Jonis - Rowan Erlking (web based ebook reader .TXT) 📗

places that suited them. Of course some questions were worded funny. Answering them was tricky. It was strange relying on an ancient memory to solve riddles and analyze poetry that he had never even touched in his daily life. All of it, except maybe for a few questions, came from this new memory his father had given him. When he finished, the hour had not even passed.

“I knew it,” Mr. Farren said, clasping his hands and pressing the tips of his fingers against his lips.

“Nonsense!” Mr. Ditrick said, sounding exasperated, echoed by other teachers that had come to watch. “We haven’t even graded it yet! It could all be wrong—and in his case probably is.”

Jonis decided to remain silent as he leaned back in his chair to watch the school administrators eye him. One man plucked the test off his table to mark the score. All heads turned to watch, waiting for the results. Mr. Farren glanced at Jonis once, smiling closed-lipped before returning his focus on the men in the room. He lifted his chin, listening for what they would say.

“Impossible,” the one checking his test murmured just above a breath.

“He must have cheated!” his teacher shouted, rounding on Jonis. “Where did you get the answers? Stand up! You must have a cheat note on you.”

Jonis stood as ordered, raising his arms. He allowed his teacher to feel over his uniform. Mr. Ditrick even made him remove is coat and vest.

The man found nothing.

“See. I told you,” Mr Farren said at last. “Genius. Cordril children, when they have either great trauma in their lives or when they have hit puberty, have a burst of genius. My theory is correct.”

Deciding it was unwise to counter him at this time, Jonis remained silent. He knew where all the information had come from. He did not need any cheat notes.

“But what about this answer?” the head teacher called out, lifting up the test.

Jonis looked up, wondering which one it was.

“This fact is not in the history books.” The man then read it. “Halis Grammond became the Patriarch of Brein Amon through subterfuge and bribes. He did not honestly win the election, and he had a hunter kill his competitor. How does he know this? Was his ancestor the hunter that killed him? This information was hushed up. Only I know about it because my grandfather used to work in Danslik as an errand boy. They paid him to stay silent. I hadn’t told anyone until now.”

Everyone stared at Jonis who abruptly seemed to shrink in his seat.

Mr. Farren peered at him. “Was your ancestor the hunter?”

Jonis vigorously shook his head. “Oh, no sir. The hunter that killed him was a Hann. My ancestor ran an inn at the Poris crossroads out west near the border. He met—”

But he stopped, realizing that he was spilling out the truth.

“Who did he meet?” Mr. Farren asked, waiting patiently. His eyes still reflected pleasure.

Taking a breath, Jonis shrank against the seat. “He met the Patriarch Grammond’s book keeper. The man was fleeing the country with money he stole. He stopped off at the inn.”

“So Reiz Filt did escape to the west,” Mr. Farren muttered aloud. He then smiled at Jonis. “Did you know that was the mystery of the century? That man was not seen crossing the border, but everyone swore that he escaped with the Patriarch’s gold and settled down in the west. The soldiers never did find him. Rumor had it that a demon ate him.”

Jonis slouched deeper into the chair. “The rumor is not entirely wrong.”

Everyone stared at him, encircling his chair. Even the magistrate’s smile slipped. “What do you mean?”

Wincing at admitting a past transgression as if it were his own, Jonis replied weakly, “My ancestor found out about the gold Mr. Filt had stolen and, well…he, uh….” Jonis bit his lip. “Let’s just say that Mr. Filt never made it to the border—though a demon did not technically eat him. Greed is a temptation for all kinds, I guess.”

Their eyes grew wide.

Mr. Farren coughed into his hand, regaining his composure. “I see. Well, let’s hope greed does not get a hold on you.”

Jonis vigorously shook his head, his blond hair flopping into his eyes. “Oh, no sir! I would never—”

“As if anyone can believe that,” one of the teachers grumbled, turning and walking towards the door.

A sick silence settled in the room. Admitting a past crime was not something Jonis had hoped to do. He had not known it himself until his father had passed on the memory. Their family had used the gold, relocating just over the border in the wild country to the west called Ki Tai among the Cordrils. They opened another inn, but had less traffic than the last.

“I think,” Mr. Farren said, walking over to Jonis and placing a hand on his shoulder, “That I have proven my point now. If you would give me his graduation certificate, I can then proceed with his further education elsewhere.”

“He doesn’t deserve—” One teacher started his argument with a glare.

“He hasn’t done the work,” another snapped, quite ruffled.

“It is not the same as—”A third growled, glaring at the boy.

“I think we should do as the magistrate asks, and send him along,” the principal said.

The arguments stopped. Their anger fizzled like a fire doused with water. Only their smoldering resentment remained.

Mr. Farren bowed to the principal. “Thank you, sir. I am glad you understand the situation.”

“The test is final,” the principal said, gazing mildly on Jonis. “If it is not a suitable gauge to see if a student is ready for the world, then we had better rewrite it.” He glanced at the other teachers. “Am I right?”

None of them looked like they wanted to rewrite another test form. It had been difficult enough to make that one. They all conceded, backing off with bows. “Of course, sir.”

Mr. Farren left Jonis in his seat, joining the principal at his desk while the school administrators gathered the proper documents to send the application for early graduation to the capitol. The Patriarch of Brein Amon wanted all unusual activity reported, including geniuses among the population. They would have to wait for at least a month for a response. Mr Farren signed it as Jonis’s guardian. He then passed the document to the principal. Mr. Ditrick also had to put on his signature. He did it with a discontented growl, scribbling his name out with his iron nib pen. Ink splattered on the corner, leaving unruly spots.

“He will have to remain in class until permission is granted,” the principal said, folding up the paper as soon as the ink was dry, and he placed it in an official envelope. “Can your boy control himself until then? I heard about the incident during lunch.”

The magistrate looked stern as he bowed. “Teach your boys to keep their hands to themselves, and you will have no problem with Jonis. I can assure you of that.”

“Understood,” the principal replied. He stood up, assessing Jonis with a sober glance before leaving. He took the letter with him. The other teachers filed out of the room until only Mr. Ditrick and Mr. Farren were left alone with Jonis.

“Let’s go home, Jonis,” Mr. Farren said, leading out with his arm. “We can get those gloves made, and you can join your class tomorrow.”

Jonis stood up. The idea that in a month’s time he might not need to attend school any longer pleased him very much. But looking at Mr. Farren, he knew his guardian had other things in mind for him. The man was merely switching educations. What he would learn was still unclear.

 

That evening, Jonis sat at dinner staring at the porcelain plate set in front of him. It was covered in roasted pheasant and potatoes. The electric light danced off the crystal and the silver. His second night at meal in that house still felt so out of place. It was too fancy for him. Up till then Jonis had eaten campfire-cooked food and bread bought from the town bakery, all of it eaten with his hands. At school, he has been renowned for his poor table manners. His life had changed on the outside, but inside he felt exactly the same. Only now the ancient memory he had just barely acquired helped him compensate with habits he never had used before. Three days ago he would not have known what to do with his fork.

Mr. Farren ate silently at the other end of the table, taking modest bites and chewing closed-mouthed as if nothing of any real matter had happened that afternoon. Though his calm manner made Jonis feel somewhat safe, his body was still tense. It was hard to eat.

“What worries you?” he heard Mr. Farren ask while lifting a cup to his lips.

Jonis swallowed the small bite on his fork and shrugged. “Do I look worried?”

“You look anxious.” He sipped from his goblet then set it down. “Now, I consider you a sensible boy, able to face problems rather than run from them. You seem to have a problem. I can help you solve it. Now tell me what the problem is.”

Biting his lip, Jonis rested his fork on the edge of his plate. “How long can I live here?”

Mr. Farren blinked. “How…why Jonis, are you afraid that I will send you away?”

Jonis lowered his head. “I saw the application form for the military academy on your desk before dinner. You tried so hard today to get me my graduation certificate. I only thought that….” He couldn’t finish. Jonis stared at the small empty spot on his plate.

“That I was preparing to send you away from this village as soon as I can? Is that it?” Mr. Farren asked. His wrinkled face creased along with the question, making him seem mysterious, as Jonis imagined a wizard would be.

Jonis nodded.

Sighing, Mr. Farren replied, his wrinkles easing, “Many people would like it if I did that. Don’t be mistaken. But I, for one, want to supplement your education before we even think about a career in the military.”

“But that pamphlet,” Jonis nearly jumped from his seat, panic filling his voice. “You were already thinking about it.”

“The village patriarch had that sent over, son. He thinks that you would make a fine soldier. So in a way, yes, they want to get rid of you.” Mr. Farren rose and walked over to where Jonis sat. “I, however, want to see you expand your mind and become a magister. I saw last night that you have a knack for it. You could be a great healer one day. And with the resurgence of demons in the land, I think we’ll need it.”

Jonis lifted his head, blinking. It was true. His own father, before he went to his sick bed, met demons on the road and had to fight them. And without so many magisters in the land, the demons were coming back unchallenged. The Sky Children could no longer defeat them. They were as weak as the humans that now enslaved them. It was no wonder that Mr. Farren wanted Jonis to take on the trade.

“I will do my best, sir, to please you,” Jonis said, bowing.

Mr. Farren smiled, resting his gloved hand on the boy’s head. “And I want you to be happy. I think there is too much unhappiness in the world as it is, Jonis Macoy. You have a good heart. I have seen it before in town when you were younger, and I see it with you now. I don’t care if people think you are a demon. You are like a Sky Child, innocent until tampered with—and I will not allow you to be corrupted.”

Jonis had no idea what that meant, and he decided not to ask. His main concern was answered, so Jonis relaxed in his chair. Suddenly the pheasant looked mighty delicious, and his stomach growled at him to eat. “Thank you, sir.”