Here is a link to PART 1 Prologue

ONE

Calton

The guards were whispering and Calton found it strange they felt they had to keep secrets from them. There were no secrets left. Not today. He found it stranger still that he did not feel as afraid as he thought he would. Somehow knowing that this was all the time he had left made him feel calm, distant from the actual happening of it. He swept his eyes over the other boys in the cage, looking for the one boy he’d spent every day of his childhood with. Greer’s pale blue eyes looked back at him, unblinking. He wished he could talk to him again, extract that promise from him after all, should it come to that for the two of them, but he could see it in his eyes that nothing had changed. Greer, as if he could tell what he was thinking, shook his head, his mouth set in a thin line.

It didn’t matter. The odds of them having to fight each other were small. The selection was random, and with twenty two other boys, they’d likely be paired up with anyone but each other.

He felt tiny goosebumps on the skin of his arms and neck, as if he were suddenly cold, though the heat in the cage was stifling. He shut his eyes and took a long breath, forcing the air to move slowly into his lungs and then pushed it down into his arms and legs, feeling each drop of it touch his lifeblood, the way Master Holden had taught him. The goosebumps were gone and when he looked up again, his friend’s eyes were no longer on him. Greer’s head was leaned against the metal bars of the cage and he seemed asleep, his face relaxed, unmoving. He had always envied him the ability to fall asleep wherever he happened to be, but now, in this moment, it made him hurt. He wanted more time with him, even if they couldn’t talk. And mostly, he needed Greer to agree to the bargain.

The older of the guards approached him and nodded. He didn’t see this coming, didn’t think that he’d be first. He let the guard take him by the arm, not letting himself turn or even glance back on his way out, not wanting to know which of these boys he’d be forced to face in the ring. He kept his eyes focused ahead of him, but not quite looking at anything. He had decided last night that he would not look at any of the faces on the benches. Especially hers. Nor would he give the Custodian the satisfaction of in any way showing consent to this barbaric show. He would do the only thing he could live with. He just hoped he was strong enough to do it right, so that Sorana and his best friend felt love, not pity for him in the end.

The Custodian was speaking, his voice low, but strong. He always found it strange that he could hear this man even when he was whispering, as if the air itself couldn’t help but obey him. He knew the words the man was saying by heart–they all did–so he blocked them from reaching him and concentrated on the warmth of the day, uncommon for so late in the cycle. He watched the whisper trees for any sign of wind, but not even the youngest saplings swayed or made noise. It felt oddly disconcerting that there was no wind today.

When he had finally let himself slip into his dreamscape last night, this scene felt very different, and he had never been wrong about his remembrances before. In the dreamscape, the wind had moved the tops of the whisper trees so violently, he could hear their branches groan. The air felt cool against the bare skin of his chest and back, almost cold, and he could taste the bite of impending ice flowers in the air. He felt the sharp pinpricks of the ice flower spores as he’d inhaled them, letting them in. He recalled stalling his dreamscape then, as ordinarily, he’d always close his breathing pathways to avoid killing the little ones, but for some reason this time he hadn’t. Instead, he had breathed deeply, letting himself feel every bit of the sharp sting as each new shard pierced his nose and throat and lungs. He had let his lifeblood welcome the intrusions, reveling in the pain of it. It was all so vivid, the biting, harsh cold of it.

He shut his eyes very briefly and opened them again, quickly scanning the whisper trees for any sign of movement, feeling he might have missed it the first time, that he’d been too distracted, but he hadn’t missed it. The trees were still, silent; the air warm and wet against his bare skin.

He heard the grating metal on metal noise of the cage door being shut, and he couldn’t help but turn around. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to stay silent. He couldn’t let them know about the pain of it. Couldn’t let her know. Greer looked up at him just once, and he hoped that he’d nod, that as hard as it would be for him to do, he’d honor his wishes. Greer did not nod, just walked silently and quickly to his place in the ring, and didn’t move a muscle when the guard discarded his bindings. He looked at the Custodian, not at him, and he knew then, could feel it in every cell that carried his lifeblood, that it was over, that Greer wouldn’t make it easy for him.

Gallard approached him, stopping so close, he could see a dusting of light hair on the sides of his cheeks and tiny fracture lines around his eyes. His eyes, always so freakishly dark, as if the light itself couldn’t get in them or chose not to, locked on his. He held his gaze. This is the closest he’d ever stood to this man, and he noticed–the discovery almost shocking a gasp out of him–that his eyes had swirls of light brown around the irises, that the light had made it into them after all. These spots of lighter color were like little broken pieces of amber when the light hits them just right, semi-translucent fragments of not quite glass that you think you can see through, but of course you can’t. He wondered what he would see if he could see beyond these specks of light, wondered if the man felt anything at all. He didn’t think he did.

“As you are the oldest here, Calton, you get to choose the weapon first,” the man said in a low voice. A long, straight sword and a hunting knife were brought out by the guard and Gallard held the weapons out to him by the flats of the blades, his hands steady. He almost laughed at seeing the knife. It was, of course, no secret that he was the best hunter out of this group of boys, but the idea that he’d ever choose to use that weapon on anything but game was so bizarre, he felt he was being mocked. He grabbed the knife and threw it out of the ring, angling it into the mound of soft dirt just outside the boundary. It stuck, as he knew it would.

“The sword then.” Gallard nodded to the guard, dismissing him. Calton picked up the blade and took a step back. The hilt felt warm in his hand. He ran his thumb over the edge of the weapon, drawing blood. It was as sharp as it needed to be to get the job done cleanly. He was certain all the blades were, knowing how Malork, the smith, was about his blades.

Gallard took a small step to him, his hands slightly raised, palms up. He’d never seen him do this before in all the years he’d watched the ceremony from the arena. Once the weapon was chosen, the opponents faced each other, exchanged their last words for the people they were leaving behind, honor-binding the victor to do their duty and deliver these messages unchanged, and then the fight started. The entire ceremony generally took less than an hour. At times, one of the boys would strike as soon as the last words were out of their opponent’s mouth, giving no warning, trying to use any advantage to win. It was simple math: the fastest or the strongest usually made it out alive, and nobody at that age wanted to dissolve to ash and steam in the Gorge. He didn’t blame them for it, though he never thought he could do it himself. It felt every kind of wrong to lunge at someone who wasn’t ready for it.

Gallard looked him in the eye and winced, taking yet another step closer, chest almost touching his chin. The man was unnaturally tall. He had to look up at him to meet his gaze. He held it, the man not wincing any more, but looking uncomfortable. The lines around his eyes and mouth were tight, muscles working in his jaw. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the Custodian’s, but the anger that’s been building for so long now pressed like a hot brand against his insides, and he couldn’t hold it in.

“Is there something else you need, Master Gallard? Something above and beyond our lifeblood? Or are you just prolonging your enjoyment of this to last you till the next ceremony?” He made his voice deliberately soft and coaxed the whisper-breeze not to carry it, but there was no breeze anyway and he didn’t think anyone but Gallard would hear him. Gallard’s face flushed with color, but that was wrong. The Custodian did not blush or look embarrassed or ashamed. Not ever. Yet, here it was. Gallard leaned in and he felt him take a shaky breath. He smelled of essence of Speoria bush, a rarity only someone in his position could afford, and it made him even more angry.

“You are stronger than he is, Calton. I’m truly sorry it had to be him,” Gallard whispered in one quick breath and then abruptly turned and left the ring. He watched him walk to the front of the stage, his two aides bowing and then guiding him onto the pillows, as if the man were incapable of sitting down on his own. Gallard looked at him again and quickly averted his eyes.

He shook himself out of the strangeness he felt at the encounter. It didn’t matter. He just had to finish this, and he hoped Greer wouldn’t hold it against him. He took the few steps to his best friend, holding the sword in front of him, the edge pointing downward, both hands on the cloth-wrapped hilt. The weapon felt lighter than he thought it would. For a brief moment, he wished he’d trained with this blade instead of the heavy, unwieldy ones Malork used to let him borrow. He might have gotten a lot better if he had. He might have gotten good enough to be sent to Cyroxia instead of where he was.

Greer nodded and he noticed a sharp, curved blade in his friend’s hand. He wondered, stupidly, how he’d missed him choosing his weapon. It didn’t surprise him that he picked the light, curved blade. Greer had always preferred these elegant long knives to swords or maces, but he felt both, surprised and saddened that he’d missed him choosing it. He looked into Greer’s eyes, hoping to see that something had changed since he’d asked last, but he already knew that it hadn’t. Greer shook his head, took a step back and extended his blade up and toward him.

“All right,” Calton whispered. He took a deep breath, and without giving himself any time to rethink it, he threw the sword at the feet of his best friend, dropped to one knee and bowed his head. He heard gasps and then shouts from the audience, felt the tension surround him like a chill he couldn’t shake off. The voice of Master Viland cut through the shouts after what felt like too long of keeping himself still: “Calton has forfeited his lifeblood. You know what you must do, Greer. You must do so now.” The words made him flinch. He kept his eyes on the glinting edge of the blade amidst the dirt and hoped this wouldn’t take much longer. His back ached from all the tension in him and he had to force himself to not look up at Greer or at the benches to the right, the benches where the girls sat.

He blocked the murmurs from the crowd, blocked everything but the clean edge of the sharp blade in front of him. He couldn’t see anything but the blade and Greer’s bare feet, and he could tell Greer hadn’t moved by where his feet were. He lifted his eyes to his friend without lifting his head and whispered for him alone, “You don’t have a choice, Greer. Make it fast and clean.”

He heard footsteps approaching in the dirt, heavy-soled boots, the guards’. He heard Viland’s over-used, paper-thin voice issuing orders, but he didn’t care about that. He hoped his friend still had a chance, that they would give him the time he needed to do this. He felt that Greer simply needed a bit more time to process this, and if he were granted just a few more moments, he’d do what he had to after all. A long, curved knife fell next to his sword with barely a sound and he closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see what would happen next, not to either of them. He tried to remember if Master Holden had ever told him of anyone not fighting at the Ceremony of the Forge, but his mind was blank. He felt someone standing behind him and he drew his shaking hands into fists. He was finally, miserably afraid.

“Put your hands behind your back and stand up,” an unfamiliar voice commanded. He did. He felt the sharp sting of metal around his wrists and then he was spun around, the audience a fuzzy blur of colors and sounds around him. He dropped his eyes, afraid to see Sorana, afraid of what he’d see on her face. Gallard’s low voice from somewhere nearby was reciting from the ancient laws, the words long and pretty, song-like. It seemed fitting that they’d make his and Greer’s execution sound noble, honorable somehow. He forced himself to look up and his best friend’s eyes were on him, calm, friendly. Greer didn’t look afraid, and for a small, embarrassing moment, he felt ashamed.

“The ceremony will take place on the second Moon of Gileon,” Gallard finished. Grand Master Viland bowed deeply to the Custodian and with a wave dismissed everybody but the four guards that stood in a semi-circle around him and Greer. He’d never seen these guards before and he wondered how they had managed to dispatch new guards on such short notice. It, of course, didn’t matter at all, but his mind wandered in these strange directions as if of its own accord, as if it, too, was trying to protect itself from whatever was coming next.

“Calton and Greer,” Gallard said quietly, his voice surprisingly soft. “You will face our esteemed Grand Masters and Whisper Masters at your trial as soon as we can make it happen. They will not pardon you for this, as they cannot, but you will be allowed to speak freely. You will spend what time you have left in the House of Ash. You have until midday tomorrow to think of what you want to say to those you love. As the Custodian, it will fall to me to deliver your final words.” Gallard nodded to the guards and they each took them by the arm, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to let them know they couldn’t run. He already knew they couldn’t run, not with their hands tied the way they were. He had never really considered running and he didn’t think Greer had either. There wasn’t a place to run to for either of them, branded as they were.

Gallard stepped toward them, stopping the guards with his outstretched hand. He locked eyes on him and then Greer, and shook his head. “I wish it hadn’t come to this, boys,” he said quickly, and abruptly turned away, letting the guards push them toward the mountain, toward the House of Ash.