Chapter 11
Eleven
Morgan
The large lecture hall is structured in a rectangle, longer than it is wide and ending in a wall of books to make any kingdom sponsored library jealous. The upper levels are accessed only by large rolling ladders on golden risers.
A podium for the lecturer or whatever professor claims this room as his dominion perches in the heart of the room. Tables and attached chairs round in a semi-circle around it.
It takes hours for a maid to clean one of these classrooms. The size is just too large for it to be an easy job, something the builders of the school no doubt pushed aside in their consideration. The stone walls catch dust and particles of debris, not to mention cobwebs like delicate filigree lace.
The chandeliers overhead are too high to reach without some kind of scaffolding, and even the extendable feather dusters only brush the bottom of the candelabras.
There are no easy jobs for the housekeepers of DragonSpear.
There are certainly no places to hide if you find yourself in need of escape.
I scrub my hand over my forearm but the smell of dragon dung still clings to every pore.
There are no more hot showers, not for maids.
There is a long winding line leading up to a row of leaky showerheads.
They drip out a lukewarm stream and by the time the end of the line finally makes their way to the front, even that small amount of warmth is gone.
I can’t get the stench of the aerie off of me.
Blood pulses in my ears. I tighten my grip on the broom handle and flinch when the skin cracks.
My wounds are healing but slowly. Without a day off, there’s no chance for my body to catch up on the rest it desperately needs in order to heal.
At least I’m not in the hospital wing.
That’s where I put the girl who tried to steal my necklace. I brush my fingertips against the curve of the pendant beneath my uniform. Yup, lesson learned. I’m keeping it with me these days.
Mrs. Milkin handed out the day’s duties from her ever-changing roster.
There is an army of cleaners and most of them work in pairs.
I glanced briefly at the black-haired girl in the cot beside mine, but she paired off with someone else.
And Milkin gave me this classroom to do on my own before dinner.
My stomach twists and shrinks, growling in anticipation of the food we’d been denied for our failure with the aerie.
I scowl at the room. “This better go quick. I want my helping of gruel.”
The room has no answer for me.
There are enough seats for roughly a hundred students and no matter the one they choose, they are all granted a good view of their teacher.
I sweep the broom against the first row of floorboards and do nothing but smear the dirt into wavering lines. Then, because I can’t help myself, I glance at the books.
Every classroom I’ve seen has the same library wall. The lower rows are sparser, divided into square cubbies for the students to store their required reading for class.
It has something to do with a new law, one implemented when Roman Ryson took over.
He decreed that battle formations were dangerous topics and the study would be controlled by those loyal to the king. The books and their knowledge aren’t out in the open for just anyone. Only those with access to the classes are able to touch their spines.
This is no public library. This is a purposefully controlled environment.
And I’m just the girl sweeping the floors.
I stand straight and my spine clicks, telling me exactly how it feels about being snapped into place.
A quick glance at my reflection in the shadowed window stops me in my tracks. My skin has gone paler than milk, the hollows beneath my cheekbones carved and my eyes glassy, empty.
My reflection scrunches its nose but even the silly face fails to erase the tragedy written more surely than any official court document on my features.
“A magic potion won’t help you,” I tell my reflection with a groan. “Neither will sleep. You’d have to sleep for an entire year.”
Any vanity I might have had once upon a time, when I’d had servants of my own to help with my unruly hair or lace me into brightly colored dresses, is gone now. I smile widely until every tooth shows.
The smile is a mockery and hits something inside of me with an ominous clang. I hastily look away.
The person I used to be is gone. The one now had better come to terms with my place here, quickly.
I rub the back of my neck and the knots. A half hour goes by, an hour, marked by the persistent ticking clock above the classroom doors, and I’m three quarters of the way done with the floor. Although done is a relative term.
I’m terrible at this. My hands won’t stay steady, and I keep losing focus halfway through tasks. No wonder Daisy and the others have to take on extra work. I should really do the floor again but there are so many other things to accomplish…
I sweep the last pile of dust into a black metal bin and mechanically dump it into one of the trash receptacles. The floor is good enough. When I stand, my hand automatically presses to the base of my spine. I arch to crack the bones into place.
The ache stays lodged in the center of my back and no amount of twisting helps it.
If I break for more than a few seconds, one of Milkin’s spies who occasionally march past the door will report the hesitation to her. Then it will be more threats of the mines, more ear wrenching—a specialty of hers—and maybe even another withheld meal.
A few seconds will have to do double time.
I catch the end of the feather duster and move to the alcove with the leather strap looped over my wrists. The raw spots from the ropes have semi healed at this point.
“What kind of light reading are you keeping from your subjects?” I say under my breath.
The lettering along the base of the spines shows the books here are well used. Well read.
Only a few scattered pieces of dust kicked up from the sweeping have dotted the bookshelves, but that’s the way it has to stay.
There is no hint of grime or debris.
I drag the tips of the feathers across the middle shelf first, scattering the dust at eye level. It drifts in a lazy spiral to the ground as I move onto the second shelf, and then the third. In a perfect world, I’d be in this classroom but in one of the seats.
One of these cubbies would belong to me. I’d stash my favorite stories here and grab others from those lofty shelves above.
I’d mark them with a tassel and tell the others not to lose my place if they want to borrow something.
“And which seat do I want?” I tap my lower lip.
Glancing over my shoulder, I mark the rows.
Somewhere in the middle. Maybe. Somewhere close enough to show my eagerness to learn but not in the front where the toadies usually stay.
The back rows are no doubt reserved for the late arrivals, the listless, or the cool kids who were no doubt much too perfect to be up front.
I’ve never been part of that crowd.
My thoughts darken, shifting automatically to Kieran and his new blonde sidekick, and I sneer at the shelves.
I’d be reading these books instead of dusting them.
I swipe the duster across the fourth shelf and one of the books not quite lined up with the others pulls free another half inch. Glaring at it doesn’t slide it back into place and when I rise on the tips of my toes to do so, I pull up short.
Land Bound Mounts Vs. Flying Mounts and Superior Battle Tactics Between the Two.
Oh. Ether.
My heart lurches against my ribs and fills my chest with a sickening warmth. The title catches my eye, curiosity too deep to ignore.
Battle tactics, eh?
The room is empty, and the hallway quiet with everyone off to dinner. Itchy fingers twitch midair before I give into temptation.
My mouth goes dry as I grab the book away from the spotless shelves, fumbling to drag it down and letting the pages fall open. The black script is neatly printed, and several passages are accompanied by hand drawn illustrations.
This copy is in pristine condition despite the permeating scent of old leather. The binding is strong, not what I’d expected from a much-loved tome.
If my mother had had access to this information… would she still be alive? My chest tightens at the thought.
There is no name written on the inside cover to mark its owner. I lean against the wall in silence, tired, alone, resigned and linger in this stolen moment of quiet.
Every second counts.
Unicorns, basilisks, and hydras are the only land bound mounts I know of. The first chapters in particular detail different methods for protection against the flying mounts, such as dragons, thunderbirds, and in theory, phoenix.
I thumb through the pages. Why hasn’t this particular book been copied and made available to the masses? I like to consider myself well read.
If I wasn’t running wild and climbing trees, I had a book on my lap. I’ve seen more nonfiction than most and I’ve never heard about a book like this before.
“Novels on battle formation are dangerous topics for the general populace, eh?” I say out loud, the familiar anger flaring up. “Is that why you’ve not distributed it, King Lochlain? Or has your General got you so well trained you jump when he snaps his fingers?”
My lips round.
Of course, because the monarchy wouldn’t want its opponents knowing more than the King. And the General… Ether forbid anyone stand against him successfully.
There are several scrawled notes in the book’s margins in swirling ink, along with some hasty sketches of dragon wings.
I twist a stray piece of red hair around my finger, scouring. The binding of the feather duster adds unnecessary weight to my left hand and I pry the loop away from my skin. Let the cursed thing fall to the side of my crossed leg.
Illonia Whyte wasn’t the type of parent to read to her children. She left us just enough freedom to search on our own terms and our tutors handled the rest.
She never would have curled up on our beds like my father had, reading fiction pieces in strange voices until his daughters lost themselves to the tales.