3rd of Inandyl - 1st Auryn

  My mind is distracted as Cira and I enter the large training hall for our Combat class. She asks about my aloofness, wondering if something “odd” has happened to me. I ease her conscience when I tell her no and try to explain in vague, non-descriptive terms that which has been consuming my idle thoughts for the last week or more.

  “Professor Elandria gave me some, uh, news on the subject last week.” I start, uncomfortably aware of all the scribes around us.

  “That sounds ominous.” Her voice is pitched low with a strain of concern in it.

  “It feels ominous, too.” I confirm while adjusting my position in our spot on the floor to lean closer to her. “She gave me a kind of answer as to the cause of all this, but only half of one.”

  Cira’s eyes narrow, “Half? How can you give half an answer to a student? Did she explain it at all?”

  I shake my head, still upset about it. “No, she told me Mistress Yevvena would explain it to me.”

  She scoffs in affirming sympathy to my plight, “Nice. So did Mistress Yevvena at least answer the topic fully?”

  I pause thinking of our conversation in her office a few days ago. “Mostly, yes.”

  “Wait,” Cira turns thoughtful at my confirmation, “Mistress Yevvena is god-touched, isn’t she?”

  I stiffen at the word. It’s too close to the mark. Namely, the mark on my neck of two crows circling each other behind my left ear. I smooth out my hair on that side, making certain they are well and truly hidden from view. “Yes,” my voice comes out as a hushed whisper, “She told me about the mark on her forehead and the extra senses it provides.”

  A gasp escapes Cira, more loudly than I would have preferred and I cover my own mouth in response. She mimics me, a blush of color blooming on her face as an obvious sign of regret for her reaction. She lowers her voice, leaning in toward me as I am toward her. “You don’t mean that…”

  I nod quickly, not wanting her to finish the statement in front of so many. Perhaps because I am hyper-aware of our surroundings, I notice the telltale feeling of being watched.

  I give a cursory glance around us, seeing scribes trickling into the hall in a steady stream of twos and threes. None seem to be paying any mind to us or anything else save for their own counterparts and conversations.

  “The Paragons and their Pactbearers was not something that I was anticipating as a topic of my research here.” I remark as I turn back to Cira, writing off my earlier suspicions to paranoia. That is, until Calas’ usual dry tones interject from behind us.

  “That’s quite a deep subject, little mouse. Color me surprised.”

  I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of his smooth, dusky voice. Cira though, was quicker to mask her surprise and instead jumps directly to indignant anger.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do than eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?” She asks hotly, a bold hint and a loosely veiled threat wrapped into one question.

  Calas’ neutral expression doesn’t react in any way to Cira’s chiding. “Not at the moment, no. Besides,” he goes on, turning his attention from Cira to me while giving one of his mischievous smiles. “This little mouse is my dueling partner.” As if that is all the explanation he needs to account for his interruption.

  Cira’s cheeks flush an angry shade of pink, clearly outraged at his easy-going response. “Take the hint, pig. She doesn’t want you here because class hasn’t started.” My eyes widen at the vehemence in her words. “Go pick on someone your own size, for once!”

  Calas’ hand thuds flat against his chest over his heart, a look of feigned dismay on his face and his tone mocking. “Oh, Ciradyl, your words wound me.” His expression and tone turns flat in an instant. “Truly.”

  Before either of us can retort, he goes on with an only slightly lighter tone. “As I said, this mouse is my partner for this class, so like it or not, she is stuck with me. If you are around her too, well, that is just your choice, isn’t it.” The last is a statement and they stare daggers at one another for long moments.

  I swallow hard, thinking through the tension and trying to figure out what, exactly, they are fighting about? Cira clutches onto her amulet, a sneer plain on her face and a protective arm around me. Calas regards her with a smile both menacing and mischievous and I conclude that it’s not really about me. This can’t be a fight over me. Right? That would be ridiculous. It must be something deeper, their idealogical differences maybe, like when they debated at the lectern or last week in this class. Yeah, I reassure myself, they are just from two different worlds. And I am from another, different world which is, somehow, caught in the middle.

  I interrupt their staring match with my mostly steady voice directing my words to Calas. “What Cira is trying to say is that we were having a private conversation and class hasn’t started yet. So there really isn’t any obligation for us to be in our pairs until class starts.”

  I turn to Cira, grabbing her hand from my shoulder while trying to get her to break the death stare she has leveled at him. “And what Calas is saying is that he is going to be around for this class and it should be expected that he will be around for only one more week.” Hopefully the last words sink in with her and she realizes that she will not have to suffer him for very much longer.

  Stolen story; please report.

  I shake my head, exasperated adding, “Let’s at least try to get through the rest of the term without fighting?” This helps minutely as it still takes them several more tense moments to look away from each other.

  I let out a ragged breath when they finally do as scribes fill in around us, the three of us sitting in silence. Even Tymon, who joins us afterwards, sitting next to Cira, does so in silence, reading the mood on us three perfectly.

  Professor Blackclaw starts class and tells us to get in our pairs to discuss new strategies with the added understanding of the last class’ discussion on the role of magic in combat. Scribes bustle and disperse, Calas moving off before any of the rest of our group from last week. Cira gives my hand a squeeze and an apologetic look before moving off together with Tymon. I watch them go for only a moment before looking in the direction of Calas’ back. Heaving a sigh, I go to join him.

  When I reach our little area, I start before he can say anything, “So partner,” I stress the word as an abject and foreign word never before used in this context. “Got any new and exciting strategies for me, today?”

  Calas gives a half chuckle, half scoff at my words, his voice has taken a half-hearted tone as well. “You are a vicious creature, mouse. And here I thought you didn’t want us to fight.”

  I huff my frustration, “Oh, I definitely don’t want to fight with you, but you make it really hard when you are being such an ass!”

  He takes a seat in our work space, unphased by my chiding. “Still clinging to your pacifist ideals then?”

  “Defensive ideals.” I correct him as I join him on the ground. “Protective ideals. And no matter what you may think, surviving is still just protecting yourself.”

  He leans back on his hands, a quiet, playful, almost dangerous smile spreads on his lips. “There is survival like you put it, and then there is survival as it actually happens. There is a reactive kind of survival and a proactive kind of survival. The kind of thing you are talking about, is a gamble and only works some of the time.” He shrugs with a tilt of his head. “I suppose if you are willing to take some losses, that is still a viable strategy.”

  I groan, wishing I had something to throw at him. “Again with this win/lose dichotomy! What is with your obsession with winning, anyway?”

  He runs a hand through the thick, top section of his coal dark hair, his tone serious. “Winning is the point of any combat, mouse.” His golden eyes has a weight to them when he meets my gaze and as if pulled in by them, the fire and frustration leaves me under it.

  “When you are in combat, in a real fight, it is not like duels. Winning means living. There are no draws and the loser is usually dead or wishing they were. I actually just really enjoy breathing so yeah, I take a special interest in winning real fights.”

  The smile left his face an I know then that he has experienced this before and they aren’t just words said to hurt me or scare me. Although, they do a bit of both. The next questions quietly leap out of my mouth before I can reign them in. “Is that why you hurt that scribe last year? Was it a real fight?”

  He shakes his head, breaking that intense gaze with me and something like resignation takes its place. “That’s not what we are discussing today.”

  I narrow my eyes, my cheeks flaring hot. How is it, that with one sentence, this stupid guy can tug my emotions from right to left and every which way? “So tomorrow, then? Next week?” My sarcasm is dripping with indignation as thick as Cira’s was earlier, but more pointed.

  “I thought you said you were my partner,” again stressing the word, “but it seems this is a pretty one sided partnership thus far.”

  He gives a real scoff this time, his tone still even. “You should talk. I’ve had to fight you tooth and nail this whole term.”

  “Gee, I wonder why.” My sarcasm is at its peak.

  This time it is him whose eyes narrow. His tone is questioning with a hint of frustration. “What is this about, mouse? Really about?”

  Sharp disgust crosses my face. “Like you don’t know! From our very first meeting you have been nothing but a bully to me!” I try to reign in my voice as well as my emotions.

  Shock widens his eyes, a dumbfounded expression on his face that I have never seen before. It is slowly replaced by confusion. “A…bully? Are you serious?” His usually confident, smooth tones are replaced by what I can only identify as pained. “I have done nothing but try to help you since I realized…” He stops, shaking his head to himself as if to rid himself of whatever it was he was going to say.

  When he looks at me again he has gained his composure, a mask of neutrality, his voice controlled. “It doesn’t matter. I never meant to make you feel that way.”

  “Then tell me!” I strike while the iron is hot, when he is oddly on the back foot.

  “I can’t, mouse.” The resignation is thick in his voice though he still wears a null expression.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both.”

  My nostrils flare as I breathe in my aggravation instead of unleashing it at him. How, on all of Akeroth, can he set me off with just one word? I rub my forehead, shielding my face as I exhale all that aggression. Why does it even matter that I know what happened to him last year? Why should I even care that he hurt someone?

  I hesitate for a moment, feeling my heart beat as it pounds in my chest. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, trying to sneak a peak at him from behind my hands. He is still leaning back on his hands, head tilted back and legs stretched out in front of him toward me. He didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer, but then again would I know one if I saw one?

  He doesn’t act like one either, though. I think of the malice and fear that nearly overwhelmed me when encountering the Beast of the Eldwood and even then knew that the Beast’s desire to rip me to shreds and Calas’ intensity are not the same. Besides, that Calas was the one who taught me the shielding technique that ultimately saved my skin back then. Before that even, in our first bout, he used a similar shield to protect me from Sonya’s magic.

  The heat on my cheeks becomes uncomfortable and I have to rip my eyes away from him. I know in my heart that killers don’t try to protect people as he has tried to protect me this term. So why am I bothered so much by this rumor? The answer comes to me in the image of that soft, concerned expression he gave me after the lectern let me go. I curl my knees up to my chest, hugging them tightly.

  “You didn’t do it on purpose, did you.” I look at him for confirmation resting my head on my arm.

  I watch the patterns of his tattoos shift in the natural light of the room, the wolf on his chest peeking out of the neckline of his sleeveless shirt as he lifts his head to regard me. He hesitates and for a moment, I think he won’t tell me and I hug my knees tighter. Why does it bug me so much that he won’t tell me?

  “No.” His response makes my heart flutter despite the regret etched on his face. When our eyes lock and the relief of an answer — the one I wanted no less— fills me, I realize why it bugs me so much. Why everything about him riles me so easily. I care. I actually care about Calas Duskwood.

  When had I started doing that?