AKI:
Early morning. Matrix lanterns blazed from the ceiling and walls of the dorm’s refectory to push back the gloom of predawn. My friends and I sat together at the end of one of the many benches. Before us lay a feast, much of it due to Dako and me.
“Excuse me, sirs,” said a voice quivering. Polkin, the servant Root who periodically disposed of Kalin’s letters for me, stood at the edge of our table, head down and shoulders up, his posture uncomfortably tight in the presence of godlings, few as they were.
“Come now, Polkin,” I said, “we’ve been over this.”
Polkin glanced up, quick and furtive, like a wounded fawn peeking out from its hiding place. “Forgive me, sir, but if you’ll permit, I’d prefer we limit your allowances to more private settings.” He looked around and checked if the few students who’d waived their right to return home and had made it to breakfast this early were paying him any attention. They weren’t.
“Gods,” Dako said, smiling at Polkin like he was a novel oddity. “He speaks darn well for a commoner. Almost like you, Aki, though not quite as refined.” He pointed a knife at me. “Sometimes your eloquence makes me feel a Root.”
Sil appraised the servant, the look in her eyes more curious than impressed. “He does,” she agreed. “Did you train in one of the libraries, Polkin?”
“In a manner of speaking, miss. My mother is a librarian. She’d done her best to teach me what she could, though not nearly enough to help me escape my station, I’m afraid.”
Sil threw me a look, her spoon splashing into and clinking softly off of her soup-filled bowl. “I take it you’re acquainted with Polkin?”
“Yes.” I left my answer there. “I presume you’ve letters for me, Polkin.”
“Yes, sir, quite a few. It’s been rather difficult to locate you as of late.” He brought out a string-wrapped bundle of cheap parchments from a satchel hanging off his shoulder.
“As usual, burn them,” I said. “Unless they’re of superior quality, burn them all.”
“Including those yet to arrive, sir?”
I gritted my teeth. “All of them, Polkin. Every single one.”
Polkin stepped back. “Ye-yes, sir.”
I took a deep breath to calm myself. Time had turned all my fear to rage, and any mention of my heinous father unlocked its cage. “Please burn them all.”
Polkin nodded without looking up from the floor.
“And Polkin,” I said. He glanced up at me, noticing my tone had softened. “Thank you.”
“Of course, sir,” he said, smiling awkwardly. “I’m happy to be of service.”
“So,” Sil began, “care to tell us about these letters you see fit to burn without reading?”
“Sure,” I said, surprising her. “As soon as you tell me about your relations with Headmaster Ricell.”
Sil winced. “I might’ve called you harsh if you weren't being so fair.”
“Now you know what it feels like when friends ask uninvited questions.”
Dako laughed, catching the attention of half the refectory. “Finally! I’d been wondering if you’d ever taste the sting of Aki’s sharp tongue. Too bad your first was one of his more tame lashes.”
Sil tore a healthy chunk from a loaf and dipped it into her soup. “Yes, I’m starting to think your incessant complaints were more than just you capitalizing on opportunities to be loud.”
A sudden thud and a yelp stole our attention. Polkin was on the floor, holding an arm to his chest by the elbow. In his place stood Vignil, a few of his usual posse of sycophants arranged behind him like the feathers of a peacock.
“Are you making a habit of fraternizing with commoners, brother?” Vignil asked, no mind given to Polkin. As expected, the godlings at his back buzzed their agreement like bees around honey. They didn’t understand godlings of repute sought competence and obedience. Only the least of them cared for worship or adulation and only in secret—particularly in House Bainan. “I’d thought to rescue you from misfortune and obscurity by folding you into my service, but it appears you are a lost cause.”
I stood and tried to help Polkin up. He pulled back from me and ran off without a word, clutching his arm to his side. Vignil sneered at our interaction but was quickly distracted by Dako.
“You’re back early,” Dako commented.
“I’d thought to visit home and see my mother.” Vignil shrugged his boulder-like shoulders. “My uncles and aunts had other ideas. They, like our father, do not tolerate idleness, though for entirely different reasons. They commanded me to use my time more wisely, so I decided my time was better spent outside their austere scrutiny. Seems you had the forethought to come to that decision before me.”
Dako looked at his brother sideways. “It was an easy choice; I have no home or mother or uncles and aunts to visit.”
Vignil sighed, somehow disappointed. “Yes, there is that.”
“If you would do me the courtesy, Vignil, withdraw your presence.” Paying him no more attention, Dako returned to his breakfast.
“Sure. Unlike your friend there,” Vignil gestured at me, “I’m not in the habit of overstaying my welcome.”
“That assumes you were ever welcome to begin with,” Sil said. Vignil offered a glance but chose to ignore her comment.
“If ever you feel pride is no longer reason enough to suffer,” he said to Dako, “call on me.”
The Fiora and his lot made a point of sitting at the table furthest from our own. I noticed Froxil was with them, trying his best to ignore my existence. I returned the favor.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, finding Dako staring and picking at his half-eaten breakfast.
“It was a long time ago.” His downcast demeanor did not concur with the sentiment. Dako’s dejection is one of those things that are there by the grace of things that aren't, its presence confirmed solely by absences. When you see no cheer on his face or sense no humor in his words or hear little volume in his words, there it is, an invisible weight.
“Even so,” Sil said, “it can't be easy.”
Dako said nothing. His situation was not unique. None of ours were. The details might be, but the gist was the same: either by death or temperament, our parents were ill-suited to parentage.
A weight settled onto the bench, followed by the tap of a plate. I looked toward the disturbance. Across the table, Sil put a hand on Dako’s forearm, worried our recent run-in with Vignil might make him more prone to violence.
“State your business,” I said, worrying the same.
Malorey took out various eating utensils from what seemed like air and meticulously organized them around her plate.
Dako growled, soft but audible.
“I’ve…” Malorey began, prompted by Dako’s wordless threat. “I’ve come to… apologize.”
“Apologize?” Dako and I exclaimed in tandem.
Malorey kept her eyes on the assortment of cutlery she was aligning beside her plate. “Yes. It’s come to my attention that I might’ve jumped to conclusions regarding the claims Aki made when last we spoke.”
“Might’ve?” Sil questioned, a faint smile on her face. Dako and I were too stunned to speak.
“Well,” Malorey began, having the wherewithal to look a little embarrassed, “the truth of the matter has not been confirmed, but it’s become known to me that my accusations were likely erroneous.”
“Erroneous, you say,” Sil said, smiling wider. She, like us, like the discarded or abandoned godling stock we were, enjoyed the humbling of someone as arrogant as Malorey.
Malorey turned and waved over a servant. He had been on his way back to the kitchen with a tray of cups and plates.
“I’ve said my piece and will offer no more on the subject,” she said. “Do with it as you please.”
“And if we ask you to leave?” Sil asked, her smile now more waggish than amused.
Malorey indicated her plate to the young Root, who’d run over at her bequest. “Six yolkless boiled eggs and two ladles of your freshest greens.”
Wordlessly, the boy picked up the plate with embellished caution and headed toward the kitchens as instructed. After inspecting his departure, the arrogant Alchemist returned her attention to Sil.
“I’ll leave,” Malorey stated.
Sil pouted. “You’ve taken the pleasure out of this for me.”
“Then leave already,” Dako said to Malorey. “You can very well tell we don’t want you here.”
Sil leaned in to whisper in Dako’s ear. Being as far from them as the target of her whispers, I was not privy to what was said. Whatever it was, Dako’s hostility retreated behind an expression of understanding.
“You may stay,” he said, “given you don’t let your manners get away from you again.”
All three looked my way, waiting for me to assent or refuse. I frowned at Sil, even then appreciating the excuse to look at her.
Malorey had tried to kill me without hesitation and for no more reason than thinking I’d lied. The anger born from that took me days to subdue, helped by her absence from classes. Still, enough remained for me to question why Sil and Dako forgave her. Taking my frown in stride, Sil just nodded at me. I blew out a breath and relaxed back into my seat. I trusted her that far.
Surprisingly, Malorey was good company. Outside academic and sensus-related matters, her haughty comportment was considerably muted, giving way to a merely spirited and headstrong girl rather than the abrasive know-it-all everyone kept their distance from. Once we saw this side of her, we didn’t mind her presence much.
“She’s a cast-off,” Sil explained on our way to the Duros chambers.
“And?”
“You don’t understand, Aki,” Dako said. “Some cast-offs have it hard. Living among enemies hellbent on killing you causes you to develop instincts bent towards self-preservation, often to the detriment of more… sociable skills. Trust me, I know.”
“I find it hard to think of you as anything but a friendly and affable sort.” I grinned at him, this being one of the rare occasions where I was the one trying for levity.
“I am who I am in the face of my upbringing, not because of it.” He smiled back, but the truth of his words made it a shadow of its usual brilliance.
“Consider her perspective,” Sil advised. “Raised in a house of cutthroats, every spoken word, every gesture, every minor incident a possible sign of danger. Cast-offs usually die in quick order. That she’s survived and prospered says a lot about who she is. Or more accurately, who she’s had to become.”
Quickly acclimating to Malorey’s wilful, almost childish manner and stubbornness, I found my anger had dimmed considerably. And so it was with little complaint from me that she joined us for dinner that night.
And breakfast the day after.
***
The fifth member of our motley crew of shunned and rejected godlings was as unexpected as our fourth, if not more.
The day before our summer classes officially started. Sil, Dako, and I were on our way to the dorms, squeezing through streets chock full of recently returned students. The crowd did little to help with the heat. It did, however, help her approach unseen.
“May we speak,” she said. For a heat-blurred moment, she was just another face blocking our way.
“It’s been a while, Illora,” Dako greeted.
Illora inclined her head at Dako. “Yes, it has been.”
“You remember me?”
“I make a point of remembering all the promising godlings of my generation. Only a fool fails to keep watch over their rivals.”
“So,” Sil said, arms crossed, “you’re the little Tunneller who tried to violate Aki.”
“I am,” Illora admitted, wholly unapologetic.
Sil snorted, her disgust evident; Dako was rubbing off on her. “I’d expect nothing less from a Lorail.”
“Late as it is, and with classes starting early, we have sleep to attend to,” Dako said. “So, to what do we owe the displeasure?”
A student trying to pass between us jostled Illora unintentionally. The apparent restraint she had to employ when she did no more than kiss her teeth bothered me. There was in her a familiar anger, unreasonable, potent, and
“Shall we find a more… hospitable place to talk?” she asked.
“If you can convince me that there is a need.”
“A peaceful talk is far more tolerable than the alternative—for both of us.”
Dako stepped closer to her. “Baseless threats, Illora? I thought you knew better than to try to browbeat a Bainan.”
The Tunneller smiled up at my giant friend. “You think you can stop me?”
“By your own words, my talent rivals yours.”
“I admitted you had promise, not proficiency. An extra pair of cycles in The Academy makes for a rather substantial gulf, particularly for those of our meager age.”
Dako leaned over her, knuckles cracking as his fingers rolled into fists.
Illora leaned back, palms up and nose wrinkling. “This is getting away from us. Maybe you were right. Maybe my reasons for being so aggressive will become clear if given the chance.”
“Hence the need to talk?” Sil asked.
Illora nodded. “As I’ve said, I only want answers. Answers”—she pointed at me—“only he can give.”
“You mean I am the only one you can take them from.”
Illora shrugged. “I very much prefer you give them to me.”
“Your past actions say otherwise,” I said. “But sure, let’s talk. Where do you propose we have our discussion?”
“Aki!” Dako exclaimed.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Best I put the matter to bed.”
Sil snickered despite herself or the situation. “You know, Aki, you have a talent for unintended intimations.”
“Unintented?”
Sil clapped her hands. “Oh, our boy is growing brazen.”
Try as I might to fight the blush, pink flushed across my cheeks and set a deep contrast against my otherwise milky skin.
“I see he has a way to go, though,” Sil said.
Dako pulled me and Sil a few paces from the Tunneller until a stream of students separated us. “Have you both lost your minds? She tried to kill you, Aki—still might, given the opportunity.”
“I think the whole scavenging-your-soul thing is the bigger worry,” Sil said.
I rolled my eyes. “Scavenge? You think my soul is comparable to discarded waste?”
“Gods damn it!” Dako threw his hands up. “Why are the two of you making light of this?”
Sil shrugged. “Ask him. I’m only following his lead. As I’ve told you before, Dako, Aki is not one to needlessly put himself in danger, prideful as he is at times.”
“But—”
“I’ll see you back at the dorms,” I said, cutting Dako off.
Dako shook his head, part angry, part worried. “If you insist on speaking with her, I’ll damn well be there.”
“Dako,” I said, my tone soft. “Please trust I have a handle on this.”
“Y-y-you…” he stuttered before going silent. Then, defeated, he sighed. “Does she know?”
“What you know?” I asked. “I don’t think so. But given Fuller’s efforts to protect me from her, she likely suspects.”
“Is that why you think yourself safe in her company?”
“No.”
“I see,” he said, brow furrowed. “Very well. We’ll see you back at the dorms. But Aki, please be careful.”
I beamed at him in a way I hoped was reassuring. “Aren't I always.”
Dako scoffed and followed Sil in the direction of our dorms.
Surprisingly, Illora led me after my friends. At first, I’d thought the place she’d chosen was in the same vicinity. I was more right than I suspected.
“I suppose we’re going back to my quarters,” I said, taking the lead as we entered the courtyard.
“They’d have spied on us if they knew,” Illora said. And she was right.
Illora entered my room behind me. I switched on the lanterns and drew the curtains open. It was dark out, but the heat and odor brought on by my recent Duros training called for cool air. Illora made herself comfortable. She sat in my only chair and perused the books I’d left on my desk.
“For all that you read, you don’t keep many notes,” she commented, flicking through a book on Golem constructs. “Do you store them away, or are your thoughts and ideas so grand you think them worthy of hiding?”
I finished lifting my sweat-stained tunic over my head. “I suppose I do.”
“You suppose? I’d think if anyone knew, you w—”
I turned to find Illora staring at me. There was no expression on her face, but the pity was obvious nonetheless. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I was seeing what I expected. What I wanted? I looked down at my bare torso. Many of my scars had faded—more than was reasonable. Here and there, modest muscles pulled my skin taut. A minor feat. This stretching had made many of my cuts and scrapes thinner and less noticeable. Paler, too, hard as that was for my alabaster skin.
“Enjoying the show?” I asked.
“I must be wrong.”
“You probably are.” I tossed my dirty tunic on my bed and took a clean one from my oak chest.
“Don’t,” she commanded. She placed the book down, stood, and then paused, eyes never leaving my naked chest. That was his favorite spot. My chest. He’d sit on my stomach, stifling my breathing, trap my arms under his knees, and push my head down and to the side with one hand, leaving my chest free for his ministrations. Bad as the rest of me was, my chest had scars over scars.
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Illora took a step. Two more, and she was in touching distance. Her hand reached out towards a particularly gruesome mark between my collarbones—a vaguely star-shaped thing from when Kalin had gouged out a chunk of skin and flesh with a rusty arrowhead. I’d had the gall to ask him for a pair of shoes that morning. Come nightfall, he showed me the error of my ways, getting good and drunk beforehand to dull the effort of teaching me my lesson. He didn’t even have the decency to share. But then again, I suppose the pain was part of the lesson.
“Don’t,” I said, stepping back and putting on my tunic. “You came here to talk, so talk.”
“I was wrong,” she repeated.
“About?”
She retook her seat and grabbed another book to peruse. “Who are you to Lorail?”
“None of your concern.”
Without taking her gaze from the book, she pursed her lips. “That’s the problem. I do not want it to be, but he who shall not be named has made it so.”
“Explain.”
Illora put the book down and looked up. “You have a way of selling answers without seeming to.”
I sat at the edge of my bed, leaning forward to unstrap my boots. “I wasn’t trying to hide the fact. There is little sense in a one-sided exchange.”
“Very well,” she said. “Fuller!”
My confusion was satiated when the dainty assessor appeared sitting on the windowsill. He hadn't come in; he was already there, hidden behind a Painting I hadn't the skill to notice. But Illora did.
“You called,” he said, all fake smiles.
“We’ll need privacy,” Illora said.
“I’m afraid my duty to protect outweighs my duty to obey,” Fuller said. “That is to say, he is more important than you are.” There was barely hidden glee in his tone; he enjoyed flaunting her lack of control over him. I suppose defiance tastes sweeter when a master rations it.
Illora pointed at me. “And if he commands it?”
Wrinkles appeared in the smooth skin between his eyebrows. “I don’t see why he would.”
“Please leave,” I said.
Fuller rounded on me, incredulity plain on his face. “What?”
“We have matters to discuss,” I explained. “Matters I’d rather not share with you. Please leave.”
Fuller schooled his features, going dangerously expressionless before resetting his uncanny smile. “By your leave, then. But remember her instructions, Aki. She will find out even if I’m not here to hear you break them. She always does.”
I closed the window after him, then drew in the curtains for added effect.
“You aren't afraid I’ll Tunnel you?” Illora asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Is he gone?” I asked, ignoring her bait.
“Yes.”
“Then continue.” I returned to my seat at the edge of the bed. “You were telling me why my connection with Lorail is significant to you.”
“I suppose I was.” Her sense of defeat took the playfulness from her tone. “My mother is bound to him.”
“How deeply?”
“All the way.”
“And?”
“He forced me into a bargain using her as collateral.”
“I see. And what does this bargain entail?”
“In one word? You.”
“How so?” Exasperated strained my voice. Illora fed me her answer in bits and pieces, on purpose. Compelled, I played into her petty revenge—my anger was far from a docile beast nowadays; more often than not, it got the better of me.
“He tasked me with aiding you with your tribulations, of which I suspect there will be many.” Illora was smiling as she spoke. It took all of me to stop my anger from tearing her lips off her pretty face.
“But you decided to become one of my tribulations instead?”
Illora shrugged deliberately, the movement too stiff to be entirely natural. “Until I found out you were also under the protection of Lorail—an odd combination of sponsors, by the way—I deemed the risk acceptable. Besides, it isn't as though I planned to kill you.”
“And here you are, trying to find answers in the only way you have left to you.”
Her jaw twitched with tension. “I suppose so.”
I waved her on. “Ask your questions.”
“Who are you to him?”
“Have you lost interest in my connection with Lorail?”
Illora barked a laugh. “Fuller all but confirmed my suspicions. I need not ask what I already know.”
I smiled, surprising her. “Good. Then I need not refuse you an answer I’m not allowed to give. As to him, I’ll assume you mean Black.”
“Black?”
“An epithet,” I answered. “I’m honestly not sure what I am to him. He seems to know who I am. To me, he is a friend. My oldest.”
Illora frowned. “How are you doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Making it so I can’t tell if you’re lying.”
“He showed me how.” I smiled again. My anger was all but gone, resting deep in its cave. “Turns out you don’t need some grand trick of sensus to fool the cursory probing of a Tunneller. And if I can resist her, you’re not much of a challenge.”
Her frown deepened. “I’m—”
“Here to secure your mother’s life,” I finished and knew it to be true.
Illora floundered, fidgeting in her seat. Unlike her earlier purposeful reaction, this reaction was genuine. All of a sudden, the threat she represented leaked from my perspective, and all I saw was a young girl worried over her mother.
“Are you sure you grew up apart from our House?” Illora asked. “You play the game as adeptly as a veteran, like one of my elder cousins and aunts.”
Pride lifted the corners of my mouth. “I’ll not count protecting your mother against you, however true she is to her reputation. In truth, I think we might both benefit from refashioning our animosity into something more… beneficial, let’s say. Goodwill, perhaps. As you can tell, you’ll get no information from me regarding Black—not that he’d let you put it to use even if I did. Best you stick to your deal, for all our sakes.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“Well then…” I got to my feet, my attempt at ending our meeting clear and only vaguely forceful.
Illora stood to leave. “Til we meet again.”
As it turned out, she joined us for breakfast the following morning.
***
I was unaware. A weak excuse, I know; ignorance is a coward’s indifference. But in my defense, others had made it so ostensibly natural that it was hard for me to notice. My friends didn’t help. Their reputation had insolated me from all but the most notable godlings; Leaves had no need to stoop so low. Pff, more excuses! They’re so difficult to avoid.
Wiltos was his name, the Root who’d unwittingly shown me the truth of it. I’d seen others. The more compliant sort. The sort who tagged along and obeyed without protest. To his disservice, Wiltos wasn’t one of those. A merchant’s son, he was coddled by riches, certainly, but so too hardened by class, for no amount of coin can buy you the respect of your social betters. It left him somewhat leery of godlings. Contemptuous, too. It was a reasonable stance; I felt much the same.
I heard a commotion outside my room. A brief scuffle, the squeak of leather on marble, the thud of something heavy hitting a wall, the sharp groan of someone getting the air rushed out of their lungs. Curious, I delayed my preparations for my evening training with Brittle and poked my head out of my room.
“You’re the last one, merchant,” said Hunder, a horse-faced Seculor from House Grono. He had his forearm pressed across Wiltos’ chest, pinning him to the wall. “You best choose quickly. We’ll not tolerate arrogance from a Root.”
“I have three more seasons,” Wiltos said, no hint of pleading in this tone. “We both know you’ll do nothing to me until then.” He nodded at the three sheepish Roots standing behind Hunder. “You or your lackeys.”
Hunder leaned in close. “Brave, aren’t you? I doubt you’ll be so brave when the cycle is over and you find yourself without protection.”
Wiltos pushed the godling's arm off his chest. “I’ll make do when the time comes. Until then, leave me be.”
“Will you now? Say what, merchant, do you know my name?”
“Hunder. What of it?”
“My full name? My house name?”
“Does it matter?”
Hunder smiled. “Sure it does. But I’ll not ruin the surprise. Just remember this moment when it all becomes clear. Then remember it forever more as the day you learned your place, merchant.” The godling’s laughter faded behind him as he left, three meek Roots shuffling after him.
I stepped out of my room. “Petty, aren't they?”
Wiltos fixed his uniform and scooped his bag from the floor. “Unreasonably so.”
I approached and held out a hand. “Name’s Aki.”
He paused, reading deeper into my greeting than he needed to. Not finding whatever trap he suspected me of, he clasped my forearm. “Wiltos.”
I nodded in the direction Hunder had departed. “What is it he wanted?”
Wiltos looked at me. His eyes were a handsome kind of brown—almost yellow and speckled with orange. “What all godlings without a chance at leafdom want.”
“Which is?”
He looked at me again, assessingly, like he was tailoring what to say and how to say it. “When they cannot inspire respect from their contemporaries, they apprehend the fear of those less able, arresting their obedience as a substitute.”
I smiled at him. “You have a poetic way with words, Wiltos.”
He angled himself away from me, the feel of suspicion back on his pinched face and tense posture. “Words are as limited as the mind that constructs them into sentences—”
“And as full as the heart that breathes them into ideas,” I finished for him. Wiltos relaxed. Something about my knowing that passage from Merkusian’s writings eased whatever concerns he harbored.
“There is something I’m curious about,” he said, “but I fear there is no way to ask it without seeming rude.”
I waved him on. “Sometimes candor is necessary. I’d argue that it is almost always preferable.”
“What are you?”
I frowned. “I’m not entirely sure what it is you’re asking. Like most people, I am many things.”
Wiltos shook his head. “No, I mean… are you a Mud, a Heartwood, or a Branch? I’ve heard all three argued. I’ve even heard whispers of you being a Leaf candidate a time or two, though few put much stock in that rumor.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn't know I was such a common topic of discussion.”
“I’m sure.”
I frowned again. “Of what?”
Wiltos’ expression was awkward, close to but not precisely a grimace. “You aren't… the most sociable.”
“I have friends,” I said, suddenly defensive, though more against being friendless than being seen as such.
“Who share your aversion for godlings and commoners alike.”
“I don’t have an aversion to commoners.”
Wiltos raised an eyebrow. “You don’t?”
“I don’t,” I insisted.
“Well, besides me, is there anyone else you’ve conversed with outside of lectures?”
“Of course. What about…” My words trailed off.
“So, are you a Mud?”
“Uhm… ah, yes and no. I’m a Heartwood, though I was a Mud not long ago.”
“Interesting,” he said. “I’m sure there’s a story there.”
“There is.”
Sensing my wish to drop the subject, Wiltos swung his bag over his shoulder. “Well then, Aki, well met, but I’m afraid I have research to be getting on with.”
I stepped out of his way. “Of course.”
***
After returning from my evening training, I met my friends in the refectory for a late dinner. Malorey and Illora were there. I sat beside Dako and pulled one of his numerous meals towards me—cuts of tender meat drowning in a bowl of thick stew.
“Do I appear as though I dislike commoners?” I asked no one in particular. Wiltos’ observation didn’t sit well with me, and the accusation had festered.
“You are a commoner,” Illora offered, making eating look like an exercise in etiquette. “As far as most everyone knows, anyway.”
I threw her a warning glare. The inquisitive Malorey didn’t need more than a morsel to infer a great deal.
“But they don’t,” I said. “Most aren't sure what I am.”
“Well,” Sil began, “with the way you look, the company you keep, and the enemies you’ve made, it’s easy to guess why.”
Dako was staring at the stew I’d taken, too offended by my theft to pay attention to the discussion. “Why? Now I have to order a new one.” He sat up straight and waved over a servant.
I reached over and plucked a hunk of bread from another of his plates. “I’m sure the rest of your feast will keep you occupied until it arrives. If anything, I’ve done you a favor. Now, it’ll be warm when you get around to it.”
Malorey closed the book she was reading, set it down on the table, and folded her arms atop the thick slab. “If I didn’t know you better, not that I know you well, I’d think you weren't much for associating with commoners.”
“Someone told me much the same thing today,” I said.
As if my mention had summoned him, the door to the refectory crashed open, revealing a panting Wiltos. His eyes were wild, full of panic. His clothes were disheveled. So, too, was his auburn, shoulder-length hair. He swept his gaze back and forth across the largely empty room, his wide eyes shifting from face to face. Then he saw me and rushed towards our table.
“Wiltos—” I began.
“You’ve got to help!” He grabbed me around the elbow with both hands and yanked me to my feet. “Come. Quickly.” He tried to pull me away, but Dako threw off his grip.
“Who are you, and what do you think you’re doing?” Dako asked.
“Please,” Wiltos pleaded, his voice breaking. “There’s no time. You’ve got to help.”
Sil stood. “Slow down and tell us what business you have with Aki.”
“There isn't time. Ekolise wouldn’t listen. Refused to listen. Told me no rules were broken. Said there was nothing to be done.” Wiltos was ranting now.
“Calm down,” I said. “Start from the beginning.”
Wiltos reached for me again. “There’s no time!”
Dako tried to help, but I was no longer the scrawny youth who needed him for protection. I took Wiltos’ leading arm and led his weight over me to slam onto the table. Bowls and plates shattered. Cups clattered. Drinks spilled. Food flew and rolled or splattered across the floor. Wiltos lay still, physically unhurt but with tears streaming down his face. I dragged him off the table and sat him on a bench.
“Talk,” I said.
“My sister,” Wiltos said between sobs. “They're going to kill my sister.”
“Hunder?” I asked.
He nodded, snot bubbling out of his nose and down his lips. “I didn’t know who else to ask.”
“She’s likely past her first cycle of seasons in The Academy,” Malorey explained. “And if I’m reading this right, one of Hunder’s kin is doing his dirty work for him.”
I turned back to the inconsolable Root. “Where are they?” I asked. He didn’t answer. I slapped him across the face. “Where!”
“The dueling courts,” Illora said. “If Malorey’s conjectures are to be believed.”
I looked back at Illora. “You know the way?”
She nodded. “I do.”
“Show me.”
Illora took the lead. I followed. Wiltos stumbled behind us, pulled along by Dako and Sil. Malorey refused to come. I didn’t blame her.
A quarter turn later, as we ran past the mind arenas, halfway to our destination, I understood why Wiltos considered her dead.
We approached an area I was unfamiliar with. The dueling courts were much like what I’d expected: large reinforced arenas meant for battle. Real battle. Without any of the projections and safety measures found in training grounds and mind arenas. Just thirty-six square platforms of reinforced stone arranged in a six-by-six configuration and a little room between and around them for spectators and the like. More than one was being used, but only one had accumulated a crowd; people have always had a perverse fascination with brutality.
We pushed through the outer edge of observers and proceeded to cut through the crowd. Eventually, we made it close enough to see. I wish we hadn’t.
A large godling stood over Wiltos’ sister. She was still alive, a girl, her dark red mane frazzled, her coppery skin painted red. Barely. Considering her condition, death was a better choice. She lay half naked on her back. Only rags remained of her uniform. One leg, bent and twisted like a snake’s body, had lost what it meant to be a leg. One eye hung loose, dangling out of its socket by a cord of flesh, disturbingly alive and somehow wet with tears. Her breasts had been cleaved off, the circles of raw flesh left behind offset by patches of white where her ribs could be seen. Her brute of an opponent had torn her cheeks open. At some point, he’d wrenched her jaw off its hinges. As we watched, a stone rat the size of a child’s fist scurried out of her slack mouth, dragging her innards out with it. She gurgled. Weakly. Then, finally, mercifully, she crossed the line between life and death, and the light left her eyes.
Dako was a good man, godling or not. He refused to let Wiltos see what had become of his sister. Though he struggled and clawed and wailed, the Root could not get past my friend. Yet Wiltos kept trying even when the crowd had dispersed and her killer had left, even when Hunder came over to gloat.
“So, merchant, what do you think?” Hunder asked, smug as can be. “Am I not a great teacher? Is the lesson I’ve arranged for you not primed to be remembered?”
Wiltos kept struggling against Dako, oblivious to Hunder’s taunts. “Let me see! Get out of my way and let me see!”
Tired of intercepting the stubborn Root, Dako gripped his shoulders and held him in place, his bulk blocking the boy's view. “Seeing will do you more harm than good.”
Wiltos pounded Dako’s chest with white-knuckled fists. “My mind will conjure worse things if you don’t let me see. Damn you, get out of my way!”
Dako remained steadfast.
Irritated at being ignored, Hunder jumped into the arena. He picked up the trail of intestines the rat construct had pulled out and started spinning it before him, trails of bile and blood splattering far and wide. “Let him see, House cousin. Let him see the cost of overestimating his lowly station.” One hand kept the length of her gut in motion as the other waved over one of the three Roots who followed him everywhere. “Come, come. Cut out those pretty eyes of hers for me, will you? Common as they are, they have a rather nice sheen to them. They’ll look wonderful preserved in a jar of—”
My anger broke through my control. I’d been watching the godling play out his perverted orchestration, afraid to move. The injustice. The malice. The senseless death of an innocent woman just to punish an innocent man. For what? For a false sense of superiority? For the entertainment of a spoilt child allowed to grow into a spoilt adult? No, I told myself. I will not permit such things. I—
Hunder died. Even when said so concisely, it takes longer for me to say than it took for me to accomplish. He died, and that was it. Well, not all there was. A mound of flesh lay where Hunder had once stood. What remained of him was unidentifiable, a paste of flesh and blood, the red of it hiding the blonde of his hair and the paleness of his skin.
The Root sent to cut out the girl's eye scrambled back, turned, and broke into a run. The other two liegemen, stripped of their protector, were quick to follow. A few students watching or participating in other bouts paused to investigate their frantic departure. They did not watch for long; death and pain and gore and the pain and fear they inspired were a daily fixture of their lives.
“What happened?” Sil asked.
“He died,” Illora offered.
Sil glared at the stone-faced Seculor. “That is self-evident. I was wondering after the how of it.”
Thankfully, no one noticed the narrow-eyed glance Illora threw my way in answer.
Dako peered over his shoulder at the arena and what remained of the House-Grono godling. “That’s Hunder?” he asked, incredulous.
Sil walked over to the godling’s remains. She crouched down, ran a finger through the mass of pulverized meat, and brought it to eye level for closer inspection. “Sure is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a body so dead. Impressive, really.”
Wiltos stopped pounding on Dako’s chest, the news of Hunder’s death penetrating his grief-addled mind. “Hunder is dead?” He snarled. “Good.” Then his body went limp, Dako’s hold the only thing keeping him up. “But she’s still gone. My sister. My poor Irelea. Oh gods, what am I going to tell Mother?” And once again, he began to sob.
***
The truthseeker came for us the following morning. She—a woman, as many of their ranks were—sent enforcers to rouse and collect us before the first bell, one for each of us. Mine pounded on my door, his strikes heavy and insistent. Bleary-eyed and half-dressed, I opened the door to find three figures standing outside my room, two of them with insignias of a white sword above a grey quill stitched high on their right sleeves. Polkin stood behind the enforcers, his head bowed in deference or shame or both.
The thicker of our two enforcers wrapped his meaty hand around the back of my neck and dragged me out of my room. “You’ve questions to answer, boy.”
“Troke, are you sure it’s wise to treat him so?” the other asked. He was fairer than his larger colleague. Taller, too, standing nearly my height.
The heavy-set enforcer, Troke, pushed me against the wall. “I hate being back here.” He dug a finger into my back. Hard. I arched my body in response. “Him being part of the reason I’ve been pulled back to this insufferable place is reason enough.”
“Look at him,” his partner said, the half-smirk on his lips lilting the cadence of his voice. “If he doesn’t look the part of a godling…”
Troke removed his finger from my back. “They said he’s a Bark.”
“A Heartwood,” his partner corrected. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if he was a bastard. One of House Silas’ if his purported talent in Alchemy is anything to go by.”
“Bah! Come now, Finik. They also said he used to be a Mud. I doubt one of your lot would let a godling sink so low, bastard or not.”
“You don’t know my lot, Troke,” Finik said, his amusement gone. “You don’t know us at all.”
“I do.” The burly man turned me around and slammed me back against the wall, his fat-fingered hand splayed over my chest. “It’s why I hate this place. Now go and get that other runt while I keep this one contained. The quicker we’re done with this business, the quicker I can leave this fucking hellhole.”
Finik shook his head but said no more, walking a few rooms down to knock on Wiltos’ door. No one answered. “Come open this door,” he called to Polkin.
The Root shuffled over, pressed a matrix key to the lock, and pushed the door open before stepping back.
Finik went in and came back out with Wiltos. The boy was too far gone to resist. He wore the same blank look he wore when we’d left him in his room the night before, though his eyes were redder, more swollen, and seemed to have emptied their tears during the night. By the state of his dress and the faint musk coming off him, he hadn’t changed or bathed since.
The two enforcers marched us through the streets of The Academy, leading us to a large room in the assessor’s building. A meeting room. A long table sat in the center with a bevy of chairs surrounding it. Sil, Dako, and Illora were already there. They sat on one side, each with an enforcer standing guard behind them. Ricell and Fuller were also present, standing at the head of the table on either side of a plump woman dressed in blue.
“Good,” the woman said. “Now we may begin. Finik, Troke, have them seated.”
Finik guided Wiltos to a seat beside Sil. Troke took me to one beside Dako. The truthseeker went to sit on the opposite side of the table, Ricell and Fuller joining her much as the enforcers had joined us.
“My name is Jisale kin Penfi,” she introduced. “I’ve come here to investigate the unsanctioned death that occurred last evening. Since your marks have identified you as likely assailants or, at the very least, witnesses, I assume you are aware of the incident I am alluding to.”
“There were others,” Dako said. “Why are they not here?”
Jisale nodded in Dako’s direction. The enforcer guarding him—a large woman who shared disturbing similarities to Rowan, the Branch my mother had sent after me—cuffed the back of Dako’s head. Dako’s face cracked against the table, and he came away with a bloody nose and the light of murder in his eyes.
“Decorum will be maintained,” Jisale said, her smile warped by her apparent and callous joy. “Which, in case you’ve forgotten, has labeled you houseless and me a Tripler of good standing. Act accordingly.”
Ricell tapped the end of his cane on the truthseeker’s shoulder. “Jisale, the boy’s mother may have enough pull to send you in here, yet it will behoove you to remember whose hospitality you encroach upon.”
Jisale offered the headmaster a slight bow, her smile gone. Still, the half-snarl-half-smirk crept back onto her face when she turned back to us. A sadist, I thought, like most of her relatives.
My relatives.
“Let us begin.” Jisale’s gaze locked onto Wiltos, sensing he was the weakest prey. “Tell me, child, who killed Hunder kin Grono.”
Wiltos swayed, somehow managing to appear even more dazed. “I don’t know,” he slurred.
Jisale, having sensed a truth the most novice of Tunnellers would sense, moved on to Sil. The truthseeker repeated her question.
Sil looked up at the Jisale, so bored it bordered on offensive. “If you ever find out, do let me know.”
Jisale’s nose twitched. “Answer the question, Silaani kin Lore.”
Sil looked to Ricell, searching his face for something. From her tired sigh, her search bore no fruit. “I do not know who killed Hunder kin Grono.”
Jisale turned to Illora. “You have my apologies,” she began. Truthseekers were almost always loyal to Lira above all other Fioras. They were her army, her acolytes: Truthseekers and slave trainers. “I know this is of no use, but I’ve been tasked to inquire, and so—”
“I do not know who killed Hunder kin Grono,” Illora said, wearing and wielding the frigid cold of her arrogance like armor and weapon.
Jisale sighed and turned to Dako.
He went for her. She flinched. She needn't have; he didn’t get far. Rowan’s lookalike gripped Dako’s shoulders, pushed him back into his chair, and slammed his face into the table once more. Blood poured out of his crooked nose when he looked back up. Still, he was smiling. And for good reason. The illusion of power is worth more to a Halorian than actual power. And while he had not struck her a physical blow, he’d struck her a blow nonetheless. She had flinched. Flinching is weakness. It is fear. It is admitting you are less of a god and more of a human. That was unacceptable to a Halorian godling, even one so low as Jisale.
Jisale went rigid, yet she made no move to attack my friend. For all she’d said about us being houseless, it was hard to forget Dako was a Fiora. A Leaf.
“Do you know who killed Hunder kin Grono?” Jisale asked through gritted teeth.
Dako leaned to the side and spat blood, then turned back to her, his smile bright and crimson. “No, I do not.”
Next came my turn, and a bad turn it was. Jisale directed her built-up frustration at me. Wiltos, the most likely culprit, disappointed her with his innocence; Sil, protected by the truth and her father, chafed her with indifference; Illora, with her greater status, smothered her sense of power; and Dako, a Bainan, played her game and won. Now, there was me, a Heartwood, a Mud. What could I do to her? Who would punish a Tripler for violating a Mud? Hah! Forget punishment; praise was more likely.
Jisale began slow. I tried to fight back, but the more significant part of my strength was kept from manifesting, locked behind the matrixes of the mark I carried. Malorey had shown me a trick or two, a way to bypass the limitation, but only a little and only for so long. The truthseeker kept pushing, her sensus diminishing my aura. I fought back still. With anger. With disgust. She watched me struggle, playing the cat to my mouse. Then she smiled, and I knew the game was over.
Suddenly, the pressure was gone. Jisale hadn't retracted her sensus. No, my sensus had been freed. Jisale’s eyes widened. She was a Tripler relegated to a mere truthseeker; I was a Fiora with pinnacle harmony. In brute strength, she could not compete. I did not stop to consider the situation, not who’d unclipped my wings, nor what action to take, nor the consequences of what I was about to do. All my thoughts were on doing to her what she had tried to do to me. My sensus pressed against hers. She was more experienced. Matrixes sprung about her. I crashed through them. Truthseekers were experts in soul invasion and aura reading, not defense. My raw superiority was enough to nullify her efforts. Later, I’d count myself fortunate. If she were more experienced or better under pressure, she’d have played to her strengths and attacked with her vast repertoire of offensive Tunneller matrixes.
She didn’t. And so I broke the door to her soul. Just as I was set to begin my rampage, Jisale’s involuntary whimper of shock and fear called Troke to action. The man was upon me in less time than it takes to blink. I found my face pushed against the table, and my arms pulled up behind me so far as to creak the joints of my shoulders.
“Let him go,” Ricell commanded.
Troke looked up at the headmaster, the weight he applied to keep me down lessening. “Not until—”
Ricell pressed his lips together in irritation. Troke let me go.
I stood straight. Finik was attending to a catatonic Jisale. The other enforcers were giving me curious looks from where they stood behind my friends. Sil watched Jisale, quietly laughing. Dako joined her, his laughter markedly louder. Illora looked as though all of us and everything we did was beneath her.
A hand fell on my shoulder. “A fine-if-unskilled display, Aki,” Fuller said. “I approve.”
I shrugged him off. “It was you.”
Fuller shrugged. “The mark’s suppressive effects are to protect students from each other, not from Admin.”
“We are done for today,” Finik announced as he helped Jisale to her feet. And with that declaration, the truthseeker and her party of enforcers left. The answers they’d come for were nowhere to be found. Whoever had sent her to fetch Hunder’s killer was sure to send a better hunting dog. A more dangerous hunting dog.
What of it, some part of me asked. What is one more petty enemy in the face of your ambition? What is it compared to killing gods?
More and more, I found myself listening to this once small and quiet part of me.