There was a stern warning in bold letters on the wall behind the scribes’ desk.
Tampering with or falsifying stat results can result in a fine of 50 000 ardents or execution.
Sweat trickled down Gray’s temple. Down his back. His palms were slick.
Gray straightened his dragon scale vest, his fingers fumbling over the laces, making sure that it was on tight.
Don’t die today, he told himself firmly.
No executions.
No fines.
The scribing office was much larger than he’d expected. It was a long hall with an impossibly high ceiling, furnished in the same lavish fashion as the rest of the palace. Everywhere there were gold details, carved oak, and huge windows overlooking the city of Dierne. And some kind of obstacle course that was kicking Gray’s butt to the next world.
Gray stood before the scribes, his breath echoing in the large hall.
The five scribes sat at a long desk on a high stage, each with a quill writing magically in front of them.
Writing down what had to be an embarrassingly low score for Strength.
Gray’d had just lifted a twenty-kilogram weight until his arms had given out, and then gone onto push-ups and shoulder taps until he’d given out again, and then jumping onto a three-foot high platform until - you guessed it - his legs had refused to cooperate.
And they were only on the first quality.
There were still six more to go; dexterity, constitution, intelligence, wisdom, charisma, luck, and magic.
‘Dexterity,’ said the royal guard, who’d been watching the whole thing with his arms folded, his bright eyes narrowed behind his gold mask and - if Gray wasn’t imagining things - a judgemental tilt to his chin.
The royal guard carefully placed a bundle of fine silk thread and about one hundred needles on the ground in front of Gray.
‘First dexterity test is to thread the needles,’ said the royal guard, ‘without breaking the silk. You have - one minute.’
Gray fell to his knees in front of the needles and thread, wiping his damp palms on his grey prisoner uniform, and started threading.
-
The tests for constitution were next (Gray’d walked up an endless set of stairs while trying to ignore thoughts of failure brought on by a liquid black potion), followed by intelligence (Gray’d played an aggressively fast and complicated game of memory against each of the scribes), and then finally the soft tests for wisdom, charisma, and luck (Gray’d held various humming orbs that seemed to communicate a stat score to the scribes).
‘Magic,’ said the royal guard.
Gray’s hair stuck to the back of his sweaty neck as he passed back the cold orb from the luck test, his chest tight.
He had no idea how he’d performed. The scribes sat too far up on the stage for him to read what their quills were writing.
The royal guard gestured for Gray to hold his hand out.
He gingerly placed another glass orb into Gray’s palm.
‘Don’t drop it,’ he said.
Gray’s hand was sweaty and shaking from fatigue. ‘What happens if I drop it?’
The glass orb seemed innocent, but perhaps something would happen if he dropped it, perhaps the orb was magically dangerous.
‘It’ll go on your already substantially large tab,’ said the royal guard. ‘That’s what.’
‘Right,’ said Gray grimly, blinking sweat out of his eyes. He curled his fingers around the orb, the glass smooth and cool against his skin.
‘Light the orb,’ said the royal guard.
Gray glanced at the royal guard and then the scribes, who were sitting and watching expectantly. They were all mages with their bright eyes, complicated robes, and twisted and plaited hair. Their wands lay scattered on the desk. The quills kept scribbling, and the scratching sound echoed. His heart began to hammer.
‘I,’ Gray said. His voice faded into the large space.
He fumbled with his dragon scale vest again, with his free hand. Checking the laces.
‘Don’t worry. You do a Sirentown in here,’ said the royal guard, drawing his wand out of the holster on his wrist, ‘dragon scale vest or not, I’ll take you out faster than you can blink.’
Gray chewed the inside of his lip, trying to hide the trembling in his hand.
‘Just light the orb,’ said the royal guard, as Gray continued to stand there.
Tossing one last wary glance at the royal guard, Gray closed his eyes. Brought forth Killian's words in his mind.
Feel here. Don’t try. Just be.
But, Gray wasn’t going to just let it be. He was never, ever going to let it be ever again. The thought of accessing his magic made fear claw at his throat.
‘Griffin,’ came the royal guard’s voice, as though from across the room, ‘if you manipulate the results, the king will not be pleased. He already has an idea of what your score is going to be - light the orb, please.’
Maybe he could just let through a tiny bit, just enough to light the orb.
Gray was screwing up his eyes in concentration, fighting to breathe through the rising fear, and the glass orb warmed in his palm.
'Griffin,' came the royal guard's voice again, stern and clipped. 'He knows you have more than this.'
It happened in an instant.
Gray tried to let just the smallest bit more of power through, and it burst like a geyser of hot steam shattering the land, and suddenly Gray was clenching his eyes closed against the blindingly brilliant light, and sharp shards of glass cut into his palm.
Power coursed through him, flooded his veins, pounded in his pulse.
It roared in his ears, it was drowning his lungs.
Pull it back in, pull it back, back.
But, Gray could as soon as rein in a rabid wolf.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
All he could see was light through his clenched eyes.
The hard end of a wand was pressed against his temple.
Gray had to pull it in. He couldn’t explode in a tumble of magic and power and light.
Or, with the dragon scale vest, implode.
Inch by grudging inch, Gray grasped at the power within him and pushed it down.
Down.
He gasped in a ragged breath.
Once.
Twice.
Then he lost his grasp on his power, and the magic surged again, wild and utterly out of control.
-
The next thing Gray knew, he was on the floor, his fingers curling into the polished timber of the floor.
Sweat pooled underneath him, and his breath snagged on his throat.
He raised a trembling hand to his head, right where the wand had pressed into his temple.
‘I had to take you out.’ The royal guard was hauling him to his feet, he was dusting off Gray’s dragon scale vest. He turned to the scribes at the desk. ‘You got that?’
His voice, which had been so professional and clinical, was now it was edged with excitement.
There was a stark silence.
‘We, uh,’ said one of the scribes, her voice smooth, ‘we got that. Next test, please.’
Gray staggered, glancing down at his palm that had been cut from the glass orb.
It had been healed.
Gray shook his head, getting sweat out of his eyes. Grasped a stitch in his side and focused on staying upright. ‘I think I’m going to pass out,’ Gray mumbled.
‘Don’t pass out yet,’ said the royal guard, with a steadying hand on Gray’s shoulder, his smile audible in his voice. He slid a rune puzzle in front of Gray. It hummed with magic. ‘You’ve got several more tests.’
-
Gray stood on shaking legs in front of the scribes.
He’d lost count of the different tests they’d run him through to determine his score in magic.
He’d had a ticking instrument swinging over him that displayed some kind of count to the scribes, stood in front of several gemstones that vibrated, dodged an enchanted stone blindfolded, over and over, until the scribes were satisfied, and more.
The process of consolidating the scribes’ documents into one stat paper was taking a long time.
The scribes were performing several spells, muttering in the mage tongue and moving their wands in complicated patterns.
Until, finally, it was down.
One of the scribes collected the stat papers and passed it down to Gray.
Much of the space at the top of the stat papers that was usually filled with details like family, job, and pay was blank.
But the qualities were done.
Strength 5
Dexterity 8
Constitution 6
Intelligence 7
Wisdom 5
Charisma 5
Luck 6
Magic 78
Total score 120
Debt to the crown: 1 250 000 ardents.
The debt to the crown was so much larger than Gray had been expecting.
Was the extra 250 000 ardents for the stat test?
But, that was crazy, stat tests were expensive, but they weren’t that expensive-
‘The orb I broke,’ muttered Gray to the royal guard, ‘how much did it cost?’
The royal guard adjusted the collar of his robes. ‘It’s best not to think about it. Don’t worry about that now …’ he trailed off as one of the scribes leant forward and started speaking.
’The stats will automatically update,' said the scribe, 'whenever you do a test, competition, battle or the like, sanctioned by the crown. The personal details will fill out at the crown’s discretion.’
Gray wiped his forehead. Crown’s discretion?
The royal guard slapped Gray on the shoulder. ‘Seventy-eight as a base score. Not bad, eh?’
Gray swayed on the spot, too exhausted to feel anything
‘We should really be getting this to Baldwin now,’ said the guard, taking the stat papers off Gray. ‘Come.’
Gray staggered behind the royal guard, out of the room and barely had time to numbly wrench his thoughts away from the 1 250 000 ardents scrawled in red at the bottom of his new stat papers as they reached the king’s office door.
The royal guard had a verbal exchange in rapid Lismerian with one of the guards standing outside the king’s office, before the door swung open.
The king stood in the doorway.
The guards halted their exchange.
Gray hurriedly imitated the royal guard’s bow.
He felt the coldness of the king’s gaze steadily taking them in. The office behind the king was silent and still. The Foixans must’ve left. The king stared at them, and then pointedly dropped his gaze to the paper rolled up in the royal guard’s hand.
Gray hadn’t expected the king to open the stat papers and read them immediately, but he did.
They waited in silence.
There was no change at all in the king’s stance or his expression.
‘Get Gray a meal,’ said the king, ‘before he falls into an unwakeable sleep.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
The king tucked the stat papers into his pocket and swiftly shut the door.
The royal guard straightened, heaving out a low breath. ‘Come,’ he said to Gray, quickly leading him away. ‘Let’s get out of here while he’s still in a good mood.’
-
Gray’s legs were shaking by the time they fahrenned from outside the palace to the prison.
The royal guard quietly spoke with the men on duty, then raised a hand in farewell to Gray. Bob ushered Gray into a small room that was scattered with tables and chairs.
Bob slid a bowl of cold oats in front of Gray. ‘I’ve given you a double serve. Don’t tell the others.’
‘Thanks.’ Gray shot Bob a grin and then clumsily fed himself the oats. Bob sat down opposite him.
‘Ellery told the boys your stats,’ said Bob, leaning in close. ‘They’re good.’
Gray shot Bob another grin because a total score of 120 was good, it was higher than he could've ever imagined his stat score being, and then he dropped his gaze to his bowl of oats. He knew Bob couldn’t be referring to his strength stats - any of his stats - except for magic.
A base magic stat of 78 was within the normal range for a mage. It was on the higher end, sure, very much on the higher end, but it wasn't wildly inconceivable, and it wasn't indicative of Gray being sorcerer or part sorcerer or anything else that haunted scary bedtime stories. Not that anyone really knew sorcerers stats, but Gray hadn't just signed his own death warrant with that score.
Which was a huge relief.
But, thinking of the magic stat made Gray's mind jump back to the 1,250,000 ardent debt on his papers.
His chest tightened in panic as he thought of it.
'Ellery was pleased as punch. You get your name cleared by the king and they train you up in the guild, you'll be a real contender, eh?'
‘Ellery?’ asked Gray.
‘Ellery Drake. The royal guard.’
Even Gray, living up in Krydon, had heard of the Drake mages. If Gray hadn’t been close to passing out, he would’ve felt more than a strange flop in his stomach. The Drakes were as famous as the Augustes were.
And almost as phenomenally powerful.
‘You have a guest waiting for you at your cell,’ said Bob.
Gray stilled, the oats turning into ash in his mouth. ‘I,’ he said, after he’d swallowed, ‘I can’t see him right now.’
He wasn’t ready. He had nothing to give Codder. And he had no plan as to how he’d convince Codder to get him yet more books.
He didn’t imagine it was going to be easy.
‘I’m afraid he's insisted,’ said Bob, avoiding Gray’s gaze. His white wisps of hair were waving in a balmy breeze coming through a cracked window. ‘He's been waiting for you to return.’
Gray’s worst fears were confirmed as he walked towards his cell with Bob.
Codder paced the space outside Gray’s cell like a lion pacing in a too-small cage.
‘What happened to you, stray?’ said Codder, keeping a careful distance as Bob opened the cell with his keys.
Gray withheld a sigh and strolled in, keeping his back to Codder until he heard Bob walk away.
‘They started training you, stray?’ hissed Codder. ‘Has Major-’
‘He doesn’t come here,’ said Gray.
’How do I know you're not telling porkies, stray?’ said Codder, his drawl low. ‘Why do you look like you've been put through the wringer?’
‘I promise you he doesn't come here,’ muttered Gray, frowning at Codder. 'No one's going to be coming here. Not until the test is complete.'
Codder prowled back and forth, his shadowed gaze dark.
Gray ran a hand through his still-damp hair.
‘What have you got for me, then?’ said Codder. ‘I’m meeting Major again tonight, so make it good.’
Gray’s gaze darted to the stack of books by his bed. Someone had come into his cell while he was away, and brushed away the chalk circle.
‘I,’ said Gray tightly, ‘don’t have anything-‘
Codder made a small, ugly sound. Almost too fast to track, he pulled something out of his pocket and tapped it onto the bars of the cell.
It was a small, dented pocket watch.
Gray’s mind was filled, so quick, with the memory of Alistair giving Harriette this pocket watch the morning in the tavern when Gray had been running Harriette through her alchemy notes.
‘I’ve set it to eight hours ahead,’ Alistair had said that morning in the tavern. ‘That’ll confuse the hell out of swamp-vampires and they’ll leave you alone.’
Gray froze.
Codder tapped the pocketwatch once more and then stepped precisely back, out of reach. ‘You know what this means,’ said Codder. ‘Good.’
‘You found them?’ said Gray.
His heart was racing. Relief and worry warred within him.
‘They’re close?’ said Gray. ‘In Dierne?’
Codder swung the pocket watch by its chain. ‘What have you got for me, stray?’
‘Codder,’ said Gray, starting forward.
‘Uh uh,’ said Codder, holding up a hand to halt Gray. ‘You stay right there. What do you have for me?’
‘Codder, are they-’
‘What do you have?’ Codder’s drawl rung out loud enough to make the surrounding prisoners quieten.
And then they started hollering. Banging on the bars.
Gray stood rigid, in the middle of his cell, his tongue-tied.
‘Stray?’ said Codder.
Gray turned on his heel, blindly picking up the top book from his stack.
But he had nothing, nothing he could give Codder, and gods, he’d fucked up, because there was no way Harriette would've just given Codder Alistair's watch, Alistair had been her favourite, if Codder had hurt them-
’Today, stray,’ said Codder.
‘I’ve narrowed it to a list of seventeen potential rituals,’ said Gray, his heart beating loud in his ears.