Bastial Energy (22 page)

While most houses looked the same, a few buildings were built large enough to fit fifty Krepps and stood upon ten feet of solid wood so that steps were needed to reach the entrances. Many of these great buildings used to have a balcony, it appeared, but Zoke and Vithos never found one still completely intact. The damage from fire was extensive.

The most extravagant structure was in the center of the village, where hundreds of stone steps were built next to a river that flowed from hills high above. They climbed the steps to follow the river, and it led them to a small lake. A waterfall brought clear water into the lake from so high above that it seemed to pour straight from the clouds. Encircling half the lake were stone pillars that served as legs for sleek, pointed roofs. But it was just an entrance, Zoke realized, for farther in through the stone legs were walls of solid stone that composed what had to have been the living quarters for the highest members of the village.

“Any memories?” Zoke asked with hope.

“No.” Vithos brushed his fingers against the carved stone carefully. “How could I forget something like this?”

They entered the once luxurious building and it became clear immediately that a major struggle had ensued within. The walls were stained with explosions of black. Most of the furniture had been upended and damaged beyond repair.

“Something has been bothering me,” Zoke said as he gazed around the room. “It looks as if this village fell to an attack, but then where are the bodies? We’ve seen no skeletons.”

“Displaced by animals, I assume.” Vithos had no other answers he wished to share.

They explored room after room, each one different from the last. Vithos admitted to no memories. Eventually, Zoke opened a door to find a room covered in paintings of Elves standing heroically. Something in Elvish was written on the top of one wall.

“It looks as if this room wasn’t touched,” Vithos said with sheer excitement. He was right. All the paintings were hanging straight, and there were no signs of fire as in many other rooms.

“Krepps wouldn’t destroy portraits,” Zoke said. There were a few superstitions taught to every Krepp. One was that if you caused pain or suffering to a being and then destroyed their portrait, they would haunt you as a spirit. Only those who were at peace with the deceased could destroy the painted image of them in a ceremonial burning to help their passing.

Vithos examined the paintings meticulously. Most were families headed by a male and female Elf, with multiples of the same family at different ages, showing a history of their lives. Almost every family ended up with a child or two, according to the paintings.

“Look at this,” Vithos said. “Does this look like me?” He pointed at a toddler holding onto the leg of his father. If Elves aged like Krepps, then the small boy couldn’t have been older than two, Zoke figured. Also in the painting were what appeared to be the young one’s mother and another boy of the same age. Zoke looked closely at the face of the young Elf who Vithos pointed toward. Right away the long eyes coming to a point on either end jumped out at him.

“That’s you.” But then he looked at the other boy in the picture. He had the same eyes. “Or him…one of them for sure.” The two boys looked identical.

Vithos stared in silence for a long while. “You’re right,” he finally whispered. His face held no smile, no cheer. He looked like he did in the judgment chambers. He was serious and nothing else, like all his emotions had left him.

Twenty paintings in the room
, Zoke estimated.
About three or four of each family, nowhere near enough to represent all the Elves.
“These are probably royal families,” Zoke offered.

Vithos nodded as if he’d already come to that conclusion. “And I had a brother.”

Zoke still felt like an intruder and even more so in this room, staring at the paintings of lost Elves. He was eager to go but tried to keep himself calm as he waited for Vithos.

Eventually, he asked, “Are you going to take that painting?”

“No,” Vithos replied sullenly. “It belongs here.”

Zoke let silence come over them once again. He waited as patiently as he could as Vithos stared at the painting as if trying to memorize it.

Finally, Vithos cleared his throat and looked away.

“Time to go?” Zoke asked quietly.

Vithos sighed. “Yes.”

By the time they returned to the entrance of the village, a cool mist was setting in.

“I’d hoped to find another of my kind still alive, but I couldn’t bring myself to mention it aloud,” Vithos muttered. “Even in my head I knew how ridiculous it sounded.”

“There’s no shame in hope.” Zoke thought of his own hope to see Zeti again.

“They’ll pay for what they did,” Vithos said, anger burning in his eyes. “But I’ll need some support.”

Zoke took a nervous breath. “I hope you don’t mean me.”

Vithos shook his head with a sly grin. “I know you’re still unsure what you want to do, and I accept that. Also, I’m not so crazy as to believe that just the two of us could get to Doe and Haemon. There’s another way to get the help I need.”

Zoke was perplexed.
But who else is there?
Who would ever wish to help Vithos take revenge against Doe and Haemon?
“Which is what?” Zoke asked.

“The underground Slugari.” Vithos raised an eyebrow at Zoke. “I know where they are.”

Chapter 27: Evaluations

EFFIE

Effie pushed her way through the crowd.
People need to find their names and then get out of the way
, she thought. Being too short to see over anyone, she couldn’t tell how many more bodies she would have to squeeze through before she could get a glimpse at the evaluation week results.

“Excuse me.” She shouldered through a small space between two hanging arms. Some couple was hugging in her path. “Move, please.” She nearly tripped over a girl tying her shoe. “Tie it somewhere else.”

She felt a hand slap her rear.
The results can wait. Someone is about to be hurt
. She turned with a balled fist.

“Easy, punchy!” There stood Reela with a guilty grin.

“Reela!” Effie felt her teeth unclench and her mouth curve into a smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Congratulations to both you and Cleve.” She wrapped her long arms around Effie’s shoulders. On reflex, Effie’s hands came up to meet around Reela’s back. No matter the situation, a surprise embrace from Reela always made her feel better.

“I haven’t seen yet,” Effie admitted. Someone shoved against her back to get through, disrupting their hug. “I hate this crowd,” Effie muttered. “Let’s chat at home later.”

“Right. I’m off.” Reela smiled at her and disappeared among the bodies.

Soon, Effie came to the wall and found the mage listings. She discovered the specific list she needed: the A through E names. With a finger, she located her name toward the bottom. “Effie Elegin: Group One.” She took a moment for a breath of relief. Sweet satisfaction filled her lungs. The week had been especially tough, but not because evaluation classes were difficult. In fact, they hadn’t been, and that was the problem.

When she’d entered her assigned classroom for the first time at the beginning of the week and had seen the many black streaks of old burns across the walls and chairs, she’d had high hopes of the dangerous challenges ahead. The giant vats of water in each corner to put out fire only helped amplify her excitement. The room looked as if it was designed as a tribunal where arguments for justice were made with fire instead of words. A metal podium stood in the front. It was littered with singe marks that colored its shiny, silver exterior with dozens of small red and blue circles from heat.

To her disappointment, though, no fire could be cast within the walls. Her teacher was adamant about that. She was a young woman, younger than twenty-five, Effie guessed, and started the first class of evaluation week by rambling off a list of rules that sucked out all of Effie’s passion to learn. All spells were to be performed outside in the designated casting area, which was a depressingly small section behind the classroom with metal training dummies burned black, uneven sand to stand on, and charred brick walls pelted from so many wild fireballs that the only color they had left was a mangled mix of orange and red near their ten-foot tops.

“If no spells are allowed within this room, how can there be so many fire marks?” Effie asked her instructor when class had finished.

“Because each teacher has different rules once evaluation week is over. Rules tend to be more lenient for the students in more competitive groups because those students usually have more control. This room is used by the Group Two students every year. As you can see, many spells have been cast within it. If you’d like more freedom within the classroom, I’d recommend trying your hardest to be placed in a lower group.”

“Aren’t you the one who decides which group I’m placed into?”

“Why, yes I am,” the teacher answered with feigned discovery.

“Any tips from a young lady like yourself?”

“Yes, don’t try to flatter me and don’t cast within these walls.”

Not a good start
, Effie thought.

Class each day focused on a different spell to give the teacher a sense of each student’s ability. The only day that was different was the third—endurance day. She’d heard it was the same for warriors—a brutal, four-hour test of fortitude, focus, and all-out strength. Her teacher explained it was designed to see how well they would perform in a battle, something Effie had been considering much more since speaking with Alex about war.

They were told when to cast a fireball, how big it should be, where it should strike, when they would get a chance to meditate, when meditation had to end, and when they were allowed water. To conclude the day, the students had to demonstrate how consistently and often they could cast incapacitating fireballs before exhaustion overcame them. If the students barely were able to stand before that, they certainly couldn’t after.

As was common of mages in general, there were far more women in her class than men. Magic was seen by most as a way to fight, and men tended to choose swords over wands. Swords were far easier to learn because anyone could swing one, but no one could use a wand without training. When she’d started learning about the different classes as a child, Effie had learned that women could never be recognized warriors, but she didn’t mind. She’d rather fight with fire instead of steel anyway.

She excelled in each spell they were asked to perform that week. It made her realize that if she didn’t place in Group One or Group Two, she would have to spend the rest of the year as she had during evaluations—bored and without enough excitement or challenge to distract her from all the thoughts that caused her lungs to tighten. It had been especially bad that week. She’d awoken each morning with a cough that manifested from her inability to find relief in each breath. It would get worse throughout the day. Not her cough—that seemed to go away—but her ability to breath. If there was nothing to distract her after class ended, it would start to feel as if sucking in air was entirely useless. No matter how much she took in, her body told her it wasn’t enough. Nothing in her life was more frustrating. It consumed her. Every thought and emotion was based on whether or not she could breathe.

But that tension in her lungs was gone, for now. The panic it brought her was left in the crowd she fought through to find her name with
Group One
beside it. Her relief was like waking after a full night of rest—something she hoped would finally happen now that she’d finished evaluation week.

In addition to her group, a time was listed next to her name: 5:30. Her young teacher had explained that the head mage, Marie Fyremore, and Wilfre, the Academy’s liaison to the King, would meet with every Group One mage for a quick introduction. Effie was usually no enthusiast of pageantry, but she had to admit to herself that she was excited.

To check the time, she peered through a slit between heads at the giant clock atop the tower of Redfield in the center of campus.
It’s 5:10,
just enough time to see how Cleve ranked before I go
. She migrated to the warriors’ listings, pushing through a cluster of sweaty men hovering around the paper with names A through E listed above it.

“Want to see how your boyfriend did?” one of them asked with a teasing cadence.

If my rear gets slapped now, there will be blood
. With a finger she found “Cleve Polken: Group One.” She wasn’t shocked. Even if Reela had said nothing of it, it still wouldn’t have been a surprise.

He was born to be a warrior.
She knew he would rank well, and she hadn’t even seen him use a weapon. It was clear from the way he did everything else—he spoke carefully and concisely, ate meticulously so as not to waste one stroke of his fork, never gestured unless absolutely necessary. He was well aware of his actions in every situation, treating conversations with purpose more than entertainment. Strangest of all was that, even with his size, he was so light on his feet that she couldn’t even tell when he was right behind her. This led to some problems, as Effie hated being startled.