by Sever Bronny
“Now who’s blushing?” Leera said, glancing mischievously between him and Bridget.
“May I be of service, Princess Bridget?” Lord Bowlander said, stepping in beside her.
Brandon narrowed his eyes at him. “Bowlander makes himself known. How predictable. Yes, we’re aware you have the hots for Bridget.”
“Princess Bridget, Summers,” Lord Bowlander replied. As if to mock Brandon, he ran his hand through his own chestnut—albeit curly—hair.
Bridget fidgeted horribly, cheeks scarlet. Augum couldn’t recall ever seeing her look so uncomfortable.
“We were asking about the academy,” Bridget blurted. “I mean, Augum was. On behalf of us. I mean, on behalf of himself—”
Leera placed a hand over Bridget’s mouth. “Ignore her, she’s nervous about the ceremony and stuff.”
Bridget slapped Leera’s hand away, giving her a stern look.
Brandon rubbed his chin. “Right, the academy. Well, the Legion teachers are slave drivers, all they care about is advancing in rank or cultivating His Lordship’s good graces.” He used the title mockingly. “As for the students, a third suck up to them like dogs, another third play it meek and go along with whatever, and the last third—” He pointed at himself with two thumbs. “—quietly rebel every chance they get on behalf of the Resistance. Sabotage, the works. You name it.”
“That’s … very brave, Mr. Summers,” Bridget said.
He winced. “Gah, that’s what they call my father. I’m your age, Princess Bridget. Plain Brando, please.”
“Foolish if you ask me,” Lord Bowlander said, examining his nails as if bored. “And risky. You place your families in danger by acting out at the academy.”
“Oh? Not unlike almost killing a kid with an arcane concoction—?”
Bowlander reddened. He opened his mouth to reply when his stubby servant, Charles Poorman, cleared his throat. He was dressed in his best black servant outfit.
“What is it, Charles?” Bowlander hissed.
“Your Lordship’s presence is immediately requested, my lord. It seems there is an altercation between a Ms. Singh and an elderly villager purported to have stolen her chair.” He dabbed at his bulbous red nose with a cloth and sniffed.
“Glad to hear Ms. Singh is feeling better,” Leera muttered, her face suggesting otherwise.
“Would you like me to have a look at you sometime, Charles?” Jengo asked, approaching them. “I think you may have perpetual summer fever. There are concoctions available—”
“Well can’t you take care of it?” Bowlander hissed at Charles through gritted teeth, ignoring Jengo’s suggestions and flicking a nervous look Bridget’s way.
“I tried, my lord, it seems Ms. Singh does not recognize me in a position of … authority. Further, some of the Haroun servants are about to war with the village servants, who they consider ‘barbaric’, ‘beastly’, and ‘filthy’. The matter is significantly made worse by Mrs. Haroun, who seems to take great pleasure in commanding the entire household—which as we know is out of her jurisdiction—in doing unpleasant tasks—”
“Enough, Charles!” Bowlander’s jaw clenched, before he seemed to catch himself. “I mean, very well then. Princess Bridget. Princess Leera. Please excuse me,” and he strode away. Charles gave Jengo an apologetic glance. He seemed to want to say something, but instead quickly bowed and stumped off after his lord.
“Did I mention his potion is totally worthless?” Jengo said casually.
Leera recoiled. “What?”
“Yeah, it has a kick not unlike strong tea, but that’s about all. Turns out the rest of his ingredients cancel each other out. I informed Mrs. Stone my thoughts and she agreed, throwing out the potion.”
“Please tell me you don’t actually like him,” Brandon said, turning to Bridget.
Bridget swallowed hard, face even redder. Her mouth moved to reply but no sound came out. Luckily, she was saved by the sound of a bagpipe blaring a few majestic practice notes through the hall. Everyone turned to see a squat, rotund ebony-skinned man with a gray shaggy beard and a matching crown of bird nest hair. Like Mrs. Hawthorne, he was dressed in a glimmering white academy robe fringed with gold and embroidered with an academy crest. The bagpipes were huge and sat on his ale belly. They were made of a giant leather bladder and a series of pipes, or perhaps flutes, Augum did not know.
“Ah, Fungal the Forgetful,” Brandon said with a snort. He elbowed Augum. “One of the few other secret Resistance teachers. Except he’s next to useless. He’s high degree earth element, sure, and he teaches Runes, Advanced Runes, and similar courses. But even the Legion thinks him too daft to join the ranks. People say he gets up and forgets his own brain half the time. Should have retired years ago.”
“Hey, you fearless academy warriors, you walking banes of the Legion!” Mr. Fungal boomed in a gregarious and loud voice. “How doth thee stand this fine day?”
“Oh, and he teaches drama too,” Brandon added, watching with folded arms as the students bantered with Mr. Fungal, who returned their verbal jabs with playful arm swipes, as if holding a real sword.
“Back, you scoundrels, you teenage fiends!” he called, a mock serious expression on his ebony face.
Augum noticed Laudine, the drama kid, hanging on to his every word and attacking in turn with an invisible sword of her own, which Mr. Fungal parried with an invisible shield.
Brandon shook his head. “He can remember an entire play written five hundred years ago, every word, but routinely loses the keys to his own study, or his course books, or even his way around the academy.”
“He looks like a lot of fun,” Bridget said longingly.
Brandon glanced at her. “Don’t worry, Princess Bridget, you three will join us eventually, and then you can suffer him forgetting what the day’s lessons are about.”
“Hope so,” Augum found himself saying with a smile. “Hope so …”
Mrs. Hawthorne turned her hawk attention on the man dancing with his giant bagpipes. “Mr. Fungal, if you please,” she said sharply.
“Worry not, fair Katherine, for I am most ready to serve thy glorious Resistance. Resistance … ho!” He raised his fist and some students joined him in a cheer. Then he twirled on his feet to face the doors. “Line thyselves up for thee slaughter, innocent lambs, unruly children of the gods, brave young younglings!” He then began blasting out a surprisingly spritely melody that filled the entirety of the castle, while Mrs. Hawthorne—and many students—covered their ears. She started shooing them into a line of two-by-two. The students quickly paired up. At the back, Bridget lined up beside Brandon, Augum beside Leera, and Haylee beside Chaska, who was still allowed to participate.
Mrs. Hawthorne nodded at each of them as they passed. Augum had a buzzing excitement in his belly as she gave him one of her smiles, for he was about to attend his first Advancement Ceremony.
Advancement Ceremony
Chappie Fungal the bagpiper led the procession of students out and around Castle Arinthian, blaring a rousing tune. The path had been cleared and widened, so that the thorny berry bushes no longer scratched their skin or tried to snag their robes.
The late afternoon sun shone brightly against the black stone, highlighting the moss and vines that grew along much of the lower facade. Many of the students chatted quietly but excitedly. Brandon kept asking Bridget questions, and would turn to her with a sly smile as he gave clever replies to her own queries, while Augum and Leera held hands, both watching in amused interest. Chaska and Haylee spoke in quiet and reverent tones behind them, while Jengo, Garryk and Mrs. Hawthorne marched proudly along in the rear.
As they passed the path that they first used to enter the bailey of Castle Arinthian, the path that led to the distant glade where Mrs. Stone liked to teleport to before approaching the castle, Augum couldn’t help but feel a bit of nostalgia. How far they had come in the last year! How far they had advanced, and how much they had gone through!
But there was
little time to dwell on these things. They soon emerged in the rear of the castle to a wonderful sight—a throng of villagers were seated on log stools and rough hastily-made benches. At the front of the crowd Mrs. Stone stood on an ancient partially-ruined stone platform, perhaps one meant for theatre. Off to the side, much to Augum and Leera’s delight, stood Ms. Jezebel Terse, or Jez as she liked to be called, smiling proudly and wearing a white robe fringed with gold and embroidered with an academy crest. Augum briefly wondered if she was a teacher at the academy, or had been one before being recruited by force for the Legion. He knew little about her, but was curious. Beside her stood the beetle-like Secretary Klines wearing a slightly grander version of the gray Library of Antioc robe, with the crimson gargoyle embroidered over her heart, but unlike a traditional library robe, this one had bright crimson fringing. And he saw other faces, proud faces, in the crowd. Everyone was in their finest attire and was made up elegantly.
The procession circled around the entire gathering as everyone stood in ceremony. It wound around numerous feast tables and a ceremonial fire pit built up with a gigantic as yet unlit log house-style creation, before returning to the back of the throng. There Mr. Fungal switched the tune to a proud, slow melody that soared above the grounds, while the students were quietly separated by Mrs. Hawthorne, who bid all but those who were going to receive their degree to sit. Brandon gave a short and smiling bow to Bridget before making his way along with the others to the front of the crowd, where a number of seats had been left empty for them.
This left Mrs. Hawthorne, Augum, Bridget, Leera, Haylee, Jengo, Garryk, and Laudine. Augum felt his palms sweat as he stood awkwardly, conscious of everyone cheerfully watching them. And it did not escape his notice that although the villagers were curious about the students, their gazes were mostly trained upon him, Bridget and Leera.
The bagpipes abruptly cut out and Mr. Fungal stepped aside. Mrs. Hawthorne took the lead, bidding them to follow her with a nod of her head. The smaller procession, dressed in their new academy robes, silently walked between the crowd to the platform, lining up before it, while Mrs. Hawthorne stepped away to join Jez and Secretary Klines.
There were awed whispers from the crowd, only to cease as Mrs. Stone made an idle gesture with her free hand. There was much rustling as the crowd sat themselves while a regal-looking Mrs. Stone stood waiting, staff in hand, robe shimmering in the fading sun.
“Gathered before us here,” Mrs. Stone at last wheezed in an arcanely amplified voice, “are seven students who have accomplished a difficult feat in this dark time, seven shining and eager stars awaiting to brighten the night that has befallen the kingdom.” She paused as the crowd stirred. “In accordance with the ancient traditions of arcanery and the Academy of Arcane Arts, I now ask for the presenting of the pine garland.”
Mrs. Hawthorne returned to the front of the platform carrying a basket, from which she fished pine branch wreaths, ceremoniously placing one on each of their heads. Augum resisted the urge to scratch where the prickly pine touched his scalp.
Mrs. Stone continued once Mrs. Hawthorne had resumed her place. “The garland of pine represents respect for the power of arcanery, fidelity to the principles of arcanery, and loyalty to the Academy of Arcane Arts, the Kingdom of Solia, and its …” She paused a moment. “… sovereign.” It was obvious the latter part, although it had to be traditionally spoken, did not apply in their case, for there was no ruling queen or king other than the Lord of the Legion.
“Cogniata, excellan, servi,” Mrs. Stone continued. “Knowledge, excellence, service. These are the traditions we strive to uphold in the Academy of Arcane Arts. May we do our very best to keep them alive.” She took a solemn step back on the ancient stone platform, a platform Augum imagined Arinthian warlocks of old using for plays, theatrics, or ceremonies just like this.
“Garryk Garroom, please step forward.”
Garryk adjusted his spectacles before awkwardly climbing the mossy steps to stand before Mrs. Stone, proudly dressed in his new royal blue academy robe.
The crowd instinctively seemed to know to stand.
Mrs. Stone fixed her cloudy eyes upon Garryk, straightening herself to her full height as she did so. Her arm flared to life as one solid and bright sleeve of lightning. Some in the crowd gasped at the sight. Augum didn’t blame them, for the sight before them was the rarest of the rare in arcanery. She was the only living master, the only one to have achieved The Sleeving, as it was known.
“In accordance with the ancient tradition of the Founding,” Mrs. Stone began in her amplified and solemn voice, “I, Anna Atticus Stone, having achieved mastery in the element of lightning, before these witnesses, hereby bestow upon you, Garryk Garroom, son of Garryth and Joan Garroom, the 3rd arcane degree.” She raised her shining arm and placed a gentle and unshaking hand on Garryk’s wrist. Mrs. Stone’s arm dimmed and extinguished with a fierce crackle, channeling its light to Garryk’s wrist and spiraling around it, before settling to three glowing rings of air.
“Congratulations, my child, may you continue to bear the title of Apprentice with pride,” Mrs. Stone said, and led the round of explosive clapping, her staff allowed to float free. Those that awaited their turn clapped too. Augum exchanged a gleeful look with Bridget and then Leera. For his part, he had never seen Mrs. Stone clap before. It was almost … odd, though strangely a powerful sight. Yet he knew she had performed this ritual countless times as Headmistress of the Academy of Arcane Arts.
Garryk returned to his place in line, his spot before Mrs. Stone replaced by Jengo. The ceremony was repeated for him, with Kwabe and Nyala Okeke mentioned as his parents. At the end of it, tall Jengo glanced back at his proud and clapping father with misty eyes. Perhaps he was thinking of his poor deceased mother. Augum was certain they would have both wanted her there to witness this proud moment.
And so the ceremony progressed—Laudine Cooper received her 5th degree fire stripe. Then an emotional Haylee Tennyson received her 3rd ice degree. She had to be helped back in line by Bridget and Leera though, for her parents had been murdered only that year, and it was plain how she missed them.
Following a despondent Haylee came Bridget, who accepted her 5th degree with dignity and poise, perhaps most deserving of the title of Princess, what with her modest bearing. It did not escape Augum’s notice—or Leera’s, for that matter, who gave him a wry and knowing look—that Lord Bowlander and Brandon Summers were competing who clapped the loudest for her.
Leera came next. She couldn’t stop grinning, and although her face gentled upon hearing the names of her murdered parents—Oscar and Matilda Jones—she nonetheless hoisted her arm up in proud victory, showing off her 5th degree water stripe.
The crowd stirred as Mrs. Stone fixed her steely gaze upon Augum, a gaze Augum remembered all too well, a gaze that rarely showed its intensity nowadays.
“Augum Stone, please step forward.”
Augum felt an anxious thrill race through his veins. He swallowed and stepped upon the platform, careful not to trip. That would be disastrous, he thought, almost snorting a laugh at the idea of Prince Augum Stone, supposed hero of the arena, tumbling down the ancient steps of his ancestors like an utter fool.
Mrs. Stone’s sleeve ripped to life for the seventh and final time. “In accordance with the ancient tradition of the Founding,” she began in an amplified voice that bounced off the back of the castle, “I, Anna Atticus Stone, having achieved mastery in the element of lightning, before these witnesses, hereby bestow upon you, Augum Stone, son of Lividius Stone and Terra Titan, the 5th arcane degree.” She placed a shining hand on his wrist. As with the others, her arm dimmed and extinguished with a crackle, channeling its light to Augum’s wrist and spiraling around it, before settling to five lightning rings.
“Congratulations, my child, may you bear the new title of Initiate with pride.”
The cheering for Augum was, embarrassingly, the loudest. He sheepishly made his way back to the girls, who e
ach gave him a congratulatory hug, including Laudine and Haylee. Jengo firmly shook his hand, and Garryk limply so. Augum considered telling Garryk to firm that handshake up, as Leera would have said, but decided now was perhaps not the right time.
For a brief moment, Mrs. Stone glanced westward. The crimson sun had begun to kiss the horizon. Sunset. She turned back to the assembled gathering. “And now please join us in singing the Academy anthem.”
When everybody stood, Mr. Fungal struck a powerful and wavering single note on his bagpipes, which soon tumbled like a waterfall into a moving melody. The song pierced Augum’s heart, for the sound was lofty and full of tradition and pride. It bounced majestically off the castle, adding a wonderful echo that felt like history come to life. To Augum, who stood before the castle of his ancestors, it also felt like war. He imagined a similar sound played on ancient battlefields as warlocks of opposing sides charged at each other. He then imagined the pipes playing as he took the field of battle with his friends to face his murderous father. He imagined every single person in the Resistance standing up together. He imagined the ghosts of those who had died on his behalf standing with them. And this all played out in his mind as his heart sang along to the deep reverberations of this sweet song.
After an introductory and lonely pipe verse, Mrs. Stone took the lead, singing in a fragile but proud voice that soared along with the pipes like a graceful bird in tune with its flock. All current and former students, including teachers, placed their hands over their hearts. After a single verse of her voice, everyone’s voices chimed in powerfully. Augum didn’t know the words, but his soul sang along. The girls, already knowing the words having gone to the academy a short time, looked nobly to Mrs. Stone as they sang. And no one laughed or made fun or did anything but either sing or listen proudly, for the song had been outlawed by the Legion, and here they sang it in defiance and unity, for traditions of old and for the hopes of the future, for those who had passed and those yet to pass. The kingdom was in the grip of war and struggle and famine, a fact never more plain to Augum than in that fragile moment as he let the song fill his heart and warm his soul.
