Chapter 16
Sixteen
Kieran
Astrid and I battered each other senseless, exactly the way I expected and needed. Alone in the cave, the two of us, gives me the chance to work out my aggression.
It doesn’t stop my mind from whirring.
Every grind of knuckles, every blossoming bruise, disintegrates a knot of worry.
Astrid slings her arm over my shoulder and drags me into her with a groan. “When are you going to learn to keep your head in a fight?”
I push her away, an eyebrow rising. “I held my own tonight. For the pressure I’m under? I could really fall apart.”
“Please.” Her scoff is a thing of beauty. “You might be able to fool others but not me. They won’t look too closely at you.”
She backs up a few steps, still holding my gaze. “The shiny shield of the Great Kieran Ryson blinds them. I see past it. I see all the messy parts.”
It’s easier not to argue with her.
“Oh, by the way, I have a few hopefuls scouted. Think you’ll have time to meet with them in a few nights?”
“How many?”
“Two. Starting small. It’s a delicate vetting process.” Her lips thin.
One wrong move and—
Astrid draws her index finger along her throat, reading my mind. Yes, decapitation. Putting it mildly.
My stomach tightens. “You’re sure about them?”
“I’m not sure about anyone or anything right now but I know we need help.”
Fear clenches invisible fingers around my throat and clamps down.
“We’ll just have to make sure we aren’t caught. And if there are eyes on us, then wherever we go, whatever we do, we look harmless.”
No one can know we’re planning to burn the kingdom to the ground.
I shift and ignore the flash of pain from a very well-placed punch to my abdomen.
“I understand the cost, Kieran, you don’t have to remind me,” Astrid says.
She stalks past me and my heart pounds, my gaze darts around the empty cavern one last time before I trail after her.
Sleep steals me the second my head hits the pillow. Exhaustion is the best remedy for nightmares, I’ve found. My subconscious is blissful, empty darkness until the first screech of a dragon heralds the rising sun.
I wake with swelling beneath my left eye and my jaw clicks.
The pain is immediate and thorough.
I stretch my arms overhead to work out the aches from the beating. A small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, giving way to a yawn. Astrid certainly knows her business.
It’s early enough for the rest of DragonSpear to stick to their beds and the comfort of sleep. Instead of lounging, recuperating, or sleeping in, I push away from the mattress. It gives when I move and I sling my legs over the side, pressing warm feet to a cold floor.
When your father is a ruthless tyrant hellbent on usurping a throne… it’s not enough to be better than everyone else. You have to stay better than everyone else.
It takes sacrifice, stubbornness, and perseverance.
My day is just starting and earlier than the rest of the student body, exhaustion or not.
Muscles screaming, I throw open the armoire and grab a clean pair of black pants, shucking aside my pajamas. They heap in the corner with the rest of my laundry.
My head spins in useless, lazy circles. I make a point to avoid the mirror.
The change of clothes won’t help. I doubt a change of scenery will either. I fling the heavy curtains aside. From this vantage, the rest of the gorge below is veiled in mist like a different world.
Nothing has changed after a few stolen hours of rest. I never expect it to. Somehow, I keep trying. Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and the world will be on its way to becoming something better than it is.
The gray mist of pre-dawn beats against the windows and the first hint of golden sunrise sends arcs of light through the trees across the mountain’s spine.
“Ether curse it.” My breath fogs the glass.
I push away from the windowsill and flip the lock on the bedroom door. The hallway is empty, the silence sullen. Every heavy footstep I take echoes back to me and rings in my ears.
Tristan’s room is at the end of the hall, on the corner of this floor. It’s probably bigger than mine. It has to be, to fit his ego.
I stomp past it knowing he’ll be awake to hear me and slip my hands in my pockets to combat the chill in the air.
These old stone walls have seen more action than many other places in the kingdom, but they’re awful to keep warm. The staff keeps fires burning in individual rooms. The halls and the common areas are a different story.
Every crack in the stone absorbs the heat and sends it spiraling out. It’s even worse in winter, I’m told.
Surely I’ll see it for myself as the months tick by toward Yule.
Ether, maybe I’ll stay here with Mozi rather than going back to the manor. The last thing I want to do is pretend to be happy in front of my father. There are no days off. Not even for holidays.
I head to the second floor and the massive open hall splitting the center of the castle like a spine.
The classrooms are locked at night now. Some new rule imposed by Harbi, or more likely trickled down from my father.
But being Roman Ryson’s son comes with perks as well as crushing expectations.
I draw the key out of my pocket and slide it into the lock, twisting to open the door. The mechanisms click and I push it open, slipping inside the dim classroom.
It’s different when the others aren’t around, or when Clark isn’t perched on his podium waiting for the fresh meat to realize they’re dead.
The shelves in the back are divided into individual spaces for our books, whether they’re for the class or not.
Most of them are filled with the required reading material and others, like mine, are chock full. The weight in my chest doubles.
I don’t remember much about the previous lessons except for Clark’s bellowing about the General’s current triumphs. A little review will help bring me up to speed. My mouth tastes sour and my stomach cries out for something to fill it.
Knowledge feeds the mind but leaves the stomach hollow.
I pull up short, the tips of my fingers inches from the books in my cubby.
They’re in a different order. I obsessively put them back in the same position every time, a small ritual of control no one else seems to notice.
But now, the thickest text is in the center of the line instead of at the front.
My stomach twists and my mind struggles for an answer, right in front of me, close enough for me to taste. The books aren’t in the same place, so someone must have touched them. Who would—
A maid, probably. Someone dusting the shelves? Like Morgan the other day. She’d been holding something in her hands when Evie slapped her, hadn’t she?
I glance around the class expecting to see a flash of red.
Then I grab the book and prop it open on the nearest desk, flipping through the pages. I’m seeing ghosts. Every gloomy corner hides a potential enemy and now I’m starting to see them in the ranks of the people who do my laundry and stoke the coals in my fireplace.
I drop into the seat and pull the pen out of the breast pocket of my tunic.
The notes in the margins are for me, to mark my place or passages I want to study more later. And my heart stops at the new question written below mine, right next to my note about land versus air attacks.
“What in the world…”
My immediate fury at having my book taken disintegrates with every new note I find. There are multiple and all of them in impossibly small and perfect script.
Someone stole my book—desecrated my property.
They also offer some thoughtful insight.
This isn’t simple or petty vandalism.
The questions are written in simple terms. A pit opens up in my gut as I turn the pages. They’re sporadic but well thought out, broadening on things I already know.
Expand on this, please. Where are you getting your research? Are there other books on ground vs aerial battles?
And forcing me to look at several subjects from a different point of view.
This text diminishes the advantage of land creatures in favor of the airborne. For instance, dragons are touted as being the most powerful and formidable mount, yet they are unable to breathe fire until they reach a certain specific maturity. This puts them at a disadvantage for many years.
I roll my eyes, huffing out a dry chuckle.
Thanks to Mozi, I hear about dragon maturity regularly. He moans about the way he is forced to expand on his other brilliant strengths since he’s physically incapable of breathing fire.
Also consider dragon flight times. It may take a fully mature dragon half a day to cross the territory and the larger they are, the more visible their trajectory. They are easily marked, whereas a thunderbird, for example, can disappear into cloud formations. Or a unicorn, for that matter.
I tap my pen against my lips. Interesting.
It’s certainly true for the most ancient dragons, those like Omram. They are large enough to be unmistakable no matter where they go. They can’t fly high enough into the sky to disappear entirely, not without jeopardizing their rider’s safety.
Mind churning, I’m less inclined to be pissed off with the thief.
They touched my things, but they make good points, which leads me to believe the person on the other end of the pen has a keen mind and an insightful way of looking at life.
When was the last time I’d picked up the book? Sometime last week.
The notes are sprinkled throughout the entirety of the text, which makes my mystery writer quite a reader as well. They managed to get through the novel, no small feat, and the questions are no careless marks in the margin, no half assed notation without a purpose.
They’re honest. Raw.
A laugh bubbles out of me. I flip the pages faster until I land on a scrawled note beside a black and white line drawing of a baby unicorn.
Have you also considered the way a unicorn horn is able to break through dragon armor? Not to mention the weight of said armor, only for it to prove ineffective should they get too close to a rampaging herd?
“True.” I flip the page. “Too true.”