A Call to Arms: Book One of the Chronicles of Arden (14 page)

Marc gave Gib a sorrowful look in the eye. “You’ve met Nawaz before? I’m sorry.”

Nawaz shot an ugly look at the dean. “Very funny. Anyway, Gib’s got a couple fractures in his wrist cluster—the hamate and triquetral—so I’ll make sure they’re set and get them bonding. He’ll need a splint.”

Marc nodded along. “Light duty for a handful of sennights.”

“Yeah, I’ll get him a note for Roland and then he can get the hell out of here.”

The dean pointed at Nawaz. “Remember to watch your mouth. You’re at work!” When Nawaz rolled his eyes, Marc cuffed the back of his head. “Sorry, Gibben. I’m not usually so forward but I’m allowed to misuse my nephew a little more than the other trainees.”

Gib nodded as the puzzle pieces came together. Marc Arrio. Nawaz Arrio. Both were loud and prone to laughter, though either could be goaded into outbursts if the situation called. They looked alike too. Both were tall and fair featured with dark hair and expressive eyes. “He’s your nephew? I’m sorry.”

Marc tipped his head back in laughter.

Nawaz narrowed his eyes. “Watch it, Nemesio. You’re in my care now.”

Gib smiled but declined to say more. He waited while Nawaz took the injured hand again and set to work on it.

“There’s gonna be some tingling and warmth. That’s normal. Let me know if the pain spikes.”

Gib swallowed his nerves and nodded. “All right.”

It took a moment for anything to happen at all. Nawaz seemed to be focusing intently. Gib swallowed as he waited.
Nothing is happening. It’s not like my wrist can tell him what’s wrong, can it?
But Nawaz seemed to know exactly where it was broken. Maybe the wound really could speak to him.

Healer-mages were known to call upon magic to aid with their healing. Perhaps Nawaz was using magic to help him right now. Gib decided to save his questions for Joel, who wouldn’t laugh at them.

A moment later, the tingling set in just as Nawaz had said, but it was more intense than Gib imagined. Back on the farm, he’d sometimes slept wrong and had an arm or leg fall asleep. When he’d try to use the limb, it would feel like it was being engulfed in pinpricks and flame. This feeling was similar but more intense. He stiffened, a strangled cry escaping his throat.

Nawaz never broke his concentration. “Pain?”

Gib took a breath and thought. “N–No. Not really. Just hot and—odd.”

Both Marc and his nephew nodded as if that were normal, and Nawaz didn’t offer to let up. Despite the discomfort, Gib was mildly reassured—and determined to never need to be healed again.

He watched as Marc hovered over his nephew, observing every movement. If the dean’s presence made Nawaz uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. Marc frowned at one point and guided the younger healer. “Ground yourself. Remember to stay grounded.”

Nawaz didn’t look up from what he was doing but did manage to snipe back. “I
am
grounded. Will you just go get me a splint?”

Soon enough, Gib’s bones had been set and started on their way to mending. He left the pavilion with a splint wrapped about his hand and a note detailing that he was not to resume heavy duty until further word was given from the healers. Nawaz and Marc had both assured him that he would regain full mobility of his hand and fingers. Gib hoped they weren’t mistaken.

For the next several days, Gib found himself doing a lot of sweeping, feeding horses, and helping pick up the training swords and equipment—mostly one-handed jobs. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if the “light duty” was any better than his actual training. He decided it was worse when Kezra began joking about his “lovely splint bracelet” and even Tarquin, Diddy, and Nage chuckled along.

On the last day of their training cycle before rest, Lady Beatrice from his Ardenian Law class came to ask Master Roland if she could borrow Gib. He was grateful. He turned a smug look back on his friends as they glared his way, their breath visible in the chilly air. He followed behind the professor, shedding his cloak as soon as they stepped inside the hall. Beatrice smiled, the smallest traces of wrinkles forming around her plump lips and olive-colored eyes.

“Could you deliver this for me?” She extended a letter to him.

Gib looked at the sealed envelope. “Yes, m’lady. Where should I take it?”

“To Dean Arrio’s office. I expect when you’re done with the task, it will be time for midday meal.” She winked at him. “Let the others clean up after themselves for a day.” She smiled.

Gib returned the gesture. He didn’t mind pulling his weight, but it would be a lie to say he enjoyed the duties. He imagined he wouldn’t make a very good servant.

“Thank you, Lady Beatrice.”

“No, no. Thank you, Gibben. I’ll see you in class later.”

She dismissed him and he turned to make the trek to Marc’s office.

It was odd being in the halls during class time. He was the only person there and his lone footsteps echoed off the high arches and limestone ceilings. An eerie feeling rose on the back of his neck, and he turned once or twice to be sure he wasn’t being watched. Only the stone gargoyles which perched atop the pillars stared back at him, uncanny and unmoving. He hurried along.

As the dean’s office door came into view, Gib nearly broke out into a full run to get to it. Red-faced, he rapped a fist on the maple wood and waited. The shuffling of feet came on the other side, and when the door opened, he forgot his manners and began to advance without permission.

“What is
your
business here?” The snide voice of Diedrick Lyle caught him unaware.

Gib cleared his throat. “Uh. I’ve been sent with a message for Dean Arrio.”

The Instructions Master stuck his nose in the air, but Marc called out from further within. “Who is it, Lyle?”

“One of the students. He says he has a message for you.”

Gib thought to look around Lyle but, true to the nature of any stubborn mule, the Instructions Master refused to move even a little. It was only when Marc gave the word that Diedrick rolled his eyes and stepped aside.

Gib squeezed through what little space had been given him. He could feel shrewd eyes on the back of his head as he made his way to the dean’s desk. With a bow, he extended his arm, letter in hand. “Lady Beatrice asked me to bring this to you.”

Marc hesitated for just an instant before saying, “What does my wife want? Couldn’t she have come down here herself?”

“Your wife?” Gib almost dropped the letter but managed to grab it before the paper could slip through his fingers. “I didn’t know Lady Beatrice was married to you. I would have never even imagined you—” Gib quickly tried to think of how to correct his blunder.

His words were met with laughter. “Yeah, I could see that. She’s smarter than me. I got lucky. I’m still not sure why she said yes when I asked her to marry me.”

“Well, I didn’t mean—it’s just that she’s not—you seem more free-spirited than she.” Gib gave up there and groaned. “Sorry. Forget I said anything.” He handed over the letter.

Marc’s dark eyes danced as he took it and waved toward one of the plush chairs. “Thank you, Gibben. Have a seat for a moment if you have one to spare. She may have requested a response.”

The door slammed behind them and Gib was sure he heard Diedrick Lyle muttering under his breath about not being able to get any work done.

Doing as told, Gib ignored the Instructions Master and sat in the same chair he’d barely touched on his first visit to the office. Without looking up from his letter, Marc cocked an eyebrow and pressed coyly, “Ah, good. I see you’ve gotten over your fear of chairs.”

Gib snorted a little. “It took some work, but yes. I’ve also grown accustomed to sleeping in an actual bed.”

There was some sniveling from Diedrick’s corner of the office, but Marc must have had years of experience in ignoring the Instructions Master.

Eyes still dancing, the dean smiled broadly at Gib. “Good to hear. How’s your hand faring?”

“It doesn’t hurt. I think it’s healing well.”

“Good. Apparently Nawaz can do something right when he applies himself.” The dean glanced toward Lyle, who was not looking at them as he scribbled ferociously with his quill. Marc lowered his voice a little. “He’s a little like me—lazy and unfortunately smart enough to get other people to pick up the slack for him. Sound about right, Lyle?”

The scribbling stopped abruptly, and the Instructions Master turned his pinched, scarlet face upward. “Is that funny to you?” His mouth gaped for a moment, and then he stabbed his quill into the inkwell, going back to work with more tenacity than ever. He muttered and spat under his breath about being undervalued and how not everyone would put up with such an insufferable supervisor.

Gib bit his bottom lip to keep from smiling.

Marc laughed. “Yes, yes, Diedrick. You’re good for putting up with me. That’s why you get to take extra time off as needed.”

If the Instructions Master heard him, he made no indication of it.

Gib looked at the floor to keep from grinning. It really wasn’t his place to laugh at someone so much older who held such authority, but it was difficult to be civil to someone so miserable.

Gib was glad when Marc dismissed him, not because he wanted to part ways with the dean but because he wasn’t sure how much longer he could handle Diedrick’s scalding glares without bursting into flame. Marc had no return message for Lady Beatrice, so Gib found himself in the same deserted hallway once more, meandering toward the dining hall. It wasn’t time for the midday meal yet, but the bell was due to ring any moment.

As he passed through the corridors, another eerie sensation rose within him—not the feeling of being watched so much as the feeling of not being alone. He rubbed his injured wrist in an attempt to ward off the chill, but it did little to help.
I’m not running again
. He set his mouth in a firm line and refused to speed up.

“There you are. I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me.”

Gib whirled around, but the empty hall was all that awaited him.
Where did that voice come from?
He started to call out but stopped short when someone else replied.

“So long as the pay hasn’t been compromised, I’m still here.”

Gib didn’t know where either of the voices came from nor were the voices familiar.
I should keep moving
. As he took another step, the sentinel trainee realized a door stood slightly ajar to his left, which was where the two voices must have come from.

“Yes, yes. Don’t worry about your pay. Worry more about whether I and the others trust you or not.”

“Trust? You’d trust a murderer?”

Gib froze in place.
Murderer?
What were these two talking about?

“Watch your mouth,” the first voice hissed. “There are eyes and ears everywhere.”

“Soon there’ll be all the more. Better make this quick, before the bell rings.” The second voice was rougher, not as well trained as the first.

The first man snorted. “Then take this and be gone. You know where to go and when. Don’t be seen.”

Coins jingled, and the second man spoke. “This is only half.”

“As agreed. You get the rest when he’s dead.”

“And the plan remains unchanged then?”

“Of course. Radek is overly confident. He’s not as smart as he thinks he is. You do as we’ve agreed and you’ll have free access to him.”

Gib’s stomach churned.
Radek? The royal family?
He glanced around, wishing the dean were there with him. Marc would know what to do.

The second man snorted. “I’ve never known a king to be unprotected.”

The hall tilted and Gib wasn’t sure he’d be able to catch his balance.
This is about the King? They mean to murder King Rishi?
A terrible humming rose in his ears.

The first voice leered, “Rishi Radek is unlike any king Arden has ever known. It’s under his idiocy that women and commoners are able to lord around as if they’re the equals of the learned men. It would be dangerous to leave him on the throne. His arrogance can be used against him.”

Gib grasped the wall with his good hand. His knees felt weak. What should he do? He didn’t know who was in the room and couldn’t risk opening the door to look. He clutched at his side and tried to will away the panic.

The bells began to ring. The two men in the room stopped talking and Gib could hear their feet shuffling. His fear spiked when he realized they would have to come through the door he was standing beside.

Gib backed away knowing he would be caught if they emerged. A moment later, students swarmed the corridor and he looked for a teacher. He saw only students. Who could he tell?

He waited a moment more to see if the door would open, and when it didn’t, his feet moved of their own accord toward the door. He could open the door and pretend he’d come to the wrong place. But at least he’d have seen their faces.

Gib’s stomach knotted. He was likely to get a slit throat or gashed gut for his troubles, but he had to act quickly. Palms sweaty and breath held fast, he slammed his eyes closed and pushed the door open. The blood was rushing in his ears as he waited for whatever fate would befall him. Maybe they would bash him over the head or break his neck. Maybe they’d tie him up and drag him away to do something worse. Maybe they’d leave him there to die of heart failure.

Gib dared open one eye. Nothing. He opened the other. No one was inside the assembly hall. The room stood empty. Across from him, on the far wall, another door led outside. He could see through the windows that the outer courts were already teaming with people. He couldn’t tell who the two men were.

Leaning back against the doorframe, he blew out a long breath. Was he lucky for having missed them and sparing his own life, or was he an idiot for not getting a glimpse of the traitors who were speaking about murdering the King? His mouth went dry. Who should he tell? He didn’t know where to start. Who could he find who had connections to the King and would listen to him?

Joel
. He turned and flew toward their room.
 

“Joel! Joel, I have to speak to you!” Gib didn’t bother to knock before he threw the door open. “It’s important!” His boots skidded to a halt when he realized his roommate wasn’t alone. Hasain Radek was standing in front of the window.

Joel smiled from the edge of his bed. “Oh, Gib! There you are—” His smile fell away. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

Gib imagined he must look quite a sight. He knew he felt like he’d been through hell. He glanced back and forth between Joel and Hasain. Both of them scrutinized him carefully. “Hasain. You’re here too.”

Joel nodded. “You asked that I find him for you. You had questions about the draft. But are you all right? You look awful.” He swept over, white mage robes fluttering as he moved, and placed a cool hand on Gib’s shoulder.

The sentinel trainee looked up with wide eyes. “The King. The King is in danger but I don’t know who or when—”

Crystal blue eyes went wide as the mage trainee put his entire arm around Gib. The embrace was warm and comforting despite Joel’s harried words. “What do you mean? What is this about the King?” He led the younger boy over to the chair at their desk and sat him down before kneeling before him. “Gib, what are you talking about?”

Gib’s mind was muddled and confused. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I brought a message to Dean Marc. When I was done there, I came down the hall and heard these voices. Two men. I don’t know who and I didn’t get a chance to see either of them. I–I’m sorry. If I’d been faster or braver I could have—”