by Licia Troisi
“I no bad, I no bad,” he said.
“Yes, I heard you,” Nihal said curtly. “Who are you?”
“Malerba. Servant here. I no bad, no be afraid …” He stretched out his hand once again.
Nihal pulled back. He repulsed her. “Thank you for bringing the light.” She told him. “I don’t need anything else. You can leave now.”
Malerba looked contrite. He left the room walking backward like a crab, never taking his eyes off her.
Nihal hung the torch he brought on the wall. The light helped calm her. Her encounter with Malerba had left her feeling edgy so she decided to go to the dining hall to shake off the unease.
Tables full of shouting boys filled the dining hall. The sight of her peers cheered Nihal up a bit—she wasn’t entirely alone after all. She moved toward the tables, looking for an empty seat.
At the sight of her, a hush fell over the room.
Nihal slowed her steps. She didn’t understand what was going on.
The many eyes were staring at her in amazement, fear, menace, and mistrust. Never in her life had she been the object of such scrutiny.
She walked over to an empty chair. The boy sitting next to it rested his hand on it and said, “Taken.”
Nihal tried other empty chairs, but wherever she went the answer was the same. “Taken.”
Then a voice thundered through the silence of the hall. “Why are you dressed like that, half-elf?”
Nihal looked around. The masters were sitting on a platform, separate from the students.
Nihal blinked and looked up. “How should I be dressed?”
“You’re a cadet, or so they say,” the man said in a biting tone. “That means you should be dressed in the cadets’ tunic.”
Standing there surrounded by so much hostility made Nihal feel frail. “No one gave me one,” she apologized.
“Then you shouldn’t have come down. Didn’t Lahar tell you the rules?”
“Yes, but I …”
The man interrupted her sternly, saying, “You’ll make up for this mistake by doing a round of guard duty until dawn. As far as your clothes are concerned, Malerba will bring them to you later.”
A few of the boys snickered.
“Now sit down and eat,” he ordered.
Nihal went to the last vacant seat. She didn’t even have time to ask.
“No freaks and no girly girls,” a kid said.
Nihal moved away. What could he mean? The Overworld was full of races of all sorts: nymphs, wood sprites, gnomes, humans … Why did he say there was no room for freaks?
Nihal had spent most of her life in a land populated by racial mixes. She’d never felt particularly different. But here, among the elite of humankind, it was as if she were a quirk of nature.
She found an isolated place to sit, far from everyone, and ate in silence, feeling bitter.
After dinner, she went back to her hole of a room, doing her best not to attract any attention. Malerba was waiting for her on the threshold, a shapeless bundle in his hands and a stupid smile on his face.
Nihal took the bundle of clothes without looking at him. He was preparing to step into the room but Nihal snapped at him, “You can go.”
The servant once again looked at her with a crushed expression. Then he left.
Nihal locked herself inside. Knowing that the creature was out there waiting for her drove her crazy. In a rage, she stuck her sword across the door so that no one—not Malerba nor any of the cadets—could come in.
She was alone. The pallid flicker of her torch made her room feel like a prison cell.
She unwrapped the bundle of clothes and found a pair of britches and a loose cloth jacket. She threw them in a corner and stretched out on the straw without changing. From the other side of the door, she could hear the voices and laughter of her fellow cadets. She was not a part of it.
For the first time, she felt aware of the fact that she wasn’t human. She was an outsider. There was no one else like her. She was the last one, an ancient thing from another time altogether.
What was she doing here? The half-elves were all dead. There was no place for her among the living. She felt too different.
That night, she cried for a long time, doing her best to muffle the sound of her sobs and angrily drying her tears with the back of her hand. She cried until she fell back asleep.
Someone tried to open her door in the small hours of the night. Nihal woke with a start. She was frightened. “Who’s there?”
From outside came Malerba’s voice muttering something about guards and shifts. Nihal remembered her punishment and realized she still felt utterly humiliated.
She dressed in a rush. The jacket hung loosely around her, making her look even punier. She grabbed her sword and her cloak and stepped out.
When Malerba saw her, his face lit up. He put a hand on her arm. “Gate. They’re waiting there.”
“Don’t touch me,” she growled, yanking away her arm.
Nihal found a sleepy guard waiting for her at the main entrance to the Academy.
“You lucked out. It’s only a few hours til dawn,” he said, yawning.
He sounded polite, until he recognized her in the torchlight. Then he made sure to look at her spitefully.
Nihal took the lance he was holding. It was freezing cold out and the clothes they had given her provided no warmth; without her cloak she would have frozen to death. Nihal shivered, struggling to keep her eyes open. She was off to an excellent start.
Things did not improve throughout the rest of the day.
She ate breakfast alone as she had eaten dinner the night before and then went to the training room. Many of the others had already arrived and begun training. She noticed that they were organized into groups. She was looking around, trying to decide which group to join, when a man beckoned to her.
“You must be the new cadet. I’m Parsel, the weapons master. Here, come with me.”
Nihal followed him to a clear area where a group of boys had gathered. They were all more or less her age.
“This is our youngest team. This is where cadets learn the fundamentals of sword handling and other basic techniques.”
Nihal was incredulous. “What do you mean, the basics? I was accepted into the Academy because I beat ten of the best sword fighters in the place!”
“Is that so? Well, my orders are to teach you, so you’ll have to start from the beginning.”
Nihal insisted, “All right, then. Let’s fight. That way you can see my skill level and place me in the right group.”
Her hand was on her sword, but Parsel blocked her. He was beginning to get irritated with her. “Listen, girl, it’s hard enough having a woman here as it is. You’d do well to step down off your high horse and do as I say.”
Nihal conceded.
She spent the entire morning listening to things she already knew and practicing like a novice, besting each kid she was partnered with.
She thought about how she’d imagined life at the Academy. When she compared her dreams to reality , she was overcome with sadness.
14
NIHAL THE RECRUIT
That day was just the first in a long series of sad, lonely days that arrived along with winter in the Land of the Sun.
Familiarity did not alter the other cadets’ attitude toward Nihal. She was a woman, she looked strange, and now they were all coming to fear her, too.
The more time passed, the more clear it became that Nihal possessed great skill. At the same time, the story of how she’d gained entry to the Academy reached the ears of those who hadn’t been there to see it for themselves.
A rumor began to circulate that Nihal was some kind of witch, the descendant of an evil race with a propensity for war and mayhem. Some even insinuated that she was a spy sent by the Tyrant himself to destroy the Academy from within. Consequentially, the other cadets kept their distance from her. In the halls, they would part ways to let her pass. Hostile murmurs and reproachful gaze
s accompanied her wherever she went.
One incident in particular did much to foster their fears.
Frequently, groups of boys hovered outside her room to play some prank or another, but they always fled the moment they heard her move inside.
One night, immersed in her usual fitful sleep, Nihal didn’t notice that someone had managed to get into her room. In her sleep, the screaming faces in her dreams felt so close that she thought she would suffocate.
And then someone touched her.
Malerba was bending over her, a beastly smile on his face. He was stroking her arm and mumbling a prayer.
Nihal screamed, grabbed her sword, and held it to his throat.
The servant burst into tears and begged Nihal for forgiveness, but she was furious. She dragged him out of the room. A group of sleepy boys gathered in the hall at the sound of her yells. They retreated when they saw her fury and the sword in her hand.
“Take a good hard look, you jerks! This is what happens to anyone who tries to hurt me.”
Then she drew her blade across crying Malerba’s neck. It was just a scratch, but that night saw the end of the forays to her room.
Despite this, there was no real improvement in Nihal’s nights.
All the hatred and isolation Nihal was subjected to made her dreams even more severe. There was not a single night when the faces of the half-elves did not torment her. When she woke, terrified, the sight of her room made her even more distraught. She felt like she was inside a coffin. She would sit up, wrap her arms round her knees, look out at the sliver of sky visible through the tiny window, and do her best not to cry.
Every night it was the same routine.
Nihal became increasingly obsessed with avenging her father and her people. The sorrow she felt deep inside hardened her. The cadets’ hatred of her had upset her at first, but she grew comfortable with it as time went on—she even liked it a little, relishing the fact that they feared her.
Sennar did not keep his promise to visit her the first month, nor the second, nor the third.
Nihal needed desperately to speak with him, to hear him tell her once more that everything was all right, that the night would pass. But all she got was a brief message carried by the little hawk. It read, “I’m dead tired and I never get a break, but I’m doing fine. I haven’t forgotten you.”
Nihal grew sullen and reserved. She threw herself fully into her training. Her fighting style grew increasingly angry and violent, her skills merciless and quick.
Parsel, the weapons master, recognized Nihal’s potential, and it bothered him to see her wasting her time with a bunch of kids who didn’t even know how to handle a weapon.
One day he took her aside. “I see how you move, how you fight. You’re good, Nihal,” he told her.
She looked at him suspiciously; she didn’t know if she could trust him. His words could mean a lot or nothing at all.
“Have you seen real combat?”
Nihal told him about her lessons from Livon and Fen and about the three Fammin she’d killed—two in Salazar, the other along the border with the Land of the Sun.
“I thought as much. So, you weren’t talking nonsense the first day after all.”
Parsel smiled and Nihal, who always maintained an air of pride and composure, lowered her eyes.
Parsel thought it was time to teach Nihal something new.
“I’ve asked Raven to let you begin learning other fighting techniques, but I’ve had no reply,” he said.
Nihal sighed. She imagined the door to her prison opening a tiny bit and then slamming back shut.
“That man hates me,” she said.
“Don’t say that. You didn’t know him in his fighting days. He was an incredible warrior. Now, power’s made him a little flabby, but believe me, deep down inside he’s still a valiant warrior. He knows a fighter when he sees one. He’ll change his mind about you as soon as you have a chance to show him what you can do on the battlefield. War is completely different from what goes on in here.”
When Parsel offered to teach her to use a lance outside the regular lesson time, Nihal felt freed from captivity. They practiced almost every evening and, at long last, she was able to use her talents to the full. Using the lance was exciting. She learned to fight hand to hand and to attack from horseback. Altogether, having a chance to learn something new made her feel like she was alive again.
Parsel, for his part, had taken her situation to heart. He admired her dedication and her tenacity. Her talent amazed him more with each passing day.
He sensed a deep sadness in her; something unusual in someone so young. Although he had never had a family nor been in love, he felt a protective, almost paternal instinct toward Nihal.
They developed a strong bond through fighting; they spoke with their weapons. Nihal was closed, guarded. She would only let her feelings come out in combat, and Parsel learned to recognize his pupil’s frame of mind in her movements. He did his best to break through the barrier of resentment she’d built up around herself.
They were never really friends, though. Nihal only confided in Parsel once, one evening when she told him about her fear of Malerba and about the time she’d awakened to find him in her room.
Parsel listened, then shook his head. “You should give him a chance. What he went through was terrible.”
Nihal’s ears perked up.
“He’s a dwarf,” Parcel explained. “We don’t know what land he’s from. We found him a few years ago rotting away in a prison when we took one of the Tyrant’s cities in the Land of Days. Malerba had wounds all over his body and he bore signs of torture. There were a lot of other dwarves with him, male and female, all more dead than alive. We brought them back with us, hoping to save them, but there wasn’t anything more we could do. He was the only one to survive. He cared for his cellmates so loyally, showed such sorrow when they died; we thought they might have been members of his family. At the time, we didn’t know about the horrors the Tyrant inflicts upon the people he conquers. Later, after we’d seen a lot of similar cases, we understood. The Fammin aren’t what we might call a natural race. They’re beings the Tyrant created using magic, and he wants to create more of these obedient followers. To do that, he conducts experiments on prisoners. Malerba is the living proof. The record of abuse on his body is a testimony to the Tyrant’s attempts to transform the dwarves into perfect warriors. We have no idea how many victims his experiments have involved, nor how many of them are already dead. Perhaps entire races.”
Nihal shivered.
“It could be that you remind Malerba of someone. There was a young girl in the cell with him. Who knows—maybe she was his daughter.” Parsel looked over at her. “He doesn’t want to hurt you. Try to be tolerant. Life has already dealt him a lot of blows.”
Knowing what Malerba had been through didn’t stop Nihal from fearing him, but she was at least able to look at him differently. She forced herself to suppress her aversion and tried to treat him with kindness by thanking him for his services and responding to his ugly smiles. After a time, she began to glimpse a feeble light of gratitude. She realized that they were not so different: they were both outcasts, feared, hated, and alone.
Five months after she had arrived at the Academy, Nihal was summoned to an audience with Raven. She made her way to the Great Hall where the Supreme General was waiting for her on his throne.
“I’m told you’re talented and are making rapid progress, little girl,” he lilted.
Nihal couldn’t believe her ears.
“Your weapons master has asked more than once for permission to move you up to advanced training. The moment has arrived. You may begin learning to use other weapons. You are dismissed.”
Raven left the room, his long cloak dragging behind him. Nihal was stunned, but happy.
In her new group, Nihal was immediately at ease.
Her new classmates were just as arrogant as the others, but she was finally able to use her abilities to th
e fullest. Her lance training with Parsel made her eager to try new weapons. The training sessions flew by, and Nihal was excited to be learning so many new things.
She learned the usefulness of a dagger in hand-to-hand combat and got a thorough sense for all she might manage with a lance. Despite her small size, she gave the mace and the axe a try, as well.
She didn’t do so well with the mace. Just lifting the heavy weapon was difficult enough, let alone aiming and landing blows, but she really liked the axe. In many ways, it reminded her of the sword. It was a powerful and simple weapon, perfect for conveying her wrath.
They trained with a whip, as well, like the one Thoren had used when he’d nearly killed her. She realized how difficult it was to handle.
Last but not least came archery training.
Put simply, it was a struggle. Nihal loved the fury of battle and hand-to-hand combat, the sweat and exertion. The bow and arrow, however, require composure and concentration, not her strong points.
“That’s exactly why you have to learn to use it,” Parsel said, when she complained.
After considerable practice, Nihal improved at handling the new weapon. Brute strength was unnecessary, and once she learned to aim it, she actually started to like it. Few others in her group learned to aim as quickly, or as well, as she did. In short order, Nihal began to practice shooting while in motion.
But the sword was still her favorite weapon. She was better at fencing than at anything else, and it was only when wielding her black blade that she felt truly comfortable.
It wasn’t long before Nihal surpassed her comrades-in-arms. Her peers began to admire her skill. Now they viewed her with both wariness and respect.
Her colleagues were all seventeen—older than she was—except for a small boy with grey eyes, chubby cheeks, and a head full of blond curls.
Nihal hardly noticed him. She’d long since given up trying to socialize, but he sought her out one day in the dining hall.
Nihal was eating alone as usual when she heard a small voice say, “Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”