“Run away from Kyn?” Brom asked incredulously.
“If you stay, he’ll find you. The Collector—”
That deep gong Brom had heard earlier sounded again, far away. Behind the walls of the tavern, past the horizon, all the way to the sea.
Cy’kett stood up so suddenly it was as though he’d been stuck in the butt with a knife. The table tipped. The mug, the shot glasses, the bottle of whiskey, everything fell to the floor, and the whiskey bottle shattered.
Everyone in the tavern turned to stare. From the bar, Bala raised her head, a worried look on her face.
Cy’kett clenched his teeth. He was even more stooped than before, suddenly seeming ancient. His legs trembled, and his arms shook.
Brom leapt to the old man’s side. “Let me help you upstairs—”
Before he could even touch the man, terror hit Brom like an icy wind. He gasped and Cy’kett’s bony hand caught him by the tunic, hauled him close.
“Listen,” Cy’kett snarled. His breath was a whiskey fume. “I’m trying to do right by you. Gods damn me, I’m trying to do right for the first time in my life. Flee. Run as fast as your young legs can carry you. Take that miller’s girl if you must, but go. Do it tonight. If you run, it might just be enough. Maybe you’ll run far enough and fast enough that they’ll never find you.” He clenched his teeth, his lavender eyes flicking back and forth, searching Brom’s own.
He seemed to find something there, and then his lip curled. He released Brom, who staggered back and sat down hard on the chair.
“But you won’t, will you?” Cy’kett said.
“I want to be a Quadron like you,” Brom said, his body shivering with fear, his voice quavering.
Cy’kett clenched his teeth and turned away. “Fool,” he said. “Drink your poisoned hope, then. Pay your price. You’ve rung the bell, and The Collector is coming.”
Brom was so scared he could barely form a coherent thought. He desperately wanted to ask Cy’kett why this sudden change of heart. Just a few hours ago he’d seemed jovial at the prospect of Brom going to the academy. But Cy’kett had paralyzed him with fear.
He seemed to have paralyzed everyone else in the tavern, too. That, or they were all too stunned to do anything.
The old man shuffled to the door and paused. He looked like he was considering leaving, and he shook as if from a palsy.
Then he turned slowly and went to the stairs like a man walking to the gallows. One step at a time, he climbed. He seemed so frail, but he made it to the top, then into the hallway that led to his room. Only once he was out of sight did Brom’s fear vanish as though someone had snapped their fingers.
The tavern went as silent as a grave for long minutes, and Brom just sat there, trying to puzzle through the warning Cy’kett had given him.
Finally, Bala arrived, began picking up glasses and the stein. Brom knelt down to help her.
“If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a hundred times,” Bala said philosophically. “You never know who’s going to be a bad drunk. Shame, really. The man was quite charming this afternoon, with all the stories. I was of a mind to ask him to stay a fortnight.”
Brom didn’t say anything. He didn’t tell her about his conversation with Cy’kett, the indecipherable speech and the dire warnings. He hoped she was right. That it was simply the whiskey talking—
The lightning in Brom’s belly struck, and he felt a thump on his chest like there’d been a thunderclap right inside the tavern. He jumped, dropped a glass, and Bala looked at him in alarm.
“What is it, luv?”
Brom looked up at the ceiling.
“His room. Where is his room?”
“Leave him be, luv. He’ll be all right in the morning. Just let him sleep it off.”
“Which room? Tell me which room!”
“All right then.” Bala picked up on his urgency and she bustled to the stairs. He followed her up and she opened the door to Cy’kett’s room.
They found the old man dead in his bed. His hands had curled into claws, elbows bent and forearms pointing toward the ceiling. Bala turned away, hands over her mouth, but Brom stared. He thought he saw a green glow inside Cy’kett’s mouth. He rushed to the bed, but the glow was gone. The old man’s mouth was open and not breathing, but there was no green light.
“Kelto’s mercy,” Bala murmured.
Brom continued to stare at the old man’s wasted body. Without the light in Cy’kett’s lavender eyes, he looked like he’d been dead a hundred years. His body was desiccated, as though his vitality earlier today had been a lie, as though only his powerful will had given this shriveled husk any life at all. And once that will had gone...the truth was stark and horrible.
Brom stayed with Bala while the town undertaker came, wrapped Cy’kett in black and took him away. After, Brom looked through Cy’kett’s rooms for anything that might offer a clue, but it was as though the man hadn’t traveled with any possessions at all. On a whim, Brom went looking for the giant reddish horse Cy’kett had ridden into town.
It was gone.
Spooked, with too many conflicting thoughts to know what to do, Brom went home. He told his parents he’d failed to get into the village guard. Mother offered sympathy, gave him a hug. Father gave Brom a commiserating chuck on the shoulder, doing a fairly good job of hiding his smile.
But Brom didn’t tell them about the Champions Academy, didn’t tell them about Cy’kett. Of course, news of the old man’s death would race through the town tomorrow. But that was tomorrow’s problem. By then, Brom hoped to know what to say.
He never got that chance to craft his believable lie, though.
That night, The Collector came.
CHAPTER FIVE
Brom
Thoom! Thoom! Thoom!
Brom jumped, and lightning crackled in his belly.
“Kelto!” Father sat bolt upright in his chair at the loud knock. He shot a scathing glance at Mother, as though it were somehow her fault. Mother dropped the soup spoon into the pot. She cursed and glared at Father as though it were somehow his fault.
The knock boomed again. The last time someone had knocked on the Builders’ door after sundown was when Corman Green’s wagon had slid into the mud pits and landed on top of his son.
“Who would be coming ‘round now?” Father flung at Mother as he stood up and went to the door.
“By Kelto, how should I know?” she shot back.
Brom’s heart beat so fast he could barely breathe, and fear crept over his scalp like an icy trickle of water. He knew who had to be on the other side of that door. He knew it in the pit of his belly.
He drifted into the archway between the kitchen and the family room, watching as father went to the door, his steps loud and irritated. He flung the door open like he was ready to spit vitriol...then he froze. In the doorway stood a tall, black-robed, black-hooded figure. The only part of him that could be seen beneath that cowl was a pointed black beard and a wide mouth.
Mystery and power wafted off the man like a fog, and the lightning in Brom’s belly crackled like crazy.
“Yes?” Father finally managed to blurt, and now he sounded like a guilty child.
The cowled stranger murmured something too low for Brom to hear.
“No...” Father said. “I don’t think that...”
Again, the stranger murmured. Brom strained to catch even one word, but he couldn’t.
Father cleared his throat, and his face turned pink. “Well...no. You’ve caught us during the dinner hour.” He tried to make his voice sound commanding, but it didn’t. Father sounded like that guilty child again, trying to convince his parent to extend his bedtime.
More murmuring.
Father glanced over his shoulder, trying to seem in control, but he looked confused and scared. Mother watched him, spooked to see Father so hesitant.
Then, astonishingly, Mother motioned that Father should let the stranger in. “Let him in, Brochan,” she said.
; “Well,” Father said. “I suppose we can spare a moment. Please come in.” Father invited the forbidding man inside, bid him sit down in his own chair. As soon as the stranger sat, still not removing his cowl, Father shook his head, as though he was surprised at what he’d done.
“Thank you. You are very kind,” the stranger said.
“Well...” Father began, still looking bemused. “What can we do for you?”
“I am here to offer admission to your son to attend the Champion’s Academy,” the stranger said.
Dead silence descended on the room. Mother’s ingratiating face turned ill, like she’d swallowed a piece of rancid chicken. She stumbled with the words, and she left the kitchen to come into the sitting room. “Excuse me. But who are you?”
Father had gone beet red, caught between rage, surprise, and a dawning fear that he’d unwittingly let a predator into the house. His anger seemed to give him some of his spine back. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s right. You tell us who you are first. You tell us who you are before you start making...such statements. Champions Academy? That’s ridiculous!”
“You may call me The Collector,” the stranger said.
“And you want to what?”
“Your son is coming with me to the Champions Academy to learn how to become a Quadron.”
Father’s face became so red Brom thought he might have a fit. “Over my dead body!”
“That won’t be necessary,” The Collector said. “Why don’t you ask the boy what he wants?”
“What he wants?” Father blurted loudly. “He’s a boy. He’s not going to be a village guard and he’s not going to some mythical academy. He’s going to stay right here in Kyn and he’s going to be a builder.”
The Collector spoke in calm, quiet tones, like he was coaxing a horse to cross a stream. “Any invitee to the Champion’s Academy must be allowed to attend if he wishes. None may bar his way, not even his parents. This is by decree of King Leventius.” The Collector turned his hooded head toward Brom, then said, “You called me. Did you mean what you said?”
Cy’kett’s death and bizarre warnings rose in Brom’s mind. In his drunk ravings, Cy’kett had called the school a trap. Did he mean that Brom wasn’t up to the rigors of the school?
Lost in thought, Brom suddenly realized Father was speaking.
“...is of common blood. Only royalty can become Quadrons,” Father said.
“Royalty,” The Collector said.
“Yes,” Father said. “I’m sorry you wasted a trip. Now I must ask you to leave, sir...”
A low, bubbling sound came from The Collector’s hood, and Brom realized that it was laughter. The Collector brought his hand up and threw back his cowl. His face was thin, with a pointed chin and pointed goatee. He had high cheekbones, but his shoulder-length oiled hair was thick and black, combed back from his face and down to his shoulders. His eyebrows were also thick and black, like Brom’s own, like his father’s. Nearly every one of the common folk of Keltovar had black hair, black eyebrows and black eyes.
“Do I look like nobility to you?” The Collector asked, not waiting for an answer. “The academy does not recognize high station nor low birth. It would no more deny entry to a priestess druid from Fendir than it would to King Leventius himself. It does not care about the war in the Hallowed Woods. It does not care if you are short or tall, male or female. Such distinctions are meaningless within the academy’s walls. It recognizes only the aptitude for magic, and your son has it.”
“He has an aptitude for magic?” Mother said. “How would you know such a thing?”
The Collector steepled his fingers beneath his chin and waited, deigning not to answer.
“I say he is not going!” Father said.
“It is not up to you,” The Collector replied calmly.
“I’ll be damned if it’s not!” Father shouted, looking around wildly. He stomped to the mantle and lifted grandfather’s sword from the iron studs. He yanked the sheath off and bared the dull, steel blade. The steel looked awkward in his hand, and the tip wavered about in the air. Father was no swordsman. “This is my house!”
The Collector carefully put his cowl back into place and turned toward Brom. “It is time to make your decision. Do you wish to be a builder? Or a Quadron?”
A moment ago, Father seemed ready to attack, but now he was rooted to the spot, sword shaking in his hand. Neither he nor Mother moved, and they both stared at Brom.
Lightning crackled throughout Brom’s body now, and with it a feeling of utter rightness, of invincibility. He knew what his answer would be. He’d always known. What Father wanted didn’t matter. Cy’kett’s warnings didn’t matter. Brom had a chance to be one of the heroes he’d always read about, and he wasn’t about to pass it up.
“I want to be a Quadron,” Brom said.
“I won’t have it!” Father shouted at Brom, then turned to The Collector. “He doesn’t mean it. Brom, tell him you don’t mean it. You are staying here. You’re my apprentice. Tell this...man to leave!” He held the sword high, but still only stood there, shaking.
“Pack whatever you wish,” The Collector said to Brom. “I will wait with your parents.”
In a daze, Brom found himself walking to his room. Father’s anger coursed through him, but he saw his own future. He saw the only path that seemed right to take. He was going to become a Quadron.
After stuffing his belongings into his pack and attaching his bedroll, he shouldered it, returned to the kitchen and gave Mother a hug. She cried.
Father snarled and cursed, but he still hadn’t moved from where he stood, sword in the air. It was as though his feet had been nailed to the floor. He watched, anger turning to despair as Brom moved to the door.
Magic...
Somewhere deep down, Brom felt he should have been horrified that The Collector was using magic on his father, but the Collector hadn’t hurt him. He’d just stopped him from stopping Brom. In fact, if Brom thought of it that way, The Collector had stopped Father from breaking the king’s law.
And as it had been with Myan, wasn’t this the kindest way? Father wasn’t going to let Brom go without a fight. Best to do it quickly. Best to do it now.
“Please understand, Father,” Brom said, hesitant to come any closer lest Father grab hold of him. “I will return. And I’ll be a Quadron when I do.”
“You will stay right here, Brom!” Father demanded.
“A Quadron, Father. Imagine it. Me.”
“Drop the pack. I’m warning you!” Father thundered, spasmodically clutching the hilt of the sword, but he didn’t lower it. And he didn’t leave the dais of the hearth.
Brom turned away. The Collector stood by the thick oak door, holding it open. Brom left without a backward glance.
He heard his father shouting until they reached the edge of Kyn, it seemed.
CHAPTER SIX
Brom
It took four days to reach the Champion’s Academy, and each day traveling with The Collector was a strain. At first, Brom had visions that The Collector would immediately begin imparting secrets that only a student of the academy was allowed to know. Like the words Motus, Mentis, Impetu and Anima. But most of the time The Collector acted like Brom didn’t exist. And when forbidding man did speak, it was in terse, one-word answers.
A chill came off the man like a breeze from a winter lake. It was as if, underneath those robes, he was actually made of ice and not flesh and blood at all.
For the first day of travel, Brom questioned if he’d made the right decision to go in the first place. He wanted to be a Quadron more than anything, but Cy’kett’s dire warnings hung in his mind. Brom almost changed his mind and rode going back to Kyn on that first day.
But every time he got close, he envisioned what that would look like, and his heart sank. To return to Kyn was to condemn himself to being a builder for the rest of his life. And for what? Because a drunk old man had spooked him with indecipherable warnings? Brom wasn’t even sure what
Cy’kett had meant. Should Brom just run away in fear?
In every Quadron story he’d ever read, there were dangers. There was danger in anything interesting. After all, Brom hadn’t signed up for the village guard because he’d wanted safety.
After that first day of uncertainty, as they drew further away from his home, Brom’s decision galvanized into certainty. No. This was his path and none other, and he’d see it through to the end. He was going to become a Quadron if it killed him.
He stopped thinking about the frosty Collector or the drunken Cy’kett, and Brom set his mind to thinking about everything he would do once he became a Quadron.
On the fourth day, he and The Collector crested a hill, and the Champion’s Academy rose into view.
Brom reined in his horse, fearful he’d fall off through sheer surprise. His mouth hung open.
The Champions Academy was enormous, a keep so large it beggared the imagination. The white walls were higher than the tallest trees Brom had ever seen, twice as tall as the castles Brom had seen depicted in books. From his vantage on the hill, he could see the buildings inside. Square dots of small houses, buildings larger than Kyn’s entire main street, a huge domed building in the center and towers at each corner.
A river ran underneath the northeastern wall, creating a meandering blue line that flowed diagonally through the center of the keep and past the southwest wall into a many-forked estuary, finally emptying to the Coral Sea. One pennant snapped in the breeze at the top of each tower of the giant keep: blue, white, red and black. The largest tower was so tall it beggared the imagination, looming over the walls like a stern parent over its children. The tower’s pointed top seemed so high it touched the clouds.
And the entirety of the academy was white marble. The buildings, the towers and the walls themselves were pure white, dazzling in the sun. The entire keep was like a bright beacon of hope and civilization.
Just looking at it made Brom dizzy.
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