How much could Kylac do to help someone who claimed she didn’t need it?
The question had long gnawed at him, and continued to do so. Seven days into this new episode, he could ponder little else. When at skills or studies, he would picture Brie’s cold shoulder or her grandfather’s age-spotted face, and feel a rush of anger. Sometimes, the emotion would work in his favor, giving him an added burst of energy against an opponent, say, or the conviction to tear through a puzzle or equation. More often, it led to some lapse in concentration that left him scratched or battered, or having to rework a failed calculation or bungled recitation. Somehow, the latter always occurred under his father’s watchful eye—not that it had any discernible effect on the man’s appraisal. Rohn looked upon him now, as always, as a blacksmith might a piece of brittle steel. No matter how well he performed, he could not escape the inherent flaws his father perceived in him.
He was back in the arena, demonstrating techniques for staving off a pack of assailants to a cluster of younger pupils, wishing Brie would slip even a glance his way, and half hoping his father would find another target for his chilly disapproval, when the stamp of booted feet marching in formation betrayed the unannounced arrival of an armored company. Twoscore in number, their hard leather soles drew notice from even the neophyte students, who ceased their wrestling, tumbling, and swordplay to mark the commotion.
City watch, Kylac realized, as they neared the arched entry to the arena. Advancing with grim purpose. Dorravian, the school’s chief steward, hastened alongside.
“Master,” Dorravian called. “I bade them halt. They claim to have a warrant.”
A soldier on the left flank shoved the steward aside as the forward ranks fanned out in shell formation, as if to seal against any attempt at exit. Revealed at the heart of the regiment was Captain Traeger, immediately recognizable by the cleft in his lip. A deformity he’d been born with, though he would have others believe he’d earned it in battle. Whichever, it gave his face a permanent sneer that seemed somehow fitting for Atharvan’s most notorious enforcer of civil ordinance.
“Headmaster Rohn,” the captain greeted. “Pleasing it is to at last be welcomed into your hallowed sanctum.”
Rohn regarded Traeger with his typical, stone-crushing glare. “I trust this warrant of yours bears royal seal, for you to be foolish enough to invade these halls.”
Traeger brandished the small scroll clutched in his gloved fist. “By special order of Royal Magistrate Aarhus,” he announced with barely bridled glee.
He may as well have pronounced them all traitors to the crown, for the grim murmur that swept through the arena. All knew of Magistrate Aarhus, a ruthless inquisitor said to be little more than a torturer in silk robes. A year earlier, under pressure from powerful factions at home and abroad after a rash of escalating murders among some of the wealthiest guildmasters throughout the realms of Pentania, King Galdric had granted Aarhus commission to root out and eliminate members of the fabled Seax Lunara—a secret order of assassins rumored to have originated here in Partha centuries earlier, before the foundation stones of Atharvan’s curtain wall had been laid. Most snickered at the time, suggesting that the magistrate had been set to chasing ghosts and mummers’ tales, and whispering loudly that the deaths of a few high-ranking merchants and noblemen well known for their rivalries and contentions did not mean the proud city of Atharvan was infested with assassins.
In the months since, however, Aarhus and those serving him, given free rein, had somehow managed to round up and imprison or execute half a dozen confessed members of the Seax Lunara. Wherever the magistrate pointed a finger, it seemed, the guilty boiled to the surface. And with each new kill or capture, they claimed to be closing in on the order’s unknown leader.
“And what purpose do you serve here?” Rohn inquired coolly. Neither his expression, nor the tenor of his voice had changed—though Kylac noted that Xarius, who’d been leading a series of advanced scaling exercises, crept close now to his father’s shoulder.
“They search your chambers even now, Master,” Dorravian reported from where he stood pinned against the wall.
“And the grounds entire, until we are satisfied,” Traeger added.
“Should you tell us what you seek, perhaps we can aid you in your search,” said Rohn.
The captain’s cleft-made sneer stretched higher. “Salveris, son of Governor Tehric of Crylag, was killed last night, robbed in an alley. We have witnesses to the account that finger you, Headmaster.”