by ML Spencer
He sat beside a small man wearing a brown mantle, who gave him a disdainful look before turning to ignore him. Markus was starving, so he lifted the bowl with both hands and downed all the porridge in a few gulps. When he set it down, he saw that many of the people around him had stopped eating and were staring at him.
After that, he sat with his gaze pegged on the table for the remainder of the meal, until a loud bell tolled somewhere else in the compound. At the sound of the bell, everyone rose and filed out, and Markus followed. Once in the hallway, though, he was unsure where to go.
A tugging on his sleeve caught his attention, and he turned to find a youth standing next to him who was about the same age as himself, with freckled skin and flushed cheeks, an apologetic smile on his face.
“Are you Markus Galliar?”
“I am,” Markus said.
The boy stuck out his hand. “My name’s Podarius Lucan. Everyone just calls me Poda. I’m supposed to show you where the practice yard is.”
“Thank you! I was feeling a bit lost,” Markus admitted, relieved. He shook Poda’s hand then followed him down the hallway back in the direction of the large staircase.
“Welcome to the Order,” Poda said with a smile. “Do you have the affinity? Or are you resistant?”
“What’s the affinity?” Markus asked.
Poda explained, “People with the affinity can see the aether, at least a little bit. They’re basically people who can be trained to be sorcerers. If you’re resistant to magic, then you can become a Shield.”
“Oh.” Markus scratched his cheek. “Then, I guess I’m resistant.” Sergan had used the word ‘impervious,’ but he supposed it probably meant the same thing.
“Me too!” exclaimed Poda. “Who’s your mentor?”
“Sergan Parsigal. Do you know anything about him?”
Poda shrugged. “Only that he’s a sorcerer, and he’s not around very much. Everyone says he’s an ass.” He gestured at the door. “After lunch we always go out to the practice yard for afternoon training. You missed morning classes and exercise.”
“How many hours a day do we train?”
“That depends. For Shields like you and me, two hours before breakfast and four hours in the afternoon.”
“Six hours?” Markus exclaimed. “What could we possibly do for six hours?”
“Lots of things, unfortunately,” Poda said. “Physical training runs on a four-day cycle. The first day is for short exercises that are pretty intense. The second day is the worst. We push our bodies as hard as we can, all day long. The third day is just light exercise, and we learn different skills, like how to fletch arrows or how to read maps. Then, on the fourth day, we train hard again but not as hard as we do on the second day. Does that make sense?”
“I think so.” Markus didn’t think he was going to like that routine. “What day’s today?”
“Second day.” Poda smiled apologetically.
Markus groaned. “Of course.”
They started out across the yard but stopped when Markus saw Aram hobbling after them with his new crutch. They waited for him to catch up, and he lurched toward them excitedly, an enormous smile on his face.
“He had a knot book!” Aram exclaimed when he reached them, face glowing in delight. “You wouldn’t believe—”
“Don’t trip, gimp!” shouted a boy, likely another student, as he walked past them.
Aram paled, all sign of his former joy washed from his face. Markus felt sorry for him. Aram already had his challenges, and the crutch just made him stick out more. It didn’t seem Aram was destined to fit in anywhere.
“This is Poda,” he said, introducing his companion, hoping Aram would feel better meeting at least one friendly face.
But Aram just nodded at Poda with a half-hearted smile and remained silent as they crossed the courtyard and walked past Small House. The practice yard was a wide, cleared yard surrounded by a grove of trees, and it was full of wooden frames and poles, bales of hay, and rocks that looked purposefully spaced. Markus wondered what all that equipment was used for—it looked more than a little intimidating.
They were immediately introduced to their instructor, Sword Brother Davir, an Abadian man with an excessive amount of body hair, his face and neck covered in tattoos. He wore an arming jacket and an iron breastplate, leather bracers strapped to his arms. Surrounding him were the other students of the class, four boys and two girls, standing in pairs.
“Initiate Galliar. Initiate Raythe. Stand here.”
Markus and Aram moved forward to stand in front of him. The man considered them for a moment, a long frown on his face. He reached out and grasped Aram’s arm, encircling it with his fingers. With a disgusted sigh and a shake of his head, he motioned them back into line with the other students.
“We will start with warm-ups,” he announced. “After that, we will carry stones”—a proclamation that was met by groans up and down the line of students— “then we will climb ropes and then…”
He went on for a while, listing various tortures that made Markus break into a sweat just hearing them.
Davir pointed at Aram. “You cannot train with your peers, but you will train, all the same. You will start with lying on your back and lifting each of your legs a handspan off the ground, one at a time. Begin now.”
With a hopeless expression, Aram set his crutch down and lay on his back, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. His face went pale as he attempted to lift his bad leg, and Markus could tell he was in a lot of pain.
“Galliar!”
Markus flinched, returning his attention to Davir.
“Get moving!”
It was only then that Markus realized the other students had already set out on a run of the perimeter of the College, and he was already behind. With one, last glance at Aram, he set off after them.
Aram lay in the dirt, clutching a warm cloth to his leg, which throbbed terribly. He had spent the last hour doing small but excruciating exercises under the direction of Sword Brother Davir, who insisted that the only way his leg would get better was by using it. He’d done exactly what the Sword Brother asked, putting his heart into the exercises, comforted in knowing that the other initiates were training much harder than he was.
As he sat there, he watched Markus and the others running back and forth to the stream carrying large stones, which they stacked into a pile in the center of the practice yard. Once Davir was satisfied with the collection, he set them to the task of carrying all the heavy stones back again. After that, the students were made to wrestle, even the girls. Markus was actually better than the other boys at wrestling, probably because of his greater age and size.
After wrestling, the students were made to hang from beams of wood above a large mud puddle. They hung there until their strength finally gave way, and they fell to the mud. After that, they were ordered back up the rope to hang until their arms gave out again.
After watching Markus struggle through that, Aram was glad for his simplified exercises. Even the two girls were made to do everything the boys did. They didn’t stack as many rocks as the others, nor did they dangle for quite as long as the boys, but Aram could tell that they put more effort into the regimen than all the boys combined, and the short-haired girl had won the foot race.
After the intense workout, the students were made to walk the perimeter of the College to cool down. Then the more adept students were released to attend their afternoon classes, while the others remained behind in the practice yard for more exercise. Aram followed the students heading back to class, casting a look of sympathy at Markus, who stared after him with a disheartened look on his face.
He walked with the group of his peers across the courtyard toward the same building they had been in earlier. The girl with short red hair had come with them, along with a small, emaciated-looking boy with wide eyes. There were also two larger youths, one a brown-skinned boy with curly black hair and a muddled aura the color of pine pitch. The other
was the boy who had called him a gimp earlier, a blond-haired Nesian who had a chaotic blue aura.
Aram had a hard time keeping up with them. His leg screamed in protest with every step, and he wasn’t used to how the crutch chafed his armpit. But he hobbled along gamely, determined not to be left behind.
The blond boy turned back to regard him with a scoundrel’s grin on his face. “Hey, gimp. What’s your name?”
Aram sagged. A familiar weight fell over his heart, squashing his feelings like a heavy boot. He’d hoped things would be better here, that there would be other people like him … people who were different. But he’d been wrong.
The blond-haired boy stopped, the others stopping with him. The tall youth with a shock of curly dark hair regarded Aram with a smug grin on his face, while the other boy and the girl just stood off to the side, looking on.
“I said, what’s your name?” the blond boy repeated, his lip curled into a sneer.
“Aram Raythe,” he whispered, averting his gaze, face heating with embarrassment.
“Why did they let a gimp in here?”
The tall boy sniggered. “Someone must have left the door open.”
“Knock it off, Obriem!” The girl came forward, looking as though she’d had enough. Throwing a contemptuous glare at her companions, she stalked over to where Aram stood contemplating the patterns of the flagstones.
“Just ignore them,” she said. “They’re jackasses. This whole Exilari-thing has gone to their heads.”
Aram couldn’t look at her, for he was quivering with shame. It was all he could do to stand there without fleeing. The two older boys were still smirking at him like jackals grinning at a piece of meat.
The girl brushed a lock of damp red hair off her brow. “I’m Peshka. The tall loudmouth is Obriem, and his idiot friend is Rehaan. And that’s Babalo.” She nodded at the small, gangly boy who stood apart from the others, looking like someone had stenciled a smile on his face.
“Adababalo Sarefelaprida,” the boy corrected her. He lifted his sharp chin proudly. “Prince of Kantimar!”
Aram looked up to gaze at him wide-eyed. “You’re a prince?”
Peshka waved her hand. “He keeps saying he’s a prince. That doesn’t mean he is one.”
Babalo stamped one foot on the ground, lifting his chin higher. “I am a prince!”
“Prince of Bullshit!” Obriem chortled, while Rehaan wheezed laughter.
Peshka glared at them both but didn’t say anything. Maybe they were incorrigible, Aram thought. That’s what his mother always called boys like that. He didn’t know what it meant, exactly, but it sounded like some kind of condition.
“Do you need help?” Peshka asked, glancing at the carved piece of wood he was leaning on.
“Uh-uh.” He gathered the crutch close to him, feeling his cheeks flush a deeper shade of red.
“How did that happen to you?”
Aram bit his lip. He didn’t want to admit how he’d gotten the injury. It had been stupid, and he didn’t want them to think that he was stupid. But they were all staring at him with gazes that demanded an explanation, and he was no good at lying.
He whispered, “A therling bit me.”
His admission was met by silence.
Then all three boys burst out in a fit of laughter, Obriem and Rehaan clutching their middles.
“A therling bit you?” Rehaan guffawed. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe Babalo has finally met his match! I hereby crown Aram Raythe, King of Bullshit!”
Aram’s vision blurred with tears as the heat in his cheeks boiled over. He started hobbling away on his crutch as fast as he could, fleeing the group of clapping and hollering teenagers. With a sharp glare at the others, Peshka bolted after him. She caught up in just a couple of steps, clutching his arm and slowing his pace.
“Walk with me,” she said.
Feeling bolstered, Aram let Peshka guide him into the tall building and through the narrow halls to a small room with desks. At the front of the room stood a maple lectern, currently unoccupied. The boys took their seats and sat snickering into their fists, throwing derisive glances Aram’s way. Obriem kept mouthing “King Bullshit,” his eyes glinting with amusement.
The sound of a throat being cleared behind them brought instant order to the room and snapped Aram’s attention back to the doorway. An older man wearing a blue mantle emblazoned with the insignia of the Exilari stepped into the classroom. His eyes scanned the faces of the other children before coming to rest on Aram.
“Ah.” His eyebrows flew up. “We have a new student. What is your name?”
“King Aram the Bullshitter,” Obriem whispered to Rehaan, who threw back his head in silent laughter.
“I heard that, Obriem.” Their instructor raised an accusatory finger. He strolled past the desks and assumed his place at the lectern, his hands moving to clutch the edges of the slanted top.
“You must be Aramon Raythe, Sergan’s new boy,” the instructor said with a kindly smile. “Your legend precedes you. As far as I’m aware, you are the only twelve-year-old in history to dispel a void dragon.”
Obriem’s sneer melted. Jaw going slack, he exchanged looks with Rehaan. Peshka opened her mouth to say something but then closed it again. Babalo sat slouched in his seat, blinking slowly.
Smiling, their jovial instructor addressed the class. “Initiate Raythe is Gifted—something that you, Obriem, and you, Rehaan, will never be. Welcome, Aram Raythe, to the study of Natural Science. I am Professor Kalasko. It’s my hope that you and I can learn from each other.”
By the time Professor Kalasko finished speaking, Aram had sunken so low in his chair that he was almost ready to slide under the desk. Everyone in the class was looking at him, and he could not read their expressions. He was mortified, as though the professor had stripped him naked and called him up to stand in the front of the room.
He spent the rest of the hour wallowing in embarrassment and self-pity. Eventually, Professor Kalasko left, and another instructor came to take his place, welcoming Aram to the study of Philosophy and Rhetoric, which proved to be just as tedious as it sounded. All throughout the next hour, the other three students kept shooting glances back his way. The expression on Obriem’s face had evolved from mocking to hostile, and his eyes had lost their sparkle, darkening.
The hour of Philosophy seemed like the longest in Aram’s life, and when the other students finally left, Peshka clapped him on the shoulder on her way out. Aram sighed heavily and gathered his crutch then hobbled out the door. In the hallway, he drew up, startled. Sergan stood waiting for him, a filthy and sweat-drenched Markus standing at his side, cheeks and lips flushed red from exertion. Seeing him, Markus gave an exhausted smile.
Sergan looked back and forth between the two of them. “I see you both survived your first day as initiates of the Order. I’m supposed to spend the last two hours before supper with both of you, but I don’t think I can tolerate Initiate Galliar’s smell.” He crinkled his nose. “Markus, every day when you come in from the practice yard, you are to bathe before entering my presence. Do you know where the baths are?”
“No, Lord Parsigal.” Markus shook his head, looking dejected.
“Then go find Ando Nambe and ask him,” Sergan snapped. “Aram, come with me. Markus, use soap!”
When Markus had gone, Sergan led Aram back into the room where the classes had been conducted, pulling together two desks. After Aram took a seat, the Exilar leaned forward, knitting his fingers on the desk.
“What we’re going to do every day in here is take what you learn about knots from that book and other books I give you and apply that knowledge to the world around you. In other words, you’re going to learn to practice magic.”
Hearing that, Aram went cold. He muttered, “I can’t.”
Sergan scoffed. “What do you mean, you can’t? I’ve already seen you do it.”
“I can only do magic when someone else is in danger,” Aram admitted.
&nbs
p; The sorcerer regarded him for a moment before leaning back and folding his arms. “Well, now. That’s inconvenient. Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I can see the threads, but I can’t touch them unless I have to.”
Sergan nodded slowly. “So you need a catalyst, then. Interesting.”
Aram frowned at him in incomprehension “Lord Parsigal, what’s a catalyst?”
“A catalyst is something that helps something else get started. Like how every fire needs a spark. Essence is my catalyst. Without it, I can’t touch the threads either. But this is damn inconvenient. We can’t put someone in danger every time I need you to study your art.” He sat silent for a time, seeming to be pondering the problem. At length, he asked, “What if you’re in danger?”
Aram shook his head. “That doesn’t work.”
“Just because it hasn’t worked before, doesn’t mean it won’t. We’ll try it. In the meantime, either you do magic, or I’ll order Markus tied to the post every night after supper to receive ten lashes.” Sergan smiled pleasantly.
“What?” Aram gasped when he understood what his mentor had just said. “Please, no!”
“‘Please, no,’ Lord Parsigal.”
“No, Lord Parsigal! Please! It’s not fair!”
Sergan waved his hand. “Nothing in this world is fair. So … Now that Markus’s skin is well and duly threatened, it’s time to practice some magic. I want you to snuff out that candle.” He nodded at one of the beeswax candles burning in sconces on each wall of the room.
Aram looked at the nearest one, considering its wavering flame dismally. “All right. I’ll try.”
He reached out with his mind and strummed the strands of aether that crossed the room like harp strings, summoning a raging gust of wind that slammed into him like a hurricane, practically knocking him out of his chair and lashing his hair against his face. It swept every flame in the room off its wick and knocked the fire in the hearth off the logs. Within an instant, the room went dark, the only light the orange glow of the coals in the fireplace.
