At the end of the trail was a moss-covered cave. A stream trickled from the top, and the inside was moist and teeming with mushrooms. Antherion stopped the group a few yards into the cave.
When he took another step forward, what had before looked like vines on the cave floor sprang up. Antherion seized the vines by the ends and followed up the length with his other claw until he found the flower. The petals snapped at him with long, purple teeth. Antherion yanked the petals open and ushered the recruits closer.
“It’s quite safe,” he said. The recruits peered at the plant from different distances, with the most experienced (or curious) at the front of the pack. After fighting a giant squid, this was a cakewalk, and Taro was right at the front with Ven.
“The Dionaea Maltris likes to hide in caves. It waits for prey—lions, primates, humans, anything big enough. The flesh is sent down here and is dissolved in this acidic solution at the base of the flower.”
Antherion broke the flower off its vine, and it continued to chomp for a few seconds after it was severed. They hauled it to the clearing. When they were back, Antherion had Suri chop it up while he passed out mortars and pestles. The recruits spent the next few minutes grinding the flower into a paste and adding it to their vials of ink. When Taro did so, the ink turned a deep purple and fizzled.
“Perfect,” Antherion said, peering over Taro’s shoulder. “That’s exactly the reaction we want. It’ll make a fine illumination enchantment.”
Eventually, everyone had their ink prepared, and Antherion looked very pleased.
“Before I hand you off to Magister Briego,” he said, “I want you to take a look at the bulbs you planted.”
Taro didn’t see anything in the field at first, but when he got closer, he saw the tiniest, thinnest spec of green creeping from the soil.
“The soil built this kingdom,” Antherion said. “The airships in the sky, the magistry in this very room, is all possible because of a handful of soil. It’s creation, production. If you take nothing else from my class, take this: a magister’s duty is to create, not to destroy.”
It seemed like a peculiar statement. While in peacetime, magisters focused on scientific pursuits, engineering projects, and municipal work; during wartime, magisters were frequently used as human weapons. Part of Taro wanted to point this out, but he didn’t want to be rude. Antherion was, after all, a very polite dragon.
Chapter Eleven
The Finer Points of Magistry
The Artificium was an industry in and of itself. It comprised four floors and two airship hangar bays, and constantly buzzed with magisters and artificers. Here, they did what they did best: build. Thousands of tons of materials were delivered on a weekly basis and were used in everything from airship construction, to heating pillars, to weapons and artillery cannons.
Frames and fuselages hung from chains on the ceiling. Magisters shouted, hammers smacked against steel, and sparks flew. Thick steam rose from the metal grate floor; the whole place smelled of oil and gasoline.
Taro hacked into his hand and pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose.
Ven patted him hard on the back. “You’ll get used to it.”
In the corner, beside mountains of crates, was a free-standing blackboard on wheels.
Against the wall was a kiln and an anvil, the latter of which Taro kept his distance from. Kyra was holding a pole into the red-hot oven and slowly twisting it. She didn’t seem to notice any of the recruits.
Nearby was an artillery cannon with two legs poking out from underneath. The man below swore like a sailor, and Taro recognized the voice as Briego’s. Taro tapped on the cannon with his knuckle. “Excuse me? Magister Briego?”
A plume of black smoke exploded from underneath. Briego hacked and pulled his creeper out. He was drenched in oil and wiped his face off on his tattered, dirty uniform. The tips of his fingers were gnarled and singed black, and his burly beard was on fire.
“What’s that now?” he blustered, patting the small flames out.
“We’re here for your lesson,” Taro said.
“Lesson?” Briego stood and wiped his palms on his trousers. “Oh, yes. Kyra? KYRA?”
Kyra pulled her goggles onto her forehead. “Hmm?”
“Recruits,” Briego said. “Teach ’em something.” He slapped his goggles on and slid back under the cannon.
Kyra pulled the pole straight from the kiln. On the tip was a molten mass of glass. “I didn’t expect them to get through Veldheim and Antherion so quickly.” Kyra set it on the anvil, rolled and shaped it, and blew into the end of the pole.
Kyra continued to form the glass until it was the rough shape of a sphere. When it cooled, she placed it to the side, wiped the sweat from her face with a dirty cloth, and used the same rag to erase the diagrams on the blackboard. “All right, take a seat.”
It was curious that of the classrooms they’d been in, this was the first that had desks or a blackboard.
Kyra wrote Artificing 101 on the board, and retrieved a few small bits of metal from under Briego’s desk.
She set the pieces on the anvil beside the glass sphere. “You should have all brought the ink you’ve created. Please remove the screw cap on your inscriber and fill it.” There was a rustling as the recruits complied. “Magistry is the power of the written word. Words are a link between us and the Old Gods.” She scratched a Deific word onto the board. “Shir. As it now sits, it is meaningless. It requires willpower, context, and templar.”
Kyra took the metal bits and fastened them together. She set the glass sphere over the prongs and screwed it into the base. She scratched words onto the bottom—shir rin tor—letters pulsed and a spark appeared between the prongs. The light shone like a tiny sun. When she let it go, the light died.
“A light enchantment is the most basic, because light itself is such a basic concept. It takes little energy to manifest. I don’t even need a secondary power source, I could power the light through templary alone. But a more complicated piece of machinery—say, an engine—requires massive amounts of energy to function.”
Kyra strolled to Suri and set the orb in her hand. “Suri, it’s good to see you back.”
Suri beamed.
“Tell us, why do we need a medium like this? Why not just a floating ball of light?” Kyra said.
“It’s easier to hold energy inside of a solid. And you can have a permanent fixture for the light.”
Kyra raised her voice as if to make a point. “That’s what artificing is: the application of magistry for practical use. We’ll start small. Each of you will construct a light orb like this for me.”
Taro did well working the glass. His hands were steady, his eyes were sharp. He formed the molten glass into a nearly perfect sphere, and remembered exactly the configuration for the base and prongs. Unfortunately, that’s where his competency ended. While most of the other students got their lights to work within minutes, his sat on his desk utterly dead. He stared at it, prodded it, checked his calligraphy and spelling. Why wasn’t it working?
Kyra picked his sphere off the table. “Seems well made. The enchantment is fine. The problem isn’t here.” She touched his forehead. “It’s here.” She touched his chest.
Fear flared inside of Taro like a firestorm. Why the hell did Aris have to be so damned convincing during admissions? If he’d gotten a wooden aurom, they might not bat an eye at this.
Kyra eventually moved on with the class. They discussed other kinds of magistry. Motion, animation, silication—none of which Taro could do.
When class was over, Taro bolted out as fast as he could, hoping Kyra wouldn’t flag him down. When he was safe, he leaned back against a wall and slumped to the ground. When he saw Ven standing beside him, he groaned. “That was humiliating.”
“A bit,” Ven said.
“You’re not helping.”
“You need to stop being so anxious.” Ven unfolded his schedule. “I’ve got Applied Templary with Magister Sullen next.”
“Me too.”
“Recruits never used to get that. Briggs always said it was too dangerous to teach it to novices.”
Sullen’s class was on the next floor up, but despite it being physically close, it took longer to reach than the previous classes. Each time they got close, one of the doorways would shut and the hall would rearrange.
“It’s four o’clock,” Ven said. “This passage should be open.”
“Well, it’s not, and we’re going to be late.”
It took a full twenty minutes to find the classroom. The forty recruits inside were standing at attention in front of Magister Sullen. He was a large man with his sleeves pulled up to his shoulders. One of his arms was missing and replaced by a prosthetic that made Taro’s look tiny by comparison. It must’ve been a hundred pounds of solid steel, and gears in the elbow and wrist spun and clicked when it bent.
Sullen glared at the boys. “Tardiness will not be tolerated.”
“Sorry, the hallways kept—”
“I haven’t given you permission to speak.”
The boys fell in line.
The room had no desks, no blackboard, and no books. On the racks lining the walls were various bladed weapons of different sizes and shapes. Closer to the back were mats for sparring.
“Your whimsical skippidy-do adventure ends here.” Sullen grabbed two short swords from the weapons rack. “You think tinkering with clocks and planting daisies is going to matter on a battlefield? When your machines fail you, you need to know how to fight.
“Before we start, I want to make one thing clear. You’re not to attempt anything I teach you outside of this classroom. If I find out about it, you’ll be in the Blocks faster than you can say court martial. Understood?”
“Yes, Magister,” the class answered.
Sullen pointed one of the swords, hilt-first, toward Sikes. “Take it. Stand over there.”
Sullen and Sikes took opposite positions on one of the training mats.
“Defend yourself!” Sullen charged, brought his fist down like a hammer, and struck Sikes’ sword so hard that the blade broke down the middle. The fragments fell, and Sullen’s hand stopped just shy of Sikes’ forehead.
Sikes looked like he’d stopped breathing.
Sullen lowered his weapon, patted the boy on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you. You have no idea how much paperwork that is. As I said, templary can make a magister unmatched in physical combat. Just as my blow is about to land, focus your templar into the blade.”
Sikes did as he was told, and again Magister Sullen charged with his bare fist. But this time, just as their swords touched, a red glow sparked between them, and Sullen was repelled.
He looked positively ecstatic. “Marvelous! I hope the rest of you were taking notes, because that was perfect. Back in line, Sikes, and pass your weapon.”
Sikes smirked and passed the sword to Taro.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.” Sullen charged and smacked Taro’s sword. Taro’s knees buckled from the force of the blow.
“Not good enough. Again.”
Sullen struck again and again, but despite Taro’s best efforts, he couldn’t counter a single one.
“Bleh, let’s try someone with a little less failure in them.” He pointed to Suri. “You there, little one.”
Suri shrank when he singled her out. “But...”
“This isn’t about physical strength. This is about the strength of your templar.”
Suri grabbed the sword and had to visibly steady herself at its weight. Sullen repeated the test on Suri, who repelled him flawlessly.
“Excellent,” Sullen said.
Some recruits took to it faster than others, and many couldn’t get it to work until their third try. Even Nima eventually got it. But when it got back to Taro, he still couldn’t get it to work.
Sullen looked legitimately disappointed by this, as if Taro was some sort of blot on his record. “Fine. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
Chapter Twelve
The Fire Within
The mess hall was a welcome sight. It was fairly plain, with four long tables in the back and a dozen small round ones scattered between them and the food line.
There was no menu, per se, you ate whatever the cook happened to make. The upside was that recruits and artificers could eat for free, but there wasn’t much in the way of variety.
Taro grabbed a bowl of beef and carrot stew, two warm rolls, a block of cheese sealed in wax, and a sugared apple dumpling. When he stepped out of the line, he spotted Ven and Pipes on one of the long tables, playing hilto. Hilto was much like chess in that each piece could move a different way, but unlike chess, every other turn you could control one of your opponent’s pieces.
Ven had one hand on his aluminum spork and the other on Pipes’ moon piece. He stared intently at the board.
Pipes groaned like he’d been waiting forever. “Just let it go, so I can stomp you.”
Ven hesitated. “You’re just trying to scare me.”
“Let go and find out.”
Ven slowly removed his fingers from the piece, and Pipes snapped two of his star figures forward, taking out four of Ven’s pieces at once. This game was over, and Taro wondered—through a mouthful of stew—when Ven was going to figure it out. Ven’s eyes traced the board several times; he leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms across the back of his head.
“I think I just got hustled,” Ven said. He could’ve kept the game going another hour, but instead, he forfeited and slid a noble to Pipes.
“I told you. Hilto is a game of patience, and you don’t have any,” Pipes said, with smug satisfaction.
From his peripheral vision, Taro saw Suri set her tray beside him. “Mind if I sit here?” she asked.
Taro made her some room. “Of course not.”
“Oh, so you’re talking to me again?” Pipes said.
“For your information, I’m here for Taro,” Suri said.
Ven glanced sideways at Taro. “Don’t worry, they’re always like this. They’ve had an off-and-on thing for a year now.”
“Believe me, it’s purely physical,” Suri said, breaking a sugar packet and emptying it into her tea.
“I’m guessing you’re here to place your bets?” Ven asked.
Suri stirred her drink thoughtfully. “Four nobles on Yoresh.”
Pipes burst out laughing. “Kyra’s going to chew him up and spit him out.”
“He’s undefeated,” Suri said.
“I’d be undefeated too, if I only went up against first-year recruits,” Pipes said. “Two crowns on Kyra, and I’ll lay three to one.”
“You’re going to bet against your own friend?” Suri asked.
“I’d bet against my own mother, if she was that outmatched.”
Suri sipped her tea, winced, and added more sugar. “When is it starting?”
“Should already be going,” Ven said. “As soon as we’re done eating, we’re heading down.”
“Could someone fill me in on what you’re talking about?” Taro asked.
Ven shoveled the last spoonful of soup into his mouth. “If you can keep a secret.”
Taro nodded.
“This is serious,” Suri said, her voice lowered with every word until it was a faint whisper. “If Sullen or Ross found out...”
“You have my word,” Taro said.
“It’s a dueling club,” Ven said, without preamble. “Some tribunes set it up, years ago. It’s a great place to earn an extra crown, if you know who to bet on.”
“Where is it?” Taro asked.
“An abandoned junction on the ninth floor. Wanna come with?”
“Absolutely.”
When they finished eating, they led Taro down several flights into a dark, abandoned area of the tower. He could see why the dueling club was still secret—just getting there required shimmying across a ledge, crawling under a cluster of pipes, and waiting for a very specific moment when
a rotating fan paused and allowed them through.
Their destination was a long, narrow room with a pipe running down the center. It was positively huge and, through the thick glass window on the casing, Taro could see that it was empty.
“What is it?” Taro asked, tapping the glass with his knuckle.
“An old power junction for the Arclight,” Ven said. “Back in the day, touching it would’ve melted the skin off your hand. Dead as stone now.”
There were a surprising number of students packed inside the room, both recruits and artificers. Kyra was in the corner, speaking with another tribune and wrapping her knuckles with a torn bit of cloth. A large recruit who must’ve been ten years older than Taro was nearby, doing the same thing. From his dark complexion and clothing, he must’ve been Sahaalan. Ven introduced him as Yoresh.
Ven raised a parchment in the air. “Taking bets now. Piper’s laying three-to-one odds on Kyra.”
Students huddled around Ven and he recorded their bets. When they were done, Kyra and Yoresh climbed onto the pipe. They wobbled a bit, trying to keep their balance, and stood three feet apart.
“The object is to knock the other person off, using only your templar,” Suri said, anticipating Taro’s question.
Taro thought it was a bit ironic that Kyra, who days before had chastised him about breaking the rules, was openly participating in something like this. When Taro pointed this out, Suri informed him that Kyra was actually one of the founding members.
Yoresh punched his fist into his palm. “Bramu voca lampa se,” he said in Sahaalan. He pointed to Kyra and spoke in heavily accented Amínnic. “You have no chance.”
Kyra footed herself. “Keep talkin’.”
Taro wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting. Fireballs perhaps? Or great explosions of energy? There were neither. For a great long moment, Yoresh and Kyra simply stared at one another. Taro became aware that the temperature in the room had increased, and he could feel the heat through the soles of his shoes.
Sweat poured down Yoresh’s bare chest and skin. He tried to press forward, but his feet were stiffened by some unseen force. Kyra’s hands were pressed to her sides, but to Yoresh’s disbelief, she slowly raised them toward him.
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