Yatze stared out the window of the hovergloss. Outside its glass walls, the terrain had transformed into rich jungle, as they had slowly left Ho’ostar’s highlands.
“Yatze! Catch!”
He turned around. Sitting across from him, Dellan had launched a coin into the air with the flick of his thumb. Having reached its highest point, the coin’s trajectory already arced downward towards the table between their seats. Yatze closed his eyes.
The coin twists awkwardly against the flat surface. It careens to the right, bouncing away from the seats, falling, falling…
Yatze reached out, his hand extended. The coin bounced against the table and landed squarely in his palm. Easy.
Dellan grinned, brushing his burnt-brown hair out of his face. “That never gets old.”
“Y’jeni, where’d you find this Dellan?” Yatze said, looking down at the burnished coin. It was marked by the traditional Adrilli insignia, a sea thrush carrying a sprig of lavender. The other side was embossed by a stately “10”.
“I dunno, my parents gave them to me. Figured one of my great-uncles used to collect them.” Dellan gave him a casual shrug. “Anyway, it’s lunchtime. And I promised you I’d cover it.”
Yatze sighed, clasping the coin. “Right. Let’s go.”
—
Silently they walked through the car of the hovergloss.
“It’s so stupid that they pay for first-class tickets, but not food,” Dellan said.
“It’s fine. I could’ve brought something.” Yatze had sent his latest pay cheque to his parents, and didn’t feel like asking for the money back. He knew who needed it more.
Eventually they made it to the foodcar. They both peered at the delicate assortment of foods in the glass case, the woman behind the counter staring impatiently.
“Sandwiches, huh?” Yatze murmured, sounding slightly disappointed.
“Typical exiles,” Dellan explained. “Everyone in Zukal’iss is obsessed with Selejo, I guess it’s the influence of the Princes.”
“I’m gonna miss our meals in Yuruv’a. Especially if we’re eating nothing but bread and cured meats for the next year.”
Yatze’s reminiscence was interrupted by the light cough of the cashier. Behind them a small line had formed.
“I’ll have the steak?” Dellan said.
“That’ll be fifteen auris.”
As Dellan waved his glossY, Yatze grimaced slightly. Typical of a Zukal’iss hovergloss to be this overpriced. Rather than ask for more money from Dellan, he figured he could–
“How much for the smoked fish?” Yatze says.
“Sixteen auris.”
“Nevermind.” He scans the case again. “The ham?”
“Twelve.” She is getting impatient.
Shoot. “What about the one with the uh...green stuff?”
“The herbs? That will be nine auris.” She smiles, trying to mask her annoyance.
Dellan turned around, his face concerned. “Let me get this with my–”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get the sandwich with the herbal spread?” Yatze passes her the mint. The server gives him the plate, change, and a light smile.
—
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Yatze and Dellan returned to their seats to eat. A silence fell over the pair as they ate, absentmindedly watching the blur of the landscape that passed by. Their car was relatively empty, passengers spread throughout the first-class cabin, either sleeping or staring intently at screens and glossYs. Yatze figured the space must have been reinforced by some sort of array, probably Cloud, which dampened the sound within the cabin, only their view of the world outside betraying the speed at which they traveled. The only sound he noticed was one he felt; the low, warm hum of the gloss beneath them which seemed to travel through the synthetic leather of his seat.
“What’s wrong?” Dellan asked, finally breaking the silence.
“What do you mean? I’m fine.”
“You’re unusually quiet...nervous?”
Yatze sighed. “I guess I’m just not sure what to expect. Of course I want to be an Officer, and I’m sure the program will be good for me. At the same time I don’t feel ready, despite everything Koff told us.”
“Hey, the Colonel was right. It’s not every year a couple of recruits from Yuruv’a get sent to Ichormai. Koff told us we had potential; you have to be an idiot not to trust that man’s intuition.”
“Well, maybe we’re the exception.”
“Are you not listening to me?” Dellan gave him a fierce glare. “We are the exception. And no one expects you to know everything. Koff wouldn’t shut up about how much we will learn from this.”
Yatze smiled at his friend’s boundless optimism. Of course, optimism wasn’t hard to come by when you had Dellan’s good fortune. The golden boy of the Mursta clan, Dellan could trace his family history through generations of successful landowners and practitioner-agriculturalists in the Union’s southern plains. And while Dellan’s talent was undeniable, Yatze sometimes felt more than a tinge of envy towards the young practitioner’s confidence. His posture was always assured; both successes and failures were met with such obvious nonchalance, an easy coolness that Yatze found intoxicating but impossible to replicate.
“...sure, Regret isn’t flashy, it isn’t fashionable, but it’s valuable,” Dellan continued, still trying to raise Yatze’s spirits. “Everyone knows the Union needs more Regret and Beginning practitioners, soldiers who fight using information, intelligence...and y’jeni, that’s you! From the very beginning, I knew you wouldn’t stay long in Yuruv’a.”
“Ah-ha, so befriending me was just another way to get ahead?” Yatze joked, his doubts having passed for the moment.
“If my parents taught me anything, it’s that mingling with the wealthy and powerful is a surefire way to get ahead in this world.”
Yatze scoffed. “Well, in that case they didn’t do a great job, because as far I know I’m neither!”
The soft laughter of the pair was interrupted by a new view: Finally, the hovergloss had made its way through the green thicket of the jungle. Now, descending along the side of a high ridge, the Northern drylands of the Selejo Prince’s Union stretched before them. Beneath was the Zigguran river, slowly snaking its way across the landscape. Beyond the plains, past the quivering brown grass of the fields and lonely farmsteads, mingling with the afternoon sun’s reflection off the distant ocean, lay the outline of a city. To Yatze the city seemed almost mirage-like, the way it shimmered so close to the horizon. From his vantage point he couldn’t make out much besides several thin towers that reached above the dark form of the city itself.
“Great visibility today, huh?” Dellan said, unfazed by the stunning view.
“I can’t wait to see it up close,” Yatze whispered.
“It’s cool. Not as old as it looks though. The exiles basically built Zukal’iss on top of the ruins of the Osterian capital. Some of my relatives never forgave them for that.”
“Did you?” Dellan seemed to carry no qualms when it came serving under the Selejo Princes.
“Even Patriarch Mursta admits that the Princes stabilized Ho’ostar. And stability brought profits, and you can’t argue against that.”
“Do you think we’ll see them? The Princes?”
“Of course!” Dellan laughed at the question. “We’ll be living in the palace, you idiot. Or at least the outer palace.”
“Yeah, of course.” Yatze felt his face flush with his embarrassment. Why was he so naive? “I guess I’m still in denial. I just can’t believe we’re actually going to Ichormai.”
Ichormai. The Palace of Fortitude.
Pursued and exiled by revolutionary fervor, the Selejan Princes had sought refuge across the Bay of Ramsay. The Union’s very founding had been a desperate act of preservation, and through the wars, the massacres, and the sacrifices the descendants of that ancient and aristocratic bloodline seemed to have forged a new path of fate. In exile, the Selejans had hardened. Even the Princes were no longer just royalty: They were warriors, prepared to fight for the Union until their last drop of blood was spilt.
The symbolic center of the Union, the sun around which it operated and revolved, was Ichormai. It contained by far the highest concentration of powerful practitioners than anywhere else on Ho’ostar. Even the Union’s enemies admitted that to serve Ichormai merited respect; it indicated that you had practiced the Arts at its highest levels, studied alongside peak practitioners and geniuses.
That’s where Yatze was headed.
“Hey,” Dellan whispered. “No more sleeping bags.”
Yatze smiled at his friend. “No more soggy tents.”
“No more midnight exercises.”
“No more night watch.”
“No more of Private Gio’s cooking.”
“No more of Cela’s snoring!”
They laughed, sharing in the warm nostalgia of unpleasant memories. Yuruv’a was far behind them, and the future was ripe with possibility.