Miscalculation

A young girl runs from her pursuers. She feels them more than hears them-they are too experienced for negligent noise.

She sees the crest now, but the path is growing ever steeper. Her breathing is labored, her lungs and legs burning. She is so close…

Something hits her hard in the shoulder. She feels the barbs digging in, sinking into her flesh and catching. She pulls away, but the pain is overwhelming as the hooks hold to each layer of skin and muscle. She falls to her knees and bows her head.

She feels them encircle her, senses their amusement. She should know by now that she will never escape.

***

“Will is all about power. It is inner strength, built up by travail and hard work. By cultivating such attributes as discipline, perseverance, diligence, endurance, and pain tolerance, you build your Will. The stronger your Will, the strong your mind attacks and the greater your ability to survive and recover from the mind attacks of others.”

They all stood around Will Master Littan on an open field surrounded by a paved track. The morning air was crisp and refreshing, but the sunbeams from behind foretold a hot day.

Jistan listened intently, despite the fact that he had heard much the same speech thousands of times from various speakers. He tried to glean something new with each reiteration.

This time, though, something else was bothering him, prodding at the back of his mind. He tried to shove the irritating thoughts away, but they were persistent.

He knew a trick about Will that no one else had discovered. That had always given him an edge when going up against others, and he liked that. But now, he wasn’t in a man-versus-man competition to determine prowess and strength. Now, he was part of something far bigger, with everyone working to defeat…something. The ‘Delani’, whatever they were. So didn’t that mean he should tell others what he knew? The whole army could be strengthened with this knowledge.

Still, he recoiled a little at the thought. It was selfish and stupid he knew, but he liked having the upper hand in contests. He liked the idea of knowing a secret that no one else did.

But then he thought of his family. If knowing his little trick made his father and sister safer, then he would tell the whole world, no questions asked.

The Will Master began directing drills. Some Will drills were physical, requiring you to push your body beyond its limits. Others were trials of patience and self-control, such as sitting perfectly still for hours without speaking or opening your eyes. The worst ones involved someone else inflicting physical pain upon you for as long as you could handle, strengthening your resilience and determination. Back in Bavadin, Jistan’s Master had loved to see who could last the longest during these torture sessions. His favorite method was to methodically give papercuts up the arms, then down the legs from knee to ankle, then finally moving to the neck. Jistan was the only one who had ever made it that far, so he had no idea what body part came next in the sequence.

Jistan was assigned to anaerobic training first. When the bell rang, everyone in his group had to sprint as fast as they could around the track. When it stopped, they could slow to a jog. As soon as the bell rang again, they would sprint. They would continue in this pattern until they could no longer run. The ones who lasted the longest would be given the highest ranking. The rankings would determine who was ready to move forward into official positions in the army and who needed more basic training. Jistan half hoped he would be told he wasn’t ready. He certainly didn’t feel ready.

After only five rounds of sprints, Jistan’s lungs and legs were burning. No one had dropped out yet, but he could see ragged expressions and hear labored breathing all around him. Over the next five rounds, about half of the trainees gave up.

Jistan kept running, stubbornness keeping his legs moving more than anything else. Of all the things he hated, he despised losing most of all. Since childhood, everything had been a competition. If he didn’t win, it was like failing at life itself.

After over a dozen rounds, Jistan lost count. His brain was starting to feel fuzzy and his vision grew blurry around the edges. Still he ran on, his sprint becoming more of a sloppy run, his jog barely more than a walk. But one other person was still in the game with him-he could hear their footsteps. He didn’t dare turn his head to look who it was. He couldn’t afford any wasted energy.

He ran three more, his chest feeling like it was on fire. He gasped in ragged breaths, his throat dry and his lungs likely bleeding.

He missed a step, legs giving out, and stumbled to a stop, barely managing to keep on his feet. His legs nearly buckled underneath him. In an instant, someone was at his side steadying him. It was an unfamiliar young man with auburn hair and more freckles than normal skin.

Jistan felt his cheeks grow red with shame. He’d lost. He’d-

He looked around. Where was the other runner?

“Good job, man,” the red-head said, grinning. “You killed it out there.”

Jistan put a hand to his head, noticing another figure, a girl, slumped over against a water barrel, face flushed and eyes shut. Everyone else looked slightly recovered, so she must have been the only other one running recently. He realized he must have been so focused on running that he hadn’t heard her drop out.

“Thanks,” he managed to wheeze, leaning tiredly against his new acquaintance.

“I think that’s a new record,” Will Master Littan said, clapping Jistan on the shoulder. It wasn’t very hard, but it was almost enough to send Jistan to his knees. Littan wasn’t the like the Will Masters Jistan had known before, with their grey hair and wrinkles and flabby arms. This was a warrior, several inches taller than Jistan with a shaved head and a square jaw. His brown eyes were hard, the eyes of a soldier, but his smile was sincere.

Jistan managed to give a weak smile. “Woohoo,” he croaked.

***

Joree leaned back against a fallen log, legs stretched before him, one arm flung over his eyes. A small knob poked into his back, but he was too tired to move.

“Okay, you’ve had your rest. Can we please get some food now?” Aniah’s voice was impatient and irritable. She’d managed to say ‘please’ in the least polite way possible.

“You are welcome to get yourself food at any point,” he replied dryly. His muscles ached from carrying a heavy pack all day for eight days straight while walking through less than ideal terrain. To add to that, Aniah had been badgering him constantly, which meant that his brain was aching as well. She never helped him with the fire, the cooking, the hunting, or carrying the pack. Even if she had been inclined to help, he doubted she knew how to do much of anything. Besides tell people what to do when they already knew what to do.

“Watch your tongue, citizen,” she snapped. “Remember your place.”

“My place is on a farm in Ranteel,” he replied with a sigh. “I remember it fondly.”

A small rock bounced off his stomach. He lifted his arm off his eyes to frown at her.

“You would do well to respect authority. I am your future Highness, don’t forget.”

He sat up, meeting her gaze levelly. “You may be of a higher station than me, Aniah, but you don’t have authority.”

She snorted. “Oh? Really?”

He nodded, expression not changing. “Authority only exists because we give it to people. Highness Arellia has authority because she has proven her power and ability to maintain order and protect her citizens. She has earned her authority. If she died, you would gain that authority temporarily, but only keep it so far as you could also continue to complete the work that she was doing before passing the mantel to you. So no, Heiress, you do not have authority. Authority is earned, and you haven’t earned it.”

She opened her mouth and shut it several times, obviously wanting to argue but unable to form a suitable response. Finally, she settled for glaring at him.

“We’ll see what the royal Fiedons think when I tell them to arrest you,” she muttered. “We’ll see if they think I have no authority.”

Joree let himself rest for a while longer. Soon, though, his own stomach started complaining, the hunger momentarily winning out over the exhaustion. He shoved himself to his feet and moved to gather some firewood. Aniah watched him critically, waiting for any chance to critique and correct him.

Joree made sure the fire was strong before leaving with his throwing knife to find something to eat. He told Aniah to put several small sticks on the fire to keep it alive while he was gone, hoping she would be capable of that much.

***

Aniah watched Joree return, holding a rabbit by the feet. He met her eyes, making sure she was looking, and then ripped the fur right off the creature in one sickening tear.

She gagged, looking away. He had done that on purpose, trying to make her sick. She wanted to glare at him, but forced herself to look at the ground instead. He would be doing other disgusting things to the creature now, and she wasn’t going to look this time.

After a while, she saw he was roasting hunks of meat on a long skewer. Feeling it was safe to look up, she turned to the fire. The smell of roasting meat made her stomach growl.

Joree crouched, slowly spinning his roasting stick. The firelight made his jade green eyes almost mesmerizing, and it casted reflecting light off his golden hair.

She scowled. A stupid, insufferable peasant had no right to be so attractive. She looked away pointedly, staring instead at the meat.

“Is it almost done?” she demanded.

He pulled the meat back towards him, popped a piece of the end, and inspected it.

“It’s perfectly done,” he said. She leaned forward, instinctively reaching for it. “-If you want to get some sort of disease from eating undercooked meat,” he finished casually.

She sat back down with a thump, hitting her tailbone and growling softly in the back of her throat. This man was sent from the Flames to torment her, she was certain of it. There was no other reason for the existence of Joree the farm boy.

***

Narissa kept her head down, eyes shut, hands clasped firmly in her lap. She was alone now in a small, locked room. It was adequately lit and the chair she sat on was comfortable, but she had never felt so miserable.

She imagined she could hear the hoof beats now, thundering away from the city and into the forest. She pictured two frightened children running for their lives, neither of them with the power, ability, or knowledge to resist what was coming for them.

Narissa had made a terrible miscalculation. The Kritons were a formidable enemy, to be sure. Even alone, they might have found out about the two missing children, connected them to Narissa, and gotten the information out of her. But it would’ve taken time, and more likely she would have died before telling anything.

But they hadn’t been alone. And their ally had known exactly how to break her to get the information the Kritons needed. They hadn’t tried to torture her. They had started killing children.

***

Without the fire, the night air would have been chilly. As it was, Joree had to sit a good distance away from the flames to keep sweat from forming on his brow. Aniah, on the other hand, was curled up next to it, sleeping soundly. Her black hair cascaded around her, long and thick enough that it was almost a blanket. He wasn’t sure how she managed to keep it looking so clean and orderly despite their ordeal.

Joree caught himself staring into the fire again, eyes glazing over and thoughts drifting. Cursing under his breath, he forced himself to turn his back to the entrancing light. He was supposed to be on watch. It wouldn’t do to be blinded by the firelight if an attack came.

As he was turning, he heard a sound that nearly made his heart stop. It was faint, but unmistakable.

Hoof beats. He leapt to his feet, wavered for just a moment as his tired body swayed and his vision fuzzed, then sprang into action. He kicked dirt at the fire, then bent down to shake Aniah awake before he was fully finished with that first task. She groaned and muttered weakly.

“We have to go,” he said urgently, keeping his voice low. It was probably unnecessary, as whoever was approaching wouldn’t be able to hear them over the noise of their own horses.

“Wha?” Aniah muttered, rubbing bleary eyes and sitting up.

“Someone’s coming,” he hissed. “We’ve got to move.”

Understanding slowly dawned on her face, which grew even paler in the flickering firelight. He pulled her to her feet and scooped up their pack. He briefly considered putting the fire out the rest of the way, but decided it wouldn’t matter. Whoever was coming had certainly already spotted the smoke.

“Let’s go,” he said. For once, Aniah didn’t complain. She followed him, sprinting eastward. Joree hoped that if the riders were pursuing them, they would assume he and Aniah had continued north.

They were making progress through the dense underbrush when suddenly Aniah went down with a shriek. Joree cursed and stumbled to a halt, backtracking a few steps and crouching beside her.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“I tripped on something,” she moaned, clutching her ankle.

“Can you walk?” he asked urgently.

She glared at him, bright blue eyes glinting in the starlight. “I’m touched by your concern,” she growled.

Not in the mood to argue, he looped an arm behind her back and pulled her to her feet. She cried out loudly, leaning against him. He cursed again. Her ankle seemed genuinely injured.

“Just lean on me and move as quickly and quietly as possible,” he whispered. She nodded, teeth gritted. Likely she wanted to argue, but was in too much pain.

The sound of stamping hooves grew louder.

“They must have heard your screaming,” he muttered.

“So sorry for my inconvenient agony,” Aniah snapped.

Joree didn’t have time to respond. At that moment, a figure on horseback broke through the trees behind them. Aniah cried out in alarm, fingernails digging into Joree’s arm. He tried to pull them to the side, but more horsemen began to appear.

Within moments, they were surrounded.