Chapter 22 #2
The dagger spun in the air as it rushed by the edge of the router obstacle and over the dead ashlings on the ground. Time stood still as the blade impaled the wall, quivering where it stuck in the rock right beside Jarek’s knee—and no one made a sound.
“What are you waiting for?” Tabi’s voice tore the silence, her grip slipping faster, as Jarek jerked into motion, pulling his leg up and placing his toes on the sharp edge of the blade. He’d barely placed his weight on the dagger while Lory prayed for the delicate blade to hold.
“You can let go.” Jarek nodded at Tabi, who slumped against the wall, her free hand finding a crevice to slide her fingers into.
Lory didn’t breathe the entire time as Jarek half-dangled, half stood there, his hand searching the wall until finally, finally, he found something to hold on to, and he nodded at Thal to let him go.
A collective gasp went through the crowd as Jarek started climbing again, making progress inch by inch, but making progress anyway.
He’d need a new boot, but he’d be fine.
Something that wasn’t as true for Lory if the look on General Ycken’s face was anything to go by. The Master of Steel was standing next to Khayrivven, who stared down at her as if she’d just grown a second head.
“If the Triad decides to kill me for this, please remind them how valuable I am to King Ulder.” She tried to give her thought a humorous note, but all she earned was a dark expression that told her nothing about whether he’d heard her, and as Lory turned away, checking whether Thal and Tabi were all right, too, her gaze snagged on Brycon, who was still frozen at the top of the wall, his face ashen.
If Lory didn’t know better, she’d be tempted to believe he was in shock.
When Lory visited Jarek in the Medica quarters that afternoon, she still couldn’t believe that the Triad hadn’t called her in for punishment.
She’d spent the entire trial at the edge of the parcours, her heart hammering violently in her chest while she uselessly watched how her friends put their lives at risk to make it to the next rank: thornling.
She should say cannon fodder. All those magic wielders who’d come there under the illusion they’d be part of something greater, that they would protect their kingdom—
Lory had skipped lunch, spending her break researching more on the academy’s hierarchy and understanding the ranks and insignia she’d never given much thought to.
Thornlings were considered skilled enough to start their real education. A good portion of them would still die during training, even when breakfast executions were no longer on the table. Her friends were all safe from that, at least.
They were far from tested, though, the rank that would allow for independent missions under supervision.
For tested, the true danger no longer lay within the walls of the Ward, but out there, in the Amrin Mountains, or wherever they’d be sent to ‘train.’ With their thin silver square insignia, they were rarer around the Ward than ashlings or thornlings, but on occasion, Lory had spotted one of them.
And then there were the phantoms, like Anees and Hadrian, tested with the two diagonal silver lines crossing through the square insignia, indicating their extra role.
Ashmarked, the final rank, Lory hadn’t spotted at Ashthorn among the student body, since the graduates were all assigned to the field, protecting Brestolya—whatever that meant. It wasn’t like the Northern Continent was waging war on them.
The solid silver square insignia of the Ashmarked, Lory hadn’t seen on anyone other than the teachers.
“I would have thought you’d be pleased I got away with nothing more than a cut on my heel.” Jarek cocked his brow, the thin scar right above it wrinkling under his reddish-brown hair. “You know, with you saving my life and all.”
Lory shook her head. “Sorry. I’m just distracted.
” By what the Triad might do to her for said saving.
By the idea of Khayrivven being able to read her mind.
By what had happened at the dance, which she’d never talked about with anyone.
Her father was working for the King of Brestolya, not to mention the leonthor’s voice in her head, that she wasn’t sure to this day she’d only imagined—but that was a story for a different day.
With a smile, Jarek sat up on the cot by the wall, shifting his foot on the pillow where it was propped up, and waved her over.
The Medica quarters were perhaps the friendliest, coziest place in the entire pyramid with the way the light always appeared softened by the array of small windows peppering the walls.
The furniture was more comfortable, cushioned chairs instead of hard, wooden ones.
Carved tables with curved legs instead of straight, functional ones like in the mess hall, the bedrooms, and the classrooms. The feeling that they were the only place in the academy dedicated to life instead of death might have had something to do with it, too.
“How’s your foot?” She crossed the small distance from the door of the four-cot room and sat on the chair beside Jarek’s cot, running her fingers over the carved patterns on the armrest.
Jarek rolled his eyes. “Has been better. Hand Nahrit says it will take two days to fully heal and that he only won’t report you for not properly sharpening your weapons because that dull blade saved my life.
” A heaved breath followed his chuckle. “Honestly, Lory. Thank you. I made my peace with death when I entered Ashthorn, but I’d much rather leave it on my feet than in a body bag. ”
Leaning back in her chair, Lory studied the plain limestone ceiling, trying not to think of the crematorium beneath the academy, where Jarek’s body would have ended up had he not survived the trial—where too many bodies would be burned over the course of the next hours.
The trial had demanded over forty lives, reducing the number of ashlings to seventy-eight.
Jarek pointed at the brown square on Lory’s bicep. “Next time we train together, we’ll have matching uniforms again. Actually, Tabi and Thal just left. They already got their new insignia.”
With a frown, Lory looked down at her arm. “You’d think they’d give us a celebration after surviving such trials.”
Jarek shook his head. “If you want applause for your achievements, you’ll need to go to the Academy of Performing Arts in Lapia. They celebrate every small success. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”
Lapia—
The lively capital of the southeastern province Lory had heard stories about. Arts and culture flourished there, while in Criu, people were fearing for their lives.
“I’m more a thrive-in-the-shadows type of girl.”
That earned her a grin from Jarek. “For someone who prefers to stay in the shadows, you’re putting on quite a spectacle whenever you get a chance.”
Lory couldn’t deny he had a point. She’d made a show of herself repeatedly with her fire magic before and had been put on the spot by the Triad.
Somehow, hiding hadn’t worked out for her since the day she’d been caught in the streets.
Again, Lory shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don’t prefer the shadows.
” This time, she thought of the dark alcoves where Khayrivven had kissed her breathless.
Jarek bobbed his head, obviously in thoughts of his own, and a silence spread that Lory couldn’t say was comfortable.
She’d spent so much time with her friends, but never with Jarek alone.
Somehow, he’d become part of their little group, initially only talking to Tabi, but without him, they wouldn’t be complete, even when she had no idea what to say to him now that they were alone.
Jarek seemed to feel similarly, because he awkwardly glanced at the wall, tapping his finger on his thigh, his pants ripped at the knee.
“They didn’t let you change out of that sweaty, dusty thing?” she asked, saving them from more awkward silence, and Jarek leaped at the topic.
“I feel like one shower won’t be enough after these trials. I mean, did you see what they made us do?” He absently traced a splatter of crusted brownish-red on his arm. “Steel gets a completely new meaning after you actually drive it into someone’s stomach. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it.”
Jarek was putting on a brave face, but he couldn’t hide the moisture in his eyes. Not too long ago, Lory had been the one bemoaning her first kill—even if it had been to save her life.
“They say it gets easier with time.” It was a flat phrase that hadn’t helped her one bit, but at least it was an attempt at consolation.
Once more, Jarek bobbed his head as if he’d heard those words a million times. “My mother used to say that when I asked her about what it was like.”
For a long moment, they just sat in silence, each of them in their own thoughts.
Jarek was one of the students from a family of magic wielders, who’d applied for Ashthorn and was bound to make a name for himself if he achieved the rank of ashmarked. He also had a sister right there, at the academy. Even in this dark place, he was never truly alone.
“What is it like to have a family?” Lory didn’t think what she was asking, and when she met Jarek’s gaze, the pity there nearly stabbed her.
“Hard, sometimes. Wonderful, most times.” So simple, that answer, yet so deep.
Lory remembered vividly the times it had been hard with Evven. Not the moments they’d bickered and fought, but those when Evven had been put in jeopardy because of her. “I can see that.”
“What happened to your family?” This was so Jarek—blunt and straightforward, but not in an insensitive way. He just called things as he saw them and was never afraid of how people would take it. True friends wouldn’t be scared away by his almost naive honesty.
“My mom died when my brother and I were young. My dad, I only met once, and he didn’t want anything to do with us. And my brother died almost three years ago.” Three years—time had passed in a blur since she’d been stuck in Ashthorn Ward.