by Cat Bruno
“Ellaine, my dear, I didn’t entirely lie a moment ago. I do have a pressing need to speak with you. Do you have a moment?”
“I always have time to talk with you, Rova. And my thanks for rescuing me from any further berating. What has you so worried?”
Rova frowned, concerned that perhaps he was not being as discreet as he had planned, but also recognizing that Ellaine had always been capable of figuring out what others had ignored.
“You know me too well, I suppose. Maybe you can ease my mind by explaining to me what you know about the black-ice that the Mage-Guild gifted to the Academy so long ago.”
Ellaine’s brow crinkled, small wrinkles appearing on her otherwise smooth skin as she attempted to determine if Rova was jesting, then she said, “Do you tease me sir? Surely I do not look so old as to know of their origination. Or perhaps the palm oil I massage into my skin each night is no longer enough. Tell me true, Rova, what are you referring to?”
He answered hurriedly as the Master’s Hall was quickly filling up, “Are you familiar with the book of letters from the founding Masters of the Academy? The Making of a Healing Land, I believe it is called? There have been a few copies here at the Academy.”
Quickly, she replied, “Of course I have read the letters, but not in quite some time I’m afraid. However, I do recall that when the original members of the Healers-Guild set out to form what has become our Academy, they asked the Mage-Guild for their blessing. And the Mage-Guild sent a group here to inspect the area, surprised and a little terrified perhaps, at how much natural power was available. And, as an added precaution, certain spells were woven into the construction of some of those early buildings, and the mages remained for many moons as the Academy grew. Beyond that, Rova, I know little. What are you seeking to find? And what would atraglacia be doing here?”
“I am not certain what I hope to find, only what I hope not to find. Part of the spells that surround us here is a circle of black-ice in its pure form. While it has not been forged into a weapon, the black-ice in its natural state has its own power. Ellaine, I recently stumbled upon a rock in the main garden, and when I sought to retrieve it, the atraglacia glowed.” Rove paused, lowered his voice, and continued, “Which can only mean one thing, I fear. We have been visited by the Tribe,” he replied gravely, his voice low and serious as his clipped words ended.
While Ellaine stood silently, considering what Master Rova had just confided to her, the two healers listened as a small bell clanged, once, twice, three times, signifying that the Master Council would begin.
Ellaine looked toward Rova one final time, whispering to him as she crossed in front of him on her way to her seat, “Meet me in my rooms following the council. And, as soon as you get a chance, speak with Master Ammon. The Rexterrans have had a long history with the Tribe, and he might be able to offer you some insight.”
Rova nodded ever so slightly before walking across the now crowded room and taking his chair, wondering if he should have involved Ellaine at all, fearing that when word spread about his discovery, fear might soon follow. But the knowledge was too much for he alone to bear, and Rova was in need of assistance.
While seated, he looked around the room for Ammon, a man of some talent, but with knowledge and experience that few Masters had. Disappointed when he couldn’t find the imposing man amid the robed crowd, Rova turned back as the bell chimed again.
For a moment, Rova sensed the winds changing, but he could not tell which way the light moved.
26
He wanted nothing more than to stay in bed beneath the clean, lemon-scented blanket that he had pulled up over his face, hiding from the morning light sliding into his room through large, uncovered windows. With no early classes due to a Master Council meeting, Pietro had time to relax, yet he had much to do, including trying to bed a certain serving wench, which he had failed at so far. There was little that Pietro liked less than failing, especially with women, and not only had he not found a way into Talia’s skirts, but he had also had little luck finding information about Bronwen. As he lay beneath the thin sheets, Pietro vowed to accomplish one of his goals, preferably both.
With little regard to his aching head, no doubt from all the ale he had consumed at The Gull House, Pietro rolled himself out of bed, and, naked and squinting, walked to the small privy connected to his room. As Pietro washed his face from a bowl of cool water, a persistent tapping on the main door disrupted him, causing him to grab a length of fabric hanging from a small wooden knob and wrap it about his waist.
When he opened the door, a small, dark-haired woman darted in, carrying a plateful of food. She was muttering in Tretorian, a language that Pietro had struggled to understand since coming to Litusia.
“Melita, what are you doing here so early?” Pietro grumbled in Common.
“My prince, I bring you eggs and fried potatoes today. You like, yes?” Melita asked in the Common tongue, her accent thick.
“Yes, yes, I like them fine. Just set the plate down on my desk, I need to get dressed first,” he added, annoyed that Melita still would not call him by his name, referring to him as prince, even though his Rexterran lineage was far removed from the royal line.
“I bring you clean robes next time. Lunch time, maybe some nice chicken too. Need to fatten you up, prince. Still too skinny,” Melita punctuated her point by pinching Pietro’s arm until he shrugged her off while trying to hold onto the cotton material draped over him.
Just as he was about to send Melita away, he remembered that he had promised to meet Talia for a beach picnic. Knowing that for a few extra coins Melita might help him, Pietro brusquely explained what he needed, using words in both Common and Tertorian. After a few attempts, she understood and departed, promising to be back within the hour.
Once she was gone, Pietro finished the food, put on a clean robe, and headed out the door, deciding that it was time to find Kennet. He hoped that the boy was faring better than he was this morning, and supposed that Kennet wasn’t too much of a fool, now that he had gotten to know him better.
So he continued to walk across the Academy’s grounds, keeping his head down and staring at the fine-pebbled path as he strolled. The air was heating up quickly and the warm breeze did little to soothe his sore head. Once he finally reached the library, Pietro stumbled over the large stone steps, nearly tripping, and entered the main doors of the library. His stomach was churning, and Pietro immediately regretted eating the heavy breakfast that Melita had made for him, swallowing hard as he tried to prevent himself from vomiting on the bright mosaic tiles beneath his sandaled feet.
Suddenly he realized that he did not know where to find Kennet, or, really, if he was even in the library.
As a young, robed boy walked by, Pietro grabbed him by the arm, asking, “Boy, do you know where I might find Kennet Dannovska?”
The boy looked frightened, but managed to stutter, without raising his eyes, “On the fourth floor, back in the corner, sir.”
Pietro slowly climbed the shining stairs and walked toward the area where the boy had shyly pointed, hoping that he was right as Pietro had never been in this section of the vast library. Despite his usual disinterest for most things Tretorian, Pietro was impressed with the towering windows and the views outside them, even more so as he was looking down onto the Academy’s grounds. After peeking in several rooms, he approached a room tucked into the corner, entering without knocking. A large desk piled high with thick papers stood to one side, near the windows. Overall, the room was in near disarray, with what he assumed to be manuscripts covering nearly every free surface, including some parts of the floor. Judging by Kennet’s often unkempt look, Pietro figured that he had found the right room. Very few healers could abide such a mess.
After searching for a few moments, Pietro found Kennet lying on the tiled floor, nestled behind his desk, asleep.
He knelt down beside him, shaking him as he called, “Kennet, Kennet, what in the hells are you doing down there?”
Kennet tried to push Pietro’s hands off him, rolling to his side and dragging the rough blanket over his face.
He muttered, “Leave me alone,” his voice barely above a whisper.
Undeterred, Pietro replied, loudly, “Oh Kenny boy, don’t you know that the best way to get rid of that ache in your head is to have another drink? Anyway, you haven’t forgotten about our lunch with Talia and her cousin, have you?”
Kennet groaned in response, ducking further under the blanket until Pietro yanked it from him, tossing it across the room.
Looking down at him, Pietro said, “You look a bloody mess, Kennet. Louissia will take one look at you and scurry off in fear. Now where are the bathing quarters here? We haven’t much time.”
Squinting to block the early sun, Kennet was aware of how he must appear, further embarrassed when his stomach loudly grumbled, and he belched uncontrollably.
To cover his flushed cheeks, Kennet croaked, “Pietro, I don’t think I will be joining you today. I can barely lift my head and I have much to do. Send the girls my regards.”
He was surprised when Pietro bent down, gripped his stained robe, and, quite forcefully, pulled him to his feet, anger across his smooth features.
Pietro fumed, “Kennet, you will most certainly be coming to lunch today, even if I must drag you across the beach myself. The Masters themselves will not even be about today as it is Master Council. Now, where do you keep your clean robes?”
Taken aback by Pietro’s sudden outburst, Kennet quickly answered, “I don’t live here, you know. I have rooms at the Students’ Hall.”
“Fine. Then lead the way,” Pietro replied, an even smile spreading over his handsome face.
Before he exited his office, Kennet noticed a small, foreign text lying on the edge of his desk, nearly concealed by crumpled sheets of paper. He reached out to grab the little collection of Northern children’s tales, remembering that Master Tywinne had asked him to deliver it to Master Shonn, who could be found at this morning’s Master Council. He had forgotten the request from Tywinne until he had spotted the tome and realized how belated the delivery would now be, which would greatly upset Tywinne.
Calling out to Pietro, he said, “There is something I must first deliver to Master Shonn, a book that he requested earlier this moon. We must stop off at the Master’s Hall.”
“I have no time for that, Kennet, but when you are finished, meet me at my rooms.”
With little choice remaining, Kennet stumbled out of his office, book in hand, down the pale, marble stairs, and out into the morning, uncertain why he had agreed.
27
Bronwen tiptoed into the courtyard, her feet bare beneath the loose-fitting skirt, gliding over the limestone tiles. Her heart raced beneath the tightly fitted bodice, and Bronwen worried that Willem would notice the rapid rise and fall of the fabric. The morning sun was already warming the air, and Bronwen felt sweat trickling down her back. The Northern garment she wore, despite its simplicity, was not fit for the climate of Tretoria, and she wished that she could remove the heavy bodice and skirt, leaving only the underskirt and chemise. Yet, she knew that soon she would have to return to her duties, leaving Master Ammon’s villa and the safety it offered.
As she wiped a few drops of perspiration from her forehead, Bronwen noticed Willem seated on a simple wooden bench, Tretorian designed, and almost out of place here. The dark wood had been weathered by the salt and sun, taking on different shades of brown. Willem sat atop a deeply cushioned seat, reclining slightly, his eyes closed, his shirt removed, his skin growing bronze beneath the high sun.
When he heard her approach, Willem opened his eyes, and glanced her way, smiling as he noticed her, which caused Bronwen to hesitate, pausing a few steps away from him.
“Bronwen, you are a picture of a Northern princess in that dress, and the color seems made for only you. What a shame that a woman like you has been made to wear healers’ robes for most of your life. Not that you are not a fine healer, but I would much rather see you gowned just so.”
He continued, “Please, join me.”
She eyed the small sitting area, and, after a few moments, chose the low chair that had been placed across from the bench. She tucked her unshod feet beneath her skirt, sitting as casually as she could.
Then quietly added, “My thanks, sir, for all the lovely clothing. Within the week, I hope to be wearing my robes again, but until then, a few of the gowns will work well enough. Do you think I will have to explain my sudden change in appearance?”
“Does one have to justify why the sun and rain create a prism together, Bronwen? Or do we just enjoy the colorful and rare beauty where we find it? You are a beautiful woman, of that there is little doubt. In the North, even in Rexterra, I dare say, you would be the envy of women. To those who would question you, remind them that you are now Master Apprentice and above their queries.”
Even though Bronwen smiled in response to Willem’s flattering words, she knew that life back at the Academy would not be so simple, even with Master Ammon as an ally.
When she didn’t reply, his voice deepened, “Bronwen, I have delayed your questions long enough. Now, I fear, I owe you some answers, especially about Conri. Is it still your wish to find him?”
Bronwen paled, her rosy cheeks now as white as the thin clouds above her head. She felt frozen in her seat, uncertain how to respond, remembering the last time that she had seen Conri and how it had ended. But, when she rubbed her damp hands over the fine skirt that Willem had given to her and touched the ribbons that laced up her neck, Bronwen remembered why she had need for the new gown.
“Yes, Willem. I want to know how I might find him. I have not seen him in over a moon, and I do not know when he plans to visit again. Is there a way to go to him?”
Willem looked concerned, grave even, but replied, “There is no easy way, nor a simple one. Has he ever visited you at the Academy, Bronwen, or has it always been elsewhere?”
Bronwen thought for several moments about Willem’s question, trying hard to remember all the times that Conri had approached her, unable to recall every occasion, as the memories were new still. Still, she could not think of a time when he had come upon her on the grounds of the Academy. On the beach, on her way home from the clinic, in a small grove a good distance from the Academy, even occasionally in town, but Bronwen could not recall ever meeting him at the Academy.
With a furrowed face, she answered, “I do not believe that I have ever encountered him near the Academy. Near enough to it, perhaps, but never on its actual grounds.”
He replied, “Yes, I had thought so, as it was just that way with me also. Long ago, when I first came to Litusia and the Academy, I spent a great deal of my free time reading books lent to me by Master Tywinne. I had much to learn about the Academy and the Healing Arts, so as not to seem so out of place. One such book detailed the founding of the Academy, and I read it in great depth. Did you know, Bronwen, that the Mage-Guild, upon the founding of the Academy, placed a protection spell around the perimeter? In fact, it is still in effect even today.”
Confused by what Willem was telling her, Bronwen frowned, chewing on her bottom lip in concentration as she attempted to understand what he implied, embarrassed that her own knowledge of the Academy was so lacking.
Lord Willem noticed the puzzled look that marred her sparkling eyes, and said, “Bronwen, the spell was to protect the Academy, and the healers, from the Tribe. For our founding was much before the truce. The Mage-Guild used pure atraglacia as indicators of a sort, placing them at various points throughout the campus, not as weapons, you see, but as detectors. If a member of the Tribe enters the Academy, at any point, the black-ice will indicate such an incident has occurred. Conri, I believe, knows this. And while the rock cannot hurt him, it could weaken him. Or, at least let others know he had been here. Which would complicate things, for all of us, as you can well imagine.”
Willem stretched out his thick legs in front of
him, and added “So, the point I am trying to make, I suppose, is that Conri cannot be found anywhere near here. I have asked him previously where he lives, and he only laughed in reply.”
“So what am I to do, Willem? There is no other way for me to find him? I assume he lives somewhere in the Tribelands. Perhaps I should start there, in the North.”
Willem laughed, causing Bronwen’s temper to stir, before he answered, “So you would leave your duties here and travel across Cordisia to find him, Bronwen? The same man that any other person would try to escape. No. I cannot allow that. You will stay here while I try to find him through other means.”
“What other means? You forget that Conri cares for me, Willem. He will not hide from me if he knows that I am searching for him.”
“I forget nothing, Bronwen. Yet, I still wish that you would not seek him. I do not like where that path might take you. Are you so unhappy here? We could go North then, the two of us. Leave the Academy and start anew there.”
His words, similar to the drunken promises of the night before, were still shocking, and she said nothing.
“You do not need him, Bronwen.”
For the first time, Bronwen detected jealousy in Willem, much more than just dislike for Conri, and realized that it had probably been there all along, yet in her inexperience, it had gone unnoticed. For a long moment, she considered what his words meant, what, if truth, his offer meant. And, it was a long time before she finally answered.
“Lord Willem, I have devoted the only part of my life that I can remember to healing, and I am not ready to abandon my studies, especially now that I am on my way to becoming Master. As tempting as your offer is, for now, I must decline. I need to find Conri. And I would appreciate any help that you could offer.”
