“Agreed.” Despite my calm response, I was terrified. I knew I had done everything I could but self-doubt was a hard habit to break.
Throughout my entire stay, I’d been able to tell myself the trials were months away. That I had plenty of time to become the greatest Combat mage the school had ever seen. Now ten months had come and gone, and I had no more room to pretend.
I was as good as I was going to get. I only hoped it would be enough.
“Welcome proud families, friends, visiting mages and nobility. Today marks the beginning of our first-year trials. I am Master Barclae, the current Master of the Academy, and I will be your guide to all that encompasses the competition for the next seven days…”
Master Barclae continued on as I scanned the rows of high-rising benches across the training field. I knew my family was somewhere in the audience, but with the sheer magnitude of people and the dramatic costume of the spectating nobility in front, I could not make out their faces.
Right now, all forty-three of the remaining first-years, myself included, were lined up facing the stands so that the audience could get a good look at the surviving applicants. It was a bit degrading to be introduced by each of our faction’s training master while the first couple of rows whispered amongst one another.
I had no idea who most of the spectators were, yet they all had opinions about me and the rest of my class. Which one of us looked the strongest. Who was the weakest. Who would be apprenticed. And who would fail.
Barclae had gathered all of us that morning before the visitors had started to arrive. He and the rest of the staff had explained exactly what we could expect to see in the next few days. Our families would not be the only ones arriving, he had noted. Graduated mages would also be returning to catch a glimpse of the newest faces, and so would the Crown and its ensuing nobility.
It was true that King Lucius and Prince Blayne had family participating this year, but what I had not realized was that the king and his court came every year. Since the Crown was funding the Academy, the trials were “an opportunity to check on the progress of its efforts.” They also made for entertainment—nobility contributed donations in exchange for the privilege to attend. They made sport of the event, taking bets and wagers on the rest of us.
The Academy allowed the practice because the extra coin helped fund its continued enrollment. First-year study was financed by the Crown, but the training of apprentice mages and the salaries of the Academy’s prestigious staff—those were financed by the trials.
Another advantage to spectatorship was that the entire village of Sjeka made more than half of its yearly earnings from a week’s worth of board. The township raised the rent on all of its housing, which the nobility and visiting mages easily afforded. The king and his family, apparently, had rooms in the Academy—which was interesting to consider, since Darren had spent the entire course of his study in the barracks. Further south was cheaper board, much less accommodating and nearly a two-hour walk from the Academy, but that was where many of the visiting lowborn families, including my own, were expected to stay during the trials.
So now here we were: forty-three fumbling first-years for all the world to see. Fifteen of us would become mages. The rest would be a courtier’s joke for a month or two until the shame was finally forgotten.
I was standing before a sea of hungry faces, and at their own private bench, just beyond my row and facing the audience, were the Three. In glistening, many-layered silk robes edged in gold, the Black Mage of Combat, the Red Mage of Restoration, and the Green Mage of Alchemy sat patiently awaiting the end of the ceremony. Our reigning Council of Magic, the three Colored Robes, was to serve on the panel of judges for our first-year trials alongside the Master of the Academy.
When they had first been introduced, the stands had gone wild with excitement. Many of the nobility had brought flowers, and their intentions had become clear as soon as the Three arrived. Elated shrieks and flying petals had greeted the three most important mages of Jerar while they had taken their seats. I’d barely caught a glimpse. The glittering ceremonial robes and jewel-studded hoods had left little for me to see.
When Barclae was done giving his speech, the crowd had still not gotten over its initial excitement. Half the stands rushed after the departing Three, while the rest of the mass, undoubtedly the visiting families, stumbled across the field, attempting to greet the students they had come to see.
Amidst the commotion and cries of delight, I stood, squinting in the brightness of the late afternoon sun, trying to spot a familiar face. It had been so long, I had started to forget what they looked—
“Ryiah!” a high-pitched squeal to my right alerted me my younger brother was near.
I barely had time to turn around before a flurry of blond curls came crashing into me. I nearly fell as Derrick hugged me, squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe.