As she left the Baths, Sonea noted the identities of the novices around the courtyard. She tightened her grip around the handle of her box as she entered the University and started up the stairs. Stepping into the second-floor corridor, she quickly scanned the faces. A huddle of brown robes had gathered outside her classroom, heads close together. Her stomach sank.
Glancing about, she saw a magician talking to a novice a hundred paces away. Was he close enough to deter any mischief? Possibly.
Walking as quietly as she could, Sonea approached the novices. When she was only a few paces away from the room, the magician suddenly turned and strode away down the stairs. At the same time, Issle looked up and saw Sonea.
“Ugh!” Issle’s clear voice filled the corridor. “What’s that smell?”
Regin looked up and smiled.
“It’s the smell of the slums. Look, it gets stronger the closer you get.”
He stepped in front of Sonea and his attention dropped to her side.
“Perhaps there’s something smelly in her new box, eh?”
Sonea backed away as Regin reached out toward her box. Then a tall, black-robed figure stepped out of the passage beside them and Regin froze in place, his arms still extended.
As Sonea’s momentum brought her out of Regin’s reach and into the path of the magician, she realized she was the only one still moving. All of the other novices in the corridor had stopped, their attention fixed on the magician.
The black-robed magician. The High Lord.
In the back of her mind a voice shrieked: It’s him! Run! Get away! She took a few hurried steps backward out of his path. No, she thought, don’t draw attention to yourself. Behave as he’d expect you to. Regaining her balance, she bowed respectfully.
He continued past without looking at her. Taking her lead, the other novices bowed hastily. She decided to take advantage of the distraction and slipped past Regin into the classroom.
At once she felt the effect of the High Lord’s presence vanish. The novices in the room lounged about in their seats. Lord Vorel was so engrossed in whatever he was writing he did not notice her bow. Taking her place beside Poril, she closed her eyes and let out a long sigh.
In those few moments, with everyone else near-frozen with surprise, it had felt as if only she and the dark figure of her nightmares existed. And she had bowed to him. She looked down at her hands, still gripping the handle of her box. She bowed so much now that she thought nothing of it. But this was different. It angered her. Knowing what he was, and was capable of doing…
Suddenly the room filled with the scraping of chairs as all the novices around her rose to their feet. Sonea followed suit, realizing that the last of the novices had arrived and she hadn’t heard Lord Vorel addressing the class. The Warrior gestured at the door, and the novices began to file out. Puzzled, Sonea followed Poril.
“Leave your books here, Sonea,” Vorel said.
Sonea looked down at her box, then glanced at the rest of the tables to see that the other novices had also left their belongings behind. Reluctantly she returned to her desk and set the box on top of it, then hurried away to catch up with the class.
The novices were talking excitedly among themselves. Poril, however, looked ill.
“Where are we going?” she whispered to him.
“Th-the Arena,” he replied, his voice shaking.
Sonea felt her heart skip a beat. The Arena. So far the Warrior Skills lessons had consisted of history classes, and endless instruction on creating barriers. All were performed in the University classrooms. They had been told they would eventually be taken to the Arena to learn the offensive side of the discipline.
A strange feeling—not quite dread—settled upon her as the class descended the stairs and walked out of the University. She hadn’t been close to the Arena since the day, almost a year ago, when Rothen had taken her to see a demonstration of Warrior Skills as part of his attempt to persuade her to stay and join the Guild. Watching the novices throwing magic at each other had been disturbing. It had brought back unpleasant memories of the day she had thrown the stone at the magicians and first used magic, and how they had unintentionally killed the boy they thought had attacked them.
It had been a simple error, but it had turned an innocent boy into a charred corpse. The lectures on safety, which the other novices seemed to dismiss so easily, always chilled her. She could not help wondering how often mistakes did happen.
Ahead, Regin, Hal and Benon were striding along the garden path eagerly. Even Narron and Trassia’s faces were flushed with excitement. Perhaps the thought of accidentally killing someone from the Houses, or the nobility of another land, might sober them. But would the prospect of killing a former slum girl cause them to pause?
As they reached the wide flat space outside the Arena, Sonea looked up at the eight curved spires spaced around it. She could feel a faint vibration in the air from the magical barrier the spires supported. Making herself walk to the edge, she looked down at the structure. The base was a sunken stone circle covered with white sand. The spires were spaced evenly around it. From their bases, stone steps rose to the level of the garden. To one side was a square portal that allowed access to the inside of the Arena via a short underground staircase.
“Follow me,” Lord Vorel ordered. He started down the staircase, leading the novices through the portal and into the Arena. “Form a line.”
The novices obeyed, Poril taking the last place. Lord Vorel waited until they had fallen silent, then cleared his throat.
“This will be your first lesson in the basic strikes. It will also be the first time you use magic in full strength. Heed this warning: what you do today is dangerous.” He stared at them all, in turn, as he spoke. “We must all use the utmost caution during these exercises. Even at your level you are quite capable of killing. Remember this well. I will not tolerate any foolery. Carelessness will be punished severely.”
A chill ran down Sonea’s spine. I hope the punishment is severe enough to convince Regin that an “accident” isn’t an easy way to get rid of me.
Vorel suddenly smiled and rubbed his palms together eagerly. “I will be teaching you the three basic strikes at this level. Firstly, we’ll see what each of you use instinctively. Regin.”
Regin stepped forward.
Lord Vorel walked backward until he was almost at the edge of the Arena, then raised his hands and made a spreading motion. A glowing disc of half-visible energy appeared in front of him. Stepping aside, he nodded to Regin.
“Gather your power and send it toward this shield.”
Regin lifted a hand and extended it toward the target. A frown crossed his face, then a brilliant bolt of light shot from his hand and struck the disc.
“Good,” Lord Vorel said. “A forcestrike, but with a great deal of wasted energy spent on light and heat. Hal.”
Sonea stared at the glowing disc of magic. Vorel was probably using the shield to detect what kind of energies the novices were throwing at it…but she kept seeing a memory of something else, something that made her stomach twist with dread and nausea.
Again a bolt of energy struck the disc, this time tinged blue. A memory of light and screams flashed through her mind.
“A heatstrike,” Vorel said, then went on to explain the differences between forcestrikes and heatstrikes. A part of her mind was slotting this information away, yet she could not drag herself from the memories…
The crowd running…a blackened corpse…the smell of burned flesh…
“Benon.”
The Kyralian boy stepped forward. The beam that sprang forth from his hand was almost transparent.
“Forcestrike.” Vorel sounded pleased. “Narron…”
Another bolt of power seared the air.
“Forcestrike mostly, but a great deal of heat. Trassia…”
A streak of flames dazzled Sonea’s eyes.
“Firestrike.” Vorel sounded bemused. “Seno…”
The Vin
do boy frowned for a long time before a pulse of light leapt from his hand. It went awry and missed the disc. As it struck the barrier of the Arena the air filled with a muted tinkling, like distant shattering glass. Fine threads of energy rippled outward. Sonea swallowed hard. Soon it would be her turn. Soon…
“Yalend.”
The boy beside her stepped forward and struck at the disc without hesitation.
“Sonea…”
She stared at the disc, but all she could see was a boy staring back at her. Fearful, yet not comprehending…
“Sonea?”
She took a deep breath and pushed the nightmare image away. When I decided I would join the Guild, I knew I would have to learn this. These fights are just a game. A dangerous game created so that fighting skills were kept alive in case the Allied Lands were attacked.
Lord Vorel took a step toward her, then stopped as she lifted a hand. For the first time since her Control lessons she consciously reached to the energy inside her. The other novices shifted impatiently.
The image of the boy returned. She needed to replace it with something else, or her nerve would break. As Regin muttered something about being afraid, another figure appeared in her mind’s eye and she smiled. She focused her will and sent out a blast of anger.
What passed for a curse among the magicians could be heard over the clear sound of shattering glass. Sonea felt her stomach turn over. Had she missed the disc?
Ripples of light curved to the top of the Arena’s spires and disappeared. The disc was gone. Puzzled, she looked to Lord Vorel, who was rubbing his temples.
“I did not say you should throw all your strength into it yet, Sonea,” he said. “That was a…combination of…firestrike and forcestrike—I think.” He turned to Poril, who went instantly rigid. “I shall restore the target in a moment. Do not strike until I tell you to.”
He remained silent for several minutes, his eyes closed. Then he drew in a deep breath and set up the disc again.
“Go on, Poril.”
The boy sighed. Lifting a hand, he sent an almost invisible strike at the shield.
“Good,” Vorel said, nodding. “A forcestrike, with no wasted magic. Now, you will all strike again, but this time in full strength. After that, you will all learn to shape your strikes to a purpose. Regin.”
Sonea watched as the novices attacked the barrier. It was difficult to know if the strikes were more powerful, but Vorel seemed satisfied. As it came to Sonea’s turn he hesitated, then shrugged.
“Go on. Let’s see if you can do it again.”
Amused, she drew on her power and let it loose. The disc seemed to hold, then it wavered and disappeared. White light arced up and over the Arena barrier, causing the novices to duck involuntarily. The air shivered with the sound of it, then all fell silent.
Vorel regarded her speculatively. “No doubt your age has given you an advantage,” he said, almost to himself. “Just as Poril’s experience has given him control.” He set up the barrier again. “Poril, show us a forcestrike.”
The boy’s strike was almost invisible. Vorel gestured to the barrier.
“As you could see—or not see—Poril’s strike was economical. There was no excess light or heat. Its potency was directed forward, and in no other direction. You will now try to shape your power into forcestrikes. Regin, you will begin.”
As the class continued, Sonea realized she was enjoying herself. Shaping her strikes was challenging, but easy once she had the “feel” of each type. When Vorel directed them back to the classroom she was almost disappointed that the lesson had ended.
Looking around, she noted the smiles and excited exchanges between the other novices. They hurried up the stairs and filled the corridor with chatter. Entering the classroom, they quietened as they returned to their seats.
Lord Vorel waited until the room was silent, then crossed his arms.
“In the next lesson we will return to the refinement of barriers.” The novices slumped with disappointment. “What you have seen today should show clearly why it is so important for you to learn to shield yourself well,” he said sternly. “For the remaining time before midbreak I would like you to write down what you have learned today.”
A low moan escaped the lips of several novices. As they began to open their notebooks, Sonea reached for the latches of her box. Touching them, she realized she had forgotten to set the magical lock.
Opening it, she breathed a sigh of relief as she found her belongings intact. She lifted out her folder of notes, but as she did something slipped from the pages and fell to the floor with a metallic sound.
“That’s my pen!”
Sonea looked up to see Narron glaring at her. Frowning, she looked down and saw a sliver of gold lying on the floor at her feet. She bent down and picked it up.
A hand plucked the pen from her fingers. She looked up to see Lord Vorel staring down at her. He turned to Narron.
“Is this the pen you said was missing?”
“Yes.” Narron turned to stare at Sonea. “Sonea had it in her box.”
Vorel’s jaw tightened as he turned his eyes back to Sonea.
“Where did you get this from?”
Sonea looked down at the box in her hands.
“It was in here,” she said.
“She stole my pen!” Narron declared indignantly.
“I did not!” she protested.
“Sonea.” Vorel’s fingers curled around the pen. “Come with me.”
He turned on his heel and strode to the front of the class. Sonea stared at him in disbelief, until he turned and scowled at her.
“Now!” he barked.
Closing the box, Sonea rose and followed him to the door, conscious of the eyes that followed her. She glanced at the novices. Surely they didn’t believe she had stolen Narron’s pen—not when it was so clear that Regin had played a trick on her again?
They stared back at her, their eyes narrowed in suspicion. Poril looked down and avoided her eyes. She felt a stab of hurt and turned away.
She was the slum girl. The girl who had admitted to stealing as a child. The outsider. A friend of Thieves. They had seen Regin taunting her, but they had never known about the notes and books he had stolen, or the numerous other tricks he had played on her. They didn’t know how cunning and determined he was.
She couldn’t accuse Regin. Even if she dared to, and risked a truth-read, she couldn’t prove that he had actually done it. She had only her own innocence to prove, and she dared not risk a truth-read for that, for if she did, and the University Director didn’t allow her to choose the truth-reader, someone might learn about the High Lord’s crime.
Vorel paused at the door. “Narron, you had better come too,” he said. “The rest of you finish your notes. I will not return before midbreak.”
As he entered the University Director’s office, Rothen noted the posture of the occupants. Jerrik sat at his desk, his arms crossed and a grim expression darkening his face. Sonea was slumped in a chair, her eyes focused elsewhere. Another novice perched on a stool nearby, sitting very straight. Behind him stood the Warrior, Lord Vorel, whose gaze burned with anger.
“What is this about?” Rothen asked.
Jerrik’s frown deepened. “Your novice has been found to be in possession of a pen belonging to her classmate, Narron.”
Rothen looked at Sonea, but she didn’t raise her head to meet his eyes.
“Is this true, Sonea?”
“Yes.”
“Details?”
“I opened my box and picked up my notes, and the pen fell out.”
“How did it get in there?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Jerrik stepped forward. “You didn’t put it there?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if I put it there.”
He frowned. “How can you not know? You either put it there, or you didn’t.”
She s
pread her hands. “It’s possible it was in with my notes when I put them away last night.”
Jerrik shook his head in exasperation, then drew in a deep breath.
“Did you steal Narron’s pen?”
Sonea frowned. “Not deliberately.”
Having had similar conversations with Sonea himself, Rothen almost smiled. This was no time for wordplay, however. “So you’re saying you might have stolen it accidentally?” he asked.
“How can you steal something accidentally?” Jerrik exclaimed. “Stealing is a deliberate act.”
Vorel gave a snort of disgust. “Sonea, if you don’t deny it, we can only assume you’re guilty.”
She looked up at the teacher, and her eyes suddenly narrowed. “What does it matter? You’ve already made up your minds. Nothing I say will make any difference.”
The room was silent for several heartbeats, then, as Rothen saw Vorel’s face begin to color, he stepped forward and placed a hand on Sonea’s shoulder.
“Wait for me outside, Sonea.”
She walked out of the room and closed the door.
“What am I to make of that?” Jerrik exclaimed. “If she is innocent, why wind us about with these evasive answers?”
Rothen looked pointedly at the novice, Narron. Jerrik followed his gaze, then nodded. “You may return to class, Narron.”
The boy stood. “May I have my pen back, Director?”
“Certainly.” Jerrik nodded to Vorel. Seeing the expensive-looking gold pen that the teacher handed over, Rothen winced. It probably had been a gift to mark the boy’s acceptance into the Guild.
When Narron had left the room, Jerrik looked at Rothen expectantly. “You were saying, Lord Rothen?”
Rothen clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you aware of the harassment Sonea has been receiving from other novices?”
Jerrik nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“Have you identified the leader of these troublemakers?”
The University Director’s mouth twitched. “Are you saying this leader arranged this apparent theft?”
“I’m only suggesting you consider the possibility.”
“You would need proof. As it is, all we have is a missing pen found among Sonea’s belongings. She refuses to deny taking it, and has not accused Regin of planting it there. What am I to believe?”