The woman spoke. “This is your induction interview. Unless you attack us or show gross disrespect, you will be accepted into the Racellian wizard corps. State your name.”
“Quinto Tirolo, sir.”
The men laughed.
“You address a woman as ma’am, recruit,” the woman said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That is better. You are obviously a hubite. What activities were you engaged in before you were pressed into service?”
“I had finished my letters and numbers in school in the spring, and I’ve been working with my father, a wheelwright, ever since.”
“When did your magic come to you?” One of the men asked.
“A week or so ago.”
That raised a few eyebrows, and some notes were made.
“Are you and your father members of any hubite organizations?” another man asked.
Quint shook his head. “No, sir. Most of the people where I come from are just hubites, but I don’t know anything about organizations. My father has drinking friends, but I don’t think that counts.”
Two of the men smiled, but the other one and the woman were impassive.
“You will demonstrate your three strings,” the woman said. “Even if you aren’t fully adept, we’d like to see you perform.”
Quint started with fire. It was the easiest, and he didn’t manipulate the flame like he could. He stood and tried to levitate the chair. It was almost too heavy, but Quint was able to lift the chair half a foot off the floor. Heat was easy after levitation, but Quint didn’t go crazy with that, either. He performed better than he intended. Quint was getting more used to making magic.
He sat back down and waited for a response after all three scribbled something.
“You learned those three from scratch since you could see tendrils?”
“I did, ma’am,” Quint said.
“What do you think about Racellia?” one of the men asked.
Quint shrugged. “It’s where I was born and likely where I’ll die unless I’m unlucky in fighting.”
That answer seemed to satisfy them. They continued to ask questions about Quint’s upbringing, how many siblings he had, and what they were doing. A few seemed disappointed that magic hadn’t manifested itself among the rest of his family.
The woman closed her file and stood. “You are now a Recruit in the Racellian wizard corps. When you learn ten strings, you will be accepted as one of the High Council’s wizard soldiers. Remain seated while we arrange an escort to the training barracks.”
Chapter Fou
r
After an inordinately long wait, Quint was escorted by two young soldiers to the training barracks, an attic in one of the fort’s other buildings. There were eight beds on either side of the attic, which almost ran from end to end of the building. One end held a washroom and toilet facility.
Quint quickly learned that a string drew water uphill, so the attic had a water supply. He also found that the trainees were elsewhere, and he was shown to his bunk just before his escort left him alone. Quint used the water closet while he was alone. The water began to fill the tank without his intervention. Quint wondered what kind of string did that.
It was clear that there were twelve trainees. Quint made it thirteen, and Sarza, the missing recruit, would have made it fourteen.
His bed had no sheets or blankets. The chest at the foot of his bed was empty, and Quint possessed the clothes on his back and a few coins in his pocket.
Quint walked to the dormer window by his bed and saw a column of black-clad young wizards marching toward his building. He went to every window and surveyed his new home.
Fort Draco was in the middle of a forest. From his vantage point, Quint saw the haze of a large village or a town a few miles away to the north. The forest or the distance hid everything else. A range of hills lined the horizon from the southeast to the northeast.
He stood by his bed as he heard steps on the only stairs that led to the dormitory.
The column of young men filed into the room and an older man ordered them dismissed. Everyone converged on Quint, the new recruit. None of the eyes were friendly, and a few looked malevolent.
“I thought there was to be two of you,” the man in charge said as he walked to Quint.
“I don’t think he was acceptable,” Quint said.
The man slapped Quint in the face. “Who are you talking to?”
“Am I talking to a ‘sir?’” Quint asked.
“You are.”
“I don’t think he was acceptable, sir,” Quint said, resisting the urge to rub his injured face.
