Greetings my dear sister Catillia,
I hope all is well and you prosper. Please read this to Abban: nothing was meant against my other fair sisters by calling you dearest. He should stop listening to Paciano. If he should need it, he should apply to Laeta for advice. If Laeta refuses you may read her this and she will know what I think. Also, let her not mind Ursula; Ursula chooses for herself. When I was present she could not be advised, what good Laeta sees in trying herself I don’t know. If you tell them, maybe they will listen.
But I will not keep you longer; messages for all are in their own letters but as I know this will arrive first I beg you to give them each my love in particular, and tell my father and mother I honour them and wish them well. I pray my many dearest siblings say so, too, as they can do so without letters.
My dearest sister, I know you shall proceed now as you like, but be judicious to your poor brother’s feelings in what you share, as you always are. I endeavour to fulfil the plans of God and our father with all of my heart, and may the Prophet grant that his hopes, that are my hopes, may be better seated there in time.
Now, my sister, as you advised, I ate only the plainest foods to ease my stomach, but what has helped most of all is that I believe I have discovered the secret of this place. They say soldiers live lives of routine. Every time a routine becomes evident in this place, they make the most disruptive possible change. What is regular may always be interrupted. What is unpleasant can always be made more unpleasant. If you begin to think you understand the depths of tedium, they find yet deeper to delve. The secret is that misery is our routine.
I had thought only once would we be asked to run in circles (sister, I say ‘asked’, nothing is ever ‘asked’ as for the Prophet nothing is ever ‘said’), but they only awaited the description of greater circles
Instead of stands, they were summoned outside and put into their squares and lines and then great big chunks of the class were carved away by selection. They were told to pack their bags (for what?) and meet by Founders’ Hall (not a hall, but a classroom building, and that annoyed Dominicus more than knowing where it was relieved him). This was the first of a series of great sortings, where what seemed to be random whim declared that now, somebody would be meeting somewhere else while so-and-so practiced in a new way.
Some of it was good. Most of it was mysterious. There was a method to it, he just didn’t understand yet. Life a the Academy teetered on the edge of disorder, as if at any moment the slightest touch could drive everything to dissolve into chaos, but there was a fundamental order holding it together. Dominicus understood this after the first two weeks, so it only gave him minor stomach pains, instead of life threatening ones, when everything changed.
It wasn’t random. It couldn’t be. Dominicus refused to let it be, strangely furious it even appeared so. Even that morning he had pulled his backpack straps tight, squeezing the canvas to bunches on his shoulders, and refused to not see a pattern.
That morning he learned what ‘bivouac’ was. Or got some idea that would blossom and flower into a spectacular display – perhaps even a garden – of suffering each time he was reintroduced to the concept. This first one was just a march. They marched. They hadn’t been told what to pack, so Dominicus, like many others, had simply packed everything he recalled ever having been handed for this bag.
This was a mistake. Better to have filled his bag with a pillow. Packing was an exercise in self-punishment. All they did was march with it.
Here they beheld the magnificent sweep of the Academy grounds, as if such needed to be proven and appreciated without the burden of purpose. It seemed an unending march to get to the walls, and then they marched along the walls, until their gentle, constant curve of the horizon was fixed in his eyes such that when he looked at the still grass beneath his feet, it tilted and flowed to the right in sickening waves.
Of course, this caused him to stumble out of line, and someone hit him with a stick until he was back in line. Because bivouac, it turned out, was the only time cadets were allowed to be directly disciplined.
Naturally, EVERYTHING got them hit with sticks.
Not that there was much else they could do to earn getting hit with sticks except get out of line, because all they did was march. At what must have been midday (it was hard to tell, because he refused to look at the sky lest it heave in his vision like the ground seemed to), they were stopped, turned around, and started marching the other way. The abrupt change in the tilt of the world caused more than a few to veer off course and get hit with sticks, too.
The sun peeked over the walls and they marched. The sun fell back below the walls and they marched. No food, no water, unless one had the foresight to pack it within reach, and none of them had any foresight to speak of. But also, nobody spoke except to keep the line at pace and in order. The only instructions of the day were the turn.
It was Hell. The whole place was Hell. The small and desperate comfort he had tried to take in seeing parts of the grounds he had not yet had the chance to see was ruined when they changed direction and he was plunged into desperate boredom. Dominicus thought he would go mad until he realized at some point he was too tired and too thirsty and too hungry to go mad.
Then they did the same thing the next day, and he was confirmed in his belief his past life had been one of great sin, only able to be expurgated by a second go at the suffering of living, as Hell itself was insufficient.
They do much to prepare us to be soldiers, but without reasoning – but I see you saying as you read, do soldiers know the plans of officers? But as the Prophet says, do you spin as you lead hand-in-hand? But I suppose you’ll argue for the Hostian interpretation – my sister, at least you give me things to think about as I learn to be a soldier.
But as I said, I should not complain. In other ways, life is rich (rich as in Comidras? I will let you judge). All three of my last letters described to you the library, as you so kindly mentioned in your last letter, so in deference to your wishes, I will try to describe something else. It is true, what they said, that some of the finery of the kitchen has worn away, and they more often serve weekend stews than pol’ fusilli these days, but I have not found this very dissuasive. You would, I think, be proud as I have certainly not let the work of this place thin me out…
There were two paths the new cadets began to take very quickly; the softer of them thinned, while the meagre grew. Dominicus would not have placed himself on the meagre side – some of the city-born cadets built like drought-starved crops after rain – but he had certainly adapted well to the stricture to eat as much as he could, any time he could (a command which nothing in his life had prepared him for).
Of course, on alternating days, he had very light lunches; he had gotten no better at Swordplay, and was always the delighted choice of first demonstrations, meaning he spent an hour and a half every other getting a very roundabout beating, then being dismissed. (It was a good day when he spent the time being forced to drop his practice sword, over and over, until he worried that he had regressed to earliest infancy and could no longer control his grip, because he would at least be less sore).
Every other day from that was ‘Long Swordplay’, which was two hours, but at least wasn’t directly after lunch (the other cadets seemed to much prefer calling it ‘long class name’ than saying ‘short class name’ so it was always Swordplay and then Long Swordplay, like the short class wasn’t the anomaly – there was no logic to it).
Catillia did not need to hear about swordplay (though he mentioned the ‘long class name’ thing to her). Though he tried not to think about it, he held out the faint hope he would somehow be dismissed from those classes entirely. Fachtna had laid out all his accumulated wisdom about the ways of The Academy; Dominicus now knew that they were judged principally along two lines: Academic and Martial. It was still too early for their class to be ranked, but eventually they would be judged – somehow, mysteriously, by who, none knew – and place in order of how well they performed in these two broad categories (the ‘Lists’) that would then be – somehow, mysteriously, by what method, none knew – combined into a final ranking of overall performance in their class.
What this communicated to Dominicus, though he didn’t share his thoughts on the matter, was that it was entirely possible to do quite well by focusing only on one side of things, as long one didn’t completely flounder in the other. Ultimately, Swordplay didn’t matter. Being good at Grappling, for all it was kind of a gross and barbaric art, would protect him from floundering, and he could practice the other side of things. (Would Catillia like to hear about Grappling? Perhaps only to get tips).
Or, perhaps they would realize he was not a fighter and would never be a fighter, as they had realized his grouping for Foundations was not appropriate. Dominicus, Feichín and some of their classmates had been moved to another Foundations class, after all. Unlike the old, focused on reading and arithmetic, their new Foundations class partook in a strange mix of intensive readings of historical texts (these always required a good deal of language work anyway) and extra physical exercises – which he was at least grateful for as it acquainted him with the rock field.
…Ah, but this is not the Rhapsodies, and I am afraid with my little ability I cannot pretend it is. Perhaps you will have as little interest in reading about food as I have writing about it. (Shall I not describe the library? Shall I protect you from the sin on envy?)
But, sister, I fear I can’t describe to myself what I like about my next subject, much less make it sensible to another. But it is my duty to attend to what joys can be wrung of this place, and my pleasure always to share joys with you before complaints, so please have mercy in your judgements. There is a field of rocks…
He didn’t know what anyone else called it, because it was not a place for talking. He called it the rock field. The Foundations ollamh had pointed out its existence, but done nothing else. Dominicus wasn’t sure the rock field was an official ‘place’ the way the Track was an official ‘place’; he suspected its location changed from year to year. Maybe it wasn’t even that there was only one – but he only knew of where to find this one.
He could not give a description of the place that was not exactly what it sounded like: a small clearing near but secluded from the main buildings, at the edge of a stand of trees, filled with rocks.
The rocks were clearly not part of the ground; they had been cast there, though for what purpose and by whom he didn’t know (he had heard that the Academy had gardeners, but this was no garden and what cause would they have for a disordered collection of hundreds of rocks?). Some of the rocks were enormous – taller than the cadets – and the ground was littered with sherds and chips and little boulders calved from larger ones that were then halved and shattered and broken into pieces. Some of it was surely done by other cadets, but some equally surely by whatever person or persons had declared rocks would be piled here for their mysterious uses, for nothing but tools could had split them so.
The cadets’ uses for the rocks were clearer, but still a matter requiring close observation – a frightening proposition, because also for unclear reasons the vast majority of cadets Dominicus saw around were in their third and fourth year. He had, like most of his classmates, learned quickly to be wary of the classes above theirs, but the mystery of the rock field had been too alluring. So, he observed, skirting around the edges, creeping nearer only when certain he wouldn’t be chased away as a matter of course.
The first time he dared join the cadets in the rock field, he had selected a stone no one else seemed interested in, at the edge of the field. Trying to work more from memory (so he wouldn’t be staring at the other cadets) he lifted it the way they did – gripped tight to the body, almost rolling it up his legs to squeeze it into his stomach, standing slowly with his back as straight as he could keep it. It was surprisingly difficult, something he tried desperately to keep from showing on his face. He was too worried about crushing his own feet to let it drop, so when he did finally make it up, he staggered and nearly crushed himself with the stone instead, fighting hard not to topple over.
Breathless, his face swollen and hot with effort, he eventually made his way to a nearby rock he could lean it against to let it roll back down, an utter failure. Sure he had made an irredeemable fool of himself, he stood, gulping breath, with his hands on his hips, nervously surveying the others. But none of them were looking at him – they were busy with their own tasks.
It was possibly the closest to elation he had yet felt on the Academy grounds. Everyone, for the most part, paid attention to their rocks, or if they did observe, observed dispassionately, with utmost brevity, for their own edification. It was ideal.
…So, you see the conundrum, dear sister. How can I explain the tedium of marching as I lift my breath and the joy of repeatedly lifting heavy rocks as it falls? I think perhaps I enjoy it better, not being told what to do, but this bodes ill; another sign I am not fit for the path our father has set for me, the purpose I have been blessed to be given to fulfil. I know there are other attractions to the task, but I should no more dwell on these than on my ungrateful feelings of inadequacy to the task I have been given…
Most of the cadets in the rock field wrapped their limbs instead of wearing long pants or jackets; many wore loose skirts or girded themselves – most wore no shirt at all, though a few had fashioned aprons. The next time he visited, working bare-chested, his arms were scored and bleeding at the end.
He returned with arms wrapped in scraps from a long-ago torn shirt, chest bare – his loosest pants would have to do until he found a way to get more clothing (or at least more cloth) – ready to try some of the new movements from Grappling. His hands were still raw, though, and when he found the right stone and wrapped his arms around it, he couldn’t make them grip. His palms, flat against the rock’s surface, felt like they were going to tear off the moment he got the stone off the ground. His forearms ached and fingers shook when he pressed them into the stone.
This was weakness, and it would fade. Or, at least he hoped it would. So he tried again – and again, and again, until he might have succeeded by the barest margin, but blood was building under his palms…
A hand touched his shoulder, and then another cadet came around and put his hand on top of the stone, destroying the impression Dominicus had lifted it at all. But Dominicus was so shocked, and so strained by holding it, he simply staggered back, rather than turning and fleeing, as he probably should.
The cadet was tall – Goddamnit they were all tall – but he had probably a full head height over Dominicus, and brown sandy hair, cut tight like all the older cadets but still long enough to stick in curls of sweat to his forehead and cheek. He held up a finger to Dominicus – each finger was wrapped, as were his palms and up his forearms, and small pebbles and streaks of dirt disordered the tight white wrappings around his torso. Asking for pause, he searched the ground around them, then stepped away – two long-legged strides – to pick up one-handed a much smaller rock, smooth around the edges. He brought this back over and set it on top of the rock Dominicus had been trying to lift, one finger pointing down to hold it in place.
He was breathing very hard – obviously he had stopped whatever exercise he was doing to come over, and his lips were parted, edges of his teeth showing, face wet with sweat and mouth wet through laboured breath.
“Try this.”
The rock was way too small to wrap his arms around; it was hand-sized, maybe one for the older cadet’s hardened palms, but two for Dominicus’s raw and shaking ones, at least if he didn’t want to put his toes in danger.
“…What?”
“Both hands,” the older cadet said.
The older cadet grabbed the rock, tucking it up under his arm, and put his other hand on Dominicus’ forearm, guiding them back away from the big rock. Kicking a few scattered stones away, he stopped them in a flat patch of ground. Holding Dominicus’ arm steady, he placed the rock in one hand, then grabbed Dominicus’ other forearm to place it on the rock as well, carefully matching their positions.
“Practice the small movements first,” he said. “Hold the rock steady, move around it, at first.”
Mimicking the position he had put Dominicus in, he stepped away to show first standing as if getting up from a chair, then squatting all the way down and rising to stand. He gestured for Dominicus to do it.
Dominicus had to unstick himself first; he froze at the first touch. Then, the minute he started to repeat the motions, the other cadet stepped around to his side, one hand on Dominicus’ back, steadying him, while the other pushed the rock closer to his chest. Without removing his hands he nodded for Dominicus to continue, stopping and restarting to correct his feet with a few gentle kicks, then test his weight with a little shove, and finally to float his hands mere inches from Dominicus’ skin as he finally performed the movement adequately.
“Go again,” he said, and as Dominicus lowered, he lowered, one hand on Dominicus’ shoulder, at the back, as the other guarded the front, ensuring the rock didn’t move too far out. He stayed through two of these movements, murmuring about balance, feeling the ground beneath his feet, and holding his upper body – even, he said, the stomach and chest – firm.
“And breathe. If you don’t breathe you’ll pass out. They should teach you breathing first, but they never do.”
Once satisfied Dominicus could perform the movements on his own, he stepped back, rubbing his nose against the wrappings on his hand and brushing back an errant drop of sweat that had started to run down the side of his face.
He seemed to hold an internal debate, his own last comment having struck a nerve.
“Don’t pick the heaviest rock, pick the one you can lift at least seven times. Don’t move up in size in one day, only move down. Crush the gravel in your hands for a couple of days when you are trying to work up to a bigger size. Don’t stay more than an hour. Half an hour is fine. And don’t let any of these assholes tell you not to wrap your hands.”
He glared disdainfully out at the other cadets, and pointed to his own wrappings. “Or move faster. That’s for class. Here, move slow. Be precise.”
After a moment’s thought he sniffed again, with a quick little tuck of his head to the side.
“You’re trying to avoid getting injured. Get injured and it’s all over. A month in the infirmary is a trip to the bottom of the Lists. Permanent injury is off them. Skin heals decently fast. Nothing broken heals in less than a month. So don’t injure yourself; they’re already trying to injure you.”
He had jutted his chin out to either the other cadets in the field or the Academy itself (it was hard to tell, a vehement and encompassing gesture) but gave Dominicus’ shoulder a gentle slap before he turned and picked his way through the rocks back to his spot, Dominicus’ whole existence exiting his consciousness.
Dominicus was listening, though he wasn’t sure what his face was doing (hopefully holding still, dear God, if not holding an expression that showed he was listening). A trap-like part of his mind captured and hoarded information for him.
Which was an exceptional stroke of luck, because another part of his mind was holding fiercely and exclusively on to the way the other cadet had brushed sweat out from under his chin with the back of his hand. The spot on his back where the cadet’s hand had rested burned – not where the muscles had worked, but the skin and just under, as if struck by harsh sunlight. The rest of him felt creaky as he moved through the steps of the exercise he had been shown, hoping the burn of the muscles would eventually drown out the way his shoulder alternately flashed with the memory of touch and sent violent shivers up his neck and over his skull. He equally fiercely tried to think nothing, hopeful his memory would save him later and recall the advice only half-heard under the visual strain of watching a drop of sweat turn suddenly over the cheekbone to sweep down the jaw. To gather, to hang, to be swept away.
He only stayed half an hour, as advised, and was pleased to have the sense of having done enough and still have the time to write his letters when he got back to his room. By then, he had some idea what to write, but having described the food and the rock field and broken his promise not to talk about the library, still found himself staring down at the page on which he wrote his letter to Catillia, pen stopped hanging above it.
An enormous ink drop would ruin it, so he wrote.
…How I have lied! To swear I will share joys and then complain. Dear sister, I am happy – if nothing else your brother will return to you heavier than before, and that is a blessing. Please forgive a childish want to see you, and my beloved siblings, and our dear mother and father, for I miss you more than you can know and I can say. Perhaps it is that which makes me write unhappy news.
We are tried by God in many ways, and I hope only that I can do my duty. It is the way of children to believe I would be happier some other place, my sister, I might be happier otherwise, but less in my part as a son, and in that I must find the joy promised by God.
I shall write again as soon as I am able, for they are profligate with paper in this place.
I am your most worshipful brother, wishing you health and joy in all the things in life,
Dominicus
PS: ignore the blood, I was picking up rocks.
A cloud slipped, pushed by the wind, and Esras Cole turned to plunge his face into sunlight as if into water. Oisín’s conversation dropped off into a disbelieving scoff.
“Oh, ignore it,” Finanin said, turning himself to the light and pulling the collar of his shirt down to try to catch some of the light on his pale chest. “He’s always been like that.”
Finanin had no idea what Esras had always been like. Oisín could figure that out, or not, and because they were roommates, he probably would, whether he stayed with this group or not. Esras wouldn’t blame him if not, it had been clear when Maoilín was deciding who to elect to get the rest of them lunch Oisín had been on the list. Little Aibhne (the braile-breith Stone), having only just brought the fifth and sixth plate of options from the Hall, sat on the grass still catching his breath. Esras secured Oisín’s invite; it was up to him to secure his place.
“Trying to connect up your freckles?” Maoilín said, watching Finanin. He stood in the pitiful shade of an ankle-thick sapling, just strong enough not to bend under his lean. “That’s all you’ll get out of sunlight.”
“Maoilín has also always been like that,” Cruvcrudiach said, almost in time to stop Finanin’s self-conscious wilting, as he walked nearer the seated group. His opponent in their makeshift, stick-based sword practice remained puffing on the field of battle, a rise of slightly shorter grass away from the new stand of trees. His name was Neasán or something. Esras had never quite, in his head, stopped calling him Porridge.
Spring still fought for dominance over winter, though all that was left of that was a chill breeze that occasionally threatened them with a late snow. In as few as two weeks he could be crawling for shade, but for now the sunlight’s unmatched warmth was welcome. Something other than the sufficient but indifferent warmth of the dormitories, where it seemed one couldn’t escape the fact that that their warm air was less a clean fire and thick walls than the trapping of a hundred bodies worth of human heat. This fixed in the wide, felted loops of their awkwardly cut blankets and – fed by a fearsome lack of windows – promised a difficult summer.
Still, the fortuitous bolt of sunlight and Cruvcrudiach’s return from the bout combined to draw down the anger rising in his chest at just the right time to ignore it. Else he might have sounded as petty as Maoilín, which was at least reason to keep such pettiness around. Until the rankings came out, such reasons were good as gold.
Of course, he saw the cadet running towards them across the field from Founder’s. He got up, selecting a good stick from the ground, and walked to Cruvcrudiach to hear his review of the bout, one ear on the larger conversation, one eye on the running cadet. Cruvcrudiach wasn’t much of a talker anyway.
“I don’t see why the food hasn’t improved already,” Maoilín said, holding up a thick strand of beet-dyed pickled greens between finger and thumb. He flicked it at the ground the way one might rid oneself of something sticky. All he wanted to do was snipe and complain, and he was going to have to come up with a new strategy if he wanted to retain this group. Or maybe he was relying on Esras to provide the glue – Fate knew he would surely tell him if that was the case.
Or, maybe, he was growing impatient of their overlords, waiting for them to do some real sorting before he put much effort into retaining any company. Esras sympathized; until rankings, Maoilín’s strategy for gathering good company was excelling in every class, and excelling in classes was difficult, wearying, and probably not entirely wise. In ranking, classes were the broth – an undifferentiated, perpetual, omnipresent test – where special events – the Cogadh, bivouac, tourneys, and class-level exercises – were the meat. Maoilín was living off broth; Esras was living – partially – off Maoilín. Maoilín’s overt effort and ambition was the tide beneath the boats around him, and Esras was happy to rise with it. He was sure the bill for that would come soon, but for now, he was content. The timing didn’t feel right to strike out with his own strategy, and he was discovering a great deal of benefit came from being perceived as the ‘relaxed’ one (so much ambition was required to even be here, it was ridiculous to perceive any of them as relaxed).
Both reason and luck suggested the Lists should be released any day now. A cadet would only run so fast for a few reasons, and Esras suspected something like that must be driving that grey blob he saw running towards them across the field.
“The premise, I think,” Finanin said, shaky but determined not to concede to Maoilín’s suppression – but, of course, he had only half an inkling of what Oisín and Esras had been talking about, “the premise of the inquiry is faulty.”
Which was at least a good rhetorical gambit, if you had no idea what to say.
“The seed of the issue is that we’re deliberately kept in the dark about things to make us wrong,” Oisín said, generously taking them back to the start of the conversation. “I don’t see how it’s a useful lesson to be wrong because you haven’t been given full information. I don’t care what she says about the tactics of losing – I know enough about losing not to need tactics about it – I don’t think it’s useful.”
“Oh, I don’t think the two are related,” Finanin said.
“Oh,” Porridge said, walking over himself and trying vainly to stop his breath from heaving (speaking of ambition, any combat, no matter how informal, against Cruvcrudiach was apt to have that effect), “I would like to know why.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong all the time if you weren’t so ignorant,” Maoilín said, his attention by now on the cadet – Enda – running up to them. He had put his plate down on the ground. “And maybe you shouldn’t be so proud of being a loser.”
Had Enda not been so close, Oisín might have had time to act on the fury evident in his face, which would have been foolish. Maoilín was head of their pack for a reason; Oisín would get his ass kicked. And, in picturing it, Esras thought he would be forced to take Maoilín’s side, which he really didn’t want to do.
Fortunately, Enda was close, though he jogged to a halt and had to bend, hands on knees, to catch his breath a moment.
“They’re out.”
Everyone but Esras and Cruvcrudiach straightened; those two threw the sticks they had been comparing grips on down.
And because there were two choices, and because their eyes fixed on him, Enda was able to force out, “Cogadh.”
Everyone who could simply started running for Founder’s Hall. Esras, as tempted to run as any of them, caught Enda’s eye to nod – Enda waved away the thanks, nodding in return. They must not have been matched for a team, then; no doubt something would have to be said.
Like Oisín, Enda was a good one to keep around. Certainly capable, he was also a steady one personally. Having proposed a liaison, he had taken Esras’ gentle rejection well, seeming, at least on the surface, to understand. He didn’t really, but it didn’t matter as much as the firm answer did – and Esras was firm. He was simply not doing it this time. In a year or two, they would open the gates and he could get whatever physical satisfaction he needed by visiting the Families. In the meantime, he should spend his energy on gaining and keeping rank. Relationships – even casual ones – just fucked all that up. They were always added complications. He didn’t want to have to consider others when he should have his own ambitions front and centre; it put a hold on you, like bridle, no matter what, and anyone, not just your partner, could grab that bridle. And he was tired of it. There was no way it didn’t end badly, somehow.
Jogging after the rest, he put a hand down to Aibhne, who seemed unsure whether Esras meant to bite him or help him up.
“Dump the food on the ground, if you’re worried about the plates,” Esras said, pulling him up (ridiculous how easy it was). “Animals will eat it. None of these,” he pointed with his chin to the group, now far across the field from them, “will care to return for it.”
And the punishment for not returning the plates would fall on Aibhne, of course. If he didn’t take care of himself, no one else would.
Such news for classes of cadets was always pinned to a wall by a particularly spacious joining of corridors between Founderhall and the buildings surrounding the base of the Tower. Predictably, even for so wide a space, the posting wall was blocked by an impossible crowd. Luckily, it circulated quickly, as cadets pushed to the front to read for their names and then retreated before they were crushed. Esras wondered if that was actually why the upper classes didn’t participate in Cogadh; they would just crush the lower classes to death to read their team assignments. As it was, the lists of Second Year teams was pinned to the wall as far as possible from the First Year lists without being in another building entirely (not that this stopped some of the Second Years from getting their shot in on the way).
Esras looked at the scrum, and the distant patches of paper on the wall. He shoved his hands in his pockets and waited where he was. He was pleased to see Aibhne, who had darted ahead the moment he was able, using his stature to its greatest advantage, shoving a hip-height path through the morass to get his team assignment and squeezing out the side by the wall like a pebble under a wheel. It took longer to find the others, and he was also pleased to see that they enforced something like a bubble of calm in the line as they made their way to the papers, though primarily by sacrificing some of their weaker hangers on to defend the edges. Still, it wasn’t a quick process.
Maybe he should join? But he was already behind, and he could probably just have asked Enda, who surely would have looked for his name if nobody else’s, and, really – wouldn’t they tell him, when they came back out of the crowd?
Eventually, he grew tired of standing and walked to an outcropping in the wall to lean on it.
Some of the urgency was leaking out of the crowd, as more and more people showed up and groups could start to coalesce. Part of the problem is that they wouldn’t all know each other; a name on a list was just a name on a list if you didn’t have classes with him. There was a whole half of their year that they hardly interacted with; surely some names would cross that line.
Finally, having monopolized the position directly in front of the lists for several minutes, Maoilín raised a hand and signalled that they were leaving (only a few straggled to search out their own names, not having been a priority for him). Esras thought about raising his own hand, to call them over, but refrained. Anyway, he could see Enda entering the hall in the distance.
Maoilín’s eyes found him and he walked over, the rest of the group trailing.
“I suspect they don’t want to overload the teams,” Maoilín said dryly.
“We’re not together?” Esras smiled and Maoilín smiled back.
“Maybe they want to test top leadership,” Cruvcrudiach said, face serious.
“You would see a test of our liking for pork if they served a roast two days in a row,” Maoilín replied.
“Doesn’t mean he’s wrong,” Esras said, even though he saw the coldness in Maoilín’s gaze. He hadn’t wanted that supposition voiced; he did tend to think everyone else was too stupid to notice even obvious things, though.
They all nodded to Enda as he, still panting, joined the group.
“I’m with you,” he said to Maoilín, who nodded, letting the slightest smile grace his face to indicate it pleased him.
“I’m with nobody,” Aibhne observed to the floor, grimly.
“Not nobody,” Oisín said stubbornly. “Just unknown.”
“Who are you with?” Esras asked, hoping it would distract Oisín from the look of disgust on Maolín’s face.
But Oisín’s face reddened. “I don’t know,” he said, casting a look back at the crowd around the wall.
“I know one,” Enda said. “I was looking for him. Brahn Innrachtig, went to Prep. Bit of prick, but not an idiot. Useful if you can stand him. He’d have been a good add.”
Enda was worried – so he had neither Esras nor anyone from this group on his team?
Maoilín ‘tsk’ed. “We’ll be fine.”
Oh.
Well, they would be fine, in terms of success. Whether it would be at all enjoyable…
He gave Enda a sympathetic glance, only to catch the eye of a cadet he didn’t know across the hall. He was tall, though he slouched – when the group he was talking to pointed in Esras’s direction, he straightened. He had to have at least a full head of height over Esras. Esras watched his face go from a kind of genial curiosity to a flash of dismay then – just as they saw one another – that dismay washed away with inundating pleasure.
Did they have a class together? He looked sort of familiar, but not very familiar.
The group around him was still conversing. Esras added small noises of attention, but was watching the cadet approach.
So he wasn’t THAT tall. He had maybe four or five inches on Esras, at least when they were both standing properly.
Maoilín said, “Your team is a bunch of nobodies, too.”
The perfect interruption; Esras could turn his gaze away. A few in the group were protesting, or adding their opinions on the members of his team. It amounted to a susurrus convening on mediocrity. They all kind of knew somebody, who kind of did well, on some kinds of tasks.
This was perfect, though Esras wasn’t going to tell them that. He wanted that mediocrity. It was harder to lead excellence, and he wanted to lead, and more importantly, be seen leading.
“Oh, hopefully I can make up for some of it,” Esras said in genial jest. In the corner of his eye he was still observing the approaching cadet.
“You may actually have to start doing something,” Maoilín said. Ah, yes – the bill come due. Of course he had noticed Esras’s coasting.
“It may not be as bad as all that,” Esras said, to a few scattered laughs. “Any match we lose will just be tactical.”
He directed this at Oisín, who in addition to appreciating the buoying of his point from earlier was to the right of where the approaching cadet broke into their group. Enda was on left. As a result, they were all smiling when the new cadet shouldered in.
“Hi,” he said. He had a nice voice, too. One that had settled early and settled deep. Or, Esras suspected, he deepened; it was probably a very smooth tenor.
He was staring at Esras, and holding out his hand, which Esras took with just enough of a wait to make it clear he was waiting for more. More didn’t come, though it seemed like he had every intention for it to follow in a timely fashion.
Finally, he said, “You’re Esras Cole?”
“I am,” Esras said, and Maoilín followed with, “For what it’s worth, he is. And you are?”
But the other cadet wouldn’t let his attention be grabbed away. “Sorry, what a fool, I’m Caevanoch, and because my mother was not very creative, I’m Caevan Caevanoch. We’re on the same Cogadh team.”
Caevan had one of those faces that had squared off early (something Esras’ own had been frustratingly slow to do), meaning he lacked the touch of baby fat many of the other cadets still carried. This and his height made him seem mature, which in turn, made Esras want to explore various questions like: how did the thick, straight hair on the top of his head feel like? Did the rest of his body look so admirably mature? His grey eyes were light and dancing in a way that suggested perhaps, but not quite – at least, not quite enough that he was willing to just as confidently lean over Esars on the wall as he had butted into the group. A balanced confidence, with enough bashfulness to still be intriguing.
“Well, as long as we’re not matched against Cruvcrudiach, we’ll have them for height,” Esras replied, smiling.
“You’re in my Grappling class,” Porridge said. “Oof, you’ll have to watch his reach.”
Fortunately, Cole did want to watch his reach. Very much so.
“Well,” Caevan said, “we’re on the same team, so…”
“We’ll put that reach to good use,” Esras said.
Caevan did have long arms, though not disproportionate to his body. He was lanky, and though it was hard to tell under their uniforms, Esras could easily imagine there was muscle under there; perhaps built since arriving, perhaps refined, but it had to be there in some form.
“Tits,” Maoilín said, grimly, recognizing a battle lost. “Let’s see if any of us can dig up our teammates. We can’t all be so fortunate as to attract them like flies.”
They had been staring at each other; Esras knew they had been staring, but he hadn’t wanted to break the staring, though one part of him arguing vehemently at how rude it was the rest of the group. The other part truly and deeply didn’t care. A third part watched Enda from the corner of his eye, and the confusion that passed into hurt that passed into resignation on his face.
“Sorry,” Caevan said, finally breaking eye contact to glance after the departing group and looking down before he faced Esras again – it was so hard for a taller person to manage to look up at someone without hunching ridiculously, but he was managing it, and Cole appreciated that very much. “I should be one to comment on names, but is yours really ‘Esras’? Where does that come from?”
Esras resumed leaning against the wall, just to add to the challenge of being looked up at, though he smiled as he did it. “My mother was very well read, and not very attached to tradition.”
“Take it from me then, that’s for the best.” He laughed, and revealed a slightly crooked front tooth. It would definitely catch against his tongue.
“Perhaps I will,” Esras said. “We’re going to be teammate after all.”
Caevan’s smile widened. Some of the tension drained out of his limbs, and he straightened his back slightly.
“Look,” he said, glancing down again, “since we are going to be teammates, I’m not sure I can manage ‘Esras’ – I realize I’ve got a clunker, but what else do you go by? My friends call me Van.”
“Van?”
He shrugged, some of his self-consciousness returning, but let out again with the next breath, as he said, “If you please.”
It gave Esras a second to think. “How about just ‘Cole.’ Neither is a long name, you know – it shouldn’t be difficult.”
“A bit officorial, isn’t it?”
“Isn’t that the goal?” Esras replied. “We’ll all be officers one day. Might as well start thinking about it now. And if it makes things easier…”
They exchanged a smile, as Van contemplated it, running a tongue over his teeth as if savouring the attempt to say it. Esras had said it on whim, but as usual, his whim produced a fully formed thought: it made him seem undisguised, honest and revealing to Van, but in fact it elevated his personal life to another field of play. This way, he could be comfortable with it. This way, there was one less deprivation to contend with, and he could buy the butter and keep his money, hold the snowflake still to see it – if he was smart about it, and he was always smart about his ambitions.
“Fair enough, Cole,” Van said. He hesitated, still looking down, before he turned back to Cole and smiled again. “I don’t want it to seem too easy, though.”
“Why ever not?” Cole asked. Yes, he was at least mature enough to know what Esras was talking about – and he was amenable, at least as amenable as eager.
“We’ll have to work together, you know? And I’m sure there’ll be disagreements. And it won’t be forever.”
“The head and heart seat different Kings/ and neither can be humbled/ neither can immortal be/ nor kingdoms kept from crumbling.”
Van tilted his head, eyes narrowed, a colour rising up his cheeks from the edges of his jaw kept carefully at bay. “What’s that from? Don’t tell me you just come up with that stuff. I’m not sure I can handle that.”
“Then let’s call it a fluke, just this once,” Cole said, as he pulled himself up from the wall, slowly enough Van didn’t pull back, leaving them quite close together. “Until we learn what we can handle.”
Van smiled. Cole smiled back.
“Classes are going to start soon. There’s only a few minutes,” Van said.
“Let’s not waste them, then.”