‘Ugh... Boys!’ said Bryna and, rolling her eyes once more she left to freshen up before dinner.
Falco and Malaki exchanged an amused look.
‘I’ll see you in there,’ said Malaki heading off towards the latrines.
Still smiling, Falco continued through the arched entrance and into the central courtyard of the quad. There were a number of cadets present. Some looked exhausted, with flushed faces and sweat soaked shirts. They had obviously spent the day in training, but as soon as they caught sight of Falco they gathered up their clothes and moved through to the baths. Falco thought little of it as he started across the sandy courtyard but then several of the other cadets turned round and he recognised two of the dour looking youths who had stood beside Jarek the previous evening.
‘You bring shame to this place.’
Falco’s heart sank as he saw Jarek emerge from the covered area at the side of the courtyard. It was almost as if he had been waiting.
‘You know you’re not welcome here.’ Jarek moved to block Falco’s path, a wooden training sword held casually in his hand.
‘That depends on who you ask,’ said Falco, eyeing the five well built young men who now surrounded him.
‘Why don’t you leave now and save us all the disgrace of being associated with you.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Falco, his heart beating heavily.
He pushed his way forward but Jarek nodded to one of his cronies, a huge youth with the red hair and heavy jaw of a Beltonian. With no discernible effort the Beltonian gave Falco a shove that sent him flying into one of the wooden training dummies. He tried to stop himself but the force of the shove took him by surprise and he pitched face first into the hard wooden post. Reeling with pain and shock Falco tried to right himself but before he could regain his balance one of the other youths kicked his legs out from under him and he fell heavily on his side.
Images of what he should do flashed through his mind but his body was simply not up to the task and all he managed to do was curl into a ball as the kicks and punches slammed into his body. He grunted in pain then gasped as Jarek grabbed a fistful of his long black hair.
‘The Academy of War can be a dangerous place,’ he said in a low menacing tone. ‘It’s not unheard of for cadets to be killed in training and your big friend won’t always be there to save you.’
Falco winced as Jarek wrenched his head back to look in his eyes.
‘If you ever accuse my family of cowardice again I will see you dead and buried in a pauper’s grave.’ His voice was now a tight and sibilant whisper. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
With that he let go of Falco’s hair and turned away.
‘I didn’t say you were a coward,’ said Falco, raising himself up on one elbow and spitting out a mouthful of blood. ‘I merely suggested that you were wrong to claim the courage of others as your own.’
Jarek stopped, the training sword hanging loosely in his hand. His head bowed forward but then his fingers tightened on the hilt of the wooden sword and he spun round to whack Falco in the side of the head.
Such an uncontrolled blow might have caused significant damage but it seemed that Falco’s skull was harder than it looked. Even so, he collapsed on the gritty sand and a trickle of blood ran into his eye. Dazed and blinking he looked up as his attackers walked away. For just a moment Jarek looked back. His eyes were filled with loathing but Falco noticed something else, something that made the hatred in Jarek burn more fiercely than ever. Shame.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ said Malaki as he caught sight of Falco in the dining hall a few minutes later.
Bryna was bathing a cut above his right eye.
‘We found him in the courtyard,’ said Alex as Malaki slid a huge plate of stew and dumplings onto the table.
‘Tripped on the steps,’ said Falco.
‘Snidesson!’ spat Malaki. ‘The little...’
Falco motioned for Malaki to sit then winced as Bryna pressed the cold cloth to his head.
‘It’s going to need a stitch,’ she said.
‘Why would he do this?’ asked Quirren, his normally calm face dark with anger.
The three Valentians looked at each other but offered no answer. There was no way they could sum up the history of animosity that existed between Falco and the noble family of the Snidessons.
‘We should tell someone,’ said Alex. ‘Lanista Deloix, perhaps.’
Falco shook his head.
‘That would only make things worse.’
‘I can’t wait to meet him in training,’ said Malaki.
‘Is he not skilled?’ asked Quirren.
‘Oh, he’s skilled all right,’ said Malaki. ‘But I’m still going to kick his arse.’
Falco laughed. He was surprised to find that he felt no anger towards Jarek. Jarek had Bellius for a father, and a mother who cared more for her moneyed reputation than she did for her son, while he had had Simeon and Fossetta. No, it was not anger he felt towards Jarek but pity. He pushed away Bryna’s hand and held the cloth to his own head before swiping Malaki’s plate and stuffing a fat dumpling in his mouth. He winced as the hot gravy stung his bleeding lips.
‘Guess I’ll go and get another plate,’ said Malaki sourly and despite his cuts and bruises Falco smiled.
So, Jarek and his cronies had given him another beating. So what? After all the excitement and trepidation, it seemed the Academy of War was just like home.
32
The Disciplines of Lore
It was midnight in the hidden depths of the Clemoncéan mage tower. Meredith Saker had just spent the last twenty-four hours meditating in one of the cells put aside for just such solitary purpose. Now it was time to emerge and reveal to the Grand Veneratu the disciplines of lore that would form the basis of his study. Meredith was nervous. He suspected his father would not approve of the choices he had made. But so be it. That was the whole point of this meditation, to find the true nature of one’s calling. He had lived his entire life in his father’s shadow. It was time to cast a shadow of his own.
The door to the cell opened and a mage stood in the opening, an oil filled torch in his hand.
‘They are ready for you.’
Meredith nodded and slowly rose to his feet. His body was stiff from kneeling so long but he made no complaint as he motioned for the attending mage to lead on.
The cell opened onto a long corridor of dark stone that seemed not to have been built but rather carved from the bedrock of the mountains. Set into the walls were numerous doors, each leading to a cell similar to the one that Meredith had just left, a small windowless room with a simple cot and a bucket for bodily waste. They reminded Meredith of the prison cells back in the main keep of Caer Dour.
‘This way,’ said the attending mage, directing Meredith to the right where the passageway was lit by flames burning in dish-like sconces protruding from the walls.
For some reason the man seemed nervous and he kept glancing down the corridor to the left where the unlit passageway disappeared into shadow. Meredith followed his gaze and a distinct feeling of unease rose like a chill through his body. At the far end of the corridor he could just make out another cell, and even though there was no grill or opening in the door, he had the distinct impression that he was being watched.
Unnerved by a sudden pall of fear he turned to follow the attending mage. As they progressed along the corridor Meredith became aware of quiet noises coming from some of the occupied cells, whispers, chants and softly muttered refrains. They were about to leave the corridor when the air shook as if someone had just struck the door of a cell with a battering ram.
Meredith flinched as the sense of fear grew more intense than ever. Then three other mages appeared in the corridor, each one powerfully built and stern. Over their robes they wore the dark shawl of wardens. Meredith sensed their tension and the sudden concentration of energy in their hands. All three of them were holding powerful spells in their minds.
; Another boom reverberated through the air and Meredith realised that the noise was coming from the cell at the far end of the corridor.
‘Did you disturb him?’ asked one of the wardens.
‘No,’ said the attending mage. ‘We came away quietly.’
The wardens cast them a suspicious look before turning away. They had just started down the corridor when a voice seemed to creep through the air towards them.
‘Eu pot auzi tu, fiul lui Saker’ said the voice in low sinister tone. ‘Pot mirosi tu.’
Meredith felt an unpleasant shiver run down his spine. Even among the magi there were few who understood the old language of Ferocia but Meredith had studied it in depth.
‘I can hear you, son of Saker,’ the voice had said ‘I can smell you.’
‘Go on,’ said one of the wardens. ‘We’ll see to brother Pacatos.’
Meredith and his attending mage had just turned to go when the voice spoke again.
‘Am miros trădare în tine.’
‘I smell the treachery in you.’
Meredith stopped. He turned then flinched as the great booming sound shook the corridor once more. It sounded like the door to a cell was being pounded off its hinges.
‘Come,’ said the attending mage, clearly anxious to get away. ‘The Grand Veneratu is waiting.’
‘Who was that?’ asked Meredith, as they climbed the stairs to the upper levels of the tower.
The attending mage seemed reluctant to answer but Meredith caught his arm.
‘It was Brother Pacatos,’ he said at last.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Meredith. ‘Is he a prisoner?’
‘He is... confined.’
‘Why?’
‘They say that he’s unbalanced,’ said the attending mage in a hushed tone. ‘That he is powerful but that he finds it difficult to exercise control.’
Meredith glanced back the way they had come.
‘Do not go down there,’ said the attending mage. ‘Do not approach his cell. And never alone!’ Having stressed the point he turned and continued up the stairs.
Deeply unsettled Meredith paused for a moment before hurrying after him with the words of Brother Pacatos echoing in his mind.
‘Am miros trădare în tine.’
I smell the treachery in you.
Reaching the top of the stairs they passed through a doorway and so they did not hear the horrific scream that echoed through the tunnels they had just departed. A little further and they reached a large set of double doors.
‘The apprentice mage, Meredith Saker, to declare his chosen disciplines,’ announced the attending mage as they entered the Grand Veneratu’s chamber.
Still shaken by what had taken place in the cells Meredith gazed at his surroundings. He was standing in the centre of a circular room built from smoke grey marble. Doors of black wood led to other rooms and an arched passageway gave onto darkness. From the movement in the air Meredith guessed it led outside, to a balcony perhaps. On the far side of the room a raised dais followed the curve of the wall and, sitting on what could only be described as a throne, was Galen Thrall, Worshipful Master and Grand Veneratu of the Clemoncéan magi. The throne was a great seat of black marble with a high back and arms carved in the likeness of ravens.
‘So much for our vows of humility,’ thought Meredith.
To the right of the throne stood his father, Morgan Saker, and Meredith chided himself for the carelessness of his reaction. They might not be able to read the details of his mind but they could certainly gauge the tone of his thoughts. Making a mental note to be more careful he bowed deeply to the Grand Veneratu before turning to acknowledge his father.
‘Is your meditation complete?’ said Thrall. ‘Have you chosen the disciplines you will study?’
‘I have,’ said Meredith, looking at the Grand Veneratu properly for the first time.
Galen Thrall was a man of senior years. At first glance one might take him for a kindly figure until one realised that the smile in his eyes was only there by choice and the benevolent set of his narrow mouth was but a twitch away from a sneer. His oiled hair was long with a slight curl to the flaxen grey. His skin was pale with a patina of creases and small scars of indeterminate and slightly disturbing nature. And his eyes, a waxy greenish grey with pupils just a fraction too small to be explained by the subdued light in the room.
He was a man that made one nervous and Meredith could tell that even his father felt uncomfortable in his presence. Suddenly he began to doubt the choices he had made. To court his father’s disapproval was one thing, to invoke the displeasure of Galen Thrall was quite another.
‘And your choices are?’
Meredith had the unsettling impression that Thrall already knew. Maybe he could read minds after all.
‘Communication... History and... Dragonkind,’ said Meredith.
‘Nonsense!’ barked his father but Galen Thrall just nodded as if these were entirely worthy areas of study.
‘You have a gift for concealment and conjuration,’ his father continued. ‘And surely politics has more relevance than history. I thought you wanted to make a difference in the world.’
At this Galen Thrall arched an eyebrow as if he found such ambition amusing and Meredith flushed with embarrassment. Despite his earlier resolve his father still had the ability to make him feel like a child. But still, this was his right. The completion of these studies would mark him as a fully fledged mage.
‘This is my decision to make,’ he said, summoning all the dignity he could muster. ‘These are the disciplines I have chosen.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Galen Thrall. ‘And we shall help you in your studies. But not dragonkind. There is little to be gained in the study of wyrms. They are a fading and tragic species, soon to disappear from the world entirely, I fear. But history... Knowledge of what has gone before is always of value. I see no problem with this.’
He smiled magnanimously but the pupils of his eyes seemed to narrow even further. Thrall was wary of anyone who ‘wanted to make a difference’.
‘Go now,’ he went on, dismissing Meredith before he could say anything more. ‘Chambers have been made ready for you. When you are rested I will have someone escort you to the archives. And may your studies bear the fruit that you desire.’
Meredith’s face burned with mortification at Thrall’s dismissing his chosen subject of dragonkind but there was no way he could contradict the Grand Veneratu. Pointedly ignoring the heated glare of his father he bowed low, turned to leave and left the room.
*
‘History!’ snorted Morgan as the door to the chamber closed. ‘What a waste!’
Thrall said nothing for a moment, his brow lowered in thought.
‘Can we trust him with the truth?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Morgan. ‘Ever since the summoning he’s been withdrawn, confused... He has too much of his mother’s weakness.’
‘Then he must not read the chronicles of the Eighty Fourth.’
‘But he is studying history and he is gifted in concealment. If you remove them or try to hide them he will know.’
‘We will not hide them and we will not remove them,’ said Thrall with a smile. ‘I will have Brother Serulian installed in the archives. He is a master of obfuscaria. Your son could read the chronicles of the Eighty Fourth a hundred times and never remember a word.’
‘He will become suspicious.’
‘Ha!’ spat Thrall with a rasping laugh. ‘He will not even notice. The knowledge will be swallowed up in darkness. He will simply believe there was nothing new to learn.’
‘So be it,’ said Morgan.
‘So be it,’ said Thrall.
*
Burning with anger, and dizzy with hunger and fatigue, Meredith followed the attending mage through the tower to the chambers that had been put aside for him. He had expected to feel some satisfaction at defying his father but all he felt was a boiling resentment and the familiar weight of disap
pointment. As the attending mage left the room Meredith swore to himself that he would not be diverted from his chosen disciplines. No matter what persuasion the Grand Veneratu and his father brought to bear he would study the history of Wrath and somehow he would learn about dragonkind.
Am miros trădare în tine.
Was this the treachery of which Brother Pacatos spoke?
With a terrible sense of foreboding Meredith suspected it was not.
33
The Training Begins
None of the cadets slept half so well the following night. The knowledge that they would be woken at sunrise kept most of them tossing and turning until well after midnight. Falco expected them to be roused by some hideous din as they did in the army barracks of Caer Dour. Here Lanista Deloix had simply appeared with a junior assistant. He stood at the end of the barracks while the assistant rang a brass bell, which hung from one of the wooden posts running in pairs down the centre of the room.
‘Ding, ding, ding!’
Three modest chimes, then three times again, more than enough to rouse the restless cadets from their beds.
‘Good morning. I trust you slept well’ he said, taking in the puffy faces and red eyes of the cadets. ‘You have twenty minutes to dress, relieve yourselves and report to the central training field. Clothes and boots have been laid out for each of you.’ He gestured to the clothes now lying on the chests at the foot of each bed: trousers, tunic and boots with a sheepskin jacket and a waxed cotton cloak. The Lanista gave a nod to show that he was finished and the barracks burst into activity.
Falco winced as he got out of bed, the bruises had coloured over night and his ribs felt stiff and sore. He put a hand to his face and explored the cut in his mouth with his tongue then looked up to see Lanista Magnus standing beside his bed. The senior instructor passed a critical eye over Falco’s injuries before he spoke.
‘The matter of your training will be decided this afternoon,’ he said, his face stern and unreadable. ‘Until then you will be treated the same as any other cadet.’
Falco nodded and watched as Lanista Magnus turned to leave. There was something unsettling in his tone as if he knew more than he was willing to say. With a sense of foreboding Falco reached for the cotton shirt at the end of his bed, wincing at the pain in his ribs.
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