Chapter 12
It was later that morning. éadha and the other novices stood shivering in the stone handball alley at the northern end of First House.
Though the high walls sheltered them from the sea winds, it was still bitterly cold in the thin spring sunshine.
Master Irial stood before them holding a net of handballs—small balls made from twine and covered in leather.
He was a tall, slim man, well muscled, with keen eyes and an amused expression.
His long hair was tied back and his cloak off, though éadha could see no trace of the dragon burns that’d ended his posting in Westport.
“Today begins your first Stage: preparing yourselves in mind and body to be worthy vessels of power,” Irial began.
“You’ll need immense physical strength, agility, and flexibility to contain and use your power, whether in dragon combat, in the peaceful arts of building and growing, or in the weaving of illusions.
We begin with handball. A sport that requires speed, agility, and coordination of the hand and eye, all essential when wielding the yew staff. So—any volunteers?”
Ionáin’s hand went up to cheers and back slaps from Senan and Coll as he stepped out from the Channeller apprentices in front of Irial.
The Keeper novices were in a separate group a little to one side, watched over by Fiachna.
Quickly he stripped down to his tunic, the wind tearing at his hair.
éadha felt a twist of longing when she saw how lean and strong he looked in the Channeller uniform, with its slim-fitting pants and narrow top, his skin golden-brown in the sunlight.
Beside her, Muir, one of the girls from her dorm, gave Ailbhe a meaningful nudge while stifling a giggle.
Irial, meanwhile, threw the ball in the air and smashed it with his hand against the far wall. It rebounded toward Ionáin, hitting him hard in the chest, and he doubled over, the breath knocked out of him.
“As I said, speed and agility. Also quick reflexes.”
Laughing good-naturedly, Ionáin picked up the ball, and Master Irial walked him through the serve, showing him how to place his feet to react swiftly to the flying return, how to twist his body to avoid being hit, how to throw himself across the court in a diving catch and hit the ground in a roll.
Ionáin quickly took to it, and soon all of the apprentices were playing with varying degrees of success, the air filled with the sounds of balls hitting walls and various tender body parts as they ricocheted back.
Standing there in the spring sunshine, watching Ionáin race around the alley, for all Muir’s stupid giggles, éadha was still fizzing with the relief of knowing she didn’t have to find a way to supply him with power just yet and with another, deeper feeling she wouldn’t admit to herself but that filled her until she almost had to rise up on the balls of her feet to hold it in.
The feeling of being, for just a little while, free.
She’d come here to protect Ionáin, but for now he didn’t need her.
She was free to just be. In this place of power and wonders, she’d nothing to do but train like all the Family apprentices around her.
When her turn came to step into the alley, she threw herself into the game.
Her hands were calloused from herding, making it easier for her to strike the hard ball.
She adapted quickly to the game’s rhythm, anticipating the flight of the ball and positioning herself instinctively to send it flying back against the wall and beyond reach.
As the morning wore on, Master Irial set up a tournament that quickly turned competitive. Ionáin was knocked out early on, Linn defeating him with a practiced smash that bounced off three walls before whizzing past his outstretched hand.
The next game was between Gry and Ailbhe.
As the two names were called, éadha sensed a collective breath from the other apprentices.
Gry stepped forward, shrugging off his cloak.
Underneath the uniform, his arms were taut and muscular, his smooth, dark skin gleaming in the afternoon light.
Beside her, Muir gave a small sigh and whispered to another apprentice, Síofra, “Such a waste.”
“I know,” Síofra replied. “I mean, why even bother when he’s only a Keeper?”
“Still though,” said Muir. “Maybe he’s hoping Linn will take a chance on him? That name still means something.”
Meanwhile, Gry had taken up position in the stone alleyway.
Watching him, with his cropped hair and his lean fitness, once again éadha had the disconcerting sense he’d arrived somehow more ready for Lambay than the rest of them.
As if, long before he’d gotten here, he’d been preparing himself, almost like a warrior preparing for battle.
But still, as Ailbhe stepped forward, there was no aggression to him, only a kind of pained embarrassment as he nodded to her politely.
Her expression was considerably more chilly, barely acknowledging him as she drew on a pair of soft leather gloves.
The match was over in minutes, Ailbhe sending the ball slamming around the alley at a speed Gry, for all his apparent strength, was seemingly unable to match.
Though éadha couldn’t help noticing how perfectly timed his misses were, every time his hand falling just inches short of where the ball landed.
And as he returned to his spot, while éadha’s dorm mates loudly cheered Ailbhe’s win, she could’ve sworn she saw something very like relief on his face.
She, meanwhile, had come through the first few rounds, Ionáin loudly cheering, “Victory to House Ailm!” when she beat Síofra in a close game.
And even though it was the most normal thing in the world for Ionáin to cheer for his oldest friend, éadha still felt relieved to hear it. Because, she realized, after less than a day on this island she was no longer sure what was normal anymore.
Next up was Ailbhe. She stepped into the alley with smooth confidence, her shining hair tied into a neat bun.
They were well matched: Ailbhe with the superior skill and experience, éadha relying on her longer reach and natural agility to stay in points.
Almost everyone else had been knocked out by now, the Keepers returning to stand behind Fiachna.
The Channellers sat high above them on the alley walls, feet dangling as they looked down at the two girls racing about the alley, diving and twisting.
Ionáin was still noisily cheering éadha on while Ailbhe’s dorm mates cheered for her.
Ailbhe was perfectly composed, her skin only lightly flushed as she served ball after ball.
éadha suspected it was almost as important to her to make it look easy as it was to win.
But she could also see that after several hard matches Ailbhe was beginning to tire.
Saw, too, her quick, irritated glance upward when Ionáin gave a particularly loud cheer.
“Come on, éadha! Show them what us northerners are made of!”
Here it comes, she thought, and there indeed it was. A deceptively quick serve, sent deliberately high against the wall so it’d shoot back directly into éadha’s face. Ailbhe, it seemed, was sending her a warning. She wouldn’t be beaten in anything.
As the ball rocketed toward her face, éadha felt her power start to uncoil in response.
In her mind’s eye she saw her silver strength so easily channeling power to her legs to somersault back and out of the flight of Ailbhe’s vicious serve.
Saw herself coming around to whip the ball back and into the composed, utterly entitled face of the girl beside her.
But in the same moment she knew it wasn’t a choice she had.
Not if she was to protect Ionáin. So, with an effort, she pushed her power back down and braced instead to take the blow.
As the ball slammed into her temple, her neck snapped back and she went flying backward onto the ground.
Irial hurried over to where she lay dazed, blood trickling down the side of her forehead and into her hair.
Above her Ailbhe said, “Oh dear, how unfortunate,” her pretty face twisted into a blatantly insincere expression of concern.
Ionáin jumped down, but the Master waved him back before calmly asking, “How’s your head? ”
“It’s fine, just a cut.”
“Still, we wouldn’t want to leave a scar now, would we?” and there was enough of a smile in his eyes to show he guessed éadha had been wondering about his own scars.
He closed his eyes, and éadha sensed him draw power.
Instinctively she tried to follow it, a thread running across the alley and out into the quad behind, but there she lost its path, unable to trace where the Fodder were hidden.
Even as she did this, she realized she hadn’t seen any trace of Fodder since they’d arrived on First Island the day before.
Wherever they were keeping the people they were using, they were well hidden.
Irial stretched his hand out just above her cut, there was a tingling, and the pain disappeared, snuffed out.
Reaching up, she felt the skin on her forehead. It was whole, the cut healed. Master Irial handed her a cloth to clean away the dried blood and then looked up at the rest of the class.