Savant & Feral (Digital Boxed Set): Books 1 and 2 of the Epic Luminether Fantasy Series

by Richard Denoncourt

  A familiar rumbling noise filled Oscar’s ears. He could feel it coming from inside his head instead of out. The noise developed into a distinct, feline purr.

  Yes, that’s it. Come here, Reina. That’s a good girl.

  The cat’s eyes widened slightly. It raised its head, its gaze fixated on Oscar’s hand.

  That’s a good girl.

  The purring noise changed, taking on a rhythmic quality that made Oscar want to stomp his foot in frustration.

  She was laughing at him.

  “Wait,” Oscar told the cat out loud. “I’m sorry. I understand you’re mad about the spell. But we were just scared.”

  It was no use. Reina gave a lazy yawn, lowered her chin onto her paws, and decided right then and there to take a nap.

  “See?” the dean said, shooting out of his chair. He leaned over his desk and pointed a finger triumphantly at Emmanuel. “I told you it was impossible.”

  “No, wait!” Oscar said. “She just doesn’t like me. But if we could go outside—maybe to the forest…”

  “Olmere,” Emmanuel said, taking a step forward, “trust me on this.”

  “Now’s not the time, Professor. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Haven’t you heard? War is on the horizon. There’s a new emperor in Taradyn—a necromancer, no less. I have to ensure the integrity of my rogues in case the worst happens. A cadet who can’t phase puts everyone at risk.” He threw his hands up in the air. “We would have to change all the rules, rewrite our entire tactical manual, not to mention the fact that if I admit one cadet who can’t phase, I’d have to let them all in.”

  “You’re being dramatic,” Emmanuel said. “By all the power vested in me by the Decree of Champions—”

  The dean cut him off, circling the desk with another finger outstretched. “Don’t speak to me about vested power, Emmanuel. We all thought you were dead. You can’t just show up suddenly and rewrite the rules. Besides, the Archon hasn’t placed you on any sort of council, and with the Champions no longer in force, the decree doesn’t apply. It’s a historical document at this point, nothing more.”

  Emmanuel took another step forward, his voice cold with rage. “Those two wardens guarding the stairs.”

  The dean opened a desk drawer. “What about them?” He pulled out a velvety case, snapped it open, removed a pair of sparkling diamond cufflinks, and began fixing them to his sleeves.

  “They have no business on this campus, not unless they’re guarding the Archon or one of his officials. When did you decide to let the state run things around here, Olmere? It must have been after I left, because I distinctly remember this school being a sovereign entity.”

  Finished with the cufflinks, Sethanel inspected his outfit and gave a satisfied sigh. “Your time is up, I’m afraid. I’m to have brunch with the Archon in a bit. If the boy can learn—”

  “His name is Oscar.”

  “Well, if Oscar here can learn to phase before the new semester, I’ll let him take the preparatory courses. Then, years down the line, he can attempt to brave the entrance exams like everyone else.”

  “Unacceptable!” Emmanuel slammed his hands down on the dean’s desk, causing Reina to lift her head and growl. The dean only glared at the magician with the same dead calm as before. “Listen to me, Olmere, and mark my words. War is on the horizon, but this war won’t simply roll over us like a storm. It’ll spread like a virus. It has been for years. I don’t care if the Archon is paying you. You’re not hiding it, which means you’re not the only one. But I do care about the safety of this realm. Right now, we need to train every cadet who’s willing—especially ones like him.”

  Emmanuel thrust a finger at Oscar, to whom the dean then cast a look of mild contempt, probably wishing he had never taken this meeting in the first place. With a shrug, he turned, opened a cabinet in his display case, and removed a decanter, from which he poured himself a glass of liquor Oscar identified as whiskey by its tangy scent.

  Whiskey at seven in the morning?

  As Sethanel placed the decanter back in its spot, Oscar caught sight of a dozen or more empty whiskey bottles. The man was an alcoholic. Not that Oscar pitied him.

  Emmanuel appeared not to have noticed the empty bottles. He sounded desperate now. “You saw how quick he was. Even for a Feral, he possesses more agility than I’ve ever seen. And I’m not lying about his ability with animals. Think of how valuable that could be in enemy territory, a rogue who can command the eyes of a hawk or the stealth of a mouse, all from a guarded position a mile away.”

  “But where would I place him?” the dean said, swishing his drink around in his glass. “Our tactical system has more than five thousand years of trial and error behind it. For us, the ability to phase is just as crucial as the ability to move and think in human form. Our training relies on the ability of its students to combine human reasoning with animal instinct, the latter of which this boy lacks. Even if he could empathize with animals—a legendary ability I still don’t believe exists—I wouldn’t know which instructor to pair him with. Who would mentor him in his final year? Which of our blademasters would even agree to such a thing?” He shook his head and sipped his drink. “You Savants think you understand our ways, but even one as old as you remain clueless. If the boy can’t phase, then he isn’t one of us. Let another department have him.”

  “It would be your loss.”

  With another shrug, the dean tipped the glass against his lips and emptied it.

  “Alcohol won’t cure it,” Emmanuel said.

  “Cure what?” Now Sethanel looked intrigued.

  “The shame and self-loathing you feel at having become one of the Archon’s many pawns. How much, exactly, does it cost to buy the integrity of a man in your position?”

  “You bastard,” Sethanel said softly. Then his voice leaped into a roar. “You godless bastard.”

  His arm moved so fast even Oscar barely registered it.

  By the time he realized what had happened—that Sethanel had thrown the glass at Emmanuel—Oscar’s hand had already shot away from his body.

  The glass would have shattered against the magician, but that never happened. Instead, Oscar’s hand moved, and his palm stung from an impact that caught him by surprise, not because of the pain but because it was too incredible to believe.

  The room was silent except for the crackling of the flames in the fireplace. Dean Sethanel and Emmanuel were both staring at him. Even Reina was watching him in amazement.

  Oscar dropped the glass. It fell to the carpet with a soft thud. His entire hand tingled from the impact.

  “You—you actually caught it,” Sethanel said.

  “See what I mean?” Emmanuel said with a note of pride. “Even for a Feral, that was above and beyond what’s normal.”

  Dean Sethanel turned his back on them. He gazed up at a dagger hanging a few feet above his head. This one looked particularly deadly, with a blade that curled like a wriggling snake.

  He joined his hands behind his back. When he spoke, his voice came out sounding weary, as if nothing surprised him anymore and all he wanted was to be alone.

  “Be on your way, Professor.”

  “Sethanel, you can’t ignore—”

  “I said, be on your way, Professor.”

  The man sounded like a completely different person—one who had nothing to lose and was therefore incredibly dangerous. Oscar felt a chill slither across his back.

  “Fine,” Emmanuel said. “I’ll mentor him myself.”

  Sethanel spoke flatly, like he was reading from a rulebook. “Rogue training outside the officially sanctioned program is seen as an act against the government. If that is the course you wish to take, I will be forced to turn you in.”

  “So turn me in. See what happens when you cross a ten-thousand-year-old demigod with an army like the Forge at his fingertips.”

  “Is that a threat?” The dean’s tail curled up and swished across his lower back.

  “No, Olmere. It’s just a wa
rning from an old friend. Good day to you.”

  On their way out, that rhythmic rumbling filled Oscar’s head again. It was Reina, having the last laugh. He could feel the animal’s condescending gaze warming his back as the door swung shut between them.

  CHAPTER 21

  “I f we’re going to do this right,” Artemis told Calista in the basement, “then we need to keep you safe. Keldran has spies watching the bakery. My allegiance with the Wolf Pack will keep him at bay for now, but there’s nothing stopping him from targeting you if he thinks you had anything to do with the death of those two thugs. Luckily, none of them were top guys.”

  A week earlier (the night the chimpanzee and lion almost killed us, she recounted to her brother), Artemis had stashed Calista’s unconscious body in a safe room he had built in the basement. In case she woke up before he got back—if he ever got back at all—he left her a note explaining where she was and what had happened, along with instructions on how to escape through a secret tunnel in the earth that led to a nearby river.

  Then, in the dead of night, with Calista asleep and safe back at the bakery, Artemis got to work loading both animal carcasses into a wagon he normally used to transport sacks of flour. He drove across town to the west end and knocked on Kristian Keldran’s door.

  The risk he took had seemed unimaginable to Calista until she heard the whole story. One of Keldran’s lieutenants answered the door with a knife at the ready. When he saw Artemis standing there in his pajamas, covered in blood with no weapon in sight, the man fell into a stunned silence. He soon gathered his wits and yanked Artemis into the house, which was located at the back of Keldran’s immense spread of farmland. Then he and a few of his men tied him to a chair for the second time that night.

  Artemis demanded to speak with Keldran and would say nothing more. An hour later, the boss showed up, flanked by half a dozen armed men. He had seen the bodies of his two thugs in the foyer on his way in. Furious, he demanded an explanation.

  Artemis calmly informed Keldran that his men had been killed in self-defense. Then he suggested a deal with Keldran. All attacks would stop, and he would be left to conduct business as usual. In exchange, Artemis would pay a third of his profits to Keldran and give up his prized recipes, making it easier for the struggling bakeries and restaurants owned by the crime boss to compete with him.

  Keldran threatened to kill Artemis then and there and seize the bakery for himself. Artemis countered with a warning—his closest friends in the Wolf Pack, men with whom he had shed blood in numerous battles, would know very quickly if Artemis should fail to draw breath. They would come after Keldran and his men with everything they had.

  He was bluffing, but how could the crime boss know for sure?

  It took some negotiating, and Artemis was beaten more than once over the next few hours, but in the end, Keldran agreed. He would keep his men away from the bakery except to collect payment once a week. He even promised to keep his spies away, though Artemis knew the man was lying about that. It was good enough.

  He returned to the bakery, transferred Calista to the bed upstairs, and fell asleep on the floor next to her.

  The next night, he took her back to the safe room in the basement, this time to begin her training.

  “You saved my life,” Artemis told her as he slid a bread knife into a seam in the wall and sliced downward, unlocking a heavy stone door that had been invisible before. “And for that, I’m going to make you the deadliest fighter in Peleros.”

  The room was pitch black inside. Artemis lit a series of lamps that filled it with a grainy yellow light. Calista was amazed at what she saw. There were weapons everywhere, hanging on the walls and laid out on tables in the center—quickswords with blades as wide as two fingers, throwing knives that gleamed on leather belts, hunting bows and crossbows painted a mottled brown and green for camouflage in a forest—enough to outfit a dozen men or more. Calista knew little about weapons, but she knew beautiful things when she saw them.

  “I can see you’re not intimidated,” Artemis said.

  “Not at all. These are exquisite.”

  “Who taught you that word?”

  “My sister,” Calista said, eyeing the crossbows. “She likes to look at herself in the mirror and say, ‘Be exquisite,’ over and over, like it might actually work.”

  Artemis chuckled. “Sounds like a future beauty queen contestant.”

  “She seems to think so.”

  Calista chose a sword as her primary weapon, with the short bow as a secondary.

  “That’s a lot to carry into battle,” Artemis warned. “Can I recommend a combination of sword and throwing knives instead?”

  Calista shook her head. “I can wear the bow in back and the sword at my waist.”

  “Good thinking.”

  For the next twenty-two months, Calista met Artemis four nights a week for two-hour training sessions. She never missed a single one. Artemis hired an apprentice to take care of many of the bakery’s needs, which cut his work schedule in half. It came at great cost, and with the fee he paid Keldran’s men each week, plus the loss of his secret recipes, the baker lost much of his wealth trying to keep the place running. He assured Calista that money didn’t matter.

  He emptied the basement so they could have more room to practice. Using wooden sticks, he taught Calista sword fighting. Standing alongside each other with short bows, they practiced shooting targets set up across the room. A few times a month, he took her out into the forest to hunt gray-feathered flutterbills, known for their zigzagging flight.

  Calista’s sneaking and thieving abilities took a backseat to an entirely new set of skills. Her sword came to feel like an extension of her hand and wrist. She named it “Wind” because of how the blade became invisible when she swung it at a certain speed. The short bow she called “Quicksilver.”

  Her twenty-second month of training arrived right around the same time as her birthday. She was fourteen years old, taller and leaner than most girls her age, and sporting a confidence that showed in the bounce of each step. She began noticing an odd phenomenon—boys who had once ignored her now threw her admiring looks as she passed them on the street.

  On her way to the marketplace one morning, where she had found a job at a fruit stall so she wouldn’t have to steal, a strange little man approached her with a curious look on his face.

  “Girl,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  Calista could only squint back at him in suspicion. He looked much different than the skeevy men who normally tried to flirt with her. Thicker around the midsection than most Ferals, the man was dressed in a colorful suit he had probably purchased in one of the larger cities on the coast, where people knew of a thing called “fashion.” His hair was slicked with fragrant, flower-scented oil, and his tail was the first Calista had ever seen adorned with jewelry.

  “My name?” Calista lowered one hand toward the dagger she kept tucked into one of her boots. “Who’s asking?”

  “The name’s Beasel. Beasel Torpin,” he said in a smooth, practiced introduction. “I’m sort of a—well, sort of a representative, you might say.”

  “Who do you represent?”

  “Future beauty queens. Promising young ladies like yourself.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “And you’re blushing,” the man said, “which means you know what I’m going to tell you next.”

  “My sister, Marcely—she’s the one you’re probably…”

  “I’m well aware of who your sister is. She’s met with everyone in my company, and we’ve all come to the same conclusion.”

  “And what’s that?”

  He winced as if he had come across sour fruit in her stall. “She’s, oh, how do you say it without sounding shallow? A little soft. You know,” he made an expanding motion around his cheeks, “a little full of herself. One can tell with girls like that. Not enough ambition.”

  It was obvious he was talking about Marcely’s weight. Eating pa
stries every day—and often sneaking them at night—had caused her to gain more than a few pounds. In Calista’s opinion, her sister was now more beautiful than ever, though she didn’t expect a shallow pageant official like this man to see it that way.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Oh, nectar,” he said with a smile Calista found condescending and downright insulting. “You’re one of those tough girls, probably grew up picking pockets on the streets. You expect brutal honesty, I’m sure.”

  Calista held his gaze, neither affirming nor denying his observation.

  “Cold steel,” Beasel said, jabbing a finger at her. “That’s what I’m talking about. Walk with me.”

  It was those words—cold steel—that made her decide to follow this strange buffoon. They reminded her of the time Artemis said he saw Tiberian Steel in her eyes. She abandoned her stall and would probably be fired as a result, and joined Beasel as he elbowed his way through the crowd.

  “Here’s what no one else has told you,” Beasel said, walking with his hands joined behind his back and his chest puffed up in regal fashion. “A war creeps toward our humble little continent. We city folk are well aware of this, unlike you country folk, who sleep comfortably at night beneath the warm blanket of ignorance. I mean no offense, of course. The news industry in this region isn’t quite as…far-reaching as it is back home. Unless you count gossip among housewives as news.”

  “What’s your point?” Calista said.

  “Patience. I’m getting there.”

  Beasel flinched as an old beggar dressed in rags bounded up to him, begging for change. Calista dug a coin out of her pocket and flipped it at the man, who caught it with a grateful smile.

  “Many thanks, Calista,” the beggar said.

  “No problem, Harold,” she told him.

  Beasel watched the man scamper away, wiping one hand against his suit as if the encounter had soiled it. “Friend of yours?” he inquired.

  “Oh, you know,” Calista said, “just someone I used to pick pockets with on the street.”