“Hmph.” The woman who’d asked the question turned away, arms folded. She kicked at a rock in the grass.
“Talk among yourselves,” Melinda encouraged us.
Winona rolled her eyes.
I agreed. With our every action and word being monitored, talking among ourselves was merely a means of us revealing our thoughts and emotions to the Faerene.
Perhaps we should? If I wanted a good match, the Faerene needed to understand me. But when I tried to think of what I might say, my mind blanked. “Information overload,” I whispered.
“Yeah.” Winona rolled her shoulders. “Hey, Melinda, I need to pee.”
“You are free to use the latrines as required.”
All of us took that as permission to depart the glade.
The unicorn snorted behind us.
Chapter 7
Lunch was rabbit stew. It was decadent luxury to eat food that I hadn’t helped to grow, hunt or prepare. My mouth watered at the savory aroma, and there were biscuits to soak up the gravy.
An arm bumped mine as a man reached around me for a plate.
For a wonder, he seemed only a couple of years older than me. Everyone else I’d seen had been at least thirty.
“Hi.” I smiled at him.
He grinned back at me. He was tall and broad, leanly muscled though well-fed, with curly russet-brown hair, freckles and hazel eyes of a smoky-gray shade. “Hi, yourself. I’m Rory.”
Automatically, I juggled my plate to hold my hand out to shake. “Amy.”
His hand was calloused and strong, but his grip gentle. His grin gentled, too, becoming a lopsided smile. “You don’t recognize me? I’m a werewolf and one of the tutors.”
“Oh.” I didn’t pull away, and he didn’t release me. I looked past him, and his group was staring at me with a range of expressions from bewilderment to outrage. Apparently, they weren’t willing to treat him as just another person. An attractive person. “Nice to meet you.” I freed my hand.
“Likewise.” He let me go readily enough and concentrated on scooping stew onto his plate. “I helped catch some of those rabbits.”
A year ago, I wouldn’t have recognized that statement as a flirtatious boast, but now I knew just how much bringing food to the table meant. “You’re a mighty hunter.” I teased him as I would have any of the Apfall Hill hunters before second thoughts had me worried that a werewolf might be more sensitive to jokes about his predatory instincts.
“That I am.” He put a second biscuit on my plate.
My flirting skills were rusty and the glares from humans around us didn’t help. I smiled awkwardly and turned away. A few empty places remained at the tables in the tent, but I escaped outside. I sat down on a log.
Rory sat down next to me, on the side that blocked the wind from me. “Unless you mind?” He looked so human, and there was an expression in his gorgeous gray eyes that flustered me. He regarded me with hope.
“No.” I blushed. I truly had lost my flirting skills. At college I’d never have allowed a guy to unsettle me this way. “I don’t mind.”
He relaxed beside me and began eating.
Winona came and sat at my other side. She was eating even before she was seated. “Great stew,” she mumbled. “Good gravy.”
“Tutor Rory here caught the rabbits.” It was the most subtle way I could think of to warn Winona that we weren’t all human, here.
“Some of the rabbits,” he said casually. “And none of that ‘tutor’ stuff. Rory is fine. Or ‘gorgeous’ or ‘sweetling’ or ‘oh yeah, baby, more’.”
Winona laughed so hard she choked.
I patted her back with more force than needed, while trying to ignore my burning cheeks. I might have been rusty at flirting, but audacious Rory wasn’t. His shoulder was warm against mine.
The rest of our tutorial group joined us.
As the log seats were all taken, Rory’s group sat on the grass.
I concentrated on eating my stew and willing my blush to subside. I couldn’t help, though, giving Rory a sideways glance, and as I did, I caught him observing his tutorial group. My hands froze for a second in tearing a biscuit in two. The look Rory had given his group reminded me of Digger’s leadership of a patrol training session.
“Do the Faerene have a military?”
“We do.” Melinda approached from the opposite side of the field to the food tent. “The Faerene Migration does not include a military unit as such, but a few of our members have served in the Elysium Guards.”
“Like me.” Rory chewed on a haunch of rabbit. “Was that a random question, sweetling, or a perspicacious one?”
I shrugged. “When you look at your tutorial, you remind me of a former army sergeant I know.”
“Hear that, guys. Get ready to give me twenty push-ups.”
His tutorial group gaped at him, appalled. Some among them were late middle age. No one looked soft. Surviving the apocalypse had eroded weakness. But nor did they appear likely military recruits.
I laughed.
He smiled at me. “I was in the Elysium Guards. Not a sergeant, though. Our ranks don’t line up with yours, but I was something like a junior captain. And here’s my most recent commander.” He turned casually. “Stop lurking, Istvan.”
The black griffin materialized out of thin air, right behind us.
I dropped half my biscuit. Fortunately, it landed on my plate. What I couldn’t recover was my appearance of fearlessness. Nor was I alone in my fright.
“Oops,” Rory murmured. “On Elysium, it’s werewolves who have the bad reputation and griffins who are trusted.” He raised his voice so that everyone, not just me, could hear. “Magistrate Istvan commanded one of the three teams of Rift magicians who closed the tear in Earth’s shield, sealing out the invading Kstvm.”
“Twelve of the forty three Rift magicians who migrated from Elysium died defending the Rift.” Melinda’s clear, musical voice carried across the field. “They were the spearhead. The rest of us gave our magic to countering the Kstvm’s savage assaults. At times the barrier keeping them out was whisker-thin. We will honor the sacrifice of the Rift magicians by reinforcing the shield. Never again will it be threatened. Never again will the Kstvm come so close to conquering Earth. We will protect our new home.”
There were cheers from some of the Faerene scattered around the field. Magistrate Istvan had approached and stood by Rory at the end of the log.
“Are you a Rift magician?” I asked Rory quietly.
“I served in that capacity, but the need for it is over. The shield won’t tear again. We won’t let it.” A hint of a growl rumbled in the last sentence.
I stared at my empty plate, at the rabbit bones and dirty fork. “I’m sorry for the friends you lost.”
Other humans were less sympathetic, and far from tactful. A tall, thin man from Rory’s group challenged him. “Why do werewolves have a bad reputation in your world?”
Magistrate Istvan took it upon himself to answer, and the questioner leaned back involuntarily.
“Earth is our home,” the griffin said firmly. “Back on Elysium there was some prejudice against werewolves because of their pack natures. Their loyalty, once given, is absolute. Their packs aren’t necessarily composed of werewolves alone, but whoever becomes part of their pack is prioritized. This is the seed for the prejudice against them. A werewolf will sacrifice everything else to his or her pack’s needs. Personally, I find such loyalty admirable.”
Beside me, Rory was sitting too rigidly. His upright military bearing defied anyone to reject him.
“I have a pack,” I whispered to him. “They are the people I chose to survive the apocalypse with.” It was true. The people back home whom I called family were my pack. They had my back as I had theirs.
Intense loneliness gripped me. I missed them.
Silently, Rory took my plate and stacked it with his before squeezing my hand. It was a swift gesture that I suspected no one else noticed. Magistrate Istvan hadn�
��t finished his lecture, and he was a compelling figure. All eyes were on him.
“Griffins are lauded in Faerene society. We are long-lived and often powerful magicians. Our clans have accumulated both social position and wealth over the millennia. And what we have, we hold. We defend our honor over-zealously, which contributes to our inflated reputation.”
Another griffin, smaller and bronze-colored, interjected. “Hardly inflated, Istvan. Griffins are an honorable race. Our word is to be trusted. It is good that humans learn this.”
The tip of Magistrate Istvan’s tail twitched. Tutor Marton’s haughty speech obviously annoyed the black griffin. “And yet, as long as his or her pack was not threatened, a werewolf would respond with greater compassion and generosity to an injured human than would a griffin.”
“Really, Istvan!” Tutor Marton’s beak clacked.
Magistrate Istvan scanned the field. “Truly. Griffins may be powerful and honorable, but we have a great deal of self-interest. It is best not to rely on us.”
Tutor Marton half-extended his wings.
Magistrate Istvan took a leisurely two steps forward, his gaze fixed on his prey: the other griffin.
Abruptly, Tutor Marton thought better of his incipient challenge and lowered his wings. He turned away, calling to his tutorial group, who emerged from the food tent.
Rory huffed a laugh under his breath, gathered up other empty plates and carried a tall stack inside.
Lajos clapped his hands, the sound echoing across the field like a crack of thunder. Immediately, he had everyone’s attention. “We will begin a guided meditation in ten minutes. Please make yourselves comfortable anywhere in the field, either sitting or lying down.”
I doubted anyone would feel safe enough to stretch out, but I was wrong. Nearly a dozen people lay down on the sun-warmed grass. I had my eye on a patch of shade down the end of the field. Just after midday, the sun was at its peak. I didn’t want to get sunburn or heat stroke if the guided meditation proved prolonged. That the patch of shade took me away from the food tent and Rory was just coincidence. That it took me away from Magistrate Istvan wasn’t such a coincidence. The griffin was intimidating even to his own kind.
As was becoming a habit, my tutorial group trailed along.
“Tutor Rory is a smart one.” Pericles, the old man who’d attempted to stop the shaggy-haired man’s suicidal departure from our group, spoke softly. “The important message wasn’t what was said, but what we saw. He sat beside Amy, here, courting as any young man might. We were given a visual lesson that he is just like you and me.” The old man regarded me with wise eyes, filled with pity and warning.
I glanced away, and caught Magistrate Istvan watching our departure. How good was griffin hearing? Was he eavesdropping? I jerked my chin up. I refused to feel ashamed because Rory had made me feel special while he used me. These were “the trials”, after all. Everything was a test.
“Close your eyes,” Lajos began.
There were Faerene scattered among us, sitting in the grass. I couldn’t see any of our tutors, but a quick count suggested there were one hundred Faerene, plus Lajos. Were these our potential Faerene magician matches? Given that Magistrate Istvan remained on the field, that was a daunting thought. What sort of person could survive being partnered with him?
“Close your eyes,” Lajos repeated.
I closed my eyes. My eyelids flickered. My breathing accelerated. I didn’t want to close my eyes and increase my vulnerability in a place where I was surrounded by strangers and Faerene. I squeezed my eyes tight. I would not show weakness.
“The purpose of the guided meditation sessions is to introduce you to an awareness of the magic channeling through you. I don’t expect you to sense it, today. Keep your eyes closed and concentrate on the sound of your heartbeat.”
Grass rustled to my right, and my eyes flew open. It was only Niaz, a woman from my group, readjusting her legs.
Grimly, I shut my eyes once more. I couldn’t hear my heartbeat, but I could feel it racing. It needed to slow down. I needed to calm down.
I disregarded Lajos’s impossible instruction to listen to my heartbeat. It wasn’t as if I could bend my ear to my chest or conjure a stethoscope. However, I could concentrate on my breathing and slow it down. I’d been taught how to meditate, the human way.
“Listen to your heart and the steady rush of blood through it. Magic wraps itself around a magician’s life force. As you listen to your heart, your awareness of the magic flowing through you will develop naturally.”
Except that it was physically impossible for a person to hear their own heartbeat. Unless we exerted ourselves and our pulse pounded in our ears. Was that what he meant, rather than the actual beat of our hearts?
The wind soughed through the pine trees that edged the field. From the food tent came a clatter of dishes. A cricket chirped somewhere and others joined in its chorus. Soon the cold of the changing season would kill them.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Lajos said. “The meditation is ending. Blow out your breath in three puffs. Puff, puff, puff.”
It sounded silly, but as my diaphragm grew tight with the final exhalation, for a second I thought I heard my heartbeat.
“Open your eyes. The session is ended. Good. Now, everyone stand and shake out your limbs. As your name is called, please come forward.”
In a matter of minutes he had the humans paired up, while the hundred Faerene who’d meditated among us exited the field. The act of pairing us up revealed that four of our original hundred familiar candidates were gone. Equally obvious was the attempt to partner us with someone physically similar.
Mirembe stood an inch taller than me and moved with an ease that indicated fitness and physical strength. She smiled shyly. Neither of us attempted conversation.
“You will fight your partner,” Lajos announced.
Mirembe’s eyes widened. Her mouth formed a slack expression of fear and shock.
“No weapons and no killing,” Lajos continued. “Begin.”
“I’ve never fought anyone,” my opponent whispered.
I believed her. Unlike me, she neither moved into a combat-ready stance nor assessed her opponent for strengths and weaknesses. I felt sorry for her, which would be my weakness. Better, then, that I act quickly.
I darted forward, lashing out with my left hand, blading for her throat.
As she flinched backward, she tripped over her own feet—and her fear—and sprawled on the grass.
“You need to learn how to fall,” I said sympathetically. “Watch me—”
“Amy, you are to fight, not teach. A new partner. David.” Lajos beckoned a solid man in his thirties toward us. “Mirembe, move aside.”
David’s former partner was being led away by a goblin. The man’s nose was bleeding heavily and likely broken.
My former partner scrambled up hastily, only too glad to be dismissed.
“Begin,” Lajos ordered.
David charged me.
I blocked two hits and evaded a kick. A kick was a dangerous choice on the uneven ground. It would be easy to lose one’s balance. David was either an inexperienced fighter or he was showboating. I suspected the latter, and that he risked his showy moves because he underestimated me.
He blocked my first hit.
I considered my strategy. Should I reveal to the Faerene that I could fight? Would that escalate—
David aimed a punch at my chest.
Getting hit on the boobs hurt, and it was what I hated most in training. I blocked instinctively, and just as instinctively continued the movement, punching him in the throat. Digger had trained me not to go for the balls. Men like David expected that form of attack.
David retreated two steps.
I’d pulled my punch, but the fact that I had was obvious. In a real fight, that would have been a killing blow.
Lajos didn’t call the fight, and David charged forward, again. This time he wasn’t showboating. He aimed to take me down.
By the fury in his eyes and the jerkiness of his motions, he wanted to make me hurt. He was fast, but not as fast as me, and he was messy. He telegraphed his intentions.
Ow.
He got a punch through my guard and hit me in the chest.
I kicked his knee, using a low kick and being sure of my footing. I hit with the heel of my boot.
His knee crunched. David dropped, screaming.
I winced because of the high note he reached and the attention it attracted. What I didn’t do was apologize. This hadn’t been an exhibition match or even a training bout. Digger would have approved. I had crippled my opponent, and kept myself safe. For now.
An orc picked David up and carried him to the healers’ tent.
Lajos signaled for me to follow him.
I flexed my fingers, maintaining my alertness and readiness levels.
We stopped near a fight that included Chen, one of us ten who’d been teleported from Manhattan. He’d also been the man who last night had reached for a knife that wasn’t there when Magistrate Istvan loomed out of the forest. Chen and his opponent were locked in a swift violent dance.
I recognized Chen’s kung fu moves, but his opponent’s style mystified me.
His opponent abruptly changed his approach, getting in close and trying to turn the fight into a wrestling bout; a nasty one. Blood dripped from Chen’s face. An inch higher, and his opponent’s attempted eye gouge would have succeeded. Chen broke free, and ended the bout with a flying kick. Now that was showy, but also perfectly executed. His opponent flopped to the ground, unconscious.
“Two minutes,” Lajos said to Chen. “Then you fight Amy.”
Tutor Marton, who’d been supervising Chen’s fight, nodded.
Lajos walked away.
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