by Andy Adams
Brenner had never seen someone smile so hard at him, or for that matter, be so proud of him. Although extremely stiff, sore, and exhausted, Brenner grinned back at his great-uncle—grinned wide and long.
Chapter Eleven
Valoria
“Brenner,” the old deputy said, “you are now welcome to join the spellcasters of Valoria.” He pulled a forked wood mircon from his tunic and directed a spell toward Brenner’s hand and upper body. Immediately the gash on his palm and fingers closed. As though manners suddenly occurred to the official, he nodded and added, “You may call me Caster Greaves.”
“Thank you,” Brenner said, still feeling fatigued, but no longer in pain.
Greaves led Brenner and Windelm up from the lit stone room to a spiral staircase, up and up hewn rock steps, and then they emerged onto a sunny concourse.
“How did I score?” Brenner asked, no longer able to hold back his curiosity.
“No one here expected you to survive,” said Greaves tartly, “but since you did, and finished the Agilis, you earned admission to the academy.”
“Knew you would!” Windelm said, clapping him on the back as they walked across a corridor filled with plants and paintings.
“Every glowbe on the Agilis course required quick thinking and bravery,” said Greaves. “Of the few applicants that I’ve seen finish the course, most scraped through with only their lives. Sometimes they’d hit a single glowbe. A long way back someone snagged two orbs. You,” Greaves said, turning to look at Brenner, “got five.” He raised an eyebrow, studying Brenner as though there was a second head growing out of his shoulder.
Hoping to break the odd disquiet in the air Brenner asked, “…And that’s good, right?”
“I’ll put it this way: many students here still can’t get three glowbes."
Greaves walked over to an arched window and showed them groups of teenagers training across a courtyard several stories below. In the golden rays of evening, Brenner could see one group of youngsters leaping across tops of what looked like telephone poles, and another group of older teens shooting spells at targets in the distance. Brenner watched as one wooden target swelled to the size of a buffalo and then exploded loudly. Scanning the rest of the courtyard, Brenner noticed a mixture of young adults sitting quietly, focusing their mircons on levitating rocks, wood stumps, and writhing plants.
“Valoria is structured on teaching and rewarding young spellcasters for mental, physical, and magical achievement,” Greaves said. “Here, performance determines your level, not age. There are twelve levels of rank at the academy. All students, unless they show considerable proficiency, start their training on level one, and some won’t even make it past that. Very few reach level twelve. You completed the Agilis course in fairly quick order, and captured glowbes under some of the most difficult scenarios, demonstrating considerable mastery of your amulet, and also good reasoning and risk analysis.”
He took them to another door, opening to reveal a large chamber room with an oak table, around which were black cushioned, winged armchairs. The three sat down. Greaves pulled out a piece of parchment and shot a spell at a feathered instrument, which flew to life and immediately began scrawling neat words across the paper.
“Brenner,” he said. “I am awarding you placement at Valoria on level four.”
A shiver of excitement rippled through Brenner, causing him to sit up straighter in his chair.
A broad smile stretched over Windelm’s face. “That means he gets access to a mircon, right?”
“That’s correct, Windelm,” Greaves said with a nod.
Images popped into Brenner’s mind of shooting spells and flying—unassisted—above the forest. This is going to be even better than getting my driver’s license…
Windelm nudged Brenner out of his daydream, “I didn’t get rights to mine till after a year of training. That’s a very good start.”
Greaves continued on: “The academy will supply trainer-mircons for him to practice with over the next several weeks, but he will be responsible for securing one for himself.”
“Of course,” said Windelm.
“He already has an amulet,” Greaves said, nodding at the quill which made a small checkmark on his paper, “We will supply his outer green tunic. I trust you brought a few additional clothes?”
Windelm procured Brenner’s satchel, a leather pouch no bigger than a sketchpad, and opened it enough so that Greaves and he could see. Inside was magically enlarged to hold multiple outfits, black pants, socks, toothbrush and paste, his knife, compass, journal, pens, the potion vials Sherry had given him, and what appeared to be croissants wrapped in a red kerchief.
“Good,” said Greaves. “In that event, Brenner, you may join the rest of the apprentices for supper this evening, and your spellcaster training begins tomorrow morning after breakfast.”
Brenner’s initial excitement about new spells was now waning as he thought about being around new students. His stomach grumbled, and not just because he was hungry.
Greaves slid the parchment from his side of the table to theirs; the feathered pen finished drawing twin lines at the bottom of the contract, then floated like an obedient pet toward Windelm, waiting for him to take it.
“Any questions?” Greaves asked them as Windelm scrawled a signature.
“Where will I stay?” said Brenner.
“Here of course,” said Greaves. “Each level has boy and girl assigned dormitories, where you will live for the first month of training. After that, you are permitted weekend visits home, until you advance to the next level.”
“How many years will I be here?”
“That varies for each individual,” said Greaves. “You may choose to quit at any time, but that will be the end of your training, and you may not return,” he said solemnly. “As students are called to different professions, they may complete training at different ages, or take a gap year. All are allowed to learn at the academy until the Ganthrean Games of their 18th year.”
“When and what are those, exactly?”
Greaves gave him a quizzical look, as if Brenner had said something terribly stupid. Windelm jumped in.
“Forgive him,” he said hastily, “Brenner’s family is from the farming outskirts of Silvalo, and every day’s spent on agriculture. Not a lot of time for travel, you know.”
Greaves seemed mildly convinced. “The Games rotate host biomes each year,” he said, “but traditionally are held around the peak of summer.”
Brenner did the math and realized he had, at most, a little over two years in Valoria.
“Anything else?” Greaves said.
He wanted to ask about a typical day, but was interrupted by something knocking against his hand. He looked down and saw the magical pen hovering in front of him, impatiently bumping his wrist. Obligingly, he took it and started signing the document of admission.
“You still run regular Zabrani and Contendir matches, right?” said Windelm.
“Yes,” said Greaves, “and have added several variants since you last played as a knight, what, forty years ago?”
“Closer to sixty,” said Windelm. “But who’s counting?”
“How fast the years fly,” Greaves said, looking wistful for a moment. He saw Brenner finished signing, collected the paper, then added, “But new talent keeps the games fresh.” He stood up. “Time to check you in then.”
Windelm followed suit, and as Brenner got to his feet, he felt a tingle of apprehension as he realized, this is it. Windelm is going back to Vale Adorna, and I’m staying here. Alone.
Greaves walked to the door, then looked back and said to Windelm, “If you’d like a short word with Brenner before you leave, that’s fine.” He excused himself, shutting the door.
“Brenner—level four, that is remarkable,” Windelm began, clapping him on the back again. “You’re going to love it here. The spells, the games, the sages, the friends.”
“Yeah,” said Brenner, before adding a little r
eservedly, “I hope so.”
Windelm must’ve sensed Brenner’s bittersweet emotions, for he put an arm around his shoulder. “You feeling alright?” he asked. “I know you just went through one heck of a challenge.”
“I’m okay,” said Brenner, feigning a smile, “It’s just…” He couldn’t bring himself to explain his sadness at Windelm’s departure, the loss of his one sure link to this new place…he didn’t want to come across as clingy, or worse, afraid.
“Remember,” said Windelm leaning in, “After a month, Sherry and I are only a short flight away.” He straightened up and smiled. “And besides, you’ll enjoy the independence—you didn’t want to hang out at our place forever, did you? Here you’ll be meeting all sorts of friends and interesting spellcasters your age, I promise!”
That’s what I’m afraid of, Brenner thought, looking into Windelm’s hopeful eyes.
“Don’t worry. The sages here will teach you everything you’ll need to know, and you’ll be flying through the courses in no time. Literally.”
“That…sounds good,” Brenner said, then thought, I can always keep to myself and focus on studying. I’m good at that. A gentle rap on the chamber door told them their time was up. Brenner slung his bag over his shoulder and they joined Greaves, who ushered them down another stone corridor.
“Windelm,” said Greaves, “I will need to show Brenner to his new quarters. I trust you can find your way back to the academy entrance?”
“Indeed, I can.”
They soon came to a fork in the passage, and Greaves held his hand toward the right causeway for Brenner to continue down.
“You’ve got good instincts, Brenner,” Windelm said, turning down the hall, “Make me proud!” He broke from the group and was almost around the corner when Brenner said, “Wait!”
Windelm turned and paused.
Something inside of Brenner wavered, like a willow bending in a rainstorm, then became resolute. “Thank you,” said Brenner, jogging toward him, and reaching out his hand. “For everything.”
“You are always welcome,” Windelm said, clasping Brenner’s hand and in one quick motion pulling him in and thumping him on the back. Releasing Brenner, he said, “Have some fun now. See you soon.” And then his green cape swirled behind him and he strode off down the tunnel.
“This way,” Greaves said.
Brenner followed, hands tucked in his pockets. Their footsteps clicked lightly against the stone floors; Brenner observed how the passageway narrowed and then widened into a grand hall, where Greaves selected yet another tunnel to trek through amid dozens.
After following the passage for ten minutes, Brenner heard the sounds of teenagers laughing and talking, and then a pleasant aroma of roasted meat and baked bread wafted into them. Greaves led him out of the tunnel and into a large, domed expanse.
“The Banquet Hall,” Greaves said as they walked into the cavernous space. The number of students before him made his hands sweaty and his shoulders tense. Seated at about thirty big tables, hundreds of young spellcasters dressed in different clusters of green chattered loudly as they ate the evening’s feast. On the walls, Brenner saw high windows and exquisite tapestries that depicted what must have been historical battles and contests, where wizards of brilliant green tunics shot spells at invading armies. In each of the four corners of the Banquet Hall stood massive tree pillars, their mighty trunks stretching up to the ceiling and then disappearing beyond.
Twenty feet away, Brenner spotted something white floating above a full table—a big wad of cotton, maybe? He looked closer, then realized it was a blob of mashed potatoes, hovering and circling above a group of youngsters. A passing teacher shot a spell at it, breaking the floating charm and sending the clump down with a squishy plop onto its owner’s plate, spattering his face with white flecks.
“Brenner, help yourself to the evening meal,” Greaves said, motioning to a far side of the Banquet Hall where a buffet was laid out, “and then please speak with Sorian.”
He then turned from Brenner and nearly knocked him over when he called in an amplified voice, “SORIAN SELTICK!”
The chorus of happy conversations dwindled for a moment as everyone turned their heads to view Greaves and the new boy standing awkwardly by him. Brenner shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.
“Go along then, Brenner,” Greaves insisted.
As he lurched forward and began to shuffle past them all, Brenner felt like he was in gym class again: hundreds of pairs of eyes scrutinized him, watching his form, likely judging if he was someone to take note of, ignore, or bully. Brenner did his best to keep his attention forward and act as though he didn’t care one way or the other.
Gradually, the conversations resumed. As Brenner headed toward the other side of the Banquet Hall, he noticed a dark haired, teenage boy walking toward him. The tall teen looked about his age, and strode towards Greaves with a hard look on his face. As they passed each other, the boy’s narrow eyes shot towards Brenner, daring Brenner to meet them.
A real gem, I’m sure. Here’s someone I don’t need to see again.
Brenner approached the counter, and saw a stack of finely carved wooden plates. The food next to them, he was glad to see, looked delicious. He helped himself to sweet potatoes and a savory meat stir-fry, then turned, looked at the sea of tables, trying to decide where he was supposed to go. As he stood at the end of the buffet, a girl in bright chartreuse green robes came over to pick up a dessert. She selected a slice of lemon meringue pie, and was about to leave, when she noticed Brenner standing awkwardly with his plate.
“What group are you in?” she asked. When Brenner didn’t immediately respond, she added, “Are you a level one apprentice?”
“Uh…no,” Brenner had to think a moment, “I’m in level four.”
“Four?” she said curiously, brushing her brown hair behind her ear. “Oh. You’re at those tables over there then.” She pointed to the other side of the hall, then headed back to her own table in the middle of the hall.
Brenner advanced to a long rectangular bench that must have held around forty boys and girls, all of whom wore matching robes of apple green. Most of them looked younger, he guessed around thirteen or fourteen. A few stole a glance at him as he approached. Brenner slipped into an open spot at the end of the bench, hoping to keep to himself. But as he sat, the students around him gave him frosty looks.
At least the food is welcoming, he thought, bringing a piece of roasted meat to his mouth.
“You’re in my spot,” said a salty, irritated voice from behind him, and when Brenner turned, his shoulders drooped. It was the same boy who had just stalked past him. “Get up.”
Oh great…this must be Sorian. Dark-hair slicked back, broad-shouldered and taller than most, Sorian looked like the type of bully who enjoyed throwing his weight around.
Slowly, Brenner got to his feet.
“Tell me your name,” Sorian commanded.
“Brenner Wahlridge,” he said.
“Okay, Brenner,” Sorian snapped, putting his hands on his hips, “I’m Sorian Seltick, and as you’re now in my squad of level four conjurers, let’s get a few golden rules down. First is simple: do as I say, when I say. Got it?”
Brenner decided to play it safe and acquiesce. He nodded.
“Answer when I speak to you.”
Brenner exhaled. Had he really worked his tail off just to find himself in another school like his last? He spoke slowly, “I understand.”
“How old are you?” Sorian’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m sixteen.”
“Sixteen?” Sorian scoffed. “Must be poor then, aren’t you? Family finally scraped together enough coppers to send you here?”
Not expecting the insult, Brenner said nothing, but clenched his fingers and felt his neck grow hot. This was not at all the warm welcome that Windelm had promised.
“That’s what I thought,” Sorian said. “I’m this squad’s captain, and my co-captain”—he pointe
d to an athletic, auburn haired girl who sat across the table—“is Kendra Valencourt.”
Kendra met his gaze and nodded the tiniest bit.
“To have a chance at leveling up, and who knows, someday earning more than a fruit vendor,” Sorian said to the amusement of the table, “you better follow our directions, and know your place in the squad.” He jabbed a finger at Brenner. “Understood?”
Brenner didn’t know what came over him, but said, “If your directions are better than your introductions, I understand completely.”
Like an alpha wolf, Sorian leaned toward Brenner. His next words were quiet and icy: “Try that again, and I’ll have to break-in that face of yours.”
Brenner weighed his options: he felt like calling Sorian’s bluff, since he doubted the captain would throw a punch in front of the whole academy; then again, he’d likely be better off not fighting his squad’s captain when he didn’t know how long he’d be stuck under him.
