A Call to Arms: Book One of the Chronicles of Arden

by Shiriluna Nott

  “I believe so. Most of the local students go home for the celebration, but there are those who live too far away to make the journey—” The mage trainee’s voice cut out without warning.

  Gib glanced up and frowned when he saw that Joel had gone rigid in his place. “What’s wrong?”

  Another boy about their age stood in their path. His arms were loaded with books as well and his green eyes were wide and fixed on Joel like he’d seen a ghost. Gib couldn’t be sure if the stranger had paled upon seeing them or if he was naturally so fair.

  Joel’s mouth moved but not a sound came forth. He took a sharp breath and turned his face away from this newcomer. “Uh—” Gib had never seen Joel so out of sorts. “I–I’m sorry,” Joel finally managed to gasp.

  Gib didn’t know who the apology was directed at.

  The other boy leapt back as if he’d been burned. Flattening himself against one side of the bookshelves, he allowed them to pass. Gib frowned. He and Joel weren’t lepers. He didn’t understand why the boy seemed so determined not to touch them. The boy’s somewhat homely face was pinched, and he muttered some sort of undecipherable apology.

  “Th–thank you,” came Joel’s stuttered response.

  The mage trainee quickly sped past and Gib had to run to keep up—when Joel stopped suddenly they almost collided.

  Gib made a noise somewhere deep in his throat. “Chhaya’s bane, Joel. What is going on?”

  Joel turned to look back at the boy they’d just passed, eyes brimming with cold resignation. He put a hand on Gib’s shoulder. “I’m sorry if this becomes awkward. I just—I have to.” The mage trainee didn’t elaborate any further as he went back to the strange, cowering boy who had by now turned his back on them.

  The boy turned to look Joel in the eye once more. Gib was sure he’d never seen that shade of crimson on a human face before. The boy flinched back and pleaded in a shrill voice, “Oh, can’t you just leave?”

  Gib stayed back a pace or two and listened.

  “Syther Lais.” Joel’s voice was cold but sorrowful. “I was beginning to think you’d left Silver entirely.”

  The boy shifted under the weight of Joel’s eyes. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

  “All the more suspicious I haven’t seen you then.” Joel’s voice was bitter. “Where did you go, Syther, when I needed you most? Why did you choose to abandon me when I was most vulnerable? Was it something I did to you? Did I misuse you in some way?”

  A rock formed in the pit of Gib’s stomach. Oh. Oh. This boy must be the one who was—involved with Joel. And if he’d been involved then but not now, that meant—Gib clenched his jaw. It was odd how quickly the anger rose. He whole-heartedly disliked this boy, Syther Lais, but knew he was being unfair since he didn’t know the boy’s side of the story. Still, Joel was his friend and had been wronged by this boy.

  Syther squirmed back into the shelves. “You—you know why I had to leave.” He glanced around. “You didn’t even ask before you went and ran your mouth to everyone.”

  Joel gasped. “I didn’t know you would leave me for that! I came back to my room, our room, and needed your support. You didn’t even tell me you were leaving. I came back to an empty room and had no one to turn to.”

  Sweat had beaded up on Syther’s forehead and he was looking around again, more desperately than before. Finally, the boy broke down into shuddering whispers. “I couldn’t stay! People couldn’t know about me.”

  “So I was to be a lone martyr? If I’d known that I may have reconsidered.”

  “You didn’t ask!” Syther jumped and lowered his voice. “We don’t all have rich families and noble names to fall back on, Joel Adelwijn. I have to pay to put myself through Academy and if I fail, I’m the one who ends up on the street. I can’t afford to lose my job. I can’t wait to find someone who will hire me despite my home life. I don’t have that luxury.”

  Gib hadn’t considered these possibilities while judging Syther. If this boy was from a more modest background, he couldn’t chance being caught.

  Joel hesitated. He sighed deeply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that when I—I was just so tired of hiding.”

  Syther glared at the floor. “Can I go now? I have work to do.”

  Joel’s eyes were damp. “I’m sorry I bothered you. It won’t happen again.” He whirled around and stormed past Gib.

  Gib hesitated before he followed. Syther’s eyes went wide. He reached toward Joel for a fraction of a moment but withdrew his hand quickly. Then Syther lowered his scarlet face and slipped around the bend in the bookshelves.

  Gib frowned. He didn’t like Syther, but he hoped for a day when the boy wouldn’t need to hide.

  The following morning found Gib in a fog at his training class. He was going through the motions while sparring, but his mind was worlds away. He kept thinking back to his brothers on the farm and whether or not they’d be all right throughout the winter. He likewise continued to think about Joel and whether or not the mage trainee was faring well. After yesterday’s run-in in the library, Joel was quiet. He pretended not to be crying, so Gib pretended not to notice. It seemed like the only civil thing to do.

  Because his mind wasn’t where it should have been, Gib failed to hear Kezra yelling at him or see Tarquin wince. The full length of Diddy’s practice sword came crashing down on Gib’s hand before he even knew what was happening.

  Gib gasped for air and dropped his own practice sword, clutching the wrist of his right hand to his chest. Blinding white pain shot through the length of his arm. His wrist had made a wet pop followed by a crunch, and he wasn’t entirely sure he could move his fingers.

  Diddy dropped his sword and rushed to Gib’s aid, the prince’s face a flurry of emotions. “Oh, Gib, I’m so sorry! I thought you saw me coming at you. I didn’t mean it—oh, where’s the help?”

  Otho Dahkeel, one of the assistants of Weapons Master Roland, jogged over and demanded to look at the injury. Gib had a difficult time pulling his good hand back long enough to let Otho see. The assistant determined additional help was needed, and a moment later Roland stormed over, his mouth set in a grimace as he eyed Gib’s swollen hand. “All right, Nemesio, to the Healer’s Pavilion. You know where it is?”

  “Uh, no. I don’t think so, sir.”

  Roland nodded toward his assistant. “Otho, take him there. That wrist is broken, I’d reckon, and needs a healer to have a look at it.”

  Eyes wide with horror, Diddy clapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m so sorry! I should have been paying closer attention. It’s all my fault.”

  The Weapons Master rolled his eyes. “No, Didier, this is Gib’s fault. Clearly he was the one not paying attention. This is unfortunate for him, but a good lesson to all.” He raised his voice so everyone could hear him. “Don’t think your enemy is going to wait for you to be ready! If you become distracted while on the battlefield, you’ll die. Likewise, if your enemy becomes distracted then you need to act. Waiting for them to focus on you may be the polite thing to do, but such civilities are best left to the palace courts. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you’ don’t win wars!”

  Gib flinched, his face hot. He wanted to take his leave, but Otho hadn’t offered to move just yet. The assistant, like everyone else, was focused on Roland. “I’m sure Gibben Nemesio will testify to the fact that it is better to not be distracted. Isn’t that right, Nemesio?”

  Gib fought to manage a response with all eyes on him. “Y–yes, sir.”

  Roland lowered his voice enough to no longer be quite so intimidating. “All right then. Off with you. If luck is on your side, you won’t have to lift another sword until after the Midwinter break.”

  Gib bit down on his tongue and followed behind Otho. They walked in silence away from the training grounds. Once again, Gib had no idea where he was being led, and he nearly had to run to keep up with Otho’s longer, quicker strides. They walked along the outside of the academy building, the side which overlooked the Tempist Ri
ver. On the opposite riverbank Gib could see the bustle of Traders Row. People swarmed the street like an army of ants as they went about their business. He wondered briefly if Liza was out there, keeping the peace.

  Gib’s legs burned nearly as badly as his swollen wrist by the time the Healers Pavilion loomed into view. At first he had no idea they had arrived. When he thought of a pavilion, he pictured a small, open structure. This pale limestone building was grand, with multiple floors and wings. The uppermost landings on each branch stood wide open, with nothing more than pillars to support the tiled roof. He imagined the infirmed were allowed to catch fresh air in these places during fair weather, but for now, they lay barren.

  Otho pointed Gib toward the door and left with no further instruction or farewell. Gib glared at the back of the assistant’s head until he disappeared around the corner of the building. All right. Apparently I’m to do this alone. With a groan, he walked in the door.

  The interior of the building was busy. Numerous students, all wearing the blue jerkins Kezra had mentioned, were attending to different people. Ailments seemed to range from minor sprains to one man who was bleeding quite heavily from his nose to a woman who looked as though she might be in labor. She was being led down the spacious corridor when Gib heard someone call to him.

  “You there, sentinel student. Are you injured? Do you need assistance?”

  Gib whirled around so fast he nearly lost his balance, and the act of catching himself caused a bolt of pain to shoot up his arm. With a wince, he righted himself and turned his eyes onto an older woman dressed in a simple blue tunic. “Y–yes. Master Roland Korbin thinks I may have broken my wrist.”

  The healer was a motherly looking woman with salt-and-pepper hair and gentle eyes. She stepped up to Gib and smoothed down his curls. “The sword got away from you, eh? All right, little one, follow me.”

  In a way, this woman reminded Gib of his own mother. She’d been dead for so long, but he suddenly wondered how she would have treated him had this sort of injury happened on the farm.

  The farm. His chest tightened. What would he do if he couldn’t tend the farm anymore? Surely this wouldn’t be his end, would it? The healers must be able to help him, right? If his hand were to heal incorrectly, he wouldn’t be able to lift a sword again either. What would he do if he couldn’t be a soldier or a farmer? What would become of Tayver and Calisto? What would become of him? A million questions raced through his mind as the kind lady led him into a modestly sized room and seated him on a cot.

  Again, the old woman ruffled his curls. “You stay here. I’ll let the healer apprentice know you’re waiting.” When he didn’t respond quickly enough, she reached out and cupped his chin in her work-rough hand. “You’ll be all right. Calm your nerves.”

  Gib nodded and did his best to wait patiently. But the sounds all around him put him on alert. Someone was groaning, pottery jars crashed in the distance, someone else was vomiting, a baby cried—Gib blinked and tried not to think about everything going on around him. His breathing was just coming back under control when the shuffling of feet indicated someone entering the small room. Gib glanced up and was met with a familiar face.

  Nawaz Arrio’s shocking blue eyes sparkled and a lopsided smile broke across his face. “Aren’t you one of Diddy’s friends?”

  “Gib Nemesio.” Gib started to offer his hand for a shake but his wrist made him think better of it.

  “Gib. That’s right. The farmer boy with the stout heart. I remember.” Nawaz’s attention zeroed in on the injured hand. He indicated the ailing limb with a nod and cock of an eyebrow. “Your bravery get you into trouble today, did it?”

  “Master Roland thinks it may be broken,” Gib replied. He blinked, taking a closer look at Nawaz’s blue jerkin. “I didn’t know you’re a healer.”

  Nawaz carefully took Gib’s aching hand and seemed to be giving it a thorough inspection. “Yeah, well, we all have to do something, don’t we?”

  “Healing is a rare gift, isn’t it? I guess that means you have a secure job at least.”

  Nawaz’s mouth slanted into a thin line. “I guess so, whether it’s the job I want or not. How did you do this? You’ve got a couple different fractures here.”

  Gib’s mouth was as dry as cotton. “Frac–fractures? Is that like a break? Will you be able to do something with it? I’ve got to be able to use my hands—”

  “Might have to amputate it.”

  Gib stared at Nawaz with a gaping mouth. His heart had all but stopped inside his chest. “Wh–what?”

  Blue eyes sparkled with mischief as the healer barked a laugh. “Relax! It was a joke. Just seeing if you were paying attention.”

  Gib’s vision blurred. “A joke? I nearly died!” He groaned when Nawaz’s only response was to continue laughing. “I thought you were being serious. You’re terrible at this!”

  “Yeah I am, but a rare gift must be utilized, right?” Nawaz wiped a laughter-induced tear from his cheek and cleared his throat as if to get down to business. “All right, so I’m going to get the bones set and started on their mending, then we’ll get you a splint—”

  “What’s going on in here? I hear entirely too much laughter.”

  Gib did a double take when Dean Arrio stepped inside the small room.

  He gave Gib a sideways glance and smiled. “Aren’t you Liza’s little brother? Gibben, right?”

  Gib was unable to hide his surprise. He’d assumed being Dean of Academy would take most of the man’s time. Then again, perhaps he needed a break from working with the likes of Diedrick Lyle. “Dean Marc? What are you doing here?”

  Marc glanced down at his own healer’s jerkin and nodded. “Oh right. I suppose this would be confusing to a newcomer. I was a healer first. Academy came later on. So whenever I get time or the pavilion has an excess of the sickly, I come over here to see if I can be useful. I can already tell I saved you just in time. This is Nawaz.”

  Nawaz folded his arms over his chest. “Yeah, yeah, save the introductions. He’s friends with Diddy. I’ve met him before.”

  Marc gave Gib a sorrowful look in the eye. “You’ve met Nawaz before? I’m sorry.”

  Nawaz shot an ugly look at the dean. “Very funny. Anyway, Gib’s got a couple fractures in his wrist cluster—the hamate and triquetral—so I’ll make sure they’re set and get them bonding. He’ll need a splint.”

  Marc nodded along. “Light duty for a handful of sennights.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get him a note for Roland and then he can get the hell out of here.”

  The dean pointed at Nawaz. “Remember to watch your mouth. You’re at work!” When Nawaz rolled his eyes, Marc cuffed the back of his head. “Sorry, Gibben. I’m not usually so forward but I’m allowed to misuse my nephew a little more than the other trainees.”

  Gib nodded as the puzzle pieces came together. Marc Arrio. Nawaz Arrio. Both were loud and prone to laughter, though either could be goaded into outbursts if the situation called. They looked alike too. Both were tall and fair featured with dark hair and expressive eyes. “He’s your nephew? I’m sorry.”

  Marc tipped his head back in laughter.

  Nawaz narrowed his eyes. “Watch it, Nemesio. You’re in my care now.”

  Gib smiled but declined to say more. He waited while Nawaz took the injured hand again and set to work on it.

  “There’s gonna be some tingling and warmth. That’s normal. Let me know if the pain spikes.”

  Gib swallowed his nerves and nodded. “All right.”

  It took a moment for anything to happen at all. Nawaz seemed to be focusing intently. Gib swallowed as he waited. Nothing is happening. It’s not like my wrist can tell him what’s wrong, can it? But Nawaz seemed to know exactly where it was broken. Maybe the wound really could speak to him.

  Healer-mages were known to call upon magic to aid with their healing. Perhaps Nawaz was using magic to help him right now. Gib decided to save his questions for Joel, who wouldn’t laugh at them.r />
  A moment later, the tingling set in just as Nawaz had said, but it was more intense than Gib imagined. Back on the farm, he’d sometimes slept wrong and had an arm or leg fall asleep. When he’d try to use the limb, it would feel like it was being engulfed in pinpricks and flame. This feeling was similar but more intense. He stiffened, a strangled cry escaping his throat.

  Nawaz never broke his concentration. “Pain?”

  Gib took a breath and thought. “N–No. Not really. Just hot and—odd.”

  Both Marc and his nephew nodded as if that were normal, and Nawaz didn’t offer to let up. Despite the discomfort, Gib was mildly reassured—and determined to never need to be healed again.

  He watched as Marc hovered over his nephew, observing every movement. If the dean’s presence made Nawaz uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. Marc frowned at one point and guided the younger healer. “Ground yourself. Remember to stay grounded.”

  Nawaz didn’t look up from what he was doing but did manage to snipe back. “I am grounded. Will you just go get me a splint?”

  Soon enough, Gib’s bones had been set and started on their way to mending. He left the pavilion with a splint wrapped about his hand and a note detailing that he was not to resume heavy duty until further word was given from the healers. Nawaz and Marc had both assured him that he would regain full mobility of his hand and fingers. Gib hoped they weren’t mistaken.

  Chapter Six

  For the next several days, Gib found himself doing a lot of sweeping, feeding horses, and helping pick up the training swords and equipment—mostly one-handed jobs. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if the “light duty” was any better than his actual training. He decided it was worse when Kezra began joking about his “lovely splint bracelet” and even Tarquin, Diddy, and Nage chuckled along.

  On the last day of their training cycle before rest, Lady Beatrice from his Ardenian Law class came to ask Master Roland if she could borrow Gib. He was grateful. He turned a smug look back on his friends as they glared his way, their breath visible in the chilly air. He followed behind the professor, shedding his cloak as soon as they stepped inside the hall. Beatrice smiled, the smallest traces of wrinkles forming around her plump lips and olive-colored eyes.