at a girl not far away. ‘Hey, look, there’s Gina Weber. Aren’t you and she going to be betrothed?’
‘No!’ said Alaron sourly, ‘not if I have any say in it, anyway.’
‘Which you won’t,’ put in Ramon unsympathetically.
Alaron peered at the fleshy blonde girl clinging to Jostyn Weber’s arm. His father Vann was trying to gesture him over. ‘I’m not talking to that boneheaded milkmaid,’ he grumbled, pretending not to notice. He looked down at Ramon. ‘I can’t believe you only got four dumplings for three fennik– that’s more than three times the normal price. I thought Silacians knew how to bargain?’
Ramon smirked sourly. ‘Of course I bargained! No one else was getting more than one per fennik, so count yourself lucky.’
A blast of trumpetry made further conversation impossible. Governor Belonius Vult appeared at the doors to the town hall, walking down the stairs to the sound of a low, half-hearted cheer. Some twenty more magi, Rondians attached to the occupying army, followed him. Alaron could remember previous years when Governor Vult had been loudly jeered, but dissident voices were rare now the governor had settled into his powerful role. Not that everyone now approved of him, but these days it was neither profitable nor safe to show it.
‘Look, it’s Lord Craven of Lukhazan,’ muttered Alaron to Ramon for old times’ sake.
Vult mounted a horse and led the Town Council out of the courtyard. The noise outside in the plaza rose momentarily, then fell as the rain intensified, sending a collective shiver up thirty thousand spines.
Alaron wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Come on then, let’s get this over with.’
After the town leaders, came the magi, the Kore-blessed wielders of the gnosis. Seats were reserved at the front of the cathedral for them, and that included around a hundred students, mostly Noromen, but also from Verelon, Schlessen and, unusually, one Silacian: Ramon. They ranged in age from twelve to eighteen, with just nine or ten students in each year – Turm Zauberin was, after all, both expensive and exclusively male. The magi-girls of the region went to an Arcanum Convent outside of town, and all of them were here today, well-chaperoned, but eyeing the boys with interest – TurmZauberin boys were a good catch, more so than those from the poorer provincial Arcanums.
Alaron’s year was smaller than usual, a legacy of the Revolt. As well as him and Ramon, there were only five others: Seth Korion, Francis Dorobon, Malevorn Andevarion, Boron Funt and Gron Koll. Only Funt and Koll were actually Noromen, the other three present because their guardians were involved in the Rondian occupying forces. All but Koll were pure-bloods – they referred to themselves as ‘The Pure’ and treated Alaron and Ramon like dirt.
Malevorn, the most gifted of them, lifted a haughty eyebrow as they approached the procession. ‘Look what’s crawled from under the flagstones. Where have you been, Mercer, selling oatcakes outside?’
Francis Dorobon grinned and sniggered. ‘Yeah, piss off, Mercer. Your place is at the back.’ Dorobon was supposedly the rightful king of some place in Antiopia.
They’re welcome to him
, Alaron thought,
and good luck to the poor heathen bastards
. He could grudgingly admit that Malevorn was both talented and blood-strong; Dorobon was merely the latter, and the same could be said for Seth Korion, son of the famed general. Boron Funt was a portly youth who had ‘priest’ written all over him, and Koll – well, Koll was just slime personified.
Alaron muttered under his breath and tried to sidle around them, but Malevorn laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. He was strikingly handsome, with a large-boned frame and tanned skin that made him look years older than he was, and he oozed rakish charisma. His black hair curled about his ears and his grey eyes were steely. ‘Hey, Mercer, I see that slut Weber is still trying to get your father to agree to a
‘No!’ said Alaron sourly, ‘not if I have any say in it, anyway.’
‘Which you won’t,’ put in Ramon unsympathetically.
Alaron peered at the fleshy blonde girl clinging to Jostyn Weber’s arm. His father Vann was trying to gesture him over. ‘I’m not talking to that boneheaded milkmaid,’ he grumbled, pretending not to notice. He looked down at Ramon. ‘I can’t believe you only got four dumplings for three fennik– that’s more than three times the normal price. I thought Silacians knew how to bargain?’
Ramon smirked sourly. ‘Of course I bargained! No one else was getting more than one per fennik, so count yourself lucky.’
A blast of trumpetry made further conversation impossible. Governor Belonius Vult appeared at the doors to the town hall, walking down the stairs to the sound of a low, half-hearted cheer. Some twenty more magi, Rondians attached to the occupying army, followed him. Alaron could remember previous years when Governor Vult had been loudly jeered, but dissident voices were rare now the governor had settled into his powerful role. Not that everyone now approved of him, but these days it was neither profitable nor safe to show it.
‘Look, it’s Lord Craven of Lukhazan,’ muttered Alaron to Ramon for old times’ sake.
Vult mounted a horse and led the Town Council out of the courtyard. The noise outside in the plaza rose momentarily, then fell as the rain intensified, sending a collective shiver up thirty thousand spines.
Alaron wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Come on then, let’s get this over with.’
After the town leaders, came the magi, the Kore-blessed wielders of the gnosis. Seats were reserved at the front of the cathedral for them, and that included around a hundred students, mostly Noromen, but also from Verelon, Schlessen and, unusually, one Silacian: Ramon. They ranged in age from twelve to eighteen, with just nine or ten students in each year – Turm Zauberin was, after all, both expensive and exclusively male. The magi-girls of the region went to an Arcanum Convent outside of town, and all of them were here today, well-chaperoned, but eyeing the boys with interest – TurmZauberin boys were a good catch, more so than those from the poorer provincial Arcanums.
Alaron’s year was smaller than usual, a legacy of the Revolt. As well as him and Ramon, there were only five others: Seth Korion, Francis Dorobon, Malevorn Andevarion, Boron Funt and Gron Koll. Only Funt and Koll were actually Noromen, the other three present because their guardians were involved in the Rondian occupying forces. All but Koll were pure-bloods – they referred to themselves as ‘The Pure’ and treated Alaron and Ramon like dirt.
Malevorn, the most gifted of them, lifted a haughty eyebrow as they approached the procession. ‘Look what’s crawled from under the flagstones. Where have you been, Mercer, selling oatcakes outside?’
Francis Dorobon grinned and sniggered. ‘Yeah, piss off, Mercer. Your place is at the back.’ Dorobon was supposedly the rightful king of some place in Antiopia.
They’re welcome to him
, Alaron thought,
and good luck to the poor heathen bastards
. He could grudgingly admit that Malevorn was both talented and blood-strong; Dorobon was merely the latter, and the same could be said for Seth Korion, son of the famed general. Boron Funt was a portly youth who had ‘priest’ written all over him, and Koll – well, Koll was just slime personified.
Alaron muttered under his breath and tried to sidle around them, but Malevorn laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. He was strikingly handsome, with a large-boned frame and tanned skin that made him look years older than he was, and he oozed rakish charisma. His black hair curled about his ears and his grey eyes were steely. ‘Hey, Mercer, I see that slut Weber is still trying to get your father to agree to a
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