Honor's Price

by Sever Bronny

  Leera dropped the letter to the ground as she glared at Bridget.

  “You’re being unfair, Lee, and you know it,” Bridget said stiffly, plunging her hand into the sack. She opened another letter, only to put it aside. “Well, maybe not that one. Hold on.” She quickly found another and her face brightened. “Ah, here we go. ‘I know how difficult it is making tough decisions. I am an orphan too. I did not grow up with role models. You lot were mentored by none other than Anna Atticus Stone, thus I would think you would have had the better sense to—’ Oh, for—” She twirled the letter aside and found another, grumbling something about being determined, while Leera exchanged a deadpan look with Augum.

  Bridget skimmed the next letter before reading it aloud. “Ah ha! And I quote, ‘I just wanted to write to say I am extremely grateful that you saved the kingdom from that evil maniac. My father returned to our home safe and sound because of what you did. I have a parchment poster of the three of you in my room and one day hope to become a warlock, although I’m thirteen and still can’t move even a pebble, even though I practice every day. Lord Augum Stone, you are a dream and Lady Leera is very lucky. But Lady Bridget is very special too and closer to my heart, for I am the pragmatic one amongst my circle of friends too. Please hold your heads high and do not let those nasty Canterrans get you down. With love, Angie.’ ” Bridget looked up. “Isn’t that lovely? And it’s certainly not the only one.” She reached back in, only to freeze and frown. She gave a few tugs and withdrew a small but hefty sack. “It’s coins!”

  That would explain the weight of the bag, Augum thought glumly. But the last thing he cared about was coins. The Von Edgeworths had stolen their castle from them. They were homeless. His ancestors were weeping. He knew he needed to pull it together, but he’d do that later. Right now, he mourned the loss of his beautiful ancestral home, the only home he truly ever had.

  Bridget looked inside, face lighting up with a reflected golden glow. “Crowns.” She glanced up at Augum. “Steward Haroun gave us what remained of the Arinthian office treasury.” She quickly looked through the large bag of mail, withdrew a set of documents, and undid the leather cord binding them. “And these are our banking documents!” She glanced at one in particular. “There are instructions.” Her lips moved as she read the letter to herself. “We’re to withdraw all our funds from the Black Bank as soon as possible, before the Canterrans confiscate them.”

  “Bank is open in the morning,” Haylee said. “We’ll go then.”

  “In the meantime, we can use the rest of the gold to save as many warlocks from being carted off as possible,” Bridget added, stuffing the hefty sack of gold in her satchel. She was forced to remove school books to fit it in, a dilemma that took more than a moment to solve, for Bridget was quite attached to her books. “The letter said there’s precisely four hundred and ninety-eight crowns here,” she noted after finishing.

  Haylee’s eyes widened. “That’s … that’s a fortune.”

  “Wait, we can’t give it all away,” Leera protested. “We need it for that Oath Displacement scroll.”

  “Agreed. That will have to come out of castle savings.”

  “Leaving us with exactly how much?” Leera pressed.

  Bridget consulted the documents. When she looked up, it was with a disheartened expression.

  * * *

  Supper was spent in quiet and tense conversation, with eyes roving to the dark and stormy windows, wary of watchers. In attendance were Mr. Okeke and his son, Jengo, as well as Jez, who was already a third of the way through a bottle of Tiberran red wine.

  “If only Albert were here,” Mr. Okeke lamented, cutting up roasted asparagus, referring to a mutual friend from the war. “His sunny disposition would certainly be welcome in a time like this.”

  “Just as well Mr. Goss and Leland are in Antioc,” Leera said, telekinetically drifting the salt cellar over to herself. “Think what The Path would do to a blind boy.” Leland was Mr. Albert Goss’ war-crippled son.

  “It’s rude to use arcanery at the table,” Bridget whispered.

  “Nobody here cares. Besides, I’m immature, remember? This is what immature people do, isn’t it?”

  Jez gave Leera a big-sister look. “I know you’re angry, but let’s mind our manners.”

  Leera rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” She made a show of picking up a slice of cheese and dumping it on her plate.

  Jez sighed patiently as she sipped her wine. “You three have been making great progress, especially with the off-the-books Chameleon extension, but I want to run at least three cycles of 8th degree spells with you all after supper, which means switching your focus back to the standard version of the Chameleon spell. You’ve got exams coming up and I want you prepared.”

  The trio preferred the off-the-books version as it allowed them to move while under the spell, whereas the standard version was positively crude in comparison, forcing one to remain absolutely still for it to work. It was one of the advantages of having a skilled mentor—she knew all sorts of tricks and off-the-books extension variations. But not all extensions were worth learning, for many were dated, cumbersome and impractical.

  Leera tore off a chunk of bread. “Can’t, we’re going back to the academy, have a date with Archives. We’re going to resurrect the Arcaner course.”

  “But what’s the point of learning to become an Arcaner now?” Jez asked.

  The girls glanced over at Augum, who had hardly said a word all supper. He had been idly pushing around the same buttered potato for the last while. The food had no taste and he had lost his appetite. His anger that the Von Edgeworths had stolen his castle tainted every thought like a rotting fish in a well.

  “This is my cue to tell you we’re going after a children’s tale,” he said mockingly.

  The others did not respond, which only made him feel that much worse. His words hung in the air like a taunt, but instead of eliciting a reaction, he only saw sadness and the sting of his failures behind their eyes.

  Then he thought he saw a shadow in the window that disappeared as soon he laid eyes upon it. You dare come at me here, he thought, and put down his fork. “I need to take a walk to clear my head,” he said coldly.

  Leera’s voice was soft as she said, “Want me to come with—”

  “No. I mean, no thank you. Please excuse me.”

  “Wait, you need your coat—” But he had already walked out into the night, eyes watchful, blood racing. After listening to the wind and snow, he strode off at a rapid clip between the homes, aware of the night, averting his eyes from the warm light of the windows. He would need his night vision.

  “Come at me, you bastard,” he muttered, bathing in the anger that gave his face a hot flush and made his muscles taut. “Come at me …” He spread his fingers. “Shyneo.” He dimmed the crackling lightning around his palm to a low glow.

  He soon became aware of a figure following a ways behind him. He walked with purpose into the burnt Ravenwood and wove between the trunks, careful not to allow a direct line of attack in case the person trailing fired a poison dart. After passing a few gently rolling hills, he turned and waited, breathing rapid shallow breaths while listening to the creak of trunks swaying in the winter wind. The surrounding snow was a pristine and fresh ocean, the darkness near complete. Only the barest amount of light from his palm made things visible. He waited, jaw firm, eyes slits.

  The figure soon arrived, and only said one spiteful phrase.

  “Arcaner, prepare yourself in the old way.”

  Augum’s fists clenched.

  A Roar

  A panting Augum stood staring at the crumpled body in the snow. The wind blew the man’s cloak over his head, obscuring the gaping lightning wound that had been the death blow.

  He dropped to his knees, allowing his lit palm to extinguish. His labored breathing, heavy from the quick battle, slowly subsided. The wind threw sharp pricks of snow into his face as his hood flapped against his cold neck. He
let the cold seep into his bones. He let it douse the fires of anguish and hatred and self-loathing. He let it numb the guilt and shame. Especially the shame, for it coiled inside his chest like a snake. The shame of letting his kingdom down. His ancestors. His friends. His academy. Himself. That shame was more powerful than any poison. And there was no antidote.

  “ ‘Becometh violence hath I, destroyer of worlds,’ ” he whispered.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the wind rake through the trees, to the creaking of branches, to the quiet rustle of snowdrift. He was losing himself. Losing his soul. Losing hope.

  He flexed his left arm, flaring his magnificent shield. The thick black lightning crust gently crackled like ancient ice. He peeked over the shield and was surprised to find the golden Arcaner motto was as bright and lustrous as ever. Semperis vorto honos. But he felt neither courage nor fortitude nor honor. What honor was there in defeating a lesser man who had barely posed a challenge? What honor was there in defeating someone almost as young as him? Where had his courage been when the kingdom needed it most?

  Perhaps there was refuge in fortitude …

  The wind changed direction and the young assassin’s cloak slipped off his bloody head. The light from the golden words on Augum’s shield revealed the gaping hole that echoed the one inside Augum’s heart. He had taken the life of yet another assassin, but it had not made him feel better. It had only quelled the anger at the expense of adding more shame.

  He placed a shaking hand on the still-warm body. “May the Unnameables light your path and have mercy on your soul,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the gods, even with everything he knew and had experienced. Yet it felt like the right thing to do. It felt like the only iota of meaning he could inject into the situation. It felt more real than the fight, than the body, than his cheap soul.

  He stayed with the body until it grew cold. He stayed until the snowdrift piled up against his sides. He stayed until the shivers became violent, and then ceased altogether. He stayed until he felt nothing at all, clinging to the only thing he had left … fortitude.

  * * *

  “You stupid, stupid fool,” whispered an agonized voice. It was the voice of beloved Leera. She was gently running a hand through his chestnut hair. There was a hearth nearby, crackling and hissing and hot. He could smell the gentle aroma of cedar and cinnamon and leek soup and pine tea. They mingled sweetly, creating a bath of coziness. A window rattled against the wind.

  “You misguided, stubborn fool,” Leera whispered, resting her head on his chest. “Haven’t learned a damn thing. Haven’t learned a damn thing …”

  Augum opened his eyes and saw that he was wrapped in thick wool blankets. He was shivering, but in recovery. He must have fallen asleep in the snow. He wondered who had found him, no doubt by following his tracks. He wondered how long it had taken for them to start worrying.

  For a time he only lay there, trying not to think of anything, particularly of losing his castle, his home, instead feeling her soft hand rhythmically soothing his shivering. When the shivering subsided, she lifted her head and looked into his eyes. Hers were red, freckled cheeks stained with tears.

  She sat up slowly, playing with his hair, which she twisted into ropes. “You’d look ugly with long hair,” she said. “This is as long as you’re allowed to grow it.”

  “As my princess wishes.” He was surprised at the croak in his voice.

  She scoffed. “Princess.” Then sighed gently. “I’m angry with you.”

  “I know.”

  “Angry, Augum Arinthian Stone.”

  “I know …”

  She wiped her cheeks with the back of her sleeve. “Do you know what it feels like to find someone you love lying in the snow in the middle of nowhere by another body?”

  The question was an icicle through his heart. Unable to think of a reply, he swallowed dryly.

  “Hmm? Do you know what that feels like?” She clutched the outer blanket in her hands, as if yanking on his lapel. “Don’t you ever do something so stupid again,” she hissed, letting go with an angry jerk and turning her back on him. He weakly raised his hand to touch her back, only for her to spring to her feet and step to the fire, which she watched, holding herself, her silhouette dark against the licking flames. The wind whistled through the cracks in the window frame.

  Augum sat up, placed his hands around the steaming cup of tea sitting on a mahogany table, and brought it near, leeching its warmth. He glanced around and saw they were in his room upstairs in Haylee’s house. It was pitch-dark outside.

  “We should be exploring Archives right now,” Leera spat. “Instead you went off on a fool’s errand to prove something to yourself. You’re lucky Jengo was around to heal you.” She shook her head. “Damn fool.”

  Augum sipped his tea, hoping it would quell the acidic shame in his chest. He wanted to apologize, but he had been doing so much of that of late it felt that doing so now would somehow cheapen that apology. He felt trapped, unable to speak, unable to make amends, unable to explain or express himself.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” she whispered more to herself than to him. “But it hurts …”

  That did it. He shakily put down the cup, unwrapped the rest of the layers, stood, clumsily walked over to her, and wrapped her in his arms, surprised when she let him do so. He held her for some time, finally whispering the three words that brought gentle light into fathoms of darkness.

  “I love you.”

  A New Day

  The morning was a flurry of activity. Mercifully, no one mentioned the night prior. Bridget, Leera, Haylee, Jez and the servants treated Augum the same as they would any other day. Perhaps they knew acknowledging what had happened would only deepen his guilt and shame.

  Over an early breakfast, Augum watched the wonderful women in his life with a slightly detached air. Haylee and Bridget had their heads together, planning how they would approach the Black Bank and what they would do with the funds. Jez was going over the finer points of the standard version of the 8th degree Chameleon spell with Leera, who was struggling with the spell. Sir Pawsalot was curled in Leera’s lap, purring up a storm from the gentle petting he was receiving. All four flashed Augum tiny, confident smiles when they caught him looking, before delving back into their discussions.

  They had gotten up well before sunrise that morning. Everyone had puffy rings under their eyes and were buzzing with energy. Today was a new day. Today they would start fighting back.

  There was a knock at the door and Charles opened it. Jengo barged in while munching on a chunk of bread.

  “You all ready?” he asked. “We need to meet up with the others as planned. Dole out the money to those in need. The gods know we’re in quite a privileged position to have so much money at our disposal. And yes, we can count the time toward our proata mentora.” A good and honorable warlock spent ten percent of their time giving to the community.

  They finished their food and stood, allowing Charles and Billy to clear the table. Leera gave Sir Pawsalot a squeeze and set him down to go about his day. Then the trio donned their new coats, receiving praise from Jengo on how nifty Ohmish arcanery was.

  “Right,” Jez said, glancing about. “Everyone know the plan?”

  Heads nodded. Jez would teleport to the Antioc constabulary where she would register to start paying her seventeen daily crowns, then she would find ways to raise crowns, and finally return to keep an eye on Arinthia. Meanwhile, the trio would meet up with their classmates then steal away to the Black Bank. Time was of the essence, for who knew what new indignities the Canterrans had in store for their poor academy, for poor Solia.

  The group assembled outside. It was windy and cloudy, but at least it wasn’t snowing. Augum did not ask what they had done with the assassin’s body. Jez had probably teleported it to who knew where or buried it.

  “Now remember,” Jez finished saying to Leera, “illusions are ephemeral and cannot move. And you’ll
only be able to fabricate small things at first. But you need to get more practice in. Exams are around the corner.”

  “Assuming there even will be exams,” Leera muttered.

  “Meet you three at the steps,” Haylee said before she and Jengo touched their rings and incanted, “Impetus peragro.” There was a thwomp as they disappeared.

  Jez then accompanied the trio to Castle Arinthian, for their rings were coded to only trigger from that spot, as Haylee’s and Jengo’s were coded to trigger from their street.

  Augum stumped along in a depressed haze, dreading seeing his ancestral home. Katrina had indeed struck true, wounding him deeply.

  “I’d teleport you all but I need to get to Antioc to pay this ridiculous daily due,” Jez said. “Seems I’ll have to devote half my days to good old-fashioned arcane labor.” She sighed. “Heralds are late, no surprise. Wonder how they’ll cover the invasion.” Then a mischievous smile crept across her face and she curled her arms around the girls’ necks and squeezed them close, whispering something into each of their ears. They smiled and nodded, stealing looks at Augum. Augum thought he heard Jez whisper something about him being “too damn proud.” He felt his cheeks burn and looked away.

  “All right, good luck, monkeys,” Jez said, and shoved Augum playfully. “You stay out of trouble and keep your friends in the know, mister,” and she strode off in the other direction.

  “What was that all about?” Augum asked.

  “Nothing,” the girls sang, exchanging smiles.

  It lightened Augum’s heart … until they arrived at the front of the castle. “Castle Von Edgeworth,” he muttered bitterly, looking up at the facade that countless ancestors had called home.

  “It’s a temporary problem,” Leera said, elbowing him. “We’ll figure it out. Stop being so gloomy.”