The Mages of Royas Bay (Mages of Wrystan 1)

Chapter 10: Waiting, Part 1

ARIEN WAS BORED. He'd been in Royas Bay for five days and even though the weather had cleared, he was no closer to his original goal than he had been back in that dark forest. Apart from his first morning, he hadn't spent any time in the mage school, having been given a room near Hawk's in the page wing of the palace instead. It seemed Lady Evariste was worried about what he might do should his magic run amok amidst the tender students.

While Sidony remained at the school, presumably learning all kinds of useful magic-related things, Arien sat on a wooden fence around the back of the palace, watching a flock of pages spar. He supposed he was a quarter of a mile or so from the school, which must have been deemed a safe enough distance by the Mage-Mistress. Arien hadn't bothered to tell her or anyone that it wasn't. In fact, he was perfectly capable of counting not only the number of students in the school, but all the teachers, scholars, graduates and other sundry magical people in both the school and the palace. Possibly half the city too. If he wanted.

He didn't. The thought of so much magic, so close, with so much knowledge that they were too frightened to pass onto him, made him depressed. Even the Hunger felt smothered by his low spirits. Then again, Arien had been holding it so tightly since he'd arrived that it had been squashed almost out of recognition. That wouldn't last, but for the moment it was enough.

Dangerous or not, he was still left sitting on the fence while everyone else got on with their lives. At least he had Rowan for company, and most mornings Cyrus perched on the rail beside him too to watch his mage whack people with a blunted metal stick.

There were a lot of pages in the palace, ranging from ten-year-old newcomers to the sixteen-year-olds eagerly awaiting their elevation to squire. Hawk was a fourth-year and spent his mornings training with other fourth- and fifth-year pages. Arien had seen a few sparring sessions in his short life and could already tell which of these knights-to-be would turn into little more than glorified soldiers. They were solid fighters but rarely did anything outside the strict regime of the drill. No imagination, no innovation.

Hawk wasn't one of them. He fought the same way he did everything else, intelligently and with full focus. There were no flashy moves from him, nor laughing insults either. He fought strongly and with one aim in mind: winning. As one of the better fourth-year pages, he often outshone the fifth-years too, for all he was the shortest of the lot.

In what had become a free sparring session, Hawk was fighting with his tall friend, Bertram. Despite the difference in their heights they were a well-matched pair. They'd obviously trained together for years and knew each other's weaknesses; that was what made their fights so fascinating.

Where Bertram was grace and speed, Hawk was strength and thought. Bertram used impulsive, flashy moves while Hawk liked to defend and think before launching his own, frequently blistering, attacks. In the polite boundaries of the training ring there was little to choose between them, but Arien knew that in the real world where lives were on the line Hawk would win. Bertram was too courtly and honourable; he'd always stick to the rules. Hawk was too smart for that. If he was fighting for his life he wouldn't hesitate to kick or punch his opponent to gain an advantage.

Luckily for Bertram, this wasn't the real world, so he only had to keep moving long enough to land one of his fast moves, or wait until Hawk exhausted him. Their fights usually ended one way or the other, with their overall tallies coming out even. It was always impressive to watch and they never failed to draw an audience once they really got going.

Today was no different. Arien propped his chin on his hands and followed the action almost as avidly as the sparrowhawk beside him. The other pages slowly stopped what they were doing, while the viewing benches on the far side of the arena were dotted with fluttering courtiers and knights come to assess potential squires.