Chapter 20
Twenty
Kieran
The first meeting for our rebellion is tonight.
The thought keeps me awake and staring at the ceiling while the long hours tick down, my hands beneath my head, waiting for the right moment to push the covers aside. My heart ticks out an erratic beat opposite that of the small hands on the clock and leaves me lightheaded.
A crescent shard of moon glints outside the windows, rising higher in the sky as the minutes stretch. Energy thrums beneath my skin.
Who’s going to be there?
Who do I trust well enough to see in the midst of the group? Astrid is the only one I know to trust implicitly and the nerves nip at me with every passing breath.
She said she’d found people, good people with steely hearts and the necessary combination of perseverance and brawn to be an asset to what we’re trying to do.
I roll on my side and stare at the moon until black crescents wink across my vision.
The voice of panic dances in my bloodstream in a fast paced tap and tells me I’ll get caught. Before we even begin to get this thing off the ground, someone will sniff me out. The rest, whoever they are, will go down with me.
Tristan will know.
How can he not know?
He watches me keenly on the best days.
His direct line of communication to my father is something to consider.
But the last time I checked on Tristan, he’d been deeply entertained by one of the junior warriors bound to a thunderbird. Hopefully she’d have the necessary skills to keep him distracted for hours.
Finally the clock hits the right time and I kick the covers aside. They tangle around my ankles like a noose, and the panicked part of me reminds me that there are omens everywhere. This might be one.
Then the coolness of the floor seeps up through the soles of my feet and obliterates the flush of worry.
I reach for Mozi in my head and pull up short.
He’ll be furious if I ask him again if this is the right thing to do. He’ll call me spineless, one of the nicest of his insults, and remind me of the stakes.
So instead of bothering a dragon, I remind myself.
There’s the potential to lose more people and our entire way of life if my father’s ambitions aren’t checked. And if no one is able or willing to stand up to him…
Who does it leave?
What am I not willing to do or give to take him down?
I steel myself and, holding my breath, pluck my bag from the slender table near the door before sneaking into the silent hall.
To the left is the secondary staircase leading to the cavern. To the right is the main corridor and the classrooms a floor below.
I turn right instead.
I know what happens when curiosity gets the best of you but there’s no stopping my legs. They carry me down the curling staircase toward the classroom and my cubby with the now desecrated textbook.
It’s a terrible idea, all around, to continue a conversation with a stranger who may or may not know that I’m the owner of the book. I’m giving myself away at a pivotal moment where discretion is the key.
But it’s… something. It’s a tickling brush at the nape of my neck when least expected, the first gust of a warm breeze heralding the oncoming spring.
It’s impossible to describe what the notations in the book do to me but I’m desperate to cling to the feeling.
My footsteps echo back as I round to the classroom door, dragging the key out of my pocket. Sweat slicks my palms and my chest tightens.
The classroom is exactly the way I left it earlier today. The walls vibrate with the memory of so many voices, like they absorbed the life it witnessed.
I like it better this way. Solitude has never scared me.
Neither do animals.
People are the ones who scare me. They’re unpredictable and irrational at times. They let their emotions or their ambitions drive their actions and they will promise to love you and care for you, to be your friend, all the while holding a knife at your back.
Sometimes, even good men are tested.
Hopefully tonight is a chance for me to really see what kind of man I am, without the trappings or the name.
The book is nestled in the cubby along with the rest of my personal library and I drag it out with slightly shaking fingers. It falls open to the exact page I want, like a universal wink.
New lines of scribble stretching down from my hastily asked question. A folded piece of paper drifts to the floor in lazy circles.
I snatch it between my index and middle fingers before it hits, prying open the edges. The first lines are impossible to ignore and pressed hard enough to the paper to nearly puncture it.
My loyalty to the crown is nonexistent. How can loyalty exist in the face of a mad general with too much power and his pet king? There is no freedom in this lie they shove down the throats of the common people, and yet they expect us to swallow it down willingly and choke on it.
My heart soars and I read through the letter fast enough to blur the words.
If I had the power to change our circumstances, I would.
The note is certainly a vastly different stance from what the person wrote in the margins of the book. The lines there are neat, the voice tempered by reason and rationality.
I’m not in the market for those things.
The scrawl on the letter, the ragged edges of the hastily torn page, speak to passion and fury. Those are the kind of character traits I’m able to harness into something useful but deadly.
You ask how much wrong can one person do in the name of good before they become a monster? Basically, you want to know if the end justifies the means.
Does the good of the many outweigh the good of the one struggling to restore the balance? Yes.
It doesn’t matter if you become a monster or not. What is one life compared to the hundreds of thousands of innocents with no ability to protect themselves? Power and responsibility matter, in the end.
Becoming a monster is a small price to pay.
A slow smile lights my face. The gamble I’d taken paid off. They understand me. Whoever is on the other end of these notes has a strange empathy for the situation I’m in.
This was a test and they passed it. If anyone will be an asset to the resistance I’m forming, it will be this person. So, who are they?
It’s the question of the evening.
The letter goes beyond my wildest hopes and dreams. Well beyond. It is exactly the kind of thing I’d hoped for and never expected to receive.
I shove the note into the pocket of my jerkin and replace the book with the others, pressing it into neat formation.
The timing works out well.
I’ve got to show the letter to Astrid before I make a move to find the person. Her opinion matters, although in this case, my mind is already set. They’ll make the perfect addition to our group and benefit our long term goals.
We need others who are willing to go the distance, who fight with fire in their veins, whose thoughts run deep.
I tap my fingers against my chin when my mind carries me too far from my body. Excitement makes it impossible to ground.
“Is this the stroke of luck we needed?” I ask out loud.
Mozi rouses himself from my mind. Do you consider it a stroke of luck?
You’re still skeptical, I see.
Or perhaps I’m not willing to let myself be swayed by the answer. I know it’s what you were hoping for, Kieran, but it is much too soon to pin your hopes on this person you don’t know.
Now is the time to take all the help we can get. My footsteps land sullenly.
Yes, but now is also the time to be discerning.
We may start small but we will grow in momentum and strength. My mind’s spinning. I might not know who’s writing to me but I need someone fearless and ruthless. My gut tells me the other person has those qualities in spades.
It doesn’t matter if they’re afraid or not.
I live in a constant state of fear.
I lock the classroom behind me, lost in thought and marching down the hall. Then stop dead in my tracks, blinking, straining to pinpoint the slight scuffing sounds, like a rodent in the walls.
My mouth slants down and I pat my pocket. Adjusting direction. Slowly, the sounds grow louder, clearer, accompanied by harsh grunts of physical exertion.
Someone’s in my private gym.
Dragon’s teeth and fire.
My stomach drops and I bite down on my lips as I stop in front of the door. I keep my mouth sealed, going still.
The special treatment has never sat well with me. I don’t use the gym often on principle, preferring to stay in the larger facility with everyone else. Students will tease no matter what your circumstances. Insults multiply under muttered breaths and carry on whispers through the student body.
They’re jealous.
They’re envious.
They don’t believe any special consideration should be given simply because of my last name.
Tristan has his own private space as well but he lords it over the others and somehow they seem to respect him more for it. Maybe because he is playing the part they expect.
I’m not.
The only good thing about the private gym is the attached locker and bathroom where I know I won’t be disturbed.
Tonight, the gym door is shut but the sounds from inside are unmistakable. Someone’s in there moving across the mat, breathing raggedly enough to wake the dead.
My throat bobs. Cautiously, I push open the door for a peek inside. One glance is enough to confirm my suspicion.
It’s her.
I let out a low breath and shake my head, pressing the heel of my palm into my eyes to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
Morgan moves with the detachment of a hardened soldier too long on the frontlines of battle, one who has seen and experienced things no one should have to.
She’s wearing some kind of ugly potato sack of a nightdress with the long skirt twisted in a circle and knotted around her legs.
It gives her more maneuvering room as she works herself through a series of balance postures.
Sweat plasters the material to her skin, delicate strands of hair escaping her ponytail.
Her eyes narrow as she strikes a cutting blow and then holds herself still.
Her muscles tremble, her grip strong, but she doesn’t drop her arm. The wooden staff holds steady in the air despite the tremble.