by Sever Bronny
“Good,” Gonzalez said, stepping off the platform and strolling to the crackling wall. “Ten feet high, a remarkable thirty feet across, and looks like …” She stepped to the side of the rippling lightning wall. “Three feet thick. It seems you have indeed been practicing, Stone. And as usual, your elemental casting—no doubt due to battlefield experience—is quite advanced for your degree.”
The two overseers exchanged looks.
Gonzalez nodded at the wall. “Extinguish it.”
Augum made a clawed scraping swipe across the width of the wall. “Summano null,” and the wall disappeared with a great whoosh.
“Now let’s talk about how internal variations can—” She ceased talking, gawking at the entrance. The class gasped as necks craned. Augum turned.
Standing before the membrane was a white-robed figure with golden eyes.
Breach
Eight hooded overseers flanked Darby the Diamond. Everyone sprung to their feet in deference. The women dropped their heads and eyes, as did most men. No one wanted to be carted off.
So he’s a lightning warlock, Augum thought. How curious. And his retinue has to be too. That’s a lot of high-degree lightning warlocks.
Cold dread washed over Augum when Darby’s golden eyes settled upon him. That dread lumbered in his chest like a sodden troll.
Darby pressed his fingertips together as he confidently strolled over to stand before Augum. He was a good head shorter than Augum yet he stared unblinkingly into his eyes. To Augum, those golden orbs were coastal beacon fires warning of a rocky shore. He told himself to be meek and contrite and humble. This was not the time to make war. It was too soon.
Having learned from his parlays with the nobility, he made his face blank, his eyes flat, and relaxed his body as best he could. Darby took in these subtle things with the practiced air of someone used to measuring the nuance of people with a single glance.
“Lord Stone.”
“Prince Darby.”
“You and I share much in common, Lord Stone,” Darby began in his lilting Canterran accent. “Starting with a tyrannical father.” His overseers stirred uneasily, but Darby charged on, fingertips pressed neatly together, unmoving. “My father mercilessly beat me daily. When his father died and he took the throne, he had others do the beating for him. I dare say our scarred backs, if compared, would be mirrors of each other.”
Augum said and showed nothing, merely held Darby’s gaze. Deep inside, he saw his reflection in a pool of blood that crept toward him in the snow. But this time, he could not step back.
Darby spoke in hypnotic tones. “But whereas you rejected your father, I embraced mine. You see, it took me years to realize my father has no hatred for me, but rather a poignant, deep love that is like an iron bedrock supporting a mighty castle, the castle of a mighty bloodline. I further realized that I had been quite delinquent, for my mind had not bent the knee before the Unnameables. I had been … imperfect. But then I came across The Path, and my life changed. The Path gave me an avenue to perfection. A set of simple rules to live by. And thus I became a model citizen. A model son. A model disciple.”
Darby sighed and considered his fingertips. “I do not fault Father for I now see the wisdom of his teachings, but Mother stood by throughout and did and said nothing. And that is where you and I again part company—historically speaking. Your mother sacrificed her life to see you safe, whereas mine watched with cold detachment. But there was no wisdom in that detachment, only malice. And whereas your former father murdered your mother—” Darby leaned in close so only Augum could hear and whispered, “I would have liked to have murdered mine.”
Augum’s mouth popped open in shock at the confession. As Darby straightened, a small and malevolent smile tainting his lips, Augum quickly blanked his face once more. It was dangerous to reveal anything to this man; Darby knew far too much about his past as it was, so much so that Augum suspected Darby had come to Solia partly because of him. But he had also now learned something about Darby. Specifically, where his hatred of women came from—his mother. Augum hoped Darby kept talking, for behind his carefully constructed mask, he was learning and absorbing.
Darby’s eyes swept to the women, whose heads were bowed, bodies hunched in meekness. “The gods give women to men to serve only three purposes—childbearing, child rearing and obedience to men.”
That dread cooled further into a creeping menace.
“In Canterra, women serve their men. They know their place and rejoice in it. Here, in this land of barbaric minds and barbaric customs, you have given women a freedom that poisons not only them, but their men as well, weakening both. It is no wonder you allowed us to wander into your homes without spilling so much as a drop of blood.”
Darby’s gaze resettled on Augum. His face was so unremarkable that all he noticed were the eyes. “Do you know what the Solians did the first time they invaded Canterra? They stole our women and made them their own.”
The accusation hung between them like an arrow notched in a drawn bow.
Darby smiled. It was not a kind smile; it was clinical and laced with vengeance. “But history is not without its karma.”
It hit Augum what Darby was driving at. He wanted to thoroughly humiliate Solia. This prince standing before him, who had been mercilessly beaten by his father only to embrace the man, had studied history, knew its weaknesses and strengths, and would use it like a sword to justify his self-loathing and hatred and anger. He would use them to erase the things that had happened to him as a boy.
And he will take Leera.
Blood raced through Augum’s veins like molten fire. A murderous rage welled within him, a rage Darby saw as clearly as a crimson sunset on a cloudless evening.
Darby’s smile never faltered. “I have chosen Solia as my first acquisition partly because of you, Lord Stone. Did you know that?”
Augum made the impossible a reality—he cooled his boiling soul, though at a cost. Rage bubbled beneath the surface of his stone mask as he considered his response.
“Yes.”
Darby’s thick, sculpted brows rose up his forehead in surprise as if threatening to invade his shaved pate. He marshaled them back in line, though surely knowing Augum had penetrated his armor.
Augum was indeed taking the measure of his nemesis. Thanks to people like Eric, he had learned how to parry and attack in the field of wit and strategy. Not all battles were fought in the arena or on the field.
Darby considered him, this time with reservation in his eyes, perhaps even … was it fear? But the iron gate of his castle closed and the gold of his eyes shone once more, obscuring the darkness hidden behind them.
“I have studied your duels, Lord Stone. But there is one I fail to understand. In the Antioc arena, your former father, a 20th degree lightning warlock, hit you with a powerful blast of lightning that ripped through your shield.”
Augum recalled the moment all too well. Sometimes he dreamed of it. Flying through the air. Cartwheeling. That hot flash. He knew where Darby was going with this.
“Yet you survived,” Darby murmured. “How was that even remotely possible? That bolt should have cut you clean in half. Ripped you asunder.”
This time, Augum gave him nothing. He pushed the simmering boil deep, deep below the surface and made his mind blank. This was something Darby would have to find out for himself in the most brutal fashion should they come to blows, for he had made a critical error—he had sought Augum out to test himself, thinking he knew everything about him. But there was one thing Darby could not know without guessing, and he had not guessed correctly, for he had asked the question, and the question revealed his ignorance. Augum kept the answer, that he had been gifted with an ancestral echo in the form of lightning immunity, hidden. That immunity was how he had survived the Lord of the Legion’s direct lightning attack. That immunity was a secret, and a powerful advantage against other lightning warlocks.
Darby watched him, those golden eyes hardening with
the prickly anger of a prince used to getting his way. “You refuse to answer my question?” Darby cocked his head, but the slight tilt held an unspoken threat that shot past Augum and speared Leera in the heart.
Caution crumbled like an aging cliff. Augum took the battering ram he had been building throughout their conversation and smashed it into the gates of Darby’s castle. “That you will have to find out for yourself, Prince Darby,” he hissed. That hiss echoed the viciousness of his former father, the Lord of the Legion, who had spoken to thousands of men without fear, with imperious disregard, with a malice that threatened to annihilate his enemies. And that hiss was an invitation to fight.
“You have come here to conquer and bleed this kingdom,” Augum went on, voice turning to steel, “but you have also come here to excise the demons in your soul. You think you will make yourself whole by doing unto us what we have supposedly done unto you. You think by vanquishing and humiliating your perceived equal you will become whole. You think by cloaking your actions with The Path you will be whole.” Augum raised his chin. He saw himself standing waist-deep in a black pool of blood … and he felt the lion strength of empowerment. “You have come to challenge and beat me publicly, for you know it will crush my kingdom’s remaining hope.” It was likely why the overseers had not escorted him out in arcane chains yesterday.
Augum left the trap between them, goading Darby to step into it by employing a modestly fierce glare that was unafraid to stare down and defeat assassins, a glare that had seen more in its sixteen years than most men had in a lifetime.
Darby’s nostrils flared. He was breathing rapidly. He glanced down and, realizing his fingers had strayed, hurried to bring them back together. “I have underestimated your powers of observation, Lord Stone.” He lightly cleared his throat, and that near inaudible gesture made Augum realize something absolutely profound: at heart, Darby the Diamond was a coward.
And sure enough, Darby shrank beneath Augum’s battle-hardened iron stare. His shoulders had dropped and his golden eyes had lost their shine, revealing the deep well of darkness he had spent years obscuring with titles and money and power. Even his fingers shook. Sweat prickled on his shaved scalp, making it grotesquely shiny. His thick brows widened like a defeated army allowing an invader to stroll past. Augum now knew with certainty that Darby had never faced real combat. He had never bled from a blade or screamed in terror or pissed himself on the field of battle. Except, perhaps, in battle at home when facing his father.
Augum took all this in and whispered a potent question. “What’s the project about, Prince Darby? Hmm? What’s that secretive project all about? What are all those people for? What are you digging up?”
The questions brought Darby back from the precipice Augum most feared—the coward lashing out.
“How do you know about that?” Darby asked. Then his lips pressed together and he drew himself in, making his body even smaller, probably realizing the question had once more shown weakness.
“I suppose it does not matter how you found out,” Darby said coolly, summoning reinforcements of courage from some cobwebbed dungeon. “But I assure you of this, Lord Stone, you will not live to see the project to fruition, for you and I will duel in the old way. And you will lose, for I am stronger than a Von Edgeworth. Then I will well and truly claim this kingdom and its … bounties … for myself.”
Augum stood silent, doubting Darby would ever face him. Rather than iron self-belief, he had heard false conviction in Darby’s claim that he was stronger than a Von Edgeworth. If they were to truly duel, Darby would likely run like a scared dog.
Darby glanced past Augum and coldly said, “That one there looked at me.”
Two huge overseers from his guard strode by and grabbed a twenty-something woman in a blue robe.
“No, please! I didn’t look, I swear!” she screamed. “Stop it, please, please—”
Darby, needing to display his power, snapped, “Voidus lingua,” and the woman immediately fell mute.
Darby watched Augum’s face as the overseers herded the woman past, hands roughly held behind her, neck gripped in submission, mouth shouting in silent terror. Augum forced himself to go still, face blank. He could not and would not let Darby get past his iron gates. Instead he focused on being present and aware. And he noticed something. The two men who had grabbed her had muddy boots and dusty, soot-stained robes. Wherever they were taking her, it was somewhere muddy, dirty and sooty.
Darby waited for anyone to do anything, violence raging behind his golden eyes like a silent cyclone. He wanted someone to utter a word in defiance. He wanted to make an example of them, and of himself, that he was not a coward, that he was, in fact, lord supreme.
But no one moved, for doing so would result in instant arrest, or even death. The only thing the display of power accomplished was to show how much of a coward he truly was.
Darby satisfied himself with a smirk and turned his back, the eight overseers trailing like pups, captured slave stumbling along. Darby hissed a quiet command and while he and his retinue departed with their new capture, one overseer went to the two resident overseers and passed on Darby’s command, before rushing off to catch up to his master.
Meanwhile, Augum took a deep breath, knowing Darby would likely never face him. He’d seen his own death in Augum, and he was afraid. He would take the coward’s way out, but how that would manifest Augum did not know. The only way Darby would face him is to prove to himself he could conquer his demons. And should that happen, he would surely rig the circumstance in his favor.
As those around him took their places and exchanged deep looks of concern, the reality of what had happened hit Augum in waves of anxiety. He had wounded Darby’s pride, turning the Head Path Disciple and ancillary conqueror of Solia into a cornered animal. The prince would lash out … and he would lash out in a cowardly fashion.
Augum hoped to the gods he hadn’t overplayed his hand. He was playing a dangerous game, the most dangerous game of all. He was playing with the lives of those who mattered to him most.
He wondered if what he was doing was brave … or tragically reckless.
Rope
“Whatever you’re up to, Stone, make sure it doesn’t destroy the kingdom,” Arcanist Gonzalez told him after class. “I want to retire in peace and I do not have the time or patience to play these stupid games.”
Leera was right, Gonzalez really has checked out, Augum thought, watching the arcanist shuffle toward the membrane, only to surprise him by stopping and extending her hand.
“Lend me your arm, Stone. I suddenly feel old.”
Augum hurried to her and lent her the crook of his elbow, which she took with frail olive fingers. Her leathery skin was as wrinkled as an old oak and her gait seemed like more of a totter than a walk. She used her other hand to keep her black academy robe from catching underfoot. With her somewhat stooped posture, she reminded Augum of his venerable great-grandmother, Mrs. Stone.
They stepped through the membrane into the bright and thunderous chaos of the lightning corridor that connected to The Hub. The two overseers trailed them, though Augum got the impression they were nervous, for not only did they keep their distance, but they also kept wringing their hands.
Gonzalez glanced over her shoulder. “Prince Darby has charged those two goons with following you, it seems.”
“That appears to be the case, Arcanist Gonzalez.”
“So are you or aren’t you planning something?” Gonzalez asked only loud enough for him to hear.
Augum studied her while thunder crashed and roared around them. It occurred to him that the whole feeling old thing was a ruse to talk to him. He did not know if it was wise to reveal that, yes, he was planning multiple things. He stayed silent, hoping she would not take offense.
Gonzalez gave a small shrug. “You are right. It does not matter if I know. Perhaps it is best I don’t. The exuberance of youth replenishes the apathy and tiredness of old age. The young need to take responsibi
lity for their futures, and thus their kingdom. We old folks have only let it down. We allowed men like the Lord of the Legion to seize power, which led, inevitably, to this fateful moment in time. Indeed, the fate of tomorrow rests with you younglings.” She shook her head wearily. “The Unnameables only know how we have put that future in jeopardy. And now we have pinned all our hopes and dreams on the young.”
Augum did not reply, letting her vent her thoughts. Though he did wonder if there was a purpose to their conversation.
“Are you aware, young man, that Canterran history books differ from Solian ones in some key respects?”
“I had an inclination, Arcanist Gonzalez. But in what key respects do you mean?”
She flashed him an annoyed look. “You know what a history book is?”
“Sorry, Arcanist Gonzalez, but is that a trick question? Of course I know.”
“Then try reading one. For that matter, try reading one written in a foreign tongue by a foreign ruler. Or at the very least a quality translation of one.” She sighed. “Being a teacher of history has its privileges, though I suppose one could argue what I know should be common knowledge. Now let me get to my point—and stop interrupting me, I don’t have the patience to explain things these days like I used to.”
“But I never inter—”
“Quiet and let me finish! For example, you remember yesterday’s essay assignment on the Seven Subjugations of Canterra of the year 2724.”
“The Great Solian Reprisal, yes.”
“The Canterrans have a variation titled the opposite—The Seven Subjugations of Solia of the year 2724. Do you see where I am going with this?”
“Not really, Arcanist Gonzalez.” The truth was, he was thoroughly confused.
She grabbed his arm firmly and stopped him. “Daft young man. Listen to me.”
Augum glanced back to see the two overseers straining to overhear their conversation. He narrowed his eyes at them and they swallowed and took a step back.
