by Kody Boye
At this, the professor turned and began to scrawl a multitude of lines across the board, those of which Odin found almost impossible to read from such a faraway distance. He considered moving forward to be closer, but when the man turned and offered the room a somber look, he decided it might be best were he not to rise instead.
He’ll say what he needs to, he decided.
When the professor turned to face them, not a word within the entire classroom was spoken.
“All right,” Artlock said. “As you will notice, we have today’s book of study set before us. General Studies of History will outline the construction of the kingdom, the Soloman family line’s rise to power and the eventual figures that ruled over our kingdom over the given course of time.
“Why do we need to study?” one of the boys called out. “We’re knights, not scholars!”
“A good knight is not a stupid one,” the professor replied, opening his mouth to reveal bright teeth. “It is for that reason that you will divide your days both with training and general reading, as well as completing the assigned homework and returning it to me each and every morning. Are we understood?”
The boys gave slight, collective nods and murmurs of approval.
“Very well then,” Artlock said, turning to face the board. “Now, I would like you to turn to your General Studies of History book and flip to the table of contents, where we’ll be looking over the origins of our country and just how the capital was created.”
Over the course of the next few days, Odin went to weapons training and afternoon schooling without much trouble. With no threat of Herald Monvich’s reappearance anytime in the near future, he found himself settling into a routine that both comforted and settled him despite the unease he felt around his royal, more-prestigious peers. Early mornings before training was spent with Master Jordan, improving his skills in a private, practiced environment, while afternoons lay spread out before him like a grand dish meant to be sampled and tasted. Most homework was done easily and in the hours before dinner, turned in the next day and graded efficiently and without much trouble. He was referred to by Artlock as, ‘Exceptionally well-read’ and praised on almost each and every piece of parchment for his intelligence and the fact that he seemed just as capable as the royal children around him in spite of the fact that he did not bear any royal blood at all.
On one particularly-rainy day, when weapons training was cancelled and replaced with an extra-long schooling session, Odin found himself in a predicament where he felt as though he needed to talk to an authority figure for fear that should Herald try to assault him again, he might end up dead.
But you’re not a tattler, he thought, sighing. What are you going to do about that?
Either way, he needed to come up with a solution—now, while it still dwelled on his conscience.
When the extra-long study session reached its halfway point and Artlock allowed the boys to walk the halls and stretch their legs, Odin approached the desk and waited for the man to turn before confronting him directly.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello, Odin.” Artlock smiled. “I must say, I do enjoy reading your assignments. You’re so well read.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I was actually wondering if I could have permission to go talk with High Mage Daughtry,” he said, crossing his arms over your chest. “I just don’t know where to start.”
“What reason might you have to talk with Magic-Master Daughtry?”
“I’m one of his students and… well… I need to talk to him about something personal, if that’s all right.”
“Though I’m reluctant to let you leave class, especially when we’re deep into reading on our history, I know you’ll do perfectly well in catching up on your own time. Please—go right ahead. Ask a guard to escort you to the magic offices.”
“Thank you, sir.”
With a quick bow of his head, Odin turned and made his way out into the hall—where, directly beside the door, he approached a guard and asked to be escorted to the magic offices.
“The magic offices?” the guard asked. “What reason do you have going there?”
“I’m a mage, sir.”
“Oh.” The guard paused. “All right then. Follow me.”
The man led Odin through several interweaving halls that over the duration of their walk began to grow increasingly obscure. The windows all but gone so deep within the castle, the halls bearing little-to-no form of decoration and the wallpaper dour and appearing as though it had not been kept up for some time—Odin found himself wondering why, of all the important places within the castle, these halls would go untamed, but regardless, he brushed it off and pushed himself forward, through the hall and toward a series of rooms that lay lit with each individual magic master’s name emblazoned in gold ink upon the wooden doors.
“Here you are,” the guard said. “I trust you have rightful permission to be here, otherwise I may have to report you.”
“I can be here, sir. Thank you for leading me.”
The man gave one last nod before turning and making his way back down the halls.
Knowing not in the least how he would return to his afternoon classes without an escort, Odin shook his head, leaned forward, then knocked three times before returning to his original position.
Moments passed without any visible change in his position.
Come on, he thought. Don’t have made me come all this way for nothing.
Just as he was beginning to think it would be best to leave and try to return to his classes, the door opened, revealing Daughtry’s tall, lanky form. “Odin,” he said.
“Sir,” he replied.
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in class?”
“Actually… I wanted to talk to you about something. Something private.”
“Come in, come in.”
After stepping forward, into the room with the magic master and waiting for him to close the door behind them, Odin seated himself in the chair opposite the desk, then pressed back into it, unsure what to do or say in order to initiate the conversation.
“So,” Daughtry said, seating himself in his chair. “What might you be here for, Odin? And my apologies for not arranging study time between the two of us—I’ve been awfully busy trying to figure out just what and where I should start teaching you.”
“It’s all right, sir. My problem is… well… more about someone than about something.”
“Pardon?”
Sighing, Odin dug his fingers into the plush armrests and leaned forward. With a bit of a tremble in his voice, he said, “I got into a fight with a boy the other day.”
“You did?” Daughtry asked, waiting for Odin to nod before he continued. “For what, might I ask?”
“For… well… him hitting me in the nose so hard it bled and getting in trouble because of it. That’s not all, sir. He… he tried to drown me.” Odin paused and took a deep breath.
“Drown you?” the mage asked, the stricken look on his face one of pure horror and outrage. “Who did this, Odin?”
“I’m not a tattler, sir.”
“That doesn’t matter. What he did was attempted murder.”
“I haven’t finished my story.”
Daughtry paused, waiting for him to continue.
All right, he thought. How am I going to tell him this?
Rather than dwell on the specifics, Odin took another deep breath, expelled it, then said, “My magic went off.”
“In a fit of fear, I take it?”
“I guess. All I know is that just when I thought I would drown, the boy let go of me and I swam up to the surface to find the middle of the pond erupting in a geyser.”
“That’s some pretty impressive spell casting there, young man—though I must say, that sort of uncontrolled magic can be extremely dangerous, especially since you have no control over your emotions or how you can relate them to your magic.”
“You couldn’t control it.”
“But I was convinced he was going to drown me. What else what I was supposed to do?”
“You did what you believed was the right thing,” Daughtry replied, “and that, I believe, is the only thing you could have done. Boys trying to drown boys… that’s absolutely ridiculous, Odin, and I wish you’d tell me who did it, though I do have to say you’re quite a valiant man for sticking to your morals.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll arrange for us to start magic practice as soon as possible. You should return to your class, while the day is still young. Thank you for coming and speaking with me though. It’s much appreciated.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Odin reached out, shook the man’s hand, then rose and left the room.
The whole while he walked the halls, he couldn’t help but wonder just whether or not his future would continue safely.
The moment Odin returned to class, all eyes were on him, as if he had committed a heinous crime which could not be justified. Nervous, unsure and even more unwilling to admit difference to the young men around him, he took his seat in the original position he’d been in before, bowed his head, then crossed his arms over his chest, unable to meet the professor’s gaze or the eyes of those around him.
His thoughts jumbled within his head, his concentration set on things other than the history being explained before them, Odin tore his attention away from the professor and attempted to read the fine lines of scrawled text within his book, but found even in that moment it seemed impossible to do.
Come on, he thought. You can do this. You know you can.
Rather than try on focus on the things that were plaguing his mind, he turned his attention back to Artlock and found once more that almost every eye in the in the room was upon him.
“Odin?” Artlock asked.
“Sorry,” he replied, bowing his head.
“You need to listen, Mr. Karussa. I won’t explain things more than once.”
“Yes sir.”
Great. Now you’re going to get punished for not paying attention.
He couldn’t necessarily blame himself though, considering the conversation he had just partken in with Daughtry and the emotions that had come with it. He assumed that Artlock, judging from his personality, would possibly leave him alone, as he’d always been good in class before, but without any prior knowledge of the professor’s behavior he couldn’t necessarily be sure. In response, he turned his attention on the board of text set into the wall before them and tried to concentrate, if only to keep out of trouble.
When the afternoon classes came to a close and the pages were ushered down the hall and back toward their individual quarters, Odin found himself longing for home.
To think that he had come all this way only to have thoughts of going back was ridiculous.
It’s all right, he thought. Everything’s going to be fine.
Inside his and the other year-one pages’ room, he lay in bed with his eyes set toward the ceiling and tried to sleep despite the fact that many of his peers were doing their best to thwart those attempts. Fighting, talking, squabbling, some punching and kicking each other in arguments inane and without purpose—Odin found himself drawn to the thoughts of what he and Daughtry had spoken of earlier and how such fickle emotions were able to take hold of him without any prior consent.
You can’t help it.
Even so, the fact that he couldn’t control his magic scared him to no end. What if, in a fit of emotion, he happened to hurt or even kill someone? What then, he wondered, would happen, if not life in prison for murder or some other insidious sentence? What did they do to mages in the current day and age? Surely they didn’t burn them, as such witch-hunting had long since died out, especially in the old kingdom, but was there a punishment for equal opportunity for men and women who killed others with powers of the Will?
Not knowing how to react, Odin pushed himself into a sitting position and turned his attention on the doorway at the other side or the room—which, from his current perspective, was cracked open, and slowly being pushed forward.
A short moment later, a guard appeared. “Odin Karussa?” he asked.
All activity in the room stopped. Once more, all eyes were on him.
“Yes?” Odin asked, perturbed at the fact that awkward situations were becoming a staple in his life.
“You’ve been requested to come down to the courier’s office. You’ve been sent something.”
Sent something? he thought. But who—
The idea that his father had sent him a package alight in his mind, he thrust himself forward, off his bed, then to the guard’s side, who instantly turned and began to lead him down the hall.
Things, it seemed, were beginning to look up.
Maybe everything would be just fine.
“This is… curious,” the courier said, raising his narrowed eyes from the obviously sword-shaped package before him.
“Why?” Odin frowned.
“Pages aren’t normally sent packages, especially not weapons.”
“Who does it say it’s from?”
“That’s the thing—no one. It’s only addressed to you.”
Stepping forward, Odin pressed the flat of his hand against the obvious cross in the hilt of the sword and fingered the packing parchment beneath his fingers, almost unable to believe that a weapon delivered to him had been allowed inside the walls. Considering the situation with Germa and the fact that a war seemed ready to break out at any given moment, one would think that no weaponry at all would be allowed within the First, Second and Third inner-gate districts, let alone so close to the castle.
Who could have—
Before he could finish, his eyes fell to a single piece of smaller parchment that lay just beneath his fingers.
“May I?” Odin asked.
The courier gave no response further than a nod.
Reaching forward, Odin pulled the piece of parchment free from the packing paper, then unfurled the note.
You may not know who I am, the piece of parchment began, but I know who you are. Please, accept this gift and put it to good use. He will need a friend in the years to come.
“A friend?” Odin asked, turning his eyes on the sword that lay no more than a few short breaths away from him. “Can I open it, sir?”
“You may.” The courtier gestured the guards forward. “Just don’t try anything with it.”
“I won’t.”
Odin tangled his hands in the parchment and began to pull the weapon free of its confines.
A blade forged in the blackest metals shined in the light piercing through the window and created the impression of a dark night that could not have been anything more than horrific. The hilt—wrapped in dark red leather—ended in a cross, upon the surface of which sprouted a series of pentagons. The first black, the second silver, the third red, they stacked atop each other as if they were pieces of coin and adorned on the topmost surface was what appeared to be a spear and two drinking horns.
“Is that,” one of the guards began to say, but stopped before he could continue.
The courier narrowed his eyes.
What? Odin dared to ask, the tension so thick in the air he thought for a moment something terrible would slice through the atmosphere and end his life.
“I believe so,” the courier finally replied.
Each and every hair on Odin’s neck stood on end.
“What?” he asked, shivering, as if a cold wind had suddenly developed somewhere within the mailing office. “What is it? Tell me. Tell me!”
Stepping forward, the guards took both of Odin’s arms and began to pull him toward the door.
“Wait!” Odin cried. “Where are you taking me?”
“You are being placed in the fifth tower for conspiracy against the kingdom,” one of the guards said.
“What?”
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br /> “That’s what happens when you bring Drow weaponry into the castle.”
Odin’s heart stopped beating in his chest.
Drow?
The horrible, the evil, the malevolent, the things that had, at one point, used dark and forbidden magics in order to try and overthrow the Elven kingdom—it was no wonder that the guards were pulling him along, through the grounds and toward the entrance of the castle, then shortly thereafter through the halls and toward a single spiraling staircase that could only lead to the top walls. To think that such a thing had been sent to him was almost madness, considering the light of his current situation, but in that moment, being pulled along behind the guards, it appeared as though the entirety of the world had just been set against him, as if he had just done something horribly illegal in spite of the fact that he had done nothing at all.
No.
“No!” Odin screamed, thrusting himself away from the guards and crying out in pain when the bones in his shoulders ground together and his muscles screamed in agony. “Let me go! Let me go!”