AKI:

  The same dream woke me. I shot up, pain and fear and anger pounding at my heart like they weren't just figments of my mind.

  Despite this, I had slept well; eight turns was twice as long as the four I was used to. Seeing the dark orange of early dawn creeping in through the glass window above the desk, I got out of bed and went about readying myself for the coming day, which I suspected would be as eventful as the last.

  Merkus’ old clothes—those he’d worn when he was but twelve—lay in a simple wooden chest at the foot of the bed. More comfortable than I’d known possible, they fit surprisingly well. Pitiable, considering my own sixteen years of age.

  Breakfast was waiting when I made it downstairs. Farian sat at the dining table, a feast of boiled eggs, soft bread, and choice meats laid out before him. My mouth watered at the sight.

  “Come, boy,” he said. “The first bell has already rung, and you’ve yet to take a bite.”

  I approached, salivating, pulled in by the irresistible aroma. When I was but a stride away, Farian’s hand shot up.

  I leaped back, stumbled, fell to one side, and curled into a ball. There was no thought to my reaction, just instinct, just the fruits of the harsh lessons marked into me with abuse. When no blow came, I looked up to see a confused Farian pinching his nose.

  “Nor have you washed yet,” he said. “And since birth, by the smell of you, boy.” I ignored his comment. The sting of an insult fades when you’ve heard it often enough.

  I climbed to my feet, tentatively approached the side of the table furthest from him, pushed onto my toes, and dragged two of the many plates to the floor. I rammed the meat into my mouth like it was alive and trying to escape.

  “What in The Old Queen’s name are you doing?” Farian asked.

  I froze, half a boiled egg jammed into one cheek, my neck craned upwards as strips of meat hung from my fingers and above my open mouth, the juices dripping onto my outstretched tongue. I watched him from the corner of my eye, waiting for violence. He watched me in turn, bemused. After a tense moment of unmet expectations, I jammed the meat I held into my mouth, chewed, swallowed with some difficulty, and placed the plates back onto the table.

  “My apologies, sir,” I said. “My hunger had gotten the better of me, and I find I’ve insulted your hospitality.” I placed my right hand on my chest and bowed from the neck, as was the custom for an apology, and bowed from my waist, as was a custom for someone of a lower station. “Please forgive my manners, specifically my lack thereof.”

  Farian looked me up and down. “You are a conundrum, my dear boy. How is it that in only a few breaths, you exhibit the wildness of a Mud and the poise of a Branch?”

  I sensed an insult buried in his words. It hurt. The truth, naked and stripped of ridicule, can be the sharpest of weapons. Merkus came to mind. He’d voiced a similar observation when we’d first met. For weeks, I’d washed my garments daily and did my utmost to stave off anything that might soil my efforts. It took me far longer than it should’ve to realize the futility of remaining clean when my father and The Muds waited to undo my work at the end of each day.

  “At least you see what I see,” Farian said, smiling at me. “Some of the men I’ve served with were little better than wild animals, adamant they couldn’t smell the blend of shit and sweat that hung on them like a cheap whore on a wealthy merchant.”

  A streak of shame ran down my spine.

  Farian laughed. “I don’t say this to mock you, little man. There was a time when I walked the world oblivious to the marks of The Mud slathered on every inch of me. And to tell the truth, I don’t ever remember noticing without help.” Farian pointed to the empty chair across the table from where he sat. “Please.”

  With weary caution, I sat, not moving my eyes from his; I’ve found violence always starts in the eyes. The smile on Farian’s face remained kind and understanding, but I’d come to know the folly of trusting a kind smile. Not again. Never again. I pulled the two plates I’d initially taken closer to me, blindly grabbed a handful of meat, and stuffed it into my mouth.

  “Slow down.” Farian waved a hand over the assembly of food. “This is all for you. I’ve already had my fill.”

  Without a word, I pulled more plates closer to me, confident my hunger could down the lot. All the while, my eyes never left his. Despite trusting Knite, who told me Farian was a generous man who’d understand me better than most, I was coming to appreciate knowledge over belief, evidence over faith.

  Soon, I was on my third plate and losing confidence. Still, I was more than willing to keep trying, aiming to discover what the opposite of hunger felt like.

  “Your parents?” he said in a way that made it clear it was a question.

  My mouth full, I shrugged.

  “Who made you eat on the floor?” he clarified.

  I swallowed before I answered. “My father.” Uttering those words almost stole my appetite.

  Farian nodded sagely. After a long silence, he said, “My mother for me. So many years later, so much life lived, so many other memories created, scores of friends and enemies, lovers and betrayals, and yet…”

  I watched him, the food forgotten, my hatred spilling forth to compete with his claims. “I doubt your mother was as despicable as my—as him. She probably pushed you to the brink, hoping to use you to ascend. He did… worse, and for no conceivable reason.” I wanted to shout of his abuse, of the wicked ways he treated me, of the depths of his depravity. I couldn’t. I told myself it was because of the lingering effects of Leahne’s Tunnel, but the truth, as it so often is, was too difficult to admit, most of all to myself.

  Farian held up his hands. “Calm yourself, boy. To survive this world, you must keep your composure. Anger is a clumsy weapon and can hurt you just as easily as your enemies.”

  I took a breath. Farian was right, of course. Before yesterday, when my rage had evaded the commands of my rational mind and had me attack Kalin, I was in control. Now, that control seemed so fleeting, the rage so intractable.

  Farian took out a square mark half the size of my palm. It was made of wood and carved with The Bark symbol. “You’ll be living here until your assessment. So…” He slid the mark across the table.

  I pulled a frayed cord I wore around my neck out from under my new tunic. My mark dangled from its end, scratched and chipped all over, a much smaller version of The Bark symbol etched into the corner, and the symbol for The Muds carved prominently in the center. I ran my thumb over the wavy lines, the memory of Diloni proudly smiling at me playing in my mind’s eye. She beamed with pride the day I earned my sponsorship. As had I. Now, the memory was soiled. Ruined.

  I threw the chipped mark across the table to Farian. “I’ll not be needing this, then.”

  “A bath and some clean clothes will be waiting for you in your room. I won't have you carrying my name and walking the streets as you are. You’ll also find a signed letter excusing your late arrival. That should assuage your assessors some.” He stood to leave.

  I sprung to my feet. “Sir!”

  Farian made it to the doorway before he looked back at me over his shoulder. “Merkus?”

  I nodded mutely.

  “He and Addy have gone to Partum to enroll Merk into the academy there.”

  “What about his assessment?”

  “His mother and I never wanted him to become a warrior,” he said. “Pure Aedificators and Alchemists are safe from The Old Queen’s war.”

  “He could have become either in The Royal Academy. Everyone knows they have the best instructors, the greatest funds, the most expansive syllabus.” There were hints of pleading in my voice.

  “Not if his talent for battle was discovered,” Farian explained. “They’d never let him specialize in anything but war if they saw what he was capable of. Assessors at Partum won’t care about his combat prowess. Not like in The Royal Academy, where power is the supreme metric for success.” With that, he turned and left, and as his steps faded, I heard him mutter, “Better a father from afar than a father no more.”

  ***

  I felt different on my way to the academy.

  Winter pervaded the air behind streams of light. Spurred by the brisk wind, a chill bit at my exposed skin. I pushed the wide collars of my cloak up and against my cheeks. I blamed the bath—partly my inability with sensus, but mainly the bath. When I had stood from the warm, oversized tub of water, leaving behind a pool of sludge, I discovered the layers of dirt on my skin protected me from the air’s cold touch. The bath had also laid bare the scars of my childhood in all their glory, showing me the healed cuts, scrapes, and burns written on my body like a story of my past, some still red or pink with fresh ink. Again, the bath’s fault. Who knew being clean would feel so much like being naked? And in more ways than one?

  The academy looked different, too. I don’t know if it was the wind fondling my skin, the comfortable clothes I wore, or the absence of the burning ache in my calves from having to climb up two plateaus, but the world looked and felt different. The academy's large windows and soft stone had turned into childish displays of bravado. People whose ilk mocked and taunted me for their amusement in days past remained out of my way. I found I stood straighter, no longer hunching in an attempt to appear smaller and less noticeable.

  The near-empty courtyard of the academy greeted me with near silence; empty but for Old Roche kneeling on the steps, a bucket of water next to him and a dirty rag in hand; quiet but for the slow and sad and oddly familiar tune he hummed.

  “If you be wantin’ to thank me for washin’ after ya, don’t,” he said, wringing the blood-soaked rag over the bucket. “Never thank a man for doin’ his duty.”

  “Old Roche, I—”

  “I'd rather you carry the weight of my words than offload the weight of your gratitude.”

  Old Roche picked up his bucket and walked toward his station. I gave him what he asked for, thanking him by keeping my gratitude to myself.

  My footsteps were loud in the echoing emptiness of the hallway. I looked around at what was once impressive but now seemed drab. New, clean, and well-constructed as the academy grounds were, it was also cheap and pretentious. It’s a marvel how much perception can change reality.

  No one recognized me when I entered. Even Edon gave me a curious glance vacant of any recognition. Arranged around an improvised arena, everyone sat cross-legged, their eyes watching me with varying degrees of interest. That’s when my nerves began to fray. The ribbon tied about my shoulder-length hair started to feel tight, my scalp belatedly realizing it was unused to the pull. My heart began to race as if sensing a danger I could not see. How had Merkus been so at ease with their collective scrutiny? I thought.

  “New enrollees do not start for quite some time,” Kurash said.

  “I’m exactly where I’m meant to be, Master Kurash, though admittedly much later than expected,” I said, pulling on my courage and finding more than I was used to.

  Kurash's eyes widened a fraction, which, for the stone-faced assessor, amounted to an exclamation of surprise. “Aki?”

  I flourished a bow. “The very same.”

  I couldn’t tell you what exactly had come over me, what strove me away from the reticent observer I’d always been. It might’ve been the naftajar, the abolishment of Leahne’s matrix, the lack of mud and blood crusting my skin, the Heartwood clothes I wore, or another of the unforeseen occurrences that had befallen me on that fateful day. It could have been any, some, or all of those things, but it mattered naught; I liked who I was becoming, liked that it took the best of me and left behind parts I detested. And so I embraced this new me.

  Whispers snaked out. The students, young and undisciplined as they were, failed to restrain themselves from a wave of gossip. Edon watched me. His was the only face I looked for, and on it, much to my amusement and relief, I found an expression of pleasant surprise—wide eyes over an unfettered smile.

  “Quiet,” Kurash said, calm and clear, silencing the hushed chatter. He ran his gaze over the class, causing the students to shuffle and stiffen into position. Only then did he turn his attention back to me.

  “Reeve Farian can account for my tardiness, Master,” I answered, getting ahead of his question.

  “I will forgo asking for proof until the end of class.” Kurash glanced at my usual seat, a spot declaring me the weakest. I couldn’t help but take it as a warning, a reminder that despite my new clothes, combed hair, and newfound confidence, I was and would always be Mudborn. “You may sit.”

  “My thanks,” I said.

  Many students watched me, finding it hard to believe I was the Aki they remembered. They were right. I wasn’t. Or at least I felt like I wasn’t.

  Kurash’s class was on physical combat. With explicit instruction not to use our sensus, the students with superior standings were left without their most significant advantage. My fellow students and I lined the outer edge of the arena, watching two chosen participants match each other with wooden weapons. So close to the assessment, Kurash preferred we concentrate on the practical sides of combat, teaching by issuing bouts and highlighting mistakes.

  Clarosi, one of the four Branches in our class, a slim girl with light-brown hair tied in a bun, faced Jarom, a dark-skinned Root of middling weight and height. She weaved around him, seeking to use her superior speed and lighter sword to find an opening. After a particularly successful feint, she saw her opportunity, rushing in to take advantage of his unprotected side.

  “Do not overextend your strike,” the Kurash warned.

  Refusing to heed his instruction, Clarosi swung at Jarom’s neck with eager abandon, unable to adjust when he pivoted on one foot, turned, and used his staff to pin her sword hand to his chest. With his greater weight, Jarom swiveled, dislodging her sword from her grasp and throwing her to the ground.

  “Stop,” Kurash called.

  Clarosi clambered up, cursing under her breath.

  “Why did you lose?” Kurash asked, walking into the square.

  The girl snorted. “Because I was refused my sensus.”

  “You’re faster,” Kurash said, ignoring her remark, though, with him, no one knew for sure. “So why was he the one to catch you?”

  “With my sensus, he’d be writhing on the floor, covered in his own—”

  The slap was light and quick, meant to shock rather than injure, to embarrass more than hurt. Clarosi placed a hand to her cheek, her eyes loud but her mouth silent.

  “Since you don’t know, I’ll tell you.” Kurash pointed at Jarom, though his gaze remained on the petite girl. “Because he fought smarter. He gave you that opening, and you snatched at it like a hungry babe to its mother's teet.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I can, I have, and I will. Your parents sent you here to be trained, not cuddled. Now sit.”

  Head hung low in humiliation, Clarosi walked back to her mat.

  Kurash looked about the square of students with a slow purpose. “I am not here to teach you full combat. You’ll be taught that in the real academies—if your talents are deemed worthy. I am here to lay the foundation for your skills in physical combat. Your namats and sensus abilities are none of my concern. The assessment for this class, for which I am your assessor, is imminent. Those who wish to pass, be they from The Muds or The Branches, plump or lean, strong or fast, will need to be sufficiently competent in strategy and skill.”

  Kurash walked out of the impromptu arena, circling the students’ backs for Jarom’s new opponent. His tall shadow soon fell over me, stretching toward the center of the square as if foreshadowing his coming order.

  “To the center, Aki,” he said. “Let us see if being better groomed has improved you any.”

  Nervous as I was, something in me refused to show it. The wooden sword Clarosi had been using still lay where she’d dropped it. I picked it up and took my place facing the dark-skinned boy. He nodded an acknowledgment. I returned the favor, choosing to overlook all the other times he’d opted not to.

  Jarom was an average student in all ways except one: he was the most deceptive fighter among us. Many despised his misdirections, thinking them an underhanded farce meant to disguise his mediocrity. I took them as the practical approach he’d honed for success. I’ve always respected success.

  “Go,” Kurash called.

  It was over quicker than anyone expected. I rushed in, feinting a lunge at Jarom’s chest, which he expected and ignored, then twisted and feinted a backhanded swing, which he did not. He clutched his staff with both hands, planted it on the floor, and firmed his stance to block a swing that never came. I halted my momentum, spun back, and kicked his chest. He grunted. The kick wasn’t strong, but it left him unbalanced. I took advantage. My sword thudded against the outside of his left knee, and he dropped into a half-kneel.

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  “Stop,” Kurash called.

  I let my arm fall to my side, my heart pounding. My body had never listened to me so well. I was still too small, too weak, too slow, and I was still breathless from that brief exertion, but damn it, my body, absent the aches and fatigue it typically encumbered me with, had listened to me. It had listened!

  Jarom looked up, half-kneeling. There was something different in his gaze, some measure of respect and maybe a little of fear. The former I wanted. I reached out with a hand to dispel the latter. Jarom glanced at it before meeting my eyes again. After a pause, he took my offer and pulled himself to his feet.

  “Well done, Aki,” Kurash said, stepping into the square. That earned a few murmurs from the class, so rare was his praise. “Jarom, why did you lose?”

  Jarom turned to our assessor, sparing me one last glance. “He was the smarter fighter, Master.”

  “Good. Now tell me how.”

  “I didn’t think he would sacrifice the momentum of his backhanded swing. The first feint was obvious, and I think it was meant to be.”

  “And?” Kurash prompted.

  “And… I should have used the longer range of my weapon?” Jarom sounded uncertain.

  “Yes. But you’d also committed to defending that feint without the option to change your stance. Always leave room for options, Jarom. It is of utmost importance in combat. Go. Sit.”

  Kurash resumed his walk around the square of students. He started from where I sat, then walked past the weaker—poorer—students, slow and slowing as he went. When he reached the students from The Branches, my stomach knotted and began to disagree with my breakfast. My blood pounded with a mixture of excitement and worry. For a long, uncomfortable moment, he lingered behind Edon, causing my large friend to squirm in his seat, but then he stepped back and stopped behind the boy beside him.

  “Froxil. It has been a while since you’ve participated in any of these bouts,” Kurash said, something in his voice deviating from his usual tone. “Care to remind the class of your skills?”

  “Must I face such low-standing filth? It would do neither of us any good.”

  Kurash remained quiet.

  Froxil closed his eyes and sighed. “Very well. Let's be done with this.”

  Like Edon, Froxil was a son of a Fiora, which, given that Fioras were the sons and daughters of gods, made him the grandson of a god and thus a Seculor. Like many of his royal kin, he sported the blue eyes, blonde hair, and fair skin the island gods were known for, though unlike them, he possessed a muscular frame more familiar to our closest neighbors, the Golodanians. Picking up an ax from one of the many weapon racks around the room, he came to stand before me.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Go,” Kurash said.

  We rushed at each other, each faltering when we noticed the other do the same. Froxil’s speed and my lack thereof meant we met off-center, closer to my side of the arena than his. He came in high and quick, both hands on his ax, ready to finish me with one heavy swing. I jumped to the side. He adjusted his downward stroke into a diagonal swing that chased me. I stumbled back and narrowly evaded the blunt edge of his ax.

  Surprised I’d managed to escape, he stepped back and smiled cruelly. I staggered to my feet, already swallowing lungfuls of air. He stalked forward like a predator; I backed away like prey.

  “Do not leave the square,” Kurash called.

  I looked back. I shouldn’t have. Froxil came at me. I ducked under a sideways swing. He reversed his grip. I leaned back, watching the head of the ax pass a fingerbreadth from my eyes, the edge painfully swiping at the soft tip of my nose. I scrambled to the side, vaguely aware of distant laughter.

  My breathing was a problem. I was used to long distances but rarely at any speeds that overworked my lungs. Now I sucked in rivers of air and flung out flecks of spit.

  Froxil stalked towards me, sinister-like, slow in that inevitable way that inspired fear. I felt none, only proud I lasted this long and keen to show I could last longer. I raised my sword and took a low stance. I’d studied all the combat forms and practiced them with Diloni and Merkus as best I could, hoping I would have the strength to use them one day. That day is today, I thought. A smile wrestled onto my lips.

  I waited. Froxil did not make me wait long. He dashed in and swung his ax at my sword to remove it from his path, confident in his strength and speed. I let go, allowing the heavy strike to throw my weapon across the arena. Before he completed his followthrough, I dove in, my leg behind his knee, my arm held out to strike across his chest. Froxil lost his footing, one leg following the other off the ground. I hastened towards my weapon before his back met the arena floor.

  I turned, sword in hand, panting. Froxil was already on his feet, raw sensus burning a soft glow along the grains of his weapon. He dashed toward me behind an angry roar of rage, without form, skill, or technique guiding his wild rush.

  Like we’d been taught, like I’d been practicing for every spare moment I found, I willed my sensus through my nape, down my arm, and into my hand. What came next surprised all of us, me most of all. Instead of the trickle I’d known and despised, my sensus attended like never before. The upper half of my weapon splintered. A rippling cone of force propelled the broken fragments toward the oncoming Froxil, who, in his mad rage, ignored the onslaught until it was too late.

  Froxil spilled to the floor. A few yelps came from the students who sat behind him, some unlucky students caught by whatever managed to get past.

  “I can’t see,” Froxil screamed, panic in his voice. He had a hand cupped around his left eye.

  Kurash appeared, kneeling beside the boy. “Show me.”

  I looked down at my hand, at the broken handle I held. My sword arm felt like it’d been doused in acid. My lungs heaved, my muscles ached, and my head throbbed. Despite it all, I was smiling.

  Master Pakur clambered into the room, his persistent perspiration and resulting stink suffocating those nearby. From how he almost prostrated before Froxil, pushing Kurash out of his way with no care, I’d have considered them the students and the fair-haired boy the assessor.

  “Apologies, Froxil kin Yabiskus,” he said. “I came as soon as I could. How is the injury?” While House Lorail was the most feared for all the devious and harrowing practices they employed, House Bainan was known for an arrogance that left people dead quicker than they knew why.

  “I’m half-blind and bleeding, you buffoon,” Froxil barked. “How do you think I am?” Like many of his House, his hubris decreed he ought to be loud and obnoxious.

  Kurash came to stand before Froxil. “While enrolled in this academy, we are your masters, and you will speak to us with the respect that entails.”

  “This is your fault,” the boy accused.

  “He's right,” Pakur declared, standing upright to face the stoic warrior. Almost half as tall and, for all the wrong reason, just as wide, the head assessor looked deceivingly weak. Despite his ailing appearance and wanton character, all agreed he was the oldest and strongest of the assessors. He’d been among the reputable ranks of the Named far longer than any of the others.

  The haunting look Kurash gave him—conflictingly tenuous and terrifying—said more than others could understand, a reminder of something unspoken, something Pakur, the head assessor of Evergreen's most prodigious preparatory academy, blanched at.

  Pakur looked away, his bluster shaken. “Contact the Yabiskus branch. I suspect they’d prefer he is treated with better care than our humble academy can provide.”

  “Yes, Master Pakur,” Kurash said, stepping back.

  I watched them with bated breath, worried they might lay the blame at my feet. When no mention of my part in the incident came to light, my attention returned to my hand, a grin creeping onto my face.

  Someone tapped me on my back. I looked up to see Edon.

  “I take it you have a tale to tell?” he said. Plagued by his usual indigestion, a symptom of a prolific appetite he was unwilling to subjugate, he burped in my face before I could turn away, the musky garlic of whatever he’d recently eaten assaulting my nose. “With all,”—he waved his hands at my new clothes and thorough grooming—“I assume it’s a good one.”

  I put a hand to my nose. “Could you please exhale elsewhere? Anywhere but in my face would do.”

  Edon chuckled, laying a heavy arm around my shoulders. “I spent a year in your company, Aki, and only now will you be able to appreciate the restraint I showed when I abstained from commenting on your smell. I trust the stench of your old clothes gave you a taste of my suffering after you had your bath?”

  I grimaced. Edon was right.

  “Nice going with my cousin, by the way,” he said.

  A lump formed at the base of my throat, and I swallowed nervously. Preoccupied as I was, I’d forgotten the two were related.

  “His snobbery was getting rather unbearable of late,” Edon said, grinning at me, his plump cheeks pushing up in a way that allowed his smile to reach his eyes.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad I could oblige.”

  Edon pulled me in close until our heads touched, and I got another whiff of garlic. “Been hearing stories,” he whispered. “They true?”

  “Depends on the stories.”

  “Heard Merk killed that gangly fellow from the House Silas hopefuls. What was his name? Jundeer? Gundeer?”

  “Gundar.”

  “Yes, that was it. Heard Merk nearly decapitated the boy.”

  “He’s older than you are, Edon. Seems unfitting to call him ‘boy.’”

  “Fine, fine, so you don’t want to answer the question.” Though he often played the fool, Edon was not nearly as dimwitted as he appeared. “How’s Merk?”

  “Halfway to Partum, if I had to guess.”

  “Good.” Edon clapped a hand on my back. “Good.”

  ***

  The rest of my first day as a Heartwood was uneventful.

  Since all the theory classes were complete and the academy specialized in providing fodder for the legions, a subservient division of the Institute for War, the only subjects we were taught for the remainder of our enrollment were basic combat and soul manipulation, each taking half of the school day. The soul manipulation class was a mix of good and bad; good in that I finally had enough sensus to practice, bad in that I needed more practice than the class could provide. I muddled through, frustrated at every turn by my lack of control. While my previous, more modest pool had given me an intricate control none of my fellow students could match, allowing me to create minuscule but meticulous matrixes, my new pool was a flood of sensus, the glowing, translucent power rushing out like an uncaged, wild beast.

  Leahne was there. Her gaze lingered on me when I entered the room and drifted back every so often, always at moments of failure, always with that unnerving smile of hers. I was glad when the bell finally rang, and I escaped her ridicule.

  The headmaster’s aide waited by the door for me at the end of class, his expression stern. He was a bland Root with dark hair, nondescript facial features, average height, and a slight build, all of which culminated into a rather forgettable man. I’d not remember him if not for how drunk the man was on the paltry power his role afforded him.

  “Come,” he ordered.

  We walked the breadth of the academy and reached the conclusion of the central hallway where Pakur’s office was situated. The aide knocked, waited, and, upon hearing the headmaster’s permission to enter, opened the door and shoved me in. The odor floating about the room was horrendous, like an invasion of my senses, the smell so strong I could taste it, so thick I could feel it crawl on my skin and clamber up my nose. I nearly gagged right there and then. Surprisingly, the office appeared clean. Cluttered with pompous affectations but otherwise spotless.

  Pakur pointed to one side of his desk. “Stand,” he instructed.

  I complied, resisting the urge to cover my nose, and instead busied myself with studying the room. I spotted what had to be Froxil’s mother. She sat in one of the two chairs opposite the head assessor, placing her to my left and Pakur to my right. Knots of muscles pushed against her tight, warrior leather, partly illustrating where Froxil had inherited his build. A small girl no older than twelve stood across the room and in the corner, standing as though she was just another fixture of the room.

  “Why have you brought the boy?” Froxil’s mother asked, her deep tone matching her hulking frame.

  Pakur smiled, elbows on the table, fingers laced together. “Because…”

  The woman stood, cutting an impressive figure. She had all the curves a woman wanted to have, and some most couldn’t. “Do not test my patience, Pakur.”

  Pakur’s eyes narrowed. “Or what? What will you do? What can you do? You have grown reckless, little Sofilia. Life in The Branches, stashed in the Yabiskus manor and away from any real conflict, has withered away your restraint. And now you come here, into my office, and throw weightless threats at me? Me?”

  “What of you? You’ve wilted behind the doors of this academy for half a century in the company of children, deluding yourself into thinking you are still as formidable as you once were. When was the last time you faced a true challenge?”

  “Do not try to detract from my point,” Pakur said. The way he spoke, sat, and watched the overbearing woman without concern told of a man more remarkable than the one I knew. “We both know I could kill you with but a thought. Do not mistake the protection of your husband's reputation as your own strength, little Sofilia. Instead, remember what happened when last you earned my displeasure.”

  Sofilia’s fist struck the wood of the table. “Do not speak of long distant—”

  I did not see nor hear his blow connect. Whatever Pakur did, Sofilia crashed back into her seat, blood seeping from her broken nose and running down her parted lips.

  “Be thankful,” Pakur said. “Years spent educating children has instilled in me a degree of patience I did not have when you attended this academy. But…” He snapped his fingers. The wall behind him rumbled and began to slide away, revealing the source of the rancid stench haunting the room. “If you wish to join those reckless fools who ignored my warning, you are welcome to do so.”

  The room was well-lit. I wished it wasn’t. Half a dozen naked bodies tied with thick ropes hung from hooks, blood, urine, and feces running down their legs. Some still dripped fresh with the fetid juices of their bodies. Some were emaciated and groaning for death, the horrid mixture hard and flaky on their skin. One man had his legs cut off mid-thigh, his wounds festering a decaying rot of an unnatural, glistening green.

  I retched. The half-digested remnants of my midday meal pushed past my fingers and down my forearm as I turned away from the gristly sight.

  Pakur ignored me, speaking to Froxil’s mother in a relaxed tone that belied the situation. “I did not bring the boy for any purposes that pertain to your futile objections, Sofilia.”

  I swallowed what I could and used my new tunic to wipe at my mouth. When I turned back, Sofilia, a wife to the Yabiskus branch patriarch, sat with her hands clenched to her chair's armrests, her face flushed by a wave of impotent anger that set the veins on her temples and neck throbbing.

  “What is my name?” Pakur asked.

  “Pakur,” Sofilia forced out. She hissed and clutched at her upper arm. Blood ran a track down to her elbow.

  “What is my name?” Pakur asked again.

  “Pakur Razorstring,” she said through gritted teeth. “Are you sure you have the standing to treat me this way?”

  Pakur smiled and snapped his fingers again. With a creak, the door behind him began to close. “Though I am one of the Named, no, I do not have the standing.” Sofilia leaned forward, ready to throw him a violent rebuke. Pakur raised a finger before she could. “Permission would be a more apt description.”

  The tall woman shifted back into her seat, swallowing her words. “And regarding my… ‘objections,’ as you say?”

  Pakur turned to me. “Young Aki, what led to Froxil’s injury?”

  “A duel, Master,” I answered.

  “Of which, who won?”

  “I did, Master.”

  “And of which, who first broke the rule of no sensus?”

  “Froxil, Master.”

  Pakur turned back to Sofilia. “As you’ve heard, and with unanimous corroboration from other witnesses if so required, whatever objections you have are based solely on the grace of your husband’s standing. Such reasoning, by the standards set forth by the late King himself, goes against the very nature of our fair Evergreen, all it stands for, and all it was built upon.”

  A snicker came from the young girl standing in the corner of the room. Pakur and Sofilia ignored her like she was invisible, like she made no sound at all. I didn’t, and when I glanced her way, she winked at me.

  Sofilia stood, slow and stiff. “Lord Yabiskus will hear of this. If this so-called ‘permission’ of yours is a ruse, you will come to know regret. Intimately. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Leave,” Pakur said. “Before I am forced to keep my promise,”—he jutted a thumb over his shoulder—“and you're forced to keep them company.”

  Sofilia marched from the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

  Pakur trained his eyes on me. “Sit.”

  I complied, noticing the girl remained in the corner. I’d taken her for Sofilia’s servant. Then…?

  Pakur glanced at the floor, frowning at my vomit. “I thought life in The Muds rids one of a sensitive nose. A little whiff of death, and you spoil my floor?”

  A little?

  I peeled my gaze from the curly-haired girl and looked at Pakur. “Apologies, Master. My studies have always kept me from the more gruesome aspects of The Muds. I don’t have the stomach for it yet.”

  “No matter.” He waved the topic away. “So, I hear you’ve had quite the night, is that right?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. There was no need to answer any unasked questions, implied or otherwise.

  “Starting with an altercation by the academy entrance if I’m to believe the reports. What can you tell me of the incident?”

  “Whatever I can remember, Master.”

  Pakur smiled. “You were always a quick-witted one. And what can you remember?”

  “Most if not all, Master.”

  He laughed. The sound did not have even a hint of humor in it. “I didn’t ask how much you remembered; I asked what remembered,” he said, a smile on his lips and danger in his eyes. “Do that again, and I will hurt you, boy. I take it you are clear on my meaning this time?”

  I nodded.

  “Then answer my question.”

  “Gundar, a Branch student of the academy, was injured trying to convince Merkus au Farian to apologize to Corine kin Jentra. For what, I cannot say.”

  Pakur took a clay mug and a bottle of dark liquor from a drawer. I welcomed and detested its overpowering scent, thankful for the attention it took from the smell of decaying flesh. Yet deeper still was a part of me flustered by the memories it invoked, by memories of violence and abuse. Pakur poured until the dark liquid threatened to spill over the brim, picked up the mug, and stretched his neck forward to sip from the rim.

  “And why were you in The Bark so late?” he asked.

  “Because I’d found my father half beaten to death and didn’t want to be found by his assailant.”

  Pakur’s initial sip had turned into large, successive mouthfuls, and he placed a finished mug back on the table. “You did not see the person who attacked your father?”

  “No, Master.”

  “Very well. Tell me of your sponsorship.”

  I pulled the wooden mark from beneath my wrinkled tunic. “Farian, the reeve.”

  “How exactly did that come about?”

  “Merkus’ mother, Adjudicator Adeenas, decided her son's prospects were better in Partum. Being a friend, Merkus convinced his father to sponsor me after they’d left the capital.”

  “I see. Well, as the head of the preparatory academy, I find no reason to pursue any further action.”

  I tried to stand. Pakur's eyes bore me back into my seat.

  “However,” he said, “there are still some issues you must resolve before you can resume your attendance.”

  “Issues?”

  He ignored me and struggled out of his chair, grunting with the effort. He faced the corner of the room and bowed as deep as his bulging stomach allowed. “Will you require anything else, Your Grace? Anything whatsoever?”

  A hand stroked my unruly hair. I jumped—or tried to. The hand remained where it was, unmoving, clamping me to my seat.

  “You may leave.” It was a child’s voice, lively and innocent and wicked all at once. I turned to its source.

  The girl stood beside me. Of course, I thought, Lorail. I should have guessed earlier. It didn’t help that she looked little more than ten cycles. This child, this ancient god, appeared younger than I. Knite had told me not to believe all the statues, portraits, murals, and other forms of reverent art depicting her as a tall, long-haired goddess of uncanny beauty. He had described her as ‘small.’ I wondered if he’d been imprecise on purpose. If Merkus were Knite, which he somehow was and wasn’t, I’d say he never did anything without a reason.

  “You had me worried,” the young girl said.

  My expression was blank. “And who do I have the pleasure of caring for my wellbeing?”

  Lorail smiled. It might’ve looked charming on most anyone else. She backed into the desk and hopped up to sit on its edge, then looked me over like a butcher looked over a slab of meat. “You really are the best of them.”

  “The best?”

  “No, I am not a recruiter. And no, I am not from the academy council nor any other such arm of the Administration Institute.”

  I feigned panic. Some of it was real. When someone is reading your thoughts, some is expected.

  Lorail waved her small hand in the air without the slightest hint of grace, joints all loose and careless. Like a child’s, I thought. “Do not worry about the rendition you gave the headmaster. It’s as accurate as he needs it to be.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I must, however, insist you answer my questions truthfully. Try your best to avoid excluding details I might consider pertinent.”

  I swallowed. “How—”

  “Try your best, and I will know.” My mother leaned forward, taking my eyes hostage with her own. “What happened to Rowan?”

  I answered almost immediately. “Merkus killed her. Would you like to know how and where, or can you see the answers as quickly as I can think of them?”

  “Son, if I so chose, I could see everything, even those thoughts you're trying so hard to hide from me.”

  My panic grew. Knite had told me she could pluck thoughts from my aura and read them like a flow of consciousness, but as long as she didn't breach me with her sensus, anything I kept from my active mind was beyond her grasp. I held onto that hope without reaching for it. My heart thumped. I forced my panic to avoid sensitive information, which is harder said than done and harder still when thought. Bile rose and knocked against the base of my throat. I stopped its advance by inviting that cold indifference I’d spent so many years befriending. It answered my call. I welcomed it like an old friend instead of the treacherous bastard I thought it to be.

  Lorail laughed, a playfully sinister sound. “As I said, you are the best of them. I would love to know what you are so competently keeping from me. Alas, I’m not one to burn my children with a scrying. Not unless they’ve done something to merit it.”

  I was cold. Apathetic. Unmoving. I was as I used to be. “If you sought to make me afraid, I’m not.”

  Lorail smiled in satisfaction. “Good. You are quickly showing yourself to be a worthwhile progeny.” She turned serious then—an odd look on a child, one easily misread as anger. “Yes, I see you aren't afraid. However, you are not ready to go without fear. Fear is a valuable tool. You must carry it with you, subdued but present until such a time when it becomes useless. The time when you can discard it is not nigh. It is far from now, far into an impossible future where I am not on this plane, and you are too powerful to fear another.”

  “I did not say I cannot be afraid, merely that I am not.”

  She slapped me. Hard. It stung my cheek with a blaze of heat. It did worse to my mind, for my own hand had done the deed. Anger tried to creep from the cold shell I’d erected. It took all of me to beat it back down, to calm its heat with cold logic.

  “Clever boy,” Lorail said. “That will serve you well for what you must survive.” She waited for me to ask for clarification. I stayed silent. “Yes, very clever indeed. Never question power. I intended to take you with me, but…”

  And just like that, she was gone. It was not as if she blinked away or was there one moment and not the next. It was as if she’d not been there at all.