by Ginn Hale
It was that terrible smile of his. He was simply toying with Kiram, making a joke of his confusion and desire.
Angry humiliation surged through him. He jerked back from Javier’s grip and hurled the scrub brush. It struck Javier hard across the cheek.
“You can do it well enough yourself,” Kiram growled. “Don’t think that because I’m Haldiim I’ll play the part of your bathhouse whore.” Then he turned and left the bathing room, slamming the door closed behind him.
Kiram strode to his bed and briefly he considered just taking his trunk and returning to the carriage to be driven back home.
But his pride as both a Haldiim and a scholar rebelled at the thought. That was just what Javier and the other students at the academy wanted, wasn’t it? That was most likely what all this arcane gibberish on the floor and the taunting exchange in the bathroom had been about. They didn’t want a Haldiim outshining them in their own precious academy.
They could all burn in their stupid hells. He was going to stay. More that that, he was going to rub their faces in his accomplishments.
The rant running through Kiram’s mind was so engaging that he almost missed the polite knock at the door. Kiram forced himself to swallow back a filthy Haldiim insult. Instead he pulled the door open.
Several serving men in gray uniforms stood in the hall. One was loaded with the bedding that Scholar Blasio had promised. The others had brought up furniture. None of them met Kiram’s gaze or spoke to him. He didn’t bother to greet them either.
They scurried into the room like skittish mice, awkwardly sidestepping the symbols on the floor. More than one of them made Cadeleonian prayer signs as they moved through the room. Kiram purposely stepped on several of the symbols, making his disdain as clear as he could.
In moments Kiram’s bed was made with fresh sheets and blue blankets as well as two pillows. A tall dresser stood at the foot of his bed. A writing table and a chair were deposited near the dresser.
Amidst all the moving in, Javier appeared from the bathroom. He wore a towel wrapped tightly around his narrow waist. A bright red mark stood out on his left cheek. His mere presence seemed to panic the servants. One man drew back so quickly that he tripped over Kiram’s trunk. He scrambled to his feet and made a quick blessing sign over his own chest. The servants fled from the room, more than taking their leave.
Kiram found it pleasing to slam the door closed behind them with unnecessary force.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Javier taking a fresh pair of pants from his dresser. Then Kiram turned purposefully to his trunk. While Javier dressed, Kiram finished unpacking. He hid the satchel of taffy among his clothes and tucked it away in his dresser.
His books went on his table, as did his Silver Leaf medal.
“Dinner bell will be soon,” Javier said from behind him. “You should get into your uniform.”
Kiram gave no response. He placed his inkwells and sheaves of parchment on his writing table and then needlessly straightened them.
“Look,” Javier began quietly, “you can’t just—”
Kiram rounded on him.
“I have nothing to say to you and no desire to hear anything you might say to me.” It pleased him to see the surprise in Javier’s expression. No doubt he was used to scaring everyone around him and having his own way in everything. Well, Kiram had no intention of being bullied or toyed with. “I have to live here, but that does not mean that I want anything to do with you, do you understand me?”
Kiram had the momentary gratification of seeing something like hurt break through Javier’s smug countenance. The expression instantly twisted into that smirk that Kiram already hated.
“As you please, Underclassman Kiram.” Javier offered him a sarcastic bow, then departed.
As the door fell closed the dinner bell rang out, but Kiram found that he had lost his appetite for Cadeleonian food.
Chapter Three
For the first week, Kiram’s anger inspired relentless study and defiant perfectionism. However, as the days passed, his energy faded. He found himself fluctuating between delighted discovery and lethargic melancholy. The classes he attended greatly affected his mood.
During Scholar Donamillo’s natural science demonstrations Kiram reveled in the new world of understanding that opened up to him. Brushed amber gave off sparks and dead insects twitched their limbs when shocked by those tiny lights. Leaning close to one of the scholar’s mechanisms, Kiram could feel his hair standing up on end; he wasn’t sure if it was from excitement or the currents flowing through copper wires. More than once the class had become a conversation between himself and Scholar Donamillo, while the other students scribbled confused notes.
He excelled in his mathematics classes as well. While his meaty classmates slumped in their seats, counting on their fingers, Kiram would simply hand his solution to Scholar Blasio. Often, as the scholar read Kiram’s work he took on a blissful expression, as if he were listening to a piece of music he loved.
After the first week, the little formality that had stood between them gave way to fellowship. Scholar Blasio delighted in Kiram’s quick solutions and would often grin and address him as ‘young Scholar Kiram’, as if he were a colleague.
He never received such a compliment from the lanky, scarred instructor of the war arts, Master Ignacio. The first time Kiram had attempted to wield a Cadeleonian long sword he had lost his grip of the hilt and sent the blade flying towards the master.
Fortunately, Master Ignacio’s reflexes were much faster than his gray hair and weathered face had led Kiram to expect.
Kiram had apologized and explained that he’d never used a sword before. The Haldiim were archers, not swordsmen. The first impression lasted, though, and now Master Ignacio only provided Kiram with a wooden blade and eyed him as if he were a reckless menace.
He pretended not to notice the snickers of his fellow classmates during the war arts demonstrations. When they overpowered him in daily practice he simply dropped his blade and stepped away, never allowing them the opportunity to gloat. This tactic frustrated Master Ignacio and prompted more than one speech on the importance of confidence and the crime of cowardice on the battlefield.
Only two other second years were as bad at swordplay as Kiram: Nestor Grunito, a plump youth who was obviously half blind, and Fedeles Quemanor, a tall, handsome, black-haired simpleton, who spent most of the class time singing the names of horses to himself. Master Ignacio often made the three of them practice together, while he focused his attention on the students with real promise.
Kiram’s distaste for war arts was only exacerbated by the fact that Master Ignacio often called Javier over from the third year riding practice to demonstrate perfect battle forms. Kiram scowled at the master’s obvious pride in Javier’s prowess.
Though, Kiram couldn’t help but stare when Javier countered one of Master Ignacio’s attacks, lunged past his defense, and brought the tip of his blade to the master’s chest. It wasn’t just his accuracy or audacity that fascinated Kiram; it was the pure beauty of his movements. He didn’t waste a single gesture or ever hesitate. He moved the way an animal would, utterly assured of his nature.
Kiram found his own awe aggravating and consciously worked at dismantling it. He decided that much of Javier’s grace could be attributed to arrogance. Of course he never hesitated or second-guessed himself. The man was probably incapable of conceiving of himself making a mistake.
“He’s terrifying,” Nestor whispered to Kiram.
“You can hardly see him,” Kiram replied.
Nestor squinted intently at Javier through the bristling mass of his sandy brown bangs. He wasn’t exactly Kiram’s friend but over the last two weeks they had grown comfortable with each other.
Unlike most of the other second-year students, Nestor shared Kiram’s intellectual curiosity. He asked questions in natural sciences, took the highest scores in their law classes, and clearly possessed the talent and inclination to be
an artist. He, like Kiram, hailed from the port city of Anacleto, though Nestor’s father was an earl whereas Kiram’s father was the indulged husband of a very wealthy Haldiim merchant.
Nestor retrieved his delicate spectacles from their ivory case and placed them on the bridge of his beak-like nose.
“Still terrifying,” Nestor said as he watched Javier demonstrate a maneuver called the King’s Cross. “How do you ever fall asleep with him in the room?”
Kiram rolled his eyes. “Look, I know that no one is actually afraid of him. You don’t have to keep pretending.”
Nestor peered at Kiram through the thick lenses of his spectacles. “What are you talking about?”
“If people actually thought Upperclassman Javier was some kind of demon, why would they all hang around him at dinner or even agree to allow him into the academy?”
“He’s the Duke of Rauma. Who’s going to tell him that he can’t attend the academy?” Nestor went quiet as Master Ignacio walked past them. After the master was out of earshot, Nestor leaned a little closer to Kiram. “It’s not really Javier that people fear. He’s actually nice enough. My brother Elezar and he are best friends. But the white hell trapped in him is something else. You just haven’t seen it, that’s why you’re not afraid.”
“Have you ever seen it?”
“Once. When the royal courier came to confer the dukedom upon Javier, the white hell broke free. The instructors were able to contain him with muerate poison that time but last year…” A troubled expression came over Nestor’s round face and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Last year a stable hand was murdered. Torn apart. The headmaster denied that it was the white hell but everyone knew it was. Javier didn’t attend classes for two weeks after it happened.”
Kiram didn’t have a response for that. It was the first time that anyone had explicitly told him what there was to fear in rooming with Javier—he was quite probably a murderer.
Kiram was still wrestling with the idea at lunch, when he took his usual seat between Nestor and Fedeles.
The first day he had taken breakfast at the academy he had made the mistake of seating himself next to a second-year student he didn’t know. The young man had knocked Kiram’s food to the floor and hissed that he could eat down there, but not with decent men.
To Kiram’s relief and surprise, Nestor had intervened right away, offering Kiram a place with him at another table. The day after that Fedeles had joined them, though he had offered no reason other than singsong jumbled words.
The three of them were the only older students seated at the tightly packed first year benches. The majority of second and third-year students filled the long tables ahead of Kiram. Those tables weren’t any more attractive than the stained one Kiram sat at but service from the kitchen reached the other second-year students sooner and with better portions.
The tables at the far eastern end of the huge dining hall were a different matter altogether. They were draped with cloths and the benches were beautifully carved. Fresh air and bright light poured in through the windows just behind them.
One table was reserved for scholars, the war master, and the holy father. Kiram only saw all the instructors gathered together at the table on Sacreday when Holy Father Habalan read prayers over the evening meal. Otherwise, the scholar’s table was generally only half full. The remaining ornate tables belonged to students whom Nestor told him were the angels and devils of the academy—the brightest and most dangerous young men. Many were third and fourth-year students, who would one day be the lords of Cadeleon. It didn’t surprise Kiram to spot Javier there, attended by his gang of loud companions.
Nestor’s older brother, Elezar, always sat at Javier’s right. Like Nestor, Elezar possessed a hawk-like nose and bristling brown hair, but he stood even taller than Javier and was built like one of the rippling bulls emblazoned on his gloves. Nestor, by comparison, looked more like a fresh egg.
Already, several upperclassmen had coined the term, ‘stick and ball’ to refer to Kiram and Nestor.
Kiram frowned at his bowl of lumpy brown stew. Nestor had already finished off his serving. It was apparently the staple of first-year students’ lunches at the academy.
Kiram took a listless mouthful and swallowed. It tasted nothing like the dishes his mother’s cook would have served on a hot afternoon like this one. Briefly he reminisced over the cool cucumber slices, lemon wedges, and mint leaves that had flavored his last meal with his family. At that moment he missed the flavors of lamb and figs almost as much as he missed his parents. He couldn’t believe how he had taken the thick yoghurt and honey for granted.
Kiram glanced to Fedeles, who grinned at him.
Despite being quite simple, Fedeles made better company than most of the other students of the academy. He never tried to tease either Kiram or Nestor. In fact, he seemed only half aware of their presence. For the most part, Fedeles drifted in a smiling fog. Occasionally, he would look at one of Nestor’s sketches and name the man or animal pictured. He was particularly fond of horses.
“Lunaluz,” Fedeles whispered dreamily.
Nestor nodded absently and continued to ink in the horse’s braided mane. Kiram glanced at the picture. As a rule he couldn’t tell one horse from another, a fact that had deeply disturbed Master Ignacio the first day of riding class, but even he knew this horse. It was Javier’s white stallion.
Until two weeks ago, Kiram wouldn’t have imagined that there could be much difference between horses. Though admittedly the only ones he’d been familiar with were the nags that hauled Cadeleonian wagons and carriages outside the Haldiim district. The huge, glossy warhorses that the academy required their students to ride seemed like an entirely different breed of creatures. Between calculating gazes, sarcastic snorts, and immovable obstinacy they seemed to possess personalities that were as individual as their riders.
Like Javier, Lunaluz was known for his pride and prowess.
Kiram scowled at Nestor’s drawing. It seemed that everything around him today was set on making him think about Javier.
“Did it have to be Lunaluz?” Kiram asked Nestor.
“Lunaluz,” Fedeles echoed the name.
“He’s a beautiful animal. So is this big fellow.” Nestor handed Kiram the inked page that lay beneath his present drawing.
“Firaj.” Fedeles sighed happily.
“Really?” Kiram asked. In his mind his new horse, Firaj, was much more intimidating. His first day of riding he’d simply clung to the black beast’s back and prayed that the animal wouldn’t kill him. He had not made much more progress in the subsequent classes.
“He’s such a handsome old man.” Nestor smiled at one of the sketches of Firaj’s face.
“Handsome? I have nightmares about him.”
A loud burst of surprised laughter interrupted Kiram’s thoughts. Across the rows of wooden tables, he saw that several upperclassmen had clustered around Javier. Nestor’s brother Elezar stood among them, as did the future count of Verida, Genimo Plunado.
Javier held a water glass in one hand and a spoon in the other. He dipped the spoon into the glass and then flicked the water up into the air. A white spark flashed up from Javier’s hand as the water took flight. The droplet struck the tabletop as a small chunk of ice. Another cheer went up.
Kiram wanted to believe that this was just some slight-of-hand trick that Javier preformed but he had seen enough of Javier’s magic now to acknowledge that the tiny white sparks that danced from his fingers were genuine. At some point Javier must have touched a shajdi and a little of its magic remained with him. But touching a shajdi was not the same as being possessed by a demon or having a door to hell inside him. It astounded Kiram that these Cadeleonians didn’t grasp that.
Elezar snatched up the piece of ice and crushed it between his teeth. He grinned at Javier and said something. Genimo Plunado shoved his thick chestnut hair back from his face and leaned closer to Javier. When Javier threw another droplet of ice into the ai
r Genimo caught it in his mouth. Javier continued performing his trick, receiving smiles and laughter, until his glass was empty.
“If they like him so much, why don’t any of them room with him?” Kiram muttered to himself.
“You might as well ask why they don’t sleep in the stalls with their horses,” Nestor replied. “They’re afraid of getting kicked to death, you know. The horses wouldn’t mean them any harm but they’d just kick in their sleep and that would be it.”
“He’s not a horse,” Kiram replied.
Nestor shrugged. “Are you going to eat the rest of your stew?”
Kiram shoved the blue porcelain bowl to Nestor. For a moment Nestor seemed to wrestle with some indecision, then at last he slipped his drawing papers back into their leather case and helped himself to the stew.
“Anyway, they don’t all like him,” Nestor said quietly. “My oldest brother Timoteo hates him. I think Genimo does as well. But Javier is already the Duke of Rauma. Only one of the Sagrada princes could afford to make an enemy of him, and I don’t think anyone would want to face him in a duel. He’d eat their souls.”
“Feed them ice and witty conversation is more like it,” Kiram muttered.
He didn’t want to admit it but he was a little jealous of the clever chatter and friendly pranks Javier performed for his classmates. After only a few days of total silence he had regretted his declaration that Javier was not to speak to him. More than that, he resented Javier’s respect of his absurd demand. He knew it was all petty and beneath him, but he couldn’t help himself.
The evenings in their shared room were agonizingly quiet. And that was if Javier was even there. Half the time he didn’t appear until the night warden shouted for lights out. The nights he was alone, Kiram tried to believe that he was happy with the emptiness of the room and the opportunity to spread his cogs and iron cylinders out across the floor without criticism or comment. But the truth was that he felt deeply lonely.
