by R. M Garino
“Form a line!” a Yearling shouted. They broke ranks and formed a single line at the edge of the reddish-tan walls of the ravine. A ten-foot drop to the fast moving water yawned beneath them.
“What are you waiting for,” Gibson said. “Into the drink!”
They jumped from the ledge, and plunged into the waters below. The cold hit like a hammer to the chest, stealing their breath with a swiftness that was hard to imagine. Angus felt his feet hit the bottom of the riverbed for just an instant, before the current grabbed him and hauled him away downstream. He broke the surface, and searched for his friends as he treaded water, letting the current take him where it would. He was the first one up. One by one, their heads poked above the water line. Each held up a fist with a thumb raised to indicate they were all right. Hironata, Thomlin, Demona, Enid, Ossian all raised their thumbs.
Ti, Angus sent, sending his consciousness out in an attempt to locate her mind. As the first on scene, he assumed the temporary command. Ti’vol! A moment later, he saw her as she fought to rise above the flood.
Oss, he sent, Ti’s to your left.
Ossian dove beneath the water without answering. A moment later, he broke the surface, a sputtering Ti’vol riding upon his back.
A part of their task was to swim to the “stairs” cut into the side of the canyon. Refocusing his attention downstream now that everyone was accounted for, he sought their target. There was another exit further downstream, but that meant longer in the frigid waters, and a longer run once they returned to the surface. The Third knew from experience that overshooting their exit tended to irritate the Elc’atar and Yearlings beyond all reason. The shadows deepened to the right as they bobbed along with the current, and Angus offered a silent prayer of thanks that they had not missed it. Calling to his comrades, he swam toward the shadowed stairs, and the small jetty that stuck out into the river. A series of handholds grew from the wall starting at the hundred-yard mark. Angus grabbed the nearest one and, bracing his legs against the walls, stuck his right arm out into the waters. Hironata snatched at it and gripped his wrist. Hironata in turn held his arm out and caught Thomlin. By the time Ossian grabbed Enid’s wrist, he was halfway to the exit and against the canyon’s face.
Sound off! Angus sent.
As one the squad called out, shouting “Oohraah!” though their chattering teeth.
The squad moved, with Ossian and Angus on either end of their chain. Ossian grabbed the support near him, and Angus let go of his. They swung in a long arc through the river, tethered to Ossian. Angus landed with his feet against the wall, and grabbed the nearest handhold. Ossian let go, and they repeated the process until Ossian grabbed the mooring line of the jetty.
Climbing over one another, they exited the water and collapsed onto the smoothed rocks to catch their breath. Once everyone was out, Angus counted to one hundred before calling them to their feet.
“Remember,” he said as he helped them stand, “the rocks are slippery.”
Untying the sash that wound several times around him and held the two sides of his outer shirt closed, he joined it to Enid’s with a square knot. One end he tied around his waist as others added their sashes to the growing line. Once everyone was secured together, they scaled the cliff face.
The “steps” were little more than footholds and holes, rather than actual stairs that ascended the sheer face of the ravine. Climbing to the top was slow going, and twice they had to stop as someone lost their footing and pulled the line taut. Eventually, Angus crested the top and assisted Enid over the edge.
Once Ossian, who had again remained at the rear, slipped over the top, the voice of a Yearling barked. “On your feet, scrubs! Double time back to the drop!”
And they ran, unfettering themselves from one another as they did so. The rising sun, and the exercise gave them a semblance of warmth, though each was chilled to the bone.
“To the pines, greenies!” another Yearling called when they arrived where the Elc’atar waited. Turning left, they kept formation as they headed in the new direction. A small stream meandered as it approached the pines, and it flooded often. The ground leading to and from the watercourse was aptly known as the flats, and it pulled at their feet with a squelching grip as they ran through it.
“In the mud!” another Yearling barked. They threw themselves into the sludge as instructed, and rolled in the muck. They knew better than to complain, knew better than to argue, knew better than to go about the task with a half-hearted determination. The Elc’atar and the Yearlings expected them to have a respectable coating from head to toe.
“On your feet!” the Yearling yelled, satisfied that they were well and truly filthy. They slipped and stumbled to their feet, and resumed running through the muck.
The flats gave way to firmer ground and their pace increased. The scent of pine returned to the air, and the ground became thick with the brown, fallen needles of the trees.
“On your bellies!” came the order. They dropped onto the thick carpet of needles and crawled through the leavings.
After several yards, the Yearling barked again. “Wallow, piggies! Wallow, wallow, wallow!”
They were told to stand at attention, and they jumped to their feet.
The Elc’atar approached, strolling in front of them as he did just a few hours before in their barracks. He inspected them again, making sure they were coated just the way he liked.
“You want to act like filthy animals?” Gibson said. “Now you look the part. A squad of dirty porcupines. Return to the parade field. You don’t want to be late for PT.”
They saluted with their wrists crossed over their hearts and bowed from the waist. Still standing at attention, the Third performed a perfect about-face, fell into formation, and ran back. Each knew they were expected to stay in their soiled and wet clothing for the remainder of the day, and that Gibson or the Yearlings would be popping up to check on them.
Angus pushed his indignation aside. He hated not being able to get cleaned and changed. As he ran, he detached his lower mind to keep his body moving, while his higher mind imagined creative ways to make the Elc’atar and their Yearlings pay.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Familial Obligations
Arielle was in a foul mood as she stood in line and collected the tray containing her midday meal. The servers appeared haggard and sullen. Normally, she would offer them a warm smile and a hearty “thank you” as she received her food. She knew that in several weeks she and her Pride would be behind the counter for a stint in the kitchens. After the interaction with Nole and Padric, however, she grabbed her tray without a word and walked on toward where her friends already sat. Nessah sat by herself, off to one side of the group. She had been summoned to the Regent Cavallo’s office, where she had been counseled on how to accept her predicted failure at the A’gist. She had been in tears upon returning, and inconsolable. After numerous attempts, they let her be to deal with it herself.
“And just a few more months before we test at the A’gist,” Denuelle was saying as Arielle set her tray on the trestle table. There was no mistaking the excitement that bubbled over from Denuelle’s sin’del, even though she was well aware of Nessah’s depression. Arielle brushed aside the agitated tendrils as she sat down.
“Are you really looking forward to spending weeks picking up dog shit?” Darien said. He was hunched over his food so that the distance to his mouth was as short as possible.
“There’s more to tending the lo’el than cleaning up after them,” Denuelle said, placing her mug down on the table a little harder than necessary. “They’re going to be our lifelong companions if we become Elc’atar, so we need to learn how to take care of them. I can’t believe you’re not excited about it.”
“Darien is incapable of getting excited about anything,” Caradoc said. He touched his tray and utensils as little as possible, using the sleeve of his shirt to grip things whenever he had to remove the ubiquitous gloves he wore. “He expends too much energy
being angry.”
Darien did not take his downcast eyes off his food. “You really want to go there, twitchy?” he asked. “At least I can shake hands like a normal person. Freak!”
“Let’s step outside,” Caradoc said, throwing his spoon down into his bowl. “I’ll show you who’s the freak.”
“Calm yourselves,” Gwen said. She tore off a chunk of bread from the communal loaf. “I’m not losing our place because you two get pissy with each other.”
Arielle focused on her food, driving her spoon into her mouth as she hunched over her stew much like Darien. Caradoc’s bravado often entertained them at mealtime, but she was not in the mood for his antics.
“What happened?” Ba’ril said as he slid next to her. When she did not answer, he leaned closer. “Arielle?”
She slammed down her spoon, and stared straight ahead, just about keeping her temper in check; she held it tight with a few deep breaths.
“Officer of the Watch!” a voice cried out from the mess doors.
Every graduate and Blade in the hall scrambled to their feet and stood at attention before their bench. Silence descended as the last of them stopped moving. The clack of a heavy-booted tread echoed through the mess as the Officer of the Watch, the acting supervisor of the Gates, walked through the hall.
“As you were!” a deep voice called out, somewhere in the middle of the hall. They resumed their seats as he continued his progress. There were some commanders, Arielle knew, that would leave them standing at attention the entire time they were present, even if they had been in the middle of a meal. This one, at least, had some consideration. Nevertheless, everyone continued to watch his progress as they sat. Arielle, however, returned her attention to her stew.
“Rhen’val,” the voice called from behind her.
Arielle sighed and placed her spoon in her bowl. Everyone was watching. Trying to hide her reluctance, she faced the officer.
An enormous Mala’kar stood before her, his head shaven bald and covered in tattoos. Arielle saluted. He studied her for a moment, and then walked toward the rear exit.
“With me, Rhen’val,” the Mala’kar said.
Arielle immediately fell into step and followed him out into the hallway. Conscious of every eye upon her, she focused on keeping her bearing erect and her posture firm and determined.
The officer stopped as soon as he had exited, and spun so suddenly Arielle had to jump to avoid colliding with him. She corrected the movement and stood straight at attention.
“One of the absolute joys of my watch is receiving the dispatches from command,” he said without preamble. Casting his gaze a considerable distance down at her, the Mala’kar continued. “Imagine my surprise when I find, nestled among the official communications, a personal correspondence addressed to our own little princess.”
He held up a small wooden box tied together with string. Her name was written on a small wedge of paper in flowing script.
“One can only imagine,” he said, “how such a mistake could happen. After all, everyone knows that official channels of communication are absolutely forbidden for personal use.”
“I have no explanation as to how this happened, sir,” Arielle said. She kept her focus straight ahead.
“I’ll tell you how it happened,” he said, stepping closer. “Your girlfriend decided to take advantage of his position and co-opt the official communications channels. I am not going to stand for this type of behavior. In your response to this message, which will go through the normal channels, you will tell him as much. You will tell him that if Hammer even suspects he is using the official command channels for personal use again, I will snap off his fecking fingers and feed him his own digits!”
He shoved the box against her chest hard enough to knock her backward. He glowered down at her, then stalked away without watching to see if she took his advice. Arielle watched him go. He was by far one of the largest males at the Gates, and she felt dwarfed in his presence. Nevertheless, her fury flared anew. How dare he take this out on her!
She considered the object she held, and all thoughts of Hammer left her. The rosewood box caused an instant constriction in her chest. She recognized the almost feminine penmanship on the wedge of paper. She’d known that Logan would read the letter she left for him, but for some reason she’d been foolish enough to believe the matter would end there. Of course he’d reply. Arielle turned the box over.
“Oh,” Hammer said when he was a dozen yards down the hall. “Field Marshal Dugal is in your quarters, and he requests your presence. I suggest you hurry, so as not to make him wait any longer than he already has.”
Arielle felt her stomach constrict. Her father was here? He would have heard of her dismal display on first night by now. She had been dreading this particular conversation, but she’d been hoping it would be in the form of a letter, or a message crystal. She’d never sent the letter home. She had been meaning to, but kept finding excuses to put it off. That he would travel from the Vaults to the Gates to speak to her in person did not augur well.
She did not return to the mess, but ran instead to her cell on the floors above. She paused, taking a moment to collect her emotions. It would not do for her father to see her bursting through the door like a new-minted cadet. She patted her silver hair, running her hand down the ponytail she wore. Keeping herself at attention, she stepped into the room and snapped a rigid salute.
Her father sat at her desk, the soul lights set at a soft yellow as he flipped through one of the texts she had been studying, Banoffe’s treatise on The Strategy of Aggression. He marked his place with a finger and closed the book. His face lit with a smile, and she felt the knots in her stomach relax. He stood, spreading his arms and inviting her to an embrace without the pretense of returning the salute. Arielle rushed into his arms. This was her father in her cell, not the Field Marshal.
“How now, Shortberry?” he said as he hugged her. The old, familiar term thrilled her, and she squeezed him tighter for it.
“I am well, Father,” she said. “And you?”
Dugal drew back, holding her at arm’s length and watched her a moment.
“I?” he said, tilting his head to the side as he continued his examination. “I, too, am well. I am happy to see you looking hearty and hale. But, I am concerned with some of the intelligence that has come my way.”
Arielle blushed. “You heard about first night.”
“Yes—” her father said.
“But there are other things I have done since,” Arielle said. “You had to have heard about the bridge by now, too,”
“I have heard,” her father said, offering her a brief smile. “And other things.”
His voice held a strange tone, which caught her attention. “What sort of things?” She was almost afraid to hear what he was hinting at.
Dugal squeezed her shoulders and indicated her bed, inviting her to sit. “Please.”
Arielle sat on the edge, her back straight, and her hands in her lap. Dugal, in turn, returned to his chair and picked up the book.
“I have to commend you on your choice of reading,” he said. “This is an advanced text, and not part of the graduate curriculum.”
“I thought it wise to broaden my studies,” Arielle said. “Everyone is enamored with Phaedrus’ Account of Strategy and Patience and I wanted to understand the opposing view. My regular studies are not suffering. I work through this in my free time.”
“Free time?” Dugal said, quirking an eyebrow as he spoke. “From what I have heard you do not have much of that.”
“No,” Arielle said, lowering her head again. “I do not. But I can spare a few moments here and there.”
“Commendable,” Dugal said. “You have always wanted to know more, even that which is beyond you. Tell me, are you following the argument?”
Arielle thought for a moment. She wanted to give a forthright answer, but a thorough one as well. It was a difficult text.
“I think I follow his premis
e that emotion, rather than conscious thought, is the guiding force behind action. I am struggling, however, with his construct of empirical reality.”
Dugal’s brow furrowed in thought.
“You are partially correct in your understanding,” he said, holding up a finger. “While he does argue that emotion is the guiding principle, he cautions against it much as Phaedrus does. It is a subtle point, and one often missed in the comparison. The main disagreement in that portion of the argument is that emotion can be harnessed and guided, much as one does the energies in the sin’del. Phaedrus felt that emotion was all powerful, to which we all are slaves.”
“Hence his emphasis on choice,” Arielle said.
“Again, partially correct,” Dugal said. “Reread the section when you have time.”
Arielle felt the ease of the moment slipping away from her. Her father had another agenda, and discussing theory was a prelude.
“I will, Father,” Arielle said, inclining her head in a bow. “I assume you have more important matters to attend to.”
“Yes. There is a purpose to my visit.”
He turned his attention to the ceiling, as if gathering the words he saw there.
“I was glad to receive word of the Twelfth’s performance on the march,” he said to the ceiling. “That was a fine showing. Eight days is a commendable time. Better than Shane’s. It was a fine capstone to your time at the Vaults. You graduated with a perfect record. Not a single mark against you.”
“But then I arrived at the Gates . . .” Arielle said into the pause in her father’s words.
“Yes,” he said. “Then you arrived. Your mother and I were disappointed to hear of the conduct you displayed at that point.”
“I know,” Arielle said, “and I am sorry for my behavior. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I think I might,” Dugal said. “But that is a conversation for another time. For now, I believe it sufficient to focus on my objections to your behavior. For your own edification, of course.”