by Andy Adams
Brenner could only smile, glad his angle shots had worked. “Hey, you racked up some nice stuns for yourself,” he said, spotting Gemry’s name with six points.
“Yeah, not my highest, but I healed our teammates over twenty times. And didn’t get stunned myself.”
“I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Likewise. Come on,” Gemry said, leading him away from the tumultuous crowd. “Let’s clean up and have some fun.”
After the team changed at the stadium, they flew back to Valoria for a delicious dinner. Maverick held his glass up for a toast to the team, offering a few ideas of strategy for their next game, but mostly celebrating their win, as the academy hadn’t advanced to the final round of Zabrani in years, and never, from the spirited shouts around Brenner, had a rookie knight led the team in points.
Back in the heart of Silvalo, on a balcony overlooking the central fountains, two men held their own discussion of strategy.
“You’ve got that idiotic smile on your face again, Fensk. There’d better be some good reasons to back it up.”
“Between Ignatius and me, we’re up to twenty-six recruits.”
“Not bad. But I need more. How many are active players of the games?”
“Well…that’s much harder,” Fensk said, looking away, “They’ve got all kinds of post-game offers—”
“I asked how many.”
“Alright, alright…three.”
Fensk started to duck, but wasn’t fast enough to block a blow.
“I expect better. I’ll give you until Monday to prove your worth.”
Fensk rubbed his jaw. “Thank you, Dalphon.”
“Do they know they are to be troop leaders?”
“One of them wanted the privilege…the others will need to be washed.”
“While you have been taking your time with recruitment of foot soldiers, I have seen to the…enticement…of some of Silvalo’s more wealthy plantation owners, and a sage, which will afford Shivark scores of other conscripts in a few days’ time. Do you have Rancor’s chambers marked with our men?”
“Yes. The elimination will go through as planned.”
“It better. You know what’s in store for us if we botch the most important mission Shivark’s entrusted to his vanguards.” Dalphon watched the courtyard below, and tilted his head in interest. “There’s one of the owners now.” He hovered off the balcony, and then turned back to Fensk. His voice turned icy, “If everything goes to plan except the one part that is under your watch—I will personally see you collared and in the front lines when these Games are over, and the war begins.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Fog Before
the Finals
A light rain misted against the walls of Valoria on Friday, the fifth morning of the Games, and Brenner was doubly glad to have a day of rest between events. He would avoid playing in a thick fog that had crept through the city on padded tiger paws, and also, he needed a long, proper soaking after Zabrani. With each step down to the Banquet Hall for breakfast his body sternly reminded him that ground collisions—even controlled ones—from seventy feet high would not come without retaliatory aches and pains: his sides felt as though hornets had stung them from the Arcyndo hits; his chest and legs had nasty, purple bruises; and his neck was stiff with whiplash.
Brenner filled his tray with colorful fruits, cinnamon oatmeal, and hot, sliced ham, then more hobbled than walked to join Finnegan at a middle table. The Banquet Hall was about half-full, and spellcasters of different ranks swiveled their heads to look at him; by the time he sat down with Finnegan, several boys had congratulated him on yesterday’s plays, while the girls that did meet his eyes blushed and looked away, giggling.
Do they do that for all the players?” Brenner asked, sitting down.
Finnegan finished his bite of French-toast before replying, “Stare unabashedly? No. They used to look at you funny because you were new; now they look at you funny because no one’s heard of a rookie level six conjurer advancing to the final games in two events. In their eyes that makes you…well…a freak.”
“A freak?” Brenner repeated. He chewed a bite of oatmeal. For most of his life, he’d been ridiculed as a geek. Now he performed well, but was oddly treated the same. Whatever the society, he thought, it seems people always judge those who are different. He swallowed. “At least freaks get some respect.”
“I guess you can call it that,” said Finnegan, looking away. “You don’t have some sort of third eye on the back of your head, do you? I don’t eat with mutants.”
“Not you, too,” Brenner said, giving him a light shove. “Hey, seen Gemry yet?”
“Can’t say I’ve been wandering through the upper girls’ dormitory at this hour. Don’t get me wrong, that sounds like a grand time, but I’d probably be stunned within a few steps past the threshold—first by their beauty, which wouldn’t hurt, but then by their freezing spells, which definitely would.”
At this, Maureen, Evie, and a few other girls on the other end of the table huffed, rolling their eyes at Finnegan. But they smiled at Brenner. Finnegan tried to mask his annoyance.
“All this time your Dad has been busy making singefire-ale,” said Brenner, “when he should be constructing a stage at Hutch & Sons for your performances.”
“For me?” said Finnegan. “We should put you up there, charge a bunch of silver shekels, and let people gawk and clamor for your autograph. More if they want a portrait painted with you. ‘See the amazing freak boy!’”
“Uh-huh,” said Brenner, a little hurt, and detecting more than a hint of jealousy, “Well…I’ve felt like a zoo animal more than once around here.”
Finnegan shrugged. Then he ate his food in silence.
Brenner felt a bit peeved: was he just supposed to lose so that other people felt better? He took a deep breath, forcing himself to think about the whole situation. In doing so, he remembered how frustrating it was to watch students back at Clemson make more progress with athletics and friends, much faster than himself. He didn’t want this rift to break their friendship.
“You know,” Brenner said, “If you’re free today, do you mind if I hang out with you? For target practice or board games?”
Finnegan gave him a look. “You’d deign to come down to my level?”
Brenner nodded. “All the others have a ‘No Freaks’ policy.”
Finnegan sighed. “Well if I’m all you’ve got then…I suppose you can tag along. But no growing extra arms around me.”
“I’ll try, but I can’t promise. Thanks, Finneg—”
“Strange you think so highly of your weird-self, Rookie,” a mocking voice interrupted from behind Brenner. “Considering you used to have food thrown at you in your old school.”
Brenner grew cold. Camira had told others his memory…
He turned around to see Sorian Seltick, arms crossed, standing smugly next to Travarius and a couple bigger magicians. “I’m not sure why the sages selected you to be on the Zabrani team,” Sorian continued, “when scores of better spellcasters should have been ahead of you.” The older teens on either side of Sorian glared at Brenner, bristling in agreement.
“Then you must be as blind as you are stupid—” Finnegan cut in, “because yesterday everyone else saw his double glowbe captures.”
“Shut your poor mouth, Hutch,” Sorian said snidely.
“In case your tiny brain’s forgotten, Salty-tick,” said Finnegan, “I’ve been promoted out of your squad, and no longer am required to tolerate your insults.”
Sorian ignored this, flicking his eyes away from Finnegan and back to Brenner; Brenner could tell Sorian wanted to get a reaction from him. “I don’t care what you think, flea,” growled Sorian. “I just came to warn Wahlridge.”
“Oh yeah?” said Brenner. “About what?”
“My cousin, Jarik, plays striking knight for Boldenskeep,” said Sorian, enjoying the attention of more and more spellcasters, “His shot is legendary, which means yo
u won’t stand a chance on Sunday’s Zabrani game.” He pointed a finger at Brenner as though it had the power to shrink him, and sneered, “And when you are forgotten after your loss at the games—” he turned and gestured to his group, “—we will be paid handsomely to travel with merchant cartels.” The boys next to him grinned.
“And then,” said Brenner, “once you’re done botching that job with the merchants—like you did as a captain here—you can slink back to Valoria, maybe with enough courage to fight battles by yourself, instead of trolling everywhere with your back-up’s. But I doubt it.”
Sorian’s eyes practically crackled with hatred. “Wahlridge, I might have to accidentally bump into you after the Games…”
“Just like you accidentally shoot spells at your own players? Don’t worry, I’ll be ready for nasty punks like you.”
Sorian muttered something, and the teens at his side drew closer; Finnegan stood; Sorian reached for his mircon, but Brenner had already drawn his own and activated a Repello spell, sending Sorian sprawling backwards through his group.
“What’s going on there?!” an adult demanded, and Brenner turned to see Sage Vicksman hustling past tables, descending upon the two groups.
“Rookie here thinks he can shoot spells at anybody he likes,” said Sorian, pulling himself from the ground and dusting off his robes.
“Just at bullies who need it,” said Brenner, watching Sorian.
“Brenner,” Vicksman admonished, “we do not permit spells as weapons against spellcasters in the academy. Change your conduct, or you will be pulled from the roster.” Sorian gloated at him behind the sage’s shoulder, but thankfully his win was short-lived. “Sorian,” Vicksman turned to the teen, “Don’t interfere with Zabrani players during the Games. All of Valoria is honor-bound to support our players, and I will not have one of our best knights harassed by another of our own spellcasters, especially so close to the Finals. Be off.”
Sorian scrunched his nose at him, then turned and sulked out the side archway, his allies plodding behind him.
Vicksman watched him go, then said, “Don’t do anything else foolish, Brenner. Save your energies for the Games.” He walked to the sages’ table at the other side of the hall.
Brenner looked at Finnegan. “Thanks for having my back.”
“Of course. You gotta stand up to the real freaks. Come on.”
Brenner and Finnegan spent the rest of the morning at target practice, wondering what obstacles would be in the next Agilis match: wolves? Nightshades? Serpents? Finally, Brenner’s muscles reached their limit.
“I need to hit the stone baths,” he told Finnegan.
“Smart move,” said Finnegan. “See you at evening meal.”
He wound his way through the corridors, where several students asked his opinion on the final Zabrani game—“Are you scared of Sorian’s cousin?” “Think you can beat your glowbe record?” “Can you sign my notebook?”—he escaped the conversation only by telling them he felt light-headed and needed a rest, then he quickly followed a passageway lower into Valoria, feeling the warm, humid air rushing up to him. He used his mircon to fend off a couple of tendrilsnake plants that hung above the entrance to the boys’ stone baths, blocking anyone who couldn’t perform a solid Repello spell.
Minutes later Brenner was alone, soaking in warm, bubbling waters, with shafts of muted light piercing the otherwise dark space. Ahhh… he thought, that’s better. Effervescent plants by the upper windows emitted citrus scents, while large roots from trees on the sides of the baths gave off pleasant smells like ginseng.
Brenner floated quietly, but inside, his mind was loud with emotions: bright excitement, because he was only two games away from prize winnings; curiosity, because a new elixir color might unlock new spells; muffled anxiety, because he would be competing against three Agilis players that had smoked him in the previous game, and he’d be playing against even harder obstacles, and…whom else besides Sorian had Camira told of his memories? Finally, there was gray uncertainty, because he still wasn’t sure what he should do once the games finished, and Valoria dismissed for summer.
Windelm had made the offer to join his scouting expedition…but it would mean months apart from Gemry, and the low pay would take longer before he could pay off the mircon. On the other hand, if he took Dalphon up on his lucrative offer for a couple of months, he could pay off the entire mircon and very likely have leftover money to help Gemry.
That reminded him, where was she? There’d been no sign of her all day…she’s probably stuck working during the busy influx of travelers. He would have loved to hear her thoughts on all this. If they won, what was most important: promotion after the games, golders, or elixir?
What would she do after the games, anyway?
He hoped she could use her winnings on her tuition, but remembered what she said about family getting first rights to prizes for spellcasters under eighteen.
For several hours, Brenner floated in swirls of thoughts and hot water. When he toweled off, changed, and went to evening supper, Gemry still wasn’t around. He hoped she was okay. He turned in to bed early that night, hoping his emotions would settle by morning.
If it was up to Gemry, she would’ve stayed at the academy on Friday, practicing her flight rolls and her Arcyndo shots, hanging out with Brenner, and taking an afternoon off to recharge before the Zabrani finals.
But it wasn’t.
Her parents knew she had a gap in her games, and like the vast majority of her free time, they required her to work at the Gespelti Warehouse, and without pay. At least they would let her watch the finals of Agilis tomorrow, but only because nearly every customer would be, too. That morning Gemry tidied shelves as her father, Radmond, argued with a posh
woman with emerald studded hair-braids.
“Eleven golders for this security door?” the woman asked. “Can’t you do better?”
Radmond grimaced. “This enchanted door only opens under the weight of an adult dragon, or your key—it’s worth every golder!”
“Ten?” she asked.
Radmond looked affronted. “Surely you can afford this luxury. The price is eleven.”
Wrong move, thought Gemry. Instead of budging on price and making a sale, Radmond made the woman throw her hands up and tromp out of the store. Another customer left after her, despite Gemry’s mother’s attempt to give him a free quill.
Radmond was more angry than usual since Gemry lost her Contendir match—and any hopes of that prize money. At least her team was still in the running for Zabrani. It certainly didn’t help that she’d overheard that her parents were behind on lease payments, and they bickered often about her mother’s spending habits. From what Gemry could tell, Radmond had not saved enough profit from last year, and worse, had a stockpile of Gelemensus glassware: more than he could hope to sell.
For the first part of the day Gemry tied her hair back and went to work: prying lids off wooden crates (she stopped counting after fifty), coughing as the dust scattered into the air, wiping a rag and oil over dark blue goblets, plates, misshapen bowls, and spiral pieces she guessed were art. Her instructions were to buff them ‘till they shone and set them in the shop windows, in the hopes that customers would be attracted to their faint shimmer and supposed mind-clearing properties.
But for as much as Gemry handled the glass that day, it didn’t improve her thinking or clear her vision of the future.
Just another gimmick my father fell for, and now trying to pawn off onto others…
“Gemry!” her mother, Iris, called from the front of the store.
What now? Gemry thought, walking past shelves of mismatched merchandise. “Yes?”
“We’re not getting enough customers,” Iris said. “Carry this to the crowds, and do whatever it takes to get people in.” She handed Gemry a huge sign that boasted of rare goods, great deals and magical talismans.
“Okay, but mother can we talk about—”
“Go now. Talk later,” Iris
said, pushing her toward the door.
A couple streets over were the food vendors, so Gemry set her sign up on a corner. She used her mircon to levitate glass and produce yellow-green sparks, all the while half-heartedly calling to the spectators, “Gespelti’s Warehouse—you want it, we got it.”
A couple of red-robed Montadaux magicians glanced her way, but the majority shuffled past like she wasn’t there. She felt like an ugly clown. I wish I was done with this second-rate business, she thought. And actually could use my talents. But it’s two years before I finish Valoria and get to do what I want…
When she returned to the shop hours later, her father was storming around the front of the store.
“Can you believe he offered me only seventeen silvers for that glass?!” Radmond fumed. “I bought it for twice that!”
Gemry thought about chiding him for making the deal in the first place, why would people want to lug fragile dishes back to their biomes? But she had something on her mind.
