Strayborn

by E E Rawls

  A firework chain of clay-to-lava set off.

  Nephryte’s left hand moved, giving a dismissive wave while he continued to read, and a gust of air whipped the clay birds up—tossing them back at Aken as they exploded.

  Kr-Pom-Pom-BOom!

  Coated in cinders, Aken coughed. “I cwasn’t expeckting dat...”

  Mentor Nephryte closed the book and regarded him coolly. “Learn to expect the unexpected. You cannot survive in combat unless you plan ahead for what can go wrong.” He tilted his chin down at Aken, his gaze icy.

  Sweatdrops beaded Aken’s forehead.

  “You were in the kitchens again...”

  More sweatdrops beaded.

  “You called me a show-off...”

  Frantic sweatdrops trickled down.

  “I cannot let that slide.”

  Trickles became streams.

  Before Aken had a chance to bolt for the nearest exit, a current of air ripped open a maintenance closet and hefted out a broom.

  Aken yelped and ran as fast as he could away from the broom as it soared after him, threatening to swat his backside.

  Chapter 26

  Cyrus waved. “See you in class.”

  Zartanian nodded, remaining seated at the organ as she left.

  Today would be her first of Draevensett classes. She had no idea what to expect.

  “Both Principal Han and the Draev Grandmaster might have taken you in and let you become a citizen—if you had been honest.” Hercule’s words rattled through her, again.

  “—if you had been honest.”

  She shuddered. Navigating out of the music and arts wing, she exited onto the spiral walkway—and then pivoted back on her heels to avoid a collision.

  “Excuse me!” Cyrus began to apologize.

  “No, no, it’s fine. I was moving too fast,” said a clear, female voice.

  Cyrus stared, speechless.

  The girl’s full lips formed an understanding smile. “You must be the new transfer-student? It’s nice to meet you.”

  “A...a girl,” Cyrus blurted out. She wasn’t alone in this sea of testosterone!

  The vempar blinked, trepidation tinting her forehead. “Yes. Girls do exist.”

  “Sorry. I mean, of course they do. I’m just...” Cyrus’s face flushed.

  The girl’s smile returned. “Well, at least you have the decency to be polite. The way some of these boys behave, you’d think they’d never seen a girl before in their entire life! I hate standing out like a sore thumb in this school.”

  Cyrus gave a nervous laugh.

  The girl’s hair cascaded down her back like a snowy waterfall, a section pulled back into a silver-and-sapphire haircomb high on the back of her head before dangling down in a braid. Bangs hid her forehead, longer bits framing sharp cheekbones and a mole at the corner of her left eye; her eyes were a deep amethyst.

  But she was in a wheelchair, and Cyrus couldn’t help staring. The girl gestured with a hand, “Don’t start pitying me. I don’t need this thing all the time—just when I stress my essence too much. My Healing doesn’t quite function the same way as everybody else’s.” She started to lift herself up off the seat, and Cyrus almost moved to help. But the girl managed, standing up to extend her hand. “My name is Cherish.”

  “Cyrus.” They clasped hands.

  Cherish had on a stiff black dress, with burgundy seams and lace. Sleek braces fit around her forearms and elbows. Leg-braces around her knees and ankles, peeking out from her puffy shoe-boots.

  Cyrus glanced at her own wrists. This girl had it harder than her, yet here she was, training to become a Draev.

  “I like those fingerless gloves you’re wearing,” said Cherish. “They remind me of last year’s fashion trend. Is it by Marina? They’ve been incorporating human fashion into their clothing a lot lately.”

  Cyrus didn’t know what else to do but nod. “I like your dress. It’s very pretty the way it fits you,” she said in return.

  Cherish’s cheeks turned a shade pink, and Cyrus started. She’d better be more careful while role-playing as a boy.

  Footsteps clacked up the walk behind them, and Master Nephryte came to a pause. “Cyrus, do you need help finding your way to class? Draevensett can be easy to get lost in.” He leaned on one foot, books under an arm.

  Cyrus shook her head, “I’ll find my way.” She thanked politely.

  The Master nodded. “You have the same schedule as Aken-Shou. I’m sure he’ll help you.” His attention turned to Cherish, bending down a bit so he wasn’t towering over her. “And how are you feeling since that accident?”

  “Much better,” Cherish said brightly.

  “Good. Very good.” He patted the chairback instead of her shoulder. “I know Master Seren-Rose is very proud of how far you’ve come.”

  Cherish blushed slightly.

  Something skittered across the floor by the girl’s shoe. Cyrus squinted, then saw what it was and screeched, pointing. “Spider! Spider!”

  They both looked at her, then at the eight-legged bug scurrying across the floor. The Master raised a finger, and the spider was lifted up and flung over the rails.

  “Disaster averted,” he said.

  Cherish tried not to laugh.

  Cyrus suddenly felt embarrassed. She hated spiders.

  More students were up and about now. And when she looked, she thought she’d glimpsed Aken.

  Leaning sideways to see past the Master, she spotted sun-gold hair among the current of students flowing down the spiral walk, ducking low. What was he doing?

  She called out to him, “Aken!”

  He froze, as if hit by an axe, then sped up—diving through the nearest open window before Master Nephryte could turn.

  “What’s gotten into him?” She frowned, then glanced sideways. Had there been a ghost of a smile on the Master’s lips?

  “Well, I’d best be off,” Master Nephryte told the girls. “I have my own homework and Draev chores to do! I’ll see you later, after the Trials. Happy Swan Festival week!”

  With a wave, the vempar man disappeared down the walk. A herd of students was rushing past. The older boys walked with friends, while those younger hollered and horse-played—what a difference age made in boys.

  “I forgot today’s the Duel Trials...” she mumbled.

  Cherish nodded. “Will you be entering?”

  “Um...”

  BEHIND THE BENCH OF an alcove, lined with potted plants, Aken peeked out, making sure he hadn’t been followed by Mentor Nephryte.

  “What’re you doing?”

  Aken jumped as a head of orange hair rose up and over the bench back, Bakoa’s expressive face full of curiosity staring at him.

  “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Keep quiet!” Aken snapped.

  Bak frowned for one puzzled moment, mouth scrunching up, then grinned and snapped his fingers. “Aha! You’re running from Master Nephryte again, aren’t you? What’d you do this time?”

  “Tch!” Aken stood up, so fast that Bak had to lean back out of the way and fell backwards. His legs turned to sand and he floated himself upright. “It’s none of your beeswax,” Aken huffed.

  “But I don’t have any beeswax.”

  “It’s a form of expression, Baka. Another way of saying: It’s none of your business.”

  “Ohhh.” Bak paused. “Why didn’t you just say that the first time, instead of being confusing?”

  “Shut up!”

  Bak hovered forward, a knowing smirk on his lips. “You were being a naughty and sparring with Master again, weren’t you?”

  “I said, shut up!”

  Bak’s sandy-green eyes laughed. Though Bak didn’t have a mean bone in his body, he liked to pry and get in the way far too much. The world was happy sunshine and kittens, as far as Bakoa was concerned—and he liked nothing better than being just as nosy as one of those kittens.

  Aken’s fist swung for the sand boy’s stomach, but instead of hitting flesh, his fist w
ent through Bak’s torso—the flesh and shirt molecules now grains of sand, while still maintaining their original appearance.

  Bak’s silly grin looked from his stomach to Aken’s arm. “What were you trying to do?”

  Aken punched again and again.

  Bak scratched his chin. “Um...I don’t really know what you’re trying to do. When I’m in sand-mode, you can’t hit me.”

  “It’s therapeutic. You’re a sand punching bag.”

  “Oh. Could I make a living off that?” Bak thought. “You owe me food, now. So I want one of those fancy turkey sandwiches, with extra salt.”

  Aken ceased punching. “You really think you’re invincible in sand-mode?”

  “Sure! I mean...hey, why do you have that look on your face? It’s ominous.” Bak took one nervous step back. “I don’t know what’s going on in your head, buddy, but...we are still buddies, right? No need to be jealous, right?”

  Aken whipped out a long-nozzled dust-sucker from a maintanence closet, the oilpowder engine roaring to life in his hands.

  Vr-Vr-Vroom!

  “Where’d you get that?” Bak squeaked as the dust-sucker approached.

  “Draevensett always has the latest vempar tech. Say hello to your demise.”

  VrrROOM!

  “AaaH!” Bak fled, sand-legs now a genie tail propelling him through the air. But the nozzel sucked away at his sand-tail as he struggled to flee. “Nooo! I’m shrinking—shrinking!”

  The more sand sucked up, the smaller Bak’s body shrunk—his off-kilter voice shrinking with it. “It’s a cruel world!” He became the size of a chipmunk, diving and zig-zagging away from the nozzle, squeaking, “Cruel world—Creeul world—Creeeul weeerld!”

  Ploomp.

  The last bit of orange hair was sucked up.

  Aken turned off the switch with a satisfied grin, listening to the rhythm of tiny thumping fists and yelps coming from inside.

  “LOOK WHAT WE HAVE HERE, boys.”

  Cyrus and Cherish ceased chatting when a group approached them. Denim sauntered up, his cocky smirk ever present, and a pack of Floor Tathom boys followed. He stopped beside the wheelchair, casually resting an elbow on one of the arms. “I see you met the newbie. Cly or Chai-something?” He made a show of trying to recall.

  Cyrus watched Aken’s nemesis warily.

  “The name’s Denim, of House Sivortsova.” He combed fingers through his hair as though he were hot-stuff. “In case you didn’t know.”

  “The name’s Cyrus Sole, in case you didn’t know,” she said back.

  He raised his chin. “You’re friends with that Scourgeblood, aren’t you?”

  She bristled. “So what if I am?”

  “Please, Denim.” Cherish cut in. “Don’t start something, again.”

  “Start? Ha! My dislike for that misfit started years ago. So keep your fragile nose out of it.”

  Cherish’s lips tightened together.

  “Why can’t we take it easy?” A burly, overweight boy stepped out from the group; he was heads taller and three-people wider than any boy Cyrus had ever seen, and snacking on a bag of cheese chips. She instinctively shuffled back. “I mean”—munch—“we shouldn’t stress Cherish out, y’know?” he rumbled. “I’m Billsbury, by the way. But the nickname’s Doughboy.” The huge boy flashed a chubby grin.

  Cyrus offered a smile, though her brow furrowed. At least he seemed more friendly than his companions. She wondered how she could’ve missed his presence earlier.

  “Guess who’s gonna enter the Duel Trials today?” Doughboy nudged the wheelchair.

  Cherish clapped in suprise. “Really? You’ll win a spot in the Duel, for sure! But don’t hurt anyone too badly, okay? Hey, is your Floor entering, Cyrus?”

  Denim rolled his eyes. “Enough with the random chit-chat! You ruined the menacing mood,” he barked. “Listen, Chai. Don’t go thinking you’re some privileged guy being at this school. You ought to know your lowly place here. I’m the prince’s cousin, see. So if I hate Harlow, everybody hates Harlow. Which means, don’t get on my bad side. Got it?” He jabbed a finger at Cyrus for emphasis.

  “Second cousin,” Doughboy corrected.

  Before Denim could snarl at him, a sharp note peeled through the air and courtyard below—a noise so terrible that all of their ears trembled.

  “CherISH!” the high-pitch note called.

  Cyrus glanced about for the source. Denim, Doughboy and the Tathom gang shivered, and Cherish shut her eyes with a dreadful sigh.

  “Time to go,” said Denim, suddenly in a hurry. He pointed a finger back at Cyrus as he and his followers scampered off. “We’ll be seeing you and the doofus later. You won’t stand a chance in the Duel Trials.”

  The high call came again, and the boys practically barreled down the walk in their haste to get away.

  The call was nearer, louder, parting through the sea of students like a knife.

  ‘What dreadful thing approaches?’ she thought, as anxious sweatdrops chilled her neck.

  The answer soon came barreling towards her.

  “Cherishy-pooh!”

  A wiry beanpole of a man held both arms outstretched, as he leaped across the floor space between them. “Cherishyyy!” he cried, wrapping long arms around Cherish and the wheelchair. Dramatic tears flung from his eyes, splashing onto his rectangle glasses.

  The girl grumbled against his hug. “You know I love you and all, but please don’t make such a scene every time.”

  “Not make a scene?” he exclaimed. “Not call your sweet name? And give you as big a bear-hug as I possible-possibly can? Cherishy-doo! Is that any way to treat your big brother, who loves you as infinitely deep as the deepest ocean in all the universe?” He sniffled, his dark hair curled up at the edges.

  Cyrus realized her jaw had been hanging open, and she shut it. Now she understood why Tathom fled.

  “Oh! Oh-hohoho, I see we have a new student!”

  Cyrus cringed as the big brother swung his attention to her. His narrow, odd face made a drastic grin as he leaned forward, and his crazy eyebrows fluttered—dramatic off-shoots of eyebrow hair that angled out as if he’d glued a pair of wings on his brow. She wouldn’t doubt he could use them to fly. Maybe he did.

  She leaned as far back as she could, her mouth in a tell-tale sour frown, but he didn’t appear to notice or take the hint.

  “From one of those far away farming communities, I hear!” the old brother chattered on. “My, your hair certainly is red, isn’t it? I guess they weren’t exaggerating when they said it was a bowlful of cherries!”

  Her frown broadened.

  “Um, brother?” Cherish said, “You scare people when you act like that.”

  “Oh!” His eyebrow wings flapped and he took a step back, much to Cyrus’s relief. “Ah-haaha! I didn’t mean to shock you with my electrifying personality, there, Cherry-boy! It’s a habit. I can’t help but be curious about new things. Haaha! I’m Professor Kotetsu Cuore.”

  Cherry-boy? Cyrus wanted to say a few choice words, but held her tongue.

  “Are you harassing people again, Chickenwings?” Aken arrived, an hourglass tucked under his arm. Cyrus almost laughed out loud at the nickname.

  “What! I do not harass people.” The quirky guy grimaced, eyebrow-wings fluttering.

  “Then learn the basic personal space rule,” Aken pointed.

  Kotetsu’s mouth became an impossibly curved smile. “As one of your prominent teachers, you’d best show some respect,” he countered the boy. “Did you complete your homework?”

  Aken faltered.

  ‘A teacher?’ Cyrus thought. What on eartha did he teach?

  “Well, either way, I appreciate you taking care of that pesky dragon for us. The House Cuore business gets its wool from those farms. We must repay you, sometime!” said Professor Kotetsu.

  They were aristocrats? Cyrus bobbed her head, “Glad we could help.”

  The brother beamed. “Today are the Trials that decides which
two students will be in the Festival Duel tomorrow—I’m sure you haven’t forgotten about that? Good luck with it! A happy Swan Festival to you both!”

  “Of course I haven’t.” Aken glowered. “And I’m gonna win it. Just you see.”

  “Ooh! Look at my watch—the time,” Kotetsu gasped. He grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. “Time for claaass. Onward we go, Cherishy!”

  Laughter bounced off the ceiling and balustrade as brother and sister sped away, wheels squealing. Cyrus and Aken shared a look, and he scratched the back of his head. “It’s the sister I feel sorry for.”

  “Yep.” Cyrus wiped her forehead. With that over, she regarded the hourglass in his arm. She lifted one eyebrow in question.

  But before Aken could answer, a tiny noise squeaked “Heeelp meee!” followed by thumping.

  She stared. “The hourglass is talking?”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot.” He held the object up and peered through the glass.

  Tiny fists and a tuft of orange hair rose from the sand as it poured down the hourglass funnel and into the bottom half. “Heeelp!” cried a blubbering face. Small fingers clawed desperately not to be sucked down the funnel.

  “Bakoa?” she realized. “Aken, how could you!” On impulse, her hand turned metal and she slapped his arm—so hard that he tumbled over backwards. She snatched the hourglass away, breaking it open, and let the sand pour out, and mini Bakoa pour free.

  The frazzled boy grew to normal size, absorbing sand back into himself. He plopped on the floor as if he’d run a marathon, “Thank-you, Cy-rus.”

  Aken rose from the floor where he’d fallen and clamped a hand to his arm. “Ouch; you sure give a fierce slap.”

  “Bakoa is your friend. You shouldn’t bully him.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Meanie!” Bakoa interjected and ducked behind her, sticking out his tongue.

  Aken made a face back.

  She was about to knock some sense and maturity into their childish skulls, when Bakoa pointed at an antique clock hanging on the walk. “We’re late for class. Again.”