Common Clay

Michael led him through the maze of the Academy, crossing courtyards and passing by large rooms filled with chairs.

Eventually, the page led him to a new part of the Academy, one that was set a small distance from the rest of the building. Even before the place had come fully into sight, Clay could hear the familiar sound of a hammer pounding metal, and he grinned to himself as he prepared himself to face the blacksmith of the Academy. He pictured another humble [Commoner] like Adam back in Pellsglade, someone who was close enough to the trades to not have lost sight of the rest of the world, even when surrounded by adventurers.

He was swiftly disappointed.

The moment he stepped into the Forge, it was as if he had entered a startling new world. It was a room nearly half the size of Baron Pellsglade’s manor house, with anvils and workstations lining the walls. Heat flared from furnaces all along the walls, all feeding into chimneys that rose high above them. Some of the fires didn’t burn a familiar red and yellow; he saw blue, green, and purple fire as well, swirling in patterns that caught the eye.

It wasn’t just one blacksmith in the Forge. Clay watched as a small army seemed to move between the fires, hammering on hot steel or plunging glowing weapons into barrels to cool. Some were busy carving arcane symbols into wood or metal, while others surrounded equipment and filled the air with low chanting that seemed to fill the air with the crackle of power. The sheer scale and energy of the place stunned him for a moment, and Michael took a handful of steps into the Forge before he realized Clay hadn’t followed him.

By the time Clay had recovered, a giant figure abruptly loomed over him. He looked up and found a face half-covered by a bristling black beard glaring down from a head mounted on shoulders that were well above eye level. Two slate grey eyes were fixed on him with a mixture of belligerence, amusement, and curiosity that threw him immediately off balance.

The man’s stature was not the only thing that was strange about him. He wore only a tunic and pants. They were plain, homespun items that could have come from any village weaver—except for the fact that each item could have housed at least two normal people. His right hand, however, looked like it had been sheathed in a dark metal gauntlet, which had been inscribed with glowing runes of some kind. His right foot wore a normal, plain boot, but his left was clad in a solid metal armor as well. A broad, heavy longsword was laid across his shoulder, the bare steel glimmering in the lights of the Forge as if it had just been dipped into a stream.

“So. Here is the brand new initiate, fresh from the trial grounds. How did it go?”

Clay reeled back a little—even the man’s voice seemed ready to batter down a wall—but he still managed to collect himself and respond. “I passed, Sir…”

“Orn. Armsman Orn, though the Sir still applies.” Orn shrugged, tilting the sword on his shoulders back and forth. The fingers of his gauntleted hand flexed a little on the hilt. “I haven’t been in the field in ages, but the Council has put me in charge of the physical equipment and training for our cadets and initiates. Those yours?”

The giant gestured at Clay, taking in the boar spear, shortbow, and knife in a single motion. Clay nodded, and Orn held out a hand.

With a hint of reluctance, Clay handed over the boar spear. It looked like it had shrunk as Orn picked it up. With an elaborately casual motion, Orn set the sword aside and began examining the spear more closely, running his hands along the oaken shaft and peering closely at the crossguard and the spearpoint. He muttered to himself as he did.

“Yes, solid craftsmanship. Must have been a very experienced weaponsmith. Some minor fracturing, I suppose, but not enough to really tell at this point. I’d say it would have held up for ages still. Where did you get it?”

Clay blinked at the question. “At the village blacksmith back home.”

Orn smiled. “And where is home, young hero?”

“Pellsglade. The smith’s name was—”

“David! David of Pellsglade.” Orn broke out into laughter. “This is not the first time I’ve had the chance to appreciate the man’s work! Weren’t there a passel of young heroes that passed through here recently from Pellsglade? They all had excellent work done for them, a true craftsman, to be sure.”

Clay nodded, feeling a little shocked. Everyone in Pellsglade knew David did good work, but he suspected that the [Smith] would have been flabbergasted to receive a compliment from the master of the Forge in the Adventurer’s Guild. Orn examined the spear for a few more moments, and then set it aside, next to the sword. He gestured impatiently for Clay to hand over the bow.

He examined the shortbow for a few moments, muttering to himself. “Adequate. Something fit for a [Guard], certainly, but it’s already seen hard use. Not as bad as the wear on the spear, of course, but bows age faster…” Orn shook his head. “I am confident that we can do better.”

The bow was set aside, and Orn picked through a few of Clay’s arrows with similar judgments. Feeling a little defensive about it, Clay finally stripped off his knives and handed them over to the man.

Orn examined the utility knife first, nodding in appreciation of David’s craft once more. “A perfectly adequate crafting knife. I imagine you’ve already been putting it to good use on the road.” He set it aside, and then paused over the second, larger knife. “Now this I can see is something else entirely. Was it David’s idea?”

Clay shook his head. “No. A merchant in our town named Adam thought it up.” The same merchant had also given him a few other bits of equipment that had helped him kill a pair of Guardians, something that Clay supposed meant he still owed the man for. Adam was probably just biding his time to collect on that debt, his smile wide and victorious.

“Adam. Also of Pellsglade.” Orn drew the knife from its sheath and swung it experimentally. He bounced it in his gauntleted hand, as if testing the weight, and then made an appreciative noise. “Hmm. I might have to visit this village of yours, young hero. There are too many interesting things coming from it.”

He sheathed the knife again and set it aside with the rest. For a moment, he studied the collection with a jaded eye, as if fixing them in his mind. Then he nodded and waved across the Forge. One of the nearest workers abruptly set aside their own work and came forward to begin gathering everything up, sword included.

Clay stepped forward, ready to protest, but Orn looped an astonishingly thick arm around his shoulders. “Now, now, young hero, we’ve had more discriminating adventurers than you come through this place. We’ll take good care of your equipment; if what we produce feels inferior to your own, you are free to stand by my good friend David’s work—yes and Adam’s too, I suppose.”

Orn gave him a crooked grin. “I am confident that you will be happy with what we’ll do, however. Before I begin on it, however, I’m afraid that I will need to assess your abilities personally. The initiate’s trial is an effective one for weeding out the ones too soft to fight, or who have no taste for combat, but we are talking about weapons here, and armor. If what you wield in battle does not match your Soul, how can you expect victory?”

The way he was talking made Clay wonder if he was walking into a trap. He caught sight of Michael the page walking away, shaking his head in amusement. “W-what kind of test are you talking about, Sir Orn?”

“The only kind that matters, Sir Clay.” Orn grinned. “The test of steel.”

For the second time that day, Clay found himself in a courtyard, facing off against an opponent.

This time, however, the only onlookers were members of Orn’s workers. They had brought sketchbooks and parchment, with quills poised over the pages.

Orn himself was standing in the center of the courtyard, his gauntleted hand wrapped around the hilt of a thick wooden practice sword. He seemed unconcerned that Clay had gathered up his own practice weapons, including a shortbow with padded arrows. Clay had tested each of the weapons, trying to get a feel for how they would move. The last thing he needed was to end up addled because he misjudged a block or a swing.

The Armsman had watched him with faint amusement. Then, as Clay stepped into the courtyard with him, he scratched at his beard. “Ah, your pardon, young hero! I forgot to ask your [Class] and level. Perhaps it will not matter, but it may help to judge how to help you.”

He paused, mildly grateful that yet another adventurer hadn’t simply pulled out a [Chant] to rip the information from him. “I’m a [Commoner], Sir. Level eight.”

Orn frowned, his brows drawing together in confusion. “A [Commoner]? And at level eight? No wonder you’ve been turning everything upside down today!” Then the man threw back his head and laughed. “I really will have to visit this village of yours—if only to find out what they’ve been feeding you all.”

Clay cracked a smile of his own. “I’m sure they would give you a hero’s welcome, Sir Orn.”

The Armsman grinned. “I’m sure they would.” He tapped the sword against his shoulder, as if reminding himself of the weight and balance of the thing. “Now, feel free to use whatever abilities your [Class] has granted you. I want to see your full capabilities, not some pale imitation.”

The request made Clay blink. He remembered Katherine’s reaction to his use of [Chants] in the previous fight. “Sir Orn, I use mostly [Chants] for magic. I’m not sure if this place has something that would reduce…”

He trailed off as Orn waved the words away. “Do not fret, Sir Clay. I am familiar with most lower level [Chants], and they won’t do me any harm.”

Clay looked the man up and down skeptically. Aside from the armor on his arm and leg, Orn seemed completely unguarded. “Are you sure? Some of the spells can fell monsters with ease.”

Orn nodded, his beard split by a fresh smile. “I am, though I appreciate your caution. It is a sign of wisdom not to rush in without question.” Then he stretched, with some of the muscles in his back popping and shifting. “In fairness, young hero, wounded as I am, I’m no easy target. I am a [Fighter] at level seventeen. I have faced worse than a few warm breezes.”

The Armsman was more than double his level; that fact explained his relative lack of concern. His [Fortitude] was likely high enough that even the spears of the Canticle of Ice would shatter when they hit him. Feeling more than a little intimidated, Clay settled into a fighting posture. Orn nodded encouragingly at him and smiled a bit broader. “Let’s start with your options at range, please. Show me how you would use that bow, and the few [Chants] you’ve found.”

Clay nodded. He set aside the practice spear and drew out the shortbow. It was a fine piece, one that reminded him of a slightly more battered version of his own weapon. The arrows were sheathed in a bit of padding that would keep them from being more than a light impact, but Orn wasn’t standing like he was concerned about even taking that much damage.

Standing with the first arrow on his bowstring, Clay began his first [Chant]. It was the Canticle of Ice, a spell he’d used multiple times to kill elder troll spiders outright. It had only grown stronger with his increased [Stats] and the bonus from [Banisher]. If Orn recognized it, the man seemed utterly unimpressed. In fact, he seemed almost bored.

A part of him wanted to wait until the spell was complete, but another part decided that maybe keeping the Armsman busy was a good idea. As he continued the [Chant], Clay drew his first arrow back and fired.

The shaft sped through the air directly towards Orn’s face. It made it most of the way there before Orn batted it aside with the back of his unarmored hand. Clay felt a burst of surprise as the arrow shattered, spraying wooden fragments and frayed cloth across the courtyard behind him.

Orn hadn’t even flinched. His eyes had taken on a calculating look. “Sufficient aim, I suppose, but your time between arrows is too long. You’ll need to be faster, Sir Clay.”

Clay forced himself to continue the [Chant], even as he fired arrow after arrow. He aimed for different parts of the [Fighter], but each time Orn simply stepped aside or knocked the arrows away like they were buzzing flies, unworthy of his attention. Clay had fired four more times when the Canticle was finally complete.

He held it until he drew back one more arrow and released it as he fired.

The arrow sped across the courtyard, and this time it was joined by five spears of ice, all formed from the power of the magic inside him. He watched with satisfaction—and no small hint of worry—as the projectiles flew true.

This time, Orn moved. The sword came off his shoulder, and it became a blur that Clay could barely see. Ice and arrow shattered, broken by blows that could have snapped trees off at the roots. Orn only stepped aside to avoid two of the ice spears, allowing them to continue on across the courtyard. They crashed against a stone column, which showed no more marks than Orn had as they became a shower of splintered water.

“Interesting.” Orn tapped the sword on his shoulder again, as if thinking. Clay shot at him again, and the Armsman idly knocked the arrow away without really paying attention to it. “Enough of that now. I believe I have your measure when it comes to that part of your arsenal.”

Then he focused on Clay again. “Now then, how do you close the distance? Or do you wait for your enemies to come to you?”

Clay shrugged, picking up another arrow. “I tend to hunt the monsters I fight, so stealth and tracking are both important.”

“The element of surprise is crucial, yes, but you won’t find much of that in an open fight—much less a duel.” Orn smiled again. “So, how do you resolve it?”

After a moment’s thought, Clay shot at the Armsman again. This time he missed deliberately; Orn started to lean out of the way and frowned as the arrow sped past him. The shot had been low and far enough out to the side that the [Fighter] would have needed to step into it. “A poor move, young hero.”

Clay just smiled and started a new [Chant]. Pursuing Leap seemed to be unknown here, and he was more than willing to use it as a surprise. He quickly set aside the bow and picked up his spear again, getting ready for the pull. Orn studied him with increasing puzzlement, his frown growing.

Then the [Chant] completed, and Clay leapt into the air. He shot towards the arrow, as if he had jumped down a deep hole, and he braced his practice spear for an impact.

Orn, however, was already reacting. The [Fighter] stepped well away from the fallen arrow, and Clay’s attempted stab went well wide as he sped past. Clay hit the dirt and spun, charging the Armsman from short range, his spear swinging and stabbing at the man.

Still moving lightly to avoid the assault, Orn burst out laughing. “I see! That is quite a surprise. A good use of a lower [Chant] to be sure.”

Clay lunged at him, trying to bring his spearpoint in range to strike at Orn’s face, and the [Fighter] finally responded. The sword came off his shoulder and flicked out. He barely had enough time to brace before the impact landed on his spear haft. It sent him skidding backwards across the courtyard, just barely keeping his feet.

Orn studied him a moment more, and then nodded. “Good. Now, let’s see how you handle an attack.”

He immediately began the [Chant] for Firm Step, one of the first spells he’d ever used. Clay didn’t know what kind of hit he needed to expect, but he wasn’t going to let it push him back again.

The Armsman cocked his head to the side at the sound of the [Chant]. Then he shrugged and started forward, the sword still tapping his shoulder.

Clay retreated, trying to buy himself a little time before the [Fighter] hit him. His opponent didn’t seem willing to let him have that chance, however. Orn began to speed up, the tap of the sword against his shoulder accelerating along with his pace.

The first swing came when Clay was still only partially through the [Chant]. He ducked aside, feeling the wind of it nearly push him on its own. Clay retaliated immediately, trying to strike back at the man. Orn simply dodged the attack and lashed out with his unarmored hand, a blow that Clay barely caught on the haft of his spear.

Orn barked out a laugh as Clay continued to dance backward, dodging and blocking however he could. “Good! It is better not to allow an opponent to direct the pace, but if you face overwhelming strength, it is better to retreat. Though I’d say that—”

The [Chant] completed, and Clay braced himself with his feet anchored by magic to the floor. Orn had been mid-charge, his sword held out and ready to strike. Clay saw the sword coming and grimaced.

He felt the impact in his very soul. The magic of the [Chant] kept him anchored in place, preventing his footing from giving way, but the power of the blow cracked the haft of his spear. Orn’s confident expression suddenly became alarmed, and he stopped and backed away slightly. He seemed disconcerted. “Another of your [Chants], hero? You may need to choose your timing better. Standing your ground may do you no good if you lose your weapon.”

Clay looked down at the spear in his hands and winced. A crack ran clear through the haft; it wasn’t going to be useful for much else, now. He released the [Chant] and sighed. “You’re right, Sir Orn.”

“Of course I am!” Orn laughed. He gestured for Clay to go get another spear from a nearby rack. “Let’s continue with a new weapon, shall we? I wish to see you engage me in melee. First with the spear, then with that oversized knife of yours. Come now, I don’t have all day.”

After Clay selected another weapon, Orn gestured for him to charge. Clay obliged, closing the distance as quickly as he could. The previous clash had shaken him, but he could tell that the Armsman was holding back as he stabbed again and again, trying to bring his spearpoint to bear.

Orn didn’t seem to be in the mood to indulge him. Every time the spear lashed out, the Armsman simply deflected it or stepped aside. After a few moments of frantic stabbing, Orn caught his spear with one hand and shook his head. “Let’s see how you do at closer range.”

Clay frowned as the [Fighter] stepped closer. He swung his spear, but Orn’s sword blocked it easily. He tried to step back, but Orn just closed the distance again, staying well within the reach of Clay’s weapon. “It’s kind of hard to hit you like this, Sir.”

“Is it?” Orn smiled and then reached over with his unarmored hand. He grabbed the practice sword by the blade, gripping it as if it were an odd kind of spear. Clay barely had the chance to recognize the danger before he was sent flying across the courtyard, rolling to a stop at the feet of some Forge apprentice who was busily scribbling notes.

As Clay coughed and fought to stand back up, Orn called out to him. “That was called half-handing, and it is an attempt to deal with shorter range opponents. Can you guess what kind of weapon the swordsman is copying when he holds his blade that way?”

The image of Orn shifting his grip flashed through Clay’s mind. He grinned and spat into the dirt. “All right.”

He pushed himself up out of the dust and came back into the courtyard. This time, as Orn stepped in close, he choked up his grip on the spear, shortening the length of the thing. Orn chuckled and nodded, using his own half-handed grip to maneuver his sword and deflect the thrusts. “Good, good. You might learn quickly, though there is still quite a long way to go.”

Orn shoved him hard, and Clay stumbled backward. The Armsman held his sword in one hand again, this time extending the blade at full length. It had to be agonizingly heavy, but the point didn’t waver at all. “Now, let’s see how you handle medium range?”

An hour later, Clay was breathing hard and bent over, with his hands on his knees. Sweat ran down his face despite the chill winds of autumn blowing through the courtyard.

{Fortitude increased by 1!}

Orn had been merciless. He’d had to fight at close range, at long range. The [Fighter] had challenged him to grappling, to fight one-handed, and to bare-knuckled boxing. He’d lectured Clay on how he used the knife, showing him different ways of holding it, and daring him to try to get in under the reach of his sword with just the knife. More than once, he’d demanded that Clay use his [Chants] in the middle of the fight, though the one time Clay had tried to hit him with the Flame-tongued Song, the [Fighter] had cuffed him on the head so hard that Clay had nearly fried his own boots with the spell.

It had lasted for ages, to the point where the sun was already high in the sky before Orn had called a halt. The Armsman chuckled to himself while Clay desperately tried to catch his breath. “It was a good test, Sir Clay. I look forward to training with you from now on.”

Clay felt a burst of despair and resentment. How often was he going to have to do this? It wasn’t like he could gain a level from it. Still, he forced himself to try to sound grateful. “So… do… I, Sir.”

“I’m sure.” Orn shook his head. Then he grew more serious. “I believe that you’re likely to need movement and flexibility when you fight. Others might be able to depend on heavy armor, but you need speed more than protection in many cases. Still, it would be good for you to wear more than a simple shirt into battle.”

The prospect of lugging around some suit of armor seemed foolish to Clay, but he supposed he could humor the man while they kept him at the Academy. “If you say so, Sir Orn.”

A bell began to ring across the Academy, and Orn perked up. He glanced towards the rest of the campus, his gaze fixing on something that Clay couldn’t see. “Well then! Time for a meal. I trust you can find your way to the kitchens, initiate?”

Micheal was waiting for him again, this time at the entrance to the Forge. Clay realized that the [Youth] was acting as a guide for the first few days. The others weren’t exactly being accompanied everywhere they went. He started to try to memorize the courtyards and corridors as they walked, hoping to find some pattern he could use to navigate once he was on his own.

Fortunately, the noise of others eating and talking drew him towards the kitchen once they got close. He once again thanked the page for his help and then set out to get his own meal.

The kitchens were barred to anyone who wanted to stroll through, but they had a broad counter where the available food had been laid out. Some ingenious craftsman or enchanter had made parts of the stone surface warm or cold, allowing drinks to remain chilled and bread to stay warm. Clay grabbed a fine wooden plate, and then shoveled bread, ham, and beans onto it. Then he wandered back out into the dining room where Michael had led him that morning.

This time the place was nearly full of people, all of whom were alternating between eating and talking with their companions. Clay ran his eyes over the mass of people, a little intimidated by how many there were; he’d practically only ever seen so many together during a festival back in Pellsglade. He shook his head and looked for a relatively empty table near the edge of the room.

When he set his plate down, he realized with a start that the same surly man from that morning was waiting for him. “I’m sorry, you weren’t saving this seat, were you?”

The man looked at him, seeming a little off balance. His native glower reasserted itself a moment later. “No. Suit yourself.”

“Thank you.” Clay settled into the chair and began to dig in. His struggle against Orn had given him quite an appetite. He managed to shovel half the beans and a few solid chunks of ham down before he realized that the other man was watching him with faint amusement.

A bit chagrined—his mother would have been mildly horrified at his manners—Clay thumped his chest a little to help the last bite down early and then spoke up. “Again, I’m sorry. My name is Clay Evergreen, from Pellsglade. What is yours?”

The man blinked and raised both eyebrows. “Pellsglade. There was another group that came through here a while back. All from the same village. Friends of yours?”

Clay nodded. “Yeah. We all knew each other. They’re actually back there now.”

“Some sort of emergency, from what I heard.” The man was studying him closely now. “Everything all right with them? Didn’t know them well, but they seemed fair enough.”

“They’re all fine.” Clay resisted the urge to explain the whole situation. The last thing he needed was more rumors, especially among the few adventurers who were willing to talk to him. “They just had a little more business to take care of before they came back.”

“Glad to hear it.” The man’s frown drew deeper. “If you’re all such good friends, why are you here by yourself? Why didn’t you come with the rest of them, back in the middle of summer?”

The question had been delivered just on the near side of rudeness, and Clay couldn’t quite miss the spark of distrust in the other man’s eyes. His mind flashed back to what Syr Anne had said; if there were rumors he’d been a Rogue, then the other man would probably not want to associate with him.

Still, it was a fair enough question. Clay shrugged, breaking off another piece of bread. “Because I’m a [Commoner]. They were all adventurers, and I wasn’t.”

His answer made the other man go suddenly still. “A [Commoner]? What are you doing here then? Aren’t you supposed to be out there tending a farm or something?”

Clay decided he’d been humble enough for the meal. “Turns out they drag you away from your farm when you kill a Lair. [Commoner] or no, they decided to make an exception after that.”

To his surprise, the other man laughed, a harsh sound. “You killed a Lair, all by yourself?”

He felt a flicker of anger. It might have been hard to believe, but he was here in the Academy, wasn’t he? “I did have some help, but yeah, I was the one that killed it. That’s why I’m at level eight.”

This time, the other man went completely and utterly still. His mouth hung open in shock, at least until he shook himself like a dog and closed it. “How did you manage that? I thought [Commoners] couldn’t level at all.”

“Any [Class] can level by killing monsters. Even mine.” Clay finished off the bread and beans, chewing fast. He was getting a bit tired of the conversation; he swallowed and tried not to choke. A quick drink of water helped wash it all down. “Any other questions?”

The man shook his head. He still looked a little dumbfounded, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “No. Thank you, Sir Clay.” Then he paused and laughed again. He held out a hand that was heavily calloused and wrapped with a simple rag. “My name is Jack. Jack Clearhelm, of the Crownsguard slums. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Clay paused, surprised by the man’s sudden warmth. He shook Jack’s hand. “Good to meet you as well, Jack Clearhelm.” He took another drink of water, trying to hide his sudden confusion at Jack’s change of heart. “I’ve got to go see Master Taylor about studies. Maybe we’ll meet later.”

Jack laughed again, this time with a sour grimace. “Master Taylor? I don’t think we’ll see each other there, no—but I’ll keep an eye out. Travel well, Sir Clay Evergreen.”

He nodded back, wondering what Jack had meant. Then he caught sight of Michael hovering at the edge of the room and headed over to the page. Better to get the rest of things over with, so he could collapse for a bit.

Master Taylor turned out to be a severe-looking woman with long dark hair and eyes one shade from black. She wore a formal-looking robe, decorated with stitched runes that occasionally flared and glowed as she moved. The adventurer seemed to regard the appointment with Clay with an impatient bluster, as if he was interrupting a schedule already full of petty obstacles and needless trivialities. The stare she had impaled him with when he introduced himself had been more than enough to tell Clay that she was not his biggest fan.

Her most striking feature, though, had nothing to do with how she looked. She wore frames that held planes of glass in front of her eyes, just like the Sage had in his dreams, and during the Choosing. He’d come to a frozen halt outside of her room when he’d seen those bits of glass catch the light, but he’d shaken it off quickly enough. She wasn’t the Sage, after all; she looked completely different.

Besides, he guessed the Sage had a far less nasally voice in person.

“Quite fine penmanship. You said it wasn’t yours, did you?” Taylor let a breath hiss out through her teeth when Clay nodded. “Whoever this Olivia is, she has certainly dedicated herself appropriately to her studies. Perhaps there might be some hope for salvaging you, then, if you recognized her worth.”

Clay grunted. Apparently, she was not as impressed as Orn had been to hear he was a [Commoner] who’d turned adventurer. Apparently Master Taylor had already heard all about it and had impatiently informed him she was here to tell him things and not to be lectured by some backwards farmer when he’d tried to explain his situation.

Now she was pouring over Olivia’s notes, having evidently cracked the shorthand the Novice had used within minutes. It was impressive enough, but Clay couldn’t help but feel an increasing desire to be anywhere but this cramped room piled high with books and parchment. Even the windows were partially covered with stacks of books; some of them looked like they hadn’t been touched in years, with dust as thick as a curtain draped over them.

“I’ll have to keep these for a day. Perhaps two.” She looked up as he opened his mouth to protest, and fixed him with a glare. “These observations are well detailed and extremely valuable. They will be a help to any adventurer who encounters these creatures in the future. I will return them to you, and accredit this Olivia person accordingly, but these notes will be made part of our library.”

Clay settled back in his seat, feeling resentment well up in him. Had the Academy brought him here just to steal all of his possessions? “As long as I get them back.”

“Nonsense. You’ll hardly miss them, with all the rest of the work you’ll be doing.” At his surprised look, Taylor sighed. “Did you think you would be lounging in your room, like some idle farmhand? You are supposedly quite adept with [Chants], a fact that I choose not to challenge, but you remain woefully ignorant of enough information to make it shameful for you to claim any kind of magical talent. Between that and your tardy arrival, you have a lot of work to do if you ever want to catch up with the other initiates inducted this year.”

He gritted his teeth and managed to avoid going over the table at her. “I feel like I’ve done fairly well learning things on my own.”

“Mostly thanks to this Olivia you kept mentioning. Your notes are even in her hand.” Taylor shook her head, tapping the end of a quill to the side of the broad-brimmed hat she wore. “Perhaps I can send for her. Surely she’d do better as a member of our staff than suffering in some distant Rectory. You said she was Shrinekept, right? That may make it easier; no troublesome family to raise quarrels.”

The sheer lack of sensitivity about the matter only emphasized for him how little he wanted Olivia to meet this person. “I think she is more than happy where she is, Syr Taylor.”

“Nonsense.” She clucked to herself and made a note on the parchment in front of her. One of Olivia’s parchments, and Clay felt his hands tighten on the arms of his chair. The wood creaked. “Now. I want you to start your reading immediately. You’ll find three books on the chair over there. The History of Crownsguard, The Founding of Heroes, and, of course, The Annals of Kings and Queens. I want you to start reading all of them. You will compile enough notes to cover the first chapter of each by tomorrow at this hour; if you do not, I will have a rather creative task ready for you. Possibly you could help me organize one of my research projects.”

Clay must have let his shock show on his face, because she met his eyes and smiled. It was not a kind expression. “Of course, preparing that task might delay my work with this Olivia’s notes. I would have to keep them an extra day. It seems like you would want to avoid that, would you not?”

He glared at her, not bothering to try to hide his complete dislike for the woman. She seemed more amused by it than intimidated. “Well then, go find the books, and then be about your studies, please. Our first class together won’t start until tomorrow. I look forward to seeing what you can produce.”

With no further dismissal, she returned her attention to the notes in front of her. Clay spent another few moments glaring at her and then threw himself out of the chair to stalk over to the books. It took a very real effort not to groan when he found them. The history book alone could have killed a mantrap spiderling if he’d dropped it on the monster; he might have been able to use Annals to kill a Guardian if he had tossed it from high up enough. He could picture his mother’s delight at their finely inscribed leather bindings, but it was hard to feel excited about spending the next few days—or weeks, more likely—pouring through the dusty tomes.

He staggered out under that heavy load. Master Taylor didn’t even bother looking up as the door closed behind him.

By the time Clay set his head down on the desk, hours later, the light had long since faded from the sky outside.

He’d spent nearly five hours reading through the books Taylor had given him. They were dry, incredibly boring texts, ranging from subjects about long dead kingdoms to political intrigues between aristocrats that he’d never heard of. His own notes were a tangle of sloppy lines scratched into a few sheets of parchment that Michael had fetched for him. The page had then informed Clay that he’d need to find his own way the next day, and had left him with a slate that detailed his schedule for the next day.

It looked nightmarish. He was scheduled to meet Orn first, over in the courtyard near the Forge. The appointment was listed as Technical Combat Training, and lasted nearly two hours. He shuddered at the prospect of the Armsman hammering on him for that entire time, but not as much as he dreaded the next appointment, a two-hour space listed as Chant Specialization and Techniques. Syr Katherine’s cold warning about conflicting [Chants] had been hard to forget.

Those weren’t what really hovered over him, however. The two-hour course called Remedial Studies with Master Taylor promised unending agony—especially if he didn’t manage to make through another handful of pages before the next morning. He looked back down at page after page of cramped words written in narrow lines, and groaned. Why did adventurers need to know any of this stuff?

A very large part of him wanted to throw his hands up and abandon the whole thing. He didn’t need the Guild’s permission to hunt monsters, after all. Clay had already been doing fairly well on his own, and he’d probably only do better as he continued to destroy Lairs. There was no way for him to gain Soul here, and while he might be able to increase some of his [Stats], he wasn’t going to gain anything for his [Gift] by reading books or practicing with their trainers.

At the same time, it wasn’t like he had the choice to just leave. He was reasonably sure that the moment he stepped outside of Crownsguard, the Guild would send at least one adventurer out to collect him by force if necessary. Back in Pellsglade, he had been confident in his abilities, especially with how he’d managed to back Sir Leonard down. Now that he’d fought Sir Orn, however, he’d realized that even a single advanced adventurer probably wouldn’t have any trouble knocking him down a peg or two before dragging him back to the Academy.

So, no matter what he wanted, Clay was stuck here—so he might as well try to make the most of it.

It wasn’t like the time he was forced to be in the Academy would be completely wasted. The Academy was a place of magic and wonders, very real ones that existed outside the daydreams he’d used to have back home. Charles and the others had spoken of it frequently; the library alone would be a treasure trove that Olivia would expect him to plunder. Orn’s training, while it seemed painful, would probably help him as well. His friends had come back to Pellsglade knowing far more about how to fight. He’d fought them after the Lair had been destroyed, just a handful of mock duels, and they had stood up to him easily despite his higher levels. He needed to know what they knew, needed to learn what they had learned. That kind of knowledge was simply going to remain out of his reach if he ran for it now.

Besides, there was something deep inside Clay that simply rebelled against the idea that these people could give him a challenge that he couldn’t rise to. He’d gone into the Tanglewood on his own; he’d fought a lonely war against creatures that made anything in Crownsguard pale by comparison. No matter what kind of tests or trials they cooked up, he wasn’t going to let them push him out. Clay would take their tests and pass them, and by the time he left, he would do so on his own terms.

Stubbornly forcing himself to focus, Clay turned his attention back to the book. Just a few more pages to go, and he could rest. Just a few more pages.