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8

BOORISH BEHAVIOR

CEDRIC

Cedric’s sword cut through the air with a sharp whistle before it connected with the bandit’s crude blade. The thief crumpled, wrapping his hands protectively around his head. “I’m sorry! Please don’t kill me. We only?—”

“You only what?” sneered Lord Church as he came out from behind the horse-drawn wagon. “Thought you’d find easy prey on the road to Luminaria?”

Hargrave and Thibault, the other guards in their traveling party, towered over three more of the bandits that had attacked their caravan, holding them at swordpoint. The fourth lay bloody on the ground next to the wagon, his eyes open and unseeing.

“On your knees, cur,” said Cedric, his sword still trained on the first man.

Lord Church paced closer. “You intended to rob those journeying to witness the start of the Crucible. Foolish though it was, you attacked us . Your life should be forfeit.”

The man whimpered, his eyes darting to his fallen comrade. “I’m sorry, my lord.” His shoulders were slumped, his voice resigned. He knew the fate that awaited him.

But Lord Leviathan Church was nothing if not a man who kept others guessing. A look of surprise flitted across Cedric’s face as Lord Church said, “I will, however, allow you to keep your life.” The bandit’s expression was just as bemused. “Provided you use it to pass along a message. You will warn off any associates ”—Lord Church’s nose wrinkled—“who might be considering similar foolish plans. I will not have the road to Luminaria thus polluted.”

The man scrambled to his feet, words tumbling from his mouth. “Yes, my lord. Of course. You are so generous—too generous. I will see it done. No others will dare attack travelers on this road, not after I speak to them. And don’t think I take your generosity for granted. This is the start of a new life for me, I swear it. You won’t?—”

His platitudes cut off abruptly, replaced by a choking sound. Cedric glanced at Lord Church, whose fingers were wrapped around the mana token hanging from his neck. The man clutched at his chest, his throat, his fingers clawing at some invisible force. He fell to the ground, his body thrashing. His face turned red. Then purple.

“My lord . . . ?” Cedric asked, his voice low.

Lord Church released his token. The man stilled, then sucked in a life-giving breath.

“Go,” Lord Church boomed.

The man ran.

“My lord?” asked Thibault, brushing a piece of ash-blond hair from his forehead. “What of the others?”

Hargrave nodded in agreement with Thibault’s question, his left hand bracing his side as he kept his sword aloft. It was pointed at the other three bandits, who wore matching expressions of wary shock. It likely wasn’t every day they saw someone wield magic with the ease and strength of Lord Church.

Cedric frowned at the pained expression on Hargrave’s scruff-shadowed face. One of the bastards had gotten a hit in.

“How many men does it take to pass on a message?” Lord Church said, disinterested.

Thibault grinned. “Just one, my lord.”

“Just so.”

The bandits seemed to come to an understanding of what Lord Church meant at the same time, because all three of them leapt at once. Hargrave’s sword met one before he even made it to his feet. Another made it a few steps before Thibault’s blade ran him through. The third, however...

Cedric had been on the other side of the wagon when he realized the bandits were making a run for it. He hurtled toward the third bandit, but the man was fast. By the time Cedric rounded the wagon, the bandit had nearly made it to the trees.

Cedric cursed, readying himself for the chase.

A sickening crack rang out. The man collapsed mid-step, neck broken.

“You default to your physical skills, rely too heavily on your sword,” came Lord Church’s voice. He released his grip on his token once more. “You forget there is power at your fingertips to be used as well, when blade and bow alone are not enough. Take this as a lesson, Sir Thorne.”

The flush of chagrin crept onto Cedric’s face. He wanted to protest, to defend himself. He had to endeavor to conserve his mana for the Crucible, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. He just nodded.

If he was being honest, Cedric had not even considered using his magic to stop the bandit. Even if he had, he wasn’t sure he was capable of snapping a man’s neck with a thought. Such magic required immense control. It would significantly deplete his token.

Not that the finite power of his token was the only reason Cedric felt himself incapable of doing such a thing.

“You appear displeased, Sir Thorne,” Lord Church said, some emotion Cedric couldn’t quite read lacing his words.

“No, my lord,” Cedric said quickly, cursing internally for wearing his emotions so plainly on his face.

“You would have acted differently.” It wasn’t a question.

“I—” Cedric wasn’t sure how to respond.

Lord Church pursed his lips. “These men would have slaughtered us all to take what few possessions we travel with. Think of those they may already have done so to, those not as fortunate to have such esteemed fighters in their party. What would you have me do?”

“Yes, my lord, I just thought that perhaps a show of mercy might?—”

“Mercy is a luxury of the weak,” Lord Church said, his tone even. Like it was just a simple fact of the world. “Power is in hard decisions made, the respect gained from a strong will, from being willing to mete out swift justice. You would do well to remember this for the trials ahead.”

“Yes, my lord.” Face red, Cedric sheathed his sword and turned to Hargrave, who wiped his blade on the shirt of the now very-dead bandit. “How bad is your injury?”

“I’ve had worse.” Hargrave attempted a grin, though it came out as more of a grimace.

Cedric’s brow furrowed. “Let me see.” He gently moved Hargrave’s hand aside to reveal a deep gash that had been cut through the guard’s doublet. Blood seeped from the wound. Cedric looked at Hargrave in disbelief. “This needs to be treated.”

“Bah, merely a scratch. I shall be fine, Sir Thorne.”

“Yes, yes, you are very strong and brave,” Cedric said with a roll of his eyes. “Thibault, fetch the healer’s kit from the wagon.”

With a chuckle, Thibault sprinted off.

“Let us keep moving,” said the lord. “We have delayed too long.”

Cedric nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Once Hargrave was patched up and the bandits’ bodies had been hauled to the side of the road, the men set off once more. Lord Church, Cedric, and Hargrave sat in the back of the wagon while Thibault held the reins at the front.

Though Cedric kept a watchful eye on their surroundings, noting every rustle of leaves and distant birdcall, the ride was blessedly quiet as they wound through forest and field until they reached the Chasm.

It was then that Cedric’s heart began thumping in his chest. He swallowed, staring at the flat expanse of stone—perhaps the length of four men laying head-to-toe. The bridge that would carry them across the colossal abyss.

Thibault said something—a joke, perhaps, judging by Hargrave’s answering guffaw—but Cedric didn’t hear it. His gaze was stuck on the cliff ahead, the sun casting long shadows across the rocky expanse. The wind whispered a haunting melody that seemed to beckon from the great canyon’s depths. Cedric’s cuirass suddenly felt too tight. Suffocating.

“First time making the crossing?” Hargrave asked, humor evident in his voice as he scratched at the dark stubble lining his jaw.

Cedric’s eyes dropped to his boots. “That obvious, is it?”

Thibault snickered. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Sir Champion.” Cedric sent him a cutting look, but Thibault’s eyes were on the road ahead. “This bridge is sturdier than it looks.”

Lord Leviathan Church nodded in agreement—a reassurance. But Cedric got the distinct feeling there was amusement there as well. He didn’t understand why. Surely anyone who took one look at the cracked stone and the infinite drop below would feel the same way he did...wouldn’t they?

He swallowed hard as the wagon creaked across the ancient bridge. The Chasm yawned below them, its depths hidden in shadow. Despite the confidence of the rest of his party, Cedric couldn’t shake the feeling that came with the knowledge that one misstep could send them plummeting into the abyss.

He rubbed his sweat-slicked palms together and tried his best to distract himself. He fixed his eyes on the thinning tree line, the mixing colors of the aurora in the sky. He tried to drag himself back to the happy memories of his final night in Kingshelm, sated with drink, buried between warm thighs. Tried to focus on anything other than the creak of the wagon’s wheels as they dragged over the bridge, the echo of the horse’s hooves clopping on the stone.

“Tell me, Cedric”—Lord Church’s voice broke the silence—“now that you’re finally experiencing it in person for the first time, what do you think of the Chasm?”

So much for that plan.

“Is it all you thought it would be?” Lord Church pressed.

Cedric’s gaze flicked to the edge of the bridge, where the stone seemed to crumble away into nothingness. “It is certainly...impressive,” he managed to say, voice tight. “Descriptions and maps do its vastness no justice. I have never seen anything like it.”

He left out the part where he would have been perfectly content never to have seen it at all. He could hear Tristan’s mirthful voice in his head.

“Tits up, Ric. You’re a champion of the realm. Don’t be such a pussy.”

Cedric scowled internally. Some champion he was. Havensreach’s finest, afraid of heights.

“It is indeed impressive,” Lord Church said, a note of awe in his tone, calling Cedric’s attention back. “As is this very bridge. A truly spectacular feat of magic. The number of sorcerers and spellweavers required to construct it is a testament to the fortitude of our ancestors. And while the Arcanians might boast that they can accomplish the same thing with a handful of wildshapers”—his nose wrinkled, as if he suddenly smelled something unpleasant—“the comparison is moot. Not as their sad bridges crumble and collapse, while this one has held firm for centuries.”

“A lifeline to the rest of the continent,” Hargrave said.

“A mana line,” Thibault corrected.

“Mana is life.” Lord Church touched his hand to his token. “Which is why, despite how difficult it is to maintain a presence, how difficult the Arcanians make it for us, we need the Midlands. Without it, much of the kingdom would be without magic entirely. The singular mana spring near Kingshelm is not nearly enough to support all of Havensreach.”

“If only the stars-damned pixies would leave us alone,” said Thibault.

The back of Cedric’s neck prickled uncomfortably at his use of the degrading epithet. Cedric of all people held no love for the fae, but he didn’t think it was very becoming of Thibault to wield the slur so casually.

“As if getting our people across the Chasm isn’t difficult enough,” Thibault continued, his voice low.

“Why do they even need bridges anyway?” grumbled Hargrave. “When the stars-damned Arcanians can just soar across their wisp of a Chasm whenever they want? Though I suppose not all the freaks can fly.”

Just the worst ones , thought Cedric. He realized the implication of Hargrave’s statement a moment later. “You’ve seen the Arcanian Chasm?” he asked, his interest piqued.

“Aye,” Thibault replied, “it’s about a third as wide?—”

“—and less than half as deep as this one,” Hargrave finished.

These men were well-traveled, Cedric realized with a pang of envy.

“And the real rub,” Hargrave continued, “is that they don’t even need the damn Midlands. Their magic doesn’t rely on mana. They just have it.”

“Exactly why we need to get our champion here to Luminaria,” Thibault said. “Once Sir Thorne bests the Crucible, we won’t have to worry about any of this ever again.”

“Hear, hear!” said Hargrave, thumping Cedric’s back.

Cedric nodded absently.

“We return to solid ground,” Lord Church said, too low for the others to hear. “Be at ease.” He patted the back of Cedric’s hand and Cedric looked down at it, white-knuckled on the wooden bench. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been gripping it.

Relief washed over him as the truth of Lord Church’s words set in. The crunch of stone beneath them had been replaced with the dirt road once more. They’d cleared the bridge. “Thank you, my lord.”

“When I was your age,” Lord Church said, “I, too, feared this crossing.”

Cedric had forgotten that the lord had traveled to Luminaria at least once before, to bear witness to the last Crucible. He’d never been able to work up the nerve to ask Lord Church why he made the journey—if he had been close with one of the previous champions.

Was it painful, Cedric wondered, making the trek again now? Knowing that nobody came back through the Gate last time? Knowing nobody ever has?

A pall loomed threateningly over Cedric at the thought. He shook his head. There was no use thinking that way. He made a concerted effort to focus back on Lord Church, who was still speaking. It sounded like he was a far more seasoned traveler than Cedric had realized.

“Growing up, my father would tell me tales of monsters that lived at the bottom of the Chasm—specters that whispered to those who were afraid, attempting to lure them into the abyss. He saved the worst stories of the worst monsters for right before bed, as if he sought to script my nightmares.”

“Your father sounds like a right bastard,” Cedric muttered, before remembering who he was speaking to. “I mean, that is—I’m sorry, I?—”

Lord Church chuckled. “Come now, my boy. After all these years together, I like to think I’ve earned the privilege of your honest reaction.”

Cedric felt his cheeks warm. It had been many years since Lord Church had referred to him so familially. “Thank you, my lord. So...did those stories make the crossing easier or more difficult for you?”

“I admit I do not know. I think it made the journey more interesting. I used to try and hold my breath from the moment we stepped onto the bridge until we reached the other side.”

Cedric’s eyes widened. “That seems . . .”

“Impossible? Yes, it is.” Lord Church laughed. “But it made for a decent distraction. You might remember it for your return trip.”

Cedric smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“There will be a return trip for you,” Lord Church assured him. “You’ve trained hard. Learned well. I have no doubt you’ll run circles around any foolish Arcanian that dares to try you.”

Cedric felt a weight lift from his shoulders. The nobleman’s confidence was bolstering. “Thank you, my lord,” he said quietly.

Lord Church’s expression softened further. “You have a strong heart, Cedric. Stronger than you realize. You can do this. I believe with every fiber of my being that you are the only one who can.”

The wagon creaked and swayed as they continued along the winding road toward the Lost City. The landscape began to change, trees thinning to reveal rolling hills and the deserted remains of towns that had been decimated when the Chasms tore through the land. The aurora overhead grew bright as the sun slipped lower in the sky.

“There,” called Thibault, pointing ahead.

Cedric’s gaze followed a path of flickering campfires to Luminaria’s ivy-covered city walls. The broken spires of Castle Lumin poked through the mist, towering over them.

Lord Church took a tremulous breath.

Two separate camps were set up on the outskirts of the city, and Thibault turned the wagon toward the one on the right. But something else caught Cedric’s attention, tugged his focus in the opposite direction. A shiver ran down his spine—magic.

Voices that should not have been audible at this distance rode on a phantom wind from the camp at the left—the Arcanian camp, Cedric realized. He couldn’t make out the words being exchanged, but the sentiment was clear enough. Anger, rage, hurt. Cedric squinted, recognizing the pointed ears and luminous wings of two fae women. One of them summoned a burst of water that sent her opponent stumbling.

Cedric smirked as she fell to the ground.

“Can they not keep their magic to themselves for even a single night?” Thibault griped.

“Truly boorish behavior,” Cedric agreed, even as he found himself wondering what the reason for the scuffle was. Then, another thought occurred. “How are they fighting each other?” he asked.

“Far be it from me to understand the intricacies of the Crucible’s magic,” Lord Church replied, sounding bored. “But I would surmise it is because their intentions are not malicious. Violence may be forbidden during this time, but perhaps we are simply witnessing some sort of...family spat.”

Hargrave let out a grunt. “They flaunt their magic to intimidate us, knowing Cedric and the other human champions must conserve their mana for the trials.”

“Would that we could just go over there and slaughter them all,” Thibault said, lip curling as his eyes darted to the sky. “This magical truce forced upon us by the aurora is utter bullshit.”

“I do believe that kind of thinking is the precise reason said magical truce exists,” Cedric offered. “I imagine the celestials prefer we champions at least make it into the Sanctum before we start killing each other.”

“Pay the brutes no mind,” Lord Church said, waving his cane dismissively. “Cedric will have the opportunity to deal with them in the Sanctum soon enough.”

Thibault nodded as he slowed the horse, pulling off to the side of the road. He kept one eye on the scuffle, looking slightly nauseous, even as he helped unpack supplies from the back of the wagon.

Cedric found it difficult to look away too. His vision narrowed on the second woman—the one who had been knocked down. He couldn’t see much—a flash of purple hair, the shimmer of sparkling wings that were a near-perfect match in color to the aurora blooming overhead.

Then, he didn’t need to look, because he felt . Felt a rush of power as the ground rumbled below him. Lord Church grabbed onto the side of the wagon for balance and Cedric ran to assist him, finally ripping his gaze from the fight.

“What was that?” Hargrave muttered as he helped Lord Church right himself from the other side.

A chill slithered through Cedric. He suspected he would very soon find out.