-SIX
unes?” Xaden asks a few days later, leaning over my shoulder as I
sit at the desk in his room, practicing today’s assignment, a
triangular piece of torture that’s supposed to somehow boost hearing. He
picks up one of my five discarded attempts, burned into hand-size wooden
disks, and I breathe deeply, savoring the scent of soap on his freshly washed
skin.
A private bathing chamber is definitely one of the perks of sleeping in
his room.
“We’re the trial squad. I meant to tell you last night.” I take the delicate
strand of pearlescent power and bend it into the third shape in the pattern
Professor Trissa gave us for homework, then let it burn brightly in front of
me while I gently reach for another. Now that I know what to look for, I see
the flow of power clearly before me, somehow both solid and insubstantial,
glowing strands that flex under my touch. Seeing it doesn’t make pulling
individual strands any easier, though.
“I meant to tell you a lot last night, too,” he says, setting the disk back
down on the desk with the others. “But once I found you in bed, my mouth
was otherwise occupied.”
My lips curve at the memory as I form the next triangle, this one smaller,
and set it within the larger ones floating in front of me. He’s been gone
more than he’s been home, running the weapons from our forge to the front
lines near the Stonewater River and filling Tecarus’s armory. This trip lasted
an extra day when he and Garrick found themselves caught in an attack.
“Do you want my help?” he asks, skimming his mouth down the side of
my neck.
“That is…” My breath catches when he reaches the collar of my armor.
“Not helping.”
“Pity.” He kisses the side of my neck, then stands, leaving me to my
homework. Good thing, too, since I have class in a few minutes.
“This is why you left me that book in Navarre, isn’t it?” I take the next
strand and form the circle that should stabilize the shapes within and place
it around the rune. That should do it.
“I wanted you to have a head start,” he says, picking up Warrick’s
journal from where I abandoned it on the desk and thumbing through it.
“Thank you.”
“This is impossible to read,” Xaden mutters, closing the journal and
setting it back on the desk before walking to where his uniforms hang next
to mine in the large armoire.
I grin at the domesticity of it. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep it
just like this between us. “My father taught me.” I shrug, examining my
rune for anything I might have missed. “And Dain and I used it as a secret
code when we were kids.”
“Never pictured Aetos as the Old Lucerish type,” Xaden notes.
Picking up the wooden disk in my left hand, I gently move the buzzing
strands of power, pressing them into the disk. Much better than the last five.
“You put runes into my daggers,” I say, turning in the wooden chair.
My lips part and I blatantly ogle Xaden as he pulls his uniform from the
armoire, a towel wrapped around his hips. How did I not notice he’d been
basically naked behind me this whole time? Such a missed opportunity…
“Keep looking at me like that and you’re not making it to class,” he
warns, his eyes darkening as he crosses the floor and tosses his clothing on
the bed.
I force myself to turn away. Brennan warned Xaden that the first time I
was late for class because of my sleeping arrangements, I’d be back in my
assigned room. “You put an unlocking rune into my dagger, didn’t you?” I
ask, sliding all the disks besides the one I just finished into my pack,
ignoring Warrick’s journal, which mocks me from the edge of the desk.
“That’s how we got out of the interrogation chamber.”
“A variation of it, yes.”
Holding the best rune of my attempts, I lift my pack to my shoulders and
slip my arms through the straps as I stand, turning to face him. His torso is
still gloriously bare, but unfortunately—or fortunately for my schedule—he
has pants on. “Care to elaborate?”
To my consternation, he goes for his socks instead of a shirt.
“You can do the unlocking rune. It’s simple enough.” He shrugs. “I
added an element of need into the rune. So, you can’t walk up to any door
and open it just because you want to, but if the dagger’s on your body and
picks up on the need for a door to unlock, it will. If you’d made it up to the
forge at Basgiath, it would have opened to your need.” Sitting on the edge
of the bed, he puts on his boots.
“I had the key the entire time?” My eyebrows rise, and if I didn’t already
love him, I would have fallen right then.
“You did. Are you feeling adventurous with questions today?” A corner
of his mouth quirks.
I grip the disk and sink my teeth into my lower lip. The problem with
being happy amidst the utter chaos we’ve caused is that I’m terrified to ask
even a single question that might jeopardize it. “What’s the rune on the
stone you keep by the bed? That’s what it is, right?”
“Yes, a complicated one at that.” He sits up and reaches for the little
gray stone, then offers it to me as he stands. “There’s not a person alive who
knows how to replicate this. Colonel Mairi was the last.”
Liam and Sloane’s mom. I take the palm-size stone and study the
intricate lines of the rune. “It had to have been giant when she tempered it.”
“I assume so. She must have collapsed it to fit when placing them into
the stones.”
“Stones?” I look up at him. “As in more than one?”
“A hundred and seven,” he answers, watching me with expectation.
The marked ones. He wants me to ask.
“What does it do?” I rub my thumb over the blackened design.
“Did. It’s a protection rune, but it was only intended to be used once.”
He runs his hand through his damp hair and pauses. “As you get better with
runes, you can pull elements into them. Things like strands of hair or even
other full runes for locating things. Or protecting them. This particular rune
was made to protect someone of my father’s bloodline.”
“You.” I look up and hand the stone back. “You’re his only child, right?”
Xaden nods. “Each of the children of the officers were given them
before our parents left for the Battle of Aretia. We were told to carry them
at all times, and we did, even to the execution.” His fingers brush mine as
he takes the stone.
I damn near stop breathing, keeping my eyes on his.
“It was designed to counter the signet of the rider whose dragon would
kill them.” He swallows. “But it could only activate when killed by
dragonfire.”
“Which is the primary method of execution for traitors,” I whisper.
He nods. “I kept it closed in my fist—we all did—as we stood there,
watching our parents put into lines for execution. And the second they
were…” His shoulders rise as he takes a deep breath. “…burned, heat raced
up my arm. The next time I felt anything like that was after Threshing.”
My eyes widen, and I close my hand over his. “The rebellion relics?”
That must be why the swirling marks always start on the marked ones’
arms.
He nods. “Our parents knew they’d die one way or another, and the last
thing they did was make sure we were protected. I keep it purely for
sentimental reasons.” Leaning toward me, he kisses my forehead, then turns
away, putting the stone on his bedside table. “I like it when you ask me
questions,” he says, leaning over to grab his uniform shirt. “Anything else
you want to know?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to question why he didn’t tell me about the
deal he made with my mother and ask if it influenced his feelings for me.
But then he stands, and my gaze catches on those silver scars on his back—
“W
the scars she put there—and I just can’t ask. He told me that he’s loved me
since the first time we kissed. That should be enough. I shouldn’t need to
know anything more about the deal than what she said to me… Or maybe I
don’t want to, not if there’s any chance it could shake our relationship.
“Violence?” He tugs his shirt on and turns.
“Nothing else to ask.” I force a smile.
“Everything all right?” Two lines appear between his brows. “Bodhi
mentioned that Cat isn’t making it easy on you, and you’ve had a couple of
lightning strikes—”
“Bodhi needs to butt out.” There’s no chance I’m letting Xaden worry
about me before heading out for multiple days. Rising up on my toes, I kiss
him softly. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Disappointment flashes through his eyes right before he cups the back of
my neck and slants his mouth over mine for another blissful second, then
pulls back. “You’re close, but you need a directional cue for that rune.”
“My rune is great, and I’ll ask for help if I need it.” I kiss him quickly
just because I can, then rush out the door so I can make it to class in time.
The second I’m in the hallway, I lift the disk to my ear.
Noise rushes in. Bootsteps pounding above me, doors closing ahead of
me, people shouting beneath me—there’s too much input to make any sense
of it.
“I hate it when he’s right,” I mutter as I skid into class.
Naturally, Cat has tempered her rune perfectly when I get there, which
makes me almost want to ask for Xaden’s help, but he’s already gone before
I’m done with my classes for the day.
…
e’ve given you two weeks to figure out how to integrate
peacefully, and you have yet to do so, much to our
disappointment,” Devera lectures us the next week from the side of the
center mat, Emetterio and one of the flier professors by her side. The
sparring gym is only a fraction of the size of Basgiath’s—fitting nine mats
total—and it’s packed with every cadet in Aretia standing shoulder to
shoulder.
Including the fliers.
Until now, we’ve only been put together for rune lessons in very small
increments and mealtimes, which usually end with at least one thrown
punch.
“What the hell do they expect?” Rhiannon folds her arms next to me.
“We’ve been killing each other for centuries, and we’re supposed to what…
weave flowers into each other’s hair and confess our deepest, darkest
secrets all because they gave us a luminary and hiked a cliff?”
“It’s a little tense,” I agree, holding the conduit in my right hand and
rolling my aching shoulder, hoping it will forgive me for daring to sleep on
it wrong. I have a lesson with Felix in two days, and I’m cramming as much
power into the little glass orb as I can.
My power’s been flaring all too frequently, with the fliers hurling insults
every chance they get, insinuating that I dropped Luella to her death instead
of Visia.
There’s a clear divide in our ranks: a sea of black on my right and a
swath of tan on the left, with a wide strip of bare floor between us. More
than a dozen cadets wear bruises from the brawl that erupted yesterday in
the great hall between Third Wing and two drifts.
“Yesterday’s outburst of violence was absolutely unacceptable,” the
fliers’ professor starts, her auburn braid sliding over her shoulder as she
turns her head, addressing all cadets, not just the fliers. “Working together
is what’s going to make a difference in this war, and it has to start here!”
She turns her finger on the rider cadets.
“Good luck with that,” Ridoc says under his breath.
“We’ll be making significant changes,” Devera announces. “You will no
longer be separated for classes.”
My stomach pitches, and a mumble of discontent rolls through the gym.
“Which means—” Devera raises her voice, quieting our side of the
makeshift formation. “You will respect one another as equals. We may be in
Aretia, but as of today, we’ve decided the Dragon Rider’s Codex still
applies to every cadet.”
“And as their guests,” the flier professor says, placing a hand on her
ample hip, “all fliers will abide by it.” A disgruntled murmur rolls through
their half. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, Professor Kiandra,” they respond in unison.
Damn. That’s kind of impressive, even if they do sound like infantry.
“But we acknowledge that we cannot move forward without addressing
the hostility among you,” Emetterio says, his gaze shifting between the
groups. “At Basgiath, we had a method for addressing grievances between
cadets. You may ask for a challenge—a sparring match that ends when one
of you is unconscious or taps out.”
“Or dies,” Aaric adds.
The fliers collectively gasp, and the majority of us roll our eyes. They
wouldn’t last a day at Basgiath.
“Without killing your opponent,” Emetterio continues, talking directly at
Aaric before moving on, “for the next six hours, every request—between
cadets of the same year—for challenge will be granted. You will address
your grievances once on these mats, and then you will put them behind
you.”
“They’re going to let us beat the shit out of them?” Ridoc asks quietly.
“I think so,” Sloane whispers in response.
“It’s going to be a phenomenal afternoon.” Imogen grins, cracking her
knuckles.
“They’ve been trained to fight venin,” I remind them. “I wouldn’t
underestimate them.” When it comes to signets, we can blast them out of
the fucking skies, but hand-to-hand? There’s a good chance we’re
outmatched.
“You may only challenge one opponent, and each cadet may only be
challenged once,” Emetterio says, holding up his forefinger and lifting his
thick brows. “So choose carefully, because tomorrow, the rider or flier you
hold contempt for may be off-limits.”
Oh shit. My stomach drops. There’s only one reason someone couldn’t
call a challenge, but they wouldn’t…would they?
“Challenges between squadmates are forbidden under the Codex,”
Devera explains to fliers, then turns to us. “And tomorrow each squad of
riders will absorb one drift of fliers.”
Guess they would.
Anger flushes my cheeks, and Rhiannon and I exchange a perturbed
glance, which is mirrored by everyone in our squad, especially Visia.
“Note that I said absorb.” Devera stares pointedly at us. “You will not be
teamed up or partnered with. You will fuse, you will meld, you will unify.”
This goes against everything we’ve been taught. Squads are sacred.
Squads are family. Squads are born after Parapet and forged through the
Gauntlet, Threshing, and War Games. Squads aren’t merged unless they’re
dissolved due to deaths—and we’re the Iron Squad.
We do not bend. And we definitely do not blend.
“And if you don’t”—Professor Kiandra’s tone softens as her gaze
sweeps over the gym—“we will fail when it’s time for combat. We will
die.”
“We’ll take your requests now,” Emetterio says, concluding the lecture
portion of today’s festivities.
Lines form for those requesting challenges, and it doesn’t surprise me
that most of the queue is wearing brown. They have far more reason to hate
us than most of us do to hate them.
“We are the Iron Squad, and we’ll act like it,” Rhiannon orders as the
last of the line approaches Emetterio. “We stick together and travel mat to
mat with any challenge leveled on us.”
All eleven of us agree.
The first challenges are called, and I’m not surprised when Trager names
Rhiannon to come to the mat. No doubt he’s still pissed about the punch she
delivered on the flight field.
She wins in less than five minutes, and his lip is bleeding again.
The third-year leader from Cat’s drift, the stocky one with the necklace
of scars, Bragen, knocks Quinn unconscious with a punch combination that
leaves my mouth hanging.
Once Imogen is called to the mat by Neve—another third-year in Cat’s
drift, with short strawberry-blond hair and deep-set eyes—I sense the
pattern.
“This is about me,” I say quietly to Rhiannon when Imogen lands a solid
kick to the other girl’s head.
“That makes it about us,” she responds. “Please tell me you’re wrapped
and wearing your armor.”
I nod.
Imogen and Neve exchange precise, calculated blows until Devera calls
it a draw after they’re both bleeding.
“Catriona Cordella and Violet Sorrengail,” Devera announces. “Disarm
and take the mat.”
“Don’t do this.” Maren tries to talk Cat out of it, but there’s nothing but
determination in her narrowed gaze.
“Of-fucking-course.” I hand the conduit to Rhiannon.
“Why am I not surprised, Cat?” Imogen glares across the mat before
turning toward me.
“It’s fine. Predictable but fine.” One by one, I unsheathe all thirteen of
my weapons and hand them to her.
“She’s got at least five inches on you, so watch for her reach,” Rhiannon
says quietly.
“From what I remember, she’s quick on the attack and won’t leave you
much time to react, so commit to your moves. Don’t hesitate,” Imogen
adds.
“All right.” I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth,
fighting like hell to steady the nerves that have my stomach doing
somersaults. If I’d known this was where today was headed, I would have
acted earlier, maybe laced her breakfast with the fonilee I saw growing on
the ridge just beneath the valley.
“You’ve got this,” Rhiannon says with a nod. “You were trained by the
best.”
“Xaden,” I whisper, wishing he was here and not on the border.
“Me.” She nudges me with her elbow and forces a smile.
“Violet?” Sloane moves to Imogen’s side. “Do me a favor and kick her
ass.”
My mouth tugs into a real half smile, and I nod at her before stepping
onto the mat. Guess nothing unites foes like a common enemy, and for
some reason, Cat has decided I’m hers. The mat has the same density as the
ones at Basgiath, the same feel under my boots as I walk to the center,
where Cat waits with a malevolent smirk.
“Scratch her eyes out,” Andarna suggests. “Really. The eyes are the
softest tissue. Just jab your thumbs in there—”
“Andarna! Use some common sense,” Tairn snaps. “The kneecaps are a
much easier target.”
“Quiet time, now.” I slam my shields up, muting Tairn and Andarna as
much as possible.
“No weapons. No signets,” Devera says. “Match ends when one of you
is—”
“Unconscious or taps out,” Cat finishes without taking her eyes off me.
“We know.”
“Begin.” Devera steps off the mat, and I block out the noise around me,
giving all my focus to Cat as she takes a familiar fighting stance.
I do the same, keeping my body loose and ready for movement. If she’s
quick on the attack like Imogen said, then I’ll need to play defense.
“This is for Luella.” She comes at me with a combination of punches
that I block with my forearms, shifting my body so the blows glance off
without their full impact. It’s…easy, like I know the choreography. Like it’s
muscle memory. Her stance adjusts, and I jump back a second before she
kicks out. Connecting only with air, her balance falters as I land, and she
stumbles sideways.
Holy shit. She fights like Xaden.
He trained both of us.
Defeating a dark wielder begins with knowing where they rank in age
and experience. Initiates have reddish rings to their eyes that come and
go depending on how often they drain. Asims’ eyes fluctuate in degrees
of red, and their veins distend when riled. Sages’—those responsible for
initiates—eyes are permanently red, their veins perpetually distended
toward their temples, expanding with age. Mavens—their generals—
have never been captured for examination.
—VENIN, A COMPENDIUM BY CAPTAIN DRAKE CORDELLA, THE
NIGHTWING DRIFT
S
