The Thorn of Dentonhill Read Online Free Page B

building in all that time. The building was stone, mortared and plastered and painted white. In every room the paint had dirtied to a dull gray, the plaster crumbling and mortar cracking. A boring lump of a building, filled with drafts and moldy dampness. Veranix had happily called it home for the last three years, the only home he had ever had that didn’t have wheels on it.
    â€œHeard you fell asleep in your lecture today, Veranix,” someone said from behind him. Veranix could tell just by the looming presence, a full head and a half taller than him, it was Rellings, one of the Almers prefects.
    â€œIs that story already going around?”
    â€œWord travels fast,” Rellings said, looking down his hawk nose at Veranix. “Now, why were you so tired, kish?” Veranix scowled. He hated whenever anyone called him “kish.” It was a nickname final year students, especially prefects, used for underclassmen. It was a bit of slang on campus so old no one even knew where it came from anymore, but its use persisted. Veranix swore that when he reached final year, he wouldn’t use it at all. Not that it would make a difference. The kind of guys who would use it were the kind of guys who became prefects.
    â€œOne of those mornings,” Veranix said. As he approached the door to Almers. Rellings stepped ahead and blocked Veranix’s entrance.
    â€œA morning where you didn’t sleep all night?”
    â€œNightmares kept me up,” Veranix said, staring hard at Rellings. “That happens with mages, you know.”
    Rellings stepped back. Veranix knew he was easily spooked by magic, even just the idle threat of it. “Right. I didn’t note you this morning, but Sarren said you were around. Don’t think I’m not paying attention to you.”
    â€œGlad to hear it,” Veranix said. Delmin was actively covering for him. Veranix appreciated that, but wondered if Delmin would make the effort if he knew what was really happening. “I’m going in now.” Rellings sneered but let him pass. Veranix went up to the third floor common room.
    The common room was a chaotic mess of threadbare chairs and cracked wooden tables, grouped around the central fireplace. The winters in Almers were brutal. Even now, as spring was well into warm bloom, the place had a heavy chill. The bare stone floor didn’t help. Several students were huddled about the fireplace, reading, writing, and arguing. Veranix slipped his way between the chairs. He wanted to get in his room, read through the papers, and take a nap.
    â€œVeranix!” someone called to him. He was a first- or second-year whose name Veranix had completely forgotten. “Thank Saint Hespin you’re here.”
    â€œPrens!” his companion said. “Watch the blasphemy.” He tapped his knuckle to his forehead and then kissed it in benediction. His accent and his act of devotion stood out. He was from the southern Archduchy of Scaloi. There couldn’t be more than ten Scallics on campus. Despite that, Veranix couldn’t remember his name.
    â€œIt’s not blas—never mind,” Prens said. “Veranix, sweet Saint Veran, please. Really, help us out.”
    Veranix stopped. They were invoking the sainted version of his name. This must be serious. He only hoped this would be quick. “What’s the problem?”
    â€œWe’ve got a Basic Mystical Theory exam in the afternoon,” said Prens. “We’re dying here.” Prens and his pious friend both wore brown and green scarves. They weren’t magic students. What was brown and green? Theology? That was it. It was coming back to him. These two were the preseminary students at the end of the hallway.
    Veranix shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong man. You want to talk theory, find Delmin.”
    â€œWe did last night,” Prens said. “I didn’t understand half of what he said.”
    â€œYou