by Cat Bruno
Kennet took out a piece of unbleached cotton and wiped the sweat off his forehead, putting the cloth back in the pocket of his robe before addressing Bronwen.
“Have I ever told you of my uncle?”
His words had been half-whispered.
“Your uncle? No, I never knew you had any other relatives other than your grandparents. And, well, your father.”
Pacing the room, he said, “My father had a brother. Aldric. He was, by the little that my grandparents have told me, gifted with true talent for magery. He and my father trained together in Rexterra. Like any brothers, they competed with one another from the beginning, trying to outdo the other by learning new skills, stretching and straightening what they learned from the Guild. My father rarely won these battles, but where my uncle was gifted with great skill, he had few friends, if any, truth be told, and my father had charm and wit, and the love of many. He quickly rose in the ranks of the Mage-Guild, while Aldric, even as gifted as he was, struggled.”
“My uncle, though, was a hard man and cared little for the others, and he did himself no favors by keeping mostly to himself. There are many politics at work in the Mage-Guild, Bronwen. Factions that often subtly battle each other. And while Aldric refused to take sides, preferring to work on his own and ignoring those around him, my father quickly realized the game that was being played and aligned himself with a few power-seeking mages, up and coming, you could say. Aldric and he became further estranged. And, as my father’s rank soared, Aldric became more isolated from him and the rest of the guild. I’m sure you can see where this is going.”
Bronwen had been lying on her bed as Kennet talked, but now she sat up, curious as to the meaning of that last statement.
“Is he dead? Your uncle, I mean. Did he and your father have some sort of fight?”
Kennet stood up, stretched his cramped body, and walked over to the bed. He sat down next to her, leaned his back against the wall, and extended his long legs across the thin cot.
Taking his glasses from his face, Kennet answered, “He is still alive, but he has been exiled from the Mage-Guild. My grandparents will not speak of him. He is dead to them, as he is to my father. Nor will they tell me much more of him.”
“What did he do, to be treated so harshly?” she asked.
Kennet closed his eyes, rubbing at them with his fingers.
“He dared the dark, Bronwen.” He paused, “And I’m afraid you are traveling down the same path.”
Bronwen angrily faced him, cheeks reddening, and said, “I’m no mage! What power do I have? You are the one capable of magery, not me! I am of the North, but have no Mage-Skill in me!” Jumping from the bed, she shouted, “You know why I have been in that room! I seek knowledge, no more than that!”
He paled, but calmly countered, “I know you have done nothing wrong. Not yet, anyway. But, trust me, once you start dabbling in the Dark Arts, it is impossible to turn back. You need to forget about this quest that you are on. And hope that from here on out, Conri leaves you alone.”
“And what if he doesn’t? What if he comes back? I have questions, Kenny, and he is the only one who knows anything about my past. I have spent my whole life here in Litusia devoted to the Healing Arts. I have never sought out the darkness. Never! Nor am I now.”
As she yelled, he rose from the cot, his body tall and thin in the bright orb light that encircled the room.
“Do you know what could happen if Master Rova knew about your relationship with Conri? Think about it, Bronwen. From everything you’ve told me, it seems a bit suspicious that a member, one of the highest ranked members I should add, of the Tribe found you, cared for you, and brought you here, all out of good will. Really, Bronwen, you can’t believe that he expected nothing in return. Have you promised him something?”
She stomped over to where Kennet stood, and grabbed his robe, spinning him around with strength neither of them knew she had. In a sudden burst of anger, Bronwen slapped Kennet hard across his face. She stumbled back before falling onto her cot.
Her fatigue and the harsh words from Kennet were too much, and Bronwen started sobbing, noiselessly, but Kennet watched her body shake.
Rubbing at his stinging cheek and placing his glasses back on his face, Kennet crossed the room, sitting next to Bronwen.
With a hand on her back, he softly said, “I know my words are not kind ones, but you have no idea how much the Tribe is hated and feared. Here, at the Academy, we are isolated from the rest of Cordisia. And, in that isolation, we live in peace, but also ignorance. The rest of Cordisia is not so naïve. If anyone knew how you arrived in Tretoria, you would almost certainly lose your apprenticeship. You might even be expelled from the Academy. Is that what you want? Are these answers that you so desperately seek worth it?”
Moments later, she mumbled, “Kennet, I know nothing anymore.”
“Promise me that you won’t go back there.”
“Please don’t ask me that. You, of all people, should understand. Please don’t ask me to stop before I find what I seek.”
“I, of all people, know what can come of certain knowledge. Will you at least promise me that you will only return if I accompany you?”
Bronwen was no longer crying, and she dried her face with the bottom of her short robe. But she nodded. And that had to be enough.
11
A few days later, Bronwen ran into Kennet as she was entering the dining hall, quickly noticing the dark bruise on his left cheek.
“Your cheek looks pretty bad. Why didn’t you come see me? I would have mixed up a poultice for you.”
Kennet shrugged, dropping his eyes before they reached hers.
“Can I sit here? I’m hungry and have some time before I have to be at the clinic.”
“Yeah, take a seat, as long as you promise not to hit me anymore.”
When she saw Kennet with a slight smirk on his long face, she smiled back at him.
“You should know better than to anger a redhead, you know. Oh, hells, there’s Pietro. Gods, I can’t stand him. He wanted the apprenticeship, you know. And he hates that Master Rova gave it to me.”
“He’s Rexterran, Bronwen. From a royal line, or so he claims. And I do not think that he is used to being second best, especially to a woman.”
Pietro had always been cold toward Bronwen, although she could admit that he had some talent. He did have a great deal of ambition, but his personality was ill-suited for healing. And Master Rova was well aware of that. When she looked up, Pietro was nearing their table, handsome in a crisp robe and with his light hair cropped close, showing off his clear eyes and wide smile.
“Good afternoon, Master Apprentice. I’m surprised that someone of your rank has time for our lowly dining hall. Do you have so little to do then?”
Kennet heatedly answered, “Pietro, watch your tongue. Do you forget with whom you are talking? Would you speak to Master Rova in such a way? I don’t think so.”
“Pietro, is there something that I can do for you?” Bronwen asked, her voice flat.
“No, Bronwen. I am fully capable of taking care of myself. Perhaps you should be more concerned with yourself, or, from the looks of it, your friend. I never knew the library was such a dangerous place,” Pietro said, laughing as he walked away without waiting for a reply.
*****
Later that day, Bronwen found herself back on the same stretch of beach where she had last encountered Conri. The sun was angling down at the point between midday and sundown, and she placed a blanket on the sand before carefully sitting atop it. Looking out at the water, she noticed a small fishing boat rocking gently back and forth, peacefully, atop the sea.
After she got comfortable on the blanket, Bronwen opened a small basket and grabbed a hard loaf of bread and a cask of water. Gazing toward the North, Bronwen wondered if she would ever see her homeland again. Even with the mind-lock undone, she still had little memory of her time before meeting Conri, and Bronwen knew nothing of her childhood or
of Eirrannia. Yet, she figured, surely someone knew who she was. For the first time that she could remember, Bronwen longed for Eirrannia, and for clues to her past and who she had been before entering the gates of Tretoria.
Slowly, the Academy was feeling less like home, and, since her last meeting with Conri, Bronwen longed to escape. The feeling bothered her, as never before had she considered the Academy anything but home. Lately, she felt trapped, although she knew that she was not. Little made sense to her.
“Hello there, milady.”
The thick, deep voice of a man nearing her blanket snapped Bronwen out of her daze, and she looked up to see a dark-haired, red-cheeked man approaching her. As he got closer, Bronwen could smell him--a mixture of ale, salt, and sweat--and she wrinkled her nose at the stench. He seemed a head shorter than her, but his body was thick and heavy, resembling most Tretorian men.
Bronwen looked closely at the man, unsure how to react, especially as she did not know him.
With a nod, she bluffed, “I’m waiting for a friend to join me.”
“What a fool he must be to keep a beautiful girl like you waiting. Where’d you get that hair of yours? It could blind a man.”
Bronwen forced herself to laugh and thanked the man for the compliment. When she looked back out at the water, she noticed that the sun was sinking and all the boats were now gone for the day. She and the man were the only two left on the beach. “You must not be from around here, with that hair of yours. You a student at the Academy?” the man asked.
Litusia was a large enough town that Bronwen often met locals that she didn’t know. Many knew her because of her work at the clinic, and, often, many remembered her, although she forgot most. This man had no such story, and had not mentioned the clinic, causing her some concern.
She politely answered, “I am originally from the North, and, yes, I attend the Academy. Actually, this is my final year. Are you from Litusia?”
“The name’s Byron, and I’ve spent a little time just about everywhere in Cordisia. Can’t say I’ve ever been up North though. So when’s your friend coming?”
Bronwen lied, “Oh, he should have been here by now. He might have forgotten so or stopped to have a drink first. Perhaps I will find him at the inn.”
“How about you let me buy you a drink then?”
“That’s a kind offer, but I really should be going.”
Bronwen hurriedly began collecting the items that she brought with her, as a prickle covered her arms and her life pulse jumped.
When she was nearly ready to depart, the man lunged forward and grabbed her. He pushed her back down, nearly falling onto her, his weight substantial and forceful.
Bronwen screamed, pushing at him with her arms, fading bruises still visible, “What in the hells are you doing?”
When he did not reply, she kicked and yelled, “Get off of me!”
Bronwen kept screaming until the man placed his hand over her mouth. As the dirty, calloused hand pressed against her lips, her stomach churned and she nearly vomited. She tried to bite his palm, but the skin was too leathery to grip and his hand much too strong to move. She had to breathe through her nose, and the smell of the man was overpowering, nearly rancid. Nausea and panic overtook her, and, again, she kicked at him, striking him on his legs. She continued to thrust her sandaled feet at him, yet he remained atop her. Pressing into her, his thick chest over hers, his weight was too much for her and her legs were pinned beneath him. With hands still free, Bronwen scratched at him with as much strength as she could.
He leaned down and whispered into her ear, “If you continue to fight me, I will wrap my hands around your pretty, white neck, and I will squeeze the life right out of you. Let me show you.”
Before Bronwen could do anything to stop him, the man had both hands around her throat. She tried to cry out now that her mouth was free, but she choked as she fought for breath. Again and again, she twisted her body, struggling to free herself, until the world grew dark and her vision clouded. Suddenly, her head ached and her body was so heavy she could no longer move. Through fog and shadow, she looked up at the man who towered above her and hated him, with a fierceness that she had never known. As she closed her eyes, no longer able to keep them open, she could hear waves crashing on a shore that seemed a world away.
Blackness came. And Bronwen welcomed it.
12
Domhaacron, Eirrannia
In a voice so deep it thundered across the valley and caused villagers to look to the cloudless sky, the dark god Nox addressed his charge, “Conri, what news do you bring?”
“Father, it will be done soon.”
“Conri, you disappoint me. Perhaps I should have sent your brother.”
Conri respectfully bowed his head, showing submission, and steadily answered, “The next time we meet, the news will be as expected.”
“There is too much of your mother in you. I would bleed it out, if I could. If it is not accomplished by the next time we meet, I will do it myself,” he roared, shaking the soaring pines that surrounded them and sending rippling waves across the Domhaacron River.
Before Conri could raise his head, Nox was gone, vanishing in a trail of fog. All that remained was a sweet scent and a pine cone-covered ground.
13
Bronwen rolled to her side and vomited. She wondered, with some surprise, how she still lived. Her neck throbbed, swollen and raw. She vomited again, her throat burning and thick. After she ran the back of her hand against her chafed chin to wipe away the bile, she searched for the cask that she had brought with her. Finding it beside her foot, she reached for it, pouring water into her mouth and rinsing repeatedly as she attempted to get rid of the sour taste. Sand stuck to her body, and, without looking, she could feel the blood smeared on the inside of her thighs. She could smell the blood that trickled down her cheek from a stinging gash just below her eye. She remembered a ring that he was wearing, and the backward slap that had created the gash, and vomited again at the memory.
Reaching trembling hands to her face, Bronwen slid her fingers through a thick line of dried blood, and collapsed back onto the blanket. She closed her eyes and prayed to Luna, begging the Moon Queen to send her son.
*****
Unable to sleep, Pietro donned a new robe and decided to clear his head with a walk. He gathered his things--a few bottles, a tinder kit, and his notebook--and headed toward the garden, which was at the center of the campus, easily reachable from all angles, and only a few minutes’ walk from his rooms.
The garden was one of the Academy’s most prized features, and it far surpassed his expectations when he had arrived at the Academy, perhaps one of the few things at the Academy that could not be replicated or copied elsewhere, even in the King’s City. It was a massive area, containing every imaginable plant, herb, or flower that a healer could ever want or need. Some he had never knew and had to learn their uses, and still there were a few yet to learn.
Overhead, the moon above offered only a sliver of light, so he took a small mage-light out of his sack and placed it on a bench at the edge of the garden. Tonight he planned on experimenting with a mixture of valerian and clary sage, hoping to create a powerful tonic that could put even the most unruly patient to sleep, which he had been toying with for over a moon, yet had not mastered.
As he walked through the neatly trimmed rows, a job the first-year students were given, Pietro had a strange sensation that he was being watched. The back of his neck tingled and the fine hair on his arms prickled. Yet, the night was quiet, and he had seen no one as he entered the garden.
Without warning, the air cooled and the winds shifted.
Within moments, he had his answer.
“You are Pietro de Navarro, am I correct?” a strange voice called.
Pietro looked around, searching, yet he could see no one. The voice sounded distant and the accent unknown.
“Who wants to know?” he called, annoyed.
For a few moments, there was no
reply. But the prickling sensation continued to grip Pietro as his heart beat faster and his skin itched.
He called out again, this time with less irritation and a slight cracking in his voice, “Is anyone there?”
Pietro began walking toward the orchard, and thought he saw a hooded figure beneath the oily leaves of a lemon tree. The night air was heavy, and Pietro’s robes were beginning to stick to his wet skin, and he paused for a moment to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Before he could continue, he heard the man again, and even with the lilted accent, Pietro knew that the hidden man was neither student nor local.
“Stay right there, Pietro de Navarro. Don’t move. Just listen to me, and be grateful for what I am about to tell you.”
“Excuse me, but who are you and what do you want with me?” he yelled angrily.
As the man laughed, Pietro’s life pulse raced beneath his damp robe.
“Who am I, he asks! Do you want to know how often I have heard that same question? And from lesser men than you.”
Pietro stood silently, unmoving, unable to clearly see the man and afraid to reply.
“Wise choice,” the man said, nearly reading Pietro’s mind.
He continued, his voice carrying to where Pietro stood, “I have some information that I think you will like. Do not interrupt me and do not ask any questions. Do you understand?”
Pietro barely managed to nod and hoped that the man could see, fear replacing anger.
“From all that I have heard about you Navarro, I think it is fair to call you an ambitious man. But, if I am correct, there is something, or, more accurately, someone that is standing in the way of those ambitions. You are one lucky man, though, because I am about to help you get one step closer to what you want. You desire to be Master Apprentice, am I correct?”