Chapter Three
“Elementals are, as you know, the source and the beginning of magic in our world.” Karenna sat with her head in her hands, listening in bored dismay to lessons every student in the room had learned when they were four. She was sandwiched between the twins behind a large table made of—what else?—stone. This did not help. The Vocilias listened with absorbed faces and Menee was practically mouthing the words with the teacher.
Madame Brasser was a formidable woman with flaming red hair and a large nose. She paced back and forth in front of her pupils, eyes flashing like those of a general addressing her troops. “There are, or were, as you know, five original Elementals. Their names, in their own language, are: Lashloon, the Elemental of water; Minevera, the Elemental of air; Allamani, the Elemental of earth; Scharon, the Elemental of fire; and, of course Werenna, the one called the Garden Queen and mother of the three intelligent races of our world.”
Perhaps, Karenna reflected, the tedium wouldn’t be so pronounced if Brasser didn’t keep saying “as you know.” The students did, in fact, know and did not need or want to hear all of it again.
For a moment, Karenna remembered a different teacher, a boy about ten years old, telling this story as it should be told: All the Elementals save Werenna bred and birthed as they wished, peopling the world with those now called Elementars. The Elemental of the forest, Werenna, grew tired of her companions’ wild offspring. She formed the three flowers from which first came Werebeasts, with their magic to change shape; then Gypsies, with their magic to live in her forests; and finally the Humans—
“Karenna Morn!” Karenna jolted out of her memories. Brasser was frowning, an expression half-hidden by her downward-sloping nose.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Karenna, not meeting the woman’s eyes.
“Perhaps you can tell us what the name of our country, Dirantyr, means in the Elemental tongue? Since you seem to know enough of magical history already to feel confident daydreaming in my class!”
I could tell you the Elemental names for five different kinds of trees, three magical attacks, at least one kind of fire spark, simple levitation, and how to make a white dress red, green, or even purple, thought Karenna. It was amazing what one could hear in a weaver’s shop. And what one could find by sneaking into the restricted library sections. But it would be even stupider to display such knowledge than it would be too hold the eyes of the teacher too long. Still, she was not going to be shamed for letting her attention wander during a lesson that belonged in the nursery.
“Dirantyr translates, roughly, as ‘Ashland’ in the Elemental language. It was given to us by Werenna herself, because we had become Firehearts and in our ambition turned her hopes for us into ash.” She knew she had said too much and too daringly, but she had not slept well and was momentarily tired of hiding.
Brasser’s face turned such a dark shade of red that Karenna thought she would choke. But before the teacher could unleash the full weight of her wrath upon the girl, a shriek echoed off the stone walls. All attention turned to where Shana was suddenly on her feet, dancing the feminine dance of terror at small crawling things. The whole class could see the spider, no larger than a copper coin, swinging from her long blonde hair.
But none save Karenna noticed that the sunlight from the high, narrow windows flashed on the spider’s body, or that, when the offending pest was at last shaken off, Tannar caught it deftly in one hand. A moment later he opened his fingers and a few drops of clear water dripped from his palm to the stone beneath it. The spider was gone.
* * *
Tannar hefted the gleaming broadsword, admiring the polished steel blade that shone like a mirror despite the many scratches and scrapes along its edge. The master of the melee weapons, a retired battle mage as scarred as the sword, smiled at him. “You hold the old girl well, but be careful; that blade and I go way back.” Tannar recognized him as the man who had defended the caravan during the Werewolf attack. He was not quite sure he liked how the old warrior smiled at him.
Around him the others in his unit browsed the large armory admiringly, though no one else dared to touch any of the expensive weapons. There were no spears or bows here—those would be covered later—but Tannar did not mind their absence.
The battle mage, a man named Jataal with his black hair and goatee streaked with white where his scars ran, gestured with one weathered hand around his little kingdom. “Don’t be afraid to touch; about half of you will be soldiers anyway, so you need to get used to handling weapons.” Obern lifted a broadsword almost immediately, handling the weapon with ease.
Jataal smiled again. “I see we have two young men with some interest in the heavier weapons. But you won’t be using those today.”
The teacher arranged the unit into five pairs, then gave each student a weighted wooden broadsword. Tannar glared at the practice weapon. What a dead, unwieldy thing, especially in comparison to the beautiful metal blade he’d held earlier. He glanced across at his opponent—Phara, the skinny, warlike girl. She caught his gaze and snarled. Tannar noticed that she held her practice sword as easily as if it were made of straw.
Jataal briefly demonstrated the most basic methods of attack and defense, and set them drilling. Phara’s attacks were ferocious, her defenses sulky, as if she couldn’t wait for her next turn at being the aggressor. For himself, Tannar chafed at the restrictive forms. Every time they moved through the exercise, he would imagine slipping past the girl’s lazy defense or catching her sword on his and spinning it out of her hand.
To make matters worse, he could see Karenna and Obern out of the corner of his eye. Karenna was clearly nervous with the heavy weapon, Obern clearly confident. He would smile and encourage her when she got it wrong, and she would blush every time he touched her in order to correct her grip or stance.
Tannar felt something jab his side and lashed out before realizing it was just Phara’s attack that had gotten past his distracted defense. Her blow would have barely bruised him. But at his blow, he heard something crack. Phara went down, clutching her left shoulder and screeching curses.
Jataal was at her side in an instant, expertly propping the wound. He rolled his eyes. “Just a bruise, girl,” he said, helping her up.
“I heard it break!” she yelled.
“You’re a Possible Battle Mage, yes? If you plan to do well in your profession, you’ll have to learn to tell the difference between the sound of a bone snapping and the sound of a wooden sword smacking against an unprepared combatant.” He sat her down at the edge of the room and turned to face the rest of the students. All activity had ceased. Tannar was uncomfortably aware that most of them were staring, not at Jataal, but at him.
“You’ve good instincts, lad,” Jataal told Tannar. The battle mage scanned the other students. “Obern, you seem comfortable with the broadsword. As drilling it yourselves does not seem to be working,” he gave a wry glance towards Phara, “I’d like you all to watch these two. Just work your way through the basic forms, lads, nothing fancy or advanced.”
Tannar let a diabolic grin spread across his face as Obern took up a basic defensive stance in the middle of the room. The rest of the students had migrated to the edges, whispering excitedly amongst themselves. Karenna shot Tannar a sharp look, but he ignored her. Tannar twirled the sword in one hand and brought it around to hover unmoving only a few feet away from Obern’s.
With almost mocking slowness, Tannar brought his weapon around in the first form of attack they’d been taught. Obern blocked it with an equally elementary move. Jataal explained the exercise, this time free to point and gesture rather than demonstrate himself, and bade the two young men do it again. Tannar obliged, but moved just a little bit faster and placed his blade just a little bit closer to Obern’s heart than before. This time there was a harsh clack when the blades met and the battle mage shot Tannar a look. He couldn’t tell if it was warning or approving. They advanced thus through the first exercises, and Jataal wrapped up the lesson.
Before he could dismiss his students to their next class, however, Tannar said, “What better way for us to understand the danger and difficulties of real combat than by giving a sample of it?”
Jataal hesitated at this, but the unit latched onto the idea and clamored to see a real match. Obern said, “I’m sure, master, that with your experience and abilities you will not let it get out of hand, even if I or my classmate should wish to let it progress so. Besides, they are just wooden swords”
The teacher gave in a little faster than Tannar had anticipated. He nodded, a knowing look in his eyes that Tannar was not quite comfortable with. Obern and Tannar faced each other across the now-widened circle of spectators, the unit hushed and waiting. He could see the twins wavering between disapproval and eagerness, and could just as clearly see that Karenna had landed on the former side. He winked at her and her frown deepened.
And then Obern came at him, faster than he had expected, and he blocked the sweep instinctively. Tannar fell into defensive posture. As he did so he realized that Obern had wanted this chance to show him up almost as much as Tannar had. Too bad for Obern.
Tannar didn’t want to make his win look too easy, especially not with a trained warrior watching, so he let the other boy nearly catch him on the shoulder once or twice, and faltered unnecessarily in his attacks. Obern was good, better than Tannar had given him credit for, and so he almost felt a little sorry when he finally slipped past his opponent’s guard to rest the dull tip of his weapon lightly against the other’s collar-bone. It would be hard for Obern to understand where he had gone wrong in his almost-perfect form. Tannar said, out of a burst of half-malicious pity, “Good match, but I noticed that you move too slowly in the third defensive position.” It wasn’t true, but it made Tannar feel warm inside to know that Obern would practice hours to correct a mistake he hadn’t made.
But for now, Obern only grinned his dazzling grin and shook his opponent by the hand. He then turned and winked at Karenna, still grinning, but left with the blonde wench Shana on his arm instead. Tannar looked on as Karenna watched them go, and felt a small, a very small, stab of guilt that he might have ruined her chances with the handsome youth.
* * *
Late in the afternoon, Karenna and her unit stood outdoors in a line, facing a row of round, straw-stuffed targets. Each student had a bow in their hands and a quiver full of arrows slung across their backs. Only Shana, Tannar, and herself had professional bows—hers had been a going-away present from her adopted parents. Everyone else was using the Academé’s worn equipment. The archery instructor, a pleasant old man called Olasso, walked up and down behind them, patting the odd shoulder with a leathery hand.
“Now, no worries, sallahs,” he said, his voice creaking like a familiar old door. Both his accent and his dark skin proclaimed his homeland to be Simaron, that half-island, half-desert kingdom of humans across the ocean. “We just want to know how well you can shoot already. No worries, sallahs, no worries; no one will be formally grading you on this.”
As Karenna drew her bowstring back, she decided that Olasso must have kept his job, not because he was particularly good at it, but because no one could muster the heart to let the sweet old man go. The bow felt good in her hands, solid and new. And even while Shana’s bow was obviously more expensive, it was Karenna’s arrow that hit closest to the center.
Tannar and Shana also shot well, and everyone but the twins managed to at least hit the misshapen lumps of cloth-covered hay. Laroo’s arrow stuck into a nearby tree trunk, but Menee’s shot off into the deep green shadows of the Gypsies’ Forest. The unit stared uneasily at the place where it had disappeared. None of them had been happy about the fact that the shooting range was so close to the menacing woods. After a moment they heard something big shift in the depths.
“No worries, sallahs, no worries,” said Olasso, tottering up and down the line and constantly patting shoulders. “All sorts of strange noises come from the Forest, no worries.”
* * *
Inside the Gypsies’ Forest, Boom rolled over and felt something snap underneath him. He reached down and pulled a broken arrow from where he had rolled onto it. He examined it carefully, bringing it close to his face.
Finally, he mumbled to himself, “Somebody has lost an arrow.”
Holding the two halves delicately in one massive fist, he stood. The sun was dipping low on the far horizon, and for a moment or two Boom just watched it happily, forgetting about the broken projectile in his hand. Then, moving with slow, ground-shaking steps, he walked towards the Academé.
You have no idea how encouraging you've all been, I can't believe how many amazing editors have taken the time to review this story. As I'm shooting (ever so slowly) for publication, that means more to me than you can imagine.
Too many watches, and the second watch is wrong, anyway. 
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