After class, Rose led me to the Sand Theatre, which was actually a short way down the road from the main Academy gate. Most of the senior students had already gathered in the small clearing behind the mostly abandoned back-section of the Academy, filtering into a small trail that led through a break in the edge of the forest. The trail was short, and on the other side, a huge section of the forest had been long ago cleared out to house the giant amphitheater that hollowed right into the ground.
It looked to be made of some kind of crumbling sandstone, with levels of tiered seating stepping down to a comparatively small, grass-covered stage. Standing there already, were Joseph Harbringer, along with a straight-backed, grey-haired professor and Mad Mont. The other professors were making their way down, and I recognised Hectare, Barlow, Carren, Arrol, Raeburn, and Paine—the stuttering professor who taught my Magical Materials class.
“Who’s the old guy?” I asked Rose, as we spotted Cale sitting all the way down the front, directly before the stage, clearly having come early to save seats while the rest of us were still in class.
“That’s Master Savar, he owns the Academy. We barely ever see him unless it’s important.”
We reached Cale just as Hazen did, and we all took our seats as the rest of the senior students filled in behind us. There weren’t enough to even fill up a quarter of the great big theatre, even though it seemed as if every professor in the entire Academy had shown up. Harbringer stepped up almost the instant everyone was settled, and instead of the wave of whispering that I had expected, a rush of silence fell upon the theatre.
“Welcome to Offensive Training.” He said, eyes travelling over the sea of faces before him, “I am Professor Harbringer, and while this first lesson is compulsory, it is only an introductory class. After today, you will be required to have parental permission to continue on until graduation, and I suspect many of you will not be granted it.”
He waited a beat, letting his words sink in, and in that instant, his eyes met mine. There was no hint of golden in those inky-black irises, and I suspected that even if he harboured the synfee tint, they wouldn’t have changed in the slightest. He blinked, looked away, and continued speaking, though I found I couldn’t tear my eyes off him.
“In this class, I will be working with students to develop their specialties into offensive abilities. While some time will be set aside for defensive training, keep in mind that this unit will be compiled of predominately combative situations, with the focus on attacking, not defending. We will focus on the typical threats of the tainted creatures, and the adjustment of fighting style needed for each race. Professors with the shape-changing specialisation have been selected to mimic such creatures, and will aid in real combat exercises.”
This class is not going to be easy,” he warned, “those of you who are given permission to attend will be graded each lesson, and if your grade falls below a five, you will be politely asked to leave. The reason I will not be teaching on Academy grounds is because of the high risk that one or many of you will be injured in some way throughout the course of this unit, so please take that into consideration. We will have members of the Healer’s caste on hand in those situations, but it is not something to be taken lightly.”
He stepped back then, almost abruptly, and Master Savar took his place, delicately clearing his throat.
“Now,” he began, surprising me with how easily his deep voice carried. “Are there any questions?”
A number of hands shot straight into the air, and he began pointing each of them out with a long, bony finger.
“The last time the Academy held an Offensive Training class, the tainted creatures were threatening a revolt. Is that happening again?” Asked a girl in glasses, a few rows behind me.
“Our Kingdom faces a great many threats, while a revolt is certainly an ever-present possibility, it was not what commissioned the return of the unit.”
“Will we get detention if one of the professors get knocked out?” asked a male voice too far back for me to see the face that it belonged to.
A wave of nervous laughter rolled over the students, and even Savar seemed to smile politely, though it could have also been a scowl.
“No, Duncan, not unless specific rules are disobeyed.”
“Will we get to fight the synfee?” asked someone directly behind me.
Beside me, Cale stiffened and spun around to eye the boy who had spoken, while it seemed as though everyone else in the theatre was now staring at me. I stared down at my lap, glad that I was freshly topped-up on energy thanks to Nareon, because I was certain that my darkness wouldn’t have reacted very well in that second.
“I don’t think so, Cudos. I believe students will only be placed in combative instances with those who can match their abilities.”
And then, to my utter astonishment, Savar looked right at me and winked. Most of the students laughed, but when I turned around to face Cudos, his broad face was red.
“And if you lay a god damn finger on her, you’ll have me to deal with.” Cale hissed, before turning back around to the front.
The hands rose back up into the air then, and the rest of the questions rolled into a blur as I considered the turn my day had taken. We had gone to Harbringer hoping that he would teach me to fight, and here he was, offering just that opportunity to every senior student at the Academy. I felt arrogant thinking it, but I couldn’t help the sneaking suspicion that this had everything to do with our little visit. Perhaps it had less to do with my request, and more to do with Nareon himself? Did Joseph think that Nareon was planning something? And if he was, where did I come into it?
Once the questions died off, Savar waved his arm in grand sweep, and a rolled-up scroll dropped into my lap. I jumped, and looked over to see that all the others in my row had received one as well. He fell back then, and Harbringer once again stepped forwards.
“You should have just received the permission slip needed to attend my classes, and if you wish to join, you will need to fill out the questionnaire attached, and bring it to my office by Thursday. You are all now dismissed.”
That evening, finally back in my little cottage, dressed in a pair of soft cotton pants and one of my father’s old shirts, I sat at my small desk and unrolled the scroll. The larger piece of parchment was the permission slip, and it detailed the dangers of Harbringer’s class, but didn’t offer any explanation as to why the class was suddenly being re-instated. My form was already filled out, complete with my father’s signature, and an attached note in his handwriting.
Joseph had a messenger bring me this. He said it was important that you attend. I’ll be home in two days. We need to talk. Stay safe Sweetheart.
I didn’t register the tears that gathered in my eyes until the letters began to blur, and then I quickly blinked them away. It had been too long since I had last seen my father, and I found that with everything else that had happened recently, I really needed him.
Putting his note away, I pulled out the smaller roll of paper that had sat inside the permission slip, and flattened it onto my desk. It was the ‘questionnaire’, but there was only one question on it.
Why do you want to enrol in this unit?
I stared at the question, considering a number of responses, until eventually I grew too tired to care, and picked up my pencil to scribble an answer.
There once was a little Siren. She lived all by herself out in the middle of the sea, singing to those who passed in their grand ships, desperate for the contact of another person. When one finally stopped, the crew captured the Siren, and threw her into a cage, deciding that her golden hair and golden skin would make them rich. Not wanting to be killed by the sailors, she sang her way free, enchanting them with a lusty, melodious song full of beauty and innocence.
Her voice called to them, captured them as they had captured her, but as she stood on the deck again, the men kneeling at her feet, she found that she couldn’t stop. She sang and sang, until there was no more beauty or innocenc
e, only hunger and violence. But still they crawled closer, held in thrall by her Siren magic. One by one, she devoured the sailors, until their bones scattered the deck of the ship, and she was alone again, out in the middle of the sea, singing to those who passed in their grand ships…
I wrenched away from the page, looking down at what I had written.
Could I really be like that?
I was just about to tear up the questionnaire, when something occurred to me. Flattening it back out, I added a tiny drawing to the bottom of the page. It was the mark that I had examined earlier in my wardrobe mirror. A muted black beneath my skin, much paler than a tattoo, blessedly hidden beneath the curtain of my hair, one spiky line reminiscent of a sunbeam reaching up behind my ear, and the other—reminiscent of the sharp point of a dagger—stretching down the back of my neck.
Once I was done, I re-folded the page and placed it back inside the permission slip, rolling it into a cylinder and tying it off before slipping it into my book bag.
On Tuesday, I began to hear whisperings of a dead body found in one of the castle gardens. Rose didn’t seem to know anything about it, and when I asked Hazen, he also denied knowledge, though I couldn’t be sure if he was telling the truth or not. Either way, the gossip died down by the end of the week, and I turned down another Friday night at the castle to return to Nareon for a top-up. I dropped my book bag off in the cottage after classes, surprised to find my father in the kitchen, shovelling his way through a bowl of soup.
I had avoided him the last few days, since he had been home, though I had been glad to see him safe. So much had happened since the last time I saw him, I simply didn’t know what to say to him anymore.
Looks like mum’s curse wasn’t the only one I inherited. I thought, every time I saw him.
I told him that I couldn’t stay, that I had promised Hazen, Cale and Rose that I would attend their Friday night frivolities at the castle, and while the corners of his mouth turned down slightly, I knew that he was happy that I had finally made friends.
“We still need to talk.” He said to my back, as I skipped out of the cottage, feeling guilty for lying.
I found Nareon’s horse tethered near the cottage, in the near cover of trees, where my father hopefully wouldn’t pay her any mind. My guilt only increased as I pitched onto her back and turned her toward the North, but I consoled myself with the fact that it was better for my father to not know just how far my life had spiralled. As for the mark on my neck, I knew that it was only a matter of time before he saw that, and so I resigned myself to tell him as soon as I got back.
A few hours of hard riding later, I broke free of the winding forest trail that led to the edge of the giant wasteland. When I crossed over the border, I was met with another group of soldiers, although Grenlow was not with them this time. They greeted me by name and took the horse away as one of them escorted me to the castle. He left me in the fountain room and Nareon swept in moments later.
“Hello, spitfire, I’m glad to see you.”
I smiled a little awkwardly. Spending time with Nareon was always awkward, because he was the old-monster-king on one hand—something that I thankfully had not yet seen proof of—and on the other, I needed him. He was the first and last man that I had ever kissed, apart from the chaste kisses that I bestowed upon my father. And yet, I did not love him. I wasn’t even sure if I liked him, and certainly wasn’t sure if he liked me.
“You are?”
“Yes,” he admonished, “you’re just in time for the games.”
“What games?”
“Come.” He turned and I hurried after him until I found myself in a large tiled throne room, with white pillars bordering a thin silk carpet that ran all the way to the small raised dais that housed the throne.
The throne itself was made of twisted oak, with a high back and carved, ornamental tree branches stretching high over the top, crossing over in an arch and falling again on the opposite side of the chair to seemingly melt into the floor. There were smaller, carved vines that twisted about the legs of the chair, and for a brief moment I was reminded of the chains that had protected me against my own hunger on my last visit. I wondered if he would lock me back in the chair again, as it had certainly seemed to go a lot smoother for him with my own movement restricted, and the silver metal blocking my compulsion.
There were people milling about the room, all dressed in varying shades of obscenity. In fact, Nareon seemed to be the only one dressed normally, in plain grey-scale colours, with the same leather straps crisscrossed over his chest that I recognised from the day I had met him. Except now, I saw their purpose as he displayed his broad back to me. They crossed again in-between his shoulder blades, and each strap held a leather hilt, which boasted thin daggers that curved all the way to the small of his back. I didn’t even notice the stares I got as I followed Nareon to the throne, because I was too busy staring myself.
There was one woman who was dressed in something that looked like a second skin. It was shiny and pale, and it stretched and tightened around her curves in a way that left my mouth hanging open. Another woman was clearly disguised as some sort of bird, with bright blue feathers fanning out from her short satin skirt in a puffy show of a tail. Heavily spiked, jewelled lashes framed her eyes, and her mouth was painted bright green. The man standing with her wore a giant, lion’s headdress, and I wasn’t even sure that he could see out of it, though it turned in my direction as I walked past.
When Nareon reached the throne, he fell into it and caught me by the hand, pulling me onto his lap. I landed across his thighs more out of shock than willingness, but his hands quickly clamped me down before I could rise again.
“Begin!” he boomed to the room, which immediately burst into a flurry of movement.
I looked on, my eyes wide as they rolled out a giant, checkered carpet, and then arranged themselves like chess pieces. Two men stepped up, the lion and another, who walked on platformed shoes that made him easily tower over every other person in the room. They began directing the human-pieces across the board with a ferociousness that surprised me, and soon it was time for the lion to strike away one of the tall man’s pawns. The ‘pawn’ was a woman dressed in a pretty, toga-style dress, with her hair piled into an elaborate, tiered pyramid atop her head, and she looked utterly terrified. The man who had stepped up to her square smirked, and all around the room, the onlookers started to chant.
“What are they saying?” I found myself whispering.
“Some are saying kiss, some are saying kill.”
“I don’t understand?” I asked, as the man approached the woman, grabbed her face and planted a smacking kiss on her lips.
She visibly sagged in relief, and a realisation began to dawn on me, causing a shiver to race down my spine.
“And now it is time for yours, little spitfire.”
Nareon turned my head, smirked at the horror in my eyes and tugged my mouth to his, neglecting to tell me to drop my glamor. I felt an immediate yearning shoot through my body, pushing the horror momentarily away, and as his fingers slid into my hair, his compulsion spread, tingling all the way to the tips of my fingers, which rose to clutch at his shoulders. I made no conscious effort to drop my glamor, but I recognised the pull of his energy when it happened. He made a sound in his throat, and twitched me closer, the kiss becoming reminiscent of another kiss, one that had ended in my dress being torn down the middle, before his mouth pulled away from mine.
His hands were strong as he held me back from him, and there was a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. Over my shoulder, someone screamed, and the horror began to wind its way back into my mind, but Nareon was already pulling me forward again, his mouth soft and hypnotizing, slowly driving me into a mindless, boneless being of reaction in his arms. Not long after, he pulled back again, and the world around me returned. I heard the people chanting again, but those grey eyes held me in thrall, the look in them growing steadily toward something that glinted savagely, t
hough there was amusement there too, amusement that I didn’t understand. The peoples chanting melted into cheers, and then another tense silence fell, which, minutes later, erupted into another chaos of chanting. Nareon pulled me back to him, and the world faded away.
I didn’t know how much later it was that Nareon released me from his game, but when he whispered to me to pull my glamor up, I found myself to be very unwilling. I was warm and comfortable, my lips tender from his kisses, my body flowing with strong, surging energy. It took me an abnormally long time to return to myself, and when it happened, I found myself grappling with no small amount of confusion. I yanked my glamor back into place, and scrambled off his lap, finding my legs shaky. The room was quiet, but I delayed looking behind me, because Nareon’s eyes—while still displaying that wild glint that he got when he kissed me—where now openly laughing.
“Now now, spitfire, don’t look so outraged. You got a good fill.”
I turned away from him, the feeling of unease doubling, and saw that people were beginning to stare at me, now that their human chess game had died down. And then I remembered the horror, the scream. I frantically counted the people walking from the board, including those standing beside it, and found three to be missing, though I couldn’t be sure that they hadn’t just disappeared into the surrounding crowd. Suddenly feeling sick to my stomach, I whirled back on Nareon, and then something else caught my eye. Right in the corner of the room, turning on a huge spit surrounded by a table laden with glass plates of towering snacks—all dressed-up as absurdly as the people—was something that had my world turning completely black.
It had been a man, I thought, once. Though his head was now missing, along with his arms, and his skin was cooked enough that it didn’t look remotely human anymore.
A man, I thought again, numbly.
When I woke up, I thought that only seconds had passed. Nareon’s face was above mine, and when I turned my head to look away from him, I could see the people fleeing the room; all except two, who lay on the ground not far from me. Unmoving. I turned back to Nareon, confusion overriding my fear, and finally focused on his expression. If he had been laughing before, he wasn’t anymore. His eyes were narrowed, focused on my neck.
Hereditary (Beatrice Harrow Series) Page 16