Honor's Price

by Sever Bronny

  “How dare the crippled blonde ruffian address Panjita in such a manner in her own house! Panjita’s daughter has been stolen from her, and yet these ungrateful little demon-worshippers take pleasure from this most harrowing of deeds that they have caused! Panjita casts them all out! Out of Panjita’s house! Out, Panjita says! Straight to the chapel the demon-worshippers will go and repent before The Path!” She whacked them all with her cane again. “Out! Now! I order it as the rightful homeowner, and the charlatan thieves shall obey!”

  Jez once more telekinetically stopped Ms. Singh’s cane with a hand. “All right, Ms. Singh. All right. We’ll go. You’re upset about your daughter, we understand. We’ll leave and take lodgings at an inn.”

  “The most sensible thing the vile brood witch has said all evening.”

  Von Edgeworth

  The next morning, Leera whispered to Augum what had happened to Haylee over breakfast at The Magic Minstrel Inn & Tavern. They had lodged there for the night, with Augum and Jengo in a small room and the women in a larger room, as that was all they could afford. Augum, Leera and Jengo were at a table in a corner of the empty tobacco-scented tavern, awaiting the others. Bridget and Jez were tending to a distraught Haylee back in their room.

  Leera, holding a snoozy Sir Pawsalot in her lap, told Augum that not only had Chaska broken up with Haylee “for the last time forever,” but then the Canterrans snatched him and his father. They had also taken Jengo’s father; Mr. and Mrs. Haroun and their daughter; and Devon, among others—coincidentally all people Augum considered friends. And Haylee had spent all afternoon and evening serving the countess and Katrina. When she had dared to say no to cleaning a chamber pot, Katrina had The Butcher slap her around, something “the bastard took way too much pleasure doing.”

  “I’m awfully sorry about Priya, Jengo,” Augum said after digesting the awful news. “I’m sure she’ll persevere.” He tried not to think about how some Ordinaries, depending on the task, were worked to death. He hoped she got a job doing something relatively safe like sewing garments.

  Jengo had been staring at his bacon, eggs and potatoes since he’d sat down, a hand on his cheek supporting his head. When he glanced up, his eyes were red and glassy. He returned to staring at his meal in silence.

  “We’ll get the scoundrels,” Augum whispered. “We’ll get them.”

  “I should have married her by now,” Jengo blurted with a sob. “Gods, I’m so, so stupid. But I can’t afford a house, and Ms. Singh insists I have a house before I marry Priya, not to mention a ‘proper’ profession. Not that Arinthia will survive the Von Edgeworths—you know how vengeful they are. I’m just stupid and inept and incapable of caring for my betrothed. I should have married her and we should have been living together by now. That way they wouldn’t have touched her.”

  “They would have taken her anyway,” Leera said delicately. She transferred Sir Pawsalot to Augum’s lap and got up to give Jengo a gentle hug. “It’ll be all right. She’s smart. She’ll survive.”

  “She’s not a warlock. She can’t defend herself like you can. Heck, I can’t even defend her. I’m a healer, not a warrior.”

  Leera gave him another squeeze, then made him pick up his fork and stab at a strip of bacon. “Eat, it’ll do you good. Eat, Jengo.” She returned to sit by Augum and retrieved Sir Pawsalot. “You’ve been too good a person to have something awful happen to her. The Fates will be kind to her.”

  Jengo scoffed. “You use that as a figure of speech. But I appreciate the sentiment. Oh, did you know Ms. Singh is donating Priya’s dowry to Gritchards? That stuffy Tiberran tradition I argued against is now funding an anti-warlock cause. You believe that? Her own future son-in-law is a warlock, and there she is—” He raised an open hand. “I’m sorry, that was unkind of me to say to you.”

  “You have a right to be upset.”

  “Not at you. Not at you …” Jengo returned to plucking at his breakfast. “Still, if they so much as touch a single strand of hair on her head, I’ll …” Jengo squeezed the fork in his fist and held it before him threateningly. Then he seemed to realize what he was doing, put it down, and stared at it. “You know, I stumbled across a historical excerpt in the library about Arcaner battlefield healers. If you lot ever decide you, uh, want help …”

  “I didn’t know healers could become Arcaners,” Augum said. “Guess I missed that in my studies.” To be fair, he had glossed over the denser tomes, particularly the ones in the old tongue, which took time to translate. But then he recalled the old depictions in the carvings and tapestries that showed warlocks with white arm rings. He’d assumed they were regular warlocks supporting Arcaners, not actual Arcaners.

  “Yeah, about that,” Leera said, and explained how the trio were thinking of asking their friends if they’d be interested in becoming Arcaners. “It’d be super dangerous obviously because the assassins would target you, and you’d also have to take the first Arcaner test, and—”

  “Yes,” Jengo blurted.

  “Huh? Yes what?”

  “Yes, I’ll do it. Count me in.”

  “Just … just like that?”

  “You think I want to stand by while they enslave us with impunity? When we go to war—and I know we’re going to war now that Jez and The Grizzly are working with us—I want to be out there bleeding with you, healing you, making sure you deliver the butt-kicking of a lifetime.”

  Augum and Leera stared at Jengo.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk that way before,” Augum said.

  “That’s because I’ve never been this furious. Livid is a better word. They made a slave of my poor old father and my beloved. You should have seen the look of malignant glee on Katrina’s punchable face. And that cursed Gritchards was right there droning on about how Katrina was performing ‘a sacred duty for the gods in the name of The Path.’ Makes me sick. Like you said when they first marched in, we’re nails looking at a hammer—” He looked past them, cleared his throat, and stood. Augum looked back and saw Bridget and Jez helping a distraught Haylee hobble to the table. He and Leera also stood out of respect.

  Haylee threw her cane into the corner and slumped into the seat opposite Augum, lip still swollen, eye purple. She was breathing quickly, tears rolling down her cheeks, but her long blonde hair had been washed and braided into a ponytail.

  “Bridge told me,” she said, voice oozing with venom. “I’m in.”

  Augum swallowed. This was rather unexpected. “Haylee, it’ll be dangerous—”

  “Don’t. Just … don’t. Don’t patronize me. I’m in. Today. Now.”

  “Whoa, whoa, pull back on the reins there, kiddo,” Jez said. “You’re eating first. I’ll fetch breakfast.” She strode to the bar to order.

  “When this is over,” Haylee hissed, staring through Augum, “I want to see Katrina and her cursed aunt hanging from ropes on the gate to the Black Castle.”

  Augum said nothing, for there was nothing to say. Sometimes people needed to vent.

  Jez soon returned with two copies of the Blackhaven Herald and doled them out. Food, Solian tea and water followed shortly after.

  Augum, who no longer enjoyed reading the heralds, let Bridget and Leera read them and focused on eating as much as he could. Today was a big day, for it was a study day, and they planned on squeezing in as much Arcaner training time as they could.

  “Hey, Jez,” he began after finishing a third hard-boiled egg, “when you said you’ve got a gang of overseers looking for you, is that something we have to worry about?”

  She waved the matter aside as she munched on toast. “Bah, I’ll sort it out.”

  “Mind if I read you something positive for a change?” Bridget interrupted, taking a sip of tea.

  Jengo and Haylee, too lost in angry thoughts, merely picked away at their eggs. Jez nodded encouragingly and mouthed, “Go ahead.”

  Bridget began. “ ‘Amidst the daily toil and quiet suffering of a kingdom going through challenging times,
in a time when a kingdom is questioning what its soul is and what it wants to be, this herald was allowed to attend what some call a rather pagan tradition—a womanhood ceremony.’ ”

  Haylee stopped eating but kept her head down as she listened.

  “ ‘This budding herald has oft been accused, perhaps fairly, of acidic sarcasm and relentless faultfinding. On this day, on this venture, he casts those natural heraldic desires aside to witness one Haylee Esmeralda-Ray Tennyson turn sixteen. Like many, Haylee lost most of her family in the war. Perhaps she thought of them on this special occasion, wishing they could be there to celebrate with her. In spirit, they no doubt were.’ ”

  A battered Haylee sniffled as they all readjusted uncomfortably in their seats.

  “ ‘The frivolity and mayhem of reaching such a boastful and enviable age did not fail to make its mark upon those in attendance, for they graced the budding young and beautiful woman—’ ” Bridget stopped reading to glance up at Haylee, whose cheeks were crimson. “ ‘—with endless teasing forays into jibing and merriment—all at her expense. She was asked to twirl in place until she was dizzy. She was made to wear a gaudy wedding gown specially chosen for its unappealing puffiness. She was made to balance a most foul concoction of stinkroot mulch, turning her into quite the pariah at the dance. And these are just a few of the countless good-natured initiations into adulthood. And although her group of friends could be criticized for repeatedly and cagily choosing truth over dare in an Abrandian game currently making the rounds with the youth, when the time came to toast her blessings and overlook her flaws, they stepped up to the mark and delivered kind, honest and thoughtful praise. For after all that was said and done, those friends looked on her as only doting and loving friends could—with gentleness in their hearts. With love and compassion and a hope that their friend would see many more years to come. Happy birthday, Haylee Esmeralda-Ray Tennyson, and congratulations for taking such tomfoolery in good stride. I believe I can speak for many in wishing you well. Cry Slimwealth, Academy Herald, Blackhaven Herald.’ ”

  They finished breakfast in silence, but now, there was a distinct glow to Haylee.

  * * *

  Augum twirled while simultaneously summoning his shield—except his feet caught on each other and he tripped. The spear that had been arcanely launched at him from a small ballista ripped through the edge of his torso like a hot needle. He cried out and fell to the ground, writhing in excruciating magma pain. The spear clattered to the ground a ways behind them, rolling before clunking into a hangman’s post. The ancient brittle rope atop its overhang swayed from the strike.

  “Not fast enough, Squire Stone,” Rebecca Von Edgeworth said as the girls rushed to his aid. “That was nearly a fatal blow. We need you accustomed to fighting multiple opponents from multiple sources.”

  It was the second hour of Combat Reflex class and they were sitting atop a diabolical and windy mesa filled edge to edge with cruel arcane contraptions meant to test speed, dexterity and arcane ingenuity. They had spent the first hour training their reflexes with simple tasks such as trying to telekinetically catch a fly, snatch a pebble from Trintus Bladeofbright’s palm before it closed, grab a falling stone before it hit the ground, and other relatively benign but difficult exercises.

  It was early morning wherever they were, and hot and dusty, with a sharp sun embedded low in an azure sky. Mesas stretched on into a rolling landscape of valleys and stout desert grasses as far as the eye could see. The earth here was orange and dry and strewn with rocks.

  Thankfully, there was a healing fountain toward which the girls hurriedly dragged Augum, slamming him onto the old stone edge. Then they ripped aside his robe and used a battered old pitcher to pour the sacred water onto his gaping wound.

  “A couple finger widths to the right, and …” Leera looked darkly into Augum’s eyes, not needing to finish.

  Augum winced from the sting of the healing sensation as Bridget poured the water. The sensation was like a thousand ants nibbling at his flesh, repairing it. The cool water foamed at the wound, rapidly killing the pain, leaving only red irritation on his skin and a dull ache. Thank the Unnameables the ancient Arcaners had installed a fountain.

  A product of ancient arcanery, healing fountains were rare but useful to warlocks facing the old way of training, which involved much injury and pain. Unfortunately, as with all ancient arcanery, the knowledge to craft such a powerful artifact had been lost a long time ago. The water of a fountain could not be bottled for it lost its effect within minutes. Further, it could only heal internal wounds and flesh wounds, nothing complex like chronic diseases, nor could it heal broken bones or extend one’s life—a myth more than one warlock had believed, for history was littered with examples of fools sitting by fountains and drinking from them day in and day out, wasting their lives only to succumb to natural diseases anyway.

  Rebecca Von Edgeworth looked on dispassionately in her luminous and opalescent white robe that superbly exemplified her element of air. The robe was see-through, showing battered Dreadnought light plate mail underneath. Besides sharing the same element, she had other vague resemblances to her descendant, Katrina Von Edgeworth. She had the same ash-gray eyes, and the same olive skin, albeit more sun-darkened. But whereas Katrina’s face was oval, possessed an angular bone structure, and was free of blemishes, Rebecca’s was long, wrinkled, blotchy and war-weary, for she was an old woman who had seen much combat. And whereas Katrina’s hair was long and shining and black, Rebecca’s was silver-gray and tied in an elegant ponytail.

  As for personality, they were worlds apart. Rebecca was honorable and stern and aloof. There was no guile to her, although there was a discerning glint in her eye, as if she was always calculating the most efficient way to split one’s head in two with a well-placed shot of her summoned bow. And whereas Katrina was 7th degree, Rebecca was a 20th degree master warlock, a legendary Arcaner and the only woman to have received a scion from the Leyans. She had perished fighting Occulus in a historic duel around eighteen hundred years ago, but had contributed to the arcane craft during her lifetime. Augum wondered how Arcaners had ported her personality into the academy, which had been built eight hundred or so years after Occulus’ demise. Ancient arcanery perplexed him, as it did current arcaneologists.

  “Hold still,” Leera said, placing cool hands over his undershirt. “Apreyo.” The torn fibers stitched back together with a small gleam at the end. She moved to the two opposite holes of his robe. “Apreyo,” and they too stitched back together. She gave his chest a double tap with an open hand. “All better, except your undershirt and robe will have to be cleaned. Speaking of, one of us should really learn a cleaning spell.” She pointedly glanced at Bridget.

  Bridget’s face contorted with revulsion. “I’m not your servant. And get your head on straight. Augum almost died.”

  “Squire Burns, prepare to face the spear,” Rebecca said in her iron matriarch voice.

  Bridget sighed. “Yes, Dragoon Von Edgeworth.” She paced to a designated spot at the center of the wide circle of contraptions. At the moment, her only task was to identify—by sound alone—from which direction a ballista fired a spear and twirl and summon her shield in time to block it. Leera had already done it successfully, Augum had failed in his attempt, and now it was Bridget’s turn.

  Rebecca stared, her robe rippling in the breeze. “Focus on the initial click and twang,” she instructed. “And as discussed, learn to trust your combat instincts. Tune your arms, head, feet, torso and your arcane soul together into one elastic reactionary body. Keep your limbs loose and ready and your mind at ease. Anxiety, second-guessing, fear and eagerness will only stand in the way of a perfect reaction. Do you understand, Squire Burns?”

  “I think I do, Dragoon Von Edgeworth.”

  “Do not think. Know.”

  “Yes, Dragoon Von Edgeworth.”

  Rebecca fell silent and the only sound was the wind scouring the high mesa. Augum thought it interesting tha
t Rebecca seemed more aware than Dragoon Pelagia, as if the person who had enchanted her ghostly personality had known her well. It was the same with Trintus, who was the most fleshed-out of them all thus far.

  There was a sharp twang and Bridget twirled, summoning her etched bark leaf shield in the nick of time. A spear careened off it with a smack and flew into the air at an angle, disappearing out of sight as it fell beyond the mesa.

  “Good, Squire Burns. Now let us move to draw speed.” And that was how it went for the rest of the second hour, from one exercise to the next, utilizing all the contraptions designed to maximize that single hour on that lone mesa.

  They practiced summoning their weapons in time to strike moving dummy targets before those targets disappeared. They worked on uttering key offensive spells faster. They trained on snapping their bodies from one stance to another, casting one spell in the first stance and another in the second—all while being shot at, cast at, catapulted at, and otherwise attacked in a variety of creative ways. It was grueling, often painful, yet also rewarding.

  They utilized the healing fountain often, caring for each other as only loving friends could. At the end of the second hour, when Rebecca disappeared, the trio felt they had made some progress, though they had eighteen more hours of that class to go. And with approximately thirteen more hours to go in the day, they used a portal to exit the mesa.

  Quite the shock greeted them on the other side.

  Ground to Silence

  “Surprise!” their friends chorused when the trio stepped out of the portal. And they were all there—a battered Haylee holding her cane; a stalwart Jengo; a dimple-smiled Laudine; a beaming Caireen; a wry-faced Isaac; a grinning Jez; and, amazingly, a clapping Alyssa and a sheepish Olaf.

  Much hugging promptly ensued.

  “Jengo and I went on a small quest of our own—to corral the others,” Jez said, beaming proudly at the assembled lot. “They’ve all chosen to become Arcaners. Even Alyssa.”