by M. A. Larson
“We get to fight!” said Anisette. As cadets wandered the room inspecting the weaponry, she and Basil started arguing about the merits of a broadsword versus a great sword.
Evie, however, stopped just inside the doorway. Something across the room unsettled her. Two large statues, one around ten feet and the other half that, rested beneath a thin slit window. The smaller of the two was a little girl playing with a frog, her face permanently frozen in the wonder and innocence of childhood. The larger was a witch, feeble and cloaked. The way the statues were positioned, the little girl faced away from the witch, blissfully unaware of what was forever creeping up behind her.
“Gather round, ladies, gather round,” said the Fairy Drillsergeant. Her sparkling dust fell atop a wooden rail that ringed the sparring pit, broken sporadically to allow fighters to enter. “Right. Hessekel. Gisela. Step forward, please.”
No one moved. The girls looked around in confusion.
“That’s right. They’re gone. I discharged them last night.”
The shock was palpable. Evie had been partnered with Hessekel in a drill about navigating enchanted forests a month ago, but hadn’t spoken to her since. Gisela she didn’t know at all. Yet they were Ironbone girls, and now they were gone.
“The Grand Ball has only one winner,” said the Fairy Drillsergeant. “The rest of you will have to fight your way through the Helpless Maiden.” She folded her arms behind her and began floating slowly back and forth. “It’s time to get serious, ladies. The world is falling apart out there. Remember Marburg? Where we first met? The witches are there.”
Several girls gasped, and Demetra called out, “No!” Evie’s mind immediately went to the three little girls dancing on the high street. And what must their faces look like now?
“Marburg will be exceedingly difficult for the witches to take—Princess Gabriela is one of the best there is—but the simple fact that they’re there is troubling. And that’s why we’re here today. I want to give you a taste of a second-year drill to remind you what your training is all about.”
Those three laughing faces spun through Evie’s mind, whirling faster and faster to the fiddler’s tune.
“What is a princess’s first option when confronted by a witch?”
“Evasion,” said a smattering of cadets. Even as a chorus, their voices were grim.
“And if she’s seen you?”
The little girls vanished, replaced by yellow eyes veined with red. If she’s seen you, it’s too late.
“Perhaps you’d opt for a sword, yes?” The Fairy Drillsergeant flicked her wand and a massive broadsword sailed across the room, the steel throwing off sparks as it clanged into the far wall and spun to rest. “A pike perhaps? A mace?” A swirl of the wand launched a wooden spear and spiked ball through the air. Evie glanced at Maggie, and even she looked frightened. “Any witch worth her salt has far more powerful magic than I do. Those weapons,” she said, thrusting a finger across the room, “are useless. Your battle isn’t fought in a tower or village. It’s fought in here.” She thumped her chest with a closed fist. “And your weapons have been with you since the day you were born.
“The witch’s weapon is fear. She aims to put as much into your heart as she can before she takes it. Either that or she’ll simply turn you to stone. If that sounds preferable to death, it is not. The skin hardens to rock. The blood stops flowing. The living flesh is petrified, but the mind is not.” The dull patter of rain was the only sound in the cavernous Armory. None of the girls moved. Most stared at the discarded weapons strewn across the floor.
“The witch uses fear, but so do we. And there’s nothing she fears more than love.” She continued her slow patrol, locking eyes with whichever cadet was in front of her. “She has no answer for it. That is the magic of a Princess of the Shield. That is how you defeat a witch. Whoever scares the other in the core of her heart first, wins. That’s the game.”
She aimed her wand and gave it a flick. The statues began to grind across the floor into the sparring pit. Several girls screamed and covered their ears from the horrible grate of stone on stone. Finally, the statues reached the center of the pit, and the horrific sound stopped with a lingering echo.
“These statues were created to simulate real-world conditions. Our dissident witch helped us design and enchant them to feel authentic. When you step into this ring, you need only remember two things: compassion is your shield, and courage is your weapon. If you can’t draw it, you’ll feel hers. Know yourself and trust yourself, ladies. Let’s find out who you really are.”
Evie studied the malicious grin on the witch’s face. Her eyes were wide, hungrily looking down on the innocent girl.
“Cadet Magdalena, step forward, please.”
Maggie entered the pit through a gap in the rail. The floor had the slightest of grades, like a shallow bowl, sloping away to the center where the statues now rested.
“Are you frightened, Cadet?”
“Yes, Fairy Drillsergeant.”
“Wait ’til you’ve got to find your courage with a twelve-foot mountain witch standing above you.” She flicked her wand again and the statues came to life, a small billow of dust wafting off each. The horrible grinding of stone resumed. “Do your best, Cadet!” she shouted over the din. The figures moved slowly, as though submerged in quicksand. From Evie’s vantage point, she could see most of the right side of Maggie’s face, and there she saw fear.
“Courage cannot coexist with self-doubt!” shouted the Fairy Drillsergeant.
Maggie stood alone before the moving statues. She didn’t move, just stared at the unfolding scene. The witch eased her shoulders back, and her cloak slipped slowly to her feet. The little girl reached out a delicate hand to stroke the frog’s back.
“What’s she feeling, that little girl? Does your heart ache for her?”
The little girl’s head turned, agonizingly slowly, and the lightness in her eyes faded, replaced by an expression of pure terror, an anguished scream. The witch, meanwhile, raised her bony arms, her eyes and mouth pulling even wider until her face was a distorted mask of horror. Spider legs of fear crawled up and down Evie’s body. And I’m not even the one in the pit.
“Now . . . draw your weapon, Cadet,” said the Fairy Drillsergeant.
Maggie closed her eyes and disappeared inside herself. Her hands trembled at her sides. Her eyes squinted tight. The other cadets looked at one another with frightened anticipation, no one quite sure what was happening. But, as certain as the sun, something was happening . . .
A strange glow flickered in the air near Maggie’s chest. It was faint, yet undeniably there.
“That’s it, Cadet! That’s it!”
The pale light intensified, as though each beat of Maggie’s heart made it stronger. The cadets watched in awe, eyes wide, as it pulsed into an illuminated bloom of wafting strands, like a jellyfish of stars.
“There it is, girls. Courage!” called the Fairy Drillsergeant.
Maggie’s jaw quivered and her eyelids went white, so tightly were they closed. As a princess’s magic undulated in the air, the witch’s bloodthirsty smile and hate-filled eyes began to shift away from the little girl to focus on her. With the full force of the witch’s dark magic trained on her, every part of Maggie’s face quivered. Untold stores of darkest terror were hurtling, invisible, straight into her heart.
“That’s her weapon. Suffering . . . despair . . . Only compassion can block it! Look at that little girl!”
Maggie’s body shuddered from the extraordinary effort. Still, the bloom in front of her chest began to spatter and dissolve, like rain on snow. She opened her eyes to focus on the little girl, tears streaming down her cheeks, but it was too late. Her frail blossom of courage faded to deep gray. And then it was gone.
She yelped in pain and fell backward. Then she scrambled up the pit until she backed into one of the rai
l posts, pulling her knees in tight. The Fairy Drillsergeant flicked her wand and the awful grinding sound echoed to a stop.
“Compassion and courage are the only weapons you’ll have against a witch,” said the Fairy Drillsergeant. “I take that rather seriously. Hessekel and Gisela didn’t. What about you? The spell on that statue over there is a quarter of what a real witch can do. It’s time to stop mucking about and commit yourselves, ladies.”
Demetra helped Maggie to her feet. Evie was so shaken that she didn’t even join the chorus of, “Yes, Fairy Drillsergeant.” If good, kindhearted Maggie suffered that much in a simulation, what chance would Evie have when confronted with a real witch? The progress she had made since arriving at the Academy now seemed so fragile. Would it hold up under those piercing yellow eyes? Or would it crumble like so many kingdoms already had?
“PRINCESS CADET MAGDALENA!” called Beatrice.
A flurry of voices became a wild cheer, snapping Evie from her reverie. She was in the Royal Hall and Maggie had a grip on her arm, her eyes as wide as the sun.
“She called my name . . . but those are all princesses of the blood up there . . .”
Cadets congratulated her and guided her away from Evie, down the row of benches toward the center aisle. Only once she was gone did it dawn on Evie that her friend had just been selected to the Grand Ball. She’d been a million miles away, thinking about that day in the Armory. Thinking about courage, or lack thereof.
The entire third class had gathered to hear the announcement of the Grand Ball competitors. Forty knight cadets, ten from each company, stood on the dais in their mud-spattered uniforms. One by one, they had heard called the names of the princesses they would be accompanying. And one by one, elated girls had popped up from the crowd and made their way forward. They had been selected by a small committee of instructors and House Princesses for their effort and dedication to their training thus far. And now each of them had earned the chance to win a coveted place in the second class.
As Maggie’s auburn curls bounced toward the dais, trembling hands hovering near her mouth, Evie felt a twinge of regret that she had been too distracted to congratulate her friend. The applause and the hooting—mainly from Ironbone Company—began to die away as Maggie took her place with her partner, Cadet Stanischild, a rugged boy with thick arms that strained his black tunic. He looked utterly petrified.
Evie glanced across the dais as though she had just woken from a dream, which, in a sense, she had. Nearly all of the knight cadets had already been partnered. Only one remained at the far end. He wore the black of Thrushbeard Company and a half smile. His eyes were on the ceiling, and he looked as though he was struggling to keep from laughing. Girls from all companies leaned forward ever so slightly, desperate to hear the words that would launch a thousand letters home, as though marching down this aisle to become his Grand Ball partner was only the first step toward the inevitable march down the matrimonial aisle.
Evie scanned the blue dresses and found Malora sitting a few rows back. She looked serene, like the cat who knew where the fish swam, the whisper of a smile on her face.
Let it be anyone but her.
Princess Beatrice returned to the lectern. “The final competitor in this year’s Grand Ball . . .” She took a gilded card from one of Rumpledshirtsleeves’s miniature assistants, bedecked in a stylish suit of carmine and pink. “From Ironbone Company, to be escorted by Knight Cadet Remington of Thrushbeard Company . . . Princess Cadet Basil.”
A confused murmur spread through the hall. Evie glanced at Basil, who sat with his arms crossed, a look of supreme annoyance on his face.
Beatrice, taken aback by the crowd’s reaction, only now realized what she had said. She checked the card again, then began lambasting the hapless troll. He held out his upturned hands to show that it wasn’t his fault.
Evie glanced back at Malora, perched at the edge of her bench, frantically scouring the hall for someone to set this horrible injustice to rights. Princess Hazelbranch hurried to the dais and whispered something in Beatrice’s ear. With a glare of furious reproach, the Headmistress raised her hands for quiet. Evie’s eyes met Remington’s, and he gave her the slightest of winks. She didn’t know what it meant, but her cheeks flushed red.
“It seems a mistake has been made,” said Beatrice. Evie didn’t turn back, but she could imagine the smug look on Malora’s face. “The final competitor is not, indeed, Cadet Basil. It is Cadet Eleven.”
Scattered applause broke out. A sea of faces turned toward Evie. She had forgotten that Cadet Eleven was her. Anisette pulled her to her feet and ushered her down the row. “Go on, Eves! You made it!”
The Ironbone girls clapped her back and shouted her name as they helped her to the center aisle. It was only when she stood there, with nothing between herself and Remington except Princess Beatrice, who had resumed her scolding of the poor troll, that she finally understood. She, not Malora, would attend the Grand Ball with Remington.
She began to walk toward the dais, and heads turned to watch. As she mounted the stairs, Hazelbranch gave her a proud nod. For the first time since she had arrived at the Academy, all eyes were on her and she didn’t mind. She stepped past Maggie, who gave her an ecstatic smile, and filed in next to Remington.
“I do sympathize with that bloke, but it had to be done,” he said softly.
“What had to be done?”
“That. All this formality gives me a rash.”
She turned to him and saw a mischievous spark in his eye. “You changed the names? But how?”
“Secret methods,” he whispered.
Beatrice spoke, calming the murmurs of the crowd. “The winner of the Grand Ball brings great honor to her company—and his, of course—as well as the Grand Ball trophy, now housed in Stonewitch Company barracks.”
A cheer went up from the girls of Stonewitch.
“Cadets,” she continued, still scowling at the miniature troll, “these are your champions.”
The Royal Hall filled with applause. Girls called out the names of friends lucky enough to have been chosen. The first few rows of cadets stood, then the rest of third class joined the ovation. Goose bumps rose on Evie’s arms as the sound of mass approval enveloped her. Summoning courage was forgotten. The spiderweb dress was forgotten. Her memory curse was forgotten.
This is what it feels like to belong—
“IT’S NOT FAIR!” screamed a voice of venomous passion. The shriek was so loud that it pierced through the applause. “SHE’S JUST A BLOODY PEASANT!”
The clapping died away and heads swiveled to see who was responsible. A small ring started to open in the Ironbone blue.
“SHE DOESN’T BELONG UP THERE WITH HIM!” wailed Malora, her hands clutched tightly at her chest. Her face was twisted in rage, tears streaming from red eyes. “SHE DOESN’T BELONG UP THERE AT ALL! SHE’S NOTHING BUT A CURRISH, LOWBORN FREAK!”
“THAT IS QUITE ENOUGH!” boomed Princess Beatrice.
“It’s me . . . it’s me . . .” cried Malora, but her wave of fury had already crested.
“I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH!”
The Royal Hall was thick with tension. Though everyone was looking at Malora and trying to make sense of her shocking outburst, Evie had never felt such humiliation in her life. Like a castle in the sand washed over by the tide, her fledgling confidence had vanished. Gradually, the curious eyes shifted her way, as though the cadets needed to see for themselves if the horrible things Malora had said were true. The girl who had been a dragon, then a human, was now something else entirely. She had been made subhuman. An object of ridicule. A freak.
Malora’s sobs echoed through the hall. Red heat climbed Evie’s chest and neck and into her face like flames in a building soon to crumble. She couldn’t move.
“Now,” said Beatrice, and from the sound of her voice, even she was a bit shaken by the outburst. �
�Where were we . . .”
As Beatrice read out an explanation of the Grand Ball’s scoring system, Evie scanned the hall. Every set of eyes she saw was looking straight back at her. Some with sympathy. Some with amusement. Some with vicious whispers to the friends seated next to them.
“Forget it, Evie,” said Remington, leaning in so closely she could feel his breath on her neck. “No one will remember—”
Suddenly, she leapt from the dais in two great bounds, sprinting down the aisle and out of the hall.
“Evie!” shouted Remington. But she was gone.
Her footfalls echoed through the rotunda as she burst out of Pennyroyal Castle, then ran past the fountain and its towering princess statue and down the hill through the swaying grass. She had already leapt the crumbling stone wall before anyone else even started down the hill. By the time they reached the edge of the clearing, she had disappeared into the thick green shadows of the Dortchen Wild, exposing herself to whatever creeping things waited beyond the magical protections of the wall.
She ran and ran and ran, her feet crunching through rust-colored oak leaves. She ran through low red spikes of deadnettles into a valley walled with green. She ran, but her heart was still in the Royal Hall, still trapped in that awful moment of humiliation. Phantom insects crawled over her body and she ran to shake them loose. She ran over hills and splashing streams, through white-flowered viburnum and thick tangles of chokeberry. The hairy arms of the beeches waved above as chill winds blew, and the sky faded from the bright gray of seaside sand to the ominous dark of fresh smoke. She ran until hemlocks slashed her arms and maidenhair ferns grew so thick she couldn’t see the ground beneath.
If this is how humans treat one another, then I’d rather be a dragon.
She ran until her lungs burned and her uniform was soaked through with gossamer mist. After hours of pure flight, she trudged to a stop. Great, heaving sobs wracked her body. Running hadn’t gotten her one step further from the thing she meant to escape.