Double Life - Book 1 of the Vaiya Series (38 page)

Bending his back to levels he didn’t think he
could reach, Jimmy completed his bows and then sat painfully back
down on his chair. For the remainder of the session, he copied the
blond-haired man’s every movement. It seemed to work.

After the one and a half hour lecture ended,
a lecture about the history of the Chardin Academy, many notable
Chardins whose deeds were recited, and the principles of anti-magic
which was the most confusing part as it combined math, philosophy,
biology, chemistry, and a little bit of music to try to develop the
ten laws of the Chardins, the twenty students, including him, stood
up again and bowed three times to Master Zenari. The sage then
ushered them out of the room, likely in order of rank, leaving him
alone with the master.

“You’re not interested in becoming a Chardin,
are you?” he asked Jimmy, once everyone had left, his eyes aflame,
his dark eyes scouring Jimmy’s soul.

“Sure I am.” He stifled a yawn, a serious
look in his eyes. “I loved everything, especially the part about
the Laws of
Perin
.” As soon as he spoke it, he knew he’d
said something wrong.

The sage struck his staff against the stone
tiles. “The Laws of
Tarin
!” His eyes ignited with unholy
madness, the like Jimmy had never seen. “Of all that I taught, this
was by far the most important, for it was Tarin who established
this academy and the ten rules of the Chardins.”

Jimmy cringed at the sage’s fury and his own
horrible blunder. “Sorry, Master. I-I forgot.”

A stinging slap on the cheek brought him to
reality. “Don’t lie to me, Ferinor. If you don’t want to be here,
get out! I don’t waste time teaching people like you when a
thousand others are more willing to learn.” He scowled, then added,
“Your mother told me you were of a different breed.”

“I understand.” He bowed to the master
ceremoniously, his mental capacities exhausted, his pride wounded.
“Forgive me.”

But the sage stood there, unmoved, staring
harshly at him, while swatting his right hand back and forth. “Go
along then; move on to your next class.”

“And that would be?”

“Item crafting with Haxien, room swordfish.”
He muttered something under his breath before giving Jimmy a truly
embalming scowl. “Get to the mountains, and get a brain in that
fuzzy head of yours.” Before Jimmy had left the room, the sage
stuffed a thin parchment into his hands. “And read your schedule.
It’s clear you haven’t the faintest notion what you’re doing.”

“I’ll do that and more, Master,” he replied,
clicking his tongue uneasily.

“You’d better, Ferinor. You’d better.”

With that solemn warning weighing heavily
upon him, Jimmy left the room and spent the next five minutes in
search of the mysterious swordfish room. Finally, he saw a symbol
on a door that resembled the aforementioned animal, and he rapped
on it twice before opening it.

As the door fell open, a timeworn face,
creased with severity and hardened with the worst sorts of
callousness, turned his way. He froze.

“Ferinor Eldred,” spoke the professor, his
droll, icy voice capable of turning all listeners into statues. “We
welcome you to class.”

There were no empty chairs. No empty spots.
Nineteen students, some male, some female, wearing school uniforms
consisting of silver robes, a unique silver emblem on top of their
hair, and ornate wooden sandals, stared back at him with either
pity or anger, as he struggled with what to do. Tardiness aside,
with his blue jeans and ragged black t-shirt he stuck out like a
sore thumb. Why didn’t he get new clothes? Was it because he was
late? And why hadn’t he noticed this disparity in his last
class?

After five more burning seconds of agony, his
eyes shifting from the olive green cape and fine black hair of the
professor, to the exquisitely designed iron, bronze, and copper
artifacts, painted in wondrous hues of royal purple, azure blue,
rose pink, lemon yellow, and others, that were sitting on a
circular walnut table, he’d made up his mind what to say.
“Professor Haxien, where should I sit? There’s no--”

“You won’t be sitting,” interrupted Haxien,
his narrowed eyes capturing the very image of hatred.

“Then where--?”

“You’ll be my assistant.” With his chin, he
gestured to an empty chair around the artifact-laden table. “Next
time perhaps, you won’t be late.” Closing his eyes and humming to
himself, he waited until Jimmy had seated himself on the one lone
chair facing the rest of the class, before continuing. Picking up a
heavy bluish metallic belt from the table, he held it out to the
class. “Now as I was saying, the Zaljah belt acts as a strong
repellent and neutralizer to most magic.” Pausing, letting the
information sink in, he asked, “Talia, what one can it not
repulse?”

“Illusory Visage,” answered a young lady
after a respectful pause, her green eyes sparkling with intellect
beyond her years.

“And why not?”

“The belt cannot detect the magic and
therefore cannot repel it.”

Haxien smiled as he set the belt down with a
clang. “Very good.” He turned to Jimmy. “Now it’s your turn.”
Another smile, this one laced with wickedness. “Put on the
belt.”

“I’m not sure how,” said Jimmy nervously, as
he looked at the weighty belt. There’s no way it would fit in the
loops on his blue jeans. With all the clasps, holes, and metal
pieces on it, he’d rather take his shot at untying the Gordian
knot.

“As I expected.” Haxien wrote something down
on a parchment before continuing. “Ferinor, a notch has been struck
from your knowledge. Lose another three notches in this category
and you will read the Tome of Alahart every free moment you have.
Understand?”

“Yes, Professor,” replied Jimmy, veins of
self-pity coursing through him at this unfair treatment, and
ashamed that every student in the room was witness to this. From
the nervous expressions of his classmates, the Tome of Alahart was
no cakewalk.

“Good.” He grinned evilly, reinforcing
Jimmy’s disdain for the man, and then resumed his lecture about
elven magic and how to resist it by natural means and by special
items, every so often letting Jimmy do some menial task like
rearranging the items on the desk, holding up a wickedly heavy item
for over ten minutes, sharing his “knowledge” with the class, or
answering a pointed question.

Throughout it all, Jimmy was thoroughly
miserable, and he wished more than anything that he would have
simply denied that he was Ferinor from the start. Then none of this
would’ve happened, and he could’ve saved himself from potentially
worse trouble. For if the real Ferinor showed up, it would
undoubtedly only get worse for him. Who knew how badly
impersonators were treated in this country? Since Master Zenari so
easily assumed he was the right guy, it seemed the punishment for
faking an identity must be very grave indeed, so that no one would
try it. No one except him, that is. How dumb could he be?

Within the first few minutes of the lecture,
he’d already had two notches taken off from propriety because he’d
accidentally slouched--twice; a notch taken off from compliance
with academy rules, for brushing against the professor; and three
more notches taken off from knowledge, for failing at every
question thrown at him.

Right now, reading the Tome of Alahart was
only the least of his concerns. He’d also been sentenced to a
week’s study with Professor Kahna, the only female professor, and
the academy’s miss perfect. Manners, etiquette, posture, and
language, were only a few of the subjects she specialized in. When
students were done with her, they were barely recognizable. Rumor
had it, from a young man named Mesari, who’d kindly informed him of
his punishments, that they became like hollow subservient dolls,
which she controlled at her bidding. A truly terrifying
thought.

Yet worse even than this was the dreaded jog
with Professor Warlon, the leather-clad wilderness man, which would
occur precisely in twelve shakes of a stick, whatever that meant.
Whisperings and such, told him that this was not just an everyday
run and that “things happened” to those unfortunate enough to go on
such a journey. He wasn’t sure if this was just a scare tactic, but
still, whatever this jog consisted of, he knew it wasn’t just a
walk in the park.

Sitting all alone in the empty classroom, his
delayed penalty for accidentally interrupting one of the
professor’s more “stirring” monologues by slouching, he stared at
the empty desks as a sick laughter took hold of him. The situation
was so awful it was almost comical. In such a short time, he’d
received more punishments than he knew what to do with.

Back at his high school, he’d never even
received detention once, and only twice did one of his teachers
actually scold him for something. Yet now, he sat in an unknown
world, being dealt a punishment for practically anything he said or
didn’t say. Clearly, he wasn’t cut out for such higher-level
learning. If this were what college was going to be like, he’d
rather live out on the streets. Then again, perhaps he was being a
bit too dramatic....

The door to the empty classroom flew open,
and with the swish of garments, Master Zenari swept towards him
like a dust devil or a swirling hurricane.

“Ferinor, by the Ancient Ghosk, what have you
done?” he began, his hot temper flaring. “When I accepted you into
this academy I expected you to be aware of the rudimentary customs
and laws of our land; but from what we’ve seen, you are more like a
boy from storybook land eating roasted tumpa nuts.”

Only the itching of his nose postponed his
further assault. “Are you aware of
anything
, Ferinor? Do you
think this academy is a place for just anyone? Do you think that a
common road can just turn into the king’s highway? that a burned
ember can grow into a tree?”

“No, of course not,” he replied, culture
shock slapping him heavy across the chin. “I know--”

“You know the bottom of a barrel,” cut in
Zenari, his hands poised as if to strike. “If it weren’t for the
promise I’d given your mother, I’d personally escort you into the
netherlands.”

With that mysterious threat, Zenari then
reached into his cloak and pulled out a rather large tan burlap
sack, its top tied in an elaborate knot, holding it out in front of
Jimmy. His eyes darkened. “Here I offer you a choice, Ferinor. Take
the money and leave, or stay here another day and,” his eyes grew
gnarled, “forfeit every fen should your performance be
unsatisfactory again.”

The name of his dad, Fenn, reverberating
through his mind, Jimmy stood there blindly, discomfited as an
inexperienced salesman taking on new customers. The last thing he
wanted to do was take someone else’s money. Impersonation was bad
enough.

But his silence caused Zenari’s lips to curve
into a deep-seated scowl, as he broke the silence with a question
thrown out like a grenade. “Why do you want to be here,
Eldred?”

Pausing tentatively, but not nearly long
enough to collect his scattered thoughts, he replied spontaneously,
“So I can learn how to repel magic … and learn how to use it.”
Instantly, the master’s hand flew to strike him, but this time
Jimmy was prepared and caught his wrist instead. This, however,
only made Master Zenari angrier, and he furiously flung away
Jimmy’s hand as if he’d committed blasphemy.

“Get out, you vile sorcerer!” He brutally
shoved Jimmy onto the floor. “And take your wizardry with you!”
Muttering in guttural tones, he thrust his staff into Jimmy’s
chest, causing him to shout in pain. “And take your cursed silvers
too, every tormented piece!” He tossed the bag of coins at Jimmy’s
feet and then added in fierce scorn, “We don’t teach magic here,
you fool!”

Jolting himself off the ground, Jimmy
clutched the bag like a thief, as he hobbled from the room, right
as the master flung out more hostility: “I don’t ever want to see
you again, Ferinor, unless you’re hanging from a noose!”

Spider-like with terror, Jimmy weaved down
several staircases, and hurried through various corridors, while
students slandered him with menacing glowers and hateful “I knew he
was different” glares, before finally reaching the front door.

Jerking on the door, he fumbled with it; but
nothing happened. Desperate, he pulled down a lever near the door
and sighed in relief as the door finally popped open.

In a dead sprint he fled the academy, his
shoes pounding against the gravel road where ruinous stone outposts
from a bygone era, jagged white rocks resembling giants’ teeth, and
imposing solitaire trees warped and molded into grotesque
spectacles, towered above him on both sides, blowing an arctic wind
of fear into his already frozen soul, making him relive all of
Zenari’s ominous words.

This was much worse than just an expulsion;
it felt far closer to an exorcism. His guilt over how he’d ruined
Ferinor’s life was a gossamer thread compared to the powerful
emotions of fear that assaulted him. It felt like he was stuck in
Shelob’s web about to become supper.

Hurrying down the stone road, dust clouds
forming behind him, Jimmy failed to notice a heavily armored man
who had marched up to him and blocked his path, until he had nearly
run into him. Seeing him, Jimmy halted abruptly, embarrassment
adding itself to his chaotic emotional mix, and then backtracked
quickly, apologizing. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

Yet the swordsman’s semi-jubilant expression
remained unchanged. “Ralin’s strength to you, foreigner.”

“Strength to you too,” murmured Jimmy, giving
him a weird look, as his heart continued to race.

His greeting fell on annoyed ears, his shiny
black helmet reflecting the rays of the warm sunlight. “You haven’t
studied up on our culture, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.” Jimmy’s confused expression
made the swordsman grin.