I spent the remaining hour of the lecture staring straight ahead, stifling the rather insistent whining that kept threatening to break through into my thoughts. I had promised myself not to waste too much energy on pointless complaints, which was proving to be quite the challenge to uphold.
This was exactly where I needed to be. The perfect situation to enact my revenge against Nony and the Magisters, subtly spreading cracks throughout the foundations of their tyrannical institutions. No matter how much I despised the insignia of the Magistrate plastered all over, no matter how tight I clenched my hands whenever I caught sight of an ivory mask, this was the right path.
Unbidden, a half-remembered fragment from my dreams last night came back to me: my mother, filthy and in rags, rotting away in some ill-lit dungeon. I buried a knuckle into my forehead, cursing my rebellious mind. What was I supposed to do? Break into some random office, discover her precise location, and retrieve her from the bowels of the earth?
The worst thing was that some idiotic, suicidal part of me wanted to do it.
“Dismissed!” Senior Alero announced, rapping the end of his cane against the ground as if shooing off a horde of feral cats.
I slung my satchel over my shoulder and made my way down the aisle. The young woman who had provided the answer was still packing her belongings, forcing me to stand in place awkwardly unless I wanted to force my way past her.
Easy enough to match a name to her face, especially with her sibling at her side. The Alaustin Twins. Both of them were tall and slender, with the typical olive skin and dark features of native Avancheans.
I realized that wasn’t quite right once the brother turned my way and offered me a friendly grin. His right eye was a startling sky blue in contrast to the common brown of the left. The sort of defect that, if he had been born to the wrong family, would have seen him abandoned in the wild as an infant.
The cheerful innocence radiating from his expression banished my somber thoughts.
This guy wants to become a Magister?
The sister noticed my lingering presence. I braced myself for some snide comment, but she only smiled expectantly in response. Though she seemed more guarded than her sibling, her face contained some of the same candid warmth.
It felt like a long time since anyone had looked at me with kindness.
I extended my hand in her direction. “Thanks for earlier. I’m Oren.”
“That’s what they tell me,” she said, glancing down at my hand as if unsure how to react. She daintily grasped my fingertips, wiggled them, and let go. “Dalia Alaustin.”
Her brother responded with more confidence, leaning forward to seize my wrist. His cheeks flushed as we squeezed each other’s forearms. “Juss. Short for Justice, but don’t call me that. Really. You’re a fighter, then?”
I frowned. The real Oren Lasker was unremarkable. Smart, but dull as could be, and he’d probably never committed violence in his life. Admitting I had combat training went against my simple backstory, but chances were I would expose myself at some point anyways; I doubted I could tough out the next six months surrounded by Magisters without cracking a few masks if the opportunity presented itself.
“Kind of, I guess,” I said, releasing his forearm. “Not much else to do where I come from. My parents got tired of me brawling with the other kids and coming home covered in bruises. Hired a private instructor for me to, you know, better channel that energy into something productive.”
“That’s real interesting,” said Juss. He actually looked like he meant it. “It’s just that you offered us the warrior’s grasp. I’m not much of a fighter myself, so I hope that doesn’t come across as thinking I’m your equal or anything. Haven’t been in a scrap since I got walloped by an older kid when I was six. Thought I’d go ahead and retire after that one.”
I nodded in response. Dalia looked away, probably hiding her face after being caught in the middle of such an awkward exchange. Most of my socializing over the past year was with Felix, and if there was one person more unsuited to friendly chatter than myself, it was him. It seemed I may have met our match in Juss.
That easy to replace your best friend, is it?
I bowed my head. “Well, it was a pleasure meeting both of you.”
They parted enough for me to squeeze past. After a few seconds, their footsteps pattered behind me as I headed for the exit. Of course--we were heading in the same direction. I had to resist the urge to laugh at myself and look like an even bigger lunatic.
The final nail in the coffin was Juss continuing the conversation from behind. “Don’t worry about Senior acting all confrontational. He does a little posturing with new students, but he’s softer than I am.”
After his lecture, Senior Alero had made his way to a desk tucked into a back corner of the stage. Even though his back was to us and he was more than twenty paces away, doubtless the old bat could hear every word.
“No, it’s not that,” I said, forcing the amusement out of my voice. “You should meet some of my old instructors. I think all of them wanted to kill me after our first encounter.”
“Ah, bad luck, that.”
“More like a problem with authority,” I answered honestly.
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Dalia trailed behind her brother, her mouth and nose buried beneath one hand, her eyes pleading for escape from this conversation.
Consider it practice, I told myself. You had to learn how to swing a sword. The staccato is a skill all on its own. You might cut yourself a few times before you learn what you’re doing.
I muttered my thanks to the student in front of me for holding the door open. As soon as I left the class, I caught sight of an unfamiliar Magister standing at attention nearby. His robes and ivory mask stood out in sharp contrast to the casual outfits favored by students. Heads swiveled in his direction as my classmates trickled down the hallway.
The first year of classes for Embers took place in the Academia Velassa. It wasn’t until the last two years that the training became specialized enough to warrant a space within the Magisterium. While the presence of a Magister was nothing special to my fellow Embers, they never loitered about institutions like the Academia without good reason; it was the social equivalent of displaying one’s chamberpot to polite company.
I, unfortunately, must have been that good reason.
I stepped up to the Magister. Though it would have been wiser to display proper deference in public, I couldn’t help but stare straight into the bastard’s eyes. In my periphery, Juss waved goodbye as he and Dalia made themselves scarce.
“Oren?” said the Magister, as if it were a challenge. His thin lips twisted. “Leader Amadeus wants to speak with you.”
“I know where to find him. Next time, he can send a letter instead.” I walked away.
As expected, heavy boots thumped from behind as he followed me. At least with me at the front, it looked less like I was being escorted away to the closest torture chamber. What was Amadeus’ angle here?
It was late afternoon, and since most classes ended around the same time, the Academia was bustling with students on their way out. To take my mind off the Magister and the infinite attention directed our way, I pretended to appreciate the beauty of the building itself.
While most establishments attempted to dress themselves up with gaudy artwork and baubles, the Academia’s only affectation was a single wall devoted to portraits of its past and present headmasters. It displayed itself, nude and proud, confident of the charm exuding from its elegant spiral staircases and high-vaulted ceilings.
We left the building and made our way down the street, an uneasy silence stretching between us. The Magisterium was situated near the base of the Panopticon, about a twenty minute walk away. I almost let my mind wander, but it refused to let go of the peculiarity of the situation.
I had met Amadeus a couple times since our return to Velassa, mostly to reinforce my backstory and make sure I didn’t expose myself through some foolish oversight. The last thing we wanted was to draw a significant amount of attention my way before I established myself as a familiar face. What could have happened to warrant an escort like this?
After a few minutes, the crowd began to thin as we took a detour down a less busy road.
I stopped and faced the Magister. “What is your name?”
He sneered. “What’s it matter, kid? If you must know, it’s Yolan.”
I kept my face neutral, trying not to seem too obvious as I scrutinized him. Evidence of a tiny crack on the left cheek of his mask stood out despite a superficial attempt to repair the damage. A couple rust-red droplets stained the interior of his hood near the throat.
“I do not recognize you,” I said.
He rubbed his forearm. “There’s a lot of us.”
“Too many, if you ask me.” I sniffed. “Your breath smells like brandy, Yolan.”
His eyes narrowed, lips parting slightly. Hard to read his expression behind the mask, but it looked more like confusion than outrage.
I pretended to turn away, enough for the man to drop his guard for a moment, before twisting my body and pivoting; my leg lashed out, the heel of my boot crunching into his solar plexus. Cursing, he stumbled away.
Shouts from the people around us as they fled. No surprise--no one wanted to be close to any fight involving a Magister. Instead of summoning an inferno, ‘Yolan’ clawed up his sleeve, pulling a knife from a scabbard hidden within.
Suppressing my first instinct to activate my time magic, I unsheathed the dagger concealed at my waist. Damn, I missed having a sword, but even an Ember was forbidden from carrying one about the Academia. My vision sharpened, heart thumping in my chest as adrenaline coursed through my veins.
“What are you trying to do here?” I said, circling in the opposite direction as he tried to find an opening.
“You’re really going to make me cut you up?” Spittle sprayed from his mouth. He leaned forward, reversing the grip on his knife. “Trying to make a scene, hope someone gets here in time to rescue you?”
I smiled. “Precisely."
Despite his bravado, the onus was on him to close the distance. His words betrayed his worries; some authority figure, possibly even a real Magister, would come to investigate the disturbance sooner rather than later.
My twin-orbed magic waited at a moment’s notice in the back of my mind. That was an announcement I was not quite ready to make, but I had to be prepared for anything. The consequences would be better than death.
As expected, the man barreled forward. Sloppy, desperate movements. They hadn’t even bothered to send a professional.
I deflected his knife with my forearm. Hot pain flared. My strike followed close after, parting cloth and flesh with ease as I severed the tendons in his biceps. His fingers spasmed, knife clattering against the ground.
To his credit, he charged once more with a shout, relying on his greater bulk to shove me aside. I let him, to some extent, borrowing the momentum to get some distance between us. He turned right on time to catch my front kick across his face.
Cracks bloomed across his mask.
The man stumbled, managed to stay on his feet. He coughed. Spat out a couple teeth.
I closed in, meaning to disable his other arm, but he was not quite as dazed as he seemed. He caught my blade with his bare hand, steel grating against bone. Pulling me off balance, he rammed his shoulder into my chest with all his might. His body was surprisingly solid, as if he had been carved from wood, and the force of it knocked the air from my lungs.
He took the opportunity to put some distance between us and fetch his knife from the ground.
“Explain,” I said, after catching my breath.
“Doesn’t matter.” His shattered mouth lisped the words out. He stumbled a pace, recovered quickly. “You come with me, or one of us dies. Not dumb enough to let the Magistrate catch me.”
“Oh,” I said. “Then it’s a gentlemen’s duel.”
This time, I moved in for him. He blocked my first stab as expected by throwing his forearm up, but he must have lost his second wind; he barely resisted as I rotated my wrist, forcing his arm down and away. A quick step forward, and my blade carved a red crescent across his throat. Bright arterial blood spurted against my body.
The man gurgled as he crumpled to the ground.
I stood there for a while, sense slowly reasserting itself.
This is going to be a bastard to explain.