by Narro, B. T.
“Yes, and there is a large creature looking for fish as well.”
Zoke took a step back. “Where?”
“Close, around thirty yards in front of us.” Vithos pointed toward the waves ahead. “It’s smarter than a fish, yet well below the intelligence of a Krepp. I’m curious as to what it is. Want to find out?”
“How big is it?” Zoke asked, taking another step back from the dark blue water.
“Can’t be sure,” Vithos said happily. “But because of the way it carries itself confidently, I’d assume large.”
“Could it be a gektar?” Just saying the word made the memory of the beast clear as the sky above.
Six years ago, when Zoke was ten—pra durren, a dead gektar had washed up on the beach where the Krepps fished. It was too large for anyone to move, so those who wished to see it needed to complete their weekly tasks to the tribe. Then they were allowed to join an escorted group that walked the two-day trek to the beach. The sight of the monster from the sea showed up in Zoke’s dreams for months after.
It was the first gektar any living Krepp within the tribe had seen. Each of its many tentacles was as long as a massive tree and as wide as a full-grown Krepp. Those who saw it the first day it was beached said the suction cups on the tentacles still attached to anyone who touched them—Zoke was glad he didn’t see that. The body and head of the beast appeared to be the same part, the middle, where each tentacle was connected. That’s where its eyes were, two massive spheres stuck open and half buried in the sand. But worst of all was its mouth, which was large enough to easily fit a full-grown Krepp.
Those with Zoke’s group wanted to see its teeth and Zeti, at just six—pra durren, volunteered to hold down its lower jaw. Zoke stood at a safe distance, petrified, as his minuscule sister climbed onto the monster’s face. When she pried open its mouth, he saw that each tooth was at least her size. She even reached a claw inside to feel the sharpness of one. Vithos had visited the beach that day to see the gektar as well. Zoke remembered seeing him there.
Now Vithos found the knife on his belt and drew it. “Could be.” His voice was playful, like he was somehow enthusiastic about finding a gektar. “I have no way to be sure without seeing it.”
Vithos placed his free hand in the water and pulled out a fish after a few quick breaths. “Here,” he said, handing their breakfast to Zoke along with the knife. “Take this back to the cove. I want to see what creature is in front of us. I love playing with confident animals.”
Zoke gladly returned to the mountainside to watch from a safe distance, removing the head of the fish along the way. Vithos cautiously backed into shallower water while pointing his palm out to sea. Zoke watched, a nervous feeling taking the place of what used to be hunger in his stomach.
It happened so quickly, Zoke found himself bumping into the mountainside when he tried to move back even farther. A dorsal fin cut through the water, and Vithos began retreating faster. The speed of the fin increased as it headed toward the shore where Vithos now stood. The fin submerged, and for a heartbeat Zoke couldn’t find it, but then the next wave broke. The fearsome face of a great white shark came at Vithos with its teeth bared. Vithos’ other hand shot forward, and the shark twisted and spun in the shallow water.
Vithos created more distance, retreating farther from the water as the shark turned left, right, back, and then forward. Vithos let his hands rest and sprinted. The shark chased after him, even onto the sand, until it couldn’t use its momentum to move any farther.
Giving up, the shark shimmied back into the sea, and Vithos cackled with excitement.
Zoke was disgusted by what he’d just seen. How is he amused by this? He must have a death wish. “You play with sharks, you’re bound to be bit,” Zoke said, but Vithos just continued to laugh.
Zoke sighed, slowly feeling the nervousness seep out of him. “What did you do to stop it?” He was curious, figuring it had to be some sort of psychic spell that caused the shark to twirl in the shallow water. He’d never seen anything like that in the judgment chambers.
With a big smile, Vithos said, “I won’t be able to explain it, so I’ll show you.”
“No, don’t…” But it was too late. Vithos reached his hand toward Zoke. Spots of bright colors began flashing in front of all else. It was like looking directly at the sun through a thousand rainbows. He closed his eyes to escape it, yet colorful dots continued to flash under his eyelids. He screamed for it to stop, and then it did, as abruptly as it began.
“I’m not sure what to call it, but in my mind I label it ‘mesmerize,’ ” Vithos said proudly.
Zoke spat. Anger surged through his veins, and he was barely able to keep himself from screaming. “That makes it sound more tolerable than it really is! It should be called ‘torture.’ ”
“No, I already have something by that name, want to—”
“If you do, I’ll beat you with my stick.” Zoke pointed it at Vithos and spat again. “You were almost killed by a shark, and yet you laugh. You waste energy entertaining yourself at my expense with the offer of doing it again right after. You’re acting like a child!” Zoke suddenly felt a wave of dizziness come and then pass. He held his head and took a breath, remembering his hunger.
“No,” Vithos answered sternly. “My childhood was nothing like this, and that’s the problem.” A solemn silence fell over them, and Vithos breathed in slowly. “Don’t you see? For the first time I’m free to do what I want, and you as well.”
Zoke would have spit again, but he’d run out of saliva for the moment. “Except for return to the tribe…” Zoke spoke as contemptuously as he could.
Vithos scrunched his face. “If you really wish to return, I won’t stop you, but you have a better chance of swimming past the shark to Grendor Isle than finding the tribe and joining them again.” Vithos pointed across fifty miles of ocean at the mountainous island and waited for the impossibility of the task to sink in. “After searching the Elven town in Merejic for clues, we’ll return to the camp so that you can see I was right about everything.” Vithos’ shoulders relaxed and his head turned back to Zoke. “Let’s work together to get what we want.”
Zoke approached Vithos, giving the Elf a hard look to show how serious he was. “No more psyche on me. Don’t even ask to use it.”
Vithos nodded slowly, regretfully.
They ate quickly and quietly, listening only to the sounds of the tide. Zoke was a slow eater, as Zeti repeatedly told him. It gave Zoke time to think. He stared at Vithos, feeling like it was the first time he was really seeing the Elf for who he was. After all the years they’d worked together, Zoke had never seen Vithos smile or laugh. He was always reserved to a point of predictability, even. But Vithos had surprised him so many times in the last five days, Zoke no longer had any idea what the Elf would do next. It was like traveling with a wild animal—one with immeasurable power. The thought sent a chill through his reptilian body.
When Vithos was done eating, he simply closed his eyes and waited quietly, completely at peace, or so it seemed.
“I’m ready,” Zoke said when his meal was consumed, eager to break the silence. As he stood, the top of the sun burst over the hill, hitting his skin with a tingle of satisfaction.
Vithos opened his eyes and glanced around cautiously, like he expected to find someone spying on them. “We should be able to reach Merejic before lunch if we hurry.”
They climbed the steep hills on the edge of the sand to return to where they were the evening before. Even in its second viewing, the mystery and beauty of the forest touched somewhere deep within Zoke, but that didn’t take away the sense of danger it gave him. What will we find in there? He’d heard nothing of Merejic, and he’d never been in a forest before.
A dark thought suddenly came to him. Or what will find us?
Chapter 20: Evaluation Week Begins
CLEVE
“Practice, patience, and progress. You may have heard it before, but not many know it came from h
ere, from this very field, where students like yourselves have learned to become true warriors for twenty-two years.”
Cleve stood alongside forty-nine other students, thankful for the booming tone of the teacher addressing them. It helped him focus—a task he’d found nearly impossible since the terror that had gripped him that morning when he’d realized his bow was missing.
The teacher was a thick man, a mass of fat and muscle, and must have been older than forty. From the look of the man’s hardened face, leathered from years in the sun, Cleve figured many of those years had been spent on Warrior’s Field, where he himself would be much of the next three years, unless his missing bow wound up putting him in the dungeons.
“Evaluation week starts now,” his teacher bellowed. “For those who don’t know, that means every warrior and every mage will be judged during this time. When the week is over, each of you will be placed in the appropriate group that matches your skill level. Luckily for us, the mages are judged separately from the warriors and kept far from this field, where they can cast fire without risk of injuring the class that makes up two-thirds of the King’s Guard: the warriors. Unluckily for you thick-skulled men, you’re going to have to listen to some math in this next part.
“First of all, when I say warriors, I mean student warriors. No matter who you think you are, you’re not officially a warrior of Kyrro until your three years here are completed. Now listen closely. Three thousand students attend the Academy. They’re split evenly into three grades: first-year, second-year, and third-year. That means there are how many per grade? You.” The instructor pointed at someone far down the line.
“One thousand,” he answered somewhat sheepishly.
“One thousand,” the instructor repeated loudly. “Out of those one thousand per grade, five hundred are warriors, three hundred are mages, one hundred and fifty are chemists, and fifty are psychics, or claim to be psychics at least, and were convincing enough to the recruiter.” The instructor clapped his hands once loudly. “Pay attention. I know that’s a lot of numbers, especially for a group of half-wit young men, but the important part is still to come. Five hundred warriors per grade, that makes how many in the school? You.” He pointed at another student warrior Cleve couldn’t see from where he stood.
“Fifteen hundred.” The answer sounded like a whisper.
“Five hundred multiplied by three is fifteen hundred,” the instructor repeated, even louder than before. “The Champion title, how many have heard of it?” He waited for every warrior to raise his hand. “As I expected. Each year, only three—only three—of those one thousand five hundred warriors will receive this very prestigious title, just one warrior from each grade. This title comes with a certificate. It’s an indication of tenacity, overall ability, and dedication to the warrior class. So not surprisingly, the most questions I get are about the title, which is why we discuss it on the first day now. There is only one way to receive it, and it has nothing to do with evaluation week.” The instructor held a single finger and met each student’s eyes one by one. He repeated it three times as he looked down the line, “One way…one way…one way. And that is to win Redfield.”
None of this was new information to Cleve, but he heard whispers and hums of understanding from others that suggested they hadn’t known.
“Some of you may believe that the only way to be selected to compete in Redfield is by placing well in evaluation week. This…is…not…true.” Each of his last four words was yelled in staccato. “Not all Redfield competitors are selected from Group One. Instead, the selection is based purely on every student’s independent abilities. So even if you do not place in Group One, that does not mean you should give up. Practice, patience, and progress. Remember these words throughout the year and follow them. Practice what you’re told, be patient with yourself, your teacher, and your fellow students, and keep track of how you progress, find out what works for you, and utilize that.
“Lastly, who knows how many student warriors will graduate with a certificate stamped by the King, the certificate that officially recognizes them as warriors? You, what do you think?” He pointed down the line again.
“Most of the third-years?” the nervous student replied, just loud enough for Cleve to hear.
“All of them! Every year, all of our warriors have graduated, and each first-year and second-year warrior has moved up to the next grade. Twenty-two years this has happened, and this year will be no different. Follow our rules to ensure this is the case: Do not do anything to decapitate yourself or anyone else. Do not do anything to break bones or lose limbs—yours or anyone else’s. Do not speak ill of the King or of your instructors. Do not drink alcohol during training, and do not show up drunk or hungover. I will repeat that—do not drink during training or step on this grass drunk or hungover! You can get silly and stupid on your own time, but when you’re on this field, it’s time to work. This grass is to remain clear of alcohol, piss, and vomit, three things that go along with drunken warriors.
“Now, jog a lap around our section to warm up your body because we’re starting with duels. Let’s go.” The instructor clapped his hands twice. “Move!”
They hurried off like a herd of sheep, zipping around the square section of field designated for their groups of fifty for evaluation week. Their instructor barked commands at them from the center. “Don’t cut corners! Stay together!”
As Cleve jogged, he wondered the same thing that had been bothering him all morning. Who has my bow, and what will happen to it? He figured it was unlikely that one of the King’s men was involved because he hadn’t been arrested yet. That meant that someone had stolen it, but only his roommates and Terren knew of its existence, or so he’d thought until speaking with Alex last night.
While some memories of last night couldn’t have been clearer, mostly those with Reela, many were riddled with holes. Reela had told him that Alex knew something about him, something Alex had really wanted to say. Cleve remembered that clearly enough. He also remembered most of his conversation with Reela before talking to Alex.
Something had started Reela on a path of guessing everything she could about Cleve. “You’re not ticklish,” she’d said and then quickly added, “You don’t bruise easily. You’ve never broken a bone. You can’t remember laughing so hard you cried. Am I right so far?”
It was a dangerous path, a psychic starting at his skin, moving deeper through muscle and bone, getting to raw emotions underneath. If she kept at it, she was likely to discover something he didn’t want her to find.
“Yes. What about you?” he asked in an attempt to shift focus away from himself.
“What about me?” she asked back with a playful smile.
“Those same things, what are your answers?”
“I don’t bruise easily. I’ve never broken a bone. The last time I laughed so hard I cried was a couple months ago.” She didn’t let her eyes off him as she sipped from her glass.
“And ticklish?” It felt strange to ask her but still better than the mute stare Cleve found himself slipping into when she stopped talking. He hated how his eyes were always drawn to her.
“I’m only ticklish when I’m not expecting it,” she answered. “Surprises can be quite powerful. When we’re not prepared for something, it’s far easier to become emotional and act in ways we normally wouldn’t.” The way she raised her eyebrows at him made it seem as if she was referring to something about him.
Is she saying I surprise her? Just the mere idea of having any effect on Reela’s emotions caused his breath to catch in his throat. He couldn’t even formulate a full thought. The silence had grown too long. He needed to say something. “What do you mean?” was what came out.
“So you’re telling me it’s normal for you to wildly spit out drinks as you’ve already done twice tonight?” She seemed to be holding back a laugh.
“Oh, that,” Cleve chuckled in relief, and she joined him. “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t have spit if I wasn’t so surpri
sed by the taste.” His heart calmed.
When their laughing subsided, she said, “It’s not often that I find something to be surprising. It seems to be the same for you?”
He nodded. “But that’s not because I don’t surprise easily. Surprise just doesn’t find me. There’s no room for it in my day, too much routine.” As he reflected on those words now, he was amazed by how much surprise had reached him since then. Just waking up to find his bow missing was enough shock for a lifetime.
“Let’s change that.” She’d taken his hand and tried to pull him toward Alex. “Come on, let’s confront him,” she’d said. “Find out what he knows about you.” Even though Cleve was half numb from the liquor, her touch gave him chills of pleasure that made it nearly impossible to let go, but somehow he managed to slip free.
“I’d like to speak to him alone,” he’d told Reela. He figured Alex knew something of his family and didn’t wish for Reela to be there in case he became emotional. As if she’d known it was just a matter of pride, she’d nodded with an understanding smile.
She’s always smiling, Cleve thought as he reflected on his memories of last night, but I hardly know what about.
Alex hadn’t denied knowing something of Cleve, but Cleve remembered being stunned to find out what it was. “My brother told me they’re looking for someone proficient with the bow,” Alex had said. “And you’re being investigated. He said they’re looking into the son of Dex Polken, Cleve Polken. That’s you, correct?”
Cleve couldn’t recall his own answer or anything else of that seemingly important conversation with Alex. He didn’t understand why that was, especially when he could remember not only what had been said with Reela, but also what he’d felt during each turn of their conversation.
He’d hoped to find Alex on Warrior’s Field to speak about it again but hadn’t spotted him yet.
When the lap was finished, Cleve focused to prepare himself for duels. He expected he would be more nervous about them if his missing bow wasn’t causing far worse alarm. He’d dueled many times but only against Terren. Cleve worried that he’d learn to fight the man, not the sword, so he was concerned someone who fought differently than his uncle might use techniques to which he wasn’t accustomed.