Traitor Savant (Second Seal of the Duelists) (5 page)

“Just hold the note, Tala; don’t worry about
singing the whole spell.”

Tala heard Alton Bessia’s
near-monotone instruction, but she couldn’t have held the note if her life depended on it. Her hiccups were just too strong. After the next hiccup, she gave up and stopped singing, feeling blood suffuse her cheeks. Behind her, Graela tittered.

“I’m s
—sorry, Alton,” she hiccupped. “I just can’t get the s—spasms to stop. I’m sorry.”

The a
lton pursed her lips and sighed through a nose several shades lighter than Tala’s skin. Tala focused on the smooth floor of the classroom, where concentric circles of various colorful rocks formed seamless rings from the center out to the round wall. She knew how much Alton Bessia had looked forward to working with her—such a talented girl, the other altons all said—but so far, no one had been able to help her get rid of the hiccups that assaulted her.

And if you can’t sing at the Temple, then you aren’t a Singer.
It doesn’t matter if you have perfect pitch. It doesn’t matter if your vocal range destines you to be one of the most powerful Sopranoi in the last century.
Tala peeked out of the corner of her eye; sure enough, her quarton partners, Tonn, Daen, and the snotty Graela, were shaking their heads at her and muttering to themselves.

If you can’t sing, then you’re not a Singer.

Class let out. Tala shuffled down the curving, rounded corridor, buffeted by taller, faster students. She’d only been at the Temple of Ten Thousand Harmonies since summer began, but it was achingly clear that she was letting everyone down. The First Singer had personally spoken to Tala regarding her vast talent, and what a wonderful life awaited her with the power her beautiful voice could learn to wield. That had been when she first arrived. Now, there were no further visits to her classrooms by the Octet members who wanted to hear her voice. There were no more approaches by older girls offering to be her friends out of poorly hidden desires for personal advancement. She wasn’t valuable to anyone anymore. She was just an embarrassment.

Skipping the humiliation of eating in the meal
dome alone amongst groups of friends, Tala headed up the Akrestan Scale Tower to the third tier and slipped into her single-room quarters. She’d been favored with a view of the Temple’s center due to the high expectations that arrived with her, so from her cluster of small circular windows, which peppered her wall like windblown seeds, she could see the other five major towers, each named for one of the musical scales used in songwork. Within their circle lay the great Choral Hall, which occupied a cockle shell-like depression in the very center of the Temple floor. Beyond the farthest towers in the ring rose the Temple’s far wall, which formed a vertical barrier against the nearby mountain spires and swept all the way down to the Choral Hall. When she’d first arrived, the hemispherical cup of the Temple had seemed an otherworldly creation, as if Bhattara had dropped his stew bowl from the sky into the rocky towers of the Spineforest. Now, the mysterious, reclusive campus felt like a jujufish’s prison, a bowl over whose edge she could never hope to escape.

The sun was nearing the
bowl-wall’s western escarpment. Despite the Temple’s lofty location, it had been created in a secluded valley for the safety of its singers, who, unlike the duelists, did not possess magical defense arts. The sun rose late and set early all year round. However, that didn’t mean that the singers had to live in the dark.

Tala turned
from her tiny window and faced her room. Her eyes took in her bed, with its homemade quilt, lovingly stitched by her late mother, and the wardrobe containing her uniforms and formal robes. Against the other wall rested her writing desk with paper and ink. Radiant light bathed her belongings as Tala opened her mouth and summoned brightness to the air with a quick trill. She sat on the bed, running her hands across the palm-leaf and sea wave patterns, feeling the familiar heat of tears in her eyes. Her mother had died knowing Tala had been accepted to the Temple, but sickness took her before she could see her daughter begin her training. The quilt had been her last gift to Tala: a memory of home.

Hand clutching the quilt, Tala s
ang again. A rising series of slow notes in the major Tuathi scale brought nearly unbearable heat to the room; reversing the note pattern in the minor scale sucked away the heat, leaving her shivering. Tala sang the moisture out of the chill air, leaving the surfaces of the room dripping with condensation, then wicked it away again. More major scale, more minor scale: the window holes vanished, then reappeared. Tala’s voice grew resonant, powerful, echoing through the empty tower’s air channels. Bringing her voice to its most powerful, highest notes, Tala sang salt into the air, holding the last note as long as she could. The briny tang smothered her in memories, which melded with the tears on her cheeks.

Home
, by the warm waters of the Teresseren Sea, was so far away.

Her last note faded, and a knob of sorrow
twisted hard inside her chest. If only she could sing well enough to pass her Solo exam and earn a crystal, then its resonant matrix could sustain the spell for her. But no. She was cursed with hiccups of fright every time someone so much as looked at her. She crashed to her knees on the velvety green sung rug that covered her stone floor, its perfect nap thick and soft. Dragging her mother’s last gift around her shoulders, she squeezed her eyes shut and wished herself home, in the bright seaside city of Nambulay, where the Teresseren Sea lapped the white sand with gentle kisses, and the golden bricks of the city’s buildings made her feel warm even on the coolest dry season evenings.

“Bhattara,” she wept, “I am so alone. So alone.”

The chaos in the six-sided room nearly overwhelmed Kipri as he entered and stood at the front. Thirty-six teenagers, only a few years younger than he was, were laughing, pushing, running and throwing things. After shoving down an uncomfortable flashback to the detention center at the eunuch training Academy, Kipri let out a bracing breath and called for quiet. His high voice caught everyone’s attention. They all stared at him for a moment, no doubt taking in his Raqtaaq-ness, identifying him as the son of an executed rebel. Kipri knew what that would mean to each group of trainees. What they would make of his pompadour wig, if anything, depended on how much they were aware of Philo’s loyalist information network.

As the students found places to sit on the curving benches, they separated themselves into t
hree groups. The Raqtaaq sat closest to Kipri, taking the benches closest to the door. The Bantayan—from Pinamuyoc and Balanganam both, if their hairstyles were any indication—claimed the middle, and the dozen students from Dunfarroghan, Akrestan, Shawnash, and Waarden lands clustered together at the far end as if they hoped the Bantayan would shield them from any impending attack by the Raqtaaq.

Kipri sighed. The instinctual seating arrangement
was exactly why the Duelist Academy needed a Cultural Liaison.

He
studied the class for a few moments as they settled in. Though the Raqtaaq shot uncertain glances at the other students—and a few hostile looks as well—their body language relaxed when they looked at Kipri. The Bantayan seemed comfortable with each other and the Raqtaaq students, but they had mixed reactions to the mainstream imperials. The mainstream imperials murmured among themselves as if the other two groups didn’t exist.

“Good afterno
on, trainees. My name is Kipri Nayuuti, and I am your Cultural Liaison. It’s my job to help you feel at home here and learn to get along with your new classmates. I know that for most of you, Waarden culture is not what you’re used to. But we all live in the same empire, and we’re all intelligent people. We can learn to adapt and accept every culture as equals. That challenge starts here, today. Let’s begin by introducing ourselves. Please give your name, your home city, and your province. And we’ll start on this end of the room.” He indicated the Raqtaaq students.

Though that choice garnered Kipri a few dark looks from the Waarden end of the room, no one spoke. One by one, the Raqtaaq students gave the requested information, until the last Raqtaaq girl stood.

“My name is Sivutma Ila.” She held her chin high and glared over at the pale-skinned students. “I used to live in Tagisaa, in Nunaa. And what no one else is telling you filthing wisps is that the only reason we Raq are here is because voorde Helderaard finally decided to stop letting our filthing parents kill us.”

An angry buzz filled the room, but Sivutma talked over it. “It’s true! In Raqtaaq culture, it is forbidden to do any magic but singing. Those who possess the
elemental curse must be destroyed. My filthing father would have slain me with his own hand if my mother hadn’t helped me escape to the imperial camp for duelist students. I am here because the filthing empire has saved my life. That doesn’t mean I belong to them, or that I will do as they ask. If I am a filthing imperial citizen, then I will choose for myself what my filthing fate will be. And you should, too,” she said to those sitting near her. “You don’t deserve death for just being what you are. Don’t cling to a filthing culture that betrayed you!”

Amid hisses of “shut up,
foul-mouthed ragtag,” and “don’t speak ill of our parents,” Kipri thanked Sivutma and bade her sit. The introductions concluded smoothly, though not without numerous dark glances at Sivutma.

Hoping without any real optimism that the worst was over, Kipri addressed the group again. “I have invited a special guest to speak to you this after
noon. Many of you have heard the story of his heroism. I’m sure there is something he can teach you from his own experiences here on campus. I give you the Hero of the Battle for the Kheerzaal: Bayan Lualhati.”

Bayan slipped in
the door and slapped Kipri’s shoulder in greeting. “Not too chaotic yet, I hope?” Kipri shook his head. Bayan smirked. “Give it time.”

Bayan
addressed the class by recounting his arrival and early time on campus, focusing on how out-of-place he felt. He told the students that if he hadn’t arrived on campus with Calder, he doubted he’d have been anywhere near the Kheerzaal battle, let alone in a position to save the emperor’s life. “My point is this: the friendships you make here will open doors for you to new journeys you never imagined yourself taking. I know how hard it is to be the only Balang on campus. I didn’t want the first Raqtaaq student to feel the way I did. I don’t want any of you to.

“
And,” Bayan continued, turning to the mainstream trainees, “I don’t want you to lose out on the best and strongest friendships you’ll ever make. The Bantayan and the Raqtaaq will take part in your classes for the duration of your time on this campus. They will be your training partners. They will be in your dormitory. They will be in your hexes. You think you’re worldly now? The stories and opinions and ideas they bring will broaden your minds further than you can ever imagine. They will make you into who you are meant to be.”

He turned to the other
trainees. “The reverse is true for you, too.” Then he addressed the whole room. “You will all be better people for opening your minds to each other. I see your looks; you don’t believe me. That’s fine. I only ask that you follow Liaison Kipri’s instructions and give it a chance.”

“What if
they
don’t give us a filthing chance?” It was Sivutma again, glaring up at Bayan. Kipri stepped forward from his position next to the wall, ready to intervene, but Bayan waved a negligent hand at him.

“Then you make your own chances, just
as I did. You’ll have to work harder than all the Raqtaaq students who ever come to this campus. But you already know you’re capable of hard work, don’t you? You’re just deciding whether it’s worth it.” Kipri held in a grin at Bayan’s words. Sivutma was about as Raq as a girl could get.

“Bhattara save me,
this boy’s a joke,” complained one of the Balangs. Kipri spotted a stocky boy named Tammo wearing an expression of affected boredom. “All this nonsense about friendship and fate and hard work… he’s a muckling from the swamps. We all know he’s been guzzling too much raw seerwine nectar. Can’t we listen to the real heroes from the Kheerzaal battle?”

Kipri’s eyes flick
ered over the faces in the room. Bayan’s held confusion, Sivutma’s surprise. The other Bantayans, Pinamuyoc and Balanganese alike, seemed disgusted. The mainstream students registered amusement, and the Raqtaaq faces held bewilderment.

“Isn’t Bayan from your own
filthing culture?” Sivutma asked. “Why do you deny him?”

Tammo stood and gave her a pitying glance. “Listen, my people haven’t been attacked by the empire like yours
have, so I don’t expect you to understand, but where I come from, we don’t have to stick together like a bunch of terrified sheep. I’m free to criticize where I see fit, and right now, I see someone who doesn’t look as if he could grow rice properly if I paid him twice its worth.”

Sivutma, still pressing her cultural-unity point, began to argue with Tammo. Bayan tried to separate them, but their voices
rose, and each was soon surrounded by several other students. Kipri clenched his fists in the wide sleeves of his tunic. Such confrontation was exactly what he feared would happen.

“What in the bloody fires of Ainnacht is going on
in here?” called a shocked voice. As Kipri looked toward the door in surprise, he only caught a glimpse of bright hair before a blast of heat rushed past him, coalescing into a hovering fireball over Bayan’s head. Long tongues of flame lashed out from its rotating surface, and the students backed away in haste, stumbling over the curved benches until they huddled together at the back of the room. Kipri backed into the other corner of the front wall. He tried to keep his face neutral, but the tension in his jaw told him he was probably failing.

Bayan, presided over by the roiling fire, hadn’t moved a muscle.
“Oh, so you
can
be united, after all. Liaison Kipri will be happy to take whatever measures he sees fit in order to get you to work together. That’s all I have to say for now.” He turned and left, passing a slender girl with waist-length, dark red hair. She let her fire fade and followed him.

Kipri advanced on his cowering trainees
. He let his anger show on his face, something he usually avoided. His curled lip and hooded, cold eyes had the desired effect: since the rebel Raqtaaqs’ attempted assassination of the emperor last year, everyone knew what an angry Raqtaaq was capable of.

“How dare you?” His gaze pinned
the wide-eyed recruits in the back of the room. “How dare you speak to a hero of the empire in that manner? How
dare
you question his sacrifice, his loyalty? How dare you insult
my friend
?” He waited, glaring, for a long moment. No one spoke, not even the arrogant Tammo.

“That’s right. You
don’t speak. You
listen
. You listen to those around you, to those who’ve gone before you. If I, who earned my high voice through the treachery of my father, can learn to live within the empire’s rules, to love its order, and to wish it improvement for the sake of its marginalized citizens, then you can. You should. And you
will
. That is my task. You will learn what I have to teach you, or you will fail. They call it washing out. Do you know what happens to students who wash out of the Duelist Academy?”

Nervous looks shot back and forth
. Bodies shrank back against the wall.

“I see that you do.”
Kipri straightened his tunic and nodded. “Dismissed.”

T
he students filed out, giving him a wide berth. When the last of them had gone, Bayan’s red-haired companion poked her bright head around the door jamb. “Nicely done. I can see why Bayan likes you.”

“
I remember your hair from the Talent Tournament in Muggenhem. You must be Tarin.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “
With that voice, you must be a eunuch.”

Her direct reply made Kipri freeze, mouth open, for a moment. But her eyes smiled at him instead of judging. “I suppose we both rather stand out, don’t we?”

“Sure an’ I hadna noticed.” Her lilting tone was spiced honey. “That’s not your real hair, is it?” Her questioning eyes flicked to his wig.

“Not at all. It was a gift fr
om the Minister of Information.”

“It looks lovely
. Can I feel it?”

Though he raised an eyebrow, Kipri bent down so that she could run her fingers along the pompadour.

“That’s
human
hair,” she said.

“Of course it
is. Only the best from Philo. Speaking of hair, and forgive me if I’m too forward, but I happen to know of several wealthy merchant women who would pay handsomely for a natural red wig, should you ever decide to cut it short.”

“What? People exist in this empire who want to be gawked after wherever they go? Madness, that is!”

Her expressions were so animated that Kipri found himself speaking again simply to keep her talking. “And if you did cut your hair short, I could get you a wig in any color you like. Any style, too. My employer started the wig trend, after all.”
Sints, but I sound pompous.

Tarin only giggled. “I’ve
my heart set on becoming known as the Mistress of Flame one day. Canna do that if I’m a dun-head. Nae, much as my hair torments me, I canna go about hiding who I am.”

Her words rang against the Waarden shell Kipri had long ago constructed around his true self, and he felt both respect for her and shame in himself. Then he
saw Bayan peek into the room behind Tarin. An odd series of expressions crossed the duelist’s face before he vanished through the doorway. “I think Bayan’s waiting for you.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry to keep you.” Her cheeks flushed a pleasant pink, and she
headed out after Bayan.

“Didn’t sound like you were sorry to me,” Kipri murmured to the empty room.

~~~

The
baking heat of the day finally eased into a dusty, salty warmth. Kiwani passed a coin to a marketplace well-watcher and pressed the wet wooden lip of his cup against her mouth, gulping. She thanked him, then continued northward through the town of Yewakma, avoiding the fish stalls as much as possible. After all day in the late summer heat, they smelled terrible.

A sudden weight on her shoulder startled her, even more so when she realized it was Kah. The hexbird had never approached her in a town before. He squawked in her ea
r, then flew down a side street. Her pearl turtle ring winked from a claw, where Kah had carried it ever since they’d left the shores of Wisnuk Bay, as if trying to copy the human trait of adorning digits with jewelry.

Kiwani
stood, uncertain, in the marketplace, staring down the street where Kah had vanished. The campus rumors said that hexbirds were smarter than their crow cousins. But they were also tricksters. Was Kah trying to show her something or just attempting to delay her return to the Academy?