Chapter 16 #2
Something else Mozi complains about since he got scratched in the last battle. The dragon has been full of complaints from the outcome of the battle to our return to DragonSpear, especially when it comes to his personal safety.
The herd may have had a much better chance of winning if Omram hadn’t been there. But against Mozi? Eventually they’d have worn him down, especially considering how we left his armor behind.
We hadn’t wanted the extra weight while traveling.
Clearly, whoever wrote these notes has not only studied battle tactics but has cultivated a more instinctual knowledge, more than likely based on personal experiences. The questions posed aren’t a bad thing.
My eyes narrow. “It’s incredible.”
The texts diminish the advantages of land creatures versus expanding on the many opportunities their position grants.
The author’s voice is clear. I practically hear them in the room with me, sitting in the desk opposite mine and tossing out observation after observation.
If I had all day, I’d scour the book from cover to cover and give my full consideration to each question. Based on the thoughtfulness, the mystery reader deserves it. They’re insightful and honest. Open in a way that speaks to their integrity.
The last dregs of my anger trickle away.
With the right amount of training … this person has the capacity to be unstoppable.
Talk about a hopeful.
“I really hope you’re one of Astrid’s,” I say out loud.
If the students she wants to bring into our fold happen to be the one holding the pen, I can’t be angry about the vandalism. It shows guts.
I flip the book closed.
If it’s not a student, then it has to be a teacher or one of the older tenured professors. Potentially even one of the mount masters who oversees the choosing. Maybe the writer already has the training and I’m misreading the tone in the notes.
No maid wrote this.
Then again, some of the questions do speak to inexperience. I’d asked many of the same to my old tutors only to get a slap in the face. I should have already known those things.
“It’s fascinating.” I bite my lip and close the book, the pen beating out a harsh tattoo on the cover.
What’s fascinating?
Mozi comes awake with a yawn in my brain. Sluggardly dragon.
Someone’s left notes in one of my textbooks, I explain. He’s late to the party as usual.
Mozi’s alarm is immediate. Do they give any indication of who they are?
I chuckle. “It’s not like they’re signing any of their questions. I woke early to do some reading and found notations scribbled in the margins of the book under my own.”
Fool, he hisses. You’re a fool if you don’t see this as a potential threat.
I bristle at the insult. Trust me, I’m taking the proper precaution but no harm ever came from reading a book.
So you say.
He’s cautious, seeing the scene through my eyes and our connection. I flip open the book and point to the drawing of the baby unicorn only for him to go still, calculating.
I don’t like this.
You rarely like anything, I reply.
Precaution, Ether. I’m alone in the room and armed to the teeth despite the early hour. There’s no magic in this world for the book to hide a spell or a sneak attack. With the room empty, my enemies aren’t waiting in the walls, camouflaged.
I tap my finger against my chin and keep it to myself that I’d thought the same thing when I first entered the room. Blast if I’ll give Mozi the opportunity to be right, again. He’s too smug as it is.
The person clearly doesn’t want me to know who they are. I wonder if I’ve met them before. Or maybe they used up their bravery by marking the book. I certainly wouldn’t want to have my identity known if I were reading something I shouldn’t.
It may be one of the more timid riders in the first year. Those who have questions in class but your professors are not exactly the type to inspire open and honest conversation, Mozi replies bitterly.
“No, they’re not.” I glance down at the writing again.
The professors are just as bitter and bitey as some of the mounts. For every wrong answer, you may get no response, or you may get a backhand across the face. They are loyal to the crown and loyal to the crown’s cause, not necessarily the students within these castle walls.
Then again, it takes a lot of guts for them to steal something of mine. I pose with my hand hovering above the paper. Then, in green ink, I write out my first response:
Dragon armor is certainly burdensome. It adds weight but is effective against all but a direct piercing of a unicorn horn in one of the connection points. Hydra and basilisk venom cannot penetrate the armor.
Mozi rustles in my head like a cat stretching in a beam of sunlight. They clearly don’t want to be found out.
I scratch out responses to several of the questions and then pause. If my handwriting doesn’t give me away, then the tenor of my response certainly will. I’ve made no move to disguise my own voice.
Don’t do it. Put the pen down, stash the book, and do not open it for the remainder of your semester. Perhaps when the situation with the hydra leader cools down, you may open it again. It’s ridiculous to engage with a hidden author who steals another man’s book.
Normally I listen to Mozi with more than half an ear. He’s been the voice in my head, better than a conscience, telling me exactly what I need to hear since the day he chose me. If Astrid isn’t around to do the deed, anyway.
Today, my interest is piqued, to the point where it’s difficult to lean into Mozi’s warnings.
I don’t ask who the person on the other side of the pen is. Their identity is their own, for now. Instead, I put thought into my answers and my next set of questions. They won’t be hasty decorative scribbles.
If this person is serious about learning and hasn’t found the right outlet, I’ll be there. If they want to share their knowledge, then it’s only right to give them the same consideration in return.
Fine, then. If you’d like to play the fool and potentially throw away everything we’ve worked for—
There’s no need to be so fatalistic, I snap.
Mozi fades from my head until he is a black cloud roiling at the periphery of my attention.
He’s right, though. The person writing in the book could be anyone, a spy sent by my cousin or my father to make sure I’m falling into line like a good little soldier.
But the rebellion will drown if I fail to get it off the ground. I need more people to join my cause. The mystery writer may be the perfect candidate. First, I have to find out more about them. And the only way to accomplish the goal is to get to know them.
People will always show you their true colors if you give them enough time. Even the most well thought out disguises fail with time.
Gathering up my courage, I start to write, answering every question until my fingers are stained with green ink.
There is always another hurdle to peace. There are those who lack the capacity to stand up for what is right, and there are those who will do whatever it takes to reach a nebulous end goal. How much wrong can one person do in the name of good before they become a monster?
Let them answer my question, and let their response be the judge. I’ll make my decision about them then. I stand and replace the book on the shelf, feeling the tightening of the executioner’s noose around my neck with every step.