanist Gonzalez, sitting with the other arcanists, frantically whispering something to a colleague.
Darby let his words hang in the stillness like a noose before continuing. “I assure you that it indeed did happen, despite you not wanting it to be the truth. And it is a harsh, awful and dark truth that speaks to your true barbarity. Solians are animals at heart. Animals. Think on that word and what it means for yourselves. Think on how you have cleverly hidden away from it, with your cheap robes and northern airs. Think on how you rewrote your history books to avoid soiling the minds of your children. Think on how you hide from the truth. And think on how you have the gall to sit here before me with disbelieving faces. Minds poisoned by the malice of your forefathers, who used the quill to fabricate a rosy history that DOES NOT BELONG TO YOU!” He roared the last part so suddenly that everyone started.
Fists balled, he calmed his breathing. Meanwhile, the audience did not move. Mouths hung open. Eyes were wide. The silence was as brutal as a glaring bully.
“And it is but one example of the many atrocities committed by your kings and armies, the most recent being the conversion of our innocent border families int
o walking undead monsters.”
Augum swallowed, recalling a putrid-fleshed man clawing his way out of the ground. Even if the rest of it was a lie, Augum’s former father had certainly done such things, for Augum had witnessed them himself. And only those who had survived carried the burden of those memories.
“We Canterrans have a long, long memory,” Darby said in a deadly whisper that hissed through the theater like a snake. “Thus, take solace in considering this a karmic rebalancing. The following rules shall be obeyed. Solian women will not look Path Disciples in their eyes. There will be no public touching of the opposite gender. There will be no ‘dating.’ Marriages will need the blessing of a Path Disciple and will be consecrated in a Path ceremony. Women will know propriety and meekness, as is their place.”
Anxious murmurs broke out in the theater. Augum and Leera’s grip tightened. She leaned closer to him, whispering, “He’s a madman. We play along for now, but only in public.”
Augum nodded. Their hands dropped out of sight between them but continued holding on.
Carp and Brandon, sitting a few rows ahead, both turned their heads at the same time, flashing malicious grins at Bridget and Leera. Those grins made Augum’s blood flash-boil. He once more had the beastly, unchivalrous urge to acquaint Carp with his arcane fist.
“Did you see that?” Leera whispered when they turned back around. “The little fiends are gleeful. Gleeful! Ugh.”
“Ignore them,” Bridget said.
“Easy for you to say,” Leera muttered.
Augum spotted someone else in the crowd watching them. But Katrina looked away before he could get a sense of what she was thinking.
Darby theatrically raised his arms, two fingers outstretched on each hand. “On my word, all females will lower their eyes … now.”
There was a soft rustle as heads dropped in unison with his fingers. Even Katrina complied.
“The Fates help me this is so embarrassing,” Leera murmured. “First they make up their own history to justify their actions, and now they’re taking us back to cavemen times.”
