by E E Rawls
Her body tumbled and skid clear to the opposite end of the ring.
Face down, agony burned every inch of her. She jerked, trying to lift her head—pain searing the effort.
“Cyrus.” Mamoru’s voice. “You can do it. Get up! He’s coming—Get up!”
Blocking out the shooting pain, she rolled on her side, shaking as she pushed up off the ground.
It wasn’t fast enough.
Doughboy’s stomach came down. At the last moment, he freed his hands and swung them forward—grabbing her legs out from under her.
She yelped. He rotated to land on his back, and in the same motion raised his arms high and flung her up into the air like a rag doll.
Cyrus screamed, limbs flailing in the sky. As gravity pulled her back down, the ground rushed up to meet her.
She couldn’t survive a fall this high. Death opened its jaws beneath her.
‘Think!’ her mind shrieked.
An image from memory opened: of her clinging to Mamoru’s back as he carried her in one leap over and down the city wall.
She ceased flailing, and concentrated.
Essence gathered in the soles of her feet, an invisible cloud, and her fall slowed.
Her feet met the ground with a hard stumble, but she straightened, chest heaving.
Noises of surprise traveled through the onlookers. A human had done what only Draev Guardians could do, right before their eyes. Doughboy appeared momentarily surprised, too. But with a shake, he charged at her once again.
What to do? She needed a plan! How do you defeat something made out of dough? She couldn’t keep this up for long, fatigue and pain from who knew how many injuries threatened to drag her down with each breath.
Punches rained down from Doughboy’s fists, pounding the pavestones with the force of a mace. She tried to spin out of the way. Three blows grazed her shoulder, ribs, and lower back as she dodged—one direct hit and that’d be the end of her.
Again and again she threw herself out of the way and got back up, sprinting and dodging, blood dripping from a split lip and countless more scrapes.
She desperately tried to make the metal spread and cover more of her body, but her essence wouldn’t hold out long enough. She couldn’t focus to keep more than her arms steady.
How can metal overpower something so elastic and bouncy as dough? Picking herself up for what felt like the hundredth time, from the corner of her eye she saw a slave child: Compared to other faeryn he was odd, with blue skin and wispy darker blue hair. The child was watching her, and she could feel his hope fading into disappointment, resignation—acceptance that nothing in this world would ever change.
Bile soured her throat.
She had to change how these vempars viewed and treated other races. She would start by showing them what this half-human was made of, that this half-human wasn’t much different from themselves when it came down to it!
‘Guide me...help me win...for them!’
“C’mon, Cyrus! Show that piece of unbaked bread what you’re made of!” shouted Bakoa. Her mouth grinned despite the blood. That was all the encourgament she needed.
Piece of unbaked...piece of metal...? An idea hit her, from back in Elvenstone when she drew needles out of the death-cage’s metal post.
She needed something metal. But she shouldn’t use her bracelets when they were her only defensive shield, or iron blood when it would make her weak.
Scanning the plaza, while running to keep distance between herself and Doughboy, a glint caught her eye: sunlight reflecting off a streetlamp. There were several of the lamps spaced around the plaza, and all blocked off by the crowd. But one was less obstructed—she could push past to it.
Using her legs’ last ounce of strength, she sprinted toward the streetlamp.
Behind her, Doughboy’s stomach bounced, gaining on her with each bound.
Onlookers scurried aside as she barreled through.
She reached out.
Fingers caught hold of the streetlamp’s pole. She recreated the same thought, same feeling, that she’d had back then—willing essence into the pole, drawing metal out, stretching it...
People gasped as metal spiked out from the pole’s surface—countless needles—stretching, elongating. And all of them aimed at Doughboy.
Denim’s face went wide. “Doughboy, dodge!” he yelled.
Cyrus willed the sharp needles out, and they streaked through the air like a shower of arrows.
Metal pierced dough-skin—arms, legs, hands, ribs, in and out the other side.
He was dough on the surface, but somewhere underneath had to lie a skeleton and nervous-system, even if doughy; he would feel the pain.
“AUGH!” Doughboy roared.
Now was her chance, while he faltered, and dough flickered back to real skin.
Sprinting one last time, right arm and fist steel, Cyrus rushed in to deal the final blow.
Kr-PNCH!
Metal fist connected with Doughboy flesh, striking the side of his head with a right-hook swing.
The crowd fell silent. The only sound to be heard was that of Doughboy’s body colliding with the ground, unconscious.
Cyrus collapsed to her knees, exhausted beyond her body’s capacity. She could barely make out the faeryn child and the new spark of hope there.
“I...did it,” she murmured against the agonizing pain.
A half-human had used Ability, and won against a Draev student.
It was Harlow’s cheers that broke the silence. Then the plaza came alive with exclamations of disbelief, applause and protests—a buzzing cacophony.
The announcer stepped forward into the ring and waved an arm in grand gesture toward her. “We have our winner! Cyrus Sole, the half-human, has won the Festival Duel!” Cheers and boos mixed together loudly. The announcer came forward with a crown made from swan feathers, setting it upon her head. “The prize of one feasible request to be granted by the king is now yours, Cyrus. Step forward and proclaim what is your request!”
Cyrus could barely move her feet towards the pavilion and the royals seated beneath it. She gathered all the air she could into her lungs and forced her voice to carry loud enough, despite the stabbing pain in her ribs, her joints, her wrists. “Your Majesty, my request is that Aken-Shou be allowed to continue his training in Draevensett, to become a Draev Guardian.”
Commotion stirred among the school faculty and the Masters. “The Scourgeblood is too dangerous! Keep him locked up,” one of them disputed.
“He’s done nothing to prove he’s dangerous. Don’t be rash and assume things,” she heard Master Nephryte say.
The king raised his hand, and silence fell.
“I hear your request, Cyrus Sole,” spoke the king. “For as long as Aken-Shou does not pose a serious danger to this kingdom and to those who live within it, he may be allowed to continue his training.”
She could hear grumblings of unease throughout the bleachers.
“But this is not what I expected. You could have saved yourself and asked to remain at Draevensett, or even become a citizen. But instead you spend your request on a fellow student?” The king stared down from his ornate chair. “A selfless act deserves some reward. I want the Draev Guardian League and Draevensett’s principal to consider keeping you on as a student. Your Ability could serve us well.”
A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Cyrus bowed as best she could. “I am grateful, Your Majesty.”
Tathom hurried to Doughboy’s side, while Harlow trotted across the ring toward her, their arms raised in victory.
“I won...” Cyrus tasted blood, feeling faint. “Thank you, Lord...”
Everything turned blurry and gray, the world fading in and out. She felt her shoulder and left hip slump against the sun-beaten ground, and the feather crown roll away.
Zartanian’s worried shout was the last thing she heard.
HERCULE STOOD TRANSFIXED as the plaza’s crowd dispersed, bustling past him, go
ing back to their daily routine now that the show was over.
Separate groups chattered about the outcome. Others shook their heads and stalked off. While yet more looked back at the dueling ring, mystified and eager to spread new gossip.
Mamoru was cradling the half-human in his arms. “He’s exhausted his essence tank,” Lykale was saying, while Bakoa and Zartanian fretted and fussed. “He needs to see a doctor and be Healed, right away.”
Hercule watched as Mamoru traveled quickly over the rooftops, the half-human secure in his arms.
“I can’t believe it,” Hercule mouthed to himself. Amazed, then angry with himself for being amazed.
Cyrus’s duel had been admirable. He’d gone against a formidable, more experienced opponent, and didn’t once give in to fear. He’d kept going, despite bleeding all over the place. “How? Why?” Why go so far when he couldn’t Heal? Cyrus could have been crushed to death or impaired for life. Why risk so much to stay here and rescue Aken? Why not run away, leave Draethvyle behind?
“I don’t get it.” Rubbing the frown line from his forehead, a separate thought occurred to him: The reason he’d let on about Cyrus’s secret was to divert the school’s attention away from himself, in case Cyrus had tattled on his whereabouts the night before.
But there were no rumors or whispers going around about a nobleson alone outside the city at night. Had the redhead not mentioned it to anyone?
If that was the case, then Cyrus wasn’t a snitch like he’d assumed. Instead, Hercule had become the real snitch himself.
His hand paused from his forehead to move to his stomach, a nauseous feeling taking hold.
Chapter 35
Earlier, before the Festival Duel:
Nephryte hurried to Principal Han’s office, and when he entered, Master Deidreem was there waving a finger as if to a naughty child, and both Zushil and elder Master Brangor wore the deepest of scowls on their faces.
“Tisk-tisk, I would think that of all people, you, Nephryte, would know better than to bring in a human. How disgraceful.”
“Enough, Master Deidreem,” Principal Han cut the young Master off, then laced his fingers together on the desk, paper stacks and pens shoved aside. “It has come to my attention, Master Nephryte, that one of your students is half-human. Did you know of this?”
Under the principal’s thick-browed scrutiny, Nephryte gave one slow nod. “Yes, Principal Han.”
Master Lady Seren-Rose wasn’t meeting his gaze, and Eletor remained expressionless.
“Tell me,” Han continued, his gaze as piercing as an owl’s, “At what point in time were you planning on informing me of this? If at all?”
Nephryte opened his mouth, but Han went on. “Why did I have to hear of this from one of your students, instead of from you? You said nothing to me—nothing! This is my school, Master Nephryte. The students, and everyone connected to this place, are my responsibility. Their safety and well-being rests in my hands. And yet you allowed an enemy to live among us. A human, who could be a possible spy, a possible terrorist sent to kill off some of our valuable Ability users!” His wrinkled hands pressed against the desk. “I demand an explanation for this.”
Nephryte maintained his cool composure and flicked a glance Zushil’s way. “Principal Han, if I had suspected, even for a moment, that Cyrus posed a threat to—”
“It is not your place to decide who is and who is not a threat to Draevensett and this city. That is my job, and the job of the Draev Grandmaster.”
Nephryte dipped his head. The old man’s frown slanted for a moment, as he added, “In case you are wondering, Zushil has already received his tongue-lashing. He shares some blame, being a doctor who failed to examine and confirm Cyrus’s race before admittance.”
Zushil busied himself with analyzing the ceiling.
Nephryte bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Forgive me. It was not my intention to deceive you, Principal, whatever others may accuse me of.” His eyes flicked toward Deidreem, who merely smirked and tilted his top hat. “I was searching for the best moment in which to discuss the matter with you. I was hoping that, if given the chance to get to know Cyrus, you would see he is an innocent boy who simply wants a place to belong. But clearly I went about this the wrong way; forgive me.”
Han regarded him.
Nephryte straightened, his chin level in resolve. “Whatever your decision, though, Cyrus’s home is with me. Even if I have to leave this city and bring my students with me. I will not abandon a child of God.”
“Oh puh-leeze!” Deidreem rolled his eyes. “Ever the drama queen, this man.”
Han scrubbed a weary hand across his temples and gray mane. “Don’t, Nephryte. Don’t. There’s no need for such drastic talk, as that. I will have a chat with the half-human myself, and determine what he is like.”
Deidreem started, but Han nodded his chin toward Nephryte. “I’ve always trusted your judgment. You’ve never failed me—and that is the only reason I will meet with this Cyrus before making a final decision.”
Finished discussing the matter, the principal rose to his feet. “That will be all for now. Find Cyrus and bring him to me at once. Then you can go back to your Masterly duties and what not—whatever it is you whipper-snappers do nowadays.”
Master Seren-Rose chuckled as she, Brangor and Eletor filed their way out of the office. Deidreem stalked out, and Zushil marched with his face flushed in humiliation.
Nephryte bowed his head in thanks before departing.
A half hour later, just as Han was about to retrieve a hidden box of cookies from one of the drawers, a student shoved open the door to the office.
“Ah, Denim, what a surprise. Is there something you need?” asked Han half-heartedly, concealing the box from sight.
“Actually, there is. It’s about the Duel and a change of plans...” said the boy.
FROM A ROOFTOP FACING Central Plaza, Master Nephryte observed the aftermath of the Duel, his arms folded, back leaned against a gothic spire.
A sharp breeze blew back his hair and Draev cape. Most of the plaza had cleared. Tathom worked together to carry Doughboy away, while Mamoru was hurrying in the direction of the Infirmary with Cyrus.
At first, Nephryte had thought of protesting the Duel, but this had been more than just a fight for Cyrus. It was the only way for her to be accepted and acknowledged by the other students and by the people of Draeth. She’d had to prove herself.
Nephryte sensed a presence beside him, but continued observing as if Master Eletor wasn’t there.
“An interesting match...then again, Cyrus is an interesting student,” Eletor mused, bare arms crossed, his short hair and thin ponytail swaying in the breeze. He had on another of his colorfully patterened vests in the Arah Desert style under his cape. “It doesn’t surprise me you took him in. But you’re too caring for your own good, you righteous bean. It will get you into trouble one of these days. You know that, right?” Eletor’s glance cut sideways.
“Hmph.” A smirk touched Nephryte’s lips. “So you’ve been telling me, over and over since middle-grade. Go mind your own business, and keep out of mine.”
Eletor huffed, mock offended. “Life is easy for you. Most of your Floor is the same age. But me, I go back and forth between mentoring the younger, and those ready to graduate, and then the eldest who already graduated and are now learning the ropes of being a Draev squad out on the field... Heh, one nearly got himself killed in a skirmish with Argos the other day. I’m beginning to doubt those green horns will ever be capable of harvesting without me! I can’t afford to keep playing babysitter, like this.” He rubbed his temples, chin raised to the wind. “You have it so easy. Your students haven’t reached that age yet.”
“You say I have it easy, but I do my share of city patrols in-between school duties.”
“Ah, yes. The great hero Master Nephryte. What would the city do without you?”
Nephryte sniffed. “It’s your own fault for taking on such a big Floor, and not
dividing it up. Didn’t I tell you to let Master Brangor handle the older ones? He’s the most experienced among us.” He flicked hair out of his eyelashes. “He’s raised some fine Draevs. He’s a true warrior, and I hope when I reach old age I’m just as spry and alert.”
“Sure, Brangor’s great, minus all the ale.” Eletor guffawed. “I’d bet a thousand gold coins the man is part dwarf the way he drinks the stuff.” He feigned a disgusted face, and Nephryte chuckled.
“He is part dwarf—a fraction, anyway.”
“Oh...that explains it. He does seem short and stocky.” Hands behind his head, Eletor peered down at the square, following Nephryte’s line of sight to the Harlow group. “I should go release that boy, now. You aren’t still angry with me, are you?”
“Aken-Shou needs to face the reality of his power and the need for self-control. Perhaps this has taught him something. Though, in the future, talk to me before you go jailing one of my students.”
Eletor shrugged. “I was just doing what the Grandmaster would have done. That kid shattered through Denim’s Ability as if it were glass. That wound he got will take weeks to Heal—something that should’ve Healed instantly, but because it was made by a Scourgeblood it couldn’t.”
“Yes, I’m well aware of how dangerous a Scourgeblood is.”
“Are you?”
Nephryte glanced at him sideways.
“Is that why you haven’t told Aken the truth? Will you ever tell him that what happened to his parents wasn’t an accident? That it wasn’t an attack by humans?”
Nephryte had to let the silence linger before replying. “Never. Not as long as I can help it.” His inhale wavered. “That is something Aken-Shou can never know.”
Eletor watched him, eyes glowing like citrine quartz. “Secrets never stay secret.”
Nephryte shifted his weight, arms crossed over his chest.
“That kid is a ticking time bomb. You know Scourgebloods don’t belong in this world anymore. They were wiped out for a reason.” Eletor turned back to view the plaza below. “When the day comes—when he grows up to be like his parents—I hope you can put aside your feelings and do what’s necessary.”