by Sever Bronny
The foyer was spacious, with a high-trussed ceiling. A set of wide stone stairs led to a crenellated gallery on the second floor, much as one would find on top of a castle tower. Flanking the stairs were bright torches. But that wasn’t the most interesting feature of the room. Floating in midair throughout the vast space were gilt-framed oil portraits of past arcanists, creating a gallery.
Darby led the trio and his seven remaining overseers up the steps. Augum felt awkward. Unlike arcanist offices, students weren’t allowed in the arcanist dorms unless invited. And the trio had never been invited.
They reached the gallery and another set of doors manned by a pair of warlocks Augum had only heard described in The Grizzly’s Military Strategy class. They wore black silk robes, the edges and hems embroidered with fine gold thread. Their faces were hard, pitiless and battle-scarred, and they had long and gray hair, even the men. A crest over the heart depicted a golden panther, meaning they were the Golden Panthers, a mirror of the Black Eagles. This elite squad was composed of tournament champions and famous duelers and warlock brutes who had distinguished themselves on the field of battle.
And they were the personal guard of the Canterran King.
A Sacred Quest
The two doors swung open without an apparent gesture, and the group filed into a hall of doors and paintings, at the end of which stood another pair of Golden Panthers before a set of thin doors that towered all the way up to the three-story-high ceiling. They opened of their own volition once Darby stepped near. Augum could almost sense the power emanating from the Golden Panthers as he strode by. They too had gray hair, one a man, the other a woman, with those same battle-seasoned faces. Augum had once heard a spurious rumor that one of them had reached the 20th degree. He wondered if such an accomplishment showed on the face.
Beyond the doors was the fabled Room of Masters, where arcanists met to discuss important affairs. Shiny oil paintings of aged men and women with serious expressions covered the walls, past headmasters and headmistresses of the academy. Strewn in between were epic scenes from the academy’s history. The pictures varied in shape and size, with exotic gilt frames, and went up several stories before surrendering to a blank stone wall that disappeared into infinity—the only infinite ceiling Augum had seen in the Student Wing. Untethered dragon-motif chandeliers floated twenty feet up. A sprawling carpet depicting a titanic battle scene lay on the floor. The carpet was so immense one would have to walk around it to take in the full scale of its depiction. There were no chairs or tables or furniture. It seemed visiting arcanists were expected to stand. It was a room few students had laid eyes upon.
But it was the far wall that was the most interesting, for there was none. There was no glass, nothing. All one could see was a blizzard. Yet that blizzard was soundless, and its cold did not seep through the invisible barrier. Not so much as a snowflake encroached into the sacred and quiet stillness of the Room of Masters.
A man stood apart from a retinue of twelve Golden Panthers, who stood in two disciplined lines of six, creating a corridor, their hoods up. He faced the silent blizzard, dwarfed by its infinity. The man wore one of the finest warlock robes Augum had ever seen. It was multicolored and superbly embroidered with rich scenes of battle. His hood was down, revealing a long silver-haired ponytail that gleamed in the dim chandelier light.
“It’s a shame,” King Samuel said, voice carrying well in the absolute quiet of the room. His voice was clear, almost musical, yet assertive and confident, and perfectly lilting and crisp in the Canterran way. If honey could speak, it would speak in such a tongue. “On a clear day, one can see the entire city, even the Northern Peaks beyond and their snowy caps. But not a soul on the outside can see this great—” He gracefully indicated skyward without looking up. “—construct of ancient arcanery. Out there, it is invisible to all. Quite the marvel.”
King Samuel turned around and Augum gave a slight start. The man’s features were grotesque, as if acid had melted his skin. Augum knew he was disfigured, but he had not seen an accurate drawing of that disfigurement.
“A common reaction,” the man said, voice bridging the distance between them, cleaving the great silence like a blade. “The Necrotic plague leaves its victims scarred for life. I suffered it as a boy, hence the nickname.”
Sepherin the Sufferer, Augum thought.
“You can imagine the isolation, yes?”
Augum knew enough of courtly expectations to not answer the rhetorical question. He remained mute, the girls at his side, their heads bowed.
“You may look up, ladies. No one should be deprived of the magnificence of this great room.”
Bridget and Leera looked up and gasped, not just at the king’s visage, but at the sight of this beautiful space. They glanced around with open mouths and wide eyes.
King Samuel maintained the distance between them as he spoke. “I once thought this condition was a punishment. That the Unnameables were angry with me. I shed many quiet tears of self-pity. But then I discovered it was a gift in disguise. People reveal themselves to me for who they truly are. I use that to my advantage.” He turned back to face the blizzard. The silence once more enveloped the room like a thick blanket.
“Beautiful, yes? It is unfortunate that we have lost the ability to craft such wonders as infinite ceilings or permanent arcane barriers. We no longer even have the knowledge to float objects permanently, as demonstrated by the chandeliers above you.”
Augum and the girls glanced up at the dragon chandeliers, revolving ever so slowly. Fire guttered in small arcane flames from fierce dragon mouths. They floated unattached and free, with no chain to hold them up.
“I spent my youth buried in books. Between those self-pitying tears, I fell in love with history, with the glories of the past, with knowledge. Forgive my boasting, but I believe I may have studied as much history as even the most gifted arcaneologists. Thus, my strength—” He placed a hand against the invisible arcane barrier that kept the blizzard at bay. “—is perspective.”
He let go, clasping his hands behind his back. “You are part of history, the three of you.” Then he looked straight into the blizzard as his voice took on a rapid and hypnotic tone, as if he were reading from a book. “Bridget Abigail Burns. 7th, earth. Born in Blackhaven on the twenty-seventh day of the fifth month in the year 3326. Mother, Annette Burns of the Demeteria line. Father, Henry Hoskins, lineage unknown. Upon marriage, agreed to take the mother’s surname, accepting her lineage in the old way. Mother tended to the home. Father was a caravan trader, but attempted a host of other occupations. Brothers Oswald and Christopher, one of whom was a blacksmith’s apprentice, were known to be sources of annoyance. Household was loving and kind, with the father being the dominant role model. All perished brutally at the hand of the Lord of the Legion.”
Bridget’s straight brows creased as her eyes closed in memory. Her chin surrendered the slightest tremble.
“Leera Matilda Jones. 7th, water. Born in Blackhaven on the seventh day of the fourth month in the year 3326. Mother, Matilda Jones of the Artemesia line. Father, Oscar Graysmith, lineage unknown. Upon marriage, took the female’s name of Jones, accepting her lineage in the old way. Mother was an ale taster, father a saddler. No other children. Mother suspected to be the dominant role model. Parents were known to be loving and liberal when approaching the subject of their daughter’s upbringing, choosing to let the daughter dictate her desires rather than thrust their expectations upon her. Both parents were slain at the hand of the Lord of the Legion.”
A single tear rolled down Leera’s cheek. Augum recalled her kneeling before her parents’ graves, placing a kiss upon them with her hand. How he wished he could wipe that tear from her face and give her a gentle and loving squeeze. How he wished they were back in his castle in simpler times, reading by a fire, cuddling.
“Augum Arinthian Stone. 7th, lightning. Born in the Black Castle, Blackhaven, on the second day of the second month in the year 3326, auspiciousl
y sharing the same birthday as his famous ancestor, Atrius Arinthian. Mother, Terra Titan of the Sierran Titan clan. Father, Lividius Stone, of the Arinthian line. Both were gifted lightning warlocks, but father was the clear dominant, demanding his wife serve him, take his name, and renounce arcanery altogether. Mother subsequently murdered by father in a fit of jealous rage when she dared to leave him, hiding her only son. Father, thinking his son lost, adopted the nickname Sparkstone, before becoming a powerful necromancer better known as the Lord of the Legion, and later also the Lord of Dreadnoughts and Lord of Death. He sought the Great Quest, wanting to become the first person to possess all seven scions. Young Augum grew up believing himself to be a gutterborn orphan, and was tormented for it, suffering numerous whippings that left permanent scars on his back. For a time he squired as a budding knight to Sir Tobias Westwood, who perished facing the Legion. Not long after, in his fourteenth year, Augum Stone, Bridget Burns and Leera Jones witnessed the massacre of Sparrow’s Perch. They went on to apprentice under the legendary Anna Atticus Stone, possessor of the Arinthian lightning scion and one of the greatest warlocks to have ever lived. It is suspected she was his parental role model, but due to the lack of a male role model, Augum likely struggled to define himself as a man. Anna Atticus Stone later perished after vanquishing Zigmund Von Edgeworth, bequeathing the Arinthian scion to Augum. Prior to their final duel, Augum renounced his father in the old way on the bridge to the Black Castle, the place of his birth. Father, after attaining the mythical 20th degree rank of master, was subsequently slain by the heroic three in a duel in Castle Arinthian, destroying all seven scions in the process. Augum went on to reestablish the House of Arinthian, with the motto, Adversi alua probata—against all odds.”
King Samuel allowed himself a calming breath before continuing in a quieter voice. “It is unknown how exactly the trio managed to vanquish a 20th degree master necromancer. Scholars theorized they may have received help from Anna Atticus Stone, who possibly lives on in hiding, or they received divine help from the Unnameables, or perhaps learned a long-lost off-the-books spell. After the battle, suspicions grew that the trio possessed the scions, possibly acquired from the Lord of the Legion after his vanquishing, which they then hid in the Castle Arinthian vault. The theory was tested by the clever manipulation of a young herald, who unwittingly played the pawn. The theory has since been proven false, after Augum Stone swore on his shield in the Black Arena in the eleventh month of this year, attesting that the scions have in fact—” King Samuel turned around. “—been destroyed.”
Augum could almost hear the roar of the crowd as he flashed his shield.
“And with that final confirmation, a historic door opened, allowing an adversary to march into the once-great Kingdom of Solia unopposed, unblooded, and untested, for the kingdom had been greatly weakened by civil war.”
Augum found his throat dry and swallowed to moisten it. The man must have gotten much of the information directly from The Grizzly’s trove of intelligence. He summoned his courage, gave a single nod and said a single word, “Perspective.”
“Indeed. Perspective.” King Samuel folded his hands behind his back, revealing where Darby had gotten the habit from, and strolled toward the trio, stopping mere feet away. He smelled faintly of fine vanilla and juniper oils. Up close, his skin was even more ghastly. It was pale and pockmarked with deep gouges and crimson eviscerations, making his golden eyes—the same eyes his entire bloodline possessed—stand out all the more, like burning suns. It was an odd juxtaposition to his perfectly neat silver hair. But it made it easy to dislike and fear him, which he no doubt used to his advantage. And he was not as tall as Augum had presumed. Rather, he matched Leera’s height, and she was shorter than Bridget due to her perpetual slouch.
“I respected your former father, the Lord of the Legion. I was patient and even contrite, seeing a formidable historic foe. Yet he took my contrition and ground it under his boot. I think it fitting that he fell to fifteen-year-olds. Arrogance was his downfall. I wonder if his only son, after defeating the man, inherited some of that arrogance.”
Augum, who had been strategizing his next move, scavenged his memory of classes and assignments given by The Grizzly prior to the invasion. He stared into those golden eyes and replied carefully, mindful to imitate the tone. “King Samuel Sepherin. Fire, 18th. Born on the thirtieth day in the Canterran month of Adean in the year 3282, in the Iron Castle in the City of Ironfeather, to parents of high noble birth, with the father carrying the lineage in the old way.” A bit clunky, but it would do. “Father was a high-ranking commander in the Canterran warlock brigade, perishing in North Sentry in the Narsinian War when Narsus’ forces tested the border, setting the stage for a lifelong grudge against Solia. Suffered the Necrotic Plague at the age of six, leaving him ostracized. Mother was guillotined for blasphemy against The Path in his thirteenth year, just prior to him attending the prestigious Academy of Iron.” In revenge, he would later use The Path to his own advantage, Augum realized, choosing not to utter the insight aloud. “Known as a voracious student of history, young Samuel rose in the ranks as a prodigal arcaneologist, only to declare in his 6th degree that he would pursue military command. Married Coraline Matheson in his—” Augum closed his eyes, unable to recall the year.
“In his twenty-fifth year,” King Samuel provided, an almost proud gleam in his eye. “Keep going. You are doing well.”
“In his twenty-fifth year, going on to sire eight sons and seven daughters. After a lifetime of garnering a reputation for ferocity and callousness, he accepted the position of Lord High Commander in his fiftieth year, and was crowned four years later, donning the motto—” Augum winced trying to remember. “—Del servi o tei ancro balan.”
“In service to the sacred balance,” King Samuel said, nodding his encouragement.
“Enforced harsh disciplinary measures on his children, demanding they enter military service. Four became warlocks and indeed enrolled in the military. Eight more remained Ordinary, showing no talents for the arcane arts, but also enrolled. The remainder were guillotined for disobeying their father.”
The girls gasped, but Augum continued. “Is methodical, known to take his time studying his opponents before striking at their weaknesses. Carries long grudges, especially historical grudges on behalf of his kingdom. Is suspected of harboring ambitions of emperorship, hoping to perhaps become the first person to conquer all seven kingdoms—”
“—since the Rivicans achieved the feat prior to The Founding, over four thousand years ago,” King Samuel finished on Augum’s behalf. He let silence fall between them, then inhaled deeply, as if smelling a spring flower, savoring what Augum had said.
“Ah, but the emperorship portion is not quite accurate. I would even go so far as to say your history has mischaracterized me. I would rather say I am not so much following ambition as I am a prophecy, a great rebalancing, if you will. You see, an ancient Canterran legend says the Unnameables forged the seven kingdoms from seven shards of a blade. Some thought those shards were the seven scions. Alas, you three have destroyed that myth. Here is what I think. I think a man who can make the kingdoms bend the knee can metaphorically reforge that blade.”
King Samuel flashed a grotesque smile, reminding Augum of the undead creatures he had faced in the war. “But I digress. Now, to say I am not impressed with your biography of me would be a falsehood, Squire Stone.” For the first time that whole meeting, the Canterran king looked past Augum at his own son, who stood mutely a distance behind the trio.
Augum glanced back to see Darby, with his forgettable face, shaved head and familial golden eyes, glaring at him with open hatred. It was more than that—it was loathing and jealousy, and Augum thought he understood why. His father had beaten him since childhood. Degraded him, forced him to follow in his footsteps. He had spent a lifetime trying to earn the man’s respect, and here was his mortal enemy earning that respect with nothing more than a memorized biopic paragraph.
But Augum had learned a lot facing strong and intelligent enemies. He would not allow these men to run roughshod over him and his friends. He returned his gaze to King Samuel and again chose his words carefully. “You have not arrested us, Your Highness. Nor have you put us to work. You have brought us here because we have a part to play in your plan. We are the first new Arcaners in four generations. As a devout student of history, I think you place a great deal of respect in that accomplishment.”
“Astute. Astute indeed, Squire Stone. Yes, you are part of history. But you also embody the vain hope of a kingdom that wishes to obfuscate its past. Do you know what I am referring to?”
“The discrepancies between our history books and yours. The fact that conquerors, not the conquered, write history.”
“Precisely correct.” King Samuel turned away from the trio and strolled by his black-robed Golden Panthers, head bobbing as he inspected them from head to foot. “I have been meticulously cataloging history, and have indeed found discrepancies. As the central kingdom in Sithesia, Canterra has seen more than its share of conquerors. Thus, every single kingdom owes Canterra a debt of lives. Every kingdom but one, that is. The Kingdom of Ohm, being a kingdom of peace-loving monks and serving as a barrier between the strange creatures of the north and our human kingdoms of the south, is the only kingdom we Canterrans owe lives to. That number is—” He stopped before the infinite and silent blizzard wall.
“We owe the Kingdom of Ohm seven hundred forty-four lives, Your Grace,” said a smooth and cool voice behind them.
Augum turned to see a thirty-something man standing by the doors in a plain black robe. His eyes were dead and his face flat. His hair was perfectly combed and plastered to his head with oil.
“Thank you, Chronicler,” King Samuel said.
