Chapter 8: Outside the Door

Chapter 8: Outside the Door

Silas was awake before the alarm.

He took Kerr’s medicine, finished one bowl of porridge, and forced down most of a second. His hands were steady after a night inside the room. His legs felt reliable enough to carry him across campus if he took his time.

The academy uniform came first. Over it, he wore the original’s dark coat with the Rooke pin fixed at the collar. The barony was too minor to impress anyone important at Crownless Academy, but the name still bought distance from students who preferred easier trouble.

In the mirror, he looked ill and expensive.

Good enough.

Silas put water and another dose of medicine into his satchel. At the door, his hand stayed on the latch while he reviewed the route one final time.

Down the corridor. Stairs. Two courtyards. West practice yard.

Open the door.

He did.

The residence released him as he crossed the frame. His body grew heavier, and the faint pressure in his chest returned at once. He had expected both.

Then a door opened behind him.

Silas turned so quickly that his shoulder struck the wall.

A first-year stepped into the corridor with a satchel under one arm. The boy paused when he recognized Silas, lowered his gaze, and walked toward the stairs without speaking.

Silas stayed against the wall until he was gone.

The corridor looked exactly as it had from the doorway: six rooms, two lamps, a narrow runner, and the stairs at the far end. He listened to the boy’s footsteps fade down the stairs. Inside the studio, he would have known where his own feet were in relation to every piece of furniture. Here he had to look where he was going. Even the studio at his back had disappeared from his awareness.

Normal people manage this every day.

Normal people had not spent two weeks knowing whenever a drop of water gathered at a faucet.

He walked with the wall on his right and disliked every closed door along the way.

The academy grounds were already crowded. Students crossed the eastern courtyard in groups, carrying weapons, books, breakfast, and conversations Silas could not follow. Someone had opened a hot-bun cart near the arch. The smell reminded him that two bowls of porridge had not been enough to make him enjoy two bowls of porridge.

He kept beneath the colonnade where fewer people could come up behind him.

Some students recognized him. A pair of first-years separated to let him pass. A girl with a training staff saw the Rooke pin and looked away. Behind him, someone whispered his name, followed by a less careful, "That’s him?"

Silas continued at the same pace. By the western arch, his breathing had shortened, and sweat had gathered beneath the collar of his coat. He stopped in the shade with one hand on the stone and pretended to study the practice grounds.

Two hundred paces. Impressive work.

The west yard was an oval of raked sand enclosed by a low wall. Practice weapons filled racks along one side, while tables and a scoring frame had been arranged at the other. Seven students waited near the entrance with an instructor.

"Rooke?" The instructor checked his name on her slate. "I have your medical restrictions. Has anything changed since Kerr’s last report?"

"Walking here was unpleasant," Silas said.

"Chest pain?"

"The usual. It’s easing."

"Stay here a minute, then. Tell me if it gets worse." She turned toward the other students. "I’m Instructor Ferrow. Cohort Seventeen has three stages this morning: movement, Talent control, and paired combat. The results determine your training requirements. You’ll all receive individual scores."

She was in her forties, broad through the shoulders, with a scar cutting through one eyebrow. She checked the yard while she spoke, catching an assistant’s attention and pointing to a loose rope before calling the next name.

Silas joined the line.

A heavy-shouldered boy near the middle had recently come out of an arm sling. Beside him stood a girl in expensive practice leathers who favored her left ankle. She looked at Silas long enough to make it clear she knew his reputation, although he could not remember hers.

Alden Cross stood at the far end.

Silas had watched him through a screen often enough to expect someone larger. In person, Alden was a little shorter than him, with badly cut brown hair and old practice marks across his hands. His uniform was clean but plain. Nothing about him suggested the protagonist of a game that ended with nations depending on him.

He looked healthy. Silas resented him for that before he could stop himself.

Alden noticed him and inclined his head.

"Young Master Rooke."

Silas nearly returned the nod. Then he remembered standing over this boy in the game, dragging him through the sand for an audience.

"Cross," he said.

Alden waited a moment. Silas looked toward Ferrow until the opportunity to say anything else had passed.

"Movement first," Ferrow called. "Boots on the line."

The circuit ran four hundred paces over sand and included a wall, a rope, a balance beam, and a weighted carry. Each student received one timed attempt and could request a second.

Silas knew before starting that one attempt would be plenty.

His chest began tightening around the second turn. He climbed the wall slowly, relying on foot placements remembered by the body, and took the rope hand over hand. Two students fell from the beam by trying to recover lost time. Silas crossed it carefully and reached the weighted carry with nothing left in his arms.

The weight made it to the line. He set it down before it could take him with it.

Ferrow watched him bend over with his hands on his knees.

"Do you need the healer?" Ferrow asked.

"Give me a minute."

She waited while he straightened. "You’re entitled to another attempt once you’ve recovered."

"One is enough," Silas said.

Ferrow recorded the time and directed him to the water table.

He finished seventh of eight. Alden placed second behind the broad boy with the healing arm and declined another run.

When everyone had finished, Ferrow called Silas over.

"Your endurance is last by a fair distance," she said. "Your route choices were sensible, and your technique is better than your time. I’m recording all three."

"Seventh," Silas said. "I saw."

"That’s the overall time. I’m telling you which part needs work." Ferrow showed him the separate columns, then called the next student over.

The Talent-control assessment used three tables instead of a measuring stone. Ferrow placed five wooden blocks beside a slotted frame, then set out a length of chain, three clay bowls, and a water jug.

"Move the blocks through the frame without touching the sides. Hold two objects off the ground while moving a third. Last, carry a filled bowl between the marked squares without spilling. You may use any Talent or method available to you. Time matters. Damage matters more."

The girl with the injured ankle carried the blocks by hand, using short bursts of air to propel herself between positions. The first four passed cleanly through the frame. On the fifth, she stopped too sharply and struck its corner against the slot. The broad boy had a strength Talent and struggled to find a useful application for it. A quiet student who produced light completed part of the course by hand.

Alden went before Silas.

He carried the first block through the frame and clipped one corner. The second attempt was cleaner. By the fourth block, his hand followed the slot without touching it.

Second Attempt was already correcting him, but the assessment kept the time he had lost to those early mistakes.

Alden finished with his jaw tight and stepped away from the table.

"Rooke," Ferrow said.

Silas took his place.

All five blocks rose together. He guided them through the frame one at a time, turning each to match the slot before setting it into the rack. The first clicked into place, then the second. He kept the line moving slowly enough that none touched the sides.

For the next task, two blocks remained motionless at chest height while the chain lifted from the table and coiled between them. Holding and moving were separate intentions now. A week ago, he had needed a needle and thread to understand that.

The bowl came last. He spread his grip around the clay, lifted it from the first square, and carried it across. The water trembled once and settled before he set the bowl down.

Ferrow filled it to the brim.

"Again."

Silas repeated the exercise without spilling.

Ferrow checked her slate. "Your file says C-Rank Remote Grasp."

"Yes," Silas said. "Is there a problem?"

"No. This is considerably better than your earlier work." Ferrow entered the result. "Second overall in control. Your precision is the best I’ve seen this month, though you gave up some time to get it."

Silas stepped away, trying to keep the smile off his face. He had expected to do well at something he had practiced all week. Hearing it aloud still felt good. The girl with the injured ankle watched him openly now. The broad boy folded his arms. Alden studied the wooden rack as though it had personally offended him.

Ferrow waited for the assistants to clear the tables, then read the combat pairings from her slate.

"Pairs are based on adjacent combined results. Ostley and Varn. Duforte and Hale. Merrick and Sabb."

Silas had placed near the bottom in movement and near the top in control. Alden had done almost exactly the reverse.

"Rooke and Cross."

The memory arrived with the names.

The original Silas volunteering. Alden hitting the sand once, then again. The fourth pull failing, Alden closing the distance, and Silas landing on his back in front of the cohort.

That humiliation had become a grudge that killed him in more than one route.

Silas looked across the yard. Alden was already looking back.