Duo

My training in magic began right away. I had several instructors, each of whom taught me certain kinds of spells. There was one for offensive magic, and another for defensive spells. And another for inflicting status ailments. And yet another for transformation and deception—I was too young yet to handle the advanced magic in that category, so I mainly just watched the others. In the span of a few weeks I had observed students transform into animals, duplicate themselves, and turn invisible. I was beyond intrigued (and at times, disturbed).

"Iterum!" an instructor presently shouted at me. Again! That was the most important word of class. If I did something successfully, they wanted to see it once more. And even more if I failed the spell. Learning magic was exhausting. At first I wasn't sure if I liked it.

"Iterum!" my teacher said once again, more loudly this time. I recited the spell as quickly as my mouth would allow, and fire once more exploded from my fingertips. But something was wrong. The spell was supposed to create a stream of flames, not short bursts of fire.

"Focus, Henricus. Incumbo." My teacher, a stern man with tangled blonde hair, situated my hands closer together. "Iterum."

I read the spell and encountered the same result. The burst of fire was especially violent this time, knocking me back several feet. I opened my eyes to an extended hand.

"Tibi est bene?" asked Felix. His smile crawled up the side of his face. You okay?

I nodded. With a steady arm he pulled me back to my feet. "Audi me," he muttered quickly—Listen to me—and tugged me closer so I could hear.

"Don't move when you recite the spell," he advised. "It's annoying because it leaves you open to attack, but the magic won't be as effective if you're not still." The precision and confidence of his words stunned me—he was only seven years old, after all. Felix must have seen my dumbfounded expression, because he laughed and said, "The teachers never tell you that the first day. They're mean."

My instructor threw a glare my way, and I knew better than to keep him waiting. I gave a quick thanks to my new friend and rushed back to my teacher's side.

Recovering my battle stance, I gave the spell another try. The target was a scarecrow a few yards from where I stood. All the other kids had already burned their straw targets to ash. They were on to other things, more difficult spells. I decided that I wouldn't fall behind.

This time I followed Felix's advice. I read the words from my tome as evenly as I could, taking care to keep my posture still. At the last stanza of the spell I held out my hand. From my palm flowed a stream of flames that effectively scorched the scarecrow. Across the room Felix gave me a thumbs-up.

I looked eagerly to my teacher with the expectation of praise. But with a scowl he only told me, "Tardus addiscentis," and that I should perhaps take a break. The words swirled around heavily in my head: slow learner.

The teachers at the Institutum were indeed spiteful. Blackhearted. Colder than even the enemies I would eventually face on the battlefield.

"Mean" didn't cover it.

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By the time I was seven, I became familiar with the Institutum's main method of keeping us in line: punishment.

Punishments ranged in severity depending on the context of our "crimes." One was lucky to escape with a short scolding—beatings (and other forms of abuse that I'll get to later) were far more common. It would take a while before I experienced some sort of punishment firsthand, although I—unwillingly—had watched others take their turns.

One night is particularly burned into memory.

It was late—well past curfew—and Felix had returned sluggishly to bed. His short pajama sleeves revealed the long, jagged lines that ran up and down his forearms. They were fresh wounds; some parts were still bleeding.

"Are you okay?" I asked him, gesturing to his reddened arms. I sat up in bed, my eyes attached curiously to the cuts.

"Yeah," he answered casually, "I'm fine." He wrestled with the blanket and settled into his pillow, facing me.

"What did you do?" I asked. Instructors were always punishing students at the Institutum. But I'd never seen Felix do anything that would garner their attention.

"Spoke back to a teacher," he yawned. The entire concept seemed to bore him.

"That's it?" I asked. I noticed a few more scratches on his neck. "You're bleeding, you know."

He brought a hand to his neck and pulled it away, studying his stained fingertips. "Yeah. It'll stop soon. Don't worry about me, Henry."

"What did they do to you back there?" I asked him curiously. "Is there really such a thing as the secret back room?" Felix had closed his eyes. I tried to pry them open with my questions. "Or are they just making it all up to scare us?"

But Felix wouldn't answer. There was no way he was asleep, but his long, even breaths would have fooled anybody. He did this a lot, I would notice, when he didn't feel like answering me—almost always when he came back from some unexplained punishment. There was nothing I could do. So when he closed his eyes I did the same, and I knew we were done for the night.

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I awoke to someone swearing.

It was a low, muttered curse in Latin. I had always been a very light sleeper, so I wasn't surprised I heard the noise. What I didn't expect, however, was that it was directed toward me.

Before I could fully wake up I was scooped into somebody's arms. The man was strong; I could feel his muscles flex against my rib cage. His grasp was aggressive. I kicked weakly in protest, my voice betraying me.

Magistra Melaena was also there. She gave cold, stern orders under her breath to the man who was carrying me. "Sic," he answered repeatedly. My mouth was paralyzed in fear. He carried me to the washroom and set me down on the floor, my knees buckling beneath me. His large hands gripped my shoulders and stapled me to my position.

There was a large bucket in front of me, filled with water. I had no time to struggle further. The man buried my scalp in his grip and shoved my head forward. Unfortunately he missed; my upper lip caught the rim of the bucket and splintered my skin. I tasted blood immediately. He tried again and, this time, succeeded. Cold water smacked me in the face. He dunked my head farther down into the pail. I screamed for him to stop, but my cries were helplessly muffled by the water.

Every now and then he'd yank me back to the surface to take a breath. It was never enough; the oxygen only teased my hungry lungs before I'd be forced to go under again. I struggled with all of my energy to break free. My hands smacked the sides of the bucket, my feet flailed uselessly. The water was so freezing it became like shards of ice down my throat, in my eyes, between my hair.

I don't remember how long this lasted. Eventually I no longer felt my face. My body ached from its ceaseless trembling and my lungs gave up their fight for air.

"There is no tolerance here for thievery," Magistra told me, her voice frigid. I looked up at her and her immaculate posture, towering over me. I was about to ask her to clarify when she held up a spell book. It was a tome I had borrowed from the library a week earlier.

"I—I didn't mean," I tried brokenly. "I forgot—"

"No excuses," she snarled, "and no English."

She eyed the man again and he drowned me once more.

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I sat up in bed, my limbs stiff. My body was leaden; it took me forever just to pull myself onto the mattress. My mind was as numb as my face. Whatever thoughts I'd had were left at the bottom of that bucket. I could still feel the man's hand at the back of my skull.

They allowed me to change into fresh pajamas—a generous offer. The chamber was silent, save for the light snoring of a few children in the back. Beside me Felix did not stir. I studied the gentle expansion of his chest with his every inhale. He sometimes had the unusual habit of mumbling in his sleep. Tonight, though, he stayed silent.

The sky out my window was hopelessly dark. With each passing hour, I realized the sun would never return. Still wide awake, I buried myself beneath the covers.

I had endured my first punishment at the Institutum.

I could still taste the ice inside my throat, could feel it trickle down my spine after spilling from my hair. I curled into a ball beneath the blankets. If I stayed like that, I remember reasoning, perhaps they'd forget about me. They'd never look for me, never return for me. I'd remain that way—my hands folded against my shins, knees pressed to my chest—forever, and somehow I'd be okay.

The oxygen became stale underneath the covers, though I didn't dare surface. I didn't know how much time passed, but my hair had long dried, and the nerves in my face awakened once more. Although I apparently regained proper warmth, I was still shivering.

It was the first time in memory that I truly wanted to go home.