Chapter 5 – Nightmare

She awoke to Lily shaking her, saying “wake up! Wake up!”

Mirian clutched her chest, hand trembling.

“Gods above,” Lily said, shaking slightly herself. “I hope the whole dorm didn’t hear that.”

“Huh?” Mirian said intelligently.

“The screaming. You were screaming. You were screaming really loud.”

Mirian blinked. “Oh. Shit. Sorry. I… was having a bad dream.” As she said it, though, she was thinking, I’ve never had a dream like that before. Usually, she forgot her dreams. If she didn’t, they were really generic, like getting chased through the woods by a bog lion, or forgetting she had a presentation in class. The only time she’d had nightmares, like, real nightmares was when she was really little.

“Well, I guess. I damn near had a heart attack. Please don’t have any more dreams like that.”

Not that it was something she could control, but she said, “I won’t. Jeez. Really sorry.”

“Okay. Well, I’m going back to sleep.”

It was still only four o’clock. “Yeah, me too,” said Mirian, but then she just lay there, and when it became clear there was no way she was going to be able to go back to sleep, she got up, dressed, and left.

Mirian ate breakfast in one of the dorm’s common rooms, paging through her notebook, checking to see how well she’d memorized the truly ludicrous number of magichemicals and categories. The study session had helped a lot.

She sat there for awhile, appreciating the quiet of the morning. When a gaggle of second and third years came in, she left, heading out early to her class.

The Alchemistry exam was ten pages, and as students flipped through them, a collective despair began to make itself feel present in the class. As Professor Seneca patrolled the aisles, the growing worried expression on her face dealt another blow to the class’s morale. Mirian kept her head down and stayed focused.

After the Alchemistry exam, she felt like she’d hiked a mountain. She had absolutely no idea how well she’d done, only that she never wanted to label or draw another magichemical diagram again. However, true to what Nicolus had said, the questions they’d studied had been a lot like the ones on the test. After the exam, though, three other girls surrounded him to talk about something, so she didn’t check in with him. No sense getting involved in whatever that was about.

In Myrvite Ecology, Professor Viridian had a more recognizable plant. “Jelly Bell,” he said, smiling to the class. This plant didn’t warrant the warded pot or the gauntlet. Jelly Bell was aptly named: It looked like a jellyfish grew a stem. Inside the transparent bell were a cluster of blue-green leaves. The draping tendrils looked spiky, but were actually soft, and Viridian demonstrated that by running his hand over them. As he did, the plant glittered. “Harmless to touch, harmless to harvest. The plant is impossibly bitter, and a powerful laxative, but unless you need to defecate very badly, I wouldn’t recommend eating it. It looks like tiny dew drops form on the leaves inside the bell, but it’s actually hydromyrite phosphorus, 31-A. Again, very useful in…?”

Valen seemed to be the only person who ever answered questions in class. “Common glyphs,” she said when she was called on.

“And?”

“Water-based elixirs.”

“Very good,” he said, beaming. “Now today, we’re going to learn why if you plant Jelly Bell in your garden, it will simply die.” This involved writing down a few magichemicals, but mostly, it became clear that Jelly Bell, along with a great number of magical plants, depended very much on fungi that lived in the soil, and those fungi, in turn, were very particular about what kind of soil they could grow in. It also seemed to only grow directly above the Labyrinth. It didn’t seem to matter how far down the Labyrinth was, as long as it was below. This potted sample was apparently one of five samples that had been successfully grown in a greenhouse.

“The complex ecology required for so many myrvite species is invisible to us, yet totally critical to their survival,” the professor said. “This in turn explains why so many magichemicals can only be obtained by expeditions into the wilderness, or the Labyrinth. And yet, because we cannot synthesize these chemicals in any laboratory, they are our only source of these critical resources. A strong argument for preservation and care. In the short term, it’s more profitable to cut apart the forest and sell the pieces. But that makes long term profits impossible. The clever arcanist finds a way to protect the source of all their spells, and thinks to the future.”

Professor Viridian was apparently nostalgic for another era, Mirian thought. Two hundred years ago, the world was still wild and untamed all over. Cities and farms only survived behind walls and armed patrols, and any travel was inherently dangerous, as chimeras, drakes, and other myrvite predators often attacked caravans. These days, thanks to spell engines powering wards and helping clear cut wild areas, travelers could move between the major cities without risk of dying, even if they didn’t take one of the magitech trains.

Artifice Design was just more presentations, but the only thing Mirian bothered to take notes on was Professor Torres’s critiques. Several of her peers had spent upwards of 10 drachm—half of her monthly rent!—on their simple devices and still managed to make sub-par junk.

Arcane Mathematics wrapped up its final lesson. The exam would be after the weekend. Then, after the last exams and practicals, there would be a week of rest before the second quarter started. Mirian had already planned what classes she would take, and from whom. Sadly, Professor Jei was not teaching anything else. “Busy with project,” was all she’d say. Mirian thanked her for her wonderful teaching at the end of the lesson, and almost thought she saw Professor Jei smile—but no, she never did that.

Then it was Fifthday night, and all that lay before was the weekend.

Mirian went straight back to her dorm.

“Duels?” Lily asked her.

“Duels,” Mirian said, smiling. She changed into her duelist’s uniform, complete with the poofy pantaloons and fencing jacket. For Mirian, these possessions ranked just under her notebook and scribe’s pen as her most valued things. They were nice—far nicer than she could afford. The woven jacket had a layer of drake scales at the shoulders and chest, and the dueling gloves were wyvern leather, dyed black on the outside but with bright red palms. She’d won them as a prize in her preparatory school for finishing first in the region’s youth duelist tournament. “You want to come?”

Lily looked at the stacks of notes and books at her desk with tired disgust. “Yeah, hell, why not.”

There was nothing Mirian liked to do more on a Fifthday. Rapier dueling was a time-honored tradition for arcanists of every time, though the tradition was slowly withering as guns and spell engines made the sword a useless relic for anything practical. Torrviol Academy was one of the few institutions that still required it, though even they only required it for students looking to graduate as battlemages or combat sorcerers.

However, they strongly encouraged dueling, eximontar riding, and racing, and students obtained another honorific seal on their degree if they regularly entered into those events. A great deal of that was reputation. For a long time, Torrviol had produced not just arcanists, but well rounded and physically fit magic users who were the mainstay of the Baracuel armies. Graduating from Torrviol had usually meant being fast tracked in the officer corps.

These days, it still was an important part of their reputation, but the relevance was slowly fading. Still, Mirian loved it. For that time, she could forget all the pressure on her to perform, forget all the things she was supposed to do, and just fight.

They walked together toward the Stygalta Arena. This was a stadium built much like the ancient arenas, with towering brick walls encased in marble and huge pillars and arches. The capitals atop the columns were that of the stygala owl, a predatory looking bird with four wings and narrow eyes. The feathers evoked the same feeling as knives. Mirian had no idea why the stadium was named after that particular myrvite, but the theme of twisted feathers and blades stirred something in her.

The center of the arena was closed. It only opened during tournaments. On the outer ring, students were riding eximontar, those skeletal six-legged horse-like beasts that were so synonymous with Baracuel and magi. It was one of the few myrvites that could be domesticated and trained. Mana from the rider could be used to direct them, hence the connection to arcanists. Mirian had wanted one badly as a young girl, but had finally accepted that borrowing one from the academy was good enough. They were expensive to feed, since they only ate magical plants.

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On the outside of the arena on the ground level, beneath the stands, the academy had made dozens of small rooms where students could train in dueling or fitness.

Mirian went to the quicksilver room where the highest rated combatants trained. She recognized Platus, one of the boys in her enchantments class who she’d also known back in her preparatory school. She was always amazed that he advanced each year, though she supposed ‘combat sorcerer’ needed a lot less brains than the usual degrees. He had a body more fit for two-handed swords, but no one used those here.

She also recognized Liamar, by reputation the best swordsman in Torrviol, and that included the instructors. He was lithe and tall, his pale skin a sure sign that he came from the far north of Baracuel. It was rare to see him in the arena training rooms. Usually, he worked with his coach in a more private setting. Mirian hoped she would get to fight him today.

Warm-ups were ad hoc. There were ten circular areas to duel in. Mirian chose one, and found a stranger to bout with, while Lily took a seat to watch. Her roommate struck up a conversation with another group of students observing from the side, though Mirian couldn’t hear it. She practiced her parries and footwork. The dueling swords they used were heavily enchanted so that they were stopped the moment they would pierce flesh, and instead, a rotating red cylinder of glowing symbols by the tip announced a hit. That was one point. If the momentum wasn’t slowed sufficiently enough, or it only needed to be deflected, yellow light surrounded the blade, announcing a glancing blow, which only counted for a quarter of a point.

The first to five points won.

There was one other way to win: a direct strike that would otherwise pierce the heart or head encased the entire blade in a red field, signaling a killing blow. That was worth five points all by itself.

A director of athletics pulled duels by lot. A chalkboard listed a name and number for each of the participants, with tally-marks for each victory. “Five and seven,” the director called.

Miran made a face. She was five. Seven, she had just seen, was Valen. Valen smiled when she saw her, that haughty smirk that said, I’m better than you, and I know it. Gods Mirian hated that smirk.

Valen was four inches shorter than Mirian, which meant Mirian had the advantage in reach, but Valen was fast. Mirian tried to get in with a quick lunge, but Valen easily parried the attack then sent Mirian wheeling backward as she got under her guard. Mirian recovered, but then Valen gave a convincing feint that Mirian tried to parry, only to find her opponent’s blade planted firmly above her heart, glowing red.

“Bout,” the judge said, and Valen gave Mirian a head tilt and another condescending smile.

Mirian clenched her jaw and shook hands, then walked away.

“Ouch,” said Lily. “Bad luck I guess.”