Total pages in book: 247
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 235897 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1179(@200wpm)___ 944(@250wpm)___ 786(@300wpm)
“Just waiting to escort you back to the quadrant.” She looks pointedly at Xaden. “Wouldn’t want you getting in trouble or doing something I’d have to report to General Aetos, seeing as Grady chose me as your companion and all.”
More like a fucking chaperone. “Do you mean Panchek?”
She shakes her head. “Aetos made it clear to the wingleaders that the Code of Conduct is to be followed to the letter.” Her eyes narrow. “Naturally, we’ve passed that order down through the chain of command. Turns out there are lots of us happy to make your life as miserable as possible.”
“Great.” I force a smile and the shadow slips from my thigh as I walk past Xaden, keeping even my eyes to myself so she doesn’t have anything to report.
“We’ll get time,” he promises.
“You’re safe here. That’s all that matters.”
At least until we go northward.
Some combat signets are fearsome, but any rider can be brought low by two things: lack of a shield…or a group effort. Never give the enemy the advantage of surrounding you.
—Gryphons of Poromiel, a Study in Combat by Major Garion Savoy
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
By the time it’s our squad’s turn to descend the stone steps of the Infantry Quadrant’s outdoor amphitheater on Friday, it’s been another four days since I’ve seen Xaden, and he keeps his shields up so frequently that we may as well just start writing letters again.
Carved into a northern ridgeline just west of the Infantry Quadrant, the half-dome arena is more fighting pit than lecture hall. It’s capable of seating all thousand-plus infantry cadets, but this afternoon the magically warmed space only holds our squad, Caroline Ashton’s from First Wing, and the devastatingly beautiful man standing in the middle of the flat base of the amphitheater, impatience carved on every line of his face. I’ve always loved him in uniform, but there’s something about seeing him in tight-fitted sparring gear, swords strapped across his back, that makes me instantly wish this was a private teaching session.
“This is incredible,” Sloane says ahead of me. “The snow is piled up along the edges, but it feels like summer in here.”
“Weather ward?” Lynx guesses, ruffling the melting snow off his short black hair.
“I’d guess there’s a little more to it than that.” Given the way the magic pulled at me like a sticky piece of toffee while walking through, I’m sure weather isn’t the only thing we’re keeping out.
Shadows brush against my shields as I strip out of my winter flight jacket midway down the steps, and I crack open just enough of my defenses to let Xaden in.
“I’ve missed you.” His gaze devours me, but he does a good job of quickly looking away.
“Same.” I lay my jacket on the first row of stone seats beside my classmates, leaving me in traditional sparring gear. “Is this where you’ve been hiding out?”
“Welcome to your first session of Signet Sparring, in what I like to call the pit,” he announces as we reach the base of the steps. The floor is laid in an arched cobblestone pattern of various shades, but only five or so feet are visible before the mat begins. “Those who can wield, keep your feet on the rock but—and I cannot stress this enough—off the mat. Those who cannot, take a seat in the first row.” He gestures to the terraced stone behind us, and cadets move. “If by hiding out, you mean constructing incredibly complex wards that might make even your sister proud, then yes. And it’s not like you’ve been accessible. Bodhi says you’re either reading with Andarna as a backrest or wielding alone in the range.”
An hour a day, that’s what I’ve promised myself. No matter how cold it is or how tired I am, I’m on the ridgeline with Tairn, practicing smaller, more concise strikes until my arms feel like jelly.
“I spend a lot of time in the library, too.” I roll my shoulders, then take my place between Ridoc and Rhiannon, keeping two rows back from the mat as I secure the strap of the conduit through the loop on the left side of my waist. “Quest squad may be headed north, but I’m still reading everything I can find on Deverelli, which isn’t nearly enough.” And the tomes on dark wielders both Queen Maraya and Tecarus have sent, though there’s been no hint of a cure or mention of a dragon ever torching a venin like Andarna did. Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t spend all my nighttime hours with Xaden, or I wouldn’t be flying through books like I am.
“Let’s go. It shouldn’t be this hard to sort yourselves out.” His gaze wanders to mine. “Quest squad?”
“Ridoc gave it a nickname and it stuck.” I shrug as the other squad fills in to the right of our third-years, standing in our mirror image, oldest at the center of the arc. “Aetos leaves for his trip to Calldyr soon, so we’ve been preparing to get into my parents’—” I wince. “His quarters.”