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

by Sever Bronny

  But then Brandon entered with none other than Katrina and Eric. The Southguards looked courtly in their brocaded silks and adornments, and Brandon wore his best shirt and hose. He walked stiffly—no doubt due to his back—but also seemed anxious to keep up with the Southguards. Trailing behind them was a done-up Elizabeth, preening at people she knew—or perhaps pretended to know. And following her were the group’s minders as well as crotchety-looking family members. They glittered with so much jewelry they looked like shop vendors displaying their wares. Augum was relieved Lord Southguard and his wife were absent. They were no doubt readying for the Coronation Ceremony, which would follow this ceremony, but in the Black Castle located on the other side of the city.

  The entire party sat in the front row opposite the aisle and refused to meet Augum’s and Leera’s gazes. Filling the seats directly behind the Southguard family were Elizabeth Beaumont the Third, Cry Slimwealth, their families and followers, and some older students. Cry lazily held a clay tablet, quill, inkwell, and a small piece of parchment, which he smoothed over the tablet. He glanced over to where Augum was sitting. As usual, he appeared as if he had just gotten up from bed. Augum wondered if he had any remorse about the piece he had written.

  Augum noticed Jez was watching him. “What?” he said.

  “Don’t see them, do you?”

  “Who?”

  Jez inclined her head toward the far side of the theater. Augum glanced over to see his friends and loyal supporters from the castle walking down the aisle. As soon as they spotted the trio, they all smiled and waved, and some even whistled, turning disapproving heads.

  “How’d they get here?” Augum asked her, waving back.

  “I teleported them in before I came to you.”

  “Devious,” he said, smiling. He hadn’t realized how much it would mean to him to have those who had supported him and the girls during the war here to see this. It gave him a warm feeling that bolstered his courage.

  The guests from the village of Arinthia took seats at the far edge of the middle rows despite Jez waving them over.

  “Look at them, they’re embarrassed,” she said. “How adorable.”

  A particularly haggard-looking woman with overly painted lips and a huge string of pearls leaned forward from the next row back. “Would you kindly stop such vulgar gesticulations?”

  Jez looked her over. “Would you look at that. Some evil warlock enchanted a beautiful young woman to look like a decrepit donkey.”

  The woman clutched her pearls. “My word. Well I never—”

  “Aww, honey, don’t look so put off. I’m sure some farm will put you to good use. Do you have a strong back? I hope so, because carting logs around all day can be hard on stubby legs. Oh, and you have something on your chin. No, no—the fourth one down.” A smirking Jez turned back around as the woman sputtered back into her seat. Then she gave Augum a stern look. “Stone, if I ever catch you pulling a stunt like the one I just pulled, you won’t be able to sit for a tenday from the butt kicking I’ll deliver. And what are you looking at, Jones? Eyeballs forward, missy. And stop smirking, this is a proper affair.”

  Augum and Leera struggled to keep their faces straight while the old woman behind them complained to her neighbors in a scandalized whisper.

  At last, Iron Byron strode onto the stage, his chin held grandly in the air. He stopped behind the lectern, primly adjusted his golden sash and clasped his hands before his large belly. The excited chatter quieted as the arcane lights dimmed, eliciting a few “oohs” from Ordinaries. Byron took his time fiddling with some parchments before smacking his lips together. His jowls quivered as he brought a hand to his throat. Augum saw the man’s mouth form the arcane word “amplifico,” which would amplify his voice.

  “Noble lords and ladies,” Byron boomed, voice carrying throughout the theater. “Each term, we present an opportunity for our fine pupils to declare publicly the occupational path they will walk for the rest of their lives. Being a warlock is a special thing. It means being special, for as a warlock, a pupil has the ability to move things with his mind and shape the world around him in ways Ordinaries can only dream of. But it also means sacrifice. Toil. Long years of difficult study. It means risking death for knowledge. And it means giving back to the kingdom and those less fortunate than us.”

  The last sentence sounded strained, as if Byron had been required to say it. Even the way he said the word “Ordinaries” was high-mannered, as if it was beneath him to utter it in public. And the way the nobles stirred behind Augum seemed to subtly echo that sentiment.

  For Augum, that word only widened the divide. It was not a pleasant word. Ordinary. Boring. Average. Nothing special. It was an old word that stank of history and oppression, and had gone unchanged for millennia.

  Byron gracefully swept an arm over the audience as the lights brightened a little. “As you can see around you, there are a thousand empty seats.”

  Heads turned. There were indeed empty seats dotting the theater like missing teeth in a beggar’s mouth. And great swaths of the auditorium were dark and empty beyond the lights.

  “Yes, the war took many of you, but warlocks were far more numerous in days of old, prior to the loss of knowledge, prior to the burnings, and prior to the great wars. We have dwindled to well short of a thousand in the entire kingdom, and of that number, four hundred sit before me today. Think on that a moment.” He paused as he surveyed the audience. “That makes each warlock life that much more precious. We must guard ourselves against unnecessary risk. We must strive to protect the sanctity of the craft. We must ensure its survival into future generations.”

  Maybe that’s why the academy abandoned the old ways of strenuous and dangerous training, Augum thought. The academy can’t risk losing warlocks like it used to.

  Byron stepped aside from the lectern and made a show of looking at the stage floor. “Every famous warlock in the last thousand years has stood on these very planks and declared to the world the occupation they longed to achieve. It is a sacred thing to commit to a profession, for with that declaration comes expectations, a change of perspective, and a new path. And that path starts with new classes orientated toward that occupation in the pupil’s next term.”

  Augum wondered about that. Considering the profession he intended to declare had vanished some time ago, did an Arcaner lesson plan even exist anymore? Or had the academy destroyed the course material?

  As he dwelled on the subject, Byron droned on about academic expectations, what the crest of the academy meant, and how he hoped the lofty bright-eyed ambitions of the young would eclipse the darkness of war and remain resolute in the face of future threats.

  “And with courage and perseverance, may you, dear pupil, achieve that honorable occupation,” he said in closing and brought his hands together in applause. Everyone in the hall joined him. Once the clapping had died down, he gestured offstage. “Arcanist Fungal, if you please.”

  Fungal tottered onto the stage, wearing his black arcanist robe and carrying his bagpipes, which he rested on his protruding belly. His ebony forehead shone with sweat, but his face was solemn.

  Byron raised his chin. “And now we ask that you stand and join us in singing the academy anthem.” Byron then stepped aside.

  The audience stood as Fungal adjusted his bagpipes. After a moment of silence, Fungal breathed life to a single powerful note that pierced the stillness of the ancient Grand Theater. As the note morphed into two and then wavered and soared like a bird, a memory flooded Augum’s mind. He felt a delicate pang in his heart and his chest tightened, for that solemn and proud song would forever bring him back to a time when he did not know which day would be his last; to a time when he cherished every moment he spent with Leera; to a time when Mrs. Stone looked upon him with doting eyes.

  At last the verse kicked in and current and former students sang in one great voice.

  We sing this song of the Academy

  With hearts both proud and strong<
br />
  Remembering those that came before us

  Those who died for a sacred song

  Yet here we stand brave and unified

  Striving for knowledge and degree

  Oh warlock may you never tire

  May you stand tall, proud and free

  For our traditions are rich and long

  Full of sacrifice, wisdom and courage

  And arcane secrets we shall pass on

  To those deserving, those who belong

  May the academy stand for thousands

  Thousands of years beyond

  May they listen to the mighty echo

  Of our glorious and beloved song

  Surprise

  “Let us welcome any brave 1st degree warlocks who would like to declare a path,” Byron said when everyone had sat back down and Fungal had made his departure.

  A few took to the stage, Gretchen among them. The pimply fourteen-year-old wore a rather plain dress with her hair in a ponytail, but she was smiling. Because she had not learned the spell yet, Byron amplified her voice for her, touching her throat as he muttered the Amplify incantation.

  “I am here thanks to a scholarship from the academy,” she said in her screechy voice, and many audience members winced or rubbed their inner ears. She curtsied at the arcanists to a smattering of polite applause. “As well as a generous stipend from the carpenter guild.” A group of guild representatives whistled and cheered. The guilds were the most generous donors in the city, and it was a worthwhile investment for them, for one warlock craftsperson could do the labor of multiple men, depending on their degree.

  “My pa was a carpenter, but he died in the war. He always used to tell me you don’t win none without trying. I’m here for you, Pa.” Another round of clapping, even louder this time. “I declare that I’m, like, going to become a warlock carpenter.”

  “Look at that. Only one ‘like,’ ” Leera said as they clapped along with everyone else.

  “As if you’ll do better,” Jez sniped from beside Augum.

  Augum smiled, but then realized that implied Leera was going up there. He gave her a questioning look, but she swatted the idea off as if it was an annoying fly, snuffing out his hope.

  The other 1st degrees declared after Gretchen—a girl of sixteen, a late starter, declared she would become a chandler and revealed she was already apprenticing in the family business. Augum got the impression she was expecting to hit her ceiling around the 2nd degree. The other 1st degree was an older man in his sixties who declared he was starting his life anew as an arcane cobbler and hoped to inspire anyone who thought arcanery was beyond them. He received the greatest round of applause, though only from the lower castes.

  Degree by degree, students of all ages and backgrounds declared with amplified voices. A twenty-four-year-old 3rd degree Nodian boy with dark skin and wearing Nodian ceremonial wolf-hide vestments declared he would become an arcane hunter and “bring down a red bear every month for my tribe, Wolfhowl.” A young woman in a formal blue dress declared she would become an attendant at the great Library of Antioc and “further the knowledge of warlock kind.” A Sierran 4th degree girl declared she would become a mime and join a traveling troupe when she hit her ceiling.

  “Took her long enough to decide,” Laudine said from down the row as they clapped, adding that the pair shared theater classes.

  Garryk Garroom, a bookish Tiberran boy with thick spectacles that Augum knew from the war, declared in a stuttering voice that he intended on becoming an arcaneologist. A noble 5th degree girl in a crimson dress and mink coat declared she would become a banker. How arcanery came into play in that occupation, Augum hadn’t the foggiest idea.

  And so it went. The lowborn typically chose occupations like blacksmith, armorer, soldier, tinker, leather worker, or bodyguard. The midborn chose weaver, tailor, mason, engraver, justice official, manuscript maker, or similar trades. And the nobles chose occupations like singer, alchemist, arcanist, trader, apothecarist, scribe, healer, or merchant. Occupations like blacksmith attracted air or fire warlocks. Earth warlocks also typically worked with their hands, taking trades like builder or stone mason. Ice warlocks made excellent money in the lucrative cooling trades, and lightning was all over the map, though excelled in fields like alchemy. But with some ingenuity, any warlock could work in any occupation.

  These were only the students who wanted to do something with their lives. Plenty of warlocks ended up hitting their ceiling without ever declaring, drifting through life with no aim or purpose and taking odd jobs now and then. But it was frowned upon, and the pressure to choose an occupation grew with every degree, especially if a pupil had benefactors to answer to, such as a guild, parents, or even the academy. Despite officially declaring scholarships free of any obligations, there was a distinct expectation that the pupil would pay the academy back, whether through honor, prestige, or future donations. Especially donations.

  As 6th degree students finished declaring, Augum’s palm began sweating. The thought of postponing for another year crossed his mind for the first time. He had not even considered it, despite assassins almost killing him. Yet here he was, a moment before his degree was called, swallowing hard and second-guessing himself.

  He unconsciously gave Leera’s hand a squeeze, holding out hope that she would come with him. He had been such a fool to spring his decision on them so late. Sure, he had been talking about Arcaners for ages, but he hadn’t explicitly told the girls he wanted to declare. It was something he should have done months ago …

  Byron took his place behind the lectern. “Congratulations to everyone from the 6th degree. I am sure you will make the academy and your benefactors proud. Now will everyone please welcome the venerable 7th degree initiates!”

  Augum squeezed Leera’s hand one last time, swallowed, and rose, leaving his satchel behind. He saw that Matilda, the older woman from his class, had also risen, as had Eric and Carp. The audience stirred and whispered amongst themselves. Augum strode toward the stage as a second swell of whispers surged. Only when he took his place beside Matilda did he realize why.

  Walking up to the stage … were Bridget and Leera, both grinning mischievously.

  Declaration

  “When did you decide?” Augum asked Leera out of the corner of his mouth. They stood behind Matilda as she spoke at the lectern about how she had toiled under Legion rule as a forced warlock conscript and purposefully avoided doing her duty.

  “You haven’t stopped talking about Arcaners for months,” Leera murmured. “Bridge and I had a hunch for some time. You’re an open book to us, Aug. It was especially obvious when you took precious time away from your studies to research Arcaners. Well, we did some reading of our own and thought we would teach you a lesson.”

  “Lesson well learned, I assure you of that.” He glanced over at Bridget and gave her a warm smile. She smiled back and added a sisterly shake of her head—a mild admonishment for not being more forthcoming with them.

  “Bridget’s becoming an arcanist and I’m going for blacksmithing,” Leera added with a somber nod.

  Augum only gaped, incredulous. Then he elbowed her. “You’re jesting. I guess I deserved that.”

  “Damn right you did.”

  His insides warmed as if the clouds had parted to let sunshine in. Someone wanting him dead now felt trivial, for Bridget and Leera would declare to become Arcaners with him. Together they would face a new future and a new profession, and that meant more to him than anything.

  “… a grand adventure awaits me, for I declare I shall endeavor to become a windblower,” Matilda finished to solid applause and took her place back in line behind the lectern.

  “Windblower? What’s that?” Augum asked Leera.

  “I think it’s a warlock who gets the wind to blow at the sails out in calm seas. I hear there’s quite an art to it.”

  “Ah.” Of course—Matilda was an air element warlock.

  Stocky Carp took Matilda’s place next. A
fter a lengthy diatribe about how he’d finally found his way in the world—no thanks to anyone other than himself of course—he announced he would become a warlock soldier in the king’s army, preferably a captain. It hardly surprised Augum, for Carp loved the army. But he doubted Carp had the chops to become a captain. More like a perpetual private. Although he supposed a 7th degree warlock would be valuable regardless of rank.

  “Pfft, figures,” Leera said. “And look at the front row. I think he killed them with his bad breath.”

  As Augum glanced at the people holding their noses and squirming uncomfortably, he spied Brandon sitting forlorn beside Katrina. It boggled his mind how their friend could turn like that. He wondered if Brandon was under the influence of a malicious spell or something else out of his control.

  Eric Southguard went next and droned on about his duty to the academy, to the kingdom, and to his soon-to-be-crowned father. He spoke about every pupil’s responsibility to make the best of themselves. He also spoke about loyalty. “And it is important that our allies see how united we are as a kingdom. That our vassals bring their banner to the royal court. That those banners fly in unison with the royal crown on the field of battle.”

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out Eric was talking about Augum. What was he afraid of? That Augum would snatch the throne from them? Ridiculous. Most likely, Eric was rubbing it in, as he liked to do in his own calculated way. After all, he hated losing, and Augum had just dealt him a blow that would surely make the heralds.

  Augum realized he had better stop wasting time and think of something to say. Glancing around the ancient theater, he spotted a tapestry of crests, and it gave him an idea.

  “Finally,” Eric went on, “I would like to declare myself a contender for my father’s army, in which I will seek a position as a commander.”

  The audience erupted in hearty applause. Augum mutedly clapped along. He wondered if Eric really wanted to become a commander, or whether it was the wish of his stubborn father. If the latter, it would explain why Lord Southguard had demanded Eric’s role in today’s mock battle. Augum thought he would have made a better diplomat or perhaps scribe.