by Frank Morin
Connor had to attend the feast that night, although he just wanted to return to his own small room in the Sculpture House to think. The capture of Anika changed the stakes. Ilse would not leave without attempting to free her, and that would lead to deadly clashes with Rory and his soldiers. How many students might get caught in the fighting?
Worse, she probably considered him an enemy. Would she try to assassinate him first, or wait until they freed Anika? Either way, the next time he met Ilse, at least one of them was probably going to die.
Instead of dealing with those life-and-death matters, he was forced to join the feast along with his army and Ivor's. His soldiers seemed ecstatic about taking second place. In the overall standings, they still held the lead, which meant they also got to join the celebration feast. That angered Ivor's soldiers, and the two groups faced each other in uneasy celebration across the banquet tables. Connor sat at the high table at one end of the hall with Ivor and their captains.
"You played that perfectly," Ivor muttered as he took his seat.
"The next phase is going to be the tricky one." He wished he could share the truth with Ivor. He could use his help.
He considered the idea, but the students' grumblings drew his attention. Their concerns seemed so petty to Connor, he wanted to slap them all.
So he started a food fight.
He waited until Jok was delivering a much-embellished account of his exploits during the battle. He leaned over to Ivor and said, "Let's have a little fun."
And he threw a pastry, splattering jelly filling across Jok's face.
That was all the spark the room needed. Students leaped to their feet, shouting battle cries and pelting each other with anything they could get their hands on. The free-for-all was glorious, and escalated far better than Connor had hoped.
"You're insane!" Ivor laughed as he ducked a three layer cake. "I wish I'd thought of it."
"Stop copying my ideas," Connor shouted, flinging a whole fish at Jok's pig-eyed friend, knocking the boy off his seat.
Food and drink sprayed across the room. Hams and turkeys and eoin thighs knocked laughing students off their feet. It was a good thing they had all purged igneous powers prior to the feast. Ivor and Connor both ordered their tertiary affinity Petralists not to engage with elemental powers.
The Solas tried to blind opponents, but one of them got a turkey shoved over his head for his trouble, and the other was doused with wine that was accidentally set on fire. Since it was Connor's Solas, Ivor allowed him to snuff out the flames and send them dancing across the hall, the flashes of light highlighting the amazing confectionery battle.
The captains at the leadership table decided to lead by example. Jok gleefully rubbed mashed potatoes into Shona's hair, but she nearly drowned him in gravy. Catriona seized a pair of long fish fillets and laid about, using them like swords until they crumbled and someone knocked her over with a meat pie to the face.
Wrestling Ivor for a bowl of apples helped distract Connor from weightier matters. They settled on sharing them and pelted each other's armies with hard little missiles. Of course, that turned most of the assembled students against them and they were overwhelmed by tidal waves of thrown food.
Then the head cook arrived, and the fat woman's wrath was a sight to behold. She berated everyone with such shrill fury for desecrating her work that she sucked all the joy out of the assembly.
Connor finally eased her fury by insisting they had wasted all that delicious food as the most efficient way to work through the many courses and get to dessert. "We heard you prepared something truly fantastic," he promised. "And we just couldn't wait."
"General Anxiety is absolutely right," Ivor agreed.
"Actually, I've changed my name again," Connor said to a round of good-natured groaning. He stood tall, but it was hard to present an imposing figure while dripping eighteen flavors of food from his mask.
"As of tonight, my name is General Insanity, because, well, look around."
The crowd cheered and laughed, not realizing the name was more a warning than a joke. Insanity had claimed Connor, and no matter what choices he made, someone was going to die who shouldn't need to.
"I'll just call you insane," Ivor said.
The head cook seemed to think at least some of the cheering was directed to her. She blushed and waved her army of assistants to bring in the desserts. Dozens of cakes, pies, and pastries soon lorded over the trashed tables, and students eagerly dove in.
The food fight had settled everyone's anger, and laughter rang through the hall. That feeling of camaraderie seemed to encourage students to come ask him questions. Many of them asked about the prisoners. No one else seemed to understand that they were actual Grandurians. They thought Ilse's company was part of Rory's army, set there to provide some stiffer defense.
Connor deflected most of the interest and tried to carry on with the same carefree attitude he had crafted for his disguise, but it proved difficult. He needed to track down Rory and see if they could do anything about Anika. Until then, he needed to focus.
As the feast began winding down, Ivor rose to his feet and offered a boisterous toast. He had begun drinking heavily during dessert and became more talkative and friendly as the night wore on. After he sat down, he leaned across the table past Connor, his arm in Connor's plate.
"Shona, my girl, who do you think is going to win the Tir-raon now?"
Shona, who sat just left of Connor gave him a disgusted look. "I think you stink and you'll need even more help than normal to get undressed."
He winked. "You offering?"
She raised her glass in a mock toast. "You got lucky today, Ivor. Celebrate the win because it's the only one you're going to get."
Ivor growled, looking far more out of control than Connor had ever seen him. "Why can't you just admit it? When I win, you'll beg me to choose you just like all the other girls."
"Only in your wildest dreams."
Connor couldn't imagine what Ivor's game was, but he was starting to think the direction of the conversation was no accident.
"Like my uncle always says. A dream can't become real until it's turned into a goal."
"What are you talking about?" For the first time Shona looked nervous.
Ivor surged to his feet and bellowed, "I have an announcement!"
As the buzz of conversation faded to an expectant hush Shona hissed, "Don't you dare!"
With a triumphant smile and despite a slight sway in his stance he declared, "You are all witness. When I'm declared champion, I formally announce my choice for breeding rights."
That generated a ripple of excited murmurs, and not a few of the girls sat up straighter and tried to brush food out of their hair.
"I choose Shona!"
Many girls sagged with disappointment, but few looked surprised. They lived with the reality of breeding rights and arranged marriages. Only Connor was shocked to hear it spoken so callously.
Shona glanced at Connor, looking desperate. "Well, do something!"
When he didn't provide an immediate response, she left the table and marched from the room.
"She's something, isn't she?" Ivor leaned one arm companionably on Connor's shoulder. "But too proud."
"You're assuming you'll win." Connor wondered if Ivor was drunk enough to remember if he punched him in the face.
Ivor shrugged, and the drunken facade fell away. "Doesn't matter. I'm covered either way."
"That was all an act?"
"Do you think I'm stupid enough to get drunk in public?" Ivor asked. "I thought you knew me better, my friend."
"Why then?" Most of the students had returned to their feast, or chattered about Ivor's announcement, and no one actually seemed to be watching them.
"You're no fool," Ivor said. "Today went flawlessly. No one even seemed to notice your ridiculous movement with the prisoners. The plan is working, but there's always a chance something will go wrong."
"So how does that equate to you making a claim for S
hona's breeding rights?" Speaking those words was like the foulest of curses.
"Like I once told you, I calculate every advantage," Ivor said. "If I win, getting breeding rights from Shona links my new house to Dougal's, which only improves my position. I know she's planning to cement you to her family, and you're welcome to her. She's a strong one, so it'll be anything but a boring life."
"And if you lose?" Connor asked, trying to keep his tone conversational.
Ivor shrugged. "At least I showed my patron I tried. They'll still take me. They can't afford not to." He gave Connor a shrewd look. "You need to make similar plans, just in case."
"I have plans in place," Connor said. "But I don't like you making a move this early. I thought we were trying to break the game, not embrace the darkest aspects of it."
"We're surviving," Ivor grimaced. "If we can break it, all the better. If not, we still need to live in this world."
"We can do better than accepting the rules they define," Connor insisted.
"We can try," Ivor said. "But we still need patrons. Don't become a martyr."
He might not have a choice. Connor almost revealed the secret. The truth hovered on the tip of his tongue, crouched to spring, but he didn't dare. Not yet. He realized he would need to reveal it to Ivor, though. With his powerful friend on his side, they could make the other Guardians listen.
After a glance around to make sure they were still alone, Ivor added, "I'll make a suggestion since you're so new to the game. You really should announce that you're choosing Padraigin for first breeding."
Connor nearly choked on a mouthful of pie. "Why?"
"Think about it," Ivor said. "You've got Shona wrapped up, which links you to arguably the most powerful house in the nation. There's challenges there, but you're up to dealing with those. Padraigin is a unique opportunity. She's of the royal house of Althing."
"Really?"
He nodded. "I thought maybe you didn't know. Gaining control over her first child would tie you close to the Arishat League. During these difficult times, that could be a huge leverage."
"I'll think about it," Connor said, feeling sick. He liked Ivor, but it rattled him to see his friend play the great game of houses with such cold logic. Breeding, and marriage, and controlling the lives of children was not something Connor could consider without emotion. If he ever reached that point, he feared the part of his heart that controlled his humanity would have to die first.
Connor excused himself from the feast a little while later, but Catriona fell into step beside him as he headed out the hall and down the dim corridor.
Once they were alone she spoke. "General, what did you think of Ivor's announcement?"
"I think he was drunk."
"And I think Shona reacted poorly."
"You do?"
"Of course. I know she likes to pretend she's above it all, but anyone will accept the champion. It has to be done."
"As you say."
He quickened his pace, but she didn't take the hint. After a moment, she asked in a hesitant voice, "Have you made your choice yet?"
Connor nearly stumbled. "No, not yet."
The princess touched his arm and drew him to a halt. "I know her father arranged for your sponsorship, so you're linked to her house, but remember you're free to make any choice you want."
"I'll keep that in mind," he said slowly.
She bit her lip then forced a smile and leaned closer. "I can promise a lot if you choose me, General."
He nearly laughed in her face. What would she say when she learned his true identity? She might have rescinded her blood oath to kill him, but would she really agree to breed with him?
Even if she did, he wasn't ready to consider such a union. To him, she was one of the least attractive girls in the school. Some of that feeling might be residual resentment from her beating him half to death on several occasions, but he couldn't imagine fathering a child through her.
"I'm sure you'll be a contender," he managed to say.
Grinning, she kissed the cheek of his leather mask and returned to the party. Connor stood in the hall for a moment, not quite believing how the evening had turned out. He'd thought Anika's capture was a big problem.
He couldn't have chosen a better name than insanity. Every noble born Petralist was well and truly insane. It felt like all the secret plotting and gealls were all coming to a head at the same time. He sensed a building storm, like prickles of energy against his skin.
What would he need to do to survive? Was it worth losing his humanity to save his life or the lives of his distant family?
The alternative included lots of blood on his hands.
Chapter 55
Connor decided to spend the night in his Dawnus suite. There was more room to pace there. As the Tir-raon raced toward the ultimate battles, his life as Connor was slipping away, replaced more and more by the false identity of the general.
It was late enough that Connor doubted even the spies were lingering. For once, Tomas and Cameron weren't on duty outside, but he waved at the hulking replacement, a man Connor knew only casually.
He paused on the way to his inner apartment to visit his training facility. The newly-completed maze feature loomed in the dim recesses of the huge space, and he couldn't wait to run his army through it. In fact, he might run it himself after changing out of his battle leathers.
Only a single lamp illuminated his apartment, and that suited his mood. The rooms were large enough that it was easy to avoid the furniture.
The twang of a bowstring being released sounded loud in the still apartment.
He spun at that familiar sound, already tapping granite, and the arrow aimed at the back of his head instead skipped along his scalp, tearing his ear.
Connor dove to the side, applying his granite curse to his entire body even as he tapped sandstone to ease the throbbing pain. His heart raced and his breathing quickened as his body reacted to the unexpected danger.
As he rolled back into a crouch, the shadows seemed to come alive and attack him.
The slender dagger driving for his eyes was no shadow.
Connor just barely blocked the strike. His attacker was dressed in black, nearly invisible, and they slashed across his leather mask, two amazingly fast strikes that shredded it and scraped the stone-hard skin of his face beneath.
As the mask flapped, Connor's initial surprise changed to anger. He didn't have any tertiary affinity stones ready, but the idea of a bash fight perfectly fit his mood.
"It's rude to introduce yourself with a knife," he growled, punching at the shadowy figure. They somehow slipped around his blow and struck again at his eyes. He only barely managed to duck his head enough for the blade to stab into his eyebrow instead.
The attacker was fast, faster even than Tomas and Cameron, so Connor crouched and spun, throwing his arms out wide like a horizontal windmill. The move surprised his attacker, who had closed to strike again. One open palm caught the person in the side and tumbled them into the nearby wall. They made a soft cry of pain from the impact.
It sounded like a woman.
Tough. He respected women until they tried to kill him. That tended to dampen his manners. Connor lunged, planning to slam the woman into the wall again. Somehow she managed to twist aside just enough that he only barely brushed her clothing.
Then the woman smacked him in the face. It wasn't a strong blow, but she was holding something that burst into a cloud of choking dust.
Connor lashed out with one leg, a tactic used by few Boulders, who almost universally fought with hammerlike fists. He caught her in the stomach and sent her flying into a distant couch. He moved to follow, but the powder coating his mouth and nose was suffocating him. He could barely breathe, and pawed at it.
Then his strength evaporated.
His granite curse faded like dew before a noonday sun and exhaustion dropped him to his knees. He groaned from the sudden weight of limbs that felt as heavy as iron bars. He could barely mov
e.
The weakening powder.
It had to be, but why hadn't it knocked him unconscious like it had always done to Shona? Was the assassin Ilse, come to kill him after all?
His thoughts felt as fuzzy as moldy cheese, and it was hard to think, but this was not like anything Ilse had tried before. She had promised to make it quick, but he'd expected that meant she'd drop a mountain on his head or something.
A soft creak from the couch told him his assailant was rising. He was kneeling, helpless and barely able to move. She'd kill him soon. So he fell to the side, using the motion to make it easier to slip a hand to the pouch at his belt and paw for a piece of quartzite or marble. His fingers felt like frozen sausages, and he struggled to grip the little stones.
As his fingers slipped and fumbled, the black-clad attacker approached and stood over him, dagger glinting in the soft light. She reached a hand to the black hood shielding her face and pulled it free. "The Mhortair claim your life as bounty to justice."
"Aifric?"
With the hood gone, Connor could just make out her features, but might not have recognized her without hearing her voice. Her hair was pulled back in a tight pony tail, her expression was hard, and her eyes, usually so warm and friendly, held nothing but the promise of death.
She gasped and pulled away the loose flaps of his mask. "Connor?"
"Hi."
Aifric looked stunned. "But you're. . ."
"If you don't kill me for a minute, I can explain." Speaking was difficult, but he forced the words out. "Then maybe you can tell me what makes a Healer decide to commit murder."
Was he living a crazy nightmare? By the Tallan's dirty socks, the whole situation made no sense. Why would Aifric kill anyone? She was one of the nicest people he knew, or thought he knew.
Aifric helped him to the couch, then lit another lamp. Her hands trembled so hard, it took a few tries. Then she sank into a seat and stared at him.
"I know we didn't win," Connor said. "But don't you think this is a bit extreme?"
"Connor?" she repeated in a whisper, glancing at her dagger, then dropping it to the floor. "Why couldn't you have been anyone else?"