Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  Milo nodded, scratching at the skin around his eye patch. He hated how it itched all the time. “Right now, we’re seeing the uncut version thanks to the academy’s access, but Rogarth controls the media. He’ll have all the embarrassing stuff taken out.”

  “Speaking of school,” Sevarin said, “you got class pretty soon, don’t you?”

  “Yup.” Milo rose to grab a fresh uniform from the closet. He listened, occasionally stealing glances at the screen, as his hands went through the motions of collecting his boots, sash, and all the other pieces.

  “Let’s get started,” the Archon said with a clap. His hands were decorated with bejeweled, golden rings, and the rest of him was just as elegant. A genteel uniform seemed to hold him upright, decorated with gold buttons and a silky blue cape that reached down past his knees. The light from the fountain made his gelled hair sparkle. “I’m sure you know the names and affiliations of my opponents here today, but in case you find the theater of politics as boring as I do, let me introduce them to you…”

  “Always trying to ally himself with the ignorant,” Milo said.

  “Get off your high horse,” Sevarin said. “You can hate politics and still be smart. Who are the other two?”

  “Seriously?” Milo took off his shirt and tossed it on the floor under the laundry chute. “The Archon’s introducing them right now.”

  “He sounds like a talk show host. Hurts just to listen to him.”

  Milo slipped on a clean, white undershirt and stepped into the center of the room. The cameras had zoomed out to take in the entire platform. He felt almost like a professor as he pointed at the three debaters for Sevarin.

  “The one all the way on the right is Juliara Asphodel,” Milo said, pointing out the petite woman with Asian facial features and black hair cut so short that it wrapped around her head in a stylish shell. A single curl was plastered above one eye, and she was smoking a cigarette at the end of a long, thin holder. The smoke she exhaled was purple, half-hiding a set of narrow, dark eyes. “She’s the Humankin daughter of Ylanna Asphodel. That’s the Chief Architect of Giant Sons Manufacturing.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They’re the inventors of Mecha and the hardware that goes into its pilots. Juliara represents the Tsi’Onat Party, which means ‘truth’ in Kio. That’s the language Kenatos created to communicate with his children. The people of her culture adopted it for their ceremonial rites. Anyway, her mother won’t let her take over the company because she isn’t a Savant.”

  Sevarin scoffed. “So she became a politician instead. But aren’t they super rich? Couldn’t she just buy herself an island and not have to deal with this crap?”

  Milo shrugged as he pulled on clean socks, nearly tipping over onto his desk. He had to speak over the Archon’s voice, which was more than fine because the man had launched into a boring, self-glorifying speech about the necessity of these debates. The tight look on Juliara’s face told Milo she felt the same way.

  “Juliara cares too much about Theus,” Milo explained. “Her party is committed to bringing more transparency to the council and making it illegal for rich families to buy their way into political stations.”

  “I like her,” Sevarin said. “What about that guy? The cowboy.”

  He pointed at the third debater, a stocky man in a uniform covered in military brass, the top button undone in the day’s heat. He wore the tan, broad-brimmed hat of a wealthy farmer from the inland regions. Around his mouth hung a thick, black mustache that twitched as the man discretely chewed his lower lip. He seemed nervous.

  “That’s Killian Roshe. He’s the son of Jasperian Roshe, a military general who led the army’s Light Battalion to victory against the Hastbijri suicide squads of Jabadijir.”

  Sevarin frowned at Milo. “The Habbi-what-ah Jaba-ji-what? How do you know all this stuff?”

  Milo ignored the question as he fastened his belt around the waist of his pants. His good eye was trained on Killian’s face. “Is it just me, or does he look nervous?”

  “Guy looks like he just finished lassoing steer at a ranch. Who does he rep?”

  “The Imperium Party. They’re led by the Hiarch of Lightonia—that’s like the president of this country—”

  “I know who Hiarch Amos is,” Sevarin said, annoyed. “Continue.”

  “Hey, you asked me, remember? Killian runs the city’s warden guard. He reports to the Archon, but he hates it. Everyone in Lightonia was surprised when he put his name in for his boss’s seat. He’ll probably lose his job after the election unless he wins, in which case he’ll be the Archon.”

  “Sounds like a pretty significant risk,” Sevarin said.

  “Maybe that’s why he’s so nervous.”

  Finally, the debate began. Milo wished he didn’t have class in twenty minutes. He was going to miss the entire thing. Sitting on his bed, he watched what he could while slipping on his sash.

  The mediator, a little old man sitting at a table facing the platform from the ground level, was now reciting the rules of the debate. Sevarin spoke over him, apparently interested in this political theater.

  “What does the Solarian Party represent again?”

  Milo frowned at him. “What are you, on a self-improvement kick? Trying to become all political?”

  Sevarin shrugged, hands joined behind his head as if he were relaxing after a long day of hard work. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon. “Girls like a guy who can talk current events,” he said.

  Again, it felt like Sevarin was lying to him, or at least avoiding the truth. He had become jumpy over the last several weeks, too—paranoid around wardens, hostile when any of his friends urged him to take his classes more seriously. Milo was certain his friend would not last long at the academy with this attitude, and yet he wasn’t sure how to help him.

  “The Solarian Party,” Milo said, focusing on the Archon’s greasy smile, “just wants power.”

  “That’s it? No agenda?”

  “They have their ideas about helping laborers and poor citizens, but every time I look at Rogarth…”

  “Yeah, I get that feeling, too.”

  “He just wants to be Hiarch,” Milo continued. “If he wins this election, it’s a done deal. And the Fountains of Joy are going to win him that vote.”

  The mediator cleared his throat and asked the first question.

  “Archon Rogarth, if re-elected to your current civil station, how will you justify to the masses—and Hiarch Amos, no less—the enormous expenditure required to continue funding your Fountain of Joy project?”

  “You mean who’s going to foot the bill to keep our citizens happy and healthy?” the Archon asked as if the answer were obvious. “How about her?”

  He pointed accusingly at Juliara Asphodel, who narrowed her dark eyes at him from behind a cloud of purple smoke.

  “Why don’t we ask Minister Asphodel how much money her family is worth? Last I heard, they could buy this entire section of the city if they wanted. You’re telling me they, and other rich families like theirs, couldn’t foot the bill for a few more years?”

  “Nonsense,” Juliara replied calmly.

  “Please wait your turn to respond, Minister Asphodel,” the mediator said, polite but stern.

  The booing in the background intensified. Milo couldn’t tell if it was directed at Asphodel or the fact that she’d been silenced. Voices erupted from among the protesters.

  “What about the Acolyte minority? What about our clinics?”

  “The fountains are unnatural! They shouldn’t exist!”

  “You won’t even tell us how they work!”

  “We’re the ones paying the bill! Why don’t you just rip out our feathers?”

  “Settle down now, everyone,” the mediator said. “It’s time for our next question. Minister Asphodel, what is your take on the Fountain of Joy project?”

  Juliara Asphodel took a puff of her cigarette, then set her hands on the podium and blew out smoke like
a dragon breathing fire. “The fountains are a ticking time bomb about to go off. The kind of energy they produce is like no magic our people have ever known. It is low magic, if you ask me, and someday our city will pay for this luxury—this fantasy—with blood.”

  “That’s just fearmongering, plain and simple,” the Archon shouted. “Don’t believe her!”

  “Please wait your turn to respond, Archon Rogarth,” the mediator said.

  The Archon flashed him a poisonous look. The mediator stuttered out his next words.

  “N-now, for our, um, next question. Minister Asphodel, what will be your first initiative as Archon of Theus?”

  “As Archon,” Juliara said, bent slightly over the podium as if perched to attack, “I will either destroy the fountains, should they prove to be powered by low magic, or release the secret of their design to the public so that we may understand what is at work here. If there’s one thing as important to me as the safety of our citizens, it is honesty in our government.”

  A protestor shouted, “How can you run this city? Your mommy won’t even let you run a company!”

  Killian Roshe chuckled at that. He and the Archon traded glances of amusement. Seeing the exchange, Milo was struck by an odd certainty.

  “They’re working together,” he said.

  “Huh?” Sevarin said. “Who, the mediator and the—”

  “No, no, the Archon and Killian Roshe. They just smiled at each other when that guy made fun of Juliara, like they were best buddies.”

  “But why would… If Killian’s running for the Archon’s spot…”

  “Juliara is popular with laborers and small business owners, though farmers don’t much like her. She’s also the voice of reason in a time when we need clear, logical explanations to make sense of everything that’s going on in this world. Right now, she’s in the lead, and that terrifies the Archon. I wouldn’t be surprised if he enlisted Killian to help him win somehow.”

  “You think Killian’s trying to split Juliara’s votes so the Archon gets a majority lead?”

  “Why not? Who knows what the Archon promised him… or what kind of threats he made. I mean, look at him.”

  As Juliara continued her response, Killian removed his hat and quickly wiped sweat from his brow. He was clearly not enjoying this moment in the spotlight. The Archon stole occasional glances at him, smiling subtly in approval.

  Then it was Killian’s turn to answer a question.

  “I’ll bet you anything he fumbles it,” Milo said, leaning forward with the intensity of a sports fan watching his favorite team sprint toward the goal. “Watch.”

  “Warden-Master Roshe,” the mediator said, “what is your response to the presence of these fountains and the ideas voiced by your opponents regarding possible outcomes?”

  “Gee,” Killian said, forcing a light-hearted smile even as sweat gleamed all over his face. “I think they’re a good thing in theory. But I get where my Acolyte friends are coming from. If I were Archon, I’d only make the fountains available on Solaceday. Once a week, get your healing. The rest of the time, go to the clinics.”

  The booing from the protestors died down. The cameras spun to capture the confused looks on their faces. Apparently, none of them had ever considered that idea before.

  “Not bad,” Sevarin said.

  Milo jumped to his feet. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s clouding the issue, trying to get votes from those who don’t feel strongly one way or the other. It’s actually kinda brilliant. I’m sure the Archon’s behind it.”

  “I never took you for a conspiracy-theory type,” Sevarin said. “Besides, what if he’s actually got what it takes to win?”

  Milo shook his head. He had begun to pace back and forth. “He’ll get votes, but at some point, he’ll back down and support the Archon. Once he does that, Juliara might as well pack her things and go home.”

  “What type of self-respecting man would do that?”

  Milo’s answer was delayed for a moment. He’d been distracted by the condescending half-smile on the Archon’s face, to which Killian responded with a grin. He seemed to be basking in the Archon’s approval.

  He had seen enough.

  “There’s only one type of man who would do that,” Milo said, heading toward the door. “One who’s afraid.”

  CHAPTER 4

  M ilo hadn’t seen or spoken to his uncle in almost two months.

  He and his friends had begun to consider the possibility that the man was dead, but no one ventured to say it out loud. They only mumbled phrases like “He knows what he’s doing” and “He’ll be back, I know he will,” before promptly changing the subject to something more hopeful.

  Milo didn’t plan to sit around and wait. When he reached the library’s front steps, he tapped his Araband and tried once more to call his uncle. It was probably his hundredth attempt in the past week. As usual, all he could do was leave a message. His uncle was either dead, knee-deep in some dangerous mission, or he was trying to teach Milo a lesson in self-reliance.

  Hoping for the third option, he finished the message with his usual, “Hope to see you soon, uncle Manny,” then tapped the crystal to shut it off.

  He spent the remaining hours of his Restday morning studying large tomes and scrolling through digitized versions of ancient scrolls, seeking more information about Cyrens. He had already practically memorized the book Keygrath had given him. Since then, he had visited the librarian for more resources, but the old man had little more to offer.

  “What about the Psi’Acular monks?” Milo asked one day.

  He and Keygrath were in the library’s outdoor seating area, a patio that offered a stunning view of the ocean.

  “You’ve already read all the books we have on them,” Keygrath said, smoothing the blanket draped over his legs. “All I can recommend are other libraries that might contain more information, but you would have to travel across the realm to find those. Most wouldn’t grant you access without the proper sponsorship. When your uncle returns, you might ask him to accompany you.”

  “Would they have more books about Cyrens?”

  Keygrath tilted his head this way and that, lips pursed. “Maybe. But probably not, unless your uncle knows something I don’t.”

  Milo turned away in frustration. “I can’t stop thinking about them. Cyrens. There has to be more information, more books, more scrolls. They were such an important part of our history.”

  “No one knows that for sure. Their memory was practically wiped from existence. But I would start with mentalism and the Psi’Acular monks, if I were you. That’s where Cyrens came from. Without mentalism, a Cyren is like a sword that can only thrust, never parry.”

  “Offense without defense,” Milo said, vaguely recalling his minor obsession with basketball back in Dearborn, New Jersey. “I’ve been practicing meditation a lot.”

  “I know. I can tell by the changes in your demeanor. You’re less anxious, more determined.”

  “The Awakened Eye,” Milo said. “That’s my goal.”

  He rested his hands on the patio’s railing and looked out at the ocean. It glittered in the sun’s light. He had class in twenty minutes. It seemed like the least important thing in the world right now, a menial chore like making his bed or ironing his shirts.

  “I must be back to my duties,” Keygrath said. “And you, my boy, must be off to class. Keep strengthening your mind through meditation and self-study, but do not neglect your duties as a cadet. This place will teach you more than you can imagine.”

  “I won’t fall behind,” Milo said.

  Even as he made his promise, his mind buzzed with thoughts of other libraries and caches of books hidden around Astros in the ruins of ancient cities or deep belowground, in secret lairs. Maybe even in the belly of an ancient ship now resting on the ocean floor. There had to be more hidden somewhere.

  “Thanks again, Mr. Keygrath,” he said dispiritedly. The old librarian smiled at him and turned to whee
l himself back inside. A thought struck Milo. “Sir! Wait up!”

  “Yes?” Keygrath swiveled to face him, his expression one of mild concern. “Everything okay, cadet?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s just that—I thought of something. You know, there are chairs that you don’t have to push. They float, sort of like Wingcabs.”

  Keygrath smiled. “Sure, sure, but who has the money for one of those contraptions? Besides, this baby keeps my arms stronger than a Sargonaut’s.” He winked at Milo.

  That evening, Milo ordered the man a new wheelchair, the priciest model Levaseat had to offer. It had no wheels and used luminotronic technology to float on top of a magnetic field.

  Keygrath returned it. There was a note attached.

  You’re a thoughtful young man, Milo, it said in the librarian’s exquisite handwriting, but dark times are coming, and now is not the time for a crutch. I have learned to ignore the parts of me that are gone, and strengthen the ones that remain. You should do the same. –K.

  The more Milo obsessed over mentalism and Cyrens, the quieter he became around other cadets.

  He failed to make friends outside of his original group, which was fine considering how busy he was. It concerned him nevertheless. When he occasionally engaged in small talk, he would find himself feeling awkward, and would look constantly for signs that he was annoying the other person. He hadn’t been this shy since finding himself the youngest and smallest freshman at Dearborn High.

  Truthfully, this place wasn’t all that different. Milo was surprised one day to discover that he had earned a nickname among his fellow students.

  “Look, it’s phantom,” the male cadet had said to the others in his group. When Milo turned to face them, all he received were empty stares. He wasn’t sure if they found the nickname funny or if they pitied him. Hopefully it wasn’t the latter.

  Phantom. How many others were calling him that behind his back? What else were they saying about him?

  He asked Emma what she knew.

  “I’ve heard the name whispered around,” she said. “Don’t listen to them, Milo. We all have nicknames. I’m goldenwings, thanks to that idiot Garig, and they’re even calling Barrel ‘Betty,’ because he sounds kinda like a girl when he laughs. Who knows what they’re calling the rest of us?”