《Avari》


 Part One.

    Mademoiselle Cotillard,


    I hope this letter finds you well.


    Your enquiries have long since been noted, as have your other earnest attempts to ¡®restore relations¡¯, as you put it, between the New Schools and the Old. Regarding your questions and concerns about the child, we have made note of the Monastery¡¯s abnormal insistence that he suffer ¡®no intervention¡¯, when they would usually be very willing to be rid of children abandoned at their doorstep. Given their unique cultural position, we have no choice but to comply. I agree we were all initially dismissive and assumed the boy to be nothing notable ¨C perhaps a victim of Delphia¡¯s maternal sentiments rather than anything else ¨C however, your notes on his capabilities have piqued interest.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Following your latest letter, I agree that the situation would benefit from more stable supervision.


    The boys¡¯ Military Academy in the North District has proven sympathetic to your ¡®restore relations¡¯ campaign and will accept a visit at a time you find suitable. You have proven yourself quite capable. I am sure you can manoeuvre a more appropriate condition for monitoring the boy without breaching the guidelines of ¡®no intervention¡¯. I am inclined to err on the belief that he is only notable given all Delphia did to ensure he not be sent away to an orphanage at her passing, but if he does turn out to be something worth consideration, you will do your best to include so in your reports.


    Keep this correspondence between us, and burn this letter upon reading. I expect a response through our usual channels.


    Athelardus.

 One. What it is to die.

    ¡°Tu nous comprends pas? Vraiment?"


    The French families fled their homeland some generations ago, running from the violence of a R¨¦volution to seek refuge in Elven Land. These French families, rich Aristocrats with money we did not spend and titles we did not recognise ¨C the kindest elves ignored them; the most practical did their best to drive them out. The only one who had considered their French wealth and their French titles, the only one who had been willing to acknowledge their monarchical hierarchy and embedded inequality, was the King.


    ¡°Il me regarde comme il me comprend pas. Non¡­Non, il fait semblant. Regarde ses yeux. Il fait semblant."


    New titles were invented and given to these same families. Land was seized and redistributed according to the merits of an imaginary rank. Military was reorganised. Politics became political. The King redefined his role, recrowning himself in a society he had reconstructed. Suddenly, power was centralised. Suddenly, French was taught in all the schools. You would walk down a road in any Southern province and hear only Bonjour.


    But this was many generations ago. The French are no longer new. The changes are no longer ¡®changes¡¯. A son of a son of a son of a son is our King, and the way he is is the way we now know monarchs to be.


    ¡°I know you understand me. Don¡¯t play the fool.¡±


    The sons of sons of sons of these families can especially be found in Military Academies, ¡®earning¡¯ titles they would have always inherited. They are easy to know. Even at 13, I understood the boys who had approached me to be the sons of sons of¡­whoever, set to age into their fathers and do whatever it was the French did. They are easy to know. Their uniforms, deep green and deep blue, bore their family crests, sewn into the fabric with gold thread. The boy speaking, the one with the slicked back hair that varied in shades of dark red and stark white, silver eyes, and sharp eyebrows ¨C his nobility was unmistakable. He looked down on me the way a beast might look down at an ant. ¡°If you prefer Elven,¡± he said, having switched out of French, ¡°we can indulge you.¡±


    I was surprised he could speak it, that any of them could. Most like him couldn¡¯t. His Elven was heavily accented, his French way of speaking bleeding into an old tongue with flatter sounds. ¡°What is your name?¡± He demanded. ¡°Your nom.¡±


    I said nothing.


    ¡°Your nom.¡± Another boy, the blond one, repeated. ¡°It means, ah, your ¡®last name¡¯.¡±


    In my silence, I turned back to the pond. The three of them followed my gaze, as if waiting for my answer in the reflection of the moon on the water¡¯s surface. They were military boys curious about a stranger in their compound, a stranger without their family crests, their adorned swords, their military uniform. Manon had given me carte blanche to explore the grounds, but instead I¡¯d immediately found myself here, in front of this pond. Behind me was a huge building with some purpose I wasn¡¯t privy to, a building that spat out boys like these three, sometimes older, sometimes younger. They had been the only ones to approach, but not the only ones to notice me.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have one?¡± The red-haired boy goaded. ¡°They allow orphan boys to be Healers? Well, which is it? Orphan, or bastard?¡±


    ¡°A bastard would still have his mother¡¯s name, idiot.¡± The blond said. His Elven carried almost no accent at all, as if he was as native to the language as I was. ¡°Who cares about the nom? What¡¯s your first name?¡± He crouched down, roughly jostling me when he stuck out his hand for me to shake. ¡°I¡¯m Laclan. Laclan Stymphalia, but the Laclan is more important.¡±


    The third boy, dressed in a dark blue riding jacket and knee-high equestrian boots, seemed uneasy with me, with this conversation. He didn¡¯t have the red-headed boy¡¯s blas¨¦ confidence, or Laclan Stymphalia¡¯s brashness. ¡°Nous devrions partir.¡± He said. We should leave.


    ¡°Your name.¡± The red-headed boy said, ignoring his friend to snap his fingers at me. ¡°You are here visiting with the other Healers, no? None of them are ever our age. I swear they¡¯re never bastards either.¡±


    ¡°Orphan.¡± Laclan Stymphalia corrected.


    ¡°We don¡¯t know that yet. We might if he had a tongue to speak with.¡± He laughed to himself. ¡°Have they stopped making orphans with tongues? What are you doing sat by the water, anyway?¡±


    The equestrian boy, ¡°Il faut qu¡¯on parte."


    "Gaspard, ta gueule." The red-headed boy continued with me. ¡°How do we even know he¡¯s with the Healers? Maybe he broke in, stole their uniform, and is cursing the lake. The Baron will be impressed if we bring back the head of a trespasser, no? Hey!¡± He snapped his fingers in front of me again. ¡°Unless you¡¯re truly an orphan or bastard, what is your name? Or your pr¨¦nom?¡±


    ¡°Can you actually curse lakes?¡± Laclan Stymphalia asked me, bright brown eyes wide and eager. ¡°You¡¯re a Healer, right? Do you know the Old Tricks?¡±


    And so I said my first words: ¡°We all know the Old Tricks,¡± except I didn¡¯t use the term ¡®Old Tricks¡¯. I said ¡®Faeries¡¯: actions performed by the Fae. They all recognised the word, but whereas it was a usual, standard word for me, it made their eyes widen. Laclan with excitement, Gaspard with wariness, the red-headed boy with¡­interest.


    ¡°Moi, c¡¯est Wolfgang.¡± He said. ¡°Wolfgang Roqueforte-Cilliac de Montaigne. The brute next to you has announced himself as Laclan Stymphalia, of the Stymphalian Battle Elves ¨C he will claim not to care about the nom but he will brag about this later ¨C and the horse boy to my side is Gaspard of the Maison de Villieu. Tell us your name, or we will drag you to the Baron and let him know you¡¯re an interloper. And an orphan.¡±


    Wolfgang Roqueforte-Cilliac de Montaigne. My name was of negligible length when next to his: ¡°Avari.¡±


    They waited for more. There was no more.


    Immediately, they conferred with each other, confused by my lack of name, confused by me. Laclan pushed at Gaspard¡¯s knee to make space when he jumped back up, then I could hear him loudly whispering, ¡°C¡¯est un vrai orphelin, ?a!¡± He¡¯s an actual orphan! Gaspard was more sceptical, mumbling that I could just be ¡®secretive¡¯. Wolfgang continued to consider me, tilting his head as he did, a beast looking down on an ant.


    The North District Military Academy was built on clay land and occupied what could have otherwise been half a town. The architecture was of a type I didn¡¯t know: the building behind me was lined in windows of stained glass, depicting figures I didn¡¯t recognise and embedded words in a language I couldn¡¯t read. As boys had been filing in and out, I had thought, ¡®Tell me who that lady is on the window¡¯. Now that these boys were here, I was thinking, ¡®Tell me what those words mean. Tell me why it¡¯s in a French I can¡¯t read¡¯, but I bit my tongue, refusing to turn my thoughts into speech, and refocused on the water instead.


    ¡°Gaspard a raison,¡± Wolfgang said. ¡°Il faut qu¡¯on parte. Laisse l¡¯orphelin.¡± But he tilted his head the other way, still considering me. ¡°Or, he can follow us to the Mezzanine, if he wants.¡±


    Closest to the pond, the clay gave itself to dirt and grass. I stayed fixed on the breeze that was whistling through the leaves, not wanting anything but to be left alone. Gaspard de Villieu walked away first. Wolfgang Roqueforte-Cilliac de Montaigne sauntered after him some seconds later. Laclan Stymphalia lingered, staring at the dirt and the grass and the clay. He stared at me: at my black tunic and my long hair, then at the swirls I had drawn into the earth, swirls I had made in the quiet moments before they had all interrupted me. ¡°That¡¯s the word my grandma uses too, faeries.¡± He said to me, his voice low, conspiratorial. Then he barked out a laugh. ¡°I don¡¯t need faeries. I¡¯m tough all on my own. Tougher than the nobilit¨¦, no doubt. I could beat both Wolfe and Gaspard in a fight on any battleground without even breaking a sweat! Ha! You should stick around. I¡¯ll pick a fight with them tomorrow and show you.¡± He eyed me again, my tunic and my hair. ¡°Can you fight?¡±


    When we had arrived this morning, despite all my shrugs and glowers and folded arms, I¡¯d not been able to stop staring. It had been just after the dead hours of the morning, yet there had already been young men on the compound, long sharp swords in their hands as they seemed to dance with each other, moving back and forth, side to side, until one of them conceded. There had been boys pulling back large arrows, half the size of their bodies, hitting targets with varying amounts of accuracy. Horse-riding was something I¡¯d long since learnt, but I had seen a woman in a green cloak, in a high kneeling position on a galloping horse but balancing with no issue, and she had drawn an arrow into her bow and shot it to hit an apple off a tree. ¡°Voil¨¤ ce que j¡¯attends de vous,¡± she had told the young men she was teaching, after climbing off her horse. This is what I expect you to be able to do. ¡°The girls at your sister Academy have already mastered it. Don¡¯t fall behind.¡±


    ¡°I can teach you.¡± Laclan offered. ¡°How long¡¯re you here for?¡±


    I could feel myself bristle at his enthusiasm. I glared at him, but he felt no pain from its heat, only giving me a look that told me he would sit here and wait for an answer for as long as it took. The words were stiff in my mouth, my body still on guard and unsure how a boy like him, a boy like me, reacted in conversations. ¡°We leave at high noon tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Aw, that¡¯s too early! I¡¯m not up on samedi until, like¡­I mean, ah, ¡®Saturday¡¯ until, um¡­¡± It took me a while to realise why he¡¯d trailed off, why his cheeks suddenly tinged pink. It embarrassed him. Clearly, he saw himself as distinct from the French nobility, yet he was still defaulting to their words from their language, thinking of samedi before Saturday. ¡°It¡¯s the one day we can rest.¡± He mumbled, looking away from me. ¡°Every other day, it¡¯s, um, cinq heures¡­five thirty in the morning.¡±


    He wouldn¡¯t leave until I gave him some sort of response. Despite his abrasiveness, he was earnest in a way that was uncomfortably disarming. ¡°Pour moi,¡± I said, staring at the trees that were some several metres away in the distance, leading to a forest that broke this Academy apart from the neighbouring town. ¡°¨¤ l¡¯Acad¨¦mie d¡¯Alchimie, c¡¯est huit heures chaque jour." At the Alchemist Academy, it¡¯s 8am every day. ¡°But I like to be up before sunrise.¡± I paused, before needlessly adding. ¡°I sit by the ponds.¡±


    Some moments had to pass before he understood why I had briefly switched language. Then he gave me the brightest smile, emboldened by my own French, not as embarrassed about his. ¡°So you do speak French!¡±


    Of course. ¡°We all do.¡±


    When he left me, running off to re-join his friends, I returned my attention to the pond. It was flowing to its left, pushing old blades of grass with the current, sometimes rolling around the few stones that would dislodge themselves from the waterbed. Old Tricks, they had called it. I touched the pond with my fingertips, closing my eyes, concentrating hard, resettling into the meditation that the boys had stolen me away from. Only around my fingertips did the water still, and only for some seconds. It could feel my distraction, maybe. The mark of a first-time experience.


    My eyes opened again, and I looked at the stained-glass woman in the window. I narrowed my eyes at her, as if the heat of my glare could provoke her name. It provoked nothing.


    *


    ¡°He enjoyed the journey.¡± Manon Cotillard said. ¡°It was a day and half stop at the North District Military Academy before we returned here. Nothing happened to him. He might complain but I suspect he really enjoyed the change of scenery. Isolation won¡¯t help him, Ivra. He¡¯s a child. He needs other children.¡±


    It was a three-days¡¯ journey from the North District down to the west coast, where the Alchemist Academy was situated, meaning Ivra Vonglo had expected us back three days ago. As senior Healer, she had been the one to sanction the journey and allow me, for the first time, to accompany the Healers on their expedition. Our arrival home had been as expected. She had cursed Manon Cotillard for being a ¡®bureaucratic spy¡¯, a ¡®busybody¡¯, a ¡®liar with hideous intentions¡¯, before giving me a ¡°hmm!¡±, as if I had somehow been an accomplice. Today was no better. Ivra was sat behind her teaching desk in one of the classrooms, refusing all of Manon¡¯s appeals and explanations. ¡°He needs to be kept safe.¡± Ivra countered. ¡°You call hauling him across the Land to a military base ¡®safe¡¯?¡±


    ¡°All children need to be kept safe. That¡¯s possible beyond confining him here. It¡¯s a school, not a base. His safety is as important to me as it is to you, Ivra.¡±


    I was sitting on a stool behind one of the alchemy stations, staring at little vials labelled ¡®mercury¡¯, ¡®frozen air¡¯, ¡®pickle juice¡¯ and ¡®blood of a Sacred Deer¡¯. The Alchemists always seemed to leave their stations in as disarrayed a state as possible, with dozens of these vials jostled against each other, open notebooks and pens strewn about, suspicious goos oozing next to overfilled pots of ink. The table held a candle that I couldn¡¯t blow out, no matter how many times I tried. It was labelled as ¡®permanent fire, test one¡¯. When I touched the flame, it burned, and both Ivra and Manon turned to me when my recoil caused me to bustle against the table.


    ¡°He¡¯s more than capable of hurting himself here.¡± Manon pointed out. I glowered at her, but continued with my snooping. ¡°I think he¡¯s at a good age for us to begin introducing him to the world around us. He¡¯s stubborn enough to be sceptical. He won¡¯t run off with strangers.¡±


    I assumed all medical camps looked the same regardless of their location. Small beds clumped together, the smell of purification, the presence of some nurses, medical experts, and Healers to address wounds, sicknesses and diseases. The medical camp that had featured in this expedition had been in a remote Elven village, and as I¡¯d expected, I¡¯d been charged with sitting in the corner and ¡®observing¡¯. I hadn¡¯t even been able to look around the village, because Manon had made me stay by her side, and Ivra had forewarned me not to wander off.


    ¡°And I shouldn¡¯t find it suspicious that you managed a day and a half¡¯s stay at the North District Military Academy without an issue?¡±


    ¡°That has nothing to do with him! You know I¡¯m working for us all! In repairing relations, Avari doesn¡¯t factor into that equation at all! He¡¯s just a happy beneficiary.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re just a state parasite.¡±


    Medical camps looked the same, but Academies? I looked at this alchemy station with its perpetual fire, its vials, its leaves that seemed to push out from between the wooden panelling (labelled ¡®invasive greenery, test five¡¯). Our hallways were old, dark brick. Shelves were bursting with annotated encyclopaedias, with huge jars of disconcerting liquids, with the occasional sleeping cat or meandering fox. The alchemy students themselves were always covered in protective cloaks and headwear, vigilant of their own creations. Explosions were common. I suspected Healers were trained with Alchemists for the same reason why wells of water and sacks of sand were kept at every corner of every room, lest there be an all-ending fire.


    I looked at our brick walls and thought of the Military¡¯s panelled glass ones. Their hard clay grounds instead of our tough stone. That huge building that had sat opposite the pond, windows of a crying woman holding her hand to her heart, of a man with his head hung down and his arms pinned to a wooden cross. As far as I was aware, this trip marked the first time Manon Cotillard had encouraged a detour so that the Healers could ¡®tend to some injured students at the boy¡¯s Northern Academy¡¯. When not being forced to sit in a corner and watch, I had followed Manon around, staring at every new thing, surprised that things could be new at all.


    ¡°You wrote to the Academy to arrange this ¡®detour¡¯, purposefully coincided it with the trip I allowed Avari onto, and kept this whole scheme your own secret.¡±


    Manon couldn¡¯t deny that. She grimaced. ¡°We have been talking of restoring the relationship between academies like these and academies like¡­This is besides the point, Ivra. I saw this invitation as an opportunity for Avari to socialise with other children his age, as well as accompany the other Healers on their expedition. In one trip, he¡¯s had two new experiences!¡±


    Ivra couldn¡¯t deny that either.


    ¡°A slow introduction would-¡±


    ¡°Slow.¡± Ivra emphasised. ¡°No more detours for the rest of the year. No more until I permit it.¡±


    A class of students began filing in. The youngest in this class, the youngest Alchemist in this Academy, was 23, and even then she was seen as a sort of ¡®prodigy¡¯. Her gold hair was pulled back, her gold eyes were narrowed in on me at what I could guess was her station. Could she kneel on a galloping horse and shoot arrows off trees? Could she endure a conversation with elves her age and not reflexively interpret every word as a trick, an attack?  ¡°Bah, va-t¡¯en!¡± She stood there, folding her arms, and if not for Ivra clearing her throat I would have continued to sit there just to further annoy her for dismissing me so flippantly. She met my scowl with her own. Could the men with swords create her permanent fires? Could they combine ¡®crushed flowers of a pink hue¡¯ with ¡®still water, collected at 04:04¡¯ to create the bizarre ecosystem that was curling around her station?


    I joined Manon at the door, and we walked off together. I had never given it too much thought before, being the youngest, being the only child. I had never considered there was any different way to be, not until now.


    *


    We had one fox and two cats. I liked the fox. The cats and I had many disagreements. Cat 1, red-furred and blind, always seemed to know just where to sit itself to inconvenience me most. Cat 2, grey-furred and sharp-nailed, always took violent issue with me moving Cat 1 around. The fox, named Fox, was much more agreeable, and so we spent my non-observing hours by any of the many ponds, or further into the surrounding forest by the streams. Today, Fox was sunbathing by the stream bank while I swam against the current, then, when I successfully convinced the stream to follow my direction, as I swam with the current.  I had little supervision on Academy grounds provided Ivra and Manon knew I was somewhere in the vicinity, that I was somewhere alive.


    At night, I read through one of the encyclopaedias, one on ¡®military tradition¡¯ that predated the French settlement. Cat 1 and Cat 2 sat with me, purring and scratching but always following me when I moved from one spot to the next. As soon as the sun set, the Academy would be drenched in a dazed luminous yellow as the Alchemists worked throughout the night, inventing and calculating and triggering explosions. I would be far away, either deep in the forest or nearby one of the ponds. Sometimes, I would see groups trek through, looking for ¡®special herb root¡¯ or ¡®water collected under moonlight at 11 39pm¡¯. I used the moonlight to read. I used the wind to flicker through the pages. I took long swims in the water when I grew bored. I would fall asleep in a back float, meditating until it lulled me into nothingness. I thought of the youngest Alchemist, and I thought of the fact that the youngest Healer was in his late 30s. Healing was something that allegedly only came to elves after some decades of life. It was an affinity that had to be realised and then built up.


    Some of the military boys had been as young as 11.


    The Alchemists were incredible bakers for the most part. If they hadn¡¯t discovered their affinity for Alchemy, I¡¯m sure many of them would be enrolled in an Artisan Academy instead. For breakfast, I sat with Manon, licking icing sugar off my thumb from a cinnamon roll, using my other hand to read through another encyclopaedia. Fox was here, munching on the crumbs I was feeding him. Manon was putting my hair into plaits, tutting me for letting the water and wind mess it up. I didn¡¯t push her away.


    ¡°I hear you¡¯ve been complaining.¡± Ivra said to me after lunch, arms folded, eyes narrowed. ¡°You¡¯ve been telling Manon how bored you are to ¡®just observe¡¯, hmm?¡±


    I could feel an oncoming lecture. I could also feel a concession. I followed her down the long hallway, enduring her reprimands of ¡®patience¡¯, ¡®respect¡¯, ¡®insolence¡¯, until she finally said, ¡°There is a man with a terrible corrosive burn, caused by a so-called ¡®lavender-thought-experiment, test 17¡¯. There¡¯s a reason why I¡¯m so stringent about who has access to lavender ¨C the monthly expenditure spent on those flowers alone is enough to dent the yearly budget.¡± She kissed her teeth. ¡°The pain is overwhelming, allegedly. He has covered his eyes with some opaque cloth to prevent sunlight from bothering his senses. So, he cannot see. So, he cannot see you.¡±


    The Alchemist, a man with dark purple hair and greying skin, was gritting his teeth in pain. He couldn¡¯t see me when I approached, could only assume that I was an older, learned Healer who didn¡¯t have to feign uselessness and pathetically sit in classroom corners to ¡®observe¡¯. The skin of a good portion of his upper arm was puckered and peeling. I whispered my fingers over the burn, and the man writhed in pain, making Ivra immediately chastise me, ¡°Soothe!¡±. She repeated those tedious instructions in every class she taught, ¡®Remember, soothe your patient!¡¯. It was easy to forget, cycling one energy for another, remembering that the ¡®patient¡¯ I was healing would feel an absence and immediately interpret that absence as pain. Healing myself was different. Healing others took ¡®consideration¡¯.


    ¡°Not too quickly.¡± Ivra said. ¡°Not all at once.¡±


    Advice I disagreed with, because I imagined everyone wanted immediate relief from their pain, and yet when I did this, taking all of the burn away and then quickly funnelling in a soothing current, the alchemist¡­fainted.


    In a follow-up disciplinary meeting, I kicked at the air in front of me, scowling at the ground. ¡°Why ask me to heal him if the others are ¡®better soothers¡¯?¡± I countered. ¡°It¡¯s your fault for making him some teaching moment.¡± I looked away. ¡°It¡¯s his fault for not just healing himself.¡±


    We were now in her office. Ivra leaned on her desk, arms folded, eyes closed. Her skin was so pale, a light, uncanny colour that was self-induced in an early alchemy accident. Her hair, a dark, dark purple that bordered black, was, as usual for the students here, always tied up and away from her face. The wrinkles around her eyes smoothed out when they were closed. When she opened them, her face took on age and experience, age and experience I didn¡¯t have.


    ¡°He¡¯s healed.¡± I muttered. ¡°So what?¡±


    ¡°So, he fainted.¡±


    ¡°Next time, pick someone else.¡±


    ¡°Next time, Avari, listen to instruction. You complain about being relegated to an observational role, yet you consistently prove why. Do you hear me, Avari? Next time ¨C listen to instruction.¡±


    I was in a sour mood even during my nighttime meditation, which Nature could hear and could criticise. Wind whirled around me, pushing my hair into my face, then blowing with enough force to push me over. After meditation, I took off running with Fox the fox, running as fast as I could into the forest, knowing the moonlight would follow me, knowing the wind was quickly catching up. I was running and running until I was finally laughing, in contest with a wind that would always win, and in contest with a fox that would always nuzzle my hair when I collapsed onto the ground, breathless. We stayed out even in the heavy torrent of rain that suddenly pushed itself out of dark clouds. I meditated once more. When I was done, I took off running again, Fox following me, and we circled around the forest once, twice, until I was so tired that when I stumbled and fell, I fell asleep right there.


    I woke up once in the middle of the night. Fox had taken shelter under some huge leaves of a grey plant, sleeping soundly. I was out in the open, and I sneezed as I coughed, then I looked up at the sky and pointed at the darkest cloud. ¡°Boom,¡± I whispered, and so the sky did the same, letting out a huge, defeaning crack of thunder.


    *


    ¡°Didn¡¯t you realise the rain?¡± Manon Cotillard was furiously rubbing a towel through my hair. ¡°Honestly, Avari. Sometimes you¡¯re impossible.¡±


    I rubbed Fox with a towel too, then he followed me as I followed Manon into the cafeteria. She watched me eat. ¡°Do you want to cut your hair?¡± I shook my head. ¡°Why not?¡± I shrugged, funnelling roast beef into my mouth, then pushing some to Fox. ¡°Is it because of the Monastery?¡± I nodded. And shrugged again. ¡°What have I said about shrugging? It¡¯s not communicative.¡± I shrugged again, and she sighed, even if she smiled a little. ¡°Your hair is quite long, Avari. If you keep it long, you have to take care of it.¡± It was beyond my shoulders, dark brown and bone-straight, even when damp. ¡°Well, I have good news. We¡¯re due another trip next month to a medical camp in Jenispurrai. On our return trip, I¡¯ve arranged for a week-long stay at the boys¡¯ Military Academy in the North District.¡±


    I looked at her, which gave myself away because her smile widened, pleased with herself and that small sign of enthusiasm I¡¯d given her. ¡°Promise to be good?¡± She asked, holding out her hand for me to shake.


    I rolled my eyes, but I used my free hand to shake hers.


    *


    And so I returned to the North District Military Academy 6 months after my first visit.


    The older boys were dressed in dark blue uniform, marching in unison as their commander yelled out instructions. They stopped sharply when he yelled out: ¡°Garde-¨¤-vous!¡±. They moved, feet hip distance apart and hands folded in front of themselves when he yelled: ¡°En place!¡±. We walked past, and I shamelessly stared, shameless because none of them seemed allowed to break eye contact with their commander, because none of them were allowed to watch us go by. It reminded me of official state visits to the Alchemist Academy, where we all had to stand outside and watch the King¡¯s officers walk around, scrutinising us, and we would all have to repeat the same tired oath of: ¡°All Elves under the King,¡± but in French. Ivra thought it was ¡®ghastly¡¯, and both she and Manon allowed me to forgo participation. If up to her, she wouldn¡¯t teach a single class in ¡®their French¡¯, but even if it hadn¡¯t been mandated, she would have had no choice: some of the Healers arrived speaking only French. Many of the Alchemists had grown up in Schools that only taught in French.


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    The accommodation provided to us was no improvement from our last visit. We were given some rooms along an unused hallway with makeshift wooden frames that might, if I used enough artistic license, be interpreted as a ¡®bed¡¯. It was a building detached from all others, far away from the stained-glass woman and the pond I liked, instead closer to an edifice that I gathered belonged to the ¡®senior officers¡¯. As Manon argued with one of the generals on grounds of the rooms being ¡®too small¡¯ and ¡®disrespectful¡¯, ¡°m¨ºme lorsqu¡¯on est ici pour vous aider!¡± even when we¡¯re here to help you!, I was staring outside the window, pushing myself up to the tips of my toes to see over the pane. The grounds were huge, easily triple that of the Alchemist Academy. A flurry of horses were galloping down an enclosed strip, going faster than I¡¯d ever seen horses before. Riding near the front of the group, recognisable for the contrast between hair so black and eyes so blue, was the Maison de Villieu boy. His name was something I had forgotten, but the names of his friends ¨C I remembered.


    The Military Academy¡¯s medical bay was an expensive version of bays I had seen before. Larger yet clinical, pungent with that chemical purifying smell. Most of the first day was spent here, sitting in the corner, ¡®observing¡¯ while the true Healers got to work. A waste of my time, as it always was. The journey to the medical bay had been the most interesting part of my day ¨C we had to walk behind the ¡®School¡¯ of the Academy, a huge building of bright orange brick that spanned either way for metres and metres, housing what Manon promised me was ¡®a million classrooms¡¯. The administrational building was visible on the path too, where the clay cut itself off in favour of patioed stone and boasted statues of elves holding plaques of bronze heralding a military history I knew nothing about.


    One of the nurses was glancing at me often, questioning. When Manon had been asked for an explanation of my presence, all she¡¯d done was awkwardly laugh and say, ¡°He¡¯s an apprentice. An observer.¡± Whatever that meant, it clearly wasn¡¯t an answer that satisfied the nurse who kept looking over at me. Manon was occupied with some bureaucratic discussion with one of the generals, standing closer towards the bay¡¯s entrance than my corner position by the restrooms. She wasn¡¯t by my side to tell me to stay quiet and ¡®observe¡¯. The man on this nurse¡¯s table, not a man but a boy ¨C a huge chunk of his arm has been severed off, leaving the white of his bone visible. I looked back at the nurse to see her focused on me.


    ¡°Are you able to help?¡± She asked. ¡°Are you familiar with skin grafts?¡±


    Obviously. I was ¡®familiar¡¯ in the sense that I had heard Ivra ramble on about it, about ¡®delicacy¡¯, ¡®patience¡¯, ¡®soothing¡¯, when all it should really take was pressing the flesh to the bone and forcing the skin to repair itself. ¡°The flesh is here, if you are capable of the operation.¡± The nurse continued. ¡°I will assist.¡±


    Manon was already looking at me when I turned to her. Her fingers were touching her lips, one foot awkwardly in front of the other, both on the verge of calling out or walking over to me. She wouldn¡¯t have to do either. I sunk down in my chair, ignoring the nurse when she asked me again, instead scowling at the clean, expensive limestone floor. Another Healer took my place, one specialised in skin grafts. A true Healer. An adult.


    *


    ¡°Avari!¡±


    Laclan Stymphalia was standing outside my temporary residence, a huge smile on his face. He punched my shoulder, pulled on my arm, jumped around a little. ¡°We heard the Healers are here! Honestly, you¡¯d think a military academy would have a permanent place for them, right? Do you remember me? We met-¡±


    I nodded. Of course, I remembered him.


    He looked no different. Messy blond hair, brown eyes, his military uniform worn as if he was fighting to be free of it. I couldn¡¯t tell if I was small or if he was big, because he was taller than me, stronger, even at 13. ¡°Have they given you a tour? No? I¡¯ll give you one! I¡¯ll give you one right now! Then, we can begin training! Why are you narrowing your brows? Don¡¯t you remember? I promised to teach you how to fight! We begin tonight!¡±


    The tour was confused and disorganised. Clay crunched underneath our feet as he led us around the compound. He pointed to the equestrian trail that spanned so far into the distance that its end point was out of sight, then to stables connected to it, which housed horses so well-bred that ¡°one horse could pay for an entire building! Ha!¡±. He was unsure if the space opposite was used for fencing, sword-fighting, or lunch parties. The marching grounds was clear and distinct, but when we walked through we were immediately yelled at by one of the officers, as entry outside of ¡®officially sanctioned use¡¯ was prohibited. Twice, despite himself being a student here, we got lost. It wasn¡¯t until I very pointedly looked at school building that his eyes lit up, he clapped his hands, and nodded decisively. ¡°Yes! The School!¡±


    The School. Nothing like the Alchemist Academy, but instead well-lit and brightly decorated. Portraits of elves unknown to me hung off every wall, there were swords housed in cages of glass that symbolised some epic battle with names like La Guerre d¡¯Aalia and La Bataille Dix-Neuf, the green wallpaper was affectated with blue adornments and the long rug was thick, blue, soft ¨C it was beautiful. The Alchemist Academy was crumbling. It was old, tired, and each change in season made it groan and sigh and cave in. Some sections were completely unusable. Requests for increased funding were routinely denied. I would often hear Manon and Ivra arguing about it, with Ivra blaming Manon, and Manon blaming her overheads. Part of tolerating Manon¡¯s presence was an agreement that the Alchemist Academy would be aptly compensated, but Ivra would mutter to me about it often, saying the money wasn¡¯t anyway adequate to endure Manon¡¯s trouble. This Academy ¨C I doubted they had any troubles at all.


    The Military Academy, I knew it was old. Nowhere near as old as my academy, but old enough for the clean glass walls, the crisp indoor flooring and the gold-coated, unchipped d¨¦cor to all be symbols of continued financial patronage and upkeep. Alchemy was an old art. An ¡®Old Trick¡¯. There were very few students, Healers or Alchemists, from the French noble Families. The consequence of that was evident in every visual way.


    ¡°That means, All Elves under the King.¡± Laclan said to me, pointing to the huge lettering of ¡®Omnes Dryades sub rege¡¯. It was that language, the French that I couldn¡¯t read. ¡°We have Latin everywhere. During Mass, they just speak Latin. It¡¯s a headache.¡±


    Latin. ¡°You speak this language?¡±


    ¡°Ha. Not well. I read it. We all do. We all have to.¡±


    He was bored, jumping around, insisting we do something else other than ¡®meander around brick bores¡¯. I didn¡¯t complain. Even an incompetent tour assuaged my curiosity. ¡°Let¡¯s find you a sword! Come, come!¡±


    It was a long journey from the School to where the weaponry was housed. I was instructed to wait outside while Laclan snuck in, feigning a need to ¡®sharpen his sword¡¯ to be allowed into the building, before sneaking back out with a terribly suspicious grin on his face. He grabbed me and pulled me into a run, only letting us stop when we were fairly hidden, behind the ¡®Mezzanine¡¯, which was what they called their cafeteria. ¡°Et voil¨¤!¡± He pulled out a sword he¡¯d tucked away in his uniform. ¡°Cool, right?¡±


    It was a basic sword, blunt for my own protection. He waved it around in vague but orderly formations. ¡°How¡¯re you going to defend yourself if enemies attack?¡± He asked, jabbing the sword in the air. ¡°Honestly, you Healers are useless without us.¡± He stabbed the air again, then, without warning, threw it for me to catch. ¡°And the Academy is useless without me.¡±


    I looked at the sword in my hand.


    It was simple, short. The tip was rounded and the sides weren¡¯t sharp enough to cut, not unless I applied pressure. Unlike his, which was adorned with his family crest (a series of birds in flight) , which was longer, sharper. Slowly, I moved it around. There was some resistance as it cut through the air. ¡°Ha, have you never held a sword before?¡± His smile fell when he realised I hadn¡¯t. ¡°Have you ever seen a sword before?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not allowed weapons at the Alchemist Academy.¡±


    ¡°Because you guys are the weapons? The Alchemists, they¡¯re dangerous, right? Like, they can cause danger?¡±


    I moved the sword from right hand to left and felt more comfortable with the change. Laclan seemed more than fine that I only answered half his questions, more than happy to be in a conversation that was more so his own monologue. He angled his arm a certain way and instructed me to do the same, and then he was cutting into the air and I was too. The way he spoke was interesting, almost musical. His accent was more confused than I remembered it being, a lot of hard Elven sounds but softer French tones. It embarrassed him to only know technical words in French, names for the correct standing position, for the type of sword, for the fighting sequences. Still, he spoke Elven with a confidence and ease that the Francophones didn¡¯t have. Clearly, wherever he was from, it was an Elven town.


    ¡°No, you¡¯re not using enough¡­ah¡­focus? Not enough power! See?¡± He easily knocked my sword out of my hand. I picked it up, and he knocked it out again. When I moved away from him so I could hold it in peace, he chased after me, pushed my shoulder and knocked it down once again. ¡°The enemy will follow you, Avari!¡± He kicked the sword up and caught it in his other hand. ¡°Power!¡±


    I wasn¡¯t sure how I would find him the next night, or the nights after that. I refused to ask. When he ran off, either bored or tired or a combination of the two, all he¡¯d said was, ¡°Again tomorrow night! Be better!¡±. On my own, I lingered for some more moments, turning the sword over in my hand, holding it up so I could see the moonlight reflect of it. Not that I cared, but I was looking forward to trying again tomorrow. Not that it made any difference to me, but I was hoping Laclan kept his promise.


    I returned to the temporary accommodation, where Manon was sitting behind a shabby desk and writing in one of those books she was always writing in. At my entry, she raised her hand and smiled brightly at me. ¡°It¡¯s nice here, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    I climbed up to my bunk. ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°You were with one of the students?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good, Avari. I¡¯m glad. I¡¯m very glad. We have another day at the medical bay tomorrow, but you have your night free. Explore as much as you want.¡±


    I stared up at the ceiling, knowing I wouldn¡¯t be able to sleep until she put out that lamp, but also knowing that whatever she was doing was probably important and so I wouldn¡¯t complain, not yet. ¡°I¡­¡± I could hear her move slightly in her chair, angle herself towards me to encourage me to continue. ¡°Is¡­?¡±


    I didn¡¯t continue.


    ¡°Oh, Avari.¡± She sighed. ¡°Goodnight.¡±


    I turned to the side. Why am I always pretending to be an incapable ¡®observer¡¯? I closed my eyes. The students here are my age, so why am I the only one at our Academy?  ¡°Goodnight.¡±


    *


    Laclan found me during my meditation. He plopped himself down and took on my position, sitting cross-legged and making exaggerated hmmm sounds. His patience allowed him maybe half a minute before he pushed at my shoulder, knocking me down, himself jumping up. ¡°Do you pray to the lake everyday?¡±


    I sat back up, annoyed by his constant pushing and pulling, though not annoyed enough to ask him to go away. ¡°It¡¯s meditation.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡± He looked out at the lake, then nudged me with his foot when I¡¯d closed my eyes again. ¡°Is it fun? It looks really boring.¡± When I didn¡¯t respond, he nudged me again. ¡°Like what we do in the chapel buildings to Vierge Marie.¡±


    Vierge Marie, the woman in the stained-glass windows. He couldn¡¯t tell me more about it ¨C ¡°I don¡¯t know, it¡¯s a French thing,¡± ¨C but he was surprised we had no ¡®chapel¡¯ at the Alchemist Academy, that we had no stained-glass windows to Vierge Marie, that we didn¡¯t have these mandatory Latin services. ¡°What about religion classes? Like, with normal classes?¡± He didn¡¯t know how to interpret my silence, whether I meant ¡®no, I don¡¯t have religion classes¡¯ or ¡®this isn¡¯t even a question worth answering¡¯. ¡°I bet your favourite class is, like, Natural Science, right?¡± He took my silence as an affirmation. ¡°Knew it! Are you ready to go now?¡±


    It was as easy for him to handle a sword with his left hand as it was with his right. His movements almost felt inherent, as if he didn¡¯t even need to give them any thought, which made him an abysmal teacher. ¡°Just¡­um¡­just do what I do!¡± But I was 13, and I was stubborn, and I was barely willing to emulate Ivra Vonglo, who I knew was an expert in healing, let alone this talkative, brash blond battle elf. Frustration on both our parts was quick in coming. He couldn¡¯t understand why I couldn¡¯t so easily do what he so easily could. I couldn¡¯t understand why I couldn¡¯t either, and I didn¡¯t like being at a disadvantage, and I had never liked receiving instruction. We fought. He could knock my sword away from me with so little effort, could push me down to the ground with barely a tap, and my fury would worsen his impatience. We fought even without the swords. We fought until I was storming away and he was calling me a ¡®trouillard!¡¯.


    Of course, we met again the next night.


    ¡°Can the Alchemists cast spells?¡± No one could cast spells. ¡°But they¡¯re magic, right?¡± Science, not magic. ¡°But they¡¯re not like¡­scientists.¡± They were ¡®like¡¯ scientists. ¡°Have you ever been to the other Academies?¡± No, I hadn¡¯t. ¡°I¡¯ve only ever been to one, with Gaspard and Wolfe. Wolfe¡¯s ma sponsors this kid at one of the Art Schools. He¡¯s a violinist. Have you ever met a violinist?¡±


    We were sitting by the lake, where he would find me during my meditations. Tonight, he¡¯d brought us cheese and ham and crackers to munch on, and he was talking through a mouth full of food. ¡°Can I ask you a question?¡±


    Other than the million he was constantly asking me? I shrugged.


    ¡°Why do you look like that?¡±


    I chewed slowly, then reached for another cracker. ¡°What do I look like?¡±


    ¡°Like¡­With the long hair. And the eyes. And your skin. You¡­Wolfe and me, we were trying to guess where you could be from, but it¡¯s impossible to tell by looking at you. Have you ever guessed? Or, like¡­do they tell you at the orphanage where your parents are from?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve never lived in an orphanage.¡±


    ¡°But¡­But you are an orphan? You¡¯re truly an orphan?¡±


    Again, I shrugged.


    He expected me to say something else, to address anything else he¡¯d said. Past the lake, there were silhouettes of tall trees, thick and daunting. The clay cut off somewhere past the stables, turning into bare dark soil, then increasingly thick grassland. I could feel its pull. Here, and everywhere else around the Military Academy, Nature was quiet. I had to strain my ears to hear it, even during meditations, but I could hear its hum in that forest, where it was undisturbed by the chatter of men, by their boots kicking the clay, by their marching and fighting and chapel hours to Vierge Marie.


    ¡°I want to go there.¡±


    I pointed to the trees. He followed the arrow of my index finger. ¡°The forest? We¡¯re not allowed there after 16hr. The last time a-¡±


    ¡°Are you scared of the dark?¡±


    He closed his mouth, narrowed his eyes, then opened it again: ¡°Of course not.¡±


    ¡°Are you scared of your generals?¡±


    He immediately bristled at the challenge in my tone. I finished chewing, slowly standing up. ¡°I¡¯ll race you.¡± I offered.


    He took off running. I followed. He was as fast as I¡¯d expected him to be, and even if I pushed myself to my limit, I couldn¡¯t catch up. I felt myself smiling, the wind in my hair, pushing against my cheeks and my eyelids and whisping around me with increasing force, increasing with my proximity to the forest, until we were in the thick of the trees and each branch was swaying in the wind, leaves were flying up and around us, and my hair was flailing around me. He was laughing. I was grinning. ¡°I won!¡± He said, hands in the air. ¡°Did you feel that breeze? It was like I was flying!¡±


    I felt the breeze. I felt everything.


    I felt the light from the moon, from the stars. I felt a rushing stream of water some several feet south. I felt the wind welcome me. I felt the trees, as old as they were, heaving out deep breaths. I felt the wiggle of worms underneath the soil, the flitter of birds in the trees. I felt a flicker of all my nights thus far, all the nights of my life, where I¡¯d be alone but not truly, because whenever I was hit with pricks of loneliness, Nature reminded me of itself, of its company, of its friendship.


    I squeezed my eyes shut and laughed a little when a breeze tickled across my cheeks. It ruffled my hair. It whispered between the gaps of my fingers. Laclan was spinning around, laughing loudly as he let himself be pushed around by the gust of wind. It welcomed him too. He didn¡¯t realise it, but it welcomed him just as it welcomed me.


    ¡°D¡­do you want to see something?¡±


    He nodded eagerly. Of course, he would never say no to a request like that. The only hesitance would come from me, because I had never really shown anyone anything before, not like this. For a boy without much patience, he was remarkably patient as he watched me, as he waited for whatever I would show him. I suspected he might be impressed with whatever, if not just because it was me opening up to him. ¡°The plants,¡± I said, my voice low and my eyes diverted, ¡°do you feel them breathing?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°If you really try, if you really listen and feel, you can feel everything breathing. Try and find it.¡±


    He looked confused but willing, and so he squeezed his eyes shut and posed himself in a caricature of concentration. My heart was running as fast as I had just some moments ago, inexplicably nervous, or excited, of both, because he was engaging with me in a way that no one ever really had, in a way that I¡¯d refused to invite, not since I¡¯d left the Monastery. Sometimes, I would talk to Fox the fox, but Fox wasn¡¯t an elf. I¡¯d sometimes been tempted with Manon, but Manon was an adult, unrelatable, a little unreachable despite her best efforts, a ¡®state parasite¡¯. Laclan was¡­a 13-year-old boy, just like me.


    ¡°I feel¡­something.¡± Laclan tried, nose scrunched up, brows furrowed. His hair was so blond but his eyebrows were so dark. He opened one eye, peeking at me. ¡°Like¡­a pulse?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Yes, like a pulse. Focus on that. Then¡­look at this.¡±


    I could feel their pulses and align my own breathing with theirs ¨C not so much an alignment of breathing as much as it was just an alignment of being ¨C and I could push myself out in deep exhales as I pulled them in with deeper inhales. Laclan stared. He stared as every plant around me moved with my movements, as I breathed in and breathed out. When I let out a big, breathy sigh, all the plants sagged down with the relaxation of my shoulders, touched the ground in front of them as I folded forward, and then mirrored me exactly when I took another breath to straighten myself up.


    His eyes were sparkling. He started jumping up and down. ¡°An old trick! An old trick! A faerie! How do you do that?¡±


    My face was flushing but my skin tone was forgiving enough not to let it show. ¡°I¡¯m not doing anything. It¡¯s nature breathing. And it¡¯s me breathing.¡± I crouched down to softly run my fingers through the grass. ¡°At the Monastery.¡±


    He crouched down with me. ¡°You learnt how to do that at a monastery?¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°Did you grow up as a monk?¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°You¡¯re so cool!¡± Laclan punched my shoulder, and instead of glowering, I just smiled a little. I might¡¯ve said it back, because it¡¯s definitely what I thought ¨C he was very cool, too. ¡°Do you have your sword?¡± I did. We jumped up, ran further through the forest to get a better spot under the moonlight, and then fought and fought and fought.


    *


    ¡°You¡¯re coming back, right?¡±


    I shrugged.


    ¡°You have to. I¡¯ve got to teach you fencing and archery and hand-to-hand. And you¡¯ve got to show me more of the things you can do.¡±


    The wording was strange to me, ¡®things I could do¡¯. I had been raised on the Monastery mantra of All Elves can do all things. Whatever I could do, all elves could do. And like I¡¯d said, it wasn¡¯t a thing being ¡®done¡¯. It was nature and I moving together. ¡°That was so cool, Avari. I¡¯ve never seen anything like it. Did you notice what the wind was doing when you were moving the plants? It had gone completely still! Then, when you sighed, it all whooooshed. Ah! Make a tornado!¡±


    I couldn¡¯t make a tornado. Or, I could, but I wasn¡¯t yet sure how to call on that much wind with that much force. ¡°I don¡¯t ¡®make¡¯ or ¡®do¡¯ anything.¡± I reminded him again. ¡°It¡¯s like...a conversation. Like us talking right now. I¡¯m not making you talk to me, but you¡¯re talking. And the other way around.¡±


    He thought on that. ¡°Hmm.¡± Then he gave me a big, toothy smile. ¡°Of course we¡¯re talking! We¡¯re friends!¡±


    Friends. I thought of Fox the fox, and Manon, and even Ivra. Friends. Yes. That¡¯s what we were. Or, that¡¯s what we could have been.


    *


    I was not improving. And I would never improve.


    In sword-fighting, at least. I would maybe argue that there were other aspects of my life that had improved in that one week at the North District Boy¡¯s Military Academy. Manon noticed it all before I did, because she would be happy whenever I returned late, dutifully scolding me but sharing her excitement that I¡¯d ¡®made a friend¡¯. She said my spirits had ¡®lifted¡¯, that my ¡®mood had improved¡¯, that I was ¡®less antagonistic¡¯. There were only two days left, and admittedly, I was a little sad to go.


    We were in the forest again, and even if other aspects had improved, my sword-fighting had remained stubbornly laughable. I couldn¡¯t seem to wield it the way he could. Neither of us could understand why, and the conclusion of ¡®natural inability¡¯ was antithetical to both of our personal philosophies. I knew all elves could do all things, and he knew that ¡®sword-fighting was basic enough that even a baby could do it¡¯ because allegedly all the Stymphalia began sword-fighting in the womb. In his frustration, he would lunge his sword at me but always miss because he was too good an aim to truly hurt me. In my frustration, I would sulk by a tree and refuse to listen to any more advice or instruction or even conversation.


    ¡°You¡¯re leaving tomorrow! And you¡¯re useless!¡±


    I glowered at him. ¡°I¡¯m not useless. You¡¯re a useless teacher.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t get it. You must be some child prodigy to be with the Healers when you¡¯re only my age, and you can do that trick where you talk to plants, but you¡¯re so¡­weak. And I see the other Healers. They¡¯re strong. If you got attacked by bandits, they could fend for themselves. But you¡¯re¡­¡±


    He closed his eyes and massaged his temple, thinking deeply. When we¡¯d met up at my meditation tonight, he¡¯d given an excited ramble about the visiting philosopher who had talked to his class about ¡®the state of nature¡¯. ¡°You know what he said, Avari?¡± He asked me now. ¡°He said that we all learn best with a true sense of danger. I haven¡¯t actually been trying to hurt you, and you obviously know that, so we¡¯ve got to try something else.¡±


    I wanted to go running again, which was decidedly more fun than waving around a sword. A breeze was cool at my fingertips, and I knew the wind was eager for a race too. I was about to propose we race to the nearest source of water, when he suddenly drew his sword and stood up tall.


    ¡°Okay!¡± He cried out. ¡°Danger!¡±


    My sword was leaning against a tree, not even in my hand. I didn¡¯t have time to grab it, or even the instinct to, not as he suddenly charged at me. Alarm rushed through me, almost knocking me off my feet, but the blow was unavoidable. Right through my chest, right next to my heart, Laclan pierced his sword through me and essentially, by all means, killed me. It was a fatal wound. If not instantly, I would have died in the moments immediately after.


    For some seconds, we both stared at each other.


    Then my knees buckled and I hit the ground. Laclan began to panic, pulling on his hair, running around the trees and cursing in French. I opened my mouth but I couldn¡¯t speak, not with a sword through my body, and when I touched my tunic, all I felt was wet cloth. I was too overwhelmed to understand exactly what had been done to me, to understand the pain that was touching every part of me, to understand the blood spilling out of me. ¡°Je l¡¯a tu¨¦!¡± Laclan lamented, whining to the moon, I killed him! ¡°J¡¯ai tu¨¦ un orphelin ! Qui pourrait me pardonner pour ?a ? Ahhhh!¡±


    But.


    I was not dead.


    Not for his lack of trying, but I wasn¡¯t dead, and I didn¡¯t plan on dying, so I sat up a little straighter, pain searing through every imaginable part of me, and then tried to stand up. I couldn¡¯t. I tried again, blood pooling out of me, but I couldn¡¯t. ¡°Laclan,¡± I whispered, ¡°help me up. Help¡­¡±


    He was too busy chasing himself around the forest to hear me. I collapsed again, heaving and panting with tears pooling in my eyes. I touched my hand to my chest and forced my mind forward, forced myself to concentrate, and then I tried again. But I couldn¡¯t. It was becoming increasingly hard to move, let alone stand. The pain was confusing me. It was making me dizzy, making me tired, making my vision swirl in front of my eyes. I had a piercing desire for water, for rain, for a lake or a pond; I knew there was a stream nearby. I could hear it rushing, barely audible amongst the cacophony around me ¨C my heart, Laclan, my head.


    I touched the blood around my wound, where the cloth was most soaked, where the sword was still inside my body, then I used all possible strength and scratched the grass and soil with my other hand, trying to bury my fingers into the earth. I wanted to listen but I was overwhelmed, too many thoughts but not enough. I wanted to listen to the pulse of nature, to the birds in the trees, to the wind that might have gone still ¨C I was doing all I could to align my body with the earth and stop the blood from flowing out of me, but my mind was scrambled, and I was in more pain than was bearable, and every inhale and exhale lay an exhaustion on me that felt like death.


    I couldn¡¯t heal myself. A sword in my body, a debilitating pain in my veins ¨C I couldn¡¯t even remember how.


    ¡°Avari,¡± Laclan was beside me, gently kicking my body with his foot, ¡°t¡¯es mort?¡± Are you dead?


    ¡°Not yet.¡± I whispered. ¡°Bring a Healer.¡±


    He must have paused, because when he next spoke it felt like being woken up. ¡°I¡­if¡­If they find out that I was here, in the forest¡­If they find out what I did to you, they¡­¡±


    ¡°Anyone. Get anyone. Or¡­or take me to the stream.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I can hear it. Take me there. Then push me in.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t drown you!¡±


    ¡°Please.¡± I was still mostly a stranger to good manners. I had only said ¡®please¡¯ or ¡®thank you¡¯ in the most begrudging, ungrateful way I could manage. In that moment, I meant it with all the earnest I was capable of. ¡°Please. Laclan, please hurry.¡±


    ¡°I¡­.I¡¯ll¡­¡± He ran off. He tore down the forest path, running with the speed of a thousand Stymphalian battle elves. Blood must be welling in my lungs despite me delaying its spread, because as I coughed, I choked out red, and as I breathed, I breathed out the same.


    The night was cold. And it was long. And I was alone.


    As nature further cooled down, I found myself cooling with it. Losing heat, and consciousness, and losing a body that should have long since been dead. The pain was driving me to delirium. I could feel myself both in my body and out of it, as if I was a hollow form with its consciousness hovering somewhere above, watching a boy with eyes too green and hair too long as he occasionally spasmed, as he coughed blood, as the grass around him all seemed to lean in his direction but could themselves offer no substantial help. I could see that same boy during his nights at an Academy far from this one, arguing with two cats named Cat 1 and Cat 2, conspiring with a dark red fox that was his best friend, his only friend. I could see that same boy meditating day and night by any water he could find. Avari, meaning ¡®water-born¡¯. He¡¯d been retroactively named by the monks when they¡¯d realised his affinity for the element. Almost, he could see Delphia, the monk who had raised him, who had herself died, who was now kindly watching him die.


    But he was 13. He was stubborn. If he didn¡¯t want to die, there was nothing death could do about that.


    It took me slipping in and out of consciousness several times before I realised the rain. It was a drizzle at first, then a thunderous torrent, and it fell all over me, washing my blood into the soil below me, making me colder, making me shiver, making it harder to fall back asleep, and by that point I desperately wanted to sleep. I¡¯d been awake for too long and it was too much pain for a conscious body, but I forced my eyes open, and even though my mind could only churn out unintelligible babble, I was forcing it to stay active. Hours must have passed. Every minute was an agonising reminder that my life should have long since left me. In those hours, I whispered two things. The first, more than a little useless, ¡°Laclan?¡±. The second, for the rain and the grass and the soil, ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Oh, merde.¡±


    More words, but from another voice. By this point in the night, in my suspended death, I could no longer see. Even my hearing was unstable. I felt movement in my wound, an attempt to pull the sword out, but I used all my energy to push the word ¡®no¡¯ past cold lips. The sword was stopping the worst of the blood flow, at least. It could be worse. I could have died hours ago.


    ¡°You were attacked? We have no time. I¡¯ll call a Healer.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I forced out again, ¡°No. The stream. Push me in.¡±


    ¡°Quoi?¡±


    ¡°Please. Do it now.¡±


    I didn¡¯t immediately register any difference in the air and the ground until a harsh breeze stung my face. A lot of my body had gone numb, either from the shock or the pain. The body that was carrying me was running, aided by the wind, and it wasn¡¯t Laclan because it wasn¡¯t as fast. It didn¡¯t ask for further explanations. It didn¡¯t risk wasting more time. I was flung into the air and engulfed by cold water when I came crashing down. I blinked until I could see ¨C not a stream at all, but a huge lake ¨C as my dark red blood stained the clear water I was surrounded by. In a pain so searing that the sensation alone might have killed me, I pulled the sword out of me. Then I swam further down.


    Time lost me completely.


    The sun had long since risen when I climbed onto the lake bank. I collapsed onto the mud, water streaming out of every inch of my clothes. The red-headed boy was still here, the boy with the endless list of names, and he woke immediately at my presence. He watched as I dropped the sword onto the ground, and he picked it up, examining it for ownership. He found the family crest. Wordlessly, he slid it into his own sheath.


    ¡°Did you heal yourself?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a Healer.¡± I winced as I spoke, my chest crying out. ¡°We can all heal.¡±


    He didn¡¯t respond, just stared at me. He looked distrusting, suspicious, vaguely irritated, as if there was something I had done wrong, as if this was all an Old Trick about to expose itself. When he stood up, he didn¡¯t offer me a helping hand. ¡°I saved your life.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the story. I saw you moments after you had been attacked by an agresseur inconnu, and saved your life. We¡¯ll go to the medical bay, they¡¯ll look after the rest of your wounds, but you¡¯ll tell them that I¡¯m the hero, okay? Nothing about Laclan, d¡¯accord?¡±


    I had no reason to agree. None at all.


    ¡°Consider it a favour earned.¡± He said, voice terse. ¡°A big one.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t seek favours from-¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t spit stupid orphan riddles at me. I don¡¯t know what they teach you in bastard houses, but in the real world, you need favours.¡± He had never seemed to fit his body as a child. He had a young face. Even when he slicked his hair back with all the gel in the world, his cheeks were rosy and chubby, his fingers clumsy and sticky. But he talked like a politician at the King¡¯s Court. He talked like the world was about to be his, like he was just in the final rounds of negotiation. He held his hand out. ¡°Je t¡¯en donne ma parole. You will be able to cash in a favour from me, a favour from the Roqueforte-Cilliacs. Je t¡¯en donne ma parole.¡±


    I give you my word.


    I took his hand, allowing him to pull me up. It was a slow, arduous walk to the medical bay. Manon rushed over to me, immediately scolding me despite her fierce hug, and I slumped against her body without meaning to, hearing of the ¡®search party¡¯, the ¡®scare I had caused¡¯, ¡®how I should know to be back before¡­¡¯.


    She touched her hand to her mouth, seeing the poorly-healed deep wound in my chest. Another Healer crouched by me, then caught me when my legs could no longer let me stand. They asked what happened. They asked how I had drained so much of my energy. They asked about this fatal wound through my chest and through my back.


    They asked how I survived.


    Wolfgang Roqueforte-Cilliac de Montaigne. He saved my life.

 Two. Young enough to lose your Youth

    I would never recover the energy that I had lost in keeping myself alive.


    A walking stick was made for me. I was allowed to whittle patterns into the dark oak before it was glazed and tempered. I couldn¡¯t complete even short journeys without it. My eyesight was unsteady for those initial weeks afterwards. Light was finnicky and irritable and induced maddening migraines. On the day I completed the journey from my chambre to the cafeteria alone, without the support of Manon as a helper, I was met with many ¡®well done!s¡¯ and ¡®so good!s¡¯, even if I¡¯d still needed my cane. However high Manon had claimed my spirits rose during that week at the Academy, it plummeted double that amount.


    I couldn¡¯t run anymore. I had lost that forever.


    Fox the fox was stubborn despite my hostility. Even when I sulked in corners and glared at the sky and refused any conversation lest it be dotted with pity, Fox continued to trot after me, pushing his nose under my hand, sitting in those sulking corners and lounging under these glaring skies. ¡°I can¡¯t play with you anymore,¡± I hissed. ¡°I can¡¯t run with you. I can¡¯t do anything.¡±


    Fox didn¡¯t care. Cat 1 and Cat 2 were equally as stubborn.


    Manon kept a more watchful eye over me, even if she did so from an increased distance. I would sometimes catch her lingering around during my meditations. She would wave at me. I would ignore her. Ivra so often called her a ¡®busy bureaucrat¡¯, but she seemed to not be busy at all if she had all this time to watch me. She would give me extra cinnamon buns during breakfast (if Ivra was around, she would roll her eyes and put them back), she would see me reading one of the encyclopaedias and force a stilted conversation from that (¡°Are you reading about Latin? Would you like to learn it?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t read if you¡¯re talking.¡± ¡°Oh, of course.¡± ¡°¡­¡± ¡°But if you have any questions, my father was a Latin teacher¡­¡±), she would stand by my door when I¡¯d returned from nightly meditations, arms folded, looking like she wanted to say a million things but knew my reaction to all of them would be silence.


    ¡°Summer¡¯s coming.¡± She said, keeping her voice light and hopeful. ¡°The Monastery is expecting you, aren¡¯t they?¡±


    I nodded.


    ¡°The fresh air will be good for you. I noticed you don¡¯t wander off to the forest anymore. Maybe the seaside will raise your spirits.¡± She gave me a warm smile. ¡°I¡¯ll be here working, haha. Work, work, work. I¡¯m jealous of your holidays, Avari.¡±


    Fox, Cat 1, and Cat 2 all walked past Manon¡¯s legs to enter my room, taking up their newly self-appointed positions on my bed. I hadn¡¯t encouraged this, it was completely their own initiative, but I allowed it. I stroked Fox¡¯s fur, my other hand scratching behind Cat 1¡¯s ears. They both hummed.


    ¡°I don¡¯t blame you, Manon.¡±


    When I looked at her, she uncrossed her arms to hug herself instead, her head leaning against the door frame, her eyes big and round and¡­sad. During the day, she pinned her hair behind her, but at night it was a tumble of soft blue curls around her face. Her roots were red, and the combination was striking, more striking than what she was comfortable with. Her eyes were the same, top half red, bottom half blue. ¡°Oh, Avari,¡± she sighed gently. She sighed and sighed and sighed. ¡°Ivra does.¡± She laughed a little. ¡°And she should.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t your fault.¡±


    Adults were always crouching. Always. She came up to my bed and crouched by the side of it, running her fingers over Cat 2¡¯s fur. ¡°Do you remember much of what happened?¡±


    The Militarists hadn¡¯t questioned me too strongly on who my attacker had been, because as an orphan with no family name, they had no real reason to pursue the case more than what was ¡®necessary¡¯, but the Alchemists were less convinced. Even if they could accept that the shock of the attack and the pain of the wound had dulled my memory, they couldn¡¯t accept that the student that had attacked me was allowed to roam free. Manon had spent a significant amount of her career ¡®repairing relations¡¯ between the Militarists and the Alchemists, between the New Schools and the Old. Ivra had insisted on completely cutting off contact with the ¡®French schools¡¯ after my attack, but Manon was less convinced. And Ivra couldn¡¯t fire her either, though she so often wanted to. ¡°The little funding we get,¡± she¡¯d muttered to me, ¡°it¡¯s because we allow your caretaker to ¡®supervise us¡¯. The fucking French.¡±


    ¡°Do you remember when exactly you were attacked?¡± She asked me. ¡°Do you have a rough guess of how long you kept yourself alive?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell her any details.¡± Ivra had warned me. ¡°Everything you tell her, she¡¯ll write in a report. Even if you remember ¨C and I know you do ¨C don¡¯t tell her a thing.¡±


    ¡°And the rain?¡± Manon prodded. ¡°There were no clouds that night. Was that you, Avari?¡±


    I had already written to the Monastery to tell them I was bringing Fox, Cat 1 and Cat 2 with me for the summer. They¡¯d accepted. Ivra had already written to inform them of my attack. They would ask more questions, and I would answer them. I couldn¡¯t answer Manon.


    ¡°The friend you would spend the nights with. Where was he?¡±


    ¡°Busy.¡±


    She nodded once. I couldn¡¯t tell if she believed me or not. Then, she smiled at me and stood up, ruffling my hair like the wind would. ¡°Goodnight, Avari. I¡¯ll see you tomorrow.¡±


    I didn¡¯t say it back to her. When she was gone, I said it to my three friends instead. Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight.


    *


    I turned 14 at the Monastery.


    *


    The forest was the same as I¡¯d left it. I walked around it the day I returned from the Monastery, my walking stick crunching leaves underneath its steps, my feet doing the same. I could hear the soft rustling of Fox as he matched my slow pace, never impatient, always stopping and nuzzling against my hand whenever I had to take breaks. Many summer conversations with Nature had convinced me to return to the forest, but trying to venture through it caused too much panic, remedied only by following its perimeter rather than venturing through. The season¡¯s change was turning the lush green into a vibrant orange and yellow, matching the golden undertone of my skin. The paths around it meandered, and I liked to meander, so I spent many hours learning walkways that I¡¯d never bothered with, walkways that immediately accepted my presence.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    There was an apple tree in full bloom. I ate as many as I could, feeding some slices to Fox too, and then dozed off under its shade. My dream was a stupid one: I thought of myself sword-fighting with all the energy I had lost, then taking off in a long-distance sprint against the coastline by the Monastery. Following me: Fox, Cat 1 and Cat 2, but they were elves like me, elves with long arms and long legs and mouths that could yelp and cheer and speak Elven, or French, or even Latin.


    I woke up. Fox was a fox. And I was alone outside the huge forest.


    *


    Ivra returned from the summer break some days after I did. The summer away hadn¡¯t in any way quelled her anger at Manon, but I hadn¡¯t expected it to. Manon could have been anyone else, any other bureaucrat, and even if Manon¡¯s peppiness was a specific source of tension, there was no French supervision that Ivra could have ever accepted. If anything, she was surprised that Manon was still around. ¡°I thought they would have fired you for your incompetence.¡± Ivra said, flipping through some papers that listed number after number, budget cut after budget cut. ¡°After what you did to Avari, did the Monastery not complain?¡±


    ¡°Ivra.¡± Manon stood at Ivra¡¯s desk, hands clasped in front of her, stood the way I might when I made a demand (often refused) for more cinnamon buns. ¡°Did you read the-?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not.¡± Her temper flared in no time at all, and ordinarily Manon would have blanched and balked, but today she stood firm. ¡°You even dare suggest sending him back? How long have you been conspiring this?¡±


    I was looking at myself in a pool of water on one of the alchemy stations, labelled ¡®looking-glass-liquid, Test 19¡¯. I touched the tip of my finger to the small puddle and it was immediately absorbed, making my fingertip lose all its colour so I could see straight through it. It lasted for maybe a second, before the liquid seeped out and re-joined the puddle.


    ¡°As I outlined in the proposal, this is ultimately his decision¡­¡±


    ¡°He is a child. He is under my supervision.¡±


    ¡°Our supervision, Ivra.¡± Manon said patiently. ¡°Legally, actually ¨C just mine.¡±


    Fury overtook Ivra¡¯s features so severely that Manon did balk at this, even taking a step back. ¡°You bring up your bastardised French law when talking about the custody of an orphaned child? The state gave you custody because they want to monitor him! Not because you¡¯re more capable. Not because you have his best interests.¡±


    ¡°It was not the state that ¡®gave me custody¡¯, Ivra. And I do have his best interest at heart. I do.¡±


    ¡°Taking him back to the Academy that almost killed him is your idea of his ¡®best interests¡¯? Absolutely not.¡±


    As an act of ¡®good will¡¯, the boys¡¯ branch of the North District Military Academy had constructed a permanent wing in their institution for visiting Healers. This wing was the product of years of negotiation and would have been constructed regardless of my attack, but the letter that Manon had received announcing this wing had cited me specifically. ¡®We would love to have Avari come and be a first guest as soon as he is healthy and strong enough. With our renewed relation with your Academy, it is important to demonstrate unity and¡­¡¯.


    ¡°He is their guest of honour.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re na?ve. He is their object of speculation. They¡¯re all taking interest in him the older he gets. You know that. You¡¯re not as stupid as you so often pretend to be. You know that.¡±


    ¡°So what? We lock him here forever? Why not send him back to the Monastery if that¡¯s what you think he needs?¡± When Ivra didn¡¯t immediately respond, Manon scoffed. ¡°It¡¯s because you¡¯ve already tried! But legally, you can¡¯t send him back!¡±


    They both looked over at me, but I continued rummaging through the vials. A green one was labelled ¡®crushed grass from a tropical plain¡¯. A notebook had been left open, and in it were pages and pages of calculations, somehow using arithmetic, chemistry, and botany to understand that combining some amount of ¡®crushed tropical grass¡¯ with some amount of ¡®northern water collected at 3am¡¯ created a puddle that could show your reflection like glass, and could also turn you transparent.


    I hadn¡¯t known that Ivra had tried to send me back. I knew that, when I was first assigned to Manon, the Monastery had tried to keep me but legally couldn¡¯t. It wasn¡¯t hard to work out why ¨C something about Delphia being gone, about the state being the state, about Manon and her reports.


    ¡°It¡¯s a gesture of forgiveness. It¡¯ll be good for him to go back, to prevent trauma-¡±


    ¡°You know nothing about trauma.¡±


    ¡°-and to see his friend. He¡¯s a 14-year-old boy surrounded by adults. We¡¯ve no doubt already stunted his growth. But he made a friend, and we can¡¯t let him lose that.¡±


    ¡°The boy who attacked him will be there.¡±


    ¡°They promised to renew their investigation if Avari agrees to return.¡±


    ¡°Pardon,¡± a new voice interrupted the conversation, the 23-year-old (maybe 24 now), the Alchemist ¡®prodigy¡¯, who was, even with a new batch of students, still the youngest. ¡°Mais j¡¯ai laiss¨¦ mon cahier ici apr¨¨s mon¡­¡± She trailed off, spying me once again at her desk. I stared back at her, holding her notebook in my hands. She wasn¡¯t French but had clearly been educated in a French school, because she defaulted to French when talking to her teachers like she must have always done. ¡°I left my notebook,¡± she repeated in Elven, still glaring at me. She walked over and snatched it from my hands. ¡°You¡¯re always snooping, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    I glared back at her, but there was an unsettling new realisation in my mind, a new awareness that she was, despite being annoying and despite undoubtedly finding me just as irritating, pretty. The same weird realisation I¡¯d had during my journey back to the Alchemist Academy, when I¡¯d seen a huntress riding her horse with some rabbits tied to her back, and I¡¯d stared at her with a confused sort of interest, an interest that had revealed itself to me without my knowledge. I wanted to ask this Alchemist about her equations and how she¡¯d realised them, but I didn¡¯t like her enough to want to speak to her, and I wanted to stare at her a little longer and figure out what exactly about her face made her so pretty, but this was even more embarrassing than the first want. So I said nothing, and looked away.


    ¡°Misa,¡± Ivra said, ¡°give your opinion on something.¡±


    Manon looked at the 23-year-old, incredulous. ¡°You¡¯re asking a student?¡±


    ¡°A second opinion.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the second opinion!¡±


    ¡°A third, then.¡± Ivra stayed concentrated on the 23-year-old who now had a name, Misa, and Misa balked a little at the attention. ¡°Do you think Avari should return to the Academy where he was stabbed to commemorate the opening of a new wing? Does that sound reasonable to you?¡±


    Misa gave me another glare, as if this was my fault, then tried to meet Ivra¡¯s tense gaze. ¡°I¡­I think-¡±


    ¡°The investigation would be reopened,¡± Manon countered, ¡°he would be watched and protected, and it¡¯s important for a boy his age to be with other boys his age.¡±


    ¡°I-¡±


    ¡°He is not like the other boys his age.¡±


    ¡°He is. Stop saying that about him. Stop othering him. He is.¡±


    ¡°I think,¡± Misa said more insistently, her voice cutting through their argument ¨C a Northern Elven accent, I noted; ¡°that he¡¯s 14 and is easily capable of making his own decisions. Excuse me.¡±


    She left the classroom with her notebook. To give me the final say would be a gift neither Ivra nor Manon had ever bothered with before. I didn¡¯t see how it mattered. I didn¡¯t see how anything mattered. Days spent arguing amounted to a sudden compromise, a sudden concession. Manon wrote to the Military Academy, the Academy wrote back. Then Ivra, calling me into her office to complain and grumble and curse the French, informed me I would be joining Manon on the trip to the new Healers¡¯ wing. ¡°I suppose it could be good for you. I can see the logic behind it. I would never say Manon was correct, of course not, but she occasionally has persuasive arguments¡­¡±


    In that budget book that always sat open on her desk, there was a very notable 4-figure gold amount written in bright red ink. Above it, the words: grant from military ¨C Avari¡¯s wing.

 Three. Keen to question, Unwilling to ask.

    Seven of the King¡¯s Guards welcomed us into the Academy. Their leader, a man on a tall, white stallion, looked down at us in our carriage. His eyes fixed to all of our faces, studying each of us for what was there and what was not. Like all the King¡¯s Guards, his uniform was a blue velvet, the emblem of the royal family embroidered into each shoulder. I had seen it many times during state visits: three tall trees all angled towards each other, an optical illusion of one leaning to the other leaning to the other leaning to the first. Manon was enthused by their presence. As we were escorted through the compound, she beamed. ¡°This has been many years in the making, Avari. It has taken many years to repair the relationship between us and the King. An escort by royal guards! Can you believe it?¡±


    What did that mean, ¡®us¡¯? Ivra firmly believed that Manon was a ¡®them¡¯, part of the other, part of the French new order and not Elven tradition. And what did that mean, ¡®the King¡¯? It was the renewed relationship between the Alchemist and Military academies that she had worked on, not ¡®us¡¯ and ¡®the King¡¯. The King was in his palace. He wasn¡¯t here, in a military academy overrun by the sons of French nobility. He didn¡¯t know me. I didn¡¯t know him. We had no ¡®relationship¡¯ to ¡®repair¡¯.


    So, I asked a question. I asked, ¡°What¡¯s that?¡±


    Misa, who was here, who didn¡¯t want to be here but hadn¡¯t been able to refuse Ivra¡¯s insistence, who had spent the journey writing observations in her notebook, entering silent glaring contests with me, and occasionally chatting with the other Healers or with Manon, clutched the beads she was holding, as if I might reach over and grab them from her. ¡°There¡¯s no Elven word for it.¡± She pocketed the beads. ¡°It¡¯s a rosaire. Or a chapelet.¡±


    I had spent many moments during the journey wishing she were Manon, because if she were Manon I could ask for that notebook to read through without having to find the words to ask. But she was Misa, an Elven girl who had grown up in French schools, who would often close her eyes, touch those beads, and mutter some sort of French chant that I couldn¡¯t make meaning of. When not in the Alchemist-typical bun, her hair was long, curly, and golden brown, darker at its roots than at its ends. It was the same slight gold of her skin, and her eyes were a lighter gold still. She spoke French like Manon did, that is ¨C completely devoid of an Elven accent, but her Elven was perfect, without a French accent to taint it. The only accent she had was a Northern one, a native Northern Elven accent, a native Northern French accent. When she said ¡®rosaire¡¯, the ¡®aire¡¯ sounded more like an ¡®are¡¯. When she said ¡®Elven¡¯, it sounded almost like ¡®Elf-an¡¯.


    I glared. She glared back.


    The guards had guns. Long, slim guns attached to their hip. I thought back briefly to my last visit, to Laclan Stymphalia closing one eye and mimicking holding one of those large guns, shooting it off and making a ¡®pow!¡¯ sound to mimic the gunfire, stepping backwards to mimic the recoil. ¡°We can¡¯t train with guns until we¡¯re 16,¡± he¡¯d sighed sadly, ¡°or until you hit Class A. I¡¯m going to hit Class A by the time you get back, Avari. Next you see me, I¡¯ll have one of those long guns. Pow!¡±


    It was a thought I pushed away.


    ¡°Bienvenue!¡± The Headmaster of the Academy opened his arms to welcome us as we descended the carriage. Manon helped me down, which I resented but somewhat appreciated. The headmaster glanced at me, as did all the men standing behind him, before he smiled generously. He addressed us only in French. ¡°We¡¯re very happy that you accepted the invitation to join us here. And you brought your best and brightest, I see. Avari, I¡¯m happy to see you¡¯ve recovered from that terrible injury. You recovered quickly, I hear.¡±


    He was tall, muscular, stark blond hair and starker blond skin. I didn¡¯t bother retaining his name, but I didn¡¯t miss the title. Baron de la Tourrefeille. A baron and a headmaster, but notably not a general, notably with no military title at all. ¡°Mademoiselle Cotillard,¡± the headmaster said, still looking at me but holding a hand out to Manon, ¡°if you and Avari would stay behind for some moments, the others will be shown to their chambers in the new wing.¡±


    Manon had fussed over me in the carriage, tidying my hair into a discreet bun, straitening my coat, pulling on my sleeves. I might¡¯ve complained more if it had been anyone else, might¡¯ve hit them away with my cane, but Manon was Manon, and even if she was a ¡®them¡¯, she still often felt like an ¡®us¡¯, like someone who cared despite herself. She put her hand on my shoulders, presenting me like I was her first-born son, and she continued to smile as brightly as she had at the arrival of the King¡¯s Guards. She was ¡°wonderfully happy¡±, she said. So encouraged by this reinstated line of communication. Full cooperation on both sides, she was sure. The Healers are here to work with the King, not against him. Never against him. ¡°I understand earlier suspicions about the Old Schools, but-¡±


    ¡°How old are you now, Avari?¡±


    He wasn¡¯t a general, but many of the men behind him were. Not just generals, but colonels, admirals, possibly a lieutenant or two. All of them were studying us, carefully.


    ¡°He¡¯s 14.¡±


    ¡°He can¡¯t talk?¡±


    Manon laughed awkwardly. ¡°He¡¯s¡­awkward around strangers. You know how teenagers are.¡±


    I said nothing.


    ¡°It took many Healers to help him regain the strength he has now.¡± Manon said. ¡°It wasn¡¯t an easy process. And the experience was traumatic, I¡¯m sure. It might be a topic to steer clear of.¡±


    The headmaster smiled a little. ¡°An investigation might require more willingness than that.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Another awkward Manon laugh. ¡°I just mean, that¡­ that the journey has worn him down. He needs rest. Then, we can begin discussing what must be done.¡±


    He continued to study me, watching me in what could have been amusement. There was a glint in his eyes, a knowingness, but he nodded. ¡°Of course. Please, rest first. Perhaps we can instead discuss the presence of the Alchemist you wrote of, the ¡®prodigy¡¯.¡±


    Her grip on my shoulders reflexively tightened, but she laughed it off. Another awkward Manon laugh. One of the colonels showed us to the new wing. Manon frequently looked over at me. I stayed trained on the colonel¡¯s back, struggling slightly to keep their pace but unwilling to complain. The addition was white brick, smelling of newness and paint, with huge chambers that could have housed a school of elves, let alone just me and Manon. I took the bed closest to the window, Manon closest to the door. Outside the window, some boys were fencing, their instructor yelling out corrections, their classmates watching attentively. The clay was flinging up golden dust around their feet, gold like Misa¡¯s eyes, gold like the rays of autumn sunlight streaming into the room.


    ¡°Rosaires are for the Vierge Marie?¡± I asked.


    She put her hand on my head, stroking my hair as if I were a cat, as if I were her first-born son. ¡°Yes. For the Vierge Marie.¡±


    We both looked at the boys fencing together.


    *


    ¡°I don¡¯t see why he shouldn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t.¡±


    Manon gave me a fond smile, before refocusing her attention on the headmaster and the general. ¡°He¡¯s stubborn. He¡¯ll object but it¡¯ll be good for him to be with boys his age. If he¡¯s here, he should go to their classes. Archery might be useless, but Geography isn¡¯t. He¡¯s 14. He¡¯s never been formally educated. It¡¯s wrong.¡±


    I glared at the other men in the room, at the headmaster and at the man who insisted on being addressed as G¨¦n¨¦ral de G¨¦rome: the discussion me and Manon were having should be between us alone, not some rank-less headmaster and some general. Manon had let me spend all of yesterday afternoon and night sleeping off the journey, but when I had woken up this morning to meditate she had followed me, and two majors had followed me, and one of the King¡¯s Guards had stood in eyesight too. Now, just before breakfast, I was being accosted with threats of education.


    ¡°The other Healers don¡¯t have to sit in their classrooms.¡± I said, mumbling so only she could hear me, still eyeing G¨¦n¨¦ral de G¨¦rome suspiciously. ¡°I don¡¯t want to.¡±


    Initially, they had both agreed that it might be ¡®unsuitable to have me learn with the other boys¡¯, because I was ¡®different¡¯ or at least ¡®other ways inclined¡¯, but I could see them both being swayed by Manon¡¯s arguments. ¡°Otherwise, he would waste his days watching the other Healers in the medical bay. He is too young to have any real use in his practice. He would be under your supervision, of course. Under your watch.¡±


    I wasn¡¯t stupid. I wasn¡¯t na?ve. To be ¡®under their watch¡¯ was what they wanted, the headmaster especially, who was curious about me for reasons I struggled to understand. ¡°This is what he does at your Academy?¡± G¨¦n¨¦ral de G¨¦rome asked. ¡°He just watches?¡±


    Manon nodded. ¡°He¡¯s only a boy. Of course.¡±


    Of course.


    ¡°And the boy who attacked him?¡± He asked. ¡°If he¡¯s in the class with him?¡±


    The headmaster beckoned for one of the majors to come forward, then asked him to ¡®fetch the Roqueforte-Cilliac boy¡¯. Immediately, I turned to Manon again, more insistent. She nudged my shoulder. ¡°You¡¯ll be safe. I swear to you. There will be Guards by the door of any class you¡¯re in. And learning is good. As is socialisation.¡±


    ¡°I know more than they do.¡±


    ¡°No one knows everything.¡±


    ¡°All elves know everything.¡±


    ¡°Tell me that when you can point out the Low Midlands on a map.¡± She lowered to my height, like I was a child (though I was), like I needed to be condescended to (at that age, I did). ¡°If we had young Healers, we would sit them down in the classroom with you, or we would have our own classes at our Academy and teach you ourselves. But we don¡¯t. The youngest Alchemist is in her 20s. You¡¯re 14. You¡¯re our exception, but you¡¯re still a boy like everyone else here.¡±


    I didn¡¯t enjoy that fact and I didn¡¯t necessarily believe it either. ¡°They don¡¯t learn,¡± I tried arguing, ¡°they just fight.¡±


    It was with those words, with that sentiment, that G¨¦n¨¦ral de G¨¦rome finally agreed. He had short dark hair, dark like his eyes, dark like his skin, and his uniform was different than the others: he wore a deep, painful red. The others, a rich blue. His station wasn¡¯t at the North District Military Academy, like the other blue generals ¨C he was a member of the King¡¯s court; he oversaw military education, and he was only here to commemorate the new Healer/Alchemist wing that was allegedly in my honour.


    ¡°It would be good to keep an eye on him.¡± He said, looking to the headmaster for agreement. ¡°It would be good for him to know where the Low Midlands are. He will learn. I¡¯ll allow it. As long as, Mademoiselle Cotillard, this does not breach any agreement? This is within the guidelines of his handling?¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± Manon nodded earnestly. ¡°I¡¯m his legal guardian. His education is my responsibility. Of course, it¡¯s within guidelines. Of course.¡±


    The headmaster smiled, that irritating smile, and nodded too. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll allow it, too. He¡¯ll have the protection of the boy who saved him. I¡¯m sure he¡¯ll be happy about that.¡±


    Wolfgang Roqueforte-Cilliac de Montaigne. He walked in, saluting the principal and G¨¦n¨¦ral de G¨¦rome, then stood to their side and looked over at me. Not much about him had changed. His red and white hair was slicked back in his constant attempt to look older, but his silver eyes were as young as the rest of his face. His uniform, though, was unlike what it had last been. Embroidered into each shoulder was the letter A. Attached to his hip, like the guards, was a long, slim rifle.


    ¡°Monsieur de Montaigne, I expect you¡¯ll help us in our investigation.¡± To me, the headmaster added: ¡°He ascended to Class A following his demonstration of heroism in saving you. I¡¯m sure, in some way, he must be grateful to you, too.¡±


    Neither of us spoke.


    ¡°A guard will be dispatched to watch over him.¡± G¨¦n¨¦ral de G¨¦rome agreed. ¡°Montaigne, Avari will shadow you for your classes. After dinner, we¡¯ll relaunch the investigation. Any objections?¡±


    No. None.


    ¡°Then you¡¯re both dismissed.¡±


    *


    The afternoon gave us an autumn sun that burned our skin. Their drills continued. An equestrian class was causing small storms of dust to blow over our feet as their horses galloped through the grounds. I had never seen horses gallop so fast, and the sound of their hooves heavily connecting with the ground was unsettling, disturbing. Opposite, commanders were leading a march, ¡°Garde ¨¤ vous!¡± ¡°En place!¡±. Opposite again, one of the King¡¯s Guards, the leader that had stared us all down, was talking to Misa. He held his hand out, and she took it, smiling back at him.


    This accusation of being like the other boys: it was neither believed by myself, or the other boys in question. I didn¡¯t have their hours spent in this Northern sun; I didn¡¯t have their days spent on training grounds; I didn¡¯t have their years of military diet. They were tall and strong, confident and bronzed. I walked past with my walking stick, with my bone-straight long hair and spindly limbs, with a balance that would rock whenever the pace was one beat too fast. They eyed me, they eyed Wolfgang, and they whispered to each other. I¡¯m sure some might have even laughed.


    At a quieter spot, Wolfgang snatched my walking stick and pushed it against my chest, making me stumble back and trip onto the ground. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have come back, you b¨ºte.¡± He threw the cane down. ¡°If you have realised some master plan, please, do your best to let me know it now.¡±


    He was caught off guard when I kicked harshly at his foot, clearly not having expected any retaliation. He crashed to the ground next to me with an ¡®oof¡¯. For some seconds, his silver eyes coloured themselves in a furious bright red, and he looked as if he might pounce on me, but then he calmed down, chuckling. ¡°There¡¯s no honour in low kicks, bastard.¡±


    Just for that, I kicked at him again, sending some coughs of clay his way. The gesture he made with his fingers wasn¡¯t one I had seen before, but I could understand that it was meant to offend me, and so I made the same back to him.


    ¡°I saved your life.¡±


    ¡°And I bettered yours.¡±


    He pointed at me, eyes going wide and mouth opening in a victorious laugh. ¡°Ha! You can speak French!¡±


    I had no master plan. I also didn¡¯t particularly care about the investigation¡¯s outcome. If they found Laclan, then they were correct and the guilty boy would be punished. If they found someone else, if they found no one else ¨C it made no difference to me. I would be gone in a week and a half, back at the Academy I belonged to, having satisfied whatever symbolism Manon needed me here to fulfil, and Wolfgang could continue his saviour parade without the threat of my presence. He stood up, dusting himself off. ¡°Plan or not,¡± he said, ¡°I saved you once. If someone else comes and slits your throat on this visit, it means nothing to me. My first class tomorrow is Natural Science. If you¡¯re there or not, I don¡¯t care. If someone presses a pillow over your face at night, I don¡¯t care. This investigation is more so to find out who disobeyed order and ventured into the forest when told not to. Obedience matters here. An orphan boy with a walking stick for a third leg does not.¡±


    A whistle of wind pushed itself against his face, making him squint his eyes shut.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°If you ruin anything during this visit, I will care.¡± He said to me, taking his leave. Then he stopped: ¡°You are an orphan, no? Not a bastard?¡± He thought to himself, humming. ¡°Is it possible to be both?¡±


    It was a struggle to return to my feet. I only attempted to do so when he was a good distance away, having joined a group of older boys by the equestrian grounds, all with that A on their shoulders. I brushed the dust off my clothes, then took many moments leaning against the tree to gain enough energy to begin the journey back to my wing. I ignored the stares. I ignored the whispers. It was only one week, and it was for Manon ¨C I would endure it, and then I would be gone.


    *


    I remembered nothing. I could only remember asking Wolfgang for the stream, and walking back to the medical bay. When asked why I had ventured into the forest, Manon could answer that for me easily: ¡°He always ventures into nature.¡± When asked why Wolfgang had ventured into the forest, his answer seemed to be the same rehearsed one he had given them a million times before. He saw me wander in. He knew it was dangerous. Even if there were rules in place, he had a ¡®responsibility to help others¡¯.


    ¡°And you found him soon after the attack?¡±


    Wolfgang nodded. ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°How soon?¡±


    ¡°I assume very soon. There¡¯s no way he could have kept himself alive for too long. The blood around him was warm. It was very soon.¡±


    He was lying. He knew he was lying.


    *


    The classrooms were small despite the huge building, placing only 14 students in one subject at a time. For Natural Science that following morning, Manon walked with me to find the room, thrilled about my new ¡®learning adventure¡¯, how I already had ¡®friends¡¯ to help me ¡®fit in¡¯. Wolfgang was seated near the back of the classroom, laughing with the classmates around him when I walked in. They all turned to stare. Wolfgang just smiled at me, as if daring me to pick a seat close to him. I sat somewhere near the front. The class filled without anyone taking the seat next to me, not until a boy came in some minutes late, looked perturbed at being left with the one unwanted seat next to the strange outsider, and made a big show of pulling the chair as far away from me as he could.


    Chalk to the chalkboard, the professor wrote out ¡®des arbres et leurs usages¡¯. Despite myself, I listened with attention so rapt, I might have completely forgotten where I was.


    The class ended before I was ready for it to, and on his way out Wolfgang interrupted his conversation with his friends to throw back at me, ¡°Politics!¡±. Of course, his pace was one I couldn¡¯t follow, and to find it on my own made me late. There were two free seats. One near the front, and one close to the back. The front seat was made unusable by the boy next to it, a boy who waited until I was close before kicking his feet onto the seat and making some vague complaint about ¡®leg pains¡¯ and ¡®not wanting to be infected with whatever it was that made me so small¡¯. I took the seat at the back, some seats across Wolfgang, who was snickering with the other boys. ¡°Bah, c¡¯est l¡¯avorton que t¡¯as sauv¨¦?¡± That¡¯s the runt you saved? Wolfgang shrugged modestly ¨C ¡°I¡¯ve saved many. Who can be sure?¡±


    The classes were in French, and I could understand the general premise but every so often a word or phrase would be thrown in that I was unfamiliar with. When asked a question on the ¡®Raison d¡¯¨¦tat¡¯, I was unable to answer. I could scan my brain for all I¡¯d taken from encyclopaedias, but none of my encyclopaedias were even aware of French politics. The professor sighed, but he continued to pester me. I was evidence of the inferiority of non-Military education, he said. He might as well have said, I was evidence of inferiority itself.


    ¡°C¡¯est vrai que t¡¯es un orphelin? Que t¡¯as pas un nom de famille?" One boy asked me during Geography. Is it true that you¡¯re an orphan? That you don¡¯t have a last name? ¡°Que t¡¯as pas une famille du tout?¡± That you don¡¯t have a family at all?


    He didn¡¯t like that I was ignoring him. He was white-haired, olive-eyed, and his family crest was two standing eagles. Ulyses d¡¯Aigleu-Blondeau. He was tall for his age, strong for his age, the earliness of his puberty leading to the smooth ascension of his steps in the Academy¡¯s social ladder. ¡°It¡¯s allowed for an orphan boy to sit with us?¡± He asked. ¡°Bah, it¡¯s Wolfe¡¯s orphan, but is it not disrespectful?¡± He had long enough legs that he could lean over and sharply kick my chair. He waited for my reaction, but I didn¡¯t give one, and so he kicked it again. ¡°He acts like we¡¯re invisible? Is that allowed?¡±


    ¡°Maybe he can¡¯t hear you.¡± Wolfgang suggested. ¡°It was a bad attack. Maybe he¡¯s a little slow.¡±


    And they laughed.


    The professor, who was still here at the end of his lesson, occasionally glancing at us but mostly focusing on his book, gave no protest when Ulyses came to tower over my desk, snatching my walking stick and tipping over my chair to force me out of it. I could stand. That seemed to surprise him, that I could stand on my own, but when he used the walking stick to push my shoulder, I immediately stumbled.


    ¡°They¡¯ve been talking about you all day,¡± he said to me, ¡°about the new Healer orphan who we now have to learn with. The one Wolfe had to save last year. Why are you so small?¡± He shoved me again. ¡°Why don¡¯t you talk?¡±


    I steadied myself but gave no response. I also made no move to try and retrieve my cane either, not even when he feigned as if he was returning it. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with him?¡± He asked his friends, increasingly frustrated. ¡°Is it the French I¡¯m speaking? Can he not understand it?¡± To me, he asked, ¡°Do you only speak la langue grave?¡±


    This was the first time I had heard Elven referred to as ¡®la langue grave¡¯. I was unsure how to translate ¡®grave¡¯, if it should be ¡®serious¡¯ or ¡®deep¡¯ or ¡®low¡¯. He pushed the cane against my chest with enough force that it knocked me to the ground, winding me immediately. ¡°Do you speak at all?¡±


    Of course, my walking stick couldn¡¯t be broken. He tried for some awkward minutes, his friends cheering conspiratorially once they realised his goal, then scratching their heads awkwardly when he couldn¡¯t break it over his knee, or smash it against the ground, or snap it in half with his bare hands. Wolfgang did neither, tongue pushing against his teeth, watching this all unfold without much personal participation. Embarrassed, winded, Ulyses changed his plan and repositioned the stick in his hand.


    Then he paused.


    He looked at his friends, who were looking back at him, both of them waiting for the other to react first. He looked at Wolfgang, who was patiently waiting too, eyebrows raised as if taunting, ¡°well?¡±. It was all the challenge he needed: Ulyses took a deep breath, then bludgeoned my face with the blunt end. At the second hit, blood began streaming down my nose. At the fourth, I had to spit out blood. He stopped at the fifth, dropping the stick and inspecting my face, almost warily, before looking at his friends and making himself laugh. Wolfgang stood up, interrupting their laughter. ¡°I¡¯m hungry. Let¡¯s eat before afternoon drills.¡±


    He stayed behind when they all walked out, still laughing with each other, clearly high off a bullying thrill they¡¯d never experienced before. He looked down at me, hands in his pockets, those As on each shoulder, his own family crest boldly showing on his chest. ¡°You¡¯re proving yourself to be pathetic.¡± He said to me, voice completely devoid of all emotion. ¡°Are you waiting for me to save you again? Respect isn¡¯t automatic, orphan boy. You work for it.¡± He lowered his voice into a hiss: ¡°Or, you cash in a favour.¡±


    When he left, the professor, who had remained silent during my attack, walked over to help me stand up as I clearly couldn¡¯t do that on my own. ¡°La Raison d¡¯¨¦tat,¡± he said to me, ¡°est un principe qui d¨¦signe-¡±


    Behind the school building, I sat down on a slab of concrete and let my nose and mouth bleed out freely. I closed my eyes. The sun was warm on my cheeks, and the air was unmoving and stuffy. Sweat quickly mixed with my blood, but I continued to sit there and bake in the heat, and I continued to close my eyes, and I continued to make vague, rambling appeals to the Nature I was surrounded by. I asked for stubbornness. I asked for obstinacy. I asked to be like the other monks. I asked for Nature to grant me a hard heart and ears that did not burn, eyes that did not cry.


    Immediately, stirred from my request, tears flooded down my cheeks.


    I rubbed my eyes with my hand, rubbed my nose and my cheeks and my chin. ¡°You don¡¯t hear me,¡± I assumed, ¡°there is no breeze to carry my words. I can hear you. I can always hear you. I understand today if you don¡¯t-¡±


    A huge gust of wind blew into me. I had to squint my eyes and shield my face with my hands, feeling my tunic cling to my chest as my hair blew up in dark ribbons behind me. The wind stopped, and even when I frowned, I felt so many tears push out my eyes, ruining the face of apathy I was trying for, and then yet another gust of wind blew. And another. And another. Until I conceded.


    ¡°The monks don¡¯t cry.¡± I pointed out. ¡°They could return to a scene of attack without needless personal emotion. They¡¯re strong. Their hearts are hard and-¡±


    And I was now sobbing, an action I had never known myself even capable of doing, wrecked by a sadness that I was only vaguely aware I was capable of experiencing. I was unsure why I was being fought. Tears fell out of me and onto the clay earth by my feet, and they fell in further, deeper, surpassing the hard layer until they reached soft soil. I watched small sprouts of green push themselves out of the orange earth. One, then two, then several all at once. They stayed small, but they were persistent. If I touched a bloodied finger to one of their tiny leaves, it shuddered in a twisting movement, then out of itself pushed a smaller, more circular red bud.


    ¡°I want to learn from You,¡± I said softly, provoking more red buds from green sprouts. ¡°That¡¯s what Delphia said: that we all learn from You. Why am I learning from them?¡±


    No response, but a gentle swirl of wind pushed from the opposite direction, curling itself around my fingers and mirroring my ruffles in the sprouts. Nature spoke in analogies, but Delphia had always been able to decode the messages. I, on the other hand, struggled. ¡°Okay,¡± I sighed, ¡°I don¡¯t understand, but you keep making me cry, so I guess I have to wish for a ¡®hard heart¡¯ later.¡±


    Again, no response. The gentle breeze continued to follow my fingers. When I raised my hand to push my hair out of my face, it blew it all back for me.


    I returned to the Healer wing, continuing this shaded path behind the school building, unsaved by Wolfgang, unwatched by any officer, completely vulnerable to anyone who wanted to hurt me. Manon was dismayed. She walked with me to the wash chambre so that I could clean my face and heal my wounds, but as she did, she began chastising me. Why not heal myself before appearing in front of her as a bloodied mess? Why intentionally seek her out as soon as I return and glare at her as I had, as if this were her fault?


    Why let myself be hurt like this, and not fight back?


    ¡°I can¡¯t fight back.¡± I told her, like it was obvious. ¡°Is that what you¡¯re saying? That I should be violent?¡±


    She sighed. She sighed and sighed and sighed. ¡°The lengths you go to prove a point, Avari. Okay. You win. No more lessons.¡±


    *


    C¡¯est ¨¤ toi, si tu veux. J¡¯en ai un autre.


    It was a note left for me by Misa, with her rosaire holding it down as a paperweight. It¡¯s yours, if you want, it read, I have another.


    *


    We approached the landing at the same time.


    He looked no different. He was a mop of blond hair, a furrow of dark brows, a wide-eyed boy with brown eyes that typically, in the memories I had of him, betrayed a childhood excitement, a boyish glee. I¡¯d known my return to the North District would be marked by an appearance of either him or Wolfgang, most likely both, and yet I had undertaken the journey anyway. Whether for Manon, for Ivra¡¯s instruction, or for my own proof of strength, I had undertaken it anyway.


    I could hear myself breathing. To kill someone yet not have killed them; to be killed and yet not die. I could hear my heart pounding.


    I was unsure what it was: anger, apprehension; a call to violence, a call of fear? I slowly moved away from him, being careful to register all his movements the same way he seemed to be registering mine, slowly, our feet crunching the soft clay ground underneath. ¡°Avari,¡± he whispered, but not out of some form of secrecy, but almost like I was a deer that might take off, a rabbit who could smell a predator just some seconds away. What could he say? After what had been done, what could either of us ever say?


    ¡°Tu lui fais peur.¡±


    The voice came from behind me, and I immediately turned to see Wolfgang approaching. You¡¯re scaring him. To Laclan, he asked, ¡°Why are you here?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­¡± Laclan visibly swallowed, face darkening from a pink to a deep red. ¡°He¡­He got hurt last time. By that anonymous attacker, right? Uh¡­He¡­I heard he got hurt again today and¡­¡±


    They both frowned.


    ¡°Did you get hurt?¡± Laclan asked, peering at me closely. Him moving forward made me take several movements back, but he followed me. ¡°You¡¯re¡­your face is fine.¡± He turned to Wolfgang, who was also confused as he studied my face. ¡°Bah, tu pense qu¡¯Ulyses ment?¡± Do you think Ulyses is lying?


    Wolfgang held my gaze. ¡°He¡¯s not. I was there.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s unscratched.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a Healer.¡±


    Laclan rolled his eyes. ¡°Healers can¡¯t fix themselves, idiot. Checks and balances, remember. Natural Science 101.¡±


    This was the first time I had ever heard this.


    Because I knew that the potions of an Alchemist didn¡¯t work when consumed by that same maker, but I had assumed that this was a rule set by Nature only to restrict the powers of Alchemy. I hadn¡¯t assumed this to be universal: a swordsman could easily stab himself, but I could understand that hurting yourself was a different allowance than empowering yourself. I was sure an Alchemist¡¯s poison would kill the Alchemist when they consumed it, but a strength potion, a health potion, an invisibility puddle¡­


    I had never noticed. I had never paid enough attention. I had healed myself many times before, and Ivra and Manon knew I was capable of this, but I had thought that all Healers were capable. I hadn¡¯t thought to check, to verify, to make sure that what I assumed was standard healing practice was truly standard.


    ¡°Then he got another Healer to fix him.¡± Wolfgang said. He nodded at me. ¡°Right?¡±


    I didn¡¯t respond.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t it take more than a day to-?¡±


    ¡°The scars were probably shallow. The Healers at his Academy are the best in the world, no? They can work in double time.¡± Wolfgang continued to watch me for some seconds longer, then he turned to Laclan. ¡°Pourquoi es-tu ici?¡±


    ¡°Pour le trouver.¡± To find him.


    "Pourquoi?"


    "To¡­Euh, I¡­ Why are you here?¡±


    ¡°For the same reason.¡±


    They both looked at me again. They both asked: ¡°And why are you here?¡±


    I had skipped lunch today because I had been too tired from Ulyses d¡¯Aigle-Blondeau¡¯s attack, too tired from the negotiation with Nature, and too tired because my body didn¡¯t work like theirs, because I was always tired. Manon had let me rest for the remaining hours of the day, and I¡¯d only woken because of my innate alarm clock that rang when the sun set so I could meditate. In the quiet of the night, where the only sound was either them speaking or our feet shuffling, my stomach gave out a low, long grumble.


    ¡°Oh.¡± Laclan laughed, pointing at my stomach. ¡°He¡¯s hungry! Ah, you were going to the Mezzanine? Let¡¯s go. There must be some leftover food. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    What I did know:


    Elves were in constant cycle with Nature. We took care of it. It took care of us. We could eat its animals and its plants because they would both eat us, because when we died we would be buried deep in the soil until we broke apart into their nutrients and their dust. I had been so moved by Nature as a child in the Monastery, so humbled by its size and its purpose, that for many days I had forced myself into a holy sort of hunger strike, refusing to eat because the very act of eating felt sacrilegious. It wasn¡¯t until Delphia explained to me that I was a part in the cycle, that I would give back all I had taken, did I allow myself to partake.


    Laclan took a huge bite of the roasted chicken leg, talking with his mouth full: ¡°The Stymphalian are all shredded and flayed!¡± He told us. ¡°Then we are roasted and fed to the Cerfs Sacr¨¦s.¡± The Holy Deer. ¡°It¡¯s an honour. I would say ¡®I can¡¯t wait,¡¯ but¡­I can wait a little while longer.¡±


    Opposite, I was funnelling potatoes and roasted lamb into my mouth. It had been easy to steal the food ¨C Laclan had clearly done so many times before ¨C but we were risking a lot in remaining here, eating on one of the Mezzanine tables like it was a scheduled meal. I wouldn¡¯t face the trouble they would, and yet, they stayed.


    Manon had spoken earlier of ¡®stunted growth¡¯. Alongside all her worries of my compromised socialisation, her fears would often veer into enquiries of the more emotional parts of my being, of the words I didn¡¯t tell her, of the sentiments I didn¡¯t convey. Both Laclan and I were staring at my cane leaning against the table. I refused eye contact when he then tried to make it. Wolfgang was watching us both, looking at me impassively when I looked at him. I couldn¡¯t understand what I was meant to feel, if it was possible to understand what they both made me feel simultaneously. Per instruction, I should feel nothing, and I should hold nothing to my heart, but to just sit here and be stared at by them both ¨C I felt everything.


    ¡°Was it Ulyses that attacked you that night?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Laclan whipped his head round to look at Wolfgang. ¡°Ulyses?¡±


    ¡°Was it?¡± Wolfgang asked me, as if asking about the food, as if asking about the weather. ¡°He attacked you in the forest and is taking advantage of your lack of memory now. He¡¯s taunting you. He attacked you again this afternoon. He¡¯s undisciplined. He doesn¡¯t deserve his Class A rank. He¡¯s following poor runts into forests, stabbing them, then fleeing the scene like a coward.¡±


    Laclan couldn¡¯t speak. His mouth was open but he couldn¡¯t speak.


    ¡°The Aigle-Blondeau¡¯s are strange.¡± Wolfgang mused. ¡°It¡¯s not surprising. Is it? Is it surprising? How else do we explain the stupidity in attacking a visitor who you know was attacked here before, who you must know is the subject of an investigation as to the details of the original assault? We should believe that a boy can be so stupid for the sake of it? We should allow this stupidity to go to waste? Well, either way, Laclan and I have just heard you admit to us that it was Ulyses. We¡¯ll tell the Baron. The investigation will close and Ulyses will probably be expelled. The bad guy always gets his reward, right?¡±


    My head was beginning to throb. My nose was beginning to sting. ¡°Laclan,¡± I heard myself say, ¡°it was Wolfgang.¡±


    Both of them, completely surprised: ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°That makes the most sense. He sees I¡¯m a possible target, he follows me into the forest, stabs me and then names himself my saviour. It explains it all. How else did he know I was there? How else could he get to me so quickly? How else did he not see my attacker? It must have been Wolfgang. I¡¯m sure. Yes, I¡¯m sure.¡±


    His eyes were as deep a shade of red as Fox¡¯s fur. ¡°You con. You think they¡¯ll expel a Roqueforte-Cilliac?¡±


    ¡°I think they¡¯ll de-rank one.¡±


    ¡°Avari,¡± Laclan pushed a napkin towards me, ¡°your nose.¡±


    I pressed the cloth under my nose to catch its blood-flow. My headache was worsening with every passing second. If the anger was stable enough, I could hold onto it, but it was slippery, undefined, inexplicable. I saw the red in Wolfgang¡¯s eyes and I thought of days I would never again have, days running through the forest with Fox by my heels. I saw the guilt in Laclan¡¯s eyes and I thought of being attacked by my own cane, a cane I would forever need.


    ¡°Will you act less pathetic?¡± Wolfgang seethed. ¡°Maybe your parents died to save themselves from having to pity you.¡±


    My eyesight flashed out for some seconds. Laclan was by my side when I regained it, holding me steady. Wolfgang was on the floor by the table, clutching his jaw, his teeth stained with blood, blood that was also now stained on the knuckles of Laclan¡¯s right hand. If Wolfgang hadn¡¯t already known, then Laclan would have given himself away a million times over and not even realised. I blinked, not understanding where all my energy was fading too. My chest was burning, my eyes were beginning to sting. A hard heart.


    ¡°Putain,¡± Laclan pointed to the window, to outside the Mezzanine. ¡°It¡¯s¡­incredible.¡±


    The wind was hollowing, pressing itself against the windows with enough force that it sounded like fists being banged against the walls. Rain had completely blackened the sky, pouring down with enough force to flood the clay grounds. Trees were bending under the weight. The moon had disappeared. Somewhere, there was a boy who had been stabbed and abandoned in an academy that wasn¡¯t his own, in a forest that was foreign. Somewhere, there was a boy who was beyond his own understanding, surrounded by the two people who were hurting him the most.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I said, to the wind and the rain and the trees and the air and the clay and the sky, ¡°and I thank you.¡±


    It all stopped. So suddenly that it dazed all three of us, the storm completely stopped.


    As did my breathing.

 Four. Autumn and Winter at the Monastery.

    Avari,


    It was good to hear from you. I¡¯m glad you¡¯re recovering well at the monastery. Are you taking long strolls along the beach? I hope the fresh air is doing you lots of good. Your letter was short but very warmly received. I¡¯m very sorry, Avari. I¡¯m very, very sorry.


    You asked why no one told you that other Healers can¡¯t heal themselves. I¡¯m so sorry, Avari. It¡¯s just that no one knows what to do with you. You¡¯re younger than you should be. The Academy doesn¡¯t know how to accommodate a Healer your age. No one is sure how to raise you. It¡¯s a guessing game. Delphia seemed to have a plan for you, but she¡¯s gone. I think you should be educated like other children your age, because all the Healers and Alchemists have gone through traditional education before joining the Academy, but others don¡¯t agree. It¡¯s all a guess. You¡¯re a child. You should sit in class and know where the Low Midlands are. You should socialise with other children your age. We don¡¯t know what to tell you, or what to do with you, and we don¡¯t want you to feel isolated by knowing you¡¯re the only one of You. You are like the other boys, I promise, just with a little extra specialness.


    When you¡¯re ready, please write to either Ivra or me so we can come visit you. We have much to talk about in person.


    Your good friend,


    Manon Cotillard.


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    *


    Avari,


    Hey! Your guardian ¨C the one with the blue and red eyes and blue and red hair ¨C gave Wolfe and I an address so we can keep in contact. I¡¯m not sure where the letters are going exactly, but I hope they¡¯re being passed on to you.


    We¡¯ll keep it a secret between you and me, but that storm was so cool! The compound was unusable for days after that! Everyone¡¯s talking about the ¡®freak weather¡¯, but I know what really happened. It¡¯s like how you showed me at the forest, with the breathing and the pulse and the plants. If you ever come back, could you show me again? If you ever come back, do you think we could be friends again? Ulyses and his losers were nothing compared to me. I broke them all without even breaking a sweat! You have my word, and my vow, that no one will ever hurt you if I¡¯m around. I¡¯m not a coward. I fight all my fights. I¡¯m not a coward. I¡¯m a Stymphalia, and Stymphalians aren¡¯t cowards. But you know that, right?


    Please write back!


    P.S. Wolfe might act like a devil but deep down he¡¯s not so bad. You¡¯ve just got to punch him a little and yell at him a little and shake him too, then he can actually act like a normal elf.


    P.P.S. Sorry that I wrote this in French. My written Elven sucks. Sorry.


    Laclan Stymphalia


    *


    Avari,


    This is Ivra. I hope you¡¯re doing well. I hear you wrote to Manon to ask about what we tell you and what we don¡¯t. Be rest assured, everything I do, I do it for the best interest of you, and the best interest of the Academy.


    I¡¯m also writing to inform you that, following her visit with you to the Military Academy, Misa Xhoies was summoned to the King¡¯s Court. Apparently, she has been awarded a permanent Alchemist position. If she makes contact with you, please let me know.


    Get well quickly, and return with the same speed.


    Best regards


    Ivra Vonglo.

 Five. Bad Parenting, Bad Temperament.

    On my last Sunday at the Monastery, my hair was washed with sea water and basilic oil, then left to dry in the sun. Expert fingers then pulled it into three long braids and pinned these up firmly with a golden clip. During my stays here, I would answer to an elderly monk named Romilio, who knew me from infancy, from the day I¡¯d first been found. I did the same with his hair, which was a pitch black, still full despite his age. He oftentimes found me intolerable. To his credit, I oftentimes was, but in his annoyance was a somewhat mild understanding. ¡°This is a difficult age for you,¡± he¡¯d said to me. ¡°I disagree with the assessment that you¡¯re of bad health. Rather, you¡¯re of bad temperament. With guidance and meditation and self-discipline, that should change.¡±


    I stood cliff-side, watching eagles swoop low and high above the white waves. My mutters were inaudible. Romilio¡¯s were the same, himself sat cross-legged in front of a roaring fire while speaking quiet meditations to its flames. Whenever he said something that was particularly agreeable, the fire would roar up to a flame so hot it burned blue and green, before calming down again. At the end of his meditation, without physical intervention, the fire quickly burned itself out, leaving only a cool line of smoke as its goodbye. We ate salmon with avocados I had plucked from the gardens. As we were washing down our meal with juice from grapes that I had also earlier harvested, Manon¡¯s carriage ambled up to the Monastery.


    It wasn¡¯t a warm welcome. Romilio had been in reluctant correspondence with her ever since I had been moved to the Alchemist Academy, and his frustration towards her might even exceed that towards me. It was worsened by her company, because unlike what she¡¯d forewritten, she wasn¡¯t accompanied by Ivra Vonglo. The grandeur of the carriage and the number of the horses immediately betrayed this, because walking out after her was the Baron de la Tourrefeille, three military men, as well as the G¨¦n¨¦ral de G¨¦rome himself. Manon¡¯s gaze found me immediately, and she smiled and waved. Her smile didn¡¯t meet her eyes. There was no space left for it to ¨C her eyes were already so occupied with guilt.


    The Baron de la Tourrefeille looked up at the tall stone stature of the Monastery, hands on his hips as he stared at its height, warmly impressed. Then he noticed me standing by the edge, and he raised a hand in greeting, winking at me.


    I didn¡¯t care about the negotiations, or the compromises, or anything that needed to be conceded or retracted in order to have allowed my autumn and winter at the Monastery. I didn¡¯t care to understand the obvious complexities in the Monastery¡¯s position within the King¡¯s jurisdiction. When Delphia had died, the Monastery had been refused my custody, and so I had been given to a Court bureaucrat and moved to an academy that was ¡®suitable¡¯ for me. And I hadn¡¯t cared about the concessions, because I was frequently allowed to return, because I didn¡¯t despise Manon¡¯s guardianship, only I could now see what these concessions were.


    Manon must have read the alarm and anger in my eyes when she was close enough, because she shushed me before I¡¯d even said a word. ¡°It¡¯s wonderful to see you, Avari.¡± She said softly to me, giving me a long hug. ¡°Will you show me around?¡±


    I couldn¡¯t, and not just because of my own reluctance and sense of betrayal, but because Romilio refused to allow them a tour, instead installing them in a makeshift guest lounge and offering them no other space. ¡°I¡­¡± I was mindful that Romilio was observing from the side, where he was pouring them all tall cups of sea-water tea. I was mindful that there were emotions within me that I didn¡¯t have the capacity to understand, or express; that Romilio had warned me of the consequences of my bad temperament; that to even speak in front of the Baron and military men felt disgusting, like I was degrading myself. ¡°Artisan.¡± I said instead, my voice low but forceful. ¡°I agreed to join the Artisans.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re hardly suited for artisanal work.¡± The Baron mused, having heard me despite my mutter. ¡°Unless you¡¯re secretly a seamster? A textile weaver? Ceramics, possibly? You can¡¯t join an academy for the sake of it, Avari, you have to go to where you¡¯re best suited.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know the military.¡± I immediately countered, and like many others, just the fact that I¡¯d directly spoken to him greatly amused him. ¡°What use am I to-?¡±


    ¡°Of course, our wing for Healers. You will be permanently stationed there.¡±


    ¡°Then why not send me to an Alchemist academy?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s hardly worked for you thus far.¡± He reminded me, crossing his legs and relaxing further in his seat. ¡°It¡¯s been decided. You¡¯re no Artisan. You¡¯re no Artist either, or Homme de Lettres or Baker or whatever else. You apparently show good promise for healing and so you¡¯re a Healer, but those Academies are all run-down and badly supervised and no place for a young man like you. A young man capable of such¡­spectacles, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    I looked to Manon, then knew I would never receive help from her, and so immediately looked to Romilio, who was gently placing all their cups onto a glass tray. He set it down on the centre table. ¡°Sea-water tea,¡± he explained gruffly, ¡°extremely hot. Let it cool.¡±


    ¡°Did you know?¡± I asked Romilio.


    ¡°Of course. Miss Cotillard wrote to inform me. It was discussed thoroughly.¡±


    Whatever expression that must have flickered through my eyes made no impact on him. He looked at me as if he was looking through me, and so I instead turned to the men that had come for me, then I again looked to Manon, and then I closed my eyes.


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± the Baron said, ¡°you might end up a distinguished Homme de Lettres, comparable to the newly notorious¡­what¡¯s his name-?¡±


    ¡°Jubespirthe.¡± G¨¦n¨¦ral de G¨¦rome supplied.


    ¡°Yes. Perhaps you¡¯ll write literature or political philosophy or practice law. Or you could find yourself to be a good baker. You¡¯re in no physical condition for us to consider hunting or agriculture, but those fields have scientists, planners, and thinkers who work in their background. One thing all these elves have in common, is that they completed a foundational education before specialising in their affinity. You understand, military is different because we have incorporated our own school and it¡¯s a discipline that benefits from young teaching, as is hunting, or the many arts. If we find out that you¡¯re a secret master of the piano, we will send you to a Music School, otherwise ¨C you will benefit from a foundational education, which the military will freely give you, and when you¡¯re of age you can choose whatever specialisation you please.


    ¡°And you might then question, ¡®why not send me to a typical foundational school?¡¯. You understand, no other Academy has resources like my own. I believe, out of a sense of altruism or responsibility, perhaps, that we are best equipped to supervise you and¡­encourage your full potential. I thought you might see it as an honour, that the overseer of military education and I have come to personally escort you to your new home.¡± He laughed lightly. ¡°I thought you would understand that after your last visit, after the one before that, you¡¯ve proven yourself to be quite¡­notable. Our only experience of you is what you¡¯ve newly given us thus far. You would understand, then, what your relationship to my Academy should be.¡±


    There wasn¡¯t much to pack. There wasn¡¯t much to do. There wasn¡¯t even much to say. They struggled to drink their sea water tea and I stood there, feeling an anger that surpassed itself, feeling wronged, feeling as if the little words I said had no meaning, no purpose, that I might as well be saying nothing at all. Delphia had been so strict in her instructions ¨C she had told me, under no circumstances, was I allowed to miss her. ¡°A disservice to the peace I will find and the peace that will replace me,¡± she had said, as if those flowery words had any meaning. Romilio had echoed them, saying it was unbecoming of a monk to experience the emotions that I had during her passing. He had called it ¡®childish¡¯, ¡®unlearned¡¯. She had told me not to miss her, and I had been told not to overstate the relationship between her and I, that I shouldn¡¯t interpret it in any other way than a senior monk guiding a new one, but I felt she wouldn¡¯t have let this happen to me. That if she were still here, she would fight for me. If not to stay, then to at least go somewhere I could be happy.


    Manon touched my hand, trying for a smile. ¡°Your room will be much bigger, Avari. And you can choose the classes you want to study. I know you¡¯re-¡±


    I pulled my hand away from her, not even turning to face her. ¡°Vous ¨ºtes comme les autres.¡±


    You¡¯re like the others.


    ¡°If the fear of your attacker is holding back your enthusiasm,¡± the Baron continued, ¡°Rest assured, Ulyses d¡¯Aigle-Blondeau has been expelled.¡±


    I didn¡¯t care. I didn¡¯t care if they expelled everybody in that school. I didn¡¯t care if the ground opened up underneath that bastardised Academy and swallowed them all up in a hole of clay, brick, and stained-glass windows to a French religious virgin. I didn¡¯t care if they all choked on their sea water tea and Romilio threw their bodies into the field to turn into compost for the plants. I didn¡¯t care if Romilio¡¯s words were true, that if my ¡®bad temperament¡¯ got the better of me again and I disturbed the balance of nature around me and provoked another storm, that storm would inevitably sap what little energy I had left and likely kill me outright. I didn¡¯t care. I didn¡¯t care. I didn¡¯t care.


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    Why wasn¡¯t I being left alone? All I could do, all the monks here could do better. Why did being a child, did being an orphan, ruin me?


    It would be a journey straight to the Military Academy. I couldn¡¯t return to the Alchemist Academy and say goodbye to Ivra, to collect Fox or Cat 1 and Cat 2. Manon tried to argue for this on my behalf, but the Baron was unwilling and G¨¦n¨¦ral de G¨¦rome thought it was unnecessary. The veto was his decision, apparently, because sometime during my autumn and winter at the Monastery, Manon had successfully signed over personal custody to the G¨¦n¨¦ral himself. ¡°It reverts to the state if you¡¯re truly unsatisfied.¡± He told me, as if that mattered, as if there would be any checks on my ¡®satisfaction¡¯. I had nothing to say. Like a stone, I had nothing to say.


    Romilio had one last thing to say to me:


    ¡°At 18,¡± he said gruffly, ¡°do your best to return. There¡¯s nothing we can do until then. So do you¡¯re best to come back.¡±


    Then, I was gone.


    *


    We passed a lavender field just as the sun started to rise. Rows and rows of light purple, spanning an endless distance, maybe even extending all the way to the bottom of the mountains that I could see along the horizon. I mentally searched for the nearest body of water as I whispered my morning meditation, and the Baron, out of politeness or curiosity, waited for me to finish before speaking.


    ¡°Did you drink a lot of lavender tea at the Monastery?¡±


    And I thought this question was stupid, mindless, and that he was stupid and mindless for asking me. ¡°Homegrown lavender?¡± He asked, that stupid, mindless smile on his face. ¡°Grown by the seaside?¡±


    Did he expect me to answer him? I didn¡¯t. I didn¡¯t even look at him. I kept my focus on the lavender field instead, on the faraway mountains I would never have the strength to climb, on a rising sun that was giving off loose, noncommittal waves of heat. The Baron stopped the carriage to buy some ¡®lavender stems¡¯. Some confusion was caused by this request. ¡°You don¡¯t mean, the lavender itself?¡± ¡°The root, I said. Give me the root.¡± And so he was given the root of the lavender, and then he was nudging my knee and handing me these roots, these stems, like presenting a bouquet of flowers.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you make a garden for yourself at the Academy?¡± He suggested. ¡°And grow us some lavender?¡±


    I eyed the lavender, then I scrutinised him. The gold of his wedding band gleamed in the sun as he extended his hand to me, waiting for me to take the lavender. I didn¡¯t take it, and so he set it down by me instead. Whatever Manon wanted to say, she didn¡¯t say it. Instead, she bit her lower lip and wasted her expression with guilt. What was the point in her guilt, in her regret, in her remorse, if she never bettered herself the next time round? Why claim that sending me to the Military Academy would help my ¡®socialisation¡¯, if the fundamental reason was because the Academy had instructed her to do so?


    The gold of his wedding band continued to gleam when the Baron put his hand on Manon¡¯s knee and squeezed. It made her flush a guilty pink, guilty as ever, guilty as always.


    *


    The journey exhausted me. I needed two full days¡¯ rest to recover.


    *


    And when I next woke, it was to the sound of boyish laughter, chatter, the sound of someone jumping and someone else running around. The noise was disorienting, because the dialogue was all in rapid-pace colloquial French, because the sounds were close, as if from my very chambre, because the voices were familiar. I opened my eyes to see a red-and-white-haired boy jumped up on a chair, boldly giving a nonsense speech as he pretended to be a politician at the King¡¯s Court. I saw a brown-eyed battle elf running around, shouting out weird slogans that I couldn¡¯t understand, both on the politician¡¯s side and against it. I saw another boy, quieter but still grinning with his friends, pitch black hair but bright blue eyes, siding with whoever made the funnier comment. They roared with laughter. They played make believe. They¡­noticed I was awake.


    Their reactions were different. Gaspard de Villieu straightened up, looking awkward and wary, looking at me like I was an alien species, capable of sudden but intense harm. Wolfgang Roqueforte-Cilliac de Montaigne stepped down from the chair, sighing, burdened by my consciousness as if I¡¯d woken up with the sole mission of spoiling the fun. Laclan Stymphalia smiled. He approached me, looking down at me in my bed, grinning like he¡¯d been waiting a long time to see me. ¡°Avari!¡± He punched my shoulder. ¡°You¡¯re finally awake!¡±


    Slowly, I sat up in my bed. My bed, in my chamber, in my new home of the North District Boys¡¯ Military Academy. The room was large but barely furnished ¨C a bed, a dresser, a desk, a mat that Manon must have requested for indoor meditation. The huge window was covered up by some red cloth, and so it was a little dark, making all of their eyes luminescent with night vision. Laclan looked like an overenthusiastic dog, anticipating my movements, excited by my general presence. ¡°Tell him why we¡¯re here,¡± Wolfgang said. I didn¡¯t look over at him. In my peripheral vision, I could see that he was very pointedly not looking at me.


    ¡°We,¡± Laclan said boldly, ¡°are here to be your mentors!¡±


    I wanted the ground to open up. I wondered what negotiation I could have with Nature to make that happen.


    ¡°Gaspard is at the top of all his classes ¨C the book classes ¨C so he¡¯s been charged with helping you catch up in time for summer exams. I am at the top of all the real classes ¨C the military classes ¨C and so I¡¯m you¡¯re¡­hmm¡­¡®body teacher¡¯¡­? And Wolfe is¡­he¡­he saved your life. He¡¯s your¡­the Baron used the phrase ¡®principal soutien¡¯, like ¡®main support¡¯, so I guess he¡¯s that.¡±


    My eyes were on the A on both of his shoulders. Then my eyes were on the ceiling. My room in the Alchemist Academy had been occupied by a cosmologist many years before me, and she¡¯d traced patterns of the universe into the ceiling¡¯s brick. At night, it was like sleeping under the stars, something I often did at the Monastery, something I often liked to do.


    There was nothing on this ceiling. It was ugly and plain and desolate. I hated it like I hated the boys in this room. I hated it like I hated the students in this school. I hated it like I hated everyone and everything else, like I might have hated myself.


    ¡°Fun, huh? We¡¯ll be together all the time. The four of us.¡±


    Neither Wolfgang nor Gaspard wanted that, clearly, but they didn¡¯t give any counter.


    ¡°Do you want to come with us to the Mezzanine? Sunday lunches are always a big roast of..euh¡­it¡¯s a French meal so the Elven name is lost on me, but it¡¯s the one day in the week when we don¡¯t have to follow the strict military diet. What did you eat at your Academy? I bet it¡¯s nowhere near as good as the food here on Sunday. It¡¯s like dining at the King¡¯s Court! And these two would know, because, well, boys from the South are always vacationing to Aalia to play dolls with the Prince, or whatever-¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t go to Aalia, you bouche-t¨ºte. Aalia comes to me.¡±


    Mischief was quick to burn in Laclan¡¯s eyes, and he combed his floppy hair backwards with his fingers, narrowing his eyebrows and popping up his collar. ¡°Oui, oui, I¡¯m a Roqueforte-Cilliac and I have playdates with the Crown Prince himself. Yes, yes, fire powers and politics¡­How dare you suggest I do something so vile as to travel?! How dare you insinuate that I lower myself to visit the Royal Family, when it is they that fight over themselves to glimpse upon me!¡±


    It made Gaspard laugh. It made Wolfgang smile a little too, even if he pounced on Laclan who easily fought him off, still cackling himself. Laclan straightened up, beaming at me. ¡°So, let¡¯s go for dinner!¡±


    I had forfeited any food for the past two days, and by this point I could feel my stomach churning itself over in expectation. It would take some effort to push myself to a seated position, I might stumble a little as I steadied myself on the ground, and I would have to depend on my cane to make it to the Mezzanine. Either they would all bound ahead, or they would force themselves to slow to my pace out of obligation or pity, or whatever emotion they were capable of. I would sit in their cafeteria and eat their food and know that I couldn¡¯t go ¡®home¡¯, that this was all I had waiting for me. I didn¡¯t know if Manon was still here, but if she was I would have to deal with her guilt-pity too.


    Delphia had warned me not to miss her.


    Wolfgang and I finally looked at each other. His eyes were impassive, impatient. Slowly, he was growing into his features. His jaw was sharpening and his cheekbones were beginning to hollow out. Slightly less childish, slightly more severe. I turned over in my bed, facing away from them and glaring at the wall instead, saying nothing.


    They waited. Then they realised I wouldn¡¯t be going with them.


    ¡°We-¡±


    ¡°Leave him.¡± Wolfgang said. ¡°He¡¯s dull and annoying. We¡¯ll babysit him only when we have to.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t say that.¡± Laclan¡¯s voice was sharp. But then he sighed. ¡°Okay. Okay.¡±


    I don¡¯t know how long I stared at that wall. Long enough for them to leave and night to fully settle. Long enough for me to doze off again and wake up in pitch-black darkness. Long enough for a soft knock on the door, for Manon to gently walk in and stand in the corner, watching me for some moments, trying to guess if I was awake or not. I glanced at her even though I knew it was her, maybe to just see her one last time, maybe to make sure she saw me one last time, that she saw how I felt, that she knew I blamed her.


    ¡°Whenever you want me to visit,¡± her voice was a pathetic whisper, ¡°write to me, and I will come immediately.¡±


    I faced the wall again.


    ¡°I know you don¡¯t believe me, but you might when you¡¯re older. Truly, no one here wants to hurt you. No one wants to make you miserable. Everything that¡¯s being done is being done for your sake.¡± Liar. ¡°That being said ¨C don¡¯t tell them what they don¡¯t need to know. Your self-healing. You healing at all. What you can do to the nature around us. I don¡¯t think they need to know. Okay? I¡¯ll be gone by the time you next wake, but I¡¯ll be back whenever you want. I swear, whenever you want.¡±


    ¡°Pourquoi voudrais-je de vous?¡±


    Why would I want you?


    ¡°Because I am not a ¡®vous¡¯ to you, Avari.¡±


    When I had been entrusted in newly-graduated Manon Cotillard¡¯s care, Romilio had warned me then to be wary of her, to not trust her, to know that ¡®she is one of them¡¯. When Manon had moved with me to the Alchemist Academy, Ivra would often pull me aside and say the same thing, that, like I had been told with Delphia, I shouldn¡¯t misunderstand the relationship between Manon and me. These were warnings that I should have been better in heeding to. It would have saved me from whatever useless pang of emotion I was feeling in that moment. I tried to dismiss it as hunger instead.


    ¡°Go away.¡± I said to her. ¡°I¡¯m tired.¡±


    She sighed. She sighed and sighed and sighed. Any sort of defects in my personality (and at that age, there were many) had never truly faced critical self-examination before, not until that night. After Manon Cotillard left me alone, I pulled the covers over my head and thought. I thought of Wolfgang¡¯s accusation that I was ¡®dull and annoying¡¯; of Manon Cotillard¡¯s constant frustrated sighs, of what growing up without parents might have done to me. I had never thought there was any other way I could be, not until that night.

 Part Two.

    Uleyna,


    Please be reasonable.


    The law is complex. Under the Monastery¡¯s rule of ¡®No Intervention¡¯, I am not even permitted to speak to the boy, let alone interrogate him as you would like. No one is, least of all you. To even move him to the North required extensive discussions and assurances that it solely be for his education and for nothing else. They will know if their rule is breached, and you know just as I do that it would damn us all to breach Monastery law.


    As far as I am aware, he is nothing to worry about. Manon Cotillard¡¯s reports paint him to be mildly more advanced than other boys his age, and I have heard no concerns of his behaviour from Xandel. I doubt they would deceive me. You know I would never deceive you. Truly, he just seems to be a boy who narrowly avoided being sent to an orphanage due to Delphia¡¯s maternal sympathies. Before her passing, she handed off custody to a court bureaucrat ¨C the aforementioned Cotillard. I read the letter that Delphia sent, and it betrays nothing but parental affection. Cotillard was only chosen because she was ¡®young¡¯ and ¡®of good character¡¯. Delphia only handed off custody because she was sure her ¡®successors¡¯ would rather ¡®send him to an orphanage than raise him in Nature¡¯s steps¡¯. I am lifting these quotes from the letter directly. That is all. The Monastery is wary of the State but had no other recourse than to enforce this ¡®No Intervention¡¯ rule. All I have heard of the boy has been middling. It is in everyone¡¯s best interest to tell me the truth, and so I take this assessment of mediocrity as fact.


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    If this changes, you will be the first to know. You always are. Please, drop this needless worry. Consider other more important matters. My brother does not have many years left. We must work fast to secure the succession, and we must do so together.


    Your favourite,


    Athelardus.

 Six. Learn how to be Taught.

    I scored 0 on the aptitude test because I refused to take it. One of the professors, a woman who taught Arithmetic, implored me to remember that the test was ¡®for my benefit¡¯, that it would help them know what timetable to give me and which classes to place me in, but I refused. Other professors only elicited the same response. One of the admirals intervened, locking me in a classroom and demanding I sit the test and ¡®answer honestly¡¯, so I sat the test and made sure to give the worst answers I could. Still, they would not leave me alone. At their fourth attempt, another of the professors sat me down and calmly asked, ¡®why?¡¯. Was this out of a genuine fear of failure, or a juvenile sense of rebellion? Was this a natural reaction to a different environment, or because I hadn¡¯t received enough discipline while growing up? I refused to answer any of their questions. For the most part, during that initial week, I hardly spoke at all. The hunger strike wasn¡¯t intentional, but I refused to eat where they ate and the natural result was a rebellious fast. The majors didn¡¯t scare me. Neither did the corporals, the admirals, or the generals. They were equally unsure how to discipline me, because I wasn¡¯t their student, because they couldn¡¯t punish me with drills that I was in no physical condition to take, because my being here at all was a completely foreign concept to them.


    The Baron drummed his fingers against his desk, humming, thinking about what to do with me.


    ¡°How do we get you to take this test, Avari?¡± The Baron asked me. ¡°Honestly, tell me what you want us to do.¡±


    There was a portrait on the wall behind him: himself, a woman, and a young boy. The woman was not an elf. Her eyes were pupil-less swirls of colour, and her skin, even in the painting, held a distinct non-elf-like shimmer. She was slender and tall, draped in an opulent purple, one hand on the Baron¡¯s shoulder, her other on the boy I assumed was their son. Her hair fell in long, beautiful waves, fading from a light green to a light blue to a light pink. Ethereal. The Baron didn¡¯t need to turn to see what had so violently snatched my attention. He had no reaction to it. I had questions, millions of them, burning on the tip of my tongue, but a deep, guttural unwillingness to ask. Tell me about that woman. I bit my tongue. Who is she? Where is she from? How have you married her?


    I bit my cheek. I bit down so hard that I tasted blood.


    ¡°Not everyone responds to honey,¡± he decided. ¡°That¡¯s your prerogative. If it¡¯s punishment that motivates you, so be it. You will retake this test on Sunday. Until then, you will spend every evening cleaning the Mezzanine. If it is inspected and deemed unsatisfactory, you will continue cleaning until it isn¡¯t. You¡¯ll sleep there if you have to. If Sunday comes and you intentionally fail again, you will continue to clean until you give us ¨C for your own sake, for your own benefit ¨C your true results. Do you understand?¡±


    ¡®For my sake¡¯; ¡®for my benefit¡¯. Their son had white and blue swirls in his eyes, a mix between the Psyche (because I knew these iridescent creatures were known as the Psyche) mother and elf father. What would that mean for him, to be half of each? I could taste the questions in my mouth, but I swallowed them down. Embittered curiosity had been my only meal this week.


    ¡°I noted that you¡¯ve finally planted the lavender stems.¡± He wrote something down on a scrap of paper, left-handed like I was: call in the Villieu boy. ¡°Let¡¯s see if they grow.¡±


    *


    An admiral watched me as I stuffed potatoes, ham, carrots and raspberries into my mouth, downing it all with warm sweet water. He watched me when I sat down on the floor by one of the wall-length glass windows, mentally searching for that large pond in the forest, then whispering my meditations in the quiet of the otherwise empty Mezzanine. He watched as I swept the floor, as I tried to, as I struggled to stand up for long periods of time without my walking stick; struggled to hold both the broom and my cane at the same time; as the back-and-forth of the action quickly exhausted me. He watched as other students came to do the same, students outside, pressing themselves against one of the many windows to see me clean their mess: amused, confused, curious. I reached a point when I could no longer move, when I could barely even stand, when I had to hang my head down and wheeze out breaths and wait for myself to regain the energy that even sweeping made me lose. My arms ached. My legs were unstable. My heart could give up, but it would be pathetic to faint from trying to sweep an expansive Mezzanine, of which I had only so far swept less than a quarter of.


    The admiral allowed me some moments of rest before I was being forced to my feet and shouted at to continue. It was the early hours of the morning by the time I had swept the entire hall, and then I was pointed to a mop and a bucket and made to re-cover all that ground once again. It hurt me. I had to bite my lip to try and stop any tears of anger, pain, or frustration. Whenever I would fall and lean against a wall, he would give me a handful of seconds before I had to be back on my feet. Even my hand struggled to grip onto my cane. They were all mandated to be early risers, and so when the first group of boys were shuffled into the Mezzanine, I had only just begun cleaning tables. The admiral didn¡¯t let me leave. They watched as I struggled, as I was defeated by an inanimate cafeteria; and then they left to go ride horses or shoot arrows or test their endurance and stamina in any other way, knowing that whatever they could do, I could not.


    When it was Laclan¡¯s turn to be served his breakfast, he immediately bee-lined for me.


    ¡°Ah, you look terrible.¡± He held me by my shoulders, stopping me from slipping to the ground. ¡°I heard from the others that you were cleaning. Is it true that you defied all the commanders? Is it true that you defied the Baron? Everyone¡¯s talking about it.¡±


    When I looked up at him, when he saw the expression in my glare, he had to look away. Like Manon, he wore that disgusting cloak of guilt. If I had the strength to push him away, I would have. If I had the strength to even speak, I would have broken my week of silence to say whatever I could to hurt him, to hurt him in a way somewhat comparable to how he had killed me. I was weak. I was only upright because of his support, and even then, when the admiral shouted at him to let me go, when the admiral had to walk over and forcefully yank Laclan away because he refused, I didn¡¯t even have the energy to stay standing. I dropped to my knees, wincing, my hair covering my face so they wouldn¡¯t see.


    ¡°It is satisfactory.¡± The admiral said, once I had cleaned the last table. It was the middle of the afternoon. I was lying in a heap on the cold floor, a floor that had been sullied once again from breakfast, then lunch. It was satisfactory in so far of last night¡¯s dinner no longer being the cause of its mess, but I would be back in some hours, and this would all repeat once again. ¡°When you can, return to your chambers.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t return. I lay there, and night fell, and the students shuffled in and shuffled out for their dinner, no one coming near me even if I heard all their mutters and murmurs and whispers. The tone was different. It was no longer the mock and laugh it had been on my last visit here. Instead, it was confused yet careful, wary, curious.


    ¡°Avari,¡± that same hellish voice, that same damned battle elf, ¡°it¡¯s Laclan.¡±


    I vaguely reached out my hand, wanting to push him away but knowing I couldn¡¯t.


    ¡°I¡¯ll do the sweeping and mopping tonight, okay? You just do the tables.¡±


    I lifted my head.


    He was knelt down by my body, leaning in like I was some dead animal he was inspecting. He blinked, then poked my shoulder. ¡°Are you¡­awake?¡±


    I closed my eyes, groaning softly. Barely conscious, still in a tiring amount of pain.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back after my drills to help.¡± He stood up. Then he ran off and ran back, dropping a small roll of bread in my hands. ¡°Do you want water?¡±


    I nodded.


    So he ran off and ran back and brought me a cup of water. It was difficult to sit up, but I sat up and drank it, then began eating the bread, chewing slowly. I didn¡¯t thank him, but I didn¡¯t scowl at him when he waved goodbye. Wolfgang was waiting for him by the door, already focused on me. He looked disgusted and annoyed, and he walked off the second I met his gaze. Gaspard was¡­here. He was standing by my side, looking awkward and embarrassed, flushed a needless pink, but he put two more bread buns in my hand, then quickly walked off without a word.


    I ate them. Then, I slowly stood up, sat down on an empty bench, and waited.


    *


    He returned.


    Strangely, tonight¡¯s admiral didn¡¯t raise any issue about him doing most of the work. ¡°I already negotiated the extra drills I¡¯ll do in exchange for helping you,¡± Laclan told me, pushing the broom from one end to the other with no effort, with much speed. ¡°When Admiral Rubespont said that I should let you go or ¡®face punishment¡¯, I knew I could get Gaspard to negotiate the punishment in advance so that I could help you every night. He¡¯s good at negotiation. He cites their own rules back at them, and I don¡¯t know if they¡¯re impressed or just legally bound, but they listen to him.¡±


    His gun was strapped into its holster, pointed at the ground. It was no more threatening than the gun the admiral had; I might even argue it was less threatening because the admiral¡¯s gun was clearly more advanced than Laclan¡¯s Class A rifle, yet it put me on edge. Even if it had been a blunt kitchen knife in that holster. Even if it had been a spoon. I couldn¡¯t help but be aware of all his movements, every tiny affectation. He was hasty and impatient, but it would be a lie to call him clumsy. There was a violent grace to all his movements, an effortless yet rushed precision. He ran from one side of the Mezzanine to the other with the broom, his shoulder-length hair flying behind him, running fast enough that he had to suddenly stop so as not to crash into the wall. He caught himself and spun around, then ran back, and forward, and back, never falling, never even dropping the broom. The only complaint the admiral made was that Laclan¡¯s hair was ¡®unwise¡¯, and so he picked up a bread knife, wiped the butter off on a spare piece of cloth, and without a mirror, without a reflection at all, hacked off half its length and swept the gold locks away with the rest of the food waste.


    He finished the sweeping and mopping before the clock even struck midnight. By that point, I had wiped down less than half of the tables, even that being a struggle, and so he wiped down the other half without an issue, without complaint. The admiral nodded, judging it as satisfactory, and told us to put all the cleaning equipment away before we left.


    Slowly, I dragged the broom into a small storage room while Laclan made vague hand signs by the window, laughing with the boys opposite who were making them back at him. They were beckoning him to come out and join them, but he was shaking his head, pointing inside, pointing to me. ¡°J¡¯suis avec mon ami. ¨¤ plus tard!¡± I¡¯m with my friend. I¡¯ll see you later.


    When I sat down, having served myself a leftover plate of chicken and grains, he sat down opposite me.


    ¡°Did you get my letters? Did you get any of them?¡±


    His handwriting was barely legible, which was exactly what would be expected when looking at a boy like him. In one of the letters, he¡¯d asked me to excuse his grammar because he was ¡®failing all his essay classes¡¯, and so the combination of bad handwriting and abysmal French subject-verb agreement had made reading his letters feel like deciphering ancient code. Much of his final letter had been completely beyond me, the only words I had been able to make out being ¡®ami¡¯, ¡®futur¡¯, ¡®Wolfgang¡¯ and ¡®rifle¡¯.


    ¡°You never wrote back.¡±


    My eyes answered him. My silence answered him. He lowered his gaze, sober and quiet in a way I knew must be rare, before getting up to his feet. ¡°I¡¯ll be back to help tomorrow.¡± He told me. Then he walked away, not waiting for a ¡®thank you¡¯ (not that I had the power to give one), not waiting for an explanation for why I¡¯d never written back, not waiting for me.


    *


    True to his word, he came back. He came back every night. Relentlessly talkative, telling me about his classes and drills and tricks with his friends, always focused and quick. He didn¡¯t ask about the unanswered letters again. With him saying 1000 words every second, he didn¡¯t have much space to ask me many questions at all. He just rambled in his typical monologue, and I listened in my typical silence. ¡°As soon as you write that test,¡± he told me, ¡°you can finally start coming to classes. I hope you¡¯re in my Natural Science class, because you¡¯re good at science, right? You won¡¯t mind if I steal some answers during the tests¡­¡±. Missing main meals meant I missed the best portions of food, which Laclan was aware of, and so he always folded up his baked bread roll to give to me, and Gaspard would often (very awkwardly) do the same, giving me two. Wolfgang would hang back, never engaging with me beyond our usual scowls, glares, and hand gestures that I now knew meant something akin to ¡®va te faire foutre¡¯, but it didn¡¯t take me long to realise that the second bread roll that Gaspard would give me were always his.


    Then, Saturday night came around. Gaspard, instead of quickly scurrying off after giving me the bread rolls, stayed by my side. He wrung his hands. His eyes darted from side to side. Then he sat down next to me. He crossed his legs. He uncrossed his legs. He looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to begin conversation, then wrung his hands once more when I didn¡¯t. At that age, Gaspard didn¡¯t yet know how to be charming, even if it was more than evident that he had the full faculties to be. ¡°After the cleaning,¡± he finally said to me, voice a little breathless, speaking in French, ¡°please come to my chambre. Or¡­or, if you¡¯d rather, I can come to you. Euh. Do you understand me?¡±


    I gave him no response, just a long blink. He looked a little nauseous, but then he repeated all his words in Elven so awkward and broken that, without his prior French explanation, I wouldn¡¯t have been able to comprehend. ¡°My chambre.¡± He decided. ¡°Whenever you¡¯re done. Lac¡­Laclan will show you the way, but I¡¯ll shoo him off. Euh. See you then.¡±


    It might have been some dormant form of empathy that made me agree, that made me nod when Laclan later told me that Gaspard had informed him of ¡®the plan¡¯ and he would walk me over to his chambre when we were done. Empathy, because Gaspard was blameless in a way that Wolfgang and Laclan weren¡¯t, because Gaspard¡¯s social anxiety had clearly made even speaking to me an arduous task, because when Gaspard walked away after that bizarre conversation, one of the admirals had yelled at him to ¡°Pick up your pace, straighten your posture! You, pretty boy, you!¡±.


    Or it might have been curiosity, because I had spent my initial weeks in this Academy shuffling from my chambre to the Mezzanine and nowhere else. Sometimes I would work on the small plot of land that had been designated as my garden. Sometimes, when it was quiet enough, I would take my meditation by the pond, but I hadn¡¯t explored the grounds in any sort of meaningful way since my arrival. Laclan led me down a path I¡¯d never walked before, away from the fencing and equestrian training grounds and towards the huge residential building, the one with stained glass windows to their French virgin. I had long since lost Misa¡¯s rosaire ¨C somewhere in the Monastery ¨C but I could imagine her holding them, touching those beads in the strange way she always did, muttering out chants that could have been French or Latin.


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Inside was carpeted green and gold. On the walls were huge portraits of previous Academy members, men in military uniform, men in battle. Further down, women too in the same forms. Many portraits of royal elves, but none before the French arrival. On our way up a marble spiral staircase, there was one specific portrait that caught my eye, larger than the rest: a Psyche dressed as an archer, pupil-less eyes, long hair that fell in beautiful waves of light green then light blue then light pink. Her name ¨C Oph¨¦lie de Perse. Noble member of the King¡¯s Archers. Laclan saw that I¡¯d stopped at this portrait, and he peered at it too. ¡°Oh, the Headmaster¡¯s wife, right?¡±


    I bit the inside of my cheek, then forced myself to say: ¡°Tell me about her.¡±


    Laclan frowned, leaning in closer as if her life story would be written on her bow and arrow. ¡°I mean, I don¡¯t really know. She was adopted by the Comte de Perse which is how the headmaster got his title as Baron when he married her. She¡¯s obviously not from the land. Um¡­That¡¯s all I know. Come on, let¡¯s go.¡±


    We continued climbing. It took some more seconds before I said, ¡°He married a Psyche.¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°A¡­A Psyche.¡±


    ¡°A what?¡±


    ¡°She¡­¡± I couldn¡¯t understand the confusion. ¡°What is she? Not an elf, a¡­?¡±


    ¡°A Ciel.¡± He looked at me oddly, like this was an obvious thing to know. ¡°Like, the French word for ¡®sky¡¯. Henri!¡±


    Once we climbed the staircase, the hallway was much more populated. Boys running around, in and out of rooms, yelling, laughing, shoving each other. The boy named Henri grinned at Laclan, running over to us with his brown hair still wet. ¡°Did you hear about Robert and the baker?¡± He asked Laclan, after curiously glancing at me but saying nothing. ¡°Did you hear her father got involved?¡±


    Through the chaos of boys and their noise, I could see Wolfgang at the end of the hallway. He was crouched down with some other boys, smoke billowing of his mouth, the same colour as his eyes, and he passed around the pipe they were all sharing. He wasn¡¯t surprised I was here. When he raised his gaze and met my eye, he looked back at me as if he¡¯d followed my whole ascension up that staircase and down this hallway, as if he¡¯d expected me to be standing right where I was.


    ¡°Here is one of the Cilliacs.¡± Laclan said, pointing to a portrait next to us. In it, a man with Wolfgang¡¯s red hair, with red eyes that Wolfgang only seemed to achieve when he was angry. Ignes Cilliac. He held no weapon. He rode no horse. He just stood there, posed neutrally for the portrait, no demonstration of whatever his skill had been. Laclan knocked on the door next to it. ¡°I¡¯ll show you the portraits of the Stymphalians later. There are so many, and I¡¯ll be the next!¡±


    The door swung open to reveal a nervous Gaspard. He swallowed, then beckoned me inside. ¡°No, not you.¡± He said, stopping Laclan from entering. ¡°You¡¯re a distraction.¡±


    Laclan took that as high praise. ¡°Of course! How could you have fun without me?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not going to ¡®have fun¡¯. We¡¯re studying.¡± He pushed at Laclan¡¯s shoulder. ¡°You can go.¡±


    ¡°What? But¡­But don¡¯t you want to know about Robert and the baking girl?¡±


    ¡°Wolfe told me about it.¡±


    ¡°Wolfe¡¯s bad at stories. Let me tell you another. What about the rumour that Calex fought a bear in the Andeluze Mountains? In fact, I can study with you both. The written subjunctive, it, ah¡­it¡¯s a nasty tense, huh? Let me in and teach me or you¡¯ve failed as a friend.¡±


    ¡°You have a million others. Go bother them.¡±


    Laclan winced, clutching his heart. ¡°Ouch.¡±


    Gaspard rolled his eyes, pushing at Laclan¡¯s shoulder again. ¡°If I say yes to you, I would have had to say yes to Wolfe. And he can be worse than you are. Now, go. Avari, please, euh, come in.¡±


    The door was closed behind me.


    Gaspard¡¯s room was entirely unlike my own. It was smaller but more thoughtful: the walls were painted a deep, dark blue, the furniture (oak tables, dressers, etc.) was either rimmed or plated in a matching gold. He had bookcases filled with many, many books, titles that I spied to be mostly about legal history or current political legislation. His bed was huge, draped in vinyl, double or triple the size of mine. Above it hung a portrait of Gaspard¡¯s branch of the Maison de Villieu. A mother and father. Three boys, four girls. Gaspard stood as the middle boy, his posture a little more anxious than the rest.


    ¡°Pardon the mess,¡± he said to me, quickly tidying up imaginary clutter. ¡°Please, sit wherever.¡±


    I sat behind his desk. On it was a huge anthology opened to a page on ¡®the General Historiography of Extra-Legal Wartime Settlements¡¯. I looked at the dates of the sources referenced, and saw that unlike the encyclopaedias at the Alchemist Academy, they were all very modern, very recent.


    ¡°Is¡­Is there a subject you find especially difficult?¡± He referred to me using ¡®vous¡¯. ¡°We can start with Contemporary Politics, if you wish. Most find that difficult. Or, perhaps, Arithmetic. Euh¡­I have my notebooks just over here¡­¡±


    He retrieved the notebooks, sitting on the edge of his bed and then flipping them open to a random page. He looked at me again. ¡°Where¡­uh¡­Oh, let¡¯s start with the paper itself, no? Do you remember the first question? What was the topic?¡±


    The page on ¡®the General Historiography of Extra-Legal Wartime Settlements¡¯ was filled with names and places I didn¡¯t know, and dates that I didn¡¯t know the significance of. All so modern, so recent. I knew this silence was painful for him, but I kept quiet as I read through the information, as I glossed over terms like ¡®recently approved Elven jurisprudence¡¯ and ¡®the property-owning demographic of the Junispurrei Counties¡¯. The pages were a pure white, not ink-stained, not folded over, not wizened with dust, age, and multigenerational use. I could see Gaspard was beginning to panic a little at my silence, and so I finally looked back at him. ¡°Could you,¡± I asked, ¡°tell me about the Ciel?¡±


    ¡°The¡­?¡± It caught him off guard, but he didn¡¯t reject the question. He stood up and retrieved a book from the shelf, one named Current Standards of Elven and Otherwise Political Relations, and, after checking the table of contents, opened to a section towards the end. ¡°What about them? What subject does this come under, sorry?¡±


    ¡°The name.¡± I said. ¡°Why are they called Ciel?¡±


    Again, confused but too awkward to argue, he scanned through the book to see if he could find any answers for me. He couldn¡¯t. So he stood up, paced around for some useless, wasteful moments, announced he would run to the library and find a book on ¡®species etymology¡¯, and after 15 minutes, he returned.


    ¡°Euh¡­It¡­Prior to the ¡®influence of the French language¡¯, they used to go by the Elven name ¡®Psyche¡¯, which is a slight corruption or misunderstanding of the word ¡®pyske¡¯, which is what they refer to themselves as. Of course, ¡®Psyche¡¯ then carries philosophical and metaphysical connotations that corrupted the word further when it was carried into the French. ¡®Psyche¡¯, a reference to the ¡®soul¡¯ or the ¡®mind¡¯; these connotations along with their ¡®angelic appearance¡¯ led to them being referred to, in French, as ¡®de Ciel¡¯, of the sky or of heaven, or simply ¨C Ciel.¡± He closed the book. ¡°Et voil¨¤.¡±


    I wanted the book in his hands. I wanted to read it all myself. ¡°And the Gotteird Plains?¡±


    It took us many minutes to resolve what I meant by this. Old Encyclopaedias had told me of the Psyche¡¯s ¡®notable communities¡¯ in the ¡®Gotteird Plains¡¯, plains I couldn¡¯t even be sure still existed, communities I could only guess were long since evacuated. ¡°Can you spell it for me?¡± So I did, writing it down on a piece of paper to show him. The word didn¡¯t spark much recognition, but he had seen it before, and he knew it enough to know I was pronouncing it wrongly ¨C not ¡®Gott-erde¡¯, but ¡®Yotarde¡¯. ¡°Think of the G as a Y.¡± Although he now knew the word I was referring to, he didn¡¯t know anything about the ¡®Gotteird Plains¡¯. He found one lone entry in his Current Standards of Elven and Otherwise Political Relations book: ¡°The Gotteird Plains, more commonly known under its French name of: Alluviale.¡± His eyes lit up, finally reaching a point of understanding. ¡°Yes, I know Alluviale. Not as the ¡®Gotteird Plains¡¯, but as Alluviale. It¡¯s where lavender grows.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Lavender. It only grows in that area. I suppose its technical name is still ¡®Gotteird Plains¡¯ because Alluviale is the name of the species of lavender, I think, but if you say ¡®I went to Alluviale¡¯, everyone knows where you¡¯re talking about. Euh¡­lavender. You know that, right? We can¡¯t grow it anywhere else. It only grows in Alluviale. It¡¯s a restriction by nature, I guess.¡±


    Nature did not have restrictions.


    There seemed to be more he wanted to say, but he didn¡¯t say it. There seemed to be questions he wanted to ask, on why I was so curious about the Ciel in particular, on why my knowledge seemed outdated by several decades, on why I hadn¡¯t known how to pronounce ¡®Gotteird¡¯, a word that was no longer even in Elven use.


    ¡°I¡­¡± He cleared his throat, because his voice had broken just on the ¡®je¡¯. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I can¡¯t speak Elven. I told the headmaster but he said it didn¡¯t matter, that you understand French, but I¡­I should know how to speak it. How did you learn? In¡­in your Monastery? Laclan said you grew up as a monk.¡±


    ¡®Learn¡¯? Manon had taught me French. It had been her first self-assigned task when we¡¯d moved to the Alchemist Academy. She had taught me and I had learnt. I had never ¡®learnt¡¯ Elven, just as I¡¯d never ¡®learnt¡¯ how to breathe. Our ancient texts were in Elven, our meditations were in Elven: it was all I knew. To even realise that there were other languages to speak and think in had been something of a shock to me. The existence of French, of any other language at all, had almost seemed superfluous, unnecessary.


    ¡°You care to learn?¡±


    He nodded genuinely. ¡°Laclan¡¯s a lousy teacher and Wolfe is¡­Wolfe. But it¡¯s something I should know. Especially as¡­well¡­what¡¯s the point in diplomacy if you¡¯re stuck in one language? Uh. Yes, I would like to learn. I¡­Oh, you¡¯re leaving?¡±


    I was. I was tired and uncomfortable, displaced, and it was too claustrophobic of an emotion to encounter when in someone else¡¯s company. ¡°Well, after the test on Sunday morning, you can tell me how it went? Um. Okay. Goodnight.¡±


    The hallway was just as lively, just as unrestricted about the curfew-less transition from Saturday night to Sunday morning. Before I could close the door, a hand reached out to stop it from swinging shut.


    Wolfgang. Next to him, Ignes Cillac was gallantly looking ahead, painted in regal stillness. For the sake of curiosity, I wondered what their connection was: great uncle? Grandfather? But for the sake of my own personal dislike, I didn¡¯t bother asking. ¡°Surprised you haven¡¯t dropped dead from starvation.¡± He said to me, his first direct words to me since I¡¯d made his Academy my home. ¡°You¡¯re making yourself miserable with all this rebellion. Don¡¯t they teach you anything in bastard houses? Or, was it an orphanage?¡±


    When I tried to walk away, he pressed his hand against the wall next to my head instead, stopping my exit. ¡°You¡¯ve not thanked me for Ulyses.¡±


    Thanked him? ¡°I thought you might be grateful,¡± he continued, ¡°to come back and see Ulyses gone.¡±


    ¡°Ulyses,¡± my words were acid in my mouth, and not just from the weariness of my throat: after many days of barely saying a word, engaging in what little conversation I had had put strain on my voice, a soreness in my throat. ¡°You think I don¡¯t much prefer him to you?¡±


    His anger was easy to instigate, staining his silver eyes a bloody red. Laclan and Gaspard were the same height, Wolfgang was some inches below, me some inches below that. He towered over me and relished in that advantage. ¡°He bloodied your face and yet you¡¯re not thankful he¡¯s gone?¡±


    ¡°At your encouragement.¡±


    ¡°You stupid bastard. He would¡¯ve done it at anyone¡¯s encouragement.¡±


    ¡°Possibly.¡± I agreed. ¡°But it was at yours.¡±


    ¡°Not an argument, I hope.¡± Laclan appeared, leaning on the wall next to me, staring down Wolfgang. ¡°Just¡­friend¡¯s talking, n¡¯est-ce pas?¡±


    Wolfgang glared at him, but he moved his arm away obediently, opening Gaspard¡¯s door without knocking and walking inside. Laclan and I both watched the door slam shut. ¡°He¡¯s¡­difficult.¡± Laclan told me. ¡°But he¡¯s not beyond hope. Like I said, just need to push and poke and punch and shake¡­¡± Like Wolfgang, he opened Gaspard¡¯s door without knocking, going to join his friends. ¡°Will you join?¡±


    I shook my head. He already knew I wouldn¡¯t. ¡°Okay, well, I¡¯ll see you tomorrow, Avari. Goodnight.¡±


    *


    In my small garden, I dug deep into the soil and ripped out all the lavender. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I whispered, ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± A soft breeze caressed my cheeks. Nature understood. As I held the sprouting lavender in my hands, as I moved them inside my chambre to place on my desk, as I tried to reconcile this claim of ¡®lavender only grows in Alluviale¡¯ with the knowledge of the lavender gardens of the Monastery, I kept apologising, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry.¡± But Nature understood. It always understood.


    *


    I was locked in a classroom the following morning. The first question on the paper was: Name the three main towns in the Low Midlands and their principal exports. As an answer, I wrote out, in Elven, a simple yet delicious recipe for rose-water broth.


    *


    ¡°Do you think this is a trick?¡± The Baron asked me, truly curious. ¡°We want to put you in the correct classes, Avari. Do you think this is somehow of ill-intent? What do you lose in answering the questions honestly?¡±


    It was another night of cleaning. Laclan was especially full of effervescence, excited for Monday¡¯s ¡®special day¡¯ with a visiting philosopher. ¡°Those classes are always the best ones! And we don¡¯t get tested on them! It¡¯s like what I would hear at home, actually. About the ¡®state of nature¡¯, about the ¡®state of Elf¡¯. The nobilit¨¦, they don¡¯t understand. They don¡¯t understand like we do. What do you think about that, about ¡®the state of nature¡¯? The whole point about contracts is that both sides agree, right? I mean, that¡¯s what Gaspard says. Ah, it¡¯s so much fun. I¡¯m no Homme des Lettres, but these philosophers, these men of political philosophy ¨C I could listen to them all day.¡±


    It surprised me. It had always surprised me, that Laclan saw himself more like me than like Gaspard and Wolfgang. Despite his own family wealth and sacred lineage, despite owning vast amounts of land, despite it all: he thought he was like me. He had a last name that was arguably more recognisable than 90% of the other boys here, a name that inspired reverence with a history that could be read about and known ¨C and I had no last name at all.


    ¡°I wrote to my grandma about how we¡¯re friends ¨C you and me ¨C and she said-¡±


    ¡°We are not friends.¡±


    I didn¡¯t need to say more than that. I didn¡¯t need to say it more than once, either. We weren¡¯t friends. He wasn¡¯t helping me clean the Mezzanine out of ¡®friendship¡¯. He wasn¡¯t protecting me from Wolfgang¡¯s bullying out of ¡®friendship¡¯. He wasn¡¯t friends with me out of ¡®friendship¡¯. His guilt had spiked his sense of altruism; his want for forgiveness/redemption was fuelling his incessant niceness, and his pity was bending itself into fake interest. We weren¡¯t friends. It seemed more to his benefit than mine that I couldn¡¯t even find the words to speak about what he¡¯d done to me, but him helping me clean the Mezzanine hadn¡¯t magically made me forget. To stab me was impulsive, but forgivable. To leave me there was-


    ¡°My favourite philosopher,¡± he said after a while, staring at the ground as he ran over it with soapy water. ¡°His name is Jubespirthe. I¡¯ve even written to him once, asking when he¡¯ll come. He wrote this huge book on the origin of morality. It¡¯s banned in this Academy, because it¡¯s ¡®blasphemous¡¯, but some other academies have access to it. I read it last summer. It¡¯s incredible, Avari. Incredible.¡±


    He didn¡¯t talk much that night. His mood had quietened drastically, but he continued to clean dutifully. When he was done, he gave me a small smile, then walked off without a word.


    *


    The first time I wrote out a truthful attempt at an answer was for a practice question Gaspard gave me: list out and describe five types of sedimentary rock. He had his pen dipped in ink, ready to correct my mistakes, but then he grimaced. He pulled on his hair. He looked at me in¡­fear? Then refocused on the paper in front of him. Eventually, he revealed: ¡°You¡¯ve written this in Elven.¡± Of course. ¡°I¡­I can¡¯t read Elven. And the professors, they only accept assessments in French ¨C and I would know because Wolfe once got in trouble for writing out all his homework in Latin ¨C so, for practice, could you¡­euh¡­write this out¡­um¡­in¡­French?¡±


    I¡­I couldn¡¯t.


    I stared at my Elven words, at technical words I knew from encyclopaedias of science (and I was confident in these answers because I doubted rocks had changed much since the formation of this world), and I did not know their equivalent in French. I could read French fluently, because Manon had taught me to read French fluently, but I had never had much practice in writing it. Gaspard was waiting, and I was gripping the ink pen in my hand, waiting with him.


    It didn¡¯t take Gaspard long to realise the reason for my inaction, and for him to then realise why I refused those aptitude tests, why I would continue to refuse them.


    ¡°Will you teach me Elven?¡±


    What? ¡°Now?¡±


    ¡°Yes. From, uh, your answer. Could you teach me? As you explain the Elven to me, we can make a translation in French. So I can understand it. The book I gave you last night, the one on contemporary geopolitics, if you write out an Elven summary for that too, you can help translate it into French so, um, so that I understand.¡±


    My immediate instinct was to refuse, but his wording disarmed me, his willingness disarmed me. I had devoured that contemporary geopolitics book in one day, and it had been a story before my eyes, tracing how current policies were inspired by old Elven moors, watching the continuation of a story I¡¯d read about in encyclopaedias so ancient that they might have predated the Alchemist Academy itself. The state had refused a budget increase and Ivra had refused French texts, and so the result was me now, learning this all for the first time, having to swallow so much of my pride down that it could choke me outright.


    ¡°You make the translation,¡± he said to me, ¡°and I¡¯ll add notes if I need to clarify something for myself.¡±


    I took the piece of paper that he gave to me, still hesitant, still on guard. But then, I wrote. I wrote it all in the French I could manage, and he took it from me and added little notes whenever I¡¯d made an agreement mistake, or a grammar mistake, or used too weak or too strong a word depending on context. And afterwards, he thanked me. A genuine ¡®thank you¡¯. I couldn¡¯t say the same to him. I couldn¡¯t say anything at all.


    ¡°You¡¯ll write the test this Sunday,¡± he said to me, correcting my next answer. ¡°I¡¯m sure of it.¡±


    Sunday came. I was locked in yet another classroom. The first question on this paper was Describe the climate, rock formation, and main export of the North District (naming at least 4 sub-counties). And so I did. In written French, I did.

 Seven. He cannot walk, so give him the power to Run.

    Avari,


    I hope you¡¯re settling in as well as you can given your circumstance. Rest assured, I had absolutely no part in the decision to send you there. My hands were tied. They are sneaky and slippery and you should be wise not to trust a single one of them, not even any of your little friends. Manon Cotillard¡¯s presence weighs down on us like a peppy, insidious cloud. Be glad to no longer be bothered by her.


    I¡¯m writing to let you know that I, along with some other Healers and Alchemists, will be visiting your Academy in 5 weeks¡¯ time. It will be nice to see you. Manon will not be accompanying us. We will talk much when I arrive. I hope you are being wise and careful. Remember, they are <u>NOT</u> your friends.


    See you soon,


    Ivra Vonglo.


    Note: I will bring your fox with me. The cats are unsuitable for such travel and will remain. Be prepared.


    *


    Laclan would not leave me alone. Of course, we weren¡¯t friends, we weren¡¯t anywhere close to a realm of forgiveness, but he was relentless. I wasn¡¯t so stupidly emotional as to be upset or sad about what he¡¯d done to me ¨C I wasn¡¯t so stupidly emotional as to be upset or sad about anything at all ¨C but I could not escape him. Not friends, but I wouldn¡¯t bother moving away whenever he sat by me for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not friends, but he managed to coax conversation out of me in a way that nobody else ¨C except, perhaps, Gaspard ¨C could. After whatever he¡¯d done to Ulyses d¡¯Aigle-Blondeau and his friends, and after Ulyses¡¯ expulsion, I was met with a lot less mockery (though not necessarily any warmth). I was sure that I, small as I still was, inspired some sort of¡­hesitance in the other boys; but Laclan, strong as he always would be, had fists that worked and a body that moved. He could get a smile out of anyone, and his friends at the academy were unnumbered, but I would best describe him as ¡®no bark, all bite¡¯.


    I was in two classes with Wolfgang (he hated this), one class with Gaspard (he didn¡¯t explicitly say, but his quiet smile let me know he was pleased), and five with Laclan (this was incredibly damning on my part, because Laclan was so disruptive and talkative during class that he hardly knew which subject he was currently in, and to be judged to be on equal academic level ¨C this was incredibly damning). Still, I would never admit it, but to have my own timetable pleased me, and I did enjoy learning even if I hated being taught, and Laclan, though not my friend, though not capable of my forgiveness, was funny and lively and insisted on including me on all class discussions, on every single one.


    A month passed. Then another. Gaspard and I spent many nights together in the huge library attached to the residence halls. The stained-glass windows of this building depicted cloaked men with Latin names (¡°saints and scholars,¡± Gaspard told me) and housed a lifetime of books on history, language, and arithmetic. I told Gaspard what I knew of the old books and he told me what he knew of the new. After the third month, my timetable was revised: two classes with Wolfgang, two with Laclan, and now four with Gaspard. He had a confidence when answering questions that he didn¡¯t have outside of the classroom. He never gave a wrong answer. Or, even if he did, its falsity didn¡¯t survive the confidence in which he said it.


    To make friends outside of Gaspard and Laclan would have required me to be willing to speak to anyone else. I wasn¡¯t. When asked a question (and the longer I stayed, the more frequent they became), if Gaspard or Laclan weren¡¯t around to answer for me, then it would receive no answer at all. I knew I was an object of curiosity. I knew they wondered about my lineage, my sudden enrolment, my meditations. I wouldn¡¯t answer them. I didn¡¯t care to. Expectedly, mystery served to be good social currency, even if I personally received no benefit. Laclan and Gaspard were the only students to have heard me speak for extended amounts of time, but it was Wolfgang who seemed to benefit the most, as he was the one that saved my life all those months ago.


    The Baron left me alone. Surprisingly, once I¡¯d sat the aptitude test, once I¡¯d been assigned to academically-appropriate classes, once I started eating meals in the Mezzanine, he left me alone. He didn¡¯t question me on the missing lavender. He didn¡¯t question me on the Monastery, on my healing, on anything at all. ¡°All we want is for you to be well-educated and well-kept,¡± he¡¯d said to me. ¡°We¡¯re not your villains, Avari. You can trust us.¡±


    ¡°Stop! Villain!¡± Laclan was on the clay ground, dramatically covering his face with his arm as if in deep distress. ¡°Oh, somebody help me! Somebody big and strong and¡­Bah, are we sure I¡¯m describing Wolfe?¡±


    ¡°Why couldn¡¯t I be the damsel in distress?¡± Gaspard asked, shaky on his feet as he held his sword in both hands. His performance as ¡®villain¡¯ was always so terrible that I was sure Wolfgang and Laclan only insisted it be him so they could laugh. ¡°I get called ¡®pretty boy¡¯ enough times to earn it, no?¡±


    ¡°We should give it to Avari.¡± Wolfgang, who was out of view because he wasn¡¯t due in the scene yet, grumbled scornfully. ¡°It¡¯s not like he does anything else.¡±


    Laclan considered this, then turned to me. ¡°Avari, how do you feel about being the damsel?¡±


    And because he pursued me so relentlessly, so persistently, I could consider a question like this for itself, without the context of what had happened. I answered, ¡°To be saved by Gaspard, fine. But not Wolfgang. I would rather throw myself to the dragons, or the pirates, or whatever you¡¯re running from.¡±


    ¡°You see? You see how I¡¯m not the problem? He doesn¡¯t even try to be civil with me!¡± It wasn¡¯t his cue but he entered the foreground anyway, pointing his sword at me. ¡°Make him the villain instead. Maybe his parents were executed for treason and he¡¯s got their evil ideas in his blood.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t talk about his parents, Wolfe.¡±


    Wolfgang, exasperated, threw his sword down and stormed off. No one contested how he, despite having the worst personality, always played the hero. There were, however, increasingly frequent contestations about our treatment of each other. I don¡¯t know what they expected. I made it clear I deeply disliked him and he made it clear he felt the same way about me. The other two I could tolerate. Wolfgang I couldn¡¯t. I refused to. By this point, they knew enough to know I didn¡¯t get offended at the constant jibe of my ¡®dead parents¡¯, because my parents being dead or alive was hardly something I even knew how to care about, but the intention to offend me offended me more than anything else. ¡°He¡¯s¡­trying.¡± Laclan would say, but how was this an attempt at anything other than enmity? ¡°He¡¯s just, you know, a little awkward.¡± Gaspard would say, but how would constantly insulting, threatening, and demeaning me classify him as anything other than evil?


    ¡°We must find common ground,¡± Gaspard suggested, ¡°How can the four of us be friends if the two of you hate each other?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re not friends.¡± I muttered, but I folded my arms and leaned back in my chair, showing that I was willing to listen. ¡°I have done nothing wrong.¡±


    ¡°You get up and walk away whenever he sits with us.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve only done that twice.¡±


    ¡°You did it three times just yesterday alone.¡±


    I scowled, looking away. ¡°How do you propose we be friends if he doesn¡¯t want to be friends with me?¡±


    ¡°Avari,¡± Laclan shook his head solemnly, like I was a little kid, ¡°it¡¯s you who doesn¡¯t want to be friends with him.¡±


    Well, of course that was true. I would openly admit that I deeply disliked him. This suggestion ¨C and this was not the first time ¨C that the feeling wasn¡¯t mutual was preposterous to me. It was a tired conversation, and one that I didn¡¯t like the solution to: Laclan would not leave me alone so I couldn¡¯t shake his friendship; Gaspard and I spent too much time talking about history and politics to not have developed some sort of friendly feelings, and because they were both friends with Wolfgang, I was stuck having to tolerate him.


    ¡°Tonight, during dinner,¡± Gaspard suggested, ¡°initiate a nice conversation and see what happens.¡±


    If it were anyone other than Gaspard asking, I would have refused (although, stubbornly, I might have to admit that Laclan might have also gotten me to agree), and so I nodded. If just to show them once and for all that I wasn¡¯t at fault in our rivalry, I would initiate a nice conversation with Wolfgang and let him devolve it into insults and derogatory remarks.


    And so at dinner, I said: ¡°Wolfgang.¡±


    End of my sentence. The three of them all stopped their chatter to look at me, wide-eyed, confused, expectant, and then confused again. In fairness, what else should I have said? How are you? I didn¡¯t care. How was your day? Similarly, I didn¡¯t care. So, I¡¯d said ¡®Wolfgang¡¯, and now he was looking at me, already irritated, already displeased, already a red tint in his eyes despite me just having said one word.


    ¡°You-¡±


    ¡°-catch more butterflies with honey than with bees wax,¡± Laclan nodded, pretending he was completing Wolfgang¡¯s sentence, ¡°that¡¯s so true, and exactly what I told you last night.¡±


    Wolfgang squeezed his eyes shut, as if calming himself down. He exhaled deeply, then reopened his eyes, a crystal-clear silver. ¡°Avari.¡±


    Both Laclan and Gaspard cheered, encouraged by the most civil conversation Wolfgang and I had ever had. It made us both scoff. It made us both roll our eyes. ¡°That¡¯s not even the correct expression,¡± Wolfgang muttered, but he didn¡¯t raise an argument. They were satisfied with this little progress we¡¯d made, saying each other¡¯s names without immediately then hurling insults, and they weren¡¯t going to push their luck by asking more from us. I stood up when dinner was over, off to do my meditations, and as usual, they were unbearable. ¡°Oh no, big and strong Avari is leaving me all alone¡­¡± whined Laclan. Gaspard was clutching an imaginary arrow through his heart. ¡°Avari¡­My closest confidant. Avari¡­¡± Even Wolfgang was smiling a little. He didn¡¯t join in on their exaggerated farewells, but he didn¡¯t sign ¡®va te faire foutre¡¯ at me, which was an improvement, if nothing else.


    Ivra would be here in 5 weeks.


    I attempted to stifle my contentment. I tried to conjure up more negative emotions instead, seemingly the opposite of standard meditational practice, but I did it in earnest. I looked for my anger, my fury at Laclan and his violence and subsequent cowardice. I looked for my apathy towards Gaspard. It was easy to feel my distaste for Wolfgang. I tried to dismiss all pokes and prods of friendship, all attempts to win me over, to lower my guard, to defrost my heart. Romilio, Delphia, and Ivra had all warned me of this before: not to misunderstand relationships. Ivra especially had warned me of the French nobility. Again, I asked for a hard heart. I wanted to sneer at the memory of Laclan¡¯s intense cheer the first time he¡¯d made me laugh. I wanted to heckle the conversations Gaspard and I had, conversations that bled well into the night. I wanted to remember what it felt like to be alone, because I¡¯d forgotten the virtue of solitude in just three months, because I was setting myself up for betrayal that I knew was coming.


    I opened my eyes. The water rippled in front of me gently. My gaze was guided upward and forward, to a place where Nature had so often guided my gaze after these meditations: to the forest.


    An instruction? ¡°What are you asking of me?¡± I whispered.


    The water rippled more insistently, the wind moved in a gust that blew past me and ventured towards the thick trees. Yes, an instruction. ¡°Not tonight,¡± I said, but I was curious. ¡°But¡­you have my consideration. One day, I¡¯ll go back. Give me a reason, and not just: because Nature says so.¡±


    Cryptic, vague, even a little annoyed. The water rippled and the wind blew. ¡°If you were calling me to a mountain,¡± I proposed, ¡°yes, I would be more cooperative.¡± More annoyed: there were no mountains in the North District, what should Nature do, summon one? ¡°If you were calling me to a mountain that you have newly summoned, then yes, I would be more cooperative. That forest is unnecessary. I have been there once before: it is unnecessary.¡±


    An impasse. I sighed, touching the water with my fingertips and causing little whirlpools to shudder through the pond. With my other hand, I asked for the wind to stop blowing towards the forest and fall still. ¡°You have my consideration.¡± I repeated. ¡°But give me time to consider. To¡­ready myself to go back.¡±


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    I wouldn¡¯t say we reached an agreement, because something in Nature¡¯s tone felt conniving, mischievous, as if there was already a more convincing plan in action, but we reached a settlement. I narrowed my eyebrows, suspicious, but all I got was the wind ruffling my hair and whirlpools running through the pond. It felt like home. I didn¡¯t have much physical experience with the feeling, because nowhere had ever truly felt permanent, but Nature always felt like home.


    *


    The portrait of Oph¨¨lie de Perses ¨C by this point, I could list its details from memory. I was unsure, still, if there was any point to standing here and staring at her. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe my memory or my sense of recognition was failing me, and I was misattributing her to someone similar, or, equally as plausible, someone fictional. I had a million questions I wanted to ask, but to ask a question would betray interest. Why ask after a topic you don¡¯t care about? And if you care, why? What are you looking for? I couldn¡¯t ask. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe I was misremembering. I couldn¡¯t ask.


    *


    The lavender had rooted itself between the wood of my desk and was growing at a steady, rapid pace. I didn¡¯t have it in me to de-root them once again, and so the desk was made unusable, drenched in a mischievous lilac and inebriating my room in a floral, springtime scent. Once aware they had my permission, they blossomed in no time at all, spreading into the floorboards, attempting to push itself into the spaces of the brick wall. Nature might understand, but I couldn¡¯t bring myself to remove them, or even disturb them, so I had no choice but to care for them. They grew with my watering, my tending, and my nightly whispers for nutrients, rejuvenation, and grace.


    Romilio could grow an apple tree in a day. I couldn¡¯t, at least not yet, but lavender was easy to grow and my willingness encouraged its speed. It took no time at all for the right-side of my room to be drenched in lavender, for the chambre to be baked in that sweet, cloying smell. ¡°You could get me in trouble,¡± I whispered, yet I kept tending them, unable to do otherwise. I brushed my fingers over the purple flowers. ¡°How do I explain? Lavender should not grow here at all, but you have grown out of wood.¡±


    The lavender was self-satisfied but offered me no answers, of course. I sighed, but watered them dutifully. I noticed, somewhere near the centre of the lavender clump by my desk, that the flowers had disobeyed the call of sunlight and had instead curled into one another, creating a dark patch amongst the lightly-coloured plants. Not enough sunlight, maybe, but how could that be helped? They had insisted on growing in my room, and sunlight was possible through one window at one angle and although I did my best, some spots must have been neglected.


    In hindsight, I should have been more suspicious.


    I spent some time mulling over how to remedy this dark patch. I could leave it to fend for itself, and I was spitefully tempted to do so given the lavender had been so arrogant as to completely overtake my chambre, but I couldn¡¯t do that. Unfortunately, I cared for its growth, and so I stood there and I thought hard. If the flowers were weak and limply clinging to each other, I didn¡¯t want to kill them by attempting to pull them out by hand, but perhaps if I touched just a few, I could remedy the ones closest to the surface until I found a more permanent solution.


    And so, I reached my hand in.


    I quickly found that I couldn¡¯t grab it. I couldn¡¯t grab any of the flowers in this dark patch at all, as if I¡¯d pushed my hand into a hole. I pulled my hand back, surprised, then immediately reached in again, and reached in, and reached in once more, until I had to lean my whole body into the flowers even if my entire arm had long since disappeared inside the desk.


    I could hear buzzing. I could feel a stronger heat than what the sun was outside. Again, I removed my hand, my heart thundering away, before reaching in one last time and truly trying to feel what should have been the hard wood of a desk,


    and then I fell.


    I fell into my desk, into the sea of lavender. When I sat up, startled, I was¡­I was in a much bigger sea of lavender underneath a much hotter sun, a blue sky, bees buzzing around me. I was outside, very much not in my room at all, seated by the edge of the field where the road was closest. It was right where we¡¯d driven past on the way to the Academy, where the Baron had leaned out to ask for the lavender stems. In fact, right there, at the same spot, was the field boy. He spotted me immediately, yelled out in anger, arms raised, running towards me with a pitchfork, and immediately I scrambled backward and¡­


    ¡­tumbled onto the floor of my room.


    I waited for him to tumble with me. He didn¡¯t. I waited for my heart to stop pounding. Eventually, it did. The lavenders continued to lavender, somehow smug without smug faces, and I could feel the ¡®Ha! There¡¯s your prize!¡¯ in their purpleness. Prize? A bee was buzzing around my room, hopping from stem to stem. Prize...


    Immediately, I pulled out a sheet of paper and my ink pen, addressing the letter to the Monastery, starting with Romilio, an urgent development has occurred¡­.


    *


    I could not:


    <ol>


    <li>Fall into the clay ground.</li>


    <li>Fall into wood, metal, or glass.</li>


    <li>[I did not attempt jumping into the pond]</li>


    <li>Fall into brick.</li>


    </ol>


    The only thing I could fall into, seemingly, were these lavender flowers.


    *


    Nature was blissfully uninterested when I demanded for explanations on this new¡­thing. Were the lavender flowers to blame or me? Was this a symptom of puberty, or truly a ¡®prize¡¯ for being patient with the flowers? Had this been done before? Of¡­of course. All elves could do all things, and I still believed this to be true, but I had never experienced what I had experienced that afternoon, and Nature was providing me with no answers. Or, if it was, I wasn¡¯t yet capable of deciphering them. If this was usual, why had I never seen Romilio disappear into his bed of roses? Or into the grape vines? Why had he never even suggested this?


    ¡°Ah, Wolfe, come save me from the big bad Gaspard!¡±


    ¡°Is this your impression of a damsel in distress?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s my impression of Avari as the damsel in distress.¡±


    I knew the old history and I was reading the new, and so I could see that there were large, obvious gaps in the knowledge the military was allowing us. A recurrent idea of ¡®nature providing restrictions¡¯ was completely foreign to me, and yet it appeared in every science book Gaspard and I read. Some gaps I had expected ¨C there was no explanation on why the Gotteird Plains had been evacuated, for example, beyond just an acknowledgement that it had happened ¨C but this insistence of Nature being limited, restricted: it was incomprehensible to me. And so I knew I wouldn¡¯t find an explanation of myself in one of those books. I knew I needed to wait until Ivra arrived so she could send my letter to the Monastery. If I sent it off myself, I didn¡¯t trust that the Baron wouldn¡¯t tear open the seal and read it. I didn¡¯t trust any of them, not at all.


    ¡°Wolfe! Come save me, Avari, from the villainous villain!¡±


    ¡°Wolfe is more likely to kill Avari than save him, no?¡±


    ¡°Gaspard, shh. Wolfe! Come¡­euh¡­Come save me, and then ravish me!¡±


    Gaspard turned a deathly shade of red. Wolfgang, who again should not have entered the scene yet, also flushed a deep pink. It was a curious colour, one I¡¯d never seen on him before, and when he glanced at me to see if I¡¯d heard, he glowered, grit his teeth, but his pink blush deepened to a red flush, comparable to Gaspard¡¯s. Only Laclan was blas¨¦ about what he¡¯d just said: ¡°Oh, come on! I¡¯m playing the part!¡±


    ¡°Then play the part as yourself.¡± Wolfgang hissed.


    I cleared my throat, and they all immediately turned to me. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t use the word ¡®ravish¡¯. It¡¯s stupid and literary. Either play me better or don¡¯t play me at all.¡±


    Laclan beamed, happy with my corrections. Wolfgang was furious (as always), and Gaspard had covered his face in his hands, unable to look at any of us. ¡°Bah, these Catholics, huh? So sensitive. You spend all those hours in chapel calling forth a virgin mother yet the word ¡®ravish¡¯ makes you blush?¡±


    At that age, we fell into two camps of thought. Boys like Laclan made vulgar jokes and laughed at any offense they caused. Boys like Gaspard balked at these jokes, refused to engage in conversations around the topic, found it all sacrilegious and inappropriate and too much to handle. I was apathetic, still coming to terms with the concept of beauty itself. Gaspard would sometimes squirm when I spent a concentrated amount of time staring at his face, wondering what about it specifically made him so attractive. Like Misa, or like that huntress I had seen. I had been tending to some herbs in my garden when a huge painting was brought in from one of the Art Schools, a gift for the Baron, and the painting had been so beautiful, so incredible, creating within me that same automatic sense of appreciation that an attractive elf would.


    Some of the older Class A boys would sneak out on Saturday nights and reappear, dishevelled and satisfied, on Sunday mornings to say their Latin during their mass. I was ¡®exempt¡¯ from these services, but curiosity had made me join Laclan and the others once or twice, hearing a sermon conducted in their dead Latin language, watching them break bread and drink wine. Laclan did it because all students of the school had to, but Wolfgang seemed to genuinely believe it, and Gaspard even more so. I was unsure if the older boys did, if they somehow found a way to reconcile their obvious Saturday fornications with their Sunday prayers. Some of the Catholic laws I found logical: don¡¯t kill, don¡¯t lie. Some I didn¡¯t, this fornication one, this strict requirement of an arbitrary ceremony to symbolise the crossover from a sin into expected practice. ¡°You can¡¯t ask questions like that,¡± Laclan whispered when I¡¯d asked him. ¡°They get mad. Trust me, I know.¡±


    Logical or not, I could see its social value, if nothing else. A unifying ceremony every Sunday morning, where they had a collective belief to share. It reminded me of communal meditation at the Monastery. It made me miss it, even if I knew how futile, how detrimental an emotion like that was.


    ¡°Have you been to the neighbouring town?¡±


    ¡°Sure. In the summer, I spend some weeks at home before joining Wolfe and Gaspard in the South. On the way, I pass through the town. To get to the Low Midlands, you go right across the Jacobin Trail, through the nearest town of Dei Fura. Wolfe and Gaspard, they come in from the South, which cuts the Eurfesque, so I¡¯m not sure if they¡¯ve ever been.¡±


    Dei Fura. They turned a blind eye to the older boys sneaking out so long as they were Class A, because they had ¡®earned¡¯ this small freedom more than their counterparts. I couldn¡¯t remember if I¡¯d ridden through the town. Coming in from the east coast seaside of the Monastery, or the west coast land of the Alchemist Academy made me feel I hadn¡¯t. ¡°How do they get to Dei Fura from here?¡±


    ¡°They ride through the forest.¡±


    I knew this was the answer, that there was no other way to sneak beyond the Academy than through that forest, but them riding through was the specification I wanted. ¡°Could I?¡±


    ¡°Could you what?¡±


    ¡°Ride through the forest?¡±


    ¡°To join them at their brothels?¡±


    ¡°No. To go into the forest.¡±


    ¡°I¡­I suppose. During the day, you can. You have to be chaperoned, but you can.¡±


    Not what I wanted. I needed to go without supervision, and so I needed to go at night, but it was a journey I knew I would struggle to undertake on my own. Even the journey from where I currently stood to where the forest began was a long one, purposefully so, and to then venture through the forest would be impossible. I might have spent hours meandering through the forest at as slow a pace as necessary if this were the Alchemist Academy, where supervision didn¡¯t necessarily double as surveillance, but I knew I couldn¡¯t here. I couldn¡¯t trust them. I couldn¡¯t trust any of them.


    But I doubted I had the patience to wait another four weeks for Ivra¡¯s arrival. And to then wait however long it took for Romilio to write back.


    Laclan wouldn¡¯t suggest himself as my aid, and I would never ask for him either. He was looking down at his feet, wrecked with the guilt that always made him go quiet, and I let it wreck him, saying nothing to soothe the thunder in his eyes. I would give Gaspard the credit of not assuming he was scared of the dark, but it might cause a mild hysteria in him if I insisted he break curfew and break restriction to help me to the forest.


    And so, Wolfgang.


    *


    At night, a chair firmly placed under my door to prevent entry, I held a gas lamp up to inspect the lavender. It had been a handful of days since my first tumble inside, and since then I¡¯d made notes on whatever information was available to me. The science at an academy like this was technical yet lacking. It didn¡¯t account for any of my experience, and to ask a specific question would reveal myself. So, after some rough sketches, some notes, and some fervent whispers to the lavender to behave, I placed the gas lamp down and threw myself in.


    A good part of me had expected to painfully hit my desk and bounce off onto my wooden floor instead, that my initial experience was a stress-induced hallucination.


    It wasn¡¯t.


    It took some seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when it did, I could see the night sky above me, stars twinkling with the moon. I could hear the low drone of grasshoppers among the weeds. The cool air, beyond the bassline smell of lavender, also carried with it dirt and mist. In my fingertips, pushing up through my palm until it soldered at my heart, I could feel a stream nearby. For many moments, I lay there in the lavender, my eyes transfixed on the nightness around me, on the open air that I was suddenly surrounded by. There were mountains far away in the distance. They even seemed within my capability, that if I walked and then ran, I could climb its height and shove my fists in the air, victorious, that I could be myself again, prior to that night when it had all been lost.


    Mountains¡­I was sure I could hear Nature laughing at me, maybe even saying, ¡°There you go! There¡¯s your mountain!¡±. I stood up, but immediately I collapsed. I was without my cane, and going through this¡­this portal had drained me considerably. A bitter realisation swallowed me up, that I hadn¡¯t suddenly regained all my energy, that I was just the same as before. Albeit, with whatever this new lavender-portal affination was.


    A heavy gust of wind blew in my direction, then softened itself to tussle my hair and tussle the lavender around me. My heart was tugging me to follow the call of the water nearby. It was almost disorienting, the contrast in Nature¡¯s audibility here versus at the Academy. It was as if I were back in the Monastery, as if I could hear my name on the wind¡¯s lips, Avari, as if I could close my eyes but still know where to walk so that I could fall into the water and swim. And it had been so long since I¡¯d swam. Romilio had disallowed me from swimming in the sea at the Monastery due to my ¡®bad health¡¯ and ¡®worse temperament¡¯, and I had no opportunity to do so at the Academy unless I dove into the pond, but I could almost feel the water gliding over my body now, the feeling of being welcomed home.


    There wasn¡¯t much around. A tall tree at one end, a windmill at another. Some homes with smoke billowing out their chimneys. I could see into one home, see a family by candlelight, chatting over their dinner. The pull of water was in the opposite direction, beyond a path I could see, and so I slowly pushed myself up to standing and began hobbling over. Then I stopped. It would take me all night at the pace I was capable of, and so I sat back down, ready to negotiate.


    ¡°I will return,¡± I whispered, ¡°with my cane.¡±


    This was accepted.


    ¡°And you will explain yourself to me.¡±


    This was¡­debatable. There was no forest here, more so a creek, these fields, those houses, and the mountains as their backdrop, and yet I saw so clearly a forest before my eyes, knowing it was a picture that Nature was feeding me, an instruction that it was reminding me to follow. ¡°Yes, I know. I¡¯m organising that. Will it be explained then?¡±


    A ¡®hmm¡¯ as a response. I lay down on my back, staring up at the night sky, at all this freedom despite not having the strength to venture through it. I must have smiled. The promise of what was to come: it must have made me smile.

 Eight. Natures Rhythm.

    Somehow, without my active participation, Laclan and I developed a rhythm that might synonymise itself with friendship. Dinners were disgusting evidences of a bond that might have been created, where he¡¯d push potatoes onto my plate and I¡¯d push ham onto his; or he¡¯d push carrots onto my plate and I¡¯d push sprouts onto his. A lot of this was done wordlessly, or while he was in the midst of a conversation with the others, and we¡¯d share our food to create an equilibrium we both better enjoyed. He seemed to know what I was thinking without me needing to demean myself by saying it: a certain scowl meant ¡®good morning¡¯, another ¡®leave me alone¡¯, a third ¡®why have you given me so much soup?¡¯. He would serve as my spokesperson, and he would often be correct, and even when he was wrong I found it never annoyed me.


    There was a night when the stars were dull and colourless. He was hopping from foot to foot, burning with too much energy, telling me about an inside joke he had with some of the older boys, something about duelling and fighting and slaying French dragons, when he cut himself off to ask, ¡°You¡¯re off to meditate?¡±


    I was, but I paused. Without turning to look back at him, I said, ¡°You¡¯re welcome to join, if you want.¡±


    He didn¡¯t have the patience for it. He would shuffle. He would shake out his hair. He would hang his head back and let out breathy sighs, like a panting dog. This was the first time I had extended an invitation, and the significance of me doing so wasn¡¯t lost on him, but he clearly was not keen on boring himself for however long meditation would take. ¡°We¡¯re elves.¡± I reminded him. ¡°We¡¯re Nature¡¯s closest children.¡±


    He opened an eye to look at me. ¡°That¡¯s what my grandma always tells us. Nature¡¯s closest children. She¡¯d like you. You¡¯re exactly what she wants an elf to be.¡±


    The stars, dull and colourless, seemed to lack the inner fire that Laclan always had. Again, he forgot we were meditating and instead began his endless chatter, telling me about the philosophers he was always reading. ¡°There¡¯s this idea,¡± he said to me, ¡°that we only ever do things through self-interest. This is by the philosopher Luxe de Camillon. He says that virtue itself doesn¡¯t exist, that even virtuous actions are fuelled by self-interest, but that it doesn¡¯t matter because ultimately it benefits the collective. What do you think about that, Avari? About self-interest being in the interest of the many?¡±


    I didn¡¯t respond, focusing on the wind, the trees, the dirt.


    ¡°Would¡­would you like to come home with me? In the summer?¡±


    He didn¡¯t repeat his question despite me not giving it an answer. I let my heart slow to a beat so tender, so mild, that to touch your hand to my chest might mistake me for dead. It was a familiar feeling. Being almost dead? It was a feeling as familiar as he was.


    *


    ¡°Wolfgang.¡±


    Something about his name in my mouth set off a firecracker of anger in him. He glared at me, then glared at Laclan when Laclan elbowed him. It took some moments before he could calm himself down, his red eyes painfully fading back to their usual silver, and through grit teeth he responded, ¡°Avari.¡±


    ¡°You will take a walk with me after dinner.¡± I said to him. ¡°By the pond where I meditate.¡±


    I might as well have asked to marry him. Their reactions were overstated and ridiculous. Laclan was overjoyed. Gaspard was hypothesising about a ¡®brilliant burgeoning bond¡¯. Wolfgang was very surprised, shocked even, but the annoyance at the other two¡¯s theatrics quickly took over his attention. I expected some hesitance before he agreed, some posturing, but there was none. Just a nod, and a ¡°d¡¯accord.¡±


    We walked in tense silence until we reached the pond. Neither of us were willing to make small talk, because to show even a remote sign of interest in the other would be a defeat. My hair was long, having grown to half-way down my back. I had taken to either putting it in braids, or tying it up completely. Tonight, I allowed it to hang free, and the loose strands flowing in the breeze had caught Wolfgang¡¯s attention, making him stare. I would have opened the conversation with the jibe of, ¡°I didn¡¯t ask you on this walk so you could gaze at me,¡± but I thought of Laclan and Gaspard¡¯s constant accusations that it was I who was the preventor of a Wolfgang-Avari friendship, and so I bit my tongue. It wasn¡¯t even a friendship I was interested in pursuing, and I still asked Nature every night for a harder heart, and yet¡­


    ¡°The favour you granted me,¡± I said to him. ¡°I want a sixth of it.¡±


    A topic we hadn¡¯t spoken about since he¡¯d given me his word all those months ago. It took him some moments to recalibrate himself with this conversation path, and then he waved me away. ¡°What is ¡®a sixth¡¯ of a favour, you worm? What was the folly that led you to that measurement?¡±


    ¡°I want a sixth of the favour. You can¡¯t say no.¡±


    ¡°I can say whatever I want.¡±


    ¡°You gave me your word.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re braindead.¡± He hissed. ¡°You could have asked for that favour at any moment! With Ulyses! With me! And now you ask for a sixth? To do what ¨C so I can brush your hair? So I can do your Latin homework?¡±


    All Elven eyes were luminescent in the dark, a by-product of night-vision, but his eyes were eery. Gaspard¡¯s blue eyes were lit up with inner blue light. Mine did the same with green. But Wolfgang¡¯s silver eyes were lit up with that red anger that always seemed to be festering within him. It was as if he were glowing, as if a fire had been set ablaze somewhere between his chest and the crown of his head. I had always wondered, does it hurt? To be so carelessly angry, to be so constantly angry? In another one of my internal questions, I wondered if emotional pain, like this anger, could be interpreted the same way physical pain could. If I touched a wounded deer, I would immediately know they were in pain without even seeing the cut. If I touched an angry boy, would¡­?


    He froze when I took his hand, when I hooked my arm over my cane so I could hold his hand in both of mine. I pressed my thumbs against his palm, traced against their lines, and found that yes: emotional and physical pain wore the same costume. That yes, his careless, constant anger was causing ceaseless, sizable hurt. But there was nothing I could fix. No wound I could close, no blood clot I could resolve, nothing. I knew there was still much about Healing that I didn¡¯t know, knowledge that I couldn¡¯t learn within the confines of a Military Academy, but I had never heard Ivra discussing emotional healing. I could soothe him and see if that worked, but before I could try, he was pulling his hand away from me and pushing me back, making me stumble, a stumble that then made me fall.


    It was some awkward seconds as I struggled to get back up to my feet. He didn¡¯t offer his help, not that I would have accepted it. ¡°This favour,¡± he said, brushing past the whole incident entirely, refusing to acknowledge it beyond the deeper red light behind his eyes, ¡°what is it?¡±


    ¡°When it¡¯s dark, you will go to the stables, bring me a horse, and ride with me to the forest. I¡¯ll complete the rest of the journey myself. But then, when I¡¯m done, you will ride with me back.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    I didn¡¯t have the dexterity to sneak out a horse from the stables at night without potentially waking the entire compound, and I was unsure how much of my energy would be drained by horse-riding before I could complete whatever the main aspect of nature¡¯s call into the forest would be, and so I needed, against my will, a ¡®chaperone¡¯. As a child, I could have completed this mission on foot, by running and walking, but I had lost that. Wolfgang¡¯s favour would guarantee his participation; and Wolfgang¡¯s distaste of me would hopefully guarantee minimal interest.


    ¡°How would I know when you¡¯re done?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll let you know.¡±


    ¡°By screaming?¡±


    ¡°I said, I will let you know.¡±


    ¡°And what are you going to do in the Forest?¡±


    I didn¡¯t give him an answer. He didn¡¯t push for one. ¡°A sixth of the favour, you said?¡± He looked out past the pond, to the forest itself. ¡°When?¡±


    ¡°When everyone is asleep.¡±


    ¡°What, tonight?¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    We hit an impasse. He was visibly biting the inside of his cheek, still focused on the forest, refusing to ask further questions because he clearly didn¡¯t want me to mistake his curiosity as interest, or to even mistake his curiosity as curiosity. When we were with Gaspard, which was most often, we all spoke in French for his sake. When it was just me and Laclan, or me and Wolfgang, they spoke to me in Elven, as if it was an automatic default for them to switch over. I could understand that Laclan, who had no French blood in him at all, who was from a household where the majority only spoke Elven, could speak it to the level he could. But Wolfgang? The Elven of the other French boys at the Academy was as rudimentary as Gaspard¡¯s, but the only affectation in Wolfgang¡¯s Elven was that it was heavily French-accented. He was perfectly fluent. How? Why? I didn¡¯t want to ask because I cared about his linguistic history: I wanted to ask because for a French noble to speak Elven so fluently felt disrespectful to the Elven language itself.


    I didn¡¯t ask him. He didn¡¯t ask me.


    ¡°Wait two days for the new week to start.¡± He told me eventually. ¡°Sunday marks the beginning of la semaine d¡¯¨¦change. It¡¯s always opera on the first day, and so we¡¯ll all be crowded into the hall to listen to the opera singers. It¡¯ll be easier to sneak out then, and you will have more time.¡±


    La semaine d¡¯¨¦change. I would have to ask Laclan or Gaspard for the specifics of whatever this week was, but the reasoning in his postponing was sound. I didn¡¯t want to give him the satisfaction of my agreement, but I forced myself to nod once. Fine. We would wait two days.


    ¡°A sixth of a favour.¡± He held his hand out. ¡°Okay.¡±


    I shook his hand, again feeling that surge of inner discomfort. Before he could let go, I held up my cane and pushed at his chest, knocking him down to the ground just as he¡¯d done to me. He was so disoriented from the push that he just sat there, on the ground, eyebrows knotted in confusion. Anger never flickered through him. He was staring at his hands, at the lines on his palm. ¡°Bastard,¡± he said, more to himself than to me. Slowly, he stood back up. ¡°That was a good hit. You¡¯re not as useless as you first were.¡±


    He turned out to look at the forest. Slowly, I turned to do the same.


    *


    La Semaine d¡¯¨¦change ¨C Exchange Week ¨C sent 7 of our finest Class A boys to tour some of the other ¡®notable¡¯ academies, while these academies sent their best to us. ¡°To foster relations,¡± Gaspard had told me, which was interesting, because the Alchemist Academy had never sent any of their students anywhere, not unless it was the Healers being sent to heal the sick and injured. This week of entertainment, of friendship ¨C the Alchemist Academy had been entirely exempted. Instead, Sunday morning brought the arrival of 3 opera singers, a pianist, and a composer in a huge white and silver carriage. They were met with several students standing on guard, rifle in hand, their gazes blank and severe, and it made the singers flush and whisper and giggle. ¡°I swear the prettiest girls go into music. Or hunting.¡± Laclan whispered to me as we watched them, as they were led by the Baron and some officers inside. ¡°Look at the girl with white hair. She¡¯s incredible, no?¡±


    Laclan wasn¡¯t the only boy who thought so. By mid-morning, the white-haired girl and her two opera-singing friends were being shown around the grounds by some Class A boys. Laclan ran over, bowing to the girls and introducing himself. He kissed their hands politely, listened to their names, and frowned a little when one of them laughed at how ¡®young¡¯ he was. ¡°15, 17, and 19.¡± He told us afterward. ¡°The white-haired girl is 17. Her name is Jol Sudxio.¡± An Elven name. ¡°What does that mean, ¡®young¡¯?¡±


    ¡°It means you¡¯re a baby.¡± Wolfgang said, completely disinterested in the whole event. He was lounging on Gaspard¡¯s sofa, eyes closed, looking lazy and content. ¡°Avari has a better chance than you. They¡¯re all staying in his wing.¡±


    ¡°Ugh, what does Avari care for girls?¡± Laclan whined. ¡°He¡¯s only ever in love with his plants. They should stay in the Residence Halls with us, like usual.¡±


    ¡°So that we¡¯re all victim to another rushed wedding between some young baron and the pretty singer with the ¡®suspicious belly¡¯?¡± Wolfgang smiled to himself. ¡°Bah, I don¡¯t mind that actually. I enjoy weddings. Have you ever been to a wedding, Avari? Do you even know what they are? I assume it¡¯s not something they bother with in bastard houses, or there¡¯d be no bastards at all.¡±


    ¡°Wolfe.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t even make a joke without you jumping to his defence. He¡¯s not some helpless ant. You both baby him and it¡¯s disgusting. He¡¯s our age. He¡¯s not invalid. Avari, talk. I won¡¯t argue on your behalf. Talk.¡±


    Why? They argued just fine without my help. Like Manon and Ivra before them, there was never a real need to involve myself when other people were arguing about how I should be treated. I had long since realised that whatever interjection I made had little effect. Why bother?


    ¡°We shouldn¡¯t talk about things like that. Bellies. Bastards. Suspicious weddings.¡± Gaspard said quietly, on the other side of his room, annotating his maps. ¡°It¡¯s improper.¡±


    It was the best response, because it united Wolfgang and Laclan in their mockery of him. Laclan, cackling, doing his best to provoke Gaspard by giving a list of vulgar actions and demanding he rank them on a scale of ¡®improper¡¯ to ¡®Gaspard-approved¡¯; Wolfgang, smirking, accusing Gaspard of being more than capable of charming all the visiting girls with just one glance, ¡®as he was prone to do¡¯. I stared at the maps on his wall. They were¡­strange. I couldn¡¯t understand them. He had a huge map hung up by his bed, an official one from the Royal Cartographer of the King¡¯s Court. It didn¡¯t match up with the maps I knew. And I had accepted that a lot of my knowledge was outdated, but there were huge leaps in development that were unaccounted for. When had entire territories to the North been completely annexed? When had the South expanded? Gaspard didn¡¯t even understand the premise of these questions, because all he knew now was all he¡¯d ever known, but I was missing decades of history, decades of political development, and no one could explain why.


    At least, I now knew where the Low Midlands were. I could point to it on a map, easily.


    *


    For the day and a half that the musicians would be here, they would be occupying some of the many vacant rooms in the Healers¡¯ Wing. My door was firmly locked whenever I wasn¡¯t in it. At first, I had been surprised when I¡¯d been allowed a room with a lock and a key, that I was entrusted with the key at all. ¡°You¡¯re not here as prisoner,¡± the Baron had told me, giving me the key, ¡°You can trust us. En plus, it only locks from the outside.¡± The lavender was as invasive as the air we breathed. Despite its multiplicity, there was one lone spot that served as the ¡®portal¡¯ to Alluviale, a portal I hadn¡¯t ventured through since my last visit. Despite the assurance of a lock, despite keeping the curtains permanently drawn, I didn¡¯t like this idea of sharing my usually empty wing with some singers, a pianist, and a composer. I didn¡¯t like this idea of sharing at all.


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    I could hear their voices through the walls. ¡°Did you see how the headmaster was looking at me?¡± ¡°The married headmaster?¡± ¡°Jol, they¡¯re always married.¡± The three opera singers were sharing a room, and as annoying as it was to hear their soprano voices in idle conversation, I had never seen an opera singer before ¨C I was only vaguely aware of their existence at all. ¡°How do you think your mother pays to send you to the Academy? You think her precious marquis is ¡®unmarried¡¯?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t say it like that. Did you see the boys here? I think they¡¯re much nicer than their headmaster. Much, much, much.¡±


    Lunch came. To Laclan and Gaspard, I demanded: ¡°You pay to be here?¡±


    Laclan laughed. ¡°You think the Academies are free?¡±


    Yes. Of course I had thought that. ¡°What if someone can¡¯t pay?¡±


    ¡°They get a sponsorship from someone who can. Not everything will kill you, granted. I doubt a random farm boy could afford to be sent to this Academy without having some secret alliance with a Duc, but if he wanted to specialise in agriculture, his family might be able to afford that alone.¡±


    ¡°And the Art Schools?¡±


    ¡°The Art Schools.¡± He looked over at the opera girls, who were sitting on a table close to the window, sunlight streaming in and painting their pretty faces a pretty gold. The white-haired girl had paired off with one of the older boys, who was grinning at her, his arm around her, making her blush and smile and giggle. ¡°For the girls, it helps to be pretty. For the boys, it helps to know a girl who can be pretty. Is it the best place?¡± He nudged Gaspard. ¡°Is it the best place to go to marry in?¡±


    Gaspard was looking over at the girls, and even if he was bashful, he was as enthralled by them as most other boys here. ¡°Definitely.¡±


    ¡°The King has a soft spot for ¡®the arts¡¯.¡± Laclan was still staring at them. ¡°The poets, the singers, the dancers ¨C they find it easy to be recruited to Court, and once you¡¯re at Court, it won¡¯t be hard to find at least a gentilhomme who will marry you. If you¡¯re especially beautiful, or especially talented, or both if you¡¯re lucky enough ¨C you could even marry a Comte.¡±


    ¡°Or a Marquis.¡±


    ¡°Or a Duc. Imagine that. A humble girl who is favoured enough to gain a scholarship studying, say, poetry, marrying into a peerage. Imagine that. Putain, that white-haired girl is incredible. Look at her in the sunlight. Look at her.¡±


    Gaspard and Laclan were both already 15, having had their birthdays earlier in the year. It wasn¡¯t until 16 that most of the younger boys here were taken seriously by the older boys: invitations to join them at whatever Dei Fura brothel/tavern they spent their Saturday nights in had an unspoken rule of 16 and older. And so 15 was a restless age: old enough to experience these thoughts, these temptations, but too young to be able to act on them. ¡°Where¡¯s Wolfe?¡± Gaspard asked Laclan. ¡°Still with the pianist?¡±


    ¡°Probably. You know what he¡¯s like with those types.¡± Laclan was sliding out of his seat. ¡°I¡¯m going to talk to her.¡±


    So he did. He sat himself down on the girls¡¯ table and gave them a bright smile. The older boys might have frowned, might have muttered to each other, but they didn¡¯t send him away. I could read his words from his lips as he spoke to Jol Sudxio: ¡°Mademoiselle, pardonnez-moi, mais vous ¨ºtes incroyable¡­¡±


    *


    One of the younger boys, aged maybe 10 or 11, handed me a sheet of paper. ¡°From Monsieur de Montaigne.¡± It gave a time and place for tonight¡¯s adventure. 22hr, meet me by your pond.


    *


    Of course, ¡®by the pond¡¯ was a stupid place to meet. I would have immediately been accosted by a supervising officer and escorted into the hall, where everyone was stood to watch the musicians play their music. I could hear the soar of a soprano from my hiding place behind some bushes, the heavy melody of a piano, the occasional applause from their audience. I could hear chatter close by, a boy being reprimanded by an officer, questions of: ¡°What are you doing out here? Why aren¡¯t you in the hall?¡±, answers of, ¡°A walk, sir. Some fresh air, sir.¡± He¡¯d suffered the fate that I might¡¯ve if I¡¯d followed his advice: him being out by the pond, without cover, had caused an officer to spot him immediately. ¡°What is your name? You will go to the hall immediately, and this misdemeanour will be noted and remembered. What is your name?¡±


    ¡°Roqueforte-Cilliac de Montaigne.¡±


    Wolfgang joined me in my bush some seconds later. The officer, at hearing his name, had immediately let him go without further reprimand. ¡°I said by the pond, casse-pied.¡± He elbowed me painfully. ¡°Do you know the difference, hmm? Do you know the difference between a bush and a pond?¡± He scoffed. ¡°That major must be new. He didn¡¯t know my name from my face, can you believe that? Idiot.¡±


    It was unnecessary to retaliate, and I could accept that if it were anyone else, I wouldn¡¯t have demeaned myself with retaliation, but I elbowed Wolfgang just as painfully as he¡¯d elbowed me, and so he pushed me into the dirt, and I pushed him. The bush rustled with our movement, movement that yes, I would agree was unnecessary. I might accuse the uselessness of many of our fights on youth, on an inner spirit that was resistant to all forms of correction. I might, but Wolfgang and I would never truly outgrow these fights, even with wisdom, even with age.


    He was holding my shoulder down, mocking me for my weakness, when we both stopped. A branch snapped some feet away, then it snapped again. Voices speaking, whispering to each other despite the quiet of the night. A boy and a girl. A boy we both knew.


    Gaspard.


    ¡°They believed you were sick?¡±


    ¡°Of course. I cough like I sing.¡±


    Wolfgang sat up, a villainous smile spreading across his face as he lifted his head to peek over the bush. ¡°That scoundrel.¡±


    I looked over the bush too, seeing Gaspard and one of the opera girls ¨C the 15-year-old ¨C by the equestrian grounds. They were both flushed a bashful pink as they spoke to each other. Throughout the day, I had found her far more striking than Jol Sudxio, and, evidently, so had Gaspard.


    ¡°I¡¯m part of the First Riders,¡± he told her. ¡°That¡¯s how I secured my place at this Academy, through riding.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Then why not a hunting school?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­Hunting and the Military, they¡¯re very different, no?¡±


    ¡°Such a stupid question,¡± Wolfgang whispered, but he was thoroughly amused by this turn of events, even impressed, ¡°why would a Villieu, a family of politics, go into hunting? That sly bastard. He told us it was a ¡®lapse¡¯. The last time he did this, the last time he charmed a girl just by looking at her, or whatever he does, he told us it was a ¡®lapse¡¯, a ¡®one-off¡¯. He¡¯s done the exact same thing.¡±


    ¡°Will you write to me, when I leave?¡± She asked Gaspard. ¡°Will you wait for me?¡±


    They were walking off now, towards the Residence Halls. We watched them. We watched them sneak around the corner, then disappear. Wolfgang urged me to my feet, and we walked over to their previous spot on the equestrian grounds. He snuck over the fencing, lightly jogging over to the stables, and then I lost him for many minutes as he retrieved a horse. I hadn¡¯t ridden horseback since I¡¯d lost my energy. A strange anxiety pricked my fingertips, as if I could have forgotten how, as if something I¡¯d done so often and enjoyed so much could be a lost art to me now.


    Wolfgang¡¯s mood was surprisingly pleasant and jovial, uncharacteristic and personable. He was whispering conspiratorially with the horse as they quietly approached me, and despite the lightness of his spirits, when he smiled it was as sardonic and biting as every other smile he was capable of. There were some more moments of fighting as he helped me onto the horse, as he secured my cane to the horse¡¯s side, and then he climbed up also, in front of me. ¡°I¡¯ll take you as far as the first tree,¡± he said to me, ¡°then you and Brigela are on your own.¡± Brigela, apparently, was the name he¡¯d just given this horse. ¡°Whatever sign you¡¯re planning on, I better receive it by the end of the night, or I¡¯m leaving you in whatever state you¡¯re in. You could drown for all I care. In fact,¡± he chuckled to himself as we began a slow trot, ¡°I¡¯d be happier for it.¡±


    His good mood was his own distraction. He didn¡¯t ask further questions about my mission. He didn¡¯t speak to me at all. He was humming pleasantly as he rode us to the forest clearing, and I occupied myself with looking up at the stars while, in the back of my mind, assuring myself that I could ride this horse alone. He didn¡¯t notice the soft wind that was accompanying us on our journey, or how the plants nearby would straighten up and then relax. I nodded at them, and they nodded back at me. ¡°Bon, on est arriv¨¦.¡± He descended the horse, landing softly on the dirt ground. ¡°I¡¯ll be in the vicinity. Don¡¯t call me too early.¡±


    And then he walked off, his humming having turned into a whistle as he turned a corner and disappeared. I didn¡¯t commit my gaze to following his movements, instead solely focused on the forest in front of me. ¡°I know, I know.¡± I said softly, as the wind picked up now that it was just me and Nature, as the leaves rustled loudly, as that undercurrent of water that ran under the earth, alerted to my presence, increased its call for me to join it. I rubbed the top of Brigela¡¯s head, and she neighed agreeably. ¡°Okay,¡± I said, ¡°let¡¯s go.¡±


    But I stalled.


    The forest was an abyss of darkness. The minutes I spent motionlessly staring into it could have exceeded a million. The wind picked up again, a heavy gust urging me and Brigela forward. I didn¡¯t want to find the words to express my hesitance, to express my possible weakness, but the wind continued, and the plants rustled themselves together, and I hung my head down, embarrassed. The forest was an abyss, and I was on a horse I might not even be able to ride, and instead of meeting the challenge with fortitude and bravery, I was cutting my palms open with how hard I was squeezing my fists, I was delaying the journey, I was being emotional, in a way I should never be.


    The wind blew roughly in one direction, then roughly in the opposite, urging me to lift my gaze, to begin riding in. I couldn¡¯t find the words, or even the thoughts. Not an ¡®I won¡¯t¡¯, but a more pathetic ¡®I can¡¯t¡¯. I didn¡¯t trust that I had the strength to ride this horse, to enter this forest, and I didn¡¯t want to prove myself pathetic by trying and failing. The forest was an abyss, and it was an abyss, and it was-


    A single leaf fell onto Brigela¡¯s head.


    Analogies were beyond me. Metaphors were the same. Nature spoke in the non-verbal ways that it could, and I had accepted that a lot of it was beyond my understanding, and yet when this leaf fell onto the horse¡¯s head ¨C an orange leaf, large and singular, autumnal despite the spring season ¨C it wasn¡¯t that I could suddenly interpret its symbolism. It wasn¡¯t that I could decode its hidden literary message. It wasn¡¯t even something to decode, to interpret, to learn. It was as Gaspard had asked me, ¡°how did you learn Elven?¡± ¨C I¡¯d never learnt. It was automatic and unthinking ¨C it was a thought itself ¨C it was the leaf landing on Brigela¡¯s head and me instinctively knowing what was being said. A million things feeding into me. Less than a conversation. Less than a word. Less than my skull being sliced open and this leaf landing directly on my brain. You¡¯re okay. It¡¯ll be okay. You¡¯re fine. It¡¯ll be fine. We¡¯re with you. You¡¯re with you. You¡¯re with us. There¡¯s nothing to fear. You must fear for nothing. You can do it. All Elves can do all things.


    Like realising the sky is blue ¨C it wasn¡¯t a realisation at all.


    ¡°So sentimental,¡± I muttered, even if I myself was a little overwhelmed by the warmth that was blossoming inside me, even if I was eerily reminded of what it had been like to sit with Delphia, to hear her tell me that same thing: ¡°You can do it. All Elves can do all things.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± I accepted, ¡°let¡¯s go.¡±


    *


    The spring moonlight had plunged the forest in an iridescent sort of silver. We made a slow walk, going down paths that had been marked out by previous riders, undoubtedly the other boys venturing to Dei Fura for their Saturday nights. On foot, I could have cut through the smaller groves with the dense bushes and purpling flowers, where the hissing of grasshoppers and other night time insects were loudest, but I continued on the main path. Our walk turned into a trot. There were three competing rhythms in my head ¨C the trot of Brigela, the pulse of nature, and the erraticity of my own heartbeat. I didn¡¯t fear the forest ¨C I never could ¨C and I was more at ease on Brigela, and yet my heartbeat remained irregular. Substantially, rationally, I knew there was nothing to fear. I knew stupid memories of running through this forest on foot, my blunt beginner¡¯s sword in hand as Laclan either chased after me or was chased by me ¨C I knew these weren¡¯t tangible, they weren¡¯t scary, and beyond their existence in my head, they weren¡¯t real. But I continued to think of them, to think of running through this space until my lungs would give out, to think of Laclan raising his sword in the air and jumping around with it, to think of a pain so unimaginable, a violence so fatal, that for me to have survived it at all was a payment I would always have to pay.


    But the quiet of the forest was worst of all. To think of myself laying in the dirt, my body stiff and cold, my eyesight gone, my lungs filling with blood, waiting in a prolonged, brutal pain, keeping myself alive out of sheer obstinacy, but as the hours had gone by, as the pain only deepened, I had begun to think that it might be a better choice to let myself die.


    Our trot turned into a canter.


    I decided it was a useless thing to be made nervous about and a stupid thing to be affected by. There was no Laclan here to menace me, and even if Laclan had been here, he wouldn¡¯t have menaced me at all. I exhaled deeply as I attempted to calm down the growing pounding of my heart. I thought of Romilio¡¯s words: of the futility of emotion, of the weakness of my temperament. The reaction I was currently having to being in this forest was irrational, and yet I was having trouble calming myself down, as if this panic wasn¡¯t conscious, as if it were a cloak the forest itself was layering over me, without my asking, without my permission. I couldn¡¯t take it off. This cloak of panic, of remembrance, of¡­of stupid, irrational, damning emotion. I thought of Delphia, I thought of Romilio, I thought of Manon Cotillard, and I thought of the boy I had been, a boy who could run and jump and live.


    I got down from the horse, throwing out a breathless sorry, sorry, sorry to Nature and to Brigela, and I sat by a tree and pulled my knees into my chest, and I squeezed my eyes shut and breathed as best as I could. The cloak was heavy on my heart and tight around my neck, and no amount of squirming, or staying still, or pleading, or silence, could push it off my body.


    I was reminded of a pulse.


    A pulse beating in the very grass I was sitting on, the tree I was leaning against, the plants that were leaning over to touch my arm. A pulse that was steady, rhythmic; a pulse that could remind me what it felt like to breathe without being choked by panic. I followed its rhythm. Breathing. And listening. And breathing. Despite how long it must have been before I calmed down, Brigela was patient, grazing on the grass that she could freely access here, grass that didn¡¯t grow on the clay ground of the Academy¡¯s compound. I leaned my head against the tree¡¯s trunk, still breathing deeply, but no longer in the deepest throws of panic. ¡°No, don¡¯t apologise.¡± I waved away the caress of the plants¡¯ leaves. ¡°I¡¯ll be better. Less emotion, I know. I¡¯ll be better. If I was granted a hard heart, then¡­?¡±


    This was, once again, refused. I sighed, then stood up. It took a considerable, tiring amount of effort to climb back onto Brigela, and once I was on her, I had to rest against her back for many moments. ¡°Are we close?¡± I was given a non-committal response. I straightened, brushed behind Brigela¡¯s ears, and we continued.


    The torture of memory didn¡¯t necessarily subside, but breathing with Nature¡¯s pulse prevented another intense spike in my heartbeat. We resumed the canter as we made our way through the forest to a destination I hadn¡¯t yet received the honour of knowing. Despite this, I found myself enjoying the ride, that it even almost prompted a smile as we rode under the moon. Even if we needed to stop every so often for me to regather my energy, it was fun. It was just as fun as it had always been, even with my difference. Our canter turned to a gallop, and as I eagerly raced ahead, suspicions began to arise. I felt I was being tricked into some sort of moral lesson: see how you can still enjoy your activities! See how this forest is still beautiful, how you still love horse riding, how Nature will always be there for you! See, see, see! ¡°What I don¡¯t see,¡± I countered, ¡°is how this relates to the lavender portals.¡±


    Meanly, I was unanswered. Our gallop picked up pace, and soon we were flying through the forest grounds, the surroundings becoming a blur. The wind was running right alongside us. It was incredible, like running on air, like floating on speeding clouds, but I still had no answers, and despite attempting to slow Brigela down, the pace only increased. Faster, and faster, and faster, until I realised I no longer had control of Brigela but had instead lost her to the wind¡¯s instruction, and I realised that the wind had no interest in stopping, or even slowing down. Faster, and faster, and faster, until I was yelling in alarm, until I was caught between trusting the wind and throwing myself off the horse to save myself from collision.


    We were approaching a thick cluster of trees, with no space to ride through unless I got down and carefully guided Brigela through some lower bramble on foot. The fear that was sporting through me was instinctive, automatic, a natural fear of danger, and yet it was Nature who was guiding me into this fate. I was scared, but against my own logic, I was trusting. I was mentally yelling at Nature for subjecting me to this hellish nighttime adventure, yet I had full trust in the wind, the grass, the moon, and the water running undercurrent the whole ride here. There were trees, and this would be a crash, but I was stubborn and trusting and squeezing my eyes shut as we got closer, and closer, and-


    It was a hard fall. I was thrown off Brigela and launched up several feet, experiencing enough air to move my limbs around in a vague figure-eight as I desperately tried to soften my fall. The fall was, of course, not soft. I crashed onto the ground and groaned in pain, holding my sides and rolling around. ¡°You threw me into bramble.¡± I accused, my own air having being knocked out of me. ¡°Into¡­¡±


    Into no bramble at all.


    I sat up.


    Brigela trotted over to me, looking at me pleasantly. I looked up at her, rubbing her nose when she lowered her head, but narrowing my eyes at my surroundings. My heart might never settle again from all that I¡¯d put it through, because I knew where I was. I wasn¡¯t in the Military Academy¡¯s forest. I hadn¡¯t fallen into the bramble-covered ground that had just been in my path. I was somewhere else entirely. I¡­I unfasted my cane from Brigela¡¯s side and pushed myself up to standing, slowly ambling through. I walked, and walked, and walked, at whatever speed I was capable of, until I got to the clearing.


    I knew where I was. A 3-day journey from the North District, I had somehow returned to the forest of the Alchemist Academy.


    ¡°The lavender ¡®portal¡¯.¡± I breathed out. ¡°It¡¯s¡­it¡¯s not about the lavender at all, is it?¡±


    No. It wasn¡¯t.

 Nine. Trust Fall.

    Wolfgang was with the pianist, who had undoubtedly also feigned a ¡®dreadful cough¡¯ to force the composer to replace him for tonight¡¯s opera performance. They were sitting on a bench behind one of the buildings, talking between themselves, and it was immediately obvious where Wolfgang¡¯s good mood had come from. The pianist, maybe a year or two older, was handsome, with deep laugh lines in his cheeks, black eyes and deep blue hair. Wolfgang was younger but the conversation was clearly his, and he smiled at the pianist as the pianist smiled at him, the way Gaspard and the opera girl had both smiled at each other by the stables.


    Needless to say, my arrival startled them both.


    They stood up immediately, stung like they¡¯d been caught in some illegal game, and Wolfgang¡¯s blushed face lent nothing to his innocence. ¡°You¡­What, is this your sign? Are¡­What¡­Are those cats?¡±


    I held Cat 1 and Cat 2 under either arm. I had some scratches to show for it, and it was very difficult to balance my cane, but they¡¯d both been surprisingly compliant during the trip from their academy to this one. ¡°You¡¯re free until I next call you.¡± I told Wolfgang, who was running his fingers through his hair, looking so disoriented that even the sound of my voice alarmed him.


    ¡°I¡­What do you mean, ¡®next call¡¯¡­? Where¡¯s the horse?¡±


    ¡°Brigela.¡±


    ¡°Where¡¯s Brigela!¡±


    I thought it might be strange to say, ¡®roaming the fields of the west coast, by my former Alchemist Academy, where, unlike here, there is plenty of grass to graze on, and where she insisted on staying, as she¡¯d refused to join me, Cat 1, and Cat 2, on the shift back¡¯. Instead, I said. ¡°Gone.¡±


    ¡°Gone?! Mon Dieu, what do you mean gone? How did you get back?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re free until I next call you.¡± I repeated. ¡°This one-sixth of the favour ¨C it¡¯s recurring.¡±


    ¡°You never said-¡±


    ¡°Continue your rendez-vous. I¡¯m going to bed.¡±


    I hadn¡¯t expected this accusation of a ¡®rendez-vous¡¯ to strike him as much as it did. I¡¯d said it as a word without weight ¨C it meant a platonic meeting as much as it did a romantic one ¨C but it was clearly the latter that had stirred him to an un-Wolfgang-like sense of visible panic. I paused, then regarded the pianist, who hadn¡¯t reached the heights of Wolfgang¡¯s alarm but was still further startled by what I¡¯d said, perhaps even more so than he¡¯d been by the cats. It was a useless thing to ask, but I asked, maybe out of some remote sense of gratitude for his assistance in tonight¡¯s discovery: ¡°Why are you alarmed?¡±


    Neither of them answered. They didn¡¯t even seem to settle when I walked off with Cat 1 and Cat 2. It was a slow amble to the Healers¡¯ Wing, but it was so far into the night that it might have turned itself to morning, so there were very few officers on guard, all of which I tiptoed past quite easily. This was a decision without logic ¨C there was no explanation I could give as to how I¡¯d obtained the cats without revealing how I¡¯d gotten to the Alchemist Academy in the first place. I¡¯d whispered to Fox, ¡®you¡¯re coming in some weeks; if I take you now, it¡¯ll be suspicious¡¯, but Cat 1 and Cat 2 would create the same, if not much more, suspicion. How could I hide two cats? Two cats that were notorious for wandering around and being nuisances? How could I feed them and clean them and clear out their waste? There was no logic in this decision, and yet when I¡¯d been standing in the forest with Cat 2 scratching at one foot and Cat 1 plopping herself down on the other, I¡¯d known there was no choice but to take them with me. Reckless and stupid and illogical, maybe fuelled by the damned emotions that I couldn¡¯t seem to purge myself of, but there was no way I could have ever left them.


    The hallway of the Healers¡¯ Wing was lit up by a handful of lanterns flickering with red flames on either wall. Cat 2 was staring around, scrutinising her new home, while Cat 1 was lazy in my arms, purring sleepily. I had to set her down to bring my room key out of my pocket, but my hands moved slowly, and even when I unlocked my door I didn¡¯t push it open. I was trying to remember anything Ivra might have said about lavender provoking negative reactions in cats. My room had reached the point where it was more lavender than it was anything else, and though Cat 2, irritated, began scratching at the wood, I kept my hand on the door handle, waiting for myself to recall anything specific about lavender and cats.


    Then I heard a voice:


    ¡°¡­if you wished, neither of them are here.¡±


    And another:


    ¡°A tempting offer, but I must get back.¡±


    I froze. Had he seen me? He was faced in my direction but looking down at the 19-year-old opera singer, who was leaning against the door she¡¯d just opened, her back to me. Her hair was hanging loosely behind her, her nightgown was barely covering her shoulders, and when she touched the Baron¡¯s chest, there was a disgusting intimacy between the two of them. ¡°As you wish, Monsier le Baron.¡±


    He took her hand and kissed it. As he lowered his head to do so, his eyes locked onto mine. Not in surprise, either. He had seen me from the moment he¡¯d stepped out of her room. When the singer closed her door, oblivious as to my having seen their goodnights, the Baron freely put all his attention on me. He folded his arms and sighed, not unpleasantly. ¡°Bonsoir, Avari. Although, with the time, it might well be morning.¡±


    He approached. Instinctively, I took a step back, but he did nothing to me. He bent down and scratched behind the ears of Cat 1 and Cat 2, who both hummed contentedly. He was in no rush at all, letting the tension in the hall build as he rubbed their bellies, scratched their ears, smiling down at them. I didn¡¯t move. I didn¡¯t say a word.


    When he straightened up, I glared at him, and he only looked mildly at me.


    ¡°Do you have an excuse?¡±


    ¡°Do you?¡±


    He raised an eyebrow, but his expression had caught something severe. He obviously understood what I was implying but, for my sake, to give me a chance to imply anything other than what I had just seen, he asked: ¡°An excuse for what?¡±


    I had never heard his tone so sharp before. I wanted to say, ¡®Your wife, she¡¯s a Ciel¡¯. I wanted to ask, ¡®Where is she from? How is she seemingly the only Ciel left? Who helped her?¡¯. I even wanted to ask, ¡®Is she real?¡¯. But why did I care? When he inevitably retorted with that question, when he demanded to know how his wife was any concern of mine, what could I say?


    My tongue was bitter in my mouth, but I still found the defiance to force myself to say: ¡°Your w-¡±


    ¡°Do you understand the concept of respect, Avari?¡±


    The pause he gave implied that the question wasn¡¯t rhetorical, but it made no difference to him when I didn¡¯t give an answer. ¡°You should be mindful of the comments you dare make. It would do you well to remember the hierarchy here, to remember this concept of respect.¡± But just like that, despite the stage set for a long lecture, he was turning around to leave. ¡°It would do you well not to remember tonight at all.¡±


    For each lamp, he pressed his thumb and index finger over the flame to kill it. ¡°Lavender is toxic to cats,¡± he told me. And then, he was gone.


    *


    True to his word, lavender was toxic to cats. I moved them to a different chambre in the wing, an empty one for them to occupy all to themselves, then I had to also move my bedding and pillows because they refused to sleep on anything else. I couldn¡¯t lock this door, but even if I could it would have made little difference. Cat 1 and Cat 2 were as clever as they were diabolic, and so before I¡¯d even realised, they had manoeuvred to open the window and jump outside, only coming back in after I made several increasingly hostile pleas. Even if they hadn¡¯t kept me awake, it was a night destined for no sleep. Panic and alarm waxed every inch of me, but I had no one to push this blame onto. The cats ¨C why had I brought the cats? The lavender ¨C why hadn¡¯t I derooted them when they¡¯d re-sprouted, why hadn¡¯t I grown them deep in the forest? The Baron ¨C how did he know? And what would he do with this knowledge?


    I almost wished for Manon. I almost wished that she could tell me what was so wrong about me and how to fix it, or how to better hide it. I almost wished for her to crouch down in front of me, hands on my shoulders, and she¡¯d say something annoying and sentimental and even though I would roll my eyes, I would appreciate having her on my side. But she¡¯d never been on my side. She¡¯d always been on theirs.


    *


    I meditated by the window. The cats climbed over me as I did.


    I might come to the conclusion that Nature taught by example. In wishing for a hard heart, I had instead been provoked to tears. In wanting an explanation for the lavender portal, I had instead been flung into the Alchemist forest. Nature would not teach me by explanation. I had spent hours wandering through the trees, marvelling at the strange circumstance but also deeply suspicious as to how I would return. I didn¡¯t want to be flung in the air once more and suffer a painful landing, but Nature would rather watch me err and stumble than give me direct answers. After finding Cat 1, Cat 2, and Fox all communed by one of our usual spots, I had taken the cats and thrown myself into various bushes to try and return. I was covered in scratches that I had yet to heal. It wasn¡¯t until almost blinding myself in the thorns of a blackberry bush that I finally tumbled back to the North District, with Cat 1 and Cat 2 tumbling in with me.


    If I had stayed? If I had walked into the Academy and sat in Ivra¡¯s office, waiting for her to arrive and take notice of me? I was under the G¨¦n¨¦ral de G¨¦rome¡¯s custody, and so eventually I would be retrieved, but if I had just stayed for the night, the day, the week?


    Afternoon took the opera singers away and evening brought in a huddle of artisans. A trainee weapons maker, a seamster, two bakers, and a would-be architect. I snuck in more food for the cats. I meditated, leaving the window open and feeling the warm springtime air dance around my room. Nature was always unbothered. I knew it was urging me to be the same.


    The Baron knew. He knew of the lavender and he knew of the cats. He knew and so far he had done nothing, and so ¨C there was no reason to hide.


    ¡°Ah, you¡¯ve been missing the whole day!¡± Laclan clasped my shoulder, shaking me harshly. ¡°I understand that the Semaine d¡¯¨¦change means no classes, but you don¡¯t get to hide in your room! I was talking to Gaspard and he¡­¡±


    Cat 1 jumped onto the table; Cat 2 was close behind.


    Laclan laughed, incredulous, then lowered his head so that he was level with Cat 2¡¯s gaze. ¡°Where did¡­? What are their names? Gaspard! Where did you find them? Gaspard!¡±


    Gaspard was frozen in place, having been mid-step in walking over to our dinner table when he caught sight of the felines. Laclan was holding Cat 2 in his arms, his eyes lit up like a firework. ¡°A cat!¡± They had the attention of more than just Gaspard and Laclan ¨C several of the boys had turned to look at us, all just as confused, just as baffled. The officers on duty were also perplexed, unsure what they should do because clearly this had never happened before, two cats suddenly turning up to dinner. ¡°Did you sneak them in? Did you summon them? Did¡­?¡± Laclan trailed off, one of the officers having finally approached us. The major looked to me, also wanting an explanation for these cats and their sudden appearance.


    ¡°The Baron has allowed it.¡±


    ¡°He has said nothing of-¡±


    ¡°I said, the Baron has allowed it.¡± I repeated. ¡°That is all.¡±


    Heat flashed in the officer¡¯s eyes, and he seemed about to grab me to pull me to my feet when he faced two interruptions. The first would have been Laclan if he¡¯d had the chance, who was about to move between us and serve as my defence. The second was the interruption that succeeded: another officer, the admiral that had supervised my Mezzanine cleaning all those months ago. ¡°Leave him,¡± he said, ¡°he¡¯s the Baron¡¯s prodige.¡±


    To be taught by example ¨C to be flung into a plain of brambles and trust that the fall would not puncture through me; to bring cats into the Mezzanine and trust that the Baron¡¯s knowledge and silence had guaranteed me a certain level of immunity. A prodige. Later, Laclan would tell me that prodige meant ¡®prodigy¡¯ as much as it did ¡®miracle¡¯.


    ¡°Did you, ah, breathe them into existence?¡± Laclan asked me excitedly. He had brought the cat up to his face, cooing at it like it was a baby. ¡°Are you from the rib of Avari, hmm? Are you an Eve made from his Adam? Do you know that story, Avari? It¡¯s a Catholic tale. Gaspard can tell you. Gaspard!¡±


    Cat 1 settled into my lap. ¡°Their names are Cat 1 and Cat 2,¡± I said to Laclan. Cat 1 nuzzled against my palm. I stroked her fur. ¡°And I hate them.¡±


    *


    The only exchange student I found interesting was Lillion Helewyse, a huntress.


    ¡°They¡¯re like my cats back home.¡± She said to me, feeding Cat 2 a piece of steak she¡¯d snuck out of the Mezzanine. ¡°It¡¯d d¡¯ya good to get them on a steady diet. This¡¯un¡¯s fat. This¡¯un¡¯s lean.¡±


    Lillion Helewyse, from deep in the Low Midlands, with her long brown hair and her warm brown skin, skin that held the same gold tint underneath that mine did. ¡°Ma¡¯s an animal carer.¡± She told me. ¡°We look after beasts when they¡¯re sick. Y¡¯ever given a tiger a vinegar rub? Finnicky things, they are. Course, everyone in the Midlands has business with the Stymphalians. They¡¯ve a lion, y¡¯know that? A huge, beautiful beast named Kidi. I¡¯ve bathed that boy twice.¡±


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    She rode better than many of the First Riders here, despite only being on the cusp of 15. Her aim with the bow and arrow was so straight that she could puncture through an arrow itself. She reminded me of the instructor I¡¯d seen on my first visit to the Military Academy. She could kneel on a galloping horse, close one eye, and fire off a shot gun to hit any target. Better than the First Riders, better than the Class A boys, yet there was very visible discomfort instead of exultation. Laclan openly heralded her, ¡°one of the best I¡¯ve ever seen! And a Midlander! A Midlander!¡±, but Gaspard was uneasy. ¡°The French are different,¡± Laclan told me. "They¡¯re weird. Ignore them.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve a twin.¡± Lillion told me. ¡°A textile weaver. Looks just like me, but on her it¡¯s pretty.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not as interesting.¡±


    Lillion grinned at me. It must be a Midland thing, that wide toothy grin. ¡°I¡¯ll write t¡¯ya when I¡¯m gone. Maybe. I hate writing. Ask questions about these cats and I¡¯ll do my best to give you expert-level answers. Remember ¨C steady diet! Laclan Stymphalia says you¡¯ll be in the Midlands this summer ¨C d¡¯ya best to ask for me.¡±


    I nodded. Laclan nudged me about it later, fishing for details that weren¡¯t there. ¡°A twin,¡± he marvelled, ¡°I¡¯ve a million siblings but no twin, so unfair. Wolfe has a twin, you know that? A twin sister.¡±


    3 weeks later, true to her word, I got a letter. The handwriting was somehow even more terrifying than Laclan¡¯s, but she wrote in Elven, not French:


    Avari!


    I have done what you wanted! I planted that lavender in a super secret spot. You know, lavender doesn¡¯t grow anywhere but Alluviale, but as promised, I¡¯ll update you with whatever happens¡­


    *


    The day came for Ivra Vonglo¡¯s arrival.


    Following Brigela¡¯s move to the fields of the west coast, the stables had been bolted shut and were monitored every single night. Even if Wolfgang hadn¡¯t taken to avoiding me like I had caught a plague, it would have been impossible for him to get me a horse, even when utilising whatever value the Roqueforte-Cilliac name had. With no exceptions, no horses could be taken out without supervision or permission, and much less into the forest. The Class A boys had to devise a new way to have their Saturday night debaucheries. ¡°It would be fine to run to the forest, then run through it, but to actually get to Dei Fura is another hour¡¯s walk.¡± Laclan had told me, stretching out a yawn. ¡°But, you know, ¡®when there¡¯s a will there¡¯s a way¡¯, and trust me when I say: there¡¯s a very strong will.¡±


    I stood next to the Baron, watching the carriage pull into the compound.


    ¡°Mademoiselle Cotillard,¡± he said to me, both of us looking straight ahead, ¡°she writes often. She asks of you, of course, but she also gives general updates.¡±


    Ivra Vonglo stepped out first.


    ¡°Whoever you choose to trust is ultimately your prerogative.¡± He continued. ¡°But I would advise you to be mindful of the information you share. Motives grow and motives change.¡±


    I didn¡¯t respond. It was a pathetic attempt to poison the well of trust between me and Ivra. Behind my back, I was holding the letter that I had written to Romilio. I wanted to give it to her immediately, even if she would only be able to send it off once she¡¯d left in 5 days¡¯ time. The Baron¡¯s words meant nothing to me, even if I did admittedly find it unsettling that he hardly gave me words at all. We seldom spoke. He didn¡¯t call me into his office. He had never returned to the Healer¡¯s wing since our last encounter. He left me alone. I couldn¡¯t understand why, and I didn¡¯t know what deal he was hoping to barter with his leniency. If it was trust he was hoping to buy, he would never earn it. I had been naive with Manon but he was no Manon. His villainy was much more obvious.


    But his wife ¨C I had a million questions about his wife.


    ¡°Avari,¡± Ivra Vonglo nodded at me, ignoring the Baron and all his officers, ¡°you¡¯ve grown.¡±


    She wasn¡¯t a hugger like Manon, far from it. ¡°Where is Fox?¡±


    ¡°He refused to travel. Foxes don¡¯t suit long journeys, I told you.¡±


    ¡°You told me about the cats.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, the cats also refused. They chose to stay home. Of course, we tried to bring them with us, but they hissed and scratched. You know how animals are. They don¡¯t suit travel.¡±


    The Baron put his hand on my shoulder, smiling graciously at Ivra. ¡°Bienvenue. It¡¯s wonderful to have you and your team. Avari is very excited that you¡¯ll be staying with him in the wing. Come, let¡¯s walk.¡±


    *


    ¡°They don¡¯t know you can heal?¡±


    I shook my head.


    ¡°Good. Good. That¡¯s something they¡¯ll take advantage of. That¡¯s all they do ¨C they¡¯re parasites. Since sending you away, they¡¯ve increased their state visits and threats of ¡®supervision¡¯. I would hardly say that Manon is adequate at her job, but we don¡¯t need more bureaucrats. Even one is an insult. You¡¯re being alert? Have you made friends?¡±


    She wanted me to say no. The scrutiny in her eyes, the expectancy in her voice: she wanted me to say no. And she would be correct ¨C it was unwise to make friends here, to soften myself in any way to people I didn¡¯t know, to people who were more aligned with the French bureaucrats than they would ever be with me. I couldn¡¯t admit that I¡¯d failed, that despite my abrasiveness I found that I was susceptible to friendship, to kindness, even if I only had the patience for Laclan or Gaspard.


    ¡°Hmm.¡± She raised a purple eyebrow when I didn¡¯t respond. ¡°Do you have anything to tell me at all?¡±


    I had given her my letter. It lay on her table now, sealed shut, addressed to Romilio. I shook my head. No. I had nothing.


    *


    I had meals with Ivra and the others. To be a child amongst adults ¨C as I¡¯d been all my life ¨C it was suddenly disorienting, strange. They weren¡¯t here as guests. The Healers worked in the medical bay and the Alchemists ¡®conferred with the Baron¡¯. I was allowed to miss my classes to sit and watch the Healers work, with Ivra standing to the side and overseeing the operations. For many weeks, since she¡¯d written to inform me of her stay, I had been anxiously awaiting her, not just for the letter but also, foolishly, for the familiarity. Now that she was here, it was disorienting, strange. I avoided Laclan and the others, but I felt no more comfortable sitting with Ivra and her team. The Baron¡¯s words were a stench on my mind, making me doubt and reconsider.


    ¡°What¡¯s your favourite class here?¡±


    ¡°Natural Science.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°It must be nice to have updated books to learn from. It might¡¯ve been for the best, sending you away to be educated. There¡¯s a lot you have to know. A child like you¡­Maybe it was the wrong approach, in sequestering you at the Academy. There¡¯s a lot you should know.¡± She took a long sip from her glass of water. ¡°And conversely, there¡¯s a lot you shouldn¡¯t say. Secrets are important. A child like you ¨C secrets are necessary.¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± I waited for her to take another long sip of water. ¡°What should I say? What shouldn¡¯t I?¡±


    My tone was more demanding than a simple question, and it made her frown but she didn¡¯t chastise me for it. ¡°If you¡¯re doubtful,¡± she said, ¡°then doubt. Your intuition isn¡¯t useless. If I ask you a question and your senses tell you to stay quiet, stay quiet. No one needs to know about the eagles.¡±


    A saying, maybe? ¡®No one needs to know about the eagles¡¯, meaning ¡®no one needs to know everything¡¯? I had never heard it before. I turned back to my food, more relaxed, more at ease. Ivra had always been Ivra, too objective to be liable to treachery. Her lying to me about the cats and about Fox must have a reason. It must.


    *


    ¡°It¡¯s just for the week, don¡¯t be stubborn.¡± I whispered to the cats, who were quietly being moved into one of the rooms in the Officers¡¯ Residence Hall, as permitted by the Baron. ¡°I¡¯ll bring Fox. Give me some days. I¡¯ll bring him to join us.¡±


    *


    What made me different?


    All the monks at the Monastery could do what I could do, and arguably much more beyond that. I had no relation to fire. It spoke in a language that I didn¡¯t know and I had never truly bothered to learn. But Romilio could. He could raise a fire to consume a forest, or he could tame a blaze to less than an inch of his smallest finger. What made me different? There was no sort of innateness that was special to me. All that I could do, all elves could also. If they took the time to sit and listen to Nature, if they took the time to have a conversation with the air and grass and water around them, then they could easily do all that I could. Easily. What made me different?


    This was something I had to believe was true: that all elves could do all things, that the monks and I weren¡¯t anomalies. I could heal myself, other Healers couldn¡¯t. I could heal quickly, and for what I lacked in delicacy and skill I made up for in speed. I could heal at all, despite being ¡®too young¡¯ for it, despite most Healers only finding this affinity decades into their life. I could try to reconcile all this with the fact that I had been raised by monks, that I had a close relationship with Nature, but it was difficult to be 100% certain because I had no one to compare myself to. No child monk. No child healer. I was one of one, but I truly believed that I wasn¡¯t, that I couldn¡¯t be. If all elves could do all things, then I couldn¡¯t be.


    Ivra faced constant pressure from the state about the Alchemist Academy, but the Monastery was entirely left alone. I didn¡¯t know the specifics, but I knew that Delphia had been some sort of intermediary, that whatever history existed between the state and the Monastery was enough to let them be.


    What would be enough to let me be?


    ¡°Do you find eagles here?¡±


    I couldn¡¯t understand this continual reference to eagles. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Hmm.¡± And that would always be her response, a hmm. ¡°Will you visit the Academy in the summer? The Monastery?¡±


    I couldn¡¯t respond without either lying or painting myself out to be pathetic. Again, my silence was answered with a, ¡°Hmm.¡±


    *


    Now that I was avoiding him, Wolfgang stopped avoiding me.


    He was leaning on the wall next to my door, staring at his riding boots that had tracked in clay and dirt. Ivra frowned when she saw him, asking how I knew him, if he was a ¡®friend¡¯ (I could honestly say he wasn¡¯t). For some moments, she didn¡¯t leave. She stayed standing where she was with her arms folded, as if whatever Wolfgang was here to say, he had to say it to both of us. ¡°Pardonnez-moi, Madame,¡± Wolfgang¡¯s ¡®polite¡¯ voice was somehow even more biting than his default, ¡°mais est-ce possible de parler ¨¤ Avari seul?¡± Is it possible to speak to Avari alone ? Then, he switched to Elven. ¡°It¡¯s about a class we share, about some work he¡¯s missed during his days at the medical bay.¡±


    It surprised her just as it had surprised me that Wolfgang could speak Elven so fluently. It lowered her guard, increased her approval, and wordlessly she walked into her room but left it ajar. She would hear us when we spoke. With how useless the walls were, she would hear us if we moved into the room next to hers and spoke there instead, but I was three rooms down, right at the end of the hallway. I didn¡¯t want to invite Wolfgang in, but he still wasn¡¯t speaking even now that we were without Ivra. Whatever he wanted to say, he didn¡¯t want her to hear it.


    But I had no reason to oblige him. I kept my door closed. ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°Your avoidance of Laclan and Gaspard,¡± he said, his voice low, ¡°that is because of this woman?¡±


    An introduction to whatever he wanted to say, because he didn¡¯t mind that she could possibly hear it. ¡°They aren¡¯t my friends. I don¡¯t have friends.¡±


    He looked at the ajar door, then pointedly looked at me, as if saying, let¡¯s talk in your room so you can stop being a bad liar. Still, I refused. So he narrowed his eyes, a new plan in his mind. ¡°And the lavender?¡± He asked. ¡°What of that?¡±


    He knew? ¡°Don¡¯t lie.¡± His voice had fallen to a harsh whisper. ¡°I smell it on you. I told the others it was an orphan affectation and they¡¯re careless enough to believe me, but we all smell it on you.¡±


    ¡®An orphan affectation¡¯? I wouldn¡¯t open my door. I wouldn¡¯t continue this conversation. I would kick him, and so I did, and he kicked me back, and then there was some struggle until Ivra poked her head out of the door to glare at us, like we were nothing more than rowdy children.


    We settled.


    ¡°Let me in.¡± He whispered. ¡°It¡¯s important, you bastard. It¡¯s about the horse. It¡¯s about what you did.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know what I did.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not stupid. I can figure it out. And if you don¡¯t let me in I¡¯ll run and yell it to your Alchemists, to the Baron, to-¡±


    I kicked him again, and truly he would have snatched my cane to try and beat me down with it, when he forced himself to stop, to turn around and close his eyes, clearly trying to calm himself down. Then he was facing me again, pulling something sharp ¨C a pin, maybe ¨C out of his blazer and shoving me out of the way so he could rattle it within the lock of my door. I couldn¡¯t push him away even when I tried. He refused to move. There was nothing I could do to stop him from pushing my door open, tugging me inside, and then swinging it shut behind us.


    The lavender was so much worse than before. It had taken over the whole room. It wasn¡¯t just the desk that was unusable, but every space within my chamber. I had effectively moved in with the cats further down the hall, but now that Ivra was here I had moved back. When I¡¯d refused to show her my room to prove that they hadn¡¯t stuffed me inside of a shoe box, all she¡¯d done was narrow her eyes and go ¡®Hmm¡¯. She must know I was hiding something. Everyone must know I was hiding something.


    Wolfgang¡¯s fingers went through his hair, eyes wide, taking in the lilac colour that my chambre was drenched in. The smell was so prominent that it was sickening. Lavender was the most stubborn plant that I had ever encountered, and yet, like with the healing, I couldn¡¯t understand it at all, and Nature never gave a straightforward answer. Why did lavender refuse to grow outside of Alluviale? Why had lavender grown so easily with me? What made me different?


    ¡°The storm,¡± he said, his voice dazed. ¡°That night, with the huge storm that no one could understand. That was you, wasn¡¯t it? It was really you.¡±


    He was walking around, so slowly, taking in the lavender, the lavender, and more lavender. Rather than respond to him, I asked: ¡°How did you open my door?¡±


    ¡°You think I can¡¯t pick a lock?¡± He sounded so distant, so stunned. ¡°Sol and I used to get locked in rooms all the time. Every summer¡­¡± He looked up at the ceiling, where lavender had also overtaken the plain grey brick. ¡°Mon Dieu.¡±


    I pulled a chair to press against the door, blocking movement of the handle. ¡°Sol is¡­¡±


    ¡°¡­my sister.¡±


    ¡°Your twin.¡±


    ¡°Yes, of course. Of course. Could you make another storm?¡±


    ¡°Could you?¡±


    He laughed lightly. ¡°You¡¯re asking a Cilliac what he can do?¡±


    I hated that so much of him forced out so much of my curiosity. What was the difference in a Roqueforte and a Cilliac? The Cilliac name must be Elven ¨C what was the story there? Laclan might tell me, Gaspard might tell me, but I refused to admit my own defeat, to admit that despite his personality, I wanted to know about him. I was sure he must have asked Laclan about me, because he¡¯d made a reference to me being a ¡®bastard monk¡¯ before, but I held too much pride to ask about him. Too much pride to want to know about the elf that had saved my life.


    ¡°What else could it be?¡± I demanded. ¡°My avoidance of Laclan and Gaspard ¨C what else?¡±


    He looked at me, his eyes finally regaining their concentration after being lost in the lavender. Then he looked away, wordless, cold. Truly, I couldn¡¯t understand why the word ¡®rendez-vous¡¯ had caused all this turmoil in him, because it was so obviously the cause for his increased hostility. He had been the one to avoid me after that incident, but now I was the accused? The villain? ¡°I do not care enough about you to avoid you.¡± I hissed at him. ¡°You only factor into my life as a provider of favours.¡±


    Of course, we were fighting again. He still hadn¡¯t even gotten to the main reason for his visit, but now we were pushing at each other, falling into the lavender, him gaining and then losing the upper hand whenever I¡¯d poke, or elbow, or kick. ¡°I saved you!¡± He yelled. ¡°I saved your life! Laclan was the one that killed you, and yet I¡¯m your enemy? Yet you hate me? You idiot! You bastard!¡±


    I laughed.


    Immediately, he stopped strangling me, sitting up in confusion. It was a sound he¡¯d never heard before, clearly, a sound he¡¯d never even thought was possible. He watched me laugh, he listened to my laugh, with the deepest puzzlement pulling his features down into a question mark. ¡°Why¡­Why are you laughing?¡± He scratched his head, looking around as if Laclan and Gaspard had staged this as a lavender-based joke. ¡°Are you laughing at me?¡±


    I nodded. ¡°Of course. You¡¯re ridiculous.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°And emotional. It frustrates you, yes? That you¡¯re my saviour yet I feel no gratitude? It causes you this much distress? I move you to this much emotion?¡±


    He might have killed me. I might have killed him. There was no purpose to our emotions, only to hurt the other, only to win this fight that we might forever be locked in. He was consuming too many of my thoughts for me to be mindful of what this lavender might do. He had distracted me from what truly mattered, from what could truly happen, from the fact that him pushing me into the lavender as we both tried to choke each other out would make him slip. And fall. And tumble.


    And land somewhere else.


    It took us some moments to realise. We were still fighting. It was only when a bee buzzed by his ear, when he raised a hand to swipe it away, that we both froze.


    Seconds passed.


    ¡°Wh¡­?¡± He was still on top of me, but his eyes had once again widened to plates, ¡°We¡¯re¡­Wh¡­You¡­¡±


    ¡°Get off me.¡± I pushed him off, and he moved obediently. I had been using my cane to get in some jabs, and fortunately it had tumbled through with us. ¡°You figured this out, didn¡¯t you? You said you knew where Brigela went.¡±


    ¡°I was fucking lying! I didn¡¯t know a thing! How could I know this? How¡­? Mon Dieu, where are we!¡±


    ¡°Alluviale.¡± Slowly, I got up to my feet. ¡°We¡¯re walking to the stream.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re walking to the stream. Keep my pace.¡±


    ¡°How do we get back!¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s random. Are you coming?¡±


    He didn¡¯t have much of a choice. Still overwhelmed, he stood up and mindlessly followed after me. It was high noon, when the sun was brightest in the sky. The field boy was sleeping soundly, having slept through Wolfgang¡¯s yelling and confusion.


    We ambled forward.

 Ten. "Im writing to let you know, that I can summon eagles."

    I could swim. Without aid, without support, without oversight ¨C I could swim. The water gifted me back the energy that the movement was taking, and so I swam for hours, and hours, and hours. There was a little creek some distance away from the field, and I glided through the water under the hot sun, feeling all of nature converge around me: the wind, the plants, the water, the animals. Once the initial shock of our location faded ¨C this took the better part of an hour ¨C Wolfgang also settled. He was sat on the edge of the stream, having rolled up the legs of his trousers so he could softly kick at the water. Neither of us had spoken in hours. Despite his animosity, he seemed to trust that I would guide us back. Despite my lack of knowledge, I trusted that Nature would show me how. I don¡¯t think I¡¯d ever seen him this calm before, even with the insanity of the situation. The open sunlight, the quiet creek, the cold water: for a boy so permanently angry, he clearly suited quiet environments.


    The sun was beginning its descent when one of us finally spoke. I was floating peacefully, a frog on my chest. He was lain back on the grass, eyes closed, lazy and content.


    ¡°Avari.¡±


    I was tempted to ignore him, but I sighed and responded, ¡°Wolfgang.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to ask you something.¡± I heard rustling from where he was lain. I don¡¯t think he was sitting up, but repositioning himself, possibly, so that I was within eyesight. ¡°Do you ever feel scared? Do you understand fear?¡±


    It was a strange question. Ominous, even. I took a while before I could understand how to answer it. ¡°Not fear. Sometimes I feel panic, but fear isn¡¯t the right word.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    Because I had been taken before. I had been taken and moved to the Alchemist Academy. I had been taken and moved to the Military. What more could they do but take and move me somewhere else? I hated being helpless. I hated that I didn¡¯t have the authority to save myself, but ¡®fear¡¯ implied more than I felt. I just wanted to be left alone. I just wanted to know why I could do things that the others couldn¡¯t, how they all seemed to assume that I would be able to do things that others couldn¡¯t. I just wanted to not have to constantly question everything I said, everything I asked, everybody I might want to trust.


    ¡°Do you ¡®understand¡¯ fear?¡±


    More rustling. Now he was sitting up, and I glanced at him from where I was idly floating. There were strands of grass in the white of his hair, fragments of leaves in the red. ¡°I¡¯m a Roqueforte. I¡¯m a Cilliac. It¡¯s what I understand most.¡±


    And I had to finally ask, ¡°What is a Roqueforte?¡±


    He laughed. ¡°You never asked? You never checked? You¡¯re more pig-headed than I thought. Roquefortes ¨C they were one of the first families to leave France. They were one of the first to return here, to gain the favour of the King, to be given land. They¡¯re a political family. A strong rock, literally: roque, forte.¡±


    ¡°And the Cilliacs?¡±


    ¡°God, you don¡¯t know that either? You are impossible.¡±


    ¡°Tell me.¡±


    ¡°The Cilliacs were the first elves to draw power from fire.¡±


    I was beyond response.


    ¡°Otherwise, had I just been a Roqueforte, I might have much more alarm and fear for whatever you¡¯ve done to bring us here, for whatever that makes you. I would be setting up a pyre to have you burnt at the stake for ¡®witchcraft¡¯ or ¡®heathenry¡¯ or whatever, only¡­¡± he sighed, ¡°¡­I¡¯m a Cilliac. I should be more connected to nature than even you are. But.¡±


    ¡°But?¡±


    ¡°But. But I¡¯m as useless as I can be. I¡¯m ¡®too angry¡¯ for politics and all I can do with fire is be burned by it. I have no control of it. I have no relation to it at all. Sol, she¡¯s the crescendo of the family line. No one has ever seen a deeper mastery than what she already has. My younger brother, he can play with fire too. I can¡¯t. It¡¯s not within me. I can¡¯t.¡±


    I pulled myself out of the water. I had to ring my hair out before I could tie it up. At some point, he had lain back down. He didn¡¯t sit up when I sat next to him.


    ¡°I hate that you¡¯re so interesting.¡± I admitted.


    He smiled. He had a deep dimple in his left cheek. ¡°I¡¯m not the thing of interest. It¡¯s the ¡®Roqueforte-Cilliac¡¯ name. That¡¯s what everyone cares about.¡±


    ¡°That is why you speak Elven so well? Because you¡¯re Elven yourself?¡±


    ¡°My Mother insisted we all learn it. It¡¯s useful to know, obviously.¡±


    ¡°And the ¡®de Montaigne¡¯?¡±


    He scoffed. ¡°My father is the Duc de Montaigne. It¡¯s just the name of the land we own. A third of all the South District, including some mountains.¡±


    ¡°You own a mountain?¡±


    ¡°Somehow. Some way. Don¡¯t ask me ¨C I don¡¯t care for land management either.¡± His smile deepened. ¡°See what happens when you actually ask questions? You could have learnt all this at the start. But you¡¯re stubborn.¡±


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°As are you.¡±


    ¡°On me it¡¯s charming. On you it¡¯s a result of bad manners.¡±


    Infuriatingly, that made me smile. He chuckled. ¡°A laugh and a smile in the same day? I should report this to the church.¡±


    Night fell. My clothes dried in the heat and crinkled in the cool. I told him of the opera night, of Fox, Cat 1 and Cat 2, of the letter I¡¯d written to Romilio to ask of this new power. His only response, ¡°You wrote a letter? I¡¯m surprised you¡¯re even literate.¡± Some more fighting for that comment, and then we lapsed into silence to give the stage to the stars. The first elves to draw power from fire. It was an incredulous claim, so incredulous that I knew it must be true. I thought of Romilio and the monks before him, monks who must have somehow adapted this power from the Cilliacs. What had happened? The Cilliac family must be so deeply tied to Nature and the elements, and so what happened? What caused their marriage to the Roqueforte family? To French aristocrats who had overhauled so much of the natural system?


    Wolfgang didn¡¯t know and he claimed he¡¯d never cared to ask. I was unsure whether or not I believed him.


    ¡°We should go.¡± I said to him. ¡°An overnight stay will create too much suspicion.¡±


    He was reluctant. He was too relaxed, too content, too close to dozing off.


    ¡°Wolfgang.¡±


    He sighed deeply. ¡°Avari.¡± He finally opened his eyes again. ¡°We¡¯ll return?¡±


    ¡°If you help.¡±


    ¡°I owe you that recurring sixth of a favour, remember?¡± With a grunt, he got to his feet. ¡°We¡¯ll return.¡±


    *


    ¡°We¡¯re not friends.¡±


    ¡°Never. Now leave.¡±


    ¡°If you tell the others the things I¡¯ve told you, I¡¯ll kill you.¡±


    ¡°What ¡®things¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Fear. Talk of emotions. Tell them and I¡¯ll find the sword of your precious Laclan to finish you off.¡±


    Sometimes, most times, I would consider Wolfgang and struggle to understand how Nature had allowed the existence of an elf as annoying and pathetic as he was. Times like right now, like this conversation. ¡°I don¡¯t care enough about you to have you be my focal gossiping point. Go away.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Okay. Don¡¯t forget this threat.¡±


    ¡°And I didn¡¯t avoid you. Whatever terror you were going through to think that you sitting next to a pianist could trigger my anger, again ¨C I don¡¯t care enough about some imaginary crime you think you¡¯ve committed.¡±


    He was quiet for a long while after that. Like before, my words must be holding more weight than I was aware of. Eventually, all he could do was nod. ¡°Goodnight.¡±


    ¡°Goodnight.¡±


    *


    The lack of satisfaction was mutual. Whatever Ivra had hoped to find in me, whatever I¡¯d hoped to find in her ¨C neither of us had found it in the other.


    ¡°I¡¯ll pass your letter on.¡± She said to me. ¡°You¡¯re growing up well. Manon will be pleased to hear about it. Have you written to her? No? Well, maybe you should. She¡¯s untrustworthy and irritating, but you two had a nice relationship.¡±


    I would hope for her return when she left, but as I stood here with the Baron and his officers to send them off, I wasn¡¯t dreading her departure. ¡°Next time, you¡¯ll bring Fox?¡±


    ¡°If he¡¯s willing. And if you haven¡¯t reconsidered. It might not be the best idea to entrust an animal to your care while you¡¯re here. You already have much to deal with. You and that fox, you and those cats ¨C they softened you, which was nice to see at my Academy, but not something that would benefit you here.¡±


    ¡°You wrote that you¡¯d bring him.¡±


    ¡°At Manon¡¯s insistence.¡± Her expression made it clear she didn¡¯t appreciate me not dropping the subject. ¡°And I agreed. Initially. I¡¯ve given it more thought.¡±


    ¡°You said he didn¡¯t come because he wasn¡¯t ¡®suitable for travel¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I said that. Your point?¡±


    I looked away, scowling, but I didn¡¯t pursue the topic further. At dinner last night, she¡¯d noted that I hadn¡¯t once asked if I could return with her. She hadn¡¯t said it with disdain or with surprise, but as a fact, something that she accompanied with a ¡®hmm¡¯. When I¡¯d portaled to the forest outside the Alchemist Academy, I had noted the same thing. I hadn¡¯t tried to stay there. I¡¯d always known I would have to return here.


    I watched her horse and carriage carry her and her team away. The Baron, who had silently observed our goodbye, turned to me. I glowered at him, then I frowned. He was holding a letter. An unopened letter, its seal still intact, the same seal I¡¯d stamped onto my letter to Romilio. He handed it over and I immediately snatched it, examining the paper, seeing it untampered with, unopened, and unsent. But in Ivra¡¯s hand, and on her desk, had been this same letter.


    ¡°We took one of your assignments to mirror your handwriting.¡± He explained. ¡°And forged a letter on your behalf.¡±


    Blood was pounding in my ears. I couldn¡¯t find any words to say.


    ¡°As Ivra Vonglo said, it was done for ¡®your sake¡¯. Partially. It was also done for our own observation. I don¡¯t know what you¡¯ve written in this original letter, but do you know what we wrote in the fake?¡±


    I did.


    Eagles.


    The Baron held his hand out, giving me the chance to give it back to him. ¡°I¡¯ll have the letter sent off for you. Unread.¡±


    ¡°And I should believe you?¡±


    ¡°You believed Madame Vonglo. Yet she read our fiction on the eagles, while the letter in your hand is still unopened. Find a way to send it off yourself, if you wish. Either way, it was an interesting observation, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡±


    I kept the letter in my hand, squeezing the paper so tightly that I was crumpling it. I was staring at the bend of my thumb on the paper, suddenly unable to raise my head to look at him. When I next spoke, my voice was hoarse. ¡°I¡¯m bringing a fox.¡±


    ¡°You are?¡± His shoes were dark blue and shone in the sunlight. When he turned to walk away, the light hit my eyes. ¡°Be sure to introduce me when it arrives.¡±


    *


    Laclan pouted for some minutes before immediately forgiving me for my 5-day avoidance. ¡°You¡¯ll make up for it in the summer, when we¡¯re together every single day.¡± He wiggled his eyebrows at me from his position on the ground, where he was once again playing the damsel in distress. It was a role he clearly loved for reasons none of us could understand, but he had the theatrics necessary to pull it off. Cat 1 was climbing over him, settling near his head, while Cat 2 was licking herself in the background of the scene. ¡°Someone save me! From the cats! From the cats! Someone big and strong! Someone who will save me from the cats and from Gaspard, lest I be one of the many damsels who are hopelessly and endlessly charmed by him¡­¡±


    Gaspard flushed, holding his sword pathetically. ¡°Don¡¯t be improper.¡±


    Laclan cackled.


    Later, I took a walk with Wolfgang.


    ¡°I found a way to get you back to the forest. With a horse.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Then we leave tonight.¡±


    ¡°We¡­You idiot, you don¡¯t even want to know how? Do you know the bureaucracy and secrecy that was necessary in manoeuvring this deal? Gaspard is involved and he doesn¡¯t even know it! All for a sixth of a favour! And you don¡¯t even ask for details?¡±


    Something about a bribe to an officer, something about the bribe and negotiation passing through the lips and minds of a few other students so as to confuse the true root of the deception, so as to not link any possible misdemeanour back to Wolfgang in any way. No, I didn¡¯t really care about how. That was his business. ¡°We leave tonight.¡± I told him. ¡°I¡¯m going to retrieve a fox at my old Academy. You¡¯ll come with me.¡±


    He was exasperated. ¡°You are mindless. I truly despise you.¡±


    ¡°And I you. You¡¯ll come with me?¡±


    ¡°Of course. Of course.¡±