Chapter 17
Kai
don’t succeed at securing a meeting with the commandant. The
following day, however—barely twenty-four hours before the major two
week field exercise is supposed to start—the woman finally
condescends to gather everyone together on the parade grounds for a
briefing. Standing in front of the formation, I hold my hands behind my
back, my grip tight to keep from letting my annoyance show. I should have
been told the details well before now, then allowed to brief the troops under
my command.
Except these aren’t really troops and I’m not truly in charge. Not in this
world.
Born a few minutes after my twin, Autumn, I’d been the presumptive
future general commander of Slait Court’s forces since birth. Autumn, being
the heir, got the raw end of the deal—but she’s always played her more
difficult part with a great deal more grace and competence than I managed
mine. Even when I was still trying. My time in Slait’s military, attempting
to live up to the expectations of all five of my parents, turned into the first
in a series of many spectacular failures. But even at my earliest military
education, I’d been in charge of thousands of soldiers.
And now here I am, in charge of a hundred and twenty humans, none of
whom have even seen real battle. Hells, I’m pretending to be one of them.
Perhaps being treated like an adult really isn’t a fair expectation.
Commandant Ainsley stands before the assembled cadets, her posture
rigid. I don’t understand how someone like her produced a daughter as
caring as Rowan. Then again, my own parents managed to produce both
Autumn and me, so there is that. Balance of the universe.
“Tomorrow, you commence a two-week field exercise,” the
commandant announces with her signature cool detachment. I study her
closely, trying to find the similarities with Rowan’s features. They’re subtle.
The angle of her cheek bones, the minute gesture of the shoulder. Not the
eyes though. Commandant Ainsely’s are washed out silver gray, while
Rowan’s are deliciously hazel, a perfect complement to her chestnut hair.
The commandant lifts her chin—another trait she’d gifted to Rowan—and
continues. “You will be simulating a reconnaissance mission. Your targets
are waypoints set up in various locations, ranging up to a five-day march
from Spire East. Each cadet must check in to at least three waypoints, and
you must cover all waypoints between the lot of you. Maps will be provided
to the command cadre at the end of formation. Commander Grayson, you
may dispatch your forces as you see fit.”
Behind me, several cadets exhale in relief, probably thinking this a
navigation game. I don’t believe that for a moment. The Spire doesn’t
repeat exercises from year to year, so I’ve no idea what the commandant
has planned, but I know that she does nothing which doesn’t also benefit
her sister’s hold on power. There is more coming. There has to be. If
Ainsley is going to send a hundred twenty Spire cadets into the wild, she’ll
extract something from it.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, cutting through her theatrics. “But
reconnaissance is usually done in enemy territory. Therefore, what hostile
forces can we expect here?”
A mirthless smile crosses Ainsley’s face and I know I’ve hit the mark.
“You are quite correct. So make a hostile territory for the Spire we shall.”
She pauses for a beat, surveying all the cadets who hang on her every word.
“All non-military Eryndor citizens within the exercise radius have been
incentivized to hinder your mission. Spire East will pay out bounties to
them for successful engagements.”
“And what are the bounty rules?” I ask.
Ainsley holds up a necklace with a flat metal tag. “Each cadet will
receive one of these to wear, and be issued a unique codeword. The ‘enemy
force’ will be paid bounties in the amount of a silver mark for each captured
tag, a gold mark for each body of a cadet brought to the Spire, and five gold
for each cadet returned alive with the captor having learned their prisoner’s
codeword.”
The commandant lets that sink in before continuing, her voice
hardening. “Any cadet who permits their tag to be captured will be flogged
at the conclusion of the exercise. Those who expose their codeword will
face worse. We typically expect a ten percent casualty rate during the first
field exercise of a fusion year, but I do hope you will pleasantly surprise me
with better numbers.”
My stomach churns in disgust as fear permeates the courtyard behind
me. Ainsley’s acceptable casualties for a training exercise would horrify any
decent commander in Slait. And those are fae warriors with centuries of
experience on killing fields. But this is the way of Eryndor. Control through
brutality and fear.
Clever crow, Ulyssus remarks.
He isn’t wrong. This particular ploy is savagely clever in light of the
civilian unrest the most recent round of conscriptions caused. For less coin
than it would take to sustain a platoon, Ainsley just pitted the most capable
of the potential rebels into open combat with trained cadets. By the end of
two weeks, both the weaker cadets and the most active malcontents will
have been culled from play.
To top it off, the surviving cadets will have learned to kill any civilians
who rise up against the crown’s forces.
Ainsley continues taking questions from the group, answering each with
calm respect. As if all this is a normal way to train a military force and not a
calculated manipulation of a tyrannical ruling class. No, the hostile force—
Ainsley carefully avoids using the word civilian—won’t have a map of the
waypoints. Yes, the cadets should expect to be interrogated if captured. No,
none of the waypoints are outside the wards.
That latter part is damn unfortunate.
Once the questions are finally finished, the commandant dismisses the
formation to start getting ready. I stay where I am, though. I’ve learned her
body language well enough by now to know when she wants me to stay
behind.
“Grayson,” Ainsely orders, proving my instinct right. “My office.”
I fall into step behind the commandant, following her into the main
building of the Spire and through the doors of the office where I’ve been
more times in the past two years than I can track. Today, she barely waits
for the door to click before walking to the chessboard she keeps on a side
table. Whatever this is about is making her uncomfortable. Interesting.
I take my time joining her, taking the opportunity to scan her desk for
any information on the next auric steel shipment. Unfortunately, everything
is covered with exercise plans.
“Do you play?” Ainsley asks, motioning to the chessboard.
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Good.” Her hand hovers over the pieces until she picks one up
and rolls it between her thumb and forefinger. “Then you must be familiar
with this figure.”
“The king.”
“Indeed. It’s pathetically useless in assault or defense, yet it’s the one
piece most vital to the entire game.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You have a piece like that under your command, Grayson. Don’t you?”
“The alchemist.”
“Very good.” The commandant throws the king back onto the board, her
nose scrunching in disgust as it teeters precariously before settling.
“Lexington is little better a warrior than this wooden piece, and yet the
whole game still depends on her staying alive.”
“Agreed.” For once, I don’t even have to lie. This whole game does
depend on Rowan. Just not in the way her mother imagines.
“Then you understand the importance of bringing Rowan back alive and
capable of performing her magic. At any cost.” She turns her focus back to
the board and resets the pieces into a starting position. “All cadets must
check into three waypoints. Unless, of course, they die or lose their tag. Do
you understand what I’m saying?”
“If a cadet proves a liability to the larger war effort, a commander might
decide to proactively confiscate the cadet’s tag,” I say with an easy calm
I’ve spent decades cultivating. “The tagless cadet would unfortunately face
the flogging post as result, but the pain there is temporary. Death is not. Did
I get that right?”
The commandant’s focus stays on the chessboard. “It is important that
the Spire remain impartial in all exercises. All cadets must be treated the
same, with awards based on merit not bloodlines.”
“Of course, ma’am.” I know the drill. So long as the illusion of justice is
maintained, the orders issued behind closed doors need have no boundaries.
Does the commandant care about her daughter at all, I wonder, or is this all
about power? Would she be issuing these orders if Rowan wasn’t an
alchemist? For Rowan’s sake, I want to believe she would, but I don’t think
so.
Rowan matters to Commandant Ainsely because she is an alchemist.
Which happens to be the exact same reason she matters to me too.
The only difference—I’m willing to put in the bare effort to keep
Rowan from having the skin flogged off her back in the name of justice—
seems like a very small distinction in the grand scheme of things.
I’m as bad as the commandant.
But then, I’ve always been.
