Chapter 25 — Wind and Seed

Chapter 25: Chapter 25 — Wind and Seed

Chapter 25 — Wind and Seed

Edwin received his results before breakfast.

A folded sheet had been pushed beneath the door of his temporary academy room. He found it when he stepped into the corridor carrying his washbasin. The academy seal covered the paper, and his name had been written across it in a hurried hand.

Magister Deepwell was waiting downstairs.

"Open the results before you spill that basin," the old mage said.

"Good morning to you as well, Magister."

"You have already wasted part of the morning standing in the corridor."

Edwin set the basin beside the stairs and broke the seal.

The page listed the three examinations. His Essence Crystal response had been marked exceptional. His Mental Capacity result filled two lines of terms he had never seen, followed by a recommendation for advanced foundation classes.

The final line was shorter.

Primary affinity: Wind. Strength: High.

Edwin read it twice.

"My primary affinity is Wind," he said.

"I can read the same line from here."

"You knew what the result would be."

"I thought it was Wind. The test confirmed it."

"You said you were right about several things."

Deepwell took the paper and read it himself. "I was."

"What else did you believe you were right about?"

"That you ask too many questions before breakfast."

Edwin took the page back.

Every beginner’s book covered wind. It carried sound, pushed sails, fed fires and cut when shaped properly, and the strength of Edwin’s result explained Deepwell’s pleasure.

"Is High unusual?" Edwin asked.

"Yes. Most students do not receive a High result in any affinity."

"How unusual is a High affinity among first-year students?"

"Unusual enough that admissions gave you a room after claiming none were available."

That answered more than a number would have.

Deepwell led him to the first-year hall. Students crowded the corridor outside three lecture rooms. Some wore new academy coats. Others had stitched colored cords onto clothes brought from home.

Edwin still wore his mended Varenne coat.

A thin young man beside the door noticed the result sheet in his hand. "Foundation Wind?"

"Apparently. The result sheet places me in Foundation Wind."

"Quillan Peverell." The young man offered his hand. His cuffs were frayed, but his boots had been polished carefully. "Minor Wind, moderate Water. They put me in the mixed course."

"Edwin Harland. Wind is my only listed affinity."

Quillan noted the Varenne stitching on his collar. "Are you a foreign student?"

"I came from the Kingdom of Varenne."

"Is Varenne north of Ormont?"

"No. It lies west of there."

"Good. I told my roommate it wasn’t."

The doors opened before Edwin could ask where Quillan thought Varenne was.

The lecture room had six rows of steep benches facing a black stone wall. Metal lines crossed its surface in a pattern similar to a Magic Circle. Edwin chose a place near the middle, and Quillan sat beside him.

A student in a dark blue coat stopped at their row.

"That seat is reserved for me," he said.

Quillan looked at the empty bench. "For whom?"

"For me. I sit here for every foundation lecture."

"Then you have found it. There is still room at the end."

The student’s eyes moved over Quillan’s cuffs and Edwin’s coat. A silver pin at his throat carried the shape of a flowering ash tree.

"Lucan Ashbourne," he said, clearly expecting that to settle the matter.

It meant nothing to Edwin. Quillan moved his books anyway.

Lucan sat at the end of the row and placed a leather case on the table. Inside were three prepared crystals, two silver tools and a notebook with treated pages.

Edwin owned one borrowed pen.

Their instructor entered before the room quieted. She touched the black wall, and the metal lines lit.

"A Mage Apprentice can sense Mana Essence," she said. "Some of you can already move small amounts. None of you can store it safely."

A diagram of a head appeared on the wall. Lines marked the Mental Palace.

"Your first task is not casting. It is constructing a stable foundation for the First Magic Circle. Anyone attempting a true spell before that circle forms will be removed from the academy if the damage does not remove them first."

The room stayed quiet.

The instructor demonstrated a breathing and meditation rhythm. Edwin followed until she released a thread of Mana Essence into the room. It moved through the students like cold air.

"Do not seize it. Sense it."

Edwin closed his eyes.

Mana brushed his face, turned near his ear and moved toward the back wall. He followed it with his mind, and each time he tried to hold it, the current slipped aside.

He stopped reaching.

The thread became clearer. It crossed the room, divided around the students and gathered along the metal lines in the wall.

Something scraped beside him.

Quillan had gripped the table hard enough to drag his notebook. Sweat stood on his forehead. Lucan remained still, although one of his prepared crystals glowed faintly inside the open case.

The instructor ended the exercise.

"If you used an external focus, record it," she said.

Lucan’s crystal went dark.

She walked between the rows, asking each student what they had sensed. Answers varied from pressure to heat or sound. Quillan had felt the current only when it passed close to water stored in a pipe behind the wall.

"And you?" she asked Edwin.

He described the path.

"You sensed the thread through the entire room?"

"I lost it near the second row."

"Then how do you know it divided there?"

"I felt both parts after they separated and followed them to the wall."

The instructor looked at his result sheet. "Wind affinity."

Lucan turned slightly.

The instructor continued down the row.

After the lesson, students surrounded a counter outside the hall. Academy clerks sold the required notebooks, crystal slivers, treated ink and meditation candles. Edwin added the cheapest options in his head and stopped before reaching the final item.

Quillan examined a bundle of used notebooks. "They scraped the old writing."

Gray lines remained beneath the pale pages.

"Are the scraped notebooks still usable?" Edwin asked.

"If you don’t mind learning someone else’s failed answers at the same time."

Edwin bought two.

Lucan collected a sealed box from the clerk without asking the price. A servant carried it away.

He noticed Edwin watching. "Foreign scholarships don’t include materials?"

"My scholarship has not been approved yet."

"Then how did you enter the academy without one?"

"I passed the entrance examination under a magister’s sponsorship."

Lucan considered that answer, then followed his servant. He did not insult Edwin or challenge him. Somehow, that made the exchange more irritating.

Deepwell found Edwin near the used-book shelves.

"The scholarship committee agreed to review your result this week," he said.

"A review is not the same as approval."

"You do listen occasionally. I was beginning to wonder."

"Will the scholarship cover my books and materials?"

"Some. Residence and instruction first."

"What about housing and food for my mother and sister?"

"They aren’t the academy’s responsibility. Your scholarship concerns your education."

Edwin put down a book he could not afford. "They’re mine."

Deepwell studied him for a moment. "The lower archive pays copyists. Poorly."

"Can a new apprentice apply for archive work?"

"If their writing is clear and they can keep quiet."

"My writing is clear, and I know how to keep quiet."

"Then only the supervisor’s copying test remains."

The lower archive occupied two underground floors beneath the oldest lecture building. Its supervisor gave Edwin a page of damaged text and told him to copy it without correcting the spelling.

The work concerned an argument over irrigation rights between two mage estates. Edwin copied every repeated title and misspelled village exactly as written.

The supervisor compared both pages. "Six evenings each week. Payment by completed sheet. You replace any paper you ruin."

"When would you have me begin the work?"

"You already used one sheet."

Edwin studied the copied page.

The supervisor placed it on a stack. "Tomorrow."

The pay would cover food for his mother and sister if he worked quickly, though it would not cover the full book list. He accepted.

His second class that afternoon was history.

The instructor began with the departure of the Ancient Mages.

"Reliable history begins after they left the Mortal Plane," he said. "The disorder that followed destroyed many records, but surviving accounts agree that the ancient masters departed for higher realms and left their lesser institutions behind."

The wall displayed an image of robed figures entering pillars of light. Beneath them, kneeling crowds raised their hands.

Edwin copied the date.

"Why did all of them leave?" a student asked.

"They had surpassed what this plane could offer."

"All at once?"

The instructor looked toward the voice. The question had come from the rear.

"Across several generations," he said. "The exact period is disputed."

Edwin studied the image again. If the departures had taken generations, the kneeling crowd and single gate were simply decoration, common enough in historical paintings. His father had complained about battle pictures showing every soldier’s armor polished.

The instructor moved on to the founding of Alvion’s first mage colleges.

Edwin wrote the next heading, but left a space beneath the date of departure.

After class, Quillan caught him in the corridor.

"Did the lower archive truly hire you already?"

"I begin tomorrow evening after my lessons."

"Can you make old fines disappear?"

"Why? Do you have old archive fines?"

"My roommate does. He says they are older than either of us."

"No. I am copying records, not destroying them."

"I will tell him there is hope."

They separated at the outer gate. Edwin walked through light rain to the merchant’s house and found his mother still working over the household accounts. His sister sat on the floor copying the academy tower from her earlier drawing.

"What kind of affinity did you receive?" she asked as soon as he entered.

"Wind, and the examiner marked it High."

"Does that mean you can fly now?"

"No. I can’t cast any proper spell yet."

"Could you make the leaning tower fly once you learn?"

"Also no. Buildings are heavier than they look."

She looked disappointed. Their mother held out her hand for the result sheet.

Edwin gave it to her, then placed the first archive payment form beside the ledger.

"It isn’t much," he said. "I start tomorrow."

His mother read both pages. "You also have lessons."

"The archive work is in the evening after my lessons."

"Then when will you have time to study?"

"After the archive closes. I can sleep when the work is finished."

She disliked the answer, but the cost of food settled the matter.

Edwin ate, helped his sister spell affinity, and returned to the academy residence before its gate closed. The used notebook lay open on his desk. Beneath the scraped pages, another student’s writing showed through in crooked gray lines.

He turned to a clean page and copied the history heading from class.

The Departure of the Ancient Mages.

Below it, he wrote one question.

Why did they all leave?

The sky stayed dry.

Christopher found the farmers in the eastern field before breakfast. A wooden bowl hung from the shoulder of the man doing the sowing, and each sweep of his arm scattered barley over the dark furrows. Behind him, two boys dragged thorny branches across the soil to cover the seed.

The work looked careless from a distance. Up close, every step had a purpose.

Christopher watched the seed strike the ground. "How do you know how much to throw?"

The farmer opened his hand. A few grains remained between his fingers.

"I have worked fields for years, my lord."

"That does not tell me whether this soil is ready."

"The years help the field more than an answer from me would."

The man resumed walking.

Bennet stood near the boundary stones with his writing board under one arm. He had brought a count of the remaining barley, the households working outside the wall and the oxen assigned to the two ploughs.

Christopher pointed at the sower. "How much has he used?"

"I will weigh what remains when he finishes."

"Cedric could tell you. He has worked this ground since dawn."

"He told me enough."

Christopher looked back at the farmer. "Everyone is becoming difficult."

"They’re working, my lord. They do not need you moving them again."

The first field was not fully ploughed. One team continued opening furrows near the far boundary while sowing began on the cleared half. Men with mattocks followed the plough and attacked roots whenever the iron point caught. The second plough had stopped beside a broken crosspiece. Wat Cooper knelt in the mud, fitting a new wooden pin while the oxen waited.

The farmers divided the work among themselves. Some cleared roots, others handled the animals, and the rest carried seed or followed the sowers.

It worked until Owen Wren arrived looking for six men.

"The northwest breach is ready for the larger stones," Owen said. "I need hands on the ropes."

The older farmer who had chosen the high fields heard him. "After sowing."

"The lifting frame is already set."

"Then it can stand there."

Owen turned to Christopher.

So did the farmer.

Christopher considered the sky. It remained grey, but the clouds were higher than yesterday. He knew rain would matter. He did not know how soon it would arrive, how long sowing should take, or whether delaying the wall by half a day was dangerous.

"How many people do you need to keep sowing?" he asked.

The farmer looked around the field. "All of them."

"You said eight were enough yesterday."

"Eight for clearing ahead of the plough. This is different."

"How would moving those stones damage the field?"

The man began explaining. The first sower could not stop once his section began. The boys covering the grain had to remain close behind him. The plough needed its team, the oxen needed handlers, and someone had to keep removing the roots.

Owen interrupted. "I need men to pull ropes. They don’t have to know stone."

The farmer turned toward him. "And I need men with arms."

Both were right, leaving Christopher to choose which work came first.

Christopher faced Bennet. "How many workers are clearing the houses?"

"The fifteen slaves, the six prisoners and eleven free workers. They’re split between three crews."

"Take four free workers from the least damaged house and send them to Owen. Give him two apprentices for the ropes."

"Godfrey assigned the apprentices to the wall watch."

"Then ask Godfrey before moving them."

Owen scratched dried mortar from his sleeve. "Four workers will do if the stones behave."

The farmer snorted. "If those stones behaved, the old wall would still be standing."

Owen gave him a long look. "Go back to your field before I use you in the foundation."

He returned to the stronghold before the argument could grow.

Christopher stayed beside the field while the workers settled into their new places. The wall crew was smaller now, but seed had to enter the ground while the weather allowed it.

The older farmer followed the sower for several paces, corrected the width of his next pass and sent one of the boys to bring another branch. A woman called to him from the second plot. He listened, then told her to wait until the turnip seed was brought out.

"What’s your name?" Christopher asked.

The man removed his cap. "Cedric Palmer, my lord."

The name stirred a memory. Palmer had managed his widowed mother’s fields for several years before the land returned to House Drake. Afterward, he farmed a smaller holding on the estate. The other families already treated him as someone worth hearing.

"The farmers listen when you give them an instruction."

Cedric nodded toward the nearest farmers. "Sometimes."

"They keep bringing every question to you instead of settling small matters themselves."

"Because I am standing here."

"Would they ask someone else if you left?"

"Probably. Someone has to decide where the work begins each morning."

Christopher watched two farmers call Cedric over to settle another argument.

Before he could press further, Walter came down the road from Dragonwatch. Two apprentices followed him, both carrying coils of rope.

"Godfrey released them until midday," Walter said. "He wants them returned for the afternoon watch."

Christopher nodded toward Owen’s lifting frame. "Send them there."

Walter passed the order on, then looked across the field. "You missed training."

Christopher had forgotten.

"I thought I was needed here to keep the planting moving."

"Were you truly needed, or were you standing where everyone could find you?"

Cedric became very interested in a sack of barley.

Walter moved straight to his message. "Sir Godfrey said to tell you that he will see you before supper."

That sounded worse than missing breakfast.

By midday, the first stretch of barley had been covered. Martha brought bread, onions and weak broth to the field rather than calling the workers back inside, and people ate sitting on stones or overturned baskets while the oxen remained harnessed and their handlers checked the animals’ shoulders for rubbing.

Christopher sat beside Bennet and studied the clerk’s board. One corner held a request for more fodder for the captured warthogs. The young were growing quickly, and the adults had begun testing the stable gate whenever feeding was late.

The page counted everyone sent to the field that morning. Christopher still needed to know who had changed tasks, who understood the ploughs and who could be moved without stopping other work.

"We need someone in charge of the farming," Christopher said.

"Cedric has been doing most of it."

"Then why have we not placed Cedric in charge of the field crews?"

"Because you never placed him in charge, my lord."

Christopher lowered the page. "You could have mentioned that."

"I thought everyone had already noticed he was directing most of the work."

"I have been here for less than two weeks."

"Which is why I thought you would ask."

Christopher handed the board back before he said something useless.

"If I appoint him, will the other families object?"

"Some will."

"Why would any of them object?"

"Because some people object when the sun rises before they are ready." Bennet took a piece of bread from his coat. "Cedric managed fields for your mother. He knows the southern families. He also knows barley better than you do."

"Everyone knows barley better than I do."

"That should make the choice easier."

Christopher spoke with several farmers during the meal. He asked whom they trusted when an ox went lame, seed was short or two families wanted the same plough.

Four named Cedric. One named his own father. Another said Bennet, which made Bennet choke on his bread.

Robert Miller gave the clearest answer.

"Palmer knows fields," he said. "He does not know water as well as he thinks."

"Would you accept Cedric directing your field work?" Christopher asked.

"For field work. Not the channel."

"That’s fair. Robert can keep charge of the channel."

Cedric was less pleased when Christopher called him over.

"I already have a field," the farmer said.

"You have forty-five farming families."

"They have their own fields."

"Later. Right now, three plots are competing with the walls, houses and animals for workers. Bennet cannot walk out here every time I need to move six people."

Cedric rubbed the back of his neck. "You want a reeve."

"I want someone who can tell me what the farms need before I give an order. You divide the field work and bring problems to me or Bennet. When I decide something, you explain it to the families."

"And what happens if Cedric makes a bad decision?"

Christopher caught Bennet’s eye. The clerk looked away.

"Tell me before you explain it to everyone else."

"You want them to complain in private?"

"Preferably. They can disagree without stopping an entire field."

Cedric looked across the workers. "Some will say I give my family the better ground."

"Then Bennet records who receives which plot. You recommend. I approve."

"The farmers will keep talking even after you put Cedric in charge."

"Nothing will stop farmers from talking about another farmer’s mistakes."

Cedric smiled despite himself.

Christopher appointed him farm reeve until the first harvest. The limit surprised the man.

"If you do well, we continue," Christopher said. "If you are terrible, we find someone else."

"And who decides whether I am terrible at it, my lord?"

"Everyone will tell me, whether I ask them or not."

Cedric put his cap back on. "That they will."

His first act as reeve was to refuse Christopher’s plan for the afternoon.

Christopher wanted to move the second plough into the turnip plot as soon as its broken pin was replaced. Cedric told him the ground near the lower boundary remained too wet.

"The surface looks dry," Christopher said.

Cedric drove a spade into the earth and lifted a heavy slab. Water shone at the bottom of the cut.

"Tomorrow afternoon, maybe," he said. "Today the oxen will sink and tear the ground."

"Then what should those families do until the ground firms?"

"Clear the stones from the upper half. Mend the fence. Two help Miller deepen the drain. Four can go to Owen after the barley is covered."

It was the answer Christopher had spent the entire morning trying to get.

"Put them on that work until the field is ready."

Cedric began calling families by name. People complained immediately. One wanted to remain with the plough. Another said his eldest son had already been promised to the house crew. Cedric argued, traded two workers between groups and sent a boy running to Bennet with the final count.

Christopher was no longer needed.

That bothered him less than he expected.

He returned to Dragonwatch and found the gate crew raising the first heavy stone into the northwest breach. The lifting frame creaked. Owen shouted for the left rope to be tightened. Two apprentices pulled with the free workers while three armed men watched beyond the wall.

The stone settled badly on its first attempt, and Owen made them lift it again.

Near the houses, the slaves removed rotten boards under Walter’s supervision. The six prisoners carried rubble in tied pairs. Fishing lines had been set along the river, and a thin haze hung over Bertram’s shed, where another small catch was being dried.

Everywhere Christopher looked, something remained unfinished.

Godfrey found him in the training yard before supper.

"You missed the morning," the knight said.

"I appointed a reeve for the field crews."

"Did you need to hold the plough?"

"No. Appointing a reeve does not count as training."

"Then take up the sword."

Christopher picked up the wooden practice blade.

Godfrey struck him across the wrist before he had settled his grip.

"Again."

They trained until Christopher’s arms shook. When Godfrey finally stopped, the eastern field had turned dark beneath the falling evening.

Cedric approached carrying an almost empty barley sack.

"First section is done," he said. "The rest tomorrow if the weather holds."

"How much seed did you use?" Christopher asked.

Cedric handed the sack to Bennet. "Weigh what remains."

Bennet smiled.

Christopher decided that becoming a lord might mean hearing the same answer from more people.

Beyond the wall, the first barley lay beneath dark earth crossed by crooked furrows and workers’ footprints. Cedric walked the final row before coming inside.