These Burning Stars

Book 1: The Kindom Trilogy

by Bethany Jacobs

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

'Vivid, violent and visceral: an impressive debut' Kate Elliott, author of Unconquerable Sun

Jun Ironway, hacker, con artist, and only occasional thief, has got her hands on a piece of contraband that could set her up for life: evidence that implicates the powerful Nightfoot family in a planet-wide genocide seventy-five years ago. The Nightfoots control the precious sevite that fuels interplanetary travel through three star systems. And someone is sure to pay handsomely for anything that could break their hold.

Of course, anything valuable is also dangerous. The Kindom, the ruling power of the three star systems, is inextricably tied up in the Nightfoots' monopoly - and they can't afford to let Jun expose the truth. They task two of their most brutal clerics with hunting her down: preternaturally stoic Chono, and brilliant hothead Esek, who also happens to be the heir to the Nightfoot empire.

But Chono and Esek are haunted in turn by a figure from their shared past, known only as Six. What Six truly wants is anyone's guess. And the closer they get to finding Jun, the surer Chono is that Six is manipulating them all - and that they are heading for a bloody confrontation that no one will survive unscathed.

'One of the best SF books I've read. Period' Michael Mammay, author of Planetside

'Intricately plotted and tightly paced . . . Space opera fans will eat this up' Publishers Weekly

'A multi-layered saga full of courtly intrigue and indelible characters, Bethany Jacobs' These Burning Stars warps readers across the galaxy on a devilishly fun thrill ride' Bookpage

Release date: October 17, 2023

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 480

Sample

Kinschool of Principes

Loez Continent

The Planet Ma’kess

Her ship alighted on the tarmac with engines snarling, hot air billowing out from beneath the thrusters. The hatch opened with a hiss and she disembarked to the stench of the jump gate that had so recently spit her into Ma’kess’s orbit—a smell like piss and ozone.

Underfoot, blast burns scorched the ground, signatures from ships that had been coming and going for three hundred years. The township of Principes would have no cause for so much activity, if it weren’t for the kinschool that loomed ahead.

She was hungry. A little annoyed. There was a marble of nausea lodged in the base of her throat, a leftover effect of being flung from one star system to another in the space of two minutes. This part of Ma’kess was cold and wet, and she disliked the monotonous sable plains flowing away from the tarmac. She disliked the filmy dampness in the air. If the kinschool master had brought her here for nothing, she would make him regret it.

The school itself was all stone and mortar and austerity. Somber-looking effigies stared down at her from the parapet of the second-story roof: the Six Gods, assembled like jurors. She looked over her shoulder at her trio of novitiates, huddled close to one another, watchful. Birds of prey in common brown. By contrast, she was quite resplendent in her red-gold coat, the ends swishing around her ankles as she started toward the open gates. She was a cleric of the Kindom, a holy woman, a member of the Righteous Hand. In this school were many students who longed to be clerics and saw her as the pinnacle of their own aspirations. But she doubted any had the potential to match her.

Already the kinschool master had appeared. They met in the small courtyard under the awning of the entryway, his excitement and eagerness instantly apparent. He bowed over his hands a degree lower than necessary, a simpering flattery. In these star systems, power resided in the Hands of the Kindom, and it resided in the First Families. She was both.

“Thank you for the honor of your presence, Burning One.”

She made a quick blessing over him, rote, and they walked together into the school. The novitiates trailed behind, silent as the statues that guarded the walls of the receiving hall. It had all looked bigger when she graduated seven years ago.

As if reading her mind, the kinschool master said, “It seems a lifetime since you were my student.”

She chuckled, which he was welcome to take as friendly, or mocking. They walked down a hallway lined with portraiture of the most famous students and masters in the school’s history: Aver Paiye, Khen Sikhen Khen, Luto Moonback. All painted. No holograms. Indeed, outside the tech aptitude classrooms, casting technology was little-to-be-seen in this school. Not fifty miles away, her family’s factories produced the very sevite fuel that made jump travel and casting possible, yet here the masters lit their halls with torches and sent messages to each other via couriers. As if training the future Hands was too holy a mission to tolerate basic conveniences.

The master said, “I hope your return pleases you?”

She wondered what they’d done with her own watercolor portrait. She recalled looking very smug in it, which, to be fair, was not an uncommon condition for her.

“I was on Teros when I got your message. Anywhere is better than that garbage rock.”

The master smiled timidly. “Of course. Teros is an unpleasant planet. Ma’kess is the planet of your heart. And the most beautiful of all!” He sounded like a tourist pamphlet, extolling the virtues of the many planets that populated the Treble star systems. She grunted. He asked, “Was your trip pleasant?”

“Hardly any reentry disturbance. Didn’t even vomit during the jump.”

They both laughed, him a little nervously. They walked down a narrow flight of steps and turned onto the landing of a wider staircase of deep blue marble. She paused and went to the banister, gazing down at the room below.

Six children stood in a line, each as rigid as the staves they held at their sides. They couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven. They were dressed identically, in tunics and leggings, and their heads were shaved. They knew she was there, but they did not look up at her. Staring straight ahead, they put all their discipline on display, and she observed them like a butcher at a meat market.

“Fourth-years,” she remarked, noticing the appliqués on their chests. They were slender and elfin looking, even the bigger ones. No giants in this cohort. A pity.

“I promise you, Sa, you won’t be disappointed.”

She started down the staircase, brisk and cheerful, ignoring the students. They had no names, no gendermarks—and no humanity as far as their teachers were concerned. They were called by numbers, given “it” for a pronoun. She herself was called Three, once. Just another object, honed for a purpose. Legally, Treble children had the right to gender themselves as soon as they discovered what fit. But these children would have to wait until they graduated. Only then could they take genders and names. Only then would they have their own identities.

At the foot of the staircase, she made a sound at her novitiates. They didn’t follow her farther, taking sentry on the last step. On the combat floor, she gloried in the familiar smells of wood and stone and sweat. Her hard-soled boots clacked pleasingly as she took a slow circle about the room, gazing up at the magnificent mural on the ceiling, of the Six Gods at war. A brilliant golden light fell upon them, emanating from the sunlike symbol of the Godfire—their parent god, their essence, and the core of the Treble’s faith.

She wandered around the room, brushing past the students as if they were scenery. The anticipation in the room ratcheted, the six students trying hard not to move. When she did finally look at them, it was with a quick twist of her neck, eyes locking on with predatory precision. All but one flinched, and she smiled. She brought her hand out from where it had been resting on the hilt of her bloodletter dagger, and saw several of them glance at the weapon. A weapon ordinarily reserved for cloaksaan.

This was just one of the things that must make her extraordinary to the students. Her family name being another. Her youth, of course. And she was very beautiful. Clerics deeply valued beauty, which pleased gods and people alike. Her beauty was like the Godfire itself, consuming and hypnotic and deadly.

Add to this the thing she represented: not just the Clerisy itself, in all its holy power, but the future the students might have. When they finished their schooling (if they finished their schooling), they would be one step closer to a position like hers. They would have power and prestige and choice—to adopt gendermarks, to take their family names again or create new ones. But so much lay between them and that future. Six more years of school and then five years as a novitiate. (Not everyone could do it in three, like her.) If all that went right, they’d receive an appointment to one of the three Hands of the Kindom. But only if they worked hard. Only if they survived.

Only if they were extraordinary.

“Tell me,” she said to them all. “What is the mission of the Kindom?”

They answered in chorus: “Peace, under the Kindom. Unity, in the Treble.”

“Good.” She looked each one over carefully, observed their proudly clasped staves. Though “staves” was a stretch. The long poles in their hands were made from a heavy-duty foam composite. Strong enough to bruise, even to break skin—but not bones. The schools, after all, were responsible for a precious commodity. This cheapened the drama of the upcoming performance, but she was determined to enjoy herself anyway.

“And what are the three pillars of the Kindom?” she asked.

“Righteousness! Cleverness! Brutality!”

She hummed approval. Righteousness for the Clerisy. Cleverness for the Secretaries. Brutality for the Cloaksaan. The three Hands. In other parts of the school, students were studying the righteous Godtexts of their history and faith, or they were perfecting the clever arts of economy and law. But these students, these little fourth-years, were here to be brutal.

She gave the kinschool master a curt nod. His eyes lit up and he turned to the students like a conductor to his orchestra. With theatrical aplomb, he clapped once.

It seemed impossible that the six students could look any smarter, but they managed it, brandishing their staves with stolid expressions. She searched for cracks in the facades, for shadows and tremors. She saw several. They were so young, and it was to be expected in front of someone like her. Only one of them was a perfect statue. Her eyes flicked over this one for a moment longer than the others.

The master barked, “One!”

Immediately, five of the children turned on the sixth, staves sweeping into offense like dancers taking position, and then—oh, what a dance it was! The first blow was like a clap against One’s shoulder; the second, a heavy thwack on its thigh. It fought back hard—it had to, swinging its stave in furious arcs and trying like hell not to be pushed too far off-balance. She watched its face, how the sweat broke out, how the eyes narrowed, and its upper teeth came down on its lip to keep from crying out when one of the children struck it again, hard, on the hip. That sound was particularly good, a crack that made it stumble and lose position. The five children gave no quarter, and then there was a fifth blow, and a sixth, and—

“Done!” boomed the master.

Instantly, all six children dropped back into line, staves at rest beside them. The first child was breathing heavily. Someone had got it in the mouth, and there was blood, but it didn’t cry.

The master waited a few seconds, pure showmanship, and said, “Two!”

The dance began again, five students turning against the other. This was an old game, with simple rules. Esek had played it many times herself, when she was Three. The attack went on until either offense or defense landed six blows. It was impressive if the attacked child scored a hit at all, and yet as she watched the progressing bouts, the second and fourth students both made their marks before losing the round. The children were merciless with one another, crowding their victim in, jabbing and kicking and swinging without reprieve. Her lip curled back in raw delight. These students were as vicious as desert foxes.

But by the time the fifth student lost its round, they were getting sloppy. They were bruised, bleeding, tired. Only the sixth remained to defend itself, and everything would be slower and less controlled now. No more soldierly discipline, no more pristine choreography. Just tired children brawling. Yet she was no less interested, because the sixth student was the one with no fissures in its mask of calm. Even more interestingly, this one had been the least aggressive in the preceding fights. It joined in, yes, but she wasn’t sure it ever landed a body blow. It was not timid so much as… restrained. Like a leashed dog.

When the master said, “Six,” something changed in the room.

She couldn’t miss the strange note in the master’s voice—of pleasure and expectation. The children, despite their obvious fatigue, snapped to attention like rabbits scenting a predator. They didn’t rush at Six as they had rushed at one another. No, suddenly, they moved into a half-circle formation, approaching this last target with an unmistakable caution. Their gazes sharpened and they gripped their staves tighter than before, as if expecting to be disarmed. The sweat and blood stood out on their faces, and one of them quickly wiped a streak away, as if this would be its only chance to clear its eyes.

And Six? The one who commanded this sudden tension, this careful advance? It stood a moment, taking them all in at once, stare like a razor’s edge. And then, it flew.

She could think of no other word for it. It was like a whirling storm, and its stave was a lightning strike. No defensive stance for this one—it went after the nearest student with a brutal spinning kick that knocked it on its ass, then it whipped its body to the left and cracked its stave against a different student’s shoulder, and finished with a jab to yet another’s carelessly exposed shin. All of this happened before the five attackers even had their wits about them, and for a moment she thought they would throw their weapons down, cower, and retreat before this superior fighter.

Instead, they charged.

It was like watching a wave that had gone out to sea suddenly surge upon the shore. They didn’t fight as individuals, but as one corralling force, spreading out and pressing in. They drove Six back and back and back—against the wall. For the first time, they struck it, hard, in the ribs, and a moment later they got it again, across the jaw. The sound sent a thrill down her spine, made her fingers clench in hungry eagerness for a stave of her own. She watched the sixth fighter’s jaw flush with blood and the promise of bruising, but it didn’t falter. It swept its stave in an arc, creating an opening. It struck one of them in the chest, then another in the side, and a third in the thigh—six blows altogether. The students staggered, their offense broken, their wave disintegrating on the sixth student’s immovable shore.

She glanced at their master, waiting for him to announce the conclusion of the match, and its decisive victor. To her great interest, he did no such thing, nor did the children seem to expect he would. They recovered, and charged.

Was the sixth fighter surprised? Did it feel the sting of its master’s betrayal? Not that she could tell. That face was a stony glower of intent, and those eyes were smart and ruthless.

The other fights had been quick, dirty, over in less than a minute. This last fight went on and on, and each second made her pulse race. The exhaustion she’d seen in the students before gave way to an almost frenzied energy. How else could they hold their ground against Six? They parried and dodged and swung in increasingly desperate bursts, but through it all the sixth kept hitting them. Gods! It was relentless. Even when the other students started to catch up (strikes to the hip, to the wrist, to the thigh) it kept going. The room was full of ragged gasping, but when she listened for Six’s breath, it was controlled. Loud, but steady, and its eyes never lost their militant focus.

In the feverish minutes of the fight, it landed eighteen strikes (she counted; she couldn’t help counting) before finally one of the others got in a sixth blow, a lucky cuff across its already bruised mouth.

The master called, “Done!”

The children practically dropped where they stood, their stave arms falling limply at their sides, their relief as palpable as the sweat in the air. They got obediently back in line, and as they did, she noticed that one of them met Six’s eye. A tiny grin passed between them, conspiratorial, childlike, before they were stoic again.

She could see the master’s satisfied smile. She had of course not known why he asked her to come to Principes. A new statue in her honor, perhaps? Or a business opportunity that would benefit her family’s sevite industry? Maybe one of the eighth-years, close to graduating, had particular promise? No, in the end, it was none of that. He’d brought her here for a fourth-year. He’d brought her here so he could show off his shining star. She herself left school years earlier than any student in Principes’s history, a mere fifteen when she became a novitiate. Clearly the master wanted to break her record. To have this student noticed by her, recruited by her as an eleven-year-old—what a feather that would be, in the master’s cap.

She looked at him directly, absorbing his smug expression.

“Did its parents put you up to that?” she asked, voice like a razor blade.

The smugness bled from his face. He grew pale and cleared his throat. “It has no parents.”

Interesting. The Kindom was generally very good about making sure orphans were rehomed. Who had sponsored the child’s admission to a kinschool? Such things weren’t cheap.

The master said, clearly hoping to absolve himself, “After you, it’s the most promising student I have ever seen. Its intelligence, its casting skills, its—”

She chuckled, cutting him off.

“Many students are impressive in the beginning. In my fourth year, I wasn’t the star. And the one who was the star, that year? What happened to it? Why, I don’t even think it graduated. Fourth year is far too early to know anything about a student.”

She said these things as if the sixth student hadn’t filled her with visceral excitement. As if she didn’t see, vast as the Black Ocean itself, what it might become. Then she noticed that the master had said nothing. No acquiescence. No apology, either, which surprised her.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

He cleared his throat again, and said, very lowly, “Its family name was Alanye.”

Her brows shot up. She glanced back at the child, who was not making eye contact. At this distance, it couldn’t have heard the master’s words.

“Really?” she asked.

“Yes. A secretary adopted it after its father died. The secretary sent it here.”

She continued staring at the child. Watching it fight was exhilarating, but knowing its origins made her giddy. This was delicious.

“Does it know?”

The master barely shook his head no. She hmmed a bright sound of pleasure.

Turning from him, she strode toward the child, shaking open her knee-length coat. When she was still several feet away from it, she crooked a finger.

“Come here, little fish. Let me have a look at you.”

The fourth-year moved forward until it was a foot away, gazing up, up, into her face. She looked it over more carefully than before. Aside from their own natural appearance, students weren’t allowed any distinguishing characteristics, and sometimes it was hard to tell them apart. She took in the details, looked for signs of the child’s famous ancestor, Lucos Alanye: a man who started with nothing, acquired a mining fleet, and blew up a moon to stop anyone else from taking its riches. The sheer pettiness of it! He was the most notorious mass murderer in Treble history. She hadn’t known he had descendants. With a flick of her wrist, she cast an image of Alanye to her ocular screen, comparing the ancestor to the descendant. Inconclusive.

The child remained utterly calm. Her own novitiates weren’t always so calm.

“So, you are Six. That is a very holy designation, you know.” It said nothing, and she asked it cheerfully, “Tell me: Who is the Sixth God?”

This was an old riddle from the Godtexts, one with no answer. A person from Ma’kess would claim the god Makala. A person from Quietus would say Capamame. Katishsaan favored Kata, and so on, each planet giving primacy to its own god. Asking the question was just a way to figure out where a person’s loyalty or origins lay. This student looked Katish to her, but maybe it would claim a different loyalty?

Then it said, “There is no Sixth God, Sa. Only the Godfire.”

She tilted her head curiously. So, it claimed no loyalty, no planet of origin. Only a devotion to the Kindom, for whom the Godfire held primacy. How… strategic.

She ignored its answer, asking, “Do you know who I am?”

The silence in the room seemed to deepen, as if some great invisible creature had sucked in its breath.

“Yes, Burning One. You are Esek Nightfoot.”

She saw the other children from the corner of her eye, looking tense and excited.

She nodded. “Yes.” And bent closer to it. “I come from a very important family,” she said, as if it didn’t know. “That’s a big responsibility. Perhaps you know what it’s like?”

For the first time, it showed emotion—a slight widening of the eyes. Almost instantly, its expression resolved back into blankness.

“The master says you don’t know who you are… Is that true, little fish?”

“We don’t have names, Sa.”

She grinned. “You are very disciplined. From all accounts, so was Lucos Alanye.”

Its throat moved, a tiny swallow. It knew exactly what family it came from. The kinschool master was a fool.

“Do you know,” Esek said, “all the First Families of the Treble are required to give of their children to the Kindom? One from each generation must become a Hand. My matriarch selected me from my generation. It seems fate has selected you from yours.”

There was a fierceness in its eyes that said it liked this idea very much—though, of course, the Alanyes were not a First Family. Lucos himself was nothing more than an upstart and opportunist, a resource-raping traitor, a genocider. Esek half admired him.

“Your family did mine a great service,” she said.

It looked wary now, a little confused. She nodded. “Yes, my family controls the sevite factories. And do you know who are the laborers that keep our factories going?”

This time it ventured an answer, so quiet its voice barely registered, “The Jeveni, Sa.”

“Yes! The Jeveni.” Esek smiled, as if the Jeveni were kings and not refugees. “And if Lucos Alanye had never destroyed their moon world, the Jeveni would not need my family to employ them, would they? And then, who would run the factories? So you see it is all very well, coming from the bloodline of a butcher. All our evils give something back.”

The student looked at her with that same wariness. She changed the subject.

“What do you think of your performance today?”

Its face hardened. “The fight had no honor, Sa.”

Esek’s brows lifted. They were conversing in Ma’kessi, the language of the planet Ma’kess. But just then, the student had used a Teron word for “honor.” One that more accurately translated to “bragging rights.” Perhaps the student was from the planet Teros? Or perhaps it had a precise attitude toward language—always the best word for the best circumstance.

“You struck your attackers eighteen times. Is there no honor in that?”

“I lost. Honor is for winning.”

“But the master cheated you.”

The invisible creature in the room drew in its breath again. Behind her she could feel the master’s quickening pulse. Esek’s smile brightened, but Six looked apprehensive. Its compatriots were glancing uneasily at one another, discipline fractured.

She said, “Beyond these walls, out in the world, people don’t have to tell you if you’ve won. You know it for yourself, and you make other people know it. If I were you, and the master tried to cheat me out of my win, I’d kill him for it.”

The tension ratcheted so high that she could taste it, thick and cloying. Six’s eyes widened. Before anything could get out of hand, Esek laughed.

“Of course, if you tried to kill the master, he would decapitate you before you’d even lifted your little stave off the ground, wouldn’t he?”

It was like lacerating a boil. The hot tightness under the skin released, and if there was a foul smell left over, well… that was worth it.

“Tell me, Six,” she carried on, “what do you want most of all?”

It answered immediately, confidence surging with the return to script, “To go unnoticed, Sa.”

She’d thought so. These were the words of the Cloaksaan. The master wouldn’t be parading its best student under her nose like a bitch in heat if the bitch didn’t want to be a cloaksaan—those deadly officers of the Kindom’s Brutal Hand, those military masterminds and shadow-like assassins, who made peace possible in the Treble through their ruthlessness. Esek had only ever taken cloaksaan novitiates. It was an idiosyncrasy of hers. Most clerics trained clerics and most secretaries trained secretaries, but Cleric Nightfoot trained cloaksaan.

“You held back in the first five fights,” she remarked.

The child offered no excuses. Did she imagine defiance in its eyes?

“That’s all right. That was smart. You conserved your strength for the fight that mattered. Your teachers might tell you it was cowardly, but cloaksaan don’t have to be brave. They have to be smart. They have to win. Right?”

Six nodded.

“Would you like to be my novitiate someday, little fish?” asked Esek gently.

It showed no overt excitement. But its voice was vehement. “Yes, Burning One.”

She considered it for long moments, looking over its body, its muscles and form, like it was a racehorse she might like to sponsor. It knew what she would see, and she felt its hope. Her smile spread like taffy, and she said simply, “No.”

She might as well have struck it. Its shock broke over her like a wave. Seeing that it could feel was important; unlike some Hands, she didn’t relish an emotionless novitiate.

“I won’t take you. More than that, I’m going to tell the other Hands not to take you.”

The child’s stunned expression nearly made her laugh, but she chose for once to be serious, watching it for the next move. Its mouth opened and closed. Clearly it wanted to speak but knew it had no right. She gave it a little nod of permission, eager to hear what it would say. It glanced toward its master, then spoke in a voice so soft, no one would hear.

“Burning One… I am not my ancestor. I am—loyal. I am Kindom in my heart.”

She hummed and nodded. “Yes, I can see that. But haven’t we established? My family owes your ancestor a debt, for the Jeveni, and I don’t care if you’re like him or not. The fact is, I find you very impressive. Just as your master does, and your schoolkin do. I imagine everyone finds you impressive, little fish. But that’s of no use to me. I require something different.”

Esek watched with interest as it struggled to maintain its composure. She wondered if it would cry, or lose its temper, or drop into traumatized blankness. When none of these things happened, but it only stood there with its throat bobbing, she dropped a lifeline.

“When you are ready, you must come directly to me.”

Its throat stilled. She’d startled it again.

“You must come and tell me that you want to be my novitiate. Don’t go to my people, or the other Hands. Don’t announce yourself. Come to me unawares, without invitation.”

It looked at her in despairing confusion. “Burning One, you’re surrounded by novitiates. If I come to you without permission, your people will kill me.”

She nodded. “That’s right. They’ll never let you through without my leave. What’s worse, I probably won’t even remember you exist. Don’t feel bad. I never remember any of the little fish I visit in the schools. Why should I, with so many things to occupy me? No, in a couple of days, you’ll slip my mind. And if, in a few years, some strange young person newly gendered and named tries to come before me and ask to be my novitiate, well! Even if you get through my people, I may kill you myself.” A long pause stretched between them, before she added, “Unless…”

It was exhilarating, to whip the child from one end to the other with the power of a single word. Its eyes lit up. It didn’t even breathe, waiting for her to name her condition. She leaned closer still, until their faces were only inches apart, and she whispered in a voice only it could hear, “You must do something extraordinary.” She breathed the word into its soul, and it flowed there hot and powerful as the Godfire. “You must do something I have never seen before. Something memorable, and shocking, and brutal. Something that will make me pause before I kill you. I have no idea what it is. I have no idea what I’ll want when that day comes. But if you do it, then I will make you my novitiate. Your ancestry won’t matter. Your past won’t matter. This moment won’t matter. You will have everything you deserve: all the honor a life can bring. And you will earn it at my side.”

The child stared at her, caught in the terrible power of the silence she let hang between them. And then, like a fishersaan cutting a line, she drew back. Her voice was a normal volume again, and she shrugged.

“It’s not a great offer, I’ll grant you. Probably you’ll die. If you choose not to come to me, I won’t hold it against you. I won’t remember you, after all. There are other, excellent careers in the Kindom. You don’t have to be a Hand to do good work. Someone as talented as you could be a marshal or guardsaan. The master says you’re good at casting. You could be an archivist! But whatever you decide, I wish you luck, little fish.” She pinned it with her mocking stare. “Now swim away.”

It blinked, released from the spell. After a moment of wretched bewilderment, it dropped back into place beside its schoolkin, who looked most shocked of all; one was crying silently. She whirled around, each click of her boots on the stone floor like a gunshot. The gold threads in her coat caught the light until she shimmered like a flame.

She locked eyes with the master, whose friendliness had evaporated in these tense minutes. He was now marshaling forty years of training into a blank expression, but Esek sensed the cold terror in him. No one in his life had seen him this frightened before, and the shame of it, of all these little fourth-years witnessing it, would torture him.

Esek moved as if she would go right past him, but paused at the last moment. They were parallel, arms brushing, and she heard his minuscule gasp. Perhaps he expected the plunge of the bloodletter? As a Ha