Young Writers Society

The masks on the wall seemed to stare back at him.

Brinn knew their order and their meanings by heart: the pale blue-grey that Father wore for the Isdian trials; the elegant, platinum-decorated that Mother had visited Caer with before Brinn was born; the matching white-and-red set their parents wore for their wedding thirty years ago. Dozens of others, their empty eyes a reflection of what they’d witnessed.

They were Captors’ masks, ones that covered the upper half of the face, issued by the Palace of Justice to be worn at specific occasions. And in the middle of the wall, where Brinn always tried not to look, hung the two masks of the Council: big enough for the whole face, indigo-silver and black-gold, fitted respectively for Father and Mother. They were the masks they died in, peered from their faces, with no opening for their mouth and sending shivers down Brinn’s spine whenever he’d think about them.

“You’re going to be late.”

Brinn turned. His brother stood in the doorway, with his customary silver-grey mask and in his always-perfectly-neat uniform, arms crossed.

“I’m sorry,” Brinn said, walking towards him. Reiner moved to let him pass, and then followed closely behind.

“The Masters don’t take kindly to students who don’t even bother showing up on time.”

“I know.” Brinn frowned at him. “I said I was sorry.”

His brother said nothing as they walked out and across the bridge connecting their house with the Palace. One of the twelve identical mansions, as Brinn remembered from his lessons, the Rose residency was built in one of the highest levels of the city, specifically intended to host a Council member and their family. Out of the twelve, it was also the only one currently not occupied by a Council member.

Not that it’s very far from that, Brinn thought, watching his brother where he strode besides him. Reiner wore the uniform of a Senior Captor, so dark red it was often mistaken for black, with his knives tightly strapped to his thigh and a rune-engraved ring on each of his thumbs. Only the Senior Captors were allowed that, Brinn knew: the rings were a symbol of a dedication to the Palace and the Council’s gratitude for past services, and an attempt at stealing one from a Senior Captor was as bad of a crime as practicing magic in broad daylight.

“Down the stairs, the door to your right,” Reiner said, pulling Brinn from his thoughts again. They stood on the bridge, half-way to the Palace, where a winded staircase lead towards the northern entrance to the Academy.

Brinn swallowed. The building, shaped as a stylised pyramid and with three sharp towers on its top, stood as quiet as the Palace itself, its windows darkened and the Varien flags by its doors the only thing moving.

“Are you going to be there?” He asked, giving a shy glance to his brother. Reiner was far from a comforting presence: but he was a commanding and a respected one, and — provided he’d admit Brinn was his little brother — perhaps a way for Brinn to ensure a little bit of supremacy over other students.

“At the ceremony?” Reiner smirked. “No.”

“Ah.” Brinn’s teeth found his lip and chewed on it. “Will you be home… when I come back?”

“I don’t know.” There was a faint tone of irritation in his brother’s voice, one that told Brinn to stop asking questions and head down the stairs to do what he was supposed to do — and he’d learned well enough, in his eleven years of sharing a roof with his older brother, not to push that tone any further.

~

“Sabrin Rose.”

Brinn stood up from where he sat on the narrow bench. He glanced around him — at the small sea of white-robed students his age, all seated under the hall’s high ceiling — before making his way down his row and up the few steps to where the Masters awaited. In their dark purple robes and identical black masks covering all but their eyes, the three Masters of the Academy stood perfectly still.

“Sabrin Rose,” the Master to his left repeated. They — by voice alone, it was hard to tell whether it was a man or a woman — held a gold-plated notebook and a quill in their hand. “Is that the same ‘Rose’ as Elcanor and Leanra Rose, of the Council?”

Brinn nodded. “Yes, master. They were my parents.”

“Both deceased,” the Master to the right remarked. “I assume without a doubt, in that case, you are familiar with the rules of the Academy and the conduct of the Palace of Justice?”

Brinn licked his lips. This was something he’d been listening to his whole life — something his brother had just repeated not an hour earlier, before Brinn went to see their parents’ wall of masks.

“There are eleven rules of the Academy, and the sacred codex to guide the Captors and the Councilmen,” he recited, and paused, unsure. “Do you… want me to list them all—“

“If you knew them all,” the Master in the middle cut, “you’d know better than to be the one asking questions.”

Brinn felt his cheeks blush. He’d made a mistake, already. And his brother was already annoyed; if he found out…

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I forgot my place.”

“Don’t forget it again.”

Brinn nodded, eyes on the floor, and tried not to squirm. He’d promised himself, walking down those endless stairs, that he’d be brave, meet their eyes and speak in a full voice. Barely five minutes into the entrance ceremony, and he’d already broken all of those promises.

“I am Master Kirie,” the one in the middle said. “I will be expecting you here at dawn with the rest of my class. Return to your seat.”

Brinn complied without another word, and made it his mission to stare as calmly and quietly in front of himself as he could for the rest of the ceremony. It continued, with the Masters calling names and other students stepping in front of them, for what felt like hours.

“I’m in Master Kirie’s class too,” a girl whispered next to him, as the Master on the left closed his notebook. Brinn glanced sideways: she was taler than him — not much of an achievement — and blue eyes under blonde curls danced with excitement. She smiled as she met his gaze. “Robinette. My family just moved to the city, a week ago, right before I turned eleven, just in time for this.”

Brinn thought back to the education he’d already been through: the private tutors who taught him a bit of every subject; the visiting academics, old friends of the family, who’d quizzed him every time they’d pay a visit to the Rose residence; his brother and his lessons on poisons, that left Brinn bent over a bucket for days on end until he figured out most of the antidote ingredients. This girl, whose name he’d already forgotten, was new to life this close to the Palace — she wouldn’t last a month.

“Call me Brinn,” he said, with a smile that hid every last of his thoughts. “Welcome to Varien Capitol.”

*