Dragon Mage Academy Box Set

by Cordelia Castel

  A silver dragonet swooped down, picked up the scroll in its front claws, and ascended into the air. Master Fosco let go of me and grabbed at the scroll, but the dragonet flew out of reach.

  “Take it to the Witch General!” I shouted.

  The dragonet flew into the sky, and Master Fosco let out an inhuman growl that rattled me to the bones. He turned to me, fists clenched, the muscles of his forearms bulged beneath his leather wrist bracers.

  “You…” He glanced up at the skies, as though torn about whether to chase after the dragonet or tear me to pieces for the contents of the letter. A moment later, he turned to me, teeth bared. “Stand outside my office and wait for my return!”

  I bowed my head. “Yes, sir.”

  Master Fosco chased the dragonet along the side of the Healer’s Academy building, across the grassy courtyard, and around the lake, and I followed after him, hoping the dragonet would have the good sense to fly out of reach. I hoped he wouldn’t command a dragon like Rubens to get involved.

  A small figure scurried out of the Healer’s Academy gates, holding a bundle of clothes and hiding her face behind a curtain of chestnut. It was Evolene, the receptionist. She glanced from left to right, rushing along the path that led to the waterfall side of the mountain.

  “Wait!” I shouted.

  She paused but didn’t turn around.

  I jogged across the lawn and caught up with her. “Are you feeling better?”

  Still keeping her gaze off mine, she nodded.

  “Who hurt you?”

  Evolene paused for several moments, then her shoulders squared as though she was gathering the courage to speak out. I leaned forward, eyes wide, waiting for her to name Master Fosco as her attacker, but she let out a long, sad sigh, and her shoulders fell. Then she shook her head.

  “You shouldn’t protect him.” I placed a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched. “Sorry!”

  “Idiot!” snapped Fyrian. “Have you forgotten? Ogres don’t touch females they don’t know.”

  “I’ve only been a male for a few days. I forgot!”

  Evolene bobbed into a curtsey. “Excuse me. I must take my leave.”

  She hurried along the path, but I followed after her at a respectable distance. “I’ve sent a messenger dragonet to the Witch General, and she’ll send one of her lieutenants. Whoever did this to you can’t get away with it. The Magical Militia take the laws against harming humans seriously.”

  Evolene shook her head. “No one can help me.”

  “Was it Master Fosco?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  Fyrian snorted into my mind. “That’s the weakest denial I’ve ever heard.”

  I ignored her and continued following Evolene around the lake. “Phoenix and I found you yesterday in the reception area. We both read Mr. Jankin’s letter.”

  Her steps faltered. “Oh.”

  “Master Fosco tried to snatch it from you, didn’t he?”

  “Please… I can’t remember.” She picked up her skirts and ran across the lawn toward the terraces.

  “Wait—”

  “Leave her alone,” said Fyrian. “When the Militia witches arrive, they’ll get the truth out of her.”

  My shoulders sagged. “But I hate the thought of Evolene being stuck here with her attacker.”

  “Fosco will be too busy chasing after that dragonet to worry about her.”

  “I suppose.” Instead of following after Evolene, I headed toward the main entrance. There was nobody in the reception area, and I sat with my back against the wall outside Master Fosco’s office and made myself comfortable. There was no telling how long he would chase the dragonet.

  Fyrian entertained me with descriptions of the warriors passing her stall. Apparently, the Riders’ drogott team captain had challenged Rufus’ brother to a duel.

  “What’s drogott?” I asked.

  “It’s where players on dragonback try to hit a ball of fire through a moving goal. They have to dodge defenders on the opposing team from lancing them through the guts.”

  I spluttered. “What?”

  “There’s more to it,” she added. “The Riders’ team always use the fastest dragons, but the Mages can create their own fireballs as a distraction.”

  “And all of this takes place in the air?”

  “Of course,” replied Fyrian. “There’d be no point, otherwise.”

  The door at the terrace end of the reception area swung open, and Phoenix stepped through. He had slung his leather jacket over his shoulder, exposing arms nearly as defined as Master Fosco’s. I shook my head. How could I have missed the resemblance? Phoenix looked like a younger, saner version of the Director. He strode around Evolene’s desk, heading for the apprentices’ room, but stopped when he caught sight of me.

  His eyes narrowed, and he folded his arms across his chest. “What are you doing here, Bluford?”

  I pulled myself to my feet. “Master Fosco told me to wait here until he returned.”

  He shook his head and said in the weariest of tones, “What did you do this time?”

  “No—” I stopped myself from uttering the lie. While I hadn’t technically handed the scroll to the dragonet, I had ordered it to go straight to the Magical Militia. “He objected to my letter to the Witch General.”

  Phoenix folded his arms. “I told you Master Fosco didn’t kill Mr. Jankin.”

  “Maybe Phoenix did it and Fosco is trying to cover up for his relative,” said Fyrian. “How else could he be so sure?”

  It was a possibility. He disliked Mr. Jankin, cared for Evolene and imprisoned Fyrian. But would he hurt Evolene to appear innocent? I wasn’t so sure.

  Right now, all I cared about was clearing Fyrian’s name and making sure Evolene’s attacker didn’t strike again. Master Fosco would reveal my secret, and whoever replaced him would expel me for being a girl. I hoped I would at least get enough time to make it to the realm of the fairies before Father caught up with me.

  Phoenix ran his fingers through his hair. “Your punishment can wait until after class. Come along.”

  I had hoped to meet a new instructor. One who I hadn’t offended, so that in the rare chance that I wasn’t expelled, he or she would vote to keep me in the Academy. My spirits soared when Phoenix led me through a new set of hallways, but when we reached the surface and I found the rest of my classmates standing around an eight-foot tall figure whose platinum hair glowed in the afternoon sun, I groaned.

  General Thornicroft turned, teeth bared. “Cadet… Which name are you using, again?”

  A flush warmed my cheeks. “Bluford, sir.”

  Gobi snorted. I didn’t dare shoot him a filthy look, because the General was still staring at me with a disturbing intensity.

  “Bluford.” He repeated with no inflection.

  My throat spasmed. I met his gaze, keeping my mind blank. It was a tactic that worked with domineering males like him and Father. Most people would crumble under that kind of glare and spill enough information to incriminate or contradict themselves, but the best tactic was to stay calm until they realized their intimidation techniques didn’t work.

  Perhaps General Thornicroft knew what I was doing, because he gave me a cold smile and said, “You can show your classmates how to activate the flaming sword.”

  A huff of air escaped my throat. “But I missed half of the last class.”

  He ignored me and kicked a leather trunk at his feet. The lid opened, revealing half a dozen swords. “Choose one.”

  My hand gravitated toward the scimitar that Father preferred, then hovered over to the rapier Uncle Armin used. I glanced up at General Thornicroft, whose eyes blazed with interest. This couldn’t be some kind of test to identify me by sword choice. Ignoring the two familiar options, I picked one with a wavy blade.

  “Very well,” he turned to the rest of the class. “Last time, you worked on pushing flames through your hands. Correct?”

  My classmates groaned, and I wondered what I ha
d missed out on when Phoenix had taken me to Fyrian’s cell that first time.

  “Pushing flames through a dragon sword is significantly easier. If you have an affinity with dragons, the dragon scale handles conduct your latent magic and expresses it as flames on the blade.” He turned to me. “Demonstrate.”

  I bit down hard on my lip. What he had described was exactly like the first days of training at the Magical Militia Academy, except that we had pencil-sized apprentice staffs instead of swords. I closed my eyes and focussed all the magic in my core down my arm, through my palm and into the sword.

  “You’ve failed,” he said. “Run a lap around the courtyard.”

  “What?”

  “Two laps!”

  Gobi snickered.

  “Hand the sword to Bluebeard.”

  I turned around to meet Gobi’s frightened, blue eyes. If he couldn’t do better, he’d be joining me in the next minute or so. When he took the sword, I broke out into a run. My knapsack bounced on my back, and I tightened its leather straps.

  “You were right about the General,” I muttered into my mind. “He’s miserable.”

  “Actually, the running helps to bring your magic to the surface.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Auntie Rilla sends messages to Fosco most days. Sometimes, I would sit and watch the classes while waiting for him to write a reply. It was really interesting to see all the riders and mage cadets.”

  I jumped over a prominent stone that would probably activate a staircase, and Gobi sprinted past. It was hard to feel smug that he’d also failed. Ogres were competitive, and young ogres even more so. I’d met plenty like him on Mount Bluebeard, but they never directed that type of aggression to me, as I was the daughter of the head of their Noble House.

  Ivan broke into a run as I rounded a King Midas pear tree. Moments later, Stafford joined and overtook him in seconds. He ran toward me, grinning as though this was a fun game. Perhaps someone had already explained to him the purpose of the running.

  I picked up my pace, but it wasn’t enough, and Stafford sprinted past with a happy, little laugh. Both he and Gobi completed their lap, while I continued onto my second.

  By the time I had finished, sweat poured down my brow, but I felt cool in my armor. Rufus held a flaming sword and was practicing with Phoenix, and my other three classmates were back to running laps.

  General Thornicroft handed me the sword. “Try again.”

  I gritted my teeth, and with every ounce of strength, I pushed my magic through the sword. Dragon-sized flames shot out, and the General dove to the side. The stench of burned hair filled my nostrils. I dropped the sword and backed away, but it was too late. The sandstone beneath me was scorched, as were the leather sword box and the weeds growing at the edge of the terrace.

  “You did it!” cried Fyrian. “I’ll bet that makes you the top of the class.”

  Maybe it was a dragon thing, but I didn’t think that abnormal flares of magic were cause for celebration. Not when they destroyed the landscape and injured allies. For a moment, nothing moved, not even the sky. Rufus, who had lowered his sword, stared at me, features slack. The General lay face-down on the sandstone. Ivan, Gobi and Stafford stood at the track, as frozen as the victims of a basilisk. Even the wind went still.

  “What’s wrong with everybody?” asked Fyrian.

  General Thornicroft pulled himself to his feet. His already broad shoulders expanded, his fists, which were large enough to crush a man’s head, clenched, and his eyes blazed. And a livid, red burn marred the side of his face.

  My stomach dropped to the sandstone. “I-I’m sorry!”

  “A dozen laps.” The chill in his voice was like an icicle through the gut.

  I bolted out toward the perimeter of the clearing and ran. Ran past my classmates who still hadn’t moved since my magical outburst, ran even though I could feel General Thornicroft’s cold gaze tracking my movements, and ran when my lungs burned and begged me to quit.

  This wasn’t me. I wasn’t the person who expressed any type of magic. I was the girl who had struggled through a term of Magical Militia Academy, failing to illuminate the crystal of my apprentice staff. I’d enrolled in the Dragon Academy to escape being sent away to King Magnar as a consolation bride, not for a chance to do magic. Yet somehow, I’d set the sword alight. I was just like Rufus, his brother, and even General Thornicroft.

  Something warm, something bright, something triumphant soared into my chest. I had the magic to become a dragon mage!

  “But you knew that all along,” said Fyrian.

  “Not really,” I replied. “When you spoke into my head, and they explained it away as the fairy magic, I didn’t think that made me a mage. Mages are male.”

  “Auntie Rilla would disagree.”

  I raised my shoulders. “But she’s different.”

  “Yes, and so are you.”

  I continued running in silence. The class split into two groups. Rufus and Stafford sparred with flaming swords under Phoenix’s supervision, while Gobi and Ivan stood in front of General Thornicroft holding small daggers. Ivan must have failed to create a flame, because the General pointed at the track, and he trudged away.

  “Oh, I get it now,” said Fyrian.

  Sweat poured down my brow. “What are you talking about?”

  “Thornicroft. You embarrassed him. He’s the one they send when the tamers find a dragon they can’t handle, and he got bested by a hatchling.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “You caught him off-guard, but it was his fault for making you do double laps and then standing too close when you worked your magic.”

  “I’ll bet he doesn’t see things like that.”

  “Probably,” she muttered.

  I passed Ivan, who was now walking his laps. This had been a traumatic few days for him. He had probably drunk all that alcohol the night before to compensate for throwing up during the two flying lessons, and now it was having a negative effect on his magic and his health.

  Half-way through my eleventh lap, a shadow passed overhead, and I glanced up to find a huge, black carriage, bearing the Steppe coat of arms above two crossed staffs. It wasn’t the usual runabout of the Magical Militia, but the carriage was used to carry high-ranking witches to the most official of functions.

  I gasped. “It’s the Witch General!”

  Chapter 18

  My mouth dried, and I glanced from the descending Militia carriage to General Thornicroft, who was pulling a collapsed Ivan to his feet. I needed to explain myself to the Witch General before Master Fosco reached her, but it would mean walking out of class. Again. Since I was on my final warning, leaving the lesson without permission again would mean getting expelled.

  Fyrian didn’t comment. Perhaps she knew how important it was for me that I’d finally succeeded at something. This magical outburst was the first time I’d felt worthy. In a society that only valued physical and magical might, this was a huge achievement.

  The carriage disappeared behind the building. I pictured Master Fosco having destroyed Mr. Jankin’s letter, and Evolene being too frightened of retribution to identify her attacker. With nobody there to direct the Witch General to Master Fosco’s chambers, he would turn the Militia witches away, blaming Fyrian for Mr. Jankin’s death.

  “They were supposed to meet me tomorrow at dawn,” I said.

  She didn’t reply, but I was sure I could feel her apprehension in the back of my mind. It was a sinking sensation, only coming from a stomach wider than I was tall.

  “I’ve got to be there,” I said, hoping Fyrian would reply.

  “What about General Thornicroft?” she asked.

  “He’s too angry with me right now. I can’t risk asking his permission in case he does that freezing flames thing again.”

  “So, you’re going to run?”

  Ivan dropped his sword and collapsed onto the sandstone. The others gathered around him, and I turned and bolted toward the
reception building. By the time I passed the wall, the black carriage had landed in the courtyard, and two witches stepped out. Their flying cloaks were edged in blue, indicating that they were Majors.

  When Master Fosco also stepped out, my heart plummeted. “Why’s he traveling with them?”

  “I don’t know,” snarled Fyrian, “But he’s probably had enough time to protest his innocence.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Then a six-foot-tall witch with flame-red hair and purple edging on her flying cloak stepped out. My breath caught, and I picked up my pace. “It’s the Witch General!”

  Fyrian made a pleased-sounding huff, which filled my chest with warmth, but when a bald-headed ogre with foot-long, triangular horns protruding from the sides of his head emerged from the carriage, I tripped over my feet.

  “T-the Magistratus!”

  The Magistratus was the leader of the Ogre Senate and acted as head judge, binder of laws, and final veto against the Queen and Prince Regent. Nobody knew his exact age, but he had served the Ogre Senate for nearly seven hundred years. Two ceremonial witches, wearing identical white robes stepped out behind him, holding six-foot-tall staffs tipped with translucent, quartz crystals.

  “Hurry,” cried Fyrian. “This is my big chance.”

  While I used what was left of my energy to cross the courtyard, two lieutenants with orange edging around their cloaks stepped out of the carriage, and I followed the entourage into the reception building.

  Master Fosco stood in the middle of the reception area, arms folded and surrounded by witches. “You appear to forget the terms of the treaty. Mount Fornax is not under the jurisdiction of either the Senate or the Militia.”

  The Magistratus’ heavy, white cloak rustled as he waggled a horned finger. “Lex Tutela Hominum applies to all territories within Steppe, regardless of whether they consider themselves an independent city-state.”

  The Witch General’s gaze caught mine. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second. Then she blinked hard, and a blank expression covered her surprise. “You are A.B.?”

  I straightened. “Yes, General Shipton!”