Chapter Four

Blade Practice

They rode through open gates, massive relics of a bygone era.

The Grand Academy was in an uproar. Its courtyard thundered with the slow trout of countless hooves. The Dilgan Murderer, the Scarlet Apron, had struck again. Young lords, some donned in colorful wigs, shouted the news to each other as carriages came to a stop. A small army of servants ran to help secure safe passage—to hold open carriage doors, to usher the bewildered, to make sure all went unharmed in the ensuing chaos. Enk observed it all without comment, then it was his and Ilima’s turn to step down from their seats.

They were soon thronged by two classmates, narrow shouldered Dumuzi and effeminate faced Myron. Both boys had adopted the New Uruka fashion of wearing wigs that matched the hair color of their mothers, proclaiming to the world their noble ancestry. Unlike the women of the Second Estate, the men had no external token to mark them as descendants of the Holy Harlots.

“Did you hear?” the boys asked in unison.

“Yes.” Ilima slapped Dumuzi’s and Myron’s backs in greeting. “It seems everyone has.”

Enk stayed aloof, nodding to each boy in turn as the gray walls of the Grand Academy rose to swallow them into its labyrinthine depths. In centuries past, the school had been a convent for the Sophic Nuns and still bore the evidence of their former habitation. Religious iconography riddled the rim of thresholds, and the beatific forms of Holy Consorts thrust out of random slabs of stone, wings and features smoothed by the touch of countless hands.

“Something has to be done about it,” Myron said, brushing a false, blood-colored curl back from his eye.

Ilima sighed. “I was telling Enk the same thing, but, please, let’s talk about something else. Anything else. I’ve had my fill of the Scarlet Apron for the moment.”

The swell of rushing students dragged Enk along despite how he wanted to slow his steps, pressing him forward, always forward. His lungs labored for breath, though he tried to conceal it. The babble of background voices joined into a dull roar in his ear.

“What are your plans for tonight?” Dumuzi asked, scratching under his snow white wig. “I was telling Myron we should go out on a little adventure. Have some fun for once.”

“When do you two do anything but?” Ilima asked with a playful snort. “What do you think, Enk?”

Say yes.

Enk shrugged, struggling to maintain a disinterested expression as his lungs began to burn.

“We might go to the Pit,” Myron told Enk. “Have you ever seen a professional knife fight? It’s a thing of bloody beauty. The way the combatants move atop the sands, it’s like they’re dancing with death itself, each whirl and twist swinging them an edge from oblivion.”

Just for once in your life, say yes.

Enk thumbed the bruise on his cheek. Pain flared, a sharp line of incandescence. He grimaced.

“I’ll go if you go,” Ilima said.

Dumuzi rubbed his hands together. “I’m liking this idea more and more.”

“I’ll think about it,” Enk said, avoiding Ilima’s eye and Dumuzi’s infectious smile.

“That’s not a no,” Myron said with a laugh. “That’s what I call progress. First not no in four years. You know, I think me and Dumuzi might just corrupt you yet. Next thing you know, you’ll be joining us at the Lord-Governor’s secret orgies—”

Dumuzi smacked the back of Myron’s skull, sending the girl-faced boy staggering.

“What was that for?” Myron asked, holding his head, voice raised in incredulity.

“Stop spouting treasonous nonsense in public. Do you want the Blackcloaks to take you in for questioning?” Dumuzi glanced at Ilima and blenched. “Sorry, Ilima, I didn’t mean any offense—”

Ilima held out a hand. “No offense taken. Joking about the Lord-Governor’s rumored sexual depravities is not the wisest of pastimes, not even for the son of a Blackcloak.”

“Especially,” Enk added in a tight whisper, “not in the middle of a hallway filled with people who may know the man personally.”

“It was just a. . . .” Myron swallowed and lowered his hand from his head. Their little group had become an island in the midst of swift moving waters, drawing the attention of more than a few curious eyes. “Ah, we should keep moving. We don’t want to etch Professor Sarr’s scowl any deeper into his jawline.”

The young scion of House Gueye’s face twitched, but he kept his silence as they made the rest of the journey to their fencing class in relative quiet. They arrived with the last tide of stragglers. Watery light flooded the large chamber through its glass ceiling, making the fighting circles painted in the polished floor gleam with an ominous glare.

Professor Sarr was absent, but the students, twenty in number, remained mute despite that fact. They clustered in small groups beside a rack of practice blades, glancing at the doors with wary consternation.

Enk’s stomach pitched and rolled as he and his friends joined the rest of the class at the other side of the room, then hung up their sword-belts on pegs dangling from the wall. A few tight smiles were exchanged, but still no one spoke.

Enk closed his eyes, turned his face to the sky. Warmth teased his cheeks like heat from a low-banked fire.

Perhaps today would not be so bad. Perhaps—

The sound of shifting feet. He opened his eyes and saw Professor Sarr stride into the chamber, a practice blade clutched in his meaty fist. Suddenly, it seemed a vast bowl had domed the world in shadow, though Enk could still feel the sun on his face.

“Line up!”

Professor Sarr’s harsh voice cracked the air. His wrinkled coat was unbuttoned and food-stained, and a tangle of gray and black hair mattered his chin, but despite his unkempt appearance the man practically brimmed with the promise of violence, like a pot of oil left atop hot coals.

The students formed ranks according to their class standing, the worst out in front, their backs straight and their eyes staring forward. Enk shuffled into his slot at the head. No one spoke. No one dared.

Professor Sarr paced back and forth, scowling at all, but his eyes always seemed to find their way back to Enk before long. A twinge of sympathy fluttered through Enk’s gut. Professor Sarr had been a very different person only a month ago, but the pursuit of lust had deprived him of everything he loved, had stolen the lives of his wife and his only son. Now all he had was rage and regret like all those who fell into Mother’s web.

How could none of them see? Appetite only made one small, it did nothing but reduced men to fangs and women to gloomy hollows. To chase pleasure was to dwell forever among the shadowy fragments that slumbered inside.

Professor Sarr stopped. “Which one of you little kittens would like to be my sparring partner today?”

A rustle of fabric came from the back, but Enk did not need to look to know who had raised their hand. He clenched his teeth, as if grounding pebbles.

“Not today, Ilima,” Professor Sarr said with a half snarl. “We have to give others a chance to improve themselves.”

“But—” Ilima said.

“I said no!” Professor Sarr’s eyes narrowed into slits, slits that peered into seething magma. “Now put your hand down or I will do it for you.” Spittle flew as droplets of rain from a storm.

Silence.

Professor Sarr resumed his slow circuit, stalking left then right. Students flinched back from the mad ire of his gaze, and he seemed to take joy in this. “No other volunteers?” he asked.

Enk lifted an angry hand into the air. Professor Sarr thought to wound his mother through hurting him, but if he only knew.

“Ah, Enk, you surprise me,” Professor Sarr said, sounding anything but. “After last class, I thought you would be a little more hesitant to step forward.”

“Wounds heal, Professor,” Enk replied.

The man’s face darkened. “Yes, some do. Yet others sicken and fester.”

Enk strode to the rack of practice blades, clumping shut his jaw to keep his retort from escaping his maw: You would know, Professor. There was no need to provoke the man further, or at least that was what he told himself. Truth was he could feel terror crawling up the numbs of his little fingers.

“You may use a real sword if you like,” Professor Sarr said. “It’s not as if it will do you any good.”

Enk stiffened, forced himself to move past the peg with his sword-belt. He would not allow the man to goad him into stupidity. He hefted a practice blade from the rack and spun to face his tormentor.

“Very well then,” Professor Sarr spat, motioning to the closest sword circle, a ring marked with scarlet paint.

The young scion of House Gueye took his place across from Professor Sarr, doing his best to fight the wild panic creeping into his limbs. Wordlessly, his ashen-faced classmates girdled the fighting ring, eyes downcast, none so much as Ilima’s own. The dark-haired boy’s hands were knotted into fists at his side.

Enk caught his friend’s eye and shook his head. He would not have Ilima interfering—this was his fight, and his alone.

A blur of movement glimpsed from the periphery. Enk jerked his head back, felt the kiss of hissing wind against his cheek. A heartbeat that fell as a hammer blow. His blade rose, but it was a moment too slow.

A jarring impact to the thigh. Like a stool kicked by a hoof, Enk was tossed backward. He tumbled across the floor, gasped, struggled not to vomit. Panting, he watched as sunlight streamed around the eclipse Professor Sarr’s head had made of the orb in the sky. The man’s lips lifted into a tight smile. The voices of surprised children sputtered and hissed about the circle.

“I’ve warned you all before!” Professor Sarr roared, his face a mask of shadow. “Once you step inside the ring, you must be ready for whatever comes. Your eyes may never leave your opponent. Heed me. Never!”

Enk’s hand found the hilt of his dropped practice blade. Pain pressed into his thigh like a hot iron. He fought through it and pushed himself back onto his feet.

“Ah, Enk. Ready for more?” The older man’s sword swam out to touch where Enk was and would be, in a quick series of jabs and slashes.

Enk lagged behind, but despite his physical frailty, the Naunak bloodline still ran true in his veins, and the Holy Harlots had been blessed as well as cursed by God, a blessing that had been passed down to their sons.

He could see where each attack would land, but his body refused to grasp the places his noble blood allowed his mind to reach. He turned first one, then another blow. His thigh ached with every other step. His lungs burned.

He threw himself back, narrowly avoided Professor Sarr’s whirling slash, rolled across the hard floor.

“Not bad, Enk. That was almost impressive.” Professor Sarr’s grin transformed into a toothy snarl. “Almost.”

“You still love her, don’t you?” Enk staggered upright, spat blood-streaked phlegm onto the floor.

Professor Sarr became comically stiff and confused classmates shifted like gnarled tree limbs stirred by mountain gusts.

“Do you know what she did when she learned that your wife had murdered your son then herself after finding out about your affair?” Enk asked, panting air into his tormented lungs. “She laughed, Professor? Laughed as if it were the finest joke she had ever heard. Ask yourself, what sort of man would love such a creature? A fool. Only a fool.”

Professor Sarr imploded, sank in on himself, his eyes clanking shut. Tears streamed down his trembling cheeks, dripped off of his chin hairs.

Enk smiled.

The older man’s eyes opened, revealing red rimmed irises.

Enk took a step back, his chest clenching in panic.

No. What did I—?

Professor Sarr growled and charged through the intervals that separated him from Enk, his blade tasting the air before him. For an instant, his weapon seemed formed of the boundless void, so great was its menace.

Enk whirled, as if treading water. And the Professor followed him, turning with him, this way and that, his eyes dark with murderous fumes. His sword slid at angles, danced within circles.

Stupid! So stupid.

Enk’s blade cavorted its own geometry, drew ugly lines that cut through the neat. Each blow sent a tingle running up his hands, until his wrists throbbed in time with his terror. Great chains tightened across his chest and limbs. Lungs ached for lack of air. Eyes watered.

The flat of Professor Sarr’s blade struck Enk’s face, and the world spun as darkness swarm out to consume the margins. He landed in a jumble, his cheek pressed against the cool surface of the floor. From the corner of his eye, he saw Professor Sarr’s face contort with animal-like passion, saw the man’s blade lift above his own head. A killing blow. . . .

No!

Professor Sarr unraveled . . . as Merka had not so long ago, and his flesh become diaphanous, revealing the despair and rage that pulsed within—something dark that demanded the world pay in blood. Something with the vague scent of sulfur.

STOP! Enk shouted with his mind.

Professor Sarr swayed upon his feet, as if kicked in the marbles. His eyes went unfocused. The hilt of his sword slipped from his ink-stained fingers, then he followed it to the floor, clutching at his chest. Convulsions wracked his body, and bile foamed at the corners of his mouth. Screams swelled into being.

Enk pushed himself to his knees. . . .