AUTHOR'S NOTE: This took me an absurdly long time to finish. I know I said I'd update monthly, but after this, I don't really believe anymore that it's possible. I like the way this chapter turned out, and the direction it's taking, but I'm finding it hard to muster the energy to write, or to put in detail the events I've planned out. Not that I'm going to actually stop, not now or ever. It's just going to be very very slow.

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Chapter Two: Tàlmhàin Academy

When morning came, Valis was roused from grim dreams—of faceless, accusing wraiths, and his own blood-soaked hands. It had been a week since then, but the spectres of that evening had stalked him nightly, denying him restful sleep. Briefly the lasting image of the proclamation flashed through his memory: the sinner’s broken body hanging where it was bound, the sign ‘murderer’ scrawled in dripping red behind him on the brick wall.

Sunlight struck his face, reddish-black behind his eyelids and yet somehow hellishly bright, and he groaned, covering his face and shifting in a stiflingly hot tangle of sweat-soaked sheets. Peeling the linen from where it clung to his skin, he hauled himself from the bed, yawning and stretching before staggering over to the window, to look out at the morning through squinting eyes.

It was the first of Gearran—or as they were trying to standardise in the North, février—second-month, and the streets of Tàlmhàin were bathed in early spring sunshine. From his second-storey vantage, he could see there were few people out at the moment—but he knew that would change completely within only one or two short hours. With a mix of excitement and dismay, he realised that it was the first day back at the Academy, the start of his seventh and penultimate year there.

Ah, yes, Tàlmhàin Academy … the most prestigious educational institution within a hundred miles, both the hope and the bane of the local youth. The most promising students there would be welcomed across Leus to a life of wealth and privilege, and have lifelong careers in such powerful organizations as the Armoured Police that upheld the Emperor’s law. But the competitive culture of the school, and its tolerance for martial clubs, had given rise to the problematic youth gangs that prowled Tàlmhàin’s streets after sunset.

After showering and dressing, and a disastrous attempt to tame his unruly hair with a comb, Valis wandered down the hall to wake his sister. Her door was shut as always, but she didn’t need a lock. The very suggestion that she might be behind it was a more effective deterrent to him than any amount of fortification.

He rapped lightly at the door with weathered knuckles. “Liriel, it’s morning,” he called. “We have school, get up.” Valis put his ear to the door, but couldn’t hear anything. He rapped harder. “Come on, dammit. Get up now or we’ll be late!” Still nothing. “Liriel, come out of there or I’m opening the door—”

There was a thump and a clattering noise, and the door was wrenched open. Valis didn’t get out of the way fast enough, and was punished with a hard punch to the lower ribs. “Shut up!” Liriel shouted. “Why are you being so noisy, asshole?”

Standing in the doorway in a skirt and half done-up blouse, Liriel was just a slip of a girl, small even compared to Valis. Four years his junior, she was pale and delicate of complexion, with waist-length raven hair—now tangled and messy—and jade eyes that glimmered sweetly when she smiled … or bored like daggers when she glowered, by far the more common expression of the two. They were now marred by dark circles, indicating she’d stayed up longer than she should have, and he wasn’t surprised. Liriel wasn’t a morning person.

Valis had been complimented more than once on how lucky he was to have such a cute sister—and he would have agreed, if only when angry she didn’t radiate a fury that would make even Harrow, the God of Slaughter himself, give pause. And not only was she angry very frequently of late, but she had an unfortunate habit of taking most of it out on him.

He rubbed his side, grimacing at the pain; Liriel was an expert where that was concerned. “You know Mother’s asked me to wake you up on school days,” Valis reminded her. “Blame her if you must blame someone.”

“Ahh, whatever,” she growled irritably in response. “Just go away.”

The door was slammed in his face, and he resigned himself with complying.

By the time he came downstairs, after carefully dressing in his spotless uniform—well, that probably wasn’t going to last very long—breakfast was already being served. His mother heaped his plate with egg and sausage, and watched him until he finished. He wasn’t very hungry, but it had been the same for the last week; and she became stricter whenever she was worried about him.

Returning to his room, Valis sorted through his textbooks while he waited for Liriel. The Academy had mailed them out early in Faoilteach, the previous month, but he hadn’t bothered taking the time to look through them—and flipping briefly through some of them, he was beginning to feel that he should have. There was no use complaining about it now, though; he was stuck with the choice he’d made, and had to live out the consequences.

By the time he’d finished packing his bag, his sister was already waiting impatiently for him by the front door. “Valis, hurry up!” she shouted, tapping one foot in irritation, and fiddling idly with the sleeve of her blue blazer. “Honestly … why do I have to wait for him at all?” she muttered to herself.

Appearing in time to catch her comment, Valis made a sour expression. “Hey, it’s not my policy,” he retorted. “If you’ve got complaints, you know where to take them.” He turned to call to Marianne. “Alright! We’re heading off!”

Valis enjoyed walking to school. Liriel was calmer, after having expended her post-waking anger and before being annoyed by class work. She was talkative sometimes, and most of the conversational discourse he had with her was during this period. She didn’t appear to have anything to say this morning, but that didn’t bother him. He’d have other company soon enough.

“Yo, Valis!”

Right on cue.

Liriel gave Valis a sideways glance. “Well, see you.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, watching as she ran ahead. He turned to make a greeting as Selwyn Everett caught up beside him. “Yo! How was your break?”

“Illuminating,” Selwyn responded. “I spent most of Azésios revising ancient Anóteron history. Ah, I mean Faoilteach,” he corrected himself at Valis’ quizzical stare. “Sorry, the Anóteron must be rubbing off on me,” he chuckled.

Azésios was an old name, now rarely used even by the Anóteroi themselves. Valis wasn’t surprised, though; Selwyn had always been the studious one, and often threw strange words into his speech. Despite his mousy appearance, though, he could be exceptionally ruthless when the mood took him and had little patience for ‘old-fashioned’ concepts of fairness or morality.

“Speaking of Anóteron,” Selwyn said suddenly, “what do you make of this?”

Ah, they were passing that spot … someone had scrubbed out the decree, but the blood hadn’t come completely off the bricks. But there was something else scrawled there, in ink—a message?

Poios tha krínei tous dikastaí?

“Who will judge the judges?” Valis translated, feeling suddenly cold.

“Yeah.” Selwyn gave him a telling glance. “Looks like someone’s after your head.”

Shit! Had it already lead back to him? “You know anything about this?” he queried. He never discussed the dikastaí or their activities with Selwyn, but Selwyn usually had ways of knowing things he shouldn’t. If it had spread, though, that would be a problem.

“Only what Merrick told me,” Selwyn responded. “Hey,” he added after seeing the expression on Valis’ face, “you don’t believe me? It’s still not common knowledge that you’re the leader, as a matter of fact—who would believe a kid like you is the feared ‘Silver Judge’? But you can’t do things like that without at least the name ‘dikastaí’ being spread around, you know.”

That was true. Maybe, on some level, this was what he’d wanted all along?

“Come on,” Selwyn said, interrupting his thoughts. “We’ll be late.”

Ten minutes later, they were within sight of the Academy gate. “I wonder what they’re all looking at?” Selwyn remarked, pointing out the crowd gathered beside the gate; there must have been something of interest there, or they’d be on the grounds already, waiting for the welcoming ceremony to start along with everyone else.

When they approached, though, the commotion caught Valis’ attention.

“What does it say?”

“Hey, this looks bad.”

“Tch. It’s just some punk, don’t worry about it.”

“Ah, I should have brushed up on my Anóteron…”

“I heard about this!”

“I can’t read it…”

“It must be related to that, huh?”

“I’ll be back in a second,” he said to Selwyn, who grinned bemusedly as Valis forced his way to the front of the crowd. The writing, scrawled in ink in the same handwriting as before, confirmed his fears. Poios tha kánei tous dikastaí na upakoúsoun to nómo? “‘Who will make the judges obey the law,’ huh…? What a bastard,” he thought aloud. If it was a joke, it wasn’t funny.

The look on Selwyn’s face told Valis he already knew about it. “Who?” he demanded.

“I’ve heard a number of different claims,” Selwyn replied. “I wouldn’t want you to jump to any hasty conclusions.”

“I thought you said you only knew as much as Merrick told you,” Valis growled. He was growing increasingly irritated.

“That is quite correct,” Selwyn confirmed. “Everything else is mere hearsay and speculation.”

“Fine,” Valis snapped back, “I won’t ask you. But if someone’s spoiling for a fight, they’re damned well going to get one.”

-----

“Well? What do you want me to do about it?” Merrick growled, from where he was lounging against an old oak. The welcoming ceremony was only for the first years and club captains, so they were free for the time being.

“Nothing in particular,” Valis conceded. “But when we find him, we’re going to give him what he wants. That’s all.”

“And what’s that?” Merrick raised an eyebrow at him, looking particularly unimpressed.

Valis grinned. “He’s not just doing it for kicks. It’s a challenge, you idiot.”

“But he hasn’t done anything that we know about,” Lilac pointed out. She was lying on the grass, using Merrick’s lap as a pillow, and examining her painted nails against the sky. “You can’t kick some kid’s ass just for running his mouth, and graffiti only deserves a slap on the wrist.”

“He’s questioning our moral authority,” Valis said, waving away her objections. “I can’t just let that slide. And it’s not going to end unless we do something about it … besides, if you don’t know who did it, how do you know they’re sinless?”

“That’s an interesting point,” interjected Earl, pressing his square glasses against his nose as he sat cross-legged. “But the reverse is likewise true. How can you anticipate the sins of an unknown person? Although in counterpoint, what reason is there for a sinless individual, with whom we have no quarrel, to oppose us?”

“I said, ‘that we know about’!” Lilac protested. “Try listening for once!” No one seemed to notice her except Merrick, who continued glowering at the rest of the dikastaí and didn’t say anything.

“Morley, you can’t argue for and against, you bastard,” Shay muttered, covering her face with her hands to stop it being whipped by her chestnut pigtails in the wind. “That pisses me off. Whose fucking side are you on?”

“In this case,” Earl replied, visibly ignoring her insults, “logic would seem to dictate in favour of the head.”

“I agree with Valis too,” Caelan spoke up, straightening his eight-panel cap; he’d been quiet until now. “If we lose our good name, we’re no better than any gang of punks.”

“Good man!” Valis said cheerily, clapping Caelan on the shoulder. “It’s decided then!”

“Slow down, Valis!” Merrick chastised. “We haven’t heard Driscoll’s opinion yet.”

“Yeah, good point,” Valis replied, scratching his chin in a moment of thought. “Where is Layton, anyway?”

The bell sounded, marking the end of the ceremony. Classes would begin soon, and there were other things to take care of beforehand.

“Well, never mind about that now,” Valis said, “you’re dismissed. We’ll reconvene in the evening. I want to see you all back here after the clubs break up. Don’t keep me waiting!”

Because of his small size, Valis was quite adept at weaving through crowds; so it took a little while, and a lot of shoving, for Merrick to catch up with him.

“Valis!” he yelled, reaching out to grab Valis’ arm. “Stop right there and listen to me!”

“Is there a problem, Merrick?” Valis asked coldly, expressing as much hostility as he could manage. Time was running short, and he hated to be late.

“Yes, there’s a gods-damned problem!” he barked quietly. There was a vein bulging out on his forehead and he seemed to barely be suppressing the urge to shout out loud. “We’re not your personal vendetta squad, what in the Pantheon’s name is wrong with you?”

“Are you saying you’re not satisfied with my leadership?” Valis’ fury was building—Merrick was treading a very thin line.

“I’m not satisfied with your attitude, Valis!” Merrick retorted. A crowd had started to gather to watch the confrontation. “So someone’s spreading slander around, so bloody what? I joined you because I believed in the values you were talking about, and I’ve had my causes for doubt over the years, but this is just petty. It’s pathetic!”

“So you think I’m wrong, and that this isn’t something that concerns every one of us,” Valis sneered back at him. “Someone’s deliberately targeting us, and it’s only a matter of time before we have a war on our hands. But you know what? You can just sit this one out, if it’ll make you feel any better. The proof will manifest soon enough, and then we’ll see who’s wrong and whose attitude is out of line.” He snatched his arm out of the larger boy’s grip, and made to leave, before pausing as though he’d forgotten something. “Oh, and Merrick?” he added, turning back with a paralysing glare. “Don’t ever raise your hand against me again.”

He left Merrick dumbfounded and sweating, catching his subordinate’s muttered rebuke, “Damn Devil.” So his ‘aura’ worked on people who knew him, as well…? Well, he was practiced enough at intimidation. It would probably come back to bite him later, but for the moment he was too incensed to care. He must still have been scowling something fierce—the small crowd that had gathered parted in front of him as though it would be dangerous to get too close.

-----

“Whoa, what’s with the scary face?” Krystal giggled, when she saw Valis outside the classroom. With short blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and a petite, athletic figure, she was one of the prettiest girls in his year level—not to mention she was smart, funny, and always nice to him. He’d had a crush on her for years.

“I was making that kind of face?” he asked, forcing a smile and rubbing his neck embarrassedly. “I didn’t realise.” Time to change the subject. “Erm, what class is this? I only looked at the room…”

“Mathematiká,” she supplied. “It seems we’ve got the new teacher, what was his name…? Zack or Zachary or something like that.”

“That would be Professor Zakiah, to you,” came the gruff interjection. “And I suppose you’re my first students. Your names?”

The first thing that struck Valis was how amazingly tall the new teacher was. The second thing was that his skin was as black as pitch, something Valis had never seen before. So he must be from the east, then, that nation of Alakhel—which had been at war with them, not too long ago. Most of what Valis had heard was propaganda, and he’d been young, so he knew hardly anything at all; only that Leus had won the war, that Alakhel was now a conquered territory, and that his father, Athello, had disappeared at some point during the conflict.

“And you?” the Professor asked, catching Valis’ gaze and forcing him out of his reverie. While he’d been daydreaming, the rest of the students had already given Zakiah their names.

“Valis Laviard, sir,” he responded awkwardly. There was something entrancing about Zakiah’s eyes. Such a peculiar colour … they were the most remarkable cherry-red, deep and old and wise.

“I’ll remember it,” the Professor replied with a wink. “It’s a pleasure meeting all of you. I can only hope that teaching you will be the same.”

The class laughed with him. Strange, he didn’t sound foreign.

Sweeping a hand across his shaven scalp, he led them into the classroom and took his seat behind the instructor’s desk. His manner was remarkably informal; he didn’t sit but rather lounged, his long legs outstretched and crossed, resting on one heel; he leaned back and actually placed a cigarette in his mouth—though he stopped short of lighting it, probably thinking better of it. Maybe he just liked it to be there? He drummed his fingers on the mahogany desk for a moment before clearing his throat and assessing each of them with his hypnotic eyes.

“I am Hadar Zakiah, though as I said before, you will all refer to me as ‘Professor,’” he began. “The Board has appointed me head of the mathematiká curriculum, so you’re all especially lucky to be taught by me directly.” His smile showed that he believed it. “I know I look foreign, but don’t ask me anything about Alakhel, please; I’ve never been there. My family migrated before the war, and I was born and raised here.” That explained his lack of an accent. “Now, I understand student organizations—I guess you call them ‘clubs’, don’t you?—are a big part of the Academy’s curriculum. Why don’t you start by telling me what you’re in? I’d like to know a little about the people in my class. Ms. Fairhart, your club?”

Krystal jumped a little at being addressed so directly; Hadar’s eyes had snapped instantly in her direction. “Ah … the fencing club,” she said, blushing. “I’m ranked eighth.”

“Impressive,” he replied approvingly. “And you, Mr. Laviard?”

“Boxing,” Valis answered without hesitation. “Second.”

Hadar’s eyes widened a little at that one. Everyone was always surprised at first, because of his size.

The questioning continued around the room, and when it was done, Hadar cleared his throat again. “A great many soldiers-in-training, then?” he joked. “I’ll have to ensure I don’t upset any of you too badly! Now, shall we begin? Open your textbooks to page eight…”

-----

Though Zakiah turned out to be a gifted teacher, the rest of Valis’ day passed in excruciating boredom. For some obscure reason, the year coordinator had seen fit to timetable all of his worst classes on Luain. His teachers were past middle age and had long since lost any enthusiasm they may have had, and for all the animation and vitality they conveyed, he may as well have been taught by a sponge. He passed most of the time in a zoned-out stupor, fantasising about various things. In that state, it took him a moment to realise he was being addressed.

“Hey, you alive?” Krystal yawned, jabbing him in the head with one finger.

Valis made a noncommittal noise in response.

“Well I’m leaving, even if you’re not,” she said, stretching as she stood up.

Leaving? “Huh?” Valis grunted, forcing his heavy eyelids open.

“Class is over, and if I’m late to the clubroom again, Harlan’s going to scold me.” Krystal poked her tongue out at him cutely.

“It’s actually over? Thank the Pantheon,” he groaned. “Màirt had better not be as bad as today was.”

“It’s not,” she replied as they left the classroom. “Unlike you, I read the timetable through.”

“Wait a second,” Valis said, his face twitching in jealousy. “Who’s Harlan?”

“Valis!” Krystal moaned. “You could at least remember the Student President’s name! Jeeze, what’s wrong with you…”

“Oh, Croft?” he said surprisedly. “That bastard’s in the fencing club, huh?”

“He’s the Captain,” she informed him, seeming somewhat annoyed. Her expression changed when she looked at his face though, and she gave him a sly, insinuating look. “Why does it matter?”

Valis coughed. “No reason,” he lied.

He walked Krystal to her clubroom—she continued baiting him all the while—before heading over to his own. He couldn’t wait to get into a match. After such a slow afternoon, he needed the exercise to wake up properly; and today, he had more frustrations to get out than usual.

-----

Layton came to. He hurt all over; they’d really beaten the hell out of him, and he’d be feeling it for a while. His face would probably never look the same, either.

Shit.

He forced himself up onto all fours with burning muscles that wouldn’t hold him steady. Dimly, he registered that the filthy concrete underneath him was stained in his blood … it was spattered all over the walls of the alley, too, but that wasn’t quite as obvious.

What the fuck had they called themselves? It was all a blur; the only thing he remembered was “Charlie”, they’d kept chanting his name as he kicked and hit and lashed. He was probably the leader, then.

He had to warn the others. Those bastards had explained in lavish detail exactly what was planned for each of them, and had taken especial pleasure in enunciating the tortures reserved for Tàlmhàin’s Iron Devil before he was left for dead. He was the only one who knew and could do something about it. He had to tell them!

He dragged himself forwards on screaming limbs. It was no good. The agony was overwhelming, and he couldn’t bear it, slumping back onto his broken ribs with a muffled cry.

“Fffuck,” he whimpered, adding a few tears to the bloodstained ground.

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Luain: Gàidhlig (Scottish Gaelic). Monday.
Màirt: Gàidhlig (Scottish Gaelic). Tuesday.