Burden's Edge Page 2

  “—is in jeopardy of being devalued!” He raised an apologetic hand while softening his tone. “Look, I know I could have tempered my approach. I could have been more—” He made a vague gesture. “—acquiescent or something, I don’t know.” He hated that word. “But I won’t throw our sacrifices away on a gamble. We don’t know those people. We don’t know where their hearts lie. We don’t know how they would treat the kingdom. All they care about is money. We sacrificed too much to just—”

  “To what, worry about money?” Bridget said. “Would you not rather worry about money than lose your life on the field of battle? Or starve while lost in some unexplored dungeon?”

  Augum glanced between the girls’ faces, faces that had the perpetually wary and slightly gaunt look crafted by suffering and starvation in the war.

  “We sacrificed too much,” Augum repeated in a whisper, vividly recalling once listening to the girls’ faint heartbeats as the three of them lay emaciated deep underground, each certainly wondering which heartbeat would be their last. In that pitch darkness, the slight hollowness of their cheeks had sunk to permanence like an ancient enchantment. And that had only been one instance; they had defeated and reversed death so many times that he sometimes wondered if they were really alive and not in some hell of the Unnameables’ creation.

  “And now the kingdom thinks we’ll save them if anything should happen,” Augum said in bitter tones. “They practically think we can breathe fire and fly.”

  “What are you talking about?” Leera asked.

  “If the Canterrans invade, people will expect us to hold their armies back with our godly powers.” He snorted. “They think because we defeated the Lord of the Legion that we can defeat entire armies.”

  He sighed, glancing up at the majestic ceiling. “Right now, a warlock can defend against, what, ten Ordinaries? Obviously more for a higher degree warlock. Except warlocks are outnumbered a thousand to one. At least. But imagine if there was a resurgence of Arcaners. They could defend the kingdom!”

  “What in Sithesia makes you think Arcaners could do that?” Leera asked.

  “You ever notice how many dragon symbols are shown with Arcaners? Look.” He began pointing them out. “The crest. The top of the fluted columns. That tapestry there.” He circled his arm wildly. “And there are countless other examples.”

  Leera squinted. “What do children’s tales have to do with anything?”

  Augum gave a hesitant glance at the half-asleep guard before stepping closer to the girls and dropping his voice. “You remember that supposed bear tooth One Eye gave me?”

  “Not this again,” Leera muttered, rolling her eyes.

  “Yeah, sure, but—” Bridget tensed. “Wait, what are you saying?”

  “Well, you remember the story. One Eye found it in a mine. Everyone else thought it was a bear tooth, or at the most belonging to some long-extinct giant lizard. But when we used it in a ritual that demanded a dragon’s tooth …”

  “It worked, I remember,” Leera said. “That doesn’t prove anything. Dragons only exist in songs and the imaginations of old codgers telling tall tales by the fire to wide-eyed children.”

  Augum’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Look, I’ve been reading the history books. I think Arcaners really could summon dragons.”

  Leera rubbed her eyes. “Ugh.”

  “No, seriously. It’s all over their history. But the thing is, for whatever reason, the whole dragon control thing stopped about nine hundred years ago, a hundred years after the founding of the academy.”

  “Okay, fine,” Leera said, crinkling her nose. “Let’s pretend dragons existed. So?”

  “So … what if we brought Arcaners back somehow and those Arcaners could summon dragons again? What if they could defend the kingdom and right wrongs and … you know, make a difference in people’s lives?”

  “Make a difference in people’s lives?” Leera’s voice was as flat as a plank. “You’re saying we should somehow bring Arcaners back—and not only that, but—” She made a poof gesture with her hands. “—magically bring back their supposed ability to summon dragons?”

  Ouch, she had used the word magic, connoting parlor tricks and sleight of hand. It was a word Ordinaries used to describe arcanery when they did not know better.

  “Well, yes. If we figure out their secrets, yes.”

  Leera exchanged a look with Bridget that he did not quite understand before stepping up to him and taking his angular chin in her hands. “Your head is in the clouds, my love. You see Arcaners as perfect. They never were.”

  “There’s a reason the Arcaner order died out,” Bridget added, pacing to the fluted column beside him. Her slender fingers hovered along the grime without making contact. “Their customs made them easy prey to those who chose not to play by the rules of honor or by the dictums of fairness. They persistently targeted corruption, making powerful enemies far and wide.” She turned back to him, twisting long cinnamon strands behind her ear. “Aug, you don’t know how vindictive some nobles are. What you did back there by not appointing a family …” She rubbed her face wearily and guilt suddenly jabbed at his innards. “They could make life very difficult for us, that’s all. You didn’t grow up with the intrigues—”

  “—that follow kings like flies follow lions,” Augum finished dully, recalling the old proverb his great-grandmother oft quoted. Bridget was right. His blood was highborn, his birth commonborn, but his upbringing had most assuredly been gutterborn. And not growing up highborn made him horribly conscious of those class distinctions. In fact, not firmly belonging in any social sphere set him apart and made him feel aching loneliness when people addressed him by a royal title, or by ridiculous nicknames like Savior of the Kingdom, or when they asked him what it felt like to be a true hero. True hero? He had done his duty for his kingdom and his friends. He had done it to survive.

  Yet the curse of it all was that had he not become the so-called legendary hero-prince of the kingdom, he would still be a warlock, while the vast many remained Ordinaries—people without the arcane gift. He could move a desk with a flick of his finger or even crush it from a distance. He could blow a hole through a house with one powerful word and a practiced smack of his wrists, or yank the sword from an opponent’s hand with a sharp gesture. He could repair things that were broken, find things that were hidden, make a grown man fall asleep where he stood, or turn simple objects invisible. And he and the girls were currently only 7th degree warlocks, yet the degrees went all the way to the 20th, each degree far more difficult to attain than the last. And then there was the coveted Master title. On average, only one warlock a generation reached the title of Master. In his lifetime, he had met two—his great-grandmother, Anna Atticus Stone, and his former father, Lividius Stone, otherwise known as the Lord of the Legion.

  “ ‘The curse of our kind is that we cannot bridge the divide with platitudes,’ ” Augum recited, “ ‘but with deeds.’ ”

  Bridget’s brow arched. “Atrius Arinthian?”

  “Codus Trazinius, actually.” Augum had been reading the great adventurer’s book of late, finding in it the escape he desperately longed for.

  “Turning into a right poet, you are,” Leera grumbled.

  “Come on, I hate poetry almost as much as you do. It’s just the occasional phrase I happen to like. I’m sure you can somehow put up with it.”

  She gave an exaggerated sigh. “I somehow put up with you.”

  Augum smiled half-heartedly before glancing back up at the ceiling. “If Arcaners came back and could defend the kingdom with dragons, we wouldn’t be worrying about an invasion or choosing a new corrupt and greedy king. We’d be studying people like Trintus Bladeofbright and learning from them.”

  Bridget tapped her lip as she studied him. “Yes, that’s all well and good, Aug, but you still haven’t explained how Arcaners would come back.”

  “Uh, well, that’s kind of what I’ve been clumsily driving at here—” But before he could elaborate, they heard a distant gong.

  “Shoot, tenth morning bell,” Bridget said. “We’re late for class. I’ll find Jez.” She hurriedly strode off back to the Grand Hall.

  Leera glanced up at the depiction of the renowned Trintus Bladeofbright. “So are you going to spill why you brought us here and what you’ve been so inarticulately prattling on about, or what?”

  He twirled his finger around his ear. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been struggling with it and how to tell you, what with everything going on.” He looked into her dark eyes, hoping she’d understand. They had passed the stage where they stole every moment to paw at each other. But they still shared fears, desires, hopes, spites. They laughed and trained and teased and fought and made up.

  “Spit it out already. Tell me what?”

  Augum wrung his hands. “I want to become an Arcaner.”

  Leera bit her lip as one sharp eyebrow rose.

  He spoke rapidly. “We can resurrect the old course material in the academy and do it together. All of us.”

  The corner of her mouth curved upward. “Augum Arinthian Stone. You rogue. You upstart.” She paced around him, trailing a finger along the line of his shoulders. “You secretive, devious villain. I’m supposed to be the mischief maker, yet you’re the one causing trouble now. You do realize that the nobles will collectively have a frothing fit once word reaches them.”

  He watched the poufy ruffles of her dress catch on a bench and had to force his lips to stay even. “Nice dress.”

  She stopped before him, raising a stern finger. “Not. A. Word.”

  He pinched the sleeve of his own overly ornate garment, a ludicrous gold-fringed affair crafted by the Keepers of the Wardrobe of Castle Arinthian. “I fear I fared no better.”

&nb
sp; She covered her mouth. “You look like someone tried to dress up a wild marmot as a doll.”

  “That is … exceptionally cruel, Miss Leera Jones.”

  “Princess Leera Jones, thank you very much.” She crinkled her nose at him before turning away. “You should have told me.”

  “I’ve been meaning to. I just …”

  “Didn’t want to be talked out of it. I get it.” Her shoulders fell. “You know I don’t care about castle affairs nearly as much as you and Bridge.” She shrugged. “To a point, that is. Still, I’m worried …”

  He was too. He had not been sleeping well of late. During the war, he had mostly slept soundly, even knowing the next morning could be his last, yet now he lay awake worrying whether they had enough money in the coffers to pay for the winter tax, or whether those under his charge could feed themselves, or if villagers would flee to find new work in the city, for there was a labor shortage due to the war.

  Labor shortage. Ugh. Even thinking about economics made his eyes droop in boredom. The strong desire to curl up like a cat before a fire nearly overcame him before he shook it off.

  “I’m not meant to—” He made an angry squiggly gesture. “—sit at a desk signing receipts. I’m not meant to resolve endless land disputes. I’m not meant to read stupid scrolls about tithing, head taxes, or—”

  “I know.” She stroked his cheek. “I know.” And she glanced up at the battle depicted above them. “Arcaner. Arcaner! You’re crazy.”

  “Will you do it with me?”

  She looked at him. “You … you have to tell Bridget.” Her dark eyes softened ever so slightly. When she looked at him like that, he heard distant echoes of them frantically trying to survive together in the war. He wanted to draw her to him and tell her the darkness had passed, that they were safe now and there was nothing to fear.

  “Will you do it with me?” he whispered. He couldn’t declare it publicly without her. He wasn’t even sure he could do it without Bridget.

  “I need to have a good think on it.” She gave him a worried smile and motioned vaguely. “You know, articulate what it is I want out of life … and all that.”

  “Articulate?”

  “Yeah. I know. What, do you prefer me dumb like the saddler’s daughter I am, or ever learning? Isn’t that why we’re in the academy?”

  He drew her to him and gave her a look that indicated his mischievous intentions.

  Her voice lowered to a pretend scandalized whisper. “Not here, you fiend. Imagine the looks on those noble faces.”

  “They can shove it.” Augum mimicked some constipated noble’s face for good measure, making her snort a laugh.

  Bridget finally strode in alongside Jezebel Terse, an accomplished 17th degree warlock in a turquoise robe. She was in her late thirties and had the same raven hair and arched eyebrows as Leera, to the point that strangers sometimes mistook them for sisters. They even shared the same element of water.

  “I hate you for complicating our lives, Stone,” Jez snapped, her perpetually mischievous smile nonetheless telling him she wasn’t actually mad. She thrived on gossip and drama. And wine. Preferably strong Titan red. She placed her hands on her hips. “I would berate you for being the thoughtless oaf you usually are, but I’m somewhat grateful you made life … interesting. Sure, you might have just ensured everyone in your entire castle will starve, but at least it’ll be a change of pace, won’t it?”

  She was their mentor in the arcane arts and one of the few who called him by his surname, as opposed to his ever-expanding title. And he loved that about her.

  Leera gave Augum an encouraging look he interpreted as Tell them.

  “Later,” he mouthed, not wanting to see Jez’s reaction, which he was certain would involve biting off his head.

  Jez shooed at them. “Well, stop gawking at each other so lovey-dovey, you feral vagrants, and link up.”

  They joined hands in preparation for the 17th degree Group Teleport spell. Seventeen hard-fought rings of floating water sprang to life around Jez’s right arm. But before she spoke the sacred phrase that would teleport them away, she snorted.

  “Nice dress, Jones.”

  “Shut up.”

  At the Foot of the Academy

  With a mighty thwomp, the group appeared before a set of wide basalt stairs known as the Steps of the Crescent Moon, named after their shape. The stairs led up to a twenty-foot statue of Anna Atticus Stone.

  It was rather dark for late morning as thick snow was blotting out the light. Gray clouds hung overhead, heavy with the weight of an impending long winter, or so the farmers predicted.

  Students of all ages, dressed in various colors of warlock robes, stopped to stare or gossip, something that happened every single time the trio teleported in.

  “Mrs. Stone looks as imposing as ever,” Leera remarked, idly giving her chest a couple thumps with her fist. It was her way of adjusting to the nausea-inducing side effects that came from the somersault sensation of teleporting. “Can’t wait until we get to learn the Teleport spell. One more degree to go.”

  Augum glanced up at the looming statue of his great-grandmother, the usual small thrill running through his being. She was depicted looking sternly at the horizon, chin held high, the wrinkles not nearly as pronounced as he remembered them. The long, tightly woven ponytail she was known for hung like a snake down her back. She held her staff with dignified poise.

  The statue had been erected eighteen years ago in the year thirty-three twenty-four, after her triumph over Narsus the Necromancer in a famous duel underneath the academy, a duel that ended the Narsinian war in one fell swoop. She had once told the trio that Narsus had been her greatest challenge and the Lord of the Legion would be theirs.

  Jez brushed snow off her shoulders. “All right, kiddos, I’m off to have my afternoon tavern drink.”

  “It’s only the tenth bell,” Bridget said.

  “That late already?”

  “In the morning.”

  “Perfect, that gives me all day. That’s what, two bottles, you think?”

  Bridget opened her mouth, no doubt to mention how appalling that plan was, when Leera elbowed her.

  “She’s jesting, Bridge.”

  “Oh.” Bridget adjusted the ruffled sleeve of her dress. “I know.”

  Jez pointed at Leera. “Little monkey happens to be right for once.” She drew her hood, wincing at the snow. “I wish I could have a glass. No, instead I’ll be bouncing around the kingdom trying to smooth the mess—” She thumbed at Augum. “—this turd swallower made.”

  Bridget pulled a disgusted face while Augum and Leera suppressed a snicker. Jez had a foul mouth, one that got her into trouble with nobility. But it was fun, for no one else dared to talk like that around the prince and princesses. In fact, people almost always lost the entirety of their sense of humor around them. Thank the gods for Jez. Besides being their mentor, she was also Castle Arinthian’s Warlock Protector. As sarcastic and funny as she was, she took both duties rather seriously.

  “You can’t leave yet,” Augum blurted, indicating their ridiculous clothing. “We need our satchels and robes.” Last thing he wanted was to prance about the academy looking like a court jester.

  Jez threw up her hands. “Why in Sithesia did you not bring that stuff with you?”

  Leera shrugged. “We thought … you know, that—”

  “That you’d be returned to the castle first.” She shook her head. “Spoiled rotten is what you are. I should force you lot to travel by horse.”

  “That would, like, take a tenday.”

  Jez pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. “I don’t ever want to hear you use the word ‘like’ in that context, Jones. You’re not twelve. And you’re not an airhead.” She added in a mutter, “May the Unnameables give me patience.”

  “Yeah, sorry, but we really need—” Augum began, but Jez cut him off by saying, “Impetus peragro,” the sacred phrase that when precisely matched with certain thoughts, triggered the 9th degree Teleport spell.

  “Dork,” Leera muttered.