For the first week, Kiram’s anger inspired relentless study and defiant perfectionism. However, as the days passed, his energy faded. He found himself fluctuating between delighted discovery and lethargic melancholy. The classes he attended greatly affected his mood.
During Scholar Donamillo’s natural science demonstrations Kiram reveled in the new world of understanding that opened up to him. Brushed amber gave off sparks and dead insects twitched their limbs when shocked by those tiny lights. Leaning close to one of the scholar’s mechanisms, Kiram could feel his hair standing up on end; he wasn’t sure if it was from excitement or the currents flowing through copper wires. More than once the class had become a conversation between himself and Scholar Donamillo, while the other students scribbled confused notes.
He excelled in his mathematics classes as well. While his meaty classmates slumped in their seats, counting on their fingers, Kiram would simply hand his solution to Scholar Blasio. Often, as the scholar read Kiram’s work he took on a blissful expression, as if he were listening to a piece of music he loved.
After the first week, the little formality that had stood between them gave way to fellowship. Scholar Blasio delighted in Kiram’s quick solutions and would often grin and address him as ‘young Scholar Kiram’, as if he were a colleague.
He never received such a compliment from the lanky, scarred instructor of the war arts, Master Ignacio. The first time Kiram had attempted to wield a Cadeleonian long sword he had lost his grip of the hilt and sent the blade flying towards the master.
Fortunately, Master Ignacio’s reflexes were much faster than his gray hair and weathered face had led Kiram to expect.
Kiram had apologized and explained that he’d never used a sword before. The Haldiim were archers, not swordsmen. The first impression lasted, though, and now Master Ignacio only provided Kiram with a wooden blade and eyed him as if he were a reckless menace.
He pretended not to notice the snickers of his fellow classmates during the war arts demonstrations. When they overpowered him in daily practice he simply dropped his blade and stepped away, never allowing them the opportunity to gloat. This tactic frustrated Master Ignacio and prompted more than one speech on the importance of confidence and the crime of cowardice on the battlefield.
Only two other second years were as bad at swordplay as Kiram: Nestor Grunito, a plump youth who was obviously half blind, and Fedeles Quemanor, a tall, handsome, black-haired simpleton, who spent most of the class time singing the names of horses to himself. Master Ignacio often made the three of them practice together, while he focused his attention on the students with real promise.
Kiram’s distaste for war arts was only exacerbated by the fact that Master Ignacio often called Javier over from the third year riding practice to demonstrate perfect battle forms. Kiram scowled at the master’s obvious pride in Javier’s prowess.
Though, Kiram couldn’t help but stare when Javier countered one of Master Ignacio’s attacks, lunged past his defense, and brought the tip of his blade to the master’s chest. It wasn’t just his accuracy or audacity that fascinated Kiram; it was the pure beauty of his movements. He didn’t waste a single gesture or ever hesitate. He moved the way an animal would, utterly assured of his nature.
Kiram found his own awe aggravating and consciously worked at dismantling it. He decided that much of Javier’s grace could be attributed to arrogance. Of course he never hesitated or second-guessed himself. The man was probably incapable of conceiving of himself making a mistake.
“He’s terrifying,” Nestor whispered to Kiram.
“You can hardly see him,” Kiram replied.
Nestor squinted intently at Javier through the bristling mass of his sandy brown bangs. He wasn’t exactly Kiram’s friend but over the last two weeks they had grown comfortable with each other.
Unlike most of the other second-year students, Nestor shared Kiram’s intellectual curiosity. He asked questions in natural sciences, took the highest scores in their law classes, and clearly possessed the talent and inclination to be an artist. He, like Kiram, hailed from the port city of Anacleto, though Nestor’s father was an earl whereas Kiram’s father was the indulged husband of a very wealthy Haldiim merchant.
Nestor retrieved his delicate spectacles from their ivory case and placed them on the bridge of his beak-like nose.
“Still terrifying,” Nestor said as he watched Javier demonstrate a maneuver called the King’s Cross. “How do you ever fall asleep with him in the room?”
Kiram rolled his eyes. “Look, I know that no one is actually afraid of him. You don’t have to keep pretending.”
Nestor peered at Kiram through the thick lenses of his spectacles. “What are you talking about?”
“If people actually thought Upperclassman Javier was some kind of demon, why would they all hang around him at dinner or even agree to allow him into the academy?”
“He’s the Duke of Rauma. Who’s going to tell him that he can’t attend the academy?” Nestor went quiet as Master Ignacio walked past them. After the master was out of earshot, Nestor leaned a little closer to Kiram. “It’s not really Javier that people fear. He’s actually nice enough. My brother Elezar and he are best friends. But the white hell trapped in him is something else. You just haven’t seen it, that’s why you’re not afraid.”
“Have you ever seen it?”
“Once. When the royal courier came to confer the dukedom upon Javier, the white hell broke free. The instructors were able to contain him with muerate poison that time but last year…” A troubled expression came over Nestor’s round face and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Last year a stable hand was murdered. Torn apart. The headmaster denied that it was the white hell but everyone knew it was. Javier didn’t attend classes for two weeks after it happened.”
Kiram didn’t have a response for that. It was the first time that anyone had explicitly told him what there was to fear in rooming with Javier—he was quite probably a murderer.
Kiram was still wrestling with the idea at lunch, when he took his usual seat between Nestor and Fedeles.
The first day he had taken breakfast at the academy he had made the mistake of seating himself next to a second-year student he didn’t know. The young man had knocked Kiram’s food to the floor and hissed that he could eat down there, but not with decent men.
To Kiram’s relief and surprise, Nestor had intervened right away, offering Kiram a place with him at another table. The day after that Fedeles had joined them, though he had offered no reason other than singsong jumbled words.
The three of them were the only older students seated at the tightly packed first year benches. The majority of second and third-year students filled the long tables ahead of Kiram. Those tables weren’t any more attractive than the stained one Kiram sat at but service from the kitchen reached the other second-year students sooner and with better portions.
The tables at the far eastern end of the huge dining hall were a different matter altogether. They were draped with cloths and the benches were beautifully carved. Fresh air and bright light poured in through the windows just behind them.
One table was reserved for scholars, the war master, and the holy father. Kiram only saw all the instructors gathered together at the table on Sacreday when Holy Father Habalan read prayers over the evening meal. Otherwise, the scholar’s table was generally only half full. The remaining ornate tables belonged to students whom Nestor told him were the angels and devils of the academy—the brightest and most dangerous young men. Many were third and fourth-year students, who would one day be the lords of Cadeleon. It didn’t surprise Kiram to spot Javier there, attended by his gang of loud companions.
Nestor’s older brother, Elezar, always sat at Javier’s right. Like Nestor, Elezar possessed a hawk-like nose and bristling brown hair, but he stood even taller than Javier and was built like one of the rippling bulls emblazoned on his gloves. Nestor, by comparison, looked more like a fresh egg.
Already, several upperclassmen had coined the term, ‘stick and ball’ to refer to Kiram and Nestor.
Kiram frowned at his bowl of lumpy brown stew. Nestor had already finished off his serving. It was apparently the staple of first-year students’ lunches at the academy.
Kiram took a listless mouthful and swallowed. It tasted nothing like the dishes his mother’s cook would have served on a hot afternoon like this one. Briefly he reminisced over the cool cucumber slices, lemon wedges, and mint leaves that had flavored his last meal with his family. At that moment he missed the flavors of lamb and figs almost as much as he missed his parents. He couldn’t believe how he had taken the thick yoghurt and honey for granted.
Kiram glanced to Fedeles, who grinned at him.
Despite being quite simple, Fedeles made better company than most of the other students of the academy. He never tried to tease either Kiram or Nestor. In fact, he seemed only half aware of their presence. For the most part, Fedeles drifted in a smiling fog. Occasionally, he would look at one of Nestor’s sketches and name the man or animal pictured. He was particularly fond of horses.
“Lunaluz,” Fedeles whispered dreamily.
Nestor nodded absently and continued to ink in the horse’s braided mane. Kiram glanced at the picture. As a rule he couldn’t tell one horse from another, a fact that had deeply disturbed Master Ignacio the first day of riding class, but even he knew this horse. It was Javier’s white stallion.
Until two weeks ago, Kiram wouldn’t have imagined that there could be much difference between horses. Though admittedly the only ones he’d been familiar with were the nags that hauled Cadeleonian wagons and carriages outside the Haldiim district. The huge, glossy warhorses that the academy required their students to ride seemed like an entirely different breed of creatures. Between calculating gazes, sarcastic snorts, and immovable obstinacy they seemed to possess personalities that were as individual as their riders.
Like Javier, Lunaluz was known for his pride and prowess.
Kiram scowled at Nestor’s drawing. It seemed that everything around him today was set on making him think about Javier.
“Did it have to be Lunaluz?” Kiram asked Nestor.
“Lunaluz,” Fedeles echoed the name.
“He’s a beautiful animal. So is this big fellow.” Nestor handed Kiram the inked page that lay beneath his present drawing.
“Firaj.” Fedeles sighed happily.
“Really?” Kiram asked. In his mind his new horse, Firaj, was much more intimidating. His first day of riding he’d simply clung to the black beast’s back and prayed that the animal wouldn’t kill him. He had not made much more progress in the subsequent classes.
“He’s such a handsome old man.” Nestor smiled at one of the sketches of Firaj’s face.
“Handsome? I have nightmares about him.”
A loud burst of surprised laughter interrupted Kiram’s thoughts. Across the rows of wooden tables, he saw that several upperclassmen had clustered around Javier. Nestor’s brother Elezar stood among them, as did the future count of Verida, Genimo Plunado.
Javier held a water glass in one hand and a spoon in the other. He dipped the spoon into the glass and then flicked the water up into the air. A white spark flashed up from Javier’s hand as the water took flight. The droplet struck the tabletop as a small chunk of ice. Another cheer went up.
Kiram wanted to believe that this was just some slight-of-hand trick that Javier performed but he had seen enough of Javier’s magic now to acknowledge that the tiny white sparks that danced from his fingers were genuine. At some point Javier must have touched a shajdi and a little of its magic remained with him. But touching a shajdi was not the same as being possessed by a demon or having a door to hell inside him. It astounded Kiram that these Cadeleonians didn’t grasp that.
Elezar snatched up the piece of ice and crushed it between his teeth. He grinned at Javier and said something. Genimo Plunado shoved his thick chestnut hair back from his face and leaned closer to Javier. When Javier threw another droplet of ice into the air Genimo caught it in his mouth. Javier continued performing his trick, receiving smiles and laughter, until his glass was empty.
“If they like him so much, why don’t any of them room with him?” Kiram muttered to himself.
“You might as well ask why they don’t sleep in the stalls with their horses,” Nestor replied. “They’re afraid of getting kicked to death, you know. The horses wouldn’t mean them any harm but they’d just kick in their sleep and that would be it.”
“He’s not a horse,” Kiram replied.
Nestor shrugged. “Are you going to eat the rest of your stew?”
Kiram shoved the blue porcelain bowl to Nestor. For a moment Nestor seemed to wrestle with some indecision, then at last he slipped his drawing papers back into their leather case and helped himself to the stew.
“Anyway, they don’t all like him,” Nestor said quietly. “My oldest brother Timoteo hates him. I think Genimo does as well. But Javier is already the Duke of Rauma. Only one of the Sagrada princes could afford to make an enemy of him, and I don’t think anyone would want to face him in a duel. He’d eat their souls.”
“Feed them ice and witty conversation is more like it,” Kiram muttered.
He didn’t want to admit it but he was a little jealous of the clever chatter and friendly pranks Javier performed for his classmates. After only a few days of total silence he had regretted his declaration that Javier was not to speak to him. More than that, he resented Javier’s respect of his absurd demand. He knew it was all petty and beneath him, but he couldn’t help himself.
The evenings in their shared room were agonizingly quiet. And that was if Javier was even there. Half the time he didn’t appear until the night warden shouted for lights out. The nights he was alone, Kiram tried to believe that he was happy with the emptiness of the room and the opportunity to spread his cogs and iron cylinders out across the floor without criticism or comment. But the truth was that he felt deeply lonely.
To Kiram’s surprise, Fedeles leaned up against his side the way a dog might. Reflexively, Kiram petted his head. Fedeles smiled, his eyes focusing on something far away. He was a handsome youth and sweet natured. Kiram wished that there were some way to know what, if anything, Fedeles was thinking. Kiram knew Fedeles was older than himself but he seemed so childlike. The simplest things, like cheese or apples, delighted him. But he loved horses most of all. Kiram noted the irony in the fact that he, who was terrified of the beasts, was forced to ride them every day, while Master Ignacio only allowed Fedeles to watch.
“Nestor? Would you mind if I gave one of these sketches of Firaj to Fedeles?”
Nestor looked at Fedeles for a moment then shrugged. “I want to turn in the one of him running, but any of the others should be all right.”
“Which one would you like, Fedeles?” Kiram leafed through the drawings watching Fedeles’ eyes as they flickered down to the pages.
“Firaj,” Fedeles whispered as Kiram came to the drawing of the horse’s head. Kiram handed it to him and Fedeles crushed the drawing against his chest.
He sang quietly to himself. Strung through the lyrical murmurs of gibberish and horses’ names, Kiram suddenly caught a strange refrain and he glanced to Fedeles.
“Help me. Please help me.” Fedeles’ dark eyes were wide and terrified. His constant smile looked suddenly like a terrible grimace. Alarm shot through Kiram.
“Fedeles?” Kiram asked. “Is something wrong?”
Fedeles bowed his head, his unkempt black hair falling across his face, and Kiram thought he saw a shudder pass through Fedeles’ body.
“Lunaluz,” Fedeles whispered dreamily. When he lifted his face to Kiram’s his expression was soft, sweet, and lost.
The school bells rang out the end of the lunch hour. All around them students stood and gathered their belongings. Fedeles sprang lightly from the table, laughing, and skipped away.
Kiram turned back to Nestor, who was gulping down the last of the stew.
“Did you hear that?”
“The bell? Of course,” Nestor replied.
“No. What Fedeles just said. I think he was asking for help. You don’t think he’s hurt or something, do you?”
“He seems fine. I mean, as fine as he’s ever been since his seizure.” Nestor gathered his drawings and corked his inkwell. “He picks up phrases and things. He probably heard some one praying for luck with the next math test and was just repeating that.”
“Maybe,” Kiram replied. Fedeles had looked so stricken; it was hard for Kiram to think it was just some kind of mimicry. What if he was ill or in some pain that he couldn’t communicate? “What kind of seizure did he have?”
“I wasn’t at the academy when it happened, but my brother Elezar said that the hand of the white hell reached out and grasped him.”
“You mean Javier caused it?” Kiram lowered his voice to a whisper as other students strode past them.
“No, it was the white hell itself,” Nestor said. “Fedeles is Javier’s cousin and the white hell has a taste for their bloodline. That’s what Elezar says. And he was there when it happened.”
“Yes, but what exactly happened?” Kiram asked.
“It was three years ago, when they were all first years. Elezar and Fedeles were leaving Scholar Donamillo’s class when black sparks suddenly burst up, dancing across Fedeles’ body, burning into his flesh. Fedeles was screaming and thrashing as if he was on fire. The white hell was trying to get into him.”
“What did Elezar do?” Kiram couldn’t imagine what his own reaction would be such a sight.
“Elezar didn’t do anything. What could he do?” Nestor straightened his spectacles. “Javier heard the screaming and came running. He grabbed Fedeles and drew the hellfire off him. If you ever see Fedeles without his shirt you’ll see the scars where the hellfire burned his body. He’s been…odd ever since then.”
Kiram studied Nestor’s face intently.
“I’m not making it up,” Nestor said. “Ask anyone. That’s really what happened to Fedeles.”
“It doesn’t mean he doesn’t need some help.”
“If he needs help, Javier will give it to him.” Nestor waved his hand as if brushing the thought aside. “Javier doesn’t let anything happen to Fedeles. Why do you think everyone puts up with Fedeles running all around the academy?”
That afternoon, Kiram tried to concentrate on his work but throughout the fine arts class his mind continued to wander back to that brief glimpse of terror contorting Fedeles’ innocent face. The image found its way into each of the charcoal studies that Kiram produced.
At the end of the class the instructor raised one wiry white brow and inquired about the brain fever that had apparently burned away his sense of good taste.
Kiram apologized and promised to make the work up on his free day. In the hallway a few minutes later, Nestor simply handed him a few of his own sketches to copy.
“Thanks.” Kiram was genuinely touched by the offer.
“No problem,” Nestor replied. “I really liked the studies you did. They looked like those devil-haunted souls that are always carved into the underside of chapel altars.”
“Is that so?” Kiram pulled one of the piteously contorted faces out from his leather satchel. It didn’t strike him as anything like a holy image, but then he knew little of Cadeleonian iconography. Haldiim were not permitted in Cadeleonian chapels unless they were undergoing conversions.
“The eyes are too flat,” Kiram said.
“Yeah, but that makes it all the creepier.” Nestor grinned at the image. “He looks like he’s been lost for a hundred years in the sorrowlands and is turning into a wraith.”
“You want it?” Kiram offered.
“Of course.” Nestor took the drawing happily and tucked it away with his own, far superior works.
In history class, Kiram was far too occupied to think of Fedeles. It took all of his willpower not to argue with the doughy instructor, Holy Father Habalan, while he rhapsodized over the glorious reign of King Nazario Sagrada. Among the Haldiim, King Nazario was remembered as the Crowned Impaler. His rule had been a time of mass executions and public torture. His purges were the reason that even now huge walls surrounded the Haldiim district in Anacleto and archers still stood guard atop them. Haldiim mothers might pay taxes to the Cadeleonian kings, but the memory of Nazario’s atrocities ensured they would never trust Cadeleonian lords to protect them.
Kiram had no idea of how he would write an essay chronicling the king’s innovations without his writing degenerating to a string of obscenities. He had to bow his head just to keep the plump holy father from seeing his revulsion.
Afterwards Nestor asked if he was sick.
“Just tired.” Kiram forced a smile. It was difficult to look at Nestor and know that his ancestors were probably among those noblemen who hunted Haldiim shepherds for sport and impaled lovers for their evening’s entertainment. And yet when he did meet Nestor’s gaze, no such malevolence showed in his expression. Kiram felt his anger drain away. Nestor wasn’t responsible for his ancestry. He couldn’t help being Cadeleonian any more than Kiram could take credit for being born a Haldiim.
“I’ll feel better after dinner,” Kiram said.
“Maybe not,” Nestor replied. “It’s bean night tonight.”
They shared a scowl at the thought of the flatulence-inducing stew they would soon be served. Then Kiram smirked.
“Poor Javier.” Kiram smiled maliciously. “His white hell demon may well choke to death on the fury of my fart demon.”
Nestor responded to that with scandalized laugh and clapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit, Kiram!”
Nestor’s company buoyed Kiram through their riding lessons and dinner. Though when Kiram noted Fedeles’ absence from their table Nestor just replied that Fedeles did as he pleased, and more than likely, eating a sludge of beans didn’t suit him.
After dinner Nestor left to attend his upperclassman and Kiram found himself alone, pacing the vast corridors of the academy library.
Kiram adored the Sagrada Academy’s library.
Walls of knowledge surrounded him. Shelves abounded with rare texts, written before printing presses came into use, and displaying page after page of beautifully detailed illuminations. Filed among countless tomes lay treasures of unpublished scientific studies, penned more as letters between the scholars than as formal presentations.
Any other day Kiram would have been happy to pour over them for any details that might aid him in his project for the Crown Challenge. But this evening his mind wasn’t occupied with steam pressure or cooling chambers. Instead he kept remembering Fedeles’ tortured expression and Nestor’s offhand explanation of his condition. He thought of the white flickers that played between Javier’s fingers and his gaze fell upon the gilded spine of a book titled On the Nature of Hells and the Damned. What did it mean to be one of them? What kind of force was hellfire and how could it hunt a particular family? How could a script be legible only to the eyes of the damned?
Kiram took the book from the shelf and, feeling almost ashamed of his interest in Cadleonian superstition, he scurried up to the privacy of his room with the text tucked between two history books.
He cracked open the book and turned its ornate pages carefully, enjoying the leathery scent of the vellum as it wafted over him. Reading through the pompous language and gilded letters he soon discovered that many of the people described as possessed by the Cadeleonian priests would have been diagnosed with ‘dancing nerves’ by a Haldiim physician, like his uncle Rafie.
Again the image of Fedeles’ terrified grimace came to him. It hadn’t been nerves nor mimicry that Kiram had seen in his expression but terror and pain, and Kiram was now positive that Fedeles had been genuine in his appeal for help.
After considering the matter for a moment, Kiram decided that Javier would be the person to tell about Fedeles’ troubling plea. After all, Javier took responsibility for Fedeles. He would want to know this and only the pettiest of men would withhold something so important.
It would be a relief to put his pride aside and just talk to the man, and he couldn’t have asked for a better reason to do so.
Now if only Javier would make an appearance. Kiram glanced out one of the high windows. He knew from Nestor that several of the upperclassmen routinely went off academy grounds and rode down to Zancoda city to solicit the prostitutes at the Goldenrod Inn.
Kiram found it difficult to imagine Javier waiting in some dank tavern for his turn to dally with a worn-out barmaid. But there weren’t many other places he could be spending his evenings. Kiram had wandered the grounds on many previous nights and while he refused to admit that he had been looking for Javier, he certainly hadn’t stumbled upon him during any of his rambling walks.
Outside, the summer sun sank into the shadows of the surrounding orchards. Clouds glowed like beaten gold against the darkening blue of the sky. Maybe another half hour of light was left. Then the night warden would call for lights out, and the last roll would be taken to assure that all students were in their beds.
Kiram stood and paced the length of the room. Now that he wanted to talk to Javier, where was he? Probably having a big-breasted Cadeleonian woman scrub his back in just the way he liked.
“Kihvash,” Kiram spat the Haldiim insult as crudely as a salt merchant. He glowered down at the stables. Then he noticed a tall figure in the shadows. His hair was black enough and his skin pale enough to be Javier. Even the man’s height was close enough to have passed, but the way he moved was completely wrong. The figure shied back into the cover of ornamental hedges and then bolted wildly to a water trough. His arms flailed out, waving a piece of paper and then clutching it back to his chest.
It had to be Fedeles. He was already at the stable doors. An instant later he disappeared inside. Even Kiram knew that it would only take a few wild movements for Fedeles to spook one of the horses and get himself killed.
Kiram didn’t pause to think about what he should do. His common sense would make a coward of him and he knew it. Of all Master Ignacio’s lectures, it was the one Kiram hated to hear the most, and yet it fueled his sprinting legs and pounding heart as he raced out of the dormitory.