Mercy's Trial

by Sever Bronny

  “Come to think of it—” Augum said as they strode amongst a crowd of gawking students toward the ballroom. He hooked an arm around Leera’s neck and drew her head to his nose. “You smell delicious, like a cinnamon tart. Found a stash of sweets you want to share?”

  She shoved him away. “That’s one of the new special scents I crafted, you dimwit.” Her eyes darted around in embarrassment as Haylee, Alyssa and Laudine snickered.

  “Oh, sorry.” But he wasn’t sorry. They’d been needling each other off and on to break up the monotony of training. Just the other day she had made a snide remark about him drooling his way through Teleport lessons. It was all in good fun.

  Olaf held a hand to the side of his mouth and whispered, “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

  Leera glanced over at Augum and her eyes narrowed behind her spectacles.

  “I have a good teacher,” he shot back, winking at her. She only blushed.

  Priya Singh, Jengo’s betrothed, caught up to them. She was an Ordinary Tiberran separated from her mother, who had been left behind in the village of Arinthia when others had been brought to the academy for work detail, probably as a reward for her devout worshipping of The Path. Priya had rich sienna skin and long black hair. Her nose and lips were pierced with bejeweled studs and she was dressed in a traditional Tiberran garment—a loose cerulean cloth that wrapped around her waist and draped over one shoulder.

  But instead of greeting Jengo with her usual kind smile, she folded her arms and glanced him up and down. “Jengo Okeke, how could you dress as a Tiberran priest? You mock the Unnameables with that costume! Do you know what sort of bad luck you will bring down upon our house when we are finally married?”

  Jengo’s mouth gawped like a fish’s. “I … I …”

  “You will turn around this instant and find more suitable attire. I will not have you leaving on your foolhardy quest with this disgrace on my mind. I jest not. If Mother were to hear of such a thing …” She pointed past him. “Now, Jengo Okeke.”

  “Yes, beloved,” and he mournfully shuffled off.

  Priya then whirled on the Arcaners. “What are you lot snickering at? Huh? Do you think it funny that my betrothed is wearing a sacrilegious garment? You are stealing my future husband away on a fool’s errand, and you think it funny?”

  Everyone fell silent and avoided her gaze.

  Priya stepped before Augum, who let go of Leera and gave Priya the respect of looking into her eyes.

  “You promise me, Augum Arinthian Stone, that you will bring back my future husband alive and well. Don’t you dare return to me wanting to place that cursed blade at my feet. I will not have it. I will not accept it, and you will not be forgiven.”

  Augum felt a coldness wash over him as he heard the echo of Isaac Fleiszmann’s father condemning him for Isaac’s death, which had occurred as he attempted the first Arcaner trial. The man had ignored Burden’s Edge lying at his feet, instead turning on his heel and walking off, as was his divine right. That lack of forgiveness was a heavy stone in Augum’s heart that could not be dislodged.

  “You know he cannot defend himself like you all can,” Priya went on. “He’s a healer, not a warrior. Unnameables help you, you will promise to return him safe to me, Augum. Do it on your shield before the gods. I demand that you do it now.”

  Augum stood still a moment before softly replying, “Priya, I … I can’t make that promise.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek as she searched his eyes. Then she looked to the others, none of whom met her gaze—except for Bridget. Priya opened her mouth to say something to her only to close it and shoulder past the group.

  Augum watched her go. “His life is in our hands.”

  “The entire kingdom’s is,” Leera whispered, fingers intertwining with his. “Nobody said this would be easy.”

  “We planned and trained for this quest,” Bridget said. “We’re as ready as we’re going to be given the time constraints, but it will still be dangerous. Jengo has accepted the risks. It’s up to him to console her.”

  The friends somberly resumed their walk to the ballroom, drawn by the festive music. But the encounter with Priya had made Augum retreat into the recesses of his mind where doubt perpetually swirled. To him, being truly “ready” would have meant attaining the 20th degree and then departing on this insane quest to bring back dragons for the first time in thousands of years.

  The friends hardly ever talked about the sheer audacity of the coming endeavor. Heck, even the word dragons was rarely brought up in conversation save for sober strategic discussions with Jez or the arcanists. Whole committees had been devoted to fashioning the best plan possible for their survival and success.

  Priya’s entreaty struck at the heart of Augum’s fears, for he never wanted to place Burden’s Edge at the feet of another person again. The dread of such a thing kept him up at night. He had nightmares of Isaac’s father turning on his heel and striding off, leaving behind a condemning silence that morphed into a lifetime of failures. He sometimes jolted awake to the anguished wailing of Mrs. Cobb too, whose husband had died defending the castle alongside Augum. She and her son Samuel were here in the academy, quietly doing their duty for the kingdom with whatever skill they could. And despite the woman’s forgiveness, every time Augum spotted her or her son, cold guilt crept up his spine, lodging at the base of his brain like a spider awaiting prey.

  Augum did not dream of his successes. He did not dream of hearing the roar of the arena crowds upon vanquishing his opponents, or the effusive songs and poems and herald pieces of praise. He did not dwell on the parades or the gifts or any of the accolades. He was gripped by his failures, like losing Castle Arinthian to the Von Edgeworths, not choosing the right leader for their kingdom, letting people under his charge perish—and now his latest failures with Teleport.

  Only one dream managed to pierce the dark clouds like a ray of sun—him aloft riding a dragon, laying waste to his enemies and freeing the enslaved and invaded, then returning to his ancestral castle and his beloved, knowing they could protect themselves. Perhaps then he could find peace as a humble Arcaner. Perhaps then he could lead a normal life.

  But he tried not to think about peace too much as it sounded like a preposterous idea. Part of him thought he had not earned it. Most of him did not even know what it felt like. He had always known struggle. He had always known war in one form or another. And now he was a warlock seemingly locked in perpetual war. But there had to be something beyond all this struggle … there had to be.

  At last, they stepped past the ballroom’s magnificently gilded tall doors and collectively gasped. The voluminous round room was decorated with white draping meant to keep down drafts, floating crystal-and-iron chandeliers, huge gilt-framed mirrors, and oil paintings. Golden fluted columns ran along the walls, rising up to a fifty-foot vaulted ceiling painted with finely-dressed dancing warlocks of times past. A giant floating chandelier festooned with a hundred candles slowly revolved above a spacious wooden dance floor inlaid with swirling marquetry designs. Surrounding the dance floor were round tables draped with white cloth, silverware, and academy porcelain. Ordinaries dressed in their best garments strode from table to table, filling cups with water and adjusting plates and chairs. Everyone anticipated the goodbye cake, rumored to be as tall as The Grizzly.

  “Beautiful,” Haylee whispered. “Absolutely beau—” Her blonde eyebrows furrowed as she spotted Chaska standing close to Mary Martel, a quiet girl from the trio’s degree. “What does he think he’s doing with that airhead?”

  “I believe they call that primitive form of communication talking,” Alyssa said. She prodded Haylee’s shoulder with a finger. “Someone’s jealous. Y’all broke up ages ago. What do you care?”

  “He’s doing it on purpose. Besides, she’s no good for him. I mean, look at her. Look at how short she is, like a dwarf. And look at those huge hips and that toadish stomach! It’s a miracle she got in through the doorway.”

/>   “You’re only jealous because she looks so much like you—a blue-eyed blonde. And she looks completely normal, Hayles.”

  “I hate that nickname.”

  “You’re going to get called worse if you behave like this.”

  “Ugh, why did The Grizzly have to pick her for the protection squad? Now I’ll have to look at that plain face every day.”

  “She’s harmless and you’ll get over her the moment the quest begins, you’ll see. And he and the committee picked those they deemed most able to protect us.”

  Haylee blew strands of hair from her face. “Let’s just find a table before I rile myself up any further. Besides, I hear the cake is going to be as tall as those columns.”

  Leera’s head snapped about. “Cake? Where? Where cake? Gimme cakey. Where is this beautiful, delicious, grand—” She froze as Augum’s loyal castle servant, Charles Poorman, came over with a tray of what appeared to be lumpy brown mold.

  “My lord, my ladies—would anyone like a slice of goodbye cake?” the stubby Charles asked.

  Leera went pale. “That is not cake. That is a pile of mushy ox dung. Where is the cake, Charles? Where is the promised cake?”

  “I am afraid this is the best we could do with what we had, Lady Jones.”

  She whimpered.

  “We’ll take some at our table, Charles, thank you,” Augum said. “And you’ll get over it, Dragoon Jones.” He placed an arm around his girl’s waist and guided the group to an unclaimed table.

  As they settled into seats, Olaf leaned over to whisper to Augum, “So how do you feel about Brandon getting onto the protection squad—”

  “Olaf—”

  “I’m not jealous, I swear, it’s just … is he really the best choice? Passed the exams by the skin of his teeth.”

  “The Grizzly deemed him to be highly motivated at keeping Bridget alive, hence him being assigned to watch her back. Besides, he wants to make up for being such a jackal last term.”

  Olaf thought about it a moment. “All right, I’m a little jealous.”

  “Don’t be. Can’t you see how she looks at you?”

  The boys glanced over at Bridget, sitting between Leera and Haylee. She immediately looked away, pretending to be busy smoothing her servant gown.

  “Like I said, she adores you.”

  “But Brandon’s so … I don’t know, handsome, I guess. Really cleaned himself up lately too.”

  They spotted Brandon chatting with a girl in the crowd, he dressed as a tailor and she a bailiff.

  “Do you not think we have more important things to worry about?” Augum asked.

  “Probably.” Olaf folded and refolded a napkin, the bells on his hat jingling. “So, who did The Grizz end up picking to watch your back?”

  “Naoki and Maxine,” Leera answered on Augum’s behalf. “7th fire, 9th earth. They lay one finger on him and my claws come out.”

  “And you’ve got Arthur and Ulfric,” Augum sniped back. “9th lightning, 7th fire. They so much as breathe down your neck and I’ll knock their teeth out.”

  “They’re supposed to be breathing down my neck—that’s what protectors do.”

  Augum and Leera grinned daringly at each other.

  Haylee glanced between the two of them. “You two really stepped it up with the teasing, eh?”

  “We’re trying to make each other jealous,” Leera said, refusing to blink as she stared at Augum. “First one to admit defeat owes a day’s worth of back massages to the other.”

  Augum stared back at her, not wanting to admit that he was already boiling with jealousy.

  “Seems to be a theme around here,” Alyssa muttered.

  Leera suddenly slapped the table so hard the dishes clattered. She pointed at Augum. “I saw that blink, mister! I win this round!”

  Augum slumped in his seat in defeat.

  “I have to admit it’s strange to have opposite sexes for the protection squad,” Laudine noted. “The Grizzly certainly has a twisted sense of humor.”

  “I overheard them talking about it,” Alyssa replied, accepting a lumpy slice of cake from Charles. “It’s strategic, the old way of protection, wherein it is deemed that equal-strength warlocks would fight harder for each other if they’re the opposite gender. It’s a contentious theory, so who knows if it actually has any merit, but you know The Grizzly—he’ll take any advantage from any angle.” She folded her arms as she glanced at Augum with a raised brow. “Maxine, huh? She’s … interesting.”

  “In what way?” Augum asked. As far as he knew from their training, Maxine Matheson was a fine—if not a bit rigid—warlock.

  “Let’s just say she’s complicated.”

  Haylee cracked a grin. “And Naoki is protecting Augum too. You’re in serious trouble, Lee. Wow that girl is pretty—in an exotic sort of way. Ohm has some really beautiful girls.”

  Leera paled a little and cleared her throat. “As long as she does her duty and keeps Augum alive she can look as pretty as she likes.”

  “She’s not that pretty,” Augum muttered, feeling a little guilty for playing this silly game. Except Leera did not appear to hear him, and he strategically chose not to repeat the point.

  “I’ve had a few conversations with her,” Alyssa said. “Fascinating woman. Grew up surrounded by the Mountain Monks of the North. But she’s got a rebellious streak in her too. I’d almost call her fiery.”

  Haylee took a small nibble of cake and frowned at her plate. “What’s she doing here, anyway?”

  “Part of an exchange program with the Academy of Semadon. Now she’s stuck here and pining to get home. Fights with a summoned fiery staff. Some warrior-monk tradition or something. Anyway, she’ll help us navigate through Ohm. Smart, disciplined, spirited, and from what I’ve seen, a heck of a warlock.”

  Leera’s grin faltered until she looked beyond Augum and smiled. He turned to spot Leera’s protectors making their way over. One was Ulfric Magnusson, a huge nineteen-year-old Abrandian brick of a man with broad shoulders, a stiff mouth, hard eyes, and red hair tied up in a ponytail. He was one of the few not in costume, choosing to instead wear his amber academy robe, cinched at the waist with traditional yellow rope.

  The other protector was Arthur Cartwright, an eighteen-year-old whose parents ran a profitable carpet-making business in Blackhaven’s Stone Quarter. He had chestnut hair swept up in a haphazard style, softly curving eyebrows that oversaw dark brown eyes and contrasted with his rectangular face, a lightly-chiseled physique and the wispy beginnings of a mustache and goatee. He was dressed in a mercantile outfit similar to Augum’s, except there were no frilly wings on his tunic. He was exactly the type of gallant boy that girls swooned over.

  Augum, who had seen him in Lightning class but hadn’t interacted with him much, now found himself studying him like a hawk. Arthur spoke in a superstitious whisper, as if talking louder would bring him misfortune. He even carried around a salt pouch to ward against bad luck. And he had this irritating way of unnecessarily shortening words that drove Augum up the wall, yet girls seemed to find this debasement of language “cute.” They also considered him a quirky oddity, or an “unchiseled statue,” as Alyssa had noted upon first meeting him.

  Leera stood to greet them.

  Arthur took her hand. “A pirate queen,” he whispered. “How appro.” He kissed her hand before turning to Augum. “You are a lucky man, Lord Stone. She is quite a beaut. A lucky man indeed.”

  “Err, thank you,” Augum muttered.

  “He prefers to be called by his other title,” Olaf threw in, eyebrows dancing at Augum tauntingly.

  “Yes of course, but which title? Hero of the Resistance? Savior of the Academy? Dragoon? Our Augum Arinthian Stone is quite decorated.”

  Arthur’s smug politeness irked Augum—his tone held no sarcasm whatsoever.

  “Dragoon,” Olaf said. “Definitely Dragoon. The others—” He shrugged. “Meh.”

  “I have always admired you, Dragoon Stone.” Arthur�
��s hands squirmed together as if he was trying to wring out meaning from his words. “From afar, I mean. From afar. You are … very admirable.”

  “Okay.”

  “And although we obviously know of your bravery, you also must be exceptionally smart to have attracted such a fair lady.”

  Augum felt his brows slither up his forehead. The nerve of the kid.

  “Let us hope that we have much luck in the field.” Arthur opened the leather pouch at his belt, withdrew a pinch of salt, and tossed it over his shoulder. “Unnameables willing, of course.”

  Augum stiffened at the display of piety. “It’s not up to luck—it’s about us working together,” he replied. “Working hard and putting everything we have learned into practice.”

  “Luck has a part to play in all our plans, Dragoon Stone. We would be wise not to tempt the gods by ignoring that.”

  “Arthur, Ulfric—you two ready for tomorrow?” Leera interjected as Augum ballooned with a response. Her eyes darted to him, arousing his suspicions. She was up to something … but what?

  “Ulfric born ready,” Ulfric said in his thick and choppy Abrandian accent, looking everywhere but at Leera as if bored, yet obviously watching her back. He took everything seriously, something Augum drew comfort from. Though that seemed to be a general trait for Abrandians.

  “I fear our departure is a little hasty,” Arthur said. He glanced at the elaborate ceiling as if he could see through it. “Tonight is the start of a full moon that will continue for the next two nights of our trek. We cannot deny how ominous that is.”

  Leera’s lips pressed together as she tried not to laugh. “Uh, so?”

  “It is … bad luck.” When he saw her skeptical look, he quickly added, “And you should not use words like ‘so,’ Lady Jones. It is … unbecoming of your station. Nonetheless, I look forward to working with—” He frowned at her shoulder. “If I may—” He plucked a stray fiber from her laced pirate coat. “Forgive me, but it diminished you.”