by Narro, B. T.
“I’m not in the mood for flattery,” Zoke replied. Sycophants were regarded as worse than beggars within the tribe, and it sickened Zoke to think Vithos would resort to fawning when he was out of energy.
“I’m not making this up.” The Elf spoke louder now. “I see you as a leader. I always have, but there was no opportunity for you within the tribe. Why else would I make you the lead Krepp of the disciplinary committee? You’re compassionate, responsible, yet tough and fair, all rare qualities for a Krepp.”
“I’ve never thought about it, and I see no reason to now.” It was the last thing Zoke cared about, and it still seemed like Vithos was just trying to make him feel better with false compliments. He changed the subject. “Did you find out more about what happened in this village from that Krepp?”
“All of the Krepps sent to kill us were too young to have lived during that time, and Doe told them nothing of it.” He stopped next to a house, brushing his hand against the charred lines on one wall. “I may never know exactly what happened, but there’s enough evidence to demonstrate that Doe and Haemon cared no more for this village than they did for me.” He opened the door to the house, and Zoke followed him inside.
There were three bed stands, one smaller than the rest, as if for a child. Everything was burned or looked ready to collapse, so they found space on the wood floor to lie down.
As Zoke was removing his weapons to sleep more comfortably, the loudest howl yet startled him. “Vithos?” he asked. The Elf’s eyes did not have a faint yellow glow like a Krepp, so he couldn’t tell if they were open. “Are we far enough from the smell that you can use your psyche?”
“Yes. There’s a pack of wolves nearby.” His voice was grumbly, as if he’d been asleep already somehow. “They’re hungry, but the corpses we produced will suffice. They’ve picked up the scent of blood, I presume. If you’re worried, we can sleep in shifts, but I need to rest now. Wake me later if you stay up.”
Zoke didn’t have it in him to stay awake much longer, either. He noticed the two large windows, though. Their huts back home were built without windows, so it was a strange concept to find them in each house here. What did the Elves do when the weather was bad? He had endured colder nights then this one, but the holes in the wall let in an unrelenting breeze that was likely to wake him as the night got colder. There was nothing he could see that could be used to block them.
He ventured outside and found a rock not five steps away. It was heavy and lopsided. He tried to balance it within the window, but the bottom of the window was too thin, so the rock wouldn’t stay on its own. While he was fiddling with it, a claw brushed against something above the window. It felt like a hinge for a door, and above it was an extra layer of wood. He set down the rock to investigate it closer with both hands. Atop the extra wood was a sliding lock. Suddenly, he realized what he was looking at. Those smart Elves, he thought. There’s a cover for the windows.
Zoke braced the slab of wood above the window and unhooked the lock atop it. The weight of the wood fell into his hand. He slowly let it come down so that it rested against the wall, completely covering the window. He did the same for the other window, then went back inside with some satisfaction.
His dream proved to be eerie that night. He was back with the tribe, gathered with many others in the judgment chambers. Zeti was there as well. There was lively chatter. Soon, he found his mother, Junni. She was dead, he knew, killed by Doe when he was just six—pra durren, but she talked with the others as if she were still alive. He noticed other Krepps suddenly appearing who’d been killed during his lifetime, specifically the two who’d come at him with swords last year when he’d tried to take them in for judgment.
Soon, Zoke and the other Krepps were escorted out of the room by Doe. He found himself on a game board as a piece. He could cast magic—something no Krepp could do. While everyone attacked each other, he aimed his finger along their feet and a trail of fire emerged where he pointed. They burned, but without pain. As their lives came to an end, they faded, disappearing from the game board.
Back in the room from before, everyone was seated on a separate rock. They were singing a rhythmic yet ominous song that sounded familiar. As he looked at each of them, he noticed their skin was sickly pale, there were holes in their faces and chests, and many had bloody wounds across their necks. They’re dead, all of them, he understood. Then Zoke noticed that he was the only Krepp standing and that he faced them, and they faced him. They’re singing background and expect me to sing the melody, he realized. But he didn’t know the song.
When he awoke, night had ended, yet the backbeat to the song looped continuously in his mind. How do I know this song? He tried to remember the melody but couldn’t.
Vithos must’ve left the house where they’d slept and closed the door behind him because he was gone. Light crawled in from underneath the door and around the edges of the windows. Dirt was caked around Zoke’s eyes and ears, so he used a claw to scrape it out. The hair on his head was thin and short, like most other male Krepps, yet soot still clung to it. He brushed his hand to and fro to clean off the dark flakes. The course skin on his palm scratching against his scalp was refreshing. He opened the door and stepped out.
The sun on his face immediately melted last night’s chill. He buried the claws on his feet into the dirt and squatted to dig the claws on his hands underneath as well. He squeezed the dirt between each finger and yawned like a wolf howling.
“You’re up,” Vithos said. His face and clothes were covered in soot. “This place is breathtaking. It’s a waste that no one lives here.”
“These houses are far superior to our huts. Why didn’t our tribe stay if they took it over?”
“More important than living comfortably is finding the Slugari. Doe and Haemon must’ve known the underground colony was farther south, especially because the only thing north of here is the ocean.”
Zoke nodded. “How much water do you have?”
“Enough to make it back to the stream we found two days back.”
“Then are you ready to leave this place?” Zoke was eager to return to the Krepp encampment he’d left. Even with everything that had happened, he still hoped others would be there, especially Zeti. She could be waiting for him, perhaps hiding.
Vithos rubbed dirt from his hand. “Not quite.”
Zoke didn’t push the Elf to leave before he was ready, so he nodded and followed. Zoke wasn’t too enthusiastic about walking back on his own, and they had come all this way.
The deeper they went into the village, the more Zoke was amazed by what they found. There were metal pipes sprouting from the ground with a lever that produced water when pumped. Neat squares of dead gardens were fenced off with sturdy pickets of wood.
While most houses looked the same, a few buildings were built large enough to fit fifty Krepps and stood upon ten feet of solid wood so that steps were needed to reach the entrances. Many of these great buildings used to have a balcony, it appeared, but Zoke and Vithos never found one still completely intact. The damage from fire was extensive.
The most extravagant structure was in the center of the village, where hundreds of stone steps were built next to a river that flowed from hills high above. They climbed the steps to follow the river, and it led them to a small lake. A waterfall brought clear water into the lake from so high above that it seemed to pour straight from the clouds. Encircling half the lake were stone pillars that served as legs for sleek, pointed roofs. But it was just an entrance, Zoke realized, for farther in through the stone legs were walls of solid stone that composed what had to have been the living quarters for the highest members of the village.
“Any memories?” Zoke asked with hope.
“No.” Vithos brushed his fingers against the carved stone carefully. “How could I forget something like this?”
They entered the once luxurious building and it became clear immediately that a major struggle had ensued within. The walls were stained with ex
plosions of black. Most of the furniture had been upended and damaged beyond repair.
“Something has been bothering me,” Zoke said as he gazed around the room. “It looks as if this village fell to an attack, but then where are the bodies? We’ve seen no skeletons.”
“Displaced by animals, I assume.” Vithos had no other answers he wished to share.
They explored room after room, each one different from the last. Vithos admitted to no memories. Eventually, Zoke opened a door to find a room covered in paintings of Elves standing heroically. Something in Elvish was written on the top of one wall.
“It looks as if this room wasn’t touched,” Vithos said with sheer excitement. He was right. All the paintings were hanging straight, and there were no signs of fire as in many other rooms.
“Krepps wouldn’t destroy portraits,” Zoke said. There were a few superstitions taught to every Krepp. One was that if you caused pain or suffering to a being and then destroyed their portrait, they would haunt you as a spirit. Only those who were at peace with the deceased could destroy the painted image of them in a ceremonial burning to help their passing.
Vithos examined the paintings meticulously. Most were families headed by a male and female Elf, with multiples of the same family at different ages, showing a history of their lives. Almost every family ended up with a child or two, according to the paintings.
“Look at this,” Vithos said. “Does this look like me?” He pointed at a toddler holding onto the leg of his father. If Elves aged like Krepps, then the small boy couldn’t have been older than two, Zoke figured. Also in the painting were what appeared to be the young one’s mother and another boy of the same age. Zoke looked closely at the face of the young Elf who Vithos pointed toward. Right away the long eyes coming to a point on either end jumped out at him.
“That’s you.” But then he looked at the other boy in the picture. He had the same eyes. “Or him…one of them for sure.” The two boys looked identical.
Vithos stared in silence for a long while. “You’re right,” he finally whispered. His face held no smile, no cheer. He looked like he did in the judgment chambers. He was serious and nothing else, like all his emotions had left him.
Twenty paintings in the room, Zoke estimated. About three or four of each family, nowhere near enough to represent all the Elves. “These are probably royal families,” Zoke offered.
Vithos nodded as if he’d already come to that conclusion. “And I had a brother.”
Zoke still felt like an intruder and even more so in this room, staring at the paintings of lost Elves. He was eager to go but tried to keep himself calm as he waited for Vithos.
Eventually, he asked, “Are you going to take that painting?”
“No,” Vithos replied sullenly. “It belongs here.”
Zoke let silence come over them once again. He waited as patiently as he could as Vithos stared at the painting as if trying to memorize it.
Finally, Vithos cleared his throat and looked away.
“Time to go?” Zoke asked quietly.
Vithos sighed. “Yes.”
By the time they returned to the entrance of the village, a cool mist was setting in.
“I’d hoped to find another of my kind still alive, but I couldn’t bring myself to mention it aloud,” Vithos muttered. “Even in my head I knew how ridiculous it sounded.”
“There’s no shame in hope.” Zoke thought of his own hope to see Zeti again.
“They’ll pay for what they did,” Vithos said, anger burning in his eyes. “But I’ll need some support.”
Zoke took a nervous breath. “I hope you don’t mean me.”
Vithos shook his head with a sly grin. “I know you’re still unsure what you want to do, and I accept that. Also, I’m not so crazy as to believe that just the two of us could get to Doe and Haemon. There’s another way to get the help I need.”
Zoke was perplexed. But who else is there? Who would ever wish to help Vithos take revenge against Doe and Haemon? “Which is what?” Zoke asked.
“The underground Slugari.” Vithos raised an eyebrow at Zoke. “I know where they are.”
Chapter 27: Evaluations
EFFIE
Effie pushed her way through the crowd. People need to find their names and then get out of the way, she thought. Being too short to see over anyone, she couldn’t tell how many more bodies she would have to squeeze through before she could get a glimpse at the evaluation week results.
“Excuse me.” She shouldered through a small space between two hanging arms. Some couple was hugging in her path. “Move, please.” She nearly tripped over a girl tying her shoe. “Tie it somewhere else.”
She felt a hand slap her rear. The results can wait. Someone is about to be hurt. She turned with a balled fist.
“Easy, punchy!” There stood Reela with a guilty grin.
“Reela!” Effie felt her teeth unclench and her mouth curve into a smile. “What are you doing here?”
“Congratulations to both you and Cleve.” She wrapped her long arms around Effie’s shoulders. On reflex, Effie’s hands came up to meet around Reela’s back. No matter the situation, a surprise embrace from Reela always made her feel better.
“I haven’t seen yet,” Effie admitted. Someone shoved against her back to get through, disrupting their hug. “I hate this crowd,” Effie muttered. “Let’s chat at home later.”
“Right. I’m off.” Reela smiled at her and disappeared among the bodies.
Soon, Effie came to the wall and found the mage listings. She discovered the specific list she needed: the A through E names. With a finger, she located her name toward the bottom. “Effie Elegin: Group One.” She took a moment for a breath of relief. Sweet satisfaction filled her lungs. The week had been especially tough, but not because evaluation classes were difficult. In fact, they hadn’t been, and that was the problem.
When she’d entered her assigned classroom for the first time at the beginning of the week and had seen the many black streaks of old burns across the walls and chairs, she’d had high hopes of the dangerous challenges ahead. The giant vats of water in each corner to put out fire only helped amplify her excitement. The room looked as if it was designed as a tribunal where arguments for justice were made with fire instead of words. A metal podium stood in the front. It was littered with singe marks that colored its shiny, silver exterior with dozens of small red and blue circles from heat.
To her disappointment, though, no fire could be cast within the walls. Her teacher was adamant about that. She was a young woman, younger than twenty-five, Effie guessed, and started the first class of evaluation week by rambling off a list of rules that sucked out all of Effie’s passion to learn. All spells were to be performed outside in the designated casting area, which was a depressingly small section behind the classroom with metal training dummies burned black, uneven sand to stand on, and charred brick walls pelted from so many wild fireballs that the only color they had left was a mangled mix of orange and red near their ten-foot tops.
“If no spells are allowed within this room, how can there be so many fire marks?” Effie asked her instructor when class had finished.
“Because each teacher has different rules once evaluation week is over. Rules tend to be more lenient for the students in more competitive groups because those students usually have more control. This room is used by the Group Two students every year. As you can see, many spells have been cast within it. If you’d like more freedom within the classroom, I’d recommend trying your hardest to be placed in a lower group.”
“Aren’t you the one who decides which group I’m placed into?”
“Why, yes I am,” the teacher answered with feigned discovery.
“Any tips from a young lady like yourself?”
“Yes, don’t try to flatter me and don’t cast within these walls.”
Not a good start, Effie thought.
Class each day focused on a different spell to give the teacher a sense of e
ach student’s ability. The only day that was different was the third—endurance day. She’d heard it was the same for warriors—a brutal, four-hour test of fortitude, focus, and all-out strength. Her teacher explained it was designed to see how well they would perform in a battle, something Effie had been considering much more since speaking with Alex about war.
They were told when to cast a fireball, how big it should be, where it should strike, when they would get a chance to meditate, when meditation had to end, and when they were allowed water. To conclude the day, the students had to demonstrate how consistently and often they could cast incapacitating fireballs before exhaustion overcame them. If the students barely were able to stand before that, they certainly couldn’t after.
As was common of mages in general, there were far more women in her class than men. Magic was seen by most as a way to fight, and men tended to choose swords over wands. Swords were far easier to learn because anyone could swing one, but no one could use a wand without training. When she’d started learning about the different classes as a child, Effie had learned that women could never be recognized warriors, but she didn’t mind. She’d rather fight with fire instead of steel anyway.
She excelled in each spell they were asked to perform that week. It made her realize that if she didn’t place in Group One or Group Two, she would have to spend the rest of the year as she had during evaluations—bored and without enough excitement or challenge to distract her from all the thoughts that caused her lungs to tighten. It had been especially bad that week. She’d awoken each morning with a cough that manifested from her inability to find relief in each breath. It would get worse throughout the day. Not her cough—that seemed to go away—but her ability to breath. If there was nothing to distract her after class ended, it would start to feel as if sucking in air was entirely useless. No matter how much she took in, her body told her it wasn’t enough. Nothing in her life was more frustrating. It consumed her. Every thought and emotion was based on whether or not she could breathe.
