Chapter 7 #2
“No way I’d make it across,” someone murmured at the back of the group, and if Lory was honest with herself, the ashling stole the words right from her mouth.
But Falcrest wasn’t done. Before Lory could wonder how he could break into a full on run from a tight roll on a stone surface without as much as a wobble, he had made it diagonally across the roof, drawing the knife sheathed on his belt in a heartbeat, and he jumped …
toward the wall of the pyramid the balcony of which they were standing on, rammed the blade between two boulders, and started climbing.
Not one finger slipped as he made his path up the slightly tilted wall; not one pebble broke off the limestone. Halfway up the building, Falcrest tiptoed along a ledge parallel to the ground until he stood ten feet above them, featuring a bored expression and not even breathing hard.
“Showoff,” Lory uttered under her breath as Falcrest sheathed his knife and dropped back onto the balcony, landing with a thud soft enough to make Lory wonder if he might not be entirely human.
Much to her surprise, Brycon grunted his agreement. “But he’s the Veiled Hand for a reason.”
When Falcrest straightened, brushing dirt off his sleeve, leading them back inside, his eyes caught Lory’s, and she could have sworn a hint of amusement was dancing there.
“For the next few weeks, you will be assigned tutors for stealth and stalking,” he announced, spearheading the group along the corridor back to the more familiar areas of the academy.
“Together, you will conquer a set of skills that will help you survive this challenge. Dedicate enough time to your training, or regretting your life choices will be the last thing you do.”
“What do you know about my life choices?” Lory whispered to herself, staring holes into the back of Falcrest’s head.
She wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for him—not that she’d at any point asked to be sent to this death factory of an academy; choosing this over a death sentence didn’t really count.
Falcrest’s head whipped around, gray eyes piercing right into Lory’s as he continued his speech.
“In two weeks’ time, you will show me where you stand”—he gave a dramatic pause, gaze raking over the students now so quiet Lory could make out the melody of the wind whistling around the corners of the pyramid. The only sound louder was her pounding heart as Falcrest’s eyes locked back on her.
“Get to the training grounds. You’ll find your tutors there—and don’t bother asking to switch groups. You won’t be able to choose who fights at your side when you stumble into an ambush, either.”
Sheathing his knife at his belt, the captain slipped through the ashlings who were now scrambling to get out of his way, his face set in a mask of cold indifference.
When Lory stepped aside to let him pass, he paused for a heartbeat, lowering his head a few inches, and hissed at her so softly only she could hear, “You will regret your life choices, whether or not you plunge to your death in two weeks, ashling.”
Lory’s breath caught in her throat as he continued walking, disappearing into the black mouth that was the door into the innards of the pyramid.
Thal nudged her elbow, gesturing for her to start moving when the rest of the blues entered the corridor after Falcrest. Gnashing her teeth, she set into motion.
Only when she glanced over her shoulder did she notice Frost was studying her from a few feet away.
He shot her a knowing look that unsettled Lory more than she cared to admit—the ashling with the power to freeze water had been as silent as Thal had been chatty, his vigilant eyes following the blue ashlings wherever they went.
Lory had yet to decide whether he was picking a victim to turn into ice or if he was constantly scanning for danger.
She sure as Eroth’s Veil wasn’t going to find out.
At the door, Lory filed in between Thal and Tabi, unease rising in her stomach at Falcrest’s obvious promise and the sense that Frost had already found someone to freeze over.
The trip down to the training grounds was a five-minute walk through torch-lit hallways, down several steep sets of stairs, and into the yard where they did running and sparring.
Where Falcrest had gone, Lory couldn’t tell, but she suspected he was still walking at the front of the group, his boots as soundless as ever and his form disappearing in the shadows between circles of orange glow.
Behind her, Tabi was discussing the merits of trying their luck at following Falcrest’s path without proper training, how many ashlings they expected to lose in two weeks when the test was due, and who they would be.
“Definitely not Ricca. She’s too quick on her feet and too coordinated.
I’ve seen her dance in one of the gilded classes,” Tabi claimed, reminding Lory that she hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting the Gilded Hand yet.
Tabi and Jarek were among the first few to be called to gilded classes, which they’d described in brief as a waste of time if you grew up in a privileged household, but a great refresher considering the positions they might take after graduation.
“Ricca’s mother is a dancer,” Jarek pointed out. “No wonder she’s a natural, even when she doesn’t come from a long line of ashmarked.”
Lory could hear Tabi’s nod in her voice as she described the benefits of having learned to walk and move in a skirt early in life. “Honestly, why are women the only ones expected to look graceful in one of those traps of silk and satin?”
In front of her, Thal gave a chuckle, his head turning sideways as he eyed Tabi in obvious assessment. “Not a fan of pretty clothes, then, Tabs?”
“Not unless you wear them.”
Lory grinned to herself. Between the two of them, she didn’t feel as alone as in the first days at Ashthorn, even when she couldn’t share all her secrets.
Self-preservation remained the top priority, especially with people like Falcrest, Frost, and Ricca paying too close attention to her every step.
“Two gold coins says Brycon’s brains won’t help him once he sets out over the railing,” Thal threw over his shoulder.
Tabi met his challenge with a white-toothed grin, her braids bouncing around her head as she nodded. “Two coins, he’ll find a workaround where his lack of coordination will probably throw him to his death.”
“Hey, I heard that,” Brycon complained from where he’d been walking behind Jarek.
“Good,” Lory muttered, wondering if there was anything these people didn’t find to be a game or a bet, if they were aware that lives would be lost.
When they entered the training grounds, the yellow ashlings were already there, their light, black shirts decorated with the outlines of bright yellow squares.
They didn’t stop in the middle of the sparring area where they did a workout consisting of flowing movements and shadow boxing Hand Sil called ash art every day.
Lory’s hip was still hurting from the stretch involved in the wide stance that was the first position of ash art.
Naturally, Tabi and Thal knew half the movements already, given their upbringing in ashmarked families, while Jarek, Eira, and some of the others struggled a little more.
Besides her, Frost seemed to be the only one at a loss when it came to the seemingly endless sequences of cutting their flat hands through thin air and knocking out invisible opponents with their fists.
If only they were allowed a knife or a dagger, Lory wouldn’t feel like she needed to constantly watch her back.
Left and right, greens, reds, and purples were doing their ash art exercises as they crossed the courtyard, approaching the slightly elevated, secluded area at the back of the training grounds, right up against the foot of the pyramid. Lory took one good look and swallowed.
Tall poles reached into the sky, thick ropes running between them in straight and diagonal lines, right beside the facade of a fake three-story building.
Along the yard, panels of wood and rock lay like a gargantuan staircase, dwarfing even the walls and ladders at the left of the space, waiting to be conquered by whoever wasn’t afraid to break a limb or their neck.
“Falcrest wasn’t joking about regretting our life choices,” Thal said, his grin—for once—hiding behind an expression of respect, if not fear.
“Ready to give up and go home yet?” someone called from the back, and Lory didn’t need to turn around to recognize Ricca.
“Shut it, Ricca.” Lory was quick to defend one of the two people who hadn’t actively tried to broach the subject of how she’d ended up at Ashthorn, and when she turned around, Ricca wasn’t the only one glaring at her across the sandy yard.
The yellow ashlings had arrived, their group dispersing into clusters of four to five people while the blues remained at the side of the parcours, their attention whipping from Ricca to Lory, who instantly regretted having taken a side.
On the streets, declaring loyalties was dangerous—a death sentence if choosing the wrong group—so she had avoided it after Evven’s death because Evven had been family, and she’d lost him.
Ignoring the ache in her chest, Lory watched Falcrest sprint a few paces up one of the wooden walls at the side, then push and jump onto the first platform—a stone one—where he landed gracefully, the hilts of his sabers glinting in the sun as he rose to his full height and surveyed the assembly of ashlings, not bothering to brush back his wind-torn hair.
“All right, blue, yellow, meet Hadrian Bleek, Perredin Washings, and Anees Frier.”