Mercy's Trial

by Sever Bronny

  “Give me those—” Augum telekinetically pulled the spectacles off her face.

  “Hey—!” But she let him do it, watching him clean them with a soft cloth he kept in his pocket.

  “I think you purposely get them all dirty because you like me taking care of you,” he muttered.

  “I’m practicing for old age.”

  He gaped at her.

  “Don’t look so horrified, I was only jesting.”

  He gently replaced them on her face, lovingly curling the arms around each ear. “We might have to glue them to your head for battles.”

  “Oh yeah? Watch this—” She snapped her head to the side and the spectacles flew off her face, only for her to telekinetically snatch them out of the air like a cat and expertly guide them back to her nose. “See that? I’m that good. I also cast Object Track on them.”

  “Wouldn’t a bit of string work better?”

  She blinked, then narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be so clever.”

  Augum snorted, grabbed her waist and drew her near. For a moment they stood nose to nose before he kissed her.

  She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and cooed contentedly.

  A sudden thwomp was followed by a shout of “Smooch!” and Augum and Leera jumped apart with a cry of alarm.

  “ ‘Finicky doth be the cry of lust,’ ” Laudine crooned with a dimpled smile before artfully dancing away from their swipes.

  “Jones, Stone—stop sucking face and get your lazy butts over here!” Jez shouted. “Burns, Cooper, you too.”

  “Pfft, as if Jez doesn’t suck that ugly ogre’s face enough,” Leera muttered. Despite avoiding public affection while playing the roles of stern leaders, Jez and Commander Brewerson had been spotted holding hands and stealing kisses like teenage rascals. But woe be it to anyone who dared bring the subject up unless they enjoyed scrubbing the toilets as punishment. No one called out The Grizzly and got away with it.

  Augum and Leera walked back to Jez.

  “Now, I know some of you—” Jez pointedly glanced at Bridget. “—have been pining to learn the other 9th degree spells, but we need to keep you focused on Teleport as we simply don’t have time for much else.” She placed a hand to the side of her mouth as her voice dropped. “And believe you me, you don’t really want to get into the ethics codes that govern spells like Frenzy.” She made a sleepy face and snored.

  “But Jez, we have to learn those ethics codes anyway,” Bridget protested. “Especially if we want to learn higher-degree spells.”

  “It’s a whole class, Burns. A whole class. And that’s only the start. As much as I’d like to breeze through it for you, the academy strictly forbids learning certain spells without taking that class. You of all people should understand that. We don’t have the time, kiddo.”

  “I understand, Jez. Sorry for being so pushy.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone eager to take Ethics.”

  “I said I’m sorry, Jez.”

  Jez accepted her apology with a nod. “All right, let’s switch it up. Jones, keep working on Teleport. Stone, see if you can pick up the direction I teleport to. Impetus peragro.” She disappeared with a thwomp.

  Leera nudged him. “Good luck.”

  After checking that an academy official wasn’t around, Augum splayed the fingers of his right hand and launched into the 11th degree Reveal spell, illegal for him to cast. “Un vun asperio aurum enchantus.” The air lit up with visible but rapidly diminishing arcane tendrils that swirled like a whirlpool. He spotted one tumbling tendril floating northward before disappearing, then studied the remainder before they too faded. Such a thing was only possible if one knew Reveal, and then only for a short time after a teleportation, until the tendril evidence evaporated back into the arcane ether.

  But it was very difficult to do, especially against high-degree warlocks who could obfuscate their tendril patterns. Upon first studying this trick, Augum realized that his great-grandmother must have been superbly adept at obfuscation, for back in the war she had successfully evaded the best warlocks the Legion had thrown at her.

  Augum touched his throat. “Amplifico,” and felt it expand. “Northward!” he shouted to the high platforms.

  “Which one specifically?” came a distant reply.

  “I don’t know!”

  There was another thwomp as Jez reappeared. “Come on, Stone, you should have had plenty of time to nail down direction and approximate distance. Bridget did. For the love of the Unnameables, you were standing right where the teleportation happened! How much easier do you want this to be? And I’m not your legendary great-grandmother, who can obscure her trail with a mere thought.”

  “That’s because Bridget took Arcaneology class and can identify complex tendril patterns,” Augum replied.

  Jez sighed. “Fine, if you insist on giving up—”

  “I’m not giving up.”

  “Then improve your attitude and get back to teleporting.”

  Jez was in one of her moods and so Augum reluctantly returned to teleportation training. She had been acting the tough mentor, trying to fill Mrs. Stone’s shoes without the latter’s wisdom and patience. She ended up being coarse and crude, and even though he loved Jez like an aunt, she could downright annoy him sometimes. But he also suspected her moodiness was because she was nervous about the coming quest. There would come a point where she would have to let them go to attempt the final—and most dangerous—portion of that quest, and it probably scared her.

  Augum joined Bridget, Leera and Laudine to further refine the Teleport spell, yet he met only frustration and failure, continuing to serve as nothing more than a training dummy for Jengo. The banquet couldn’t come soon enough.

  Jealousies

  “You’re not actually going to wear that, are you?” Jengo asked Olaf, who was preening in a jester’s costume before a tall mirror. Olaf had lost weight since he’d taken up the grueling Arcaner training, but still managed to muffin out of his pants.

  “I think it’s hilarious.” The bells of Olaf’s pointed hat jingled as he spoke. “Channels my inner humor.”

  “You trying to woo Bridget or make her run in horror?” Augum chipped in, standing before another mirror and frowning at himself. The puke-yellow mercantile outfit he was stuck with had awful ruffled shoulder wings like giant upright clams.

  “Don’t do it, Aug.” Jengo stepped beside him in a red Tiberran priestly costume. “You tear those things off and you’ll look like a plucked chicken.”

  “Bah.” Fine, he’d leave them … for now.

  They were in the boys’ Arcaner dorm after the banquet, readying for the dance. Seven evening bells would soon announce the academy ballroom was open. Because access to the kingdom had been cut off, there wasn’t enough fine clothing to go around, forcing students to plunder ancient theater costumes from storage—an effort launched by Laudine, of course. When Jez sarcastically suggested turning the whole thing into a costumed affair, the students quickly parroted the idea, demanding a costume ball until the Arcanists finally relented to their nagging.

  “Laud should have tipped us off so we could have gotten first dibs,” Jengo muttered, straightening his priestly garment. “Instead she belted it out for the whole school to hear. Hmm … hope Priya won’t mind me wearing a robe from her kingdom.”

  “She’s like a squawking parrot,” Olaf replied.

  Jengo’s brows rose up his forehead.

  “Not your betrothed, you goof—I’m talking about Laud. Fun watching the stampede though. See how the girls flattened each other?” Olaf slapped his hands together. “Splat! Pigtails caught under turnshoes. Double splat. Makeup running with tears—not that academy girls wear much makeup.” He shrugged. “Probably for the best. And did you see the boys all hanging back like vultures waiting to pick over a carcass?”

  “They even took boys’ costumes,” Augum noted, shaking his head. “One hissed at me when I mentioned she had snagged a pair of pants that belon
ged to a night soil collector.”

  “Did she know what they were for?” Olaf asked, trying to pull his tunic over his protruding belly.

  “I don’t think so, but she was so rude I didn’t bother telling her.”

  “You found the limit to their civility.”

  Augum chuckled. “Which seems to be a scarcity of clothing.” The generalization was grossly unfair but still funny.

  Jengo drew his red hood. “Think this outfit makes me look too … demonic?”

  Olaf and Augum glanced over at him.

  “What? I happen to have the blackest skin in the entire academy. You hear those blasted Ordinaries. Demon-skin this, witch-man that. And you just know some of the warlocks are thinking the same thing.”

  Olaf snickered. “Just stand beside Chaska, then you two can pretend to be a checkered floor.” Haylee’s former boyfriend was a Henawa, northern people with milk-white skin.

  Jengo thought about it a moment. “The whitest and the blackest. You’re on to something. With the right materials we could go as two floor tiles.”

  They guffawed at the idea.

  When their laughter passed, Augum decided he’d had enough of the ruffles and gripped them firmly. “I don’t feel like going as a clown—no offense, Ollie.”

  Olaf waved dismissively. “None taken.”

  Jengo pressed his hands against the sides of his head. “Don’t do it, Aug—”

  But it was too late. There was a tearing sound as Augum ripped both clams off. He examined the result in the mirror.

  “What did I tell you?” Jengo said. “A plucked chicken.”

  Olaf shook his head solemnly, bells tinkling. “He’s right, Aug. I suddenly have this urge to debone, stuff and roast you.” He closed his eyes. “Mmm … roast chicken. Gods how I miss real food.”

  “Shoot, you two are right.” Augum slapped the wings into Olaf’s chest. “Get it over with.”

  Olaf gingerly replaced one of Augum’s shoulder ruffles and splayed his hands over it. “Apreyo.” It reattached with a flash of white light. Then he repaired the other.

  Augum stared at himself in the mirror. Something about the clams reminded him of his failure to teleport. “The Fates are mocking me,” he mused.

  “They’re only ruffles,” Jengo said as he and Olaf stared at their own reflections. “Tall as a beanpole too,” he added in a mutter. “I hate sticking out.”

  The academy bells began to toll, sounding off seven gongs.

  Jengo’s bony shoulders sagged. “Off to the guillotine.”

  Olaf elbowed him. “Now who’s being dramatic. I’m rather looking forward to this. I’ve been wanting to dance with Bridget since forever.”

  Augum smacked the bells on Olaf’s hat as he passed. “What makes you think she’ll dance with you wearing that?”

  Olaf swallowed. “Uh, think I can sew up something out of curtains?”

  “I was jesting,” Augum replied, admiring his pun. “You’ll survive. Besides, she adores you.”

  * * *

  “Gods help me I’m going to burst, y’all!” Alyssa sang when Augum, Olaf and Jengo emerged from the portal onto the sandy arena floor in the Arcaner Studies room. She doubled over in laughter, dreadlocks bouncing. Her deep ebony skin sparkled with glitter and she wore an elegant emerald princess gown.

  “All you three need now are juggling clubs,” Leera said between snorts of laughter. She looked stunning in a pirate’s outfit, with smoky eyes that burned behind her light spectacles, tall black leather boots, a laced coat, and a crimson bandana wrapped around her head, raven hair sticking out in chaotic elegance. Augum had a hard time keeping his eyes off her.

  Leera caught him staring and smirked.

  “This is all your doing, Laud,” Augum muttered, red-faced.

  Laudine curtsied. “Thank you. What do you think of my costume?” She was dressed like an ale maiden, with a plaid knee-length skirt, white blouse tied at the waist, and flower-embroidered hose. Her pixie hair was clipped with flowers made from dyed parchment.

  “You’ll be whipped by the headmaster,” Haylee said. “Completely uncouth, Laud.”

  “Positively scandalous, isn’t it?” Laudine twirled. “I’ll be the star of the show.” Then she looked Haylee up and down. “And ‘’tis only a swallow that dares call another swallow a swift.’ ”

  “What’s that gobbledygook supposed to mean?”

  “That you’re one to talk.”

  Haylee glanced down at herself. “I’m perfectly respectable as a rich jeweler’s wife.”

  “You’re an Endyear ornament with all those sparkles.”

  “At least my dress actually goes to the floor.” Haylee tried to twirl in place only to stumble on her bad leg. She cleared her throat and smoothed her puffy, silver-embroidered gown. Rings glittered on every finger and four necklaces were layered around her neck. Her long blonde hair was tied with bejeweled ribbons, and her shoes sparkled with fake diamonds.

  “But why aren’t you simply a rich woman who earned her own means?” Bridget asked.

  Haylee recoiled. “Because it’s all about the fantasy, Bridget, yeesh. Didn’t you come up with a story? Like, in my mind’s eye, I married extremely well and my husband bought me the finest jewels. Which means of course that you’re my servant.”

  “I’m not your servant, I’m a servant,” Bridget replied, awkwardly primping the little white hat perched above the conservative bun she’d pinned her long cinnamon hair into.

  “Well, you can be my servant, m’lady,” Olaf growled in a commoner’s drawl.

  Bridget frowned at him. “Can we please just attend the dance? And Lys, you can stop with the over-acted howling now.”

  Alyssa, who had devolved into rolling across the sand in laughter at the boys’ ridiculous outfits, finally clambered to her knees, mumbling something about being unable to unsee their costumes.

  While Laudine and Haylee helped dust her off, Bridget joined Olaf, Leera joined Augum, and Jengo took up the rear of the procession.

  Leera nodded at the shoulder ruffles. “Why don’t you rip them off?”

  “Tried that. Made it worse, if you can believe that.”

  “Ah. At least it’s a becoming shade on you—puke yellow.”

  “Shaddup.”

  “Love you too,” she replied, slipping her hand in the crook of his elbow and allowing him to lead her. Bridget did the same with Olaf, the pair conferring in quiet whispers. They were a rather comical sight—he the bell-festooned, colorful jester, she the dour, prim-and-proper servant. Yet the fleeting glances they gave each other only held affection, with Olaf doing most of the glancing.

  The group made their way down the awe-inspiring Hall of Rapture, with its eternal ceiling and eternal length, ribbing each other and firing off jests. As they stepped out into the winter cold of the courtyard, located between the three wings of the academy that darted out like spokes of a wheel, everyone reflexively examined the arcane dome that securely enveloped the academy above and below ground. Students stood sentry at even lengths around the perimeter, keeping an eye on the Canterran enemy watching them right back from the other side. The only reason the Canterrans hadn’t tried getting through the dome was because the Solians had captured two high-value Canterrans—Count Von Edgeworth, Katrina’s famed uncle, and Darby Sepherin, one of Emperor Samuel Sepherin’s precious sons.

  The students chosen for the unenviable task of guard duty during the ball had either done poorly on their exams, offended The Grizzly, or drawn the short straw. They routinely patrolled the perimeter to keep warm.

  “Miserable work,” Haylee said.

  “But necessary,” Bridget replied.

  “I know. Just couldn’t imagine missing a ball for it.”

  One of the patrolling warlocks spotted them and inclined his head at Augum. During an oath ceremony a couple tendays ago, every warlock within the academy had sworn to serve Augum, thus allowing them to unlock the full potential of each Dreadnought suit of armor.
They would still follow The Grizzly’s commands, but the solemn ceremony had been necessary, for the Dreadnought armor’s powers had been crafted for the sole use of the Lord of the Legion. Augum and his friends had worked hard last month to transfer the oath from his father to himself, and therefore the use of the armor as well.

  Augum was glad that The Grizzly was in charge. During mock war exercises, the man had hinted that he would like to see Augum take command one day—even perhaps become king. Augum scoffed at that, knowing he lacked the breadth of experience needed to command an army, let alone an entire kingdom. But he had more than proven himself in battle. Not only had Augum and the girls defeated the Lord of the Legion, but he had almost singlehandedly—through sheer determination—resurrected the Arcaner order and freed the academy from the Canterrans, taking two high-value captives in the process. In short, Augum was now viewed as a true hero, even by some of the arcanists. The real question now was, could he lead his friends into the dragon realm, pass the trial, bring back dragons, and free his kingdom?

  His group stepped through the giant portal to the Student Wing and walked toward the academy ballroom, seeing more and more students along the way. Nearly all greeted the Arcaners jovially, inclined their heads in respect, or said something kind, a marked change from the days when they mocked or slandered the trio. But now everyone realized how much rode on the small group of Arcaners being successful in their quest. Everyone’s lives—the very kingdom’s future—were at stake.

  A great many students had petitioned to attempt the squire and dragoon trials to become Arcaners, but were forbidden by the academy committee. The elders, citing Caireen Lavo’s and Isaac Fleiszmann’s deaths, proclaimed the trials too dangerous to perform in such a short time and had to be persuaded to even allow the small group of friends to finish their dragoon trials.

  People wore all sorts of costumes, from dairy women to blacksmiths to plowmen. Some blouses and skirts had indeed been hastily crafted from curtains, bed sheets, and scavenged linens. Women used what they could to doll themselves up—craft supplies as jewelry, glue and glitter for sparkly bits on clothing, powdered red chalk or pickled cranberry sauce for cheek coloring. And the men were no exception, pilfering kitchen grease to smooth back hair and brewing questionable concoctions from kitchen spices and alchemical ingredients for cologne.