Birthright-The Technomage Archive Page 8

  It didn’t matter, though, Ethan Triggs took that rivalry to the extreme. Some of the older scholars and medics referred to the soldiers as meatshields, but Ethan was more than that. He was smart. And because of his size and intelligence, he had never been caught expressly breaking any of the rules that Roman set forth for interaction between students.

  One of the lackeys behind Ethan snickered. “Yeah, I mean, why would we do something else when this is so much fun?”

  Ceril opened his mouth to speak, but Ethan whipped him around to face him and let go of his arm. The abrupt movement stopped whatever Ceril was going to say. “Harn's got a point,” Ethan said. “This is awfully fun. Maybe I should yell at your little, blonde girl down there and see if she wants to come up here and join us. I bet between the four of us, we could have a real good time. Alone.”

  Ceril swallowed. He blinked three times. Then, he just stood there. Silent.

  “What, did I hit a nerve?” Ethan tapped Ceril's shoulder with the palm of his hand and pushed him against the railing.

  More silence from Ceril.

  Ethan looked back and forth between his companions. He jerked his thumb at Ceril, and said, “Now, the way I understand things, it’s you guys who research and invent what we—that’s the soldiers—use in the field. Is that right?”

  Silence.

  “Now, I have to be honest with you, Ceril, I'm not so sure I want a thinker who can't think of what to do on the top tier of the observation deck with a pretty girl like Saryn Bloom making me anything.” Every time he said the word think, he emphasized it by tapping his palm against Ceril’s chest. “Especially something that’s important enough to use when my life's at stake.”

  “He’d probably get us all killed,” said one of the boys behind Ethan. “On purpose.”

  Ethan tapped Ceril's shoulder again, harder. He was pushed up as far as he could be against the railing, and his back was bending slightly over it. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ethan said. “And you know what I don’t want?”

  “To die because some noob doesn’t understand technology like he should?” asked one of the boys.

  Ethan's other palm now found a resting place on Ceril's other shoulder. “Exactly. Exactly that, Harn. And you know, I have a mission tomorrow. It’s a pretty easy Instance run, but it could be dangerous, I guess. The way I see it, if Ceril here doesn’t have the chance to make his inevitable mistakes that kill us, then his inevitable mistakes won’t kill us. Does that make sense?” Ethan pushed harder with both hands, and Ceril bent further backward.

  Ceril put his hands up and said, “Let me go, Ethan. Just stop, okay. I've had enough.”

  “Oh, I bet you have,” Ethan said with a smile. He pushed a little harder.

  Ceril could see down to the next level below out of the corner of his eye. He didn't think the drop would kill him, but there was no way he would escape without having a broken bone or two. And that was if he fell well. If he fell wrong…

  “And then, once you’re not around to screw up my missions, I’ll make sure Saryn over there has enough. Alone, if you get me.” Ethan pushed harder against Ceril’s shoulders, bending him as far back as he could.

  Ceril felt his back pop, and he knew that if he didn’t do something, the next pop wouldn’t be nearly as chiropractic. So he retaliated by putting his hands on Ethan’s chest and trying to push him away.

  Ethan growled. He wasn’t used to being resisted. He braced his feet against the ground and gripped Ceril’s shoulders. His meaty fingers dug in and the large solider pulled Ceril off the ground. The larger student manhandled Ceril like he was a toy. Ethan gritted his teeth, and a sliver of drool slid from the corner of his mouth. His grip became tighter, and Ceril lifted a few inches off the ground.

  Ethan wasn’t just playing around anymore—if he ever had been.

  The situation had escalated so quickly. Ceril pushed against Ethan’s chest, trying to wiggle loose from the soldier Apprentice’s grip.

  There was a flash, and Ethan Triggs’s hands were no longer on Ceril's shoulders. Ceril dropped to the ground and pushed the larger boy away from him.

  As he did, Ethan’s friends backed slowly away. Ethan himself was backing slowly away. And that’s when Ceril saw what happened. What had caused the flash.

  His Flameblade was buried to the hilt in Ethan Trigs’ chest.

  It was sticking directly out of the spot where, only seconds before, Ceril had been pushing with his right hand.

  Ceril blinked. Ethan returned the gesture and dropped to his knees. His hands reached up to the hilt of the sword. A faint purple-green glow emanated from inside the wound in his chest, and he tried to pull.

  The sword did not move. Ethan screamed as he collapsed the rest of the way to the floor. “What,” he gasped, “what did you do to me? Is this—is this a sword?” His voice was incredulous. “W-where did you get a-a sword?”

  “I-I-I-I,” Ceril stammered. He stood gawking at the injured Apprentice on the floor in front of him, unsure of what to do next.

  Ethan’s friend Harn said, “Do something, Ceril! He's hurt!”

  Ceril thought there was only one thing he could do. He knelt down and apologized to Ethan.

  “Damn right you’re sorry,” Ethan said. “You stabbed me with a-a sword!”

  Ceril ignored the insult and pulled on the Flameblade. He expected to feel Ethan's flesh cut beneath his hand, to feel the Flameblade tear through bone, breaking ribs and tearing meat as it moved. But he didn’t.

  Instead, the sword simply vanished. The purple-green fire had obviously not been cauterizing. Ethan was gurgling on the floor. Blood flowed steadily from him. Ethan tried to speak but couldn’t. He would open his mouth, and blood would spurt out of the holes the sword had made in the front and back of his torso.

  He slowly curled into the fetal position, and lay there bleeding out.

  Finally, Ceril gathered his thoughts and yelled at Ethan’s friends. “Go find someone to help. What’s wrong with you two?”

  Both boys just stood there and stared as their friend burbled blood.

  “Go!” Ceril yelled again. “Now!” He turned back and tried to stop the bleeding. Ceril was acutely aware that he did this to Ethan—and not just because he was coated in another student’s blood. It had been his sword—the whole reason he was aboard the Inkwell Sigil—that caused this.

  And Ceril hadn’t even meant to summon it.

  Maybe Roman was right. Maybe he did need to learn to control it better. As though to verify, a large pulse of Ethan’s blood squirted from the wound beneath Ceril’s hand.

  He applied more pressure, and said, “Ethan, come on, man. How are you doing?”

  He spit blood on Ceril’s face in response. Ceril had no idea if it was intentional.

  He used one arm to wipe his face, but it barely helped. Ceril's fatigues were soaked with blood. He leaned down close to Ethan and pressed both of his hands on the older boy's chest and back. He was trying to cover both wounds his Flameblade had made, but he could still feel the blood pushing at his hands. He could feel it spurting into his palms and through his fingers every time Ethan breathed, shuddered, or tried to move.

  Time passed—Ceril had no idea how much—and finally Roman pulled Ceril off Ethan and tossed him to the side. Bryt and Howser immediately went to Ethan’s side. Ceril involuntarily grunted a protest at being tossed around like that, but Roman shushed him.

  He complied. He knew when to keep quiet.

  The next few minutes were surreal, and later, Ceril could only remember snippets from the ordeal. Ceril would remember standing off to the side as the professors tried to save a student’s life. Later, Roman would tell him that Ethan was dead when they had arrived. Ceril was so dazed and had been concentrating so hard on the wounds, he hadn't even noticed.

  Ceril would remember feeling cold, but not just from his clothes being soaked in blood. He shivered and wanted to close his eyes, but didn’t out of respect—penance?—for Et
han.

  I killed someone.

  Later, Ceril would recall Roman coming over to him, stern-faced and long-winded. He had no idea what Roman had said to him. He just remembered Roman offering him a choice.

  He would remember being covered in blood, cold and scared, and Roman offering him a choice.

  Chapter Seven

  “He's dead, Ceril,” Roman said calmly. “You killed him.”

  “I gathered,” Ceril said. He hadn’t intended to sound so callous, but once he spoke, there was no taking it back.

  “You gathered? Really? You gathered that you ended another person’s life? How very astute, boy. Are you proud of yourself?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I suppose I should be thankful for that,” Roman said. “Do you have any idea what is going to happen to you now, son?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m going to give you a choice,” Roman said.

  “A choice?” Ceril said. He raised his eyes to meet Roman's.

  “Yes, Ceril, a choice,” the older man continued. “A choice that you had damned well better think long and hard about before you give me your response.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ceril said. “I will, sir.”

  “Tell me, Ceril. Do you like it here? Really?”

  Ceril thought hard. He liked it in Ternia with Gramps. He liked being in the garden, liked being under the twin suns. He also liked being at Ennd's and rooming with Swarley. But did he like it here? He had spent an entire year in an Instance that was unfathomably far away from everyone and everything he had ever known. A year had passed, and he still wasn’t sure.

  He pursed his lips and stared at Roman.

  Yes. He did like it there. Most of the time.

  “Sometimes, sir,” Ceril finally answered.

  “Sometimes?” Roman sounded hurt. “How incredibly noncommittal of you.”

  Ceril didn’t say anything.

  “Well, I'll tell you what, Ceril. I'll make this easy for you. You have until class tomorrow to decide how much you like it here. There will be consequences for whichever you choose, though. You have until our class tomorrow morning to give me an answer. Do you have any questions?”

  “What sort of consequences, sir?” Ceril asked.

  “Harsh ones.”

  “I kind of figured that,” Ceril said.

  Roman glared. “There’s not going to be an easy way out of this, Ceril. You killed someone, and you’re going to be punished for it.”

  “But I didn’t mean to.”

  “I never said you did, but an Apprentice is dead because your Flameblade impaled him. Whether you meant to or not.”

  “He was trying…to kill me,” Ceril said. He blinked his eyes to clear away the tears that were welling up. “I just wanted him to stop pushing.”

  Roman’s voice was still stern. “What happened, Ceril?”

  Ceril told Roman everything that he could remember. The whole incident was a blur in his memory, but he did the best he could. By the end of it, Ceril was crying. “I was so scared, Roman,” he sobbed. “We were so high up, and…and…I didn’t mean to.”

  “I don’t think you did this on purpose, Ceril, but that doesn’t change the fact that Ethan Triggs is dead. You’re going to have to pay for murdering one of your peers.”

  Ceril couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He said, “I didn't murder him, sir.”

  “Didn’t you? You just told me that you retaliated and Ethan died.”

  “It wasn't murder, sir. It was an accident.”

  Roman said tersely, “I know. The issue, though, is that you did it at all. You killed Ethan. And that's murder, accidental or not.”

  “But…” Ceril started.

  Roman waved one hand for Ceril to be silent, pressed the heel of his other hand into his temple, and rubbed. Ceril understood the gestures to mean his argument had been dismissed.

  “I DIDN'T MEAN TO!” the boy yelled, and as he spoke, he felt a weight appear in his hand. Light reflected on Roman, purplish green light. When Ceril looked down and realized that he was once again holding the sword his Flameblade. Immediately, he let it go.

  The sword fell to the floor. The aura around the blade was just as bright as it had been in the headmaster's office over a year ago, when all this mess started. The glow was undimmed by the band of dried blood that made the tip of the gold blade seem like a capstone, and even dazed, Ceril noted that it was the first time he had ever seen the sword glow on its own, without him touching it.

  Roman remained stoic, but his eyes never left the sword. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but stern. “Tomorrow morning, Ceril. Decide if you want to stay here or go back to Erlon. You will be escorted back to your quarters, where you will remain for the rest of the evening. I hate to do it, but I will seal the door as a precaution. If I hear that you even try to open that door tonight, there will be hell to pay. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ceril managed to say as he stared at the sword lying at his feet.

  “I suggest you take that with you.”

  ***

  The next morning, Roman came to Ceril’s quarters. The door slid open, and Roman stepped into the room.

  “Are you going to stay on board my ship?” Roman asked.

  Ceril sat up. He had been lying awake on his bed all night long. The Flameblade had rested beside him, glowing green and purple, the entire time. He squinted at Roman, and said simply, “Yes.”

  “Then you’re going to learn how to control that thing.” Roman pointed at the Flameblade on the bed. “It’s not a choice, and it’s not optional. If you’re going to stay on board the Sigil, you’re going to learn how to keep that thing out of the way—and out of people’s chests.”

  That had been the entire discussion. Roman turned around and the door closed behind him.

  Since then, any free time Ceril had was spent with Bryt, the small man who mentored the full-time soldiers and had taken on Ceril’s training personally. No other students on board the Sigil would take the chance that Ceril’s Flameblade would materialize in their chest. These training sessions were in addition to the interdisciplinary combat classes that each Charon Apprentice was required to pass. Ceril had despised them at first, but over the years, he had come to enjoy his one-on-one time with Bryt.

  The first day after Ethan’s death, however, had not been enjoyable.

  Ceril and the other Apprentices filed into a classroom, and Bryt stood in front, directing them to their assigned seats. The incoming class of Recruits had dwindled to twenty, which Roman had said was an astonishingly good rate of attrition. Of those twenty Apprentices, twelve of them were in Ceril’s combat class. Roman said it was supposed to help them understand “how the other side lives.”

  Bryt gestured to empty seats behind two rows of tables as the students passed him on their way in. When he got to Ceril, the teacher put out his hand.

  “Mind waiting up here for a minute, Ceril?” Bryt asked. The small man smiled at Ceril, which made his stomach clench.

  Ceril shrugged and stepped behind the professor to allow him to finish seating the other students. Ceril could feel them looking at him as he stood there. He started to fidget and sweat—he did not want to be there. All he wanted to do was curl up in his quarters and cry. After what had happened with Ethan the day before, he couldn’t believe that he was being forced to go to class. He hadn’t slept all night, either, but he was somehow full of nervous energy. It was sickening. He bounced up and down, trying to settle himself a little. It didn’t work.

  As he bounced, though, he noticed that the floor was actually a mat of some kind. That made sense. This was a basic combat course, which also explained the extra space at the front of the class between the desks and the projection screen.

  Once all the Recruits had been seated, Bryt said, “Good morning, Apprentices! Welcome to our first meeting of Interdisciplinary Combat. You’re here because you all had the poor judgment to choose a path other than soldier.”

&
nbsp; Bryt gave the students a few seconds to whisper among themselves. Since Ceril was alone, he just thought what everyone else muttered: Is this guy for real? What’s his problem?

  Bryt smiled. “I’m kidding. Really. The soldier’s path is not for everyone, and I of all people know that. I began studying as a medic when I was where you are, but soon found out that I could handle blood and guts far more easily when they didn’t belong to people I knew and cared about.”

  Ceril couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a joke. Judging from the looks on the rest of his classmates’ faces, they couldn’t either.

  After that, Bryt continued talking. Ceril had a hard time catching more than a few words. From the way his back ached and eyes burned, he would have thought it had been months since he had slept, not just one night.

  Killing someone will do that to you, he thought. All night long, he had kept seeing the Flameblade kill Ethan Triggs over and over. He kept seeing the blood rushing out of the boy. And with every repeat, Ceril’s stomach churned harder. He began to sweat more, and Ceril could feel his clothes sticking to him.

  Bryt continued to lecture without even acknowledging why he had asked Ceril to stand in front of the classroom, and on almost any other day, Ceril might have said something to Bryt.

  But not after last night. After killing Ethan, he was afraid that if he so much as clipped his nails the wrong way—much less interrupt a professor’s lecture—he would be sent back home.

  So he stood still and waited in front of the class. He tried to avoid eye contact with anyone who looked at him, while still doing what he could to listen to Bryt. He failed at all three tasks.