by Cale Plamann
“Miranda!” Jo shouted, waving to flag the attendant down as she power-walked over. “Did you get any of the new scabbards in? I need something that will accent that armor I bought last month.”
Brenden stepped in front of her, frowning with his arms crossed. Jo stopped short, barely avoiding plowing into his chest.
“Your friend is occupied, young lady.” Brenden scowled down at her. “She’s currently helping outfit my ward. You can gossip with her once she’s finished with her work. Until then, amuse yourself elsewhere.”
Jo opened her mouth to say something, only for Miranda to shake her head. Micah did his best to avoid eye contact. Even without Brenden’s arrogance, he didn’t feel ready to see Jo again.
His emotions swirled as she glared at the both of them. Her gaze focused on the insignia on Brenden’s shoulder, transforming her mouth into a thin line. Her eyes flashed as she shifted her attention to Micah and Miranda.
“Fine,” Jo replied, turning back to Sarah. “If they give you any trouble, Miranda, just let me know. Not everyone is afraid to stand up to the Drakes.”
“Your friend is safe,” Brenden snorted. “Don’t overvalue yourself. I’d take her if I wanted, and there’s nothing you could do about it. It just isn’t worth sullying my reputation on a dalliance with a provincial trollop.”
Jo turned red, her mouth opening to issue an ill-advised response. Sarah grabbed her sister’s wrist, interrupting her and shaking her head. Brenden smirked and walked away, clearly dismissing the two of them.
“Sorry about that, Miranda.” Micah smiled weakly at her. “It’s probably for the best if we get to shopping. The sooner we buy what we need and get out of here, the lower the chance that someone aggravates Brenden enough to make him lash out.”
The actual shopping was fairly quick. Miranda efficiently took his measurements, periodically slipping him sympathetic looks. Afterward, she brought a selection of outfits for him to peruse. Micah was hardly a talent on his father’s level, but he knew a fair amount about the proper cuts and stitching of fabric. Between Miranda and him, they were able to put together a full ensemble of clothing and travel garb that would hopefully stand up to the capital’s scrutiny.
Brenden barely looked at it before escorting Miranda to the front desk to make the purchase. Micah stood awkwardly, his hands stuffed in his pocket, waiting for the entire transaction to be completed. A woman cleared her throat behind him, prompting him to turn and see Sarah standing next to Jo.
“Excuse me,” Sarah said, an uncharacteristic smile on her face. Jo scowled at him.
“Uh, yes?” Micah responded.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you appear to be a member of the Golden Drakes.” Sarah extended her hand, a far cry from her usually judgmental and sarcastic self. “My name is Sarah Redflower and this is my sister, Josephine Redflower.”
“Micah Silver.” He took her hand; Sarah’s calluses from constant combat contrasted with his own soft digits. “It’s a pleasure to meet both of you.”
“Why were you harassing Miranda?” Jo jumped in suspiciously. “Even if you are rich, you can’t just bother a girl like that. It’s not like she’s a piece of property that you can go out and purchase. She’s her own person with rights.”
“Silver!” Brenden shouted impatiently as he walked toward the door. “Quit flirting with your girlfriends; we need to get moving if you’re going to catch your carriage.”
He smiled weakly at both of them. Melancholy swept over him as he realized that in this timeline, he’d probably never see either of them again. As much as he wasn’t ready to see them again, he wasn’t nearly ready to let them go. There was so much he hadn’t processed, so much he hadn’t said, but there was nothing for it. The hands of fate were pulling them apart with a force that couldn’t be denied.
“Goodbye,” he said sadly, smiling slightly. “It was nice to meet you. I feel in a different life, we could have been friends.”
21
The Capital
Bitollan, City of Lights and Spires, was as majestic as its name sounded. Even at night, magelights of a dozen colors illuminated the soaring buttresses of the city’s towers. Micah tried to enjoy their splendor as he rode the carriage in, but his excitement was tempered by the knowledge that he was missing the battle for Basil’s Cove at that very moment.
Deep down, Micah knew that it was all worth it. As much as he wanted to be on the front lines, elbow-deep in combat and risking his life side by side with his former friends, he didn’t have any real basis for that desire. Still, he couldn’t help but compare himself to the nobles and Golden Drakes members that had fled Basil’s Cove in his previous timeline. The fact that he had sacrificed everything to keep his family safe didn’t make him feel like any less of a coward.
He jolted slightly as the carriage rolled over a rut in the road. Micah sighed and closed the window. He’d have plenty of time to gawk at Bitollan later. For now, he just needed to focus on the advanced ritual book Brenden had given him when they’d parted. He’d been reading it for most of the weeklong journey, and by this point, Micah was convinced that the book was on the Church of Luxos’ “burn on sight” list.
Where most of the books on rituals he’d been introduced to up until now walked a fine line of acceptability, this one focused entirely on the transfer of anima. True, every ritual or enchantment needed anima, the life force behind a living being, to power it. Up until now, the portions of the rituals related to anima had been fairly perfunctory. The caster sacrificed an animal, presumably and hopefully livestock or a monster, and its life force was added to the ritual.
This book, On Life and Energy by Karin Dakkora, was decidedly more in-depth. Micah’s inner bookworm found the ruminations on the nature of the soul fascinating, but the appendices to the book were concerning. Where normally a book on theory would simply opine and try to make sense of observations, On Life contained descriptions of detailed experiments. Ones that involved captives being used as batteries until everything vital was drained from them, leaving the victims as little more than empty, drooling husks.
The fundamental point of the book was that ritual and primal magic could feed upon anima to empower them. More than half the book was devoted to finding ways to improve on the drawing and transference of anima as part of ritual casting. The author was disdainful of most recorded spells and rituals, decrying them as the safe dabbling of the mediocre. Micah did agree that rituals spelled out in the last third of the book by Karin were much more exciting, but in the “these might rip a hole in reality” sense rather than anything he was eager to try.
Frowning, he pulled out the Ageless Folio and searched for Karin Dakkora’s name. Thanks to the magic of the Folio, he found her almost immediately. One of Keeper Ansom’s records had detailed a noble party of heroes defeating a dark archwizard that swore loyalty to no god.
Apparently, her collection of summoned daemons had raided nearby cities indiscriminately, and all of the Sixteen had joined together to request that their greatest champions rid Karell of her plague. The record went on for pages about how her fell powers spat in the face of the natural order and threatened the entirety of Karell with some sort of unknown incursion from “the outside.” It didn’t detail what “the outside” was, but Micah got the distinct impression that it wasn’t a friendly or happy place.
He closed the book with a sigh and dismissed the Folio. On Life was almost certainly a banned book. He wasn’t entirely sure why Brenden had insisted that he study it, but his time with the Golden Drakes had taught him that asking that sort of question was frowned upon. Hopefully, someone in the capital would be more willing to shed light on the situation.
Micah closed his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep. Bitollan was still miles away. As striking as the city was at night, there’d be plenty of time to gawk at its sights and get answers tomorrow.
At first, sleep eluded him, the occasional ruts jolting him to wakefulness, but before long, he slipped o
ff into a dreamless slumber. Occasionally, he’d return to wakefulness as the carriage rumbled over rocks and ruts in the road, leading to a rather fitful slumber.
He awoke to a callused hand shaking his shoulder. Micah sat up, blinking against the harsh white magelights that illuminated the coach driver in the carriage’s open door.
“Come now, milord,” the man spoke with a thick country drawl. “Let’s get you inside and into a comfier bed so I can unhitch the horses.”
“Milord?” Micah cocked his head at the man. “My father was a tailor. Last I checked, I was fairly far from being nobility.”
“Whatever you say, milord,” the driver responded with a chuckle, climbing out of the coach to give Micah access to the doorway. “I’m a forgotten, so even having a trade smells a bit like nobility to me.”
“Plus,” the driver continued, “if I’m dropping you off at the right place, I’m definitely calling you milord on account that I don’t wanna get beaten by a palace guard for disrespect.” The man jerked his head, indicating the twisting marble towers behind him that glowed in the magelight.
Micah stepped out of the carriage, craning his neck to take in the massive building. Absently, he noted that his jaw was slack, but he couldn’t help himself. Mammoth walls of smooth stone surrounded the building, their gem-inlaid runes practically humming with energy. The building itself looked like an artist’s rendition of a castle, only stretched to twice its normal height.
Internally, Micah balked. No building of stone could be that thin and that high. Even though he knew that magic was being used to lighten and strengthen the stones, part of him recoiled, expecting the towers to collapse under their own weight at any moment.
“That was my reaction the first time I saw it too, milord.” The driver removed Micah’s luggage from the rear storage shelf on the carriage. “Course, I grew up on a farm. Most magic we saw was the local lord’s elementalists, cleanin’ out the kobolds before they could run off with that year’s harvest. Here in the capital, there’s magic on every street corner. Hells, the buildings themselves are practically works of art.”
“Where—?” Micah tried to recollect his thoughts. “What is this? I was just supposed to be transferred from the Basil’s Cove Golden Drakes’ branch office to headquarters in Bitollan.”
“This here’s the Royal Knights’ headquarters.” The coach driver set down Micah’s luggage next to him with a dull thud before holding his hand out slightly expectantly. “Far as I can tell, it’s mostly administration, training, and research here. Field soldiers are housed a good grip away.”
“As for the Golden Drakes?” The man shrugged indifferently. “They have connections to the royal family; everyone knows that. I don’t know why I was directed to bring you here, but I know you’re expected. They’d have impounded my carriage the minute I drove it into the Royal District if you weren’t.”
“Milord.” The driver coughed slightly, glancing down at his empty hand. “The Golden Drakes settled up your bill, but it’s been a hard couple of winters. The tab itself barely pays for what I owe on the carriage. If you’d be so kind as to spare some attunement, I’ve got three little ones and a fourth on the way.”
“Oh.” Micah shook his head, trying to clear the fog of drowsiness and wonder. “Of course. What kind of attunement would you prefer?”
“Sun would be great, milord.” The coachman beamed at Micah, displaying a pair of missing teeth. “Name’s Gheblan, milord, but my friends call me Gheb. You look like you’re in a bit over your head, so I thought I’d throw a little advice your way. Folks like me? We try and stay away from the rich and powerful sort. Sometimes things work out like in the fairy tales for the little ones, but more often than not, we step on toes we shouldn’t step on and hurt feelings that can’t be hurt.
“Not to say you’re clumsy, mind you.” Gheb frantically waved his hand. “No, the rich just have their own way of doing things. It’s too easy to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and pfff… You’re gone.” Gheb waggled his fingers, a serious note in his eyes. “Happened to my cousin Reggie. He saved a count’s prized horse from having to be put down after it threw a shoe. Count brought him out to his estate. Had a feast in his honor and everything. Then Reggie had a couple too many drinks and complimented the wrong young lady. Count’s son killed him in front of everyone to win back her honor. At his own feast.”
Gheb crossed his arms, shaking his head. “You stay alert and you stay careful. You didn’t know where you were going until you arrived? Well, that’s a surprise, and surprises aren’t accidents in Bitollan. You’re playing a dangerous game, and it sounds to me like someone else is already a couple moves ahead of you.”
“What should I do?” Micah asked him worriedly, touching Gheb’s bicep to transfer the Sun attunement to him. “I could not drink. Try to avoid saying something I shouldn’t to the wrong person.”
“Wish I could help you more.” Gheb shrugged. “Not drinking might show a lack of trust or hospitality. Could be an even worse insult than talking about someone’s grammum.”
“You there!” a voice shouted from the gatehouse as a tall, well-built man wearing sparkling silver chain armor and carrying a halberd began walking toward them. “Move the carriage or we’ll have it impounded for loitering.”
“That’s my cue.” Gheb chuckled, hopping back up onto the carriage with an agility that belied his husky frame. “If you’re ever in a spot of trouble, head on down to the Charcoal Ox in Soap Town and ask for Gheb. Doesn’t smell the best down there on account of the rendering plant, but that just means we don’t have to deal with as many guards. I can’t promise much, but if I were you, I wouldn’t be trusting any promises right now.”
With a whistle and a flick of the reins, the horses started trotting away, their hooves clacking against the cobblestones. Micah turned as he heard the sound of the guard’s footfalls approaching him. The man looked him up and down impassively. Micah shifted self-consciously as he compared his battered travel linens to the guard’s gleaming armor and helm.
“Are you Micah Silver?” the man asked, leaning forward slightly to squint at Micah’s face. “I was told you’d have a spear.”
“Oh.” Micah coughed nervously, motioning toward the oilskin-wrapped spear that leaned against his suitcase. “Yes, I’m Micah Silver.”
“Good, we’ve been expecting you.” The guard nodded, satisfied with Micah’s response. “Let’s get you inside and settled in.” He turned around and began walking back toward the gatehouse.
“Wait.” The guard stopped abruptly, forcing Micah to twist his body to avoid running into him. “That coach driver didn’t bother you for a tip, did he?”
Micah nodded uncertainly.
“By the Sixteen.” The guard shook his head angrily. “Pests, the lot of them. He was paid in full at the outset of your journey. He probably took you for an easy mark and ran a grift on you.”
22
Academy
The next morning, Micah was woken by a sharp and officious knock on his bedroom door. Struggling to clear the sleep from his eyes, he yawned and dragged himself out of bed. He padded in silence across the bedroom’s plush carpet, his feet sinking almost to his ankles in its soft embrace.
A second before Micah reached the door, it opened on its own, revealing a tall, rail-thin man wearing an immaculately pressed formal suit. He ran a stern glare over Micah’s rumpled bedclothes and clicked his tongue.
“Of course you don’t have proper attire.” He sniffed irritably. “I don’t suppose you’ve even seen a doublet before.”
“I know what a doublet is.” Micah cocked his head, trying to make sense of the mostly bald stranger critiquing his wardrobe at the crack of dawn. “My father is a tailor after all. I just wasn’t told that I would need formal clothing. I was just told to grab my adventuring gear and report to the carriage post for a trip to the capital.”
“Good.” The man threw up his hands. “His father is a tailor. I’m sure that
will impress the Third Princess and the Duke of Essenbrox’s second son. You can inform them that your crinkled and out-of-style drapings are actually a fashion statement of some sort. They’ll be quite impressed.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do about it?” Micah snapped back at him, annoyed at the older man’s one-person community theater routine. “I came in after midnight, haven’t had a full night’s sleep, and no one bothered to tell me formal wear was apparently an essential component of my wardrobe. Who in the name of the Sixteen are you anyway?” Micah asked incredulously before continuing in a calmer tone. “I have a couple dress shirts, but nothing more formal than that. Unless you can scare up something else for me, we’ll need to make do with what I have.”
“My name is Martin Osswain.” Martin squinted down his nose at Micah. “The Royal Academy has assigned me to be your batman. It reflects on me when you show up to morning classes unprepared and looking like a particularly disheveled turnip salesman.”
“Aren’t batmen supposed to show more deference?” Micah let some of his annoyance bleed into his voice. “I literally don’t know why or what I’m doing here and already I’m catching guff from you.”
“Hmmf.” Martin stepped past Micah into the bedroom before looking around and crossing his arms. “The batmen for the children of full nobles or knights might show respect in honor of your parents, but you as a person aren’t anything special yet. At the moment, you’re nothing but potential, hormones, and trouble. If you get knighted, I will be the first to insert a deferential ‘ser’ before your name. Until then, you’re just another talented cadet that I have the unfortunate duty of trying to keep out of trouble. Do you know how many of those the Academy sees?”
“I’m assuming that you’re about to tell me a very high number,” Micah responded dryly, walking over to his luggage and laying out a dress shirt and pair of trousers.