King Magnar and his sisters sat at a nearby table, around a platter filled with slices of beef in gravy, roasted potatoes, baked carrots, parsnips, and green beans. There was even an extra serving of mixed vegetables. The chatter in the mess hall was so loud, it was impossible to hear their conversation.
I dragged my gaze away and opened up my bread roll.
“Are you sure you want to duel him?” whispered Stafford. He dipped his bread into the platypus soup, avoiding the glossy, black beak.
My stomach roiled. Mother had taught me how to sword fight, and occasionally, Father would spar with me to check on my progress. I was sure I could beat a spoiled brat like King Magnar, but he had conquered all those countries. What if he had a hidden talent for combat?
“Someone has to force a confession out of him.” I picked up my knife and slathered a thick layer of herb butter over the bread.
“Bluford.” A stern voice cut through the sound of chatter.
I glanced up to find Phoenix glaring down at me. With his curtain of burgundy hair framing his face, his maroon eyes appeared black. “Yes, sir?”
“What’s this I hear about you wanting to duel the King?”
“It’s not me who issued the challenge,” I replied.
“But you didn’t retract your accusation.”
A flush warmed my cheeks. “How could I? It’s obvious he stole the dragon eggs. He’s obsessed with hatching them, and now he’s claiming that dragons nested on the Midas islands.”
Phoenix’s brows furrowed, and triumph flared in my chest. He knew it was a lie as well. I waited for him to confirm that King Magnar was the prime suspect, but he signed and lowered himself next to me onto a seat.
“Everybody who attended the opening ceremony is under investigation for the theft, including King Magnar.”
“So, I didn’t do anything wrong.” I bit down on my bread roll.
“You can’t accuse people of crimes without evidence.” He shook his head. “I thought you would have learned that lesson from last week.”
I chewed hard on my bread roll. He was referring to how I had accused Master Fosco of murdering Mr. Jankin. That hadn’t been completely my fault. I’d seen Master Fosco order the dead body destroyed without an autopsy, and all the other evidence had pointed toward him. What’s more, I’d been desperate to save Fyrian from execution.
“Don’t blame me,” snapped Fyrian.
“I told you he was too obvious a suspect,” I replied.
“Well, you thought it was Evolene.”
“It was her… Sort of.”
“Bluford?” said Phoenix.
“Ummm…” I glanced around the table. Gobi and Rufus had arrived with slices of crocodile meat heaped onto flatbread. Rufus and Stafford stared at me with wide eyes. Even Gobi, who usually sneered, leaned forward to hear what I would say next. “Who else would want to steal dragon eggs?”
Phoenix frowned. “There was a poacher, Simum Simum, who murdered a rider and maimed a dragon. He’s still at large.”
“Asproceros?” asked Stafford. “He was spotted a few days ago trying to board a flying ship. I read it in the paper.”
Rufus rubbed his chin. “But any Noble House with lands and wealth large enough to support dragons could have sent an envoy of witches to overpower the wards and steal the eggs.”
I set down my bread roll and folded my arms. “There aren’t many Noble Houses like that in Steppe, but I can think of a warlord who could use dragons to help expand his empire.”
“Be that as it may,” said Phoenix. “King Magnar has been gracious enough to stay here for the duration of the investigation. You must stop this ridiculous duel at once.”
“But he can’t without losing face,” said Stafford.
Phoenix shook his head. “I spoke to the King. If you’re willing to make a public apology in the middle of the mess hall, retracting your statement, his honor will be satisfied.”
I turned around and glared at King Magnar, who glared back. “No.”
Gobi snorted. “I lived in the Midas Islands before King Magnar’s armies invaded. They are the most fearsome warriors I have ever seen. If you do not show respect and apologize, you deserve to die.”
“I’ll lend you my power,” said Fyrian. “Even if he didn’t steal the eggs himself, he’s still got something to do with it.”
The warm flames of triumph flared across my chest. That was all the encouragement I needed. With Fyrian’s power, I would be unbeatable.
I stood and stepped away from my table, pushing my shoulders back and adopting a heroic stance. Then I bellowed, “King Magnar!”
A hush fell across the mess hall, and all the dragon warriors looked from me to the King.
The sea of expectant faces, all fixed on me, made my insides shrivel. I sucked in a fortifying breath and added, “I accept your challenge!”
He stood. “Very well, Cadet Bluford. We will duel on the morrow, and when you are slain, my honor will be satisfied and my innocence in this matter proven.”
The crowd of onlookers rumbled at his fancy fighting words.
I waited for the noise to die down, before saying, “And when you fall at my blade, you will furnish me with the stolen eggs.”
The crowd roared their approval, and King Magnar raised his chin to the ceiling.
Phoenix pulled himself to his feet and shook his head. “This will end with your death or expulsion.”
“But if I win, King Magnar returns the eggs,” I replied.
He let out a weary sigh. It seemed that all the stress of searching for the eggs and administering for Master Fosco was taking its toll on Phoenix. “You’re assuming he is honorable enough to fulfill his end of your agreement.”
The next morning, we went to the Magecraft room, a space about the size of Fyrian’s stall with a floor-to-ceiling opening into a terrace. As usual, the stone bench at the far end of the room provided the only furniture. Oddly, there was a bucket of clear liquid in the middle of the room. General Thornicroft waited for us in the shadows. He was hard to miss, considering he stood eight feet tall with hair as white as the midday sun.
“Each of you, guests excluded, have proven yourselves capable of wielding the weapons of a mage. But who among you has enough control over his magic to perform the fist of fire?” He balled his hand into a fist and white flames burst from his skin.
Stafford and I shared a glance. Last week, General Thornicroft had ensnared us in those flames after catching us wandering the hallways. They had been as solid as hail.
“Put your hand up,” said Fyrian.
“I don’t know if I’d be able to do it again,” I stared down at the polished, sandstone floor. The last thing I needed right now was his attention.
“Bluford!” barked the General.
My heart jumped into my throat. “Sir?”
“Rumor has it that you performed this feat.”
“Not really.” I chewed my lip. “It was Fyrian.”
“Step into the center of the class.”
Ignoring Gobi’s snort of laughter, I walked toward the General. Fortunately, he released the flames of his fist, but stretched out his fingers. As a quarter-giant, he had hands large enough to pluck a man’s head off his neck.
He stuck out his thumb and ignited its tip. “See if you can produce a small flame.”
“I won’t be able to make a white one, sir.”
“Of course not,” he snapped.
“General?” asked King Magnar.
A sigh of relief whooshed out of my lungs. Whatever incriminating slew of questions he would ask about dragons would provide me with ample time to produce a flame from my thumb.
“Yes?” replied the General in a voice sharp enough to cut through a crocodile’s hide.
“Why is your flame white?”
“Someone in the class should be able to reply.” He turned to Gobi. “Bluebeard!”
I stared down at my thumbnail, willing it to catch fire.
“Yes, si
r,” said Gobi.
“Answer the question.”
“I think…” He wrung his hands and shuffled his feet. “Don’t know, sir.”
“Yet you saw fit to laugh at your classmate for being called forward.”
Gobi’s sapphire eyebrows drew together. I wasn’t sure he was mature enough to have learned to empathize with others.
General Thornicroft stalked toward Gobi, whose cobalt-blue eyes grew wide. While Gobi was a bit taller than me and had the broad physique of a half-ogre, he was no match for the quarter giant. The General loomed over him, making Gobi have to tilt his head up to make eye contact. But his gaze only reached the General’s chest, and I couldn’t blame him.
Mayhem danced in General Thornicroft’s quicksilver eyes. “In wartime, soldiers who hold petty resentments against their comrades are the first to perish.”
Gobi’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he squeaked, “Yes, sir.”
Without stepping away from Gobi, the General turned to Stafford. “Do you have an answer, boy?”
“The white flames are cold,: said Stafford. “Does that mean you’ve bonded with a gray dragon?”
“Elaborate.” The word sounded like a threat.
Stafford straightened. “Yes, sir! Your dragon is a gray, which produces both the hottest and coldest flames of all the species. I can only assume that your bond lets you produce both types of flames.”
“Correct,” He rumbled. General Thornicroft turned to King Magnar. “Will that be all, Cadet?”
“Actually, I’d like to know how one can tell the egg of a purple dragon. They’re the ones who can teleport, aren’t they? And do the eggs of a gray dragon need special treatment, or can they stay in the incubator with the others?”
Freja pulled out a small piece of parchment, and Halle, the second eldest sister, handed her a pencil. I clenched my teeth, anger boiling under the surface of my skin. How dare he flaunt his guilt in front of everyone! Were his actions some form of warfare tactic?
“Warriors do not concern themselves with the incubation of eggs.” The General turned to me. “Bluford?”
I pushed my fury into my hands, and a tiny flame emerged from the tip of my thumb.
The General grunted his approval. “Good work.” He turned to the rest of the class. “Now that Bluford has demonstrated the basics, I want all of you to produce fire from your hands.”
The lesson continued for several more minutes until all the males except King Magnar produced at least a few sparks. General Thornicroft pulled out a trunk from underneath the stone bench and kicked it open, revealing an array of swords.
“Last week, you learned to push your power through basic mage weapons. Today, I will introduce a Parched Sword.” He reached down and picked up a broad-bladed short sword.
“The Parched Sword works like the roots of a tree, soaking up liquids, filling both hilt and blade.” He ran his finger along the dip in its central ridge. “This is its gauge. At the moment, the blade is empty. Now watch this.”
He strolled to the other side of the room and placed the tip of the blade into the bucket. “This water comes from the falls.” The gauge filled and then the blade turned blue. General Thornicroft’s quicksilver eyes surveyed the bench where we stood. “Someone except Bluford push their magic through this sword.”
Gobi sprang to his feet and hurried to the center of the class. He took the sword from General Thornicroft and pointed it toward us.
The General placed a large hand on his shoulder. “Direct the sword away from your allies.”
The young ogre-hybrid flushed and pointed the tip of the sword to the opening at the end of the room. Then with a subtle wrist movement, he shot steam out of the sword’s tip.
I leaned forward. “Does it soak up any liquid?”
General Thornicroft narrowed his eyes.
“Sorry.” I coughed. “I meant to ask if it soaks up any liquid, sir.”
“It does.”
A plan hatched in the back of my brain. Each type of dragon had a unique ability. Purple dragons could teleport, yellow dragons could exhale a toxic smoke, and green dragons produced a highly flammable venom. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Fyri?”
“It’s hard not to, considering I can hear your thoughts.”
I pictured myself soaking the sword in Fyrian’s venom and then creating a flame hot enough to burn King Magnar into ash.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” she asked.
“I won’t use it to attack him, but if the flames are huge, he’ll get scared and yield. Besides, we don’t know what kind of magical tricks he will use for the duel. It’s best to have something in reserve.”
“All right, but keep it as a last resort,” she said. “I doubt that his sisters will hand over the eggs if he dies.”
We practiced with expanding our finger-flames until a dragonet arrived with a scroll for General Thornicroft. He glared at its contents and said, “Class dismissed. Have an early lunch.”
My shoulders slumped with relief, and I moved to follow Stafford out of the room.
“Bluford.”
I froze.
The General waited for everyone else to leave, then he advanced on me, eyes glinting like clashing swords. “As your head of Academy, I forbid you from participating in this duel.”
“Sir?” I tilted my head to the side. The way he’d phrased that had sounded like he secretly approved.
“Your punishment for accusing a head of state is to clean up this classroom.”
I glanced around at the empty room. What was he talking about? Then my gaze fell on the Parched Sword lying in the open trunk, and my breath caught in my throat. “Yes, sir!”
“Behave yourself.” He turned and walked out of the classroom into the terrace.
Excitement bubbled up in my chest, and my lips curved into a smile. With this parched sword and Fyrian on my side, I’d defeat King Magnar, no matter how terrible his power!
Chapter 12
After lunch, we went to a classroom in the lower levels to join cadets from the Riders and Tamers Academies for a lesson in basic swordsmanship. Our instructor was Captain Pristis, a quarter-ogre with the same slight build as my glamoured form. He wore the steel-colored, leather armor of a dragon tamer, and kept his silver hair in a high ponytail that whipped around whenever he demonstrated a spinning movement.
Although King Magnar’s sisters participated in the lecture, the monarch himself stood in the corner, holding their staffs. Every time I turned, I found his turquoise eyes fixed on me.
“He’s sizing you up for the duel,” said Fyrian.
I plunged my rapier through a practice dummy so hard its stuffing of ashes spurted out of its belly. “He should back out if he’s having regrets.”
We didn’t hear from him to arrange a time and place of the duel at dinner, but the next morning, he swept into the mess hall, swishing his red cloak. He’d changed his crown from a laurel wreath to a diadem with spokes sticking out of its base like the rays of the sun. The two eldest witches flanking him banged their staffs on the floor like a gavel.
A silence fell upon the room. Even Eyepatch stopped serving ladlefuls of chicken gizzard porridge.
I lowered my spoon into my bowl and sat upright.
Dragon warriors standing around the mess hall parted for King Magnar. Most of the males eclipsed him by half a foot and boasted twice his muscle mass, but in Steppe, it was power and not size that mattered.
“Albert… Bluford.” His voice lingered on my obviously fake last name. Everyone was convinced I was Aunt Cendrilla and Uncle Armin’s son. “I will give you one last chance to retract your slander.”
I stood. “If you’re worried about humiliating yourself at our duel, you may hand over the dragon eggs you stole.”
Fyrian gave me a roar of approval.
Excited mutters broke out across the mess hall, but King Magnar raised his hands with the confidence of a man used to commanding armies.
When everyone f
ell silent again, my throat dried, and I had to stop myself from grabbing a goblet of mango juice. Gobi had already tried to tease me for drinking a witches’ beverage, and I didn’t need the rest of the mess hall questioning both my masculinity and valor.
“That’s it,” said Fyrian. “Stand tall.”
King Magnar gave me a slow, measuring nod. “So be it. We duel today after classes. I trust that you find the swordsmanship practice room an acceptable location.”
I raised my chin. “It will suffice.”
With a sweep of his cloak, no doubt powered by the magic of his little sisters, King Magnar strode to what everyone was now calling the royal table.
The loud chatter resumed, and I lowered myself into my seat.
Stafford leaned into me. “Albert,” he whispered. “I’ve been thinking about this, and I don’t think you’re strong enough to fight him.”
Gobi snorted into his ale, and I kicked Stafford under the table. Why did he keep forgetting about sensitive ogre hearing?
Rufus grunted. “The Prince Regent is unbeatable in a fight. Why not call your stepfather?”
“My brother is too busy running the country,” said Gobi.
I pursed my lips. “Don’t worry about me. I was taught by the best swordsman in Steppe.”
Stafford’s eyes widened. “Of course—”
I gave him another kick to warn him against blurting out the identity of my father. Stafford’s hazel eyes melted into a hurt look, and I pulled his bowl of plain porridge and dumped a heaping spoon of strawberry conserves on top. “Sorry.”
That seemed to make him smile.
After breakfast, we strolled around the terraces and up the stairs to the Healer Academy building. It was four stories tall and one of the only structures in Mount Fornax that was protected by a high wall, reminding me of the walled gardens of the Magical Militia headquarters. The pungent fragrances of healing herbs carried in the wind.
The classroom was larger than Fyrian’s stall, with two rows of wooden benches lining the back wall. Roseate, the pink-haired witch, directed everyone to their seats. All the new intake from the other academies were in attendance, and I supposed that Healing was one of the subjects that was relevant to everybody.
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