The fact that she calls it a room and not rooms lets me know no one is really talking.
“All we can tell you is the same advice you’ve already been given. Don’t break,” Rhiannon tells them.
“Stick together,” I add, holding Caroline’s gaze even when she narrows it on me.
“Shouldn’t you all be in Battle Brief?” Bodhi asks, his voice booming as he comes up behind us. One look sends the other squads scurrying for the door.
“Tairn told me he felt Sgaeyl get very angry last night,” I say over my shoulder to Bodhi as we continue walking. “Anything I should know about?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” We separate as we walk through the wide double doors into the briefing room.
My squadmates and I start down the steps, but something is off. The usual hum of the briefing room is approaching a roar of murmurs and outright exclamations as cadets pick up what look to be leaflets lying on every seat.
“What’s happening?” Ridoc asks.
“Not sure,” I answer as we bypass the first cadets in our row and find our way to our seats.
I pick up the half sheet of parchment on my chair and flip it over as my squadmates do the same.
My knees weaken as I read the headline.
ZOLYA FALLS TO DRAGON FIRE
THE THIRD LARGEST CITY IN THE BRAEVICK PROVINCE HAS FALLEN TO THE BLUE FIRE DRAGONS AND THEIR RIDERS. THOUGH THE CITY AND ITS DRIFTS FOUGHT VALIANTLY, THE TWO-DAY BATTLE ENDED IN POROMISH DEFEAT. ALL WHO DID NOT EVACUATE HAVE PERISHED. AN ESTIMATED TEN THOUSAND LIVES HAVE BEEN LOST, INCLUDING GENERAL FENELLA, THE COMMANDER OF BRAEVICK’S GRYPHON FLEET. ALL TRADE ROUTES TO THE CITY HAVE BEEN BARRICADED TO PREVENT FURTHER LOSS OF LIFE.
Two days ago.
My hand trembles, and I twist around toward the back of the room, my gaze jumping from one third-year to the next until I find Bodhi and Imogen.
“Oh gods,” Rhiannon whispers beside me.
Bodhi and Imogen exchange a panicked look, and then our gazes collide. What the hell are we supposed to do? Bodhi’s tense shake of his head tells me he doesn’t know, either.
Drawing the least amount of attention to myself seems prudent, so I turn back to face the map and slide into my seat.
“Is this real?” Sawyer asks, turning over the parchment to examine it.
“Looks…real?” Ridoc scratches the back of his neck as he sits. “Is this some kind of test to see if we can discern official proclamation leaflets from propaganda?”
“I don’t think so,” Rhiannon says slowly, staring at me.
But my eyes are locked on the recessed floor and Professor Devera, who has just been handed a leaflet.
Please be who I think you are.
Her eyes widen, but I only see them for a second before she turns to face the map, her head tilted back. I’d bet my life that she’s staring right where I am now, at the little circle at the foot of the Esben Mountains along the Stonewater River that marks where Zolya stands—stood. It’s maybe a four-hour flight from our border.
“Violet?” Rhiannon’s voice rises, like it’s not the first time she’s called my name.
“What is all the commotion this morning?” Markham shouts over the briefing room as he descends the steps. Someone hands him a leaflet.
“What do you think?” Rhiannon asks.
I glance from my squadmate’s furrowed brows to the leaflet and force the roaring in my ears to quiet as I make a quick study of the parchment. “Parchment looks like ours, but I’ve never personally seen any made outside the border. Typeset is standard to every printing press I’ve ever seen. There’s no seal, Navarrian or Poromish.” I run my thumb over the larger, scrolling block letters of the headline, smudging the ink. “It’s less than twenty-four hours old. The ink hasn’t cured.”
“But is it real?” Sawyer repeats his earlier question.
“The chances of someone hauling in all these leaflets from the border are next to nothing,” I tell him. “So if you’re asking if it was printed in Poromiel—”
My head jerks up, and I see Markham’s face blotch red as he says something to Caroline Ashton on the aisle. She jumps from her seat and runs up the stairs, disappearing through the door.
“It was printed here,” I whisper, fear twisting my stomach into knots. Whoever did it is as good as dead if they left any trace.
“So it’s not real.” Sawyer lifts his eyebrows, the freckles on his forehead disappearing into the grooves of his skin.
“Just because it’s printed here for public dissemination doesn’t mean what’s on it isn’t real,” I explain, “but it also doesn’t mean that it is.”
“We wouldn’t do this,” Sawyer argues. “There’s no way we send a riot to annihilate a city of civilians.”
“Attention!” Markham shouts, his footsteps thudding as he strides down the steps.
The noise doesn’t dissipate.
“If someone was trying to get news out, they’d send one leaflet like this to the printing press to be approved by scribes,” I tell my squadmates quickly, knowing our time is short. “Once approved, it would take hours to set the blocks to print unless multiple scribes worked on it. But this isn’t official. There’s no seal. So either it’s fake and printed for just this class—which is a lot of work—or it’s real…and not approved.” It’s exactly what I would say if I didn’t know the truth, and to be honest, I’m not certain this leaflet is the truth.
“Riders!” Devera yells, turning to face us. “Quiet!”
The room falls silent.
Markham’s at the front of the classroom now, his features schooled in a mask of serenity as he stands beside Professor Devera. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he was almost enjoying the chaos, but I do, and he’s rubbing his forefinger against his thumb.
No matter what he says next, this wasn’t his plan.
“Apparently”—he gestures to us, his palm facing upward—“we are not ready for today’s exercise. We were going to follow up on our discussion about propaganda, but I can see now that I overestimated your ability to judge a simple printing like this without hysteria.” The insult is delivered in unemotional monotone.
Suddenly, I feel fifteen again, my self-worth determined by this man’s opinion of my intellect and control.
“Damn.” Ridoc sags in his seat. “That’s…harsh.”
“That’s Markham,” I say quietly. “You think only riders can be vicious?
Words are just as capable of eviscerating someone as a blade, and he’s a master.”
“On the off chance that we actually did this and someone leaked the information?” Rhiannon asks, glancing my way. “You know him better than we do. What’s his next move?”
“First, I don’t think we’d target civilians across the border.” That’s the truth. We just won’t do anything to help them, either. “But if he didn’t print the leaflets, he’ll discredit, deflect, then distract.”
“As it is, we have two much more pressing matters to discuss,” Markham lectures, his tone still cool. “So, you will now pass all pieces of propaganda to the left, where they will be collected to discuss on a day when you’re capable of being rational.”
A ripple passes over the room as everyone hurries to do as he asks. I’m reluctant to let mine go, but it’s not worth drawing attention.
Professor Devera folds hers with quick, precise movements and pockets it.
“Honestly.” Markham shakes his head. “You should have been able to spot those leaflets as propaganda within seconds.”
Discredit. I have to admit, he’s good. The stacks reach the ends of the rows, and then the cadets hand them forward, the pile growing and growing as it descends toward the floor.
“When, in the history of Navarre, have we ever flown a riot comprised only of blue dragons?” He looks us over like we’re children. Like we’ve been found wanting.
Clever. He’s so fucking clever. With the leaflets collected, every cadet in the room will question the exact wording. Every cadet except the riders who know the meaning of that entire paragraph came down to the placement of the word fire.