Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
With Thorne’s strange words ringing in my ears, I muddle through morning classes without any major incidents. Though Elijah and Mark burn me with an occasional menacing glare, they don’t approach me. I wonder if that reluctance stems from Thorne stepping in during magic training yesterday, and if so, how I feel about the development. Part of me is relieved that they quit harassing me. Another part bristles over the reminder that I’m weak and need someone to fight my battles for me.
I decide to quit worrying and enjoy the harassment-free time while I can, instead focusing on training. Despite a few close calls, I manage to avoid vomiting during Kinneck’s drills. Navigation class also proceeds without a hitch. My nerves don’t make an appearance until toward the end of lunch. I forgot to ask Thorne about his plan for Flight training today. Obviously, I’m still not ready to fly, and I’d prefer to avoid another sucker punch to the head. Leaving the excuse for missing class in Thorne’s hands probably isn’t the smartest idea considering how little the man likes me. I suppose his loathing has decreased a teensy bit since our first meeting but that’s like a blizzard easing into a snowstorm. One might be more intense than the other, but both can freeze you to death.
Flyer Quinnelle solves my dilemma by approaching our table in the mess hall. “Axton, Holte, Pendrick, and Rummon. Your unit won’t be participating in flight training today. It’s your turn to work the eyril field. Report there immediately after lunch.”
My heart does a little leap as he names the members of another flight unit. I don’t know much about the plant and its green-orange tendrils, but anything that gives me a reprieve from flight training can’t be that bad. Though the memory of the fledgling thrashing and clawing his skin bloody from a magical overdose plucks the hairs on the back of my neck like an icy hand.
For once, I thank my atypical magic. Not needing eyril means that fledgling’s fate will not be mine. During the walk to the field, I think about how everyone apart from me takes eyril daily and wonder how easy it is to go from regular dosing to craving more.
“Ready for your first eyril harvesting session?”
Olive’s question tugs me out of my thoughts as our unit halts just outside the field. The pungent, earthy aroma mixed with that faint hint of sweet decay permeates the air.
“I think so. It sounds…intriguing.”
Nick lifts an eyebrow, the salty ocean breeze rippling his dark brown waves. “Interesting word choice. I’d have said dangerous , but whatever.”
Is he trying to scare me? “How so?”
He levels me with a you really are that na?ve look and gestures toward the eyril field. “Do you really have to ask?”
My gaze roams over ominous stalks so high a person could get lost in them. “Humor me. Aside from ingesting too much, what’s dangerous about the eyril field? I’ve never done this before.”
He huffs. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
I turn away, unable to hide a flicker of hurt over the non-answer. Nick’s difficult to read sometimes. He’s typically more reserved compared to Olive and Abel, but he doesn’t usually give off such a condescending vibe. I thought we were starting to become friends. Now I wonder if he’s merely tolerating me for the sake of the unit.
Abel approaches us, pushing a cart with a large wooden crate on top. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s in a bad mood because of some letter from home. Maybe his sweetheart came to her senses and found someone more cheerful to spend her time with.”
Nick’s scowl could make children burst into tears. “She didn’t?—”
“Fledglings, gear up.” A middle-aged man with an angry red scar on his right cheek and a large leather satchel slung over his shoulder strides toward us.
Light brown, sun-streaked hair peeks out from a wide-brimmed hat, casting a shadow over his weathered face. His uniform is different from the other instructors and recruits. Rather than the standard navy tunics and trousers, his clothing fits like a second skin, the iridescent emerald green glimmering like a rainbow when the sun strikes at the right angle.
Trying not to stare at this bizarre man, I widen my eyes at Olive, who responds with an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
“I’m Instructor Eric Narrton.” The instructor steps toward me, providing me with an up-close view of his puckered face. “When you’re here,” he gestures toward the field, “I expect you to be diligent at all times. Eyril is a powerful entity. It should be handled with the respect and care it deserves. You’ll wear protective gear. No horseplay will be tolerated. Your unit will show you what to do. Should you have a problem, I’ll be nearby. Any questions?”
Plenty, but my mind is whirling too much to pluck a single one out. “No, sir.”
“Excellent.” Instructor Narrton pulls a large tome from the satchel and deposits the bag beside the crate before addressing the rest of my unit. “Your gear and equipment are here. Once you finish, please remove the gear and return it. I don’t want to chase anyone down because they trotted off with a king’s ransom stuck to their cheap carcasses.”
I wrinkle my nose over the visual. This guy’s a real bowl of fun. A collective “Yes, sir” echoes around us.
Narrton grunts, shooing the students with his hands as they line up to gather the necessary garments. “Don’t just stand around. Hustle. Gear up, watch what the others do, then get to work.”
Book in hand, he retreats to the shade of a nearby tree.
Nick, Abel, and Olive pull armfuls of clothing from the crate and satchel, including boots, pants, tunics, and gloves. Each item has the same iridescent quality as Narrton’s attire.
Olive sizes me up before rifling through the crate and handing me a pair of pants and a shirt.
I accept the clothing, running a hand over the sleek material. Excitement stirs in my chest. “Is this what I think it is?”
A smile tips the corners of her lips. “It’s made of dragon scales, making it nearly indestructible. Just put everything on over your uniform, except the boots. Leave your own pair here.” She gestures beside the crate.
“Dragon scales are resistant to eyril oil.” Abel offers me a large, bulky pair of gloves. “Make sure the gloves overlap your sleeves. You don’t want any skin exposed.”
As I don the borrowed attire, a sense of awe settles over me. I’ve never touched a dragon before, much less worn any clothing made from the creature’s scales. The garments feel surprisingly light, allowing ease of movement.
Nick passes me an odd dragon-scale mask that covers most of my face, along with a pair of clear goggles for my eyes. “Keep these on while you’re in the field. You don’t want any oil to get on your face. It burns like the three hells.”
I glance around for the instructor, ensuring he’s out of earshot under the tree. “Is that what happened to Narrton?”
“That’s the prevailing theory. No one knows for sure. Narrton’s a cagey fuck.” Nick hands a helmet to Abel and Olive. “An odd one too. Once, I carried a delivery out here and caught him talking to the eyril.”
Abel snorts. “Not this again.”
Nick glowers at his friend. “I’m telling you, it was weird.”
I inspect my helmet. “I don’t know. One of our maids chats with our roses. She swears they grow better if someone sweet-talks them.”
Nick’s expression of utter betrayal prompts me to swallow my giggle. “Okay, but Narrton wasn’t whispering sweet nothings. He was having a full-blown argument with the stalks, complete with hand gestures and a raised voice. At one point, he even rolled around near the edge of the field and cried.”
“Oh. That does seem a little bizarre. Reena never did that.”
Nick points at Abel. “See? I told you. Weird.” Then he frowns. “Wait. Who’s Reena?”
“She’s one of my mother’s maids.”
His animation dies. “Right. I sometimes forget how different our upbringings were.”
I shuffle my feet. My childhood was probably more different than most, but he’s talking about the disparity between affluent nobles and commoners. While I don’t know much about Nick’s family or their circumstances, I do understand that some families in our kingdom struggle more than others. I wish King Xenon would do more to help those in need, especially with the failing harvests and subsequent rise in crop prices. He must be inundated with important tasks, but ensuring all Aclaris families and children have homes and enough to eat is important too. Hopefully his focus will shift sometime soon. While I’ve written several letters about the need in our own village, I haven’t heard back yet. I have no idea if they get delivered to the king or simply read by an underling who tosses them in the trash.
Abel interrupts the awkwardness. “Maybe he was role-playing.”
Nick pauses in the act of tying back his hair with a leather cord. “Maybe who was role-playing?”
“Narrton. Acting out a little scenario with his favorite eyril plants. They do seem to have a close relationship.”
Abel wiggles his eyebrows, making Nick scrunch his nose in disgust. “Please never do or say that again. You just took it somewhere dirty.”
Abel shrugs. “Hey, the man spends a lot of time out here in the field. We shouldn’t judge how he gets his jollies. That’d be like judging a sheep farmer for getting a boner for one of his flock.”
Nick and Olive display matching expressions of horror. Nick recovers first. “What the hells, man? Who wouldn’t judge a shepherd for wanting to screw his sheep? You need to reevaluate your life choices.” He plops the helmet on his head, muttering something that sounds a lot like perverted fuck under his breath.
Olive holds up her palm. “Yeah, I’m out. I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened.”
Abel leans closer to me. “Gotta love Nick. He’s so easy to wind up.”
Snickering, I balance against Olive for support and set my helmet on the ground to yank my regular boots off. Despite the disturbing topic, warmth blooms inside me like the unfurling petals of a sunlit rosebud. This. This type of camaraderie is exactly what I was missing—what I was longing for—while sequestered at Castle Axton. Now that I’ve experienced it, I’m not sure I can let it go.
“Do your hair first.” Olive pats her auburn curls that she keeps in a low bun. “Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to get eyril oil in your hair.” She reaches for my braid. “Here, let me help.”
After Olive unties my braid, she finger-combs my dark tresses, making quick work of fashioning my hair in a bun similar to her own.
“Thanks. I completely forgot about my hair.”
Once we’ve donned our masks, I follow Olive into the eyril field. Nick and Abel are already there, crouching low to the ground.
“Is the oil not in the stalks?”
Olive shakes her head. “No. The more mature the plant, the taller it grows. But the base of the plants just below the ground contains the oil. When the plants get too full, they start to ooze. Thus the oily substance you see in some places. That’s eyril.”
“If it’s so dangerous, how does anyone ingest it without harming themselves?”
If my ignorance annoys Olive, she doesn’t show it. “Eyril needs to be diluted to a fraction of its original strength. Otherwise, the oil will burn your throat when you swallow it, then dissolve your stomach and the rest of your insides.”
Before I can stop myself, another question rolls off my tongue. “Do we scoop the oil up off the ground?”
“No, that oil’s tainted. We?—”
Abel snorts. “Tell that to the idiots who buy the polluted oil on the black market. When it liquifies their insides or causes them to go insane instead of enhancing their magic, they only have themselves to blame.”
“If the kingdom made safe eyril available to those people, that wouldn’t happen.” Olive shoots him a glare. “Anyway, we have to carefully dig, brush away the dirt, and inject a syringe into the bulbs to extract the oil. Then we put it in vials and give them to Narrton.” She pats a leather pouch at her waist. “I have what we need.”
“Here.” Abel hands me a spade. “Watch how I dig, and then do what I do. We’ll brush away the excess dirt, withdraw the oil, and then fill the vials.”
That sounds simple enough.
“You’d better be careful, though.” Nick winks. “If you pierce the wrong part, eyril will squirt on you.”
I picture Narrton’s angry scar and grip the spade so hard I’m certain my knuckles have whitened under the gloves. Yeah, no thank you. “Got it.”
Abel laughs, the sound a little distorted under his mask. “He’s just messing with you. It doesn’t work that way.”
I elbow Nick in the ribs. “Jerk. I’ll be careful nonetheless.”
For a while, we work in silence. I imitate Abel as he digs in the soil, locates each milky white bulb, and brushes the plant off before piercing the tough flesh with the syringe and withdrawing the oily black liquid. The strong, earthy odor competes with the aroma of sweet decay, reminding me a bit of rotting fruit. When I fill my first vial, I study the inky black liquid and ponder how much money a single vial might fetch on the black market. A lot, no doubt. Enough, I imagine, to make stealing one an enticing temptation for some fledglings.
As we move on to other plants, Nick and Olive fill the vials with precision borne of experience.
“I don’t see any other plants ready for harvesting here.” Abel stands and stretches. “Want to pair off? Might go quicker that way.”
Nick caps a vial and puts the container in a pouch identical to Olive’s. “Fine with me. The sooner we finish, the better.”
“Lark and I will start on the other side.” Olive nods to the far side of the field. “Ready?”
“I am.” I rise to my feet, happy for the reprieve from crouching. “I’m following you.”
At the end of the field, we wade through the plants, checking for oozing black oil on the ground. A weird murmuring hum seems to come from the stalks, as if the eyril’s either greeting me or warning me away.
The humming infiltrates my body, tugging at me with an invisible line. My surroundings dim as the line pulls me forward, toward the vibrant stalks that undulate in the breeze.
The murmuring grows louder.
“Hey guys, do you hear…”
The words die in my throat once I realize I’m alone.