Three Crests ended the argument.
Gold.
Gold.
Violet.
They turned behind Cassian Valcor in slow circles of light.
The father looked at them.
Then at his son.
Then at the old man behind the table.
His anger did not disappear.
It became practical.
Silas respected practical fear more than loud courage.
The man's hand dropped.
“We'll consider the fee lost.”
Cassian inclined his head.
“A reasonable interpretation.”
The father shot him one final look.
Then caught his son by the shoulder and walked toward the polished carriage.
The boy did not resist.
He looked relieved.
That interested Silas more than the father.
Perhaps he had known his age would fail.
Perhaps this had been the argument all morning before they arrived.
Records said twelve.
Bones said otherwise.
Somebody had decided trying was cheaper than admitting the problem.
The carriage left.
Dust settled.
Cassian's three Crests faded.
The White Lion withdrew with them.
For a moment the line remained silent.
Then the old man behind the table opened both eyes.
“Well.”
His voice was dry.
“You've now seen what three Crests look like.”
Cassian glanced back.
The old man continued:
“If anyone else intends to argue over the fee, do it before I get hungry.”
Nobody moved.
Mira whispered:
“I definitely like him.”
Silas looked at the old man.
“Wait.”
“What?”
Silas's attention had shifted.
The examiner had not reacted to Cassian's three Crests the way most people did.
No tension.
No readiness.
No respect.
Nothing.
He had watched a Level Thirty-Seven White Lion manifest a thousand-year Crest three paces away and remained seated with one elbow on the table.
Either he was stupid—
No.
Not likely.
Or—
The old man looked toward the remaining families.
“You're all wasting time.”
One mother near the back frowned.
“Excuse me?”
He pointed at the board.
“Under thirteen.”
Then held up another finger.
“Level Twenty-One minimum.”
The line changed.
Not visibly at first.
Then parents began looking at children.
Children began looking at boots.
A man near the fence said:
“Twenty-One?”
“Yes.”
“At twelve?”
“Yes.”
“That is absurd.”
“Then leave.”
Silas understood.
There.
That was Ravencrest.
Not hidden curriculum.
Not secret fees.
The absurdity was the point.
Greyhaven Preparatory existed to make ordinary talent functional.
Concord junior programs existed to reduce risk and standardize development.
Ravencrest—
Ravencrest had no interest in normal.
The man near the fence laughed once.
“You're asking for children under thirteen who've already crossed the second threshold.”
“Yes.”
“How many do you expect to find?”
The old examiner shrugged.
“Enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“School.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It is here.”
Mira's smile widened.
Of course.
The man shook his head.
“This place is a joke.”
The old examiner stood.
Silas immediately revised several estimates.
He had looked thin while seated.
He was not.
Age had narrowed him without reducing structure.
His shoulders remained broad beneath the plain work shirt.
One hand closed around the patterned walking staff leaning against the table.
Aether appeared.
Not quickly.
It did not need to.
Pressure filled the road.
Silas's spine tightened.
Mira's hand caught his sleeve.
Cassian did not move.
Six Crests rose.
One after another.
Light spread across dirt, fence, canvas awning, waiting families.
The old staff changed in his hand.
Dark wood lengthened.
Fine markings along the shaft ignited dull red.
The air became heavy enough that Silas had to deliberately loosen his knees.
Six.
Warden.
At least.
The old man looked exactly the same.
That was the worst part.
No enlarged body.
No claws.
No transformation.
Just a tired examiner standing behind a cheap table while six Crests turned around him.
Silas understood why Cassian had not reacted to the father's insult.
The old man had not needed protecting.
Cassian had been protecting the father.
Mira whispered:
“Oh.”
Silas glanced at her.
“That is still the correct response.”
She elbowed him.
The examiner planted the staff beside the cash box.
“You want ordinary?”
He gestured back toward Rivergate.
“There are good schools there.”
No contempt.
Just statement.
“Want safe advancement? Concord runs programs.”
Another gesture.
“Want old House instruction? Go home and pay your family tutors.”
Several wealthy parents stiffened.
The examiner did not care.
“Ravencrest doesn't have the money to teach children who can get the same thing somewhere else.”
That changed Silas's attention.
Not arrogance.
Economics.
The old man continued:
“We have too few beds, too few instructors, not enough field permits, and the roof over the east hall still leaks.”
Cassian said:
“I told them.”
The old man looked at him.
“Nobody asked you.”
Mira covered a laugh.
Cassian looked mildly wounded.
The examiner returned to the line.
“So we keep exceptions.”
Silas felt that sentence settle.
Exceptions.
Not monsters.
Better.
“Under thirteen. Level Twenty-One or higher. If your child doesn't meet both, take the fee you haven't paid yet and buy lunch.”
A father near the rear immediately took his daughter and left.
Then another family.
Then three.
The line cut nearly in half.
The old examiner sat.
Six Crests vanished.
Pressure left so suddenly Silas almost leaned forward.
Mira breathed out.
“I want to stay here.”
“You haven't passed yet.”
“I know.”
“That usually matters.”
“Not emotionally.”
Silas did not know what to do with that.
Cassian returned to the fence.
As he passed them, he said:
“Still think I was exaggerating?”
“About the roof?” Silas asked.
Cassian stared.
“About the school.”
“I haven't seen the roof up close.”
Cassian closed his eyes.
Mira smiled.
The line moved.
Ravencrest charged an application fee small enough to attract hope and large enough to discourage boredom.
Silas approved of the amount.
Mira accused him of thinking like an accountant.
Silas pointed out she had paid for a private bath without negotiation.
Mira ended the discussion by stepping on his boot.
The applicants ahead of them failed in different ways.
One boy met the age requirement and produced a single gold Crest.
Nineteen.
Rejected.
His mother protested only once.
The old examiner pointed toward the board.
They left.
A girl perhaps eleven stepped forward with two gold Crests but weak Aether control.
The examiner tested her twice.
Asked three questions.
Then waved her through.
Interesting.
Minimum was not perfection.
Potential still mattered.
Another child passed Aether and failed age.
Another passed age but possessed only Level Twenty.
One number.
One level.
Rejected.
Mira watched that one leave.
“That seems mean.”
Silas considered.
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
“You agree?”
“Rules can be useful and still hurt.”
Mira's expression changed.
Small.
Then she nodded.
Their turn arrived.
The old examiner held out his hand.
“Fee.”
Silas paid.
Mira paid separately.
The coins disappeared into the box.
The examiner looked at Silas.
“Hand.”
Silas gave him the right one.
The old man's thumb pressed against the wrist.
Then palm.
Then knuckles.
His brows drew together.
Again.
Silas waited.
“Smith?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
“Other hand.”
Silas's body went still.
Only inside.
The left hand.
Garrick's rule remained where it had always been.
Does not exist.
The examiner held out his palm.
No suspicion.
Just procedure.
Silas gave him the left hand.
The old man's fingers pressed the wrist.
Bone.
Tendon.
Growth.
Nothing supernatural.
Silas kept Blackthorn circulation quiet.
The hidden weight stayed silent.
The examiner frowned.
“Both overworked.”
“Workshop.”
“Show me your leg.”
Mira made a sound.
Silas looked at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The examiner tapped the table.
“Calf.”
Silas raised one trouser leg enough for the man to press along shin and ankle.
Three seconds.
“Twelve.”
“Yes.”
“Barely?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The examiner looked at Mira.
“Hand.”
She gave him one.
He pressed her wrist.
Paused.
His expression changed.
Silas noticed.
Not surprise exactly.
Confusion.
The examiner pressed again.
Mira's smile remained easy.
Too easy.
Silas watched.
The old man moved from wrist to forearm.
Then elbow.
His eyes narrowed.
Mira tilted her head.
“Problem?”
The examiner looked at her face.
Then at her bones.
“No.”
That was not a full answer.
He released her.
“Twelve.”
“Yes.”
Silas stored the hesitation.
No conclusion.
Just evidence.
The examiner reached beside the table and picked up an Aether crystal.
Not the Awakening kind.
Smaller.
Clouded from years of use.
“Level.”
“Twenty-Nine,” Silas said.
The old man looked up.
Mira said:
“Same.”
Cassian smiled from the fence.
The examiner looked toward him.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And said nothing.”
“You didn't ask.”
The examiner grunted.
“Good.”
Silas almost smiled.
Apparently that answer worked here.
“Eidolons.”
Mira went first.
Moon Hare.
White ears rose.
Her posture lightened.
Two gold Crests lifted around her.
Several people still waiting outside stared.
The examiner barely did.
One glance.
Enough.
“Combat line?”
“Close.”
“Control?”
“Sometimes.”
Mira smiled.
Silas disliked that answer.
The examiner did not seem bothered.
“Fine.”
He looked at Silas.
“Yours.”
Wildvine emerged from Silas's palm.
Only the base form at first.
Simple.
Green.
Almost ordinary.
The examiner stared.
Once.
Then twice.
“Wildvine.”
“Yes.”
Cassian laughed under his breath.
The examiner looked at him.
Cassian stopped.
Silas called his Crests.
Gold.
Gold.
Wildvine changed.
The green deepened.
Black-blue internal lines spread along the stems.
Leaves widened.
Fine hooked thorns emerged along mature runners.
The examiner leaned forward.
Interesting.
Not dismissive.
Inspection.
“Wildvine,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Twenty-Nine.”
“Yes.”
“With two century Crests.”
“Yes.”
“What did you feed it?”
Mira burst out laughing.
Silas looked at her.
The examiner clarified:
“Crest sources.”
“First: Nightshade Viper. Approximately three hundred ninety years.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Animal Crest.”
“Yes.”
“Second?”
Silas gave the species and approximate age Gideon had selected years ago.
The old examiner touched one vine.
Silas let him.
He bent it.
Tested fiber.
Used more force.
The vine held.
Then he deliberately pressed a thumb against one thorn.
Not enough to break skin.
Smart.
“Poison?”
“Neuromuscular impairment.”
“That's poison.”
Mira said:
“Thank you.”
Silas ignored her.
The examiner looked at him.
“Drakhar?”
Silas stopped.
“How did you know?”
“No sane field instructor puts a Nightshade on Wildvine at first Crest.”
Silas considered.
“That could describe several people.”
“Not successfully.”
Fair.
“Gideon Drakhar is my teacher.”
The old man's face did something complicated.
Then flattened.
“Of course he is.”
Cassian laughed openly now.
Silas looked toward him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is always something.”
Cassian's smile remained.
The examiner picked up both application slips.
Stamped them.
“First screen passed.”
Mira leaned forward.
“How many screens?”
“Four.”
Her smile faded slightly.
Silas asked:
“What do they measure?”
The old man looked at him.
“Different reasons you might die here.”
Better answer than expected.
He handed the stamped forms to Cassian.
“Take them.”
Cassian pushed away from the fence.
Mira looked at the old man.
“You're not doing the rest?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I've already seen enough children today.”
He looked at Silas.
Then Mira.
“Unfortunately, you two look promising.”
Silas was beginning to understand Ravencrest praise.
Inside the gate, the academy became worse.
And better.
The road turned to dirt almost immediately.
No decorative stone paths.
No trimmed hedges.
Buildings sat where somebody had once found enough money to build them.
The main hall's foundation was old limestone.
The upper story had been added later in timber.
A covered walkway connected it to a brick classroom block whose windows did, in fact, contain several different kinds of glass.
Silas counted five before Mira elbowed him.
“Stop.”
“Cassian said eight.”
“That was not a challenge.”
“It became one.”
Cassian looked back.
“Six are visible from this side.”
Silas nodded.
Useful.
Mira stared at both of them.
“I hate this.”
The training yard occupied more ground than the academic buildings.
That made sense.
Weapon racks stood beneath roofs.
Posts.
Sand pits.
A stone circle.
A long straight track marked by stakes.
Farther back stood what looked like a reinforced barn with half the wall replaced by scorched masonry.
Silas pointed.
“What happened?”
Cassian followed his gaze.
“Rowan.”
“Who?”
“You'll meet him.”
That was not reassuring.
Students crossed the grounds in no uniform Silas could identify.
Some wore academy pins.
Most did not.
One girl trained barefoot with a staff.
Two boys carried sacks of grain toward the kitchen.
A broad-shouldered instructor was repairing a fence instead of supervising either.
Ravencrest did not look organized.
That did not mean it wasn't.
Silas had learned the difference between visible order and functional order in Briar Glen.
A forge could look filthy and still have every tool exactly where the smith expected.
He reserved judgment.
Mira did not.
“I like it more inside.”
“Why?”
“Nobody is marching.”
“You don't like marching.”
“No.”
“You've never marched.”
“Exactly.”
Cassian said:
“You will.”
Mira's face fell.
Silas enjoyed that.
The second screen took place beneath an open shed.
No written test.
No speeches.
A woman with iron-gray hair stood beside three weighted bars and a marked jumping platform.
Physical output.
Not raw strength alone.
Coordination.
Recovery.
Body quality after two Crest integrations.
Applicants moved through quickly.
Mira went before Silas.
She did not lift the heaviest bar.
Instead she lifted the middle one with one hand, balanced it across two fingers, then set it down without sound.
The instructor stared.
“Why?”
Mira shrugged.
“You said control.”
“I said lift.”
“Oh.”
The woman pointed.
“Again. Properly.”
Mira lifted it.
Passed.
Silas's turn.
His body had changed under Blackthorn training and two Crests.
Not visibly enough to invite questions.
Enough.
He passed strength.
Reaction.
Jump.
Balance.
The instructor looked at his workshop-callused hands.
Then his posture.
“Too controlled.”
Silas frowned.
“That is a failure?”
“Could be.”
“How?”
“You think before landing.”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes the ground decides first.”
Useful.
She stamped the form.
Second screen passed.
Silas stored the criticism.
Gideon's letter had said something similar.
Punish excessive planning before it becomes rigidity.
Annoying when independent evidence agreed.
The third screen was Aether control.
This one took longer.
Applicants had to move force through a set of copper rings without touching the frame.
Then sustain their Eidolon at low output while answering questions.
Then change intensity on command.
Mira hated it.
Not because it was difficult.
Because it was boring.
Her Moon Hare flickered once when the examiner asked her to hold exactly half output for a full minute.
“Again.”
Mira sighed.
Silas whispered:
“Consequences.”
She looked at him.
He smiled.
Small.
She held it perfectly the second time.
Silas passed with less drama.
The examiner looked at his Wildvine.
“Lower.”
Silas reduced.
“Lower.”
Again.
“Lower.”
Silas reached the point where only one narrow stem remained.
“Hold.”
He held.
The examiner began asking multiplication.
Silas answered.
Then regional capitals.
Then Crest safety questions.
Then:
“What do you do if your target is stronger than your control?”
“Change what I'm controlling.”
The examiner looked at him.
“Example.”
“Ground instead of body. Vision instead of limbs. Route instead of speed.”
A pause.
“Drakhar?”
“Yes.”
The stamp came down.
Third screen.
Passed.
Mira leaned toward Silas as they left.
“You always get the interesting questions.”
“You were asked multiplication.”
“Exactly.”
There were fewer applicants now.
Seven, by Silas's count.
Cassian led them toward the far training ground.
Then stopped.
A smell had reached the path.
Smoke.
Fat.
Pepper.
Sage.
Mira stopped too.
Silas saw the reaction.
“No.”
“I haven't said anything.”
“You don't need to.”
The smell strengthened.
Around the corner of a dormitory stood a pushcart.
Actual pushcart.
Wooden wheels.
Iron brazier.
Small charcoal fire.
A hand-painted sign nailed to the front:
OSCAR REED'S SAUSAGES
Below, in smaller letters:
HOT — SWEET — FAIR PRICE
Then someone had added another line in different paint:
EAT ONE AND PASS YOUR EXAMS
Silas stopped.
Mira read it twice.
“That's illegal.”
Cassian said:
“Not technically.”
Silas looked at him.
“Why not?”
“Because nobody has proved the sausage changes exam results.”
“That makes the claim worse.”
“Yes.”
Behind the cart stood a boy.
Older than Silas.
Perhaps fourteen.
Lanky.
Pale blond hair falling into his eyes.
Dark stubble already along his jaw, enough that from a distance he could have passed for much older.
His expression had the soft exhaustion of someone permanently halfway through a nap.
He saw the group.
Straightened slightly.
“Fresh batch.”
Cassian's face hardened.
Oscar brightened.
“Cassian.”
“No.”
“I haven't offered yet.”
“No.”
Mira had already approached the cart.
Of course.
Silas followed.
Oscar lifted one sausage from the grill on a wooden skewer.
It was about four inches long.
Browned skin.
Actually good smell.
Silas became suspicious.
Oscar said:
“Two coppers.”
Mira looked at Silas.
Silas looked at the sausage.
Then at the sign.
“How long ago was it made?”
Oscar seemed offended.
“Ten minutes.”
“From what?”
Oscar paused.
Cassian closed his eyes.
Silas noticed.
Important.
Oscar said:
“Pork.”
Cassian said:
“Oscar.”
Oscar looked at him.
Cassian folded his arms.
“Make a fresh one.”
The boy's face changed.
Mira looked between them.
“Why?”
Oscar said quickly:
“The grill batch is fresh.”
Cassian's expression became strange.
Not angry now.
Amused.
Cruel in the specific manner of older students who knew something embarrassing.
“Fresh.”
Oscar sighed.
“Cassian.”
“Do it.”
“There's no need.”
“Do it.”
Silas looked at the sausage.
Then Oscar.
Food Eidolon.
The answer assembled itself.
Interesting.
Oscar looked at Silas.
Then Mira.
Then toward the sky as though appealing to a higher power that had repeatedly failed him.
“Fine.”
He extended his right hand.
Aether gathered.
Two gold Crests rose.
Silas's attention sharpened immediately.
Two century Crests.
Food-type Bearer.
At fourteen or so.
Not ridiculous anymore.
Oscar's palm glowed yellow.
Then he said, in the least enthusiastic voice Silas had ever heard:
“Big, hot, and ready—breakfast sausage, come on out.”
Silas went still.
Mira did too.
Golden light condensed.
A sausage appeared in Oscar's hand.
Fresh.
Warm.
Perfectly formed.
For several seconds nobody spoke.
Silas looked at the sausage.
Then at Oscar.
Then at the sausage.
He had lived two lives.
He had died once.
He had fought a Nightshade Viper at five.
He had watched Gideon nearly poison himself to death.
He had seen Cassian tear two-Crest Wildvine apart with a thousand-year Art.
This remained one of the more difficult things he had experienced.
Especially because he had been considering buying the sausage for Mira.
Oscar's shoulders sank.
“Yes.”
Silas had not asked.
“Yes,” Oscar repeated. “I have to say it.”
Mira's mouth twitched.
Oscar pointed at her.
“Don't.”
That made it worse.
She turned away.
Her shoulders began shaking.
Cassian looked deeply satisfied.
Silas understood now.
This was revenge.
Oscar looked at him.
“You want the sausage or not?”
Silas considered the summoned food.
Two Crests.
Food Eidolon.
An actual manifested consumable.
Embarrassing invocation did not make the mechanism less extraordinary.
“What does it do?”
Oscar blinked.
Cassian's amusement faded slightly.
Good question.
Oscar looked down at the sausage.
“First Art.”
He raised one finger.
“Restores physical condition. Mostly fatigue and ordinary injury recovery. Not broken bones, before you ask.”
“I was going to.”
“I know your type.”
“You met me thirty seconds ago.”
“Still.”
Silas looked at the second gold Crest.
“And the second?”
Oscar hesitated.
Cassian said:
“Tell him.”
Oscar glared.
Then:
“Clears some abnormal conditions.”
Silas became very still.
“What kind?”
“Low-grade toxins. dizziness. some numbness. Aether disruption if it isn't too severe. Depends on level difference.”
Nightshade.
Silas looked at the sausage differently.
Very differently.
Support.
Portable.
Edible.
No healer needed at point of use.
Two Arts at fourteen.
Oscar noticed the change.
His posture improved.
There.
The joke was surface.
Under it—
Strategic value.
Serious value.
“How long do they last after creation?”
“First one keeps most effect for about a day if sealed.”
“Second?”
“Shorter.”
“Can you produce in advance?”
“Yes.”
“Daily limit?”
Oscar stared.
Cassian smiled.
Mira had stopped laughing.
Silas continued:
“Aether cost per unit?”
Oscar lowered the sausage.
“You really are Drakhar's student.”
Silas frowned.
“You know Teacher?”
“Everybody here knows of him.”
That answer again.
Oscar shook his head.
“I can make more than most people can eat before I empty out.”
“That's not a number.”
“It is when I sell by appetite.”
Cassian said:
“Don't encourage him.”
Oscar looked offended.
“This academy underfeeds athletes.”
“The dining hall feeds you.”
“Not enough.”
“You sell your Eidolon to new applicants.”
“Entrepreneurship.”
Mira recovered enough to turn back.
“How much?”
“Two coppers.”
Cassian said:
“You were charging one last month.”
“Inflation.”
“No.”
“Charcoal.”
“You create the sausage.”
“I grill it.”
Silas looked at the brazier.
That part was true.
Mira held out two coppers.
Silas caught her wrist.
She looked at him.
“What?”
“You were laughing.”
“So?”
“Now you're buying it.”
“It smells good.”
Oscar looked vindicated.
Silas released her.
Mira bought one.
Oscar gave it to her.
She held it.
Then looked at him.
Then at the sausage.
Her expression became dangerous again.
“Say the phrase one more time.”
Oscar's face collapsed.
“No.”
“For science.”
“No.”
Silas said:
“That is not science.”
Mira ignored him.
Cassian said:
“She's going to fit in.”
Oscar looked at Cassian.
“Please don't say that.”
Mira bit the sausage.
Everyone watched.
She chewed.
Paused.
Then took another bite.
Oscar's confidence returned.
“Well?”
Mira swallowed.
“Annoyingly good.”
Oscar pointed at Cassian.
“See?”
Cassian said:
“I never said the food was bad.”
“Then buy one.”
“No.”
“Coward.”
Cassian's eyes narrowed.
Oscar immediately became interested in the grill.
Silas almost smiled.
Silas bought one too.
Not because of hunger.
Testing.
Mira knew.
“You're going to write notes.”
“Yes.”
“About sausage.”
“Yes.”
She sighed.
Oscar handed him one from the grill.
Silas inspected texture.
Uniform.
No gristle.
Good fat distribution.
He bit.
Warm.
Salt.
Pepper.
Sage.
A faint sweetness he could not identify.
Then the Aether moved.
Subtle.
Not a surge.
More like heat spreading through exhausted muscle after rest.
His wrist from yesterday's fight stopped aching as sharply.
Shoulder loosened.
Not healed.
Improved.
Silas stopped chewing.
Oscar watched.
“Now?”
Silas swallowed.
“Useful.”
Oscar's face changed.
The lazy humor disappeared.
Only for a second.
That word mattered.
Useful.
Not funny.
Not disgusting.
Not embarrassing.
Useful.
Silas knew that reaction.
He had carried Wildvine through six years of it.
Oscar shrugged.
Too casually.
“Obviously.”
Mira looked between them.
She noticed too.
Good.
Silas looked at the sausage cart.
“How many people here refuse to eat them because of the phrase?”
Oscar's expression flattened.
“Enough.”
Cassian said:
“Most the first week.”
“Then?”
“They get injured.”
Oscar smiled.
“Pain improves taste.”
That sounded true.
Silas stored it.
A Food Eidolon whose bearer had to use an embarrassing spoken invocation.
Social disadvantage.
Tactical advantage.
Interesting trade.
Ravencrest kept exceptions.
Apparently it also kept jokes that could save your life.
Cassian finally pushed away from the cart.
“We're late.”
Oscar said:
“You're always late.”
“I am literally working admissions.”
“Poorly.”
Cassian looked at him.
Oscar picked up tongs.
Mira asked:
“Are you a student?”
Oscar looked wounded.
“What did you think?”
She looked at the stubble.
Oscar's face changed.
“No.”
Mira smiled.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were going to.”
Silas understood.
Mira asked:
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
She blinked.
Oscar pointed the tongs.
“Don't.”
Mira looked at Silas.
Silas looked away.
That was safer.
Cassian said:
“Oscar.”
“What?”
“Stop selling inside the grounds.”
Oscar's shoulders drooped.
“Why?”
“Because Alaric said so.”
“He said stop blocking the path.”
“You moved the cart twelve feet.”
“The path is no longer blocked.”
Cassian stared.
Silas found the argument structurally sound.
He chose not to say so.
Oscar saw his face.
“You understand.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Cassian rubbed his forehead.
“Sell outside the gate.”
“Then applicants haven't passed the first screen.”
“That's the point.”
“My customer base collapses.”
“Good.”
Oscar looked toward Mira.
“See what I endure?”
Mira nodded solemnly.
“Oppression.”
“Exactly.”
Cassian started walking.
“If that cart is here after lunch, I'm telling Alaric.”
Oscar called after him:
“Then tell him the dining hall owes me six meals.”
Cassian did not turn.
“That is because you sold the cook sausage and called it ingredient credit.”
“It was food!”
Mira laughed.
Silas followed Cassian.
Behind him, Oscar shouted:
“Oscar Reed sausages! Hot, sweet, fair price! Eat one and maybe survive the final screen!”
Silas stopped.
Turned.
“Maybe?”
Oscar smiled.
“Honest advertising.”
The old shopkeeper in Rivergate would have liked him.
Perhaps.
They rejoined the remaining applicants near the far training yard.
Five now.
Silas.
Mira.
A short-haired girl in an immaculate traveling coat.
A dark-haired girl standing alone near the fence.
And one nervous boy Silas had not seen speak all morning.
The short-haired girl looked expensive in a way different from Cassian.
Cassian's clothing announced House training.
Military tailoring.
Durable wool.
Boots built for riding.
This girl's coat had no visible crest or house badge.
It did not need one.
Fabric too fine.
Stitching too exact.
Gloves fitted by somebody who had measured each finger.
Old money preferred quality over announcement.
Prism Court, Silas thought.
Maybe.
Not enough evidence.
The dark-haired girl was the opposite.
Black training clothes.
Minimal baggage.
No jewelry.
No conversation.
She stood with her back near the fence but not touching it.
Position chosen to watch every approach.
Interesting.
Cassian saw her.
Stopped.
Only for half a breath.
Silas noticed.
The dark-haired girl's eyes met his.
Nothing visible passed.
Which meant something probably had.
Silas disliked relationships with missing context.
He had enough already.
Mira leaned close.
“You saw that.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Unhelpful.
Cassian recovered.
“The fourth screen is practical.”
The nervous boy swallowed.
“Combat?”
“Usually.”
“Usually?”
Cassian looked toward the large training field.
“It depends who's supervising.”
That was a terrible sentence.
Silas approved of the honesty.
“Objective?” he asked.
“Also depends.”
“Failure condition?”
Cassian smiled.
“Now you sound like Drakhar.”
“So everyone keeps saying.”
The short-haired girl looked toward Silas.
First real attention.
Cassian took the stamped forms.
“Wait here.”
He walked toward the stone hall.
The dark-haired girl remained silent.
The short-haired girl inspected the training field.
Mira finished the last bite of sausage.
Silas looked at the empty skewer.
“Any effect?”
“Less hungry.”
“That wasn't the question.”
“I know.”
He sighed.
Behind them, Oscar's sales call drifted across the grounds.
Then stopped abruptly.
A deeper voice shouted something Silas could not make out.
Oscar shouted back.
A moment later the cart wheels began moving very quickly.
Mira smiled.
“I really like this school.”
Silas looked around.
Leaking buildings.
Mismatched glass.
An admission system designed to reject most competent children.
A Level Thirty-Seven noble student working the gate.
A six-Crest examiner collecting coins under canvas.
A Food Bearer illegally selling magical sausages ten yards from an entrance trial.
And somewhere ahead, a final screen nobody had clearly explained.
Gideon had sent them here on purpose.
That was becoming the most suspicious fact of all.
Silas touched the letter tube at his side.
Then the Wayfarer's Belt.
Giltcoil rested inside one cell.
Hidden.
Unneeded, hopefully.
His two gold Crests remained quiet.
Mira stood beside him.
The other two girls waited nearby.
Cassian disappeared into the stone hall.
A door opened.
Someone inside laughed.
Low.
Rough.
Not friendly.
Silas felt Aether pressure through the ground before the man even appeared.
Mira stopped smiling.
Good.
The final screen had found them.