Niles

  The mines stunk of sulfur and sweat.

  Niles had never gotten used to the smell. He knew he should have—a lesser’s body adapted to its environment.

  His hadn’t.

  The men around him struck the walls in unison, their timing beaten in by this point. A sheen of perspiration slicked their necks. Previously new shirts had lost their sleeves and now wore those marked signs of long days: hastily quilted-on patches, linen rough as leather, and threadbare seams. Dirt covered every inch of bare skin, proof that what baths they were allowed came infrequently. The sound of steel stone echoed down the cave.

  Taking a cloth from his belt hoop, Niles covered his nose.

  Metal sparked in the dim light. “Pick broken!” called a high-pitched voice. Hans. The Ruddite had been moved to their group a week ago, after defying the commands of his overseer. Dark bruises still framed his eyes from the beating he’d received as punishment. Lacerations marked where the whip had cut through his clothes.

  He deserved execution for his disobedience, Niles thought, bristling.

  His family would not have tolerated such disobedience. Yet wartime efforts made repurposing the unruly more common.

  “Niles! Take his place,” called out Griggs, their foreman. “Hans, back of the chain! We’ve spare picks there. Break another and you’ll be moved again. With twice the lashes.”

  Niles stepped forward—a minor victory, but he was growing accustomed to leading. Such was the way of the Fated, even when they fell. Sometimes. he wondered how Phiry managed without him. Was she casting as he slaved away?

  It’s her right.

  Their parents had held her back for a semester of personal tutelage after he’d failed. The city’s elder’s had not been pleased, but the Veldon family spared no expense, and money had a way of settling most matters.

  They should have done the same for me. Dirt grated between his teeth. He could be serving his family as a cartwright or tradesma—

  He cut that line of thinking short, and forced himself to relax. Those were dangerous ideas–poisonous ones, sent from the Far-away to trick him into jealousy. His place lay here.

  This was a punishment fitting to his failure.

  With perfect precision, his pick hit the cave wall and laystone crashed to the earth. A cloud of dust caught in his throat. Covering his mouth, he coughed, then leaned over to collect a bead of silver ichor from the mess.

  The mineral moved.

  Niles’ pulse raced. Surely, it was just a trick of the light. Surely. Everyone knew ichor only reacted to those with magic, and he’d burned that torch out binding with the four-star grimoire. Yet his hand still trembled as he cleaned off the ore. Hope he hadn’t known he had flared, then snuffed out quickly as it had come when the bead remained still.

  “Heathen’s heaven,” he whispered, shaking his head.

  The reality of his situation hit him then, in a way it had not done so until now. This was his future: ten years and a day of the mines. Dozens more of the hacking and coughing like a stitcher, if he survived. The family’s healers could only do so much for decade-long ailments.

  “Tides drowning you, lording?”

  A shiver crawled down Niles’ spine. Hans had returned—somehow traversing the mine without making a noise—and though his words came out in a rush, his voice carried. Grip tightening on his pickaxe, Niles pretended he’d heard nothing.

  Only mad shepherds spoke to their flock.

  “Suit yourself,” the boy said, and began to work the opposite wall. Despite his small size, Hans brought down chunks of rock with every swing.

  Yet work alone did not a man make. Attitude separated the few from the rest, and he’d not associate with anyone shameless enough to defy a superior. It was as the stanzas said: “Kiss the hand that beats, for it is the one that feeds.”

  Mother loved that phrase.

  Looking around, he could see why. These men were examples of what happened when Ruddites knew discipline, but not gratitude. They sulked around with grim expressions, treating their tasks as chores. In this way, all were worse failures than he. They cared nothing for their craft. No pride lit their eyes.

  Only Hans had any fire.

  That made him the greatest sinner here—he had pride without discipline. Such attitude demanded fixing. So much so that Niles felt some pity for the traitor. Lost lambs rarely found the right path on their own.

  “Break!” Giggs yelled several hours of laboring later. Niles straightened and stretched out his sore arms. Time felt different down in the mines. It came and went, the mind-dulling work the only constant to measure anything with. The crack of whip on stone greeted them as they arrived in the central dining cavern. Some lackwit had likely failed to meet quota. Screams bounced off the walls as the whip came down again and again. Hans, standing at his side, shuddered.

  Coward.

  The boy had tried for conversation once more during their shift, when he’d casually mentioned Binding Day. Niles knew why: the Ruddite aimed to pry into his past.

  “Food first, then Sermon. Prophet knows you sluggards need it!’ shouted a heavy overseer as they reached the pantry line. The guard’s hastily muttered spell resulted in twenty shackles coming loose, one for each man in the chain.

  Some groups had women, Niles knew. But not his. Not when there were less-grueling tasks to be done around the mines.

  Roset worked the canteen today. The older lady was unusually sweet for a matron, and always served him a generous portion of huskmeal and lichenroot. He hated the cold slop, yet kept silent. Polite, and uplifting, this woman was worth respecting and he’d not burden her by whining.

  One day, I’ll make sure Mother hires her.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Sitting on an iron-braced bench, he ate.

  Or began to. Hans took the spot to his left, one leg straddling the plank. “How do those greens compare to noble eats? Better than you’ll admit I bet. My um, nan used to fry them up with a little strider-oil, before the sea took her. You’d have loved the way she cooked. Feeling in every bite, she’d say—”

  Flavorless food passed through Niles’ lips as he tuned the monologue out. It proved nearly impossible, as Hans spoke the entire time without stopping.

  “So!” the boy said, his small fist hitting the bench loudly enough to rattle a plate. “You're named after that hero, right? Niles of Worldsworth? The one who shielded the Prophet from Manarji betrayal?”

  Niles blinked.

  How did this scav know that? Had a scholar really wasted words teaching the streetrat? Not that it even mattered—educated or not, Hans was a pariah, and Niles needed to get away from him before the overseers began to think the two of them friendly.

  One hundred and thirty-nine span to go, he thought as he stood up and collected his plate.

  He’d just under ten years to turn these broken Ruddites into loyal miners.

  ~~~

  Callam

  Sebastian didn’t show.

  Not in that first hour, after they’d hiked to the clearing between two rolling hills where they’d agreed to meet him. Nor in the second, when they’d tackled their first Prairieplight under Moose’s boisterous guidance. Both Callam and Lenora had taken their usual positions up twin trees, then she’d used her motes of magic to reel a beast into the sunlight. Once the rays had weakened it, the mountain of a boy had charged in while they attacked from afar.

  Three spells had helped the specialist thrive. The first, “Mati melfane sevi phomin salvi,” had reinforced the shield he carried, which proved vital in protecting him from the many roots soon attacking his position. “Ka vel dra noon ti rel ma shay ku zar,” his second spell, had acted as a passive amplifier—he’d explained it allowed him to empower each blow with a tenth of his enemy’s strength. His last spell "Zárima, élvador, únashi, kélatar," he’d only cast once, and had kept its description intentionally vague, grumbling something about how only stupid soldiers shared their secrets.

  Up in the oak, Callam smiled at the second-year’s efforts to be cryptic. Bark chafed at his legs, so he repositioned. He’d have to fake ignorance moving forward. His Seedling’s scar had burned the moment the giant had finished incanting, and though his relic hadn’t translated all of the spell, it had revealed enough for him to guess the magic’s function: it made Moose stationary and invulnerable for a brief span.

  Interestingly, the incantation also marked the first time Callam had heard a student use a different pentameter, which piqued his curiosity. Did all second-years learn different spellforms? Or only those with powerful grimoires?

  Questions for my next visit to the Roots.

  Reaching for his tome, he readied himself to cast again. A golden leaf clung to his hair. Paying it no mind, he watched Lenora’s motes race to the shadowed grasslands, grateful his control had improved enough for him to cast consecutively without taxing his body or losing his wits. If he was honest, spellwork had never felt easier—almost as if his body relished the chance to drain his stored-up mana. A welcome change, that, especially when hunting without a tonic. Spell-backlash out here would leave him vulnerable to attack, and Moose, for all his strengths, lacked an effective way to draw enemy aggression. Only by constantly running about had he managed to keep them safe.

  Rote’s right. Anything dexterous will move around him. Or fly straight over.

  “Spit and steel,” the giant swore as the second’s beast’s vines gave way to Lenora’s fire. The boy’s breaths came in heavy pants. “One to go?” he shouted in her direction. When she confirmed, he turned to Callam. “How about you pull the ’plight this time? Nora’s fishing leaves me running blind, never knowing where exactly to stand. If we can freeze the gods-damned thing before it unburie—”

  “Only limitation is my mana,” Callam interrupted, already swinging down from the thick branch he’d been straddling. Sweet smelling moss softened his fall. Moose’s conclusion made perfect sense: why rely on Lenora to lure in the creatures, when Callam’s magic allowed him to see them underground? A preemptive strike might even kill the things before they mustered up any type of defense. “I’ve two casts before I need an hour’s rest.”

  Waist-high stalks grazed his shirt as he made for a bushy area shrouded by cloud cover. Dozens of blood-red birds circled overhead. Insects buzzed and chirped. “Ready?” he shouted once the shade was a mere twenty paces away. Grasses and shrubs swayed in the muted light—this was, to his best estimation, the range of his spell.

  Twenty paces. Twenty human paces.

  A fourth that or less, in prairieplight terms. Even weakened by direct sunlight, the creature’s roots would eat up the ground. And eat me too, if I’m not careful. Dread pooled at his stomach. Memories of shifting clouds and the burning willows surfaced. To say he felt nervous was an understatement. He lacked body Scripting. Should Moose fail to protect him, he’d never make it out alive.

  “Security begets responsibility,” he whispered to himself. It had been a while since he’d thought of the simple stanza.

  “Your lead,” Lenora called out from her tree. Moose, having approached from the far side of the clearing, raised his shield up and grunted the go-ahead.

  “Infer Intus, Ater, Infer Intus!”

  Soft greys met Callam’s eyes. Spools of green and the occasional gold or white littered the warped landscape. A rush shot through his limbs, yet the jolt was tempered. Manageable. It no longer brought fear or hunger. He was the painter here, and this was his canvas.

  Two prairieplights laid in wait, their roots curling around the edges of his range. Unfortunately, they were too close together to pull just one.

  He said as much.

  “How large?” Moose replied. The ground thudded as he paced around.

  “A dozen blots each.”

  “Great,” Moose grunted. “I’ll grab my easel,”

  Callam bit down a laugh. Emotions still proved harder to control in this state. “Younglings, I think.”

  “Freeze them, then.”

  With a twist of Callam’s fingers, he did just that. Blue and white ink shot out of the ground as he tugged on the nearest roots. Then the sound of cracking wood shot filled the void, followed by an unearthly scream. Even in his altered state, the hurt it carried made him flinch.

  Maybe Lenora’s right to pity these creatu—

  Hundreds of thin roots erupted upwards before he could finish the thought, each sharp as a spear. Yet those closest to him moved haggardly, splinters lining the broken shoots.

  “Mati melfane sevi phomin salvi,” Moose shouted as he moved into position. His voice had never sounded so loud. Dozens of roots slammed into his shield. Wood shattered on the metal in a shower of barbs. “Lenora, burn any that make it by me. Callam, end your cast on my mark. Hold…

  Hold…

  Douse them in sunlight… now!”

  Callam didn’t need telling twice—more roots breached the ground with each passing second. Ink flooded outward from his grimoire as he released the spell. Blots of gold and green painted the grasses, then warm browns streaked to the far-off trunks and branches. Dark greys shot for skies and clouds.

  Dark grey—

  Wind slammed into Callam and forced him to take a step back. Rain pelted his face. A chill very different from spell backlash bit at his skin and pushed back his hair. Above him, desperate birds caught in the downdraft cawed out in panic. Rodents scrambled by in the hundreds, all eager to escape. Moose stood perfectly still, mouth open, eyes fixed on the storm overhead. He couldn’t hear Lenora at all.

  His heart pounded. Louder with every passing beat. Louder as he looked around. Shadows had swallowed the entire prairie. And judging by the thousands of roots breaching the earth, all of it was now a hunting ground.

  “Moose, RUN!” The words tore past Callam’s lips as he began to sprint. Dirt kicked up underfoot. Each step felt like moving lead. Terror the likes of which he’d not experienced since surviving the Writ’s manor threatened to overwhelm him. Everyone knew the first floor of the Tower did not have poor weather. Couldn’t have poor weather, unless someone hexed a part of the skies. And that wasn’t a practical thing to do.

  It required more than power and money. It required planning, and knowing exactly where a group of unexpecting tomebound would be.