The Chronicles of Krarshe: The Hearts of Men, Volume 1

Krarshe sat at a long, worn table, resting his head in his hands as he watched his fellow students trickle into the classroom. He had gotten there significantly earlier than the rest to ensure he could pay the matriculation fee before class started, but misjudged what time class started. He let out a great yawn and turned his attention to the window, watching the front gates through heavy eyelids. The classroom was the biggest room in the front of the building, giving a great view of the stone courtyard as the morning sunlight climbed over the walls of the academy. He had been there since before the sun came up, and he had counted each stone of the courtyard pavement as the sun reached it. It was up to seven stones.

Krarshe turned his attention away from the window and looked over the students who had arrived. There was a group of three girls, all whispering and giggling amongst themselves. The shine and careful grooming of their hair led him to believe they were probably aristocrats like Tibault. A couple of boys entered together, chatting about something that Krarshe couldn’t quite make out from the back of the room. Their hands made gestures which led him to believe it was something lewd, only strengthened when one of them nodded toward the group of girls before laughing.

The room filled faster and faster as the sunlight reached the eighth stone of the pavement. It became loud in the dingy, dusty classroom as more and more students talked and gossiped and joked. Krarshe was beginning to miss the past hour or so of silence that he had taken for granted. There were two things he noticed as he observed the room: first was that everyone seemed well-groomed, and the second, that everyone seemed to know someone. Everyone was talking with a companion. Only Krarshe sat in the back by himself, quietly watching the class.

“Karsh!”

Krarshe looked to the entrance and saw Tibault waving at him. His hair was smooth, combed back flat against his head, no longer the curly mess it was yesterday. Without the disheveled locks of hair hanging in front of his face, the scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose were even more prominent. Krarshe gave a hesitant wave to Tibault as he walked over to the table and sat down on the seat next to Krarshe. He dropped the spellbook he had snatched from Krarshe on the table in front of them, halfway between him and Krarshe.

“You’re here early,” he said, brushing his hair back with his hand carefully. A stubborn curl stuck up, not willing to fall in line with the rest.

“Yeah,” Krarshe muttered, looking out the window again, away from Tibault. “I had to pay my tuition still.” He watched as the Professor Owyn stepped out from the store to yell something to a few students that just entered the premises, causing them to speed up toward the school building. “Apparently ‘dawn’ doesn’t mean the same thing to everyone.”

“It doesn’t?” asked Tibault absentmindedly, still fighting with the stray curl before another one joined the revolt.

Krarshe turned to look at him, sleepily watching the boy fight with his hair. Rather than responding, he turned back to the window. Owyn had disappeared from the courtyard. A moment later, the two boys who were outside came running into the room, panting, followed by Professor Owyn.

Everyone quieted down and stood up. Krarshe just sat there for a moment, watching, before he noticed Tibault nudging him and gesturing for him to stand. As Krarshe stood, every student bowed and greeted the professor in unison, “Good morning, Professor.” Krarshe attempted to follow, always a step behind.

“Good morning class. You may sit.”

The students all returned to their seats. Krarshe sat down, a bit perplexed at this ritual. It must be a school thing? he thought uncertainly, realizing he’d likely never get an answer. His own supposition would have to suffice.

“Welcome, everyone, to the Remonnet Academy of Magic. As you all undoubtedly know, we have a reputation here at this school for producing the best mages in all of Remonnet. This class WILL be no exception,” he said, as he paced back and forth, glaring at the class. “Failure to reach our expectations will result in punishment. Continued failure will result in expulsion.” With this statement, he stopped and turned to the class. The lines around his clean-shaven mouth were deep, his eyes had a cruel sharpness to them, as though to stare through the students. Krarshe could feel the uneasiness in the room. “But,” he continued, “if you manage to make it through the program, I assure you that you will bring honor to your families, and will be capable of serving the country as an exemplary mage.” He returned to his pacing as he continued to explain the structure of the academy.

There were four other teachers who taught the more experienced students, specializing in different fields of magic. While senior students only had class every other day, alternating with self-study and research, the beginner students had class every day in the large classroom. There was a hands-on training area behind the building, undoubtedly the walled-in area Krarshe saw when he first came to the academy. Additionally, the students were each required to work in the store. By doing this, the school reasoned, the students would be exposed to the different magical implements and get to know full-fledged mages who frequented it. The students, unfortunately, were not compensated for the work. While there was usually a senior student in the store to assist, the main storefront would be operated by a beginner student on a rotation, commencing after one lunar cycle’s worth of classes. It was up to the student to get information on missed lectures. To Krarshe, this seemed counter to the intent of the school, that being to learn, and he had to wonder if he somehow found his way into another merchant job rather than a magic academy.

Professor Owyn continued his long-winded speech, explaining class expectations and advancement to the senior classes and what those classes entailed before shifting to exaltation of the school and its long, proud history. After almost an hour of this, Krarshe’s early morning began to catch up with him, and the speech began to become background noise for him, letting his attention turn to the window again. Twelve stones now, creeping almost up to thirteen. Krarshe tried in vain to stifle a yawn. He looked back at Owyn, but the teacher seemed to have not noticed. His proud lecture, or rather sermon, was becoming more intense. Looking over the class, half of the students seemed to be in awe, the other half bored. Not as bored as Krarshe felt, as he didn’t notice anyone else taking up counting stones on the pavement outside as a pastime, but they appeared to be more or less disregarding what the teacher was saying. He saw one student at the far end of the room who seemed to be strangely rigid, almost as if she was trying to appear more attentive than she was.

Krarshe observed her for a minute, taking notice of her chestnut brown hair that hung loosely across her shoulders, before realizing who she was. It was the girl he met two days ago, the timid one who was working at the store. Krarshe studied her for a minute, the gears in his head beginning to turn, pulling him out of his sleepy stupor. How was she running the store two days ago if she’s a beginner student?

“Hey, Tibault,” Krarshe whispered, not taking his eyes off the girl. After getting no response, he looked over at Tibault. He was completely fixated on professor Owyn, mesmerized almost. What a respectable, responsible student. Krarshe jabbed him in the side a bit, prompting a grunt from Tibault.

“What?” Tibault whispered, slightly annoyed.

“Why would a student who has been here a while be in the beginner class?”

“... What?” Tibault looked even more annoyed now. “That’s why you’re distracting me?”

Krarshe just nodded, looking back forward, pretending to pay attention to Owyn.

“I’d assume they didn’t pass the test to advance to the senior class.”

“There’s a test to advance?” Krarshe asked.

“Weren’t you paying attention!?” Tibault harshly whispered.

Clearly, Krarshe had let his mind wander too early. He couldn’t help it. He was tired, and this was dull. He came here to learn magic, not listen to some fanatical rant on how great the school was and how great a mage the teacher was.

Tibault turned his focus back to the teacher, and Krarshe to the sunlight in the courtyard again. He half paid attention to the lecture, if you could call it that, to make sure he didn’t miss anything important. Thirteen stones.

After Krarshe had watched the sun cross every stone in the courtyard, the class finally took a break from the lecture for lunch. The morning was filled with only the half-mad ravings of a teacher so egotistical that Krarshe had to question why he belittled himself by teaching students rather than heading the Council of Mages for the queen. Maybe it was to make himself feel even more superior by surrounding himself with beginners.

As the students filtered out of the classroom, Krarshe followed the flow of bodies and started to look for the girl from the other day. If she was already a student, she would probably know a lot about what to expect here. Definitely an asset, as Krarshe’s merchant mind saw it.

“Hey, Karsh,” Tibault’s voice called out from behind him. “Where should we have lunch?”

You’re coming with me? Krarshe thought. He sighed. “I’m not sure. But I wanted to go talk to one of the other students for a bit.”

“We can invite them too. The more the merrier, right?”

I’m not getting rid of you, am I? Krarshe resigned himself to spending his break with Tibault. Tibault’s good nature was evident, and something Krarshe was already beginning to appreciate, but was perhaps too energetic and spirited for him on an already draining day. He continued to look over the mass of students as they emptied out of the courtyard. When most of them had vacated the premises, Krarshe spotted the girl sitting alone on a stone bench at the far end of it near the gate. She had something wrapped in a cloth, which she was carefully opening on her lap.

Krarshe made his way across the sunny courtyard toward her. As he approached, she looked up at him, her hands halting before coming to rest delicately on top of the wrapping in her lap. Krarshe stopped just in front of her. As he studied her, he could see the confusion in her dark brown eyes. Krarshe felt his chest tighten as she looked up at him through her long bangs.

“Umm... Can... I help you with something?” she asked. Krarshe wondered how long he had been looking into her eyes before she snapped him from his trance.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so suspicious. I was just...” Krarshe trailed off. How was he going to breach this subject? If she had failed the promotion, it probably wasn’t something she wanted to talk about. He had to be certain though. “Forgive me. You looked like someone I met in the school store not too long ago. I must be mistaken though. My apologies.”

She looked down, her downcast eyes hidden by her chestnut bangs. “That... very well could have been me,” she said barely above a whisper.

The girl sat there quietly, staring at the ground in unsettling silence. It seemed he had struck a sensitive subject, and Krarshe felt bad, but he had to push a little further. “But aren’t you in the begi-”

“Yes. I know. I’m in the beginner class again.” Her hands, shaking, turned into fists, crushing the wrapping in her lap. She looked up at Krarshe, her enchanting brown eyes welling with tears of indignation. “Do you think I’m a failure too?! That I’m some kind of idiot who can’t pass even after three tries?!” Her voice was beginning to crack as her anger devolved into anguish. She looked to be on the verge of breaking into sobbing.

Her reaction took Krarshe completely by surprise. He expected her to be upset, but this was beyond his calculations. “Uhh, no, that’s not what-”

“Just leave me alone!” she shouted at him. She stood up from the stone bench, the wrapping spilling out onto the ground, and deliberately pushed past Krarshe with a bit of a shove and headed toward the many-windowed building in the corner of the compound. Krarshe began to raise his hand as though to stop her, but changed his mind abruptly, letting it fall limply to his side. He was at a loss, unable to find the right thing to say. Maybe it was better he didn’t say anything, given the brief exchange they just had. Krarshe looked at Tibault. He just looked back at Krarshe, disappointment and confusion written all over his face.

“That could have gone better,” Krarshe muttered, mostly to himself.

“That was probably the worst thing you could have said.” Tibault watched her as she ran. “You really should apologize,” he said, looking back to Krarshe, his face more serious than Krarshe had yet seen.

“Yeah,” Krarshe agreed.

“Aah!”

Krarshe and Tibault turned to look where the yelp came from. The girl had tripped over the uneven stones of the courtyard. She just laid on the ground, barely moving. Krarshe dashed over to her and squatted down. “Are you okay?”

Seeing her more closely, she appeared fine. Physically, that is. While on the cusp of crying, the trip had sent her over the edge into full bawling.

Krarshe wasn’t sure how to handle this. In his years of travel, this was not a situation he was accustomed to. None of his mercantile expertise equipped him to console this girl. What was he supposed to do?

Left without any answers, he just did the only thing he could think of. He plopped down on the ground next to her. “I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up something painful. I’m sorry for being such an idiot.” His head hung low. As unimaginative as his words seemed, he meant every word of it. It was never his intent to bring a girl to tears. He only wanted to gather information. His mistake was treating her like a commodity, and he was ashamed of himself. “Really... I’m sorry. Please. You can hate me all you want, but don’t let an idiot like me stain that lovely face with tears.”

“He’s right. He’s just a big idiot,” Tibault joined in, having made his way over as well.

Krarshe heard her sniff. He looked up to see she had stopped crying, though she continued to hiccup slightly as she recovered.

“The biggest,” Krarshe said, smiling at her.

She sniffed again, wiping her cheek and rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “Y-yeah,” she managed to croak. She gave a slight smile back.

“I’m Tibault,” Tibault said, proudly, pounding his chest as he struck as gallant a pose as he could muster. “Tibault Dumont.”

Krarshe stood back up. He swallowed hard and said, “This biggest idiot’s name is Krarshe.” He reached out a hand to help her up. Hesitating slightly, she reached up and timidly took his hand. “Just Krarshe,” he explained, as he pulled her to her feet. He was once again eye to eye with those dazzling brown eyes, still with a few tears caught in her long eyelashes.

She sniffed again. “I’m Bridgette. Bridgette Bulliere.” She wiped the remaining tears from her lashes. “Everyone calls me ‘Bri’.”

Krarshe gave a low, exaggerated bow. “It is my greatest pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bulliere.” He looked up to see her smiling genuinely.

“You really are a huge idiot,” Tibault teased before shoving Krarshe playfully.

Krarshe looked sharply at Tibault before smiling. The three of them stood quietly in the empty courtyard, the sun high in the sky. The morning chill had been replaced by the ever-growing heat of midday. In other words, lunch time. Krarshe looked back to where Bri had sat to eat. “Alas,” Krarshe started, “while we may have saved this damsel from her grief, her poor lunch was not so lucky.”

Bri and Tibault also looked back to the bench where she had been seated earlier. The wrapping had fallen apart in her hurry, spilling a half of bread and slices of preserved meat across the stone pavement.

“’Tis no problem at all!” Tibault proclaimed, following Krarshe’s theatrics. “We’ll simply have to invite her- nay, insist that she join us for lunch!”

“It’s okay, he’ll pay,” Krarshe whispered to Bri.

“Wait, what?” Tibault exclaimed.

Krarshe and Bri both laughed. Krarshe started toward the gate, followed by Bri.

“No, I’m being serious. I’m paying?!” Tibault called out, chasing after the two.

“This is your fourth time through the beginner class?” Krarshe asked, tearing a piece from his loaf of bread.

Bri just nodded, looking at her stew. “My parents are livid. I had just gotten a pretty serious scolding from them the other day, and you bringing it up just...” She inhaled and released it forcefully. “I just couldn’t handle it. I’m sorry for the undignified showing I made earlier.”

“No, I was in the wrong. There’s nothing you need apologize for,” Krarshe assured her.

Bri sat quietly, stirring her stew for a moment, spooning out chunks of carrot before dropping them back into the stew with a soft plop. She released the spoon and picked up her loaf of bread, fingering it tenderly as she considered the best spot to tear from. She settled on a spot, but she just held it there. “Honestly,” she started, “I decided to stay at the dormitory this time because I can’t bring myself to face them right now. I’m... just... I’m so frustrated and angry with myself.” She bit her lip, trying to maintain her composure before continuing, “I don’t know what to do. I feel like such a failure...” She dropped her bread, nearly flinging her spoon from the bowl, and put her face in her hands.

“You’re not a failure,” Krarshe assured her.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve got it this time,” Tibault said as he casually stuffed a bite of food into his mouth.

“I’m sure you’re an excellent mage. Really, it’s probably Professor Wild Brow’s fault.” He dipped his bread into his stew and quickly tossed it into his mouth before it could drip.

Tibault nearly choked on his stew as he sipped it.

“Professor... wild brow?” Bri asked, peeking out over her fingertips.

“Have you SEEN his eyebrows? I’ve been all over, and I haven’t seen anything that crazy. The dwarves with their browbraids are close, but they still can’t compare.”

Tibault was coughing hard, trying to clear his lungs of the stew he had inhaled. Bri covered her mouth and turned away slightly to try to hide her amused smile.

“I can’t be the only one who has thought this...” Krarshe said. “Right?”

After she had regained much of her composure, though a faint smile remained, Bri responded, “Well, yeah, I’m sure everyone noticed. It’s hard to miss...” She almost whispered the last part. “Just, no one has ever actually come out and said it.”

“I’m fine with being the first,” Krarshe said, puffing his chest out proudly.

“Just don’t be the first to say it to his face,” Tibault choked out. “I somehow don’t think he’d appreciate it.”

Krarshe chuckled. “I’ll try to contain myself.”

“As... funny as it is,” Bri said, again trying to keep herself composed, “if he heard about that, you’d probably be in serious trouble. He may be a professor at the academy, but he got that position by assignment from the Council of Mages. It doesn’t matter who you are, you’d be in trouble getting on their bad side.”

Krarshe nonchalantly tore another piece from his rapidly disappearing loaf of bread. “I’ll keep that in mind. I promise.”

“Why do I feel like you’re not taking this seriously?” Tibault asked, seemingly recovered from nearly choking.

Krarshe put his hands up, defensively. “I swear. I honestly am not looking for trouble.”

“Well, let’s just hope people weren’t listening to us,” Bri said, glancing around the room.

Krarshe followed her gaze as it darted around. The tavern was busy as would be expected during midday. A few men sat at a table about halfway across the room. He watched as one of the two men tried, and failed miserably, to drink the stew he had from the bowl, the thick broth dribbling down his previously clean beard. A noble lady and gentleman sat just past them, talking about something inaudibly. Krarshe could only assume the man was flirting with the woman, based on his forward posture and her shy one.

Those, Krarshe reasoned, were too engrossed with their own affairs for it to matter. The other students that also came here, however, were a different story. He looked over the faces of his fellow students. There were seven or so, Krarshe guessed without trying to make it obvious that he was observing the cluster. They seemed perfectly oblivious to the goings-on around them, almost bumping into a waitress as she walked past them, laughing and joking amongst themselves. This was sufficient to allay any concerns he might have had, not that there were many.

As he returned to his food, a memory struck him. He looked at the cluster of students again. Among them happened to be the boy, Armand, who had run into him days ago. There was no mistaking his blond, wavy hair, defined jaw you’d expect on a gallant knight, and seemingly permanently smug and self-important expression.

Krarshe watched this gathering. It seemed Armand and the boys in the group were doing their own courting. He would say something, follow up with a somehow even more smug expression, and conclude with awes from the boys and girls. He’d occasionally follow up by flashing a smile, eliciting giggles from the girls at the table.

Krarshe rolled his eyes. He should probably take some lessons from the noble in the corner. Might learn something. Krarshe decided to stop watching. He didn’t want to ruin his lunch.

“So,” Krarshe began, “when will we actually be learning some actual magic?”

Bri looked up from her stew. She swallowed before responding. “Typically, after his introductory speech, we learn a beginner spell later that day.”

“Ooh!” both Krarshe and Tibault said in unison.

Bri waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t get too excited. It’s really not that interesting. He’ll teach you the spell, then we’ll try it out in the practical room. Oh, that’s the outdoor courtyard he mentioned. It’s really just to gauge everyone’s mana pool.”

“Mana pool?” Krarshe asked. He had a bit of experience with magic, but wasn’t taught it formally. Terms like this were a foreign concept to him.

“How much mana you have. It dictates how many and how powerful of spells you can cast. He’ll explain it before teaching the spell.” Bri took another spoon of her stew, fishing up a large chunk of potato, which she ate cheerfully. “I love stewed potatoes,” she said with a smile, mouth still partially full of food. The potato seemed to lift her spirits more than anything Krarshe or Tibault had managed to say.

“I’m just glad to have some bread,” Krarshe said, tearing off a piece. “It’s so rare here. Expensive too. Far too many bean dishes.”

“I mean, it’s hard to get wheat, what with the war and all. It’s not as though they can just ask Gagerith or Pretis for some,” Tibault explained. “Just need to hope some merchants risk the trip.”

Krarshe just smiled, remembering his merchant days. “Yeah, you’d have to be crazy to risk crossing the border into ‘enemy lands’.” Krarshe took a bite of his bread, savoring the taste and texture. “Good profit I’m sure, though.”

Bri and Tibault both nodded in unison, their mouths too full to respond. Krarshe noticed the other students leaving, half of their food still on their plates.

Bri noticed it too. “We best get back. I’m guessing class will be starting up again shortly.” She stuffed one more potato into her mouth and stood up. Tibault stood as well, brushing crumbs off his white jacket.

Krarshe, not one to leave food behind, slurped the rest of his stew down, following Tibault’s example of nearly choking on a carrot that was all too willing to thrust itself down his throat. He stood up and took the rest of his bread with him. No way was he going to leave that unfinished.

As they were beginning to leave, Bri stopped. “T-thanks... for lunch... and everything,” she stammered, not making eye contact.

“No-” Krarshe started.

“No problem,” Tibault interjected forcefully, slamming the pile of coins on the table. Krarshe and Bri both smiled, and the three of them rushed for the academy gates.