Chapter 2 Tristan Hale, Academic #2
“You have to wonder, do you?” Tristan grumbled under his breath, and Cedric coughed to cover the laugh that spawned in response.
Yvan arched a white eyebrow. “Your dedication is admirable, I admit, and far be it from me to discourage the pursuit of knowledge. But given that the rest of your party returned to Kingshelm days ago, I also have to wonder how much longer you intend to grace us with your presence, Sirs.”
“I didn’t realize your hospitality had a time limit, Magister,” Tristan said.
At Yvan’s answering frown, Cedric was quick to add, “I bade the rest of our group return to Kingshelm to assist in preparations for the welcome celebration, but Sir Hale and I have yet to locate the information we seek. We fully intend to exhaust all options in pursuit of this goal, so I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with us a little longer. ”
“What can we say? We are determined.” Tristan offered the magister a polite smile that didn’t meet his sky-blue eyes. “They don’t call me ‘Tristan Hale, Academic’ for nothing, you see.”
“Mmm, quite.” Yvan inclined his chin at the pile he’d placed on the table.
“Well, perhaps ‘exhaust’ is an apt choice of words. This is the final collection of books we have pertaining to anything having to do with Queen Daephinia’s reign or the Lost City.
And I warn you they are not in good condition. ”
“I see.” Cedric’s shoulders sagged as he scanned the small, worn stack, containing riveting titles like Castle Lumin Staff Records, A - G and A Guide to Sylvan Accommodations, 2nd Edition.
“As you can see, we are scraping the bottom of the barrel here. I doubt what you’re looking for lies amidst ancient castle records.” Yvan paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his wizened face. “Then again, who am I to judge? The truth has a way of hiding in the spaces between what is written.”
And with that cryptic remark, the magister turned on his heels and strode off, robes whispering against the floor.
“Helpful as ever,” Tristan muttered.
Cedric exhaled a chuckle, though it felt hollow. He grabbed a slim book from the stack Magister Yvan had dropped off and began thumbing through it. A groan fell from his lips when he turned the final page some minutes later. More nothing.
“So, the welcome celebration,” Tristan said cautiously, breaking the long silence.
Cedric’s jaw tightened. “What of it?”
“If we linger much longer, we will miss it entirely.”
“And what a shame that would be.”
Tristan’s mouth quirked. “Don’t sound so thrilled.”
“Would you be?” Cedric arched a brow at his friend. “I may very well go blind from our work here over the past few weeks, but it’s been a welcome reprieve from being paraded throughout the kingdom like some kind of hero.”
As if I actually won something. As if I deserve the title of victor, he added in his head.
He then tried very hard to keep himself from flashing back to the many moments during the Crucible when it was clear he was anything but a victor in his own right.
Had it not been for Elyria, he never would have made it past the first trial.
Tristan batted his eyelashes, a broad grin overtaking his face. He placed his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. “You’re my hero, Ric.”
Cedric smothered the urge to throw a book at him.
“Fine, fine. I know you’ve never been much of one for the spotlight. Believe it or not, I do understand your reticence. But don’t discount yourself, either. You survived, brother. You earned that crown.”
Did I? Cedric wanted to say. A sharp pain bit into the skin over his heart, in the exact spot where he’d plunged that dagger, giving the Crucible the sacrifice it required to allow Elyria to claim the Crown of Concord.
Well, to claim half of it.
“Now, I’m not so certain I would go so far as to say the past few weeks have been a reprieve, but there has been something rather nostalgic about it, hasn’t there?” Tristan continued. “Almost feels like old times—you, me, and Tenny causing a ruckus in the king’s library between tutoring sessions.”
Cedric hummed in acknowledgment. It had been a long time since the three of them had shared space like that—longer still since it had felt simple.
Especially after the last conversation he’d had with Lord Church before leaving for Paideus.
Cedric shook his head, refocusing on the present. That was a problem for later. “Yes, you certainly have had a good deal of practice disturbing the peace and aggravating the magisters, haven’t you?” He cast a pointed look at the surrounding stacks—and the shusher hidden therein.
Tristan loosed a dramatic sigh. “Tenny was always the better co-conspirator. Even when we were children, you always had such a stick up your—”
“Ahem,” came a voice from the stacks behind them.
Cedric’s mouth tipped to one side.
Undeterred, Tristan went on to add, “I suppose I should be grateful that the lord loosened your leash enough to permit you to come here at all.”
“It’s not a leash, it’s a noose.” The words slipped out before Cedric could stop them.
Tristan’s jaw went slack. “Do my ears deceive me, or was that a criticism of the oh-so-magnanimous Lord Paramount Leviathan Church?”
Cedric’s face scrunched at the accusation, however jokingly it might have been said.
Tristan was a consummate knight, honor bound and dutiful, always.
But he’d never hidden his personal dislike of the lord particularly well—not from Cedric, at least. Even knowing the gratitude and affection Cedric held for Lord Church.
Despite the strange tension that had settled between them since Cedric’s return from Luminaria, those feelings persisted. After all, how could he feel anything else for the man who took Cedric in, made him a ward of his estate, and cared for him after his parents’ gruesome, untimely deaths?
He owed much to Leviathan Church.
A sour taste coated Cedric’s tongue. He rubbed at his chest, his palm smoothing the fabric of his tunic, as if doing so might soothe the persistent ache beneath it.
This trip to Paideus had been necessary, true.
And the opportunity to get away from the circus that came with being the “Victor of Havensreach” was certainly appreciated.
But Cedric couldn’t deny that his relief in coming here also stemmed from something . . . else.
Lord Church had always had a knack for seeing through Cedric.
Even as a child, Cedric had felt the lord’s gaze was a little too piercing, his visage a little too knowing.
It was unnerving then. It felt . . . dangerous now, with this new power simmering somewhere inside—the ever-present threat of that inferno burning just below the surface.
Cedric hadn’t yet been able to bring himself to admit that part of what occurred during the Crucible. What would Lord Church think of this power, of Cedric’s possession of it? Of something so different, so much greater, than the mana humans wielded through their tokens?
Cedric’s first thought had been that perhaps the lord could help him, that he might know something of what this power was, where it had come from.
And then Cedric remembered the few times growing up when he had asked about where he himself had come from, had asked what Lord Church knew of his parents—of Lysander and Lennie Thorne.
His inquiries had been met with such indifferent dismissal that Cedric’s cheeks still burned thinking of it now, all these years later.
“Have I not been good to you, Cedric? Do you not have everything you could possibly want here, and more? Your parents are gone—it is right to let them rest. Let us not talk of such things. All it will do is upset you.”
As a child, Cedric never dared push back.
As a grown man, he’d just wanted to move forward.
And now, as this . . . this new incarnation of himself that had emerged from the Crucible—reborn, reforged—he needed to know more.
He just didn’t think Lord Church would be the one to tell him, even if he did know something. And it wasn’t worth the risk to Cedric’s position, or to the lord’s opinion of him, to ask.
So, Cedric was on his own to figure it out.
Despite Tristan’s insinuations, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried.
He had. When his eyes weren’t glazed over reading through the furniture inventory of Castle Lumin’s sleeping chambers, he was digging into every text he could find on Arcanian magic.
Thraigg and Nox and, yes, Elyria, had been right during the Crucible when they’d questioned Cedric’s magical education.
The more he read, the more he realized he knew very little about the innate magic that flowed through the veins of fae and dwarves and sylvans and nocterrians alike.
That might possibly flow through his own, though he still didn’t understand how.
Or, rather, he did understand how, but there wasn’t a chance in all four quarters of hell that he was ready to admit to himself what it might mean.
That didn’t prevent him from wanting to learn more about the power itself, however.
He’d tried to call on it, to coax it out, to summon the flame that he knew smoldered in his core.
But each time, it ended in nothing but ragged breaths and trembling hands and deep, cutting frustration.
Sparks would crackle uselessly from his fingers before sputtering out.
Heat would flare in his chest, along the back of his neck, zipping up his spine.
And would go nowhere.
Cedric knew that furnace inside him still burned, a churning well of power far stronger, and that stretched far deeper, than anything he’d experienced with his mana token. But the magic felt . . . inaccessible. Buried beneath a layer of ash.
And until he understood it, until he felt he had a modicum of control over it, until he could explain it, he could not tell Lord Church.
Though, from the way he was constantly summoning Cedric, the frequent interruptions at inopportune times, Cedric was sure the lord knew he was hiding something.