by E E Rawls
“Aw, shoot!” Aken grabbed Bakoa by the shirt and wrapped his other arm around Cyrus’s waist. Before either of them could yelp or protest, he dove into a run—speeding down the spiral walk towards class, their legs waving like flags.
ZARTANIAN ROSE FROM the organ bench. The silver pipes reflected dappled morning light across the walls. He made his way over and pulled open the lower half of the nearest window, a gust of warm air breezing in as he did.
Perched on a nearby maple, a young raven regarded him, fluffing its feathers. He observed the bird for a while. He’d never seen a baby raven up-close before Cyrus handed him one. It was very cute; the tiny feathers of its stubby wings softer than silk. Soft, helpless, fragile. Unable to tell friend from foe—who would be kind and who would abuse. Unable to trust anyone.
‘To trust is a dangerous thing,’ he thought.
Those who should protect you may turn against you.
Zartanian reached his left arm through the window, a piece of bread in his palm. The raven tilted its head, peering sideways at it.
Traumatic experiences could be like chains, wrapping around the mind and constricting all that you did, haunting every waking hour, becoming a never-ending nightmare. He wondered if he could ever be normal like Cyrus, or brave like Aken. If he could ever be free of those chains.
The young raven hopped closer, skeptical yet curious.
To trust is a dangerous thing, and yet...
He held out his palm, steady. The bird was a beautifully morbid creature. Feathers black as coal, except where sunlight streaked them violet. He wanted to embrace it, soak in the night of its perfectly dark, round eyes.
The raven made up its mind, and with a clumsy leap flapped off the branch to land on his wrist. Like two dainty fingers, its ebony beak lifted the piece of bread.
Zartanian smiled. “See? I want to be friends with you, little raven.”
The bird cocked its sleek head.
The wariness of the raven made him recall the first day he’d arrived at Draevensett, the first moment he caught sight of its towers and dagger spires, how beautiful they were and how intimidating. And his fear of what it would be like to live in a new place, alone without Elijob.
But life before had been...an endless pit of pain.
The twin bells rang, bong-bong bong-gong from the high tower, signaling the start of school. The raven squawked and flapped off, and Zartanian wiped a tear spot from his eye. Best not to think of things that could no longer be changed; the past was a door best kept sealed shut.
Without wasting another second, Zartanian grabbed his books up off the floor and hurried out the tucked-away ballroom.
Chapter 27
Cyrus poured over her 6th grade class schedule—every other day was different. Here, students of the same grade were divided into groups, with each group going to the same classes but at different times of the day.
She took a front-row desk for Math class. Aken on her left, and Bakoa at the desk behind hers, tapping a pencil and swinging his legs back and forth. To her surprise, Hercule took the desk right of hers, though he didn’t bother once to glance in her direction, and his expression said Everyone here is a low-life.
She twisted her mouth to the side. If he wanted to pretend she wasn’t there, then why sit next to her? Noble snob.
“—if you had been honest.”
She swallowed, then craned her neck as Zartanian darted in and took the desk behind Aken. Denim and his gang owned the back rows, and Cherish rolled up to a table.
“Ookie-dookie!” Professor Kotetsu hopped into the room. Cherish’s crazy brother taught math? The room visibly cringed at the wavy voice that made her think of an exaggerated clown. “It’s fun math-time with Professor Kotetsu and Sir Happy Squirrely.” His hand held a squirrel muppet, which wore a little bowtie, suit, and clown shoes, and a stitched U-grin that matched its crazy owner. Professor Kotetsu waved the squirrel’s arms enthusiastically to the students. “We’re here to make math fun,” the squirrel sing-songed.
Cyrus looked for a plaque somewhere—making sure this wasn’t kindergarden.
Bakoa practically bounced in his seat, shouting, “I’m ready to learn!”
“And so you shall, my eager jumping-bean,” said the Professor. “Turn to chapter twelve in your textbooks.”
Kotetsu Cuore’s muppet hand wrote out a math formula on the board for them to solve. Through the hour, he told them stories of how he’d used that formula to solve real life problems. It was useful to see what purpose math had in real life—most teachers never showed that bit. Maybe he wasn’t as crazy as he’d first seemed.
The next class would be their last for the day, since the Duel Trials were taking place right after, and they waited for the teacher to arrive. She turned to eye Bakoa’s legs, swinging back and forth and making the chair squeak.
“Ooh! I wonder what our new history teacher will be like?” said Bakoa.
“New?” Cyrus cocked an eyebrow. “But aren’t you far through the school year?”
“Yep, but the other guy got fed up with us.” Bakoa fingered his chin, shooting a tell-tale glance Aken’s way.
Aken stood his elbows on the desk, chin in hands. “It wasn’t my fault. Not completely...”
The door creaked as it swung open, and everyone shifted in their chairs to see. Cyrus had to leaned forward as nothing but a very tall top hat strode into the room.
The green velvet hat came to a halt before the large desk at the head of the room. It took several blinks to discern that the whole shape wasn’t just a hat. Half of it was the shortest man she’d ever seen, with red tufts peeking from under the brim, and a short red beard trimmed into a two-pronged fork. Complete with green blazer, pants and bowtie, and shiny shoes that came to curly points.
Aken’s mouth twitched; she knew what he was thinking.
The professor’s green gaze narrowed up at the class, taking them in one at a time fiercly. “That’s right,” he boomed. A deep, husky tone that made up for any loss in height, and flavored with the northern mountains accent. “Ah’m short, but Ah’m alsoo older and wiser than you lot, soo Ah don’t want tae hear et mentioned. You will shoow respect.” He paused for emphasis. “Es that understood?”
The class nodded respectfully, while Aken’s lungs were bursting at the seams. The fierce gaze shifted, and Aken quickly buried his face in the big history book on his desk.
“You will address me as Professor Ponairi.” The short teacher marched with surprisingly loud footsteps for his weight, stomping to a halt before Aken’s desk. “What are you snickering aboout, laddie? Hum?”
“Nothing, Professor,” Aken mumbled, not daring to peek over the edge of the book.
“Poot that book doown!”
He did so, quickly replacing it with a sheet of paper.
“Ahnd the paper!”
Aken replaced the paper with his hand.
“My Auntie’s crying potatoes,” Ponairi swore, “And the hand too, you wee brat!”
Students snickered. Aken hesitated before letting the hand fall, revealing a face as red and huge as the sun.
“Es there something you find amusing?”
Aken shook his head vigorously.
“Then keep quiet and wipe that grin ooff.”
As the professor returned to the front of the class, Aken hid his face back in the book, trying to muffle his chuckles. When Ponairi’s monologue on history began, Cyrus perked her ears to listen.
He began discussing how little was known of the ancient world, how few records and scraps were left of Eartha’s past before The Disaster—the event said to have fractured the world, making it into the divided place it was today. What The Disaster was and how it had happened, though, remained a mystery wrapped in legend. In particular the legend of the Swan Princess, when the Emperor used a weapon of mass destruction during his attempt to steal the Pure Light.
Most historians today dismissed it as nothing more than a fairytale, and believed The Disaster to
have been caused by natural forces. The truth, whichever it may be, still remained unknown.
In the months following The Disaster, vempar kind became a scattered, scavenger race, wandering Eartha as they hunted for essence to survive. The Time of Wandering, when vempars no longer had a rooted home and were viewed as monsters as they stole people’s essence. They were hated and murdered by other races, which made them retaliate in return. Vempar kind was trapped in a downward spiral towards destruction, until one vempar rose to put a stop to it.
Protector Draev, later given the title The Protector of Peace, founded the Vemparic Kingdom. He united the vempars and put an end to the Time of Wandering. He established the Draev Guardian League of Ability users to restore order, with the help of his Twelve Legendary Knights—whose descendants were now the twelve Noble Houses.
Peace was found, and the Protector established a monarchy to reign over the new kingdom. The D.G. League was given the task of gathering essence for the kingdom to live on, without killing. Hunting would no longer be necessary for the people—the League would do it for them, and within a controlled set of rules.
The Draevs would also protect and serve the kingdom as its most powerful military force. It gave those with Abilities a purpose, and was a way of keeping them in check.
Some of the tension between vempars and the other races eased. But the humans were unforgiving and refused to lay the past to rest. Skirmishes and raids occurred frequently, and became the way of living between the two.
The Protector lived to be the oldest vempar ever recorded, his youth and strength never once failing. Until on one bleak day, when the Protector was found murdered.
The most powerful vempar of their time suddenly dead, and the culprit never found.
The centuries following the Protector’s death were filled with conflict against humans and goblins. The most recent being the Goblin Shadow War, which ended just seven years ago. Master Nephryte would have grown up during that turbulent period. He would’ve been fifteen when it finally came to an end.
The war had been a crusade for the goblins’ advanced society to “cleanse” Eartha of those they considered inferior—paying special attention to the Vemparic Kingdom and Human Republic.
While vempar and human armies moved to face the threat, they had run-ins with one another resulting in petty skirmishes. It was the forest faeryn who intervened and begged for a truce between all of the races until their common enemy could be defeated.
Minor truces were made, lasting long enough to drive the goblins back to their land across the sea, the victory coming at a heavy price of lives.
Cyrus recalled seeing the soldiers pass through Elvenstone on their way back to the capital city, and the celebration as her town’s own soldiers and Argos returned from war...
Professor Ponairi smacked his hands together sharply, making sure everyone was still awake. “Now will come further studies, quizzes and tests before the school year ends!” he bellowed.
Cyrus heard groans rotate the classroom.
Chapter 28
The Trials were about to begin—deciding which two Draevensett students would partake in this year’s Festival Duel and win the granting of one request from the king. Cyrus followed as Aken, Bakoa, Zartanian and Hercule crossed the green lawns toward the school’s training arenas.
Aken leaned close, asking in a whisper, “Did you make up your mind? Are you gonna enter, and try and win your Draeth citizenship?”
Cyrus wasn’t feeling confident, but she nodded. It was worth a try. “But if we both win, won’t that mean we’ll have to fight each other?”
He waved that aside. “Just focus on passing the tests.”
She looked around. “Where’s Lykale and Mamoru?”
He shrugged. “Guess it doesn’t appeal to them.”
The small Harlow group clustered with other waiting Floor groups around the gate of a tall arena. A muscular vempar, who could have been part dwarf with his hefty stature and thick beard, stomped to the head of the crowd.
“For those who don’t know me, I’m Master Brangor, the authority of these arenas. This year’s first trial to enter the Duel will be one of speed, accuracy and endurance. Students who are participating, come forward! Those just here to watch, get to the bleachers.”
The gate opened, revealing a great rock wall running the length of the arena; no ceiling to shield from the elements. Ropes tied at the wall’s top suspended across a huge gap to a long platform on the opposite wall. “The speed trial is this: Scale the wall, cross the chasm, and grab one of the red ribbons on the platform,” ordered Brangor. “The last ten to finish will be eliminated. Now, line up!”
Cyrus approached the steep wall, craning her neck back. Footholds speckled about, and there was a dangling rope, but nothing more.
“Ready—Set—Start!”
The vempars to either side of her climbed the footholds in a burst of speed. Some didn’t bother but used the Leap Technique to spring high up onto the walltop. Brangor didn’t say they had to climb to get there. Only those more experienced were good enough to Leap such a distance.
Cyrus used the rope, turning her hands and forearms metal to protect her wrists, and put most of her weight on her legs, finding each foothold with her toes.
She tried to hurry. Her time climbing trees was somewhat useful, but the strain on her legs and hands was different, harder. Out of the corners of her eyes, she could see she was falling behind.
‘Don’t think. Keep going!’
Even with the metal, her wrists were stinging in pain. She tried not to let her mind feel it, focusing on moving each foot to a new purchase.
Once she did reach the walltop, lungs wheezing, a pair of ropes ran across a steep drop before her—the chasm—to the other side.
Once again, those who could Leap crossed the chasm easily, while the rest traversed the ropes as fast as they could. Cyrus balanced her shoes on the lower rope, and gripped tightly to the rope above her head. She closed her eyes and breathed in, shutting out thoughts of the steep drop below, then placed one foot in front of the other at an angle across the rope. It was only thanks to the upper rope that she didn’t unbalance and fall—even then, she had to go slow. Wrist pain screamed more and more.
She glimpsed one student fall. There’d be no surviving that for a human.
She paused to steady her trembling muscles and breathe. Then pressed on.
Not much farther now.
A dagger of pain tore through her left wrist. Her teeth clenched. Not much farther.
Pain lanced through her other wrist down to the elbow. She almost let go. More daggers stabbed at the left. She bit down hard, every muscle in her tightening.
Three more steps...two more steps...one...
She collapsed onto the platform on the other side, landing on her shoulder and gripping her wrists in a failed attempt to stifle the pain.
“Cyrus!”
She pushed up and with one last effort grabbed for a dangling red ribbon.
Except...there were none left.
A whistle pierced the air. “Trial 1 is over!” boomed Master Brangor. “Those who were too late and didn’t get a ribbon, failed. Those who passed, make your way to the next arena!”
Failed...?
She...but she’d tried her best. She needed to become a Draeth citizen. She needed to win this more than anyone else here! Her fist wanted to pound the platform.
Aken helped her stand and led her down a flight of steps to the ground floor. They all exited the arena. “Are you okay?” he asked, studying the way she was holding her wrists.
Tears pricked her eyes. All she could do was shake her head. What was she thinking, trying to compete against vempars? Could she even become a Draev Guardian, or was she just kidding herself? She thought back to the dragon mission, how good it had felt being able to help others. She wanted that. She’d thought it was what Lord God wanted her to do.
“Don’t worry, Cy. I’ll win this for you.”
<
br /> She looked up at him.
“I’ll win, and I’ll ask the king to give you citizenship.” He smiled brightly, eyes blue as the sky. “Now, you go and have the doc look at your wrists,” he said, giving her a slight shove.
“But...” she started.
“People don’t think I can become a Draev Guardian. Many don’t even see me as a person. I’ve got to change that. I can’t afford to lose this, for either of our sakes.” He motioned her a thumbs-up, then trotted to catch up with the students at the next arena.
Cyrus clutched her hands to her chest and hurried back to the school. Master Nephryte was in the front courtyard when she got there, and she told him timidly about the pain. “I’ll be fine with just some pain reducers,” she said, as his Touch tried and failed to Heal her. He led her to Dr. Zushil’s office.
Zushil inspected the state of her wrists, then placed his hands over them to channel Healing. After a while, his brow pinched as if puzzled by something. “Does it feel any better?” he asked.
She shook her head.
He took out pills from a green vial and plopped them into her palm. “An analgesic,” he said. “It should work and numb the pain. I don’t understand why your own Healing hasn’t kicked in, though. And these scars are curious.”
Cyrus turned her face to the side, hoping her unease wasn’t showing.
“Perhaps it’s malnutrition,” offered the Master, steering clear of the truth. “Cyrus did just arrive to a new environment, and has probably been stressed. I’ll see to it she eats better.” He ushered her out of the office before Zushil had time to think on the matter more.
“Thank you, Master. I should hurry and see how Aken’s doing in the second trial.” As she turned to go, she noticed an odd look of concern cross Master Nephryte’s features, though he said nothing.
Cyrus hurried off and soon found Zartanian, who had also failed the trial. They climbed flights of stairs to reach the bleachers high above the second arena. She watched as Aken, Hercule and Bakoa lined up with the large group at the gate.