“Pardon, Lord Guerra,” Forta said, stepping forward. “But the ceremony must contin—”
“I am the best candidate you had!” Micah shouted, ignoring the crier. “Wil can barely lift his shield! Ed isn’t even a noble!”
Finally noticing the whole stage gawping down at him in horror, Micah seemed to falter. “Please,” he said less heatedly, lowering his hand. “Please, you don’t understand!”
Ser Brent crossed his thick arms and stared down at Micah with a stern frown.
“I think I do understand you,” he said. “The day you ran practice drills, I watched you trip another participant who’d finished well behind you. You mocked him as he left the field. Your whole life I’ve seen you torture those weaker than you, Messere Guerra. But a knight’s charge is to the weak. We are guardians. We serve the people of this city, no less than any other guild represented on this stage. I understand you, and that is exactly why you will never be a knight of Freestone.”
Micah’s face pinched in anguish. “Please…” he said one final time.
“Wil’s strength will come with training,” Ser Brent continued, ignoring the plea. “And when Ed becomes a full knight, he’ll have earned his nobility. You, Messere, have a different skill to learn. Perhaps one of the other fine guilds here will be gracious enough to teach it to you.”
As Ser Brent moved back to his guild’s banner, the square exploded once again into excited whispers. Such a breach of etiquette during a Guildculling was unprecedented, and few had ever seen a noble—even a young one—humiliated so openly.
Micah drooped back into his seat without another word, crouching tightly into himself. He looked like he’d been punched in the stomach.
“Wow,” Brock whispered. “I almost feel bad for the guy.”
All Zed could do was nod dumbly. Though he’d immediately disliked Micah Guerra, as a fellow participant in the Guildculling he couldn’t help but empathize.
And the Silverglows were next.
Forta cleared her throat to calm the crowd, then held a hand out to the next banner, on which a moon was depicted over a gray field. The Mages Guild emblems were all enchanted, so that the moon changed phases to match the real one. It hung now as a thick crescent.
Beneath it stood the guildmistress of the Mages Guild, a woman Zed recognized as Archmagus Dafonil Grima. He’d watched her every year, enraptured, as she announced her guild’s claims. They always made the fewest of any—never more than one or two children a year. Wizards were a very rare sort.
Archmagus Grima glided forward, inclining her head to the crier.
Immediately the whispers stopped as the crowd waited for her to speak. If the Stone Sons inspired, the Silverglows awed. Few in Freestone were quite sure what to think of the mages. Rumors abounded about the sorts of animals you might get turned into if you crossed one. The guild’s main charge was to maintain the wards that protected the city, though just how they did this was a closely guarded secret. They were beneficent but remote—living secluded lives in Silverglow Tower. Strange lights and noises sometimes exploded from the spire, not to mention the smells.
Zed nervously tucked a hand into his collar, searching for the fox charm. He felt the cool touch of metal as his fingers made contact with the elven chain Makiva had given him. After some more wiggling he found the wooden charm and rubbed it with his thumb, making a silent wish.
“The Mages Guild would like to claim two children as apprentice wizards,” Grima said cooly. Her voice was as velvety as her shimmering cloak. Zed could have imagined it, but he thought the archmagus caught his eye as she spoke.
“We claim Andrew Howl and Teri Uchi.”
Gasps and squeals sounded from the friends of Andrew and Teri. The crowd all clapped politely for the two and they moved to take their tokens.
Zed let out a breath. He had expected this. He’d prepared for it. But it still didn’t make the moment any easier.
“They’re fools, if you ask me,” Brock whispered beside him. “Terrifying, powerful, please-don’t-tell-anyone-I-said-this fools.”
Zed tried out a laugh. It sounded as fake as it felt.
He forced himself to look back up at the stage, and was surprised to see that the archmagus was still standing at the front after handing out her tokens. She waited patiently for the crowd to quiet.
With a mischievous look, Grima finally raised her hand. “Additionally,” she said, cutting through the noise. “We would like to claim Zerend Kagari as an apprentice sorcerer.”
Zed wasn’t sure whether the crowd had gone silent in surprise, or if he’d just been momentarily struck deaf.
His name. She’d said his name.
He was going to join the Mages Guild—not as a wizard, but a sorcerer. What was the difference? It didn’t matter! He was going to be a magus, with the title and everything!
Zed slowly realized that Brock was shouting his name beside him. Brock grabbed his shoulder and pushed him forward. Zed’s face split into a huge grin as he walked to the stage, awash in the sounds of applause. People were clapping—for him. He felt a tingling rush of heat surge into his cheeks and ears, but he didn’t care if he was blushing. This was the greatest moment of his life.
Archmagus Grima nodded at him, a smile playing coyly at the corners of her mouth. She handed Zed his token, on which a crescent moon glowed magically with pale light.
Zed turned around and searched the crowd for his mother. He found her with her hands pressed over her mouth, tears of happiness streaming down her cheeks.
Zed didn’t think it was possible, but he actually grinned wider.
As he returned to his spot and the archmagus to her banner, the clapping slowly diminished. Forta moved to the front and introduced Mother Brenner, the guildmistress of the Healers Guild. The woman stood beneath a white silk banner depicting a golden sun. Apparently, before the Day of Dangers, healing had been a costly thing, and many died because they couldn’t afford care. Nowadays the Golden Way Temple offered free healing to any who needed it—even to the guildless. Mother Brenner was beloved. Formerly a noble herself, she was often a voice for mercy or prudence during the city’s more tumultuous times.
Zed could barely concentrate through his own relief and happiness, but when he heard Micah Guerra’s name called among the new novices of the Golden Way, tucked curtly between Lea Eovard and Zak Lews, he glanced to the front. The young noble’s expression was pure misery.
No, Zed realized, not a noble anymore. Once he took his oaths, he’d be Brother Micah. He’d no longer have even a surname.
After the new novices received their tokens, the Merchants Guild made their claims. Their banner was a black field with three interlocking loops: copper, silver, and gold.
The Merchants Guild had been established by Dox Eural. Before he was a Champion of Freestone, Dox had been a thief and spy, the most notorious member of the band of heroes.
It was on the Day of Dangers that he finally proved his loyalty to the city.
In the two centuries that followed, the details of what happened that day vacillated somewhere between history and legend. Foster Pendleton, in a bid to enhance his magical prowess, performed a forbidden ritual outside the bounds of the city. He hoped to open a gateway to another plane and bargain for power with the entity that lived there.
Instead, Foster weakened the boundaries between all the planes—allowing foul creatures from other worlds to pass into Terryn. The monsters rampaged, consuming whole cities in the span of hours.
While the other three Champions defended their home, Dox set out alone into the mayhem to confront his former best friend. He found Foster still locked in his calamitous ritual, blind to all the suffering he had caused.
The only way to halt the ritual was for the warlock to die. And so, with a heavy heart, Dox killed his wayward friend. For that act, he would be known as the Assassin.
When Dox returned to Freestone, he realized he had been too late. He stopped more monsters from entering Terryn, b
ut those that had crossed over would remain forever. And so Dox gave up his guileful ways and formed the Merchants Guild, to help establish lawful commerce for a stranded city on the brink of chaos.
The merchants’ guildmaster, Lord Quilby, stepped spiritedly to the front of the stage. Zed forced himself to concentrate for just a bit longer. This was Brock’s moment. Quilby lowered himself into a steep bow, then read through a list of names prepared on fine parchment.
Brock Dunderfel was the very first.
Zed cheered for Brock, who smiled bashfully. The other participants around them all slapped his back and shoulders in congratulations.
Brock climbed the stage with his fellow new merchants to receive his token, then returned to Zed’s side with a nod. Zed had expected his friend to bask in the applause a bit more, but Brock must have known better than to gloat. He could always read a crowd.
When Quilby returned to his place on the stage, Forta stepped forward.
“Now I welcome the leader of a guild whose function is vital to the continued life of our city. Alabasel Frond will make the claims for the Adventurers Guild.”
The square became intensely quiet as Frond—the Basilisk—ambled to the front of the stage from beneath her guild’s deep blue banner, sprinkled with white stars.
The guildmistress wore a sword slung brazenly across her back in a curved scabbard, as if she were a knighted Stone Son instead of a glorified goon. Her fingers tapped restlessly at several sharp metal points that were banded into her belt. She was the only woman Zed had ever seen carry weapons openly in public. Zed’s mother claimed she looked ridiculous, armed and armored like a man.
Zed thought she was terrifying.
The Sea of Stars was not a High Guild in name, but it had powers and responsibilities no other could declare. After the four High Guilds were formed, the Champions of Freestone realized that their city would not survive unless some brave souls agreed to search the monster-ridden wastes for resources. And so together they formed a fifth guild, one whose office was to explore the wilds—and to hunt the Dangers that lurked there.
Few ever asked to join the Adventurers Guild. They were the only citizens of Freestone who left the safety of the city’s walls, and their members often died young. Indeed, Frond herself was a mess of improbable scars, a living warning of what waited outside.
Although the task of exploring the lands of Terryn was vital, it was a thankless one. Many considered the members of the guild tainted by the very creatures they fought. Common gossip told of monsters that left lasting afflictions: plagues that could spread with a touch, or blights of the mind that turned the clever into raving fools.
But the Adventurers Guild had privileges in the Guildculling that made up for its unpopularity. Anyone who volunteered to join would be accepted automatically, for instance, regardless of gender, station, or creed—or even if they were in another guild. A person could avoid guildlessness in this way, though for most the prospect didn’t seem much better.
Then there was the draft.
Alabasel Frond cleared her throat, surveying the crowd with flinty eyes. Zed dropped his gaze as she passed over him.
“We’ll take two this year,” the guildmistress said in a gravelly alto. “Dwarfson Jett Thunder-Hammer and Liza Guerra, the noble brat’s sister.” Then she spat right on the stage.
Zed and Brock both turned to look at Jett, whose face had paled in horror. The other dwarves around him grumbled in solidarity, but none protested in the way Micah had done.
Not even Micah, for his own sister. The girl seated beside him stared up at Frond with shaky resolve. Zed couldn’t guess what the Adventurers Guild would want with a pampered noble who’d probably never held a weapon in her life.
Slowly, Jett and Liza moved to the stage, where Frond waited with a frown. She flicked her tokens to the two, not bothering with any ceremony. To their credit, both caught them. Farther back, Zed could see the guildmasters of the Stewards and Smiths Guilds each crossing a name from their lists of claims.
When the two new adventurers had retreated, the guildmistress looked over the crowd once more.
“Anyone else want to volunteer?” she asked the remaining participants.
The crowd hummed softly as it turned its attention away from Frond, speculating at the guild’s strange selections. Zed watched Jett as he returned to his place with the other dwarves. He’d never seen a dwarf cry, but for once he believed it might be possible.
“In that case I’ll take the sorcerer, too,” Frond said. “The elf-blooded boy. I’m invoking the draft.”
Zed’s body realized what had happened before he did. Every hair on his arms stood on end.
“No,” Brock whispered. “No, that’s not possible.”
There was a beat of windless silence more thunderous than any horn Zed had ever heard. Then a flood of whispers sussed through the quiet. All around him, eyes found Zed. For the second time that morning, he was the focus of attention for the entire square—and this time he felt the weight of every single gaze.
As the foundations for everything Zed had ever wanted crumbled away beneath him, he realized that he would become legendary today, maybe even more so than Micah Guerra. Zed was the elf-blooded boy who’d nearly gotten away with it. Power, nobility, and prestige had all been within his grasp…and then fate had corrected its mistake.
“Don’t go,” Brock hissed in his ear. “Don’t take the token.”
“I don’t have a choice.” The words came automatically, as if to underscore the point.
“It’s a death sentence!” Brock said.
A death sentence. Zed thought of his mother. Zed’s father had died outside those walls. Would she grieve Zed as she had him? Who would watch out for her then?
He began a second grueling walk to the stage. As he moved, the crowd of participants parted for him, quicker than before. He raised his face as he got closer and found Alabasel Frond staring mirthlessly at him. He scowled right back at her.
When he was a foot from the stage, the Basilisk flicked her thumb and Zed’s token arced through the air. He missed the catch and it landed in a clot of mud. Zed bent to pick it up, his face burning, and that was when he heard Brock’s voice.
“I’ll enlist!” his friend shouted. “I want to join the Adventurers Guild!”
Zed shot up, shouting “No!” but his voice was lost in the outburst of gasps and chatter that followed. Brock pushed his way forward until he stood beside Zed, staring defiantly up at the guildmistress.
“Brock, don’t, please!” Zed said. “You have a future!” His eyes found Lord Quilby upon the stage. The guildmaster of the Merchants Guild watched the proceedings impassively, though Zed could see the man was sweating. His tongue flicked quickly over his thin lips.
Brock ignored him, eyes on the Basilisk. “Did you hear me, Guildmistress? I said I volunteer.”
Frond’s mouth spread into a toxic smile. “Oh, I heard you, merchant’s son. I suppose I should consider this my lucky day.” Her smile tightened into a sneer. “What rare selflessness. It warms the heart.” The woman’s grin vanished at the same moment she flipped a token through the air.
Brock caught it one-handed.
“Apprentices,” Frond barked. “You will report to the guildhall with your belongings at first bell.” As she turned from the stage and moved back to her banner, the Basilisk added, “Early or late, you will all have latrine duty.”
Brock found it difficult to pack that evening. He couldn’t shake the thought that he was deciding what to wear to his own funeral.
In the end, he kept it simple. Two pairs of trousers. A few tunics and undershirts and a doublet. There wouldn’t be any need for dress clothes where he was going.
He looked around his room, feeling sorry for himself and a bit afraid. Then he wondered what Zed was feeling at that moment, and his own misery wilted, burned back by the anger he felt on behalf of his friend. Brock found a sort of comfort in anger. All the better if it were righteou
s and on behalf of another.
With nothing left to do, he headed downstairs for dinner.
Most structures in Freestone were several stories tall. Outtown, closer to the wall, families lived stacked on top of one another. The narrow buildings were packed so close together that from the outside it was difficult to tell where one structure ended and another began. By contrast, Brock’s family, like many families intown, had an entire three-story manor to themselves.
His father met him on the narrow staircase.
“You handled yourself well out there, boy,” he said in a low voice, and Brock felt a little pride at that. “A bit ostentatious, but it got the job done.”
Brock’s momentary happiness soured. “Yeah, well, lucky the Stars take anyone, even if they’re ostentatious,” he said, and his father shushed him.
“Your mother,” he whispered, inclining his head downstairs toward the dining room.
“You haven’t told her?” Brock hissed.
“That I put you up to this? She wouldn’t understand. And there’s little in this world more frightening than a woman defending her child.” At Brock’s dark look, his father continued, “Brock, I’m sick about this entire situation, believe me. This isn’t what I wanted for you. But you don’t say no to Borace Quilby.”
“You don’t say no to him, anyway,” Brock grumbled.
Brock’s father was not an affectionate man. He was stingy with his praise and usually offered only a handshake at birthdays and holidays. So Brock was startled when his father pulled him into a tight hug. “You keep your head down,” he said. “You don’t take any risks, you learn everything you can, and then we’ll get you out of there.”
Before Brock could even process what was happening, his father had released him, nodded gruffly, and walked away. Brock took a moment to compose himself before following downstairs.
Where his mother awaited him with daggers in her eyes.
“Brock Lilyorchid Dunderfel, what were you thinking?”
The Adventurers Guild Page 4