by ML Spencer
“Hold your sword out,” Davir instructed.
Markus complied, and Davir grasped his sword’s wooden blade, encircling his fingers around the midpoint. Pointing at the wider half of the blade, he said, “This half is called ‘the strength.’” Pointing at the thinner end of the blade, he said, “This half is called ‘the weakness.’”
He stepped back and crossed his own sword with Markus’s in such a way that the thin part of his blade was touching the wider half of Markus’s.
Davir said, “Right now, the weakness of my sword is bound to the strength of Markus’s sword. If I wanted to push his blade aside, I would have to push very hard, because in this position, he has the advantage of leverage. But if Markus wants to push my blade aside, all he has to do is twist his wrist.”
He nodded to Markus, and Markus performed the motion. That slight rotation of his blade was enough to push Davir’s sword to the side.
“Do you understand now why the halves of the blade are called the strength and the weakness?”
“Yes, Sword Brother!” the students responded together.
Davir dismissed Markus and called Peshka forward.
“It is possible to use a blade’s strength and the weakness at the same time. Here is an example.” Reaching out, he raised Peshka’s sword, crossing his blade with hers. “If Peshka strikes at me, I am forced to defend. I can accept her blow on the strong part of my blade, while at the same time”—he jabbed the tip of his sword out, stopping just shy of her neck—“stab her with the weak part of my blade. With one sword, I can both defend and counterattack at the same time.”
Nodding at Peshka, he dismissed her too. As she walked back to join her fellows, Davir asked, “What is the most dangerous part of the sword?”
“The strength!” shouted Babalo.
“The point!” shouted Enari.
“The weakness!” shouted Poda.
“All of it,” said Markus, and Davir nodded.
Holding up his sword, Damir touched the tip. “I can stab you with the point.” He trailed his finger down the length of the blade. “I can slice you with the edge.” He moved his hand back to the hilt. “Or I can bludgeon you with the crossguard or with the pommel. It does not matter what piece of the sword I use to kill you, you will be dead. Now. We will begin today with the high guards.”
The lesson progressed for another hour, the students moving through the first tedious steps of a dance that always started with the left foot forward. By the time they were ready to break for breakfast, Markus’s face was slick with sweat, his tunic sticking to his skin. His belly had moved past complaining to demanding.
At the dining hall, he ate breakfast in silence, his thoughts drifting to Aram, wondering what had happened to him and hoping he was all right. He was growing terribly concerned. Unless Aram had been badly hurt, he should have been out of the infirmary by now.
After breakfast, he suffered through his morning classes without really paying attention, his fingers drumming the tabletop. His professors didn’t say anything about his distraction, which surprised him. No one questioned the empty chair at the table beside him, which also surprised him.
But when it was time for afternoon exercises in the practice yard, all thoughts of Aram slipped from his mind. Sword Brother Davir had built an obstacle course for them out of different sized barrels that they would have to either jump or climb over. That occupied all of his concentration and endurance for the rest of the daylight hours.
Before Markus realized it, it was evening, and Sergan hadn’t summoned him for his afternoon lessons. He walked absently back across the courtyard toward Small House, watching the bats zipping by overhead with high-pitched squeaks. When Ando Nambe came to lock his cell for the night, Markus didn’t ask about Aram, for he knew he wouldn’t get an answer.
When morning came, Aram’s cot was still empty.
He went to morning training with the others, but he barely paid attention, going through the motions, his mind elsewhere. A terrible, cold fear had taken root in him, starting out in his middle then expanding until all of his insides were ice. He didn’t trust Sergan Parsigal. He didn’t trust anyone at the College. What if they had decided that Aram was worth more for his essence than he was for his abilities?
By the time afternoon training ended, Markus was beside himself with worry. The sorcerer had ordered him to the baths before seeking him out, but Markus didn’t bother. He was sweating so badly that he could smell his own stench, but he didn’t care how much his odor offended. He wanted answers, and he was determined to get them.
When he returned to the classroom, Sergan was not there. Markus waited for a time, but then he became impatient. First Aram had disappeared and now Sergan. It was too much of a coincidence. There was more to the story, and no one was telling him.
If Sergan wasn’t going to come looking for him, then he was going to go looking for the sorcerer.
He remembered where Sergan’s quarters were from the night they had first arrived in Karaqor. He doubted Sergan would be there, but it was someplace to start. He took the stairs up to the fourth floor and found the right door, pausing in front of it to collect his emotions before he knocked.
No one answered.
Markus stood for a while, waiting, apprehension sawing into him like a serrated knife, cutting a little deeper every second. Lifting his hand, he knocked harder.
Nothing.
He tested the doorknob and found it unlocked. Taking in a deep, steadying breath, he turned the knob as quietly as he could. He let the door swing open just a crack then rushed it the rest of the way, so it wouldn’t screech on its hinges.
The door screeched anyway.
Markus stood in the doorway, expecting a storm of retaliation. But instead, he discovered that Sergan’s chamber was dark and empty. Quietly, he moved inside, leaving the door open just a crack to admit a little bit of light. He looked the room over carefully but saw nothing, no clue that would tell him where Aram or the sorcerer had disappeared to. He was about ready to turn and go but then something caught his eye.
A small piece of cord lay on the floor. Frowning, Markus walked over to it and bent to pick it up. Fingering the cord in his hand, he confirmed that it was Aram’s, the one he was always fiddling with, especially when he was nervous. But the presence of the cord really didn’t tell him anything, other than that Aram had been with Sergan, but he had already known that. With a sigh, he turned back toward the door.
And saw Sergan Parsigal standing in the doorway with an irate look on his face.
“Why are you in my quarters?” he asked very slowly, his voice just as calm and composed as ever. The more Markus heard it, the more dangerous that composure seemed.
“I … I came looking for Aram.”
Sergan moved into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. “He’s not here.”
Markus took a step backward. “Where is he?”
“Aram had an accident,” Sergan answered. “He was taken to the infirmary.”
Markus stared hard at Sergan’s face, looking for some sign that he might be lying. He had every reason to doubt him and no reason to believe him. At best, something terrible had to have happened to keep Aram in the infirmary so long.
“I want to see him.”
The sorcerer shook his head, taking another step toward him. “No. First, we need to address the problem of you entering my personal quarters without an invitation.”
Markus looked down at the cord trembling in his hands. “He’s not there, is he?”
Sergan frowned. “Now, why would you say that?”
Markus backed up another step. Unable to look at the sorcerer, he accused, “You gave him to them, didn’t you?”
Sergan shook his head. “No.”
“Then let me see him.”
“You can’t.” His expression changed, becoming almost compassionate. “I’m told his situation is very precarious. He’s not allowed any visitors. Why don’t you go back to the prac
tice yard? I’ll check with the infirmarers. When they feel Aram is out of danger, I’ll send for you.”
Markus caught his breath in fear. “What’s wrong with him? What did you do?” Stepping around Sergan, he started backing toward the door.
“I didn’t do anything,” Sergan responded. “It was an accident. Now, go. As soon as Aram is allowed visitors, you may see him.”
Markus turned and left, knowing he didn’t have a choice but to obey. He didn’t know whether or not Sergan was telling the truth; all he knew was that Aram needed him. With a heavy heart, he slinked out of the sorcerer’s quarters and headed down the stairs and out into the courtyard, where he sat on a bench holding his head in his hands. A cool breeze wafted his hair and chilled his skin. Overhead, two ravens circled in the air, wheeling slowly.
“He’s not back yet?”
Markus looked up to find Poda standing over him. Behind him were the rest of the students in his class, half with expressions of concern, and half with expressions of disdain. He ignored the mean ones, hoping they would go away. He didn’t have the emotional energy to waste on them.
“Sergan said he had some type of accident,” he said. “But I think he’s lying.”
Frowning, Peshka came over to stand next to Poda. “Why would Lord Parsigal lie to you?”
Markus was afraid of voicing his suspicion. For a few reasons. They might think him paranoid, and even if they didn’t, none of them knew that Aram was a True Savant, and he didn’t think he should arm them with that information. In the end, he decided it really didn’t matter. If he was right, then he would need all the help he could get. And so would Aram.
He admitted, “I think they took him to the cellars.”
Peshka sat next to him, peering into his face with a look of intense confusion. “Why would they do that?”
“Because Aram’s not like you and me. He’s special…”
“Special,” chortled Obriem. “That’s one word for it.”
With a growl, Markus leapt up and lunged at him. His fist connected with Obriem’s temple and sent him reeling back. Before he could recover, Markus bowled into him, knocking him to the ground, then started pummeling Obriem’s face.
“Stop it!” Peshka shrieked. “Stop it! You’re going to send him to the infirmary!”
Hearing that word, Markus froze, Obriem cowering beneath him.
The infirmary.
He didn’t want to send anyone to the infirmary—he wanted to go there himself. Reaching down, he offered Obriem his hand. “Here’s your opportunity,” he said with an insolent grin. “I want you to hurt me.”
“Gladly!” the boy snarled, letting Markus hauled him to his feet. But then he paused, collecting himself, and glared at Markus suspiciously. “What are you up to, Galliar?”
“What are you doing?” asked Peshka.
Rubbing his bruised knuckles, Markus told her, “I want to make sure Aram really is in the infirmary. There’s only one way they’ll let me in.” He looked at Obriem. “Will you do it?”
Obriem stood rubbing his jaw, looking undecided. Blood leaked from one of his nostrils, and his cheek looked like it was going to swell. At last, he waved Markus off, snarling, “You’re not worth the whipping.”
“Please.” Markus forced the word out, hating the sound of it. “Do it for Aram.”
“I don’t give a shit about Aram.”
Peshka came to stand next to Poda, her arms crossed. “Help him, Obriem. You’re going to get a thrashing anyway.”
“Aram’s one of us,” said Poda.
The other students nodded their agreement.
Obriem spat a wad of pink spittle on the ground then glared sideways at Markus. “You’re going to duck.”
“I won’t.”
Obriem snorted. “Yeah, you will.”
Markus raised his chin. “Come find out.”
Obriem’s eyes narrowed. Then his fist went flying.
The daylight fractured into shards of red. Markus didn’t remember falling, but suddenly he was on the ground and Obriem was kicking his head over and over.
“Obriem, no!” Peshka shrieked
As Obriem brought his leg back for one last kick, all Markus could think of was his father’s head collapsing, of the final crunch of bone and the spray of bloody pulp. Then Obriem’s boot connected with his face, exploding that thought.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What’s going on here?”
Someone was shaking him hard. Markus’s head hurt, and he felt terribly nauseous. He thought he was going to vomit. He groaned, pushing himself into a sitting position.
“Obriem broke Markus’s nose,” said Babalo.
“It looks like he broke his head.” That sounded like Professor Callain’s voice.
Markus tried opening his eyes, but the light of the sun was too bright. He let out a groan.
“Don’t just let him sit there bleeding,” Callain snapped. “Someone get him to the infirmary. Obriem, come with me.”
With Poda’s help, Markus managed to stand and take a few wobbly steps forward. Obriem had done a better job than he’d expected. He’d asked for it, but that still didn’t make it right. Obriem was a bully and, more than anything else in the world, he hated bullies.
“I’ll walk you there,” offered Poda, and Markus let him, holding onto Poda’s arm for stability.
“You really don’t look good,” the boy said as he led him toward the wide double doors. “I can’t believe you let him do that to you.”
“I can’t either.”
He had a hard time moving his jaw. His face was already starting to swell. Poda opened up the door for him and led him inside, guiding him past people who gawked at him as he fumbled by. He was glad Poda was leading him, for he had no idea where the infirmary was. Eventually they found it, down a long flight of stairs and through a twisting maze of corridors.
“Good luck,” said Poda when they reached the door. He patted him on the back. “I hope you find him.”
Markus did too. He opened the door and walked in, leaving Poda in the hallway. The infirmary was just one large room with many beds. Only a few of the beds were occupied, and he did a quick scan of the room, looking for Aram. But just as soon as the door closed behind him, a man with the obligatory scowl of a healer stood from a chair and blocked his view.
“What happened to you?” the man asked, taking Markus’s jaw and turning his head, first one way then the other.
“I think I broke my nose.”
“Humph.” The infirmarer pointed to a stool. “Sit there and don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
Markus watched him walking away but ignored the command to sit. Instead, he quickly made a survey of the beds, his eyes falling on one occupied by a boy who looked the same size as Aram. Markus hurried over to it, walking faster with every stride, all thought of pain forgotten. By the time he made it halfway across the room, he knew for sure it was Aram.
And he also knew for sure that there was something very wrong with him.
He paused at Aram’s bedside, sorrow clutching his throat. Aram was sleeping, but his skin was pale and bloodless, his lips and eyes ringed with gray. Markus reached out to touch his hand.
“I told you to sit over there.”
He startled, glancing back to find the infirmarer standing right behind him, his scowl deepened to a glower.
“What happened to him?” Markus whispered, staring down at Aram’s lifeless body.
“He drowned,” said another voice.
Markus whirled. Sergan Parsigal had come up to stand beside him so silently that he hadn’t noticed. Markus gazed down at Aram, tears of despair clouding his eyes. It didn’t seem possible. How could Aram drown? He was a strong swimmer—he wanted to be a sailor!
“How?” he croaked, his throat constricting.
“He fell into a well,” Sergan said gently. “I jumped in after him, but by the time I got him out…” He shrugged.
“But he’s alive…” Markus
shook his head adamantly. Aram was still breathing. He was just asleep.
Sergan glanced at the healer, who stood with his mouth narrowed to a grim line that confirmed all of Markus’s fears.
“It’s unlikely he’ll wake up,” Sergan said. “I’m sorry.”
Tears spilled from Markus’s eyes. “I don’t understand—he could swim! How did this happen?”
“He hit his head on the way down,” Sergan said gently.
The healer moved forward, inserting his body between Markus and the bed. “I need to have a look at you, son. Go sit on the stool.”
Markus backed away, staring at Aram’s pale face. He wanted to lash out at Sergan, at the healer, scoop Aram up in his arms and carry him away to safety. But there was nowhere safe. They had been brought to a nest of vipers. He was supposed to be protecting Aram from these monsters, but he had failed.
Heaving a sob, he turned and fled the infirmary.
It was dark when Aram opened his eyes.
He was disoriented and, at first, he didn’t know where he was. The room he was in was large and cloaked in shadow. The only light came from a single candle burning at the far end, timid and wavering. He tried to lift his head, but he was too weak, and his head was too heavy. Instead, he relaxed into the pillow, feeling the weight of weariness pulling him back under. He fought it, forcing his eyes open, and stared up into the shadows.
A motion beside him made him turn.
Through vision that was slightly doubled, he saw the form of an old man sitting at his bedside. At first, Aram was confused, for he couldn’t place him. The man looked familiar, though he didn’t remember seeing anyone like him in the village. He narrowed his eyes, trying to merge the two images into one. His vision squirmed into focus, and he remembered.
It was the Revered Master who sat beside his bed, calmly gazing down at him. Aram remembered then that he was no longer in the village. He remembered the well. He remembered drowning.
“How did I…”
The old man patted his hand. “Exilar Parsigal dove into the well after you and pulled you up. But he didn’t save you.”
