43 - FIRST CLASS

Later, Mezamir explained to me how the Academy worked.

There were roughly three hundred students in each house, each year. It was expected that, as we transitioned into our second year, then the third and fourth, this number would dwindle. Mostly, Mezamir told me, this was because some people dropped out. Partially, it was also because there were inevitable casualties; grievous injuries, deaths. The Academy didn’t play safe. Their philosophy was that, if you weren’t strong enough to survive the school, you weren’t strong enough to deserve a position in the upper echelons of the Autarchy.

There was also a ranking system. Regular tests and exams contributed to our personal positions in the hierarchy. At the moment, all of us were unranked and equal. As the weeks went by, and then months, we would be reorganized. Whoever was ranked first in the House became prefect. Also, I was told that each House had a master, who was supposed to guide and advise us.

“But here’s the thing,” Mezamir said quietly. “There’s a little more to it. An unspoken part that, for your sake, I’ll speak now. There are certain people, Aurion, who are…let’s just say, expected to do certain things. Become prefect, for example. Take, for instance, Galadin. Have you met him yet?”

I shook my head. I’d never even heard his name.

“Right. Well. Galadin is in our House. Interesting fellow. But he just so happens to be a descendant of the Autarch. Great, great, great grandson, if I’m not mistaken. The two probably haven’t even met. But that’s not the point. The point is that he has the Autarch’s blood. That makes him somewhat…untouchable.”

“So it’s rigged,” I said bluntly.

Mezamir winced. “Not exactly. The tests and trials are unbiased. Whoever is best, wins. And whoever wins, rises in the ranks. But to be frank, if you’re dueling Galadin for the number one spot, the smart thing to do is let him win. Unless you’re suicidal and enjoy making enemies out of the most powerful men and women in the nation.” A pause. He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not suicidal, are you?”

“No—”

“That’s a relief.”

“—but nor am I particularly afraid.”

Mezamir sighed. “Well. I did warn you, at least.”

That night, we had our first meal in the feasting hall.

The hall was a vast, rectangular room, with six long, House tables above which their respective banners hung. Over there, to the far right, the table of Fury, with blood-red banners emblazoned with a golden fist. I took a seat next to Mezamir. All throughout the hall, a thousand or more candles burned brightly, bathing us in a warm glow. The hall was clean, polished, every stone surface pristine. Stained glass windows filtered the moonlight pouring in. Near the double-door entryway was a statue of the Autarch. On the far side, a small table along which sat the masters of the Houses.

One man stood. Middle-aged, gray-haired, he strode across the dais and waited for a respectful silence to ripple outward.

His voice boomed: “Welcome, all, to the Tiran Academy.” Eyes like shards of flint swept across the faces before him. “I am Tivalt, Grand Scholarch, and the man who has been selected to run this school and hammer all of you into shape. But the truth is, children, it is not my responsibility to do so.” His eyes hardened. “It is yours. Each of you, individually, are the masters of your own destiny. Here at the Academy, we give you the requisite tools to learn how to serve the Autarchy. But it’s up to you to use them. To apply yourself.” He began to pace. “You will make friends here, doubtless, and I’m glad for the fact. But do not forget that you are alone. That in the Autarchy, each man, every woman, is a bastion unto themselves. Fortify yourself. Arm yourself with the weapons of knowledge, logic, and martial prowess. Use these four years wisely. This place, friends, is a crucible.”

And with that, the Grand Scholarch returned to his chair.

After a moment of hesitation, thunderous applause filled the hall.

I frowned down into the cup of wine in front of me. Everything I saw, everything I heard, made the Autarchy easier to understand. Their minds were captured. They had been so utterly twisted by Marak’s mindset that they now viewed his desire to conquer reality as something akin to religious belief.

These people were fanatics.

I missed the Thorns. I missed their blunt, pragmatic way of seeing things.

I missed Justinia. I imagined how she would’ve scowled to see this hall full of the Autarchy’s best and brightest. Good chance she’d already be drunk and in the midst of a fight.

I would get back to them soon. I promised myself that.

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In the morning, we returned to the feasting hall in order to break our fasts. We ate plates loaded full of roasted meats, with freshly baked bread, and with a seemingly endless array of colorful fruits. Cakes and other sweet treats were piled high on silver platters, but I noticed that many of the students were deliberately avoiding them. I forced myself to do the same, no matter how haunted I was by the delicious memory of the lemon tart I’d eaten not so long ago. Perhaps the only thing I truly loved about the Autarchy, that put my upbringing with the necromancers to shame, was the variety and quality of food here.

My first class was held in a sunlit room filled with tables and chairs. I, and the other students, slowly trickled in. We were a mix from all six Houses. We’d received our timetables with breakfast, and as far as any of us could tell, we all had the same subjects, but broken into a variety of different sessions so that each class had only around twenty students.

A wiry woman with dark hair streaked through with gray strode into the room. A black patch covered her right eye. She had one arm, the left sleeve of her jacket sewn up to hide the stump. Her remaining eye, a vivid green swept across the seated students.

I leaned forward in my seat. The class became silent.

The woman glared at us. Then, after a moment, said, “My name is Aramira. Once the foremost general of the Autarchy. Now responsible for teaching you little shits how to win a battle.” She reached into her coat pocket, produced a cigarillo, stuck in between her lips, then pulled out a box of matchsticks. With impressive dexterity, she lit one one-handed, touched it to the cigarillo, drew in a deep breath. All while I and the rest of the class sat enraptured.

“Now,” she said, pacing the length of the class, smoke collecting around her head. “We begin with the fundamentals of war.” She stopped, gestured to a girl at the front of the class. “You. Tell me, what is the most important element of fighting a successful war?”

“Logistics?” said the girl.

“Is that an answer or a question?”

The girl swallowed hard. “An answer.”

“Well. It’s a wrong answer.” Back to pacing and smoking aggressively. I liked her already. She reminded me somewhat of a necromancer, stern, matter-of-fact, unable to tolerate nonsense. Only, necromancers tended to be more insane. “Logistics is the answer people like to give when they want to sound smart. There’s some truth to it, don’t get me wrong. Fighting a war with poor logistics is a fucking nightmare. I’ve seen it. I’ve fucking been in it. But the real answer is this: balls. You need to have fucking balls if you want to win a war.” She stopped again. Turned on the spot. Her eye found me and narrowed. “You. The tall one. What do you think I mean by that?”

I was aware of eyes turning in my direction. Of the attention of the entire class. I said, “Timidity has been the death of many armies. The inability to commit. Meanwhile, many commanders have won against impossible odds through sheer courage and a willingness to get dirty.”

Aramira exhaled smoke. “Dryly spoken, but that’s the gist of it, yes. Now, if you’re so gods damned smart, tell me this: what’s the problem with this particular characteristic?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Not everyone has them. Balls, I mean.”

Aramira grinned, and that felt like validation. I relaxed. She said, “Too true, boy, too fucking true. When it really comes down to it, a matter of life or death, most people are absolute bitches. And that includes the vast majority of people in this room. All of you, I have no doubt, would like to think that if you were sent to battle, you’d be a hero. Truth is, you’d piss yourself, then fucking die. Or you’d run. Or you’d cry for your mother.” She took a deep, solemn breath. “And here’s the other problem. You either have them or you don’t. So.” That eye again, sweeping across us. “What we’re going to do in this class is figure out which of you have balls.”

After that, she led us out of the classroom.

I found myself grinning. None of us spoke as we followed the ex-general. The tension was palpable. Half the students appeared to be bracing themselves, the other half were fretting.

Cossara appeared by my side, nudging me in the ribs with an elbow.

“Crazy old hag, eh?” She whispered.

I glanced at her. “I quite like her.”

“Says a lot about you, I reckon.”

“Any idea where we’re going?”

“Not a clue.”

Aramira led us outside. We strolled through a garden of red-wooded trees and colorful lilies. A warden watched us pass with a bemused expression, as though he’d seen this before, and found it immensely entertaining. We continued past the garden, entering a wooded area. It was early in the afternoon. The sun was bright, the sky cloudless. The ex-general came to a stop.

“See these trees?” She barked out.

It was impossible not to see the trees. There were many of them, all incredibly tall, with thick, dark trunks. In fact, I’d never seen trees so large before. I peered upward.

“Golden Claw Hawks live in those trees,” said Aramira. “Famous birds. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. Their eggs are precious commodities. Delicious, and loved by the rich. Said to make you live longer, although I’m not so sure about that.” A pause. She lit another cigarillo. “Anyway. Go get yourself an egg. Then I’ll know you have balls. And whoever does it first has the biggest ones.”

I and the other students shared wide-eyed looks, none of us quite sure we’d heard her correctly.

But we had, of course.

I knew about Golden Claw Hawks. Large, vicious birds. Dangerous. They didn’t attack people, though—not unless you climbed their tree and tried to rob their nest. Then, they could kill. Could gouge out eyes with their beaks and rip apart faces with their claws.

This was stupid, and surely a test—perhaps she’d simply been goading us this whole time, and wanted to see how many of us were dumb enough to—

Cossara was the first to move, sprinting toward the nearest tree.

And then we all moved.

And I was running.