Chapter 60 - Basil Livington III

Malbek and Will left Arien in the entrance hall of one of the Academy’s administrative buildings before continuing toward the training grounds, where prospective students of the House of the Sword were being tested.
Apparently, candidates for the Houses of Magic and Harp had drawn the more comfortable assignment.
To Arien’s disappointment, registration wasn’t taking place on the Academy grounds at all.
He had spent weeks staring at those red walls from a distance, only to discover that the Academy had very deliberately arranged matters so several thousand applicants and their families wouldn’t spend registration week wandering through the actual campus.
Instead, visitors were processed in a large administrative complex on the outskirts of Wayhold, annoyingly close to Gilfra’s estate.
So much for his grand entrance.
Arien followed an ornately decorated corridor deeper into the building. Paintings in gilded frames covered both walls, most depicting stern-looking men and women in Academy robes. Some held books. Others swords, staffs, or objects he couldn’t identify.
None of them looked particularly welcoming.
Eventually, he reached a waiting room containing several rows of backless wooden benches. Although registration wasn’t officially scheduled to begin for another half hour, nearly a third of the seats were already occupied, and several conversations quieted as he entered.
Arien ignored the curious glances and approached a waist-high metal stand near the center of the room, with a small crank protruding from one side. Good thing Malbek had explained what it was. Otherwise, Arien suspected he could have spent an embarrassingly long time searching for someone who handed out queue numbers.
He turned the crank. Something clicked inside, and a small metal token dropped into the tray below.
13
Arien stared at the token. How fortunate. Then again, thirteen wasn’t considered unlucky in Erador.
He slipped it into his hand and chose a bench with a clear view of the large brown doors at the far end of the room. Whatever passed for the actual examination waited somewhere behind them.
His palms were already sweating, and he wiped them discreetly against his black trousers. This was ridiculous. As far as everyone here was concerned, he was an Eight with mana, and admission to the House of Magic should have been little more than a formality. Knowing that he was actually a level fifteen Mage should have made him even less nervous.
It didn’t. The feeling was unpleasantly familiar from university exams back on Earth.
What if I say something stupid? What if the artifact behaved differently than Malbek expected, or he happened to get some Master who hated commoners? Stories always had an evil Master somewhere.
Arien shifted on the bench. Maybe he’d read too much fantasy.
More applicants filtered into the room as the minutes passed, and Arien tried to distract himself by studying them. Some were easy to categorize. Fine coats, polished shoes, jewelry, and servants waiting outside usually meant wealth. Others wore clothes much closer to what he remembered from Three Meadows, carefully cleaned and repaired for what was probably one of the most important days of their lives. A few carried instrument cases, presumably for the House of the Harp.
He began silently guessing who came from Wayhold, who had traveled from the provinces, and which House each of them hoped to enter. Mostly, though, he wondered whether they were as nervous as he was.
By five minutes before the official start, several dozen children had gathered, and the answer had become obvious.
Most of them were considerably more nervous.
Arien watched one boy wipe his palms against his trousers for the third time. A girl several benches away had been twisting the same lock of hair around her finger for so long that Arien was surprised it remained attached. Someone with a violin case kept opening and closing the brass clasps without ever lifting the lid.
Congratulations, Arien. You’re more composed than a room full of ten-year-olds.
A tremendous achievement.
At least most of them looked about ten. A few appeared younger, although after learning what Vitality could do to aging, Arien had become considerably less confident in judging anyone’s age by appearance alone.
As the minutes passed, even applicants who had arrived together gradually stopped whispering. Arien felt a little sorry for them. Adults weren’t allowed beyond the entrance hall, and while Malbek claimed that anyone incapable of surviving registration without a parent holding their hand had no business attending the Academy, Arien suspected that opinion had more to do with Malbek being Malbek than official policy.
Some of these children clearly could have used the support.
The clock finally struck nine.
Nothing happened.
Five minutes passed, then ten. By the time twenty minutes had gone by, whispers had started again, spreading from bench to bench as everyone arrived at roughly the same questions.
Was this part of the examination? Were they supposed to knock? Or were the Masters simply late?
Meanwhile, more applicants continued to arrive. The empty benches disappeared one by one until the room began to feel uncomfortably crowded.
“You were right, cousin. Coming on the second-to-last day was definitely the best choice.” A clear voice cut through the nervous murmuring.
“Apparently, on the first day the line stretched all the way beyond the gates.”
Two boys entered the waiting room.
Both were dressed well enough that Arien immediately placed them somewhere far above himself on Wayhold’s social ladder. One, a tall blond who had apparently been speaking, also wore a short sword at his hip.
“Do you think that—” He stopped. Nearly a hundred pairs of eyes had turned toward him. “Quite a crowd,” he finished more quietly.
Rather than finding a seat, the blond surveyed the room, drew himself up slightly, and offered everyone a graceful bow.
“Greetings. Basil Livington the Third.” He smiled as though introducing himself to an audience rather than a room full of exhausted children. “Forgive the interruption. I suppose it’s difficult not to be excited on a day like this.” His smile widened. “After all, today we finally get to begin properly developing our Aspects.”
Arien heard him perfectly despite sitting several rows away, and almost immediately found himself liking the boy.
Aspects?
Plural.
Basil must have been extraordinarily talented. No wonder he was excited. Arien could understand that better than most. If there was anyone in this room who knew what it felt like to—
Pain stabbed through his temple.
Unshakable Mind activated.
The sudden sense of kinship vanished.
Oh.
Arien stared at Basil.
Wonderful. What an ass.
He was using a Skill on an entire room full of nervous children, apparently for no better reason than making himself seem impressive and likable.
“Uh, no problem,” said a boy seated near the examination doors. Arien recognized him as one of the applicants who had arrived before him. “We’re all excited. It’s an important day.”
Several others nodded. Murmurs of agreement spread through the room.
Basil’s smile became warmer. “Exactly. Soon enough, we’ll all be studying together at the finest Academy on the continent.” Basil turned toward the boy with the violin case. “Tell me, my friend. How quickly is the line moving?”
“Uh…” The boy shifted on his bench. His fingers returned to the brass clasps of the violin case, opening one and immediately snapping it shut again. “It hasn’t started yet.”
“Really?” Basil’s expression fell. “That’s unfortunate.” He glanced toward his companion. “My cousin Rickard and I only arrived from Liazanne late last night. Barely slept at all, and we still have half the capital to cross before the day is over.”
A sympathetic murmur came from somewhere nearby.
Basil sighed. “And with this many people…” His gaze wandered across the crowded benches. “Though I suppose registration itself shouldn’t take long for us. We both have mana.”
Of course.
They already have mana. Their registration really should take only a few moments.
Arien felt it again. This time the influence was subtler. The thought felt like his own until Unshakable Mind pushed against it.
Arien’s eyes narrowed. How high was Basil’s Skill? He looked around.
Most applicants were watching the blond with expressions ranging from sympathy to open friendliness. Only a handful seemed unaffected, their faces cautious or merely curious.
The boy with the violin swallowed. “You’re right. You must be exhausted after traveling so far.” His fingers stopped worrying at the clasps. “Would you… like my number? I’m not in any hurry. Honestly, I’d rather not be one of the first anyway.”
He held out his queue token.
Basil smiled. “Would you really? That would be incredibly kind.”
He accepted the token.
“I won’t forget it. My father is Viscount Livington, so if you ever find yourself needing a friend in the right place…” He smiled again. “You have one now.”
Arien watched the exchange in silence.
Should I say something?
Surely this violated some Academy rule, but what exactly could he accuse Basil of? The boy had offered his place willingly. Basil hadn’t threatened him, demanded anything, or even asked directly.
Which, Arien suspected, was precisely the point.
“But that creates a problem.” Basil looked toward Rickard with an apologetic expression. “I can’t leave my cousin behind after he traveled all this way with me. That wouldn’t be very friendly, would it?”
The room remained quiet. A few applicants who had been smiling at Basil only moments earlier exchanged uncertain looks, while others avoided his gaze.
Arien felt Unshakable Mind relax.
Had Basil stopped using his Skill? Or had he reached some limit?
Whatever the reason, without that strange pressure smoothing over his words, the request sounded considerably less reasonable.
Nobody volunteered.
“Basil, it’s fine,” Rickard said quietly. “I’m not that tired.”
“Rick, you know how many receptions we still have today.” Basil gave him a reassuring smile. “Surely you don’t want to spend half the morning sitting here.”
Then his gaze began moving across the waiting room. Arien immediately looked away.
Not me.
Basil continued searching.
Not me.
His gaze moved closer.
Not me.
Arien became intensely interested in one of the paintings on the opposite wall.
“Ah. My friend.”
Noooo.
“Yes, you.”
Arien resisted the urge to close his eyes. Nearly a hundred people were in the room, and naturally Basil had chosen him.
“You look…”
Arien reluctantly turned back.
“Lost.”
“I’m not lost.” With half the room now watching, he added, “I’m excited. Just like you. I can’t wait for registration to begin.”
So much for thirteen not being unlucky.
Basil looked him over. “Your clothes…”
Arien glanced down.
What about them?
He was wearing the outfit Sari had given him, easily the best set of clothes he owned. Back home, what she must have spent on it would have seemed extravagant.
Then he looked around at the polished boots, embroidered coats, jewelry, and fabrics that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe.
Fine. Perhaps he did look provincial.
Basil extended his hand. Arien accepted it automatically.
“Have you traveled far?” Basil asked.
“Very. I only arrived in Wayhold recently myself.”
There. Surely that was enough of a hint.
I’m tired too. Leave me alone.
Instead, Basil’s expression brightened. “Then you must be discovering how brutally expensive the capital can be for someone from the provinces.”
Oh no.
The blond reached inside his coat, produced a small leather purse, and tossed it toward him. Arien caught it on reflex.
At the same instant, pressure brushed against his thoughts again. Accepting Basil’s offer suddenly felt entirely reasonable. Basil had money, Arien had a queue number, and nobody was being hurt. He could simply take the gold, wait a little longer, and avoid making an enemy before even entering the Academy.
Perfectly sensible.
He could take the money and surrender number thirteen, or refuse Basil in front of everyone. Neither option appealed to him. Arien wasn’t Will; honor had never required him to charge directly at every injustice he encountered. Basil was arrogant, manipulative, and rapidly becoming extremely irritating, but that didn’t mean Arien needed to make him an enemy here, before his first day had even begun.
Humiliating him in front of nearly a hundred future students seemed particularly unwise. Arien knew almost nothing about Basil except that his father was a viscount and that he possessed a Skill capable of influencing an entire room. Arien had considerably more personal power than Basil probably suspected, but none of the things that mattered socially in Wayhold: a title, an influential family, or established allies.
Starting a feud with Basil Livington before his first day at the Academy seemed spectacularly stupid. In stories, protagonists always seemed to acquire some great rival within days of arriving at a school. Arien had never understood the appeal. Confronting an arrogant noble might earn a hero loyal friends and public admiration in a book; in reality, it could only earn him an influential enemy.
Pride wasn’t worth making his life miserable over.
He looked from the purse to Basil.
“I think that…” Arien began.
“Will you finally stop?” a girl called from nearby, sounding thoroughly irritated. “My head is starting to hurt because of you, idiot.”
Arien turned.
One of the younger applicants had approached their little gathering.
Pale-blonde hair fell halfway down her back, framing a delicate face dominated by striking blue eyes. At the moment, those eyes were fixed on Basil with undisguised irritation.
Her clothes made her stand out almost as much as her attitude. Simple black trousers, stained with dirt around the knees, and an oversized dark sweatshirt that looked as though it had been borrowed from an older brother.
Basil stared at her. “Excuse me?” His gaze dropped briefly to the mud on her knees before returning to her face. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“An idiot who can’t control his Skill and keeps blasting everyone in the room with it.” She didn’t sound remotely afraid.
Someone laughed. Then another person snorted. Around the room, expressions began to change. Applicants who had been smiling at Basil only moments earlier looked uncertain now, apparently reconsidering just how much of their sudden fondness for him had actually been their own.
She didn’t look brave. She simply didn’t look afraid.
Arien couldn’t decide whether to admire her or conclude that she had no sense of self-preservation. So he chose not to get involved at all.
He retreated half a step, hoping Basil forgot he existed. He would pray for her later.
“Take that back.”
The girl raised an eyebrow. “Or?”
“Or you’ll regret it.” Basil’s voice hardened. “Do you have any idea who my father is?”
“Some viscount nobody’s heard of from a city nobody cares about?”
Arien nearly choked.
Oh.
Apparently, self-preservation had never entered the conversation. Who was this girl?
She looked younger than most of the applicants, which probably meant she was talented. She had recognized Basil’s Skill. And now she was standing half a head shorter than him, dressed as though she had raided an older sibling’s wardrobe, while insulting a viscount’s son to his face.
Basil’s face began to redden. “I see your parents never bothered teaching you manners.”
“Maybe.”
“Tell me your name.” Basil smiled again. “I’d like to know where to send the complaint for defamation.”
The girl stared at him.
Basil mistook the silence for hesitation. “Apologize now, and I may be generous. Perhaps I’ll settle for financial compensation instead of having your father publicly flogged.” He tilted his head. “Something your family might even manage to repay within three generations.”
“My parents are dead.” The words came without the slightest change in her expression.
Basil faltered.
“My name is Efie. Efie Coldhart.” She folded her arms. “You can send the complaint to my Grandpa.”
The name meant nothing to Arien, but several applicants straightened, particularly those who had watched the confrontation with mild interest from the beginning and seemed less affected by Basil’s Skill.
Rickard went pale. “Uh, Basil…” Until now, he had mostly stood beside his cousin looking increasingly embarrassed. This time he grabbed Basil by the sleeve. “I think you should—”
“Wait, Rick.” Basil pulled his arm away. “I know every landed family in Wyndor worth knowing, and I’ve never heard of any Coldharts.”
Efie’s mouth twitched.
Basil apparently interpreted that as encouragement. “And if you think telling me your parents are dead is going to make me feel sorry for you, you’re mistaken.” He straightened. “So. Are you going to apologize, or—”
Rickard yanked Basil’s sleeve hard enough to make him stumble.
“What is it, Rick?”
Rickard leaned close and whispered into his ear. The irritation vanished from Basil’s face. He looked at Efie, then back at Rickard, the color slowly draining from his cheeks.
“I…” He swallowed. “I have to…”
Whatever Rickard had told him had apparently taken the rest of his words with it.
Basil glanced around and seemed to notice the room watching him for the first time.
Then he fled. Actually fled. Straight for the door.
Rickard stood there for another second before giving Efie a hurried bow. “My apologies.”
He rushed after his cousin.
As Basil fled, he narrowly avoided colliding with two men and a woman entering the waiting room. All three wore identical black robes that reminded Arien of an odd mixture of Roman togas and ceremonial vestments.
All they were missing were pointed hats.
They crossed the room without sparing the applicants a glance, moving with the confidence of people who expected everyone else to get out of their way, and disappeared through the examination doors.
A fourth person trailed several steps behind them: a girl of perhaps sixteen staggering beneath a mountain of books, folders, and rolled-up scrolls stacked so high that Arien could barely see her face.
Assistant? Student? Sacrificial pack mule?
“Ahem.”
Arien turned.
Efie was standing directly in front of him. One hand was extended expectantly. Palm down. Arien stared at it. What am I supposed to do with that? Shake it? Kiss it?
He suddenly regretted listening to Will, who had insisted that court etiquette wouldn’t matter at the Academy because everyone was supposedly equal there. Gilfra had offered several times to teach them the basics.
Arien had declined. Repeatedly.
Excellent decision.
He decided the safest course was to ignore the hand entirely. “I’m Arien.”
Efie stared at him. “My money.”
Arien blinked. “Your what?”
He followed her finger to the purse still clutched in his hand.
“Your money?”
“You didn’t give him your number.” Efie crossed her arms. “So the transaction never happened.”
Arien waited for the rest of the explanation. Unfortunately, there was one.
“I won the confrontation because that idiot ran away.” Efie smiled. “Therefore, the purse belongs to me.”
There were several obvious problems with that reasoning.
Somehow, arguing seemed like more trouble than the purse was worth. He handed it over. Efie took it without hesitation, didn’t bother counting the coins, and stuffed the pouch into her oversized sweatshirt before walking back toward her seat, quietly whistling.
Wait.
Had he just been robbed? By the girl who had supposedly rescued him?
Arien revised his opinion of Efie immediately. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with that little devil. She could keep Basil’s gold. He didn’t need trouble before he’d even crossed the Academy’s threshold.
“Number One!”
The older girl who had been carrying the books now stood in the doorway with a clipboard, her burden apparently deposited somewhere out of sight.
“Number One!” she called again.
A terrified-looking boy shot to his feet, and the examination doors closed behind him.
Arien looked down at the metal token in his hand.
13.
Registration had begun.