Chapter 13 #2
We're being quiet. Mom's sick and we don't want to wake her. Dad has his paperwork spread out all over the table. "If you wanted to control a group of people, my sweet Maple, how would you do it?" he asks, eyes wide and sparkling.
I think, tapping my small fingers on the table.
"Threaten them?"
Dad chuckles.
"You are ruthless, aren't you? Yes, that would work, but not for long. Threatening only works for a short time. The best form of control is a special kind of manipulation. That's how they're doing it, Maple, it's how everyone is..."
The memory becomes hazy; it bleeds into another that's further from that time and I try to grasp the ends of it, but it slips away.
I look around the classroom, at the other cadets who are all in various states of boredom, and unease grips me.
I feel like there's an important piece I'm not remembering, some thread of memories I can't get to, and no matter how hard I pull, it won't unravel.
My head snaps back to the present. At the front of the class people are handing over the general knowledge tests and my stomach sinks. I know I need to stay calm. The more I worry, the more the words rearrange themselves on my paper.
Time passes and I become frustrated with myself. I read and then reread the questions, the words becoming foreign to me. Soon I realize I'm one of the last ones in the room, and I feel defeated as I wing the rest of the questions.
I've always been a great guesser, so I hope that will get me through.
I walk to the front without making eye contact with the professor and hand in my pitiful exam, knowing it will be a miracle if I pass.
Shoulders slumped, I head to combat training.
Unwilling to let my foul mood rub off on the others.
I get lost in the familiar rhythm of ducks and lunges, rolls and blocks.
I'm paired with Tarius, and he's not as timid during sparring as one might think. His height makes it impossible to reach past his arms when he holds me back, and the longer we go, the more frustrated I get.
We're wrapping up for the day when I feel a hint of awareness prickle my neck.
I turn to the doors and see the lieutenant and his legion talking.
He looks my way. He's assessing me again, and heat creeps up into my face.
Briefly, I wonder if they're going to kick me out of here.
My test scores are so bad that even my mediocre fighting skills don't warrant praise here. How embarrassing would that be?
I don't need another reason to feel bad right now. I hope I can get back to my room without talking to anyone else.
I feel utterly drained, and I know I won't keep a pleasant face if someone provokes me today. I tell my crew I'll see them later and duck out the doors, walking faster than I need to back to the dorms.
Once I make it to our room, I let out a shaky breath. I feel heavy, and not just because I exerted more energy than normal during training today.
The memories that popped up during the test feel like an itch I can't scratch, but everyone has memories like that, don't they?
Ones they can never fully remember. Except, I realize, all of my memories feel that way.
Maybe it wouldn't irritate me so much if I didn't so often feel like my brain was failing me.
I know those answers. I could answer them right now if someone asked. I could argue I know more than most, thanks to my family. But when put in a room like that, I can't seem to calm my brain down long enough to untangle the mess in my head.
It doesn't help that I always have to decipher between what is common knowledge and what is beyond that.
The added pressure of not wanting to draw attention to the fact that my dad's information about our history far surpassed most, and that was dangerous.
What was more dangerous––and frustrating––is worrying how I can even trust the things I do remember at this point? This only adds to my anxiety.
How many Gods were there? According to public record, there are four Gods, but the lore scrolls dad had.
.. I think there may have been more originally.
Which I never really understood, with our sacred compass plastered everywhere, clearly contradicting that notion.
Our temples worship the four elementals relentlessly.
Our current history claims that ALL gods have vanished.
That they'd been so appalled at our abuse of power, our corruption of magic, that they revoked their gifts and left.
But it never quite made sense.
Ethra's wind still blows, mostly dust clouds, but still he doesn't feel gone.
We can still make fire. Surely, the god of wrath, if he had truly left, would have taken that with him.
It still rains, and the coast, although mostly uninhabitable, still has water lapping its shores.
Which allows the rain to creep onto our continent in some spots.
The goddess Dyea though, most would argue she is gone.
There is nothing green or good or new anywhere.
I've seen the temples, and the churches erected to honour them all, seen the places of worship where people are told to pray and leave offerings.
What offerings people have to leave, I'm not sure.
The church we have in Strayton is small and always crowded with the same eccentric people from dawn until dusk. I never enjoyed going.
The execution blocks are usually beside the church, and something about it has always felt wrong. Officials say that when someone breaks the laws, their souls are to be offered back to the Gods in penance. Every soul carries its own energy, a force that belongs to the elements themselves.
Even souls without magic, they say when offered, give life back to the land, eventually.
This is the way back to their graces, showing our devotion through sacrifice.
Maybe I should go pay my respects, and see if it makes a difference.
Knowing my luck, our whole country is just waiting on me, and with my late devotion everything would be set right.
I would probably be set on fire for my insolence.
Maybe I would welcome it, especially if it meant everyone could live better.
The next day, my mood has improved marginally.
Our crew's found an ease with one another that I find comforting.
I love listening to Leo and Farra's idle bickering, Berkley's constant scolding of them.
I even understand Tarius a bit more now.
The more I watch him, the more I realize Leo's assumption was right, and years of being on alert around men means I'm programmed to expect the worst.
During breakfast, Wesley posted the ranking of our scores on the wall. For what purpose? I have no idea. Everything seems performative here one way or another, from our training to our lessons we're on display.
I failed fairly miserably, near the bottom of the cohort. I played it off like it didn't bother me, but I felt shame as everyone around received passing marks. The professor had come and handed me the papers earlier, noting I should brush up on my general knowledge and try again.
Farra notices my mood, catching me outside in the hallway by myself.
"Everything ok?" she asks, with a crease in her brow. I nod back, trying to smile.
"Yeah, tests stress me out, I guess. I'm annoyed. I'll have to take that test again, is all."
Farra motions to my paper, "Can I see this for a second?"
I cringe a little at the thought of her witnessing my failure, but I hand it over. Farra takes a few minutes, carefully looking over my answers, humming to herself.
"This is odd, because we've talked about a lot of this and your general knowledge is honestly the best out of everyone's."
I purse my lips, shame dripping off me.
"I've just always been bad at this," I wave my hand at the paper.
"My brain overheats or something. I complicate every question, like they're all some elaborate trap.
They asked who the last reigning royals were, and I know, but I unraveled the question until it didn't make any sense. I turn into this big idiot."
I laugh at the last part. Hoping to make light of it, so she doesn't see just how thrown off I am. Because it doesn't really matter, does it? I am going to sling a baton around, not lead a lecture hall.
She sees right through me.
"Don't you dare. You are smart Maple. Your brain just works a little differently.
I can't help my expressive face any more than you can help the way your brain processes information.
I learned a few tricks with my brother when we were trying to rewire his brain after he came back. We can work on them tonight?"
She grasps my hand, squeezing. I feel a little relief at this, not only at my friend's offer to help but simply that there was no judgement or concern in her words.
"Alsoooooo. I shouldn't have to point out, to you that these tests don’t matter, right? They just want us all to be on the same page for when we go out and if there's civilian unrest, or even an uprising or something, we can redirect from an informed standpoint."
Something about this notion sits wrong. The memory of my dad's voice ringing in my ears again, the words unclear. Farra gives me a worried glance, no doubt seeing my brain drifting.
"No, I know. I know it's silly, but I've always been sensitive that this stuff doesn't come naturally to me. My siblings are brilliant. Like they came out of the womb a little scientist and historian, just like our parents. It just always made me feel a bit like a black sheep, I guess."
Farra shrugs and swings her arm over my shoulders, pulling me in for a side hug.