“Right. Because you wanted to be a scribe when you grew up.” He scans the Archives with an intensity that almost makes me laugh. As if there’s any chance someone is going to lunge out of the shelves and come after me.
“How did you know that?” I lower my voice as a group of second-years passes, their expressions somber as they debate the merits of two different historians.
“I did my research on you after I was…you know…assigned.” He shakes his head. “I’ve seen you practicing this week with those blades of yours, Sorrengail. Riorson was right. You would have been wasted as a scribe.”
My chest swells with more than a little pride. “That remains to be seen.” At least challenges haven’t resumed. Guess enough of us are dying during flight lessons to hold off on killing more through hand-to-hand. “What did you want to be when you grew up?” I ask, just to keep the conversation going.
“Alive.” He shrugs.
Well, that’s…something.
“How do you know Xaden anyway?” I’m not foolish enough to think that everyone in the province of Tyrrendor knows one another.
“Riorson and I were fostered at the same estate after the apostasy,” he says, using the Tyrrish term for the rebellion, which I haven’t heard in ages.
“You were fostered?” My mouth drops open. Fostering the children of aristocrats was a custom that died out after the unification of Navarre more than six hundred years ago.
“Well, yeah.” He shrugs again. “Where did you think the kids of the traitors”—he flinches at the word—“went after they executed our parents?”
I look out over the sprawling shelves of texts, wondering if one of them holds the answer. “I didn’t think.” My throat catches on that last word.
“Most of our great houses were given to nobles who had remained loyal.” He clears his throat. “As it should be.”
I don’t bother agreeing with what’s obviously a conditioned reply. King Tauri’s response after the rebellion was swift, even cruel, but I was a fifteen-year-old girl too lost in her own grief to think mercifully on the people who’d caused my brother’s death. The burning of Aretia, which had been Tyrrendor’s capital, to the ground had never sat well with me, though. Liam was the same age. It wasn’t his fault his mother had broken faith with Navarre. “But you didn’t go with your father to his new home?”
His gaze swings toward mine, and his brow furrows. “It’s hard to live with a man who was executed on the same day as my mother.”
My stomach sinks. “No. No, that’s not right. Your father was Isaac Mairi, right? I’ve studied all the noble houses in every province, including Tyrrendor.” Had I gotten something wrong?
“Yes. Isaac was my father.” He tilts his head, looking toward the area where Jesinia disappeared, and I get the distinct feeling he is over this conversation.
“But he wasn’t a part of the rebellion.” I shake my head, trying to make sense of it. “He isn’t on the death roll of the executions from Calldyr.”
“You read the death roll from the Calldyr executions?” His eyes flare.
It takes all my courage, but I hold his stare. “I needed to see that someone was on it.”
He draws back slightly. “Fen Riorson.”
I nod. “He killed my brother at the Battle of Aretia.” My mind scrambles, trying to harmonize what I’ve read and what he’s saying. “But your father wasn’t on that roll.” But Liam was—as a witness. Mortification sweeps over me. What the hell am I doing? “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“He was executed at our family’s house.” His features tighten. “Before it was given to another noble, of course. And yes, I watched as they did it that time, too. I already had the rebellion relic by then, but the pain was the same.” He looks away, his throat working. “Then I was sent to Tirvainne to be fostered by Duke Lindell, the same as Riorson. My little sister was sent elsewhere.”
“They separated you?” My jaw practically unhinges. Neither fostering nor separating siblings is mentioned in any text I’ve read about the rebellion, and I’ve read a ton.
He nods. “She’s only a year younger than me, though, so I’ll get to see her when she enters the quadrant next year. She’s strong, quick, and has good balance. She’ll make it.” The edge of panic in his tone reminds me of Mira.
“She could always choose another quadrant,” I say softly, hoping it will soothe him.
He blinks at me. “We’re all riders.”
“What?”
“We’re all riders. It was part of the deal. We’re allowed to live, allowed a chance to prove our loyalty, but only if we make it through the Riders Quadrant.” He stares at me in bewilderment. “You don’t know?”
“I mean…” I shake my head. “I know that the children of the leaders, the officers, were all forced into conscription, but that’s all. A lot of those treaty addenda are classified.”
“I personally think the quadrant was chosen to give us the best chance of rising in rank, but others…” He grimaces. “Others think it’s because the death rate is so much higher for riders, so they were hoping to kill us all off without having to do it themselves. I’ve heard Imogen say they originally figured the dragons have unimpeachable honor, so they’d never bond a marked one in the first place, and now they don’t quite know what to do with us.”
“How many of you are there?” I think of my mother and can’t help but wonder how much of it she knows, how much of it she agreed to when she became the commanding general of Basgiath after Brennan’s death.
“Xaden’s never?” He pauses. “Sixty-eight of the officers had kids under the age of twenty. There are one hundred and seven of us, all who carry rebellion relics.”
“The oldest is Xaden,” I murmur.
He nods. “And the youngest is almost six now. Her name is Julianne.”
I think I’m going to be sick. “Is she marked?”
“She was born with it.”
I understand it was done by dragon, but what the fucking hell?
“And it’s all right that you ask. Someone should know. Someone should remember.” His shoulders rise and fall as he breathes deeply. “Anyway, is it hard for you to be in here? Or is it more of a comfort thing?”
Subject change noted.
I take in the rows of tables, slowly filling with scribes readying themselves for work, and imagine my father among them. “It’s like coming home, but not. And it’s not that it’s changed—this place never changes. Hell, I think change is the mortal enemy of a scribe. But I’m starting to realize that I’ve changed. I don’t quite fit here. Not anymore.”
