“Always something around here,” Ridoc adds.
“The other assessors and I will give you feedback during those trials, so by the time your full evaluations come around, you’ll be able to withstand—” He cocks his head to the side as if choosing his words carefully. “Well, be able to withstand the hell we’re going to put you through. Take it from someone who has survived it: as long as you don’t break during the interrogation portion, you’ll do just fine.”
Rhiannon puts her hand up, and Professor Grady nods at her.
“And if we break?” she asks.
All traces of amusement leave his face. “Don’t.”
With my pulse still racing an hour after Orientation, I head to the one place that used to calm my fraying nerves—the Archives.
As I walk through the doorway, I inhale the scent of parchment, ink, and the unmistakable tang of book-binding glue and let out a long, calming breath. Row upon row of bookshelves span the massive chamber, each taller than Andarna but not quite up to Tairn, filled with countless volumes on history, mathematics, politics—what I’d trusted to be all the knowledge on the Continent. And to think, at one point in my life, I’d thought climbing their ladders would be the scariest thing I’d ever do.
Now, I’m simply existing with the ever-present danger of Vice Commandant Varrish, Aetos’s threat hanging over my head, a secret revolution that could get us all killed at any moment, and now imminent torture from RSC. Kind of miss the ladders.
After five days of watching, Jesinia’s name finally appeared on the scribes’ schedule posted outside this morning, which means it’s time to get started.
Fuck not getting involved. I’m sure as hell not going to sit around and do nothing while my brother and Xaden risk their lives. Not when I’m certain the answer to protecting both Aretia and Poromish civilians is right here at Basgiath. The revolution might not have a scribe in its ranks, but it has me, and if there’s even a shot that we can win this war without the weapons the revolution hasn’t made or found, then I’m taking it. Or at least investigating the possibility.
Only scribes may continue past the long oak table near the doorway, so I stand at its edge and trail my fingers across its familiar grain and scars as I wait. If training to be a scribe taught me anything, it was patience.
Gods, I miss this place. I miss what I thought my life would be. Simple. Quiet. Noble. But I don’t miss the woman I was, the one who didn’t know her strength. The one who believed everything she read with unfailing confidence, as if the simple act of writing something on a blank page made it gospel.
A slight figure wearing a cream tunic, pants, and hood approaches, and for the first time in my life, I’m nervous to see Jesinia.
“Cadet Sorrengail,” she signs, smiling when she reaches me and flipping back her hood. Her hair is longer now, the brown braid nearly reaching her waist.
“Cadet Neilwart,” I sign back, grinning at the sight of my friend. “We must be alone to warrant such an enthusiastic greeting.” Scribes are strongly discouraged from showing emotion. After all, their job isn’t to interpret but to record.
“We are,” she signs, then leans to look past me. “Well, except Nasya.”
“He’s sleeping,” I assure her. “What are you up to back there?”
“Fixing a few bindings,” she signs. “Most everyone is off preparing for the new cadets coming tomorrow. Quiet days are my favorite.”
“I remember.” We’d spent nearly every quiet day at this table, preparing for the exam or helping Markham…or my father.
“I heard about…” Her face falls. “I’m sorry. He was always really nice to me.”
“Thank you. I really miss him.” I squeeze my hands into fists and pause, knowing that what I say next will either lead us closer to the truth…or get me killed.
“What is it?” she signs, biting her lip.
She’s first in her year. That means she’s probably trying for the adept path, the hardest of all degrees for scribes, and the one every Curator of the Scribe Quadrant has to have. It means not only does she spend more time with Markham than other scribes, but she’ll almost never leave the Archives.
Nausea grips my stomach at the very real possibility that I can’t trust her. Maybe there are no scribes within the movement for a reason.
“I was wondering if you had any older books about the founding of Basgiath? Maybe something about why they chose this location for the wards?” I sign.
“The wards?” she signs slowly.
“I’m prepping a defense for a debate in history about why Basgiath is here, instead of being built in Calldyr.” And there it is, my first real lie. There’s nothing selectively true in that statement. Nor any way to take it back. For better or worse, I am committed now to my own cause—saving as many people as I can from this war.
“Sure.” She smiles. “Wait here.”
“Thank you.”
Ten minutes later, she hands over two tomes written more than a hundred years ago, and I thank her again before leaving. The answer to protecting Aretia is in the Archives. It has to be. I just have to find it before not even the wards can save us.
It is one thing to cross the parapet your first year.
But watching countless candidates lose their life to it feels a little like dying, too.
Don’t watch if you can help it.
—PAGE EIGHTY-FOUR, THE BOOK OF BRENNAN
CHAPTER EIGHT
Conscription Day looks a little different on this side of it. I lean over the crenelations of the tower in the main war college and take note of the length of the line as the bells ring the ninth hour, but I avoid noticing the features of the individual candidates as they file in, starting up the long, winding staircase that will bring them to the parapet.
