The Crystal College

by Nathaniel Sullivan

  But the reason lords traditionally fear losing the college, and thus grant them special privileges is twofold, although I doubt if many can recall them at this time. One: Although now most think them inseparable, the Crystal College did not always reside inside the walls of Froj, and there are many organizations that would be glad to have the artifacts and prestige of the college working in their favor—the large city of Winfrost in particular has been rumored to try to bribe the college grandmasters on more than one occasion. Two: It is no longer common knowledge to those of our time, and indeed, it may not be true, yet it has been speculated that the Crystal College was not built like our cities and mines and factories. Rumor has it, when it arose within the city a hundred years ago, it was not constructed—it was grown from the very rocks upon untamed ground.

  —Common Knowledge Volume II

  For most of the journey, Nandor, Nix, and Dorin kept their distance from the main group. For his part, Nandor did not wish to see Benjfrost, and he realized that Forojen was right—there was no point in prematurely starting a fight.

  So they lingered in the back of the group, skiing slowly behind even the guards and royal patrons. By the time they had left the city, it had become apparent from the mumblings and whispers of the convoy that the meeting was to be held within the Green Forest itself. A strange choice, but fitting.

  The Green Forest was in the Paradise Valley—almost an equal distance between all three cities, Froj, Winfrost, and Norda. It was about a half a day journey to get there, and the sun was approaching high in the sky before as they arrived.

  The fertile land had changed much from when last Nandor had seen it. There was now a temporary wooden wall structured around it, made of full-pine timbers and slushed-up ice. They dismounted from their skis to walk inside the main gates, and were instantly basked in a field of warmth. The valley was over a hundred miles from wall to wall. Green grass sprouted up everywhere, and waves of hot air emanated from below the ground, milting any snow that touched the green ground. A few mere weeks ago, it was an unspoiled field of green grass and budding flowers—but no longer. It had been sectioned off into different fields for growing different crops, ranging from underground onions to tall towering vines of berries. The crops were not yielding yet, but they were getting close—a testament to the immense power of the green land to grow food both swift and lusciously.

  The guards sounded a horn as their convoy entered the valley, and a new group of men gathered around to lead them to where the meeting was going to be held. Nandor didn’t pay much mind to the particulars—his eyes were fixed on the smiles of the farmers and the children playfully working in the impossibly warm fields. It was perfect. It was how life was meant to be—growing food without worry, tending to the field while knowing it would yield a bountiful harvest—so different from the ice-fields around the mountains. So much happiness irradiated from the workers, both content and proud to be stationed within the valley.

  If only their joy was shared by all.

  The Green Forest in the valley was certainly not enough land to feed everyone in all three cities, but if split evenly it would be enough to at least stave off much of the hunger. The ice fields would certainly still have to keep growing food, but between the combined efforts of livestock, digging up ancient plant matter buried beneath the ice, the Green Forest and the ice fields few would starve.

  But it was not to be so. Lady Mikja and Lord Grimbone had to get greedy. Demand that their cities grow while Froj suffers.

  Nandor gritted his teeth as he dwelled on their misfortune. Why can so few people see the big picture? In the long-term, if all three cities could thrive, they would all benefit and share their success in growth and expansion. More trade, more time to focus on other developments rather than constantly worrying about food—it could only be a good thing to help those in need. But clamming-up… this superiority and every-man-for-himself mentality that everyone has—it will only create more disparity. No one will be better for Froj’s suffering. Sure, the rich might get richer temporarily, and even the poor in Winfrost and Norda will be wealthier, but again, only temporarily. In the long run all cities will suffer for the losses of Froj.

  After an uncomfortably long walk, they came to a newly-constructed pavilion, overseeing the valued farmland. It was a royal affair. There were the colors of Norda, white and grey, and the shimmering gold-bronze and crisp mountain blue of Winfrost.

  Lady Mikja rose first to greet them. She was dressed in Winfrost’s colors, but her garb was different from those worn out in the cold—the warmth of the green land allowed for lighter, more graceful fabric, and she walked effortlessly into the center of their convoy, surrounded only by her most trusted guards.

  She eyed Lord Benjfrost and his lady, and smiled. “So you’re the new lord of Froj?” she spoke, her words graceful fluttering by each of their ears.

  “I am, Lady Mikja. Lord Benjfrost, come to negotiate back what is owed.”

  He held out his hand, and she clasped it with a gentle touch. She was a tall, commanding woman, and her eyes judged Ben. Her next words were softer, but no more unclear. “I did not invite you, Lord Benjfrost.”

  Ben pulled back his hand as if he had been struck. “It is my right to be here, Lady Mikja. I am the lord and I speak for my people.”

  “You are but a lord of bandits, Benjfrost,” Mikja spoke coolly, her voice a winter chill in the warm valley. “A man appointed by desperate people hoping in vain for a savior speaking brash and foolish words. Such a man is no ruler, but an opportunist. I will not speak to you, for you do not speak for your subjects.”

  “I-I’ll not stand for this!” Benjfrost’s face grew red. At his back, his wife held his arm, keeping him at bay.

  “Leave,” Mikja said, and her face turned to stone. There was no mistaking her order. At her side, her guards grew tighter, waiting for him to try to deny her command.

  Benjfrost looked from her, to the grandmaster, “Tell her I’m the new Lord!” he demanded. “I have to be a part of the negotiations!”

  Forojen mirrored Lady Mikja’s cold demeanor. “If you are not recognized by the lady of Winfrost, it might be best you leave. I can handle the negotiation from here.”

  Ben’s muscles bulged beneath his fine fur, and he looked ready to strike someone in anger. His deep blue eyes were wild and frantic—his dreams were being shattered.

  “My lord,” his wife whispered, “please.”

  He did not look back at her. He took a deep breath, smoothed back his hair, and faced Lady Mikja one last time before turning to leave. “You can deny me all you want, old hag, but I had to work for what I got. I was not wedded to a man who died and left me his kingdom like you were—a foul shriveled widow pretending at playing queen. My men respect me, and in time, you will learn to as well. Of that I promise.” He spun on his high-heeled boots, and walked a few paces away, his guards at all sides.

  Mikja simply held her gaze. Perhaps a flicker of amusement danced upon her lips, but it soon disappeared. When Benjfrost was at last out of sight, she turned to the Grandmaster, “Well, he’s a bit of a fireball, isn’t he?”

  “That he is, my lady,” Forojen agreed. “But he isn’t wrong. The people of Froj do love him.”

  “Desperate people will love anyone with big promises. That he was elected speaks more to the state of Froj than his prowess,” she said, then glanced through the small convoy. “Forgive me, my eyes are not what the once were—is Nandor among you?”

  At a gesture from Forojen, Nandor approached, and offered a half-bow. “Lady Mikja. I am here,” he said, and stood tall to present himself.

  A splash of color warmed her cheeks, and she smiled again, “Nandor! My! It isn’t my eyes—you’ve changed. Your beard is cut, you look somehow even livelier—good god of warmth! It’s as if your injury has left you stronger than before!” She offered her hand.

  Nandor did not kiss it, but gave it a light shake. “I was lucky enough to have some caring companions piece
me back together,” he nodded humbly.

  Mikja eyed Nixie with a knowing look, “Indeed. I admit, I thought your woman a fool to stay by your side during the war, and even more the fool for thinking you would live. Although I don’t understand it, I am glad to be proven wrong.”

  “She is my companion, not my woman. And yes, I am in her debt, but I have not come to discuss my survival. You owe what was promised.”

  “Ha! Delightful!” Mikja clapped her hands together, and begun to walk up to the wooden pavilion, “Come, follow me. Lord Grimbone is here as well, but he doesn’t do much walking these days. He took a bit of a stumble during the war, and he hasn’t been the same since. He still speaks, but not often. Just try not to upset him, and I think everything should be okay.”

  As they walked up the wooden structure Nandor felt oddly at ease with his surroundings. He had expected something more formal, but aside from the royal banners and plate-clad guards, the chairs were all laid back in a relaxing fashion, there were no thrones or unnecessary decorations, only the pavilion, some light lichen smoke, and plenty of places to sit.

  Like Lady Mikja had said, Lord Grimbone was waiting in a chair of his own. His chair was a little more decorated than the rest, and his right leg was stuck outwards wrapped in a heavy layer of bandaging, and his body did not acknowledge them when they approached. His eyes were rolled back as if under a heavy dose of dope to dull his pain. At his side, Grimbone’s adviser gave a nod to Lady Mikja.

  “Galager, Lord Grimbone’s son and personal advisor will speak for Grimbone for now,” she introduced him, and then took a seat at his side.

  Forojen sat opposite of her, but looked to Galager, “How long has Lord Grimbone been like this?”

  “Not long. The city of Norda is confident that his recovery will be swift,” Galager said stiffly.

  Forojen held up a hand, “I meant no offence. I am only saddened to see him in such a state. I recall a time when he was a man to cleave trolls in two with his mighty axe and throw spears into herds of wayward mammoths with a loud cheery laugh. He has long earned my admiration and respect, and whether he is wounded or not, he shall have it from me now as he always has.”

  Nandor was surprised to hear such words come from the grandmaster. “You know him?”

  “Yes,” he replied, “a good man. A great warrior. Back in his day, he was one of the few bold enough to put his sword were his mouth was.”

  “He still is that man, only wizened and greyed,” Galager said.

  “Indeed. And you have his look about your face, Galager. I look forward to our negotiation.”

  “Refreshments, anyone?” A cart was rolled into the open air pavilion. It was filled with such fine foods and drinks that Nandor was almost disgusted at the sheer abundance. That being said, his disgust did not stop him from grabbing a plate and stacking it high. A man needs food when a man needs food, and he was a man who knew how to take advantage of any hospitality when it was given.

  In the wild, where he had spent a good portion of his life, scavenging was barely enough to keep him alive, and even hunting only supplemented for occasional meals. It was in the city where he was used to gaining the most amount of sustenance he could cram into his mouth, stacking on pounds in a matter of days to prepare for his wildland adventures. But with the city of Froj in discord, and meals small or scarce, he had been having trouble eating his fill.

  Indeed, as Forojen, Lady Mikja, and advisor Galager negotiated on Lord Grimbone’s behalf, he found himself content on stuffing his belly as much as he possibly could. As he did so, he found himself growing a reluctant fondness for Lady Mikja—she knew how to keep a man like himself entertained, and her casual dismissal of Benjfrost had certainly brought a smile to his ears.

  She was still a liar who had betrayed the first contract he had proposed, joining forces with Norda and slaughtering many men from Froj, but on the other hand, the more Nandor saw of Froj the more he found himself understanding why a leader from a different city might wish to end its ways. What kind of city would elect Benjfrost in its time of need? What manner of people plague its streets? Was I even right to try to negotiate for peace?

  Was, perhaps, a war needed to end the reign of the inept? Inwardly, he shook his head. Such thoughts were dark, evil, and unbecoming. Even without the Book of Marr to guide his actions, he could not allow himself to believe that such a mass killing would ever be justified.

  “Do you agree with him, Nandor?” Lady Mikja’s words abruptly cut into his thoughts.

  He tried to recall where the negotiation had gone while he’d been thinking. His efforts proved to be in vain. Between stuffing his face with food, and dwelling on dark memories, he had completely forgone the important conversation Forojen and Mikja were having. He shook his head clear, saying, “Forgive me, I’m afraid I was too busy eating the fine food you provided. What was the question?”

  Mikja smiled, a gleam of a young woman’s amusement shining through her wrinkles of age. “Ha! It’s no matter. I admire a man with a healthy appetite. Shows good survival instincts.”

  He returned her smile, “A necessary trait for someone like me. In truth, I may look fully healed, but my body still hungers like that of a man in recovery.”

  “It’s forgivable. You were cut from waist to spine, if my memory does not exaggerate your wounds. I admit, part of the reason I called this negotiation was merely to see you for myself, and now that I do, I find myself wondering—how did you survive such terrible wounds? I have never seen a person go from the teetering edge of certain death to such robust life in a matter of weeks as you have.”

  “I believe,” Nandor glanced over his shoulder to give Nix and Dorin a look. “My companions pieced me back together using the parts of a bear, and a bit of mystic energy.”

  “The parts of a bear?” she laughed. “What a delightful story. Some day you really must tell me the truth, but I’ll let it slide for now.”

  He looked over his shoulder again and saw Nix—she did not meet his gaze. Was Lady Mikja right? Had they not told him the full story?

  Forojen interrupted them both, “As you were eating, I was telling Lady Mikja and Galager that it would be in their favor to give the city of Froj back what it is owed. A third of the Green Forest, what we were initially promised, would ensure less bandits on the roads, less fighting between the rich and the poor, as well as allowing for more trade to ensue.”

  “Which are all fair points,” Mikja nodded, “But not anything I haven’t thought of before, nor anything that could sway my mind.”

  “The city of Norda feels the same,” Galager agreed. “We can deal with bandits, and to be frank, Froj is no longer worthy of our trade agreements. By all reports, every skilled laborer has already left your city in favor of one of ours. Anymore, Froj is only home to the poor and the unskilled. We have no use for such men, nor their creations, and although the Green Forest appears to be bountiful, between Norda and Winfrost it will not leave any room for compassion nor free handouts.”

  “We are not asking for free handouts,” Forojen replied, “We are asking that you redeem at least a portion of your honor. When you two decided to betray the contract Nandor negotiated with you on the battlefield, you became more than despised. Froj may be weak now, but even under hardship it will grow. If you do not decide to minimalize the damages your betrayal has wrought, then the men of Froj’s hatred will only grow bitterer with age, and you might find a powerful enemy waiting for a moment to strike back when you are at your weakest. Who knows when the barbarians will attack—or the goblins? Would it not be wiser to consolidate power rather than to stack the odds against you?”

  “Again, all points I have considered and long since dismissed,” Mikja waved her hand in annoyance. “We are already consolidating power best by allowing those who are worthy to move into our city. Surely you recognize this? Your skilled workers are all ours now. So are your farmers, your best warriors, and your most talented students. They have all fled into our cit
ies. You have nothing left of value.”

  Galager nodded his agreement, “You will not get a portion of the Green Forest by telling us what we already know better than yourself.”

  “You say we have nothing of value, and all our skilled persons have fled, but let me remind you, Nandor is still within the walls of Froj, so am I and my college—the most reputable place of learning anywhere in the clockwork cities, and I do not say that lightly. You may choose to not see it right now, but you lose much by declaring us your enemies,” the grandmaster responded. His tone was indifferent, as if he spoke not of a threat, but simply said the way things were.

  Lady Mikja sat her plate aside, half-eaten. “I recognize this,” she sat up straight, looking from Nandor to Forojen. “So let us no longer dance around the real negotiation—let’s cut to the point. Agreed?”

  Nandor raised an eyebrow. The real negotiation? What in the great beyond does she mean? At his side, the grandmaster narrowed his gaze and folded his hands together. “Agreed, make your proposal.”

  “The offer is twofold, with conditions.” She did not glance back at Galager, but he was nodding along with her as if this had been their plan the entire time. “One, the college must leave Froj, and along with it, Nandor and yourself. Two, you will take what is necessary from the college libraries and museums, and rebuild the college either within my city walls, or Norda, and you will accept qualifying students from our two cities indiscriminately. Three, you must forever leave Froj, and vow to never return, and never to teach any man or woman who chooses to call Froj their home.”

  Within an instant, a snarl appeared upon Nandor’s face. He brushed aside his food, growling, “What? Are you mad? Have you no memory of who I am?”

  His brash words were ignored in favor of Forojen’s soft whisperings, “And what are we to get in return?” he asked.