Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(121)

Akiil grunted skeptically.

“What is the point,” Kaden pressed, “of this? Of kinla’an?”

Tan studied him before responding. “There are three reasons,” he said at last. “First, relying on the body allows you to let go of the mind—this brings you a step closer to the vaniate. Second, the Shin understand the vaniate, but they never put it to use. Our predecessors did not learn the emptiness simply in order to bask in it. They used it as a tool. Running or fighting—your body moves more quickly without the weight of thought pressing down upon it.”

Akiil looked like he was going to object, then scowled and looked away. The bruise where Tan struck him earlier had purpled impressively, puffing out his cheek and partially closing one eye.

“What’s the third reason?” Kaden asked cautiously.

Tan paused. “Bait.”

“Bait?” Kaden responded, trying to make sense of the word. “You mean for—”

“You were alone. Blindfolded. Unarmed. I hoped that whatever killed Serkhan would come for you.”

“Holy Hull!” Akiil exploded, rounding on the monk, his hands balled into fists. “What if it had?”

“I would have shot it,” Tan replied.

“Well, I’m f*cking glad it never showed up!”

“Don’t be.”

Kaden shook his head. “Why not?”

“I was standing motionless on that boulder. An animal would never have noticed me. It would have taken the opportunity to attack.”

“Maybe the thing just isn’t down here today. Maybe it’s up in the high mountains.”

“And maybe,” Tan replied grimly, “it’s smarter than we realized. Maybe it saw the bow and spear. Any beast can kill. Maybe this thing we face can plan.”





29





Wing Selection felt like a twisted cross between a holiday ball and an execution. Most of the older Kettral certainly treated it like a holiday. Someone had rolled a couple of casks of ale into the main training arena—the Eyrie loosened the strict prohibition against alcohol on Qarsh for the event—and the grizzled veterans brought their own tankards. Most of them had been going at the liquor with a will since midmorning, staking out seats on the stone walls ringing the space, tossing back and forth taunts and insults with the careless cheer of men and women who narrowly avoided death day in and day out, but who, for the space of a few hours, could afford to let down their guard and enjoy the discomfort of others.

“Hey, Sharpe,” one of the men bellowed down at Gwenna. It was Plenchen Zee—thick as a barrel but damned near impossible to kill, if the stories were true. Someone had sliced out one of his eyes, and he’d taken to filling the cavity with all sorts of unsettling things: stones, radishes, eggs. Today a ruby bulged jauntily from the socket. “I’ve got a spot on my Wing for a lady like you.” He waggled his tongue while raising his eyebrows.

Gwenna turned on her bench to fix him with a glare. “If you’re looking for a whore, I’d recommend Sami Yurl. I’m in demolitions.”

“You might want to watch your tongue,” Yurl snapped from a few rows away. He had no visible scars from the Trial, his blond hair was as carefully coiffed as ever, but his eyes were angry, sullen at the unexpected slight. “If you’re assigned to my Wing, I just might have to cut it out.”

Zee roared with laughter at the exchange, oblivious of or indifferent to the undercurrent of real hatred running beneath the words. This was the part of Wing Selection that felt like an execution. Sometime between the emergence of the cadets from Hull’s Hole and now, two days later, a cabal of commanders and trainers had put their heads together to decide which cadets would go where. Their decisions were final and not open to appeal. Some of the newly minted Kettral would be assigned to veteran Wings, filling gaps left by those who had been killed flying missions; others would comprise original Wings of their own. Despite the barrels brimming with ale, the Annurian banners flapping against the sky, the tables around the edge of the arena piled with shanks of lamb, braised haddock, and a dozen kinds of fruit, some assignments today would turn out to be death sentences.

“’Shael on a stick,” Gent muttered, glancing over his shoulder, “I hope I don’t get stuck with Zee.”

“I think he’s got eyes only for Gwenna,” Laith replied with a shrug.

“Good. The soldiers on his Wing don’t live that long.”