I wait a moment longer before I slowly pick myself off the floor. Corian’s uniform stays clutched in my hands. My breaths come in slow, shallow gasps as I think about what comes next.
I have lost my Shield, my closest friend. But there is more to lose. If Corian’s House refuses to accept my apology, then my standing as a Striker is threatened. They will appeal to the Firstblade to release me from the forces, say I’m unfit to be entrusted with the life of another, unfit to protect this nation. Corian was the only reason I’d been allowed to become a Striker. Without him, I’m left unprotected. And without my aid, so is my mother.
If the House of Barra does not accept me, then I may have just seen my last days as a Striker.
3
I’m dreaming again. In the dream, I’m twelve, and Corian is there.
I’m crouched in the shadows of the back gate leading into the Strikers’ training arena, a vast amphitheater in the heart of Newage’s Inner City. From here, I can see the apprentices practicing their attack formations, their sapphire coats spinning in lethal unison. It is always like watching a dance, and I’m hypnotized.
I’m not the only one in Mara who loves to watch the Strikers train.
I look down at my own clothes. They’re ragged. Even my patched elbows are worn so thin that the cloth seems translucent. Hunger claws at the base of my ribs. Sometimes, I think I longed to become a Striker only because I knew their apprentices got living quarters, three meals a day, and a healthy weekly pay. So I’d fantasize about having all of that, giving my mother the safety of a home of her own. I’d sneak into the Inner City to watch them train at the arena. Now my gaze stays fixed on the youngest recruits as they face off against one another. They’re all around my age, some a little older. Soon, each will be paired with someone who best complements their personality and fighting ability.
When you can’t speak, you spend a lot of time watching. Parsing. Listening. This, at least, I do well, so I analyze the forms of the students and take mental notes on how they keep their footing. From the scrapyards dotting the Outer City, I’d learned how to shift my weight in my favor. I knew how to climb up haphazardly stacked metal ruins discarded in the yards, leftovers from the Early Ones dug up by farmers and builders. I could weasel my way inside some ancient engine to strip it of parts, then leap from one stack to another if it teetered. I could dance on unstable sheets of steel, using a blowtorch my mother had bought to sever the valuable pieces to sell. I knew how to twist between the wreckage to hide from bigger kids that vied for the yards with the best metals.
As I watch the apprentices, I mimic their steps, and my movements rise and fall in near-perfect sync with them. A grin lingers on my lips as the exercise warms my limbs. I lose myself in the concentration, until I can believe that the rags streaming behind my limbs are no different from their sapphire coats.
I don’t remember how long I stay there in the darkness, going through the motions. All I know is that I’m in midair when a young voice calls out to me from above the back gate’s entrance.
“You’re really good, you know that?”
The voice throws me off balance. I land awkwardly and fall with a thud, sending up a cloud of dirt. My head jerks up.
There, leaning idly over the top of the gate, is a boy with bright golden hair and a thoughtful tilt to his head. Even in a dream, his features are so clearly defined that it’s as if I were looking at him through a magnifying glass. His clothes are finely spun, and rings glitter on his fingers. He’s confident, his shoulders straight and chin raised. A highborn Maran.
My grin vanishes. My mother had warned me about rich boys.
“You’ve been out here every day for months,” he tells me. It is a voice that has never hesitated before.
Panic lodges in my throat. I scramble to my feet and immediately start running.
“Hey!” he shouts at me, but I don’t dare turn back. Refugees aren’t allowed inside the Inner City without a permit. If they catch me, what will they do? I’ve witnessed a woman shot in the head for trying to sneak past the wall guards. I’ve seen a refugee whipped to death for attempting to sell bushels of seaweed without a license at the Inner City’s night exchange.
I don’t stop to dwell on it. I just keep going.
Suddenly a force tackles me from behind. Before I know it, I’m facedown on the ground, and the boy’s voice is hovering over my head. I flip instinctively. He goes flying off me as I scramble into a crouch, my fists up.
He laughs, shaking dust out of his hair. All I can think about is how little he cares that he’s dirtied his fine clothes. I try to still my trembling hands. What kind of punishment will this mean for me?
“You’ve obviously never fought anyone in your life,” he says with a smile. “But I’ve been watching you. Your reaction time is incredible.”
When I flush, he offers to help me up. I stare at his outstretched hand, trying to figure out whether he’s serious or about to play a prank on me. Then, tentatively, I put my hand in his. He yanks me to my feet in a single motion, as if he’s been waiting to pull me up all his life. “I’m Corian,” he adds.
I don’t answer.
He frowns at me. “Well?” he asks. “And your name is?”
I pat my throat twice and sign to him. “I’m Talin. I can’t speak.”
I don’t expect him to understand what I said. But his eyes widen—and then he smiles and signs back. “Good. All Striker apprentices must learn how to sign,” he answers. “You know that, right?”
I remember everything about that moment—the movement of his hands through the air, the easy way he took in my soundless words, the kind smile on his face. I knew that Ghosts on the warfront had powerful hearing, but I didn’t know that Strikers used sign language to communicate out there. My lips twitch with a grin. He’d understood me. He understands me.
“They use the same signs that I do?”
“Very close. You’ll pick it up in no time.” I notice some of the differences now, like how some gestures are simplified, while others are more elaborate.
“So you want to be a Striker?” he asks.
I shrug, unsure what I’m allowed to say. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“I’m surprised a Basean would want to defend us,” he says, and now his face is grave. “Mara doesn’t treat your kind that well.”
I pause in surprise—a highborn Maran has never even laid eyes on me, much less paid such close attention to me. Much less sounded sympathetic to Baseans.
“We still all have the same enemy,” I reply. “Mara isn’t the Federation.”
He considers me seriously. “Why don’t you try out for the apprenticeship, then?” he asks.
“Baseans aren’t allowed to.”
“So? You move as fast as anyone inside that arena.” He nods over his shoulder. “You should at least come to the exams. I’ll put in a word for you with the Firstblade, if you’re interested.”
When I just stand there, stunned, he puts his hands in his pockets and turns away. I envy the straightness of his back, the wild confidence in every line of his figure. He really believes his words can carry that kind of power. It makes me think he must be right.