by David Debord
“They want to make her queen, then?” Colin asked sharply.
“Some do. There is, apparently, an impostor who also claims to be the bearer of the Serpent.” He took another drink, letting the lukewarm, frothy drink slake his thirst.
“I feared the day would come. How is she?” Colin asked.
“She’s as ill-tempered as ever.” They shared a laugh, and Hierm recounted the story of their flight from Galsbur, meeting Larris, their search for the Silver Serpent, and, finally, their return to the lands of the Monaghan. Hair and Edrin, who had never heard the story, listened with interest. “They recognized her as one of their own and accepted her as leader,” he finished.
“Her mother was Monaghan and a descendant of Badla, their great warrior queen. I am a Malgog.”
This should have been a surprise, but now, having met a few Malgog, Hierm saw the resemblance.
“My father is Krion, chief of the Black Mangrove clan,” Colin continued. “I took Shanis away after her mother died. Since she is Badla’s heir, I always knew there was a chance she would be the one destined to bring the clans together, but I hoped it would not be the case.” He sighed. “I should go to her. I’ve been away from her too long.”
“But Colin, we need you here.” Master Serrill sat down opposite Hierm. “You are the closest thing we have to a leader, and no one else knows how to fight like you do.”
Colin’s shoulder’s twitched once in a silent, rueful laugh. “We have plenty of men who’ve been blooded. Besides, the invading army is broken. We’re safe for the time being.”
“What do you mean?” Hair spoke for the first time. “You think they’ll re-form and come back?”
“There were shifters and ice cats among them.” At this, Hair sat up straight and Edrin dropped his mug. “I don’t know what their purpose was in coming here, but I have no doubt a new Frostmarch is coming. And when it comes, none of us are safe.”
“We encountered ice cats on the road,” Hierm said. “I didn’t want to believe it could be another Frostmarch.” He drained his mug, wiped his mouth, and looked at Colin. “You mentioned Prince Lerryn. Was he killed in the battle?”
Colin looked down at the table and spun his mug in his big hands. “We don’t know for certain, but we think he survived. He fought and killed a shifter. After the battle, I found tracks that I believe are his heading off into the forest.”
“You could pick out one man’s tracks in the midst of a battlefield?” Hair sounded impressed.
Colin shrugged. “Only one of his soldiers survived—a man named Tabars. He went off in search of Lerryn, but I doubt he’ll find him. Tabars is a good fighter, but he’s no woodsman.”
“Unlike you.” Hierm took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Colin, we need your help. We’ve been sent here to find Prince Lerryn and bring him back to Archstone. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we are at war with Kyrin, there’s a rebellion in Kurnsbur, and there are...” he hesitated, “other problems. We need Lerryn, and I’m no more a tracker than Tabars. Will you help us?”
Colin sat back and looked a Hierm. “Those are someone else’s problems. Shanis needs me.”
“If another Frostmarch is coming, Galdora can’t be at war on two other fronts. Shanis is working to unify Lothan. We need to find Lerryn so we can keep our own country united,” Hierm argued.
“He’s right.” Master Serrill stood and wiped his hands on his apron. “Be thankful that your daughter is alive and well. What’s a few more weeks before you go to her if it means we’re better prepared for what lies ahead?”
Colin’s face darkened. “Just once,” he mumbled, “I’d like to do what I want to do.” He looked around the table at Hierm and his friends. “Very well. You three rest here while I gather provisions. We’ll leave at dawn.”
Chapter 12
“I feel like someone hung me upside down for an hour.” Whitt stole a glance over his shoulder to make sure Master Sibson was not within earshot. “My head is stuffed full of useless facts. I hate history.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” Oskar had to laugh. The truth was, he enjoyed history and the lecture on the Godwars had fascinated him. He couldn’t see how anyone could resist the stories.
“It’s all the same: this god’s followers did this to that god’s followers, so they joined forces with another god’s followers and on and on and on.” Whitt sighed. “I’ll never keep all that useless information in my head.”
“It’s hardly useless. Think of all the things saikurs are called on to do that require understanding people’s values and traditions. How could you negotiate a peace treaty, for example, if you don’t know the history between the nations involved?” Oskar felt odd engaging in such a debate on only his second day of classes, but this was something he felt strongly about.
“Well said,” Dacio agreed. “I’m sure I’ve said similar things to our friend here.” He arched an eyebrow at Whitt. “But he doesn’t listen.”
“Fine. You two history lovers can help me study for the next exam. Or sit next to me so I can copy.” Whitt winked to show he was kidding. At least, that’s what Oskar hoped it meant.
They made their way along the dark corridor toward the classroom where Master Lepidus taught Alchemy. Oskar had seen the master from a distance, and he was quite a sight, with frizzy white hair that stuck out in all directions, and he walked like a dizzy hen. He wondered if the man’s teaching style was as eccentric as his appearance, but when he asked his friends, they just smiled.
The room was empty, save a group of three in the far corner: Agen, Dronn, and Shaw. Deep in conversation with his friends, Agen had his back to Oskar and the others, so he was unaware of them as they entered. That was fine with Oskar. He wasn’t afraid of Agen, as long as they weren’t dueling with swords, but he hated the way Agen grinned at him, clearly relishing the memory of yesterday’s combat class.
“After dinner in the hall that leads out to the combat grounds,” Agen whispered. “By the side door that leads into the back of the archives. You know—behind the tapestry of the two knights.”
Shaw cleared his throat and Agen snapped his head around. He shot Oskar an angry look and the three fell silent.
Wonderful, Oskar thought. The one time he was actually interested in something Agen had to say, and he interrupted it. Unlike the other classrooms he’d been in, this room did not have individual desks, but rows of long tables, and he and his friends chose seats on the second row.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered to Naseeb. “There’s a side door into the archives.”
“Agen’s not the most reliable source. Besides, the very day you announce you want to find a way into the archives, he lets something like that slip? That’s too great a coincidence for me.”
“I didn’t announce it. You’re the only person I told.”
“I’ll wager one of them overheard you and now they’re trying to wind you up.” With a wave of his hand, Naseeb silenced the retort Oskar was preparing. Master Lepidus had entered the room.
The wild-haired man didn’t look like Oskar’s mental image of a master, but the lesson was interesting and Lepidus clearly had a sharp mind. Oskar had been surprised to discover that, at the Gates, Alchemy consisted of much more than failed attempts to turn lead into gold. It also included herbs, potions, and what Lepidus called “chemistry.”
Today’s lesson was on the properties of Redroot. For once, Oskar’s rural upbringing was a positive. He correctly answered two questions, earning an approving nod from the master. The good feeling lasted until he volunteered that, when mixed with their grain, Redroot alleviated colic in cattle. Master Lepidus actually took a moment to write that down, but the laughter and derisive comments from the rest of the class made Oskar’s cheeks burn.
Magic, taught by master Zuhayr, kept his mind occupied for the entire hour as they learned a spell that caused a small ball of light to float in the air just above the palm of one’s hand. Casting a spell was much more than repe
ating the proper words; it had to be recited in exactly the right pitch and cadence and with a certain amount of focus. By the end of class, only Oskar, Dacio, and Agen had mastered it, though Whitt managed to set his roll of parchment on fire, earning him an evening with Oskar working in the kitchens.
When class was over, rather than return to their quarters, Oskar and Naseeb took a detour along the corridor that led to the combat grounds.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” Naseeb insisted.
“Yes, you told me. I’m just curious if there’s even a door here.” He inspected the tapestries and found that several displayed two or more knights. “Keep a lookout for me.” Oskar ignored the dark-skinned boy’s sarcastic reply and started pulling tapestries away from the wall and checking behind them. His progress was interrupted several times by people heading out to or in from the combat ground. Each time, he and Naseeb fell into false conversation until they were alone again. It wasn’t until they reached the far end of the hall that he found something behind the last tapestry.
“There is a door here.” He stole a glance up and down the hall, and then tried the knob. It turned and the door gave way with a scraping sound, revealing a set of stairs that climbed up into the darkness. “It must lead up to the higher levels of the stacks,” he whispered, pulling the door shut and letting the tapestry fall back against the wall.
“Master Lang’s coming,” Naseeb whispered. They froze as the combat instructor entered the hall and fixed them with his steely gaze. “You come for extra sword instruction, Novit Clehn?”
“Ah, yes, that is, I came to ask if there might be a time I could come for instruction.” It was as good a lie as any to explain his presence here, and he did need the help.
“I can give you an hour after mealtime this evening.”
“I’m afraid I have to work in the kitchens.” Oskar looked down at his feet.
“Again? Not off to a good start, are you? Very well, then. Tomorrow after mealtime. That is, if you don’t land yourself in the kitchens again.” Lang didn’t wait for Oskar to reply but swept off down the corridor.
Oskar and Naseeb followed slowly, letting the distance between themselves and the master grow. When he turned a corner out of sight, they paused.
“Perfect! I’ll get extra instruction tomorrow evening, which will give me an excuse to be in this hallway. I’ll try the door then.”
Naseeb gave him a long look and sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can talk you out of this?”
“I have to do it. I wish I could explain more, but you’ll have to trust me.”
“All right, Oskar. Just remember, if you’re caught, they’re likely to do worse to you than give you kitchen duty.” Naseeb grimaced.
Oskar wondered what they would do to him. Put him out of the Gates, perhaps? It didn’t matter. If he could do something to help Shanis fight the next Frostmarch, he had no choice.
“Well, then, I guess I’ll just have to avoid being caught.”
Chapter 13
The next day was Thirdday, which mean he had the same course schedule as Firstday: Sorcery, Combat, and Logic. Oskar made another good showing in Sorcery and was feeling like today was his day when he completed the warmup for Combat class not too terribly far behind his classmates, survived the second run, and reached the green to discover today’s lesson would be the quarterstaff.
Suppressing a grin, he selected a staff of the perfect length, weight, and thickness. Allyn had worked with him on quarterstaff during their travels and said Oskar was an adept, even gifted, pupil. Master Lang led them through the basic movements, and the familiarity of the exercises brought a smile to Oskar’s face as he remembered the time spent on the road with his friends. He wondered where they all were and what they were doing right now. He supposed Hierm had entered the prince’s academy and was learning the skills of a soldier.
When the warmups were finished, they donned leather gloves and padded jerkins and paired off.
“I don’t suppose the farm boy would care to try his skill?” Shaw stood grinning at Oskar. “Agen grew bored with you and said I could have a go if you have the courage.”
Oskar was happy to oblige, confident this was a fight he could, if not win, at least acquit himself well in. The quarterstaff wasn’t a gentleman’s weapon, and he’d been told Shaw hailed from a wealthy family here in Cardith. He hid his enthusiasm behind a reluctant shrug, even pretending to look around for his friends as he and Shaw took their places.
When Lang called for them to begin, Shaw sprang forward and lashed out with a sweeping stroke that Oskar deftly parried and circled away. Not wanting to give away too much, he remained on the defensive as Shaw, his confidence growing with each stroke that went unanswered, attacked with reckless abandon.
Oskar waited as Shaw tired himself out. Finally, Shaw’s hands fell too low and Oskar struck, cracking Shaw across the back of one hand, followed by a thrust to the gut that forced the wind out of him. Shaw stumbled backward and Oskar swept his feet out from under him. Shaw hit the ground hard and, unable to catch his breath in order to yield, raised his hands in surrender.
“Well fought, Novit Clehn.” Master Lang didn’t smile, but there was a twinkle in his gray eyes.
“Thank you, Master.” Oskar bowed his head, in part to hide his smile. It felt good to receive a compliment.
“You clearly have some skill with the staff. I think your time would be better served working at the sword.” He turned and called for Agen, who hurried over. “Another round of sword with Novit Clehn, if you please?”
Agen agreed, waiting until Lang turned away before giving Oskar his most wicked grin. “I see you abused my friend.” He shot a glance at Shaw, who sat rubbing his hand where Oskar had struck him. “That just won’t do. Let’s find the practice swords, shall we?”
Oskar’s shoulders fell. How quickly a good day could turn bad.
“Very good.” Lang actually managed a smile as he lowered his practice sword. “I already see improvements in your defense.”
“Thank you.” Oskar needed to improve quickly. He now had fresh bruises on top of the old ones inflicted by Agen during their lessons. If he could reach the point where he could work with the class instead of receiving individual instruction from his sadistic classmate, he’d likely endure much less pain. “I’m working as hard as I can.”
“I hear you’re a passable student at Sorcery and History as well.” Agen chuckled at Oskar’s surprised expression. “You don’t think the masters talk to one another?” He glanced up at the sky. “It’s growing late. We should stop for the evening.” He took Oskar’s practice sword, turned and walked toward a nearby outbuilding, and indicated with a tilt of his head that Oskar should follow him. “You have an unusual background,” he said, fishing a key from his belt pouch and unlocking the door.
The combat yard was a surprisingly peaceful place this late in the evening. No one was out practicing, and the adjoining gardens were nearly empty. Oskar noticed one saikur, his hood pulled up over his head, wandering through a small orchard. The quiet and the crisp evening air reminded him of nights at home on the farm, or around the campfire with Shanis, Hierm, and the others.
“I suppose you don’t get many farmers here.”
Lang chuckled again. “It isn’t that; it’s the traveling you’ve done.”
Oskar missed a step. “I’m sorry?”
“Word is, you’ve been to Lothan and also to the mountains in the West. That’s unusual for anyone. Lothan is a dangerous place and the mountains are simply not somewhere anyone travels.” Lang stepped inside, replaced the practice swords on their rack, and stepped back out into the fading light. “Why would a farm boy from Galdora travel there?”
“Who told you I’ve been to the mountains?” Oskar tried to keep the note of suspicion out of his voice. He thought he’d kept that part of his journeys a secret.
“It’s common knowledge among the masters. Zuhayr was the one who told me. I think he ha
d it from Proctor Basilius.”
“Oh.” How had Basilius known about that part of his trip? Had he seen it when he invaded Oskar’s mind? And if he knew that, what else did he know? “I did go to Lothan, but not into the mountains.”
“Again, why would a young man who, by all accounts, has a good head on his shoulders, travel into the midst of clan war?”
“We didn’t hear a great deal about the outer world in Galsbur. I had heard tales of the castle at Karkwall and it was the foreign city closest to where I grew up. I quickly learned otherwise.” He shrugged.
“Did you know I’m a Lothan?”
Oskar shook his head. “I didn’t know for certain. I take it you’re a Malgog? You have the black hair though your eyes are lighter than any I’ve seen.”
“You’ve seen many Malgog?” Lang raised his eyebrows. “How much of the country did you see?”
Oskar cursed inwardly. Freeze his careless tongue! “I met them in Karkwall.”
Lang frowned but didn’t question his story. They walked through the garden area, its trees and shrubs casting inky shadows on the dusk-shaded ground. “I left long ago. The clan war was fruitless. I’ve heard rumors that someone has united the clans, but I doubt it. It’s an impossible task.”
“Perhaps some day.” Oskar could think of nothing else to say without taking the risk of giving away more than he ought to.
Lang fixed him with a level look and nodded once. They entered the castle in silence and bade one another a good night when they parted ways. Oskar waited for the sound of Lang’s footsteps to fade away, and then doubled back.
He kept a sharp eye out as he made his way toward the hidden door, but he was alone. When he reached the tapestry, he looked around one last time before pushing it aside, opening the door and stepping inside.
He whispered the spell he had learned in his last Magic class, and a ball of blue light, no bigger than a robin’s egg, appeared above his palm. A dust-coated staircase rose up before him. The stone walls on either side were constructed of precisely-hewn blocks fitted so neatly together that it appeared no mortar had been needed in construction. He wondered if it was craftsmanship or magic that held the place together.