Honor's Price

by Sever Bronny

  But after some deep thought, it was Augum who suddenly realized the horrible truth. “Oh, gods—” he blurted, slapping his palms to his face. “Oh, gods …”

  Bridget stopped pacing. He could feel all their eyes on him. “I know what happened,” he said, nausea curling inside his stomach like an acidic snake. He had to steady himself against the wall. “I know what happened,” he blubbered, feeling utterly stupid, utterly lowborn. “Back in the war … back in the war I …” But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. It was so damn obvious too. How could he have missed it? What a profound simpleton he was!

  “You renounced,” Bridget said in a distant voice. “Of course …” She slumped onto a settee.

  Caireen blinked. “What?”

  “He renounced the ties of blood with his father in the old way,” Laudine said, slumping onto the settee beside Bridget. “The spell requires that tie of blood to take effect.”

  Words matter, Augum thought to himself. Words matter.

  Then Laudine whispered, “ ‘Make rain, make hard rain, you cursed cloud of fate.’ ”

  “I just wasted two thousand crowns.” The noxious bile rose to Augum’s throat. How many people could they have saved with that money? And then there was the loan. He’d never be able to pay it off, even if he somehow got the castle back. So not only would he have to deal with the Von Edgeworths, but the Black Bank too. All his money … gone.

  “I’m going to be sick,” he gurgled, and plowed through the door, retching and retching outside until there was nothing left to throw up, at which point he dry-heaved a few times before collapsing in the snow away from the vomit, spent, damned, broken, unfathomably ashamed.

  It was a testament to his lack of foresight when not one of his friends came outside. And rightfully so. He should be left alone to wither away into nothing, a viscous smudge floating amongst the brackish water of a sewer.

  But someone did come outside, sat down in the snow beside him, and placed a hand on his back. “Oh, my poor love,” Leera whispered.

  After a time during which he thoroughly indulged in bittersweet self-pity, Augum sat himself up. Leera brushed the snow off his face, which he both resented and appreciated.

  “It’s finished, we’re done,” he said as Leera looked on with a pained expression. “Hang me from the gates for all to see. I’m an idiot and a fool. Everything they said and thought about me turned out to be true—”

  Bridget suddenly burst out of the house. “There might be a way!” She was panting from the exertion and excitement and she spoke rapidly. “And you wouldn’t even need to cast the scroll again! It involves the right mental framework combined with an ‘old way’ arcaneological acceptance of the basic principles of asymmetric—”

  “Bridge!” Leera snapped.

  “What?”

  “Take a deep breath, slow down, and explain exactly what you’re talking about, because it’s complete gibberish right now.”

  Bridget took a shallow breath and nodded. “Right.” She locked eyes with Augum. “It basically involves a Memorial Ceremony, a verbal repudiation of your previous repudiation, if that makes sense, and finally, the profound acceptance …” She swallowed. “… that you are your father’s son.”

  * * *

  The walk back to the academy was lively and inspired. Augum stayed mostly silent while his friends hammered at the rock of an idea that was the Memorial Ceremony and everything that came after, as well as the theft of the suits of armor. And while they sculpted plan after plan, he dwelled on the fundamental problem at hand—how to come to terms with what his father had done, with myriad crimes committed against Solia, Tiberra and even Canterra. Near the end of the war, he had divorced himself from the man and his crimes with what now felt like buttery ease. He had done it officially, in the old way—in public. And he had meant every word. And words mattered … at least in this case.

  Until he resolved this problem, the Memorial Ceremony would not work. He had experienced enough of them to know that the soul had to accept something as sacred as the ceremony, otherwise it would be a fruitless endeavor.

  Nonetheless, the slimmest hope lingered in Augum like morning mist. It was a hope the others were using as a wedge to rip asunder the cascade of damning thoughts running through his mind like rain in a gutter. They prodded and teased and cajoled him, until he placated them with a false smile, a few nods and meaningless words. “Yeah, it’ll probably work.” “Yeah, we’ll perform the ceremony when I’m ready.” “Of course we’ll be able to build a secret army.” “Yeah, I really do believe we can secretly retrieve that Dreadnought equipment without getting caught and facing the guillotine.” That last one earned him a narrow-eyed look from Leera.

  Not only did he believe he would raise dragons, but now he believed he would raise a secret army in the academy … and start a new resistance? Was he completely out of his mind? It really was one implausibility after another with him, wasn’t it?

  This latest setback, combined with the loss of the castle, had truly shaken his core.

  Leera continued to stare at him, unimpressed. She could see right through his parchment facade. For that matter, so could Bridget. But they kept silent, allowing their friends to soar on hope.

  The closer to the academy they got the more the group rushed, for the tenth morning bells were ringing throughout the city and they were going to be late to Theory of Elemental Spellcraft, one of their most challenging classes.

  They scurried into the Elements Wing, robes swishing along the opalescent floor, the eternal vastness of the sky-like ceiling yawning above them. The arcane light from the ancient iron sconce torches was unusually dim, as if the academy had grown weak from being occupied by the Canterrans and their cult, The Path. They jogged through the Hall of Heroes—where the trio always glanced at the smaller statue of Mrs. Stone, standing behind glass, as well as the mythic Orb of Orion sitting on its tasseled pillow, which old academy folklore said could summon dragons—and sprinted through the Hall of Evernight, with its arcane floor underneath which was an upside-down sky of eternal glimmering starry depth and nightly wonder, a floor shared by the Hall of Heroes. At last they passed through a shimmering membrane that served as a barrier between the silence of the Hall of Heroes and the noise of a vast round chamber known as The Hub, for it looked like the center of a wheel. Seven gaping passages shot out from the hub like spokes, each laced with the vibrant power of its element. The long passage that led to the air element screamed with hurricane-force wind. The water passage crashed with great waves. The fire passage leapt with roaring flame. Except for the healing element passage, which gave off a calming and serene sound much like that of a wind chime, the cumulative effect resulted in a great cacophony of noise that made talking difficult.

  “Meet at lunch!” one of them shouted above the great roar before the group dispersed like mice down their respective holes. Laudine shot into the ever-burning fire element hall. The fire, which licked the floors and eternal walls, would have incinerated any warlock not of that element, but it did not touch Laudine. Bridget ran down the earth element hall which was filled with sprawling woods and heaving earth and ever-entwining vines that let her pass unharmed. Haylee strode down the ice element hall, filled with ice and snow and a vicious blizzard that barely stirred her blonde hair but would have frozen any other warlock solid. Jengo slipped down the healing element hall, which was suffused with a gentle light and was smooth as glass. Isaac and Leera disappeared into a fantastically crashing surf. Violent waves slopped a hundred feet high from wall to wall so powerfully that if a building were dropped in the midst of the violence, it would be pulverized instantly. But they dove in without fear, allowed to safely swim through. And lastly, Augum and Caireen jogged down the lightning element hall, eternally alight with flash after flash of raging bolts of lightning. The incessant crash of ripping, booming, and rolling thunder assaulted their bodies, all coalescing into a symphony of elemental chaos. Any other warlock would have been fried to
a crisp by repeated strikes, but here not even the noise bothered them, for the hall recognized its own, as their bodies and minds recognized their home element. It was ancient and powerful passkey arcanery no one alive could cast. Only the healing hall was exempt, kept open to all for healing aid purposes.

  At the end of the lightning hall, Augum and Caireen passed through yet another membrane and the deafening roar disappeared, leaving behind a ringing silence. Before them was an eternally vast, craquelure-like forest made from various states of lightning. This forest of lightning trees surrounded an area of desks in what could loosely be described as a “room,” though more resembled a glade. Some of these trees were made from soft lightning, always shifting in shape or color, sometimes rapidly, sometimes as slowly as a slithering snail. Other types of lightning structures, like the oval desks and towering bookshelves, were made from hard lightning that resembled frozen icicles, or the black lightning ice of Augum’s summonable shield. This particular kind of lightning never changed and was probably—considering the lightning graffiti etched into it by student warlocks of times past—as old as the academy. The ground was woven from infinite strands of lightning of all shapes and thicknesses and colors, all in the same craquelure-like pattern, looking like a giant rainbow patchwork quilt made from thorned vines.

  To an Ordinary—or even any other element warlock—such a chaotic sight of textures, colors and dense patterns would drive their mind past the brink of sanity, but to Augum, Caireen and the other lightning warlocks, it was rather pleasing, like coming home after a long day’s toil. A lightning warlock’s mind could not only handle such chaos, it thrived in it.

  The lightning element hall was like an endless forest, and therefore dangerous—one could easily get lost, for it was infinite, much like the pale sky. Unless a warlock cast Object Track, which was standard procedure before going on training runs, that warlock was liable never to be seen nor heard from again. Last term a student had come across the remains of a pupil lost centuries ago. It was a death of panic, starvation and dehydration. That was the harsh reality of life as a lightning student in the Academy of Arcane Arts.

  And it was a lethal element. The energies involved, if tapped incorrectly, had the potential to go wild, spiking the link between the great arcane ether and the subject. This resulted in the warlock exploding from the inside out, something students called “frying oneself.” Augum would never forget the first time an unfortunate student’s guts slapped into his face. Every term one or more lightning warlocks died in this fashion, in this very room. And that was a historically low number. The 1st degrees were the most prone to this, but a few stories existed of an ambitious 10th degree biting off more than he or she could chew. Lightning was simply a volatile element and one had to be supremely careful, especially while starting out. And because the lightning element was so dangerous, it was almost as rare as healing.

  Unlike most classes, element classes were grouped by the element, irrespective of age or degree. Thus, every lightning warlock in the academy was in attendance for the two-hour class—or rather, those whom the Canterrans had not snatched or who were out earning crowns. Only thirty students attended class today, whereas there were usually forty. And of the thirty, only two warlocks were of a higher degree than Augum and Caireen—a man and a woman, both middle-aged, both quiet and set in their ways.

  Augum and Caireen, as Heroes of the Resistance in the Legion War, always turned heads upon entering the room. But today, they drew attention because they were late as well.

  “Nice of you to bother to join us,” Arcanist Bonita Gonzalez deadpanned. She stood on a vibrant lightning platform on top of which sat a lightning-crafted desk piled with parchments, books, drying sands, quills and inks. Those items, being made from ordinary matter, stood out from the craquelure chaos in their plainness.

  “I believed you to have been … taken.” Gonzalez glanced at a pair of hooded Canterran overseers. Even though they must be lightning warlocks, they stood uneasily off to the side. Perhaps they saw this room as a barbaric monstrosity … or something rightfully to be feared.

  “Sorry, Arcanist Gonzalez,” Caireen muttered as she and Augum sat near the back of the class. A sea of empty desks surrounded them, and more were piled in a chaotic heap, for they were moveable much like trees could be uprooted and replanted.

  As Gonzalez returned to the subject of today’s lesson—the final nuanced principles of a Summon Minor Wall casting—Augum noted there were no other arcanists here today. Usually they had at least two, sometimes three, depending on the class’s needs.

  He glanced to his right at Cry’s empty desk and wondered what sort of arcane work the Canterrans were forcing him to do. To his left, Iguyin, Eric Southguard’s secret boyfriend, was frantically scribbling notes, one hand propping up his head, fingers enmeshed in his short, curly black hair. As a dark-skinned wayward, he was in double jeopardy.

  Iguyin stopped scrawling to glance at Augum, only to look away and quicken the pace of his note-taking. Fear billowed off him like smoke.

  “Stone!”

  Augum jerked his attention back to Gonzalez. “Yes, Arcanist Gonzalez?”

  “As usual I find you daydreaming, Stone. I wonder if you’ve actually done your homework this time instead of preening about while girls chase you.”

  Some in the class chortled.

  “The original Pre Founding name of the spell is …?”

  In this case, Augum had done his homework as he’d been working extra hard over the last tenday to catch up. “Summanaminavalla, Arcanist Gonzalez.” A mouthful, just like all the other Pre Founding spell names.

  “What is its superlative ratio of heartbeats to locution?”

  “One to two and a half.”

  “Ideal post-to-post exam length?”

  “Twenty feet.”

  “Per-degree climb?”

  “Five new feet per degree.”

  She gave him a pointed look.

  He shrugged. “Ideally.”

  “Theoretical stamina drain?”

  “Considerable.”

  “And that is precisely …?”

  “A theoretical bleed of twenty-five stams.” A significant sum, perhaps a quarter of his current draw—not factoring in overdraw, of course, which was dangerous. And it was a slower spell, meaning timing was crucial.

  Arcanist Gonzalez surrendered a quick nod. “Trigger phrase?”

  “Summano valla minimus girata barricada.” Even saying the phrase aloud caused his soul to instinctively reach out to the arcane ether, but it was like a child playfully touching the glass of a window.

  “Corresponding gestures?”

  Augum mimed the gestures as he spoke. “Palm forward and in the up position to establish a connection to the arcane ether. Move to flat palm to stabilize connection. Move palm down to initiate arcane draw. Curl into fist to grab hold of the arcane tendrils. Open the palm once more and slice across to draw the wall on the target line. Slam slicing palm against second vertical palm to finalize construction.” His right horizontal hand smacked into his left vertical palm for emphasis, forming a sideways T. “Thought process notwithstanding, that is.”

  “I was just getting there. And the historically recommended corresponding visuals?”

  “Counterintuitively, the historical visuals are based on building a crude house, Arcanist Gonzalez. Digging a foundation. Putting in stakes. Laying brick. Hardening mortar. Placing a roof.” It’s what made the spell particularly difficult to learn.

  “How many times more does meditation theoretically replenish arcane stamina?”

  Augum almost flinched at the surprise pivot. “Quadruple, Arcanist Gonzalez.” They had only recently begun learning meditation practices, an idea introduced by the Mountain Monks of the North from the Kingdom of Ohm, land of the sacred Seers. The monks occasionally gave guest lectures, memorable for their profound insights and long silences between moments. Many arcanists and arcaneologists still considered meditation an exper
imental practice, but it was steadily gaining clout. To Augum, it was nothing short of revolutionary, and he oft practiced it with the girls after a strenuous training session. Luckily, Gonzalez, despite her grouchiness, was a believer.

  Arcanist Gonzalez studied him. “Seems you’ve been practicing since last class.”

  “I have, Arcanist Gonzalez.” He’d recently spent half of an entire study day practicing just this one spell. It had taken him all term to nail the timing too. But executing it was still a struggle, enough to worry him should the kingdom survive to exam time.

  “Demonstrate for the class.”

  “Yes, Arcanist Gonzalez.”

  All eyes, low and high degree, turned to him as he got up and strolled to an open space. Even though the lower degrees didn’t know the spell, it was crucial for them to see higher-degree spells to gain a clearer understanding of the craft and to know what to expect. As for the higher-degree students, they were wise to observe, for as Mrs. Stone always used to say, the trick to mastery was repetition and revision, time and time again. And the higher the degree spell, the more repetition was necessary to retain it. Theory was no exception.

  Augum breathed in, focusing on the spot where the spell would materialize, conscious of the overseers watching him.

  “You won’t have time to meditate in battle, Stone.”

  “Yes, Arcanist Gonzalez.” He hadn’t been meditating, but her point stood. Time was of the essence.

  His blood raced as he snapped off the words while precisely performing the quick gestures and thinking of the correct visuals. “Summano valla minimus girata barricada!” With the last word, he sliced a preselected horizon twenty feet away and slammed his slicing right palm into his open left while envisioning placing a roof on his imaginary house. He felt the cold pull of arcanery bleed through him as the spell exploded from the rightmost chosen “post” and roared across as a lightning wall, flashing and rumbling with low thunder as it concluded where he had marked the left palm. Had there been an Ordinary amidst that chaos, they would have been incinerated.