The Mindmage's Wrath: A Book of Underrealm (The Academy Journals 2)

by Garrett Robinson

  Xain looked to Theren and Kalem then. “As for the two of you—you would do well to quit this boy’s company. No matter what he has told you, you cannot trust a Drayden. Walk by his side, and one day you will find yourselves alone and friendless, betrayed in pursuit of some long-festering scheme.”

  “I can choose my friends for myself,” Theren snapped.

  Kalem raised his hands, palms outward. “I think tempers have run high. Certainly there is some sort of common ground—”

  Light snapped into Xain’s eyes, and he raised a hand. “Begone,” he growled. “And if I catch you skulking about again, I will not be so lenient.”

  Theren raised her own hands in response, but Ebon seized her arm even as her eyes glowed to meet Xain’s. “No, Theren.” He pulled her towards the mouth of the alley, refusing to meet the Dean’s eye. At first Theren resisted, but in the end she let herself be pulled along. Once around the corner, they broke into a jog, and then a sprint once out of sight of Xain’s home.

  After a few streets Ebon felt safe enough to stop. He bent double, hands on his knees, while Kalem sank to the ground, his back against a stone wall. Theren scarcely seemed winded, and she glared back the way they had come, fists on her hips.

  “Why was Dasko there?”

  “Did you not understand even that much?” said Kalem. “He was helping Xain move into his new home.”

  “I know that is what they were doing,” said Theren. “But why Dasko? He is an instructor at the Academy. Any number of day laborers could be hired, if Xain needed to move a few crates.”

  “It is likely they are friends,” said Kalem. “I know Xain and that new instructor, Perrin, attended the Academy together. Dasko seems of an age with them. It is not Dasko’s presence that intrigues me, but that of the other guards.”

  “I think I know something of that,” said Ebon, for he had just remembered his conversation with Mako. “Xain performed some great service for the High King, for which she honored him greatly. It is why he was allowed to return to the Seat after my family drove him out, as you heard him say. The guards must have been posted by the High King.”

  “She could command the Mystics and instructors from the Academy to join her own guards,” said Theren, nodding. “That makes sense. But what threat does she think Xain faces? What threat does he think he faces? Surely he is not afraid of Ebon’s paltry might—though I mean no offense by that.”

  Ebon raised his eyebrows. “No, clearly not.”

  Kalem pushed himself up from the ground. “Well, we will do ourselves no good sitting here wondering about it. And now my robes are soaked by the snow. Come, let us return home, before I catch my death of cold.”

  “Xain is a firemage,” said Theren, laying her arm across Kalem’s shoulders as they set off together. “You could return and ask him to dry you out with his flames.”

  Ebon shook his head and went after his friends.

  twenty-five

  THEY GATHERED IN THE DINING hall for the Yearsend feast some time later. The food had been laid out, and was hidden beneath white sheets held up on wooden frames, concealing the meal from view. But the sheets could not mask the smell, which wafted through the hall and set every mouth to watering.

  The instructors’ table stood at the head of the hall. Xain sat in the place of honor, with his son Erin beside him. Once the hour struck, Xain stood and raised a goblet of wine. Everyone quieted, and he waited a moment in silence. When at last he spoke, his thick voice filled the room’s every corner, thrumming in Ebon’s breast.

  “Since time before time, Yearsend has been an occasion for joy. We herald the passing of another year of our lives, and the sky’s bounty that has allowed our survival. But that celebration is always tempered by mourning, for we acknowledge those who have gone to the darkness below, and thank them for their gifts in life. This year has given us more cause for mourning than most. Many have been lost, and some greater than others.”

  His next word cut short in a choking sound, and he bowed his head. The hall was deathly still. Ebon, Theren, and Kalem looked to each other uncertainly. The silence lasted only a moment, but when Xain raised his head, his cheeks were wet.

  “Some give their lives that we might go on. Others give their lives that we might find redemption—they bring us back from the darkness, though we stand on its brink. Still others give their lives to time’s natural sway, and then our mourning is not so bitter. But worst of all are those who are taken without reason, claimed by the madness of a sick mind, or by the treachery of a kingdom breaking its vows. Often we seek explanation. It is rarely to be found. We can only honor the dead, who we shall never see again.”

  Another pause. Ebon heard many students in the hall hiding their sniffles, while others sobbed openly. Xain raised his goblet higher.

  “To those in the darkness.”

  Every cup lifted. “To those in the darkness.”

  They drank, and then the first course was brought round the tables.

  That evening’s Yearsend feast left nothing to be desired, fulfilling every wildest tale Ebon had ever heard of the celebration’s splendor upon the Seat. Throughout each year, the Academy had to serve hundreds of students three times a day. While the food was wholesome and hearty, it was rarely delicious. During Yearsend, it seemed, the cooks aimed to make up for all the rest of the year’s plain fare. There were fine roasts of meat, of boar and beef and lamb, flavored with wonderful spices, served tender enough to fall off the bone. They were joined by crops from all across the nine lands, so that the students had chickpea spread and figs from Idris, and then at the next table, buttered yams and yellow rice from Calentin. In the center of the spread was a table filled to bursting with desserts, where honeyed confections of every type were piled high, and students were free to take what they wished. Wine was also served, although this was held by the cooks, and only given to students who were old enough, and even then withheld if they thought a student had had too much—the last thing the Academy needed was a drunken brawl with hundreds of young wizards who had yet to fully command their powers.

  Again and again Ebon went to the serving table to load his plate with more food, again and again leaning back on his bench and clutching at his belly, afraid it would burst. At last he gave up, leaning heavily on the table, sipping lightly at the last of his wine. Kalem’s head was nodding beside him, and across the table Theren was licking honey from her fingers.

  “A particularly fine feast this year,” she said, and gave a loud belch.

  “I will not say it is the finest food I have ever eaten, yet I would count this as my favorite meal,” said Ebon. “Rarely in my life have I been able to take such a meal with friends, rather than a father who made my life a torment.”

  “Hmmm?” said Kalem, looking at them sleepily. “Ah, yes. A fine feast indeed.”

  Theren chuckled and shook her head. But then Ebon felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to find Dasko looking down upon him.

  “Good eve, Ebon. Have you enjoyed your feast?”

  Ebon nodded. “Very much so, Instructor. I hope you have as well.”

  “Indeed. Might we still take that walk, as I requested?”

  “Of course.” Ebon stood, but then looked to his friends.

  Theren waved him off. “Go. I should get this one to bed.” She pointed to Kalem, who seemed in danger of falling asleep and drowning in buttered yams.

  “Good night, then,” said Ebon. “I will see you upon the morrow.” And he set off through the dining hall after Dasko.

  Dasko led him through the hallways and out a white cedar door into the training grounds. The moons lit the night well, and torches mounted along the citadel’s walls helped them pick their way forth on the garden path. The instructor did not speak immediately, but let the night’s silence rest, occasionally looking up at the stars as they shone bright in the sky.

  “I have only been an instructor here for a few years,” Dasko said at last. “I studied here in my youth, of cour
se, but that was long ago. I feel as though I have been rediscovering the place anew. It is certainly a different experience, being an instructor.”

  Ebon blinked, and then frowned. “I imagine it would be.”

  Dasko sighed. “My apologies. I am not certain how to say what I mean, and so I prattle about inconsequential things. That, and not my preoccupation with Lilith’s crimes, is what kept me from speaking with you before today.”

  He stopped, and Ebon halted beside him. Again Dasko looked up at the stars, his jaw working.

  “Before I returned to the Academy, I was a mercenary,” he finally said, his voice so soft that Ebon leaned closer to hear it. “I fought for a sellsword army that marched across the nine lands. We served with many great families, both merchant and noble. And in one campaign, I served your family. The Draydens. That is when I met your brother.”

  Ebon felt as though someone had struck him in the gut. He had scarcely thought of Momen since first he came to the Academy. Indeed, ever since his brother’s death years ago, Ebon had tried to avoid thinking of it at all. He felt suddenly light-headed.

  “Momen and I became fast friends after our first battle together,” Dasko went on. “When you came to the Academy, I hardly noticed you, though sometimes a thought tickled my mind. Then, after the attack on the Seat, Jia was frantic, because you had been separated from the rest of the students. Though we eventually found you, her mention of your name was what let the pieces fall into place—Ebon of the family Drayden, younger brother of my friend Momen. During all the time we served together, he would speak of you more often than anything else.”

  A gasp escaped before Ebon could stop it. His eyes burned, and he turned away, swiping at them with the back of his sleeve. The air felt suddenly frozen, and he raised his hood against it. Dasko took his shoulder gently and guided him towards a stone bench. Ebon sank onto it, hiding his face in his hands and trying to master himself.

  “I am sorry to resurrect grief,” murmured Dasko. “I did not mean to bring sadness, but advice.”

  “What advice?” said Ebon, no longer caring at how his voice broke. He found himself growing angry with Dasko—angry that the man would presume to speak of his brother, who he could not have known half so well as Ebon.

  “Before Dean Cyrus fled the Academy, it seems that you and he had little love for each other,” Dasko said carefully.

  Through his grief, Ebon’s heart skipped a beat. What did Cyrus have to do with anything? “He was not overfond of me, no.”

  Dasko looked him in the eye. “Was that because of some personal disagreement between the two of you, or because of some more general schism between you and the family Drayden?”

  Ebon shrugged and looked away. “I know not what you speak of.”

  “I think you do,” said Dasko. “Momen often felt the same way—never comfortable in the company of his family, and always burdened by their reputation, which as you know is fearsome. Always he wanted to cast off their name, and something tells me that you may be similar.”

  Though he would have been loath to admit it, a thrill trickled through Ebon’s heart. He never knew Momen had felt the same way about their family. “Even if that were true, what do you expect me to do? I was born a Drayden. I will die a Drayden.”

  “Yet you need not live your life under the suspicion of others. You must know that Dean Xain thinks ill of you, for no other reason than your family’s name. I know it cannot be easy to shed that shadow, when everyone you meet can see only the darkness it wraps around you.”

  “And what can I do about that? In truth, I am used to it. I have little choice but to duck my head and hope to go unnoticed.”

  “But you have been noticed, Ebon,” said Dasko, leaning forwards. “Xain does not wish to admit it, but the other faculty know you suspected Lilith from the first. And you may have helped expose her earlier than she would have been otherwise. Soon the Mystics will have wheedled the artifacts out of her. Because of you, the Academy now takes steps to ensure the artifacts will be safer in the future. You should be proud of that, at least. And you owe nothing of that to your family.”

  “Pride in myself helps nothing. Certainly not Xain’s view of me.”

  “That is what I mean to say. You have helped, whether he sees it or not. Continue to do right, not in the hope that Xain will love you. Your kin have wounded him, and that wound may never heal. But do it because of the people you may help along the way. That, I think, is what Momen would do.”

  Ebon stood from the bench, glaring at him. “That is too far.”

  “I am sorry,” said Dasko, standing and bowing his head. “You are right, I presumed too much. Yet I only say what Momen told me on occasion: that he wished to return home and help you, for he knew life with your father would be harder once he had gone.”

  Though he held his scowl, Ebon felt some of his anger dampen. Momen could not have known just how true his words would prove. He turned away from Dasko, loosing a breath into mist upon the frigid air, and steered the conversation in another direction, hoping to ease the burning in his heart.

  “You said they have not yet drawn the truth from Lilith? I had not thought it would take this long to find the artifacts she stole—especially the second time, for she did not have much time to hide them.”

  Dasko shrugged. “She must have worked quickly. It will not be long. The Mystics are ... very persuasive when they wish to be.”

  “Will they kill her?”

  “Not the Mystics, no,” said Dasko softly. “But once they have recovered the artifacts, they will turn her over to the constables, who will put her to death under the King’s law.”

  And there might vanish any hope of learning Lilith’s link to Matami or Shay. Ebon ground his teeth in frustration. It seemed that she would suffer for her crimes, but that the conspirators behind her—and he was sure such conspirators existed—would escape, for no one seemed to be looking for them.

  Yet, mayhap if Ebon could speak to her ...

  His heart raced. What excuse could he invent? No one would believe he and Lilith had ever been friends. But there was Nella. Ever since the attack on the Seat, she and Ebon had been ... if not friendly, at least cordial. Yes. It might work.

  He turned back to Dasko. “I wonder...I know her crimes were terrible. And Lilith and I had a grudge from the moment I arrived here. Yet there are those who never had the chance to say farewell, and if Lilith will never be returning, it seems cruel to deny them that opportunity. I am close to one who is dear to her.”

  Dasko nodded, cutting him off. “Theren. I know.”

  Ebon balked. Theren? How could Dasko ever think Theren and Lilith were friends? Yet the certainty in the instructor’s eyes was unmistakable. Ebon nodded and quickly continued. “Just so. Could it be arranged, do you think, for us to visit Lilith? I wish for my own sort of peace with her, and I know Theren desires the same.”

  The instructor frowned. “I do not know if that would be wise, Ebon. For one thing, she will not be the same as when last you saw her. The Mystics are never kind to their prisoners. And they will likely be reluctant to have her speak with any outsider. I know your character, but they will not.”

  “Please, Dasko,” Ebon begged. “Help me with this, so that this chapter of our lives may be left behind us. I promise we will urge Lilith to tell them what she knows. And the sight of a friendly face may pry loose what the blades of the Mystics cannot.”

  Dasko’s frown deepened. But he looked away in thought before nodding. “Very well. I will see if I can arrange something with Jia, if it is that important to you—and, perhaps, as some token of payment for the ill will borne against you here at the Academy, which you did not deserve.”

  “Thank you, Instructor. If given the chance, I promise I shall not waste it.”

  “I believe you,” said Dasko, shivering suddenly. “And now let us return to the citadel. I am not yet an old man, yet I find myself less resistant to the chill than I was in my youth.”

&nbs
p; They made their way back to the Academy, and then parted inside, off to their beds. But Ebon lay awake for a long while, thinking of Momen and Lilith and Theren.

  twenty-six

  THE NEXT DAY, EBON WANTED to tell Theren what he had asked Dasko, about their visiting Lilith. But his courage failed him every time he sought to speak, and so the day passed without her knowing. The next was the same, and the third. At last he decided to tell her when the moment seemed right, and not before. After all, there was every chance that the Mystics would not allow Lilith to see them at all. What good could come, if that were the case, from telling Theren?

  So they spent the first three days of Yearsend in calm and rest. All day Ebon was with Kalem and Theren, either in the Academy or out upon the Seat. Though studies were suspended for the holiday, they spent a few hours each day in the library. Kalem still searched for more lore concerning Kekhit, and Ebon helped, but it was a half-hearted quest now. Lilith had been caught, and whatever mischief she had plotted with Kekhit’s amulet, she could not hope to accomplish it now.

  They spent their evenings in the dining hall or out upon the Seat, telling each other tales or listening to musicians fill inns with their splendor. Ebon felt a sense of peace he had not felt in a very long time.

  True, there were rumblings that the High King was readying her armies to make war on Dulmun at last, and whispers about the nine kingdoms—how some were on the cusp of joining the war, while others were on the cusp of joining it on the wrong side. But all was peaceful on the Seat. Even war rested during Yearsend.

  It was a leap year, and so they had a fourth day of holiday to enjoy. The dawn came bright and cold, and they lounged in the library for most of it. Ebon had received word that his family would be hosting some royals. Halab had given him the opportunity to visit the manor, but had not required it, and so he had declined. He had attended such dinners before, and knew he would be bored to tears. So in the morning he sent word to Adara asking if she wished to meet in the evening, and by the midday meal she had replied that she would be delighted. She had even painted her lips and pressed them to her letter, which Ebon laughed to see.