by R. K. Thorne
He’d meant more what competitions were involved and what level of skill they required… But perhaps he could learn that from the same book he’d been reading last night, or another in the Bone library. Or he could ask at another time. A time when she was less likely to realize he was thinking about his own participation.
It wouldn’t do for her to ponder that. His magic was far from assured. And he didn’t want to be a clan leader anyway. He had enjoyed the life of a scribe, and intended to resume it, if the Order of the Raven would just let him in.
So why was he making a note to look up the competition list again?
“Sounds like a good show,” he muttered.
She snorted. “Well, it’s more lively than poetry. No offense.”
He grinned. “You just haven’t read the right poetry.”
Her eyes snagged on his gaze and stopped. “Really? Is that a promise to find me the more lively verses?”
“How could I ignore such a gap in your education?”
“I look forward to hearing them. Entertainment or a nap—either way I come out ahead.”
“I’ll meet you after lunch, in the main lobby under the dome,” Cerivil said as class wrapped.
“I’ll be there.” Nyalin brushed dust from his knees as he rose. Imaginary dust, actually. His pants were perfectly clean. Must be an old habit from wearing black. Either brown was more practical or the class platform was especially clean.
“Off to lunch, everyone. See you tomorrow!” Waving, Cerivil left them and headed into the estate.
Andius’s gaze was heavy on him, so Nyalin dragged his feet getting ready to leave. Ideally he’d wait long enough to be among the last to leave, but not alone, to lower the risk of an ambush. But all the others had more equipment set up from their lessons. He had barely a few books to pick up and imaginary dust to brush. Soon he ran out of ways to procrastinate.
He pointed himself toward the eating hall and ambled in that direction as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
A small group of students coalesced behind him before he’d even made it out of the atrium.
He turned the corner and headed toward the library instead, hoping to throw them off. His companions quickened their pace. He tensed, hustling faster while trying to avoid looking outright hurried.
But no blow or vicious words ever came.
Power hit him, slamming him into the wall. Agony shot through his cheekbone, his skull, his shoulder, and he slumped face-first against the plaster wall, struggling to keep upright.
Magic. Pure and hot.
The magical energy was invisible but all too real. It was not an easy spell either, if Nyalin understood correctly. These were likely skilled mages, and if so, he was in trouble. The pain of that first slam was hardly the worst of it. Beyond the shock to his body, his mind had tortures of its own, sensations slicing across it like a hot knife across skin. His mental boundaries were flayed, screaming.
Of all the things Raelt had done, he’d never done this. That his brother had never used magic had never struck him as odd before, but it did now. Raelt was as much a mage as any of these young men. Why… Fresh pain reminded him there was no time to ponder it.
Nyalin squeezed his eyes shut, but the pain only increased. The hallway took on a grayish-green cast, everything slowing as he fell toward the ground.
His temple hit the wood floor and bounced. But his grunt and groan were swallowed in a massive rush of wind. Even with the pain, even as he pressed a hand to the side of his head to feel for blood, he blinked and looked around.
Everything around him had changed.
The details of the hallway and his attackers shifted, twitched, then shifted again—left and then right, sliding into and over themselves, going out of focus until they were gone.
Trees and waist-high, waving grass took their place. Then they, too, shifted, sharpened, slid, blurred.
Nausea hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. Or maybe he had also been punched. It was hard to say. He fell onto his back, clutching at his stomach.
Above him, where the ceiling should have been, was a vast, green sky.
What in the world?
The green sky vibrated and shook, flickering with some hint of the real world every few seconds. He could just about make out a student or two leaning over him, talking, looking down, backing away. Fear in their eyes.
The combination was staggering, and to top it off, the scents of lemon and pine and olives clogged the air around him. He wanted to gag.
No, he wanted to throw up. He was going to throw up.
He heaved himself up onto all fours and promptly did so. More pain splintered him near his ribs, but it felt distant, blurred.
The green world hardened. The flickering ceased. That eased the nausea but fanned new flames of panic as he fell back onto his heels, staring at the world around him and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
He sat there panting for a long moment, recovering, catching his breath.
Below him there was only grass—long and soft like the softest woven wool. His fingers stroked it, memorizing the combination of gentle and smooth and fragile. He’d never seen so much grass, and what he had seen was tough and stringy by comparison. The desert couldn’t support this; only the Lapis and Glass Clans owned land like this, and the Mushin in their faraway lands.
Conveniently, there was also no vomit. It looked like he hadn’t thrown up at all. What in all the goddesses’ dreams was this?
Another vague bolt of pain hit him, a blow to his ribs. He couldn’t see any assailant who could have kicked him. The actual world, the world of the students, was gone. He finally was steady enough to look around him.
In this world, wind stirred elegant tree branches and delicate stems of the grass. Water tinkled somewhere near, but he couldn’t spot a source. A butterfly landed on a nearby green leaf and then flitted away, as though it had just noticed him.
Heavenly.
Nyalin stilled. A man stood beside one of the trees, peering out from behind a gnarled trunk. The wild-haired blond man who’d smiled at him in the library.
What the hell had been in that bread? Was he hallucinating now? If he ever saw that baker again, they were going to have words. This new clan was off to a great start, truly.
Nyalin stood, took a step forward, but had to stop when the world flickered.
The young man’s clothing was greenish—just like everything else—and worn, but it looked as though it had once been fine. His hair was almost white here, and his skin shone in the dimness. The wind whipped at his hair and his rags, transforming him into a shining apparition in the green light.
Nyalin swallowed. “Who are—”
In a rush of speed, the green sucked away into nothing, the scents evaporating. The man, the trees, the grass—all vanished. The dark wood panels of the real world’s hallway abruptly took its place.
And Nyalin’s entire body exploded in fresh agony and pain. He’d been standing, but now he collapsed again to the ground.
All the pain and injuries inflicted while he’d been hallucinating came crashing down at once. He gritted his teeth and stayed completely still, until it passed. An old habit he’d learned long ago, to discourage Raelt.
“Nyalin! Nyalin!”
“Lara?” No, it was a male voice. He forced open his eyes.
Above him was one of the students from class, one of the younger ones, maybe thirteen. The boy’s face was creased with concern. He had gray eyes, dusky skin and dark hair like Andius. “Nyalin, are you okay?” Friendly arms helped him sit up.
Nyalin wobbled but managed to stay sitting. He glanced beside him—sure enough, he had thrown up. His head ached dully, but after the initial burst, much of the pain faded. He’d expected lingering agony. “Dark dragon,” he muttered. “I don’t know.” Then he winced, hearing himself.
The young man only grinned.
“I guess I’ll need to swear on something else, eh?”
“I say ‘great dragon.�
�� It’s not that different. ‘Bone Dragon’ doesn’t have the same ring to it, but ‘by Dala’s light!’ is a classic.” His grin broadened, and he gave a crisp, short bow. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Faytou.”
“Nice to meet you.” With Faytou’s help, Nyalin got to his feet. “Where did they go?”
“Ran off.” Faytou flicked his fingers dismissively down the hall, then rolled his eyes. “My brother and his cronies like to show off their Energy Slam, but it’s their only spell on that level. They’re cowards deep down. And idiots.”
“Wait—your brother?”
“Andius.”
“And you’re here helping me?”
Faytou shrugged. “We can’t choose our families.”
“You’re telling me.” Nyalin couldn’t help but grin at that. Maybe Faytou could tell him what he had missed. What if Andius had threatened something specific that he wanted Nyalin to do? That was how bullies like him worked. How could Nyalin explain he hadn’t been able to see them or hear anything they said? Confessing to hallucinations seemed like a bad idea for your first day in a new clan. “I, uh, missed what they said. Did you catch it?”
Faytou waved a hand in the direction they’d gone. “Same old usual epithets and threatening. Rarr-rarr watch your back, rarr-rarr that girl is mine, rarr-rarr.”
“Why would they run off when I was lying on the floor, throwing up?”
Faytou sobered and grabbed his arm. “They ran because you did it.”
“Did what?”
“What Linali used to do.”
Nyalin frowned at him. “Excuse me?”
“Sure, you started off tossing your guts, but you stood up. You started to change.”
His frown deepened. “Change how?”
“White light behind your eyes. Like they talk about in the stories. It was like you couldn’t feel them attacking. You were invulnerable.”
“I couldn’t feel it. But I feel it now. Not invulnerable, I assure you.”
Faytou did not look convinced. “I thought you might just walk away. I’d have loved to see their faces if you had. What happened? How’d you do it? That must be some spell. You have to teach me.”
Nyalin blinked. “Uh… I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Aw, c’mon!”
“No, I mean, I don’t know what I did. Or how. Let alone how to teach it.”
“Well, you better figure it out.” Faytou clapped him on the shoulder. “ ’Cause that’s not normal spell book stuff. That’s brilliance right there. Innovation. And it’ll keep Andius away from you too, if you can master it.”
Nyalin winced. “I guess some research is in order.”
“Hey, I’m first on the list when you get that down to a charm. Or a whole sphere of them! Okay?”
He couldn’t help but return the boy’s eager smile, especially with his blatant confidence in Nyalin’s abilities. While it was unfounded, it was refreshing. “Sure.”
“Hey, are you hungry?”
“Will your brother like you hanging out with me?”
Faytou made a rude gesture in his brother’s apparent direction, and Nyalin couldn’t help but laugh. “He doesn’t like anything I do so it really doesn’t matter. C’mon. There’s a great roaster not far away in the Glass District. Let’s run over there and get a drumstick or two, where none of them will bother us.”
Nyalin took a step. “Wait—what time is it?”
“That really took a lot out of you, huh? Not sure, but it can’t be ten minutes since we left class.”
“I need to be back to meet with Clan Leader Cerivil soon.”
“Oh, it shouldn’t take twenty minutes. We can eat and walk and make rude gestures in Andius’s general direction together.”
Nyalin hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged. As if to encourage him, his stomach grumbled. What did he have to lose? No man was too rich to not need friends, and he was far from rich. “Okay. Lead the way.”
Chapter 6
Deluge
“Let’s see.” Cerivil cleared his throat as he drew a small wooden chest off a high shelf. “First we’ll need some of these…” He set the chest on the long wooden table, its gorgeous grain buffed and shined. “Oh, and this too.” He bustled away toward the shelves.
Nyalin should have been excited. They were here—ready to try to solve this mystery once and for all.
He didn’t feel excited, though. He felt… unsettled. The chicken legs had been delicious, and Faytou had been thoughtful and funny company. They’d made it back on time, too. But the memory of the green world lingered. Pecked at him.
Asked a question and begged an answer.
He sat at a table centered in a complex of Cerivil’s rooms. The hard wooden seat was starting to get uncomfortable, and they’d barely gotten started. The complex was delightfully breezy, as evidenced by Lara’s locks whipping in the feisty air beside him. She waited with him, picking at her fingernails. What reason did she have to be nervous? A large beige rug covered the floor with a dark brown vine-and-leaf pattern. One wall was covered with shelves holding numerous chests, bottles, bowls, containers, and—unsurprisingly—practice swords.
One such sword Cerivil had selected and set before him, and Nyalin eyed it with a mixture of hope and trepidation. He hadn’t had much access to magical blades in his life, at least not ones people were supposed to practice with. There had been a few stored on the walls of Elix’s house, but they weren’t for casual handling, and Nyalin had mostly known better than to test Elix on the matter. Of course, he’d always hoped his better behavior would earn him some teaching, some real access to his magic, not just the loaned magic of a practice blade.
That had worked out well.
“All right.” Cerivil set down a stack of books with another small bin balanced on top of them. Lara jumped up and lunged to keep them from spilling everywhere. “Here we are!” Cerivil rubbed his hands together. “Just give me a moment or two to set up. Go on and hold that blade, young man. Might as well get used to it.”
Nyalin took the hilt in one hand, the scabbard in the other, and studied them both. The white enameled scabbard was magnificent, the sword light but enticing in his hands. It felt like a bright sword, a fast sword, something he could slash through a stalk of wheat, and it’d take a breath before the severed half fell. He longed to take it for a few rounds with a practice dummy.
He didn’t feel any different, holding the sword, though. Shouldn’t he? Each practice sword was infused with energy, power that could be funneled into a spell via a charm. If the wielder had the gift, at least. Most did not.
Perhaps Nyalin was one of them.
If he had the gift, shouldn’t he feel some surge of power? None came. Poor practice sword. Was it better to be an ornamental thing, never intended for combat? Of course, combat and war were bloody and gruesome and to be avoided at all costs… but what purpose did a blade have in a world without such things?
Did blades hunger for adventure the way humans did? Lust for action? Slowly he drew the steel from the scabbard, eying the shine of the blade. It was too shiny. Too clean. Its perfect balance called to him, sang to him, made him long to take a swing.
No. He needed to stop with the idle musing and focus. There’d be plenty of time alone with his whimsical thoughts while he served the Order of the Raven. He set the sheathed blade across his legs and tried to ignore it.
Cerivil had set up three small tests before him. One was a silver bowl of wood shavings. Another was a dark box full of feathers. And the last was an empty wooden bowl, nothing more.
“And here we are—the charms.” Opening the lid of the small chest, Cerivil wiggled his fingers as he bent to peer inside. “Yes… Palm Flash. There’s that.” He plucked a small white stone that hung on a loop of black thread and set it on the table before him. Nyalin picked it up. A small engraving resembling the sun in the center of a hand was chiseled into the stone. “That’s what they were working on this morning. And there�
�s… Ignite, yes. A good selection.”
The next charm was a solid, deep red stone streaked through with black that hung on a silver chain. Nyalin took this charm now too and rubbed a stone beneath each thumb. He couldn’t quite make out what was carved into the dark color of the Ignite stone, but he could feel it. Touching the charms was necessary to focus and channel many spells. With experience, swordmages simply needed the charm close on their person, but never more than an arm’s length away. For him, maybe he ought to clutch the thing until his knuckles were white.
“And last but not least…” Cerivil looked back and forth, then frowned. “No water charms? Truly?”
Lara cleared her throat. “He can use mine. If you want.”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
Lara slipped her hand within the folds of her crossover and drew out her charms.
Nyalin’s eyes widened. There must have been a dozen. Maybe more. “No wonder you don’t wear all those on your belt. Your pants would fall down.”
Her eyes widened.
“Uhh… I mean, how do you manage them all?”
She shrugged. “You mean without a blade of my own? Technically these are all possible as bladeless spells. The blade’s primary purpose is to provide energy, like a little well you can carry on your hip. But if you can find a way to access energy some other way, no reason you can’t cast them. One or two first-level blade spells occasionally work for me if I’m well rested and trying very, very hard. I just give it a try, and if it doesn’t work, I figure I’ll put the charm back. They’ve all worked, though.”
Cerivil gave him a sheepish look. “She’s always been very talented. Worthy of a blade for sure, if we had any sword smiths, and…”
She pursed her lips. “And if it were more ‘appropriate’ for me to have one.”
Now Cerivil’s look turned apologetic.
Lara threw up her hands. “Well, we don’t have any sword smiths anyway, and other clans are unlikely to grant me a blade. And the council would have objected too. Even before my brother died, but definitely now.”