CHAPTER
TWO
I will not die today.
The words become my mantra, repeating in my head as Rhiannon gives
her name to the rider keeping tally at the opening to the parapet. The hatred
in Xaden’s stare burns the side of my face like a palpable flame, and even
the rain pelting my skin with each gust of wind doesn’t ease the heat—or
the shiver of dread that jolts down my spine.
Dylan is dead. He’s just a name, another soon-to-be stone in the endless
graveyards that line the roads to Basgiath, another warning to the ambitious
candidates who would rather chance their lives with the riders than choose
the security of any other quadrant. I get it now—why Mira warned me not
to make friends.
Rhiannon grips both sides of the opening in the turret, then looks over her
shoulder at me. “I’ll wait for you on the other side,” she shouts over the
storm. The fear in her eyes mirrors my own.
“I’ll see you on the other side.” I nod and even manage a grimace of a
smile.
She steps out onto the parapet and begins walking, and even though I’m
sure his hands are full today, I send up a silent prayer to Zihnal, the god of
luck.
“Name?” the rider at the edge asks as his partner holds a cloak over the
scroll in a pointless attempt to keep the paper dry.
“Violet Sorrengail,” I answer as thunder cracks above me, the sound
oddly comforting. I’ve always loved the nights where storms beat against
the fortress window, both illuminating and throwing shadows over the
books I curled up with, though this downpour might just cost me my life.
With a quick glance, I see Dylan’s and Rhiannon’s names already blurring
at the end where water has met ink. It’s the last time Dylan’s name will be
written anywhere but his stone. There will be another roll at the end of the
parapet so the scribes have their beloved statistics for casualties. In another
life, it would be me reading and recording the data for historical analysis.
“Sorrengail?” The rider looks up, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “As in
General Sorrengail?”
“The same.” Damn, that’s already getting old, and I know it’s only going
to get worse. There’s no avoiding the comparison to my mother, not when
she’s the commander here. Even worse, they probably think I’m a naturally
gifted rider like Mira or a brilliant strategist like Brennan was. Or they’ll
take one look at me, realize I’m nothing like the three of them, and declare
open season.
I place my hands on either side of the turret and drag my fingertips across
the stone. It’s still warm from the morning sun but rapidly cooling from the
rain, slick but not slippery from moss growth or anything.
Ahead of me, Rhiannon is making her way across, her hands out for
balance. She’s probably a fourth of the way, her figure becoming blurrier
the farther she walks into the rain.
“I thought she only had one daughter?” the other rider asks, angling the
cloak as another gust of wind blows into us. If it’s this windy here, my
bottom half sheltered by the turret, then I’m about to be in for a world of
hurt on the parapet.
“I get that a lot.” In through my nose, out through my mouth, I force my
breathing to calm, my heart rate to slow from its gallop. If I panic, I’ll die.
If I slip, I’ll die. If I… Oh, fuck it. There’s nothing more I can do to prepare
for this.
I take the lone step up onto the parapet and grip the stone wall as another
gust hits, knocking me sideways against the opening in the turret.
“And you think you’ll be able to ride?” the asshole candidate behind me
mocks. “Some Sorrengail, with that kind of balance. I pity whatever wing
you end up in.”
I regain my balance and yank the straps of my pack tighter.
“Name?” the rider asks again, but I know he’s not talking to me.
“Jack Barlowe,” the one behind me answers. “Remember the name. I’m
going to be a wingleader one day.” Even his voice reeks of arrogance.
“You’d better get going, Sorrengail,” Xaden’s deep voice orders.
I look over my shoulder and see him pinning me with a glare.
“Unless you need a little motivation?” Jack lunges forward, his hands
raised. Holy shit, he’s going to shove me off.
Fear shoots through my veins, and I move, leaving the safety of the turret
as I bolt onto the parapet. There’s no going back now.
My heart beats so hard that I hear it in my ears like a drum.
Keep your eyes on the stones ahead of you and don’t look down. Mira’s
advice echoes in my head, but it’s hard to heed it when every step could be
my last. I throw my arms out for balance, then take the measured mini
strides I practiced with Major Gillstead in the courtyard. But with the wind,
the rain, and the two-hundred-foot drop, this is nothing like practice. The
stones beneath my feet are uneven in places, held together by mortar in the
joints that make it easy to trip, and I concentrate on the path ahead of me to
keep my eyes off my boots. My muscles are tight as I lock my center of
gravity, keeping my posture upright.
My head swims as my pulse skyrockets.
Calm. I have to stay calm.
I can’t carry a tune, or even decently hum, so singing for a distraction is
out, but I am a scholar. There’s nowhere as calming as the archives, so
that’s what I think of. Facts. Logic. History.
Your mind already knows the answer, so just calm down and let it
remember. That’s what Dad always told me. I need something to keep the
logical side of my brain from turning around and walking straight back to
the turret.
“The Continent is home to two kingdoms—and we’ve been at war for
four hundred years,” I recite, using the basic, simple data that has been
drilled into me for easy recall in preparation for the scribe’s test. Step after
step, I make my way across the parapet. “Navarre, my home, is the larger
kingdom, with six unique provinces. Tyrrendor, our southernmost and
largest province, shares its border with the province of Krovla within the
Poromiel kingdom.” Each word calms my breathing and steadies my heart
rate, lessening the dizziness.
“To our east lie the remaining two Poromiel provinces of Braevick and
Cygnisen, with the Esben Mountains providing a natural border.” I pass the
painted line that marks halfway. I’m over the highest point now, but I can’t
think about that. Don’t look down. “Beyond Krovla, beyond our enemy, lie
the distant Barrens, a desert—”
Thunder cracks, the wind slams into me, and I flail my arms. “Shit!”
My body sways left with the gale, and I drop to the parapet, holding on to
the edges and crouching so I don’t lose my footing, making myself as small
as possible as the wind howls over and around me. Stomach churning, I feel
my lungs threaten to hyperventilate as panic seizes me at knifepoint.
“Within Navarre, Tyrrendor was the last of the bordering provinces to
join the alliance and swear fealty to King Reginald,” I shout into the
howling wind, forcing my mind to keep moving against the very real threat
of paralyzing anxiety. “It was also the only province to attempt secession
six hundred and twenty-seven years later, which would have eventually left
our kingdom defenseless had they been successful.”
Rhiannon is still ahead of me, at what I think is the three-quarters point.
Good. She deserves to make it.
“The kingdom of Poromiel mainly consists of arable plains and
marshlands and is known for exceptional textiles, endless fields of grain,
and unique crystalline gems capable of amplifying minor magics.” I spare
only a quick glance at the dark clouds above me before inching forward,
one foot carefully placed in front of the other. “In contrast, Navarre’s
mountainous regions offer an abundance in ore, hardy timber from our
eastern provinces, and limitless deer and elk.”
My next step knocks a couple of pieces of mortar loose, and I pause as
my arms wobble until I regain my balance. I swallow and test my weight
before moving forward again.
“The Trade Agreement of Resson, signed more than two hundred years
ago, ensures the exchange of meat and lumber from Navarre for the cloth
and agriculture within Poromiel four times a year at the Athebyne outpost
on the border of Krovla and Tyrrendor.”
I can see the Riders Quadrant from here. The enormous stone footings of
the citadel rise up the mountain to the base of the structure, where I know
this path ends if I can just get there. Scraping the rain from my face with the
leather on my shoulder, I glance back to see where Jack is.
He’s stalled at just after the quarter mark, his stocky form standing still…
like he’s waiting for something. His hands are at his sides. The wind seems
to have no effect on his balance, lucky bastard. I swear he’s grinning across
the distance, but it could just be the rain in my eyes.
I can’t stay here. Living to see the sunrise means I have to keep moving.
Fear can’t rule my body. Squeezing the muscles of my legs together for
balance, I slowly let go of the stone beneath me and stand.
Arms out. Walk.
I need to get as far as possible before the next gust of wind.
I look back over my shoulder to see where Jack is, and my blood chills to
ice.
He’s turned his back on me and is facing the next candidate, who wobbles
dangerously as he approaches. Jack grabs the gangly boy by the straps of
his overpacked rucksack, and I watch, shock locking my muscles, as Jack
throws the scrawny candidate from the parapet like a sack of grain.
A scream reaches my ears for an instant before fading as he falls out of
sight.
Holy shit.
“You’re next, Sorrengail!” Jack bellows, and I jerk my gaze from the
ravine to see him pointing at me, a sinister smile curving his mouth. Then
he comes for me, his strides eating up the distance between us with
horrifying speed.
Move. Now.
“Tyrrendor encompasses the southwest of the Continent,” I recite, my
steps even but panicked on the slick, narrow path, my left foot slipping a
little at the beginning of each step. “Made up of hostile, mountainous
terrain and bordered by the Emerald Sea to the west and the Arctile Ocean
to the south, Tyrrendor is nearly impenetrable. Though separated
geographically by the Cliffs of Dralor, a natural protective barrier—”
Another gust slams into me, and my foot slips off the parapet. My heart
lurches. The parapet rushes up to meet me as I stumble and fall. My knee
slams into the stone, and I yelp at the sharp bite of pain. My hands scramble
for purchase as my left leg dangles off the edge of this bridge from hell,
Jack not far behind now. Then I make the gut-twisting error of looking
down.
Water runs off my nose and chin, splattering against the stone before
falling to join the river gushing through the valley more than two hundred
feet below. I swallow the growing knot in my throat and blink, fighting to
steady my heart rate.
I will not die today.
Gripping the sides of the stone, I brace as much of my weight as I can
trust on the slick stones to hold and swing my left leg up. The ball of my
foot finds the walkway. From here, there aren’t enough facts in the world to
steady my thoughts. I need to get my right foot under me, the one that has
better traction, but one wrong move and I’ll find out just how cold that river
is beneath me.
You’ll be dead on impact.
“I’m coming for you, Sorrengail!” I hear from behind me.
I shove off the stone and pray my boots find the pathway as I burst to my
feet. If I fall, fine, that would be my error. But I’m not about to let this
asshole murder me. Best to get to the other side, where the rest of the
murderers wait. Not that everyone in the quadrant is going to try to kill me,
just the cadets who think I’ll be a liability to the wing. There’s a reason
strength is revered among riders. A squad, a section, a wing is only as
effective as its weakest link, and if that link breaks, it puts everyone in
danger.
Jack either thinks I’m that link or he’s an unstable asshole who just
enjoys killing. Probably both. Either way, I need to move faster.
Throwing my arms out to the side, I focus on the end of the path, the
courtyard of the citadel, where Rhiannon steps to safety, and I hustle despite
the rain. I keep my body tight, my center locked, and for once am grateful
I’m shorter than most.
“Will you scream the whole way down?” Jack mocks, still shouting, but
his voice is closer. He’s gaining on me.
There’s no room for fear, so I block it out, envisioning shoving the
emotion behind locked iron bars in my mind. I can see the end of the
parapet now, the riders who wait at the entrance to the citadel.
“There’s no way someone who can’t even carry a full rucksack passed the
entrance exam. You’re a mistake, Sorrengail,” Jack calls out, his voice
clearer, but I don’t chance losing my speed to check how far he is behind
me. “It’s really for the best that I take you out now, don’t you think? It’s so
much more merciful than letting the dragons have at you. They’ll start to
eat you leg by rickety leg while you’re still alive. Come on,” he cajoles. “It
will be my pleasure to help you out.”
“The fuck you will,” I mutter. There are only a dozen feet left to the
outside of the citadel’s enormous walls. My left foot slips, and I wobble, but
I only lose a heartbeat before I’m moving forward again. The fortress looms
behind those thick battlements, carved into the mountain in an L-shaped
formation of tall stone buildings, built to withstand fire, for obvious
reasons. The walls that surround the citadel’s courtyard are ten feet thick
and eight feet tall, with one opening—and I’m just. About. There.
I bite back a sob of relief as stone rises up on both sides of me.
“You think you’ll be safe in there?” Jack’s voice is harsh…and close.
Secure on both sides by the walls, I run the last ten feet, my heart
pounding as adrenaline pushes my body to its max, and his footsteps charge
behind me. He lunges for my pack and misses, his hand hitting my hip as
we reach the edge. I hurtle forward, jumping the twelve inches off the
elevated parapet down to the courtyard, where two riders wait.
Jack roars in frustration, and the sound grips my heaving chest like a vise.
Spinning, I rip a dagger from its sheath at my ribs just as Jack skids to a
halt above me on the parapet, his breath choppy and his face ruddy. Murder
is etched in his narrowed, glacial blue eyes as he glares down at me…and
where the tip of my dagger now indents the fabric of his breeches—against
his balls.
“I think. I’ll be safe. For right. Now,” I manage between ragged breaths,
my muscles trembling but my hand more than steady.
“Will you?” Jack vibrates with rage, his thick blond brows slashing down
over arctic blue eyes, every line of his monstrous frame leaning my way.
But he doesn’t take another step.
“It is unlawful for a rider to cause another harm. While in a quadrant
formation or in the supervisory. Presence of a superior-ranking cadet,” I
recite from the Codex, my heartbeat still in my throat. “As it will diminish
the efficacy of the wing. And given the crowd behind us, I think it’s clear to
argue that it’s a formation. Article Three, Section—”
“I don’t give a shit!” He moves, but I hold my ground, and my dagger
slices through the first layer of his breeches.
“I suggest you reconsider.” I adjust my stance just in case he doesn’t. “I
might slip.”
“Name?” the rider next to me drawls, as if we’re the least interesting
thing she’s seen today. I glance in her direction for a millisecond. She
pushes the chin-length, fire-red strands of her hair behind her ear with one
hand and holds the roll with the other, watching the scene play out. The
three silver four-point stars embroidered on the shoulder of her cloak tell
me she’s a third-year. “You’re pretty small for a rider, but it looks like you
made it.”
“Violet Sorrengail,” I answer, but a hundred percent of my focus is on
Jack again. The rain drips off the lowered ridge of his brow. “And before
you ask, yes, I’m that Sorrengail.”
“Not surprised, with that maneuver,” the woman says, holding a pen like
Mom uses over the roll.
It might be the nicest compliment I’ve ever been given.
“And what’s your name?” she asks again. Pretty sure she’s asking Jack,
but I’m too busy studying my opponent to glance her way.
“Jack. Barlowe.” There’s no sinister little smile on his lips or playful
taunts about how he’ll enjoy killing me now. There’s nothing but pure
malice in his features, promising retribution.
A chill of apprehension lifts the hairs on my neck.
“Well, Jack,” the male rider on my right says slowly, scratching the trim
lines of his dark goatee. He’s not wearing a cloak, and the rain soaks into
the bevy of patches stitched into a worn leather jacket. “Cadet Sorrengail
has you by the actual balls here, in more ways than one. She’s right. Regs
state that there’s nothing but respect among riders at formation. You want to
kill her, you’ll have to do it in the sparring ring or on your own time. That
is, if she decides to let you off the parapet. Because technically, you’re not
on the grounds yet, so you are not a cadet. She is.”
“And if I decide to snap her neck the second I step down?” Jack growls,
and the look in his eyes says he’ll do it.
“Then you get to meet the dragons early,” the redhead answers, her tone
bland. “We don’t wait for trials around here. We just execute.”
“What’s it going to be, Sorrengail?” the male rider asks. “You going to
have Jack here start as a eunuch?”
Shit. What is it going to be? I can’t kill him, not at this angle, and slicing
off his balls is only going to make him hate me more, if possible.
“Are you going to follow the rules?” I ask Jack. My head is buzzing, and
my arm feels so damned heavy, but I keep my knife on target.
“Guess I don’t have a choice.” A corner of his mouth tilts into a sneer,
and his posture relaxes as he raises his hands, palms out.
I lower my dagger but keep it palmed and ready as I move sideways,
toward the redhead keeping roll.
Jack steps down into the courtyard, his shoulder knocking mine as he
walks by, pausing to lean in close. “You’re dead, Sorrengail, and I’m going
to be the one to kill you.”
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