I snort at the notion. “You know Father wouldnevergo against the rules of the Creed.” And those rules state that only full citizens can see a sigil—even then, most in use are obscured. Their full designs are kept guarded in Mercy’s records.
“You spent a lot of time in his workshop. I didn’t know if you peeked.” She leans against the stone archway with a smirk that tells me she absolutely would’ve if she’d been in my shoes.
“You can’t imagine how tempting it was.”
She picks up on the note of bitter longing in my words. “So why didn’t you?”
“The vicar said that I would draw Etherlight without a sigil or not at all.”
She drops her voice, taking a step forward so no one else hears when she says, “You hate the vicar. And you lit my father’s lantern.”
I sigh. “I know, it’s probably silly, but it’s because my father asked me not to.”
“I don’t think loving and respecting your family is silly at all.” She smiles. “Meet back on floor four by dusk?”
“Done.” No sooner do I say the word than she’s off.
I continue my search in earnest. I skim every keyhole and run my hands along the top of every door trim. Much to my dismay, there are no hidden keys here… Nor any on the first floor.
Damn. I’d been thinking that I was clever for that, too.
Reemerging into the central atrium, I see a supplicant who’s climbed up onto the back of the Elder Dragon. He’s fishing underneath scales, trying to see if any of the spines that trail down its back are loose. Another has her arm in the dragon’s mouth all the way to her shoulder. I suppress a shudder and head for one of the many doors that line the circular central hall. If there are keys hidden inside the dragon statue, the others can have them. I’d rather not pass out in my first few hours of the Tribunal.
I find myself in the heart of a two-story library packed with shelves of scrolls and—even rarer—books. I don’t have time to appreciate it as I step into the middle of a fight.
Blood splatters, nearly blending with the dark-gray carpet. A supplicant tumbles to the ground. A boot slams down onto their wrist, and their fingers unfurl.
Someone else reaches down to pluck a key from their now-open palm with a familiar grace in her movements. Despite the scuffle, not a hair of the braids her delicate, light-brown waves have been tamed into is out of place. My lip nearly curls in disgust.
It would behergetting into a fistfight on the first day.
“You should learn to mind your betters.” Cindel sneers.
Before I can do anything, the supplicant on the floor rolls, grabbing Cindel’s ankle and biting down. She lets out a yelp that’s more surprise than pain.
The one on the floor then grabs Cindel’s other boot and yanks, hard. She topples, and the black-haired supplicant is on top of her.
“Give. It. Back!”
Cindel comes from a wealthy, well-connected family. Money and power buy one thing in Vinguard: training. Which means an easier time in the Tribunal and a higher likelihood of becoming a Mercy Knight, or attracting the eye of a first-rate guild or craftsman, at least. She’s almost as skilled as I am. Cindel shifts her weight, bringing up a knee and rolling. Her opponent is pinned.
“I saw it first,” Cindel declares.
“Igot itfirst!” The other supplicant attempts to pummel Cindel’s thighs.
I scan the room. There’s an inquisitor nearby, at the end of one of the shelves. Another leans against the railing that rounds the second-story mezzanine.
Neither move.
They’re Mercy Knights in a different uniform, I remind myself. They might be young, but each is a trained killer. They don’t care about violence; it’s second nature to them. All they’re here for is to ensure none of us are cursed and bestow mercy if we are. They’d probably let us doanythingto each other, if that’s what it takes to be sure none of us spontaneously transform intomindless killing machines in the middle of a market someday.Which seems fair enough, when I put it like that…Still, my mother’s words are gaining new clarity by the second.
“Stop.” I step forward. The duo ignores me.“Stop!”
I grab Cindel’s fist before it can be thrown. Another blow flies in my direction. I dodge it effortlessly and keep my balance. Begrudgingly, I admit there may have been something to all the training the vicar put me through.
Cindel’s eyes meet mine. There’s a flash of recognition, then hatred.“You.”
Feeling’s mutual, I want to say. But instead: “That’s enough.”
