‘If I had any success, I might take it more seriously,’ Annev countered. He stood up from the table. ‘Keep your breakfast. I have to run. If I’m late for Dorstal’s class, he’ll disqualify me from tomorrow’s test.’
Sodar nodded, also rising from his seat. He placed a hand on Annev’s shoulder. ‘Be careful today. I’ve seen how combative you boys get before Testing Day – especially Fyn. But a good thief doesn’t win fights, he avoids them.’
‘We’re not thieves, Sodar. We’re avatars.’
Sodar grunted. ‘I see little difference, but at least you take something seriously.’ He picked up his mug and the empty sack. ‘You’re a better avatar than any boy in that class, Annev, even if they haven’t given you the title yet – even if they never do. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.’
Annev thought about the test. He and his friends usually worked together to win, but tomorrow …
Titus, Therin, or me. We’re a team … but only one of us can win.
Then Annev thought of the promise ring hidden in his room – the one he hoped to give to Myjun on the final night of Regaleus. When Annev had asked Sraon to forge it, he’d been certain he would be one of the first students to pass the Test of Judgement – a critical detail since only avatars were permitted to court women, and only master avatars and ancients could wed. Put simply, if Annev failed tomorrow’s test and became a steward, he’d lose both Myjun and his future at the Academy in one blow.
That couldn’t happen. Annev could not fail tomorrow. He refused to become a steward just as he refused to lose Myjun. He hardened his resolve: he would tell his friends they were on their own tomorrow. That was fair. Each acolyte could decide their own fate.
Yet another thought lingered at the back of Annev’s mind: he could use his friends. He could tell Titus and Therin that the three of them were still in it together – that they could win it together – and then he could turn on them when the test required it. The idea made Annev’s stomach churn even as he acknowledged it was the cleverest thing to do – which suggested it was probably the correct move.
Annev looked back at Sodar, his face a mass of conflicting emotions, and swallowed.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Nothing to prove.’
Chapter Three
Ancient Dorstal paced in front of the class, his black robes swishing with each step. Morning light trickled in from a small glass window, barely illuminating his cowled face.
To Dorstal’s right, a raised table displayed twelve rods made of metal or wood. To his left, twelve teenage boys sat at three rows of dark-stained tables. Five of the boys wore earthy brown smocks, clean and richly dyed; the rest, including Annev, were in varying shades of beige.
‘… some argue that most magical rods are harmless,’ Dorstal said, continuing his lecture, ‘intended for healing or mundane chores like washing clothes and boiling water. But it doesn’t take long for those simple purposes to be misused.’ Dorstal stopped his pacing, in front of an acolyte in a filthy beige smock. At the back of the class a large boy in a brown tunic yawned. Two of his classmates – also in brown – stifled a laugh. Dorstal ignored them.
‘That is why you must take care when recovering any kind of artifact. Over the years, the avatars and masters of Chaenbalu have collected most of the magic wands in Northwestern Daroea, including the greater rods and dark rods, which are the most dangerous – but even the humblest rod can kill if you aren’t careful.’
At the back of the class, Annev raised his hand. Ancient Dorstal glanced away and moved behind the table holding the magic artifacts. Annev waited, hand still up.
‘Now, I mentioned classification.’ Dorstal took a piece of chalk from his pocket and began to draw on the sheet of slate cut into the classroom wall. ‘“Greater rod” refers to wands with immense power.’ Dorstal drew two stars at opposite ends of the board. The first was large, the second much smaller. ‘The term “great” may refer to the ability of the wand itself but is typically a descriptor of its strength’ – he circled the large star – ‘its range’ – he drew a dotted line between the two stars – ‘or its duration.’ Dorstal drew a second and then a third star atop the larger star. ‘So some rods are great because their influence lasts a long time – indefinitely in some cases.’ He tapped the large star twice. ‘And some because of their power, their intensity, or because they are effective at long distances.’
Dorstal slashed the dotted line with a flourish then turned to face the class. He glanced at Annev’s still-raised hand then turned his attention to the wands on display. ‘A dark rod, on the other hand, is the term for any wand whose singular, dedicated purpose is to harm, injure, or manipulate others.’
‘Ancient Dorstal,’ Annev said.
‘What, Acolyte Ainnevog?’ Dorstal snapped.
Annev lowered his hand. ‘I understand why we retrieve the greater rods and the dark rods.’ Annev chose his words carefully. ‘But if the owner of an ordinary rod is just a woodcutter or a washerwoman then what’s the harm in letting them keep it? They’re not hurting anyone, so why should we—’
The large boy sitting two seats to Annev’s left groaned. ‘Give it up, Annev. They only send avatars on retrieval missions, and after tomorrow you’ll be a steward.’ The boy, Fyn, leaned around the student sitting between them and met Annev’s eyes. ‘I’ll make sure of it,’ Fyn whispered, eyes gleaming.
Annev wanted to ignore the young avatar, but the bully’s words had a sting of truth that hurt too much to let go. Fyn had done it a few times already, cutting other students off and winning four of the fourteen competitions so far – just one short of the Academy record.
At the front of the class, Dorstal looked for all the world as if he had sucked a sour washrag, but Annev pressed on, disregarding Fyn’s taunts and Dorstal’s disapproving glare.
‘Ancient Dorstal, you said we take the artifacts because people misuse them. But how do we know they misuse them? We’re just assuming they’re bad people, and that’s not fair.’ Dorstal’s eyes flared and Annev drew back in his seat. ‘That doesn’t seem fair,’ Annev amended quietly. ‘Not to me.’
‘It doesn’t need to make sense to you, acolyte,’ Dorstal said briskly. ‘If you achieve the title of avatar tomorrow, it still need not make sense to you. An avatar’s duty is to recover dangerous artifacts from dangerous people. Questions of morality are decided by the ancients.’
If there was a note of finality to Dorstal’s explanation, Annev did not hear it.
‘But what about rods of healing?’ Annev persisted. ‘Those aren’t dangerous. Why should I – why should we – steal them from healers?’