Roen came at the boy named Vigor with a fury—three overhand strikes followed by an overhead feint that opened the new student’s defenses. She pivoted on one foot and struck low, slamming the tip of the wooden sword straight into the meat of his thigh. That staggered him. The boy backed away, stumbling, his own practice sword going low to prevent a similar blow, which was the opening she was hoping for. Her next attack came swiftly, arcing up for his cheek, but it was not as sure a strike as she had hoped; it whistled a thumb’s width short of the mark as he stumbled back further, keeping just barely out of reach. She pursued him with a determined glare.
It was not hard to channel anger into action. Roen had endured, mostly in silence, her time spent captive under this fabricated carapace of “learning”. That was enough to enrage her. But she was not specifically angry at Vigor. The new boy had done her no wrong, and in fact seemed to regard her as an opponent worthy of his respect. She was sick to death of losing, however, and had vowed here—in this arena, with wooden practice swords—she would win more than she lost. Here, she expected victories.
The hard part, of course, was that she was forced to fight left-handed, her broken one pinned against her shoulder. Following yesterday’s water chamber incident, Roen was shut in her room with no lunch or supper—punishment for striking another student without permission. Worse, the expected visit from Delena did not come. She had hardly gotten a thimble of sleep last night, the pain was so bad. This morning when the students were roused, Roen’s throbbing hand was given only cursory attention, wrapped somewhat carelessly by an inconsiderate guard and pinned up with a rusted cloak clasp.
She knew punching Ravage with her broken hand had been a mistake as soon as she did it, but after witnessing what he had done to Varael, her rage had been unbridled. And though she paid for it all through the night—and would continue to, like as not—a part of Roen still relished the feel of it. That was what victory felt like. It had been so long since she had tasted it.
She wanted that taste again. She was starving for it.
Most of the students could overcome a one-armed opponent in a normal fight, but some had never seen a practice sword in their lives, much less trained with one, so Roen had an advantage she was unwilling to relinquish. The boy Vigor had come from a fighting family; his parents were both Atlantaen shark-hunters, he had boasted earlier, before the instructors reprimanded him for speaking out of turn. He dominated every other student earlier in staves, but a sword was unfamiliar to his hand—he seemed inclined to treat it as an elongated knife—and was unable to defend against Roen’s skill and speed. She sent two more thrusts at Vigor’s midsection, then to his knee, staggering him again. This was her song to sing. Vigor was in full retreat now, eyes wide. He blocked another swing at his head, but was getting slower by the moment. She doubted he would remain on his feet for long.
Desperate, Vigor attempted a sudden and furious barrage. He even wisely sent the jabs toward the shoulder her hand was pinned against, hoping to put her on the defensive to protect her injury. But she pivoted away easily, and counterattacked the ribs he had just exposed with his overreaching thrust. That blow brought his elbow in and down, as she expected; the following blow, high and hard. Vigor fell, a clout to the side of the head bringing him to one knee.
Battlemaster Bauden called a halt to the fray before Roen could crack the boy’s skull, and even then she nearly did. Roen spun her practice sword in her hand, stalking the edge of the ring. Is that all you have for me? Roen practically screamed the look, daring anyone to meet the thunderstorm in her eyes. She wanted anyone who might test her to do so here, now, when she had something other than a naked left hand to beat them with.
“Easy, Ro,” Filch said with a snigger.
Roen allowed herself a moment of breath, wiping sweat from her forehead with a sand-covered wrist, practice sword still in hand. Vigor staggered to his feet. He gave Roen an odd, half-turned sideways bow before throwing his practice sword down in disgust. Two more students entered the pit, and training instruction began anew.
The new students that had been pulled into the bowels of the Blackstone were akin to Vigor in that they looked strange to Roen’s eye. Most seemed quite foreign to her—as foreign-looking as Chayand, except that even their accents were odd. Some did not even speak the custom tongue at all, in fact, and the Loremaster was forced to be present at most gatherings just to translate the other instructors’ commands. The elderly scholar also spent additional time teaching the custom to those who did not know it; the Loremaster was looking bleary-eyed already as a result, though still seemed keenly interested in whatever new knowledge could be garnered from these daily trials.
And with their strange looks came strange abilities as well, gifts and talents that seemed to have come straight out of stories. Vigor, tall and broad—a physical specimen as daunting as any she had seen—was tireless in combat. Not only was he already in remarkable condition, but when he became fatigued he could channel his gift and become refreshed anew, as though he had not worked at all. He was forbidden from using it in any contest short of the Crucible, and for that Roen was grudgingly grateful; she was not afraid to truly test herself, but today’s trial might have lasted hours instead of ten minutes. In appearance, Vigor was akin to Chayand, his skin even darker than hers, curly black hair hewn close to his skull. Roen noticed Chayand glanced at him often, openly and curiously.
Others seemed just as strange. Mirage, a boy with dusky skin and a handsome face, could create minor illusions he held between his hands…though the bigger he made them, the more transparent they became. A girl they called Burn, for obvious reasons, could set things afire; she looked more demonic than exotic, with dark, ash-gray skin and hair the color of orange flame. Burn’s eyes flared with fire whenever she channeled her gift. She had already set two guards aflame, and was immediately moved to a distant room that allowed no contact with other students. Guards brought her out when it was time to train, nervously prodding her at a distance with spears. Opposite her in nearly all ways was Frost, a frail-looking girl with skin and hair as white as milk. She could chill the air and skin, and freeze water with a glance; when she channeled, her exotic, oddly-shaped eyes glowed blue.
Some had abilities that did not seem as though they would aid them much, if at all, in combat. There was Flora, with moss-green eyes and deep green hair that flowed freely to her waist, who could make wilting plants flourish by blowing them a kiss. Another was Tide, who bore short sea-blue hair which floated about her head as if underwater whenever she channeled. Tide could control the ebb and flow of water, and could even make it fly short distances, though Roen did not think getting soaked would hamper very many opponents in the ring. One immensely tall girl with crooked teeth was called Mire, but all she could do was secrete oil from her skin; it smelled terrible, and would probably make her difficult to grapple, but Roen did not find her gift wholly advantageous.
Then there was Sever, small and silent, though his pale eyes seemed discerning. He had the oddly unique ability to cancel other gifts and talents, which, to Roen, seemed only useful here. She did not like the way he stared, openly and without blinking, at anyone who even glanced his way. Another diminutive pik—this one female, named Meld—had dark brown skin and hair braided into twenty or so tiny black knobs. Meld had the ability to slowly pass through stone, like a living ghost; Roen thought she should be able to escape from any of the Blackstone rooms, except that her power worked too slowly for more than a few strides to be taken, before she exhausted herself. Meld hailed from a far-off land, and spoke none of the custom tongue, requiring the Loremaster to translate every instruction. Even the other two piks seemed to regard her as an oddity.
One who did say too much was a northern Fulk boy the instructors called Levin, though he loudly and continually proclaimed himself “Urli Alambarson, son of Urlambor, son of Magnir, son of Thor”, vowing the complete destruction of the Blackstone within a fortnight if he was not set free. Roen recalled Skarl Agmon’s teachings of Magnir, God of Strength, back at Dorn Keep; the Skarl had promised that Magnir’s power would protect him, but bold words had not saved the cleric from her father’s death sentence. Roen doubted this boastful boy could back up any of his threats, but he at least had a demonstrative power to show. Urli could channel lightning through his body at will—popping, snapping arcs of purple light that raced up and down his frame, sizzling the air—and it did not appear to hurt him at all. Roen was not certain how to fight such an opponent. She had not actually hoped for a gift or talent before, but had no idea how she could even survive another Crucible challenge if this was what she might have to face.
The last boy was tall and fierce looking, with skin a deep russet color, his braided hair long and black. A deep scar ran from his cheekbone to his upper lip. He came with no name, and Roen overheard the Loremaster refer to him as an enigma, though she also heard him mentioned as a potential Divini, which, as she had recently learned, meant that he could control—or was controlled by—spirits. Holy clerics in Crown’s Reach who were alleged to have the gift of healing were called Divinar, which sounded, to her ear, nearly the same. But if this boy was a healer, he demonstrated no interest in it. He was a silent and brooding sort, his countenance mostly unreadable. Roen wondered how he had attained his fierce-looking facial scar.
The first hour in which all the students, old and new, were placed together in the Proving Hall would have devolved into a violent mess had the instructors not been there. Mire promptly announced she would not accept her new name, proclaiming herself “Rolla Slaughtersdaughter” and declaring that her father was a powerful and greatly-feared ogre king…which all the other children found quite hilarious, save for Urli, who immediately stood up and demanded the right to attempt to slay her. It took the physical intervention of the Battlemaster to separate the two northern children.
The morning’s activities eventually drew to a close, and after a brief lunch—bowls of the usual tasteless gruel handed out to each student as they sat in a semicircle around the central Crucible ring—some of the other instructors entered to divide the massive class into their smaller training groups. The Mindmaster came for the intuit children designated “Psioni”, and the Battlemaster for the ones designated “Soma”; the Bloodmistress led off the linneal children classified as “Magi”, and the the Loremaster was nominally responsible for any children designated as Divini, though only two—green-haired Flora and the scar-faced boy—were labeled as such.
“There is one missing,” the Mindmaster said, brow furrowed. “The Mahajani girl…”
The Loremaster smiled. “Not missing. I had her escorted to the remediation chamber this morning. Speaking of which…” He looked at Roen. “You will require that hand seen to again, no? You may proceed to the remediation chamber at once.”
Roen nodded, not willing to let on how badly her hand still hurt, but eager to get the long process of healing started anew. Delena rose without being directed, and wordlessly followed her out towards the remediation chamber.
Once they were out of sight, Delena murmured, “They took Ravage, did you know?”
Roen glanced at her. “Took him? To where?” A part of her hoped they had taken him away from the Blackstone forever.
“He has been placed in the Bin,” Delena said quietly.
“What is the Bin?” Roen thought Delena looked troubled by the very thought of it.
“A small, solitary room, locked away somewhere beneath the Proving Hall, where none of us are permitted to go without escort. I have only been there once, and it was to bind the wounds of a guard who had taken a wound whilst being assigned there. It is where Allure was kept, but now perhaps Ravage has proven to be a greater threat to other students than she.”
Roen’s eyebrows lifted. “There is an Allure? Who is she?”
Delena’s countenance darkened a bit. “They said her talent was uncontrolled, dominia, but I do not believe that to be so. She drives men to madness.” Her voice lowered. “A student in the first class died because a guard was driven to murder her. I overheard that Allure drove the man insane, and that he lashed out at the nearest target. The guard tried to hide what he had done, but the Master found the student’s body the next morning. The guard was put to the sword, and Allure placed in the Bin.”
When they arrived at the remediation chamber, much to Roen’s surprise, they found Varael sitting up on a table, talkative as ever, next to little Sunny. Neither seemed the worse for wear; both young girls were chatting amiably. Varael waved at Roen when she saw her, then went back to her quiet but rapid-fire conversation with the tiny blond girl.
Roen stood there a moment, amazed. She had once seen one of her father’s men die, the back of his skull cracked from a kick by a temperamental horse, his injury much the same as Varael’s. The man had been taken to a bed but did not survive four hours. Roen expected she had seen the last of Varael—and yet here she was, seeming as hale and healthy as ever.
Sitting in a nearby chair was a small, plump girl, dusky-skinned and black-haired. She seemed no older than Varael, but carried herself as though she were a woman grown, even though she wore a tugo like any other student. She rose when Roen and Delena entered.
“Were these students given to your care?” Delena asked the shorter girl, seeming immediately suspicious of her.
“Yes, they were given to me to heal,” the girl replied simply, her lilting accent odd, almost musical. Her black hair was cut in a short bob, and it framed her heart-shaped face prettily.
“You are Remedy?” Delena asked, her tone half skeptical.
The girl, Remedy, nodded. “That is the name they have given me,” she said softly.
“You have the Touch?” Delena asked, and it almost sounded accusatory. “The healing gift. Have you elfin blood?” Roen saw Delena’s eyes flicker to Remedy’s ears; one was covered by her hair, but the other was plain to see and did not seem pointed.
Remedy seemed confused by the question. “I am of the Sundhara-Bona. We are priestesses sworn to the Swarna Gēt, but I was not of the healing caste. My prayers to the Enlightened Nine did not gift me with these hands, nor did the prayers my mother gave to Vishnu. It was Master Malacai who unlocked my talent.” She pointed to her forehead. “In here.”
Delena looked nearly offended. “Healing does not come from the head,” she said coolly, chin raised, “but from the heart and the hand.”
Remedy shrugged an odd little sideways shrug, which seemed akin to a dance. “The hand is needed, yes,” she agreed. “And the heart guides, as in all things. But the power,” she said with quiet insistence, “is in my mind. Yha Mahan Bhagvanka ki ichan chahai, as we are taught.”
“Your masters taught you wrong,” Delena said with an accompanying snort. “What are these foreign words you speak?”
“I speak Basjhani,” Remedy replied, her head tilted questioningly. “It is the language of my forefathers, and theirs before them. Do you not know of it?”
It was clear that Delena did not know of it, which seemed to spur her resentment all the more. “I do not dabble in lower tongues not used in international trade,” she said dismissively.
Remedy seemed to draw herself up, though that did not even bring her eyes to Delena’s shoulder level. She retorted, her voice raising, “I am of the Mahajan, in Varsa, on Tarundha. My father’s father was Grand Vizier to the Rajah of Heva, the most wealthy nation in all the world. You will mind your tongue.”
Roen just watched the exchange, eyebrows raised. Despite their obvious differences, the girls rather reminded Roen of each other; she felt as though she had a very similar conversation with Delena on her first visit to the remediation chamber.
Delena did not appear to know how to reply. Clearly, her pride and servile mindset were at odds, though it was pride that kept her from bowing her head. “Remedy is not your real name,” Roen put in. “What were you named at birth?”
For the first time, the girl looked wary. “It is…my name was Aditi, for my grandmother’s love. But no more.” Her words were more quietly spoken than before. “I am given to Master Malacai for eight years of service. My Master Tarit owed him a debt, and so I am here for that. That, and to learn.” Roen could not be certain whether Remedy seemed bitter about this arrangement, or not. Yet again, she reminded Roen of Delena.
“Can you heal my hand?” Roen asked, “I broke it.” She then added, lower, “Twice.” Delena said nothing, though her cheeks were spotted with color and her eyes were narrowed, looking as though she had just been betrayed, but Roen did not have time for pettiness.
“I can try,” Remedy said, guiding Roen to sit at the table. Remedy laid her hand over Roen’s and closed her eyes, humming a song Roen had never heard. The girl’s dark eyes began to glow a soft amber color.
To Roen’s astonishment, Remedy’s touch faded the ache away almost immediately, replaced by a cool, prickling sensation—a quick-numbing tingle that soon dulled all pain, as though someone had poured ice-cold water over it. It made Roen want to flex her hand in response, just to ensure it still belonged to her, but she resisted the temptation.
And then, to her amazement, the bones began to knit back together; she could feel no pain in it, but heard the tiny pops of bone gently snapping back into place. Roen watched in mute fascination as the skin beneath Remedy’s touch moved ever so subtly, rising and falling beneath in tiny ripples beneath the dusky girl’s fingers.
Remedy’s eyes became brown again, fluttering closed…and she promptly fainted. The girl slumped to the side and would have fallen over had Roen not quickly grabbed her and eased her into her chair. Remedy’s cheek lay on the table top. Roen rested her newly-healed hand on the girl’s shoulder to make certain she would not slip off the chair.
Delena sniffed. “Perhaps she does not have the strength to use the gift the gods graced her with.” Roen was not entirely certain. Any sort of healing gift seemed a miracle to her.
Varael and Sunny both came over. “Hi,” Varael said, her cheer somewhat diffused at the sight of the unconscious healer. “Is she dead?”
“She is not dead,” Roen replied, darkly amused. “Just tired, I think.”
Delena appeared to wish Remedy were dead. The arrival of an actual healer is a threat to her role, Roen realized. And it was likely true; if there was a real healer available now, Delena’s position as resident chirugeon would surely be lessened. Though it seemed silly, to Roen’s mind. None of them had roles they wanted to have, here. If Delena’s gift was to create illusions of herself, that was what she would have to use in order to be what she had to become.
At least for now. Roen did not intend for herself—or anyone—to stay in the bowels of the Blackstone any longer than they were forced.
“I am glad she’s not dead,” Sunny said quietly. “She helped me.”
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Varael said to Sunny.
“I am glad you’re not dead, either,” Sunny replied happily. Both girls hugged. Roen could not help a small smile.
Delena still looked as though Remedy’s very existence was a slap to her face. “Tarundha is barely a continent, and hardly civilized,” she muttered to the unconscious girl. “As though a pile of gold hidden in some mountain grants acclaim.”
“I do not care where she comes from,” Roen said evenly, placing a hand on Remedy’s shoulder. The girl’s eyelashes were fluttering, consciousness slowly returning. “If she can aid us, she is a friend.” Roen had come to the conclusion that her own upbringing would never be construed as normal, despite her supposedly noble birth. If she told them even half of it, the other students would likely assume she had been raised by bloodthirsty tyrants. And they would not be wrong, she thought. “She is far too young to be a warmonger as yet, but we have our hopes,” Doryan the Lesser had once said of her, mockingly. And now they were all marching to war. Dorn—all of Zhadra, possibly—rising up in defiance of the Northlaw, putting her at odds with the laws that were supposed to make Crown’s Reach an example of justice and civility for all the world to aspire to.
Not that the Blackstone—or any part of Gault—felt civilized at all. Perhaps I should be grateful that my family deigned to teach me that one lesson before shipping me away, she thought darkly. A part of her still found it hard to believe she had been so naive for so long.
Vara, either unaware or uncaring of Roen’s brooding, grinned mischievously. “I come from faeries,” she said, and her eyes twinkled.
“Is that a place?” Sunny asked, curious.
“It can be!” Varael chirped. They both held hands and smiled.
