“Maybe the Guild is harboring Mages…” Irenya said in an almost whisper.
“I doubt it,” Leth said. “The Guild Hunts Dragons. No one is as scrutinized by the Paladins as them.”
“Maybe it’s just… a simple spell,” Aric said. “Simple spells can last for years, even decades if the crystal is big enough. And there’s no shortage of those in here.”
The stone slabs stopped and several silhouettes appeared on the other side.
“Who’s there?” Aric asked.
Instead of answering, the figures lowered themselves, grabbed the recruits, and heaved them up.
“Is everyone ok?” It was Saruk.
“Ergon’s wounded,” Aric replied. “It’s bad.”
The open sky and the sun made Aric feel amazing. He turned around, taking a deep breath. It was a relief to be out, but everything was still wrong. A thin layer of frost crackled under his feet, and instead of the familiar, meat cooking wind that had punished him for the past few days, he felt an icy breeze that made him quiver.
Where in the world are we?
A caravan waited for them and Ergon was lifted onto a large wheeled car being pulled by four camels.
“Congratulations,” Saruk told them. “You’ve survived your first test and now own the tools of your trade. From this day forward we’ll teach you how to use them. But believe me, the tests will get harder.” He turned around and climbed onto a horse.
“Harder?” Dothea complained beneath her breath. “It’s a miracle we’re all alive….”
Tharius grabbed a handful of frozen sand and dropped it once again. “We’re training to hunt Dragons,” he said. “What did you expect? Singing lessons?”
A few paces away from them Saruk’s horse stopped and turned back, whinnying.
“Oh, and one more thing,” the instructor said. “It’s about time you all start thinking about who will lead the Company. You’ll have to vote on it soon enough.”
He smiled, then turned his horse back around.
“We get to decide that?” Aric asked.
Saruk was too far away to hear the question.
“Well,” Clea said, placing a hand on Aric’s shoulder. “I know who I’m voting for.” She winked at him, smiling.
Chapter 9
The Docks District
Where am I? Fadan thought, blinking his eyes as the world refused to come into focus.
He rolled onto his back on the dusty, hardwood floor. His muscles were sore and stiff. He could barely turn his head. The sun was shining powerfully above the skylights, its heat explaining why he felt so sticky with sweat.
The attic, Fadan remembered.
He looked at the floor, where his face had been just moments ago, and saw a gooey, white puddle of some kind.
What is that, puke? he thought, grimacing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
The attic was absolutely peaceful. Dust swirled inside the strips of light falling from the skylights, like curtains waving in the wind, except the air was completely stale. The tables, the chairs, and the porcelain dinner set all stood quietly in their places, intact, which meant his memory of some kind of explosion was obviously mistaken. He remembered drinking the Runium, but the rest was a blurry, spinning mess of light. Something had gone terribly wrong, but what exactly? Had he cast a spell on himself by mistake? Had the Runium poisoned him somehow?
Fadan stood up and nearly fell back down. His head was throbbing. He staggered to the desk where the magic book still stood open on its first page and sat down. At first, the letters began to dance before his eyes. He laid his hands on the pages as if he could force them to stand still.
The first chapter seemed to be an endless ramble about exotic concepts like cognitive entropy and other indecipherable terms.
Fadan sighed, leaning back in his chair. The room was still spinning slightly around him and he heard his stomach roar. He was so hungry it ached.
I’m not going to accomplish anything like this, he thought.
He looked outside. Judging by the sun’s height, it was around noon, which meant he had missed two meals at the Palace. His father would be furious.
Screw it! Let him wonder where I am, what I’m doing.
Trying to forget the demanding growls from his belly, Fadan walked downstairs to the kitchen with the magic book under his arm. He picked up a pot from a pile, placed the book inside, covered it, and then slid the pot into the oven, burying it beneath a mound of old ash.
“There,” he muttered to himself, wiping his hands together. “Just in case.”
Now he had to find something to eat, and since he wasn’t in the mood to face his father, going back to the Core Palace was out of the question, which narrowed his options considerably.
Making sure the way was clear, Fadan walked out of the kitchen and into the Mansion’s backyard. Grass had mostly claimed the cobbled walkway leading to the street, and he had to jump over a bush in order to reach the gate. Outside, Fadan nearly bumped into two Legionaries on patrol. The soldiers were too distracted to notice him scurry behind a bush, and he waited as they walked along the street, arguing over which tavern had the worst wine in Mount Capitol. Then, when they turned a corner, Fadan left his cover and ran the other way.
He crossed a wide street, flanked by the Lagon’s estate on one side, and House Mantea’s Palace on the other, two of the richest, most powerful families in the Empire, and bitter rivals as well. At the end of the street stood the main gate to the Empress’ Orchard, a garden that had been built by Empress Lessia, Fadan’s great, great, great grandmother. It was a beautiful place, decorated with flowers and fruit trees from all across the Empire.
Fadan picked a couple of red Thepian pears, a yellow Samehrian tangerine, and even a handful of thrystles, an Arreline flower whose pollen tasted like bitter cinnamon.
It wasn’t much of a snack, and it vanished in a handful of bites, but it was enough to quiet his rebellious stomach. He had too many things swimming around in his brain to worry about eating.
What had gone wrong the previous night? Would he be able to decipher the book all by himself? And, most importantly, how was he going to find more Runium by himself? He had already drunk the entire content of his only vial, and without it, he couldn’t practice or learn.
Well, invading the Paladin’s headquarters again is out of the question.
Fadan wandered aimlessly, running possible scenarios through his mind. Now that he was far from his hideout, it didn’t matter if anyone saw him.
What are my options?
There was one obvious answer. He could buy some. Runium was illegal, but everyone knew it could be bought. It was dangerous, though, and Runium traders couldn’t exactly be found on street stalls crying out their product’s qualities. However, there was surely a way to find them. Fadan just had to find out how.
A series of non-descript Palaces went by as he kept walking, his mind racing. Where in Augusta could he find a Runium trader?
The docks, maybe? he wondered.
Everything was traded at the Dock’s district, why not Runium?
Well, first of all, because that’s where the customs officers check for contraband.
On the other hand, how else would Runium get into the city? There was some land trade in Augusta, yes, but the sheer volume of ships coming and going up and down the Saffya would surely make it much easier to hide illegal goods.
Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m right, he thought. The only way I’ll know is if I check.
Which raised another problem. How would he get there?
Being the Prince obviously came with many privileges, but freedom of travel wasn’t one of them. The Legionaries at the Citadel gate would never allow him to leave without express orders from the Emperor himself.
I suppose I could ask if I came up with a good excuse.
But that would take time. Fadan’s next encounter with his father was fated to result in some sort of punishment, not a gift. Besides, even if the
Emperor did authorize a stroll around the city, it would always be a supervised one. Attempting to purchase Runium with a detachment of Legionaries breathing down his neck would probably be a bad idea.
Fadan halted as he realized he had walked himself to a dead end. He had reached the edge of the Citadel, and its massive stone wall rose in front of him like the face of a cliff. He decided to continue. The narrow steps climbing the wall didn’t have a railing to hold on to, so he kept his back to the wall all the way up.
Wind rustled his black hair when he reached the top. The battlements overlooked Augusta, the Imperial city sprawling around in every direction. There were several other walls protecting Augusta. From the oldest ones at the bottom of Mount Capitol – on top of which the Citadel stood – to the more recent Flavillian wall, the outermost of all of them. Still, parts of the city spilled beyond them, reaching ever further away as if trying to flee the Emperor’s grip.
Down to the south, on the section of the river that crossed into the Flavillian wall, stood the docks. It was the city’s furthermost district from the Citadel, and not the kind of place where one should travel alone, by all accounts. Still, Fadan was determined.
What if I climbed over the wall? he mused.
It didn’t look impossible, but it did look hard. Fadan leaned out, measuring the height. It was, at least, four stories high and the only thing down there to cushion a fall was the wooden roof of some dwelling.
Well, if I had a rope I could probably do it. The hardest part would probably be the return.
“Imperial Majesty!”
Fadan caught such a fright he nearly tumbled over the battlement and fell. He turned and saw a tall nobleman give him a slight bow. The man smiled, a hand resting on the golden pommel of his sword. He wore a dark blue coat, as thick as armor, that barely moved as he sauntered closer to Fadan. The Prince recognized him, of course, as one of the three younger brothers of the head of House Lagon. There were few families as fiercely loyal to the throne as them.
“Lord Fabian,” Fadan said, faking a smile. “How have you been?”
“As well as an old man can be,” Fabian replied. He looked over the battlement in front of Fadan. “Enjoying the view?”
“It is a wonderful view; wouldn’t you agree?” Fadan said.
“Indeed. In fact, the best one in the Citadel.” Fabian looked back and indicated the Palaces with his chin. “Certainly much better than looking in.”
Fadan frowned. There were a lot of things wrong with the Citadel, but being ugly was certainly not one of them.
“You do not enjoy the look of the Palaces?” Fadan asked.
“The Palaces?” Fabian asked. “Oh, the Palaces are fine. It’s the streets that bother me.”
“What’s wrong with the streets?”
Lord Lagon looked at Fadan. “They’re empty,” he said. “It’s a ghost town. Look at it. Take out the Legionaries on patrol and there’s not a soul in sight.”
The man was certainly right. Fadan had just never thought about it like that. It was just the way the Citadel was.
Fabian sighed. “It wasn’t always like this, you know?” he said. “Those marble streets used to be covered with young men and women chasing each other. Children playing and older people telling them to slow down before they hurt themselves. There was life here.” He motioned towards the large gate leading to the city. “The gates were always open. Every day we had a party, a ball, or an evening lunch to attend. It was… buzzing.”
Fadan had no idea. He tried to picture the Citadel like that. It sounded nice.
“What happened?” the Prince asked.
“Oh, many things,” Fabian replied. “Things like the Purge, for example. When the nobility realized what Tarsus was capable of, they all decided it was best to keep their progeny someplace where the Emperor did not hold the keys to every door.”
“I see,” Fadan said, looking away. He felt his cheeks warm. No one ever spoke of the Emperor like this. He didn’t even remember the last time anyone had so much as mentioned the Purge. Especially someone as loyal to the throne as Lord Fabian.
“No, you don’t,” Fabian told him. “Do you know who Faric Auron was?”
Fadan swallowed. This conversation was becoming beyond uncomfortable. “My brother’s grandfather,” Fadan replied after a pause.
Fabian nodded. “That’s right. And the High Marshal of the Legions when your father was still the Crown Prince.” He shook his head. “I was about your age when the Thepians revolted. They won battle after battle, and most of them without even drawing their swords. Our Legions simply surrendered, changed sides, or refused to march out of their forts. I remember my father saying the whole world was unraveling. Then Intila’s father was captured in Nosta, and Faric was called to replace him at the head of the Legions. No one thought he could win. We all believed we were marching to our deaths when Faric led us out of Augusta that year. Our first battle was at Bregga, you know the one.”
Fadan had no idea.
“There were ten of those bastards for each one of us…” Fabian continued, his eyes somewhere far away. “By the Goddess, did we chase them off that field? Don’t ask me how. All I remember from that day is a furious blur. Dozens of people wrote books on Faric’s military genius. His tactics, his resource management. There’s even an idiot who wrote about Faric’s gentle treatment of his men.” He cackled amusedly. “Gentle treatment… One wrong look at the man and you’d get whipped.”
He paused again, then shook his head, as if he were just waking up.
“Thanks to Faric, your grandfather kept his Empire, but it was hanging by a thread. That was what Tarsus inherited – a bankrupt, fractured, crumbling Empire.” He looked into Fadan’s eyes. “But your father didn’t allow the Empire to disintegrate. A weaker Emperor would have, but he kept it all together. It came at a cost, true. But he did it.”
He once again glanced at the empty streets of the Citadel behind them.
“You and your brother were the last kids I ever saw playing in those streets.” He paused for a while. “Just like me and my brothers used to before we went to war. That’s life, you know?” He looked back at Fadan. “One day you wake up and instead of going out to play with your brothers, you have to go to war.”
Fadan stared at him, his jaw dropped. No one had ever spoken to him of these matters so… candidly.
A Legionary on patrol walked by them. Fabian waited for the soldier to move away, then stepped closer to Fadan.
“You can’t play with your brother anymore, and you want to go to war,” the nobleman said. “It’s written all over your face.”
Fadan feigned a smile. “Lord Fabian, I‒‒”
“Let me finish,” the nobleman said, cutting him off. “Your father did what he had to do, and now you feel like you have to do the same. I understand. But you’re alone, and you shouldn’t have to be, so…” He took a look around, making sure no one was listening. “If you’re ever in need of help, find me. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” Fabian said. He looked down the battlements, at the rooftops several feet down below. “I don’t know where you want to go, or why, but I know you’ll break your neck if you try to go this way.” Now he sounded like old Macael giving his sermons. “There are plenty of sewer tunnels beneath the Citadel. Your brother knew that. I thought you did too.”
Fadan had no idea what to say. Fabian gave him a nod and, as if that had been an absolutely normal conversation, turned around and headed to the stairs.
“Wait!” the Prince said.
Fabian halted.
“Did my father send you to spy on me?”
“No,” Fabian replied. “But I wouldn’t tell you if he had.” He smirked. “Just like I won’t tell him about this conversation.”
The sound of dripping water echoed through the tunnel. The light from Fadan’s torch played over the glossy black slime of the mold covering th
e stone wall. He walked alongside the black, stale river of sewage, its rotten smell nauseating. The place where Aric and Doric had been caught wasn’t far. Fadan didn’t know the sewers very well, but he knew that much.
He turned a corner and a rat ran over his feet, squeaking and startling him.
“Damn it!” Fadan muttered, steadying himself from the fright. “What the heck am I doing here?”
There was a manhole above him. He couldn’t be sure he had walked far enough underground to have reached the other side of the Citadel’s wall, but it was possible. He carefully set the torch on the ground, upright against the wall, and climbed the iron ladder.
The manhole cover slid out of the way with some effort, clanging against the cobblestone. Fadan peeked outside, hoping there weren’t any Legionaries close by. His head swung around and he failed to recognize any of the houses.
I’m out, he thought.
The Citadel walls stood less than a hundred feet behind him, blocking the street and turning it into an alley.
Hurrying before anyone showed up, Fadan hopped out from the manhole and covered it once again, dusting his hands off. Up in the battlements, a couple of Legionaries walked by, chatting casually. Fadan raised his hood over his head and marched away.
Some of the main streets were still busy with pedestrians and even the occasional horseman, oil lamps flickering above them. Every merchant stall had been closed for the night, and windows were covered with wooden shutters. Nothing here felt familiar. The narrow streets and the closely packed buildings all looked the same and gave Fadan the impression that he was walking around in circles. Returning home would certainly be much easier. There wasn’t anywhere in Augusta where you couldn’t see the Citadel, perched atop Mount Capitol like a crown. He decided to use the moon as a reference and make sure he kept going south. It should eventually lead him to the docks.
Fadan crossed avenues, squares, and plazas. Several people bumped into him without so much as an apology. He saw noblemen entering and leaving some of the shadiest buildings he had ever seen. Beggars, wrapped in ragged blankets, mumbled incoherently on most corners. Fadan crossed the gates of two of the inner walls, and on both of them, Legionaries were playing dice on wooden tables instead of standing guard. One of them actually looked drunk, and Fadan had to make an effort not to stare.
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