We’re almost back at campus now, the tall spires of the main building looming high over the trees, the glow of lanterns swallowing the moonlight. As we step onto the courtyard, Talyn turns to me, his brown eyes meeting mine, the flecks sparkling like gold in a river. “What about you, Alayne? How are you liking it here?”
“I’m not,” I reply, before I can really think it through, and then the words are just tumbling out like a waterfall. “I’m an outsider, like you. I mean, not exactly like you, but… I don’t come from some big powerful family. Everyone looks at me like I don’t belong, like my presence here is an insult to their hallowed institution. Everyone stares at me like they expect me to fail, and every system I encounter seems designed to make me fail. I thought once I made it in here, I’d be in, that I’d be one of the elite. But all I’ve really found is just more levels of exclusion, more rungs on the ladder of hierarchy. And it’s a struggle, a constant struggle to put on a face, to not show them who I really am, to hide anything I’m really thinking in case it’s used against me. It’s exhausting and it’s maddening and I hate every second of it.” I take a deep breath. “Sorry. That was a lot.”
“No, it was good,” Talyn says. “I feel exactly the same way.” We’ve reached the campus’s central quad now that splits off into our dorms, and we linger there a minute in silence.
“Thanks for walking me back,” I say at last.
“It was my pleasure.” Talyn reaches out and gently rests his fingers under my chin, lifting my head up to look into my eyes. His hand is calloused, rougher than I would’ve thought for a prince, and warm, blazingly warm. I feel something inside me, a part of me I’ve long cut off, stir. I know that I ought to step back, to cut this off now, to keep my focus on the mission. But I don’t, because that other part of me really likes how his hand feels.
I look up into his brown eyes, and he smiles. And not the cunning smile or the playful smile or that smile of slight amusement. This smile’s genuine. “This is why I like you, Alayne. In a campus full of liars… you’re the one honest person I’ve met.”
Me. The one honest person. The irony is so thick I want to laugh.
It’s not until later that night, when I’m lying in my bed, that I realize he was actually right. I spoke many words to him tonight. And every single one of them was true.
CHAPTER 16
Now
I want nothing more than to sleep in, but Fyl wakes me early the next morning, pounding on my door. Well, technically, it’s just before noon, but it feels early to me. “What is it?” I demand, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “What do you want?”
“Sorry, but you’ve got to come to see this,” Fyl shouts through my door. “They’re having a krova-yan.”
Now that gets my attention. I might have been raised by Humbles, but even I know about krova-yans. Duels of honor between Wizards, fought to the death, no Glyphs forbidden, no mercy shown. It seems like every epic poem ends in some doomed lover or another meeting his fate in one. “Like a real one?” I ask, pulling myself out of bed, grateful for once I fell asleep in my clothes. “To the death?”
“Yeah, that’s what a krova-yan is.” Fyl slams an impatient palm against my door. “Come on. We’re going to miss it!”
I follow Fyl down the hall, down the stairs, through the common area. I’m still forcing myself awake, still tingling at the memory of Talyn’s hand on my chin, but I know damn well a real Wizard duel is something I can’t miss. “Are krova-yans allowed?”
“It’s a touchy subject,” Fyl replies. “Many of the more progressive Wizards have tried to have them banned, and Aberdeen’s done his best. But the Traditionalists like Madison have too much sway. So the compromise is, they’re still allowed but discouraged.”
They don’t feel particularly discouraged to me, given that we’re going to one, but I’m not about to bring that up. “Who’s fighting?”
“Dean Veyle and Jasper. Have you met Jasper?” Fyl asks, and I nod. The shy boy with the giant glasses, the one who stood up for me last night. “After you left, things got ugly. Dean Veyle was mad and drunk and looking to take it out on someone. He kept picking on Jasper, calling him a little runt, mocking his mother, spilling beer on his head. Jasper snapped and challenged him to a krova-yan.” Fyl shakes her head as she pushes open the front door. “Poor kid. I think he’s in way over his head.”
There’s already a large crowd gathered out on the quad, their murmur washing over us like a crashing wave. I’m still barely awake, vaguely aware of how scruffy I look, but Fyl’s urgency is contagious. “How often does this happen?” I ask, trying to sound as normal as I can. “On the continent, I mean. We don’t duel much in New Kenshire.”
Fyl shrugs. “Often enough? I’ve been to a few. They’re never pretty.” She elbows her way through the crowd, pushing students aside, and I follow in her wake. “You’re not squeamish, are you? Because these can be pretty bad.”
I think of the real Alayne’s frozen scream, of the blood trickling out of Drell’s shattered skull. “I can handle it.”
Fyl shoves her way to the front of the crowd, and I join her. We all stop in a line, and I can see the dueling grounds now, a smooth rectangle of freshly cut grass, maybe fifty paces in length and twenty paces in width. The crowd stops neatly on the rectangle’s end, all of us pushing and gawking.
It’s early autumn, the sky blue, the sun bright above, but the morning air still bites with an unusual chill. The two combatants are on the field, standing on opposite ends. Dean Veyle is on one, cracking his knuckles with a lazy stretch. Jasper paces restlessly on the other. He’s pale as fresh-fallen snow, sweat streaking down his brow.
“Duelists!” a phlegmatic voice cries out, and Groundskeeper Tyms steps out onto the field, his bald head glistening in the bright morning light. “You have met here to fight for your honor, to defend your names, to bleed, to die! You have come here before the very Gods to honor the sacred rite of krova-yan!”
I lean over to Fyl and whisper, “The professors are all right with this?”
“It’s a sacred duel,” she says, and her cocked eyebrow is a clear sign I need to stop asking questions. “They honor the laws, same as anyone.”
“Dean Beauregard Veyle! Do you relent, drawing the shame of the Gods unto your line?” Tyms bellows.
“Hell no,” Dean replies, and flicks his wrists, drawing his Loci out with an unnecessary flourish. Way too many people cheer.
Tyms turns to the other side of the field. “Jasper Nesbitt Vancross II! Do you relent, drawing the shame of the Gods unto your line?”
“I—I—” Jasper stammers, and it’s clear even from here how badly he wants to. He struggles for a moment, breathing hard, and then finally caves in, head falling low. He draws his Loci, plain wooden wands, and holds them at his sides. “I do not, sir.”
“Then let the krova-yan commence!” Tyms brings his hands together with a booming clap. “Begin!”
It’s over in a heartbeat.
I don’t even have time to slip into the Null. Jasper whips his Loci up, trying to carve a basic Shield of Earth, but Dean is so much faster, so much more precise. Before Jasper can even finish, before his shield can even materialize, a perfect orb of flame scorches across the dueling grounds, catching him in his right shoulder and scorching clean through him. Jasper shrieks and falls onto his knees, his shield crumbling uselessly in front of him. The crowd oohs, and Dean stands there, a triumphant grin on his face.
“Well,” Fyl whispers, and whatever excitement she had has quickly curdled. “At least it was quick.”
Jasper gasps, blood trickling out between his lips. The flame hit him hard, nearly taking off his right arm at the shoulder, cauterizing the wound so it dangles weakly by a thread of bone. Jasper reaches for it with his other arm, moaning, and if he had even a shot at fighting back, it’s passed.
“Well?” Dean shouts. “Should I finish him?” And he doesn’t even wait for a reply before raising his Loci again.
&n
bsp; Maybe I want to deny Dean the satisfaction. Maybe I can’t stand seeing someone suffer. Or maybe I just want to protect my fellow Nethro, as much as a Wizard can ever be my fellow. But whatever the reason, I step toward the dueling grounds.
Fyl grabs my shoulder hard. “Alayne! Are you crazy?”
“Dean’s going to kill him.…”
“Yeah,” she says, utterly incredulous. “That’s what a krova-yan is! Do you not know the rules?” I try to push her off, and she just digs her fingers in harder. “If you cross that line, you enter the duel! Your life becomes forfeit as well!”
“But I—” I say, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s too late. Dean’s Loci cuts through the air with the rush of magic, the scorching of heat, and a second ball of flame shoots across the field. This one strikes Jasper right in the face, boring a sizzling hole clean through his head, and that’s it for poor Jasper Vancross.
A deflated murmur runs through the crowd. Dean throws up his hands, preening, and his fellow Vanguards gather around him, clasping his shoulders. No one moves toward Jasper, whose body lies smoldering and still, save Groundskeeper Tyms, who nudges him with a foot. “Pitiful showing,” he grumbles under his breath.
“Right,” Fyl says next to me, swallowing deeply. “That’s that, I guess.”
My gaze is fixed on Jasper, on the smoldering crater where his face used to be, at the way his outstretched hand twitches, like it’s trying to grasp something that’s not there. I feel something prickle within me, something old and angry and loathing. This is what Wizards are. Not the philosophical discussions in classes or the friendly students or the tables piled high with sweets or the taverns with the free ale. This scared, fragile boy, killed for no reason at all, his life snuffed out for sport. This gawking crowd watching him die, already bored and turning away.
Three hundred students arrived on that ferry. Two hundred and ninety nine are left. Jasper is the first of us to die.
He won’t be the last.
CHAPTER 17
Now
Fall is my favorite season, and it sets in gradually on the island. The trees turn a vivid scarlet and gold, shimmering like the sea at sunset, and the air is crisp with the honey-sweet smell of earth and rain. Every morning a soft mist lies over the campus like a veil, and I stroll through it alone, leaves crackling underfoot. There’s a peace in that fog, a solitude, and I’m enjoying it the morning that Tish comes wandering up to me with a concerned look on their face. “Professor Calfex wants to see you,” they say, “in her office.”
I’ve been at Blackwater for almost two months, and I’ve managed thus far to avoid being called into Calfex’s office. It’s not that I don’t like her. Of all the professors, she seems the most interesting. But there’s something intimidating about her manner, something inscrutable. I can’t read her, and that makes me profoundly uneasy.
Calfex’s office is a wide room on the third floor of the Order of Nethro, and it’s an absolute mess. Books are everywhere, spilling off the shelves lining the room, sitting in stacks on the floor, one heavy leather-bound tome serving as a doorstop. The wide blackwood desk at the back is covered with papers: maps, notes, even what appears to be a detailed drawing of a flayed man. Dark curtains block out most of the tall, angular windows, bathing the room in a wan, eerie light. A dozen teacups rest on surfaces all over the room, their empty porcelain frames stained green and brown. The smell of dust and paper hangs heavy in the air. Something rustles around in the far corner, a mess of orange fur that I’m hoping is a cat.
“Have a seat,” Professor Calfex says, from behind her desk. She’s wearing a dark suit, long gloves, and a tiny pair of golden glasses on her nose. Her hair is down now, hanging long and curly around her shoulders, its impeccable black speckled with strands of gray. She gestures to a chair opposite her, and I slide in. “Lady Alayne Dewinter. What a pleasure it is to finally talk. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to avoid me.”
There’s that intimidating air. “Not at all,” I say, “I’ve just been busy.”
“That you have.” She taps a series of papers laid out before her. Reports from the other professors. Ones with my name on them. “Excellent attendance. Consistent participation. And outside of a rough start in Glyphcraft, solid performance in all your classes. As far as I can tell, you’re a perfectly capable student.”
“Thank you, Professor.” I’m a good student all right, thanks mostly to Marlena. Our private sessions in the practice rooms below the dorm have given me a huge advantage in improving my Glyphs, as has the steady supply of stolen pages from library books she’s brought me.
Also, she wrote all my papers for History class.
Calfex stacks the pages in a neat pile and slides them aside. “As we approach the end of fall, the Great Game will begin. The First Challenge is in two weeks. One of my responsibilities as the Order head is to choose which of my students get to be team captains.” Her penetrating gaze bores into me. “I’d like to nominate you.”
It takes a lot not to leap out of my chair in triumph. “I’m honored!” I beam. My plan is actually coming together. I’ve been chosen for the game.
“Don’t get too excited. The odds aren’t exactly in our favor,” Calfex says with a weary exhale. “For the First Challenge, our esteemed headmaster has chosen a Balitesta match.”
“Balitesta,” I repeat. I’ve heard of it vaguely. The great sport of Wizards, some epic contest of magic and skill. There were giant arenas for it in Hellsum and Laroc, and even some Revenants would chatter about it, gossiping about their favorite teams as they bet on the games.
Calfex picks up on my confusion. “Are you not familiar?”
“It’s not common in New Kenshire,” I try.
She arches an eyebrow. “Really? I thought your team made it to the Republic semifinals last year.”
This is precisely why I’ve avoided talking to her. “They did,” I stammer. “I just meant it’s not common in my family. My father thinks it’s not a good game for… women?”
That works. Calfex shakes her head in annoyance. “Your father’s a fool, but that’s to be expected from a general. The game is played in three rounds, each with a different team led by a different captain. I’d like you to be captain in the third round.”
I wait for more, and nothing comes. “Is that all you can tell me? About the game or the challenge or any other insights?”
Calfex actually rolls her eyes. “The library has a wealth of books about Balitesta, Lady Dewinter. If you need help, I recommend starting there.”
“Right. Of course. The library.” I rise from the chair, eager to get out of this room before I slip up worse. “Thank you for nominating me, Professor Calfex. I won’t let you down.”
“Wait a moment. I’d like to ask you a personal question, if you don’t mind.” Calfex’s voice drops low, and her yellow eyes study me closely. “Do you perchance have any Izachi heritage?”
I freeze. Everything about this question feels like a trap. The truth is yes. My mother was Izachi. The obvious answer, however, is no. The real Alayne Dewinter was pure-blood Marovian, so that’s what she would have said. But just the fact that Calfex is asking me this question means she senses something, and lying here might make her dig more. I need to hedge my bets. “Not officially,” I reply. “But there have always been rumors about my grandfather.”
“I suspected as much.” Calfex rises to her feet. “You may not know this, but I’m actually half Izachi myself.”
“Really?” I ask, but I can see it. She has the olive skin, the curly black hair, the short stature. If I squint an eye, she looks a bit like my mother.
“Oh, yes.” Calfex turns away, staring out the window. “Or did you think that after four decades of teaching here, I’m still an adjunct because I’m not good enough?”
“I—I didn’t—”
“Of course you didn’t. How could you have?” Her voice is bemused, but there’s an undercurrent of acid. “There’s no bi
gotry at Blackwater, after all. All Wizards are equal. And if some never seem to advance, no matter how hard they work, why, there must of course be some perfectly logical explanation.”
“Professor…”
“Did you know,” she asks, turning back to face me, “that the first Wizards were Izachi? It’s true. Long before the First Fathers picked up their Loci, the Izachi Wizards ruled this continent. Our ancestors were the first to get the Godsmark, the first to be chosen by the Gods. Most records of their era are lost, but by all accounts we have, it was a time of peace and prosperity.”
“What happened?”
“The Marovians got their own Godsmarks,” she says coldly. “But where the Izachi had carved Glyphs of life and growth, the Marovians learned the Glyphs of war and bloodshed. They overthrew our priests. They conquered the continent. And they slaughtered our people without mercy, men, women, and children, with the goal of wiping the Izachi line off the earth.”
I’d heard that part before, from my mother, but never in context. “Gods…”
“We survive, though. Just enough of us. Scattered across the continent and beyond in a diaspora. Hiding our heritage, practicing in secret. And despite their best efforts to wipe us out, we persevere, again and again and again.” Calfex’s voice is low, but it’s also tinged with growing pride. “The fact that you and I are standing here, talking? That’s a miracle. That’s a testament.”
“Oh,” I say, because what else can I say? “Is that why you chose me?”
“You’re not my smartest student, Dewinter. Nor my strongest. And certainly not my most skilled Wizard. But you have something the others don’t.” She walks out from behind her desk, pacing toward me. “The other Nethros, they’ve accepted their place in the world. They’ve internalized that they’ll never be at the top. They’re fighting for fourth place, maybe third. But you? You’ve got the fire. I can see it burning in you. You’ll settle for nothing but victory. And you’ll do whatever it takes to claim it.” She leans in close, her voice almost a whisper. “You want an insight? Marius Madison is the top player in the entire Republic Youth Balitesta League. He’ll be the best player on the field. Whatever strategy the Order of Vanguard has, they’ll be leaning on him. Find his weakness. And exploit it.”
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