‘My fourth point: how is it that Robler and his armies defeated the Rondians so often and so frequently, when none of them were more than half-bloods, no match for Rondian Ascendant-Magi? Yet by the time the Revolt was over, eight Rondian Ascendants had fought in Noros, more than joined the Crusade, and somehow our half-blood magi killed four of those Ascendants!
Alaron raised four fingers. ‘Let me reiterate:
one
, three Noromen canons disappear at the time of the Revolt and are now being erased from history.
Two
, Rondian forces continue to occupy Noros and are actively searching for something.
Three
, a general breaks parole, only to wind up dazed and confused in Norostein and then vanish.
Four
, Noromen half-blood magi defeat Rondian Ascendants.’ He raised a hand. ‘I believe these facts are linked and explainable.’
Here goes
…
‘This is my hypothesis: the three Noros canons, Fulchius, Keplann and Reiter, did not in fact die in Pallas as we were told. They joined the Revolt – more than that, they
caused
the Revolt. I surmise that they took something very important from Pallas – for why else would eight Ascendants who had not even been interested in the Holy Crusade suddenly want to join the suppression of Noros? And why, after the surrender, did an honourable general break parole – and where is he now? The Rondians are taking our kingdom apart piece by piece, seeking something— What do they seek?’
He let the question hang in the air, feeling a sense of exultation at the stir his words were causing.
I’m going to pass with top marks!
He displayed a large image of a piece of scroll-work. ‘This is what a proclamation of canonisation looks like. Note the words
Raised to
the Ascendancy
. Every living saint was raised to the Ascendancy – until the Noros Revolt. Every candidate was taken into the inner chamber at Pallas Cathedral, where the Scytale of Corineus is housed, and they emerged either as an Ascendant – or as a corpse. But since the Revolt, one canon and one living saint have been anointed, and in neither proclamation appear the words “Raised to the Ascendancy”, not ever for our beloved Imperia-Mater Lucia!’
There was a mutter about the auditorium. ‘Was it just overlooked? Did they
forget
to make Mater-Imperia an Ascendant?’
He had to pause then, to let the buzz swell, then die down. It was exhilarating to have the audience so enthralled. He raised a hand, feeling tremendously powerful, and the auditorium fell silent.
‘What if there is another explanation? What if the thing that Fulchius and the others stole, the thing that made our Noros Magi-Generals so powerful, is the thing that the Rondians are still searching for. What if it were the means by which Ascendancy is bestowed?
What if Fulchius stole the Scytale of Corineus?
’
There was a wall of noise, and two faces stood out: Captain Muhren, looking ashen-faced and furious, his face almost enough to make Alaron raise a hand to protect himself. If eyes were daggers, Alaron would be pierced through. And Governor Vult had gone utterly still, with the tiniest hint of a smile on his face.
Alaron belatedly remembered Ramon’s words:
It is a dangerous story to tell, amici
. But surely everyone here must be impressed? Most people didn’t even know about Langstrit’s arrest taking place in Norostein – it wasn’t shown in the legion’s historical records. He had talked to dozens of veterans to pull this all together. And his mother’s library had books most students or even scholars did not have.
‘My conclusion fits the facts,’ he said, by way of rounding things off. ‘The Noros canons stole the Scytale and fermented the revolt. Weak-blooded Noros magi suddenly became powerful. The revolt ended in mysterious circumstances, and the Rondians have been seeking something here ever since. My conclusion fits the facts and explains much that conventional wisdom does not.’
The auditorium buzzed. Headmaster Gavius raised a hand. ‘Quiet please, gentlemen. Is your presentation complete, Master Mercer?’
Alaron nodded. His mind was whirling and he suddenly felt exhilarated. He had got their attention and held it. He hadn’t screwed up the visuals or the words. He felt drained.
Magister Fyrell raised a hand. ‘What evidence have you that the Pallas officials did not simply decide to change the wording on the Ascendancy notices? Or is your whole argument based upon a clerical error, Mercer?’
Alaron suppressed his temper. ‘These proclamations are prepared by the Holy Father in Pallas, Magister. They are regarded as the words of Kore and cannot lie. Therefore the omission must be deliberate.’
Governor Vult raised a hand and Alaron felt a nervous flicker. ‘If the Noros generals suddenly became so powerful, young sir, how is it that I too am not an Ascendant?’ His sycophants laughed dutifully.
Alaron tried to measure the nuances of the question, feeling on uncertain ground. ‘My lord, it is possible that none of the Generals ascended and that the miraculous powers displayed by them were in fact secretly the work of Fulchius, Keplann and Reiter, without assistance. But that doesn’t explain the continued searching. Possibly – and with total respect, sir – the secret was not extended beyond General Robler’s inner circle.’
And we all know what Robler thought of you, your Excellency
.
Vult’s eyebrows came together in a coolly appraising look.
He’ll remember me
, Alaron thought nervously.
Captain Muhren stood. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said to the room, ‘I want to make something very clear. This thesis, while no doubt diligently and honestly attempted, is of as much use historically as a pile of horse-turds.’ Alaron felt something inside himself crumble. The captain went on, his voice strident, ‘I fought in the Revolt, and there were no Ascendant canons slinking about the margins – I was a Primus battle-mage; I would have seen them! We won our victories through planning and courage. War is not a board game! Mighty
magi can die from a single arrow or sword-stroke. I have no doubt that the Scytale of Corineus is right where it should be, where it
must be
, to preserve our empire: in Pallas Cathedral’s vaults.’ He looked at Alaron coldly. ‘General Robler’s victories were based on the courage of our fighting men.’ He glared about him, then sat. The auditorium murmured indignantly, swayed by what he said.
Alaron realised he was opening and closing his mouth like a beached fish. He felt his eyes sting, his skin go hot and cold in waves. It was all he could do to remain upright.
The captain’s tirade had silenced the questions. Alaron risked a peek at the governor, who was whispering to a man beside him. His silvery eyes seemed to pierce Alaron through, and he had a sudden vision of an iron fist behind that velvet visage.
Headmaster Gavius leant forward. ‘Thank you, Master Mercer,’ he said. ‘The panel will consider your thesis, as it does all examination work. You may go.’
Alaron staggered out, past the waiting Ramon, lurched into a privy and vomited. When he emerged from the foetid chamber all he could manage was to totter to a quiet corner of the courtyard and bury his face in his hands.
It took him a long time to get home, where he found that someone had stolen all of his research notes.
‘How’s it going, lads?’ asked Vann as they dined on Sabbadai, the eve of the second week.
‘It’s a nightmare, sir,’ groaned Ramon. ‘The panel hate us. They murder us with questions like knives.’
Vann looked questioningly at Alaron. ‘Yeah, what he said, Da.’ Alaron pointed at Ramon, nodding. He hadn’t told Da all about the thesis, not in detail, nor about the theft – it all hurt too much. Vann had taken pains to tell him to keep his things secure. He’d told Ramon, of course, who was full of theories, but what could they do? The best he could hope for was that maybe if someone had taken it that seriously, perhaps he might scrape a pass-mark. In the meantime, the exams went on.
The second week was for martial tests. On Minasdai Alaron arrived to find Seth Korion slumped in a seat outside the arena, when he should have been inside being tested. It took Alaron a few seconds to realise Korion was actually crying. He had a blackened eye, and a trail of blood and snot was running from his nose. He stared at Alaron like he wasn’t sure he was real. The front of his breeches were sodden: Seth had pissed himself during the test.
‘Rukka mio! What did they do to you?’ Alaron gasped.
What the Hel will they do to me?
Seth looked up at him miserably. It was clear that all the cushy masters’ treatment had left Korion utterly unprepared for the exams. He was failing – unthinkable for anyone, but especially for a Korion.
‘I can’t do it,’ Seth moaned. ‘They keep hitting me. I can’t take any more.’
‘What happened?’ Alaron asked hesitantly. He could no more put the boot in to Korion at the moment than he could drown a kitten.
Tears streamed down Korion’s face. ‘They make you fight one, then two, then three at the same time – just ordinary soldiers, but it’s so hard to keep track of them, and then they start hitting you and it just gets worse. They were talking to me, under their breath, so the judges couldn’t hear, about what they were going to do to me – how much it would hurt – what a cock-sucking pansy I was … I couldn’t take it. I can’t go on—’
‘You’ve got to go back in there,’ Alaron said quietly, ‘and if they hit you, you get back up again.’ He scowled. ‘You liked it plenty watching Malevorn thrashing me all the time.’ He grabbed Korion’s collar and hauled him up. ‘Toughen up, Korion – get back in there!’
‘I can’t,’ Korion whispered. ‘I can’t …’
‘Get up,
coward
.’
The word shocked through Korion as if he’d been struck by lightning and he went utterly white, then his eyes glazed over. For a second, Alaron thought he would collapse, but instead he tottered stiffly back into the arena. Through the gates he dimly heard the clatter of wooden blades, and repeated grunts and cries.
Two men carried Korion out on a stretcher ten minutes later. He was unconscious.
Alaron stared after him, then back at the arena doors.
Holy Kore
…
He limped out an hour later, exhausted. Seth had spoken truly: he’d had to fight trained watchman, in ever-increasing numbers. They may have had blunted swords, but they could still do serious damage if they connected solidly. He was allowed to use the gnosis, but only defensively, not offensively. Parry, shield, leap, lunge if you could – hard work, but he’d managed, with only two touches on him, and those had come right near the end, when he was nearly all in. He’d scored twenty-two. That was pretty good, surely! And as for the verbal abuse, he’d had worse from Malevorn. He’d blanked it out effortlessly.
However Seth hadn’t got to the last part of the test, which was facing a battle-mage. Alaron had exhausted himself with the watchman and had little left when the battle-mage emerged for the last bout. That had been humiliating; he’d been given a right kicking. At least there was a decent, sympathetic healer in the infirmary.
Tydai was archery, difficult and exacting, but it wasn’t overly tiring. No gnosis was permitted. He’d hit a few, missed a few; it felt like a pass. Wotendai was horsemanship in the stable-yard; that went fine: he was a good rider and knew all the horses well. There was no way they could fail him on that.
Torsdai was equipment: timed dismantling and reassembly of a suit of plate-mail; putting barding on a horse – basic tedious stuff. Freyadai was the worst, because that was back to the theatre for battlefield strategy. Alaron had a nightmare beforehand that he would be asked what Vult should have done at Lukhazan, while the governor himself marked him. It didn’t come to that, but he did have trouble explaining Robler’s tactics at Geisen. ‘He was the best,’ he muttered lamely. ‘Of course he won.’ At least he had the sense not to drag his thesis into it.
‘All in all, I think it was a good week,’ he ventured cautiously over the Sabbadai dinner table when Vann asked.
‘Better than the first week,’ agreed Ramon, nodding fiercely.
‘But next week we’re onto the real stuff: the gnosis. All the other things are just trivia,’ said Alaron. ‘These next two weeks are the real test.’
‘Do you think so?’ asked Vann, in his thoughtful questioning manner. ‘I would have thought it the other way round.’
‘How do you mean, Da?’ asked Alaron.
‘Well, your gnosis is important, obviously, but I am sure that the real key is what your attitudes are. Are you prepared to follow orders? To kill on command? Have you the courage to face death? That’s what I would want to know if I were a recruiter.’
The two students looked at each other uneasily. Neither was exactly the unquestioning type.
The format changed in week three. Now it was two tests, one in the morning and the other in the afternoon, so they had to hang around college all day. On the first morning the Pure took over the common room, so Alaron and Ramon went to the garden. Neither said much. The morning was basic magic skills – combat-gnosis: shielding, warding, blasting targets with mage-fire. They were loaned an amber periapt for the exercises, and both agreed it felt good to be allowed to blast something. Soothing, in a way.
They took lunch in the garden to avoid any contact with the Pure, though their confident laughter echoed through the open windows. In the afternoon, the tests were more exacting. They had to work through the runes, little configurations of energy that performed a variety of effects. The panel of tutors and scholars made Alaron demonstrate every one he had been taught, from runes of enchantment to negation of other magic, runes of hiding and finding, locking and unlocking, making protective circles: all the tiny gnosis-workings the students would be called upon to perform on a daily basis once they graduated. By the time it was over Alaron felt a little dizzy, his skin flushed, the air crackling with energy.
‘A bit rough. Clearly only a rote-mage,’ he heard Fyrell remark. Alaron felt himself flinch. Rote-mage was the derogatory term for someone who performed the gnosis in a very rudimentary and inefficient manner – he knew he was better than that.