ChaoticArmcandy

  Roxa savored the bnching looks on their faces when the waters closed over their heads and they realized that she and Crissa were already anchored deep.

  Roxa tried to cast first. She was still mid-breath when Crissa thrust out her hand, and the double doors came smming back to hit the three boys with the force of a raging gale. They were all sent flying a short distance, limbs akimbo like ragdolls, before sprawling limply to the floor.

  Crissa’s hands blurred, and gleaming bck brambles erupted from the floor and snarled their bodies in coils and tangles that slowly cinched and tightened. One of them struggled weakly as he was stretched inexorably ft, and another groaned, before Roxa pumped a disconsciousness hex into each of them. Now lying spread-eagled and out cold, not one of their forms so much as twitched.

  Trembling, Crissa walked over to Regis and spat on him. “Watch me decline your society, pisspot.” To Roxa she said, “Let’s get out of here.” She turned to go.

  “Wait,” said Roxa. Her rage was like a bar of cold iron inside her. She had repyed her crystalline memory of the ambush in the greencourt over and over, the realization of her tactical blunder burning within her.

  She had not been thorough enough.

  She slipped on a fist spur. This one was blunted, meant to pulverize instead of puncture.

  One by one, she went to each of the bound bodies and, gritting her teeth, pounded her weighted fist into their knees. It was a gruesome task. Each catatonic boy began screaming as his kneecaps were shattered. Spellbound, they did not truly wake, but that didn’t stop their sobs and shrieks. She tried to shut her ears and focus on breathing through it.

  She could feel tiny prickles and flecks of distant, hungry attention from the River, trying to find purchase, trying to cling to her, but her rage washed them all away, like a cold, sharp flood of crity.

  Crissa stood watch in the doorway, looking nauseated. When it was done, Roxa joined her in the hallway, bitterly pale, lips pressed into a thin line.

  Crissa looked at her searchingly. Grimly, Roxa met her eyes. They walked quickly away.

  Once they had crossed several courtyards, Crissa slowed. She still looked queasy. “Roxa…” She held out her hand and looked a question.

  Roxa sought her hand and squeezed it.

  Crissa swallowed. “Thank you.” And then. “Why did you...do that?”

  Roxa took a deep breath and sighed. She found herself gncing up and to the northwest, though she knew her mountain was much too far away to see.

  They were in a small stone courtyard that was empty but for a single gnarled hemlock tree. Its roots buckled the paving stones, its limbs stretched out over a dry fountain.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m—I see how it protects us!” Crissa said in a rush. “It was really strong of you. But…” she winced, and fell silent.

  Roxa didn’t feel strong. She felt grimly exhausted, furious, adrenaline-soured. Why had she done it? Her tactical reasons were sound, but spouting them off felt a little dishonest. It had been a practical act of protection, in defense of herself and Mi and Crissa, too, and yet that was not all it had been.

  “Revenge,” she said, low and fierce. She looked up and met Crissa’s questioning gaze. “They’re vicious and brutal and—I’m afraid of them. But not nearly as afraid as I would be if I let them strike us without striking back.”

  Crissa frowned. “I’m with you on being afraid. And on striking back, obviously! But—they were unconscious, bound. I…” She trailed off, took a deep breath, started again, slower. “What you did—I just don’t want to let myself become like them, in order to fight them, you know?” She paused.

  Roxa watched her steadily.

  “Though…I was watching the revenants—they’re usually drawn like flies to that kind of predatory aggression. But they weren’t drawn to you? It was like, in that moment, your field shed them, or repelled them.”

  Roxa nodded. “Those bootlickers want us to behave like passive victims, paralyzed with fear,” she pointed out. “They want to put us in a ditch and they want to feel powerful doing it. I bet their fields made the whole current up there smell like a feast.” She shrugged. “Do you really think I was in danger of becoming like them? I just refused to let them get away with it.”

  Crissa shook her head reluctantly. “No, it’s just that—how do we not lose ourselves, if we respond to their attacks by acting just as brutally, just as viciously? It just makes me sad, I think, the way they force us to match them, in order to have any hope of beating them.”

  Roxa took another deep breath. She could feel a building pressure, words tumbling around inside her, cmoring to be let out. “What I did helped me overcome my own fear—helped me ward myself against my fear of them. I was just reminding myself that I’m not the victim they want me to be, and reminding them to be afraid, for once. I wanted to make them tremble, because now it’s their turn to learn what violence feels like!” Roxa’s eyes burned. “Maybe emascuting them that way was effective, but I didn’t do it as the means to an end, and I’m not interested in justifying it that way. My actions can stand on their own terms, as ends in themselves.” She snorted. “They tried to crush us, and I counterattacked—they didn’t force me to do anything, and it’s insulting to say I lowered myself to match them, especially when it comes to combat. The way they fight is nothing like the way I do.”

  Crissa was looking at her with an intensity she found distracting. Roxa shrugged at her self-consciously, her sudden roar of fiery expressiveness all used up. The question behind Crissa’s original question had been unspoken, but Roxa could feel it in the space between them. No, I’m not a sociopath. I’m just not letting myself forget what those arrogant fucks want to do to me or those I love.

  Crissa had not pulled her hand away. She nodded seriously. “Everyone loves to quote the sages to say that vengeance only continues the cycle of violence, but…I think what you’re saying makes them sound toothless and tone deaf. And I will not be toothless.”

  Green eyes met blue ones and more than gratitude passed between them. Both were silent for a long, unbroken moment.

  Roxa looked apologetically at her. “That boy recognized me, though. From…another thing. You might be targeted for that now, too.”

  “Oh, I’m used to getting attention aplenty,” said Crissa bitterly. “I can handle a little more.”

  Roxa cast her an admiring gnce. “You’re pretty strong yourself. And you’re so fast. I wish I had half your speed.”

  Crissa shrugged. “I’ve had to be,” she said simply. “And my friends give me courage.” She frowned. “But what are they after you for? If that’s okay to ask.”

  “It’s my prefect’s vendetta,” said Roxa darkly. “Penelope Caul. Those were just her bootlickers.”

  “Her? Ugh, she’s the worst!” Crissa spat. “How did you catch her ire?”

  Roxa grimaced. “She’s trying to kill my best friend, to teach me a lesson.”

  “By all the unquiet dead.” Crissa shook her head in disgust. “She must know she can get away with a lot more these days. Even six months ago, I would have thought you were exaggerating, but...”

  “I wasn’t paying enough attention to what’s been happening here.” Roxa looked away. “I goaded her without thinking.” She winced. “It’s actually really bad. She’s almost untouchable, here. And if she actually does manage to—” Roxa’s throat tightened, and she stopped.

  There was a pause. Crissa squeezed her hand.

  Roxa swallowed. “I don’t know what to do, except maybe challenge her to a duel, and fake an accident?” She shook her head. “She’s so well-connected though. Even with my mother’s diplomatic privilege, I’m not sure I could survive the fallout.”

  “You might be able to take her in single combat. She’s a very sharp sorcerer.” Crissa’s eyes fshed. “Better, though, when a rabid dog has the scent of your blood, to lure it into a trap and dispatch it at your leisure, don’t you think?”

  ChaoticArmcandy