Crystal Lattice E-Book

Joshua Palmatier

• Herausgeber: Zombies Need Brains, LLC
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Crystal Cities
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 475

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The Most Powerful Magician in the World… Can't Do Magic. Devon Alamort has failed his mathematics challenge for the School of Science at the Lyceum twice already. He now has one last chance to pass so that he can escape his life of crime as a gang member in the lower levels of the Crystal City of Iandolo, a life his mentor saved him from after a job for his gang leader went sour and landed him in prison. Except he's fresh out of new ideas. In desperation, he turns to his newest—and possibly only—friend… Lane Illea is a mage student who can't seem to master the most basic sigil forms needed to create magic, no matter how hard she tries. Daughter of one of the Councilors that rule Iandolo, she's not used to failure. But when Devon approaches her with a strange new way to view the magical system she's struggling with, she discovers that it's not her ability that's been blocking her…but something—someone—else entirely. As a War student at the Lyceum, Dalton Trent has wanted nothing more than to graduate and become part of the Iandolan army, where he will work to protect the mages who keep Iandolo in power. He has only a few more months left before his dreams will come true. But then he meets Devon…and suddenly the world isn't as simple, concrete, and stable anymore. Because the Crystal Cities aren't all color and glamour and shimmer. The crystal has cracked, the glow dimmed. And when it finally shatters, all three will be caught up in the shards of destruction that follow: a deadly insurrection that could bring the entire delicate balance of the Crystal Cities to a crashing end! "Magic. The politics of war. A small band of Heroes. This year's best Epic Fantasy. A magic school, a magic war, and betrayal. This book is a nail-biting page turner! A splendid book you simply MUST read." --Faith Hunter, New York Times Bestselling Author of the "Jane Yellowrock" series "Crystal Lattice is the electrifying opening to a new epic fantasy series set in a world of forgotten science, dying light, and the math-based magic that could save them all." --Jean Marie Ward "I'm a sucker for a smart, cynical, good-hearted underdog. Throw in a fascinating magical world and six layers of conspiracies, uprisings, and good old fashioned mage battles, and I was hooked. When does book two come out?" --Jim C. Hines "In a world that's an inventive blend of SF and fantasy, characters we will readily relate to face intriguing, potentially deadly challenges. Fast-paced, fluent and fascinating." --Juliet E. McKenna

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Other Novels by Joshua Palmatier:

CRYSTAL

Copyright © 2024 by Joshua Palmatier

Part I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Part II

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part III

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

The Epic Saga Continues

About the Author

CRYSTAL

LATTICE

Other Novels by Joshua Palmatier:

The “Ley” Series:

Shattering the Ley

Threading the Needle

Reaping the Aurora

The “Well” Series:

Well of Sorrows

Leaves of Flame

Breath of Heaven

The “Throne of Amenkor” Series:

The Skewed Throne

The Cracked Throne

The Vacant Throne

The “Crystal Cities” Series:

Crystal Lattice

Crystal Rebel

Crystal War

CRYSTAL

LATTICE

A Novel of the Crystal Cities

by

Joshua Palmatier

Zombies Need Brains LLC

www.zombiesneedbrains.com

Copyright © 2024 by Joshua Palmatier

All Rights Reserved

Interior Design (ebook): ZNB Design

Interior Design (print): ZNB Design

Cover Design by ZNB Design

Cover Art “Crystal Lattice”

by Justin Adams

ZNB Book Collectors #37

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions of this book, and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

First Printing, Zombies Need Brains Edition, April 2024

Print ISBN-13: 978-1940709666

Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1940709673

Printed in the U.S.A.

Part I

The Lyceum

Chapter One

“If I fail this challenge,” Devon Alamort said, “I’ll only have four months to develop a new one. That’s not enough time. It took me a year just for these seven questions. I’ll be back on the streets of Iandolo, back to the gangs in the lower city, back beneath Carbolen’s thumb.”

“What makes you think you’ll fail this challenge?” Arrend asked. His mentor at the Lyceum, he’d pulled Devon from his jail cell after the disastrous Presidium job and brought him to the college. “Are your questions not strong enough?”

“No.”

“Then why are you so anxious?”

They stood in the antechamber of the Inner Sanctum, where the challenges were held. Devon tugged at the constrictive folds of his white uniform, wiped the sweat from his forehead, tried to ignore Arrend’s question.

His mentor placed a hand on his shoulder. “What’s bothering you, Devon?”

He met his mentor’s gaze. “It’s Favian.”

“Ah.” Arrend’s hand dropped from his shoulder. “Because Proctor Favian is the Master of the Board for you challenge?”

“He wants me to fail. I can see it in his eyes when I pass him on the quad or in the halls.”

“That has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. Favian and I have been at odds since long before your arrival here. He doesn’t approve of my recruiting students from the lower levels of Iandolo. He feels that the Lyceum should be exclusive to mid-level and above, especially the towers. In this respect, he is small-minded.”

“The other students told me he’d try to sabotage my chances of graduating, that he’d done it to others. But now…”

“He has control of your board.” Arrend glanced at the double doors that led to the sanctum. “Favian will attempt to sabotage your challenge. He’ll try to get beneath your skin. You need to ignore him, Devon. Focus on your questions. He can do nothing if the other members of the board find your solutions sound.”

A rustle came from behind the doors and Arrend caught Devon’s arm. “Don’t let him break you.”

One of the doors creaked open. An acolyte—a servant of the Lyceum—motioned them in without a word.

The inner foyer was dark, but Devon did not pause to let his eyes adjust, taking three steps forward, until his hands brushed the heavy cloth curtains that obscured the true sanctum. He thrust them aside and stepped into blinding white light.

The circular chamber of the Inner Sanctum stretched up into apparent eternity. Hundreds of narrow columns scattered throughout the room reached toward the heavens and the source of the light, the vertical bands of marble flecked with green and gray along the walls heightening the effect, but Devon had been here twice before and the illusion no longer awed him. He knew now that the light came from an ancient lucent crystal embedded in the ceiling and had calculated that the chamber was a mere four stories high, a third of that in diameter, even though it appeared twice that.

His gaze fell toward the center of the room, where between the columns six members of his Board of Proctors stood behind an arc of seven podiums, one for each of the schools of the Lyceum. Arrend moved to join them. All of them wore stern expressions, including his advisor. Devon kept his eyes Proctor Favian, from the School of Mages, who raised a hand and motioned him forward.

Devon drew in a steadying breath, then moved down the three wide steps to the sanctum’s floor, heading straight for the podiums. His footsteps echoed in the silent room and he felt a drop of sweat begin to trickle down his forehead.

“That’s far enough,” Favian said, his hand falling.

Devon halted, ten steps from Favian’s podium. The challenge hadn’t even officially started and already the tips of his fingers had begun to tingle with numbness. He clenched both hands into fists and focused on breathing.

“Devon Alamort, sixth year student in the School of Science, you issued the Board a challenge one week ago consisting of seven questions that you claim you have resolved.”

“Yes.”

“In the event that the Board, in its wisdom, cannot resolve these questions on its own, you attest that you can explain their resolutions to our satisfaction?”

“Of course I can. I’ve been here twice before. Do we really need to go through all of this again?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Devon caught Arrend shaking his head.

Favian gripped the sides of his podium. “The formalities are here for a reason, sixth year. They must be observed. Perhaps if you payed closer attention to such things you would have passed one of your first two challenges, like most of our students.”

Devon bristled, but bit his tongue, thinking of the streets, the gangs, Carbolen. He couldn’t end up back there; if Carbolen didn’t kill him, the lower levels would. “I…apologize. I’m…anxious to get started.”

Favian pushed back from the podium. “Where were we? Ah yes, your challenge.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his podium and flicked it dramatically. “Seven questions, all pertaining to mathematics. I believe I shall hand the remainder of this challenge over to Proctor Arrend.”

Favian looked directly at Devon. With a sickening twist in his gut, Devon knew the result of his challenge, even before his advisor stepped around his podium to where two acolytes were wheeling a free-standing slate board forward. The tingling in Devon’s fingers grew, began to touch his hands, edge up his arms. His chest felt constricted. Numbed, he barely listened as Arrend cleared his throat and began.

“In the matter of the first question, regarding the sum of two cubes and how they can be broken up into a product, a simple three-dimensional diagram should prove sufficient.” Arrend began sketching two cubes on the slate. “If we place the two cubes corner point to corner point and fill in the rest of a much larger cube with side length the sum of the two sides of the cubes, then consider the volume of the resultant larger cube, it’s obvious that this volume must equal the sum of the volumes of the individual components inside it.” He began scratching out an equation, shifting figures around. “Manipulation of the components will yield that the sum of two cubes must equal the product of the sum of the first and second side lengths with the product of the same subtracted from the sum of their two squares.”

“Devon Alamort,” Favian interrupted, “does this resolve your first question?”

Devon didn’t even look at the slate. “It does.”

“Continue, Proctor Arrend.”

Arrend hesitated, as if about to say something, then returned to the board, erasing the cubes and rectangular boxes before beginning again. “In the second question, you claim…”

But the numbness that tingled through Devon’s arms and now legs grew into a low but incessant hum that drowned out Arrend’s words. Favian appeared attentive, confident, smug even, but the other proctors looked bored. As if decisions had already been made.

“Don’t let him beneath your skin,” Devon muttered. “He can do nothing alone.”

His fists clenched tighter.

Favian asked if his second question had been sufficiently resolved and Devon responded flatly. Arrend moved on to the third.

The board would have already discussed their solutions, would have already formed an opinion about whether he would pass the challenge or not. There would only be doubt if they couldn’t answer some of his questions. The proctors were too disinterested, which meant there hadn’t been any doubt. He was going to fail. Again. With no time to recover. He’d be out on the streets. And he couldn’t return to the gang that had taken him in. Carbolen would never trust him again, not after Devon had ditched the gang for the chance to attend the Lyceum. Carbolen may have pulled him from the trash before he died in the lower levels, but all loyalty had been quashed the moment he’d been captured when the Presidium job went bad.

He’d warned Carbolen the job sounded too easy. But Carbolen had insisted. As soon as Devon had cleared the outer perimeter, the job had cracked and splintered. Carbolen had shouted something about Devon triggering an alarm. Devon knew he hadn’t—the crystal lock hadn’t been that complicated—but there hadn’t been time to protest, only run. Two other gang members had been caught. Devon hadn’t said a word while he was in custody, but there was no way Carbolen would believe that.

That’s where Arrend had found him, where he’d offered him a chance at the Lyceum.

But now the dreams were crumbling down around him. Six years of sweat and stress and an untold amount of paper filled with scratching and scribbling, nervous inspiration and mind-numbing failures, all leading to two failed challenges and now a third—

“Devon Alamort!”

He jerked back to the present. “What is it, Master Proctor?”

“Have you not been paying attention? We asked you if our resolution to your fifth question was acceptable. Is it?”

Fifth question? Had he responded to the previous two? He couldn’t remember. He must have. They wouldn’t have moved on without his acceptance.

He drew himself upright. “It doesn’t matter. It’s obvious that the Board finds my challenge weak and unacceptable. Rather than suffer the humiliation of the remaining questions, I will withdraw and attempt to come up with another challenge instead.”

He turned to leave, walking purposefully toward the black curtains that concealed the entrance. His entire body felt numb. He couldn’t breathe. He needed air.

“Withdraw?” Favian shouted after him. “You haven’t seen our resolutions yet! You are a sixth year, with only four months of tenure left. I doubt you will construct a new challenge in that amount of time and, if you do not, you will be banished from the Lyceum!”

Devon didn’t look back, shoving through the curtains and stumbling out the still partially opened doorway. Once in the audience room, he exhaled harshly and bent over at the waist. He tugged and pulled at the odd folds of his uniform, until he’d released enough of the constricting fabric that he could breathe again.

He didn’t hear Arrend exit behind him until his advisor was close enough to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Breathe. You’re fine. Just breathe.”

“I’m not. Favian’s right. There’s not enough time to come up with a new set of questions. I put my best on this one.”

“And a few of them were non-trivial.”

“Ha!”

Arrend’s comforting grip tightened. “You didn’t stay for the last few. The proctors have the advantage, remember. You’re working on your own; we have the entire Board and the resources of our library to help us. Yet even with that, the Board wasn’t certain we’d resolved your final questions correctly.”

“Favian seemed thrilled I’d be failing my third challenge.”

“He was bluffing. He knew the School of Science had issues with your final questions and tricked you into sabotaging your own challenge.”

Devon didn’t believe it. But here, in the cooler air of the audience chamber, he realized all Favian had done was stand and stare.

“Proctor Arrend.”

Both Arrend and Devon turned to the acolyte standing unobtrusively at the Inner Sanctum door.

“Yes?”

“The Board requests your presence.”

“I see.” Arrend faced Devon. “I’m certain they want to discuss your actions today.”

“Favian will want me expelled immediately.”

“He will, but this isn’t unprecedented. Many students have fled the sanctum during a challenge, for various reasons. He won’t be able to enforce it.” Gripping Devon’s shoulder again, his advisor said, “Go. Return to your rooms and then go out into the city. Get away for the rest of the day. We’ll meet tomorrow, at third hour, in my office. You can present your solutions to your questions and we’ll see if there’s an avenue of research for you to explore from the results. As I said, the last few questions were challenging to the Board. There may be something there.”

Devon didn’t trust himself to respond. He waited until Arrend had reentered the sanctum, then spun on his heel and headed toward his room.

He wanted out of the damned uniform.

And he needed a damned drink.

* * *

The Shandy Quad sat on Fulsom Street, twenty blocks closer to the hub. It catered to everyone, but had become a standard hangout for Lyceum students over the years. Devon sat down at the bar and immediately noticed there was a new bartender. Short, not too thin, scruffy little beard and bedraggled hair mostly hidden by a generic cap, keen eyes and a quirky, intriguing smile. Definitely Devon’s type.

Arch, the owner, saw him and sidled down to his spot. “The usual?”

“No. I’ll have a crystal moon with Everlight, not that cheap juice from the lower levels.”

Arch’s eyes widened. “You sure you can afford Everlight?”

“Don’t argue. Pour.”

“That kind of day, huh?” Arch pulled a chilled glass from the ice casket beneath the counter and began mixing as Devon eyed the new bartender. “His name’s Nic. Started two days ago. Not sure he’s into student types, but hard to tell. Decent bartender so far.”

Devon gave a noncommittal grunt.

“What color?”

“Whatever you’ve got.”

Arch took a flat lucent chip from a stash against the back wall and dropped it into Devon’s drink. As soon as it hit the alcohol, it began to glow a pale green, strengthening as it drifted to the bottom. A cheap trick, but Devon didn’t mind.

Arch handed it over. “Want to talk about it?”

“No. Yes. Just let me drink myself into oblivion.”

Arch stood back, crossed his arms over his chest, and squinted one eye at him. “The last time you were this prickly, you’d failed one of your challenges.”

Devon didn’t answer him, taking a sip of the sour drink as he scanned the rest of the bar’s customers in the dim candlelight that Arch thought of as ambiance.

Arch’s palms slapped onto the bar top. “You failed your third challenge!”

“Not so loud! The entire upper city doesn’t need to hear. Besides, it’s happened before, to other students. I still have time.”

Arch leaned in close enough Devon could smell his lunch. “You’re a sixth year. Not much time left.”

“I know! Leave it. I’ll figure it out.”

Arch shoved back, grabbing a rag and polishing some glasses. Nic glanced their way, but stayed distant. The closest person to them—a woman Devon vaguely recognized from around the Lyceum grounds—studiously stared into her drink, clearly listening in.

Devon ignored them all.

“I don’t understand,” Arch said, breaking the tense silence. “You helped me fix the bar’s lucent cooler when it started acting up, just dove right into the crystal pathways and found the problem. Not many can do that. No one knows how the sodding things work anymore. So how come you can’t pass this challenge?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

Arch waited.

Devon set his drink aside with a sigh. “Listen, I don’t know exactly what I’m doing when I’m messing with the lucent crystals, all right? I just…see the pathways, see how they’re structured, and make a guess as to what they do. I don’t understand how it all works. It’s too complicated. The challenges are different.”

“How so?”

“The proctors aren’t interested in what you can do, they’re interested in what you can prove. You can’t just say this is how it works, you have to explain exactly why it works that way and prove that it will always work that way. That’s why there’s no one at the Lyceum who specializes in the crystals. Everyone knows how to use them for things like light and heat and other practical—” he glanced down at his drink “—and impractical uses, but no one can explain why. They just work. In the challenges, I have to come up with something I can prove will always be true that’s never been proven before, something the proctors haven’t seen. And I don’t have full access to the library like they do. They keep most of that for themselves. Finding something that they don’t already know how to do, that’s not already in the library, is not as easy as it sounds.”

The woman near them gave a curt laugh and said, “Tell me about it.”

Both Arch and Devon turned to her, Nic edging closer.

“What do you mean, Lane?” Arch asked. “Have you even issued a challenge yet? You’re only third year.”

“No, I haven’t, but at the rate I’m going, I won’t even reach the challenge stage.”

“Why’s that?” Devon asked. “What school are you in?”

Lane glanced at him, her brow pinched in irritation. She had the straight black hair and thin pale face of the Luminesque Province. Devon was surprised, given the political tensions that had been escalating between their two provinces; most of those from Luminesque kept a low profile. There had been recent attacks on the wayfares between their two capital cities of Iandolo and Brovetto, rumored to have been by Luminesque forces, though the official word from the Council and the Towers was banditry from the Flatlands.

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but the School of Mages. I’m having problems with the Sigils.” She waved one hand in an intricate yet frustrated pattern, thumb pressed to her two central fingers, her index finger extended. Devon had seen the odd hand position and similar gestures before; the window of his rooms overlooked a small section of the mage training grounds. “I can’t seem to get the patterns down right.”

Now Devon was truly intrigued. He shifted two seats closer, Lane pulling back from him as he settled. Arch and Nic drifted closer as well. The magerium was the reason the Iridesque Province kept its dominance over all of the Crystal Cities. Iandolo was the only city where those with the talent for magecraft could learn to use and control it. When disputes between the cities escalated into violence that couldn’t be controlled by Iandolo’s army, the Iandolan mages were sent to subdue the uprising. To have someone from Luminesque training at the Lyceum as a mage meant Lane or someone close to her had some serious connections to the proctors or to the councilors themselves.

It also meant Lane would be under significant scrutiny.

“How did you manage to get into the School of Mages? You’re Brovettan!”

“I am not!” Lane fidgeted in her seat, glancing around the bar. “My father was Brovettan, but my mother is Iandolan and I was born and raised here, not there.”

“Oh.” Devon settled back into his seat. That wasn’t half as interesting as he’d hoped.

Arch must have felt the same way. He motioned Nic toward a customer and stepped away to help someone else.

“I suppose that makes it difficult for you,” Devon said. “Dealing with the other mages.”

“Yes, but I can handle them. That’s not the problem. It’s the damn Sigils.”

“Oh, right.” Devon waved his hand in imitation of what she’d done earlier.

Lane rolled her eyes. “Yes, those. I can’t seem to get the patterns down. One small imprecision and the entire construct fails. If I don’t pass the principal qualifiers by the end of this year, I can’t continue.”

“Sounds familiar.”

They sat in commiserating silence. Devon was beginning to feel the effects of the Everlight when he turned to her and asked, “If you become a mage, though, won’t you be tied to Iandolo? Mages take a binding oath to the city.”

“So what?”

“Don’t you want to visit Brovetto? See where your father grew up? Visit relatives there?”

Lane finished off her drink in one large swallow and stood up. “My father stayed in Brovetto. Didn’t care enough to come to Iandolo once I was born. I hardly know him. So no, I have no desire to see Brovetto. Or my father.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t. It’s nothing.” She turned, obviously anxious to leave, but paused and forced a tentative smile. “Thanks. Not many people stop and talk to me, especially those from the Lyceum.”

“Maybe I’ll see you back in here again sometime. We can catch a drink.”

Lane’s gaze slid toward Nic. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were asking me out on a date.”

“I just meant—”

Lane laughed, the first time she’d appeared relaxed and natural all night. “Don’t worry. I know what you meant.”

“Good.” She’d nearly made it to the door when he called out, “Good luck with your Sigils.” He exaggerated a hand wave in the air and she laughed again.

After she’d left, he stared into his crystal moon, brooding, until Nic sidled over with an easy smile.

“Care for another?”

Devon pushed his empty glass forward with his fingers. “Certainly. That first one didn’t go nearly far enough.”

“I thought I heard Arch say something about failing a challenge?”

“Ha! Third one so far. And the kicker is if I hadn’t gotten so twisted up inside of myself and left, I might have passed.”

Nic set his drink down in front of him. “What do you mean you left?”

Devon took a hefty swallow and held the glass up as if in a toast. “I fled the challenge halfway through. Because I thought I was going to fail again.” He dropped his arm, slamming the glass onto the bar harder than he’d intended. “It’s my own damned fault. But I have to pass. I can’t go back to the lower levels. The grit, the grime, the gangs. I just can’t.”

Nic grabbed his wrist, squeezing tight, and he looked up. “The lower levels ain’t so bad.”

Devon gave a weak grin. “I suppose not. Not if you’re there.”

Nic pulled back but didn’t step away. Devon continued to flirt with him to distract himself, but when Nic asked if he wanted a third, he waved it off and left. He couldn’t afford it and he was already drunk enough he’d have to be careful walking back to his room. Besides, he had a meeting with Arrend tomorrow.

That thought sobered him considerably. He stumbled out of the bar, then wove through the nearly-empty streets back toward the Lyceum. Shops were shuttered, lucent glowing in the walls of scattered buildings, lantern light flickering in windows above. Two War students challenged him at the northern entrance of the college, but let him pass through the narrow corridor between the high walls of the Mage and War practice yards to either side. He detoured past the school dormitories and quad and entered the Tower.

It was one of the oldest and tallest buildings on the grounds of the Lyceum, with bands of lucent crystal worked into the stonework. As Devon climbed the stairs toward the roof, he trailed a hand over the wall, his fingers scraping across the grit of the stone, then gliding over the slick surface of the crystal. He contemplated the dimly lit lucent. On campus, it glowed a light green in color. Out in the city, it came in a variety of colors—blues and golds and purples, even a few reds and yellows. Not for the first time, he wondered who the Founders—who had constructed these seven ancient cities of crystal—had been. Who were they? Where had they gone? Had the crystals been flawed in some way, abandoned because they were decaying? Or had the decay come later, after the Founders had left?

He paused at a band of crystal that was dark, the translucent material filled with tendrils of black, like smoke trapped in glass. One hand on the stone wall to the side to steady himself, he peered closer, his nose almost touching the lucent’s surface, trying to see the pattern in the smoke. He thought there was one, even when they were lit, but it refused to resolve into anything meaningful. Yet the nagging sensation that there was meaning persisted.

His vision grew blurry and the world around him began to list to one side.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the crystal before pushing himself away and continuing up the stairs.

When he stepped out onto the roof, the wind slapped him full force and he shuddered at its intense cold. When it died down a moment later and he moved out toward the roof’s edge. The apex of the Tower was made entirely of lucent, the footing treacherous, but he’d come here hundreds of times. He headed to a section where the lip of the outer wall curved down, creating a narrow view of the city beyond.

Iandolo, like all of the Crystal Cities, rose from the Flatlands like shards of glass and fingers of stone thrust up through the barren earth. The three spires near the center were the highest, stretching up twenty levels above that of the Lyceum. That was where the powerful in Iandolo resided—the councilors, the richest merchants, even a few members of the army. The crystal glowed bright and healthy against the sky, a beacon in the center of the Flatlands. Other towers, five to ten levels in height, were scattered around the rest of the wide flat mid-level, among an amalgam of plazas and parks, walkways and balconies. Pinpricks of red and orange lucent were visible, even an entire streak of yellow up one side of the central, tallest tower. The combined light was strong enough to block out most of the stars immediately overhead and to illuminate the large circular swaths of farmland on mid-level to the south.

Yet even amid the glory of the lucent, Devon could see blotches of darkness where the crystals had failed. At the highest levels, they were merely strands here and there. As his gaze dropped lower and lower, the darkness grew and spread. Just west of the Lyceum, an entire section had gone dark—a full tower and half of another adjacent to it. He knew of additional sections where the crystals had decayed. Those in the upper city ignored the signs of the lucent’s failure, pretending those areas didn’t exist, just as they ignored those who lived in the twenty-four levels beneath them, where the majority of the crystals had failed and the citizens relied on lanterns and candles for heat and light.

Devon leaned out over the edge of the Tower and contemplated the tiers of the lower city. He didn’t need his eyes to visualize what was down there. He’d grown up there, first with his parents in a section where perhaps half of the lucent crystals worked, but then later, after their deaths, much, much lower. When he’d been part of Carbolen’s gang, they’d resided in a section only faintly lit by active crystals, the dead ones making everything appear black and sooty. There, the water was tainted and the streets and alleys overrun by refuse and rats.

He couldn’t go back there. Not because Carbolen might kill him. No.

Because, after the Lyceum, any existence he could find there would crush him.

Chapter Two

Devon woke with a groan and a thudding headache. He didn’t remember descending from the Tower or falling into bed.

He blinked and bowed his head as he rolled up into a sitting position, sunlight glaring through his window, then swore.

Sunlight in his window meant…

“It’s already past the second hour!”

He leapt up and hastily changed clothes, using the water in the pitcher and basin on top of his dresser to wash his face and armpits as a makeshift bath. Still bleary, he pulled on his shoes, then paused before his window.

From his vantage on the fourth floor, he could see over the high wall into the mage’s practice field. Three mages were visible, dashing back and forth, their heels throwing up sand as they dodged each others’ handiwork. When possible, one would pause long enough to snap out an intricate gesture with one hand, as Lane had done the night before in the bar, except with these students the motions were precise and yielded results. Most of it happened invisibly, the affected student flung backwards by an unknown force, or the sand exploding upwards in a blinding sheet.

For the first time, Devon paid attention to the mages’ hand motions. He’d lived here six years and, aside from the initial curiosity when he’d first moved in, he hadn’t thought about the mages at all; he’d had his own studies to work on. But now—

A chime sounded, reverberating out from the peak of the Inner Sanctum, signaling the third hour.

Devon bolted from his room, his door crashing closed behind him. He charged down the hall and stairs beyond, other students from the School of Science stepping out of his way. One or two called out after him or shouted in anger, but he didn’t stop. He sprinted across the first-floor great room, then out the dormitory’s large oaken doors, down the entrance steps, and across the quad toward the Master’s Hall, skirting the large finger of amber lucent that jutted up from its center. He slowed briefly to admire the boys from the School of War practicing combat moves shirtless in the grass near their own residence, then picked up the pace until he noticed Proctor Favian watching him with a frown from where he stood on the walkway to one side.

“Proctor Favian.”

Favian merely shook his head.

Devon arrived at Proctor Arrend’s door a quarter after the third hour, composed himself, then knocked.

An acolyte opened the door, glanced over him in disapproval, then motioned him inside. “Proctor Arrend has been waiting for you,” she said. “He’s in his office.”

Devon thanked her and made his way across the receiving room toward the pocket doors on the left, carved in an intricate pattern of tree branches with inlaid chips of lucent for leaves. Everything in Arrend’s rooms—those that Devon had seen—was made of fine wood, leather, and lucent, from the chairs to the desks and lamps. The lucent leaves on the door flared briefly as he drew near and Arrend called out from inside, “Enter.”

Arrend sat behind his desk, glancing over sheets of parchment with complex sketches on them. Two large slate boards behind him were covered in similar diagrams, obscuring the three windows along that wall. Devon recognized the drawings as two of the larger Wardings within Iandolo—sections of the city that had at some time in the past been encased in growths of orange lucent. No one knew why or how it had been done, but everything inside the crystal had been locked away, frozen in time. In a few of the Wardings, people were visible, as if going about their everyday lives, but trapped in mid-motion.

Arrend tossed the paper he was perusing onto the desk and looked up. “You’re late.”

Devon stepped up to the desk, where he could see that the pages littering its surface were all diagrams of Wardings, from the smallest to the largest, copious notes made along the margins regarding size, placement, shape, and what could be seen inside from different vantage points. “Why are you studying the Wardings? Isn’t this something the mages have looked into? They didn’t find anything.”

“And that’s the definitive answer?” Arrend asked as he stood. “That there’s nothing to see here?”

“That’s the accepted answer.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. But I don’t accept it. There is something to see here, we simply don’t understand it yet. Obviously the Wardings are related to the lucent. Something happened at each of these locations and the lucent reacted.”

“Reacted how? To do what?”

Arrend shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve spent years looking at them, observing them, taking notes, developing theories, risking the wrath of the mages, but I’m no closer to understanding them or their purpose—if they have one—than before.” He began gathering up the parchment into a neat stack. “It’s a private project of mine, one that has borne no fruit.” He slid the pages into an inlaid wooden box and began to set it aside, but paused. “Have you seen one of the Wardings?”

“Yes. In the lower city. It enclosed an entire street and the two buildings on either side.”

“And? What did you do? What did you see?”

“I looked inside. The street was immaculate, the lucent vibrant, the buildings clean. Nothing like the dirt-smeared, lucent-dead alley where we stood. And the people…they wore slick, oddly archaic clothes.”

Arrend leaned forward. “Did anything else appear odd or out-of-place?”

Devon reached back to that memory, felt the sweat from the heat of the level, two other gang members waiting impatiently for him to finish. “A few of the people were beginning to look upwards. They looked vaguely worried. One mother was reaching for her daughter, as if she were going to snatch her up and run.”

“What from?”

“I don’t know. It looked like there were streaks of lightning overhead, but this was deep inside that level. It couldn’t have been a storm.”

Arrend settled back. “The Warding on Level Ten.” He tapped the box containing his research. “Perhaps what this project needs is a new set of eyes.” He handed the box over to Devon. “You should take a look, if it intrigues you. But you aren’t here for that, are you?”

“No.”

“There’s no need to feel despondent, Devon. As I said at the challenge, if you’d stayed, you may have been surprised by the result. There was an intense argument among the proctors after you left that involved others besides those on your particular board of review.”

Devon had never heard of other proctors partaking in a review board’s discussion. “What about?”

“Whether the challenge was sufficient for a pass.”

“A…pass?”

“I told you, our resolutions to your last few questions were weak. Some of the other mathematics proctors, along with others from the Sciences and even the Schools of War and Merchants, felt that you should receive a pass based on the last three questions alone. Even if our resolutions are correct, they presented enough of a challenge that, had the presentation of your resolution been found acceptable, most of your board would have recommended a pass.

“But you didn’t stay. You let Favian influence you. I could see it even before I finished our resolution of your first question. You’d already given up. And then you bolted.”

“I can still present my resolutions! I could—”

“It’s too late. The Board considered that, but in the end they voted the challenge a failure. The decision is final.”

Devon reeled. “Then…then it’s over. I’m out of the Lyceum.”

Arrend moved from behind his desk, taking Devon by the shoulder, steering him toward the side of the room, where standing slates like those used during the challenge had been wheeled into Arrend’s office.

“Not quite. You see, because the Board never presented our own resolutions to the last two questions, it was decided that you could use those two questions again on your next—and final—challenge.” He handed Devon a piece of chalk. “I want you to present your resolutions to me, so that I’m certain you’ve solved them in a manner the Board will accept.”

Devon set aside the box of Warding notes and took the chalk. “But then you’ll have seen my resolution. The Board can present it as its own, which will disqualify that question.”

Arrend squeezed his shoulder in reassurance. “I’ve removed myself from your Board and promise not to disclose whatever you show me to them. They’ll have to figure it out themselves.”

Devon stared hard into Arrend’s eyes. His time in Carbolen’s gang had taught him not to trust anyone—not his fellow gang members or even Carbolen himself. His instinct was to hand the chalk back and walk out of the room.

But Arrend had saved him from the lower city, had fostered him through those rough first years when he’d lashed out in his struggle to fit in.

“I’ll show you the key steps, but not the details.”

“Very well.”

Nearly two hours later, with three additional slate boards brought in by the acolyte, Devon stepped to the side of the last slate. “And that’s my resolution for the last question of my challenge.”

The back of his neck felt gritty with sweat and his arm ached from writing. Arrend’s acolyte had appeared on two different occasions with a tray of light food and decanters of water and of wine. Devon reached for the wine now, his throat raw from speaking. He drank the first glass without pause, then poured a second.

Arrend, now ensconced in one of the leather and wood chairs, contemplated the boards, hand on his chin, one finger tapping his cheek. His brow was creased into furrows.

“This is unlike any approach I’ve ever seen,” he finally said, leaning forward. Then he stood and drifted toward the boards. “The way you handled the substitution here, reducing it to a previously solved equation, is elegant and simplifies the calculations significantly. The method of transference here is inspired. There’s some room for improvement in a few areas, but overall I don’t see anything that the Board will be able to counter or disprove.” Arrend faced him. “I’d say these two questions are ready for defense.”

Devon swallowed his bite of pastry, the meat dry in his throat. “Then all I have to do is come up with five additional questions for the challenge in the next four months. Easy.”

“You have nothing else? No other questions you’ve been working on, partially resolved?”

“Nothing that’s close to being finished.”

Arrend turned back to the slates. “There are new techniques in these calculations that may prove useful on other, as yet unproven, hypotheses. I suggest we both work on extending these results to see what we may discover.”

Devon nearly choked on his wine. “You can help me?”

Arrend had already shifted to one of the slates and begun erasing Devon’s calculations. “I cannot help you resolve a claim or conjecture, no. But I taught you the basic theories of mathematics for four years and I have guided you in your own research since. Helping you organize your thoughts and directing your inquiries in a particular direction is skirting the boundaries of what the Board would find acceptable, but at this point I’m willing to risk it.”

“What about Favian?”

Arrend faced Devon. “What do you know of Favian? From before his time here at the Lyceum?”

“I thought he’d always been here.”

“No.” Arrend returned to the slates. “None of the proctors from the Schools of War or Mages began at the Lyceum. They were all part of the army. Most of those who are now proctors came to the Lyceum by choice—they retired from the army and were appointed here. But not Favian. He never intended to be a proctor, never intended to teach.”

“What happened?”

Arrend set the cloth eraser aside. “It’s not my story to tell, but if it will give you some perspective… Favian was rising as a battle mage in the army, one of their best. It appeared he would become a prefect, the highest rank in the army, but then there was an uprising in Brovetto. Nothing serious—a rebellion over food resources that had turned violent. The officials in Brovetto asked for the Council’s help and they chose to send Favian with a team of mages and an escort of soldiers. Success in quelling the insurgency would ensure Favian’s prefecture. He would finally achieve the rank he felt he deserved.

“But the resistance in Brovetto was more intense than he—than anyone—expected. The attack soured almost instantly. The rebels managed to set off explosives, killing at least twenty of Favian’s forces, including one of his prized mages, Terrial, the daughter of Councilor Martov. Favian’s forces rallied and took down the insurgents, but the damage had already been done.

“When Favian returned, Councilor Martov was enraged. Any chance of Favian becoming prefect had died along with Terrial. The Council gave Favian the option of retiring to the Lyceum to teach or be stripped of his rank entirely and incarcerated for the rest of his life. The rest of the contingent that accompanied him—both soldiers and mages—were reduced in rank and sent back to the army. Favian chose the Lyceum.

“That’s why he’s so bitter. He does not want to be a proctor, does not want to teach, but he has been left no other choice.”

“But why does he hate you so much?”

“Because I am the exact opposite of what he aspires to. I come from the lower levels—Level Ten, actually.”

Devon had been down to Level Ten, but no lower. He had not lingered. Too dangerous. All he remembered was how dark it had been, most of the lucent dead. And the Warding, of course.

“I have no influence in the towers, especially the Council. I come from nothing and so to Favian I am nothing. And yet I have enough influence at the Lyceum that I can affect those who are allowed into the college. There are only so many placements made in each School each year. Favian would have them all given to those from mid-level or above, those who may be able to help him in the future. I—and a few others—have thwarted him in this respect. We feel that the placements should be given to those with the intelligence and creativity to learn and to advance our understanding of the world, whether they come from the towers or the lower levels.”

“And so he tries to thwart your chosen students where he can.”

Arrend shifted forward, suddenly stern. “He didn’t force you to run from the challenge. You did that yourself.”

“I know.”

“That said, if he learns I am helping you, he will use it against you.”

“But you’re only helping me organize my thoughts.”

“Precisely.” Arrend stood and shifted back to the slates. “Let’s start by listing some conjectures and proposals that have yet to be resolved that are somewhat related to the topics in number theory that you’ve explored here. Then we’ll branch out into other subjects where the techniques you’ve used might be relevant.”

“You’re really going to help me? Right now?” It was already the seventh hour. This time of year, there were only eight hours of daylight.

As if reading Devon’s thoughts, Arrend did a circuit of the room, brushing his hand along the veins of lucent in the walls to increase their light. In addition, he shook a few shards of crystal he had sitting on his desk and oriented their lights toward the slates, even though sunlight still streamed through the three windows. “That should cover us, if we happen to work late.”

Devon stared at his advisor a moment, then poured himself more wine and picked up the chalk.

* * *

He stumbled into the Shandy Quad well after dark, the place crowded with people, most of them students of the Lyceum. Music blasted through the small room from a group of four who’d staked out one corner, the drummer and fiddler overly enthusiastic, at least for Devon’s already pounding headache. He almost left, but spotted Lane sitting at the bar.

He shoved in next to her and caught Nic’s attention, Lane glaring at him as he jostled her drink.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” she said, speaking loudly to be heard over the music. “Don’t you have a failed challenge to recover from?”

“Ouch. You don’t pull your punches do you?”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Nic sidled over. “Another Everlight?”

“Cracked no, I can’t afford that. My usual swill, that juice from Radimansque.”

Nic winked and stepped away. Lane gave Devon a significant look.

“What?”

“He winked at you.”

Devon waved a hand. “It’s nothing. The truth is, I spent the last seven hours with my advisor looking at problems and possible ways to resolve them. I can’t think straight right now.” He glanced around in annoyance. “Why are there so many people here? It’s never like this.”

“It’s the musicians,” Nic said, handing Devon his drink, scooping up the chits of bright Devon set on the bar. “Arch is trying out music as a draw for patrons.”

The fiddle screeched and half of the crowd roared in encouragement.

“I’d say it’s working.”

But Nic had already moved off. Devon watched his retreating back with regret, but then the man sitting next to Lane vacated his seat and Devon grabbed the opening.

“Did you find any problems for your challenge?” Lane asked.

“I can’t say. It’s all a jumble right now and I’m too exhausted and stressed to sort it out. I need to sleep on it, look at it fresh in the morning.”

“So you came here?” She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“I wasn’t expecting this.” He swung the hand holding his drink around to encompass the entire bar—the people, the musicians, the noise—but halfway his arm struck someone on the shoulder. Alcohol sloshed from the glass and spilled all over the woman’s shirt. She shrieked, her voice piercing through even the fiddler’s current jig, which ground to a halt with an ear-jarring crunch.

The woman spun as the entire bar fell into rustles and the jagged ends of conversations. Her eyes settled on Devon, then narrowed.

“What did you do?” The words were low and strangled.

Beside him, Lane half stood. “Quinn, it was an accident.”

Quinn glanced toward Lane. “The Brovetto Bitch. I should have known.” Her gaze flicked back to Devon and she barked out a laugh. “And the Gutter Wretch! I hear you’ve failed yet another challenge. Word around the quad is you’ll be back in the lower city in another four months.” She leaned in close, her breath reeking of ale and garlic. “Perhaps even the Flatlands, where you belong. How does that feel, Wretch?”

“His name is Devon.”

Quinn held up an admonishing finger in Lane’s direction. “Hush. I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

Lane ignored her. “It wasn’t even ale. It was Radimansque clear. You can whisk it out of your clothes with a crook of your finger.”

Quinn’s attention slid toward Lane, the raised hand snapping into the familiar pointed index and circled finger-thumb of a mage getting ready to draw a Sigil. “Do you mean this crooked finger?”

Gasps filled the bar and the tension escalated. Students were forbidden to use the Sigils outside of the practice yards and their own dormitory. No one of consequence had been around to notice when Lane had done it yesterday. Besides, she was only third year.

Quinn was sixth. She knew more than the basics, could do serious harm with the right form. If anyone reported this, she could be thrown out of the Lyceum without so much as a trial.

“If I recall, you haven’t yet mastered the basic patterns.” Quinn jabbed her finger toward Lane and several people drew in sharp breaths; Lane stiffened, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps you haven’t had the right teacher. Someone who can drill the patterns into you.”

Devon swallowed, throat dry. “I don’t think—”

But someone—one of the School of War students, taller than Devon, huskier, with a planar jaw and piercing dark eyes—pushed Devon aside. “Quinn, what do you think you’re doing? You haven’t passed your qualifiers yet. You could be expelled for simply crooking your finger here, let alone handing out threats. Your father wouldn’t appreciate that. Isn’t he still angling for a place on the Council?”

“Stay out of this, Dalton. It’s a Mage issue.”

“It involves War if it may eventually involve the city guard.”

Quinn hesitated. Her teeth ground together and her poised hand twitched.

Devon didn’t know if she’d intended to trace out a Sigil or not. She never had the chance to complete it, if so. Someone slammed into her from the side, dragging her shrieking to the floor. The three mages who’d been with her turned on those around them, fists flying, and the entire bar exploded. No one attempted to crook their fingers into the mage’s hand position though. Dalton bellowed for everyone to stop, but was forced to duck when a glass flew toward his head. He crouched down near the protection of the bar and spat curses. The rest of the bar broke into a melee, more glasses and even a few chairs suddenly airborne. Devon grabbed Lane by the shoulder and hauled her down beside Dalton.

“We need to get out of here!” Devon shouted.

Lane looked at him as if he were stupid. “How?”

“Here!”

Devon glanced up to see Nic leaning over the bar.

“Up here! Get behind the bar. I’ll let you out the back.”

Devon grabbed Dalton’s arm. “Dalton! This way!”

Dalton was facing the riot. “Are you joking? I’m School of War! I trained for this! You two get out of here. I’ll do what I can until the city patrol arrives.”

Devon and Lane stood and scrambled over the bar, Nic hauling on their shirts, Dalton urging them on from behind. They crashed to the floor on the far side amid shards of glass and spilled alcohol. Devon was certain he was cut somewhere, but he didn’t take the time to find out. Nic motioned them both toward the back, but Devon paused.

Dalton plowed into the crowd, punching, elbowing, and tossing bodies aside. He began bellowing the mantra of the city guard as he knocked people unconscious.

Lane dragged Devon by the arm into the back room, where the noise dropped to a dull roar. Nic slammed the door closed behind them. Arch was already there, mumbling something about this being the last time he brought in musicians. He hooked a thumb toward the outer door. “Go on, get out.”

Devon and Lane spilled out into the back alley and ran.

Two blocks later, Lane broke out in raucous laughter and staggered against the nearest building, one arm holding her stomach. Devon lurched toward her as she scraped down the wall into a seated position.

“Lane! Are you hurt?” He crouched down next to her and began checking for wounds, but she batted his hands away, still laughing.

“Did you…did you see her? She was…so serious. So intense.” Her laughter began to die. She wiped at the tears running down her face. “I’m fine, Devon. Just some cuts from the glass and some bruises.”

Devon sat down beside her and inspected his own wounds. A thin slice the size of his thumb on the pad of his palm; a few splinters of glass in his fingers. He began teasing them out. “I thought she was going to work a Sigil. You didn’t seem worried though.”

“An advantage of being a mage. It takes time to create the form. I’d have punched her in the face before she’d completed it if she’d tried. That’s why mages are always accompanied by the army. The guards are there to buy us enough time to create the forms.”

Devon had never thought about it. That must be why the Schools of War and Mages worked so closely together, why they trained in adjacent yards. “You would have paid for it later.”

“Paid for what?”

“Punching her.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. There would have been something else. There’s always something else. Quinn’s had it in for me since I arrived, because I’ve so obviously got Luminesque blood in me.” She waved at her face, the skin so much paler than Devon’s or anyone else from Iridesque. “She doesn’t care that I’ve never been outside Iandolo.” She paused. “You’ve clearly had run-ins with her though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She called you ‘Gutter Wretch.’”

“Oh, that.” He stared out at the street and the few citizens strolling along the crystal-lit paths on either side. None of them paid the two any attention. “It started when I first came here. I don’t know how, but someone found out I was from the lower city, that Arrend had recruited me from a city watch cell.” Lane quirked an eyebrow in curiosity, but he didn’t elaborate. “The others in the School of Science began harassing me, but I’d dealt with that kind of crap in the lower city. I ignored it, kept to myself, and eventually they grew tired and stopped.”

“And what would you have done if they’d continued?”

He looked her in the eye. “I’d have taken care of it.”

She hesitated, but left it. “Unfortunately, Quinn’s right. I haven’t mastered the forms yet. Which means in another four months I’ll likely be back with my mother in her gilded tower in the upper city.” The words were tinged with bitterness.

“Wait, what do you mean ‘in her gilded tower’? You live in one of the towers?”

“Haven’t you heard? My mother is one of the Councilors. According to Quinn and everyone else at the Lyceum, that’s the only reason I’ve been allowed to study as a mage—her influence. No Brovettan would be allowed in otherwise.”

Devon didn’t know how to respond to the heat in her voice. “But…the towers. Would being sent back there be so bad? You’d have everything you needed. Food, water, clean air. And the majority of the lucent still works.”

“But it’s a prison. There’s so much more…space down here. I was hoping when they discovered I had the talent to be a mage that I could escape. But I don’t think that’s going to happen anymore.”

“You can’t give up. There are still four months left.”

Lane didn’t respond.

They sat in silence, the harsh whistles of the guard reaching even here. Devon assumed they were converging on the Shandy Quad. He wondered if there would be consequences for what Quinn had done. Except she hadn’t done anything, had she? He wasn’t even certain she’d started to draw a Sigil before she’d been tackled.

Nothing would come of it. Nothing ever did for people like her.

And then there was Dalton. He’d come forward to help when clearly everyone else was itching for Lane and Quinn to fight.

Beside him, Lane stirred. “We’d better get back to the Lyceum.” She winced as she stood, clutching at her side again.

“You are hurt.”

“I hit the side of the bar hard when we were scrambling over it. It’s just bruised. It feels better if I keep moving.”

Devon didn’t argue with her.

They meandered back toward the grounds, circling wide around the Shandy Quad. Devon tilted his head back and stared up toward the spires of the upper city, lit with the glow of the lucent. He had a hard time thinking of it as a prison.

They parted at the shard of amber lucent in the center of the main quad.

“Good luck with your new challenge,” Lane said as her figure faded into the shadows.

“And you with your Sigils.”

He thought he heard laughter.

The amber crystal caught his eye and he placed a hand on it, his palm tingling slightly.

Then he turned and headed back to the School of Science’s dormitory.