by Sever Bronny
Cry painted the sky with his quill. “How about, ‘Arinthian Line Spurns Entire Nobility in Supreme Display of Haughtiness’?”
The group stared at him, mouths slack.
“That was a jest,” Cry said, face blank, voice monotone. “Though you can see how that would sell a few more parchments.” He propped his weak chin on his hand as he eyed Augum. “If I were you, Your Highness, I’d answer my questions forthrightly.”
Augum tapped the table with a fingernail and leaned forward. “Fine, I will, but if you write a single untruth, I’ll never answer one of your questions again.”
“Right …” Cry pressed a perpetually ink-stained finger on the blank parchment resting between them and dragged it before him. “Let us begin then and get the obvious out of the way. Why did you not back anyone for the throne? Do you have something against Solia?”
Leera scoffed, muttering, “Yeah, that’s a fair question.”
Augum gestured at his plate. It telekinetically lifted off the table and moved away from him, but instead of settling back down on the table, it remained floating, a practice Augum had learned from Mrs. Stone. He built his telekinetic strength by pushing himself throughout the day in little ways. Sometimes he floated an inkwell under his desk. Other times he floated a stone while he ate. Keeping items in the air was second nature now. And as far as he knew, he was the only student doing it.
He chose his words carefully. “I did not deem the time appropriate to make a decision. And my concerns are only for Solia. I want to make sure the needy are not taxed to death like so many other—”
“Yes, thank you,” Cry cut in, furiously scratching at the parchment. Augum peeked at the notes but they were indecipherable.
“But you’re aware of the desperate need for leadership, what with Canterra baring their teeth at us more and more.”
“That’s the high council’s job.”
The quill scratched away. “Due to the war, this is only your second term at the academy. You were fortunate enough to be admitted from the field of battle, with the expectation that you would catch up on what you had missed.”
Augum nodded. “Yes.” Though he felt a flush, knowing he hadn’t caught up on a multitude of subjects.
“You saw a bunch of your friends hit the ceiling last term, people like Sasha Luganov, Alyssa Fairweather and Olaf Hroljassen. Word is you are struggling with your studies. Are you at all concerned about joining your old friends?”
“Of course not! What kind of question is that?” He would fight tooth and nail to go as high as possible in degree. No way was he going to fail his classes. He had sworn in the war to protect his castle, and the only way he knew how to do that was by gaining degrees.
“No word about your friends, then?”
“Well, I—we obviously miss them.”
Bridget, Leera and Brandon nodded along with this point.
“And is it true Castle Arinthian is in debt?”
“That’s none of your damn business!” Brandon hissed, leaning forward threateningly. “You wormish, manure-eating—”
“Hush!” Bridget snapped, throwing him a furious look.
He snarled, crossed his arms and slumped in his chair.
“Don’t worry, Summers, I’ll finally mention you in a piece. I know how starved for attention you are always being around these three. I would be too.”
Cry had hit a nerve. Brandon curled his hands into fists and breathed hard, but after glancing at Bridget, he kept quiet.
“So is it true Castle Arinthian is in debt or not?” Cry repeated.
Augum also tentatively glanced over at Bridget. She wore an exasperated expression that had a hint of condemnation. If he had listened to her and his steward’s advice regarding the castle’s finances, this wouldn’t be a problem. It was his fault and he knew it.
“Yes, the castle is in a bit of debt,” Augum replied, shoulders sagging.
“And how do you propose alleviating that debt? By raising taxes on your tenants?”
Augum gritted his teeth. The cunning snake. Augum was well known as a hospitable lord. Perhaps too hospitable. After the war, a village had sprung up overnight around the castle. People who held the trio in the highest esteem, addressing them by titles like the “Heroic Vanquishers of the Legion,” had flocked to become tenants on the land and seek their protection.
Cry’s droopy eyes flicked to Leera. “What about Princess Leera?”
“What about her?” Augum snapped, not meaning to betray his emotions like that. It was just that he was so damn sick and tired of this stupid question. But he was aware he had been letting his temper flare too much of late. He simply wasn’t handling the pressure well.
“When are you finally going to marry her?”
Leera leaned forward, a viper about to strike, only to be silenced by a look from Bridget.
“When we’re good and ready,” Augum hissed. If words could kill …
“Uh-huh.” Cry took a moment to gingerly dip the quill into the inkwell. “And was it your intention to insult the kingdom by not marrying one of its heroic sweetheart princesses?”
“Absolutely not!” Augum dug his nails deep into his palms. It was absolutely no one’s business when they would marry. The evil little …
Faces from nearby tables turned their way. Robes of every color melded together to form a sea of condemnation that echoed Bridget’s demeanor. Suddenly, Augum felt hot, and the hovering plate fell back to the table with a clatter. He hadn’t slept well and hadn’t been eating nearly enough. He reached for a cup of water and took a shaky drink. Leera watched him, eyes softening. He felt a creep of embarrassment at showing such weakness.
Cry calmly finished writing and glanced up. “Do you support Brandon Summers uttering a certain vulgar word?”
“Obviously not. But people do make mistakes.”
Brandon sheepishly looked down at his hands.
“Uh-huh. A few more questions. Tomorrow is the biannual Occupation Ceremony. Want to give us a hint of what you’re intending to do with your expensive academy education? Are you even going to declare an occupation? Everyone’s on the edge of their seat in anticipation.” He said the last part with flat mockery.
Augum crossed his arms. He wanted to spit on the floor to show his disdain, like his old guardian Sir Westwood used to do, but he was smart enough to know that would be a very unprincely thing to do.
“No, I’m not going to give you a hint,” he said, though his insides shriveled. That was yet another thing he had to talk over with the girls—especially Bridget. He could not declare alone!
Cry gave a slight shrug and scratched in another word. “The majority of the kingdom is poor and Ordinary. A good many of those Ordinaries are currently condemning warlocks, citing your father—”
“I renounced him during the war.”
“Forgive me, your former father, the Lord of the Legion, as the reason for the war and the reason for so much suffering and death. What do you want to say to those Ordinaries who survived?”
Augum took a moment to think about it. He had to grudgingly hand it to Cry. It was a good question. “I want to tell those Ordinaries that warlocks are not your enemy. Arcanery is nothing more than a tool. It’s like a sword or a shovel. It’s a tool.”
“There’s a tool sitting at this table, actually,” Brandon muttered.
Cry pressed his eyes shut as he took a patient breath. Then he refocused on Augum. “Many people would consider a match between Princess Bridget and Eric Southguard—”
“Don’t you dare start on this, Fry Himself,” Brandon growled.
Cry raised his brow at Augum, ignoring Brandon. “No comment?”
Augum gave a terse nod.
Cry made a short note on his parchment. “How did it feel to kill your father?”
“Oh, come on,” Brandon spat. “What a stupid, loaded question. How do you think he felt?”
Cry again ignored Brandon and waited for Augum to respond.
Aug
um wanted to hiss something bitingly sarcastic like, “It was peachy. We sat down for tea and crumpets after.” Instead, he said nothing and only glared.
“Do you feel you made right the fact the man murdered Bridget’s and Leera’s parents, or does that haunt you? And how did they get past that and become friends with you?”
Augum felt a hot flush as the memories of that night flooded his mind. The gut-wrenching screams. The crowd of villagers telekinetically lifted all at once. The onslaught of crackling lightning. Legs dangling and kicking furiously at the air. The smell of burning thatch. The orange night sky as Sparrow’s Perch burned to the ground. The sound of Bridget and Leera weeping as they helplessly looked on. And yet, not only had the girls forgiven him for being the son of their parents’ murderer, but they had accepted his friendship.
It was Bridget who answered, leveling her compassionate gaze at Cry. Her answer came in the form of a simple gesture—a disappointed shake of her head.
Cry swallowed, hesitated. “Very well, perhaps the question was … inappropriate.”
“Gee, you think?” Leera snapped.
Cry cleared his throat lightly as he regrouped and examined his parchment. “Then what about how you vanquished him?”
“Everyone knows that story already,” Leera said.
“Uh-huh. But how did you really vanquish a 20th degree master necromancer? Surely you realize the sheer improbability of such a feat …”
“You obviously have a ridiculous story in mind, so why don’t you tell me,” Augum replied.
“Right, no comment given,” Cry muttered, scratching in the phrase. “Want to touch on why only a small number of us are anointed with the power to …” He gave a lazy wave of his quill. “… move things around?”
Augum sat back and sighed out of frustration. This question was one every warlock faced. How come a special few of them had the aptitude? And of those who did, how come some hit their ceiling at the 1st degree, some at the 10th, while a precious, select few reached the mighty 20th, and then, like his great-grandmother, even become a Master? Sure, arduous work and diligent study had an enormous part to play, but there were countless cases of people who did their very best, yet were simply unable to telekinetically move so much as a pebble.
“The truth is, I don’t know the answer. It’s a question that has been around for thousands of years. If we go back in history, then we can see—”
“Last question, Prince Augum.” Cry took a moment to dip the quill into the inkwell, carefully drawing off the excess ink against the side of the battered glass. He glanced up. “Is it true you’re hiding the seven scions in your vault?”
Brandon choked on his food, Leera lunged across the table, blocked only by Augum’s arm, and Bridget gasped, a hand over her mouth.
Students around them gawked. Heads craned as more people gathered, though they mercifully kept their distance.
“Where’s this coming from?” Augum asked, now suspicious. “Who’s behind this?” It was a hit job of some kind, that much was obvious.
“Are you denying that the seven most powerful artifacts in all of Sithesia, artifacts that enhance arcanery to unfathomable proportions, artifacts said to grant eternal life, artifacts your father possessed … are at this very moment sitting in your vault?”
Augum squeezed the edge of the table with one hand and kept the other on Leera, who maintained a murderous gaze on Cry. “Let me make something perfectly clear to you. Those scions were destroyed when we vanquished the Lord of the Legion. Do you understand? Destroyed. Everybody knows that. The Lord of the Legion used the scions to focus his power, but we outwitted him by exploiting an ancient limitation of those very scions.”
“Everybody knows that because that’s what you told them, isn’t that right? The only witnesses to the alleged destruction of those artifacts …” He glanced flatly between the trio. “… are you three.”
Augum spoke through gritted teeth. “They. Were. Destroyed. Period. Period. Got it?”
Cry tilted his head as he finished writing. “Right …” He withdrew a jar of crimson drying sand and methodically sprinkled it across the parchment, blowing the excess off. Then he placed the quill on the parchment and rolled them up.
“That’s … that’s it?” Leera asked. “Aren’t you going to—”
“To what?” Cry asked, getting up. “Blow more smoke up his robe?” He closed his satchel and brushed off particles of drying sand from his sleeve. “All of your robes?” His gaze traveled between the lot of them. “You’re paraded about as heroes. Put up on pedestals like legends. Untouchable. Unassailable. Perfect. But you’re not. You’re really not. You’ve failed a test of leadership for your kingdom. You’re failing the duties of your castle. And you’re failing at your studies.” He indicated to Bridget with a limp wrist. “Well, most of you. Anyway, you’re not perfect, you never were perfect, and you need to stop pretending you are. Many people are sick and tired of the way you look down upon the rest of us.”
Leera was sputtering incoherently. “We don’t … we never … how could you even …”
“If it hadn’t been for your mentor, a real legendary warlock, none of you would be worth your robes.”
Augum was too stung with surprise to say anything.
“What are you going to do?” Bridget asked in a shaky voice.
Cry shrugged. “I’ll simply do what I always do … dig for the truth. That’s what heralds do. Now excuse me, I have to find Lord Eric Southguard.” And he strode off, leaving behind an icy silence.
Discussions
Their last class of the day was in the Elements Wing in a room labeled Sword and Sorcery, 8th Degree. The floor in this wing was made of shimmering opalescent stone. Ancient, rusty iron training prop weapons sat along the walls, above which hung towering ratty tapestries of famous warlock duelers. Attyla the Mighty. Occulus the Necromancer. Trintus Bladeofbright. Scadius Von Edgeworth. Rebecca Von Edgeworth. Codus Trazinius the Adventurer. Theodorus Winkfield. Narsus the Necromancer. And perhaps the most famous of the lot, Anna Atticus Stone.
Augum was standing alone, glancing up at the tapestry depicting Rebecca Von Edgeworth, when Katrina stopped beside him.
“You and I have something in common,” she said in her light accent.
“Oh?”
“We are both orphans. Mother died of consumption only a few years ago. Father loved her very much. He was so stricken with grief that the idea of honor in battle consumed him.” She swallowed. “He was killed in the war.” She folded her hands neatly before her.
“My condolences. Did the Lord of the Legion …?”
“Murder him?” But she did not elaborate, telling Augum that’s exactly what had happened. Shame pricked his cheeks and he wanted to again explain that he had broken the bonds of blood with his father, only to realize she certainly already knew. He cursed that part of his lineage and wished he could have somehow killed the Lord of the Legion sooner.
“I was very close to my father,” Katrina said, looking up at the tapestry. “He taught me a great deal. I think about him every single day. Sometimes I lie awake and remember him and …”
Augum couldn’t think of what to say, but he knew, considering his predicament, that it would be wise to keep at least one Southguard on their side. “My father murdered my mother.”
“A story everybody knows now. She hid you in a farm and told him you had died. Then she said she was leaving him. He murdered her in a jealous rage.” She let that thought hang between them. “But you got your revenge.”
“I suppose you could call it that.”
Katrina allowed a thoughtful pause to pass before nodding up at Rebecca Von Edgeworth. “She was the only woman to receive a scion. And she was an air warlock … just like me.”
“She was also an Arcaner.”
She glanced over in surprise. “You … you know about that?”
“I do.” Hearing about her father, combined with the surprised look she was giving him, made him want
to confess his plans to her. Perhaps she also understood the importance of Arcaners and what they could bring back to the kingdom.
He glanced behind him and saw that the rest of the class was chattering loudly while awaiting the arcanist, who was late. He leaned closer to Katrina and whispered, “I’m going to bring them back.”
“Who?”
“Arcaners.”
She snorted. “That’s … that’s absurd. The order died out. Besides, the nobles would never allow it. You’re only asking for trouble. Sorry, but it’s childish wishful thinking.”
Augum was struck by how much her words made his chest hurt, as if she had crushed part of something meaningful inside him. And she had said it so matter-of-factly, so coldly.
Bridget stepped near. “The way you two are standing makes it look like you’re scheming.”
Katrina shrugged. “Scheming about you.”
“What? Really?”
“No, of course not,” Augum said. “She’s only teasing.”
“Oh.” Bridget swept her hair from her eyes and looked up. “Rebecca Von Edgeworth. She was the honorable Von Edgeworth.”
“They were all honorable, Bridget,” Katrina said.
“Not Zigmund, Scadius’s son. While Scadius sought Mrs. Stone out publicly and in the old way, Zigmund sought her out when she was in her weakest state and on the run from the Legion. He judged it as the only way to beat her and avenge the Von Edgeworth honor. I know because I was there to see it. All three of us were.”
“But Mrs. Stone vanquished the snake in the end,” Augum said, recalling the distant flashes as the pair dueled. It had been his great-grandmother’s final duel, one that had weakened her to the brink of death. As she lay dying, she bequeathed the Arinthian scion to Augum before accepting a sacred invitation to become a Leyan. Her mortal body then disappeared, reappearing as a young woman in the plane of Ley, where she now lived as an ascetic Leyan, meditating and studying the mysteries of arcanery and the universe, thus prolonging her lifespan even further. But nobody believed that part of the story, even though it was true. And he didn’t really blame them. It was so fantastical he sometimes didn’t believe it himself.