Son of the Traitor (1-4)

Hey. This is the fourth rewrite of a story I've been working on for quite some time. I would appreciate any type of feedback.

(Also, I'm trying to get things started on wattpad, so, if you could check it out over there (get me a view :P) it would be amazing.
The link: https://www.wattpad.com/story/132347172-son-of-the-traitor

Thank you. I hope you'll enjoy the read. :)

#1

Barnaby stood blank-faced and cold, staring up at the high desk, observing his current enemy, Mr. Grills, the bald and wrinkly High Inquisitor of the New United Government. The man was looking very busy or pretended to be so; he had failed to acknowledge Barnaby's presence in any noticeable way.

The tiny poorly lit room wasn't easy to breathe in. The wooden walls reeked of fear and despair, a scent left by those who had come before Barnaby.

"Brawling?" Mr. Grills broke the silence, giving Barnaby an uninterested glance.

"Yes."

"Son of William Brawling? Deceased..."

Barnaby nodded, bubbling anger forming fists.

"Yes."

Mr. Grills marked one of the papers before him, finishing his thought half asleep.

"Executed... Of course, for crimes against our nation..."

Barnaby took a deep silent breath, trying to remain calm. There was no need for Mr. Grills to bring up his father. But they always did!

Turning a page before him, Mr. Grills put the pen down and stretched backward in his chair.

"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Brawling?"

Barnaby kept his tone cold.

"I do."

Mr. Grills scratched his nose, again glancing at his papers.

"Alright. So, before we start... Would you like to make a statement relevant to your predicament?"

Barnaby's eyes narrowed.

"My predicament? It is my understanding that the questioning is a requirement to any person wishing to graduate. I sincerely hope I will receive the same kind of fair treatment that has been extended to those who came before me."

Mr. Grills' response stalled. He corrected his somewhat lazy appearing posture into a more royal and proud one.

"Of course, Mr. Brawling. I apologize for my ill-fitting set of words. What I meant to say... to ask... was if you would like to make a statement relevant to this questioning, prior to it's start?"

Barnaby shook his head.

"I do not."

Mr. Grills nodded, took another deep breath of the barely present air, and crunched closer to his papers. He spoke, voice suddenly very cold and royal.

"Very well! On with it then... It's written here that during your first year in the Capital School, more precisely, during the year's second government sanctioned duel, you performed a spell not included in the United Government's extensive list of all lawful magic."

Barnaby didn't move, but Mr. Grills lifted his hand as if trying to stop him from a premature response.

"Furthermore, the aforementioned spell is told to have been unfamiliar to the Capital School's teachers, almost certainly requiring an origin more sinister than the excuse of youths foolishness. Is the claim truthful?"

His eyes attacked Barnaby's, making him swallow before responding. Still, he managed to keep his tone distant and fearless.

"Indeed, the claim is truthful. But, I gave my explanations the day right after. I do not wish to repeat myself."

A grin appeared on the High Inquisitor's face. And, slowly, he pulled his semi-launched body back upright. The pen in his hand started to move as if it had been far too long since it got to mark a paper.

"Never mind what you wish, Mr. Brawling. Let's hear it again."

Barnaby cleared his throat, now audibly, as to alarm the coming of a needlessly long story, and took a short moment to bring forth the lies he never allowed himself to forget.

"As I explained back then... The casting of the spell was an accident. Prior to the tournament, and it's unfortunate happenings, I had been ill, unable to sleep, I had suffered from the loss of appetite, and, to top it all off, I had only recently received grave news. Casting that spell, which I still couldn't even name, was a disastrous slip of a word, caused by a tired mind. And again, Mr. High Inquisitor, I swear not to have broken any rules of our new United Government. Not one. The unlawful act was, and remains an unfortunate coincidence."

Mr. Grills' elevated pen-hand had frozen. Without blinking or breathing, he had devoured every syllable of the well-rehearsed lie, which, at the end of the monologue, left him staring with a crooked smile.

That made the voices in Barnaby's head nervous, but he managed to say not a word more. That lie had worked on his teachers, and he knew, none of them had believed it either.

"Very well." Mr. Grills guided his pen back on the paper, marked it with a single straight line, and turned the page. Having read its information, he leaned back in his chair, using his pen-less hand to scratch his lip.

"As I'm sure you know, Mr. Brawling, not everyone passes this final exam." He shook his head, eyes flashing a sad smile. "Oh, no, many do not. And it's written here..." Mr. Grills' finger landed on the paper which Barnaby could not see. "... That you have been caught friendly with many such undesirable people." He lifted the whole folder closer to his eyes. "Robert Gaines, for an example. Halberd, Sanders? You are friendly with these people... Are you not?"

"No!" Barnaby forced his voice louder. "What you're reading, Mr. High Inquisitor, are baseless claims aimed to tarnish my name."

"Very well." Mr. Grills lowered the folder, exposing his sneer of disbelief. "But it is written here that there are witnesses..." His eyes moved from very top of the page to its bottom. "Multiple witnesses."

Barnaby's breathing quickened, and his foot shook for the first time. Forcing it still, he put on a smile as fake as the Inquisitors.

"I'm not hiding the fact that I've spoken to these people. As the son of the king, I find it..."

Mr. Grills coughed loudly, deliberately interrupting Barnaby in his response, and moved forward, his bald wrinkly head hanging all the way over his desk.

"But there are no more kings, Mr. Brawling. Not one!"

Mr. Grills remained over the table, eyes unblinking and sharp like daggers, making Barnaby feel like he was on fire. For the first time, his head turned from the High Inquisitor, eyes glancing at one of the torches on the walls.

"It is now I who must apologize for an ill-fitting set of words. What I meant to say, Mr. High Inquisitor was that due to my heritage, undesirable people still approach me... Having not yet forgotten about the old ways."

Again Mr. Grills grinned, victoriously, body moving back into its seat.

Barnaby was certain the man didn't believe him. But the absolute truth rarely mattered in the Capital. Perhaps, in the minds of his enemies, making Barnaby call his people undesirable was a victory right there?

"Understandable." The High Inquisitor agreed, turning more serious. "We can not choose our blood, can we? As long as you're not encouraging that kind of behavior?"

"Of course not."

Mr. Grills marked the page, now with words instead of straight lines, and turned to the next one.

He then leaned back again.

"So, Mr. Brawling, what is your opinion of our new United Government?"

Barnaby went monotone.

"I think of it fondly."

Mr. Grills made a mark on the paper.

"Are you in contact with a person or a group of persons, wishing to harm out Government?"

"I'm not."

Another quick mark was made by the Inquisitor. His questioning started to pick up speed as if there was someone urging him to get it over with. Or, he was trying to make Barnaby slip up?

"But if you were to meet such a person, or hear of one, what would you do about it?"

"I would report them to the Security Tower. Without any second thought."

Mr. Grills nodded, very much agreeing, pen working double time, scribbling from one side of the page to the next. A half a minute passed before he stopped, at which point the High Inquisitor let his pen drop and looked to Barnaby.

"Very well, Mr. Brawling, all seems to be in order. Your participation in tomorrow's Ceremony of Proteges is required."

Barnaby, surprised but very ready to get out of that room, bowed quickly, feet tingling for a run.

"A word of warning, if I may, Mr. Brawling..." The Inquisitor stopped his quick getaway. He reached closer again and hissed his words like a snake.

"You stand at crossroads, Mr. Brawling. And these are dangerous times for those uncertain. Be careful of the path you choose. The Capital does not believe in second chances."

#2

Iegbuend was falling into darkness, the torches lighting one by one as the last of the day's Sun pushed its dimming rays over the sharp mountains separating the Capital, the Hills, and the Lowlands from the sea only a few got a chance to touch. As was true to every hour of every season in Iegbuend, the cloudy sky promised an arriving rainfall, landing its first drops on the Capital's large cobblestone streets just as Barnaby reached the Brawling Bridge. The bridges, all five of them, built through magic long ago forgotten, served to connect the former kingdoms, now the mere inglorious parts of the United Government, to the Capital and its power of the Orches.

The streets to the North, toward all things Brawling, stood almost empty, the last lurkers being the merchants battling time to get their stalls set up for tomorrow's market, hoping to walk the Bridge before the Security's patrols decided to come rush them.

Staying would not have broken a law, but the common opinion could not have been more clear: losers of the war were expected to stick to their rock.

Barnaby stopped a foot before the gate and looked back toward the city that didn't want him there. He eyed the four towers lording over the city, making anything that couldn't touch the clouds seem insignificant. He hated the Towers, and he hated the Government, but still, as he turned to make the journey home, there was no joy in his gut; just a large hole he had no idea how to fill.

Time being past the workday's end, but still short of the nighttime's celebrations, the Brawling Hill's streets looked almost as ghostly as Capital's. Even the Main Street, which ran all the way from the Royal Mansion to the Bridge, was only walked by the two-men patrol heading toward Barnaby, and the few early starters making their loud way to the "Bottle".

Not wishing conversations with either grouping, Barnaby took the first turn right, off from the most walked paths, and made his way up the Hill zigzagging between the dark empty houses most didn't dare visit after nights fall. The Hill's west side was filled with them. Some big, up to three stories high, and some small, all of them had once been called home by some Brawlinger family. That changed with Last War, where many took their final breaths. Some windows were never lit again, and the few who returned soon looked for homes closer to friends, not wishing to love like ghosts surrounded by death.

Barnaby knew the area well, so despite the lack of torch-light, he had no problems navigating himself uphill.

Being the "king to be" on the Brawling Hill, and the "son of the traitor king" in the Capital, there weren't many places that allowed him peace from the constant looks and whispers. Those ghost houses provided him with the calm he needed to think, and ever since leaving the Inquisitor's office, his mind was stuffed with things he needed to work through.

The Inquisition, which had taken the bulk of his worries of the previous months, had turned out to be suspiciously easy to pass. He wanted to thank luck or his preparedness, but much more sinister ideas flooded his mind. They all started with some grand scheme of the ruling families, and ended with him at the bottom of a dark hole: the Brawling bloodline finally entirely destroyed. But no matter how hard he tried to figure it out, he could not understand how him passing the Inquisition could have served his enemies. So, with great unease, he set those things aside, allowing in the other worry that had grown only stronger ever since it first appeared.

Grace.

The school was over, and with it had ended the dream he so wished to come true. Even though he could not deny that he had been a fool, and his dreams had been nothing but a child stupidity, the idea of never seeing her again felt strikingly awful. Or, perhaps he will see her again? Grace will ascend to lead the Security Tower, whilst Barnaby would stand on the streets, like the common men, listening to her speeches; him and the love of his life living in two separate worlds.

Or, they would meet in battle? He would march his Brawling Army over the Bridge, much like his father had, restarting the war few considered finished. An epic face-off between Barnaby and Grace, the outcome of which couldn't be truly glorious no matter who came out on top.

No real answers came to his mind, so he continued on, head foggy, soon reaching lively street of the "Bottle".

The "Bottle", Brawling Hill's most popular nightly meetup spot, was located on the eastern side of one of the poorest housings of the area. It was built into the basement of a rundown two storied family home of the Masons, a family well respected under the Brawling rule. It was Theodore, Mason's last surviving blood relative who took the house many considered ghosted, and rebuild it into something every one of the survivors needed, a place of joy and laughter. He fixed the cracks in the walls, replaced the broken windows and became the Brawling Hill's first person to serve potions legally. No one knew how he managed to get the required approvals from the government, gaining him the reputation of a skilled businessman.

Barnaby stopped a few houses before the "Bottle"'s dark wooden main entrance, standing under a torch that had failed to light, hiding from a joyful group of five coming the other way.

Actively avoiding Brawlingers wasn't something Barnaby did often. In all honesty, despite their occasional over-attachment to the line of kings, it gave Barnaby great pleasure to feel connected to his people. Their laughter and cry kept his mind on track, they stopped him from getting lost in his dreams, which were childish, and forced him to focus on the really important.

But Barnaby didn't feel like himself. Even the extended road past the ghost-houses hadn't been long enough to get him into the correct state of mind. And that was not acceptable. That was not the Barnaby people needed to see. The king to be needed to be strong and royal, never rocked by the winds of the Capital. So he remained there, in the darkness, even after the crowd had left the street, head buzzing and paralyzed, distant memories flashing before his eyes.

The last time Barnaby had stood at that very spot was a little more than eight years ago. He was seven then, and it had been his first visit to the newly established hot-spot. Having never been surrounded by crowds that large, Barnaby had kept away, curiously observing the potion influenced men and women. He remembered a lot of laughter, hugs, and songs being sung.

But then the mood changed, so suddenly as to have been blown by the wind. Curious, he too looked where everyone else did. And the view made a chill run through his body. Heading right toward him were the black and white uniforms of the Security Tower.

Stricken by fear, he pulled from Theodore's arm.

Shouldn't they have already run?

But his guardian wasn't scared. He looked down carrying a warm and brave smile.

"Don't worry, Barney, they won't touch you." He spoke fearlessly, bending closer, "They are the ones who are afraid. Weren't they required to do so, not one of them would dare step a foot this deep into the Brawling Hill."

Barnaby, though eased by Theodore's words, felt it still better to take a few steps back; close enough to his guardian, but out of sight under the unlit torch. And what he observed from that spot changed much of what he believed in.

The scary guards marched in a quick step, trying their best not to look anyone directly in the eye. All the while the angry and intoxicated Brawlingers cursed them loudly, throwing potion bottles and threatening duels. But no punishment followed, the guards just avoided what they could, not even lifting their wands to deflect the projectiles, only adding pace so to be out of there. And as they disappeared into the darkness of the ghost-houses, a loud roar of laughter and victory echoed the streets. Even Barnaby, only moment ago deeply frightened, rose his hands overcome with joy. That night was when Barnaby for the first time realized the truth about his people. For them, unlike for the ruling families, the war had not ended, it merely stood on pause.

The "Bottle"'s door flew open, crashing into the wall with a loud bang. The suddenness of the noise brought Barnaby out of his daydream with a racing heart. Instinctively he reached for his wand, which was, as it always had been, secured tightly in the holder on his left arm.

Eyes on the door, his fingers grabbed on the magical wood but then released, his heartbeats slowing and a sigh exiting his lips. The man responsible for the angry exit was one he knew well. For a moment longer he remained hidden, watching Earl Caufield rush outside, turn after a few steps and throw a bottle at the beige wall, shattering it into thousand pieces. Earl was a heavy tall bald man in body and somewhat missing in mind. If you did not know him well, he could have been an example of a danger you would cross the street not to run into.

But Barnaby knew him well, and he knew that Earl Caufield was, and had always been, the definition of "loyal to the crown".

Earl was in his late forties, which meant that just like any other adult of the time, he too should have partaken in the Last War. However, in a twist of fate, a month before the fighting started, Earl had injured himself severely enough to be taken to the Health Tower. The rumor spoke that he had experimented with magic far beyond his grasp, and paid the price. But being stone-cold out, the first he heard of the War was months after it's ending, when returning to the Brawling Hill to find out that everyone he loved was gone, and his last remaining blood relative, his brother Elijah, had been sentenced to life in prison for treason.

After that, as Barnaby had heard and learned, the once well-respected man, from a well-respected family, spent the bulk of his times in "Bottle" or some other similar establishment, doing his best to hide from the real world.

As Earl turned, hands in fists, Barnaby could see red all over his face. The bottle-smashing hadn't been enough to ease his dismay. But when he spotted Barnaby, eyes momentarily narrowing, his anger seemed to fade and a smile formed on his face. His hands relaxed, one reaching toward Barnaby for a shake.

"Young King." He greeted Barnaby, almost beaming.

"Mr. Caufield." Barnaby shook his hand. "All is well I hope?"

Earl nodded eagerly, standing an entirely different man from just seconds ago.

Barnaby's lowered his eyes to the shards of glass crunching under their feet. Earl looked down as well, turning more sheepish.

"Oh, that? That is..." He paused, greens in his eyes moving quickly from left to right. He then shook his head, like the answer refused to come to show itself, and turned more serious.

"Young king, there is a matter I must discuss with you. I walked past the old prison... I beg you to not ask me why, and I heard voices." His eyes grew larger, staring without blinking. "Like, from the below... And yes, I know the prison has been sealed. But that is what makes it so interesting, is it not?"

Barnaby thought before answering, trying his best to come up with the words to defuse Earl without sounding too proud to care about his issues. But the man was known for those kinds of stories.

"Well, Mr. Caufield, as long as they're just voices, I don't think we'll need to worry."

Earl tilted his head, eye-greens rising all the way up to the lids.

"As the king wishes, but you would want to know my business takes me down there more often than I'd wish. So, I very well could keep an eye on it, the situation?"

Barnaby nodded.

"Alright, I would appreciate that."

A sharp shout echoed the street, shaking Barnaby just enough to feel embarrassed about his cowardly nerves.

"Caufield, leave the king alone!" Theodore demanded, eyes narrow and direct, the entire loud communication aimed solely at Earl's bald back of the head.

Earl's teeth pushed together, but he didn't turn to face the man commanding him. Instead, he bowed quickly, and without another word took off the way Barnaby had come, toward the ghost-houses.

Barnaby sighed turning to Theodore, his guardian of over a decade, whom he could swear had not aged a day since he came to his life by marrying his aunt Madeline.

"What was it this time?" He asked grumpily, scratching his sizable black beard.

Barnaby shook his head.

"Oh, nothing. You know... He just wants to feel useful."

Theodore's eyes remained on Caufield's back, waiting for him to disappear into the darkness.

"If he wanted to be useful, he'd spend a day or two in the real world..."

Theodore's head jerked to Barnaby, his lips forming the largest smile.

"Barney! Great to see you." He stepped aside, gesturing Barnaby to enter past him. "I take it you graduated?"

"Yeah. It was..." Barnaby dragged his answer, letting the door shut behind him. "...Easier than I thought."

Theodore smirked, tilting his head toward the stairs that lead both down to the "Bottle" and up to his office.

"I told you, you were overthinking it."

Barnaby forced a smile as well but looked grieved with doubt.

"Maybe, or maybe I've just become too good of a liar."

Theodore shook his head, smirking.

"In your world, there is no such thing." He paused, looking at the clock on the wall. "Your friends aren't here yet, let's go talk in my office. There's something important we need to discuss."

#3

Since most of the "Bottle"'s upper floor was used as a storage area for various potions, some brewed on the Brawling Hill, some imported from the Lowlands, there wasn't much room left for office space.

Barnaby followed Theodore up the squeaky dusty stairs, both pushing themselves past piles of wooden boxes, and straight into a small well lit yellow-walled square room. There were no shelves or paintings on the walls. The only things covering the ugly color were a calendar and a few Theodore's handwritten notes glued there by magic. The room had a single small window, aimed toward the Main Street, a large light wooden table buried under a hundred folders and individual sheets of paper, and two chairs; a hard one before the desk and a patted one behind it.

Theodore walked to his desk, gesturing Barnaby to take a seat but remained standing himself. Barnaby sat, eyes on the mountain of paper and a smirk on his face. It had always amazed him how much paperwork it took to serve people potions. Theodore spent a moment creating order, stacking some of the files and setting them on the floor, digging a space through which he could see Barnaby when sitting. Finally satisfied with the quick cleanup, he took his seat, folding his fingers on his stomach.

"So, how are you feeling about the ceremony?"

That question wiped the smirk from Barnaby's face.

"You know." He scratched his hand angrily. "We all know how that's going to go." He paused, eyes dropping to the floor, hissing the rest of his answer.

"I hate it."

Theodore nodded mournfully.

"Yes. It's terrible, but there's nothing you can do about it. I hope you know that? So, you might try to just put it out of your head."

Barnaby didn't like the suggestion. His insides heating up, he demanded loudly.

"How am I supposed to do that? You should see the idiots who are graduating! Bernard Waranger is... And he's going to get picked tomorrow. What does he know about magic, huh? What does he know about anything? I could take him blind and hands tied behind my back..." He shook his head slowly, hate bubbling under his skin. "But I'm a Brawling. Brawling's don't get picked. Brawling's don't get into the Government. Brawling's don't get anything."

Theodore sat silently, staring at Barnaby with a somewhat fatherly concern.

"I'm sorry. If I could change that, you know I would..."

Barnaby's head shook again, his anger making him feel awfully guilty. He had no right to attack Theodore like that.

"No, of course... I know that. I'm sorry. I'm just... Angry, you know... A difficult day, Inquisition and all." he put his eyes back on Theodore's, wanting to make sure he understood. "I wasn't saying it's bad to be a Brawling... That's not at all what I meant."

Theodore smiled warmly.

"Of course I know that. And you don't need to justify anything to me. I can't even imagine what this must be like for you. I was never going to get into Government, war or no war. And that's fine because that's how it was supposed to be..." He unfolded his fingers and swung toward the table. "But you are supposed to rule... The Brawling's always have. And I promise you, I know you will, I know it in my heart. It just won't happen right away. You need to be patient."

Barnaby had nothing nice to say about that, but regretting already going off on the man he respected the most, he decided to just keep his mouth shut.

Theodore moved back in his chair, using his charming smile to rid the air of tension.

"So, for now, you should occupy your time. I know you well, and I know you're not the kind of man to sleep through life, letting your families fortune live your life for you. So, what i wanted to discuss was..." He paused, clever eyes drilling into Barnaby's. "If you'd like to come work with me? As partners. We could do a lot together, a lot of good..."

Barnaby squirmed uncomfortably. A job offer was something he had expected coming. He took a strong breath, trying to match Theodore's confidence.

"I'd love to, I trust you know that, and it has nothing to do with you. But I have to..."

Theodore, coldly serious, cut into Barnaby's response.

"There isn't going to be a war. No." He shook his head once, not letting Barnaby's eyes out of his. "The time for war came and went. No more wars, it's time to rebuild."

Barnaby jerked backward, eyes large and hands squeezing into fists.

"Rebuild? You want to rebuild? Rebuild when there are over a hundred of our people locked in the Capital's dungeons? Rebuild when we have to be approved by those people to do... well, whatever!" Barnaby laughed coldly. "Look at what you have to do to sell a bottle of potion. No! Thousands of people are being punished for a crime no other than following my father. We CAN NOT rebuild on that..."

Theodore sighed defeated, lifting his hands as if trying to block Barnaby's offensive rant. That shut Barnaby up right away. And again, feeling bad for his outburst, he looked to anywhere but to Theodore.

"Okay. My intention was not to argue. But, and you must know this as well. You are the king to be, and on this Hill, it counts for something. No..." He got louder, forcing Barnaby to look. "It counts for a hell of a lot. So, when you say war must be had, people will listen, they will follow you like they did your father. They will put their lives in your hands... Lives that cannot be replaced or fixed later.

"You're a great man, and you will be a great leader, but so was your father. Our army was filled with great men... And they couldn't get it done." He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "All I'm saying is, don't rush into anything. War will be war no matter when it's fought."

He clapped his hands together, making it clear he was moving on. "Either way, forget about that... It is a great day." His hand moved to under the table, into a drawer. "And it should be celebrated."

Theodore pulled out a yellow long-necked bottle and slammed it on the table. As he did, pink lines ran through the liquid, making it bubble.

"So, I think a gift is in order."

Barnaby, mood not so easily changing, observed the bottle carefully. He was ready to move on from the subject of war, but potions weren't something he loved talking about either.

"Thanks, but..."

Theodore waved Barnaby's cowardly response away with his hand and picked the bottle back up, lifting it toward the light, looking through the liquid.

"I know all about your last experience with potions. That was... I don't even know what that was, some Lowland poison... This, however, is the best there is." He offered it to Barnaby who accepted it hesitantly. "I guarantee you, this one won't get the best of you. And when I guarantee something?" His smiling lips weren't far from touching his ears. Smile that wide broke even through Barnaby's walls of anger.

"Then it will happen. Thanks, I'm sure the guys will love it."

Theodore clapped his hands victoriously.

"Yes. And speaking of whom, I'm sure they're already waiting... And I have work to do."

Barnaby got out of his chair, weighing the bottle in his hand. It was so light it could have been empty.

"Even the king to be can let loose every once in a while," Theodore concluded. He got out of his chair as well and tiptoed past the stacked folders to shake Barnaby's hand.

"Okay. I might then."

Theodore kept hold of his hand, smile fading.

"How's your mother?"

Barnaby squirmed uncomfortably, pulling his hand free.

"You know... Like always."

Theodore nodded knowingly.

"Mad and I will be at the Ceremony, no matter what! And maybe we could do something after. To get rid of the bad taste... So to speak."

Barnaby gave him an unenthusiastic smile.

"Yes. Thanks. That would be great."

"Alright," Theodore grabbed Barnaby from his shoulders and turned him around "go now, a good king never keep his people waiting."

#4

As Barnaby descended the stairs halfway down, the "Bottle"'s door flew open, crashing against the wall. The wind had picked up, coming with rainfall so heavy the street looked like a sparkling river. A girl in a dark overcoat rushed in, tossing her wet golden hair and mumbling something offensive to the storm, picked her wand from the holder and a simple flick of wrist later, forced the door shut in similar power it had opened. Again in calm, Barnaby looked at Augusta Strauss cleverly, waiting for her to turn and spot him. Augusta wiped the water from her eyes and turned, still shaking in her coat. Noticing Barnaby, her eyes grew wider and her hands parted.

"What?"

"Had a nice swim?"

Augusta rolled her eyes, not too amused.

"Clever... instead of coming up with these witticisms, maybe you could lend a hand?"

Barnaby climbed the stairs all the way down, pulled his wand, aimed it to Augusta, and a puff of steam later she stood bone dry.

"Thank you." She sighed, trying to correct her hair. "You want to teach me that? Or is this one too an unspeakable?"

Barnaby put his wand away.

"Sure. Like you would waste a moment on a spell that dries clothes."

Augusta smiled, clearly in a better mood now when dry.

"You know me too well... Hey!" She waved to finally greet Barnaby, "Did everything go well?"

Barnaby nodded.

"Yeah, it went fine... How about you?"

"You were right, they didn't even mention it. Whatever you did to get me out of that trouble, you did it well."

Augusta pushed Barnaby to start walking down the stairs, toward the basement.

"That's good."

"It was actually kind of funny, to lie to him like that. It's almost made my day. I wasn't far from bursting into laughter. Long live the Government!" she chuckled. "But they ate it up, makes sense, not the smartest bunch..."

Barnaby shook his head.

"Well. I'm glad you didn't laugh."

Again Augusta rolled her eyes.

"You have little faith. But how did you do it, make it all disappear? If ever there was a time to tell me it's now."

"I guess there isn't a time then, just be glad you know me."

Augusta smiled, shaking her head like she couldn't believe Barnaby's arrogance, and then turned more serious.

"You know I am."

Barnaby blushed, he hadn't expected his joke to get a sincere answer.

Many years ago, on the second day of Capital School, Augusta had spelled a Giovanelli student. Why that was, never became clear, for no one had seemed interested in clearing it up. But Augusta was arrested and looked to be facing up to two years in prison. It had taken a lot of Barnaby's influence, many of his contacts and a pile of his family money to get the charges dropped, and to assure she would get to continue her education. But as the school was over now, Barnaby was certain that it had all been worth it.

"What's that?" Augusta asked, having already reached the basement door, waiting for Barnaby. She pointed to the pink bottle.

"Oh," Barnaby lifted it higher. "Theodore's gift, it supposed to be the best."

"So you're drinking?" Augusta's eyes widened. "That is amazing news."

Barnaby smiled, not wishing to make a comment, and pulled the basement door open. Another step and he was drowning in a sea of shouts laughter and melodies, all blended into a thick magical smoke and mesmerizing smell.

Scanning the surroundings, Barnaby's eyes met with Dorian Boussey's, who immediately gestured Barnaby to come talk to him.

Being too polite to say no to a conversation he didn't feel like having, he tapped Augusta on her shoulder.

"I'll catch up with you!"

Augusta's eyes narrowed looking both ways, not understanding why Barnaby would titch her so quickly.

Barnaby grinned and pointed to the old man sitting in one of the outer tables. Augusta sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes for the third time.

"Fine! But be quick!"

Barnaby nodded and watched her disappear into the crowd of intoxicated bodies, and then made his way to the man so desperate for his ear.

"Mr. Brawling!" Dorian greeted him cheerfully, pushing his large body upward as if trying to get up for a handshake. The movement turning out to be too difficult of a gesture, he slumped back down a moment later, pointing to the chair opposite of him.

"What a great pleasure..."

"As always, the pleasure is mine, Mr. Boussey."

Dorian Boussey was Brawling Hill's most famous author. Having spent months among the humans across the sea, he had made a fortune writing books about those mysterious beings most of the Iegbuend knew next to nothing about. Curious as he had always been, Barnaby, of course, owned all of those books. But as it was, Mr. Boussey was no longer able to visit his source of inspiration, so his later works had become just slightly changed copies of the books already written. That in return had severely lowered his wealth, which was obvious not only from his worn clothes but from his somewhat wrinkly face, which signaled he must have had to cut down on his visits to the Health Tower.

"You flatter me, young king. But, I do have great news. It's happened, I have finished my book. Humans who fly, it's called." He tilted his head left and right. "A good one, if you'd ask me."

Barnaby kept his face neutrally smiling, trying not to offend his favorite writer. The "Humans who fly" would be the third installment of the very narrow subject.

"And I know you've always enjoyed my stories, so I thought I'd give you a heads up. So... You know, you could let your friends know."

Barnaby nodded assuringly.

"Thank you. Of course, I will. I look forward to reading it."

"Yes? That is good to hear..." Mr. Boussey faded off, quickly scanning the people closest by and lowering his voice. "But you know, Mr. Brawling, I've been thinking about changing subjects..."

Barnaby moved back, eyebrows raising. Studying Barnaby's reaction, Mr. Boussey bit his lip.

"Or, maybe not then? It might be a silly idea. Humans, yes they are interesting."

Barnaby erupted forward.

"No! I think that's a great idea! But what would you write about, if not humans?"

Mr. Boussey observed their surroundings again, now more intently, and satisfied, forced his heavy body up and forward, cutting the distance between them in half. He spoke in half whisper.

"Well, as you know, I haven't been able to visit the humans for quite some time now. So, I've spent more time looking into our own history. And, I've got to say, there are some scandalous things hidden in our past. Mighty people. Ground shaking events. All forgotten about."

He looked both ways once more.

"And I wouldn't be surprised if these things were lost on purpose. I would be putting a large target on my back looking into this, I do believe."

The two stared each other, eyes locked until Mr. Boussey finally let his body fall back into a more comfortable position.

Barnaby tilted his head pondering.

"I must say, it does sound interesting." He smiled again. "But it's you who must make the choice Mr. Boussey, after all, it's you who is the artist."

Hearing those words, Mr. Boussey smiled like a child, eyes beaming with true happiness.

"That is true, I guess." He let out shyly, now observing his fingertips.

Barnaby, figuring the time to be as perfect as they came to say his goodbye, stretched himself out of his chair.

"I must go now, there are people waiting for me."

"Of course, young king. It's been a pleasure. And good luck on tomorrow's ceremony, hopefully, it's time for a change. I myself can't attend I'm afraid, my back's been having the strangest pains..." he stopped mid-thought, as if he had told a secret, and turned slightly red in face, "of course I shall visit the Health Tower at my first convenience, I've just been too busy, you know..."

"Have a good rest of the evening." Barnaby cut in, stopping the man from explaining things he clearly didn't want out, and marched away quick, heading toward the bar, where he had last seen Augusta.

For a little while, Barnaby had great success sliding through the gaps in the mass of people, but almost at the bar, a body blocked his way roughly. Barnaby recognized the roadblock as Jacquel Huston, a man known best for his long greasy hair and his less than ethical dealings in both business and relationships.

"Oh, Mr. Brawling..." He spoke slimily, olive eyes inserting distrust into Barnaby. "What a pleasure, may I have a word?" He inched a bit more to the right, assuring the king to be couldn't escape past him.

"I would love to..." Barnaby lied angrily, "...Mr. Huston, but I'm rather busy, perhaps another time."

Mr. Huston didn't let the denial stop the conversation from happening. He continued as if deaf to Barnaby's words.

"I heard about your partnership with Mason. That is great news. For the whole hill, I'm sure. I guess that explains how a man like him can out of nowhere afford a factory in the Lowlands."

Barnaby couldn't hide his reaction of surprise. But as soon as his head pulled back and eyes narrowed, Mr. Huston's gaze turned burning.

"Of course, if it is not you who is sponsoring his fancy endeavors? That is curious. Oh, good old Teddy, always with his tricks..."

"Well, if there's nothing else?" Barnaby demanded, growing angrier. He hated having given Jacquel what he had been searching for.

"Oh, nothing else, enjoy the night." He moved aside quickly, revealing one of the outer tables, behind which sat the year's three other Brawling Hill's graduates.

As was to be expected, for none of them had yet reached the legal age to buy potions, the tree just glanced around boringly, eyes on those who stood out for their especially loud voices or tables covered in spectacularly colorful potions. Barnaby was underage himself, but being the king to be, there were no barmaids on the hill wishing to deny him service. Still, he never enjoyed abusing his power and felt glad that the bottle Theodore had given him meant he wouldn't have to.

"Hey." He spoke, having easily sneaked to the table, hidden among so many more attention seeking objects and people. He slammed the yellow bottle to the table, making the pink lines reappear and took a step back.

"Lifesaver!" Benjamin Barnes shouted loudly, grabbing the drink without any hello and moving to pour about a quarter of it into four glasses, which he managed to do quicker than Barnaby managed to pull a vacant chair from a neighboring table. Benjamin then pushed one of the glasses under Augusta's nose, pulled the other on toward him, and left the remaining two for Barnaby and Maxim Minghella to get themselves. Maxim lifted his glass to his nose, sniffing it carefully, nose twitching.

"What is this?" He asked shakily. Maxim had never been the kind to break the rules.

"Don't know," Barnaby answered, picking up his glass. "Theodore said it's the best."

Maxim, not looking satisfied with the answer placed the drink back down, cautiously looking around for anyone to come and bust him for the crime.

Barnaby quite appreciated that about the frightful boy. Unlike Benjamin, who often behaved somewhat untouchable when around the king to be, Maxim had never looked for any special treatment. He hardly ever even seemed to enjoy the company. But being the only four of the year's Brawling Hill's graduates, there wasn't much choice in the friends you could make. Throughout the years, they had had to stick together.

"Oh, stop it with your negativity!" Benjamin called, pushing his dark messy hair from his eyes, rising from his seat victoriously. He lifted the glass for a toast, looking to Barnaby.

"Alright king, you want to say some words?"

Augusta and Maxim jumped up as well, latter doing his best to hide the glass behind his scrawny body.

Barnaby got up, shrugging.

"Not really."

Benjamin waved Barnaby off as if he had expected the answer.

"I will then," he looked to Augusta, "well, the school is over, and who could have guessed we would graduate? Especially Augusta," he grinned and Augusta grinned back. Benjamin then pointed his glass toward Barnaby, "I even had my doubts about the greatest sorcerer of our generation over there..."

Barnaby smiled but didn't interrupt. He was indeed a pretty magnificent sorcerer.

"But, we did make it. And as far as the diploma will get me," Benjamin chuckled sarcastically, "I feel incredibly fortunate to have met you three." his eyes were back on Augusta, who was looking into her glass, still smirking, "you guys have made the last five years worth living. So," Benjamin lifted his glass higher toward the center of the table, "SCREW THE CAPITAL!"

Barnaby's hand locked half way up to meet Benjamin's for a celebratory clink. Benjamin's toast had been far too loud, even for the deepest ends of the Brawling Hill. Coldly sweating, he turned his head to the tables around him, which had suddenly grown quieter. He was the target of many eyes, but not one of them seemed threatening. Everyone close enough to hear the words had lifted their glasses to join the toast.

Barnaby turned back, heart racing as if he had just avoided great danger, and clinked his glass to Benjamin's. There was a smile on his face.

"Screw the Capital indeed."