by Prince Edan
One by one, students were called from each school, Lady April’s Academy, Denver’s School of Knights, and finally, King’s Academy. Roland watched as his classmates returned with smiling faces and barely contained excitement. He waited for his own name to be called, but Lord Kayne didn’t mention him as the minutes slowly dragged on.
“That is all,” Lord Kayne said after he finished the last student, “I would like to thank all the students for doing their best and taking the time away from school to participate in the tournament. I’m sure many of you have noticed by now that hard work really pays off. Well done.”
The band began one final piece and both men left, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake. Roland exchanged a weary glance with Imani and Clark as people chatted energetically around them. None of their names were announced.
“Fuck,” Clark muttered in disbelief.
Imani ran her hand through her curls and sighed.
Roland looked at his feet.
They hadn’t called his name. They didn’t want him. He had worked so hard for this. His hand curled into tight fist until his nails were digging into his skin. This meant everything to him. He wanted to feel a sense of belonging. He was sure his family would have welcomed him with open arms. He also wanted to return to his roots, visit the place that had made him the man he was now. He was sixteen, almost seventeen; he was running out of time to make decisions and choose what path he would take in life.
Tears welled in his eyes. He wanted to see his mother more than anything else; the woman that had picked him up every time fell. Roland had worked so hard, and he had believed that he would meet her again. Hours of practicing, all for nothing? He had studied hard, worked hard so he could help them. He couldn’t meet them with the way things were now. Roland stood up, but Bramen grabbed his hand.
“Where are you going?” he asked. “We’re heading back to the academy now.”
Roland wiped his eyes and tried to calm down. He didn’t want the man to think that he was weak. Maybe he should just stick to becoming a pianist. That was the path everyone else had decided for him, and possibly the only thing left for him to do. Forget about his family, forget about the rebellion, and just do what society expected of him.
No. He couldn’t give up, wouldn’t give up.
Roland managed a weak smile. “Of course.”
There were times when Roland felt lost, as if he had forgotten who he was as he tried to fit into society. He was sure that returning home would help him clear his mind. Once he arrived at school, he would head to the practice music room and play the piano until sunrise or until he fell asleep. It would calm him down, release the anger that was surging through him before he took it out on someone else.
Bramen placed a hand on the middle of Roland’s back and said, “You did well, son.” The instructor glanced at Imani and Clark. “You all did well, but I guess you just weren’t what the army was looking for.”
Imani rolled her eyes. “I’m not really in the mood to stay here any longer or listen to any of the crap that comes out your mouth, so let’s just go,” she said, shaking her head. “This is complete bullshit.”
Chapter XVI
“She said you’ve grown up too fast,
You think you’ve got the world in your palm.
But baby, would you stay with me, one last….”
Roland’s voice trailed off and he looked at the music sheets positioned on the music stand attached to the piano. His fingers hit a jumble of discordant notes and he winced. Somehow, his own song had become something he hated. It reminded him of the pressure he faced every day, the way he pushed himself to gain a place in this forsaken society. He crumpled the pieces of paper and threw them on the tiled floor.
The day’s events were still fresh in his mind, raw anger flooded his veins. He needed to calm down, relax, and think clearly. So he had lost a chance to see his family, there would be more. Wouldn’t there? He sighed.
The practice room was small, landscape paintings of the grasslands in the east and the lakefront hung on the walls. White tiles covered the floor, and the grand piano sat in the midst of everything. Roland stood up and walked over to the room’s large bay windows that overlooked a clump of coniferous trees. He leaned back against the wall.
The sky was dark, thousands of stars sparkling within its magnificent expanse. The night air was still. No leaves rustled or shook on their branches, no birds flew from tree to tree. Only silence. He couldn’t hear the crickets chirping or the rowdy kids that stayed up past curfew. It was well past midnight, and he couldn’t bring himself to sleep.
The door opened and Kio entered with two steaming cups of hot chocolate. He was wearing a gray shirt and black jumper splattered with paint. “Do you want the one with marshmallows or no marshmallows?”
“Marshmallows.” Roland wasn’t surprised by Kio’s presence, the boy always showed up when Roland least expected him to.
Kio handed him a blue cup. “When you didn’t return to our room, I was kind of worried that something had happened to you, but I decided to check here first. You’re a creature of habit, you know? If you can’t sleep, you either come here or head down to the lake.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No.”
Roland drank the hot chocolate slowly. It was soothing and the extra sugar provided by the marshmallows spiked his energy levels. He felt like he could run a marathon.
Kio glanced at the crumpled pieces of paper and asked, “The tournament didn’t go well, did it?”
Roland snorted.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
Roland shrugged.
Kio raised his left brow. “You never told me you wanted to join the Order’s attacking unit. Neither did Clark.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be, I’m just some pacifist that doesn’t give a damn about our country's military affairs. I’m sure you both have your reasons for wanting to engage in the acts of war and murder. Still, I would have liked if you told me about it. “
“Sorry.”
“Can’t you say anything else?”
Roland bit his lower lip. “People like Clark have everything. They never have to work a day in their lives. They don’t have to worry about getting proper meals and clothes for the harsh Canadian winters. I had to work my ass off every day just to get to where I am today. And what’s that done for me? Nothing. Everything I want, everything I desire, has always been taken away. I was born into a life where I had to leave my family to survive. I turned my back on my own blood, Kio.” The guilt was slowly eating away at Roland’s mind. “Doesn’t that make me a bad person? I’m the type of guy who would abandon the people I love so I can advance in life.”
“Not bad, just logical,” Kio said. “Everyone wants to improve, everyone wants to grow up and become independent, and you’re no different.”
Roland glanced at his polished black shoes.
“A year ago, you told me you would become a pianist that would perform for the King. You told me you wouldn’t give up no matter what life throws at you. Right now it sounds like you want to run away from everything and blame it on the rich and powerful for making your life hard.”
“I’m not running away.”
“Then why do you want to join the army? It’s a dead end job.”
“I want to see them again.”
“See who?”
At Roland’s silence, Kio continued, his nostrils flaring, “You want to go to war, shed someone else’s blood for the sake of society that is on the verge of collapsing. Oh, and guess what? If you’re lucky, you live to tell your bloody tale. Does that really appeal to you? Huh?”
“I have my reasons,” Roland insisted. He remembered Director Brody’s warning about revealing the truth of his past. If the authorities were alerted, both he and Mr. Brody would have their heads chopped off for going against the King. The poor were still fighting for equality, the rich were still oppressing them, and Rouge Resistance members we
re causing hell for everyone. The people in the ghettos were considered savages, rebels unworthy of being integrated into this overindulgent society. They fought bravely but they lacked the infrastructure needed to advance themselves.
Section IV of the King’s Commandment’s stated,
“Any city or rural dweller that assist the members of the ghettos or take them into their family will be killed along with their savage.”
The poor people living within the ghettos weren’t considered human by law and thus had no rights. They were simply dirt.
Roland saw concern in his friend’s eyes, but he wasn’t sure if he could tell him. Not yet.
“It’s stupid,” Roland said, chuckling to himself.
“Tell me.”
“Well, when I was a young orphan, there was a woman that used to feed me and take care of me. She was a member of the Order. I thought that I would be able to see her again if I joined the army,” Roland lied. There was a woman that used to take care of him—Director Brody’s niece. She was a beautiful young woman that had died in the line of duty. She took him from his mother’s grasp, nurtured him, and gave him the opportunity to do something with his life.
“That’s not stupid at all,” Kio said. “It’s quite respectable, actually.”
“You think so?”
Kio placed his hand on Roland’s shoulder and smiled. “Is joining the main unit the only way to meet her?”
Roland nodded.
“Then I’ll give you my permission to do it, but you must return soon after.”
“I was rejected. They don’t want me.”
“Then you just have to try again, but this time you’ll give it everything you’ve got. You have to thank the woman that supported you when no one else wanted to. She deserves it.”
“Okay.”
“Now, let’s go sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.” Kio stifled a yawn. “And I’m beat.”
“Working on a new project?”
“I am. A family portrait for this lovely elderly woman, Miss Landry. She’s a real piece work. From what we’ve discussed, she used to do some serious work on a stripper pole when she was young and sexy. She knew just how to move her hips to charm a man. She asked me to captivate her youthful essence in this painting. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“Sounds entertaining.”
“You haven’t got a clue, brother.” Kio winked. “Miss Landry has a lot of energy for her age.”
Chapter XVII
On Monday morning, Roland found himself sitting beside Imani and Clark in his grade eleven English class. His teacher, Mr. Hall, was a man with dark brown skin, a round baby face spotted with a patchy beard, and a potbelly that strained against the buttons of his white dress shirt. It was a full class with rows of tables that held three students each. In total, there were fifteen students and one passionate teacher.
Imani sat close to the large glass windows looking out over the lush trees that circled the school, while Roland was stuck between her and Clark. Clark drummed his fist against the table. The teacher wrote something on the chalkboard at the front of the class.
Exhausted from the tournament and practicing, Roland couldn’t muster the energy to focus. He yawned.
His teacher was an asshole. He snapped without warning, taking his anger out on any unassuming children. He liked to give tons of assignments as though his students had no other classes. Though Roland couldn’t get rid of his teacher, Clark was a different story.
“Can’t you sit anywhere else?” Roland asked Clark. “Somewhere I can’t see you, preferably.”
Clark smirked. “I like it here.”
Roland kicked his shin. “Move.”
Clark shook his long hair like a wild animal that had gotten wet in the rain, leaning close to Roland so it would hit him.
“We haven’t been here for five minutes and you’re already arguing.” Imani sighed.
Roland and Imani swiftly switched seats before the teacher decided to kick Clark or Roland out for bad behavior.
“I would rather be anywhere but here,” Imani complained. “This class sucks.”
“Pardon, me, young miss? Is there something you don’t like about this class?” Mr. Hall asked, striding toward her.
Imani played with her pen. “The part where we read old books with terrible English, like that man, Oliver Carlton. Sure, he has a good plot and wise quotes, but for the most part it was utter trash. If I wanted to read a book written in gibberish, I would hand a pen to a toddler.”
“I’ll have you know that Carlton was a literary genius,” Mr. Hall said. “Many of his pieces have been kept safe throughout the last world war. People preserved them so they could be shared with others.”
“Really?” Kio interjected. “I thought it was because Carlton was one horny bastard. A lot of his pieces are centered on sex. Do those sorts of works arouse your generation?”
A few of their classmates snickered at his comment.
“You know,” Roland said, deciding to add fire to the flame, “some say that Carlton stole others’ work and claimed it as his own. He was just lucky enough to get away it.”
“Hmm,” Imani said slowly, stroking her chin as if she were in deep thought. “Let’s say that for some crazy reason I steal someone’s essay and manage to avoid getting caught. Would you be okay with that?”
“What do you think, Miss Blake?” Mr. Hall asked in that rhetorical manner adults used to annoy kids.
“I’ll have to say…yes.”
“I concur,” Roland added.
“Very funny. Now since you’ve all had your fun, let’s continue where we left off on Act 2, Scene one of Calhoun.” He glanced at Imani, Clark, and Roland. “Since the three of you think you are so intelligent, why don’t you take turns reading the different parts?”
“I would rather not,” Imani argued.
“Same here!” Roland and Clark chorused.
“I’m not giving you a choice,” Mr. Hall said with a strained smile.
Roland raised his hand.
“Yes, Roland?”
“Could I use the restroom?”
“No. The last time I give you permission to do that, you were gone for an hour.”
“Didn’t you know?” Clark said, lowering his voice. “He has a serious case of constipation.”
Roland threw a pencil at him.
Clark shrugged. “I’m only trying to help you.”
“You’re a dick.”
“I know.”
Roland’s classmates smirked at their discomfort. Those kids were fine with anyone reading aloud as long as it wasn’t them. Roland took the book from his bag and found the correct page. He heaved a sigh. He had planned to sleep through the whole class.
“And, Miss Blake,” Mr. Hall added as if it was an afterthought, “since you were so passionate about our discussion earlier, you’ll start us off.”
Imani read slowly, her voice a monotone. Carlton’s play, Calhoun, was about a boy from origins similar to Roland. From what Roland could decipher, Calhoun was thirteen years old and grew up in a poor village that suffered from the bubonic plague. He wanted to help heal the ill villagers, curb their fevers, and enlighten them.
Fascinated by herbs and natural remedies, Calhoun eventually became a doctor’s helper. He worked with the less fortunate, slowing the disease’s progress so they could enjoy a bit more of life before they died. In a twist of fate, Calhoun’s village was attacked by a group of mercenaries, and buildings were set ablaze. The fire started on the outskirts of the village, gradually reaching the midst of the town. It devoured and destroyed everything the people had worked so hard to build. The doctor begged Calhoun to leave before it was too late, saying that he was still young, healthy, he could escape. Survive.
With teary eyes and a heavy heart Calhoun left, finding a pathway out of the village that had not been scorched by the flames.
Holding held his hand in front of him, Roland mimed wrapping his hand around a sword’s handle
. Humans constructed their own societies, rules and way of life, but they always tore it back down. Wars. Strife. These were the things that held them back from progression, that kept them from getting along. The social ladder was built to promote segregation—separating the poor from the rich.
People seemed to lack empathy. They could no longer reach out their hand to someone suffering. It was sad, really.
Instructor Bramen’s words were fresh in Roland’s mind. “Could you kill someone?”
Chapter XVIII
In the afternoon, Roland was called into the director’s office and he planned to give the man an earful. He deserved a proper place in the Order and that was all. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Roland opened the doors and strode inside.
Director Brody was speaking with a man in camouflage clothing by the room’s large windows. The camouflaged man was covered in various shades of green, his cowl drawn over his head and a black scarf covering his mouth.
“Ah, Roland,” Brody said. He walked toward the boy and gave him a hard slap on the black.
Roland drew in a sharp breath.
“This is an old friend of mine, Scott Hudgens. He works for the Order’s surveillance squad. He is one of their top commanders,” the director explained.
Hudgens turned around, giving Roland an opportunity to view his face. His skin was white, pale, and taut. He had a hooked nose and small brown eyes. He held out a calloused hand and Roland shook it.
“Hello, sir,” Roland said. He wasn’t sure where this was going, but was curious enough to find out. He casted a weary glance at Brody, who had a cheeky smile playing on his lips.
“So this is your son?” Hudgens inquired.