The footsteps enter the hall. From the corner of my eyes, I catch sight of a pair of black boots, polished to perfection, and the sweep of a pale coat against pant legs.
I remember the color of that coat. Corian’s father has come to greet me.
I swallow hard. I don’t know how to apologize for the death of his son. Cannot tell him my deep shame at being unable to protect his favorite child. I can do nothing except remain in this position, holding out Corian’s uniform. So that is exactly what I do. I remain perfectly still, waiting for the man to say something.
The boots stop right in front of me. I can feel the heaviness in the air of his father’s looming presence.
Tradition usually dictates that, when a Striker delivers his fallen Shield’s uniform to his family, the family responds by accepting the uniform with both hands. As Shields are bonded to each other like siblings, the family should then embrace the Shield as if he or she were also their kin.
But long moments pass. I wait. Corian’s uniform stays heavy in my hands, untouched, and his father’s boots remain leaden before me.
Then his voice echoes above me in a low, rumbling growl. “Do you know why my son chose you as his Shield?” Master Barra says.
I don’t dare look up. I can barely manage a shake of my head.
“Because Corian had a bleeding heart,” his father continues. “He felt sorry for you, little Basean girl, always crouched like an animal outside the arena. I told him not to choose you. You weren’t good enough. He did anyway.” His voice turns grating, harsh and cold with grief. “That’s why my boy is dead. Because he selected a rat to protect him.”
I see the man’s boots turn away and point in the direction he’d come. His voice snarls above me with disgust.
“Keep his uniform,” he says. “It’s already been dirtied by the hands that allowed him to die. This House does not accept trash as an offering.”
Then the voice stops, and the boots walk away, leaving me kneeling on the floor. He did not bother dismissing me. Without his permission, I am obligated to stay here.
Families simply do not refuse the uniforms of their fallen children. I hesitate, confused, unsure in the moment what to do. My arms shake from the effort of staying still. My eyes point down at the floor. The wood pattern breaks at the edge of each plank. All I can do is repeat his words, which are spinning through my mind.
He felt sorry for you. This House does not accept trash.
I stare down at my hands and arms and think of Corian’s last moments. I see his bright blue eyes pleading for me to end his life before it is too late.Trash. I know, logically, that I am not. But it doesn’t matter.
I had let Corian die. I’d killed him because I never belonged in the Strikers. My Shield’s blood will forever taint my fingers.
I have no idea how long I kneel here. No one else comes to greet me. No one takes Corian’s uniform from my outstretched hands. No one wants to accept the apology I have come bearing. The House of Barra will make sure I alone carry the weight of Corian’s death.
The light disappears from the room and is replaced by evening. I will myself to stay trembling in place. Waiting. Hoping.
I don’t know whether I make it to dawn or not. All I remember is waking up with my cheek pressed against the cold floor. A servant is quietly shaking my shoulders.
“You need to leave, now,” he whispers to me. I look up into the grave eyes of a young servant boy nervously wringing his hands. His eyesdart to the hall behind us as he holds a hand out toward the door. “The guards will show you out if you don’t go yourself.”
In desperate shame, I hold the uniform out to him, as if even a lowly servant of the House of Barra accepting my offering would be better than nothing. But the boy shrinks away, not daring to touch it. He gives me an apologetic stare, then straightens and leaves me.
I wait a moment longer before I slowly pick myself off the floor. Corian’s uniform stays clutched in my hands. My breaths come in slow, shallow gasps as I think about what comes next.
I have lost my Shield, my closest friend. But there is more to lose. If Corian’s House refuses to accept my apology, then my standing as a Striker is threatened. They will appeal to the Firstblade to release me from the forces, say I’m unfit to be entrusted with the life of another, unfit to protect this nation. Corian was the only reason I’d been allowed to become a Striker. Without him, I’m left unprotected. And without my aid, so is my mother.
If the House of Barra does not accept me, then I may have just seen my last days as a Striker.
3
I’m dreaming again. In the dream, I’m twelve, and Corian is there.
I’m crouched in the shadows of the back gate leading into the Strikers’ training arena, a vast amphitheater in the heart of Newage’s Inner City. From here, I can see the apprentices practicing their attack formations, their sapphire coats spinning in lethal unison. It is always like watching a dance, and I’m hypnotized.
I’m not the only one in Mara who loves to watch the Strikers train.
I look down at my own clothes. They’re ragged. Even my patched elbows are worn so thin that the cloth seems translucent. Hunger claws at the base of my ribs. Sometimes, I think I longed to become a Striker only because I knew their apprentices got living quarters, three meals a day, and a healthy weekly pay. So I’d fantasize about having all of that, giving my mother the safety of a home of her own. I’d sneak into the Inner City to watch them train at the arena. Now my gaze stays fixed on the youngest recruits as they face off against one another. They’re all around my age, some a little older. Soon, each will be paired with someone who best complements their personality and fighting ability.
When you can’t speak, you spend a lot of time watching. Parsing. Listening. This, at least, I do well, so I analyze the forms of thestudents and take mental notes on how they keep their footing. From the scrapyards dotting the Outer City, I’d learned how to shift my weight in my favor. I knew how to climb up haphazardly stacked metal ruins discarded in the yards, leftovers from the Early Ones dug up by farmers and builders. I could weasel my way inside some ancient engine to strip it of parts, then leap from one stack to another if it teetered. I could dance on unstable sheets of steel, using a blowtorch my mother had bought to sever the valuable pieces to sell. I knew how to twist between the wreckage to hide from bigger kids that vied for the yards with the best metals.
