***
My core is bluish-red and still slightly sore, but it doesn't really hurt like it did the first few days.
My torn coat, and the bruise, clearly visible in the shower caverns, required some imaginative explaining on my part, so I told everyone how I fell down the stairs. I really need to work on my ability to spin a tale. Being truthful would give birth to questions I don't wish to answer.
Our current teacher is not a grandmaster but a High Priestess.
The size of her thick pointy triquetra and long iron chain makes me feel almost sorry for her neck. I'm sure beyond doubt, If I gave voice to such thoughts Mother would appear out of nowhere, possibly riding a Wraith, to chide and strike me for such blasphemy.
The triquetra itself is bulky, forged out of finger-thick iron, its curvy lines form a twisting, flowing shape.
Her draping brown robe has a red and blue intertwining trim, denoting her status.
Blessedly, the priestess' lecture is near its end. Conforming to the ways of her ilk, she spent much of the class preaching about piety and chastity. I'd rather read boring philosophical works again than listen to her.
''At first, there was only Goddess, and the Void,'' the High Priestess says.
''In this very beginning of everything, from a shred of her divine bones, Goddess made a daughter.
''Then, from a drop of her heavenly blood, Allmother made another, her second daughter.
''Goddess made the world.
''But it was veiled in darkness so the First Daughter filled it with light, brighter and purer than any that exists today. And the world was beautiful. But something was missing. Someone needed to admire all this beauty. The Second Daughter gave it life.
''Our world was Empyrean in which humanity prospered.
''It is said our kind once had rivers of honey and mountains of cheese.
''Regrettably, it was not to last.
''The ways of man grew astray and Goddess sent a blue demon of hate whose legions culled all those considered to be wicked and unworthy.
''Our kind lost its way. We worshiped flesh more than the divine and thus the Goddess punished the wicked with pestilence, famine, and the blue demon, released from the Void's deepest pits.
''He slew men in their hundreds, with one cleave of his longsword, slicing alamarium armor and flesh as if through air. The blade, just like its wielder, made of Void's foul essence.
''Nothing could harm him. Nothing.
''The true light of the world was gone and the demon with his legions beyond number fed on the darkness, continuing to cut down nine of ten men, women, and children. But the Goddess, in her infinite mercy, granted salvation to our holy ancestors. The chosen ones.
''Allmother took pity on our holy ancestors, who, led by the Prophet, sailed to our city, our piece of Empyrean in the Wastes. This was a time Alldora's rage was less.
''We must never fall again. We must abhor the sins of...''
Sound of the handbell greets my ears first. Moments later, thirteen girls and twelve boys rise as though our seats had suddenly caught on fire.
***
The Scar Canyon's southern end gradually rises toward the upper surface world. From cliff to cliff, irregular mounds, rocky hills, jagged protrusions, and even mountains, all dramatically surge upward, aiming for the Wastes and the half-dead lands beyond.
Deep mines and valleys, enclouded, hidden, inhabit a world between here and outside.
The highlands appear pretty from here. A regal cluster of rock and soil, a gathering of all irregular rock formations the canyon has to offer, only magnified many times over, both in size and scope.
Criss-crossed with many paths that lead away from the canyon, those highlands are often called ''The Gates.'' Of course, they look nothing as such but I assume there is something poetical about the name.
Not far from The Gates—which are less than an hour's flight from here— two massive fortresses guard the route to Lodestar. Hardknott Fortress, and the one the three of us are in: Trinity Rock.
Their purpose is mostly just for show. They are meant to guard against Ground Wraith incursion, although, to my knowledge, such an attack never happened. The two fortresses probably help people in the hamlets and city to rest easy at night. Any Wraith near the Valley is tracked and Harvested. On top of that, the terrain between Valley and Wastes is mountainous, craggy, and unhospitable for most Wraiths and their sizable frames to traverse.
I mind climbing the stair turret leading us here, but I don't mind the view.
Trinity Rock's projecting round towers were connected by a curtain wall, snaking its way around the plateau's lip. The lofty blue banner of Lodestar proudly graces each of the towers down their middle.
I've never visited Hardknott. This second fortress is closer to the Western Cliff, and visible from here as a distant smudge. I could focus my eyes on it for closer inspection, but I won't. I'm in no mood for a headache.
Hebe, Michael, and I are standing on the parapet of the eastern tower.
The towers are crenelated and flat at the top.
It's windy up here so I wear the red woolen cloak from home, clasped by the ring-shaped enameled fibula—its lion pin piercing the fabric. The lion's masterfully-crafted head has two tiny green crystals for eyes that glow with a light so pale I don't think it's visible during daytime.
Simple and plain, the cloak is really a folded rectangular blanket that drapes over my long dark-green coat—shoulders, sides, and back. The phoenix insignia of both sleeves is covered by the red cloth.
Hebe decided to sit between merlons, her back turned at the spectacular view. Michael, standing at my right.
Our idle talk feels gone once Hebe notices Michael was being a little too quiet and more serious than usual.
''Today I received a letter from home,'' Michael says, his voice a bit hoarse. ''A man living near my hamlet was tried and convicted of being a Vorza. He was taken all the way north; tied and thrown off the Wind's End.''
''Do you not know any uplifting story?'' Hebe asks, arching her eyebrows at him. The wind threw her hair of spun gold this way and that.
Michael looks at her, annoyed. ''I will try and learn some nursery rhymes just for you.'' He looks slightly menacing and also a bit silly with his hair cropped so short. Obviously, I won't tell him that...to his face.
''What do you mean: 'Vorza?''' I cut in.
Hebe waves her arm in dismissal. ''Oh, they are as real as the Red Spark.''
I give her a blank look.
Hebe sends me a gentle giggle. ''Void's curse, Ann. Did you grow up on a tree?''
''Yes, a rather big one,'' I remark, shrewdly.
Michael jumps in. ''Vorza is a person that is said to gain superhuman strength by consuming crystal's light and eating the flesh of his fellows.''
''So much for those cute rhymes,'' Hebe softly chimes.
Michael just throws his hands at her and stops talking.
I swallow hard. My bones feel as if made of parchment. ''Eating. Flesh.''
''Ann,'' Hebe begins getting up from her perch. She gives me a tiny smile and reassuringly rubs my shoulder. ''Those are tales mothers throw at their misbehaving children. 'Behave or a Vorza will eat you.''' Before long, she sits back in her crenel.
Michael clears his throat, lifting his astute eyebrows at Hebe. He then quickly runs his forefingers upwards across the throat and points at her. Older people use the gesture to basically say: ''You are the same as me.''
Hebe is not amused. ''I'm not as morbid as you. I was only explaining.'' She then glances at me. Her gaze lingers, scrutinizing my face. ''Are you alright, Ann?''
They both stare at me with worried looks. ''Yes. No. I...must've eaten something; drank something spoiled.'' Void's arse! Collect your wits.
I pretend to speak with my mother, placing a sharp edge around my next few words. ''It is nothing.''
That last part and the look I gave my friends seemed to have worked wonders. They let it go.
''Well, I have to go to the gymnasium. Zuri will teach me the bow.'' Hebe gets up, putting her hand on mine. ''I'm going back with her group.''
Zuri. She recovered fully in less than a week...ish. I didn't get punished thanks to her saying it was all an accident. After our little bout, she continued like all is forgotten, but I know better. She avoids me. Zuri doesn't fear me, she just...avoids me. And her eyes are always glazed with a trace of iron-cold enmity during those rare times we talk.
Afterward, after the fight, I was careful to eat more in the Hall, to run slower, to make mistakes more often, to do everything...well, slower. I don't know if I could've killed her. The thought often lingered, a ghostly stain haunting the heart. Zuri accepted my myriad of sorries, on the surface at least.
Like candlewax dripping over a book, the most dreadful thoughts stick to the mind. What if I missed and the spear landed on her throat? Or her eye. And for what? That one guard was the only one who made anything from our skirmish.
I know I must move on and learn from my mistake but I don't want to. I don't deserve to.
Zuri...
''I could've helped you with that,'' I say with a tinge of residual shakiness in my voice. They don't seem to notice. My thoughts of Zuri consumed those others, less savory ones. I almost shudder at my last musing.
''You already helped me too much.'' She kisses my cheek and waves at Michael. After exchanging our goodbyes she meanders away.
I notice Michael looking at me as though I might crumble into dust at any moment.
''I'm fine.'' My voice lacks conviction. ''Anyway. Do you believe that Vorza stuff?''
''I come from a small settlement where people will believe anything.''
The silence that stretches is long, so I break it. ''Michael, that strange stone of sky-bridge's roadway we ran on. What's it called?''
''Seriously?''
''What?''
''Nothing,'' Michael says, clearing his throat. For a moment he looked at me as though he wished to say something else, but thought better of it. ''Most people call it melted rock. It is like lime mortar but far stronger. One of the gifts Goddess provided for the chosen ones.''
Awooo!
Woeful, lupine howl pierces my ears.
A battle familiar and a guard next to it were patrolling the southern curtain wall's battlement that stretched below and away from our tower. The familiar resembled a black wolf with crimson-red eyes, its withers almost rivaling the tall guard's shoulder height.
Daylight made the sound nothing more than background noise. But this fortress at night, well...this far from Sol, with scant torches and the few crystals provided here, the dark might have given the howl a certain nocturnal edge it lacks.
Usually, crystalborn do not behave, or have primal instincts of animals. They rarely howl or growl like a dog would. One of the Black Breakers stationed here was clearly bored and commanded his familiar to howl.
''So...Red Spark?'' I ask.
He narrows his dark brown eyes at me. ''Ann, for a person who spends so much time in the Great Library you know surprisingly little.''
''Don't play with me, Aquillia.'' When you want someone to get serious fast, say their family name. It always works.
I'm in no mood for teasing.
Michael clears his throat. He sometimes does that when he's slightly agitated or nervous. ''It's a tale drunkards tell each other during Acrona's festival. Some of them would claim how they saw a red jagged line break the sky. Others claim it is a thunderbolt sent by the Goddess as a sign.''
''Sign of what?''
He scratches his chin. ''Death.''
''Please do learn some nursery rhymes. For me.''
Michael laughs. ''I will.'' After a quick sigh, he adds, ''For you.'' He softly clears his throat. ''We should go. Our ride won't wait for long.''
***
''...teas, potions, and even salves to avert the rot. Some of you might be sent to one of the outposts, where resources are scarce and kindness scarcer still. Unlike many useless dribbles you were showered with, what you continue to learn here can keep you or one of your fellows alive. A perfectly healthy person can die from a simple, small, cut.''
Herbology Grandmaster Seraphina Meadowsweet is a short woman with bushy hair. I don't like her high-pitched voice, but she seems the kindhearted type.
The herbology classroom is high up, located on the cliff's face, and a little to the south of the Academy facade's giant triquetra. Exposed to the outside, the classroom has a small balcony-like ledge. The cantilevered outcropping above it prevents rainwater from accumulating.
The classroom's well-stocked pantry is packed with jars, pots, and crates, all lining the shelves. The different ingredients are often dry or powdered.
Small vials and pouches hold crushed minerals and powdery thingies that look like colorful flour.
The herbology classroom has a big parchment on the wall, with painted drawings of mushrooms and a notation below each. Those with vivid yellow handwriting underneath are to be avoided while text written in black describes edible mushrooms and potential locations in nature.
Some mushrooms have black stripes, but most are plainly colored, having caps of primarily purple, blue, white, or black. The verdigris-colored one has a thick yellow inscription below it. Most are edible, though.
The classroom is filled with about twenty mortars and pestles. Of course, glassware is abundant: crucibles, beakers etched with markings, narrow-necked flasks, interestingly-shaped retorts(that were the source of many jests, made mostly by the boys), glass tubes, several alembics, and so on. All nicely arranged across a really long desk that reminds me of the one Grandmaster Penelope has: the lying-water-tower-shaped one.
The surface of the expansive desk was covered with the jumbled intestines of a monster, all turned to glass. But, there was order in the chaos, I guess. The glassware is clean and the classroom is always neat, although smelly—all the students are forced to clean everything toward the end of class.
Despite the herbology classroom being regularly cleaned, the air was always thick with the scent of herbs.
Sage, mandrake, rosemary, lavender, the pungent odor of brimstone, the smell of copper, and other, acrid smells I can't identify mixed together, permeating the air. Unlike my other senses, taste, and smell can be difficult for me to command. This sometimes resulted in random bouts of coughing, and, despite my best efforts to act tepid, the grimaces I made in this classroom did not go unnoticed. Lana Furia and Cassius found them very amusing. I should grin at them the next time they retch.
It is better lit than most classrooms. Besides the many Cobalts about, the space also received plenty of natural light.
Herbology was one of those few subjects I consider to have an actual practical use—well, that and wrestling. It teaches about the use of herbs to stop rot and how to make medicine, salves, or even how to stop bleeding or dress a wound.
Like the rest of the class, I wear a pale pink apron with black straps. Apparently, if you're caught being here without one you lose library privilege—of course—and get sent to the Guts, and your family gets cursed for fifty years or some such. Although; some stains are hard to remove, I suppose.
''Weeks ago,'' Seraphina Meadowsweet continues, vivaciously, ''we learned how to make potions that can help you stay awake longer. Today we have something special. An ambergris. We will use it to make a potion that dulls the pain from any injury.''
Ambergris is a brown greasy substance. Its scent is nice, slightly sweet and loamy.
Using stonewood mortar and pestle, I grind chamomile, rosemary, and elderflower, breaking them into tiny pieces. Next, I add ambergris and grind some more, fusing everything.
Bit by bit, I pour the olive oil into the mortar while grinding the ingredients. I continue until the mixture gets all nice and smooth.
Grandmaster Meadowsweet walks around the students, inspecting our work. ''Those potions found to be the best will be packaged and sent to outposts. The rest will be given to pigs and sheep about to be slaughtered.
''Gentle, Bolormaa. Or you will break your mortar again.''
''No worries, Grandmaster Meadowsweet. I won't break it again,'' I say, nonchalantly.
''That's what she said about the dancer bow, too,'' Lana Furia whispers to Ariana. They both giggle at that.
I look at Lana and farcically pretend to barf, my tongue partly out.
That sorted, I transfer the mixture to the beaker in front of me.
Gently rotating the beaker above candle flame, I make sure it's all heated evenly.
After about a third of an hour, I use a piece of linen cloth to strain the brew into a clean glass vial.
I wish I had this potion years back.
Perhaps later I should go back to the library.
Yesterday, I stupidly held a crystal in my hand to wait and see if anything might change with the light inside. I didn't notice any difference in brightness, though I'm fairly certain a tiny afterimage of the glow is etched somewhere on the back of my eyes. I'm even more certain I have no desire to eat anyone. Quite the opposite, I can spend days without eating or feeling hungry.
A thought did occur about immediately looking for books mentioning...Vorza things, but doing that mere days after talking to my friends about flesh-eating, crystal-sucking fiends would be slightly suspicious. I trust them greatly. Just not putting-my-life-in-their-hands trust them. Patience is my unloved friend. I will slowly develop a certain interest in chimerical stories and legends—well...expand my interest, I should say.
For every book that mentions a Vorza, I'll read two or three about towers in the sky.
***
Two black tongues of the Eastern Cliff cascaded their long way downwards. The phoenix banners of the Academy rippled in the high winds to the facade's left and right.
The gymnasium our class is in resides on ground level. It is a simple large open space. The design is similar to other gymnasiums, only this one is a bit larger than most.
Blade Grandmaster Cariocecus slams the sword into the ground.
I expected the Blade Grandmaster to make us run and slash at each other with stonewood swords but he just told us to sit and listen to his lecture...for the better half of the morning.
Grandmaster's visage beams down at us, his eyes alight with joy. ''What is the most important part of the sword?'' He stares at the students sitting on gymnasium's sandy expanse for a few moments. ''Well?''
''Blade,'' Jax says, and some of us repeat the word in a weak, poorly choreographed chorus.
Jax is a tall boy, and almost as strong as Peter, but less stupid. I believe Jax is the leader of that former bread-throwing quartet in the Hall. Gabriel, Peter, Jax, and Cassius are inseparable. Something like blood brothers, I suppose.
''It is not the blade. Nor the guard or hilt.'' He points at each mentioned part. We simply look at the thing in confusion. Suddenly the grandmaster points at himself, smiling. Blade Grandmaster's left index finger runs across his right arm and ends up pointing at his head. ''The sword is a thing. A useless thing without a wielder. Let us say we leave it somewhere in the Wastes. Will an animal know how to use it to its own benefit? Will the stone slash air with it? No. Therefore, the swordsman is the key element. Until the key element is properly forged, you will use sticks.'' He just smiles at us again. Grandmaster Cariocecus had a genuine-looking smile, the type that touches the eyes.
Grandmaster Cariocecus is also, an adult. He tells our class what to do. He smiles too much. Naturally, I want to hate him. And yet, I can't. The future is still young, though.
Even with sticks, we are clumsy. I'm good with spear and polearm, but swords are just not my thing. I can understand archery and honing the body being a required curriculum. Yet I will never understand the point of us learning how to use close-range weapons. No one is mad enough to strike a Wraith at such a short distance. Besides, most of us will adorn ourselves in gray or violet. Can't they just teach us more of the stuff we can actually use?
We spend hours in a cold shallowish channel, about neck deep, slashing through the water with steel rods, roughly the length of an average sword. This cold channel connects to its much larger counterpart: the wide river-channel bordering Academy's main courtyard. Everyone calls it ''the Channel,'' or ''the Eastern Channel,'' but I prefer my designation better.
''A sword does not need to cut to know it is sharp. Sadly, my lambs, all of you are as sharp as those sticks,'' grandmaster says. If I ram this stick through your eyeball you'd be surprised at how sharp it can be. I'm tired and cold. If my mom was here she'd make me some nice camellia tea with a smidgen of miner's honey from high southern leas.
I'm starting to sound like an old person.
It must be past midday now as the Blade Grandmaster declares our misery is over.
The drenched, blue, woolen tunic that clings to my body is an iron weight. I move to throw the steel rod at a nearby pile and search for some linen towels—all the while I exaggerate my breathing and even pretend to stumble a bit upon exiting the water.
In mere moments after she left the cold water, Janna Erdene, pale, skinny, and usually a quiet girl, drops on the ground like a log. There is a bit of shouting as we begin to group near her.
Grandmaster Cariocecus did give us a few breaks, but those were few and far between.
Two caretakers assigned to watch over us are already amidst of wrapping Janna in two blankets as Grandmaster Cariocecus approaches.
''Class dismissed! Scatter.'' His smile is gone now.
Our group slowly disperses, save for Janna's two closest friends who linger, only leaving after the grandmaster almost pushes them away.
With well-practiced ease, the two caretakers place the unconscious girl on a simple stonewood lectica. Nearby, there is a cart attached to a lion-sized ram that will take her to the Healing Hall. Familiar's name is Nibbles the Ram. I need to find the person responsible for naming the Academy's many crystalborn and punch them in the gut.
Hebe's palm is marred by blisters. I've never had any, but it can't be pleasant. The tender flesh had small pockets where the top layer of skin has almost peeled away.
I untie one of the linen ribbons holding my hair back. My thick three-strand braid unravels a bit.
''Give me your hand,'' I tell Hebe.
She waves her hand at me. ''The cloth will get dirty.''
I almost roll my eyes. ''I have dozens. Give.'' I point at her palm. In no time, I wrap the strip of cloth securely around her left palm.
''Do you think she will be fine?'' Hebe looks in the direction Janna was carried away.
I have no idea. ''Yes,'' I reassure her. ''Come. Let's go inside to dry up.''
***
Screaming echoed throughout the colossal chamber.
Dozens of babies are in perfect sync, forming a most dreadful harmony.
It is the third week of Lapul. Seventhday. The sixth month's second half is reserved for exams, however, since I devour books with the same relish a fat priest might gobble an offering left on the altar, they are irrelevant; not worthy of pondering.
During the three days of the festival honoring Acrona, students, and one unfortunate Breaker, are required to bless the little ones. Thankfully, tomorrow and the day after that, someone else will go through this ordeal.
A thick and lingering smell of incense spreads around me, only to be quickly swallowed by the Great Chamber's cavernous space.
I feel as though someone shoved a dozen black roses up my nose.
Adults get to drink and dance and I get to do this.
Seven of us—three girls, three boys, and one young man—stand in front of the giant statue of the Second Daughter as the mothers keep moving down the line. Apparently, one fledgling's or even one Breaker's blessing is not enough.
My thumb, index, and middle finger join at the brow of the small screeching demon. ''May the Allmother always guard you and may her two daughters favor you.'' I will probably dream of that utterance. A few hours ago a priestess delicately reproached me for my lack of enthusiasm.
A lot of our time is wasted simply waiting for the new batch of mothers carrying their little ear-grating miseries.
Perhaps Screech is not that bad. That is what I decided to call that tiny-horned piglet that wakes Hebe and other girls up every morning(even though our classes are long-finished).
I place three fingers on my forehead and then my heart, after which I ''elegantly'' outstretch my arms and make those same three fingers of both hands point upwards. Of course, all this is done in tandem with a pious bow of the head; making wavy red strands flood my vision.
Thereafter, I prepare to repeat the mindnumbing process for the I-do-not-wish-to-know time.
To the Acrona's left-hand side, dozens of strides away from the colossal statue, there is an intricately carved water chronos. It has the height of several men and portrays time quite clearly. I'm reasonably certain it is designed to make the classes last longer. During days of classes, the moment after a nearly full hour of lecturing has passed, one of the attendants near it would wave their handbell causing a chain reaction from dozens of others possessing the same blessed tool.
I make an effort not to glance at the chronos too much.