Vayal Academy

On the first day of the Gauntlet, as I wait nervously on the plush couch in the common room (I wouldn’t dream of heading down without Mae), a knock at the window startles me to focus. A huge grey owl with enormous blue eyes taps its beak against the glass again, and I let the strange animal in. “Thank you,” it says.

Alyx emerges from the hallway, and the owl says, “Just in time.”

“Huh?”

“Miss Fartrot.” It flies across the room and settles on her shoulder. “A review of the Temple Ceremony determined your blunder was, in truth, cold calculation. Welcome to Reason.”

“What! No! I’m Drive!”

“You were. But you compete with us, today, and every day beyond. Thank you for your attention to this matter.” The owl flies right back, disappearing out the window.

Alyx turns to me, fists balled. “Thanks a lot, Hattie!”

“What?” But then it starts coming together. “Oh! The dagger!”

“Yes, the fucking dagger. You were meant to kill Mathilde; I was meant to kill you, but you went and let the mutt maul you before I could. Should’ve just aimed for your throat. With a steel dagger.”

At the time, it seemed strange that Alyx could make such a mistake — without her silver I had nothing to kill the werewolf. It being deliberate is… well, I’m still not sure how I feel about it, other than strange.

“Are we on today?” she asks, still fuming.

“No. You have your duels tomorrow, then Escalation the next day.”

“Good. I’m gonna go see Nym.”

And so I don’t see her all day — Mae and I watch the Gauntlet from the stands, enraptured. I’ve heard about how capable the Fifth Years are, how powerful, but seeing it in action is something else entirely. My friends are impressive; the Fifth Years are transcendent. In one of the War Games, a raven haired Conjurer brings forth a century of skeletons — her opponent, a gold-skinned elf, sweeps them aside with a tsunami of flame.

If Alyx hadn’t fucked Indel (my cheeks burn at the memory) then I’d feel really good about my chances — I doubt either of us is going to notch a single win against such competition.

I feel even better the next day. Alyx gets an unlucky draw in the Conjuration Duel’s first bracket and goes up against Fifth Year Teremi Vilar, who overwhelms her with demons, never giving her a chance to get on the offensive. She performs better in the exhibition, but about ten other students overshadow her — so no medals for her.

All that to say we’re still 1-1 when day three rolls around and we’re to go up against each other in Escalation. I don’t expect to win, but neither should she.

Escalation’s a training game, really — mages are political movers and shakers, and Escalation tests our diplomatic skills. The basic contours are always the same: two nations (always thinly-veiled stand-ins for real countries, usually ones that aren’t attending) are embroiled in a dispute over land, or an ancient treaty, or a diplomatic incident with a bumbling Princess. Whatever the reason, war is brewing, and the Empire’s invited to mediate. Each contestant has their own instance of the simulation, and acts as mediator. A panel of judges decides who did best.

We won’t get the specifics until we’re actually in the event, though. As I nervously wait, me and about seven others (Escalation takes like, forever, so it’s less popular with the Fifth Years who could spend the time racking up wins in other events), Alyx approaches with a smile. The small, sparse holding room suddenly feels a lot smaller with her so close to me, radiating heat.

“We’re diplomats!” she says.

“Diplomats about to lose.” I nod towards the blue-tied, dark-skinned woman in the corner, meditating. Fifth Year Saylas Tharai isn’t known as “the most convincing human on campus” for nothing. The fact she’s drop-dead gorgeous doesn’t hurt, either.

“You never know. I might just surprise you.” She cranes up on her hooves to whisper, “I’m full of surprises,” hot and breathy and a transparent attempt to throw me off my game that, unfortunately, does, a little bit. Alyx saunters away.

Moments later, the exit door vanishes, replaced by a swirling portal. I’m the last to step through, and out into a quiet study dominated by a central desk covered in reports and updates.

Intuitively I know I’m in the Dome, with spectators looking down all around me. But everything feels so rich and real, like it did during the Temple Game, and after a few anxious moments the embarrassment fades and I throw myself into the contest, pulling up a chair and sorting through the papers.

The scenario takes shape: the tiny Kingdom of Holt is at the brink of war with the equally tiny Kingdom of Rith. They both claim the Isle of Wyalmoor, an insignificant dot of rocks and nesting gulls — the whole dispute seems more about national pride than any actual strategic value.

Holt says the island was theirs back when Holt was an Empire that spanned the world, and Rith claim the same. Neither has any presence there, because whenever they try the opposing nation’s fleet drives them away.

Is this really based on our world? Surely not. This can’t be the sort of nonsense that minor nations get up to.

No wonder the Empire conquered so many. Their people were probably damn pleased to have someone sensible in charge.

So, if the only factor were time, the solution would be easy: flip a coin for Holt or Rith. What could the loser do when the outcome’s guaranteed by the Empress? But then, next time something like this happens, who would ever accept the Empire to mediate?

It has to be fair…

I almost jump out of my seat when a knock rings through the room. “Come in?” I say, filled with confusion — which only deepens when Vila steps in, nodding slightly.

“Vila? Is something wrong?”

“No. Were you not told?” The composed lioness takes a seat across from me, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I have been assigned to assist you. I cannot offer any advice, but I can fetch books, arrange meetings — things of that sort. Is there anything I might get you now?”

“Oh, uh,” that’s a great question. If only she could offer advice. Gods know I could use some. “Who’s negotiating on behalf of Holt and Rith?”

“Princess Cervaya is here for the Kingdom of Holt — Rith sends Alycia Welspring, one of the King’s ministers.”

“Could you set up a meeting with them? Please; sorry.”

Vila looks utterly unimpressed. “Don’t concern yourself with my feelings.”

“Oh. Sorry?”

“Quite. Anyway, they refuse to be in a room together.”

I almost ask who she’d recommend sending in first — she feels like an authority — before I remember she’s not allowed to give advice. “Okay. A meeting with Cervaya first, then?”

She nods and leaves without another word. My cheeks suddenly feel cooler; I can’t look at Vila without remembering her and Alyx, a vision that made me feel an utterly disorienting mix of turned on and concerned.

Princess Cervaya is, now that I’m getting a look at her, clearly from Yaltha, what with the flowing silk gown that covers her breasts and little else. I didn’t know enough about the island kingdom to identify Holt as its stand in, but I know its fashion — there was a little craze on Hoshu when a merchant brought like, two dozen crates of the gowns.

“Are you uncomfortable?” she asks, and, yes, I’m more than a little uncomfortable. See, it was one thing when Vila was in here — I was sure everyone else would be a magical projection, part of the simulation. Instead, the part of Princess Cervaya, in all her barely-covered glory, is played by Nymeria Whispwood.

“Uhm.”

“Really? And you are the Empress’s representative? Does she mean to insult us?”

“Nym-”

“Nym? Who is Nym?”

Is this like, extra credit or something?

Oh Gods, this is totally extra credit.

“Very well, uhm, Cervaya, please take a seat.”

“Oh, I have your permission to sit. How generous of the Empress! Would that she also extends her permission for us to take what is rightfully ours, and has been for generations.”

She may not be the best Illusionist, but the girl’s a pretty good actress. The audience chamber is far nicer than the study — a surprisingly intimate table sits in the centre, surrounded by stained glass and tapestries. Nym stares pointedly at a silver flagon of spiced wine with two fine cups, and I pour generously. If she’s drunk, she’ll be more agreeable — hopefully.

“Now then,” I begin, but she raises a hand.

“Let me stop you there, mediator. I recognise two facts that I’d like you to recognise, too: one, the Kingdom of Holt has an unimpeachable claim on Wyalmoor. Two, the Kingdom of Rith has no such claim. That is, as far as I’m concerned, the beginning and the end of the issue. Do you agree, mediator?”

Gods, she plays the character well. I wonder how long she’s been preparing? When did she decide to do this? Why did she decide to do this?

Oh. Right. Of course…

She wanted to be in Alyx’s instance.

“Be that as it may,” I say, “the Rithi have stopped you from enforcing your claim. Their perspective must be considered.”

She sneers. “Please, mediator; don’t make me laugh. Yes, it is prohibitively difficult to land on Wayalmoor at the best of times — even a fleet outnumbered three to one can make a landing too costly to pursue. But the Empire doesn’t intend to reward this tantrum, does it? Surely not! Surely not!”

I know the competition’s getting to me, because for some reason Nym just seems so fucking sexy right now, jiggling in the silk when she slams her cup against the table.

“I-”

“No! I will hear no more. Go and tell the Rithi to stand down or face the Empress’s wrath. Those are my conditions.”

Vila sets up a meeting with Alycia Welspring. I await her in the audience chamber, but freeze when she enters. Done up in a light blue doublet with silver trimming and a pair of plain, linen breeches, the predator-faced white raccoon fixes her red eyes on me and smiles. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, mediator.”

“You!” I say, unable to contain my rage even though it probably costs me points.

“As I say, we have just met. Perhaps the stress of negotiations is wearing you down. If so, it may help to see my proposal. You will find it most agreeable, I think.” Without waiting for a reply she produces a sealed letter and strides over to me. Though a full head shorter, she grins as though she towers above, and presses it into my hand. “Go on. Read it.”

The seal’s not the King’s (a golden lion, I remember from the briefing), but another — a squalling gull. When I read the letter I realise it must be the raccoon’s — I mean, Alycia Welspring’s.

In exchange for favourable judgement in the matter of Wayalmoor, I offer my close attentions and assistance in whatever matters the mediator should request them. She unlaces the top of her doublet, exposing the tuft of fur between her breasts. “You agree, yes?”

After what she did to Svelgi… It’s one thing to play to win, I can’t blame anyone for that, but another to relish my friend’s screams, her pain, her fear — I’d be annoyed by the suggestion even if it wouldn’t instantly lose me the game.

“No. You will meet with Princess-”

“I am not interested in meeting the Princess at this time.”

“Tough luck.” In a way, you’re a very lucky woman; this rage is the only chance you’ve got. “The Empire won’t be dictated by you, by the Princess, by anyone. The Empire is the greatest nation this world has ever seen, and when it enters negotiations, it sets the terms. You will sit down with Princess Cervaya, and you will listen to what she has to say. She will do the same for you. Do you understand?”

Her smile only widens. “Of course, mediator,” she says with a bow.

Back in the study, I summon Vila so I can get Nym back — but after I’ve given the order there’s a slight grimace that makes my head tilt. “Are you alright?”

“Me? Sorry; I’m fine. I… I didn’t expect you to see that. But then, you see everything, don’t you?” A beat. “Apologies, mediator. It’s just- the stress.”

“No, of- of course. Uhm. Yeah. Bring Princess Cervaya in, but don’t put her in the hall with Alycia until I’m there. I just need a minute to review these.”

She nods.

Now alone, I close my eyes and focus on Vila. Call it a hunch. The vision forms quickly; suppose because she was just here.

She marches down some corridor, some back hallway, and slips out a portal and into the pre-match holding area. Then she goes further, at a pace just shy of a jog, until she’s out in the crisp, clear air and the sun’s dancing on her cream fur. Vila takes two conspiratorial glances over both shoulders as she moves away from the Sky Dome and the crowds filling it.

In a quiet spot in the gardens she whispers to a tree. “Orc, this is one of the most shameful Escalation performances Vayal’s ever seen. You’re going to lose to her, and I assure you it will be a well-deserved loss. Whatever happens here, it must be good for the Empire. If all you get is peace…”

Having already said too much, Vila hurries back into the Dome’s contestant entrance, and back to my instance.

As I sit at the head of the table, Nym and the raccoon facing each other, Vila’s words ring in my head. What made her so certain I’d lose? Getting them together in the same room? Why?

She wants you to play them off each other, which is harder when they’re both right there. Especially with how Nym’s already crumbling under the raccoon’s casual grin.

“Now,” I begin. “It’s obvious that neither of you is interested in concessions.”

“Precisely,” Nym says.

“I take offense, mediator. You’d be surprised just how many concessions I’m willing to offer. It seems more like you’re the one who’s frustratingly inflexible.”

“Count on a Rithi whore to offer herself for some shit-covered rocks.”

“If you don’t want the rocks, Princess, this whole ordeal becomes a lot smoother. Perhaps you might like my concessions, to sweeten the pot.”

“I would sooner die than lay with the likes of you.” Nym’s outrage seems totally sincere.

“I can arrange that, too. I wonder what royal blood tastes like?”

I slam the table to shut them up, but have nothing to say, leaving us in an awkward limbo while I think and think and think.

If only Mae were here. Mae would know what to do. Mae, the merchant’s daughter, who’s been learning negotiation her entire life.

Shit. That’s it. I just have to do it how Mae would.

“You’re both uninterested in a deal,” I say. “Fine. You won’t get one from me. One of you will get the island, and the other will get jack shit.” They both beam until I say, “The question is: what are you willing to do for the Empire?”

“You already know how much I’ll do for the Empire,” the raccoon says, leaning across the table.

“Shut up,” Nym says, which earns her a blast of sedating Restoration magic across the face; she slumps into her chair, mumbling something incoherent.

“Now that she’s out of the way…” The raccoon stalks towards me, puts a hand on my chin while I’m too stunned to stop her. “Rith would be ever so grateful if you made the right decision, here. Not just me — the entire Kingdom would be in your debt.” She tilts my chin up and fixes me with her dark red eyes. “The King’s daughter’s desperate to see our flag over Wayalmoor; you ever had a Princess before?”

I have, as it turns out, but something even better is waiting for me — if I win.

“I’ll take her. For the court. She will remain at Highspire.”

“Buhbuhbuh,” says Nym.

“Oh, and fix her, or these negotiations are over.”

The raccoon can’t help but roll her eyes. She does it, though, and for an instant I understand why Mae’s dragged this contest out so much. The thrill of playing two people off each other gets my blood hot.

“We would be honoured to host an Imperial peacekeeping presence on Wayalmoor!” Nym says, quickly, and the negotiations begin in earnest.

The world dissolves beneath me when the time limit expires, but fortunately I’ve already got an agreement well in hand — one that Vila smiled approvingly at, and thanks to Mae’s example I might actually have a shot here.

The judgement’s announced with us in the middle of the Sky Dome, on a wooden platform on a simulated Wayalmoor (which only serves to emphasise what a stupid conflict this all was; I’ve never seen a more wretched rock). The sky shows row after row of expectant faces, like a gallery waiting for the judge’s gavel to fall.

Presiding over today’s judgement is an ever-shifting blob of pink gas, pulsing when it speaks. As it passes through the lowest few names — and, somehow, my name isn’t among them — Vila, by my side, stares at me so intently that her thoughts chisel their way into my brain.

Stop staring at Professor Kimmavin. You’re gaping like a rube. Cheeks burning, I turn my eyes to the sky, which only makes things worse.

“Fourth place,” the Professor says, its voice like the memory of a voice, “goes to a student who inflamed tensions into open war, such that none remained to oppose the Empire’s takeover. Congratulations on a stunningly robust First Year performance from Alyx Fartrot.”

Holy shit; I beat her!

The Orc did it. That ought to make her a little less smug.

Fucking HATTIE beat me?!

All I do is blink. Alyx steps forward and bows gracefully, but she can’t hide the surprise on her face, the twitch in her eye, the tremble in her hands. She literally can’t believe it, and frankly, neither can I.

Could I actually win this thing? Mae only awards wins, so placing above Alyx is good for my ego, but doesn’t get me closer to the only thing I really want. But I mean… I’m up against such stiff competition. But… But… Maybe?

“Even more surprising was our third place contestant, who ably set the Kingdoms against each other and secured a litany of concessions from the Kingdom of Holt without expending a drop of Imperial blood. Congratulations to Hattie Hare.”

Well. Hey. It’s better than Alyx. It’s not like she’s gonna win an event. Maybe Mae will consider this a tie breaker when we inevitably both end the Gauntlet on 1-1?

“Please step forward, Mystic Hare.”

When I do, a bronze medal appears around my neck. Its front depicts the Headmistress and her dragon, soaring through the clouds.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a strange blur of thought loops, like trying to get to sleep after a long night of drinking with Mae and Alyx. I’m aware enough to notice Saylas Tharai won, as expected, but I don’t even feel like I’m in my body until I’m suddenly outside the arena and jolted back to reality by Alyx, who shoves me against a tree and puts her hands on my cheeks. I’ve just beat her, and she’s a head shorter than me, yet somehow I lose all control of myself and stammer under her accusing gaze.

“How’d you do it?” she demands.

“I just, I, you know? It came to me. It’s what Mae’s doing to us.”

“Bullshit. You’d have gone in there and tried to get a genuine, honest peace. You’re hopelessly deluded about what the Empire is. How’d you know to get evil with it?”

If I give Vila over, Alyx is going to hurt her. Probably not in a way she doesn’t come to like, if the things I’ve seen are any indication, but still it was a hell of a thing she did, going out on a limb for me, and I’m not about to give her up, even if Alyx’s hands are so warm and she’s pressed so close.

I’m spared from having to offer some clumsy lie. Mae’s voice makes Alyx back off; we both snap to attention like dogs hearing their favourite words.

“Hattie! Hattie!” she calls, jogging towards us and waving an arm with excitement. “That counts! That counts! Point to Hattie!”