Burden's Edge (Fury of a Rising Dragon Book 1)

by Sever Bronny

  “That’s enough, Samuel, we ought not to—”

  “That’s all right,” Augum said, lowering to one knee before the boy. “What do you know about arcanery?”

  “I know you can move things with your hand and you can light the night and you can repair things and make your voice loud and save people and fly and live forever and—”

  Augum chortled despite himself. “We can do some of those things, yes. But it takes years of practice and lots and lots of hard work. And not everyone has the aptitude. Do you like books?”

  “Very much so! Mama is teaching me the written word. I love stories. That’s how I know about arcanery and stuff.”

  Augum smiled. The boy reminded him of himself, back when he had been learning to read. “Then you know more about arcanery at your age than I did. I did not even know it existed until my fourteenth year.”

  Samuel’s eyes widened. “See, Mama! I can be like His Highness! I know lots of stuff about arcanery. I know that The Founding is the start of the calendar, even though Disciple Gritchards says that’s blasphemy and the Unnameables are the ones who started the calendar—”

  “Hush your fool mouth, Samuel,” Mrs. Cobb said in urgent tones, glancing around furtively. “We mustn’t say such things aloud.”

  But the boy charged on despite his mother’s protestations. “I know that back then the names of spells were complicated old names that were made simple over thousands of years.”

  Augum smiled as he remembered wondering why the spell names were plain when the arcane tongue was so old. He had finally learned that the academies had simplified them for brevity.

  Mrs. Cobb leaned forward a little and whispered, “Your Highness, if I may, you’re awfully brave to have said what you said earlier … to Disciple Gritchards, that is.”

  “Is there something you wish to tell me, Mrs. Cobb?”

  Mrs. Cobb looked around unsurely. “Disciple Gritchards is … quite persuasive, Your Highness. They say he has influence in distant lands. And he preaches about all women kneeling before men, about how evil warlocks are, and about purifying the kingdom of all undesirables. I fear he will take the village down a dark path if he is not …” She glanced down at her boy, as if too afraid to say what was on her mind.

  “We’re keeping an eye on him, Mrs. Cobb.”

  But none of that seemed to concern young Samuel, who rubbed his hands excitedly. “Your Highness, would you show me your stripes?”

  “I am so sorry for his rudeness, Your Highness. Let me—”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Cobb. You’d like to see my rings, Samuel?”

  The boy nodded vigorously.

  “Very well, then.” Augum raised his right arm and allowed seven rings of lightning to flare around it, bright enough to shine through the sleeve of his robe.

  “Ooh,” the boy cooed. “They call them stripes because they look like stripes from a distance, Mama, even though they’re rings.”

  Perhaps Gritchards had planted a seed of doubt in her mind or perhaps it was generations of superstition. Whatever the reason, Mrs. Cobb drew the boy back. Either way, Augum did not blame her for her reaction. There were only a handful of warlocks per every hundred people in the kingdom. There simply weren’t enough of them to ward off countless centuries of superstitions.

  “Will you show me a spell?” the boy pressed. “Please, Your Highness?”

  “Son, I do not think asking for magic is proper—”

  “It’s not magic, Mama, it’s arcanery. Magic is for parlor tricks and jesters and stuff.” He mimed moving three cups about. “Like Cuppers.”

  Augum glanced around. No one was paying them any mind. “I don’t see the harm in a small demonstration.” He allowed his stripes to snuff out with a soft whoosh as he splayed his right hand. “Shyneo.” His hand burst with bright lightning, which he dimmed to a low crackle.

  Both the boy and his mother stepped back reflexively, the boy’s mouth agape.

  “Shine is the first elemental spell you learn,” Augum explained, the snow around them glowing blue from the lightning. “It means ‘light’ in the ancient tongue of arcanery.”

  “And there’s one elemental spell per degree,” the boy piped in enthusiastically. “And the original ancient name of the Shine spell is Shyn …” He frowned, trying to pronounce it. “Shynaliteraturga! See, Mama, I know! I know about it! The academies simplified it to Shine!” But then a serious expression came over his face. “How did you do it, Your Highness?”

  “Using the three principles of arcanery. A diamond focus, steel belief and an open soul.” There was a longer explanation of those principles, though the boy would come upon them himself if he persisted in his studies.

  “But where does the power come from? How does it work and stuff? It don’t say much in the books.”

  “It’s called the arcane ether, Samuel, and it’s very mysterious.” Augum gracefully swept his lit hand. “Think of it like a great ocean with a dark horizon. A warlock’s stamina is measured by how much of that arcane energy he can tap into, while his arcane strength measures how strong he can make his spells by using that tapped energy. We measure our aptitude in the craft by the degrees we attain, with each degree more difficult than the last.”

  The boy’s eyes were wide as saucers. “What’s … what’s beyond the horizon?”

  Augum glanced past them. “Something worse than death. Your soul can get trapped in the deep, cold darkness of the arcane abyss. But sometimes, in an emergency, a warlock might want to dip into that inkwell, so to speak. It’s called overdraw and you can use it to amplify the power of a spell … at the risk of your soul.”

  He was barely conscious of the terror in Samuel’s eyes and of Mrs. Cobb clutching the boy’s shoulders protectively.

  “Even if you survive crossing that threshold,” he continued, voice distant, “you can still get sick. Very sick. It’s called arcane fever.” Memories of terrible nightmares surfaced, memories of floating around in a vast and cold and horribly lonely nothing, waiting to die. “That’s how most warlocks die … through ambition, arrogance, or inattentiveness. Sometimes a warlock tries to learn the arts on his own. We call it ‘learning wild.’ Those warlocks rarely survive.” He shrugged. “Or sometimes it’s just plain stupidity that kills you.”

  Augum realized the horrified, yet rapt look on the faces of his audience and decided it was best to lighten the mood. Besides, he was curious to hear how much the boy had learned on his own.

  “But you’ll be fine as long as you’re careful and pay attention in class.” If only he could present himself as a better example. “All right, Samuel, if Shine is the elemental spell in the 1st degree, what are the three standard spells?”

  The boy lit up anew. “Telekinesis, of course! Then you learn Repair because you have to know how to repair everything you break.”

  “Very good. And the last one?”

  The boy thought about it a moment. He winced as he guessed. “Unconceal?”

  “Very good indeed.”

  “Do you know any off-the-book spells?”

  “Really, Samuel, that’s quite rude—”

  “Yes, Samuel, I know one or two.”

  “Off-the-book spells are not illegal, Mama. They’re just not taught at the academy.”

  “And now a test, Samuel. Can you remember the three principles of arcanery I mentioned earlier?”

  The boy bit the edge of his thumb and shook his head.

  “Well, don’t worry, you have lots of time to learn those.” Augum snuffed out his hand and stood. “Shine saved our lives plenty of times, you know. And Unconceal allowed us to find hidden treasure.”

  The boy’s face was alight with wonder. He readied to ask another question, but Mrs. Cobb was eager to end the discussion.

  “That’s enough now, Samuel. Your head is filled with enough as is. Your Highness, thank you for … enlightening us. A good evening to you.” Mrs. Cobb prompted her son to bow with her.

  “And a goo
d evening to you, Mrs. Cobb and Samuel,” Augum murmured as they strode off, Mrs. Cobb hissing warnings at her son, who kept turning his head to gawk at Augum.

  Kids like Samuel were precious jewels in a sea of superstition and gave Augum hope for future generations of warlocks.

  But then his stomach sank. He wondered what the boy and his mother would think of him once they heard of his whipping. Was that what a fall from grace looked like?

  “Corrupting the youth, I see, m’lord,” said a smooth voice from nearby.

  Augum turned and took a deep breath. “Disciple Gritchards.”

  Gritchards was tall and broad-shouldered. He wore a plain white robe, over which hung a deer-hide coat. He had a shaved head and a sallow, sunken appearance complete with rings under his eyes, as if he chronically under slept.

  “Why did you become emboldened, Disciple Gritchards?” Augum asked.

  “The gods told me the time has come for the ascendance of The Path. But let us not dither. Permission to speak freely, beyond titles, Your Highness.” He flashed a mocking grin.

  But Augum, curious to hear what the man had to say, ignored his tone and inclined his head.

  Gritchards pressed the tips of his fingers together as he paced in a wide circle around Augum, booted feet crunching in the snow. “Do you see yourself as some kind of ambassador for your witchcraft?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, every warlock is an ambassador for the arcane craft.”

  “Do you not perceive the error of your ways, how you offend the gods with every breath you inhale, with every word you spew, with every child you sway with hedonism?”

  Augum had heard this kind of spiel before from superstitious Ordinaries fearful of the craft. And he had grown used to defending against it. But Gritchards, whose steel-gray eyes burned with fervor, was of a different sort, for he had the kind of fanaticism that came from someone who believed himself right no matter what.

  “You paint warlocks as evil,” Augum began, choosing his words carefully. “But we are people just like you.”

  “Oh, but you are nothing like me. You are the very spawns of hell, convinced of your infallibility and unaware of your spiritual corruption. You unwittingly fan the flames of hell with the bellows of your witchcraft. And you even dare to share this dark gift with women, who are already born weak, crafted as imperfect by the gods for men to make pure. And yet you make them bathe in those fires. The lot of you must be denounced and purified, for you live and breathe sacrilege.”

  “Ah, but if you understood arcanery, you’d know women are equal to men on all fronts. Some of the most powerful warlocks to have ever lived were women. We do not distinguish between genders. And as far as my ‘evil craft is concerned,’ I know thirty-six separate spells, not including extensions and spells I am still learning. Not one has me summoning evil of any kind.” Those philosophy and history lectures were coming in quite handy.

  “That is because all spells are evil in nature. Your very power is evil incarnate.”

  “You fear only that which you do not understand. Superstition hidden behind a mask of grand gestures. And what power do you have besides the ability to convince yourself you’re always right? Hmm? Can you silence an attacker or defend a village against a marauding gang of bandits as we did last summer? Can you give men and women peace of mind in their day-to-day lives, or must you keep them cowering in fear for you to maintain power?”

  “You underestimate the power of persuasion, m’lord.”

  “Then you admit that persuasion is all the power you have.”

  “While your powers stem from the witch, mine are given to me naturally by the Unnameables. And while your name can be spoken aloud, the names of the gods cannot be uttered, for they are holy and beyond reproach.” He stopped a distance before Augum, the tips of his fingers still pressed together. “The Path is the only path. It is righteousness. It is truth. It is light. And when it becomes the law of the land, it will cast out the darkness that has been allowed to take root over the millennia … like weeds in a garden of purity.”

  “You say the gods gave you your powers of persuasion. Have you ever stopped to consider that the Unnameables also granted warlocks the aptitude to learn arcanery?”

  “Your powers come from the witch. It is well known.”

  “Indeed? Prove it.”

  Gritchards’s eyes narrowed.

  “For that matter, prove you have a right to subjugate women,” Augum pressed, tired of this game. “Prove that all undesirables, as you call them, should not live here as equals among us. Prove that the gods favor The Path as the only way to live. In fact, prove anything.”

  “I do not have to prove anything to you. The Path is self-evident. The Unnameables speak to me and keep me on that path.”

  “The gods speak to you? Prove it.”

  “I utter aloud what they have to say. That is proof enough.”

  “Your word is only that—your word, and nothing more. Prove you are not a liar.”

  Gritchards took a sudden step forward, hissing, “How dare you, you blaspheming demon—” But he stopped, for Augum stood his ground, unafraid.

  “I faced demons near the size of a castle,” Augum said evenly. “And I faced the man who summoned those demons, a man who was once my father. I faced necromancers, cannibals, walking undead and giant slithering maggots that could be commanded like dogs. I can attest to the depths of their evil.” This time, it was Augum who took a step toward Gritchards. “But it is the evil of certainty without proof that can be even more dangerous. My father also once used nothing more than the power of … persuasion.”

  Gritchards glared but remained silent.

  “We have our own quiet way of worshipping the Unnameables, Disciple Gritchards. Your wild-eyed cult, with its superstitious rules and fear-mongering and condemnations of the innocent … is not welcome here.” Augum tilted his head in interest. “There is much I do not understand about life. But I know this. It is not warlocks you have to fear, Disciple Gritchards … but your own ignorance.” Then he turned his back on the man and left.

  Attacked

  “And lastly, here, please,” Steward Haroun said, tapping the parchment.

  Augum dipped his quill into the near-empty inkwell and signed off on the accounting of supplies, income, expenses and debts. The steward then poured hot crimson wax onto the parchment, picked up the ornate seal of the castle, and carefully pressed it into the wax. The ledger had been signed, witnessed and sealed.

  Augum dropped the quill back into the inkwell and sat back. Nearby, a chair levitated telekinetically. It was late, and while the girls did their homework and had a mentoring session with Jez, Augum had been cooped up in the steward’s office attending to the administrative side of his castellan duties. As always, there had been much to go over. The constabulary had brought him a list of issues. A villager stole a sheep. Another had cut wood from the forest without payment. A third had called a woman an unspeakable name in public. Two men had fought in the tavern. And various other minor infractions. Augum had levied what he believed were fair fines against all of them, choosing to avoid making larger examples of them in the form of a trial or tribunal, although it was his right as castellan.

  “I am sorry to hear about your troubles at the academy, Your Highness.” Hanad Haroun was a dignified man with a kind bearing. He had dark skin, a trimmed graying-black beard and wore the silk brocade robe of a man of high office. He had been the town elder of a village Augum had taken refuge in during the war. When the Legion had burned it, Mrs. Stone rescued the surviving villagers by teleporting them to the castle. After the war, they had settled around the castle and built up Arinthia. He was still its town elder, though in a more unofficial capacity as his role of steward to Castle Arinthian came first.

  “You can use my first name, Mr. Haroun.”

  “We have discussed this, Your Highness—”

  “I mean only in private. Please.”

  “I see. If that is your wish,
Augum. But you should still refer to me as Steward Haroun in the company of others. It is important for your staff to hear titles respected.”

  “I understand.” Augum glanced around the office, located on the third floor. It was stately, furnished with books, a fine ancient desk, a cabinet of scrolls, and various drying sands and inkwells and quills. Fat tallow candles burned throughout. An unused ironwood canopy bedstead sat off in one corner, for Steward Haroun lived with his family in the village. Mrs. Stone had once slept in that very bed, back when the trio first came to this abandoned castle. Back when everything seemed an exciting mystery and they knew nothing about it, not even its name.

  “We need to build a wall around the village to prevent banditry,” Steward Haroun said. “Although you repaired a portion of it, the old one is in ruins and the village has grown beyond its scope.”

  “Do we have the funds?”

  Steward Haroun expelled a long breath. “Nowhere near. The monthly pension barely covers the costs of running the castle, and because the fields are as yet so young and the hands that work them so inexperienced, the harvests have been meager.”

  “Then forgive me, but what’s the point of talking about it?”

  “I’ve said it before, Your High—err, Augum. You are too generous. You do not charge for access to the well or the communal ovens, you undercharge for wood, rent is too low, and you have given free shelter and land to too many friends, including my family. Despite your insistence otherwise, you need to raise taxes and you need to charge rent to everyone.”

  “Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—we can’t raise taxes. The people are too poor. They haven’t yet made money from the land to afford it.”

  “But the nobles have, as have the merchants.”

  “I’m not charging you or my friends rent. You helped us in the war. Part of our pension should always go to you.”

  “Forgive me, but you are not listening, Augum. The nobles and merchants can afford to pay more. And so can nearly all of your tenants, for they benefit from the post war labor shortage. It has been well over a year now since the rates were set. Furthermore, you are far too forgiving with those who dally in their payments, perhaps worrying it would be a reflection on you as a warlock.” Mr. Haroun gently wagged an admonishing finger. “You must separate your duties as castellan from your duties as a warlock pupil, Augum.”