Burden's Edge (Fury of a Rising Dragon Book 1) Page 17

  “Get moving, Summers,” The Grizzly said.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Brandon gave a sly wink to Bridget before trotting to the platform, snow crunching underfoot. Augum watched him go. Although Brandon and Bridget had been having a bit of trouble, they seemed to have set that aside for the moment.

  As Augum watched, Leera’s fingers secretly entwined with his. He squeezed, and she squeezed back.

  “This is a novel way to get out of class, Stone,” The Grizzly said.

  “Lord High Commander, can we have a quick private word?”

  The Grizzly’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Very well.”

  Augum took the big man aside to inform him of the assassins’ attack. The Grizzly listened but said nothing, other than, “In the interest of the kingdom, be sure to keep me informed, Stone.”

  “I will, Lord High Commander.” Augum’s hopes rose. Did The Grizzly know the charges of hiding the scions were false? Was he secretly on their side? Or was he just being his usual impartial self?

  But as he wondered, he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Stone’s statue looming behind The Grizzly and felt a pang of shame. What would she think of her great-grandson being whipped before the entire school? He could almost envision her lips pressing into a disapproving line as she gave him a stern blue-eyed look of disappointment.

  “Pupil Brandon Summers, you stand guilty of uttering a forbidden word in Arcanist Flagon’s class, Theory of Standard Spellcraft, for which you are to receive three lashes. In the ancient judicial tradition of the academy, show thy stripes and bare thy back.”

  Brandon took his sweet time removing his robe and undershirt, revealing a naked torso and linen pants. He placed his hands on the pole.

  Leera put an arm around Bridget and drew her near. Both girls looked away. The cracks came in quick succession. Each one elicited a grunt from Brandon. Only after the last did he cry out loudly. But he did not fall. Kiwi went to him immediately—as did Bridget, who caused a stir by running over. She delicately helped Kiwi bandage his back, helped him put on his undershirt and his robe, and then walked with him hand in hand. The crowd witnessed Bridget’s compassion, and Augum got the impression it did not correlate with what Cry had said about her putting on a facade.

  “That sucked,” Brandon said through gritted teeth when he got back, walking carefully. “I don’t recommend it.”

  Augum handed Leera his satchel. He tried to ignore his shaking hands as he did. Bridget spotted them, but like a sister, she said nothing.

  “Stone, Augum. Step forward.”

  A cold thrill of fear ran through Augum.

  “Have fun,” Brandon said.

  “Do your duty, Stone,” The Grizzly said, but there was no joy or mockery in his voice.

  Leera reached over and squeezed Augum’s hand one more time. He squeezed back before letting her hand slip through his fingers. He strode forward, chin held firmly straight. Mouths hid behind hands as people whispered to each other. Eyes darted about, perhaps wondering if this was really happening.

  Augum barely paid attention to Iron Byron as the man solemnly read Augum’s crimes to the crowd. He flared his seven lightning rings without thought and performed the requisite bow before pulling his robe over his head, followed by his shirt. He was determined to make it through all nine lashes without passing out, as the rules stated the whipping would otherwise have to continue tomorrow.

  The crowd gasped upon seeing Augum’s back, for scars crisscrossed his skin. A violent painting by a violent drunk. A map of his childhood. If the scars were a language, they would form the words gutterborn, rat, piglet, and all the other names they had called him.

  He had already decided what he would think about during the whipping. It wasn’t the accusation that the trio had the scions. It wasn’t the coming Occupation Ceremony. It wasn’t the fact he had eternally split a pair of assassin lovers. Nor was it the Southguards taking the throne.

  He saw a nearby stone lying by the platform and telekinetically raised it a little off the ground.

  The first crack of the whip lit up his being like a flash of lightning. He did not cry out, but rather bit his tongue and winced. He had forgotten that pain. It had been a long time, a very long time.

  Crack.

  Augum tuned out the crowd’s gasps. He thought of the smiling face of Cobb and recalled seeing him playing with his boy, throwing him up in the air while the boy squealed with laughter.

  Crack.

  Augum saw Mrs. Cobb take the elbow of her husband during Augum’s manhood ceremony. He remembered her doting smile and the way she leaned against the man.

  Crack.

  Blood spurted in his mouth. He had accidentally bitten through his tongue. The coppery tang reminded him of the war, of that desperate fight for survival. In a way, life had been simpler back then. Fight or flee. Live or die.

  Crack.

  Augum let out an involuntary grunt. He saw the stone wobble, but it floated on. He closed his eyes and recalled dancing with Leera at an Endyear feast.

  Crack.

  Augum saw the faces of those he had slain. An elderly warlock with coal-black eyes. A country bumpkin bandit with a cleaver. A nameless necromancer on a drawbridge. The Lord of the Legion. A male assassin with a plain face and ridged brow. An olive-skinned female assassin forever separated from her lover. Six lives. Six faces.

  Crack.

  Augum cried out and fell to one knee as his vision tunneled. But he did not let go of the pole or his precious tether to the stone. Blood dribbled down his back. The burning was excruciating, but he used his training to keep his mind as far away from it as he could. He let it simmer below him like lava while he floated between condemnation and the sorrow of not having lived up to who he was supposed to be.

  Crack.

  Augum cried out again as his second knee buckled, yet still he persisted in holding on to the pole and the stone. He saw Mrs. Cobb, the way she had fallen, and he heard the sound of her agonized wail. He saw the look on her boy’s face. A husband, a father, was never coming home …

  Crack!

  Augum and the stone simultaneously fell to the ground. Darkness came rushing in, sweet and thick.

  He was no longer their prince.

  Exposed

  Augum awoke in a quiet, dim room that smelled of medicine. He was on his stomach, and his upper torso was naked. A thick fog lingered in his brain, his insides felt warm and mellow, and his back throbbed dully.

  “Hey,” Leera whispered. She was sitting on the bed beside him, lovingly running a hand through his hair and along his cheek. “Whew, you could use a bath, Augum Stone.”

  “Very funny,” he grumbled, wincing from the sting. He didn’t bother informing her that he had washed up that morning.

  She leaned closer. He could smell gentle vanilla. “One of these days, I will wash you.”

  He froze. He wanted to tell her about the many things he was keeping pent up. His fears. His hopes. Usually he could, but not of late. Perhaps it was because he feared she would not want to become an Arcaner with him. Or perhaps it was because of his shame over being such a profound failure as castellan. Or perhaps he simply feared boldly expressing himself in that certain way they both silently wanted, a way that culture and tradition forbade them to act upon until marriage.

  “Where am I?” he asked instead, ashamed of his cowardice.

  She pulled back, studying him. “Elements Wing, Healing Ward.” There was a tinge of disappointment in her voice, and it cut as sharply as the whip. He wanted to apologize, to reveal to her something, anything, but he had a hard time concentrating and the moment soon passed.

  He sensed a vast space above. The walls were polished white marble that glinted with low torchlight. Wispy curtains hung between simple, worn cots. The floor shimmered underneath the surface like an opalescent pond. It was a soothing view.

  “Why is my body numb?” he asked, feeling sluggish and dreamy.

  “They gave you some non-arcane medicine, said it woul
d dull your wits for a while.”

  That explained it. He tried to turn, but she stopped him.

  “Might not want to do that, Your Highness.” The way she used the title always held a hint of mischief. “Need to rest for a while, then they’ll change your bandages. Jengo sewed you up himself. He said you’ll have to be careful or the sutures will tear. And you’re going to miss both morning classes.”

  The first was Military Strategy with The Grizzly. Something told him the man would understand. The second was Runes, which he definitely didn’t want to miss. Runes was always fun, partly because of their teacher, gregarious Chappie Fungal.

  “No arcane healing,” he muttered, wincing from a shooting pain.

  “Traditional healing can be quite slow compared to what we’re used to.”

  There was a silence during which his toes curled, for he recalled the way everyone had looked at him as he had made his way to the platform. The profound disappointment, even betrayal …

  “ ‘Your Highness,’ ” he said mockingly. “I am not their prince anymore.” Nor did he want to be. It was too much pressure. He had to be perfect, and he simply wasn’t, or anywhere near. And he loathed himself for it.

  “You are their prince whether you like it or not. And Bridget and I are still princesses … last I checked, anyway. Who knows what people will do now that they think we have the scions. It’s only a matter of time before some stupid committee is formed to try to break into the armory.” She shrugged. “Imagine if they got in. They’d be doing us a huge favor. Then we’d have access to all that amazing stuff again.”

  He sighed. “How long have I been out?”

  “Not long. First class hasn’t even started yet. Though you were out cold. Salts didn’t even wake you.”

  “Didn’t sleep well last night.” He felt more rested now, and the lashing had whipped some of the guilt away.

  “That explains it. And you lost a lot of blood. Bridget petitioned to have some sort of arcane rejuvenating blood thing performed, but Iron Byron ruled that would contravene the rules, resulting in ‘expulsion for evading punishment.’ What a load of hogwash. Mrs. Stone would lose her mind if she heard.” She paused. “You think Mrs. Stone knows what’s going on here?”

  “Doubt it. She’s a Leyan now. She’s got other concerns.”

  “I know. Too bad no one else believes in Leyans.” Leera resumed playing with his hair, something that soothed his fears and kept the myriad anxieties at bay. “I cannot believe they whipped their prince …” she muttered.

  Augum did not reply. At least he had lasted nine lashes and didn’t have to finish them tomorrow. “Think I could renounce princehood?”

  “And insult the entire kingdom?”

  “Why not? I already insulted the entire nobility by not taking the throne.”

  “And then you did it again by refusing to back a family,” she added unhelpfully. She gave the slightest tug on his hair. “Don’t be difficult, you. Anyway, Jengo said you only lasted so long because your scar tissue protected you, whatever that means. People usually pass out at five lashes, you know. So, uh, congratulations.”

  “Yay me,” he said tonelessly.

  He heard her smile. He could always tell by her sudden and quiet exhalation of breath. It made him want to look at her, so he turned his head. A ray of sunshine from somewhere made the dark sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks stand out in sharp relief.

  “Where’s that sunshine coming from?”

  Leera raised a finger and pointed skyward, their gazes locking. “Up there.”

  “Up there, huh?” he asked, not breaking his gaze.

  Her witty eyebrows sharpened. “What are you looking at?”

  “You.”

  “Well, stop looking at me.”

  “If I have to.” His gaze lingered a little longer so he could memorize her abashed face before he made a show of closing his eyes.

  “Miscreant,” she muttered, idly brushing aside a lock of hair from his forehead. “Oh, I got harangued in the hall.”

  “By who? About what?” He could make a few guesses.

  “Other students. They said we should be ashamed for ‘keeping the scions and thus eternal life all to ourselves,’ and that if we did have them we should ‘immediately give them up to the authorities.’ One kid even said they should hang us. Pretty sure that’s against some academy rule.”

  “You could make a fuss about it.”

  “Yeah, that’d go over well. ‘Whiny Princess’s Feelings Hurt by Young Student.’ Lovely headline, isn’t it?”

  He forced a smile, but a chill had penetrated the throbbing numbness. He hadn’t thought it would get this bad so quickly. Students accosting them in the halls already …

  “And they also said we should hand the scions over to the Southguards. Can you imagine?” She snorted and shook her head. “I just can’t believe a bunch of people think we have the scions. Like, for real for real. How gullible can you be?”

  That’s because it was a convincingly told story, and people were suckers for stories, as the Lord of the Legion demonstrated. The man had told blatant lies, yet people had followed him blindly … all the way to their deaths.

  “I’ll guilt Bridget into taking notes for you in Runes,” she said.

  “You’re terrible.”

  “I’m lovely like a spring flower.”

  “You are lovely, but Bridget’s the flower. You’re a thorn.”

  “A thorn you love.”

  “Very much so.” He awkwardly wrapped an arm around her waist and squeezed, though doing so shot pain through his back.

  “Who do I have in Military Strategy with me?” he muttered to himself. He supposed he could catch up at lunch, and then they’d all join up in Arcane Army Combat. “Brandon. I have Brandon. Can you ask him to take notes for me?” He was a terrible note taker, but he was better than nothing.

  “If I can find him. Can you imagine those two making out in an abandoned class?”

  “He wishes. Bridget doesn’t go for such ‘shenanigans,’ as she puts it. At all.” A sore spot for Brandon, who would occasionally mutter to Augum about getting her to lighten up.

  “Actually I think they’re arguing again.”

  “Color me surprised.”

  A comfortable silence passed between them while she continued idly stroking his hair and cheek. Meanwhile, Augum’s mind drifted. Since Military Strategy was an elective, the girls, who had no interest in the subject whatsoever, attended other classes. Leera had Alchemy—a class she was almost failing because she thought it would teach her how to blow things up, but instead it was almost all theory about transmuting minerals and such. Now she loathed it, calling it a “stupid class for budding miners and apothecarists”. And Bridget had Arcaneology, a complicated compulsory class for anyone who intends to declare becoming an arcaneologist. For her, it was mere background study, but they did share the other elective of the day—Arcane Army Combat.

  “Oh, before I forget, the Occupation Ceremony’s been moved up to third afternoon bell. It’s still being held in the academy theater though. Anyway, it means Brotherhood and Sisterhood meets are canceled.” Augum belonged to the Sacred Brotherhood of the Academy of Arcane Arts, while the girls belonged to the Sacred Sisterhood. Both were ancient organizations with their own tradition-splattered rooms, one for males and the other for females. They got up to all sorts of shenanigans, but mostly they played games or challenged each other. The truth was, the boys mostly talked about girls or drank or got up to no good. And the girls were thought to get up to similar mischief. It was fun and a great way to let off steam. There was one meet per quint after school hours. Brandon and Isaac were members, of course.

  Leera played with the hem of his sleeve. “Are you still going to—”

  “Yes, I’m still going to declare.” He did not want to ask her to declare with him. He knew the answer already. She would have said something by now. And Bridget would have too.

  “Jez is coming to it. S
he said she wants to see you hobble about like a fool, what with your back like that.”

  “Nice of her,” he said blandly. So, they’d filled her in. He could almost picture the three of them talking about him behind his back like he was a pitiful, lost child who needed to learn his lessons the hard way.

  “Coronation Ceremony starts at the fifth bell in the Black Castle. Don’t know why they’re in such a rush. Then there’s some stupid royal banquet. Anyway, we three are to dress up in that nasty fancy stuff again. And you’re to—”

  “—bend the knee, I know.”

  She sighed. “Your back’s a mess. I have to say, I was strangely proud of you while you were taking your licks.”

  It was so like Leera to be offhanded about it. He could almost see her head bounce in her self-satisfied way.

  “My man lasted. He did not falter or fall until he had persevered.”

  “That is not how princesses talk. Jez would tear a strip off you.”

  “Yeah, well, Jez ain’t here, is she?” Her mischievous tone had returned, the one he so loved. He was about to reply when he heard people approaching. He pictured a gaggle of students coming to condemn them and stiffened.

  “There he is,” said a friendly voice that shuddered with pain. “Fellow Brother of the Whip.”

  Augum turned his head to see Brandon, Bridget and Laudine.

  “You survived,” Brandon said through gritted teeth, still in obvious pain from his whipping.

  “I survived. How’re you feeling?”

  “Like I got whipped three times.” He adjusted his back, wincing. “And of course you had to make me look like a loser.”

  “What? How?”

  “I yelped like a little girl after three. You lasted for all nine! Show off. Always making me look bad.”

  Bridget flashed Brandon a stern look.

  “Oh, there goes the missus with that nagging look. We’re like an old married couple.”

  But Bridget’s face turned to granite, and Brandon threw up his hands in resignation, causing him to wince.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “everyone’s talking about you three and those scions, more so than about the Southguards taking the throne.”