Book 2: Chapter 8 - The Tutor [Part 1]

  The Queen’s first egg was to be presented in ten turns of the seasons as a new bride. Such was the desperation of the alliance with the fate of the world on their shoulders. The Dragons in their great pride would never forget what the ‘lesser races’ had forced upon them, and their resentment would only grow with the passage of time.

  After many years, the great horde started their journey across the vast Untouched Seas, unmolested by the scaled leviathans of the deep. The dragons had negotiated their safe passage, securing it in the ancient way of their kind. The serpents of the sky and sea were to be bound together once more.

  The great Arks, living ships of near-indestructible magical witchwood, made excellent time across the water, their massive bulk now pushed and pulled by the gigantic leviathans that made the deep places of the sea their home. Great cheers were raised when the ships made landfall on the western continent.

  Spies from the alliance and divine scrying showed that the mage-king was actually no king at all. In fact, he was seen to be more of a Steward and Servant of the people and was chosen by the majority of them, which was a concept that was so alien and foreign to the members of the alliance. The system of government was seen as preposterous, for who would ever in their right mind allow the common man to dictate the rules of power above their station?

  They were met on the beaches by envoys of the unknown mage-king under the banner of peace. Their decapitated heads were sent back wrapped in spider silk and sweet-scented with Aeyory blossoms, a traditional declaration of total war in the east.

  But the spies and scouts of the unknown kingdom had not been idle, and they discovered horrifying facts that only hardened the resolve of the people to resist. Many of those who were brought across the ocean were, in fact, slaves. Men and women who had pulled at the great oars, who had cleaned and scrubbed the decks, tended the fires, and cooked the meals that fed the armies and a thousand more labors were chattel with the hateful mark of slavery inscribed upon their bodies.

  — On the Cataclysm by an unknown Quassian Scholar, circa 103 AC.

  Morning tea was pleasant enough, but a part of Seraphina longed for the coffee of her old world. That dark, bitter brew had been a steadfast companion through many sleepless nights. Now, those nights—her past life—felt distant, almost like the fading remnants of a dream.

  Captain Fanzazino, true to his word—or rather, true to his fear of the young girl and her serpent—had smoothed things over. He had personally drafted a special report for the Mayor’s office, carefully omitting certain inconvenient details. The bodies of the intruders from the Bloody Tower had been handed over to the City Guard—minus one. The loser of the game had been quietly disposed of by Miriam. Seraphina wondered how long the girl she had spared would take to crawl back to her masters and deliver the message she had so generously allowed her to live for.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Now, a score or more of City Guardsmen had been stationed around her temporary accommodations. Supposedly, they were there to protect her. In truth, they were little more than a leash. She bristled at the restriction. It was a bitter pill, but one she was willing to swallow—for now. Let them watch. If nothing else, this would serve as a bargaining chip when the time came to negotiate with the Academy authorities.

  The house itself had been quite the wreck before an army of servants, carpenters, and stonemasons—rudely roused in the dead of night—had set it to rights. Seraphina cared nothing for their inconvenience; they would be well-compensated for their trouble. Their suffering was a trivial price for her comfort.

  She turned her attention to drafting a letter. A small mistake in the wording caught her eye. Irritated, she crumpled the expensive parchment and tossed it aside. For some reason, frustration had been gnawing at her as of late, a slow-burning ember that refused to die.

  There was a knock at the door.

  "Come in."

  Ibn entered hesitantly, eyes flitting toward her desk rather than meeting her gaze. Lately, the boy had grown almost timid around her. That would not do. She would have to correct it.

  "Lady Seraphina, there is a Mister de Laney—" he began, voice uncertain.

  Seraphina let out a sharp breath. "Though his family was only recently elevated, he is Lord de Laney. The forms must be observed," she corrected coolly. "I will not have people whispering that my staff is uncultured. That would be unbecoming of our noble House—of which you are a part. Do you understand, Ibn?"

  "Yes, Lady Seraphina…" he murmured.

  She studied him. Ibn was an investment, and an important one at that. She held her head in her hands, exasperated at the prospect of managing a mere boy. But investments needed tending.

  "To think you would not know something so basic. And you are my Page, of all things. Continue to fail, and you will bring only dishonor upon me." She leaned forward, her voice deceptively soft. "Tell me, do you like me, Ibn?"

  His face flushed immediately. "Of course, I—I mean, yes, Lady Seraphina!"

  She smirked. How silly. Of course, he liked her. It was as natural as calling water wet. Still, a girl wanted to hear these things sometimes. Even if it was just from a very young boy.

  "Then why can’t you remember something as simple as proper etiquette?"

  "It's just that—those lessons and stuff are so boring, miss—I mean, Lady Seraphina!" he blurted out.

  Unacceptable.

  "Try harder, Ibn." Her voice lowered, dangerous now. "I like you, in fact, you could say I am rather fond of you."

  The boy shifted uncomfortably, eyes looking at anything but her.

  "However, you must improve. No matter how much you dislike it. I will not have savages in my service. Fail me again, and I may find myself… rather less fond of you."

  She steepled her fingers, recalling that people preferred to leave an audience on a good note. Praise, when used sparingly, could be effective. Her gaze flickered over him critically. "The Knights say you are progressing well with the sword. That is good. However, it is nearly time for you to train with a live blade, yet you still refuse to touch one."

  His throat bobbed. "Yes," he squeaked.

  "Fix this problem within a week, or I will fix it for you. Now, go and inform the Lord de Laney that I will be with him shortly."