by Kris A Hiatt
He didn’t get much sleep in the foul place, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. He was back in Shamir’s palace waiting for the men from the list to be brought into the room.
When the men were escorted in, his mood didn’t improve.
The assembled former magisters left Brental less than impressed. Nimbril was the Archmagister for three decades. All of the instructors at the time would have to be in their sixties by now, and all of the men before him matched that. Brental reminded himself that looks could be deceiving and hoped he was right, though hope was not something he had an abundance of.
“Good morning gentlemen, and thanks for your cooperation,” Brental said in the cheeriest tone he could muster. In truth, he knew the seven of them didn’t have much choice. The summons was from their new self-proclaimed King. They wouldn’t dare defy him. Brental learned that the hard way.
“Cut the bullshit,” one of the older men stated boldly.
Brental turned his head toward the speaker. He wanted to throttle the impudent bastard, but knew he shouldn’t. He could feel his face start to flush with anger. He had to remind himself that the old man was not the cause of his ire.
The speaker looked older than the others and his long unkempt beard mixed with his equally long unkempt hair, both of which were more white than grey.
“We have no use for your political games. We’re too old. But we’re not so old as to be cowed easily. Just state what you want,” the same old man announced, much less sternly this time.
The others were looking around at each other as he spoke and nodded their heads in agreement.
“Fine,” Brental said, making his face cool. He wasn’t going to tell them the truth at first, but he could tell the old man was right. They were too old to bullshit and he didn’t think threatening them would work. That and in his mood he didn’t want to play games anyway. So he decided to tell them the truth. “I am Archmagister Brental, leader of the College.”
“So you’re him?” one of them asked.
“I am,” Brental confirmed. The men looked uneasy and glanced around at each other for a brief moment. The original speaker nodded and one of the others frowned and shook his head. Brental did not miss either. He knew the news of Nimbril’s death had to have made it to them by now. He guessed they were afraid of being thrown from a window. He thought of the old man’s statement of not being cowed easily. That surely turned out to be a lie.
“Congratulations,” the long-haired, long-bearded one said.
“I thought you didn’t have time for bullshit?” Brental asked. He walked toward the other man that frowned as he spoke.
“Fair enough,” the old man replied.
“What’s your name?” Brental asked the man that frowned.
“Hemen.”
“You are dismissed, Hemen,” Brental informed the man. He nearly dismissed them all but he didn’t let his bad mood get the best of him. He motioned to one of the guards who promptly nodded and quickly walked over to Hemen.
“Sir,” the guard said to Hemen with his left arm out gesturing toward the door.
He watched the faces of the remaining men as Hemen was escorted out. It didn’t seem as if they were overly bothered by Hemen’s exit.
“And you are?” Brental asked the original man who spoke up.
“I’m Destin,” the old man replied, offering the slightest of bows.
“Destin,” Brental mouthed slowly, more to himself than anything. The name sounded slightly familiar, but he couldn’t be for sure. Perhaps the name was in one of the tomes he had read. “You don’t seem to be bothered by Hemen’s departure.”
“He wasn’t my favorite,” Destin admitted as he shrugged his shoulders and ran his hand through his long beard.
“I see. And Nimbril? Are you pleased to hear he is dead?” Brental asked. He was hoping to get a sense of the man.
“Truth be told, he wasn’t my favorite either.”
It was just the answer Brental was hoping for. But, the other men weren’t offering anything in their faces, so Brental couldn’t read them. He guessed he would just have to ask. “And you?” he asked, looking around at the other five men.
“While I won’t sit here and tell you I’m happy someone is dead, I will say that I hope you’re a better leader than he was,” one of the other men replied.
Brental looked to Destin and raised an eyebrow. Destin only shrugged his shoulders in response. Brental took that for the man saying it didn’t matter. He didn’t disagree.
“So what’s this about?” one of them asked.
“He’s going to test our skills and perhaps offer us a job,” Destin reasoned.
Brental didn’t know if Destin knew he would test them or if it was just a good guess. Either way, he intended on asking him later. Although some of these men probably haven’t used their skills in years, he was going to find out what they were capable of.
“Count me out,” said one.
“You wouldn’t pass the test anyway, Aryn,” Destin stated boldly, looking at the man with a wry smile.
“Like you will?” Aryn countered.
“When’s the last time you used magic?” Destin asked him. “Two, three years?”
“About that,” Aryn admitted.
“You should have your guard escort him out too,” Destin said to Brental.
“I’ll decide who stays and who goes,” Brental replied. Despite his foul mood, he couldn’t help but like Destin. The old man had spirit.
“Suit yourself,” Destin said absently.
“To Destin’s point,” Brental began. “Yes, I wish to know if you have the skills I need to further the order. If I deem you useful, I may keep you around. If not, you’ll go back to your normal lives.”
“I have no urge to teach again,” announced one of the men.
“Me either,” another agreed. “I’m much too old to wipe anyone’s nose these days.”
He was down to just four of the seven men already and he hadn’t even begun to test them. It wasn’t looking good.
“I wasn’t ready to retire when Nimbril forced me to do so,” Destin stated. “I may be old now, but I’m still not ready to call it quits. Bring on your test young leader.”
“The rest of you?” Brental asked, looking each one of them in the eye. One of them shook his head slightly and lowered his gaze. Aryn nodded, but let his gaze fall as well. Brental guessed the man didn’t want to let Destin get the best of him so easily. He wondered if the two were rivals back when they were in their prime.
“Why?” a man asked.
Brental looked to the speaker and realized he was the only man that hadn’t said anything yet, nor did he let his gaze fall when Brental looked upon him. “To test your skills of course.”
“No, not that. That’s obvious. Why did you kill him?” the man clarified.
“Ah yes, the question,” Brental said.
The man simply raised his eyebrow as a response.
“I threw him from the window, of course, that’s what everybody knows.” Brental explained. “And you want to know why.” He remembered being in the Meeting Chamber after he forced Nimbril to name him the leader. Liernin, Drevic, and Treace were already escorted out. Drokier had just let Liern go and the boy rushed out the door. Brental whispered in Nimbril’s ear that he would prove what he had done. That he had purposely destroyed their order. The old man turned to look at Brental and Nimbril had tears in his eyes. For a second, Brental felt bad for the man. Nimbril asked Brental to let him go. He said he wanted to be with his son. Which was crazy, the old man never sired any children, at least that Brental knew of. He was going to let the old man go and never intended on keeping him as a hostage. He didn’t want to keep the crazy old fool with him. He just wanted him to watch Drevic leave the grounds and take his dangerous young friend with him. Once they were out, he was going to have Nimbril escorted out. He grabbed Nimbril’s shoulders and forced the old man to the window to watch as Drevic was escorted off the grounds and t
he gates closed behind him. Brental remembered leaning out the window and calling down for Drevic to take Nimbril with him. In mid-sentence the old man had somehow flung himself from the window. He just sprang out. Brental had no time to react. Everyone assumed Brental threw the old man. He took credit for it because he wanted the notoriety. He wanted to be feared. It worked.
“I do,” the man confirmed.
“Because he was no longer of any use to me,” Brental said forcefully, coming back from his thoughts of the past.
“And if we aren’t useful, will you kill us too?” the same man asked.
“I have nothing to gain by killing you,” Brental told him truthfully. “I don’t even know who you are.”
The man said nothing.
“His name is Joran,” Destin said, drawing a baleful look from the man. “And he’s the only other one here you should even consider to take on. The rest of them are idiots.”
“The only other one interested is Aryn,” Brental pointed out.
“My comment remains unchanged,” Destin stated, widening his stance and crossing his arms over his chest.
Brental thought about it for a few seconds before saying, “Very well. Joran and Destin remain, the rest of you are dismissed.”
Chapter 3
Drevic looked out over the crowd, taking note that he didn’t know the majority of the faces that looked back at him. He knew that would change soon enough, however; he would most likely live the rest of his life within the confines of Haven. While Haven was a beautiful enough city, and much grander than Kilindric, he knew he would always think of the former College as being his home. Knowing he couldn’t return there saddened him greatly. Knowing that Brental now officially led the Onneron College made it ten times worse. Nimbril had named Drevic as the leader before his passing, but Brental and Shamir conspired against them and threatened the life of Liernin’s son, Liern, to force Nimbril to name Brental the leader. However, the real order, the men who had moral decency and believed in high ethical standards, followed Drevic here to Haven to begin the process of healing and rebuilding the order. They were also rebuilding their resolve and, for Drevic anyway, his heart.
He looked to Baron Liernin, silently thanking the man for taking in the rest of the brothers of the College and allowing them to rebuild the order in his city. He thanked him even more for allowing the current ceremony to happen.
He let his gaze pass over his friends, new and old, as he readied himself for what must be done. Nimbril deserved more than he knew his little speech could provide; like being buried next to his friend, Truntil, at the College in Kilindric. He surely deserved far better than to be thrown from a window from the very College he presided over. Instead, he was about to be put to ground in the baron’s own courtyard, and while it was larger and more beautiful than the one at the College, it wasn’t home. It would have to do.
He looked to Treace, who nodded in his direction, and offered a simple nod in return. He knew he must start the eulogy. He hoped he wouldn’t fumble his words or let the lump in his throat get the best of him.
He gazed upon the gathered crowd and closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath.
“Archmagister Nimbril was not only the leader of my order, but he was also like a father to me. And, like any good father, he was also my teacher. He taught me to respect others, to value other’s opinions, and to keep true to myself,” Drevic said after a moment, glad to have finally begun.
“Like any son, I imagine, I didn’t always listen. And like any father, I am sure that he thought of me as an impetuous child at times, which I know that I was,” Drevic offered, smiling despite the situation. He recalled a conversation where Nimbril had indeed called him just that. He had to pause for a few moments before continuing.
“He expected much from me, from all of the students, but he always gave more in return. He could see the best in anyone, even if they couldn’t see it in themselves,” he continued, looking directly at Treace.
“He cultivated what he saw and watched it grow as the students themselves grew,” he added before the lump in his throat made him stop again.
He paused to walk over to Nimbril’s body. He leaned over the coffin, ordained with silk and baubles, and kissed his mentor, his father figure, on the forehead. He felt a tear streak down his cheek and watched helplessly as it fell upon Nimbril’s cheek. Drevic kissed his fingertips, wiped away the tear, and raised his hand to the sky; a salute to Kaden.
~~~
Treace listened to his friend speak, watched him kiss Nimbril’s cold, dead body, and listened again while Drevic continued the eulogy for the prior leader of their order. It was a wonderful speech, not hardly a dry eye in the building remained by the time Drevic was done, Treace included.
He thought about going to his friend to offer comfort, but decided against it after seeing many other people had the same idea. He watched briefly as Liernin wrapped Drevic in a hug. Liernin’s wife Amana stood by quietly, placing a hand on Drevic’s shoulder. So instead of comforting his friend, Treace decided to find solace in the streets of Haven and with his own thoughts.
Several people paused to offer comfort, to which he mumbled some sort of thanks, though his mind knew he should offer more of a response, his heart wouldn’t allow it. It wasn’t only Nimbril’s death that bothered him, but also the weight of the inevitable war that weighed heavily upon him. But, as horrible as both events seemed to him, there was something else more pressing on his mind. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge simply because he didn’t fully see it for the truth that it was.
His mind, not fully pressing it to his conscious, saw Drevic’s salute to Kaden; something Treace had never seen him do before. He saw it, though he didn’t register the meaning behind it. He cast it aside and growled through his mind’s insistence that he think about it then and there. He wanted to think of something else. He thought too much on war, politics, religion, and simple bad luck lately. Instead, he wanted to think of something far more comforting. He knew he was being childish, but his head ached from all that was going on. His heart, and mind, wanted to think of something more positive. So, he ignored the pressing affairs and thought of his mother, and of Jensen. He hoped their lives had intertwined like he thought they might. Both of them deserved to be happy. He knew that. Even if he still had some questions for Jensen about his father. They deserved to be happy.
“Just because you’re The Wolf doesn’t give you the right to ignore the presence of your friends,” a voice said, pulling him from his thoughts.
He knew that voice in an instant and just as quickly felt a smile form upon his face.
“Moff,” he muttered, turning to face his friend that he had somehow walked right passed without noticing.
“My friend, I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long,” Moff said, walking up to stand before him.
Treace didn’t think about what he was doing and simply reacted. He reached out to his friend and pulled him into a hug so quickly and powerfully that he saw the surprise on Moff’s face as he was pulled in close.
He felt a moment of pause from his friend, but Treace quickly felt that hesitation melt away and felt Moff’s hug in return.
“Nimbril’s dead,” Treace said quietly.
“I know,” Moff whispered in his ear, neither breaking their embrace.
They stood in silence for a few moments before backing away. Treace didn’t feel uncomfortable in the least for their encounter, but he could see some discomfort on Moff’s face. He realized that was a sight he didn’t see often.
“Where have you been?” Treace asked, not wanting to see that discomfort on his friend’s face for long.
“That is a tale best told over many, many glasses of wine,” Moff replied, walking away, quite obviously in the direction of The Anvil.
It didn’t surprise Treace that Moff would head to that particular bar. After all, it’s where they drank together often, and the façade of The Wolf began in the first place. He marveled at his friend a
nd marveled more at how much he had missed him for the past several months. He found himself following his friend without a thought and shook his head when he realized he was smiling for the first time in days. He had missed his friend, dearly so.
“Don’t you walk away from me,” Treace called after him.
“Keep up and we would be walking together.”
Treace smiled more broadly and quickened his pace to catch up.
“Seriously, where have you been?” Treace asked with a bit more seriousness in his voice than he intended.
“In good time, my friend, in good time. And that time would be during, or after, a good number of drinks.”
Treace offered a disapproving look, not so much intentionally as instinctively, but Moff didn’t miss it.
“If you don’t know,” he said with a glance and a sigh in his direction. “I’ve been in Kadenton procuring more money to make you famous, but from the tales I heard on the ride back, I fear that’s no longer needed.”
“See, was that so hard?”
“No, but some of what I have to say might be, so stop being so impatient and wait.”
“For what?”
“I’m gone a few weeks and you’ve lost your brain already?”
“It’s been more than a few weeks, and a lot has happened,” Treace corrected, ignoring the insult.
“So I’ve heard. Now just shut up, keep up, and let me think about what I need to say,” Moff told him, completely ignoring the timeframe correction.
“I should just cut your throat and be done with you,” Treace playfully offered.
“And end the best relationship you’ve ever had?”
“And end the misery of a jackass,” Treace explained happily, glad to insult his friend once again.
