by Kris Hiatt
“How did you control the admissions exams?” Drevic asked.
“Easy. In the close to thirty years I have been an Archmagister, I have been the only one to grade them.”
“Good plan. Devious, but good,” Drevic said. Nimbril winked at him.
“I only allowed a handful of students in each year that were more than capable mentally to pass the rigors of our order. Take this year for example, Heral and Treace were one and two in test scores. Treace actually scored higher than any other lower class applicant in recent history. Only a few noble’s sons scored better, you being one of them.”
“I have paid good sums of money to have the older and best magisters to retire, and have placed average ones at best in their place. Only Brental, as much of an ass as he is, actually deserves to be on the Board of Magisters.”
“What do you mean?” Drevic asked, storing the information for later use.
“He has talent, the rest are barely average.”
“No, I mean why pay to have other magisters retire?”
“Oh, well, I wanted the best teachers to retire, and I scrubbed the best teaching methods from our records. I told you, I didn’t want any more stone-faced people. It’s not very common now, but there used to be half a dozen or more a year.”
Drevic couldn’t believe it. Did he understand Nimbril correctly?
“Are you trying to say that you have intentionally dumbed down our order?”
“That’s exactly what I am telling you.”
“So that there wouldn’t be as many stone-faced people dying before their time?”
“Precisely.”
“How exactly did you make the teaching of the Paths harder?”
“Don’t you find it odd that we give very generic instructions on how to master each Path?”
“Well, they are emotions, and emotions are different for each person,” Drevic answered.
“That’s what we teach you, yes.”
“There are better ways?”
“Oh, yes, much. And the magic is much stronger than you think, although you are better than most, as seen by your healing.”
“How?”
“Oh, there are ways. It’s not important right now. What is important is what you are going to do with the information I have just given you?”
“What do you mean?” Drevic asked, hoping his facial expressions didn’t give away his intent.
“Oh, I know you’re not stupid. I presume you are deciding right now whether or not to turn me in to the rest of the order. To tell everything I have just said. In fact, I think you have decided to do just that. Except that you haven’t thought about the rest of what I’ve been telling you.”
“What do you mean?” Drevic asked again, wishing he didn’t have to ask so many questions.
“I mean that even if you did tell someone, what good would it do? Will it bring anyone back to life? Will it make our order better? Who will be the Archmagister then? Brental? Do you think our order would survive that hot head’s rule?”
Drevic could see the logic in that. Even if he did tell someone, what could they do about it? It wasn’t Nimbril’s fault that Truntil was dead. He doctored some exams, which was bad, but it would only get him removed from the order; the order was beyond the constable’s or baron’s reach in that regard. It would tarnish the order to where they would probably cease to exist.
“And, if you sell me out, who will sponsor you as Archmagister?”
“I don’t have delusions of grandeur, Nimbril. If I am not selected, I’m not selected.”
“No, but with what I’m about to tell you, you’ll want to be the next Archmagister, and more so, the order needs you to be.”
“Go on,” Drevic said, willing to hear the rest of it.
“Once we are done with the Archbishop and the barons, I will name you as the next Archmagister. Before I do that, however, I will provide you with the names of all the students who don’t belong. The ones that couldn’t pass the entrance exams and will struggle with using the magic. We will thank them for trying, but we will ask them to leave.”
“Are you saying you want to restore the College?”
“Yes, I know I was wrong in doing what I did, but at the time I thought I was doing the right thing. I shouldn’t have stopped the progress of our order. We’ll be needed sooner or later. There will be war, I can feel it. Our order will need to be strong to not only survive, but also to save as many people as we can. You’ll be the one to lead the Onneron Brotherhood into that future.”
“You are asking a lot of me, Nimbril.”
“Nothing more than you can handle.”
Drevic thought about what Nimbril was saying. Hundreds of possibilities swirled in his head. Better ways of teaching, better, stronger magic, capable, willing students. He thought of many things then, including whether or not it was the right thing to do, but the idea of saving many lives was the only thing that kept him from turning Nimbril in to the other magisters when they returned.
“Even the Board of Magisters will need to be cleaned out and reformed. I’ll show you the best ways to teach young students, and I’ll give you another secret too,” Nimbril said.
“Speaking of the board, I’m not even a member. That’s part of the criteria and not even you can change that.”
“I’ll handle that part,” Nimbril said. “And it’ll be within the rules, too.”
“If I do this,” Drevic said. “If, and I mean if, I need to see some proof from you of what you say is capable of being done. The idea of helping others and saving lives is the only reason I am considering this. The power of leadership means nothing to me, but saving lives does. Show me something that can help facilitate that and I may go along with your plan.”
The old man reached into the folds of his robes and brought forth a dagger. Before Drevic could react, the old man stabbed him hard in the stomach.
At first there was a searing pain, and then he could feel the dagger slide out of his stomach. A line of blood flowed from his belly and even through his blue robes Drevic could see the blood staining it as it flowed freely from the wound and onto the wagon.
The old man had finally lost his mind, and now he was about to die because of it. He knew that even if the Archmagister decided to heal him, it wouldn’t work. His wound was much worse than the merchant’s wound he healed in what seemed like a lifetime ago.
“I’m sorry, but this is the only way,” he heard Nimbril tell him.
He fell off the wagon onto the ground, clutching his stomach, knowing he was about to die.
Chapter 17
Treace wasn’t that good at fighting hand to hand, having been taught some rudimentary moves from Exodin, but guessed he was about to get better or get beaten. He was done running from bullies, and he was done curling into a ball. If he was going to get beaten up, he was going to do so fighting.
The first man ran in at him and wound up a wild swing that he easily side stepped out of the way of. He stepped toward another, knowing he didn’t have much of a chance against the four of them. He knew he had to try to incapacitate one or two of them as fast as he could to even the odds.
The man pulled back his arm to punch Treace, but he was quicker and snapped his fist hard into the man’s face and felt the crunch of bone beneath the blow. Hoping he broke the man’s nose, Treace turned to face yet another of the four only to be greeted by a fist in the face.
His neck snapped back at the weight of the blow and his vision cleared after a quick shake of the head. His opponent walked back in and launched another strike, this time, however, Treace managed to get out of the way. He felt his leg give from under him and pain exploded near the back of his knee. The man he let go past him had returned, kicking Treace in the leg as a greeting.
It was unfortunate for his friend though, who was off balance and leaning close to Treace, because he got struck in the groin three times in rapid succession as that was all Treace had in front of him to strike. The man fell to the ground, clu
tching his crotch, and Treace rolled to his right and nearly got all the way to his feet.
He was flung forward as a large foot slammed into his back, jerking his head as he flew to the ground. He was an experienced fighter, however, and rolled with blow, lessening its severity and giving him some space to maneuver.
He turned and was glad to see that the man he struck in the groin was still lying on the ground. He wasn’t as happy to see that the man with the broken nose had stubbornly rejoined the fray.
He feinted right and then drove left, letting his fist lead the way and felt it connect with the left side of the man’s face with a resounding crack. He wasn’t sure if it was the man’s jaw, or his hand, because pain exploded from his hand up into his arm. The man staggered, but stayed in place.
He followed it up with a second strike from his opposite hand, hoping to have enough time to get away, but knew that he had stayed too long when he felt arms grab around his body from behind, pinning his right arm along with it.
The man he staggered threw a punch that connected with the side of Treace’s head and he saw stars. The man reared back for another, but Treace picked up his feet and kicked as hard as he could, tossing his attacker away, and the man holding him backwards.
The man holding him couldn’t balance both their weight and fell heavily on the ground. Treace used his arms to keep hold of the man’s right arm, preventing him from using it to cushion the fall. Treace heard a sharp intake of breath and knew the wind had been knocked out of the man.
He bounced up as quickly as he could to find the only remaining man, the largest, reaching for him. He tried to dodge, but the man’s reach was longer than his own and Treace felt himself being pulled into the man. He jumped at the last minute but was still caught, most likely in a worse predicament, as his lower back was being pulled on mightily by the man who was now face first in Treace’s chest.
He was able to wiggle his left arm free and started raining blows down upon the man’s face. His head was turned to that side so his fist connected with the softer tissue of his nose and cheeks. He was glad it wasn’t his right hand, because it surely would have broken under the weight of his blows to the much harder skull.
After several strikes, Treace felt not only the intense pressure of the man squeezing him as tight as he could, but also the punches to his back from the other man that he had double kicked to the ground.
He was running out of breath, and his vision was starting to fade. The bear of a man that was squeezing him was literally squeezing the life out of him. He struck repeatedly with all his might, but the man wouldn’t release his hold. He had angled his head slightly lower so Treace’s fist wasn’t hitting him in the cheek anymore. Treace was landing blow after blow on the man’s forehead. The angle he was forced to punch from didn’t allow heavy blows, however, so he didn’t think he was doing much damage.
He felt his arm going weak from both the exertion and the loss of oxygen. He kept feeling the stings of blows landing about his back.
He was about to lose consciousness when the man suddenly dropped him and went running to pick up his fallen friends.
As he fell to the ground he noticed something odd; something about the man that had been squeezing him. Not only was his face familiar, but there was something on it. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the pain.
“Are you okay?” he faintly heard someone ask. It sounded like they were far away.
He opened his eyes to see two guards standing over him.
“Are you okay?” one of them repeated, this time Treace could hear them a bit better.
“I think so,” he said, wincing as he sat up. Most of his body ached, but at least he found breath.
“Take it easy friend,” one said.
“You picked a fight with four men?” the other asked.
“They attacked me,” Treace said through rough breaths.
“Did you know them?” he asked.
“No.”
“Hey, it’s The Wolf,” the first said, noticing his necklace.
Treace looked behind the guards and saw a familiar face. When she saw him look at her, she turned and walked away quickly, her dark hair and purple dress with white trim bounced about her as she walked.
“Yeah, so, who cares,” the other said.
“I was just saying,” the first said.
Treace wished they would just shut up and leave him be. He stood up, slowly, and at least the second one helped by offering a steadying arm. The first stood back and watched. Treace had a feeling that man didn’t like him much.
“I’m okay gentlemen, I just need to get to my room,” he said, still not sure he could walk.
“I’ll help him,” the first offered.
“I’ll stay here and look for the men who attacked him,” the other one said.
Treace walked, mostly on his own, the short way down the road where he knew he needed to turn to head south. He looked over his shoulder to see the other guard still standing in the same spot.
He thanked the guard for his help once they reached the inn, and opened the door to go inside. At first not very many people looked his way, but then he noticed Red running toward him. All conversation stopped and everyone was staring at him.
“What happened to you? You look like you fell off a cliff,” Red told him.
“That feels about right,” Treace told him.
“Come with me,” he said, leading Treace toward the bar.
It hurt to walk, but it hurt more when Red lifted his arm and put it over his shoulder trying to help him to the bar. Treace thought he might have broken a rib or two.
“Everybody out, bar’s closed!” Red yelled.
“Red, no, I’m fine,” Treace said, not wanting to cause the man any more grief than he already had.
“No you’re not,” he said to Treace, then barked for everyone to get out.
He helped Treace onto a cot that was in a room off the bar. He hadn’t seen it before and he guessed Red used it to take a nap when things weren’t busy. It was dark until Red lit a candle lantern and set it on a nearby table.
“I said get out,” Red ordered. “Finish your drinks now or just leave em, but get out.”
Treace could hear a few of them grumble, but most of them left quick enough.
Red came back a short while later with several rags and a bowl with a large chunk of ice. He wrung out a rag and started wiping the blood off Treace’s face.
“No, Red,” Treace said.
“Don’t worry, I boil the water,” he said.
“No, I mean the ice. You use that for your customers and meat, not for me.”
“I’ve got plenty, this winter was a cold one, don’t you worry about that.”
Treace stopped his complaining and let Red tend to him, thankful the man was being so kind. It wasn’t long before Red had most of the blood wiped away and Treace’s right wrist wrapped with ice between layers of cloth. He knocked off another chunk and wrapped it with a cloth and handed it to Treace.
“Put that on your lip and eye, it’ll help with the swelling.”
“How do you know so much about this?” Treace asked.
“I’m a bartender,” Red said, offering the same answer as when they first met, as if it explained the reason for all of his knowledge.
“Thank you, Red. I’ll repay you,” Treace told him.
“No, you won’t. But what you will do is tell me what happened,” Red told him.
“Four men attacked me. I guess they don’t like The Wolf.”
“I thought everybody loved him,” Red said, smiling.
“I guess not.”
“Go upstairs and get some rest. I sleep in here half the time anyway, so I’ll be here in case they know where you stay and decide to come back for more,” Red told him, reaching for a large wooden handle.
Treace didn’t have the energy to argue, so he just did as he was told. He walked up the steps as best as he could, but it hurt with every step. He thought he must have
twisted his ankle either by double kicking the one man, or by the landing. His ribs ached and were possibly broken. He was glad Red wrapped them, although it didn’t help with the pain too much. His lip was split, he had a swollen eye, his knee hurt from where he was kicked, and his hands were killing him. Other than that he thought he felt fine.
The door to his room was still open from when he left, and he sat the candle lantern Red gave him before coming up the stairs on the table next to the one that wasn’t lit. He saw his coin purse on the table. Next to it was a piece of paper and one of his quills. He looked at his bed and noticed his travel pack had been emptied. His journal was open to a blank page and he realized where the paper came from. He grabbed his coin purse and as soon as his hand touched it, he knew it was empty.
He tossed it on the floor and picked up the note that was written on a page torn from his journal. It read: I’m only taking this because you made me look like a fool. You would have enjoyed it. He crumpled it up and tossed it on the floor too.
He wasn’t really that angry at her. Even though she had stolen all of his money, and the College’s money, she had led the guards to where he was getting beaten up. He didn’t know how she knew where he was, but thought it was merely blind luck and was happy to leave it at that. He could understand that a lady of the night’s reputation could be tarnished if people knew that a young man bolted out the door before she was able to complete her job. He understood it, and understood that he could be unconscious or even dead had she not brought the guards.
He had no interest in trying to get his money back. He wouldn’t even know where to begin, and if he did it probably wouldn’t end well anyway. He considered the debt paid in full. The money she stole for what he thought very well might have been his life.
He wished he had stayed home. He wished he could go home. But he couldn’t just leave. Wren saw to it that he couldn’t. He was out of his element here and didn’t like the feeling of not being in control. When he was in home in Lake City he knew he could count on seeing his mother. He knew he would be working at Jensen’s forge every day. He wondered if he was cut out for this. He hoped Jensen’s faith in him was real.