Hilfords Chronicles: The Black Powder Incident, Page 2

Ezren and Van lounged on the roof of the old tiltyard—a flat deck atop the stands with a railing and a big open middle over the field below. It was a good place to relax, especially since no one else went up there. Both had taken off their waistcoats. Van even took his boots off, leaning back in the chair with his bare feet up on the rail.

  The tiltyard was an oval dirt field surrounded by wooden stands made of beams and planks. As far as Ezren knew, the place hadn’t been used for a melee or a joust in decades. But there it stood, like a pile of sticks, swaying in the breeze, creaking and threatening to topple sideways onto the lemon trees or the wall that separated campus from the northern fields. Its only redeeming quality was the roof.

  Most scholars were leaving for summer, which meant the campus was in chaos. The Masters and Elders would depart for retreat. It was a day to celebrate. Quiet summer was coming. There’d be plenty of time to do whatever they wanted. That meant doing nothing.

  They knew who’d be staying behind and who wouldn’t. Out of the list of people they actually liked, a handful were staying. Just about every single scholar they couldn’t stand would be gone for more than two months. The Masters would leave in a few days, heading west to the Grey Hills, returning just before Harvest.

  Things might go well during the lazy days. Ezren had no reason to think they wouldn’t. Summer could get pretty boring, even in a big city like Mirinol. Ezren knew all too well—he stayed behind every year. His summers lacked almost all the responsibility he carried through autumn and winter. No more errands, no more cleaning, no more helping out in the dining hall. They’d lounge all day and go to The Dapper Fox all night to listen to music and drink summer ale.

  Ezren gazed out on the campus from the tiltyard roof, pushing his blond hair out of his face. The five stone buildings of Hilfords lay in a row across the campus, connected by wide, three-story corridors. Steep roofs pinched upward, stabbing their chimneys into the sky. Across the east lawn, near the formal gardens, the house of Greyelm stood in red brick like a misplaced puzzle piece. To the right, the groves and vineyards stretched to the far wall and the stables in the rear. Across the campus, the City of Mirinol spread up and over the hill. Behind Ezren, feet up on the railing, Van sipped a drink.

  They’d brought chairs up during their third year at Hilfords. There were none up there, before. Who could say the two of them lacked initiative. Ezren moved his chair to the edge, beneath the shade. The big oak tree on the east side grew taller than the roof, casting shade on one side.

  Van put his tankard on the deck. “Is that Danfy?” he asked, pointing over the rail to the ground below.

  The elm and oak trees that dotted campus made it hard to see who was walking toward them. Through the canopy, Ezren spotted a black robe.

  “That’s Danfy,” he said, as the black-haired, blue-eyed boy emerged from the shade.

  Usually, a twelve year old boy would have no business at Hilfords. But Mage Danfy wasn’t any twelve year old boy. He was a one hundred and thirty-six year old mage, living his third life after another successful reincarnation.

  “Hey, Ez, that you?” the mage called, squinting into the sunlight.

  “Yup,” said Ezren, leaning on the railing, three stories above.

  “You guys look over the wall at all?”

  “Why?”

  “This fox just came and told me to,” he said. There was no irony in his voice.

  Ezren’s brow drew down. “A fox?”

  “Yeah, you know, that one talking fox that calls Birchill names.” The touched his hands to his forehead, blocking the sun.

  “Van, look out in the field,” Ezren called over his shoulder.

  The lanky scholar stood up and walked to the north-facing side of the roof and looked out passed the stone wall, below. The field stretched far north to the edge of Fey Wood, the forest that spread all the way to the Nordscap and east to The Stilt River. Across the north road that left the city sat a village full of meatpackers, blacksmiths, dairy farmers and quaint little homes with tiny gardens in the back.

  Van’s head turned slowly, side to side. “I don’t see…” he started. “Wait. There’s a girl running this way from the forest. Keeps looking back over her shoulder.”

  The Lost Girl