Chapter 148 Syncopation

Dawn found Riven alone at the camp’s edge, tapping Overdue against his knee in an unfamiliar rhythm.

He opened the Counter with a thought, the branch hanging in the air like a door left ajar. The price sat beside it in plain numbers, enough to make a lesser man check his pockets twice.

[ Branch purchased: Syncopation | -1,800,000 RF | Balance: 27,306,600 ]

[ Effect: allies on your beat act as one | Enemy rhythm lags by a single beat ]

"Count it in fours," he muttered, tapping the spine of his sword against his heel.

"That is a lot of money to spend on clapping," Nix said from behind him, "I would have sold you the idea for half."

He drilled it once on the cold grass, feeling the world’s pulse slip while Isolde’s fresh stitches pulled tight. Seven faint threads of light stretched from his chest toward the camp, each one trembling with its owner’s heartbeat.

’Seven heartbeats... I can feel every one of them like a stitch pulling.’

Mara rubbed her breastbone, scowling, "I felt that, somebody tapped on my ribs from the inside."

"That’s the beat, you move when I tap," he said, "and nobody argues with the tapping."

They practiced once in the dewy field, seven people stumbling to a count only one man heard. Bram dropped the bucket, Nix walked into her own door, Cassen clapped on the wrong beat twice.

"I clapped on four, you said four."

"You clapped between the numbers, nobody claps between numbers," Nix said, rubbing her forehead.

"Again," Yukine said, "this time count it in your head."

Cassen glared at the sky, "I am counting... the number keeps changing."

"The count is four, it has always been four," Veska informed him, "I verified it this morning."

"I will knock the beat on the bucket, then nobody needs to count," Bram offered, tapping it with one finger.

"That’s better," Riven said, "now try it with swords in your hands."

By midmorning the road to the heart-grove lay ahead, lined with the King’s harvest standing in perfect silent rows. A hundred half-grown copies waited between the trees, their faces smooth as unpainted dolls, each carrying a stolen sword.

"The Pruners stand behind them, shears raised, formation intact."

"Then we don’t go around, we go through."

On the ridge above the road, Class One huddled with Ysabel’s Council, a dozen spyglasses trained on the small procession. Pryce sat in the front row with a brass telescope, wearing a hat large enough to shade three sulking cadets.

"I shall describe this failure to the Council," Ysabel announced, fanning herself.

"Twice, Madam President," Petrik murmured, writing it down.

Dorian stood apart at the back of the ridge, his notebook open to a page gone completely blank. He turned it, flipped to another, a third, each as blank as the first, save one ribboned page.

"Seven hearts, one tick," Riven murmured, "ready when you are."

He raised Overdue and tapped its spine once, a single tick that traveled down the road like a dropped coin. Seven hearts answered together, while the Pruners’ shears clicked a full beat behind their own intentions and cut only air.

"One," he said.

Mara struck on the downbeat, a black blur crossing the first rank before the nearest copy finished raising its blade. Riven struck in the same instant from the opposite flank, the two cuts landing together as one long ringing chord.

"I moved before I thought about it," she said, grinning with every tooth, "I like this."

"Two," Bram counted, bucket knocking against his knee, "three, four, and again."

Veska’s lightning filled the off-beats Riven left open, stitching bolts between each of his swings like grace notes. Nix’s doors opened exactly where his next step would land, carrying him across the field without a stumble.

"Next step is mine," she sang from behind a swinging door, "do not argue with the door."

"I’m not arguing, I’m being delivered," Riven said, stepping through it mid-stride.

"Lightning on the off-beat," Veska called across the field, "authorized, applied and logged in triplicate."

"Upbeat, upbeat, hold still on the downbeat," Isolde muttered, needle already flying.

Every click of the Pruners’ shears landed a beat late, the cuts meant for allies falling on bare grass. Cadets who dared watch from the ridge saw only a clumsy enemy, always one step behind the dancers below.

"Freeze them on my rests," he called over the clamor, "not a half beat before."

Yukine froze every copy on his rests, silence arriving as ice that cracked on the next downbeat. Isolde stitched stamina into him on every upbeat, red thread flashing through his sleeves faster than breathing.

’A few months ago I’d have called this impossible... a few months ago I was dying alone.’

Lucas stood at the rear of the line, speaking his witness aloud so the light would find Cassen. Each word settled on the blade like frost, turning the dull edge into a bar of morning sun.

"Ice lands on the rest, never before it," Yukine said coolly, "learn the difference."

"I witness: the hero swings on four, the hero’s blade is true."

"On four," Cassen breathed, "finally, a number that stays still—"

Bram held the count with his bucket, knocking a pulse that told allies where the next beat lived. Cassen’s Dawnblade, lit by Lucas’s quiet witness rather than a crowd, fell on the four, splitting the line.

The harvest scattered at last, copies dropping their swords and fleeing toward the trees.

The Pruners broke ranks next, shears dropping from slack fingers as their rhythm collapsed beyond all possible repair. They melted back into the trees like ink into paper, leaving the road wide open to the heart-grove.

"Verified: seven on beat, no casualties, one bucket slightly dented."

"Nice swing out there, golden boy," Riven told Cassen, clapping his shoulder.

"I would say thank you, but I do not want it to be weird."

On the ridge, Pryce’s telescope slipped from his fingers and rolled down the slope, clanging against every rock. Beside him Ysabel’s fan stopped mid-flutter, the entire Council staring down at the cleared road in total silence.

"That is not possible," Ormond whispered, "they are using each other."

"I bet against Zero for a whole week," Tamsin said weakly, "I would like my silver back."

"The compost class just cleared a Margin army," Sorrel whispered, "in time."

"I will need a larger vocabulary to describe this to the Council," Ysabel said faintly.

"Once will do, Madam President," Petrik whispered, "twice might cause an incident."

"Someone fetch me a chair... a larger chair, if the Academy owns one."

[ Allies on beat: 7 ]

[ The music now has more than one player ]

Riven walked the center of the road at an easy stroll, Overdue ticking against his shoulder like a patient clock. Behind him the fallen copies lay in rows, their stolen swords melting slowly into shining puddles of pale morning light.

’Everyone’s staring at the compost class... good, let them stare.’

"Seven on beat," Yukine said, falling in beside him, "your debt to arithmetic is paid."

"Eight, I am counting myself," Lucas corrected quietly.

"Eight, then," Riven said, smiling, "I’ll ask the Counter to update the paperwork."

"The bucket is fine," Bram added, patting the dent, "it has been dented before."

The road to the heart-grove lay clear, littered with dropped swords, leading to a figure waiting at its end. The copy stood alone, sword pointed at the dirt, watching them approach with the patience of a closed door.