But such stories about Quadrons would only remind him how close he’d come to being part of the village guard.
“No,” he said. “Thank you, though. It’s nice of you to come looking for me.”
“You really are something, aren’t you, sweet boy?” She leaned over, touched his cheek, then stood straight again. “He’ll be disappointed, though. He was asking for you.”
Lightning crackled in Brom’s belly, like it had done on the barracks practice yard. “He asked for me?”
“Knows your parents or somewhat.”
“Oh.” The lightning died. Brom definitely didn’t want to talk to anyone who knew his parents. “Never mind.”
“Suit yourself.” She bustled around the corner of the building and was gone.
He slumped back against the wall and looked up at the skies. The swath of fields stretched out before him, green with early spring. As he breathed and enjoyed the hazy euphoria of the whiskey, he realized he was breathing through his mouth. He closed it and forced himself to breathe through his nose. Then he realized his eyes seemed to want to slide shut. He forced them open wide. Once he got them where he thought they ought to be, he realized that he’d begun breathing through his mouth again.
That made him laugh. Maybe being drunk wasn’t so bad.
Every time he’d come to the tavern to listen to a storyteller, there were always the same seven people sitting at the bar, drinking. And they always looked so beaten-down.
Up until now, he’d thought being drunk made them unhappy, but he realized today that it was actually the opposite. They’d come into The Ox and Cart disappointed. They got drunk to make the unhappiness fuzzy, along with everything else.
“Ah, drowning in one’s sorrows,” came a voice to Brom’s left. “The classic fix to a disappointing day.”
Brom craned his neck around to behold a man dressed all in red, standing where Bala had been only minutes ago. He wore a wide-brimmed red hat, a red doublet like a nobleman, red breeches, and burgundy leather boots. He had a long black mustache that curled at the ends and thick black eyebrows that Brom could barely see beneath the shadow of his hat. He was thin, about Brom’s height, and his clothes fit him very well.
The stranger whipped off the hat with a flourish and bowed. The silver stein in his other hand—brimming with ale—remained perfectly level, and neither the doffing of his hat nor the depth of his bow spilled even a drop of it.
Without the hat, Brom suddenly saw that the man was older. His long ponytail was gray, and the wrinkles on his face put him at fifty at the least.
But the twinkle in his lavender eyes was impish.
Lavender eyes... Bala hadn’t said the storyteller was highborn!
Brom scrambled to his feet and gave a bow so hasty he almost fell over. He stumbled, got his balance, and bowed again. This time, he managed to do it right.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” he said. Only Keltovari nobles had irises in shades of purple. The darker the shade, the purer the blood, it was said.
The man waved a dismissive hand, smiling. “I’m no lord, son. Though I do appreciate the bow. It’s more civilized than grappling with a man’s hand, don’t you think?”
“I...” Brom was now very aware that his tongue was numb and his words slurred. He tried to make them coherent. “I wouldn’t know, my lord.”
“I told you, I’m not a lord. I’m a Quadron. You may call me Cy’kett.”
Brom spluttered, gaping. He had to have heard wrong. The man did speak rather fast, and Brom wasn’t at his best right now. “Did you say Quadron?” he slurred.
“I did, young Brom.” The man tilted his head forward and fixed the hat back in place. Brom’s heart beat faster. The euphoric haze of the whiskey was suddenly a burden. He wanted to think faster, react faster. But a gloom of suspicion descended upon him. Had Bala sent this stranger to cheer him up, to spin tales of being a Quadron?
“I don’t believe you,” Brom said. Quadrons were legend. They didn’t just show up to talk to builders’ sons in a tiny town like Kyn.
“I was waiting for you in The Ox and Cart,” Cy’kett continued. “But I misjudged where you would land. After your crushing disappointment at the practice yard, I assumed you’d go one of two places, a lad such as you. You’d either head straight for a tavern, or you’d return to your alluring young miller’s daughter.”
Brom’s excitement turned cold. The man knew about Myan. Had Garn and Thol spread the word so fast? “How do you know about her?” Brom said.
The stranger continued talking as though Brom hadn’t said anything. “I’m not often wrong about matters of the heart. That’s for certain, but here you’ve surprised me. You sought solitude. To lick your wounds in private. A manly response.” Cy’kett nodded in approval. “I like it.”
“How do you know about Myan?” Brom repeated, and he felt heat in his cheeks as his anger rose.
“Because I’ve been watching you, young Brom. For a week now, you’ve caught my full attention. Your potential is...remarkable, and I like you more the more I discover. So I took the necessary steps to guide you.”
“Guide me? I’ve never even met you.”
“No, but I have been nearby, nevertheless. A whisper here. A nudge there. Did you really think it was one of the dullard twins who informed Roland the Rigid of your lovey paramour?”
The man’s words hit Brom like a gut punch. “You told Roland?” A roar filled Brom’s ears, and he clenched his fists.
“Of course.”
“You told him Myan’s name?”
“For shame, Brom. A gentleman doesn’t take a lady’s kiss and tell her secrets, and he certainly doesn’t tell another’s secrets. Your lovely Myan remains unknown. I told Roland only enough to serve my purpose.”
“Your purpose?” Brom stepped toward the man. “You ruined my chances at becoming a guard on purpose?”
The man tipped his head, and the ridiculously wide hat bobbed down and up. “It worked perfectly. And you’re welcome.”
Brom stepped in and swung at the man, but somehow Cy’kett sidestepped. Brom’s fist whooshed through empty air and he stumbled past. With a chuckle, Cy’kett gave Brom a little shove with his foot. With the momentum of his wild haymaker, Brom stumbled forward, off balance, and thudded into the wall. He fell to the ground.
He leapt to his feet and tried to shake off the ringing in his ears. Brom was going to unleash all of his frustrations on this preening, meddling imposter.
“I think that’s quite enough of the whiskey.” Cy’kett raised a hand, then brought it down like he was chopping an invisible log in half.
Brom’s emotions vanished.
His rage and his desire to hit Cy’kett were simply...gone. He felt like a giant cauldron that had been dumped out, leaving nothing but a deafening, empty silence.
He sucked in a breath, and it stuck in his throat. In his belly, lightning crackled.
That hollow, crackling moment seemed to last forever, then fear and awe rushed in to fill the cauldron. Brom gasped.
“What did you do?” he whispered.
“I need you to pay attention, Brom,” Cy’kett said, and his jaunty expression became serious. “I need you to look beyond today. Beyond packed dirt practice yards and miller’s daughters. You don’t want to be part of the village guard much more than you wanted to be a builder’s apprentice. You’ve always wanted something more. So let’s talk about what really matters.”
Brom’s head rang with the reality of what had just happened. This man had used magic on him! He really was a Quadron!
“You want...” Brom whispered again. He couldn’t seem to get enough air. It was as though Cy’kett had reached inside Brom and taken his emotions, just...drained him. “You want... What do you want from me?” he finally managed.
“I find it important to know my recruits. So yes, I followed you. Yes, I ruined your chance to become a village guard. And yes, I know the name of your paramour. Believe me when I tell you that she’s i
n no danger from me. But she, and all those like her, are obviously going to be a problem for you if you accept what I’m about to offer. So let me say this and say it once: I understand why you left the barracks. In your place, I’d have done the same. But where you’re going, you can’t just flaunt the rules. You’ll soon find fetching temptations around every corner, women who will make you forget you ever knew a girl named Myan. The academy brings recruits from all over the two kingdoms. Ladies of the Keltovari court in their satin gowns. Priestesses from Fendir with their exotic braided hair. Women so beautiful they light up a room. Put them from your mind. Or at least, resolve to do so for the next four years. At the academy, there will be no midnight trips to lock lips. Break the rules and you’ll feel more than just a heartbreak and a whiskey hangover.”
Brom was stunned. Cy’kett had said the academy. And if he really was a Quadron, he could only mean The Champions Academy! That was the cradle of the Quadrons. Young hopefuls went in. Quadrons came out. It was like the village guard all over again, except this time, Brom would emerge as an actual Quadron.
Suddenly, the stupid village guard seemed drab and dull. This was all Brom had ever wanted—a dream that was literally coming true.
“You want me to go to the Champions Academy?” he said. His heart raced like mad.
“You’re one of us, Brom,” Cy’kett said.
“How do you know?”
The old man chuckled, then he said, “Motus, Mentis, Impetu, Anima.” With each word, the ball of lightning in Brom’s belly spun, crackled, and spat. It was almost painful.
“Gods!” Brom gasped.
“That is how I know,” Cy’kett said.
“What did you just say?”
“The four paths to magic: Emotional, Mental, Physical and Spiritual.”
“And yours is emotional,” Brom said. That’s how Cy’kett had stripped his rage and sadness away. “You use Motus?”
Cy’kett leaned his head back, regarding Brom thoughtfully, obviously impressed by the response. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Yes, that’s right. Except I don’t use Motus. I am a Motus.”
“And what am I?” Brom asked.
“That remains to be seen. It depends on your Quad. You will...” Cy’kett faltered. He cleared his throat. “All you have to do is tell me...” He trailed off.
“Tell you what?”
Cy’kett cleared his throat. “You have to tell me you want to be a Quadron.”
“I do,” Brom said.
Cy’kett hesitated. “Then you have to say it. Say the actual words.”
“I want to be a Quadron,” Brom exclaimed.
As though from a far distance, he heard a deep ringing, like someone had struck a huge piece of iron with a log. It sounded, then faded so quickly he wasn’t sure if he’d actually heard it.
“What was that?” he asked.
“That...” Cy’kett said, “means The Collector is coming.” He turned, breaking eye contact with Brom for the first time, and Brom thought he looked suddenly stooped, older somehow, than he had a second ago.
“The Collector? When? Is he taking me to the Champions Academy?” Brom’s heart soared, and he wondered at the change in the man’s posture.
“Yes...” Cy’kett said. He leaned his head forward, and his wide brim covered his face in shadow. “Yes, he is.”
“Not you?”
“No.” Cy’kett turned away. “I won’t be taking you to the academy. I’ve done my part. I’ve done...quite enough.”
Brom watched the old man go. The tone of his words was confusing. He’d gone from jaunty to serious to...sad? It was strange, and the opposite of the giddiness that raced through Brom. He felt like he should offer an arm to the old man, to help him into the tavern as he suddenly looked so frail, but Brom somehow knew the old man would take offense.
Once the old man disappeared around the corner of the tavern, Brom’s excited thoughts got the better of him. The Collector was coming for him. Brom was going to the Champions Academy. His life was about to change forever. He was going to become a Quadron.
He raced off to tell someone about his exciting news.
CHAPTER THREE
Olivaard
The dreadful clang grated on Olivaard’s nerves and rang in his ears as he stepped into the Hallowed Woods. The shining portal—which had brought him here from the Champion’s Academy—vibrated in the air. The pulsing border of light grew wider, then narrower, then wider again, crackling like lightning. The portal made no sound. Well, nothing except for that dreadful clang as it opened.
Olivaard turned his keen eyes on the scaly trunks of the Lyantrees all about him, their purple-silver leaves blocking the waning daylight, and he calculated. No one was within view, but whether they were within earshot, he couldn’t say. Different people had different abilities. And the ones his Quad hunted, according to Linza, had broken the key barrier between normals and Quadrons. They’d split their souls into Soulblocks. They weren’t allowed to do that without coming to the academy first.
Wulfric’s hulking form stepped next through the doorway. He lifted his helmeted head, sniffing, then raised his bulging, muscled arm and pointed northeast. Wulfric could catch a person’s scent from more than a mile away, depending on the breeze.
Linza came next, deftly managing her black robes as she stepped through the oval portal onto the loamy floor of the forest. Her black-slippered feet made no sound. Her face was lost in the shadows of her cloak, as it had been for half a century, but he could hear her take a deep breath of the rich outdoor air. She raised her thin arm, draped in a hanging black sleeve, and pointed in the same direction as Wulfric.
Arsinoe came next, his cocky, youthful face smiling as he hopped through the portal. He looked around the forest with pursed lips and eager eyes, like he was searching for one of his nightly bed companions.
The moment he stepped through, the magic within Olivaard’s body rose like the tide of the Coral Sea, but tenfold. When he and his Quad mates separated, Olivaard’s magic was cut in half, and even the short jaunt through the portal—where he was separated from his Quad for only a few moments—was like having both his legs amputated and then reattached.
It was a tragedy he needed to be near these three to be at his best, but Olivaard had long since come to terms with that.
“Isn’t there a way to stop that clanging when the doorway opens?” Arsinoe asked, as though reading Olivaard’s thoughts. “Can’t we do something about that? I’m stunned all the armies of Fendir and Keltovar couldn’t hear.”
“Whoever hears it won’t know what it means until it’s too late,” Wulfric growled.
Arsinoe rolled his eyes. “Succinct, Wulfric. As always, you’ve grasped the superficial and lost the meaning.”
Olivaard pressed his lips together, forcing himself to stay silent. The truth was, he agreed with Arsinoe. And agreeing with Arsinoe was something Olivaard strenuously avoided. He wasn’t about to start doing it this late in the day. That would simply make him ill.
“Leave it,” Olivaard said. “The war front has been focused on the west side of the forest for months. That’s why these little rats were able to do what they’ve done here.”
“I thought the war was supposed to stop the soul rich from gathering in the forest,” Wulfric growled.
“I thought they were here because Linza didn’t spot them when she should have,” Arsinoe drawled.
Linza’s cowled head turned toward Arsinoe. He smiled winningly at the dark cavern of her face.
“Arsinoe,” Olivaard warned.
“Come now.” Arsinoe spread his hands helplessly. “Am I wrong?”
“Still your tongue or sleep in pain tonight,” Linza hissed.
Again, Arsinoe rolled his eyes. Olivaard was never sure whether Arsinoe was as reckless as he seemed, or if he knew exactly how far he could push Linza.
“You should have sent The Collector months ago. Am I wrong?” Arsinoe appealed to Olivaard and Wulfric, but they both ig
nored him.
Linza glided over the purplish, leaf-strewn ground.
The damnable thing was that Arsinoe wasn’t wrong. Again. That would make twice today. How distasteful. It made Olivaard feel like he had swallowed a rotten fish head.
They followed Linza to a little glade no more than twenty feet across. Olivaard picked his way forward carefully. He could never be as silent as Wulfric or Linza, but at least he could minimize his noise somewhat.
As he viewed the scene, he wondered why he’d even bothered. The little miscreants lay in a puppy pile, naked as animals: three young women and one young man. They slept like there was nothing in these woods that could threaten them, with nothing more than a thin blanket draped across them in some small concession to modesty, he supposed.
No doubt they had spent last night, and every night over their short stint as illicit Quadrons, in rituals of debauchery. The bonding required to form a Quad, combined with the powerful rush of new magic, created a powerful sexual urge. Being physically intimate could spark an even more powerful bond, making a Quad more potent. This was why sex between two or more people within a Quad was forbidden at the academy. It was grounds for expulsion because it could create a bond that made the Quad more powerful than The Four themselves. Olivaard, Wulfric, Arsinoe and Linza didn’t want full Quads at all, let alone a powerful Quad loose in the lands.
Olivaard studied the pile of young people. The swarthy girl stirred first, identifying her as their Anima. No doubt she was having a nightmare, her subconscious connected to the Soul of the World. She had sensed that The Four were near. The young man, with his leonine mane, his cat-like muscles and wide shoulders was obviously their Impetu. The other two girls, well, Olivaard would guess the small slender one was the Mentis and the voluptuous one with the long black hair was the Motus. Arsinoe was probably licking his chops at the sight of them both.
The Anima girl opened her eyes. She saw them, and she screamed.
“Don’t let them get away,” Olivaard murmured dramatically, though he didn’t think for a second the little rats could escape. Linza had already vanished from view, lying in wait in the shadows of the trees for the first of the Quad to flee.
The Quad Page 2