***
Even after the first year, students had very little free time aboard the Sigil. From the time they woke up in the morning until very late in the evening, their days were planned out. The shift from Recruit to Apprentice hadn’t really effected any change on Ceril’s daily routine: exercise first, then breakfast, then class for a few hours, then lunch, then more class, then personal study time.
By the time it was all over, it was early evening, and he felt like he simply could not fit any more information into his head. Even though there was technically a curfew, no one paid attention to it.
This one freedom—study time—was where the three classes of Charons were different. Ceril was genuinely shocked at how different the students acted just a few months after switching from Recruit status to Apprentice. The three classes began to act like cliques, and there was very little overlap between them.
Soldiers generally saw fit to study their actual lessons just enough to get by. The majority of their time was spent with Bryt, an incredibly small and frail-looking man who gave them rudimentary combat training. Medics spent a great deal of time with their books, but for the most part, their time was spent in a lab somewhere with their mentor, Howser—who always looked just a little too young when she was around Roman or Bryt. The scholarly Recruits really hadn’t really spent any time with their mentor. They were told that she was on a mission and would be back as soon as she was able.
Because of her absence, Ceril and the other scholar Apprentices tended to band together. With no mentor to direct him, Ceril spent what time he had in the observation deck at the top of the Sigil.
Ceril had known from the first day aboard that he would love that room. He could stand at the railing for hours and watch the strange blur that enveloped the ship, reflecting onto the plants in their troughs. The garden in the center was his favorite part, though. On nights when he became fed up with academic exercises, he made his way to the observation deck and knelt among the plants. They were watered and tended by automated systems, so there was no need for a groundskeeper, but Ceril liked to have his hands in the dirt. He would weed the garden by hand and make sure they had enough water. Much of what he did was redundant and amounted to just moving some dirt from one place to another, but it made him happy.
Plus it reminded him of Gramps.
Tonight, though, Ceril was too tired to play in the dirt. He made his way to the highest tier of observation decks, and he leaned over the railing to watch hyperspace color everything a haunting orange. It felt tropical, yet cold somehow. The blur’s illumination had the tendency to make things feel a bit off, and it had taken most of the Recruits some time to get used to it. As he looked around, he could see a few of the other scholars making their way around the various levels of the deck. He thought he could see Saryn a level or two below him.
He was surprised at how close the two of them had become, actually. She had seemed so odd at first. He wrote that off to her being from Yagh. All of the Yaghian Recruits were a little odd.
Ceril raised his hand to wave to her, and a large, hair hand wrapped itself around his wrist. He tried to turn around, but he couldn’t. Not without breaking his wrist. Ceril looked at the hand, and if he hadn't known better, he would have assumed someone wearing a fur glove was assaulting him. Only one person on the Sigil was that hairy.
And then, as though confirming Ceril’s suspicion, Ethan Triggs spoke. “Nice spot you’ve got up here, noob.”
“Yeah,” Ceril said. “Great place to be alone.” He tried to pull his arm away, but he was held too tightly to get loose.
“Then why are you waving at your girlfriend?” The voice was meaty. Not an unintelligent kind of meaty, though. There was too much enunciation, and that made it dangerous. “I suppose when you mean alone, you just mean…alone.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and Ceril was simultaneously disgusted and creeped out.
Ceril turned his head, and all he could see was Ethan Triggs lording over him. Now, Ceril wasn't small. But he wasn't really the biggest person on the ship. An argument could be made that Ethan actually was.
At six-eight, he was the alpha male of the solider Apprentices, an upperclassman who had yet to begin his Rites. What made Ethan scary was that he had the brains to back up his brawn, or at least enough to keep himself out of trouble and in his superiors’ good graces. He was also charismatic enough to warrant having his own lackeys. Two of whom were, at that moment, behind him.
“Let me go, Ethan,” Ceril said.
Ethan twisted Ceril’s arm a little, then shrugged and said, “Nah. Why would I do something like that?”
This was not the first time that Ethan had given Ceril a hard time since he had come aboard the Inkwell Sigil. Ethan had almost broken Ceril’s nose on his first day as a Recruit, and every few weeks in the corridors, Ethan would do something else to bully Ceril. Sometimes it would be a snarky remark about Ceril’s weight or intelligence, other times, the hulk would just slam Ceril into the wall, chuckle, and walk away. But it was constant and regular. And it went beyond the bit of classist rivalry between the soldiers and the other disciplines—Ethan had targeted Ceril since day one. The classist rivalry was only part of it.
It didn’t matter, though, Ethan Triggs took that rivalry to the extreme. Some of the older scholars and medics referred to the soldiers as meatshields, but Ethan was more than that. He was smart. And because of his size and intelligence, he had never been caught expressly breaking any of the rules that Roman set forth for interaction between students.
One of the lackeys behind Ethan snickered. “Yeah, I mean, why would we do something else when this is so much fun?”
Ceril opened his mouth to speak, but Ethan whipped him around to face him and let go of his arm. The abrupt movement stopped whatever Ceril was going to say. “Harn's got a point,” Ethan said. “This is awfully fun. Maybe I should yell at your little, blonde girl down there and see if she wants to come up here and join us. I bet between the four of us, we could have a real good time. Alone.”
Ceril swallowed. He blinked three times. Then, he just stood there. Silent.
“What, did I hit a nerve?” Ethan tapped Ceril's shoulder with the palm of his hand and pushed him against the railing.
More silence from Ceril.
Ethan looked back and forth between his companions. He jerked his thumb at Ceril, and said, “Now, the way I understand things, it’s you guys who research and invent what we—that’s the soldiers—use in the field. Is that right?”
Silence.
“Now, I have to be honest with you, Ceril, I'm not so sure I want a thinker who can't think of what to do on the top tier of the observation deck with a pretty girl like Saryn Bloom making me anything.” Every time he said the word think, he emphasized it by tapping his palm against Ceril’s chest. “Especially something that’s important enough to use when my life's at stake.”
“He’d probably get us all killed,” said one of the boys behind Ethan. “On purpose.”
Ethan tapped Ceril's shoulder again, harder. He was pushed up as far as he could be against the railing, and his back was bending slightly over it. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ethan said. “And you know what I don’t want?”
“To die because some noob doesn’t understand technology like he should?” asked one of the boys.
Ethan's other palm now found a resting place on Ceril's other shoulder. “Exactly. Exactly that, Harn. And you know, I have a mission tomorrow. It’s a pretty easy Instance run, but it could be dangerous, I guess. The way I see it, if Ceril here doesn’t have the chance to make his inevitable mistakes that kill us, then his inevitable mistakes won’t kill us. Does that make sense?” Ethan pushed harder with both hands, and Ceril bent further backward.
Ceril put his hands up and said, “Let me go, Ethan. Just stop, okay. I've had enough.”
“Oh, I bet you have,” Ethan said with a smile. He pushed a little harder.
Ceril co
uld see down to the next level below out of the corner of his eye. He didn't think the drop would kill him, but there was no way he would escape without having a broken bone or two. And that was if he fell well. If he fell wrong…
“And then, once you’re not around to screw up my missions, I’ll make sure Saryn over there has enough. Alone, if you get me.” Ethan pushed harder against Ceril’s shoulders, bending him as far back as he could.
Ceril felt his back pop, and he knew that if he didn’t do something, the next pop wouldn’t be nearly as chiropractic. So he retaliated by putting his hands on Ethan’s chest and trying to push him away.
Ethan growled. He wasn’t used to being resisted. He braced his feet against the ground and gripped Ceril’s shoulders. His meaty fingers dug in and the large solider pulled Ceril off the ground. The larger student manhandled Ceril like he was a toy. Ethan gritted his teeth, and a sliver of drool slid from the corner of his mouth. His grip became tighter, and Ceril lifted a few inches off the ground.
Ethan wasn’t just playing around anymore—if he ever had been.
The situation had escalated so quickly. Ceril pushed against Ethan’s chest, trying to wiggle loose from the soldier Apprentice’s grip.
There was a flash, and Ethan Triggs’s hands were no longer on Ceril's shoulders. Ceril dropped to the ground and pushed the larger boy away from him.
As he did, Ethan’s friends backed slowly away. Ethan himself was backing slowly away. And that’s when Ceril saw what happened. What had caused the flash.
His Flameblade was buried to the hilt in Ethan Trigs’ chest.
It was sticking directly out of the spot where, only seconds before, Ceril had been pushing with his right hand.
Ceril blinked. Ethan returned the gesture and dropped to his knees. His hands reached up to the hilt of the sword. A faint purple-green glow emanated from inside the wound in his chest, and he tried to pull.
The sword did not move. Ethan screamed as he collapsed the rest of the way to the floor. “What,” he gasped, “what did you do to me? Is this—is this a sword?” His voice was incredulous. “W-where did you get a-a sword?”
“I-I-I-I,” Ceril stammered. He stood gawking at the injured Apprentice on the floor in front of him, unsure of what to do next.
Ethan’s friend Harn said, “Do something, Ceril! He's hurt!”
Ceril thought there was only one thing he could do. He knelt down and apologized to Ethan.
“Damn right you’re sorry,” Ethan said. “You stabbed me with a-a sword!”
Ceril ignored the insult and pulled on the Flameblade. He expected to feel Ethan's flesh cut beneath his hand, to feel the Flameblade tear through bone, breaking ribs and tearing meat as it moved. But he didn’t.
Instead, the sword simply vanished. The purple-green fire had obviously not been cauterizing. Ethan was gurgling on the floor. Blood flowed steadily from him. Ethan tried to speak but couldn’t. He would open his mouth, and blood would spurt out of the holes the sword had made in the front and back of his torso.
He slowly curled into the fetal position, and lay there bleeding out.
Finally, Ceril gathered his thoughts and yelled at Ethan’s friends. “Go find someone to help. What’s wrong with you two?”
Both boys just stood there and stared as their friend burbled blood.
“Go!” Ceril yelled again. “Now!” He turned back and tried to stop the bleeding. Ceril was acutely aware that he did this to Ethan—and not just because he was coated in another student’s blood. It had been his sword—the whole reason he was aboard the Inkwell Sigil—that caused this.
And Ceril hadn’t even meant to summon it.
Maybe Roman was right. Maybe he did need to learn to control it better. As though to verify, a large pulse of Ethan’s blood squirted from the wound beneath Ceril’s hand.
He applied more pressure, and said, “Ethan, come on, man. How are you doing?”
He spit blood on Ceril’s face in response. Ceril had no idea if it was intentional.
He used one arm to wipe his face, but it barely helped. Ceril's fatigues were soaked with blood. He leaned down close to Ethan and pressed both of his hands on the older boy's chest and back. He was trying to cover both wounds his Flameblade had made, but he could still feel the blood pushing at his hands. He could feel it spurting into his palms and through his fingers every time Ethan breathed, shuddered, or tried to move.
Time passed—Ceril had no idea how much—and finally Roman pulled Ceril off Ethan and tossed him to the side. Bryt and Howser immediately went to Ethan’s side. Ceril involuntarily grunted a protest at being tossed around like that, but Roman shushed him.
He complied. He knew when to keep quiet.
The next few minutes were surreal, and later, Ceril could only remember snippets from the ordeal. Ceril would remember standing off to the side as the professors tried to save a student’s life. Later, Roman would tell him that Ethan was dead when they had arrived. Ceril was so dazed and had been concentrating so hard on the wounds, he hadn't even noticed.
Ceril would remember feeling cold, but not just from his clothes being soaked in blood. He shivered and wanted to close his eyes, but didn’t out of respect—penance?—for Ethan.
I killed someone.
Later, Ceril would recall Roman coming over to him, stern-faced and long-winded. He had no idea what Roman had said to him. He just remembered Roman offering him a choice.
He would remember being covered in blood, cold and scared, and Roman offering him a choice.