Chapter 86: Skewers for an S-Rank

Chapter 86: Skewers for an S-Rank

The medics had given Silas a pair of infirmary trousers before they let him leave Carrow Hall. They were gray, tied with a drawstring, and cut for someone a hand shorter, so the hems flapped above his ankles with every step. His own trousers were rolled tight in the bottom of his bag, stiff with blood from knee to hip.

The grill counter behind the east grounds was where the field crews ate after a shift: a smoke-dark ceiling, a menu painted on a board, and booths along the back wall with high wooden sides. Silas took the last booth. Alden slid in opposite and read the board as if he might be tested on it.

"I’m buying," Alden said. "Before you start counting rescues again."

"I wasn’t going to argue," Silas said.

"Good." Alden waved at the counter. "Mutton skewers. Two plates. And whatever he’s having."

Silas had the pork belly with rice, because he had been thinking about it since the narrow turn.

Alden fell on the food. He ate the first skewer in four bites and the second in three, talking between them about the feint and the striker that had dropped over the partition. Halfway through the third, he slowed and turned it in his fingers without eating.

In the kitchen, someone dropped a stack of metal trays.

Alden’s shoulders jumped to his ears, and his free hand clamped on the edge of the table. For a second he seemed to have forgotten the booth. Then the cook swore cheerfully at whoever had dropped them, and Alden let go of the table and looked at his own hand.

"Sorry," he said.

"For what?" Silas asked.

"I don’t know." He put the skewer down. "It keeps coming back in pieces. The crack, mostly. And the sound you made." He shook his head before Silas could answer. "Not tonight. I don’t want to do that tonight."

"Then don’t," Silas said.

Alden nodded. "What does it actually mean?" he asked. "S-Rank. Not in general. For me. Tomorrow."

"What do you want it to mean?" Silas asked.

Alden took his time, turning the wooden skewer between his fingers.

"I want help with the Talent itself," Alden said at last. "Ferrow can tell me what I did wrong. I need someone who can explain what happens when it corrects me, so I’m not guessing from a library book at midnight." He glanced at his sword, propped beside the booth. "And more places like Carrow Hall. Without the falling wall. I learned more this afternoon than I have in weeks of practicing the same drills."

"What else?" Silas asked.

"And when the gate opened, I was standing at the barrier, waiting to find out if I’d be useful." He looked at his plate. "I want to be the one they call when something goes wrong. Not the one somebody else carries out."

Silas let himself finish the mouthful he had almost forgotten to swallow.

There he is, he thought.

He remembered the game protagonist volunteering for things any sensible person would avoid. Alden hadn’t lost that willingness. He wanted to become better at helping, and now he had the Talent for it. Silas could enjoy his dinner without wondering whether he’d have to take the man’s place.

He pushed the dish of sauce toward Alden, who had been reaching for it. He kept his choice beneath the fallen slab to himself.

"Star Class," Silas said.

Alden blinked. "What?"

"S-Rank Talents go to Star Class. That’s how the academy sorts people. It isn’t a favor. Your Talent qualifies you, and the registry’s already confirmed it."

"Leander’s in Star Class," Alden said slowly. "Dagna. Elyra."

"So you’ll know three people," Silas said.

"Two people and Elyra," Alden corrected.

Silas laughed into his rice.

Alden’s communicator buzzed against the table. He read the screen and went still. Then he read it again with his thumb under each line.

"Office of Student Placement," he said. "’Following the reclassification of your Soul Talent, arrangements are being made for your transfer to Star Class. Please attend at the second bell tomorrow to discuss your timetable and instructional support.’" He scrolled back to the top. "It says Cross, Alden."

"That is your name," Silas said.

"I know it’s my name." He checked once more anyway. Then his face fell. "Second bell. I’ve got Sorel at second bell."

"Placement can let him know," Silas said. "You won’t be skipping."

Alden set the communicator down carefully, as though it might go off. "You know the form at the start of the year, where you write the class you’re aiming for? I wrote Silver. I nearly crossed it out for being too ambitious."

"You can aim a little higher now," Silas said.

Alden looked at the message once more, smiling, and finally ate the third skewer.

He paid and refused to show Silas the total. Where the paths split, he stopped under a lamp to read the message one more time.

The studio door opened under his palm, and the room took him back. His reserve began climbing at its doubled pace, and the ordinary tiredness of a day spent walking backward over iron rails started to drain out of his legs.

Nim lifted his head from the pillow and sniffed.

"You smell like iron," he said. "And blood. A lot of blood."

"It’s on the clothes in my bag," Silas said. "I’m all right."

Nim came down the bed and sniffed Silas’s leg from ankle to hip, then sat back. "It healed you."

"It healed me," Silas assured him.

"Good." Nim’s tail went straight up. "Did you bring something shiny?"

Silas opened his mouth and shut it again.

"I told you there’d be screws," Nim said.

"There were," Silas said. "The maintenance people needed them. A wall fell down."

Nim looked at the bag, then back at Silas’s leg. "The wall fell on you?"

"A piece of it. Alden helped me out. I’m going to tell you the rest after I’ve changed."

Nim stayed near his feet until Silas had finished changing, checking each movement with an attention that made Silas oddly reluctant to hurry.

Silas folded the borrowed trousers for return and tied his ruined pair in a refuse bag. He sat on the bed in his own clothes and described the accident, leaving out the few seconds he had deliberately waited. Nim listened with his paws on Silas’s knee, then accepted the measured offering of mana they had agreed upon. His fur brightened a little.

"I’ll find you something shiny," Silas said.

"Tomorrow," Nim said.

"Soon," Silas replied.

"Tomorrow," Nim said, with finality.

"Alden’s Talent evolved today," Silas added. "It’s S-Rank now."

"Is that good?" Nim asked.

"It’s very good," Silas said.

Nim considered this. "For him or for you?"

"Both," Silas said, and Nim didn’t ask him to explain.

He lay back with the spirit warm against his ribs and looked at the ceiling.

Late Rank One. Five permanent Talents: Remote Grasp, Shadow Passage, Burst Motion, Split Focus, and Iron Skin, which had been the last to settle and had left the temporary slot empty behind it. Nothing hurt anywhere. And he’d learned something today that had nothing to do with Alden. Throw from where it’s going to be.

Then there was the green book on his desk, Elyra’s loaned copy, with her first instructor’s small slanted notes in the margins. His unfinished progress with Spirit Communion would carry over when he recorded it again, but until then he couldn’t use its perception. He could reread the exercises and practice ordinary mana control. Hearing Nim speak was no substitute; the spirit chose to make himself heard.

He thought about Battle Evolution too. Of course he did. Alden would come to this room sooner or later to complain about drills or steal the guest chair. One crossing, one prompt. An S-Rank Talent that adapted through difficulty, with his room amplifying its output. It would be stupid not to want it.

But he had one slot and seven days, and no plan at all for Battle Evolution yet. For Spirit Communion he had a book, a spirit asleep on his chest, and progress waiting to be picked back up. If he filled the slot with whatever looked most impressive each week, he’d end up with a dozen half-learned things and nothing finished.

One at a time. Finish something.

His communicator chimed.

When can I visit? Elyra had written. I’d like to see Nim. And I’d like the rest of our conversation.

Silas looked at it for a long time.

He typed: The day after tomorrow. Four o’clock. Then, after a moment: I’ve been working through your book. Something isn’t working, and I can’t tell what. I’d like you to look.

The reply came so quickly she must have been holding the device.

Four. I’ll bring something for Nim.

"She’s bringing you something," Silas told Nim.

The spirit’s ears came up.