Instructor Hera nodded grudgingly. “That’s correct. Now, Garannil’s attempts to draw on the support of sects such as Peerless Heaven and Hollow Moon was the right move, but still failed—who can tell me why?”
Scorio glanced sidelong at Lianshi. “You know your history.”
“I study hard,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
“Would you tutor me, then?”
“No,” hissed Leonis. “I’ll help you choose the best tutors—we could have Famissa and Juniper visiting our suites on a regular basis!”
“Sure,” said Lianshi. “I’d be happy to.”
“Thanks,” said Scorio, relaxing a fraction. The thought of sitting across from bright-eyed strangers who were all too eager to explain the esoteric past was slightly unnerving. “Much appreciated.”
Class ended when First Rust gave way to First Bronze, and after disengaging himself from the small knot of hopeful tutors that tried to corner him by the door, Scorio followed the others eagerly to the next class.
“Sparring and Forms,” said Leonis. “Now this is something I enjoy. Who’ve we got this week?”
“Instructor Feng. You’ll like him,” she said, turning to look at both Scorio and Naomi. “He’s fair and very impartial. I think it’s because he thinks we’re all equally terrible.”
“Sounds like someone Naomi could like,” allowed Scorio, but she flushed angrily and looked away. Lianshi gave him a shrug of commiseration, and he shrugged back when Naomi wasn’t looking.
They crossed the Academy, leaving behind the academic classrooms, momentarily joining a flood of students in a large passageway before splitting off again, descending two flights of stairs, and emerging into a cavernous hall. The air was cool and slightly damp, and everything was lit by a fierce, pale ironlight that was so subtly tinged with blue that it took Scorio a few moments to figure out why he felt like they’d submerged themselves into a clear pool.
There was stadium seating around both sides of the hall, eight rows high, the wood gleaming with endless years of varnish, while a circular raised platform of white stone arose in the center, its surface chalky and plain under the severe lights.
Nobody moved to take the seats. The gathered crowd, sparse and spread out, was instead warming up. Some shadow boxed; others had taken up wire-thin jump ropes and were lightly skipping; a few groups sat in circles, leaning forward to touch their toes or arching an arm over their head as they leaned over to the side.
“We’ve a few minutes before Feng arrives,” said Leonis, cinching his sash tight then shrugging his massive shoulders. “There’s a routine to the class structure. First, we’ll pair off to engage in some light sparring, then he’ll teach us new techniques. We’ll practice them on each other, and then do some bag work. Class ends with five fights. He picks the combatants and after each bout, does a question-and-answer session to see what we noticed and what the fighters did wrong.”
“Sounds fun,” said Scorio, windmilling his arms, his stomach light and fluttery.
“So much fun,” said Naomi, her tone indicating the exact opposite.
Lianshi bent down to press her forehead to her knees, wrapping her arm around the back of her legs, then dropped into a squat, one leg extended before her, balancing easily on her one heel. “It is fun, actually. If you win three fights in a row, you’re awarded a treasure of choice within a set category of power. It’s a powerful incentive.”
Naomi frowned, then nodded reluctantly. “That sounds better.”
“What are Feng’s powers?” asked Scorio, pitching his voice low. “I saw him use that cone of… dust?… in the Imogen fight. Any idea what it does?”
“Slows people down,” said Lianshi, shifting smoothly to crouch over the other heel. “The longer you’re in his cone, the slower you get, and the faster he becomes.”
“And if you’re in it, you’ll forget he’s there if you look away,” said Leonis. “He uses it on us during fights sometimes. Stop things getting out of hand, or add a challenge. It’s the weirdest thing to look around and realize you’ve forgotten all about him because you lost line of sight.”
“Interesting,” said Scorio. “So—”
“Line up,” came a barked command, and a second later, Instructor Feng strode into view, his robes so worn and soft that they’d gone from black to a smoky charcoal gray.
His command had an electric effect on the students; everyone leaped into place, forming a wall along one set of stadium seats. Naomi and Scorio fell in with everyone else, and Scorio stared straight ahead, chest tight with anticipation.
It was strange; seeing Feng alongside the Pyre Lords, Blood Barons, and the White Queen had somehow diminished him, made him appear as little more than a foot soldier. But now he radiated authority and a deliberate calm that drove home just how far above Scorio he really was as a Dread Blaze.
Feng stopped before them all, hands linked behind his back, his thick shock of black hair swept back, his expression sharp, exacting, severe. “Good morning, class. We’re joined by two new students, and as such, we’ll delay our usual routine until I can evaluate their skill. We’ll begin with Scorio. Everyone else, take a seat.”
The line melted away. Naomi stepped back last, as if reluctant to leave him alone, but finally gave him a jerky nod of encouragement and joined the others on the benches.
“Scorio,” said Feng, “Will you join me in the sparring circle?” And so saying, he strode to the raised platform and leaped onto it with ease.
His muscles felt strangely twitchy as he moved to follow, his mouth dry, the spot between his shoulder blades prickling as if from the combined weight of a hundred pairs of eyes. Scorio climbed smoothly up onto the sparring circle and moved to stand across from Feng under the harsh iron light.
“The goal of this exchange is for me to evaluate your speed, strength, resilience, and instincts.” Feng’s words were clipped and precise, his dark eyes intent. “We’ll begin with only our natural talents, but when you’re ready, you may choose to ignite. Begin.”
As one, the crowd seemed to inhale and lean forward.
Scorio lowered himself into the three-quarter profile combat crouch which he’d used so many times against Naomi, and forced himself to exhale smoothly. And then, in that moment of utter stillness, a rough and ready joy flooded his heart.
This was it. His chance to discover just how far he’d advanced. Whether all his hard work and brutal training had paid off.
Scorio fought mightily but failed to restrain a predatory smile. He met Feng’s dark, patient gaze, then moved to attack.
Chapter 45
The urge to simply rush at Feng was strong, but he’d spent too many hours practicing the First Form and internalizing Naomi’s training to abandon himself to a reckless charge. Instead, he approached slowly, forcing himself to remain relaxed, to hold onto a sense of calm that occluded his excitement and fears.
Feng remained motionless, chin lowered, eyes bright and probing. With his hands linked behind his back and in his faded gray robes he exuded no sense of menace; rather it felt like approaching a stern janitor, someone of great dignity but little threat.
Scorio stepped into striking distance and snapped out a couple of jabs. Feng simply leaned back just enough that his blows struck air, so he threw a high feint, right at the instructor’s face, which he immediately followed with a powerful cross, the weight of his body behind the blow.
Feng sidestepped, backed away, expression turning pensive, hands still linked behind him.
Rather than keep pressing, Scorio forced himself to relax once more, bounced a few times on the balls of his feet, shrugged his shoulders, then came in again; this time, however, he made the slightest of feints with both fists just before launching a powerful roundhouse kick at Feng’s chest.