None of them knows what we do, that an entire village of Navarrians was ransacked last night along the border and supplies looted. And yet, we’re discussing a battle that happened before the convenience of indoor plumbing was invented.
“Now, pay close attention,” Markham lectures. “Because you’ll be turning in a detailed report in three days and drawing comparisons to battles from the last twenty years.”
“Was that scroll marked classified?” Liam asks under his breath.
“No,” I respond just as quietly. “But maybe I missed it?” The battle map doesn’t even show activity near that mountain range.
“Yeah.” He nods, scratching his quill against the parchment as he begins to take notes. “That has to be it. You missed it.”
I blink, forcing my hand through the motions of writing about a battle I’ve analyzed dozens of times with my father. Liam’s right. That’s the only possible explanation. Our clearance isn’t high enough, or maybe they haven’t finished gathering all the information needed to form an accurate report.
Or it had to have been marked classified. I just missed it.
The first rush of power is unmistakable. The first time it forms to you, surrounds you with a seemingly endless supply of energy, you’ll be addicted to the high, to the possibilities of all you can do with it, to the control you hold in the palm of your hand. But here’s the thing, that power can quickly turn and control you.
—Page sixty-four, the Book of Brennan
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
The rest of November passes without mention of what happened at Sumerton, and by the time the howling winds bring snow in December, I’ve given up hoping command will release the information. It’s not like Liam or I can directly ask the professors without incriminating ourselves for reading what was obviously a classified report—even if it wasn’t marked.
It makes me wonder what else doesn’t make it to Battle Brief, but I keep that to myself. Between that and my growing frustration over my inability to channel—unlike three-quarters of my year—I’m keeping a lot to myself these days.
“Not entirely,” Tairn grunts.
“No comments from you, not after you almost let me hit the side of a mountain today.” My stomach churns just thinking about how far he let me fall.
The first-year from Third Wing wasn’t as lucky. She lost her seat during a new maneuver and ended up on the death roll this morning.
Rhiannon swings her bow staff, and I throw my weight into a backbend, narrowly escaping the strike. To my absolute surprise, I keep my balance on the training mat.
“Then stay on next time.”
“Start channeling and maybe I’ll be able to,” I counter.
“You’re distracted tonight.” Rhiannon backs off as I regain my balance, showing me mercy no opponent would during a challenge. Her gaze flicks across the mat to where Liam sits on a bench, carving yet another dragon, and returns to mine, giving me a look that says she’ll follow up later once I’ve been released from my constant shadow for the night. “But you’re faster than you used to be. Whatever Imogen has you doing is working.”
“You’re not ready to channel yet, Silver One.”
“As if there was ever any doubt,” Imogen calls from the next mat over, where she casually holds Ridoc in a headlock, waiting for him to tap out.
To my left, Sawyer and Quinn circle each other, preparing for yet another round, and behind Rhiannon, Emery and Heaton are doing their best to coach the other first-years we gained after Threshing while Dain looks on, studiously avoiding anything that has to do with me.
Per his recent orders, Tuesday nights are for squad hand-to-hand practice, because the full academic load we’re carrying, coupled with flight lessons and now wielding instruction for some of us isn’t leaving much time for the mat. A few of the farther mats are taken up by other riders with the same idea, one of which includes Jack Barlowe.
Hence why Liam refused when Ridoc asked to spar with him.
“You’re taking it easy on me,” I tell Rhiannon. Sweat drips down my back, dampening the tight-fitted tunic I chose while my dragon-scale vest dries on the bench next to Liam.
It’s not like he needs extra practice. He’s already taken everyone but Dain down to the mat, and part of me thinks that’s only because Dain refuses to be bested by a younger rider.
“We’ve been at this for an hour.” Rhiannon swishes her staff through the air. “You’re tired, and the last thing I want is to hurt you.”
“Challenges resume after solstice,” I remind her. “You’re not doing me any favors by holding back.”
“She’s not wrong,” a deep voice says from behind me.
In my peripherals, I see Liam stand, and I mutter a curse under my breath.
“Well aware,” I say over my shoulder as Xaden passes by our mat, accompanied by Garrick as usual. It’s impossible to rip my eyes away until he passes, though. Gods, I have it bad. “Go away unless you have something useful to say.”
“Move faster. You’ll be less likely to die. How’s that for useful?” he calls back, taking up a position on a mat closer to the center of the sparring gym.
Rhiannon’s eyes flare, and Liam shakes his head.
“What?”
“The way you talk to him,” Rhiannon murmurs.
“What’s he going to do? Kill me?” I charge forward, swinging my staff at her legs.
She jumps over the attack and spins, bringing the staff against mine with a crack.
“You’re likely to kill each other,” Liam chimes in, taking his seat again. “Can’t wait to see how you two function after graduation.”
