Burden's Edge (Fury of a Rising Dragon Book 1) Read online

  Augum gritted his teeth. He had to do something about that false story, and now, not later. He stepped forward. “Permission to be excused, Lord High Commander.”

  “Bathing room break, Stone?”

  The class tittered. But Augum merely raised his chin, determined.

  The corner of the Lord High Commander’s mouth rose ever slightly. “Without a good reason, I have to decline your request.”

  Augum’s mouth fell open. To his memory, no arcanist had ever declined a student’s request to leave a class, even when they suspected it was for awful reasons, like blatantly skipping class. The Grizzly had to be particularly angry or disappointed in him. But he had to get to the Academy Herald office. He had to state his case, and forcefully. His friends’ lives were at stake. Who knew what crazy things people might do once they thought the trio was in secret possession of seven scions.

  “I’m afraid I insist,” Augum said, and to gasps from his classmates, he strolled past The Grizzly.

  Temper, Temper

  Augum was running down the hall when he noticed a floating scroll by his head. He skidded to a halt, snatched it out of the air and unfurled it, only to loose a vicious curse.

  Notice of malfeasance: Pupil Augum Stone is hereby given an official written reprimand and is to present himself to the headmaster at third afternoon bell on this, the eighteenth day of the eleventh month, the year 3342, for the refusal to obey his teacher, Lord High Commander Brewerson.

  He glanced back to see The Grizzly watching him before slipping back into his class.

  Unbelievable. He had just gotten his first ever malfeasance notice. He was going to see whip-loving Iron Byron at the same time as Brandon.

  He crushed the note in his hand, livid at himself. What in Sithesia was going on? How were things spiraling so frightfully out of control? He had to stop it, and immediately.

  He sprinted down the Hall of Rapture, turning heads as he ran, jumped through the giant portal, sped across the snowy courtyard, and flew into the Student Wing, where the office of the Academy Herald was located. There he crashed through the office door, startling four warlocks, all of whom let out a shriek. Three of them were girls he did not know, but the fourth was Cry. He was sitting behind a desk, frantically scribbling on a parchment. His face paled when he saw Augum.

  Augum strode forward, eyes narrowing. Cry let the quill fall from his fingers and shrank in his chair.

  Augum stopped before the desk, raised a single finger and stabbed the parchment Cry had been working on. Pressing his finger down, he slowly rotated the parchment toward himself in an echo of the maneuver Cry had done at lunch. This time, the writing was perfectly legible. Augum read the headline aloud with acid in his voice.

  “ ‘Is the “Heroic Trio” hiding the seven scions in Castle Arinthian?’ ”

  Cry gulped. “It’s a fair question.”

  “It’s an irresponsible accusation that could get my friends killed!”

  “You’re being ridiculous—”

  Augum slammed his fist on the table, roaring, “AM I NOW?”

  One of the girls yelped. Hurried footsteps sounded behind them. Someone had left, but Augum didn’t care. He was going to protect his friends and everyone in his castle, whatever the cost. He glared at Cry, willing his daft adversary to see who he was facing: Augum Arinthian Stone. Caster of Feats of Legend. Champion of his degree in the Antioc Warlock Tournament. Vanquisher of the Lord of the Legion, his own father. He willed Cry to see he had underestimated Augum’s resolve as well as the line Augum represented, for he had chosen a most appropriate motto for the Arinthian house.

  “Adversi alua probata,” Augum hissed.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That is the motto of my house. It means against all odds. It’s also the answer to your damn question.”

  “My question?”

  “You asked me how we defeated my father. We defeated him against all odds.”

  Cry pressed his lips together. He shakily stood. “Is this because of that piece I wrote about you after your manhood ceremony?”

  Augum winced. Recalling that day sent a shard of ice down his spine. Hundreds of clapping and whistling people had cheered him on as he stood on the stage to take three ceremonial tests of manhood: feats of strength, knowledge and arcanery. The tests were relatively easy—it was all ceremonial stuff, anyway—but then a ragged young boy with a black eye called out from the crowd, “And now a feat of legend!” He looked like a street kid, maybe a bullied orphan just like Augum had once been. The gathered throng immediately took up the call, repeating, “Feat! Of! Legend!” while stomping and clapping in time to the chant. Augum, seeing himself in that boy, raised his hands in surrender. The crowd went wild.

  Augum prepared to cast Teleport, a 9th degree spell. He was only 6th degree, but he had cast it before—albeit under extraordinary circumstances—and he had learned quite a bit since. He wanted to wow the audience, even though casting the spell was technically illegal since it was more than two degrees beyond his own degree. But he knew the officials would excuse the feat because it was his manhood ceremony.

  Unfortunately, during the casting, he mistimed one of the requisite and highly complex thought patterns, and instead of appearing on the other side of the stage with a mighty thwomp, he slammed into a nearby trough of pig feed with a great slap. The crowd saw the hero prince of the kingdom frantically kicking at the air, undergarments exposed, and they roared with laughter. He struggled to free himself, except he couldn’t, for he had reappeared inside the trough and part of the wood had fused with his internals. The pain hit him the moment he realized what had happened. It felt like someone had applied a branding iron to his insides. It took all his will not to scream, not to pass out. Luckily for him, the academy teacher of the healing discipline was in attendance, and after some careful extraction and emergency healing, Augum walked away without too much damage—the blows to his ego and reputation notwithstanding. Yet it was the look on the boy’s face that haunted Augum. The boy obviously lived a troubled and destitute life, and he had let him down. Since that day, Augum had sworn he would live up to his name and never let another child like that down again.

  Cry had had a field day with that escapade.

  “I am going to publish my story whether you like it or not, Your Highness.”

  Augum snapped out of his reverie. “It’s a lie, and you know it.”

  “No, I don’t think I do.”

  “Seriously, you’ll get people killed.”

  “Seriously, prove to me you don’t have the scions.”

  “Prove to me we do.”

  Cry gave a sly smile. “That can be arranged.”

  Augum, hearing the vile threat, reflexively dipped into his vast reservoir of arcane strength. He could almost see the arcane tendrils form between himself and Cry’s desk, enveloping it in a fine silky web.

  The desk crushed inwardly with a great crack that reverberated into the hall behind them.

  Cry jumped back with a yelp and the two remaining girls shrieked before fleeing. Cry glanced past Augum, saw they were alone, and stiffened.

  “Why are you doing this?” Augum hissed. “Don’t you understand you’ll make us the targets of every ambitious wacko in the kingdom, in all of Sithesia?”

  This time, it was Cry’s eyes that narrowed. He folded his arms. “Guess you conveniently forgot, didn’t you?”

  “What are you talking about!”

  Cry scrunched his face mockingly. “ ‘Fry Himself.’ ”

  “That’s what Brandon calls you, not me!”

  “But do you ever stop him? You, a so-called Hero of the Resistance, given his princely title as an honor on behalf of a grateful kingdom. You, who is supposed to defend the innocent, the weak, the downtrodden. But you never lifted a finger to help me, did you? What about those countless pranks Brandon played on me? The bag of manure at lunch, gluing my robe to my chair. The rumor that I like to do—” He slowly curled his fingers i
nward, making fists as he frothed. “—ghastly things to straw dummies. And I could go on, damn you.”

  “And Bridget told Brandon to knock that stupid stuff off countless times!”

  “But he’s your best friend. He looks up to you. When have you ever told him not to pick on me?”

  Augum gaped. He was sure he told Brandon to stop at some point … hadn’t he?

  “What is the meaning of this!” someone roared behind them.

  Augum turned to see a stately old man in black robes, wearing a golden sash embroidered with the academy crest. He had perfectly parted silver hair, but his wolfish black eyebrows grew as unrestrained as his legendary temper. His belly protruded as if trying to escape him.

  “Headmaster Byron …” Augum said, suddenly at a loss for words. He glanced down at the destroyed desk. Now he’d done it …

  Cry pointed a finger at Augum’s face. “Headmaster! I charge Augum Stone with conduct unbecoming a pupil of the academy, unauthorized use of arcanery against another student, intimidation, harassment, threats and disrupting academy activities!”

  It did not surprise Augum that Cry knew the Pupil Code of Conduct by heart. He was a petty, malicious and sarcastic dark cloud of resentment, constantly pushing people’s buttons, inviting them to snap at him so he could claim they had wronged him.

  Those wolfish brows furrowed together as Byron glanced between Augum, Cry and the crushed desk.

  “I can easily repair that, Headmaster—” Augum began, only to fall silent when Byron cut him off with a stiff slice of his hand.

  “Mr. Slimwealth has made some serious accusations.” The way his jowls quivered as he spoke reminded Augum of a bulldog. “What do you have to say for yourself, Prince Augum?”

  Augum glanced at the crumpled desk. He really shouldn’t have done that. “Cry is intending to publish lies about me and my friends, lies that could cause serious and irreparable harm. Lies that could get people killed.”

  “That too is a serious accusation.”

  “Since when is publishing a question a lie, Headmaster?” Cry asked, arms folded.

  Augum opened his mouth to reply, but closed it when Byron again raised his hand.

  “Enough. I will convene a disciplinary committee hearing on the matter to hear all accusations. Third afternoon bell. Both of you will attend.” He nodded at the desk. “You will rectify that mess.”

  “Yes, Headmaster.”

  Cry smirked.

  Augum kneeled before the desk, forming the proper thoughts that would enable him to cast the 1st degree Repair spell. See two halves become one. The sacred whole is greater than the sum of its parts. He splayed his hands over the pile of splintered wood. “Apreyo,” he said and shepherded the parts as they creaked and groaned back into place, each fracture line sealing with a light glow. It was an easy repair, one that had cost him little arcane stamina.

  Augum wearily stood. “I never encouraged Brandon to pick on you,” he said to Cry.

  “But you didn’t exactly discourage him either, did you?”

  Augum felt a flush of shame. Gods be merciful, had he been so anxious about his own worries and so wrapped up in his own head that he had been blind to what was happening around him?

  But before he could say anything more, Byron barked, “Now leave this office. I will see you in an hour.”

  A Friend

  Augum waited for his disciplinary hearing while sitting on a glass bench in the dimly lit Hall of Heroes, located in the Elements Wing. With his hood drawn, he avoided the gazes of everyone who walked by. His satchel floated above the bench beside him, just enough for him to keep building his telekinetic muscle, but not enough to draw notice. The floor in the Hall of Heroes was also made of glass, and beneath it was an infinite starry night, twinkling silently. The entire wall before him was a giant glass case displaying the academy’s history.

  Augum stared at a pumpkin-sized orb resting atop a tasseled pillow. Beside it was another much tinier pillow, atop which sat an engraved pearl. A small piece of parchment was inscribed with the words, Here sits the fabled Orb of Orion and its control pearl, given to the Academy of Arcane Arts upon its founding. The orb was mostly known for the age-old rumor that it could be used to summon dragons. But then, such rumors were common in an academy of this age and mythical status.

  Augum gazed at the vast starry night beyond the glass below his feet, finding it a calming sight. That’s why he enjoyed coming here, especially in times of high anxiety. Sometimes he sat with Leera, holding her hand, talking little. But mostly he sat alone.

  After vanquishing the Lord of the Legion, he thought his soul would be at peace. But it had only been a temporary reprieve, for with that legendary achievement came immense responsibilities. Running a castle at sixteen years of age was more than a bullied boy who had grown up believing himself an orphan could have prepared for. And then there was the hero-worship and princely expectations and exaggerated stories in the heralds. Sure, he was now a man—a young man, yes, but a man nonetheless—yet he felt inadequate, stupid, inept and ill-prepared. How could he have made so many bad decisions in such quick succession?

  Reflecting on his poor judgment made him anxious about his punishment. The child in him wanted to hide, for he had spent a big part of his childhood hiding—in trees, in a barn, on the river—cowering from his vicious foster family.

  Years later, he had returned to that farm, and although he had made some things right with himself, some of those fears would remain imprinted on his soul forever.

  And now look at him. Prince of a castle. And he had friends. Even an amazing girlfriend. Perhaps it was all too much in too short a time. Perhaps he did not really deserve it, no matter what he had done in the war. Perhaps fate wanted him back on that farm, friendless, lonely, beaten …

  Augum jerked his head, willing those thoughts to subside. What would Mrs. Stone say about such a display of self-absorption?

  He looked down the hall of arcanely crafted smooth glass with not a seam in sight. Farther along, behind the display glass, stood a smaller statue of Mrs. Stone. He could almost picture her look of disapproval, with its deep frown lines and alert blue eyes. And what an example she had set! To everyone, she was a legend. The students spoke about her with reverence. Her name was included in history books and scrolls. Yet to him, she would always be his grim-faced great-grandmother. And how he missed her counsel, her wisdom, her habit of asking meaningful, probing questions.

  But that legendary status made him aware of just how lucky he had been to be one of the last warlocks to study under her tutelage. Her training had set him and the girls apart from other warlocks. They were stronger because of it and possessed a kind of secret insight that was hard to put into words.

  He was learning a lot at the academy as well, just different kinds of things, like how it was built upon the ruins of an ancient academy, which was itself built on even older Rivican ruins. The Rivicans were ancient alchemists and stonemasons who had experimented with powerful arcanery, and the ruins of their culture could be found all over the kingdoms.

  “Deep in thought, I see,” said a soft voice.

  Augum turned to see Bridget and his heart soared. Kind, wise Bridget. She always found a way to make him feel better.

  “Leera said I might find you here. I asked to be excused, as I am not feeling well.” She nodded at the bench. “May I?”

  “Please.” He removed the floating satchel and she took a seat. “Unusual of you to make something up like that,” he said with a smile.

  “I didn’t make it up.”

  “Oh.” He crumpled a little from the shame. With her hood up for privacy like his, he hadn’t noticed how pale and tense she looked.

  “Leera wanted to come, but I told her to stay. She needs to pay more attention in that class anyway. Well, we all do, obviously.”

  “Are they practicing Sleep?”

  She nodded.

  “Guess I know what my homework’s going to be for that class
.” Shoot, he had been looking forward to that lesson, which focused on practicing three new standard 8th degree spells: Sleep, Chameleon and Strength. They were difficult and he was having trouble casting them. He just hadn’t had the time to train like he used to, especially with theory filling so much of their studies.

  “The academy isn’t what I thought it would be,” he whispered, staring down at the stars far below the floor.

  She glanced over at him, but before she could speak, he blurted, “I’m sorry.”

  She looked down at the stars as well. He saw her hooded head nod once in acknowledgment.

  “I’m sorry for not telling you. I wanted to spare your feelings, and I just made it worse. And I’m sorry for not consulting with you about the throne-backing thing. Leera’s right. My head’s been in the clouds. I’ve been … I’ve been a total fool.”

  She nodded once more. “Apology heartily accepted.” Then she shook her head, chortling to herself.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “Remember the time Leera used that toy duck as a trophy?”

  “I do!” Augum said, chortling along with her. They had been trying to learn Slam, a 2nd degree elemental spell, from a book and instructional parchment, something that was ridiculously difficult without a mentor. A friend ended up helping them decipher the spell, and they threw a little contest as motivation. When Leera won, she raised a wooden toy duck above her head as a trophy.

  “That’s from the days of our Traveling School on Horseback,” he added.

  “We ran from the Legion while imagining we were at the academy.” She clapped her hands. “And here we are. We earned this, Aug.”

  “I guess so …” He absently rubbed his elbow, which was perpetually sore from an injury he had received in the war. Then he rubbed his left palm. A scar ran across it from when he had used his blood to save Bridget’s life. In his panicked haste, he had cut far deeper than he had intended, for only a few drops had been needed to mix the elixir.

  He realized what he was doing and closed his hand, but not before Bridget had seen. He tucked his hand away, yet her gaze remained.