Dreamless nights are so cold.
My legions grow in number and yet I have never felt more alone.
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Year three
Third year at the Academy is done for me. I finished the last of my exams in the first half of Taz.
Exams involving physical efforts were trivial, but the dutiful daughter that I am I heeded my mother's advice and did not stand out. Well, almost. During one exam we were throwing discus and spears and I accidentally threw a spear just a little too far. Grandmaster Vidar and his apprentice concluded that winds allowed the spear to fly an additional distance. There is no need to mention that to Mom.
The three of us are in the Great Library. Michael found a secluded area. One of the upper reading alcoves, so we could allow ourselves the luxury of whispers. There is a bee's nest worth of such reading nooks and niches on multiple levels. A few borrowed Cobalts and Ambers placed upon a cozy stonewood table throw their blue and yellow lights over our youthful faces and green coats. There is a protruding reading slab of stone in the room that we used to place our satchels, emptied iron lanterns, and some books. I was surprised to see the hollowed-out small room having a table and three chairs inside.
Even up here, the pleasant smell of parchment and bound leather is felt. Sometimes a faint smell of people too, mostly grown-ups from down below—not very pleasant, though.
Hebe and Michael both did mostly well in our giant cave-prison. Hebe has a good head on her shoulders but needs help with the physical aspect of our studies. Earlier today we worked out in the gymnasium outside on the ground level. A few older students nearing their manhood also practiced there and were not so subtle in wanting to help her do proper stances with spear and sword. Dark-red cloaked guards of the Academy stationed there were slightly troubled at the sight but mostly kept their grievances to themselves.
Michael glides through the physical aspects of the curriculum and I'm fairly certain he has no problems with grasping many useless philosophical concepts and other drudging theoretical knowledge we are taught here, but nevertheless often wishes to study and compare notes.
The Academy lapsed their ridiculous restrictions somewhat, at least when it came to boys' hair. Michael's fringe-up haircut pleasingly complimented his deep-set brown eyes and handsome face. His brown hair is cut in an orderly fashion: short on the sides and back with a slightly longer fringe on top, combed to the side. Not a single strand is out of place. He even has a wisp of a beard on his face, barely noticeable, but there.
Oh! I almost forgot. I did a little bit of research—you know: a book or two...ah, a dozen or two, really—about Vorzas, reading wherever they are mentioned or hinted at. Most stories vary wildly but a common thread does exist. If you are blessed with Genesis you cannot be a Vorza. It was a relief to learn this, but there were no mentions about...well, what in the almighty Aegis is wrong with me.
I managed to steal three sweet apples, red and fat, from the Hall—the lofty cavern where all the students eat. I'm pretty sure the apples were reserved for Black Breakers or maybe grandmasters, I don't know. Naturally, I gave two of the delights to my friends. Michael just sighed while taking it while Hebe gave me a worried look. Both of them said their gratitude and pocketed my spoils into their dark green linen coats without much debate. Although, ever since I started biting it with loud crunches Hebe is looking at the tasty red ball as if the fruit might scream its presence. I cannot deny they are feeding us well; however, I'm close to having nightmares about vegetable pottages, rice, or the many tasteless and often gray artificial vegetables they keep thrusting down our throats.
A few stonewood wax tablets, cute notebook-like things, were on the table, next to the glowing crystals. Both Hebe and Michael had a book in front of them. Her golden stylus was snuggled over her book's gutter; his, in his right hand, twiddled this way and that between his fingers.
''I dare you can't wait to go home,'' Hebe says while throwing an occasional glance at my now almost half-eaten apple.
''You are going home, Ann? You didn't say anything.'' Michael seems nearly offended. Hebe throws a small smirk at him.
I gently tap my mouth with my sleeve. ''Yes, tomorrow. It was hardly worth a note. I'll be spending most of the time in the saddle of a Winged, going there and back.'' All that talk and promise about how we will be visiting our families once every forty days was worth Void's arse. Oh, in the beginning they allowed it, but already during the end of the first and throughout the second year, it was frowned upon to ask to leave home more than once every three months, which is about the last time I saw my parents.
Michael looks downcast, sort of like me upon seeing tasteless boiled meat in the Hall. He's been out of sorts for a while now. I don't want to prod. Uh. Fine. I do want to prod. But only out of concern. It annoys me to see him like this; and, I have no book in front of me so reading faces is all I have right now.
I look at him. ''What's wrong?''
''What?'' he seems confused.
''You look like me while eating boiled meat, or, at least, how I feel while eating it.''
''Yes...same look.'' Hebe nods slightly. She looks at me. ''Although, your eyebrows get more gloomy.''
What does she mean by that?
She continues. ''Yeah. Like that.''
I roll my eyes. ''Michael, what's wrong?''
''Yeah, Grandpa. Tell us who died on this day.'' Hebe makes a sad expression with her lips, but her dark-green eyes are smiling.
He gives her a cold stare. ''I...possibly gambled away all my hex on a chariot race.''
''Hah!'' Shit, I need to lower my voice. ''You fool,'' I tell him nicely.
Hebe picks up her golden stylus and points it at Michael while glancing back at her book to read something. ''Serves you right...you fool.''
Michael begins mockingly, ''Please stop with the outpouring of support. It is too much.''
Hebe continues to read her book. ''We are helping you. By making you feel worse there's less chance you'll be so stupid again.''
''Red faction won three times in a row prior to my race,'' Michael states frustratingly.
I almost ignore him. ''You wish to make money gambling? Open a gambling house. That's just how it goes.''
Michael smiles at me. Dark mahogany eyes regard me playfully. ''I don't think a pilferer should be giving me advice.''
I smirk while casually throwing the nibbled apple at him. He catches it easily.
Hebe raises her thin golden eyebrows at both of us. ''Even up here the The Whip might hear us.''
Suddenly an image of Vice Keeper Sabina smashing my fingers with her stick comes to mind. Worse, Michael and Hebe might lose their library privileges.
I place my hand on her shoulder. ''You're right. I'm sorry,'' I whisper. I look at Michael. ''Not my fault our friend is so fond of wasting his riches.''
Michael throws back the partly-eaten apple, throws it hard at my shoulder. Instinctively, I catch it. His eyes widen for a moment, but then he seems disgusted at himself. The look of disgust is quickly gone and he becomes serious again. He clears his throat silently. ''I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Ann,'' Michael whispers. ''I should go. Should...need to practice the sword...'' He stands up, beginning to gather all his stuff.
It takes me a moment to realize with a fright that most people wouldn't be able to catch that. He threw the apple in actual anger. I get up and move toward him. ''Michael, I was only teasing. Please sta---''
''I have to go,'' he interrupts. ''I have to go. Bye.''
He picks up his satchel and lantern, and leaves.
I look at Hebe. ''You said nothing!'' I whisper.
Hebe simply shrugs. ''I'd just call him a fool.''
I move to follow him.
''Let him be alone. Let it go. You'll only make it worse.''
Her words bind my legs. ''I can get him some hex.''
''You---'' she interrupts herself. ''Ann, are you even listening? That would only make him feel worse. Let it go.''
She is right. I slouch my shoulders and move to sit next to Hebe.
It is strange. Sometimes Hebe is like an older sister I never had and sometimes I seem the older one.
I plunge my head onto her shoulder. ''Stop rolling your eyes.''
''I was not.''
''And stop smiling.''
She laughs loudly.
I raise my head, putting my hand over her mouth. ''Stop it.''
Her mouth produces a ridiculous sound and I laugh with her.
''I apologize deeply for interrupting.'' Vice Keeper Sabina Sabinus regards us from the entrance. Approaching our table silently and death-like, special pads cover her feet. She looks at us both imperiously and then smashes the partly devoured apple on the table with her thin stonewood stick. A tiny chunk of the apple flies into my hair.
Quietly, so quietly that even I was barely able to hear, The Whip says, ''Fingers or exile.''
***
The white-gray two-story house with a flat roof looks as if it has gotten much smaller.
Our yard is outlined by rows of dark purple anemone flowers.
A clay flowerpot of purplish-red blooms was placed on my room's window. One of my favorite flowers is fuchsia.
The glorious red light of Sol washes over me. I spread my arms at the sky. Yes. So pretty. I avert my gaze away from the small red sun.
I remove the straps and dismount.
My arrival is announced by Leyla's loud barking. Father sometimes calls her ''Void's Spawn,'' since she likes to bark at night. About a year or so they got her to chase rats. She looks like a black sausage with legs. I like to pinch her cheeks.
The dog's barking turns to high-pitched whining as she reaches me. Leyla jumps about my feet, her tail a blur of motion. I rapidly pat her tummy with the tips of my slightly sore fingers.
My mother is outside not long after the two-legged creature landed in our yard. My father follows closely behind, striding out briskly.
Almost every time I visit, Mom trims my hair. Not today, though. Hebe is...decent at it but the scissors they gave us are simply subpar to my mother's hepatizon ones. And also, Mom says I shouldn't let other girls cut it. She can be smothering sometimes...and all the times.
I tried letting Hebe work on my blunt bangs, and it was a disaster. Only Mom knows how to smoothly shorten my hair.
My home is on the southern moss called Capitolinus Moss. Its affable location shortened my travel time. A bit.
The large raven that has brought me home before midday is an exceptionally fast Grey-made transport familiar, but it still took some time to reach my moss. For the first two years, when my visitations were more frequent, I was flown here by the assigned Academy soldier who controlled the selected mount with simple commands. This time there was no escort, and I had frustratingly no options for controlling the feathery beast. Grizzled Grey Breaker at the Academy that made it imprinted a command onto the Winged's mind, and since the beast had learned where my home was, it flew me here on its own. There are no reins to speak of.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
What's even more impressive is that it will start to flap its large wings and croak annoyingly at the exact time of my purported departure. How the damned thing knows to measure the almost exact time passed is a mystery I was unable to solve.
I'm allowed but a few measly hours with my parents before having to return, given that, I'm sure, the Academy would crumble to stony dust without me. They seem, and blessedly sound much the same as always. Alamarium-breastplate-tight hugs exchanged, we move inside the house.
The space is familiar and welcoming, yet feels smaller every time I come back.
I take off my pink woolen hat and tuck it into my sleeve. I didn't need the hat, cold rarely bothers me, yet I wear it from time to time. Next, I unclasp my lion fibula and remove the red cloak, revealing Academy's phoenix insignia gracing my sleeves, just below my shoulder level.
It is strange how even after a few years without sleeping in my bed—admittedly most of such night time was spent lying down awake or lying on the roof—there is still a strong yearning for me to stay with them.
Their—our, I should say—kitchen is a pottery gathering of jugs, brown pots of all sizes, jars, plates, and soup bowls; fresh vegetables in the corner, a three-handspan wide stonewood cutting board, iron pan, and other...kitchen things. Woven baskets are filled with seedless and next to tasteless artificial Violet-made vegetables of mostly dark purple and black variety. There are a few ordinary periwinkle and violaceous lettuces as well as misty-gray leafed maroon radishes thrown in.
About a dozen or so oranges filled a bowl to the right of the small oven of gray-white stone. Each orange was no bigger than a child's fist and had a pleasant smell and sweetness. At the lip of the oven, Mother left some shreds of orange rind, the kitchen air was rich with their aroma.
Near the oven, the kitchen had a white-gray marble basin for cutlery, bowls, plates, and such. The basin was built into the counter—a bronze spigot was above, on the wall. A clean brush and white cloth within easy reach, like always.
Rich red linen valance decorated the kitchen window that was placed high up on the wall.
Much of the earthenware is currently on the stonewood kitchen table, overflowing with goodies made in my honor.
Despite my best efforts against it, my mom always has to make a small banquet for each of my comings here. The table has a bowl of rice, boiled eggs, some cloud-gray artificial oval-shaped vegetables I don't recognize, bran bread, wheat porridge with onions and beans to add flavor, and there are even some dried natural vegetables. The round bread is cut across four times, giving eight easily tearable pieces.
And to top it all off, a forearm-tall glass pitcher filled almost to the brim with sweet diluted grape juice alongside some cinnamon.
Mortarium, possibly Mom's favorite kitchen tool, is filled with a spread made of white cheese with ground garlic and thyme mixed in, linseed oil drizzled on top. The mortarium has a small opening near the top to allow the outflow of liquids—exquisitely made to portray the mouth of a lion.
Worst of all, they've slaughtered and plucked one of the egg-laying chickens from near the outside shed. Like a crown jewel, placed on a platter in the middle of the table, the roasted and basted chicken is served with sapa. The honey-based sauce has a rich syrupy dark amber color to it. I told my mother many times to not treat me like I'm a visiting senator. My every word bounces off her as if I'm speaking to a wall. To. A. Wall.
I do not wish to think how much hex all this had cost them. Before, we had some arguments about it, and aurichalcum-precious time was spent arguing.
Still there. On one end of the kitchen table, I can see a small groove that I carved years back.
For some time, the sounds of eating is all that can be heard. In the Hall, on the rare days when they serve roasted meats, the canteen gets unusually quiet. Everyone just gobbles their food and no one really talks. I've read that that's how you know if an inn serves good food or stale garbage. When mouths prefer to chew rather than do gossip.
My mother can't seem to stop staring at the right side of my face. I can feel her ogling eyes on my cheek. Out of all days it had to be now.
A few reddish spots ravage my cheek. Yesterday, without thinking I scratched one of them and felt the sharp kiss of a wasp.
But the worst thing is she can't seem to shut up about it. ''You need to dip clean cloth with spirits and rub it. Then put some cream. I could try and send you some chamomile cream with castor oil.''
''It will pass!'' I exclaim angrily. She always has to find a flaw to nag about. Her cold eyes glare at me, no doubt planning the next criticism.
Father clears his throat. ''So, how are your studies going, overall?'' It was a stupid question, but a welcome distraction I suppose. He knows the physical side of my studies can't be a bother, and I also already mentioned to them that cerebral obstacles are an easy slice, not a problem at all.
Especially considering I can rarely fall asleep and therefore have near endless time to study. A problem, if I can call it that, that has somehow gotten worse over the last few days. ''Well,'' I look at my mother, ''I'm thinking about improving my grades in running, spear and discus throwing, wrestling, and every other useless thing we are taught there!'' I slightly raised my voice after every few words.
Ow!
She clipped me on the head with her knuckles. ''Do not speak to me like that, girl.'' Her glower still manages to get to me and I look away.
My father releases a heavy sigh. ''They are feeding you well. Every time we see each other you are taller.'' During the time of plenty, in the first year, when my visitations were more numerous, Father lost some weight and gained shadows below the eyes. I'm glad to see this has gradually changed, due to what I have no doubt were vigorous efforts from my mom to make him eat more. He knows my pain.
''Are you sure?'' My mom examines me with more scrutiny than any grandmaster ever could. ''She seems a little pale.'' Perhaps the Academy's decision to reduce student visits home has some merit to it. ''Do they truly feed you well? You must take some supplies with you. I have stored---''
I move my cheek away from her left hand and try to talk calmly. ''Mom, I've told you many times, they feed us as if...as if we were portly priests of Acrona.'' In the temples of the Second Daughter, many worshipers often leave offerings of food, and those well-off even give some wine at her altar. These offerings mysteriously disappear by the next day.
She claps me on the head again. If she hits me one more time I will break the kitchen table. ''Do not blasphemy, Anaya.'' Mom gets up to prepare my emergency supplies so I don't starve to death, and as I blaze at her and prepare to follow, Father wishes to bring peace to the realm.
He suddenly gets up. ''Anna come, I wish to show you something.''
His workshop is much as I remember, tidy and clean. He once told me, ''If you work in a mess you will produce a mess.''
Mom always berated how I should be as tidy as him. Every single time she entered my room there would be some complaint concerning its alleged, as she would put it, ''topsy-turvy'' state. I'm really not that messy.
His warm brown eyes study my face intently, a wistful gaze heightens the tiny wrinkles around them.
Some see crystalcrafters as greedy knaves. Father is no such thing. He always treated people the way they treat him. Anyone wanting to call my father deceitful or greedy should look at their own reflection first.
On the table in the corner, there is a white woolen cloth covering something.
He slowly removes it, and the painstaking details of his work leave me speechless. ''I know the Academy wouldn't allow you to bring it with you. I wished to gift this to you for your fifteenth spring, but near the end of Garn, it was nowhere near finished. With you rarely coming home this is a rare opportunity to give it to you. Consider it a massively delayed birthday present.''
I can't stop gawping at the rearing horse carved out of Crimson. The crystal he made this from must have been the size of a fist. The destrier's mane and tail have just now stopped dancing in the wind. The plinth is made to look into swirling clouds.
He even charged the crystal recently, the vortexing red light inside making it as if the horse has a blood flow. As I look more closely I notice that he even managed to vividly portray the rearing horse's contracted muscles.
I have to look away and blink away the red haze in my eyes.
''Do you like it?'' Father asks.
''It is one of the most beautiful things I ever saw. Father, you have outdone yourself.'' I move to embrace him.
''I don't want you to go, Anna,'' he whispers sadly.
I can smell the faintest hints from Mom's attar of roses on him. It is often overpowering on her and some must have gotten on him somehow. ''I'm well. Academy takes good care of us.''
With great reluctance he lets me go. ''It will always wait for you in your room. I will feed it light every few days.'' He places his hands on my shoulders, looking deeply into my eyes. ''I don't care if Theia herself strikes down The Breaker Academy,'' he whispers, ''you come back to us, girl.'' He regards the small shining sculpture that might at any moment come to life. ''Whatever happens, its shine will always wait for you.''
Before we move to leave he pulls out a stonewood merels board from the top shelf, above his cutting and polishing tools. ''Time for a game?''
''We have time for one,'' I say.
We play a little further from the piece of art he made for me, standing next to his main work table.
The board has emblematic inlays of triquetra dominating the surface with a matrix of twenty-four evenly spaced and roundly carved dents for the pieces.
It is a simple game. We each get nine of the pieces and place them in empty spots with a satisfying click. I always let the old man go first although I don't even know why we bother playing since the outcome is so often the same. It makes me sad how our movement is rushed as if the board might burst into flames at any moment.
In the beginning, he beat me every time but it is pointless now.
At regular intervals, black and white pieces are removed from the board while each of us constantly tries to get three in a row. We have both mastered the game and this one, like most others, ends in a draw.
''You could've let me win.''
''If I've always let you win then you wouldn't have become so good at it. Let us go before your mother accuses me of stealing you all to myself.''
My time to go is soon and we move into the kitchen where my mom has prepared a moss-worth of supplies. Will all that fit into the old satchel she made for me? The giant raven outside surely won't appreciate the extra weight.
''Stay here, Anna. I wish to speak to your father.'' That probably means I'm going to be the topic.
I simply nod and sit at the kitchen table, pretending I can't hear them while they move to conspire in the next room.
''...she gets her dirty tongue and impulse towards blasphemy from you, John.''
''You were eavesdropping.''
''And you were scaring her. Like she is going off to some war.''
''You heard what they say of that place. They treat children as recruits, future soldiers to be sent Void knows where.''
For a moment Mom pauses. ''Must you always speak like that? Despite your best efforts, we are exalted by all our neighbors because of the honor of our daughter attending the Academy.''
''Fuck blessings and honors. A child should grow up with its parents.''
He lowers his voice even more. ''Her posture is different and she even moves differently.''
''Oh Goddess, her back is finally straighter, after all those books you fed her gave her a hunch. How simply abominable.'' Even in whisper, my mother's voice is sharp like a blade of hepatizon.
Strange, I keep forgetting: I don't have to listen to them squabbling.
I quickly rip out the remaining chicken drumstick and go to the door. I open them quietly. Of course you're here, my little rat. Leaning over, I give Leyla the drumstick. She takes it gently and then scampers away to some hidden spot.
Soon my satchel will be overflowing with linen-wrapped food, soon the raven will call for me.
I slam the back of my head against the now closed door, exhale deeply, and slide slowly down to crouch here for a bit.
Just for a bit.
***
Autumn wind punches my face as these pathetic excuses for plants sway about me.
Secret Garden, what a stupidly stupid name. Everyone knows of it, anyone can see it.
They sent me to this ugly garden, supposedly ''fresh air,'' the few older women caretakers proclaimed, ''will do me good.''
The Academy has an outside garden mostly made of artificial plants.
Familiar plants look rather different from natural plants. Sometimes the tree trunks have a dull sheen of black to their surface. Diagonally flowing bands form ugly, slanting tree trunks whose roots occasionally burst from the ground.
A drunk coiling snake whose head explodes into a dense foliage of dark red, purple, or black.
The trees here are not that high, and some are very leafy; their trunks have vines of rich purple foliage. The leafy type of natural trees have their branches half-bare, and seem barren and sickly when compared to the lush crystalborn trees. Sculptures, granite benches, and a few simple swings of rope attached to thick tree branches are all thrown about the space seemingly at random.
The garden's sculptures are small, often below my hip level in height. They remind me a little of the giant human-like statues at the center of Applecherry Plaza, their wings here also plastered with gold. An annoying smirk was carved for all time into most of their marble faces.
There are everlasting purples of tamarisk and juniper and terebinth.
To my upper right, a dancer was swaying its delicate purple strands to the high winds. The useless-looking fluffy plant actually has some practical use. Best bows are made from the dancer's purple-black stem.
A cluster of pale pink lilies is framed by the flowing lines of black boxwood shrubs—bloodred bush grows wild above.
I suppose the garden has some macabre appeal to it. Despite this place not being too high up, it still took me some effort to get here.
Far below and away from the garden, the green statue of khar-nogoon rose starkly against the pale red sandstone landscape around it. The mountainous facade soared ridiculously high, making the statue resemble a green petrified eyelash.
Barely a week passed since I last saw my parents, and yet I miss them dearly. Sometimes I even miss my mother's suffocating nature, although, granted, those moments are exceptionally rare.
Due to being ''blessed'' I will never be a mother and yet I must still go through this. Caretaker Vitellia assured me this is normal.
Third day like this.
Cramps are coming in neverending surges. How is this possible, I'm stronger than other girls, stronger than anyone, I can't be hurting like this.
I lean forward and try not to think of the pain. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Hebe came to offer words of comfort but was wise enough not to linger much and to let me be alone. I assume she cleverly warned Michael not to come near me. Am I dying? Why does it feel like I'm dying?
''I presume it would be stupid to ask how are you, Anna.'' Aleera managed to sneak up on me. I must be worse than I thought. As usual, the brown-robed priestess has her shawl and gloves, although it is a little more understandable attire during the second half of the year.
''Yes.'' I bend over again and inhale through my nose and exhale quickly through my mouth.
Aleera sits on a bench next to me. Glancing at my stomach she says plainly, ''It is a part of life.''
''Well...life is mocking me then. We are told it is a sign of fertility. What a farce! I didn't choose this pain or this cursed place. What forced future am I to have?''
She touches my hand reassuringly. After a long pause, she says, ''It is not about who you are now, it is about who you can become. You will never be a mother in the traditional sense, true; however,'' she throws a look southwards, sadness and longing shroud her eyes, ''your crystalborn will be an extension of you that serves the city.'' She regards me again with a faint smile. ''Also, I assume you've been through the blessings ceremony whereby you could probably see or hear some small curses of motherhood.''
That brings a short-lived smile out of me. Some of her words are wrapped in thick layers of wool. My hearing manipulation is wavering together with my focus. I'd much rather be alone.
''Somehow, I hoped this would not come to pass,'' I say.
''Hope is a-a-a fool man's game. Do not hope, make it so. With time you will find herbs that work best for you,'' Aleera states.
Aleera pulls a small green vial out of her right pocket and gives it to me. ''Rub this on your belly three to four times a day. Some women claim it does wonders.''
''What is it?'' My head feels like one of the anvils of the Academy's Forge.
''Chamomile oil. Your mother will probably know where to buy more.''
''I won't be seeing her for months at least.''
''Write a letter and tell her to procure you some thyme or oolong tea.'' She becomes thoughtful for a moment. ''Sadly the gray plants grow in the Wastes and can be expensive but since some faithful leave an offering of thyme in Acrona's temple, which eventually gets cleared or thrown away, I will send you some of those. Nonetheless, write to her. A daughter needs her mother at times such as these.'' She gets up to leave.
''Thank you.'' My voice is meek.
Aleera lovingly taps my shoulder. ''I will come back around ten days from now, and can deliver it for you.'' She wistfully regards the garden one last time and starts ambling away. ''Rest now Anna, preferably in a bed and not a windy garden. Farewell, girl.''
''Bye,'' is all I manage to croak. Before I can ask her why is she helping me, another ripple of stomach pain gets my full attention.
A distant thought nags at the mind, and I feel like I've failed to grasp some important understanding.