by Sever Bronny
“Look at me, Stone. History is always written by the conqueror, not the conquered. But to avoid future mistakes, we must look to the past for answers.”
Augum thought about what she said. “But which version of history are we to study then?”
“Ah, now you’re getting my drift, Stone. The answer is, all of them. Think on that. And remember what I’ve taught you in history class about cultures enslaving each other. Not even Solia is free of sin. And even the Rivicans, lauded as a great race of visionaries and engineers and alchemists, were cruel and callous and used slave labor to build their empire.” She peeked over her shoulder. “Let us walk as they are getting suspicious.”
They continued on. Halfway through the lightning hall, Gonzalez pretended to lean more heavily on his arm. “I have a secret to tell you. Some of them are fake warlocks.”
Augum almost stumbled at the news.
“I mean, they’re real warlocks, they’re just not all over 15th degree as was purported.”
“How do you know, Arcanist Gonzalez?”
“That stinking drunk Flagon told me. It’s arithmetic, he said. The statistics simply do not bear it out. Only so many warlocks of each degree graduate from an academy per term. The Academy of Iron graduates twice the number of high-degree graduates we do, as is proportional to their population, which is about double ours. Or is it triple? I can’t remember. Are you paying attention?”
“Very much so, Arcanist Gonzalez.”
“Anyhow, Gully Wagon—er, excuse me, Arcanist Flagon—said it’s highly unlikely they brought a hundred warlocks over the 15th degree here, especially considering the Canterrans have a lot on their plate. King Samuel is set to expand his borders on all fronts, requiring vast manpower, not to mention they have a monstrous secret project on their hands. Do you really think they’d put all their best warlocks into one proverbial basket, leaving their kingdom almost defenseless?”
“So we can overthrow them.”
“Not necessarily. Flagon said up to a third are competent and deadly, especially the warlocks closest to Darby, which still leaves around thirty-three or so. And even should we succeed in booting them out of the academy, it would only be a matter of time until they brought their army upon us, or at least reinforcements from Canterra. And then what? We hole up in here while they punish the populace for our sins? We don’t have an Anna Atticus Stone to defend us. I thought The Grizzly taught you better than that.”
Her use of nicknames for the other arcanists amused him.
“I’m telling you this so that, in case you’re planning something that isn’t completely moronic, you can tuck it away for safekeeping. Do you understand, Stone?”
“I do. Thank you, Arcanist Gonzalez.”
“Now buzz off.”
“Yes, Arcanist Gonzalez. And … thank you.”
“Save your thanks for my funeral pyre, Stone.”
They stepped into The Hub where she let go, and turned back toward the lightning classroom, muttering to the pair of overseers that she had “forgotten her darn things again.”
The Hub was deserted except for Caireen, who he joined up with. As they walked, they exchanged a meaningful look, silently acknowledging that the pair of overseers was following Augum. Darby’s gambit was clumsy but effective, and Augum would have to deal with the goons eventually. He wondered whether these two were competent warlocks. By their youth and nervousness, he suspected they were nothing more than 3rd or maybe 4th degree warlocks. He doubted they had ever seen true combat, which was nothing like a practice duel; it was raw robe-pissing fear and harrowing violence. Casting a spell in practice—heck, even in a tournament—was one thing, but doing it in battle was quite another.
As soon as they passed through the last membrane, plunging them into quiet, Caireen whispered hurriedly, “Hey, that confrontation you had with that golden-eyed lunatic flashed through the academy like a brushfire in a heat wave.”
“What? It just happened—”
“Students spread the news after exiting the lightning hall. And that isn’t the only news making rounds. Apparently Katrina is telling anyone who’ll listen that Castle Arinthian belongs to the Von Edgeworths, and that all is right with the world and that karma has served its dish of vengeance upon the Arinthian line.”
But for Augum, not having Katrina on his back trying to sabotage him was a relief. There was no time to think of the castle anyway. More important things were, in his mind, turning urgent.
“Something else is going on too,” Caireen said. “Something in the courtyard. Everybody hurried out of the hall. The others all went on ahead to see what the fuss is about.”
It had to be serious indeed for Leera not to wait for him. He needed to tell her she was in great danger. He needed to explain to them all what had transpired with Darby, what it meant. And he needed to figure out what Gonzalez was getting at about variable histories.
“There’s a rumor going around they’re using the money to build an even larger army,” Caireen went on.
“I think I agree with that rumor. They’re using warlocks for something else, though. Some sort of secret project. Gonzalez hinted we need to look to history for the answers.”
“Abua ibin hamua, Gonzalez?”
“That a Tiberran curse?”
“Yes, actually. You don’t want to know. Look, all Gonzalez wants is what every teacher wants—for their students to take their course seriously, for their course to mean something in practicality. She may no more have the answers than—” She threw up her hands. “—Gully Wagon with his stupid arithmetic.”
Augum snorted. “On that subject, I learned something I’ll share with you—later though. The point is, I suspect Gonzalez is onto something, but we’ll have to do some serious research to find out if there’s anything there.”
Caireen shrugged. “If you say so. Hey, you all right?”
“Yeah, just lots on my mind.” And the list was growing longer by the heartbeat. He sensed she might press, so he changed the subject. “You and Isaac, huh?”
“What about us? You disapprove?”
“On the contrary, I think you make a fantastic couple.” If they can put up with each other’s idiosyncrasies that is, for they were both fiery and outspoken.
Caireen smiled. “I like him. I like his sense of humor. I like his smarts. And he’s good-looking to boot.”
“Funny, I think he said something similar about you.”
Caireen’s cheeks colored.
They hurried down the hall, pursued just as hurriedly by the two overseers, and exited into the snowy courtyard, overcast with gloomy clouds. There they saw what all the fuss was about—on the platform where Augum had been whipped, surrounded by Path Disciples and overseers, stood Iguyin.
And above him hung a noose.
The Coward
Darby the Diamond, Darby the Coward, stood on the platform with his fingertips pressed together, voice a high lilting vibrato of passion as he sermonized on the evils of waywardness and how it was contrary to The Path. And when his golden eyes at last found Augum in the crowd, his forgettable face lit up with glee.
Augum ignored him for the moment and searched the crowd for his friends, finding them huddled around Eric Southguard. No, they were holding him, preventing him from doing something stupid like charging the platform.
Augum and Caireen rushed over, but he realized it was not in Eric’s best interest to draw attention to him. He allowed Caireen to run ahead while he changed direction and pressed through the crowd of anxious student warlocks, some of whom remarked on his passing with whispers he had not expected … words of encouragement and condolence.
“Always thought you were stuck up, but … sorry about your castle.”
“Started another Resistance yet? If so, count me in.”
“We know you’ve got something cooking, Stone.”
“Most of us are secretly rooting for you now.”
“Show them what you got.”
Augum, pla
ying it cautious, revealed nothing. He glanced behind him and saw the two overseers still trailing him. The crowd hissed at them like snakes. One even got jostled. The overseer played it off as an accident, confirming he was a low-degree novice.
Darby’s voice got louder as Augum approached, but it was a strained loudness, forced and tempered by the knowledge that Augum had penetrated his armor. Augum wanted to use that fear to save Iguyin and send a message of quiet resistance. But how? How to do it without unleashing the coward’s madness of sly revenge?
Darby’s tone was hypnotic. “… for waywardness condemns all those around them to live in degeneracy …” Beside him, Iguyin was made to stand on a chair. The rope was placed around his neck.
Time was running out. Darby’s lips moved, the words meaningless. A shaking Iguyin breathed quickly, eyes darting about. Blood rushed through Augum’s ears. The seductive mistress of violence danced tantalizingly before him, tempting him to embrace combat and let things fall as they may.
Living in peaceful times had made him realize how comfortable he felt in war, in testing himself, in balancing on the knife edge of life and death. He thrived on it. But he recognized the thrill of it made him forget the important things, making him impulsive and reckless. That was the boundary he desperately needed to be mindful of, for lives were at stake. And he fundamentally knew the solution in this instance was not combat. He had to ignore the mistress of violence.
Control yourself, he told himself. Control yourself. Be mindful. Be strong. Be precise.
“… now and for eternity to save your souls from yourselves, from your own wicked temptations …”
Augum closed his eyes as time rapidly ran out. He was conscious of all those overseers watching, and how they could slaughter students like sacrificial lambs, for the ones clustered around Darby were the real and deadly thing; 15th degree warlocks and above. Yet if he could save Iguyin, not only would students’ hopes thrive, but he could persuade Eric to aid the new Resistance, which could save even more lives.
But Augum needed more time and courage, especially the latter.
At last a solution came to him, a bold, reckless solution—he would cast a certain sacred Leyan-taught spell, buying precious time. And hopefully he was smart enough to think of a creative solution before the foggy side effects kicked in.
He began preparing the spell, which required profound awareness, by paying careful attention to his thumping heart that drummed down the beats until Iguyin’s execution. After listening to it, he opened his eyes and saw the summoned platform planks. He saw Iguyin on his tiptoes standing on a rickety chair above those planks. He saw the noose around his neck. He saw Darby’s hands moving gracefully, keeping the audience dull of wit, his mouth moving, saying everything yet nothing. He saw Eric struggling in the background to contain himself, Augum’s friends holding him back, their eyes drifting between Darby and Augum, knowing he was about to do something. Augum was the bolt in a readied ballista. All this he saw in the same snail speed as the gray clouds above.
At last, ready and full of brazen daring, Augum lowered his head and spoke into his sleeve, covering his mouth and muffling the sacred words. “Centeratoraye xao xen.”
The pull of arcanery was like plunging his feet into a cold river, and Centarro ripped through his being like a charging stallion. He immediately put the vast creative resources of the ancient Leyan spell toward saving Iguyin. Imagery flipped through his mind like flashes of lightning. His lips moved silently with each idea. He saw himself striking Darby down where he stood, summoning his blade and cutting the rope before calling for an insurrection and overthrowing the regime then and there. He could take Darby hostage, yet that would also likely lead to a violent end for him and the academy. From thence on he dismissed violent solutions and focused on diplomatic ones, all while Darby turned toward Iguyin, readying for the final prayer.
Except diplomacy was not Augum’s strong suit. He knew war and bravery and confrontation and sacrifice. He knew violence like he knew the lines of his palm.
People were looking at him, but they were faceless in the bolt of his vast concentration.
Sacrifice. Yes, that could work, for a coward feared sacrifice.
Darby finished his cult prayer and readied to kick the stool from underneath Iguyin.
But what kind of sacrifice? Augum did not know. And everyone was watching, waiting. He was the match in a sea of lamp oil.
Laudine would have appreciated the metaphor and the rhyme.
Focus.
Darby kicked the chair.
Augum saw himself training in Telekinesis for these last two terms. He saw himself lifting larger and larger objects and holding them for longer and longer.
And he realized what he could do.
The bolt loosed from the ballista.
The match fell into the lamp oil.
Iguyin jerked and kicked, but he floated. He did not fall, but rather dangled in the air, eyes awash with wild surprise.
Augum felt the immense strain of the telekinetic pull in his veins, for they popped out on his face and arms. The feat demanded he concentrate on two fronts—the spell itself, and the offer of sacrifice. He placed one foot before the other, splitting his concentration as he had trained himself to do. He stepped onto the platform, mindful to appear as calm and serene as possible. He placed himself between Iguyin and Darby.
“I offer myself in his place,” Augum declared in a clear and firm voice.
He ignored the audience’s gasps, the looks they exchanged, the muffled cry from a girl with raven hair and freckled cheeks. His eyes were on the coward. Behind him, Iguyin dangled, helpless, but not strangling. Alive … for now.
Darby’s golden eyes bulged like Augum’s veins. Augum held firm. Still. In balance. But his innards vibrated from the strain that increased with each heartbeat—and each beat felt like an eternity under the influence of Centarro.
Darby’s gaze flicked to Iguyin before returning to Augum. And that gaze faltered along with his breath, for he surely knew what would happen should he accept Augum’s sacrifice—the kind of revolt that only came from martyrdom.
Augum, head pounding with pain, waited until the strain was near breaking before saying, “Or you can show these good people the power of forgiveness you preach about. The power you hold in your hand this very moment.” Take the out I offer, you damn fool, or this will turn into a bloodbath, Augum found himself willing through his unblinking glare.
Blood dribbled from his nose. He was pushing his arcane boundaries. The hammering in his head threatened to smash a hole through his brain, it was that painful.
Darby saw the blood and his golden eyes widened further. He glanced around at the still crowd before abruptly throwing up his arms. “I forgive you for your transgression, Lord Stone! I admire strength and know it when I see it!” His voice quivered with false strength, yet Augum had beaten him as surely as in a real duel.
Someone behind Augum lifted Iguyin and Augum broke the immense hold that had been making his hands shake from the strain. Doing so freed up the resources to focus on another creative solution.
“You have shown courage and fortitude,” Augum declared in compassionate tones, channeling Bridget while Centarro roared through his soul. “And this strength I recognize in you, Prince Darby.” That was the key, otherwise the disgrace would be too great.
His own humility was essential too. Augum therefore lowered his head and retreated backward down the platform steps, only turning around when his feet touched the snow in the courtyard. Then he walked away, counting the heartbeats until Centarro’s end, knowing how precariously close he was to disaster. He ignored the awed whispers and stunned faces around him, as well as the commotion on the platform that signaled an end to the proceedings. He ignored the blood flowing from his nose and ears, the excruciating headache fist repeatedly slamming into his brain, mashing it to a pulp. He had only one quest left … make it to Leera.
But the fog of Centarro descended t
oo quickly. And he could not run to her, for that would destroy the effect he had worked so hard to achieve. He only hoped she would find him. The shapes blurred around him as he bumped into them like a drunk. The colors melted into each other as his mind went stupid.
He recognized a satchel. It was a bag. It was a square shape. A color. A blur. A foggy afterimage.
He plunged into toddler-like wonder, lost to simplicities.
Confrontation
Augum’s consciousness floated like a leaf underwater, at the whim of a quiet current, finally popping to the surface of a gentle stream. The foggy blur across his vision gradually retreated, morphing into shapes which turned into color which turned into texture and sharpness.
He smelled her gentle scent before he saw her. Today she smelled like blackberries and pine tea and a winter hearth. Like the castle the Von Edgeworths had stolen from them. She was holding him upright, embracing him like a protective lioness. And his friends surrounded them, blocking the view. Sentinels, like the Ravenwood around the castle. But there was sound too. She was humming something. It had been part of the background, guiding him like a beacon fire in the night. He recognized the tune. A Boy and His Cat. It was a children’s tune. Gentle, soothing, replete with orphan sorrow. And she was softly stroking his cheek. She had calmed his stormy seas. She had helped him avoid the rocky shore of arcane fever.
He never felt safer than when he woke in her arms. He allowed himself another moment to appreciate it. To savor it. His beloved raven beauty. His future wife. One day he would ask her.
How long had he been lost to the side effects of Centarro?
Time. He had bought them time. But that was all. Perhaps Darby would recognize that Augum had manipulated him. If so, his anger would be a coward’s anger. They were thus in danger.
When Augum’s consciousness fully returned, he straightened and gently cupped Leera’s cheek and guided his lips to the other cheek, smiling serenely at her. Her humming quieted to nothing, leaving a faint whisper in the winter wind. She smiled up at him from her perpetual slouch. Her dark eyes shone with love and loyalty and passion and hope.
