We pass through campus to the building most familiar to me within the capital. The Redwood Chamber. It’s where my father used to meet with the other members of Parliament. I’ve been here many a time. Astor climbs the stone steps to the building, but I pause at the bottom, looking up at the structure. It’s a cold, grey building, not much different than those on campus. But this one gives me chills. And there’s the ironwood door. Recovered from our near-fatal escape four seasons ago. Jaymes destroyed that door with the touch of her hand. An ironwood door, the strongest organic material known. And she degenerated it. It’s clicking now. Why the Taoiseach is after her, and her alone. It’s her destructive power. He doesn’t care about me or how our parents died. All this time, I thought it was about the false allegations against Arden and Shae McLarin conspiring toward genocidal warfare. And maybe that’s how it started, but after four seasons, he no longer cares about that. He’s after Jaymes and what she’s capable of. Seeing that stout door guarding the chamber which houses the leaders of our realm has brought certainty to the situation. Her life is in more danger than I ever imagined. The Taoiseach will never stop hunting her. She’s not safe in any corner of this realm. Goose was right. We cannot continue running. The only way I can protect Jay is by ridding this realm of its tyrant. And he may very well be just on the other side of that door.
“Are you coming?” Damn, she’s beautiful. How can I not follow her?
I climb the stairs. Astor smiles upon my approach, and it wipes away my concerns for the moment. Guards stand on either side of the door, but I’m at ease next to her. She carries weight in this place. The guards pay us no mind as I press against the cold iron handle and pry the heavy door open. And heavy it may be, but it glides open as if it has wings carrying it through the air. Then we cross the threshold into the hall of the enemy.
The grand atrium floods me with memories. I make it but a few steps into the building before I come to a halt. Just there. On the floor. That’s where Elder died. I didn’t mean for it to happen. He was my best mate, and I brought him to his death. And just over there by the great redwood columns, that’s where Helios battled the Taoiseach. And Ellia, the Woman-in-Red. She defended him. All my memories are coming together. It’s all my fault. I led Ellia right back to Jaymes. I could have prevented this. It’s all my fault.
“Are you okay?” Astor asks.
I look into her eyes. They calm me. “Yes. My last memory here isn’t a good one. That’s all. Let’s move on.”
“Yes, of course.” She grabs my hand. The touch of my skin against hers brings sureness to my step. I follow alongside her down a corridor to a room without a door.
“This is where your Social Etiquette course will be held,” she whispers so low it’s hardly audible.
There he is. Standing assertively at the head of the class. My heart beats with rage. I pace back and forth, unable to remain still. It’s as though I am freely walking to the guillotine, kneeling, and laying my head across the execution block. The Taoiseach is the instructor for my Social Etiquette class. How am I going to do this? Why would Astor place me in a course with him? She raises her hand, gesturing for me to stop pacing.
“Please. We must wait patiently until class is dismissed,” she whispers so I can barely hear.
“What?” I ask, apparently too loud for Astor.
“Quiet!” she whisper-yells at me. Then gestures for us to leave.
“Astor Greyheart,” his resonating voice calls as we are about to flee. Both of us turn toward the opening of his lesson chamber. “Class, my apologies. Let this be an example of poor etiquette. Dear, you have already interrupted the lesson with your loitering, so what is it? Come in.”
“My apologies, Taoiseach, sir.” Her cheeks are flushed as I follow her into the chamber. “I am here to properly introduce you to your new student, Elder Alderock. The one we discussed. Elder, this is Master Martelli.”
“Ah, yes. Indeed.” He looks me up and down.
Does he recognize me? He couldn’t possibly. It’s been four seasons. And we were mere acquaintances through my father. I hardly ever saw the man in person.
An eyebrow raises, then his baritone voice continues. “Next time, you will keep quiet until the students are dismissed. Elder?” He offers a hand in greeting.
My hand trembles, and I can feel sweat accumulating along my hairline. I reluctantly take it. Hopefully without showing my reluctance. His hand is ice cold.
“Master Martelli,” he introduces himself. “When will you be joining us?”
“Tomorrow, sir.” Astor answers for me. Harris looks at her with disgust then turns back to me.
“Tomorrow, sir,” I repeat, feeling my temperature rise in sequence. It is a challenge to make eye contact with this man and be polite.
“Wonderful.” There is no emotion in his voice. “Tomorrow, since you are a great example of poor etiquette, you will be seated here in the front row, and you will be my assistant indefinitely until I deem your manners worthy of my expectations. There are consequences for your actions, Elder. I will see you here. On time. Tomorrow. Be properly prepared. Now, be on your way.”
Astor speaks up. “Thank you, Master Martelli. And again, my apologies for the interruption.”
Harris stares at her assertively in place of accepting her apology. He tells her something with that stare. There is a connection there, but I’m not sure what it is.
“Thank you, Master Martelli,” I drone with much dissatisfaction.
This course is going to be far worse than aeronautics. But it could be an opportunity as well. The Academy can be his undoing. I can learn much from him and the other instructors—potentially enough to dethrone him. The ambition quickly fades to fantasy. I can learn something, sure, but how can I learn enough to take down the most powerful man in all of Azure? For Jay, I must try.
“Are you okay?” Astor inquires as we exit Harris’ earshot and the Redwood Chamber.
“Why would you enroll me in his class?” My words come out harsh. If I have to experience that daily, I’m getting in over my head. “Do you think he knows who I am?”
“It’s not an option, Stone. All students are required to attend his lessons. And if he did recognize you, he didn’t show it. He didn’t put you in a noose, did he?” She shrugs her shoulders with a sidelong glance at me.
“You should’ve warned me.”
“You wouldn’t have come if I did. Stone, this is your opportunity to get closer to him. Learn from him. Observe him. But respect his authority and his power. He’s dangerous. If you want to protect Jaymes, this is how you can do it.” She stops and places a hand on my shoulder. “And…should he discover who you are—we must be realistic, it is a possibility—it will be a distraction for him. You can lead him astray.”
Her eyes light up. She leans in ever so slightly and I catch her honeyed lavender scent again. “You mentioned utilizing Parliament’s pigeon service to contact Jay. Now that I think on it, that’s a great idea. You should send word for her to stay in Greybark. The farther away she is, the safer she is, right? I’ll check into that for you.”
“Err…okay. Of course. Thank you.”
As we trek back onto campus, Astor speaks highly of the next instructor on our list, Master Stormwood.
“He’s a sturdy man. A man of valor. We have a solid relationship, Mycal and I.”
I hope it’s not the same relationship you have with Master Sephyre.
“But do not refer to him as Mycal,” she continues. “It’s Master Stormwood. And Stealth and Combat is one class where you must put forth more effort. Physically. Mycal won’t stand for slack effort. Nor will I.”
My brow curls inward as I glance at her through my peripherals. Somehow, I know I’ll never hear the end of it from Astor if I don’t adhere to her advice. I can imagine it now. With Astor’s reputation on the line for getting me enrolled and acknowledging my worth, she will probably discover the fist fits her well if I don’t excel in this course. But I have mor
e reason to give full effort, other than Astor or this instructor. I’m doing this for Jay.
“Don’t say anything around Master Stormwood except ‘yes, sir.’ Got it?”
“What if he asks me a question? I can’t respond by saying ‘yes, sir’. I’ll sound like an imbecile.”
“Just don’t say anything stupid. Master Stormwood is one who will inflict discipline on any inexcusable actions, regardless of whether you’re a student or not. He is not as insufferable as Master Martelli, but his disciplines will prove to be more taxing.”
“Understood. I think.”
We approach a ring of dirt about thirty paces in diameter with a thornwood barrier encircling the perimeter. Standing just outside the prickly fence on the far side is a group of shirtless boys and three young girls, who are not shirtless, but wear something only slightly less revealing. They’re tightly wrapped in rags that cover no more than their chests. All, boys and girls, are wearing warrior’s greaves. The entire group of adolescents are cheering on and instigating two young fellows within the circle who look to be ready to attack each other.
“Defend!” a gruff and demanding voice calls out from the sidelines.
The two young men sidestep, circling the ring, waiting for an opportune moment to attack.
One of the fellows is large. A giant in a child’s eyes, but probably a head taller than an average man. Aside from his height, his physical appearance tells me he’s a couple seasons younger than I am. A man-child. His face is soft and delicate. His body is lanky, as if his muscle growth hasn’t caught up to his bones yet, and his movements are inexperienced. He has already stumbled over his feet twice.
Upon his second stumble, the other fellow moves in. He, too, appears to be younger than me with cropped black hair and a much shorter stature than his opponent. That doesn’t stop him from charging, though.
The short fellow doesn’t swing or try to tackle, but instead tucks and rolls toward the larger boy. Once under him, he arduously halts and whips out his left leg to sweep him to the ground. It is an utter failure. He merely kicks the back of the large fellow’s ankles and ricochets off.
The man-child looks down on him and lifts a leg to stomp down. Also a piss-poor attempt, as the shorter boy effortlessly rolls away.
The two boys are now back where they began, both on their feet and circling each other around the ring. This time the man-child moves in. He is surprisingly quick. Quicker than the other but still misses with a wild haymaker to the head. As the shorter fellow parries, he is knocked off-kilter by a light brush to the side of the face.
I find the episode quite entertaining and let out a small chuckle. Both combatants stop to look my way, as does the rest of the class. Maybe it was a loud chuckle. Astor nudges me in the ribs. I cringe, knowing it might develop into a bruise later.
“At ease!” the gruff voice calls out.
I have yet to see which person it is coming from.
Astor leans over and whispers in my ear, “I told you to be quiet. I can’t help you now.”
“Is this humorous, young lad?” the gruff voice says from across the ring.
I see an average-height man step out from behind the crowd. He is also shirtless, showing off his slender and highly muscled physique. The sides of his head are shaven to the scalp, but on top, he has dreads that resemble a cluster of colorful roots unlike any trend I’ve ever seen. Each matted lock of hair is a different color, arraying from violet to red and all hues in between. He has a few shoulder-length dreads dangling down each side of his head and several down to his mid-back.
“I would be lying if I said no,” I reply honestly after accepting the foolish hairstyle. Astor flings daggers at me with her eyes.
“Please join the entertainment, then.”
“No thank you, sir.” I try to turn down the offer as politely as possible, unsure if the request is authentic or not. Astor insists I use please and thank you, and yes, sir or no, sir. I’m already becoming more accustomed to it.
“That wasn’t a request,” the colorful, gruff-voiced man exclaims. “Get in the ring.”
I look to Astor for help. “I said I couldn’t help you now. You’ve already done too much. Hand me your surcoat. I don’t want you ruining it the first day you have it.” I stare at her in utter disbelief. What is happening?
“C’mon. Hand me the coat and get out there,” she insists.
I slip off the leather surcoat and turn to face the ring and all the onlookers on the opposite side.
“Where’s the gate? How do I get in?” The crowd snickers.
“Silence,” the man commands. “Climb over the rail. Don’t fear the pricks. They only strengthen your skin.”
I grab ahold of the thornwood fence, trying to avoid the thorns. “Ouch!” The class snickers again. Dammit! I grip the top rail of the fence tightly, ignoring all half-dozen thorns that pierce my hands, and hop over it. I inspect the damage done and watch the lacerations seal up almost instantaneously, leaving only a few remnants of blood behind.
“There is only one rule. No talents. This is hand-to-hand combat intended to improve your self-defense and combatant skills. Any questions?”
“Yes, sir. Which one is my opponent?” I ask, hoping it’ll be the smaller of the two.
“Both,” the man answers. “Defend!”
“Tigershit!” I think aloud. What is happening? One moment I’m on the outside enjoying a little entertainment, and now I have two fellows, small and large, running toward me to beat the piss out of me.
I easily tuck and roll with more coordination than I witnessed from the other two, and I run to the opposite side of the ring to gather myself. If only I had Life Bringer. I’ve never fought anyone with my fists before. A dance with the blades is more my style.
The two boys approach again, this time from each side. I stand my ground, waiting for the attack. If I continue to run, this fight will go on forever, or I’ll end up tripping over myself and be even more humiliated. So, I might as well hold fast and endure a beating if I must.
The man-child, with his lumbering speed, approaches a moment sooner than the other. He cocks his arm mid-run and comes full speed with an outstretched fist. I take a step backward and trip over my own feet in anticipation. Four knuckles land square on my forehead, sending my already falling motion into a projectile motion.
The impact from the compacted ground is as rough as the blow to my forehead, but I don’t let it dissolute me. I roll to the side, avoiding a second blow to my stomach from the shorter boy’s foot. He tries stomping on my abdomen immediately after with his opposite boot and succeeds. I struggle for air and want to hurl at the same time, gasping and salivating.
The shorter boy hauls me up to my feet by my underarms. He then pulls my arms behind my back. The boy remains behind me as if he’s holding my hands together solely with his might, but there is something more. I can feel it digging into my wrists. He has bound my hands together with some form of twine or rope.
I squirm and struggle to free myself. It’s hopeless. The taller boy confronts me with an overconfident strut and wallops me as the other holds me in place. The blows are countless to my face, followed by a solid one to my gut that leaves me hunched over in pain.
Defend, I think to myself during a short break in the pummeling. The instructor said defend. I don’t necessarily have to attack these fellows. I simply must outlast them. The pain is temporary. The damage is temporary.
The boy behind me grabs my hair and yanks my head upright. As the larger boy hurls another fist toward my face, a surge of adrenaline flows through me. With the last of my strength, I flex and break my hands free of my bindings, ducking at the same time to avoid the finishing blow. Instead of breaking my nose, the man-child overextends his reach and plants one directly between the other boy’s eyes.
The blow to his face stuns him for a moment, but that is all. They both look vexed by the humiliation. They come at me again, and I stand my ground, hoping this will just end. The
larger of the two boys rushes me and tackles me to the ground. He straddles me and unleashes blow after blow. I feel helpless to do anything. I can taste the blood in my mouth and feel it pouring from my nose. My visibility is limited from swollen brows and likely a broken cheek bone. Why hasn’t the instructor stopped the fight yet? Can’t he see I’ve given up?
The boy pummels me without end. Maybe the instructor’s not going to stop the fight. Maybe he’s waiting for me to do it. Maybe this is a life or death thing. He said there weren’t any rules. My heart beats faster at the thought of death. Will it really come to that? Would the instructor let me die? Would Astor let me die? Fear sets in, and I take one last chance at defending myself. With much struggle, I clutch the boy’s upper arm and pull him closer. I then grip his throat with one hand, trying to defend my face with the other. Through my blurred vision, it appears his face is turning a shade darker. I can’t imagine my grip is so much that I’m able to choke him out with one hand, but maybe, I guess. His neck grows darker around my fingers. The skin is soft to the touch, like overly ripened fruit.
“Halt! At ease, gentlemen.” The boy stops pummeling me.
Come to think of it, he stopped pummeling me when I grabbed his throat. I, however, fail to let go at the instructor’s command.
“I said at ease!” He jumps into the ring and rips me out from under the boy. As my grip is pulled free of his neck, the discoloration disappears, and the boy collapses.
The instructor kneels over the fallen boy as the other combatant looks down on him with concern. The eyeing crowd whispers and mutters explanations under their breath.
“Are you okay?” The instructor asks the boy on the ground.
He tries to speak, but only a gurgle comes out.
“You’re alive. That’s what matters.” Master Stormwood looks in my direction, not with anger as I would expect, but something of the opposite. Intrigue maybe. “Have you ever experienced this before?” he says to me in a whisper.
Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Page 38