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The next day was Thirdday, which mean he had the same course schedule as Firstday: Sorcery, Combat, and Logic. Oskar made another good showing in Sorcery and was feeling like today was his day when he completed the warmup for Combat class not too terribly far behind his classmates, survived the second run, and reached the green to discover today’s lesson would be the quarterstaff.
Suppressing a grin, he selected a staff of the perfect length, weight, and thickness. Allyn had worked with him on quarterstaff during their travels and said Oskar was an adept, even gifted, pupil. Master Lang led them through the basic movements, and the familiarity of the exercises brought a smile to Oskar’s face as he remembered the time spent on the road with his friends. He wondered where they all were and what they were doing right now. He supposed Hierm had entered the prince’s academy and was learning the skills of a soldier.
When the warmups were finished, they donned leather gloves and padded jerkins and paired off.
“I don’t suppose the farm boy would care to try his skill?” Shaw stood grinning at Oskar. “Agen grew bored with you and said I could have a go if you have the courage.”
Oskar was happy to oblige, confident this was a fight he could, if not win, at least acquit himself well in. The quarterstaff wasn’t a gentleman’s weapon, and he’d been told Shaw hailed from a wealthy family here in Cardith. He hid his enthusiasm behind a reluctant shrug, even pretending to look around for his friends as he and Shaw took their places.
When Lang called for them to begin, Shaw sprang forward and lashed out with a sweeping stroke that Oskar deftly parried and circled away. Not wanting to give away too much, he remained on the defensive as Shaw, his confidence growing with each stroke that went unanswered, attacked with reckless abandon.
Oskar waited as Shaw tired himself out. Finally, Shaw’s hands fell too low and Oskar struck, cracking Shaw across the back of one hand, followed by a thrust to the gut that forced the wind out of him. Shaw stumbled backward and Oskar swept his feet out from under him. Shaw hit the ground hard and, unable to catch his breath in order to yield, raised his hands in surrender.
“Well fought, Novit Clehn.” Master Lang didn’t smile, but there was a twinkle in his gray eyes.
“Thank you, Master.” Oskar bowed his head, in part to hide his smile. It felt good to receive a compliment.
“You clearly have some skill with the staff. I think your time would be better served working at the sword.” He turned and called for Agen, who hurried over. “Another round of sword with Novit Clehn, if you please?”
Agen agreed, waiting until Lang turned away before giving Oskar his most wicked grin. “I see you abused my friend.” He shot a glance at Shaw, who sat rubbing his hand where Oskar had struck him. “That just won’t do. Let’s find the practice swords, shall we?”
Oskar’s shoulders fell. How quickly a good day could turn bad.
“Very good.” Lang actually managed a smile as he lowered his practice sword. “I already see improvements in your defense.”
“Thank you.” Oskar needed to improve quickly. He now had fresh bruises on top of the old ones inflicted by Agen during their lessons. If he could reach the point where he could work with the class instead of receiving individual instruction from his sadistic classmate, he’d likely endure much less pain. “I’m working as hard as I can.”
“I hear you’re a passable student at Sorcery and History as well.” Agen chuckled at Oskar’s surprised expression. “You don’t think the masters talk to one another?” He glanced up at the sky. “It’s growing late. We should stop for the evening.” He took Oskar’s practice sword, turned and walked toward a nearby outbuilding, and indicated with a tilt of his head that Oskar should follow him. “You have an unusual background,” he said, fishing a key from his belt pouch and unlocking the door.
The combat yard was a surprisingly peaceful place this late in the evening. No one was out practicing, and the adjoining gardens were nearly empty. Oskar noticed one saikur, his hood pulled up over his head, wandering through a small orchard. The quiet and the crisp evening air reminded him of nights at home on the farm, or around the campfire with Shanis, Hierm, and the others.
“I suppose you don’t get many farmers here.”
Lang chuckled again. “It isn’t that; it’s the traveling you’ve done.”
Oskar missed a step. “I’m sorry?”
“Word is, you’ve been to Lothan and also to the mountains in the West. That’s unusual for anyone. Lothan is a dangerous place and the mountains are simply not somewhere anyone travels.” Lang stepped inside, replaced the practice swords on their rack, and stepped back out into the fading light. “Why would a farm boy from Galdora travel there?”
“Who told you I’ve been to the mountains?” Oskar tried to keep the note of suspicion out of his voice. He thought he’d kept that part of his journeys a secret.
“It’s common knowledge among the masters. Zuhayr was the one who told me. I think he had it from Proctor Basilius.”
“Oh.” How had Basilius known about that part of his trip? Had he seen it when he invaded Oskar’s mind? And if he knew that, what else did he know? “I did go to Lothan, but not into the mountains.”
“Again, why would a young man who, by all accounts, has a good head on his shoulders, travel into the midst of clan war?”
“We didn’t hear a great deal about the outer world in Galsbur. I had heard tales of the castle at Karkwall and it was the foreign city closest to where I grew up. I quickly learned otherwise.” He shrugged.
“Did you know I’m a Lothan?”
Oskar shook his head. “I didn’t know for certain. I take it you’re a Malgog? You have the black hair though your eyes are lighter than any I’ve seen.”
“You’ve seen many Malgog?” Lang raised his eyebrows. “How much of the country did you see?”
Oskar cursed inwardly. Freeze his careless tongue! “I met them in Karkwall.”
Lang frowned but didn’t question his story. They walked through the garden area, its trees and shrubs casting inky shadows on the dusk-shaded ground. “I left long ago. The clan war was fruitless. I’ve heard rumors that someone has united the clans, but I doubt it. It’s an impossible task.”
“Perhaps some day.” Oskar could think of nothing else to say without taking the risk of giving away more than he ought to.
Lang fixed him with a level look and nodded once. They entered the castle in silence and bade one another a good night when they parted ways. Oskar waited for the sound of Lang’s footsteps to fade away, and then doubled back.
He kept a sharp eye out as he made his way toward the hidden door, but he was alone. When he reached the tapestry, he looked around one last time before pushing it aside, opening the door and stepping inside.
He whispered the spell he had learned in his last Magic class, and a ball of blue light, no bigger than a robin’s egg, appeared above his palm. A dust-coated staircase rose up before him. The stone walls on either side were constructed of precisely-hewn blocks fitted so neatly together that it appeared no mortar had been needed in construction. He wondered if it was craftsmanship or magic that held the place together.
As he approached the staircase, he noticed that the dust on the floor was disturbed and, on the first step, he spotted a boot print. He looked around more carefully now and spotted dangling cobwebs torn by someone passing this way recently. The realization both comforted and worried him. The knowledge that others used this passageway made it seem less forbidding, but it also raised the possibility that he might bump into someone. He supposed if he heard footsteps, he’d snuff out his light and run, and hope he didn’t break his neck on the way down the stairs. Heart racing, he took a deep breath and mounted the stairs.
The climb through the dark seemed endless, with the steep staircase making the occasional turn, which told him the passageway likely ran along the outer walls of the archives. Based on how long he’d walked, he figured the stairway led to the top floor. That was fine with him, as it would place him far away from Keeper Corwine’s quarters.
He paused at a landing, leaned against the wall, and struggled to catch his breath. He was exhausted from today’s double measure of combat training, and his bruised body screamed in protest. If he had to climb much further, he might just sleep here tonight. The thought reminded him of all the times Mistress Faun had chided him for laziness, and the memory brought a smile to his face. Grinning, he moved on.
Beyond the landing, the stairs rose in a wide spiral. This must be the tower that topped the archives building. At long last, the staircase ended. Panting, his damp hair hanging in his eyes, he staggered over to the door that lay in front of him, turned the knob, and pushed. When it didn’t budge, he threw his shoulder into it, and it banged open.
A light breeze chilled his sweat-soaked body. Pinpricks of light danced before his eyes, and a dizzying sensation of extreme height washed over him.
All these things registered in the split second before his feet went out from under him and he fell toward the gaping darkness below.