by Sever Bronny
Leera squinted at it. “What’s it say?”
Bridget strolled over, steaming cup in hand, blanket trailing on the ground and threatening to slip off her shoulders. “ ‘Sithesi Arcana Warfara Kampioni, 2398.’ ”
“Sithesian Arcaner Warfare Champions,” Augum said in awe. “It’s from a time when the Arcaner order still existed in the other kingdoms.”
Bridget held the blanket close as she strolled by the walls, occasionally sipping her tea. “Seems like they used the ancient tongue when it came to the older pennants, even though everyone spoke common by then.”
Leera wrapped an arm around Augum’s back as she nuzzled closer, eyes closed. “I can almost hear the girls squealing as they celebrated their win in here. Wonder what they were like back then.”
Bridget stopped before a faded oil painting depicting a small group of young robed women, all proudly flaring Arcaner dragoon shields. “Tough and strong and used to war and famine and death. They were probably also used to seeing fellow students perish. And because of it, they lived life to the fullest.”
The corner of Leera’s mouth curled upward. “So they partied hard.”
Bridget said nothing. She extended a hand and delicately brushed the painting’s frame with her fingertips.
Augum kissed the top of Leera’s head and adjusted the blanket so it covered her feet. A distant bell rhythmically gonged twelve times.
Bridget yawned as she put her empty cup down. “Bedtime. We rise at the seventh morning bell.” She gazed fondly at the assemblage before her, at an already snoozing Sir Pawsalot and at a nearly snoozing Leera and at Augum cuddling her close. “I know it’s not really allowed, Aug, but since it’s so lonely over there, if you want, you can sleep on the couch.”
“Is our Bridgey finally unpruning?” Leera asked sleepily, eyes still closed.
“I’m not your mother or your mentor. I’m your friend. You two are old enough, man and woman grown, to have some sense of propriety.” She raised the blanket so it wrapped over her head like a hood, and shuffled off. “At least … I hope. Good night.”
“Night, Bridge,” Augum and Leera chorused.
For a time they listened to the fire. Augum’s eyes kept wanting to close and his bones throbbed with soreness. He absently curled Leera’s hair behind her ear, mesmerized by the hearth. He felt safe here, far away from it all.
His thoughts drifted to what he had blurted to her earlier, when she had walked in on him.
“What if one of us doesn’t make it?” Leera whispered, head in his lap.
“Don’t say that.”
“I know. I know …” She lay quietly for a bit. “Still. What if we never get the chance to, you know …”
So she had been thinking about it too. And he knew she had a point. “How would we feel though if we, you know—” But he couldn’t even say it. He was just not comfortable enough with the subject. He was too scared and too ignorant of how it all worked.
“Slept in the same bed?” Leera rose, groaning. “Ugh, I feel like an old woman.” She sat in front of him. “I guess we’re fighting for a kingdom and its traditions, aren’t we? And if we want to become examples—Arcaner examples—then we need to earn it … you know?”
Augum swallowed. She had said it better than he ever could have. He marveled at her hidden wisdom and willingness to grow and mature with him as much as he marveled at her wit and humor.
Overcoming his reluctance, he said what had been on his mind for what felt like forever. “I love you more than life itself. One day I will ask for your hand in marriage. And we will earn a future together.”
Leera placed a hand over her mouth. She opened her dark eyes to look at him. A tear rolled down her cheek and over her fingers.
He gently removed her hand, dried her cheek with his thumb, and kissed her. “But I’ll ask you properly and formally when the time comes.”
“I know you will.” She cupped his cheeks in her hands. “I know you will. And please don’t rush. I don’t mind if it’s in ten years. I love you no matter what.”
They kissed once more, deeply, passionately, lovingly, before she unwound herself from him, petted Sir Pawsalot, and departed, pausing at the stairs to say, “Good night, my sweet prince.”
“Good night, my sweet princess.”
The Quest Begins
“Dragoon Pelagia, the three of us would like to take the next Arcaner quest—the dragoon trial,” Augum said.
Dragoon Pelagia strode around the dragon desk to stand before them. “Squire Stone, Squire Burns, Squire Jones—you have qualified to take the dragoon trial. This quest does not require a stone to trigger it. Do you understand the danger ahead? Say either ‘I do’ or ‘I am not ready.’ ”
“I do,” the trio chorused.
“Do you understand that you will be tested on your virtues, your knowledge of the arcane craft, your strength of mind, and skills deemed necessary to survive as an Arcaner dragoon?”
“I do.”
“Do you understand that the trial may favor testing certain weaknesses over others, certain strengths over others?”
“I do.”
“Do you understand that the dragoon trial is an ancient trial, not for the faint of heart or those weak of character?”
“I do.”
“Do you understand that you may see things that may have not been seen by mortal eyes in eons, as dictated by The Fates?”
“I do.”
“Do you understand that the trial is different for everyone?”
“I do.”
“Do you understand that you may perish attempting the trial?”
“I do.”
“So be it. You shall henceforth leave this room and walk down the Hall of Rapture in pilgrimage, taking only that which you can carry. The trial will come to you.”
The trio waited for Pelagia to elaborate, but she returned to her desk, face placid once more.
“That … that’s it?” Leera said as the morning academy bell gonged eight times.
Augum tightened a strap of his golden Dreadnought breastplate. “Simple and to the point.” He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling both necklaces underneath his robe, checked to make sure Burden’s Edge and its sheath was secured to his belt, then slapped and rubbed his hands together. “We have reviewed and prepared and slept and eaten well, and now we have eleven hours to save a quarter million lives. Easy enough.”
Leera punched him on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t you be usurpin’. I’m supposed to be the sarcastic one.” She gently picked up Sir Pawsalot. “You’re going to behave while we’re gone, right? Left you a giant bowl of water and dried salmon, beef and chicken, enough for you to become a fat little tub.” She choked up. “If we don’t come back, don’t you worry, we’re leaving a note on the door. Someone will pick you up.” Sir Pawsalot surrendered a small meow. She cuddled him close. “Love you too, little snooper,” and carried him to Bridget and Augum so they could give him a quality chin scratching and a few pets, before she let him go. “All right, off you run, and there’s always mice in case you get bored.” As Sir Pawsalot shook himself, sat down and looked up at her expectantly, she wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve and nodded. “Well, off we go.”
The trio glanced around one last time, took a deep breath, and walked to the door. Sir Pawsalot followed them there. Leera sniffled and gave him one last long cuddle. Then she kissed her hand and tapped him on the head. “Scoot now, shoo, little scamp.” She closed the door and affixed a note that said, Left on dangerous quest. Cat is inside. His name is Sir Pawsalot. If we have not returned by the evening of the 14th day of the 12th month in the year 3342, please find him a loving family in the village of Arinthia, his home.
“The date really necessary?” Augum needled.
“Hush, you.”
“There they are,” Bridget said, nodding toward the distant looming portal, where a line of overseers mingled, watching them.
“Who’s there?” Leera asked, squinting. �
�Overseers?”
“One of them just disappeared into the portal to inform his superiors of what we’re doing,” Bridget said. “Well, they’re not our concern at the moment.” She turned in the opposite direction.
The Hall of Rapture, with its hundred-foot-wide corridor and infinite ceiling that on this day had very little mist hiding its infinity, loomed before them like a colossal chasm, its polished black basalt floor like a carpet leading to hell, or perhaps a demon’s tongue inviting them down its throat. The corridor narrowed to a thin black line that disappeared, along with its ceiling, to infinity, creating a strange vertical stripe, like a knife slicing into the heavens. It was said that the distant black line was where the corridor dimmed into blackness, meaning its light died, though the hall itself kept going. It was also said to be about a tenday walk, but the trio banked on returning well before supper time, otherwise they risked calamity. Nonetheless, they had filled their waterskins to bursting and taken all their remaining provisions, a two-day supply, and three academy blankets, leaving behind their school supplies.
They chatted as they went. At first talk centered on what they might expect based on what the other trial had been like. Following that, they reviewed the virtues and lessons they had learned. Then they babbled about themselves, how they were feeling, what they hoped would happen. But because they knew each other so well, that conversation died after a couple hours, and they were left with nothing but a silent, gigantic corridor. By then, the number of schoolroom doors had trickled to one door every few hundred feet, with no discernible pattern as to which side of the corridor it would be on. The distant black line waited on them like a guillotine. Behind them, the massive portal to the courtyard had shrunk to the size of an acorn.
After hearing a distant, quiet bell sound ten times, indicating they’d been walking for two solid hours, they came upon an old sign sitting forlorn in the center of the ancient hall.
“ ‘Danger,’ ” Leera read aloud, “ ‘do not go beyond this point. The Hall of Rapture is unpredictable. Every year, some students who venture beyond this point never return. The risk is not worth your life.’ ” She swallowed. “Well, that’s sobering.”
The trio shared a dark look and continued past the sign.
“Strange that the bell fades,” Leera said an hour later, after the muted bell sounded eleven times. “You’d think it would ring just as strongly throughout the hall.” But the subject was not interesting enough to warrant an opinion from Augum and Bridget, and so she sighed. “Hope this trial starts soon. Deadline’s in eight hours and we still have to walk back,” which elicited a pair of grunts. Leera glanced between them and sighed again.
They trooped on, and on, and on for another two hours or so, occasionally practicing their newest spells to stay sharp. The bell had long stopped reaching them by then.
Leera plunked down. “Ugh, I need to rub my feet. This floor is merciless.” She unwound the leather laces of her turnshoes and massaged her toes. “Anyone else as worried as I am this thing won’t start anytime soon?”
Bridget took a swig of water from her waterskin, and her voice was strained as she said, “I don’t know how long the quest will take, but I assume it will be like the squire one.”
“I’m guessing it’s around the first hour in the afternoon,” Augum chimed in, withdrawing a half loaf of journey bread from his satchel. “Which means we’ve been trekking for five hours. It also means we have a serious decision to make. If we turn back now, we can make it back in time for the seventh bell deadline. Or …” He tore off a chunk of bread and handed it to Bridget.
“Or we risk it all and go on,” she finished and took a bite.
Augum tore another chunk and held it out to Leera. “The question is, is time an illusion in this trial? Would these ghost Arcaners know we need to get back by the seventh bell?”
Leera stopped rubbing her sore feet, wiped her hands with a cloth, took the chunk of bread, and lay back, staring at the infinite ceiling. “But if we return empty-handed, not only will they probably arrest us because we’ll be useless to them, but that lunatic king will start collecting on his insane blood debt.” She waved the bread at the ceiling, as if doodling with it. “The way I see it is we don’t have a choice but to continue. Heck, at least if we pass the trial, we’ll go down fighting as dragoons.” She took a bite, chewed, then said with her mouth still full, “You know, he might actually wait for us to see if we’re victorious.”
Bridget, having finished the bread, unstrapped her shoes too. “That’s wishful thinking.”
Augum grabbed the waterskin from beside her, unstopped it, and took a greedy pull. He glanced back at the black dot of the portal, then the other way at the thin black slice of night a tenday walk ahead. He weighed their options. “Leera’s right. We don’t have a choice but to continue. The only danger is they might think we perished.”
That sober thought silenced the trio, who ate and rested. Leera rubbed a grateful Bridget’s feet and Augum lay on his stomach, chin resting on his hands. He thought about the moral test the trial for squire rank had posed, and juxtaposed that against what they thought the dragoon trial would demand. But when he thought back to what Pelagia had said about them having to rely on each other, he realized what they were up against. This would test their combined knowledge, which meant—
“Survival,” Augum blurted, and pointed at the waterskin Leera was drinking from, telekinetically yanking it from her fingers.
“Hey!”
“We have to ration it.”
“What?” Then she froze. “Oh. Oh no. Then we should have pilfered more food.”
Augum withdrew a wool blanket from his satchel. He took a breath, focusing on muscle expansion and the requisite arcane spell pattern. “Virtus vis viray.” The cold pull of his arcane stamina banded with his muscles feeling tight and strong. Then he easily tore six strips off, each about the length and width of a foot, with two larger than the others.
“What are you doing?” Bridget asked.
“Put these under your feet inside your shoes, otherwise you’ll get serious back pain.”
“I already have back pain,” Leera muttered, telekinetically snagging two strips and doing as he suggested. While Augum and Bridget slipped in theirs, she stood and performed a little two-step to test them. “Look at that, they’re actually cushy.”
They gathered their belongings and trooped on. After a while, the already dim light dimmed further and flickered.
“Must be windy outside,” Leera said. “Maybe a storm.”
Two more hours passed and they took another break in the alcove of a door so ancient it was black from age, the brass handle covered with verdigris. The doors had long ceased to have any etchings on them, other than the occasional ancient graffiti, much like this one.
“Interesting,” Bridget said, tapping a spot on the door with faded writing. “ ‘Samus Heathkins was thus here, 2549.’ That’s about eight hundred years ago.”
“That name sounds familiar,” Augum said, thinking back to his studies. Then he snapped his fingers as recognition dawned. “Samus the Wise was a famous Arcaner who lived around that time! He must have passed through here on his own dragoon trial. And that means we’re on the right path, so to speak.”
“Not very Arcaner-like to scrawl graffiti on an ancient door,” Leera said while extending a small open sack.
Augum reached in and withdrew a handful of dried apple slices, peanuts and baked oat flakes. “No, it isn’t, is it?” he said, eyeing the door while picking oat flakes from the palm of his hand.
Leera popped a few peanuts into her mouth. “Think it’s a sign? You know, that maybe we should venture in? Could be, like, some sort of quest thing or something. Handle looks like it hasn’t been touched in forever, though.”
They all looked at each other and came to the same conclusion. Augum dumped the nuts and fruit into his mouth, wiped his hands, and stood. The girls did the same, adjusting their satchels to hang behind them,
golden breastplates glinting. Augum opened his soul to the arcane ether and extended a hand to the door. “Un vun deo.” After a moment of attention, he reported, “Nothing concealed.” He switched mindsets. “Un vun asperio aurum enchantus.” But he saw none of the telltale arcane tendrils that indicated an enchantment was present. “Nothing.”
Leera turned the doorknob. There was a click and the door opened into pitch-darkness, only to blow open with hurricane-force strength, yanking Leera right along with it. Luckily, Augum and Bridget were prepared and snatched her telekinetically whilst holding onto the doorframe, and slowly reeled her in while fighting the wind. Once she was safe, they jumped away, bracing themselves against the wall. The door rhythmically slammed against the wall on the other side as the wind howled. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Bridget reached around the alcove, pointed, and grimaced while she telekinetically caught the door and fought against the wind. It took Augum’s added telekinetic might to slam it closed, plunging them back into silence.
“Well, that was vomit-inducing,” Leera wheezed, lying back on the floor, chest rising rapidly, face pale. “And thank the gods for reflex training. You two were quick as cats.” She held up a finger. “Mental note, let us not open just any door. No wonder so many students disappear.”
“I think the un-Arcaner-like thing of writing graffiti might have been a clue,” Augum said, hands on his knees as he stood bent over, catching his breath. “Or I might be reading too much into it.”
Bridget placed a hand on her forehead as she rested the back of her head against the wall. “I think it would be wise to be conservative. We do not know what lies in wait. We do not know if this was part of the trial, or merely a random door.”
They gathered themselves and strode on. Each door now felt like a trap waiting to suck them into an infinite void.
The hours dragged on. Without the bell as a reference point, they lost track of time. Despite padding their turnshoes with the wool strips, their feet and backs ached. Sometimes Augum and Leera held hands, sometimes they walked apart. Sometimes Bridget and Leera conversed, sometimes it was Augum and Bridget, or Augum and Leera, or all together. Mostly, though, they trooped in silence.
