It wasn’t until Ember was standing in front of the door to Corax’s study that she realized that she did not have a plan. Am I just going to bust in and ask about my mother? What if he’s in a meeting? She rocked back on her heels, looking at the nearest portrait on the hallway wall, which seemed to be arching a judgemental eyebrow.
Calm down, Ember told herself. The key to dealing with Corax was not to tip one’s hand unless absolutely necessary; she must be polite and avoid revealing her desperation with accusations. She took a deep breath, stealing herself, then gripped the iron doorknocker and tapped it thrice against the wood.
There was a pause in which the sound reverberated through the treehouse, fading into an uneasy silence. “Come in,” the headmaster’s coarse voice called from inside.
Ember pushed open the door. This time, her surprise was short-lived when her eyes alighted upon the array of oddities strewn about every surface. She passed display cases, stacked with skulls; scribbled diagrams that curled at the edges; and jars of flesh, preserved in formaldehyde. On the table where Corax had shown her the effects of viper venom, a half-finished experiment let off a thick white vapor. She lingered at a bookshelf, her fingers itching to seize the leather-wrapped tomes and demand they reveal the secrets of Corax’s psyche.
“Ah, welcome in, Ember,” the headmaster called, and Ember was forced to turn away from the artifacts and step out into the center of the room. Light streamed through the windows of the upper story, illuminating the crow, who sat at the round table at the top of the velvet-lined stairs. He looked back at her knowingly, his pitch-black eyes glistening.
Ember paused, registering with an air of disappointment that he was not alone; he was joined by a round, blob-like Linnaean with flaccid limbs and a pale, malformed shell hanging from his back.
A bolt of recognition passed through her. It was the shooter—the Linnaean who had jumped in front of Corax on the night of the winter solstice and released the darts that impaled the priest. She masked her surprise quickly, knowing that it would be difficult to explain her presence at the delivery.
“This is Ember,” Corax explained to his associate. “She’s the viper I told you about; the first-semester valedictorian of the freshmen class and the one who incapacitated the margay.” Ember swallowed unevenly, nodding. “Ember, this is Horace, a member of the Apex Association and a close friend of mine.”
At the words ‘Apex Association’ Ember’s attention sharpened. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, addressing what she thought was his face. “It’s nice to meet-”
The greeting died on her lips as the gelatinous mass in the seat turned toward her. Horace was not an attractive individual—in fact, he was downright grotesque, with eyes that hung out of their sockets on stalks and flaps of soft tissue that oozed mucus. A marine snail? she wondered, detecting the faint smell of salt that hung over his person. Had she not seen what he was capable of firsthand, she never would have guessed that he was one of the most skilled fighters in Mendel.
“Humm…” Horace said, the loose skin around his jaw slapping unsettlingly together, “Hello, child.”
Ember struggled to find her bearings again. “Forgive me for interrupting your tea,” she said, turning to Corax. “When might you be available to meet privately?”
“Nonsense,” Corax said, waving a feathered hand, “you’re always welcome, here, Ember, and Horace and I were speaking about trivial matters. If you don’t mind, we can talk in front of him.”
Ember took a breath, her eyes sliding over to the snail. She had intended to speak to Corax alone, but upon further consideration, it would be foolish to waste the opportunity to ask another influential figure about her mother.
“Sure,” she said, pausing when she realized that she was unsure of how to continue. “I grew up in Mapel Valley, just outside of Vargas. My mother disappeared–well, left–when I was ten,” she started, feeling as though she was making a mess of the whole ordeal by beginning in the wrong place. “Eight months later, my father and I received a messenger from Vargas announcing her funeral. But it’s more complicated than that.”
Ember scrunched her face up slightly, her brain whirring as she tried to sort through what to say and what to conceal. “My mother was… a secretive person. She was afflicted with a chronic illness, and she snuck out often. The circumstances surrounding her death were suspicious, but no one would tell us anything—not her parents, and certainly not the authorities.” Corax was nodding patiently. “I think… well, with the timing of her disappearance, I believe that she may have worked on the Aurelian Artery.”
“What was her name?” the headmaster asked.
Ember had been waiting for this moment. “Gloria Beaumont,” she said, searching the crow’s face for any signs of recognition. “That was her maiden name.”
He appeared to consider it for a moment, but Ember’s heart sank when his face morphed into an expression of pity, without a sliver of recognition. Her desperate gaze roamed over Horace’s face, too, but she could not identify whatever expression lay there.
“I’m sorry,” the headmaster said, “but I didn’t know her.”
“Are… are you sure?” Ember asked.
“Yes,” Corax confirmed, and the snail bobbed his head likewise. “Is there anything else you would like to ask, child?”
Even through her pain, Ember felt terribly patronized. Hell yes, there is! she wanted to shout. She wanted to know what he thought of the hostage situation; why he insisted she figure out everything by herself; why he had sent Jisu to a master… but above all, why he was so damned difficult all of the time. Yet, she felt certain that he wouldn’t answer any of those questions, either.
“No,” Ember replied, feeling hollow as she excused herself and disappeared down the staircase, her heart thumping erratically. It makes too much sense not to be true. Perhaps she was not Linnaean, then, but a human ally?
Or perhaps he lied, a voice whispered inside her head.
She swallowed unevenly. Having the crow as an enemy was unacceptable—not when he was the single most influential person in Mendel. Try as she might, she could not think of a reason why he would have lied to her about something as significant as knowing her mother.
***
Ember rested her back against the cool wall of the training building, taking air slowly into her lungs. It was the day of the evaluation: the opportunity to earn her first stripe and move up a level within the intermediate class.
The atmosphere was serious—even Ophelia, who usually poked at the students with her strange sense of humor, stood with her arms folded across her chest, business-like and commanding. A medic stood off to one side, his hand resting on a cart full of first-aid supplies.
Closing her eyes, Ember assessed her condition. It was altogether better than she had expected: her wounds had healed, and after two weeks of grilling herself on the basics, her strength had returned. She felt more stable, too, and less inclined to elbow or—god forbid—bite someone at the smallest indiscretion.
“It’s time,” Ophelia called, drawing the class nearer to her. The students rose from their stretches, the tension palpable in the air. “We’re going to begin with our conditioning test,” she explained, gesturing for them to follow as she opened the double doors to the outside. A torrent of cold wind blasted the group, and Ember’s eyes traced the still-grey horizon, thinking that it was far too early to be outside on a Sunday morning.
“We’re going to start by running twenty laps, or five miles, around the entire complex,” Ophelia told the group. “Everyone, not just those who will be testing.”
That’s to be expected, Ember thought, but picked up on several uneasy mutters from her peers.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Ophelia said, “‘Isn’t it unfair to be evaluated on our fighting skills after conditioning?’ I’m sorry to tell you this, but your hardest fights aren’t going to occur when you’re in top form. I’ve watched you all for months—I know what you’re capable of when you wake up fresh-faced. It’s when your energy is stripped away that your true fighting prowess surfaces.”
Ember inclined her head, remembering that Elliot had said something similar. “Don’t even think of cheating on your laps,” Ophelia added, “because Roland, Michael, and myself will be watching quite diligently. Now, go!”
Amid the jostling of bodies, Ember felt herself wake up—energy flooded her legs, a little stiff in the cold but not unwilling. She watched from the corner of her eye as Roland half-flew, half-climbed to the top of the training building, standing like a stark sentry with his arms crossed and his sharp eyes narrowed. Ember hadn’t intended on cheating, of course, but she knew Roland would be on her in a second if she so much as cut a corner.
Ember took the first laps at a steady jog, falling into place with Jisu at the front one-third of the group. She kept her mind keenly trained on her body: on how the blood flowed, warming her muscles; on her footfalls against the frozen ground; on her breath, which stayed even but stung a little in the cold. It was an easy run, compared to those with the reptiles, when brambles tore at her legs and hidden roots lay in wait to twist an ankle.
The pack separated predictably, with those who had given into nerves and sprinted out ahead soon falling behind. Ember and Jisu were joined by Jamarquis, whose long legs seemed to carry him effortlessly, and several higher-level students whom Ember knew only from observation.
The pressure began to build on the sixteenth lap. Ember listened as the carefully controlled breaths of her peers grew ragged along the edges, and she, too, felt the acidic burn of exertion begin to creep into her legs. When two of the older students took off at a sprint, Ember let them, preferring instead to save her strength for the fight to come—knowing Ophelia, strategy and placement would both be taken into account.
She crossed the line in fourth place, tied with Jisu. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she rested for a moment with her hands on her knees. When she stood to her full height, however, she was more invigorated than weary, now fully warmed up and restless with anticipation.
The students gathered inside as they finished their laps. When the last student came in at the thirty-six-minute mark, Ophelia gave them five minutes to catch their breath before calling them to the center of the training floor. “Today’s evaluation will be a little different than what you’ve experienced before,” she explained. “There are a variety of levels represented by the ten students who are testing today. Therefore, instead of sparring with each other, you will be divided into groups of five.”
She made a vertical slashing gesture with her arm, indicating where the group should be divided. The line fell directly between Ember and Jisu, separating them. “You five,” she said, gesturing to Jisu’s group, “will be sparring with assistant instructor Michael first. And you,” she pointed at Ember’s group, “will be sparring with Roland.”
It wasn’t until Ember was standing in front of the door to Corax’s study that she realized that she did not have a plan. Am I just going to bust in and ask about my mother? What if he’s in a meeting? She rocked back on her heels, looking at the nearest portrait on the hallway wall, which seemed to be arching a judgemental eyebrow.
Calm down, Ember told herself. The key to dealing with Corax was not to tip one’s hand unless absolutely necessary; she must be polite and avoid revealing her desperation with accusations. She took a deep breath, stealing herself, then gripped the iron doorknocker and tapped it thrice against the wood.
There was a pause in which the sound reverberated through the treehouse, fading into an uneasy silence. “Come in,” the headmaster’s coarse voice called from inside.
Ember pushed open the door. This time, her surprise was short-lived when her eyes alighted upon the array of oddities strewn about every surface. She passed display cases, stacked with skulls; scribbled diagrams that curled at the edges; and jars of flesh, preserved in formaldehyde. On the table where Corax had shown her the effects of viper venom, a half-finished experiment let off a thick white vapor. She lingered at a bookshelf, her fingers itching to seize the leather-wrapped tomes and demand they reveal the secrets of Corax’s psyche.
“Ah, welcome in, Ember,” the headmaster called, and Ember was forced to turn away from the artifacts and step out into the center of the room. Light streamed through the windows of the upper story, illuminating the crow, who sat at the round table at the top of the velvet-lined stairs. He looked back at her knowingly, his pitch-black eyes glistening.
Ember paused, registering with an air of disappointment that he was not alone; he was joined by a round, blob-like Linnaean with flaccid limbs and a pale, malformed shell hanging from his back.
A bolt of recognition passed through her. It was the shooter—the Linnaean who had jumped in front of Corax on the night of the winter solstice and released the darts that impaled the priest. She masked her surprise quickly, knowing that it would be difficult to explain her presence at the delivery.
“This is Ember,” Corax explained to his associate. “She’s the viper I told you about; the first-semester valedictorian of the freshmen class and the one who incapacitated the margay.” Ember swallowed unevenly, nodding. “Ember, this is Horace, a member of the Apex Association and a close friend of mine.”
At the words ‘Apex Association’ Ember’s attention sharpened. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, addressing what she thought was his face. “It’s nice to meet-”
The greeting died on her lips as the gelatinous mass in the seat turned toward her. Horace was not an attractive individual—in fact, he was downright grotesque, with eyes that hung out of their sockets on stalks and flaps of soft tissue that oozed mucus. A marine snail? she wondered, detecting the faint smell of salt that hung over his person. Had she not seen what he was capable of firsthand, she never would have guessed that he was one of the most skilled fighters in Mendel.
“Humm…” Horace said, the loose skin around his jaw slapping unsettlingly together, “Hello, child.”
Ember struggled to find her bearings again. “Forgive me for interrupting your tea,” she said, turning to Corax. “When might you be available to meet privately?”
“Nonsense,” Corax said, waving a feathered hand, “you’re always welcome, here, Ember, and Horace and I were speaking about trivial matters. If you don’t mind, we can talk in front of him.”
Ember took a breath, her eyes sliding over to the snail. She had intended to speak to Corax alone, but upon further consideration, it would be foolish to waste the opportunity to ask another influential figure about her mother.
“Sure,” she said, pausing when she realized that she was unsure of how to continue. “I grew up in Mapel Valley, just outside of Vargas. My mother disappeared–well, left–when I was ten,” she started, feeling as though she was making a mess of the whole ordeal by beginning in the wrong place. “Eight months later, my father and I received a messenger from Vargas announcing her funeral. But it’s more complicated than that.”
Ember scrunched her face up slightly, her brain whirring as she tried to sort through what to say and what to conceal. “My mother was… a secretive person. She was afflicted with a chronic illness, and she snuck out often. The circumstances surrounding her death were suspicious, but no one would tell us anything—not her parents, and certainly not the authorities.” Corax was nodding patiently. “I think… well, with the timing of her disappearance, I believe that she may have worked on the Aurelian Artery.”
“What was her name?” the headmaster asked.
Ember had been waiting for this moment. “Gloria Beaumont,” she said, searching the crow’s face for any signs of recognition. “That was her maiden name.”
He appeared to consider it for a moment, but Ember’s heart sank when his face morphed into an expression of pity, without a sliver of recognition. Her desperate gaze roamed over Horace’s face, too, but she could not identify whatever expression lay there.
“I’m sorry,” the headmaster said, “but I didn’t know her.”
“Are… are you sure?” Ember asked.
“Yes,” Corax confirmed, and the snail bobbed his head likewise. “Is there anything else you would like to ask, child?”
Even through her pain, Ember felt terribly patronized. Hell yes, there is! she wanted to shout. She wanted to know what he thought of the hostage situation; why he insisted she figure out everything by herself; why he had sent Jisu to a master… but above all, why he was so damned difficult all of the time. Yet, she felt certain that he wouldn’t answer any of those questions, either.
“No,” Ember replied, feeling hollow as she excused herself and disappeared down the staircase, her heart thumping erratically. It makes too much sense not to be true. Perhaps she was not Linnaean, then, but a human ally?
Or perhaps he lied, a voice whispered inside her head.
She swallowed unevenly. Having the crow as an enemy was unacceptable—not when he was the single most influential person in Mendel. Try as she might, she could not think of a reason why he would have lied to her about something as significant as knowing her mother.
***
Ember rested her back against the cool wall of the training building, taking air slowly into her lungs. It was the day of the evaluation: the opportunity to earn her first stripe and move up a level within the intermediate class.
The atmosphere was serious—even Ophelia, who usually poked at the students with her strange sense of humor, stood with her arms folded across her chest, business-like and commanding. A medic stood off to one side, his hand resting on a cart full of first-aid supplies.
Closing her eyes, Ember assessed her condition. It was altogether better than she had expected: her wounds had healed, and after two weeks of grilling herself on the basics, her strength had returned. She felt more stable, too, and less inclined to elbow or—god forbid—bite someone at the smallest indiscretion.
“It’s time,” Ophelia called, drawing the class nearer to her. The students rose from their stretches, the tension palpable in the air. “We’re going to begin with our conditioning test,” she explained, gesturing for them to follow as she opened the double doors to the outside. A torrent of cold wind blasted the group, and Ember’s eyes traced the still-grey horizon, thinking that it was far too early to be outside on a Sunday morning.
“We’re going to start by running twenty laps, or five miles, around the entire complex,” Ophelia told the group. “Everyone, not just those who will be testing.”
That’s to be expected, Ember thought, but picked up on several uneasy mutters from her peers.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Ophelia said, “‘Isn’t it unfair to be evaluated on our fighting skills after conditioning?’ I’m sorry to tell you this, but your hardest fights aren’t going to occur when you’re in top form. I’ve watched you all for months—I know what you’re capable of when you wake up fresh-faced. It’s when your energy is stripped away that your true fighting prowess surfaces.”
Ember inclined her head, remembering that Elliot had said something similar. “Don’t even think of cheating on your laps,” Ophelia added, “because Roland, Michael, and myself will be watching quite diligently. Now, go!”
Amid the jostling of bodies, Ember felt herself wake up—energy flooded her legs, a little stiff in the cold but not unwilling. She watched from the corner of her eye as Roland half-flew, half-climbed to the top of the training building, standing like a stark sentry with his arms crossed and his sharp eyes narrowed. Ember hadn’t intended on cheating, of course, but she knew Roland would be on her in a second if she so much as cut a corner.
Ember took the first laps at a steady jog, falling into place with Jisu at the front one-third of the group. She kept her mind keenly trained on her body: on how the blood flowed, warming her muscles; on her footfalls against the frozen ground; on her breath, which stayed even but stung a little in the cold. It was an easy run, compared to those with the reptiles, when brambles tore at her legs and hidden roots lay in wait to twist an ankle.
The pack separated predictably, with those who had given into nerves and sprinted out ahead soon falling behind. Ember and Jisu were joined by Jamarquis, whose long legs seemed to carry him effortlessly, and several higher-level students whom Ember knew only from observation.
The pressure began to build on the sixteenth lap. Ember listened as the carefully controlled breaths of her peers grew ragged along the edges, and she, too, felt the acidic burn of exertion begin to creep into her legs. When two of the older students took off at a sprint, Ember let them, preferring instead to save her strength for the fight to come—knowing Ophelia, strategy and placement would both be taken into account.
She crossed the line in fourth place, tied with Jisu. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and she rested for a moment with her hands on her knees. When she stood to her full height, however, she was more invigorated than weary, now fully warmed up and restless with anticipation.
The students gathered inside as they finished their laps. When the last student came in at the thirty-six-minute mark, Ophelia gave them five minutes to catch their breath before calling them to the center of the training floor. “Today’s evaluation will be a little different than what you’ve experienced before,” she explained. “There are a variety of levels represented by the ten students who are testing today. Therefore, instead of sparring with each other, you will be divided into groups of five.”
She made a vertical slashing gesture with her arm, indicating where the group should be divided. The line fell directly between Ember and Jisu, separating them. “You five,” she said, gesturing to Jisu’s group, “will be sparring with assistant instructor Michael first. And you,” she pointed at Ember’s group, “will be sparring with Roland.”
