by Sever Bronny
Augum’s cheeks flared. It was embarrassing, and for many reasons, not just the historical ones. None of the arcanists were standing up to this, with the women dropping their eyes and the men shifting uncomfortably. He suspected it was because morale was as low as it could get. The kingdom was weak as a mouse; a foreign invader had simply walked in and seized power as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. Part of him was angry with King Rupert for not putting up a fight, for not being brave. Another part of him was angry with people for expecting the trio to defend the kingdom. The rest of him oozed with unadulterated guilt for not taking the time to choose a wiser, more diplomatic king when he had had the chance.
A distant voice nonetheless wondered if it would have made any difference.
And then Augum realized there was another reason for the crowd’s docility. They were all in shock. It showed in their slack faces, their glazed eyes, their limp body language. They were in disbelief that this was happening to them. Even the arcanists surely felt outnumbered and too impotent to do anything. All were stunned by this young man with his flowery words and mesmerizing voice. By the vast army that had marched into the city with smug faces and pristine armor, riding expensive war horses. By the one hundred warlocks standing on the stage, hoods raised.
Darby picked a piece of lint from his robe and flicked it off. “As for being warlocks. You are human weapons, and in a cultured society, weapons must be sheathed. You are dangerous not just to Canterra, but to each other and to all Ordinaries. That said, you will continue to attend classes as normal, but we will watch you carefully. In addition, you will attend a worship service daily after classes for one hour in this theater, at which time you will learn about The Path and its peaceful ways.”
“Why are they allowing us to keep training?” Haylee whispered from down the row, careful to keep her head down.
But no one had an answer. Whatever the reason, Augum was sure it did not have Solia’s best interests at heart.
Darby went on. “Your new purpose is to serve the greater good, to serve others. I will explain what that means in a moment. For now, I want your mind only on one word … compliance. Let me say that word again. Compliance. Compliance. Compliance.”
“Is he slow or something?” Leera murmured.
Augum squeezed her hand in warning, knowing saying something like that put her in grave danger should someone sympathetic to The Path overhear. The thought of Leera getting in trouble with the powers that be turned his stomach. He willed her to—for once in her life—play meek and quiet, even though he knew it was antithetic to her nature.
“Compliance. Let us meditate a little on that word. Compliance. Everyone take a deep breath with me and close your eyes.”
The sounds of people taking in a deep breath filled the theater. Augum pretended to close his eyes but watched through narrow slits.
Darby closed his eyes and raised his hands before him as if to push down on an invisible block of stone. He began to slowly lower them. “And now exhale. Think … compliance.”
People collectively exhaled while exchanging secret mystified looks. There was even a suppressed giggle.
“Com … pli … ance …” Darby chanted. “Com … pli … ance …”
“He sounds like a total moron,” Leera murmured, prompting another sharp squeeze from Augum. She flashed him an annoyed look.
Meanwhile, Darby slowly opened his eyes. “Good. Very good. This is the way of The Path. A new beginning, a new historic direction.” Then he raised a finger. “But be warned. Non-compliance will result in penance in the form of work. And the same goes for any outstanding money owed—you will be made to labor for The Path to make up the sum. Do not worry, you will be returned after the labor is done.”
There were hushed whispers. Money owed? Labor? What did that mean?
Darby’s golden eyes narrowed as his voice grew stronger. “You may be wondering why all the talk of debts owed. The simple answer, as you should well know, is history. Solia has wronged Canterra for an eon.”
“An ‘eon’?” Leera hissed so loudly nearby heads turned in her direction. “Give me a break.”
“Shh,” Bridget gently said from beside her, resting a hand on her thigh. “Lee, please.”
Leera smacked her lips in annoyance.
Back on stage, Darby spoke on. “We Canterrans have tired of carrying the burden of the wrongs Solia has inflicted upon us. Our backs are bent from those wrongs, our shoulders stooped.” He wagged that blasted finger again. “But no more. No more. Canterra is strong. It is a lion. And it will no longer be your plaything, your whipping boy. And that brings us back to your purpose. Three times a month, at the beginning of each tenday, every single Solian Ordinary man of age will give tithe to The Path in the form of ten percent of their earnings. But for you warlocks, who can make staggering sums of money with arcanery, you will pay one gold crown per degree per day.”
“What—!” Bridget blurted, only to slap a hand over her mouth and shrink back in her seat. Luckily, her response was drowned in a sea of surprised exclamations.
Augum felt light-headed. They were being bled dry. A crown per degree per warlock per day was a tremendous and near impossible sum to sustain. That was seven crowns a day for each of the trio, which amounted to two hundred and ten crowns a month. And seventeen crowns a day for someone like Jez, their mentor.
Darby patiently held up his hands until the crowd settled down. “You shall pay it every morning without fail, and those warlocks not attending the academy shall pay the sums to a constabulary. And since you wear your foolish equality so smugly, the sexes shall pay on equal terms.”
“That bald, mangy little—” But Leera received a sharp elbow from Bridget, silencing her once more.
“That money will be used to spread the word of The Path so others can attain peace and propriety. And it will go a long way in righting the wrongs against Canterra.
Darby took a single step forward. “Should you run, know that we have acquired the addresses of all of your families from official registrars. If you do not want to work off your debt, they will be made to do it for you, and they will pay ten times for your cowardice. And if that fails, then your friends, those very warlocks around you, will suffice.” Darby made a tut-tut sound as he wiggled a finger at the rustling crowd. “Ah-ah, ladies, please keep your eyes low.” There was a quick rustle in the crowd as women dropped their gazes once more. “I will not warn you again.”
“ ‘Oh blackest night, descended you have on us poor womanfolk,’ ” Laudine whispered.
Darby’s gaze crept over the crowd. “Each class will have an overseer who will be in charge of enforcing compliance, as well as rooting out any … undesirables.”
“Here we go,” Jengo muttered from Augum’s right.
“We’ll have to figure something out,” Augum replied. He was used to getting out of tight situations from the Legion War, and this white-robed freak certainly didn’t scare him. No, what scared him were the other hundred warlocks on that stage. Their calm confidence unnerved him, as if this was all routine, as if they were used to taking over kingdoms and academies.
“Like what?” Jengo said out of the corner of his mouth. “You know the Canterrans sent a fraction of their forces into Solia. Heck, their king gave Solia to his son as his own personal sandbox.” He leaned closer. “I bet you it’s a testing ground for The Path.”
Augum wanted to blurt out that it was ridiculous, yet the words caught on his tongue. By gods, he could be right. But a testing ground to what end? Total domination? Spreading of the new faith? Money? Land procurement? Historical vengeance? There were countless possible reasons.
Darby slowly nodded. “You will continue to attend the academy and things will go on as before. Further, those of you living in manors and castles, you will find a trained Path Disciple waiting for you.”
Augum groaned. He knew exactly who waited for him at Castle Arinthian.
“Gritchards,” Leera hissed,
echoing his sentiment. Gritchards was the wild-eyed Path Disciple Augum had unceremoniously expelled from Arinthia, the village by his castle, just before the bloodless invasion. He was a fanatic, a true believer. But at least he had no arcane powers whatsoever. Unless he too came with overseers…
“Now let us commit to a pledge. Please stand, place a hand over your heart, and repeat after me.” Everybody in the theater reluctantly stood, placing their dominant hand over their heart.
“What about our code?” Leera whispered.
“Just fake it,” Bridget replied.
Good call, Augum thought. If they swore for real, they’d be bound by their own Arcaner code to follow The Path. It’d be the end of them.
Darby raised his chin and in a clear and almost singing voice said, “I solemnly swear on everything I find sacred that I will follow The Path at all times.”
“I solemnly swear on everything I find sacred that I will follow The Path at all times,” the crowd echoed dully.
“And that I will pay one gold crown every morning for each of my degrees without fail, lest I be punished.”
The crowd once more repeated the phrase.
“The pledge is sealed. Those who fail to follow it will be punished.”
Alarmingly, troops filed down the aisles from the back. They were Ordinary Canterran soldiers wearing boiled leathers and were armed with sheathed blades. They were all young, yet fear and superstition marred their faces. If it wasn’t for the hundred mysterious sapphire-robed warlocks on stage, the academy students could easily subdue these troops. Those hundred warlocks came from a kingdom that now had a powerful academy with a tradition of training high-degree warlocks whose numbers, unlike Solia’s, had not been depleted by war. The Academy of Iron, named after the Canterran capital city of Iron Feather, had supposedly been closed to mollify the more rabid voices in The Path, though the hundred warlocks on stage told Augum otherwise; surely they were using the academy for strategic military initiatives.
“There!” a squeaky-voiced soldier shouted, pointing down Augum’s row. “That one there!”
The trio tensed as soldiers from both sides shoved their way down the row. Just as Augum readied to resist—no doubt foolishly—they stopped at Cry Slimwealth, who was as pale as parchment.
“Stand him up,” Darby calmly said.
The soldiers grabbed him and yanked him to his feet.
“Show him.”
A soldier shoved a parchment before Cry’s face, shouting, “Is that your handwriting, boy?”
“Y-yes, but—”
“Shut it!” The soldier turned toward the stage. “This is the one who dared to write a subversive manifesto, Your Highness.”
“I’m a herald!” Cry protested in a panic. “It’s my job to tell the truth!”
“You will serve as the first example of hopefully only a few,” Darby said coolly. “Remove him.”
The soldiers dragged Cry down the row.
“You can’t do this!” Cry wailed, only to receive a backhanded smack on the face from one of the soldiers.
“Shut your gob,” the soldier said, sounding bored. Cry fell as silent as the stunned crowd. An Ordinary had just smacked a warlock … and no one was doing a thing.
Darby made a show of pointing at another person in the audience. “And this one. This one looked at me.”
There was a girlish yelp as soldiers filed down another row. Augum felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand when they nabbed Gretchen, the young 1st degree warlock who last month had helped them with Eric. She screeched and struggled as they roughly carted her off. And still, no one did a thing, not even the arcanists. Not even the trio.
“Now sit.” The command was uttered as if to a dog.
People hesitated but took their seats. All except Augum.
“Where are you taking them?” he shouted, stilling the audience, but making many sit up straighter. He knew what it meant to them to have him say something, and although his hands shook from the grave risk he was taking, he wanted to test the regime to see how it responded.
“Augum. Arinthian. Stone.” Darby cocked his head, perhaps intending it to be a gesture of interest, but to Augum, it came off as malevolent. The soldiers taking Gretchen and Cry stopped to watch, their hapless victims dangling between them, terror and confusion on their faces.
“Hero of the Resistance in the Legion War,” Darby went on in patient tones. “Former apprentice and great-grandson to the legendary Anna Atticus Stone. 4th degree Antioc tournament champion. And now Arcaner squire and a 7th degree lightning warlock.” He paused, allowing everyone to appreciate the fact he had done his homework. “Your former father murdered scores of Canterrans, countless Tiberrans, and many more Solians.”
It worried Augum that Darby the Diamond knew enough about him to use the words former father. He contemplated amplifying his voice. “That he did,” he instead replied in as clear and loud a voice as he could muster—and immediately regretted foregoing amplification, for his voice sounded weak in comparison.
“Do you take any responsibility for that?”
“Are the sins of the father passed down to the son?” Augum boldly countered.
“In some cultures they are. And they certainly are when it comes to kingdoms, for a kingdom’s past transgressions carry to the present. Do you not agree?”
Augum chose to remain silent.
Darby studied him before his eyes swept over the crowd. “And where is this Prince Eric Southguard, son of King Rupert Edron Scovinius Southguard, the First of His Name and so-called Defender of the Realm?”
Augum was surprised he had gotten away with being so bold. He had expected Darby to make an example of him.
Eric calmly stood up, his chiseled features sharp in the dim light. “Here.”
“Here, Your Worship.”
Eric, as always, maintained a cool disposition. “Here, Your Worship.”
“We three are the sons of great men. We are leaders whether we want to be or not.” Darby paused. “I am sure you two will be exemplary students of The Path.” He nodded at the soldiers and they resumed dragging Cry and Gretchen out of the theater. It didn’t take a genius to understand the message. Cry was a herald. They had silenced the most vocal one first. And as for Gretchen, she was apparently the example for women.
Augum glared at Darby. “Where are you taking them?” he asked again, fully cognizant that he was thoroughly pressing his luck by publicly questioning Prince Darby the Diamond, Head Path Disciple and lunatic.
“Where are you taking them, Your Worship.”
Augum glared but did not correct himself. He could feel eyes boring into him, especially Leera’s, who surely had to be stewing at his hypocrisy for chastising her for nearly drawing attention to herself. He did not blame her. He loathed the hypocritical side of himself as much as he loathed his numerous weaknesses and faults and insecurities that dogged him like his own shadow. Nonetheless, his back remained rigid straight and he did not back down.
“Do you wish to join them, Lord Augum Arinthian Stone?” There was no mistaking the steel in Darby’s tone.
Augum eyed the sapphire-robed warlocks and realized he simply had no leverage beyond a brazen call to arms, which could easily result in a bloodbath. There were a hundred warlocks up there of unknown degree, not to mention a city swarming with Canterran soldiers.
He plopped back down in his seat, defeated, thinking, Well that was stupid. Stupid and reckless.
“I thought not,” Darby said. “You will learn your place. You will all learn your place. And you will serve The Path.” He raised a finger. “And if you even think about not paying your allotted monies in the morning …” But he did not elaborate on the threat. Nor did he need to.
Heraldry
The trio sat in Heraldry class, their most hated subject as it was mind-numbingly boring. Arcanist Rudolf Rowan, a small, sickly-looking man with sallow cheeks and tiny eyes, droned on at the front as if nothing untoward had happened at all, a
s if a foreign army wasn’t occupying the academy.
A warlock overseer stood near the door, watching from within his dark hood, hands clasped together and hidden within the wide sleeves of his sapphire, crimson-fringed robe. His head slowly swiveled as he watched every student, spending extra time on the trio, which did not surprise Augum.
The students whispered about the morning’s events, the trio no exception.
“They’re bleeding us dry with this tithe,” Augum said, satchel floating under his desk. After a thoughtful pause during which Arcanist Rowan droned on about some inconsequential heraldic crest of some obscure family, he added, “But it doesn’t quite add up, does it? The reparative monthlies were substantial. So what else do they want?”
“Better keep quiet on the subject,” Bridget whispered, avoiding looking at the overseer, who had perked up. “Just in case.”
“Stop being such a coward,” Leera hissed under her breath.
Bridget recoiled as if struck.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” Leera said, rubbing her face. “This is all just so … overwhelming.”
“Bridge is right though,” Augum chimed in. “No sense being antagonistic. At least until we find out more.” He had to refrain from saying he also didn’t want to see her carted off, kicking and screaming.
“You’re one to talk, Mr. Stand-Up-and-Open-His-Yap,” Leera shot back. “Mr. Assassin-Hunter-on-the-Side. Shall I go on?”
Augum shrank in his seat. “I’m good.”
Leera flashed a roguish smile. “You sure? Because us weak-willed, helpless and pathetic little women need a big strong man like you to speak on our behalf. To defend us from all the baddies out there.”
Augum rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, I’m such a hypocrite.”
“Apology half accepted.”
“More than I deserve.” He sighed. “I have to talk to The Grizzly. I have a feeling he knows what’s going on.”
The class moved along at a snail’s pace. Augum and Bridget stewed over what had transpired that morning while Leera copied her mangled homework for Arcanist Gonzalez’s History class. A bored Brandon tried catching Katrina’s attention, but her thoughts were elsewhere and she swatted him off. Eric sat brewing in thought while Carp inexplicably chortled to himself now and then. Caireen, Laudine and Isaac whispered amongst themselves in urgent tones. Everyone else sat depressed at their desks. Augum found his gaze routinely going back to the empty spot Cry usually sat in.
