Knights Magi (Book 4) (31 page)

Rondal let the brag pass – they had worked hard, they had achieved much, and they deserved a little over-enthusiasm, he reasoned.  He had to admit, he was happy that the Mysteries were behind him, now.  He felt strong, he felt dangerous, he felt as if he had become something more than when he’d started.

In fact . . . he didn’t even feel like a mage.  He wasn’t Sir Rondal, Knight Magi, or even Magelord Rondal of Sevendor, he was
Striker
now.  He looked around at his comrades and smiled.  He had liked few of them when the trials began, but now he couldn’t think of any of them – even annoying Yeatin – with anything but fondness.

“My lord?” came a timid voice from the front of their camp.  “My lord?  Sir Rondal of Sevendor?”  It was a young page, no more than eleven, wearing a yellow tabard with the arms of Relan Cor on them in black. 

“Yes?” Rondal asked, almost not recognizing his name. 

“My lord, you are bidden to come to the Master of Warmagic’s office,” he explained, nervously.  “Then I’m to take you to your assigned quarters.  At your convenience,” the lad added, when the celebrating cadets looked at him harshly for interrupting their reverie.

“All right,” sighed Rondal.  “There you go, fellas.  Duty calls.  I’ve got to go play magelord, now.”

There was a chorus of groans from them, and for the next ten minutes the initiates – the soldiers – said their farewells.  There were more than a few tears, and declarations of admiration abounded.  Rondal finally tore himself away, hefted his pack, tucked his new – plain and serviceable – infantry sword into his belt, and followed the page.

*                            *                            *

It was odd to be inside Relan Cor after camping in its shadow for six weeks, but while he had sweated and bled and struggled the business of the War College went on.  He passed pages and soldiers and advanced students and masters as he found Master Valwyn in his office.  For all he knew, the man hadn’t moved
from the spot since he left him, more than a moon ago.

“Ah!  Well done, Initiate!” he said warmly, rising when he recognized Rondal.  “Well done!  I’ve had several good reports of you during your training.  And your squad went on to win the bivouac competition  -- that’s outstanding!”  He made a note on a piece of parchment in front of him. 

“Thank you, Sir,” Rondal said, coming to attention automatically.

“At ease,” Master Valwyn dismissed.  “I’m looking forward to your warmage classes,” he added, as he got up and retrieved Rondal’s witchstone from the box on the book shelf.  “I’ve been talking to your fellow apprentice, and he speaks very highly of you.”

“Really?” snorted Rondal.  “Tyndal?  Sir?” he added, belatedly.

Master Valwyn smiled.  “Quite so,” he agreed, setting the box down on the desk.  “He’s had nothing but praise for you, although he considers you somewhat . . . bookish.”

Rondal snorted again.  “I’ll keep my opinions about him to myself, if you don’t mind, Sir,” he said ruefully.

“I thought I detected a little acrimony there,” Valwyn said, as he dispelled his spellbinding.

Rondal did the same, which was difficult after six weeks of using very little magic.  He had to apply himself far more than he anticipated to finish the work.  But soon the glittering field around the small box fell.  Holding his breath, he worried for no good reason that his stone would not be in the box, he opened it.  Much to his relief it was, indeed, still there, and his mind rushed to contact it the moment the lid was open.

“Ahhhh!” Rondal said, as the first waves of power washed through him.  “I’d forgotten how much I missed that!”

“I’m envious,” chuckled Valwyn.  “Oh, I’ll get one eventually – they already want me to ship to Gilmora and lead a troop – but I can’t help but covet that kind of power.”

“It’s a heady thing,” Rondal agreed.  He eagerly examined his stone, inside and out, until he was satisfied that it was still the powerful shard he’d left there.  “But it’s dangerous, too.  I probably shouldn’t have been given one, but . . . well, necessity is a bitch that drives us all, Sir.”

“Look not on it as misplaced in your hands, Son,” suggested Master Valwyn.  “Just . . .early.  I was serious, Rondal.  The warbrothers were keeping a very close eye on you and your squad.  You are an excellent soldier.  From what I understand, after your camp was attacked instead of pursuing bloody vengeance your squad focused on the mission.  That’s admirable . . . and rare.  And I also heard how you led the charge through the defenders in the village.  Whatever your master was thinking when he gave you that stone, his confidence has
not
been misplaced.”

Rondal wasn’t sure what to say to that.  “Well, thank you, Sir.  When do classes begin?”

“Three days from now,” the master of warmagic informed him.  “We’re still awaiting six students.  We have twenty from the Mysteries, but there are several more already arrived and waiting.  But . . . you have three days, if you want to get some leave and celebrate a bit.”

Rondal thanked the mage and then followed the page deep into the recesses of the fortress, where he was given a room. 

A double room.

There were two cots inside, one on each side of the room.  As it was designed for four soldiers, there was almost enough room for two, following standard military logic.  But Rondal didn’t have to guess who his roommate was.  He recognized Tyndal’s baggage and the trademark disheveled state of his side of the room.

“Ishi’s tits!” he swore, angrily.  “Was there no more room elsewhere?”

“I was informed that you were to bunk together,” the page said, diplomatically.  “By your master’s orders.”

“We’ll see about that!” Rondal said.  He tipped the boy a penny after he’d carried his baggage inside the room and set it on the press at the end of his bed.  Then he sat on the straw tick, closed his eyes, and reached out with his mind.  It had been awhile, but the spell came back to him easily enough.

Master, it is Rondal
, he announced, when Master Minalan deigned to answer his call.

Rondal!  How fared you in camp?

My squad excelled, Master.  Thank you for the opportunity.

That’s amazing!  Well done, lad!  How are you holding up after . . . after Inarion?
he asked, concerned.

I’m fine, Master
, Rondal assured him. 
The Mysteries were a great distraction.   But I am speaking with you because I’ve been told that Tyndal and I have to bunk together, per your orders.

That is correct,
Minalan said, simply.

But . . . why?
Rondal demanded.

Because I know you two have some business to finish,
the Spellmonger told him. 
And avoiding it and avoiding each other isn’t going to make it go away.  Quite the contrary.

Master, he blames me—

I don’t want to hear it,
Minalan snapped. 
Figure it out, Rondal.  There are . . . there’s a lot going on right now, and I need both of you trained, fit, and ready to do my bidding.  Soon.

Master, are we not always doing your bidding?

Do my bidding better
, the magelord corrected. 
You still have a few weeks of warmagic school.  Try to work out whatever it is between you before you return to Sevendor. 

But Master—

Do it!
insisted the Spellmonger. 
I know Tyndal is kind of an ass.  But I still need him.  And you.  And I need you to be able to work together.  Anything else?
he asked, impatiently.

No, Master
, admitted Rondal, sourly. 

Then take a day or so to relax and then prepare for your studies.  If I recall correctly, warmage school was only slightly better than infantry training.

Yes, Master
, Rondal said, and ended the connection.

“Damn,” he said, out loud.

*                            *                            *

For two days, Rondal avoided Tyndal mostly by being elsewhere. At first he spent his time in the village tavern, saying a more thorough good-bye to his
squadmates as one by one they took barges or horses toward their destinations.  Gurandor and Yeatin, who were scheduled to continue to Warmagic classes, were housed in the barracks in the fortress, but spent plenty of time in the tavern – the
Iron Gate,
named for the device of Relan Cor.

The village inn was a busy place, thrice the size of a normal inn, with two additional bays and a side house.  With soldiers, warriors, knights and mercenaries constantly coming and going, the inn had a lot of business . . . and a lot of fights.

The public room at the
Iron Gate’s
heart was the haunt of old soldiers, mercenaries, and students in the art of warfare.  The décor reflected its use, with souvenirs of campaigns, banners of defeated enemies, ancient swords notched with battle, and battered pieces of armor.

Tyndal seemed to be avoiding Rondal as much as Rondal was avoiding him.  He seemed to spend an awful lot of time working with various masters-of-arms in the practice yard, honing his swordplay.  Sometimes he worked with a mock mageblade, sometimes with a cavalry sword, sometimes with an infantry sword.  But he was getting better and better, Rondal could see from afar, even though he still made a lot of mistakes.

Rondal tried his best to put him out of his mind.  He had a somewhat different perspective, after the Mysteries.  He knew it was unfair of Tyndal to blame him for Estasia’s death, but that did not deter his guilt over the matter.  While the sting of it had faded, the burden of it had only grown.  He imagined what she might say to him several times, but each time he found himself thinking such maudlin thoughts he found something physical and punishing to do.  When he got back to his room, if he was first, he tried to get to sleep before Tyndal got in.  Tyndal, he noticed, always seemed to be asleep when he came in.  They spoke barely five words to each other in three days.

Finally, they were called to the Assembly Hall on the first floor for their first classes of Warmagic school, and he was able to let the volume of work occupy his mind instead.

There were thirty-seven pupils for the class, most of them young magi with the ink still wet on their charters.  A few were older and had sought out the training because they wanted to go to the Penumbra and try their luck to find a stone.  Compared to Infantry Training, it was almost as studious and civilized as Inarion Academy.

Master Valwyn was the one who addressed them first, giving a long rambling
speech on the history of Warmagic, its current utility, and the importance of the Magical Corps in the defense of the kingdom.  He referenced the goblin invasion several times, but did not dwell on it.

Valwyn instead spoke about the Mad Mage of Farise and the threat he posed, and the gallant attack by the best warmagi in the Duchies that defeated him.  He spoke of great Warmagi of old, told of their achievements, and praised the brave men and women fighting in the new Arcane Orders. 

Rondal listened but did not pay attention; he was just grateful for the warm clothes, dry bed, and full belly his now-muscular body seemed to cherish.  As much as he had come to appreciate the brutal efficiency of the soldier’s life, he still felt more at home around the smell of dust and parchment than he did leather and steel.

A few other prominent magi spoke, both militant and civilian, and Magelord Hartarian, the Royal Court Mage, addressed them with a plea for more recruits for duty in the Penumbra, and a commendation for the nascent Iron Ring order that was beginning to police its frontier.  Then there was a light reception, allowing the students and the faculty to casually  discuss the curriculum and readings, of which there were many.

Master Valwyn would be lecturing them in the Philosophy of Warmagic, as well as Defensive Combat Spells.  The compact warmage was a veteran of Farise and several years’ honorable service on the frontier with Alshar.  He wore a smart little red cap – Rondal found out later it was the traditional cap of a professional warmage – had a lively manner about him.  A good choice for the job, Rondal decided.

Beside him, Master Siristan would be teaching them everything he knew about war wands, Master Renando of Cormeer would discuss the basics of using a mageblade, as well as running several practical drills, and Master Alwyn himself would be teaching them Offensive Combat Magic.  There were other teachers and lecturers on other subjects, but those were the ones Rondal was most interested in.

He gravitated toward one side of the trestle table where  Gurandor was hovering over a plate of tiny sausages and a stack of buns.  Rondal grabbed one of both and started nibbling.

Rondal looked around the room. “A bit of a stuffy crowd, for warmagi,” he murmured to his former squadmate.

“The real tough ones are at the front,” the other mage pointed out.  “That’s probably where I’m going, eventually.”

“Wait long enough, the front will come here,” he remarked sourly, between bites.  “Some of these fellows are rather good,” Rondal pointed out.

Gurandor ceded the point. “You don’t go up against Orril Pratt with a couple of cantrips and a winning attitude.  Master Valwyn is famous for some of the spells he oversaw at the conquest of Farise.”  The mention of the war made him think again of Kaffin of Gyre, and how much Rondal hated the boy.  Now that he understood what a sword could do, he looked forward to the day where he could use one on Kaffin.