Even more of the students succumb to seasickness, and I can smell the vomit even from up in the net. I must be turning green myself, because Anna says, “You better not puke on me.”
Ares looks completely undisturbed.
“I used to go out in fishing boats all the time,” he says. “Boats a lot smaller than this. You bob around like a cork.”
When we finally spot the island, it juts out of the water like an accusing finger pointing up toward the sky. The limestone cliffs rise up for hundreds of feet in a sheer pale sheet, with waves crashing against their base, sending up so much spray that we can feel it all the way over on the ship. Far up on the cliffs I see the stone walls of Kingmakers itself.
Part castle, part fortress, Kingmakers is built directly into the cliffs, so it rises up in three levels hewn out of the rock. Constructed in the 1300s, it has most of the gothic elements you’d expect, including six main towers, a portcullis, military-style gates, and a winding German-style zwinger, which forms an open kill-zone between the defensive walls.
The limestone walls are white as bone, and the steeply pitched roof is black. The pointed archways and the stained-glass windows are dark as well, as if there’s no lights on inside. To divert rainwater off the roof, the drainage spouts are carved in the shape of grotesque gargoyles, demons, and avenging angels.
I can hear the students falling silent below us, gazing up at Kingmakers just as Anna and I are doing. The school has us all transfixed. Even in the Mediterranean sunshine, there’s nothing bright or welcoming in its towering stone walls.
Our ship has to skirt the island to approach on the lee side. Even then, it takes our Captain several attempts, doubling back and trying over again, to shoot the narrow gap into the harbor.
We pull up to the only dock, the crew throwing down their ropes with obvious relief.
As the crew unloads our bags, the students climb into open wagons with bench seats running along both sides. Each wagon is pulled by two massive Clydesdale horses who stand even taller than me at the shoulder, thick tufts of hair hanging down over hooves the size of dinner plates.
“Are we going on a hayride?” one of the girls in our wagon laughs.
“I don’t think they have any cars on the island,” Anna says to me. “Look . . .”
She nods her head toward the unpaved road winding through the tiny village clustered around the bay. Sure enough, I don’t see so much as a moped anywhere around.
Once the wagons are loaded up, the drivers climb up on their tall bench seats and flick the reins to tell the horses we’re ready to go.
Our driver is a skinny, deeply tanned man wearing suspenders and a pair of trousers that are more patches than pants.
“Do you work at the school?” I ask him.
“Yup.” He nods.
“How long have you worked there?”
He glances over at me, squinting in the bright sun.
“Feels like a hundred years,” he says.
“Did you go there yourself?”
He snorts. “You writin’ a book, kid?”
“Just curious.”
“You know what curiosity did to the cat.”
I grin at him. “I’m not a cat.”
After a long pause, in which I think he won’t answer, he says, “No. I didn’t go to Kingmakers. I was born on this island. I’ve lived my whole life here.”
“Do you ever go to Dubrovnik?” I ask him.
“What’s Dubrovnik?”
He says it so drily that it takes Anna stifling a laugh for me to realize that he’s fucking with me. I laugh, too, and the man grins, showing teeth that are surprisingly white next to his tanned face.
“I go once in a while,” he says. “But I like it better here.”
It doesn’t take long to leave the little village behind us, and to begin ascending the long, winding road toward Kingmakers. We drive through orchard and farmland, then up through rockier ground where goats and sheep graze.
I see olive groves and a vineyard so heavy with grapes that you could almost get drunk off the scent alone.
All the while we’re climbing steadily, drawing closer to the colossal stone gates of Kingmakers.
On one side of the gate stands a winged female figure brandishing a sword. On the other, an armored man holding an axe.
We pass between the two figures onto the grounds of the school.
Up close, the castle is even larger than I expected. It’s almost like its own self-contained city with greenhouses, terraced gardens, courtyards, palatial buildings, towers, armories, and more. I don’t know how the fuck I’m ever going to get to class on time.
Anna sits next to me, silent but looking everywhere at once.
“What do you think?” I ask her.
“It’s beautiful,” she says.
Trust Anna to skip right over “strange,” “terrifying,” and “intimidating” to land right on “beautiful.” I guess, considering the house she grew up in, Kingmakers probably feels more like home to her than it will to anybody else.
Since I grew up in a normal house with sunlight and stainless-steel appliances, I find Kingmakers just a little bit spooky.
As the wagons pull into the main courtyard, we’re met by a dozen students who look like they’re probably Seniors. They’re all neatly dressed, with their shirts tucked in, ties in place, and hair properly combed. They look cool and comfortable, and like they’re ten years older than us instead of only three.
By contrast, we tumble out of the wagons in various states of undress, sunburned and sweaty, with our hair salty and tangled from the sea breeze. The Seniors smirk at each other.
A tall black girl steps forward. She’s slim and elegant, with her hair twisted into a thick braid that hangs over her left shoulder.
“Welcome to Kingmakers,” she says coolly. “I’m Marcelline Boucher, and I’m a Senior year Accountant. This is Rowan Doss, Pippa Portnoy, Alfonso Gianni, Johnny Hale, Blake Wellwood, Grant McDonald . . .”
She points to her fellow students, listing off their names in such rapid succession that I can’t remember any of them a moment later.
“We’re here to take you to your dorms. So you can get . . . cleaned up,” she says, raising a disdainful eyebrow at the lot of us. “I’m going to read your names. Grab your bag and join your guide. And pay attention! I’m not going to repeat myself.”
She barks the last line at a couple of Freshmen who were whispering to each other. They snap to attention under her fiery stare.
Marcelline pulls a list out of her pocket and begins to read off our names.
Anna’s in the first group, and the smallest—there are only three female Heirs in our year, including her. She retrieves her suitcase and goes to stand beside Pippa Portnoy, a petite girl with a sly expression and thick, dark bangs hanging over her eyes.
The next two groups are Enforcers—almost all male, with a dozen students assigned to each guide. The Accountants are called next, then the Spies, and finally we’re down to the male Heirs. Marcelline reads off the names, pointlessly since we’re the only ones left:
“Bram Van Der Berg, Ares Cirillo, Erik Edman, Leo Gallo, Hedeon Gray, Valon Hoxha, Kenzo Tanaka, Jules Turgenev, Emile Gerard, and Dean Yenin.”
Fucking great. I’m going to be sharing a dorm with the two most obnoxious people I’ve met so far.