The Blinding Knife
Page 141

Kip touched his nose gingerly. Oh, that was not the right shape for a nose. “Is that the thing where it makes that sound and I scream?”
“Try not to,” Gavin said. Heedless of Kip’s sweaty hair, he reached behind Kip’s head, holding him in place, and grabbed his nose, pulling on it.
Kip gasped, gasped, breathed. Orholam have mercy!
But he didn’t scream.
Sure, that’s the one thing I don’t fail today.
He followed Gavin to the bleachers, but the only part of what his father had said that stuck with him was “almost” and “He’s better than you.”
A green drafter chirurgeon brought superviolet-infused bandages and tended to Kip’s cuts as they watched the remaining fights. With tiny needles and thread of green luxin, the man stitched up Kip’s right cheek and left eyebrow, then smeared stinging unguents on those and several other cuts.
Then he gave him what Kip thought was far too modest a dose of poppy tea. Kip was glad he was sitting, because he didn’t think his legs were going to let him stand.
All in all, watching the fights was absolutely no good in teaching Kip anything because he couldn’t pay enough attention to learn. It was, however, a good distraction. Teia defeated a challenge, and then won two fights against boys who looked stunned at how fast she was. She ended up at seventh. Kip was proud of her. He could tell from her quiet grin that she was proud of herself, too.
They watched until the end. Watching Cruxer fight was art. He’d been bumped down to fourth by their “loss” in the real-world testing, too. He challenged third, second, and first—and won. Kip saw his father look over at Commander Ironfist, impressed. “He a legacy?” Gavin asked.
“Third generation. Inana’s and Holdfast’s son.”
“Should have guessed. They still alive?”
“Inana is. She’s been holding on. For this.”
“He’s amazing,” Gavin said. “He might even be better than you were.”
Ironfist raised an eyebrow.
Gavin grinned.
Ironfist grunted. It might have been assent. “If he lives long enough.”
“I should go see Inana,” Gavin said. “She was a gem.”
The scrubs began lining up for the little ceremony that would see them become trainees. Kip’s stomach turned. “Can we go now?” he asked.
Gavin said, “This is your friends’ moment of triumph. Think about someone other than yourself. You turn your back on them now, and they’ll remember it forever.”
Kip blinked. Blinked. I’m a self-centered brat.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
Commander Ironfist got up and went forward. All the scrubs were lined up according to their placement in the top fourteen. Except for Cruxer, who was down on both knees in the training circle, head bowed, one hand to his eyes and forehead in the sign of the three and the one, praying.
“Cruxer!” Trainer Fisk barked. He was standing in front of Aram at the bottom of the line, ready to pin the Blackguard pin to each scrub’s lapel. “Time to pray later.”
The scrubs were smirking, triumphant, accustomed to and amused by Cruxer’s quirks. They all stood proudly, hands folded behind their backs, stances wide, chests out. All around the training ground, the older trainees and the full Blackguards were standing up, coming to attention themselves. Standing the same way.
“Yes, sir.” Cruxer jumped to his feet and came toward the line. He was smiling, but Kip thought it was a tense smile.
As everyone was standing proud, Kip felt the gulf between him and them intensely. Outsider, loner, alien. They were all he would never be.
“Sir?” Cruxer asked, coming to stand in front of the trainer. He glanced coolly at Aram, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Yes, first?” Trainer Fisk said.
“A Blackguard’s training is never done, but is the testing over for today?” Cruxer asked.
Trainer Fisk said, “Yes, of course, now get to your place—”
Cruxer said nothing, but he struck like a serpent, yelling his kiyah and giving his body the sharp countertwist that made his kicks so blindingly fast and powerful. Even Kip, who was looking straight at him, barely saw the strike. Cruxer’s shin, gnarled and calcified by years of kicking against posts, crushed against Aram’s knee. Crushed it backward.
The crunching squish of a joint being obliterated split the sudden silence.
Aram crumpled to the ground, gawping, gasping, eyes agape.
Cruxer dropped his hands instantly and stood in a narrow, nonthreatening stance. Given that he was surrounded by hundreds of men and women attuned to violence and accustomed to stopping it by the most efficient means necessary, that was wise. “Training accident,” Cruxer said loudly, coolly.
For a moment, even Trainer Fisk seemed as baffled as Kip. Finally he recovered. “What have you done?!” he shouted at Cruxer.
Cruxer’s voice was cool, mechanical. “Permanent injuries inflicted during testing result in expulsion. Injuries during training do not.”
“My knee! My knee!” Aram started blubbering. From the sound of his voice, he knew, like Kip knew, like everyone here knew—he would never fight again. He’d be lucky if he ever walked again. Knee injuries like that didn’t heal. Aram was crippled.
Cruxer spoke loudly, clearly, and unapologetically. “I’ve wanted to be a Blackguard since I could walk. I value this brotherhood too highly to let in a man who destroys unity rather than builds it, a man who takes money to destroy one of his own. If the cost to remove him from the Blackguard is that I, too, am expelled, so be it.” Emotion edged his voice for a moment, but he mastered it.
“What?!” Trainer Fisk demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“Aram’s the second best fighter in our class,” Cruxer said. “He took money to finish low. He took money to keep Breaker out.”
“He’s Tyrean!” Aram shouted. “He’s a bastard! I would have done it for free! He’s not one of us!”
“You would have done it for free? So you did do it for money,” Trainer Fisk said, aggrieved, disbelieving. He shot a look over at Commander Ironfist. A straight admission of guilt. How stupid was Aram?
“He’s not one of us!” Aram shouted.
“You mean, one of you,” Commander Ironfist said, low and dangerous, stepping forward. “Because you’ll never be one of us, Aram. Unlike Breaker.”
The last word sent a shock through Kip.
“Breaker!” Trainer Fisk barked. “You heard the man. We got room for fourteen, and I only see thirteen up here. Get in line! Double time! Someone get this trash out of here.”
“No! Noo!!” Aram shouted. But the chirurgeons were there instantly and they carried him away, blubbering.
Kip limped over to the line, not even close to double time, but he felt like he was floating all the way. How much poppy had that chirurgeon given him?
No, this wasn’t the poppy.
Commander Ironfist stood in front of Kip. He took Kip’s gold fight token and snapped it into a pendant. The front of the pendant was a black flame. “This is the Flame of Erebos. It symbolizes service and sacrifice. As a candle takes on flame and is consumed to give light and heat, so is a man who takes on duty. Day by day, we give our lives to serve Orholam and his Prism. Will you take this sacred duty, Kip Guile, Breaker?”