God King, God King, last and first
teach us well and do your worst.
If we fail you, if we fall
send a flood and drown us all.
Love’s Testament, Book of L’Angly (2:5), excerpt from “Ballad of the Teacher”
I rouse my roommates at 0430—they’re cranky but grateful—and we head to the mess hall below Colçon’s Tower. We’re given grasspaper cups of tea, along with the best food I’ve ever had—stew topped with milk, goat’s cheese, and granulated sugar.
After we finish eating, we head to Zephyr Hall. The massive steeple is congruent to Colçon’s Tower. Sabilli pointed it out yesterday—even so we get lost. Osyrus, Dune, Rowan and I are halfway across the quad before Sabilli yells after us. We trot back to the metallite gate, disoriented.
“It’s so early,” Dune mumbles.
Sabilli makes a noise of assent.
“Day’ll get worse before it gets better,” I remind them. “Have you ever run a death sprint?”
Rowan downs the rest of the tea in his grasspaper cup.
The pledges—upperclassmen who’ve completed at least one session—let us through the iron gates when the clock hits 0500. There are five of them—two girls, three guys. We’re assembled in the entry hall, and the girls lead Sabilli into an adjacent room.
Saxxon, a two-titled deuxcruité who’s starting Session Four, has us introduce ourselves. He’s short and broad, with dark hair and a square jaw. After we’ve told him our names, he makes us strip.
“If you wash out, you keep the pales.” Saxxon hands me a pair of white leathers. “You also keep your titles unless you eff things up with the lanistae on your way out.”
I transfer my metallite pins to the chest of my new jacket.
“Answer your superiors with the grunt greeting,” he says. “That’s aye, sir, or aye, madame. Don’t talk back and follow orders. Consider that the golden rule.”
I raise my hand. He nods in my direction.
“I thought the golden rule was protect the innocent,” I say.
“Not in the First Circuit, grunt.” Saxxon stares me down. “We’re Yosif’s army, but we’re in L’Angly’s territory. Love conquers Death every chapter and verse.”
What does following orders have to do with Love? I want to ask, but I keep my mouth shut. We finish dressing and join Sabilli in the granite hall. She and Rowan were given black leathers—their status as legacy elites trumps their ranking of grunt.
Nine stone pillars offer painted depictions of Death incarnate. Yosif, Vandame the Second, Aleric and Adelia, Médéric the First, Marquise, Jalo, Isador, Médéric the Second, Killián. All Yosif’s progeny, all di Vivars by blood or marriage. Wary faces and raised scythes—cocked and ready to defend. Ready to protect the realm from armies bearing down on us.
We’re led to the center of Z-Hall. Five oak tables await us. I check in with a swordsman who examines my blade.
“Is there any way to get the rust off?” I ask.
“Take it by the forges,” he suggests. “Smithies will pretty it up for you. Se battre comme le Diable. Is that your family maxim or battle cry?”
Whoresons and Whoredaughters don’t get mottos, unless you count born to be used and cast aside. We’re property of Leisure Street. Except I’m not, not anymore.
“It’s my family maxim.”
“The forges are in the basement of the central facility,” he says. “They’ll engrave your battle cry on the blade so you can claim it. You do have a battle cry?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Tough up.”
“Short and sweet.” He hands me the weapon. “I like it.”
The next station requires a urine test. A young swordswoman—a swordsmaster, judging by the two titles pinned to her chest—gives me a flask.
“Are you testing for sophoria and baccy?” I ask. I smoked a candydrop on the train before Dune’s pack was confiscated by guards.
“We’re looking for scag, but we run a full panel.” She eyes the bravery laurels pinned to my pales. “You’ll be tested monthly through Session One. If you’re on drops, show up clean to your next test.”
“Any other rules I should know about?”
“They’ll give you a leaflet,” she says. “Your forearms will be cut for minor infractions, and you’ll get a demerit if you piss off the lanistae. Three demerits, you wash out of the program.”
“Thank you, swordsmaster.” I eye her laurels. “…Can I ask you something?”
“Did I earn my titles by graduating?” Her lips quirk. “No. I tested in, but I got my second pin on the frontline.”
“Thank you for your service.”
“Are you looking for tips?”
“If you have any.”
“I couldn’t keep up with PT,” she says after a beat. “The first few times I boffed a run, my grunt lanista sent me to Headmaster Segolé’s office. He cut my forearms, but it wasn’t traumatizing. Eventually Leómadura made sure I got a demerit. Then I got an 80 on my ethics final.”
“That was another demerit?”
“Anything lower than an 85.”
“What about your last strike?”
“I don’t remember what Leómadura wrote in the red book,” she says. “He wanted me gone. I wish I’d appealed up the chain-of-command, but I was homesick. Three weeks of paid leave before deployment seemed like a sweet deal. If I’d made a fuss, Segolé would’ve overturned my expulsion. He’s tough, but he’s fair.”
“Lanista Leómadura isn’t?”
“I can’t answer that,” she says. “He’s not my drill instructor anymore, but he outranks me. Stay on his good side, work out during your off-hours, and don’t get caught drinking.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Keep it that way.” She shakes her head. “There’s a huge market with the underage lordheirs. If Segolé catches you, he’ll confiscate your bottle and thank you for it. If Leómadura catches you…”
“He’ll give me a demerit?”
“Worse. He’ll cut your forearms.”
“You said that wasn’t traumatizing.”
“Not when Segolé’s doing it.”
I exit the washroom and return the flask. The swordsmaster waves me through to the next set of guards. The men give me a set of running shoes and four texts. The Leaders of Yesterday and Tomorrow by Rarre Lucci. Training the Untrainable by Segolé Amore. L’Anglimar’s Lore Retold by Médéric di Vivar the Second. The Puritan’s Guide to Strategy by Lefe Frétou.
“These should be memorized by the end of your first session,” says the grizzled, pale-faced fighter.
No problem. I’ve already worked through most of the books with Pierre-Marie.
I receive my daily schedule, which will be my agenda through Session One. PT in the morning. Classes on leadership, honor, ethics, warfare tactics, rank structure, and the chain-of-command in the afternoon. In the evening we get an hour to write letters to our loved ones, and then it’s lights out at 2145.
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This is doable, I think, then try to get my expectations in check. If I make it through the grunt session, there will be three seasons to go before I graduate. I want to earn elite status by my sixteenth yearday, but I can’t afford to get ahead of myself.
###
Our induction draws to a close. We’re released to a gruff, bearded man—judging by the vicious lines of his scowl, he must be Lanista Leómadura. He takes us out to the back quad. Acres of green grass stretch in every direction, from the main complex to the statue of the lord.
“Line up and stand at attention,” he says.
I copy Sabilli. Back erect, two fingers pressed to my lips, left arm folded behind my back.
Leómadura moves down the line, studying each of us in turn. He passes Osyrus without glancing at him—that doesn’t seem good. At Dune, he tilts his head to the side and stares for a moment. He looks Rowan up and down and shakes his head dismissively.
When he gets to me, he stops.
“What’s your name, Pretty-boy?” he asks.
I wasn’t expecting him to address me as deuxcruité, but damn.
“Kolton Diable, sir,” I say.
I almost slip and say Whoreson.
He stares at me with gray-green eyes. My stomach churns like an overflowing coalpot. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, but I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the conversation I had with the swordsmaster, or maybe I’m allowing anxiety to control my mind.
I meet his gaze.
“You’ll be packmaster until someone tops you on the murder board,” he says. “Name your fighters for me.”
I guess we’re ignoring Sabilli’s higher marks in the Colosseum. I shoot a guilty glance in her direction, but she’s staring straight ahead.
“To my left is Sabilli Ozias, sir,” I say. “Daughter of Staffmaster Péri. To my right is Rowan Cunn, grandson of—”
“I can tell who’s a legacy elite by the black leathers.” His gaze is fierce.
“Uh…sorry?”
“Leave off the grunt greeting again,” he says slowly, “and I’ll cut your forearms.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Name your other fighters.”
Anything to get his piercing gaze off me. “Osyrus Rhodes, sir,” I say. “On the far right is Dune Callisto.”
“Was that hard for you? Do I need to make someone else packmaster?”
I can’t tell if he’s being sincere or condescending. I want to rub the back of my neck, but I don’t break attention. Two minutes in and I’m already terrible at this. Sabilli could probably list off troops in her sleep. Her father, Péri, took the troops he was given and groomed them to perfection. My strategy for surviving Session One hinged on Sabilli being packmaster and following her orders. These are uncharted lands.
“Sorry, sir,” I say.
I expect him to bark don’t lick my boots. Instead he surveys me. I stare back, trying not to duck my head. Three laurels are pinned to his chest, but his leathers are gray instead of black. Killián must’ve declined his submission for elite status. There’s no way he didn’t apply. Not with those titles.
Stay on his good side, the swordsmaster said.
“I am Lanista Leómadura Aarov Tiberius.” He resumes his pacing. “My lady is Death, but I’m tenth-in-line for the title Lord of Hope. I’ll be your commanding officer for Session One. My job is to transform you from grunts into pledges. Every order I give, you’ll receive with the grunt greeting: yes, sir, or yes, swordsmaster.”
He seems satisfied by our silence.
“If you disobey me, I’ll cut your forearms,” he says. “If you slack off, inventing ways to make grunts atone for their sins is my creative outlet.”
None of this sounds terrific, but he’s a drill instructor. He’s supposed to break us. I tell my Leisure Street instincts to shut up. Be effing quiet, as Sabilli would say.
Dune raises a silent hand. Leómadura nods in Dune’s direction.
“You said something about a murder board?” Dune breaks attention. “Are we supposed to know what that is?”
Dune left off the grunt greeting. He’s going to die. Better that then wash out on the first day of training.
“Permission to answer, sir?” I ask.
For a second I think Leómadura’s about to castigate me, and then he says, “Granted.”
“The murder board is an academy tradition from the time of Yosif,” I say—Pierre-Marie and I went over this. “Weekly scores are calculated by the lanistae. L-DAW students are ranked against each other. The bottom half of students are…”
Shit. Shite. I’m forgetting.
“Held accountable for mediocrity?” It turns up like a question. “If you’re at the bottom of the murder board two weeks in a row…”
I can’t remember what Pierre-Marie told me. I was wrestling a pressure headache and fantasizing about curling up on my bunk.
Sabilli huffs out a soft sigh that sounds an awful lot like, “Out.”
You flush out of the Colosseum, I remind myself. You wash out of the academy. Pierre-Marie said terminology is important, and I don’t want to use the wrong words. I’m already strip dancing on cracked ice over a frigid river.
“You’re dismissed from the leadership training program,” I finish.
Vague lingo. Universal vocabulary. No colloquialisms. He can’t ping me for the verbiage—can he?
Leómadura stares at me.
“Someone’s been studying,” he says. “I guess I picked the right packmaster.”
Rowan and Sabilli are legacy elites. They’re never going to forgive me for this. I can’t afford to piss off my drill instructor, but I don’t want to be known as a bootlicker. I have no idea how to play this, and that’ll screw me—eff me—if I’m not careful. All I wanted to do was get the attention off Dune.
“Any other questions?” Leómadura asks.
My pack stays silent.
“Start on your death sprints.” Leómadura points toward the chalky line that wraps around the quad like a noose. “First grunt to hurl gets their forearms cut.”
###
Dune is winded by our second time around the field. Sabilli and Rowan lap us. Hating myself, I pick up the pace. My lungs burn. Sometimes we have to tough up…
I’ve caught up with Osyrus by the end of my third lap. By my fourth, I’m hoping to twist an ankle so I don’t have to finish the run. Sabilli slows after our fifth heat—I run the sixth and seventh by her side. By the eighth, I’m tapped. By the ninth, I’m wishing for death. By the tenth, I’ve emptied my mind. I force myself to think of Felicity, to focus on the rage and pain and sadness and hurt. I quicken my pace without thinking about it.
Dune, who I’ve lapped four times, throws up after my twelfth heat. Leómadura stops us.
“That was terrible,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an abysmal performance, even on I-Day. We have our work cut out for us.”
Rowan, who finished seven miles without breaking pace, balks. Even so, he doesn’t break attention.
“Packmaster, take your fighters to the mess hall.” Leómadura paces in front of our line. “No afternoon classes today. Bask in your own stink. I’ll see you here at 0500 tomorrow for your real first day.”
Egad.
“Callisto,” he calls when we break formation. “My office!”
Dune turns to look at me. I offer a tiny nod of encouragement. Lady Luck, look kindly on the poor bastard.
Back stiff, I lead the rest of my silent pack to Colçon’s Tower.
My body aches.
That’s nothing new.
###
Dune enters our dormitory twenty minutes late. Osyrus and Rowan are still in the mess hall—I came back early to get some reading in. Training the Untrainable is on my lap, opened to the fourth chapter: “A General Guide to Subordinate Assholiry.”
I snap it shut and pat the bed beside me. Dune sits.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He uses the textbook as a pillow.
“Dunno.” He pauses. “Don’t think so.”
He holds out his forearm and shows me three slashes. Red droplets ooze from fleshy wounds. I take his hand and examine the cuts. He doesn’t need stitches, but the gashes are deep.
“I can’t believe he cut you for throwing up.”
“That’s not all he did.”
“What do you mean?
Dune kicks his boots all over my sheets, and I resist the urge to tell him to romp with Lady Death. His eyes are unfocused.
“He said he wanted to talk,” Dune says grimly. “Then he started asking me all these questions—about myself, about my family, about you.”
"Maybe he needs information about his students.”
“He didn’t ask about anyone else. Just me and you.”
“Maybe he’ll talk to everyone individually?”
“The conversation felt off,” Dune says. “I told him our talk would have to wait. Said I had a meeting with Staffmaster Lefe lined up—my ma forged his blade. Told him we were tight. He let me go after that.”
“Is that true?”
“No,” Dune says. “I don’t know if Lefe’s in the First Circuit right now. According to my ma, he’s a dick. I was lying to get out of there. His office smells like old-cut baccy.”
Dune rubs his forehead. I nudge him.
“Tough up,” I say. “If you make it through Session One, I’ll give you the Ivo Lorsan.”
He flies to attention. “You serious?”
I nod.
He beams at me, ruffles my hair, and slides off the bunk.
“I’ll get my books,” he says. “Let’s start studying—you and me are gonna do this.”