For a week, the students and instructors of the Academy had stayed in Selvan, under the hospitality of that land’s king. But when the attackers did not return, and the High King’s armies marched hastily back from the war in Wellmont, they had prepared themselves to return.
And now they stood before the Academy. Ebon was surrounded by students, with the instructors in a ring all about them. Every eye was turned skyward, where the citadel peaks loomed above them like an angry father—or, perhaps, like a tired old aunt, welcoming her nieces and nephews into her home, though weary to the point of death.
“It hasn’t been touched,” said Kalem, voice hushed in awe.
“Good,” said Theren. Her arm was still in a sling, though she swore every day that she would throw the thing in a rubbish heap.
Jia stood and opened the front door. Slowly, and without a word, everyone filed inside.
“You!” someone shrieked as Ebon stepped through the door. He looked over in surprise to see Mellie, sitting in her old chair by the front door, as though she had never gone. “You left without permission! You and your friends!”
Ebon could only smile. Jia arched an eyebrow. “Mellie, do you mean to tell me you stayed?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” The little old woman blinked up at her through watery eyes. “Where else would I go?”
Jia shook her head and led them inside.
Once they had assembled in the entry hall, with the doors again closed, Ebon felt a curious peace settle over them all. Within the citadel, they could not see the destruction that had swept the Seat. The hall was unchanged, and he suspected that the dormitories and classrooms would be the same.
“Students,” said Jia. “Students, assemble. Together, please. Quiet!”
Her final bark threw them all into silence, and every eye turned to her.
“A terrible tragedy has befallen the High King’s Seat. Thank the sky, the Academy suffered less loss than we might have. But all of Underrealm is reeling from this attack, and I will not bandy my words: these are uncertain times. Many of you will likely be called home by your families. Try not to blame them. They wish only for your safety.”
Ebon felt eyes upon him. He glanced to his right, and found Lilith staring through the crowd. The moment their eyes met, she ducked as if in shame, but then quickly looked back at him defiantly. He turned away.
“Now, Dean Cyrus of the family Drayden has been missing since the attack, and is presumed lost in the fighting. We shall respect and honor his noble memory as long as the Academy stands—which, fate permitting, will be a long time indeed.”
Kalem snickered. Theren elbowed him hard. Ebon flushed deep crimson. In the ten days since the fall, he still had not told his friends of what happened to Cyrus. Only Adara knew the truth. He wondered if that would always be the case.
“With the Academy resuming its normal operations, a new Dean is required. It is now my duty to present him to you. He is an accomplished mage, whom, I am certain, some of you will have already heard about. Please show your utmost respect.”
Jia stepped down from the main stairway. A man went to take her place. He was thin and gaunt, black hair hanging limp and stringy about his face, nearly to his shoulders. He had a grim look, with thin lips pressed tight together and dark eyes holding no humor or warmth. And yet Ebon thought he felt something noble in the man, something in his bearing that commanded respect and attention, like a general returned home after a lifetime campaigning—though this man looked hardly older than Ebon’s father.
“Well met,” he said, his thick, rich voice rolling forth to echo around the entry hall. “I am Xain, of the family Forredar, and I pledge myself to your learning, and your safety, for as long as duty may require.”
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