The Academy Journals Volume One_A Book of Underrealm

by Garrett Robinson

  “Albi is not being groomed for the position.”

  Ebon spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “What grooming has my father given me, Tamen? I am forbidden from our trade meetings. I am forbidden from speaking to any members of the other merchant families. I have never even seen a member of the royal family. How does he expect me to step full-formed into his shoes, when I do not have the faintest knowledge of the leagues they have walked already?”

  “And Albi? Could she manage better than you? I imagine she could do a fine job of directing a caravan, if pressed to it, and if she were surrounded by a staff of those who knew most of her business for her. But she has received no instruction in such matters. You at least know something of the family’s trade routes, our goods and services, and the relationships your aunt has worked hard to build across the nine kingdoms.”

  Ebon turned away. He wanted to shout, but Tamen was only an instrument, not the object of his wrath. The retainer’s words were not his own, but came from Ebon’s parents. Ebon wondered if Tamen believed them himself, or if he even cared.

  In any case, the man’s words were carefully chosen, for they reminded Ebon of his aunt Halab. Where Ebon’s father was cruel at every opportunity, Halab had always treated Ebon with courtesy and respect, and mayhap even affection. In her presence, even Ebon’s father seemed less harsh, less cruel, as though he did not wish to shame himself with ill conduct before his sister.

  Yet still Ebon shied away at the thought of one day replacing his father. “Never do I wish to be involved in our family’s trade,” he muttered.

  “Sky above,” said Tamen, eyes widening in false shock. “Does the world exist to grant our wishes? If I had known that, I would have asked to be born a royal son.”

  There was a knock at the door. Ebon cocked his head at Tamen, but the man only shrugged. “Come,” said Ebon.

  It opened to reveal Mako. Ebon tensed, and Tamen grew very still.

  Tall and very broad, but wiry, Mako was clad in a tunic of light grey, with sleeves to the elbows that revealed the designs tattooed on his forearms. Over that he wore a short jerkin of black leather. His trousers, too, were black, clasped at the waist by a belt with a silver buckle, and upon that belt hung a long and wicked dagger. His hair was cut so short it was almost stubble, and his hairline on both sides swooped up and away from his brows. Though his eyes often twinkled as though at some hidden joke, they were hard as steel, and couched in a face painted by many scars. Mako was in the service of the family, and though Ebon was not certain, he thought the man reported directly to Halab herself. He seemed to go from household to household, bringing messages and doing whatever might be required of him. But the simplicity of his duties did not hide the danger he wore about him like a cloak.

  Now he strode into Ebon’s room with a smile, and the smile widened as he hooked both thumbs through his belt. Though Ebon was still covered by a sheet, he felt utterly naked before Mako’s keen gaze, and he had to fight the urge to cover himself. Then Mako took a deep sniff.

  “A good morrow—or midday, as it were. And how fares the family Drayden’s newest full-grown man?”

  Ebon’s eyes widened, panic seizing his throat. He shot a fearful look at Tamen, but the retainer shook his head.

  “I said nothing.”

  Mako burst into laughter, a deep, ringing peal that surely thundered through all the halls of the manor. He bent partway over to lock gazes as though Ebon were a child, and then he slapped a hand against the leather pants that tightly gripped his legs. The sound of it made Ebon flinch.

  “Sky above, the looks upon both of your faces are priceless. Fear not, little Ebon. I did not need any words from Tamen to smell the scent of your lovemaking. It is so strong that I imagine I could find the woman herself if I visited enough lovers upon the Seat.”

  “I … you are wrong,” said Ebon, aware of just how weak his voice sounded.

  Mako’s chuckles died away, but they left behind his wide, toothy grin. “Save your terrified looks, little goldbag. If you fear I will tell your father of your—shall we call it an indiscretion?—then worry not. I have no interest in petty scandals.”

  “I say again, you are—”

  Mako chopped a hand through the air, and Ebon’s words died upon his lips. “I told you I will say nothing. And I did not come to sniff between your legs. Your mother and father require you for midday’s meal.”

  “They sent you to summon me for a meal?”

  Mako shrugged, his smile never leaving him. “And why not? I was to hand. I do not hold so high an opinion of myself that I cannot deliver a message.”

  So saying, he turned and left as quickly as he had come. Tamen went to the door and closed it, throwing the latch in place.

  “Come, Ebon. You must ready yourself for the meal. And whatever else you can say about that man, he is right—we must wash that smell off you before you get within ten paces of your parents.”

  TAMEN HAD A STEWARD FILL a bath, though they had no time to heat it. Ebon shivered in the water, cold and brackish, drawn from the Great Bay. He spit it out quickly whenever it touched his tongue, despising the salty taste of it.

  “Hurry, Ebon,” said Tamen. “You know better than to keep your father waiting.”

  “I can scarcely move faster than I am.” Ebon’s voice came harsher than he intended, and thick with fear.

  “Then this will have to do.”

  He leaped from the tub and began to dry himself. Tamen fetched some perfume and splashed it at his neck, his underarms, and his wrists.

  “That is too much!” said Ebon. “I smell like a chemist!”

  “Sky above, stop your bleating,” said Tamen. He made a halfhearted attempt to swipe some of it off with a washcloth.

  “Forget it. I must go anyway. My clothes!”

  Tamen helped him dress in haste, shaking his head at Ebon’s anxiety. But Tamen did not have to fear whatever capricious punishment Father would inflict if Ebon was late.

  Soon he was running through the manor towards the dining hall. Fine tapestries fluttered on the walls in the wind of his passing, and he nearly bowled over the servants Liya and Ruba, who were dusting fine suits of armor mounted on stands. They cried out after him, but Ebon barely managed to call out “I am sorry!” as he fled.

  He burst into the dining hall much faster than he had meant to, and the door flew around to slam into the stone wall behind it. Ebon froze on the threshold. His parents, Hesta and Shay, looked up sharply from the table, where they had already begun to eat.

  “Did you have to run across all the nine lands to get here?” Though Ebon’s father did not raise his voice, disdain dripped from each word, like rainwater sliding down the tiled roofs of home.

  “I am sorry, Father,” said Ebon, breathing hard. “I was in the garden when—”

  But his father had already turned away to resume conversing with his mother. Ebon lowered his head, cheeks burning, and approached the table. A servant pulled out a chair. As he sat and scooted closer to the table, Ebon tried to edge away from where his father sat. But both his parents turned to him, eyes wide, and his father’s lips curled with scorn.

  “You smell like every courtesan on the Seat took a shit on you at once. Sit at the other end of the table before your stench makes me retch.”

  “Shay,” said Hesta gently. Ebon’s father shut his mouth with a sharp click of teeth and turned away.

  Ebon rose hastily to follow the command. He did not sit opposite his father—that would no doubt be seen as a great slight, trying to claim the other end of the table. Instead he took the chair just to the left. A servant ran to put a plate of food before him, with seared pork and some strange vegetables he did not recognize. Ebon ignored the vegetables and tore into the meat, his stomach growling loudly. Almost from the moment the greasy meat touched his lips, he could feel his headache subsiding, and he sighed gratefully.

  He glanced up towards the other end of the table, where his father was now complaining ab
out some perceived slight he had suffered at the High King’s palace. But Hesta very nearly ignored him, and instead looked at Ebon curiously. As her eyes played across his face, her brows raised slightly. Ebon ducked his gaze to focus on the meal.

  Did she know? Could she see it somehow, or sense it in him? He dismissed the thought as ridiculous. Yet from the corner of his eye he could still see her studying him, only turning away to give his father cursory nods and sympathetic sounds at the most appropriate times. But then Shay’s complaints grew in volume and energy, and Hesta finally turned to give him her full attention. Ebon vented a long sigh of relief.

  His anxiety at his mother’s lingering look turned his thoughts back to Adara. When he thought of the night before, he flushed. He could still see the light hazel of her eyes, feel her nails scraping his skin. He could almost sense the way she had—

  Ebon had to shift in his seat. He found his attention dragged back to the conversation with his father as Shay raised his voice.

  “The audacity she has, to keep us waiting for four days now, without deigning to grant us so much as a firm appointment.”

  “She is the High King, and we must serve at her pleasure,” said Hesta, but her tone spoke only of full agreement with her husband.

  “She is an arrogant sow.”

  Ebon’s gaze jerked up at that, and even the servants standing at the edges of the room tensed. Shay ignored them all, while Hesta patted his hand reassuringly. He tore into his meal again, as though he had run out of fuel for the bitter fire that burned in his gut. The peace lasted only a moment, and then he slammed his cup on the table. “Wine!”

  A servant scurried to obey. Ebon shook his head—slightly, so that his father could not see—and let his mind wander. His gaze fell upon the room’s eastern wall, which was comprised entirely of glass doors that were now open. Through them he looked out across the Great Bay and its far reaches that vanished beyond the horizon. He had sailed those waters to get here, and would sail them again to return. It would be any day now, he imagined, unless his father extended the trip until they could meet with the High King.

  Ebon would return to Idris, never having set foot inside the Academy. One day even the Seat would fade to a distant memory, until he could scarcely remember the manor where he now sat. Once again he found himself wondering why they had brought him in the first place.

  Was the suspicion of his innermost heart right? Was this all some cruel new torture by his father? To dangle the Seat before Ebon, only to rip him away just as he began to love it? Then, for years to come, he could torment Ebon with the memory. Do as you are told, boy, if you ever wish to return to the Seat, he might say. Speaking to a royal, were you? I had thought to take you to the Seat with me the next time I went, but you seem determined to prove yourself unworthy of that honor. No doubt his father could come up with a thousand ways to phrase the same threat.

  And though Ebon knew it was foolish, the most painful thought of all was that he might never again see the blue door. Or that if he did, in some far future year, he would not find a pair of hazel eyes behind it, waiting for him.

  His mind was drawn back to the present as the hall’s door clicked and swung open. Ebon looked curiously over his shoulder—and then he shoved back his chair, leaping to his feet with a cry of surprise. His aunt Halab strode through the doors, long golden dress sweeping behind her across the floor. Her hair, intricately braided and wrapped about her head like a crown, bobbed with each step, and she took them all in with sharp, dark eyes. Ebon’s parents rose quickly in respect.

  “Sister,” grumbled Shay, stepping away from the table.

  Halab went to him, and he kissed her cheeks before bending for her to kiss his forehead. Hesta came forwards more eagerly and wrapped Halab in a warm embrace.

  “Sister,” said Halab. Then she released Hesta and came straight to Ebon. He straightened with a smile as Halab stopped less than a pace away. “And look at you, darling nephew. You are a man now, and no mistake.”

  For a moment he quailed, for in his mind the words held another meaning. But he shook the thought away quickly—Halab had not seen him in more than half a year, and he had grown taller since then. He stepped forwards to kiss her cheeks, but she pulled him into a hug instead.

  “None of that formality. My heart sings to see you.”

  “And you, Aunt.” Then, just for courtesy’s sake, he kissed her cheeks all the same.

  “You are never lacking in charm. May I join you all for your meal?”

  “Of course,” said Shay brusquely. Quickly he went to scoop up his plate and move it to the next seat, and Halab sat at the head of the table. Ebon returned to his seat at the other end, but Halab stopped him with a sharp word.

  “Nephew. What are you doing all the long way down there? Surely you were not banished for anything so trivial as the perfume you doused yourself in?”

  Ebon froze, unsure of how to answer. He knew better than to speak ill of his father, especially with the man right there to hear it. But Shay spoke first, saving him from the dilemma. “He stinks worse than the palace.”

  “Yet family is family,” said Halab. “Come, sit beside your mother, so that you may be as far from your father’s delicate nose as may be.”

  Still uncertain, Ebon went to do as she asked, keeping a careful eye on his father. But Shay said nothing to gainsay his sister, though Ebon noticed his knuckles whitened where they gripped his silverware.

  Meanwhile, a servant ran to fetch a new plate of food for Halab. The man’s hands shook when he set the plate before her, and Ebon scoffed. The servants were too used to serving his father, and seemed not to know of his aunt’s more genial nature.

  Halab spoke around a tiny morsel of food. “How did you fare at the palace this morning?”

  “The same as always,” growled Shay. “She keeps us waiting in her halls, and will not even give us a time to return when we might actually speak with her. They claim it is because of the brewing trouble between Selvan and Dorsea, but I think that is an excuse. She thinks herself too high and mighty for us.”

  “She is the High King,” said Halab, shrugging. One of her thin braids came loose and swung down towards her ear, and she lifted it carefully back into place. “We serve at her pleasure.”

  Shay snorted loudly. But Ebon noticed that he did not again slur the High King as he had done before.

  “In any case, I had already heard something of your troubles,” Halab went on. “I spoke with a friend at the palace—a very highly placed friend indeed. He has secured an audience on your behalf. Visit the palace at midday tomorrow, and you will find the doors of the throne room are open to you.”

  “Do you see, my love?” said Hesta. She smiled gratefully at Halab. “I told you that this would work out.”

  Shay kept his eyes firmly fixed on his plate. “Thank you for your help, Sister. That is most kind of you.”

  “Think nothing of it. I am confident the High King will speak on our behalf and secure our new trade route through Dorsea. Their border squabble is nothing of import, and certainly not to us.”

  His father’s hands clenched harder. “Certainly.”

  Ebon smiled inwardly, but was careful to keep his expression impassive. He did not like to think what his father would do if he was seen snickering. But then Halab turned to Ebon, and he straightened somewhat in his chair.

  “And what of you, Nephew? How have you enjoyed your time upon the Seat? I hope you have been able to experience all of the island’s … oh, what word am I searching for … pleasures?”

  Ebon blanched, but again he kept his mask of tranquility. “I have—that is, I have spent most of my time here, at the manor. But I have walked the streets once or twice, and found them to my liking. It is a grand city, to be sure.” He knew he must not even hint that Shay had largely kept him confined to the manor.

  Halab’s brows drew close. “You have not wandered much? I thought you would eagerly poke your nose into every corner of the city. S
urely you have visited the Academy?”

  Ebon tried not to gulp, though his throat had gone dry. “No, I have not. It holds little interest for me.” Those words nearly stuck in his throat, yet somehow he managed to make them sound earnest.

  Halab glanced at Shay, but his eyes were fixed on his food. “That is unacceptable,” she said lightly. “You must venture out upon the Seat. You are a Drayden, after all, and should know as much as you can of this place of power. I suppose I could show you one or two of my own favorite haunts …” She seemed to think for a moment, and then snapped her fingers at an idea. “I know. I will take you on a tour of the Academy myself.”

  The world stopped for a moment. Ebon could not move. His head, already aching, became light, and he thought he heard a high, thin whine at the edge of his awareness.

  “Yes, that will do nicely,” said Halab, and now it was as though she was talking to herself. “The dean is Cyrus, my cousin—and your cousin, too, Ebon, though more distant. Surely he would be only too happy to show his school to us. You may think it holds little interest for you, but I know you will love it. There you can find wizards of all four branches practicing their spells. Oh, flame and wind and weremagic and—yes, and alchemy. It is a sight to behold.”

  Ebon could not speak; he could barely breathe. He looked fearfully at Shay. Surely his father would not allow this. But his father still stared down at his hands. When the silence in the room stretched a moment too long, his gaze snapped up to Ebon, and he growled through his dark beard.

  “Your aunt has asked you a question. Answer her.”

  Still Ebon could not force any words to come. In his heart he wanted nothing more than to go. But then he thought ahead. In a matter of days he would be leaving the High King’s Seat, likely forever. Already he knew he would miss it, and would waste away days in Idris thinking of its clean streets and the high, pristine spires of its buildings. That pain would only magnify if he saw the Academy itself, for that was where his heart truly lay.

  But then he thought further still. In Idris, his sister Albi would be waiting for him—Albi, in whom he had confided all his deepest wishes about his magic. He had spoken of it for so long, and in such warm terms, that she herself had come to dream of seeing it. If he went, he could return and tell her all about it. If he did not, Albi would not only be disappointed for herself. She would berate Ebon for years, telling him how he should have gone with Halab.