I’ve lived with pain my entire life, but this agony is beyond my capability to endure.
Soundlessly, I scream, air gushing from my lungs as I dangle from Tairn’s claw, the water forcing the heat from my body, saving me with the same pummeling blows that tear at my skin.
Tairn yanks my head above water, and I gasp for breath.
“Almost there,” he tells me, holding me in the rapids.
The water beats at me mercilessly but lowers the temperature of my body until the last of the flames in my bones extinguish.
“Violet!” someone bellows from the shoreline.
My teeth chatter as my pulse slows.
“There.” Tairn walks to the bank—I hadn’t even realized he’d been standing in the river with me—and deposits me in the long summer grass beneath the row of trees that grow along the Iakobos.
I lie limp, fighting for the energy to take my next breath as my heart beats slower and slower. Summoning all my energy, I force my lungs to expand, to draw in air.
“Violet!” Imogen calls out from somewhere to the right, then falls to her knees beside me a moment later. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Too. Many. Strikes.” A rough blanket lands on my shoulders as I shake, water dripping from my nose, my chin, the unbuttoned edges of my flight jacket, which miraculously made the trip, too. Bone-shattering cold has replaced all the heat, but I’m breathing normally again at least.
“Oh shit.” Bodhi settles at my other side, reaching for my shoulders, then retreating.
“You’re so…red.” That’s Eya. I think.
“Glane says it’s burnout,” Imogen says, her hand surprisingly gentle on my back. “Tairn called for her. What do we do, Violet? You’re the only lightning wielder I know.”
“I. Just need.” I twist to the side, my legs curling under me, the words punctuated by the chatter of my teeth against one another. “A minute.” I look up at the trunk of the familiar sprawling oak tree in front of me and concentrate on holding myself together.
“Cuir says she needs food now that she’s cooled down,” Bodhi adds.
“A green would know,” Eya says with certainty. “Food it is.”
“How did this happen?” Imogen asks. “Carr?”
I nod. “And Varrish.”
Bodhi’s warm brown face appears in front of mine. “Fuck.” He tugs the edges of the blanket closed around me. “This is because of Andarna?”
“Yes.”
Bodhi’s eyes widen.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Imogen’s voice rises. “He used your signet as a punishment for Andarna not showing for flight maneuvers?”
“That asshole,” Eya seethes, shoving a hand through her dark hair as she exchanges a look with Bodhi.
After a minute, I find the strength to hold the blanket myself. At least my muscles are working again. Longing rips through me as I stare up at the tree, its wide trunk, which I know bears the scar from two knife marks.
I want Xaden.
It’s illogical. He couldn’t have stopped Varrish. I don’t need his protection. I don’t need him to carry me back to the dorms. I just…want him. He’s the only person I want to talk to about what happened on that mountain.
“I think we need to get her back to the dorms,” Imogen says.
“I’ll handle it,” Bodhi promises, capturing my gaze. “This won’t happen to you again.”
“Tell the humans that I will handle dragon matters,” Tairn says.
“How—”
“You will trust me.” It’s an order.
“Tairn says he’ll take care of it.” I rock forward and force myself to my feet. Bodhi catches my shoulders gently, wincing when I grimace. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
“Can you walk?” he asks.
I nod, looking past him to the tree. “I miss him,” I whisper.
“Yeah. Me too.”
No one carries me. They simply stay at my side, step by step, as we make our way up the hundreds of stairs that spiral through the foundation walls and back to the dorms, our footsteps the only sound breaking the silence around us.
Because no one wants to say what we’re all thinking… If Andarna doesn’t show up at the next formation, Varrish’s second punishment might just kill me.
“You get your running landing yet?” Imogen asks on Friday.
Sloane is thrown to the mat again, and we wince from the side of the gym, our backs to the wall so no one can sneak up behind us. Sloane’s back has none of that protection and is going to be black and blue tomorrow.
Unlike Rhiannon, who’s in here leading the extra sparring time she negotiated for all of our squad’s first-years against some others from Third Wing, Imogen and I are here in full uniform between classes for only one reason—Sloane—and her terrifying lack of skill. We were hoping to see that she’s improved over the week. She hasn’t.
“Tairn won’t let me out of the saddle,” I say quietly, like he isn’t constantly in my head since my near burnout on the mountaintop.
“I heard that,” he grumbles.
“Only because you’re listening.” When shifting my weight doesn’t help, I take a step off the wall to relieve the pressure on my tight, red skin. At least the physical remnant of my near burnout has dimmed to nothing more painful than a sunburn, but it’s annoying as hell.
“Strengthen your shields and perhaps you won’t require monitoring.”
“Not completing maneuvers? Refusing to bring Andarna to class?” Imogen gasps with mock surprise. “Aren’t you just becoming the little rebel?” Her gaze darts over my face, then drops to my neck. “Your friends still think you lost control during a training session?”
I nod. “If they knew what really happened, they wouldn’t leave my side.”
“You’d be safer,” she notes.
“They wouldn’t be.” End of subject.
“Keep your eyes on your opponent!” Rhi shouts at Sloane from the sidelines just as Sloane does the opposite, glancing down as she nears the edge of the mat, and that’s all her opponent needs, the first-year landing a jaw-cracking punch that sends Sloane sprawling.
Imogen and I both flinch.
“This is sparring, not a challenge! Come on, Tomas!” Rhi snaps at a squad leader from Second Wing.
“Sorry, Rhi. Pull it back, Jacek,” the squad leader chides.
“Damn.” Imogen shakes her head and folds her arms. “I get that Jacek’s channeling some serious anger, but I’ve never seen him hit that hard.”
“Jacek? Like Navil Jacek?” The second-year from Third Wing Jesinia and I saw hauled away by Markham was listed on the death roll a couple of days ago.
“That’s his younger brother on the mat,” Imogen says.
“Shit.” Now I feel bad for the guy, even though Sloane is in a similar situation. “I think Markham had him killed,” I whisper.
“Because he didn’t return a book on time?” Imogen’s eyebrows rise.
“I think he asked for something he shouldn’t have, and yes, I know that sounds absolutely ridiculous, but there’s no other explanation for him being found in his room, beaten to death.”
“Right,” Imogen muses. “That only makes sense if he’s one of us.”
To others, it fits in with what Panchek is calling a particularly brutal start to the year. I’m the only one in our group who hasn’t had another attempt made on their life.
“You’d better be really careful around your little robed friend if scribes are running out there ordering the death of riders.”
“Jesinia isn’t a threat,” I protest, but my words die in my throat as I remember that it was her report that got Jacek taken in the first place.
“Let’s end it,” the squad leader from Second Wing suggests after Sloane gets knocked to the mat again.
“I’m fine!” Sloane staggers to her feet, wiping blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Are you sure?” Rhi asks, her tone implying it’s absolutely the wrong decision, which we all know it is.
“Definitely.” Sloane takes a fighting stance against Jacek.
“Glutton for punishment, that one,” Imogen says. “It’s like she wants to have the shit kicked out of her.”