When it was their turn to approach, Liza reached into her pocket to pull out a copper emblem with the golden inlay of a phoenix carved into the metal. Her badge identified her as a sentinel and would help her gain entrance to the city. From the corner of his eye, Gib warily watched the pair of guards working the gate. Both men looked gruff and threatening clad in full chainmail armor, with sheathed swords longer than Gib’s entire arm.
The older of the two guards measured the riders with a shrewd eye. “State your names and your business in Silver,” he demanded, nothing playful about his tone. This man would slice open any person suspected of being false.
Liza cleared her throat, declaring herself: “Liza Nemesio, sentinel of Arden, returning from my family’s homestead and reporting for active duty.” She set a hand on Gib’s shoulder and he jumped. “And this is my younger brother, Gibben. He’s to go to Academy for training. He received a conscription notice from the King and is here to fulfill his duty to Arden.”
Gib held his breath, but after a moment, the guard nodded and motioned for them to pass. Gib didn’t dare speak again until Lilly had carried them well away from the wall. He leaned in close to his sister’s ear. “That was a little scary.”
Liza laughed. “Yes, the worst part of all was my fear that you weren’t going to be able to hold down your breakfast.”
They shared a chuckle before Gib’s attention was drawn toward the interior of the city. The houses just inside the wall were small and compact, resembling shacks rather than true houses. Most of them were made of cheap materials—wood, clay, even mud. The people who lived here were dressed in shabby clothing, some of them in nothing more than rags that hung from their bodies. The disheveled, dirty peasants paid no attention to the travelers as they passed. A distinctive clicking noise rang in Gib’s ears, and at once his gaze fell upon the ground as Lilly’s horseshoes hit the pavement. Somewhere between the wall and here, the dirt pathway had given way to stone. It was the most peculiar thing Gib had ever seen. The village near his home would never have been able to afford the cost of laying cobblestone.
The streets seemed to wind back and forth rather than being a straight line. Liza told him the city was designed that way intentionally, so if the walls were ever breached, the royal palace wouldn’t be so easy a trek for the enemy.
The farther into the city they went, the grander the houses became. The clay huts hugging the city walls gave way to two-story homes, and even those houses were dwarfed in size by the manors further along the street. These households were the size of small mountains and each had their own gated courtyard.
“Do royalty live in these houses?” Gib asked in astonishment.
“Not even close. These are the homes of the nobility—rich merchants, guild masters, and the highborn mostly,” Liza explained, and Gib could only shake his head in awe. His sister snorted. “A big waste of space if you ask me—oh, we’re almost to Traders Row, the trade district of Silver. If we weren’t already sharing a horse, I would warn you to stay close. It can get hectic here.”
Indeed, the streets were becoming so congested that the flow of traffic was bordering on a standstill. There were people everywhere. Gib could not find a single area of unoccupied space. He clung to Liza, fearing that if he were to fall, he would be lost in the sea of people. Liza turned in the saddle and gave him an encouraging smile.
“It’s a bit overwhelming the first time, I know.”
Gib’s head was spinning. “There are so many people—”
“Aye. Traders Row is the busiest area of the city. It’s where all the merchants live and sell their products—and where the city folk come to make purchases.” Liza patted Gib on the knee when he couldn’t even manage a nod in response. “It won’t be so bad once we cross the river and get onto Academy grounds, I promise.”
His sister pulled on the reins, maneuvering Lilly through the horde of swarming bodies. The mare seemed at ease with the commotion surrounding her. Even when a pair of children darted in front of the horse, chasing a chicken that must have escaped them, Lilly showed her dissent only by laying her ears low and issuing a snort.
Great, Gib lamented to himself. The horse is better socialized than I. I’m doomed.
Somewhere to his right side, he heard the bleating of goats as two old men bartered back and forth, trying to negotiate a fair purchase price for the animals. A robust woman in an apron hollered across the street as she waved a loaf of bread high in the air, and somewhere behind them, a baby wailed to be fed. All the voices blended together to create a dull humming sound in Gib’s ears.
Gib closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to escape the situation. If he didn’t have to see the insanity surrounding him, he could imagine he was back on the farm. He could pretend he was lying in the soft hay of the goat pen, just waking up from a nap. His brothers were boiling a stew in the cottage, their laughter carrying through the open doorway. His lips curled upward as he smiled. They sounded so happy, the way children should sound. Inhaling deeply, Gib could almost smell the aroma of spiced meat in his nostrils—
Liza’s voice cut through his wistful dream like a knife. “We’re almost there.”
He opened his eyes and at once snapped back to reality. A narrow bridge lay before them. It spanned the width of the Tempist River. Out in the countryside, the river was treacherous, a swallow of dark water wide enough for a ship to navigate if some captain was foolhardy enough to attempt the feat. Here in Silver, however, the river flowed sluggishly and was only as wide as two rowing boats placed bow to stern beside one another.
Lilly’s hooves clattered against the cobblestone path as Liza guided the horse onto the bridge, and Gib was drawn to the multitude of cracks within the stone masonry where moss had tried to creep through only to be smothered by the constant barrage of horseshoes and footsteps.
“This isn’t the only bridge in the city,” Liza explained. “The one that serves as the gateway to and from the royal palace is much grander, but this bridge is closest to the sentinel training grounds and the academy, so you’ll want to use it as you come and go.” She motioned for Gib to look ahead. “Speaking of which, here we are.”
Gib could feel the color drain from his face. A massive collegium rose in the distance, casting an imposing shadow across the path. It was constructed from the same grey limestone as the city wall and was equally as stunning to behold. At least three stories tall, the building loomed above all other constructions in the area like a mountain of solid rock.
Gib was momentarily unable to find his voice. “I—is this—?”
“Yes,” Liza confirmed. “Academy.” She pointed to the left. “And that wooden building across the way is the royal stable, where all of the horses which belong to the Crown are kept. The sentinel barracks are on the other side of the stable.”
“That’s where you’ll be, right?” Gib asked, needing the assurance that his sister wouldn’t be far away.
Liza nodded. “Unless I’m assigned elsewhere in the moonturns to come, then yes, I’ll be in Silver.” She clasped Gib on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s turn Lilly over to the stable master and then we can figure out where you need to go.”
Gib walked in silence up the corridor which he’d been told led to the dean’s office. The passageway was so congested he dared not take his eyes from his sister’s back. All around him were boys and girls his age and a little older. They had their own bags of belongings with them. Some had little like himself and others had entire cases full of possessions. Parents were present as well, mostly with the well-dressed children, fawning over them and giving words of advice or encouragement.
Laughter drew his attention as they passed one boy who looked to be about Gib’s age but was a spectacle to behold with pale white skin and hair. Beside him, a well-dressed man was beaming proudly, as any father might, and Gib was struck with yet another pang of wistful yearning. If events had played out differently, his own father might have been here too, seeing Gib off to his classes
.
His longing drew short when he collided with Liza’s back. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled.
A giant door made of solid oak and taller than the highest point of Gib’s entire house loomed ahead. His mouth went dry. Was this where he was meant to go?
“This is Marc Arrio’s office. He’s the Dean of Academy,” Liza informed. “We’re in luck. There’s no line.”
Gib glanced around. Liza was right. Am I late? Is that why there are so many people in the corridor but no one ahead of us? I won’t be arrested if I’m late, will I? “Sh–should I knock? So they don’t think I didn’t come?”
Liza chuckled. “No. The closed door means there’s someone already in there. We’ll wait for your turn.” She looked him over narrowly and Gib fidgeted with the attention. Her hands, roughened by the work of a sentinel, ran through his mess of curls. “You’ll do well, Gib. You always have.”
He opened his mouth to say a word of thanks but nothing came out. Before he could try again, the door opened and he closed his mouth, stepping aside. With wide eyes, he watched a tall man with fair skin and dark, short-cropped hair with only the slightest trace of silver flecking his temples step past the threshold. He was talking to a young girl about her classes. His loud voice carried well but wasn’t offensive in tone. “All right, your classes have been set. You’re sure you don’t want to rethink them?”
The new student’s voice was gruff for a girl, and she didn’t smile as girls were encouraged to do. “I’ve had thirteen years to think, Dean Arrio. I know what I’m doing.”
Gib winced. Surely she shouldn’t speak to the dean in such a way. Her dark skin and features suggested she was not highborn but the mark on her brow, a simple red mark in the shape of a diamond, could mean she was foreign. If she was foreign, perhaps the girl didn’t know she was being impolite.
The tall man only laughed, loudly and infectiously. “Have it your way. If anyone has the right spirit for the job, it’s you. And remember to call me Marc—Dean Arrio sounds too formal.”
The girl bowed to the dean before turning to leave. Rounding fast, she almost ran straight into Gib. He noted with despair that she was nearly half a head taller than him. Daya, will I ever grow?
Her mouth set into a thin line and she nodded at him, wild raven hair tumbling about her shoulders and down her back. “Apologies.”
Gib opened his mouth to assure her of no harm done but she was already on her way past him. He watched as the girl wove through the congested hallway and wondered where her father was. Things must surely be different here in Silver. Back home, girls were meant to be polite and soft spoken, and they weren’t typically allowed to wander off on their own—though she didn’t appear to be wandering.
“Liza Nemesio? Are you here to see me?” The dean was speaking. He sounded genuinely surprised.
Liza turned a quick smile on him. “I am, Dean Marc. Or rather, my brother Gib is.” She grabbed Gib around the shoulders and pushed him forward. Gib was intimidated by someone so tall and with such authority. He opened his mouth, but again his voice failed him.
Dark, clever eyes sparkled down at him and smiled on their own before the dean’s mouth followed suit. “Another Nemesio, eh?” He clapped Gib on the shoulder so hard Gib feared his knees may buckle. “All right. Let’s head inside and get you set up.” The dean whirled around and re-entered his office. Gib shuffled along behind him.
Inside the office a wide desk made of red oak was polished to a smart shine. Dean Marc sat on it and leafed through a couple of documents, gesturing for Gib and Liza to take a seat in the plush chairs in front of the desk. The fabric on the chair was some of the finest Gib had ever seen, and he winced at the idea of sitting on it, fearing the dirt on his clothing may rub off.
Stiffly, Gib chose to rest only the smallest amount of himself on the edge of the chair. His legs would be screaming at him soon but he didn’t want to risk any harm to the fine things in this room which he could surely never pay to replace. Liza came over a second later and flopped down in the opposite seat. He gave her a sideways glare but a lazy smile was all she paid him in return.
“All right,” Dean Marc declared at length, never looking up from his papers. “Are you a volunteer or a draft—” He glanced up then and knitted his well-tamed eyebrows. A lopsided smile crossed his mouth as he looked over Gib. “Afraid of the chair?”
Gib’s face burst into flame as he struggled to find something to say. “I, uh, it’s a nice chair. I didn’t want to—my clothes might be—sorry.” His head swam as he tried to re-collect his thoughts.
Again came the laugh that beckoned others to join. “I have sentinel trainees in and out of here all the time. I think you’ll be all right. Unless that is how sitting is done where you come from.”
A smile threatened to curl one corner of Gib’s mouth, but he wasn’t sure if it was allowed or not. He tried to think of something to say but came up short.
The dean pressed on, opting to speak to Liza instead. “Doesn’t talk much, does he? You’ll have to teach him how to sit properly when you get the time.”
Liza laughed heartily, and the ice in Gib’s gut receded just a little. Perhaps this wouldn’t be as bad as he’d originally envisioned. The dean seemed friendly, not at all how Gib had imagined everyone in Silver City would be. His Pa had warned him of city people sometimes being cold—mean-spirited even—but thus far it didn’t appear to be true.
Gib found his voice at last. It was weak and choppy but audible. “Sitting doesn’t happen much where I come from. Forgive me, Dean Marc. Perhaps I’ll have to take a class on it.”
Marc tipped his head back and laughed some more. The sound echoed off the high archway ceiling filling their space. The dean was smiling so broadly that small creases had formed around his eyes and mouth, and Gib wondered if the dean was older than he’d first appeared.
Highborn or not, the dean seemed genuine, and Gib had just begun to relax when a new voice cleared its throat testily. Marc grunted and his smile fell away as he turned to look over his shoulder. Gib jumped when he realized someone else was in the room with them.
Sitting in a dark corner with a writing slate and parchment in his hands, another man glared back at them. His facial features were cold, and the stranger’s thin lips were pulled back into a sneer. Gib’s stomach flopped. Perhaps his father hadn’t been wrong after all.
“Could we wrap up these informalities so that we may continue about our day, Marc? Some of us have other, more pressing obligations.” Effectively having sapped all the merriment from the room, the stranger straightened his pristine white robes and fetched his quill from an inkpot by his feet. He pressed a blond wisp away from his face and refocused on writing. “This one’s name is—?”
Marc nodded but seemed to be merely obliging his companion rather than agreeing with him. The dean turned back to Gib and Liza with a dim expression. “Allow me to introduce Diedrick Lyle. He’s our Instructions Master. It’s his job to see each student gets the classes he needs.”
Diedrick snorted shortly and continued to scribble on his parchment. “I asked for his name, Marc, not to be introduced.”
Gib blurted without thinking, “Pleasure to meet you, Master Lyle. I’m Gibben Nemesio.”
The Instructions Master reacted as though someone had just slapped him across the face. He floundered, clearly offended by something, and Gib was sure he shouldn’t have spoken directly to someone so lofty. He knew better. His father would have scolded him for such “sass” but in the moment it had seemed like the best thing to say. What right did this Diedrick Lyle have to talk down to someone he didn’t know? The right of privilege, idiot, something you don’t have, Gib thought to himself with a grimace.
Liza’s eyes were wide and Marc coughed so as not to laugh. The dean drew enough attention away from the offence that Diedrick lost some of his rigidity and opted to slink back into his chair, glaring at the lot of them. He said not another word, only scratching his quill a
gainst the parchment in front of him.
Marc cleared his throat to ground their conversation. “All right, Gibben, did you say you were a volunteer or drafted?”
Gib instinctively reached for his rucksack and the conscription notice within. “Uh, I got this—I’m drafted? I guess?” He was blushing again. Every word from his lips seemed to land without grace. Why did he have to sound so dimwitted? He found the scroll at last and offered it with a shaking hand. Marc accepted and his smile felt warm and reassuring.
The dean read over the scroll once and nodded. He asked if Gib’s name was spelled correctly on the scroll and then relayed the letters to Diedrick. “You’ve seen thirteen summers then?”
“Thirteen wheelturns. Yeah.” Gib fidgeted with his hands, unsure if he should offer more.
Marc graciously didn’t wait. “Just old enough then. You’ll need to be trained in basic hand to hand combat as well as Ardenian law and policies.”
Gib nodded, head swimming again. Laws? Policies? I hope this will all be explained. He tapped his fingers on his knees and tried to focus.
Diedrick spoke again, addressing only Marc. “That’s all the recruited need. Anything further would be a waste of funds. He’ll pay back his debt to Arden by having extra time for chores.”
Gib winced but kept his treacherous mouth closed.
It was Marc who came to his defense, as Liza seemed to know when to keep quiet and had offered to say nothing since they’d first arrived. The dean held up a hand, signaling for Diedrick to pause. “Can you read, Gibben? Or write? Calculate?”
Gib swallowed, but his mouth felt bone dry. “I, uh—I can read some. And write my name, some small words. There’s a bit of calculating to be used for farm work but nothing grand.”
Diedrick snorted again as he continued to scribble.
Without any trace of scorn or pity, Marc came to a quick decision. He glanced over at Diedrick again. “Add him for basic literacy skills and arithmetic.”
The Instructions Master looked up, his face drawn and eyes fierce. “Literacy and arithmetic? What exactly do you think he’ll be reading and calculating on the battlefront?”
A Call to Arms: Book One of the Chronicles of Arden Page 3
