CHAPTER 53

I dutifully follow Amelia to the mansion’s grand entrance. She walks under the stairway, dislodging a wood panel before producing a heavy key from a pouch and unlocking a heavy padded door. Sharp smells waft up from what I see is a long stone stairwell leading into a basement. Light shines at the bottom.

“Are you going in or shall we stand here all day?” Amelia taps her foot as she holds the door.

“Where are we going?” I ask guardedly.

“Down there,” she retorts. “So go on. I was joking, lad. We don’t have all day.”

Steeling myself, I go in. The stone steps are humid and well-trodden. They seem to have been here for a long time. I hear Amelia lock the down behind us. When I turn, she nods meaningfully down the steps. My skin feels clammy, my mouth dry. Even so, I walk all the way down.

The basement is more spacious than the narrow passage suggested. A vestibule with two benches leads into a large room lined with the same smokeless, perpetual magic torches I saw used in the dungeon. The larger room is covered in thick mats. I stand at the entrance and test them with my foot. Hard, but softer than a stone floor.

Amelia strides into the room with the sureness of its master.

“This is the training room,” she says, stepping up to the middle and turning to me. “Here is where we’ll get you prepared for what comes next. Equipment is there. You are not allowed beyond that door,” she points first to an open passage past which I can see shelves full of equipment and then to a dark, ominous door on the other side of the large room. “While we’re in here, you’re to do what I tell you to do or to try until you can’t anymore. Is that understood?”

“What do you mean, ‘what comes next’? Another Dungeon? No one has said—”

“Whatever it may be. It’s not your place to question the future. Is that understood?”

“That depends,” I say. “I don’t know what you’ll ask me to—"

“Let’s get one thing straight, you and me,” Amelia snaps. “I don’t think you’re a hero. In here, you are not to act like some two-bit Godtouched just on account of managing to fit a key to a door and finding yourself a few steps higher on the pecking order than you are used to. Is that understood?”

The remark is sharp enough to sting.

“I don’t think I’m higher up than anyone,” I protest. “I want to get better and stronger. But you can’t just drag me here and boss me around.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Why is what?”

“Why can’t I boss you around?” she prods, stone-faced. “You saw me last night. If I did what I did to two strong Godtouched, what makes you think I can’t do the same to you?”

“Lysander…”

“The elf isn’t here,” she says without a trace of her earlier obeisance. “And he can’t help you. Can you fight me? Can you run up that stairwell and make a break for it? What can you, Malco, do to stop me?”

Without meaning to, I’m looking around, searching for moving shadows in the dark corners of the room. And Amelia is just standing there, as plain and unremarkable as any Reach mother.

“I…”

“Yes?”

“I can obey,” I say finally.

“Aha! He can think. That’s good. That’s very good. All right. Wait there.”

Amelia turns and walks to the forbidden door at the end of the room, unlocks it, and disappears inside.

In the quiet, I breathe in and out to steady my nerves. Being underground with Amelia, who ever since last night has exuded an undeniable aura of threat, has me unbalanced, making stupid mistakes. I don’t want to antagonize these people. Like with Medrein, I am resolved to perform the tricks they want me to perform, to cart the horseshit they want me to cart. Lull them into monotony. If they want me to train, I’ll train.

A series of clangs beyond the door signals Amelia’s return. The door opens, and someone walks out. That someone is not Amelia. He’s tall, covered in padded training armor, and carrying a long staff. A helmet covers his head and hides his expression. I can barely spot the glint of his eyes.

“Alright,” comes Amelia’s voice. She walks out after the armored man, clapping her hands together. “The test is simple. I want to see how well you do in combat.”

“But I can’t hold a staff,” I say, raising my stump. “I’m at a disadvantage.”

“Aye,” Amelia says. “Also you’re short, scrawny, and you’re still shaken from your Challenge. The disadvantages just seem to pile up, don’t they?”

“But… can’t Godtouched cure me? With a potion, or a spell?”

“You’ll find they’re more limited than you were lead to believe,” Amelia answers. “And even if they weren’t, considering who did that to you, I wouldn’t place bets on any magic being sufficient to grow it back. If there are workarounds, I surely wouldn’t know about them. All that is for Lord Elf to solve. Here, we don’t deal in ‘I wonder if’. We deal in what you can do, and in what you can’t yet do.”

“Well, I can’t fight with a staff,” I throw back at her.

“No. But you can do your damned best fighting with something else,” Amelia answers, her eyes shining dangerously. “Pick a weapon you’re comfortable with off the shelves there.”

The last sentence is a command. The back and forth is over.

While I go through the weapons – only some of them practice weapons, I notice, most are actual, worn, sharp things – I notice my training partner hasn’t moved an inch. He just stands there, staff in one hand, waiting. I reach for one of the practice blades, but Amelia tuts.

“Not those, boy. We need to build up your muscle. Pick something you’d carry into battle.”

Frowning, I put the wooden sword down and settle for a one-handed blade I’m fairly sure I can swing about. My training in swords was always curtailed by the fact that only a sparse few existed in Reach while the staff was a centuries-old favorite.

Feeling much less than confident, I step back into the room. I’m about to ask Amelia where I can find armor when she takes a step back.

“Begin!” she yells.

The man in armor doesn’t hesitate for a second. Beginner staff fighters are usually under the impression that the goal of the fight is hitting your opponent’s staff. My opponent tries none of that, and skips also the usual testing jabs and circling around. Instead, he dashes forward and a sideways swing that would have cracked my head in two if I didn’t crouch and step away. I steal a glance at Amelia and find her with arms crossed, stiff and focused.

The peek costs me: a jab follows another step forward. I try to swipe the weapon away, but my strength in one arm is unequal to my opponent’s in both. The jab clips my side, knocking me onto one knee. Then the man withdraws the staff, spins it above his head and brings it down on mine. I barely manage to put an arm up, a last stop before what will surely be a lasting coma.

The weapon stops a handspan from my face, retreats, and comes to rest next to my opponent’s feet. Staring straight ahead, he isn’t even winded.

I struggle to stand, ears burning.

“Good,” Amelia says.

“Good?” I spit. “He almost killed me.”

It was my hope that after getting a level I never would have to suffer humiliating defeats the likes of which Bago treated me to on a weekly basis. If anything, this was worse.

“What Perks did you get, Malco?” she asks, stepping closer. She’s suddenly relaxed. “You should find them under Traits.”

“I know where to find them,” I pant, adrenaline still coursing through my veins. “What was that? Who is he?”

Amelia’s expression is serious and unbending.

“What Perks?”

“Observant, Sneaky, Lockpicker, and Dirty Fighter.”

“I see,” she nods. “However, I didn’t see you try to sneak, pick locks, or even fight dirty. Instead, you seem to be trying to rely on Perks you don’t have, related to sword fighting and withstanding hits with your face. Why is that?”

“You didn’t tell me I…”

“Yes?”

I exhale through my teeth.

“I wasn’t thinking.”

Amelia’s very straight mouth twitches a little. Was that a smile?

“Exactly. Go back in the equipment room and pick something else. And while you’re going through your options, I want you to think of them not as weapons, but as tools. Pick the best one for the job. Put that Observant Perk to good use.”

I walk back to the weapons racks, clenching my jaw with frustration. My heart is still racing and I’m sweating too much. The sword goes back in its place and I look over the rest of my options. The weapons are varied, but they’re all just that: weapons. There’s no tool here that will compensate for being a hand short. It would take magic to…

Magic. I have Hunch, the Divination spell. Will it work here? Is it even useful when the source of danger is so evident?

I peek into the large room. Amelia is strolling in a little line around the perimeter, my sparring partner stiff and silent, staring straight ahead in the same position I left him in.

There’s something decidedly odd about him that gets me thinking. I saw Amelia commanding the shadowy beasts yesterday. Could this be one of them?

“Don’t dally,” Amelia says, back turned.

I go back to the shelves. The truth is no weapons here will allow me to parry a staff swung with both hands, which means I shouldn’t even consider that path. I end up picking a dirk, light but wickedly sharp, and cast Hunch before returning to the mats.

Amelia frowns when she sees me.

“Are you sure that’s the tool you’re going with?”

“I am.”

“Very well.” She crosses her arms, and her expression becomes hard and focused again. “Begin!”

This time, when my opponent unfolds into an attack with no semblance of hesitation, I’m ready to dodge. I step into the attack, ducking, and attempt a slice at the man’s knee which he dodges with a step back and a simultaneous attempt to whack me over the head. I roll to the side and gain some distance.

Hunch didn’t activate. I had felt nothing like that icy sensation again, which meant that Hunch only worked when I wasn’t aware of the danger. I shoot a side glance at Amelia, who remains focused, observing the fight intently. I don’t have time for more. The staff descends upon me like a felled tree.

The first two times I’m able to dodge it, though never to get inside the man’s reach to better use my blade. He’s quick and guarded at the same time, an expert fighter that I only manage to keep up with by staying on the move.

This is nothing like with Bago. Then, I never knew what I was doing. Every fight was an exercise in futility, he an avalanche of overwhelming strength while I tried to slap his blows away until I couldn’t anymore. That isn’t how I feel now. My levels have given me something insubstantial but ever present, a finer control and speed that wasn’t there before, and it’s with some surprise that I realize that I’m quicker than my opponent. If I stay focused, I can dance one step away from his staff.

Of course, my opponent isn’t just brute strength either, but a skilled combatant. It only takes a slower step, a slight look in Amelia’s direction and at her fixed, concentrated expression, for him to find a glancing blow on my leg and then to swing the staff overhead, like the first time, like he’s aiming at cracking my head in two.

I roll away and stand up again. The next moment my arm swings and releases the dirk, which spins through the air aimed at my instructor. I see the surprise in her face, the shock, and immediately turn and throw myself at my armored opponent. With a tackle of pure brawn and no finesse I catch him on the side. Like I hoped, he doesn’t move, doesn’t resist. I have to push with all my strength, but he topples, still as a tree, smack onto the mats.

I step back, winded, hot, my head swimming with daring, and exactly then the ice-cold sensation shoots into the back of my head. Hunch. I duck before I know what I am doing.

Amelia’s hand grabs only air. I look up at her, the electrifying menace in her eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hisses. “Attacking me?”

“You said pick a tool,” I explain. My mouth feels too dry and the room darker than before. The fury in Amelia’s eyes cannot be mistaken for irritation towards a bad student. “I concluded no tool could make up for my deficiencies. So—”

“So you were such a sore loser that you decided to strike me instead of your opponent?” Amelia demands.

“You are my opponent,” I say defiantly.

Amelia purses her lips.

“Explain.”

“Last night, you were controlling whatever was in the shadows. Today, you were focused when the fighting started and relaxed when it stopped. I figured you were controlling that, too,” I nod towards the fallen armored man, lying like a puppet with its strings cut off. “And I was right.”

“Right has nothing to do with it,” Amelia snaps. “That wasn’t the exercise.”

She stands, muttering to herself.

“What sort of Mage are you?” I ask.

Back turned to me, Amelia doesn’t answer. I stand cautiously to observe the figure on the floor and freeze. The padded helmet has rolled away to reveal a face I recognize: Muscle, Valkas’ bodyguard from last night. His grey skin and the gash on his neck tell me everything I need to know about the state he’s in.

“He’s dead.”

Amelia doesn’t answer that, either.

“Get weights,” she says finally, turning to me.

The dead man rises at the sound of her voice and marches into the equipment area without a word of complaint.

“Eyes here, Malco. Don’t worry about the nice Godtouched, he’s safe and sound in his keep in Red Harbor. His remains will hold only a while longer, and for that while he’s mine. Now,” Amelia steps in front of me. “You’re not stupid, clearly. You’re also quick, which is to be expected from you Rogue types. What’s missing is strength. So our first mission is to put some more muscle on that skinny frame of yours.”

The dead man marches back into the room, carrying an armload of different metallic shapes which he sets down on the mats.

“These tools are simple. You pick them up and put them down again. Understood, or are you going to find a clever way around that too?”

“Understood.”

“Good.” Amelia’s eyes shine darkly when she turns to me again, stepping dangerously close. “And if you ever, ever throw a godsdamned knife at me again, you little rat bastard, Lord Lysander is going to have to scrape you off the wall. Is that understood?”

There isn’t a hint of humor in her face. I nod.

“Very good. Lighter ones first. Begin!”