The girl’s quiet words seemed to echo queerly in the shadows of the remediation chamber. The room was lit only by a single illumination ring that had been spiked into the low ceiling, and the light flickered from time to time, as though the magic within was at a constant threat to quit.

“Just one?” Roen, sitting on a small table directly beneath the light, eyed Delena dubiously. The soft-spoken girl had been ushered into the room just a short time ago, saying only that she had been instructed to see to Roen’s hand; Roen herself had been escorted there by a guard following her fight in the ring, forced to wait in the room alone for an uncounted crawl of time before Delena was finally brought.

“At least one,” Delena amended. “Possibly as many as three, but I cannot say for certain. Either way, the hand will have to be iced, wrapped, and pinned up.”

Staring balefully at her broken hand would not fix it, so Roen glanced again to her dismal surroundings. The remediation chamber was a small, solitary cell placed within staggering distance of the Blackstone Proving Hall, empty save for a number of rickety steel-topped tables seemingly thrown in at random. Some tables were haphazardly stacked in the corner, while others appeared to have once been in some sort of orderly row before being shoved to the back. There were no chairs in the room to accompany any of them. The chamber had only one door to enter or exit and was as plain as her sleeping cell. She did not like the way it smelled. It was her first visit but would likely not be her last.

Roen shifted uncomfortably, wincing. The pain in her hand had subsided to a constant dull throb, but only when she did not move it. The slightest motion brought agony anew.

“The ice will cool the heat of trauma and help us see the extent of the damage,” Delena continued. “The flesh is too swollen now.” She had brought linen strips, a leather sling, and a bucket filled with chunks of ice, and was now wrapping Roen’s hand in layers of linen; she stuffed a large lump of ice inside the curve of Roen’s palm, wrapping that twice.

They did much the same at Dorn Keep to begin the process of mending broken bones. Injured limbs were packed in snow or soaked in barrels of cold water until a physician could be summoned from Mooring. Some of the older servants claimed that Oracle Berys used to perform Faith healings and could mend broken bone with a touch and a softly sung devotion to her goddess. “Minor miracles,” some called them. But Berys and her sad songs had been silenced by the Illumination Reformation. Friar Grygory claimed that any healing done outside the aegis of the Light was mind-trickery—or worse, dark magic aided by demons and shades. “Umbral deception,” he used to call it. “Gifts of darkness made to lure those of unwavering faith into the clutches of Shadow.”

If a shadow will heal my hand, let it come and I will gladly call it friend, Roen thought grimly. Mind-magic and illumination rings had already forced her to believe in things beyond her ken—and then of course came her fight with Chayand. Despite the awe she knew she should probably feel, Roen could not help but feel more than a little resentment.

She cheated. Punching Chayand had been akin to ramming her fist into a stone wall. Roen glared down at her hand even as Delena continued to wrap it. The ice was goose-prickling her arm and was painful in its own way, but true to the girl’s word, her hand was quickly going numb.

Roen watched her work. Delena bore fresh bruises on her chin and cheek from the Trial Ring, though she had not spoken one word of her own fight. Bruises aside, she was pretty; Delena had an elegant neck and remarkable posture. She tucked a wayward lock of brown hair behind her ear, and even that gesture seemed absurdly graceful. Roen glanced off. Girls with exceptional bearing usually made her feel self-conscious of her own ungainly frame, and right now she was not of a mood to sit up straight.

“How do you beat a girl who can turn to stone?” Roen muttered to herself. Delena chuckled, and Roen’s annoyance flared again. “This is not very funny.”

“It is not, no,” Delena conceded, “but I was relieved when I learned the truth of it, actually.”

Roen scowled. “How good of you.”

Delena’s smile was patient. “You misunderstand, dona. I feared the Master had turned that girl into crystal, like a medusae from the tales we were all told as children. I was relieved that it was a willing transformation.”

Roen had not heard any tales of “medusae.” The only creatures that could turn people into other things were witches and warlocks. “Why would anyone turn someone else into crystal?”

“As fatal punishment,” Delena said quietly. “For failure.”

The thought that they were willing to kill students who did not succeed had occurred to Roen, though Delena’s words felt like cold confirmation. She wondered what else the girl had seen in her short time here.

Delena finished by pinning Roen’s arm up in a sling. She stepped back, eyeing her work critically. “Not precisely as the Muse taught, but it should serve. I will ask the guards to bring more ice to your room, so you can replace it when this melts. On the morn, we will see if there is less swelling.”

“Thank you,” Roen said grudgingly. “You have… done this before?” It seemed a ridiculous question once she asked it.

Delena smiled a little and nodded. “The Master knew from whence I came. I was ever so recently servant to Enmous, Second Muse to his Noble Radiance, the First Delphi of Apollo. The healing houses of Esca Rosa are famed far beyond Nova Terra.”

Roen knew little of Nova Terra, save that it was a southern land that worshipped southern gods and was prone to conquering its neighbors. She had certainly not heard about any famed healing houses.

“I had a good home,” Delena added wistfully. “Serving the Second Muse was all I had ever wanted to do. But Selene’s moon-gift came, and…” She took a breath. “It was not in me,” Delena finished with a small shake of her head.

“In you?”

“The mending touch. I am sprung from an elfin line.” Delena brushed back another lock of brown hair, gesturing to her ear. “My grandmother’s great-mother was a druid of the Sylvanni. The honor of her blood was carried on down through to me. The elves of the Sylvanwood were said to have been able to knit flesh and bone as easily as they weaved the boughs of their trees into forest homes.”

Roen had heard of the elves—tall, fay creatures who supposedly dwelled in the shadowy depths of the Eldeshae Forest, far to the west. One of the rooms in Horror Hall purportedly contained one; Filch had nearly gotten himself killed just trying to see it. Roen had long assumed elves were mere stories—like goblins, or wood wodes, or nixies. But orks exist. All of those might very well be real too.

And here was Delena claiming to be one. Roen squinted. The girl’s ear seemed perhaps a tiny bit pointed, but… in truth no more so than others she had seen.

“I was going to be important,” Delena said softly, a trace of bitterness eking in. “Simple servitude was my mother’s life, and so too mine unless I manifested the touch, but…” She looked down. “I did not. And my family’s hope for me turned to ashes, and so to the Master was I sold.”

“Sold,” Roen repeated softly. Duty, Faith, Honor, and Justice. Roen knew Delena’s pain all too well.

Delena lifted her chin. “Servants can be sold, dona, no matter their worth. Enmous made certain to remind us how soft our lives were, spoiled by the years beneath his roof. My mother wept when Enmous gave my collar to the Master, but he was not moved by her tears.”

At least her family wept for her. Roen wondered if Halspan had been moved to tears in the wake of her absence, or if Ralton even cared enough to jape about it. She could not say. She did not even know if Ralton was still alive. My family devours its own.

Something about the way Delena had said “dona” struck a chord of remembrance. “I knew a girl who called me dora. Is it the same word?”

“The words are similar,” Delena said with a nod. “Dona means “young lady.” Dora the same, but the word is enEspana, lowborn, not the Veru Lingae of Lorea.”

Roen had no idea what an “espana” was. Amia had never told her of her native tongue. She felt a sudden regret for never having bothered to ask. She missed her maidservant now more than she ever imagined she could.

“Her name was Amia,” Roen said quietly. “She was a servant, like you. She was a Marcana.”

Delena’s silence and polite smile said she had no idea what a Marcana was, else she did not like being compared to other servants.

“She was from Aragonis,” Roen asserted, “a land of Lorea. She was from the south.”

“Aragonis is a land in Lorea, yes,” Delena said after a moment, “though in the north. My mother used to tell me tales of the brave Knights of Aragonis, though it is said their glory years are long in the past. Perhaps your amia was from a proud line that once served the knights.”

Roen was not too sure about Amia’s family ever serving knights; the only things Amia ever talked about were clothing and the importance of a tidy room.

“And amia is not a name,” Delena continued. “Amia means… it is a foot-washer servant. The amia bathes the children. They are not usually trusted with much more.”

Roen was not certain what could require more trust than the handling of children. “Amia was as trusted as any servant,” she asserted. She could not say why, but she felt somewhat protective of Amia now. “A servant’s worth is told in her efforts, not in her bloodline.”

That seemed to prick Delena just a bit; her impeccable posture stiffened all the more. “My family is not made for tilling fields, or for cleaning feet,” she said. “My line is the Azulo, and we hold the sacred trusts of many of Esca Rosa’s most noble houses. I was not merely taught the healings arts. I was educated beside the Delphi’s own sons and daughters, schooled in art and in sciences, and in the nine lingae of Lorea, and more.”

Roen eyed the girl. “You certainly know more languages than most.” She did not know any highborn who could boast nine tongues.

“Benevolent Enmous ensured we were exposed to as many lingae as could be brought forth, on scroll and in song. Foreigners come from afar to Esca Rosa, bringing foreign sickness with foreign names. A life could be saved by knowing but a few words.”

“I was told my grandmother spoke Chetsi,” Roen murmured, not knowing what else to say. She had never known her grandmother.

“I know of Chetsi, but none of the words.” Delena looked regretful that she did not know any actual Chetsi, which struck Roen as a little unreasonable.

“I do know some of the dialects of the north,” Delena continued primly. “High Flandren, and some Frous, taught by a scholar from Tolour. And I learned some base Dannic from the curses one sailor let fly from his lips. And the custom tongue, of course.” She smiled. “Else we would not be having this conversation, you and I.”

She is just being boastful now. Roen regarded the girl with narrowed eyes.

Delena did not seem to notice the look. “If your amia had been properly trained in Esca Rosa, she would have known more than the custom and could have taught you more of Lorea and the south.”

“Amia tried to teach, but I was not one for listening,” Roen muttered. “And I would have a care. Servants in Dorn are not pampered, but neither are they sold as slaves.” Even though their noble daughters are, she silently added.

“An Azulo is no slave,” Delena replied sharply. There was color on her cheeks. “Our oath to the nobilae stretches back to times long before the Lorean Pact allowed that we were a part of the commonwealth, before the Sylvanni made exodus across the Silver Sea, even long before Nova Roma rose in proud defiance of the Olymparch. Azulo lifeblood fed the soil of Esca Rosa. We are as much a part of the land as any of the great families.”

“And yet you were sold.” Roen gave the girl a level stare. “By your honorable family.”

“You could not understand,” Delena said, her voice suddenly thick with emotion.

“I can,” Roen said evenly. “We are both the same.”

Delena looked incredulous. “The same. You and I? No.”

“I see no difference, save for north and south.” Roen shook her head. “And we are both now here.”

Delena snorted, which seemed an almost vulgar sound for her. “Do you want me to believe you led a servant’s life? You are of freeman’s blood.”

Roen drew herself up—or as much as she could, sitting on a table with a pinned-up hand. “I am Roen ven Dorn, nobly born of Zhadra’s most leal fief,” she said, her tongue sharp. She almost named Doryan the Elder as her father but caught herself. Instead she said, “My mother was Raelisanne il’Dorn, a Moriet of Vertaes, and a great lady of the west.” That much still held validity. She would hold onto that truth for so long as she lived.

Delena’s reaction was immediate. She flinched and bowed her head, eyes quickly downcast. “Dominia,” she said, choked. “Apologies. I… I did not know.”

Roen blinked. She had not expected the sudden capitulation. “It—” She pressed her lips, summoning patience, then said, “It is well and fine. You are not the first to mistake me for common-born.” Nor likely the last.

Delena’s head stayed bowed. “I should have been more observant,” she said, hushed. “I… I have questions. If I may.” Her eyes flicked up cautiously.

Roen sighed. “I have as many as you, no doubt.” She gave the girl a pointed look. “You do not have to ask permission. I told you, we are the same now.”

“We are not,” Delena reiterated stubbornly, head still bowed. “And now much less the same than before.”

Roen ground her teeth, exasperated. They were both in the same dire situation. How could Delena not see that? She was galled that she might be treated the same way she had been at Dorn: kept apart from everyone else, simply because of her blood. I should never have said anything. “Gods be good,” she muttered.

“Do not,” Delena whispered. “The gods are sacred. When you curse their names, you bring their eyes upon you. You could earn their displeasure.”

“What worse fate could the gods inflict on me than to send me here?” Roen retorted.

Delena’s eyes were wide as saucers. “Do not provoke that which you do not know,” she said, quickly gesturing some odd ward in the air before her.

Roen wanted to swat the girl atop her head but held back with restraint. It could be worse, she reminded herself. She remembered Talcey’s fate, as well as what had happened to Mara’s poor brother, butchered so casually by Threll. Where was Mara now? The thin girl had been led away by a guard on the day of their arrival and not seen since.

Instead Roen said, “At Dorn, Cleric Wlascha used to curse the gods in the Kievi tongue. He said that if he cursed in a tongue that no gods knew, none could be angered.”

Delena shook her head. “That is not so. The gods know, and have little use for our lingae. The gods listen to our hearts, dominia.”

Roen wondered why, then, there were so many spoken prayers, but she did not ask. Even now, strangely, she missed the presence of the old gods and their many clerics who were once so plentiful at Dorn Keep—the small, private shrines, the old statues, and the many varied songs that used to echo off the chapel sanctuary ceiling. Now only bearded Grygory and his muttered prayers remained.

She glanced to the door; the guard still had not come to retrieve them. Roen did not know when she would be allowed to speak to another student like this, in private.

“Tell me of your gods,” she said quietly, leaning forward.

Delena blinked. “Well… there are many,” she said, seemingly unsure, at first, where to begin. “Apollo commands the sun, and all that the sun gives to us, the greatest of which is Dawn’s Healing Hand. His sister is Inara the Archer, who has sworn to one day shoot her brother’s sun from the sky. There is Athena the Just, giver of law and mother to Pallas Valoria the Brave, who gave herself to a mortal’s end on Avalon. Oceanos rules the sea and the hearts of Atlantas, and…” Delena just shook her head. “There are many and more. I cannot even speak of the storm gods in the north, or the queer gods with their many heads and eyes that hold sway in the south, nor even the dead gods of the east. The First Delphi is sworn to the sun, and it is to Mount Olympos that Apollo’s gift ever returns at dusk. And so it is to Olympos we look, and pray.”

“What of the Light?” Roen asked, brow furrowed. “Do they teach of it in Lorea?”

“Priests of the Light have come through Esca Rosa,” Delena said hesitantly. “At one time they preached their new words freely in the streets and were treated with the reverence due any cleric of any god. But they became too bold, driving away other priests from streets they claimed as their own. In Nova Roma, they went so far as to decry the Great Arbor of Demeter, saying Nova Terra and her cities should heed Empyrion’s example, submitting to the Reformation. They are tolerated, but not well loved.”

“The Light seems to want to burn away all of the old faiths,” Roen murmured.

Delena frowned. “Dominia, the Light is not a true god. It is just light.”

Roen snorted derisively. “Have a care. You are in lands that could have you put to death for saying those words.” The song Dan’y Dwir rose to her mind once again.

Delena smiled just a bit. “If you say it is so, then I will heed your warning. But the Delphi teaches that praying to light is akin praying to a candle.”

Roen resisted a smirk. Friar Grygory certainly liked his candles. The chapel sanctuary had candles aplenty.

“The gods are the women and men who create the fires that make the candles burn,” Delena continued. “We do not pray to candles in Esca Rosa. These worshippers of light, they claim the gods are subservient to their power, that the Light is sovereign above all else. And that is simply not true.” She gestured as if to banish the very thought. “And besides, the king of all the gods is not a light, it is Zeus.”

Roen found it passing odd that she had never heard of Zeus. If there were a king of gods, one would think he might be the first god people would speak of. She said as much.

A strange sort of amusement twinkled in Delena’s light brown eyes. “This is because Zeus is old and lazy and past his usefulness, like most kings. Nova Terra is a republic and has always been so. We do not have kings. Some old men still glorify Zeus. Most do not care. Zeus is too disinterested in the affairs of men and women to come down from Olympos to punish a wagging tongue.”

Roen was oddly heartened that Delena seemed unafraid of insulting at least some of the gods. “You have a bold tongue for a servant,” she remarked.

Delena smiled at her again, though perhaps more shyly. “We are all servants to the gods, dominia. Even you.”

Roen eyed the girl. “I am not surprised you mistook my birth.” She sighed. “I did not dress nor act the part. Few were the people new to Dorn Keep who did not at first mistake me for one of the stable hands.”

Delena laughed a low laugh. “No, I should have known. You ask questions that demand answers. Servants do not demand anything.”

Roen recalled Captain Tomos of Guildhouse DeMaris having said much the same. She sighed again, and said, “I think those days are done. I do not think any of us will be demanding anything here.”

“True and not.” Delena replied. “If we succeed, I was told we might demand many things.” She looked as though she was already contemplating things to demand.

“Not the things I actually want.” Roen shook her head. “We are all trapped here.”

Delena canted her head questioningly to the side. “We are in your lands though.” She waved a hand to the walls. “This castle is in the north, and you are a northern lady.”

“Gault is no land of mine,” Roen muttered. Both lands were cold, no doubt, but Gault was cloudy and dank and gray, whereas Dorn was crisp and clear and…

And home. But not mine. Not anymore.

“Still,” Delena pressed. “You are of the nobility. A northern lord’s daughter in a northern lord’s keep. Surely if your father wished it, he could petition your king, and—”

“My father does not wish to petition any king,” Roen snapped. Former father, she silently amended. False father.

Delena looked as though she wanted to say more, to press the issue, but she did not.

“I have no father,” Roen said after a moment, quieter. “Nor a home. Not any longer.” The words still seemed to catch in her throat. She tried to force a laugh, adding, “And we are a duchy now. So, we have no king.” It had always rankled Doryan the Elder that Zhadra had fallen so low.

“I see,” Delena said politely, though by her expression she was still weighing Roen’s words. “How does a… a kingdom become a… douchy?”

“Duchy,” Roen corrected. “And a kingdom becomes a duchy when that kingdom betrays other, greater kingdoms.” She came from a world of betrayal. By all rights I should feel at home here.

“I see.” Delena was clearly quite interested in Roen’s lineage, but Roen’s disposition seemingly staved off any other questions that might have followed.

“I might have become an il’Valas through marriage,” Roen said after a moment. “But that too fell by the wayside.” Remembering the Vertaen nobles made her remember poor dead Jestin staring back at her with his sightless blue eyes.

Delena glanced down at her hands. “The First Delphi once said, ‘The past teaches dark lessons that light the way to future days. So long as we live, we learn.’ And thus, we have hope.”

Roen looked down. “The Blackstone will tell us our pasts mean nothing.”

Delena nodded. “Yes,” she said softly. “And I pray the masters here are wrong about many things.”

“Do you pray here?” Roen asked her suddenly.

“I do,” Delena said, more quietly than before. “But not aloud. My prayers are secret here.” Her eyes flicked to the remediation chamber door before she whispered, “I do not want them taken from me.”

Roen eyed the girl strangely. “Taken from you?” How does one steal prayers? A prayer seemed the most innocuous thing in the world.

Delena suddenly looked as though she dreaded answering any more questions. She just shook her head in answer. Roen furrowed her brow and reached out with her good hand and touched the girl’s shoulder.

“They have done so before,” Delena suddenly said, her voice now thick with emotion. “Ask any of the others about Damaras.” She had tears in her light brown eyes.

“I don’t…” Roen shook her head. “Damaras?”

“He is gone now. They took it from him,” Delena asserted. “The masters did. After he accused them of—” She broke off her words with another nervous glance toward the door.

“What?” It alarmed Roen that someone so seemingly self-sure and collected only moments before could suddenly just… crumble before her eyes. Delena was shaking, her fear manifest.

“He said they brought us here for fell purpose.” Delena’s voice was now but a whisper. Tears ran freely down her cheeks.

“He said they mean to teach us how to kill the gods.”

Roen was escorted by a guard, back through the hallways to return to her cell. The ice stuffed into her palm was melting already, and the numbness it brought would soon be gone; she did not know how she would possibly sleep at all tonight. She walked with head down, thoughts dark.

To Roen’s surprise, she found two other men within her sleeping chamber—as well as Leftenant Hadrien, overseeing some odd task the men were performing. Roen was immediately suspicious of another forced bath, but when she peered in, she saw the men were laborers of some sort, busy working to remove a small block of stone from the side wall. The escorting guard exited with a lazy salute in Hadrien’s general direction, leaving her with the Leftenant and the other two.

Roen just stood outside in the hall for lack of any better place to stand, her broken hand pinned to her chest. Hadrien glanced at her once, perhaps distastefully, and proceeded to ignore her. The two other men within worked wordlessly.

She was far from unhappy with Hadrien’s overt lack of affection. Roen suspected he saw her as a stubborn bull of a girl, ungrateful at being given the opportunity to merely survive. But better a cold shoulder than the smiles and convivial coos he offered to other children. Filch’s instincts were perhaps right in this regard: Trusting Hadrien was akin to trusting a nervous fox.

“And there we are,” Hadrien said with a dramatic flourish as the guards finished up. He pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning on, dusting his hands as though he had been the one laboring and not the others. He made a small show of coughing delicately from the risen dust. This evening the Leftenant wore a jade green doublet and matching breeches, which seemed at odds with the drab gray-on-black livery the Blackstone guards all wore—not to mention the keep’s own oppressive bleakness. He seemed a thousand times more at ease here than he had been on the road, however; his thinning hair was carefully combed so as to look less sparse, and he was recently shaved. A freshly-soaped scent seemed to rise to the air with every overt motion.

The two men moved to the other side of the cell to begin a second hole, and Hadrien smiled his smile. “Welcome to your first merit.”

“My merit?” Roen craned her neck to see, still hesitant about stepping within.

“Windows are merits,” Hadrien said, gesturing expansively, as though the hole they had made was truly some marvel. “The Blackstone does not disapprove of socialization. On the contrary, we hope you form everlasting bonds with all your schoolmates. You’ll need them eventually, you know.”

She eyed him dubiously as the two men began work on the opposite wall. She would rather have privacy, truth be told. “How long will these be here?”

Hadrien shrugged, making a show of inspecting his boots; they were knee-high and buckled, their polished sheen muted by the risen dust. He frowned fussily. “Merits are given, and merits can be taken away. I am quite certain you will experience both.”

Of that she had no doubt. Roen stepped in and squinted in the dark. The window was only one half-pace wide and one half-pace tall, and went deep into the wall, which was at least two paces thick.

After a short struggle, the two laborers finally had the second one open as well. Roen peered over, curious, but this window apparently led nowhere. After a pace it ended in another stone wall.

Roen recalled the twins had the cell next to hers. “Sadly, little Varael did not earn a merit this day,” Hadrien said in answer to Roen’s unspoken question. “Not her, nor her fair sister.”

If neither twin ever earned a merit, she supposed she would always have a window into nothing. She wondered what other merits could be won. Not freedom, surely. She almost asked Hadrien but decided she did not wish to prolong his presence any longer. After approximately ten heartbeats of uncomfortable silence, Hadrien inclined his head, turned on a heel, and exited without further farewell, stepping out and closing the cell door behind him.

Once all footfalls faded, Roen turned her attention to the one window that did lead somewhere.

She peered through. Her neighbor was the small boy she had attempted to speak with earlier in the hall. He had light brown hair and was fair of skin, though in truth he looked more pallid than fair. He seemed quite small for his age. Oddly, the boy had taken his illumination ring off the wall and had set it before his bed on the stone floor, and was now on both knees, kneeling in what seemed to be supplication before it.

“Hello,” Roen called out tentatively. She did not want to interrupt any kind of prayer but praying to a magical ring struck her as beyond odd, especially following the discussion she had just shared with Delena.

The boy started, and quickly stumbled to his feet. He looked guilty for some reason.

“H-Hello,” he stammered, nervous but polite. Roen’s brief attempt to engage him in conversation earlier in the day had met with failure; he was one of the few children who, like Delena, had been brought here before Roen or Chayand or any of the others, and she had hoped to ask him some questions. Alas, he had been cowed by fear and the proximity of guards and had not spoken a word in reply.

Here was different. They were alone. Roen offered a tentative smile. “What are you doing?” she asked. The window was deeper than it was wide, so the boy had to move more fully into view before he could see her face.

“Nothing,” he said meekly. He scrubbed teary eyes with the back of his hand.

He is as frightened of discovery as Delena was. Roen wondered if there was an actual mandate against prayer, or if Delena and this boy were simply guarding the few precious things they knew could be taken from them, much like she guarded Andric’s letter. She decided asking about it would not help the boy, even if asked amiably, so instead she asked, “What is your name?”

“I’ve not earned one yet,” he said softly.

“Your real one then,” she prodded. “I am Roen.” No one could tell her she was no longer Roen.

“Jander,” the boy said quietly after a moment’s hesitation. “I was… I am Jander Taffet. I—I lived at twenty-four East Mulberry Road, in High Cavale, on Avalonia.”

Avalon. Roen blinked. “You are from the Holy Isle.” Friar Grygory often spoke reverently of Avalonia. She briefly wondered if Friar Grygory would treat this boy any differently than he treated anyone else but quickly dismissed the thought. Friar Grygory treated everyone poorly.

Jander smiled a little through his tears, pleased that she knew of his home. His nose was red. He reminded her of Talcey, a little, though he did not have Talcey’s pudgy frame. Thinking of Talcey brought a sharp wedge of pain to her heart, but she did her best to ignore it.

“Yes,” Jander finally said in answer. “Are you of the Faith?” He made the sign of the Sun-and-Sword with his fingers upon his chest.

“I am… not, no. Not truly. I am from Dorn. A land east of here. The Reformation Church is still a… new thing to us.”

“I do not know Dorn,” he confessed.

“Zhadra,” she amended. She had yet to meet a single person who had ever heard of Dorn. It made her feel small.

He still shook his head, not knowing Zhadra either.

She had to laugh a little. Her dreary corner of the world was truly small.

“Well. We can teach one another of our lands, and be friends either way,” she said, as confidently as she could.

“Friends?” That seemed to give him odd pause.

“Yes.” It puzzled her why this seemed so weighty to him. “Do you not have friends?”

“I don’t think we are allowed to have friends,” Jander said softly, sadly.

“That is unfair,” Roen remarked. “Everyone should have friends.” She almost added, “We are supposed to socialize,” but refused to parrot any of Hadrien’s words.

“Friends are friends eternal,” Jander said softly. For some reason he seemed all the sadder for it.

Eternal. That was not necessarily true, she knew; there were plenty of friends she had made at Dorn Keep, when she was much younger, that had learned to avoid the Knightlord’s daughter as the years passed. And even Talcey’s friendship…

Even Talcey had paid for daring to be her friend. Nothing was eternal.

But here she knew she needed as many friends as could be had. And a part of her knew Jander needed a friend here, now, perhaps as much as anyone.

Roen extended her left hand through the window because she could not extend her right. “Friends,” she offered.

He looked at her extended hand dubiously. He kept glancing at his door, as though expecting angry guards to come bursting through at any moment.

“If it is safer, we will be secret friends,” Roen said with a nod. Her hand stayed steady.

That seemed to hearten the boy just a bit. After one final glance at his door, Jander took her hand. They shook on it.

“Secret friends,” Jander Taffet said softly. And so they were.

She hardly slept, and the times she did were filled with half-remembered dreams of being chased, shadows pursuing her through a clawed wood. She woke often, her hand throbbing with pain, and worse each time.

Thankfully, Delena was escorted to Roen’s chamber in the early morning hours. With her she brought a small tin pan filled with a pale gray paste, some strips of cloth, and three long, flat wooden sticks. She carefully laid Roen’s hand flat, inspecting the bones with a frown. It stoked a new agony, but Roen grimly fought off the urge to yell. Once the hand was set, Delena stabilized it with the sticks and wrapped the whole of it in cloth; she then slopped the paste over it, hand and all, whilst the guard looked on disinterestedly.

The paste hardened quickly, trapping Roen’s hand and wrist—all the way up over her thumb and to her knuckles. She groused that she would be fighting at an extreme disadvantage with the plaster cast on, but Delena assured her that there would not be any more Trial Ring contests until more students were brought in.

“More students?” Roen had assumed that seventeen students were enough.

“Hollow Hall stands with over thirty rooms,” Delena said quietly. “I overheard a guard state that even those might not be enough to hold the number of students they expect.”

Roen had not even considered there could be that many. Malacai had said they were all gifted in their own ways. She wondered if they were all considered gifted; more, she wondered how he knew.

Delena exited, and a short time later Roen was ushered back out into Hollow Hall with the rest of the students. A few of them eyed her plaster cast warily, as though it were a weapon (though some seemed to regard it as if wondering whether a broken hand might be considered contagious). Chayand was there, back in the flesh, but she did not meet Roen’s gaze. Like as not in shame for cheating, Roen silently groused, though in truth Chayand did not look particularly chagrined; she simply did not glance Roen’s way at all.

Filch was there, looking none the worse for wear for whatever his trial had been in the ring, though he seemed more bleary-eyed than usual. Roen did not see little Sunny, but she had overheard Delena speaking with Varael as they entered, assuring the small girl that her tiny blond friend was alive. Roen noted that Varael and Vaille were not speaking to one another this morning; there seemed a palpable distance between the twin sisters.

The students were all brought to a large book-filled room in Preparation Hall, where five of the instructors awaited them. Battlemaster Bauden, Bloodmistress Jezeerah, Mindmaster Kamul, and Shadowmaster Llandis stood in silence, as gray-bearded Loremaster Aemos addressed the children.

“Today is the day many of you will commence the onset of the path the Blackstone will set before you,” the Loremaster said, voice warbling. “Each of your paths will be determined by the source of your individual gift or talent.” With little more said after that, he began dividing the children into three groups. The old man squinted at a scroll containing what seemed names and basic descriptions, continually glancing from the scroll to the students, and leaned forward to peer at faces, adjusting his spectacles occasionally.

Chayand was included in the first group, seemingly already identified. “The neoteric order of Saginas Cerebrus,” the old man intoned, naming them.

“Come again?” Filch yapped. He had not been included in the group, but because he was Filch, clearly felt a need to comment on it.

The Loremaster smiled what seemed a patient smile. “Saginas Cerebrus. Neoteric intuits capable of psychical and physical feats.”

“Neo… into whats?” Filch looked both astounded and amused. In his defense, Roen could not precisely identify the words being used either. She doubted whether Dam Dirch had ever used them.

“Intuits,” the old man asserted. “They are Intuits.”

“I’m not into it at all.” Filch grinned and elbowed Spider, who wobbled. The almond-eyed boy still had a decidedly blank look on his face. Roen noticed Spider’s nose was running; a thin trail of mucus trailed almost to his lip, but he did not seem to know or care. Filch seemed about to quip anon, but the Battlemaster had moved to loom over him, and he wisely fell to silence.

“Next,” the Loremaster said, clearing his throat. He indicated the cloaked Bloodmistress with a wave of his age-spotted hand. “The lineal order of Ushinas Sanguinarius. Lineals, please follow my cowled colleague to her laboratories for blood evaluations.” The Loremaster singled out three children within the throng with vague gestures, including cruel Ravage, a thick-necked, grim-looking pik now identified as “Gird”, and the tall, pale, black-haired boy who, as far as Roen could recall, had not spoken a single word since their arrival.

“Intuits and Lineals will be trained separately in all cases save for in group exercises to be determined by the Master,” the Loremaster continued. “Intuits, you will follow Mindmaster Kamul. He will take you to the crystal chamber to test your talents.” Roen was not surprised that Chayand would be one of the children sent to a place called the “crystal chamber”. It may as well be named after her, she thought darkly.

The Intuits taken with Chayand were the pik Hackberry and the still-dazed Spider, as well as the fat boy who had spent the entire first day in tears. All four were led off by the mouse-quiet Mindmaster with no more ceremony.

“So, what do you call the rest of us nobodies?” Filch asked. There were still eight children who had yet to exhibit any sort of talents, aside from breathing and bleeding.

The Loremaster adjusted his spectacles and said, after a pause and with a smile, “Enigmas.”

Filch looked at Roen. “It’s like he’s speaking a language no one else understands.”

“An enigma is a mystery,” Vaille said coldly. The aloof twin had a look for Filch that could only be described as exceedingly disdainful. “Perhaps that will be the first thing you actually learn here at this school.”

Filch surprised Roen by looking slightly guilty, shrugging and glancing away from Vaille. He did not even offer a mumbled retort.

The Loremaster smiled his placid, wise-man’s smile. “Enigmas you are,” he said, eyes bright and eager behind his spectacles. “But Enigmas you shall not remain. We will find your hidden gifts or talents.”

“What if it is determined we have none?” Roen asked.

The old man blinked. “Pardon?”

Filch took up the gauntlet. “What happens when all your tests are done, and you figure out I’m as useless as any other Mudtown bum?”

The old man’s smile faded, if just the faintest bit. “That is simply not possible,” he said softly.

“Why ain’t it?” Filch seemed as keen on getting the answer as Roen had been.

The old man frowned and removed his spectacles, wiping them with a small bit of cloth. “Because it would mean the Master was wrong in selecting you.” He carefully placed the spectacled back on his nose.

Loremaster Aemos added, after a pause and with what seemed a weight of sadness:

“And the Master does not err.”