Sparks (8 page)

Avis led me to the dining hall, which was completely full–I guessed at least a hundred others. I had never been to the dining room so early, and the volume was just as bad as I feared. Aside from the audible roar of students at breakfast, their thoughts screamed into my head until I could do nothing but follow behind Avis like a dog.

He pushed me towards a table and brought over a plate of biscuits and bacon. “What’s this for?”

“How are you going to fight anyone if you can’t even lift up your little twig arms? Eat.”

I couldn’t exactly argue with him; he was right. I was at a complete disadvantage compared to the well-fed students of Myxini.
It’s going to be a massacre.
Not in the mood to deny the opportunity to eat, I shoveled it in my mouth and tried as best I could to not wince from the ache in my brain. Before I could even finish, Avis dropped a second plate in front of me. “Eat,” he said again, and I ate. By the time we left, I was certain I’d never eaten as much at one time, and it didn’t feel pleasant.

In the center of the grounds was the combat training area I had observed while on various errands. There were at least twenty students involved in wrestling matches around the training area, their thoughts particularly loud. Where to throw a punch or which way to turn dominated–and with so many matches in session, it was impossible to tell which belonged to whom.

Avis introduced me to the grey-haired combat instructor, Sinha. A scar that ran down his brow added to his intimidation, but it was his secure stance that told me he knew how to handle himself.

“He knows the rules?” Sinha asked. Avis nodded in reply and walked away.
Why does he keep doing that?

“Today you’ll be working with Parvani. She must yield in order for you to win. Good luck.”
That’s it? No help, no instructions?
It was trial by fire, and I had a sneaking suspicion I would to have some serious burns by the end of the day. I knew Avis must have had a good laugh about it all.

Sinha pointed in the direction of a girl who looked to have no more than sixteen summers. Her coverings were red, and her black hair was tied back in a braid. “Hi, Sinha said I’m with you today. I’m Lar–” Her fist connected with my ribs, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

“Nice to meet you, Lar,” she said innocently, before her foot lodged itself in my gut while I lay helplessly on the ground. I gasped for breath and barely had time to turn to my side before my breakfast came back up. I knew eating too much wasn’t a good idea. Maybe that was Avis’s plan, too?
Humiliating.

“I’m Parvani. Round Two Striker.” I’d barely gotten back to my feet before another foot caught me in the ribs and flung me onto my back in pain. I had never been hit like that; I’d never fought someone I couldn’t defeat. In fact, I’d never really fought anyone before Micha. It became increasingly obvious how difficult this Round would be.

“Sinha, do I really have to match him all day? Can’t I have someone who can stay on their feet?”

The stoic instructor came over and thankfully provided a reprieve from the torrent of painful blows. “No one else will fight you. Until Patna’s leg heals, you don’t have much of a choice.”
Oh no. What happened to Patna’s leg?
I had no idea who that was, but I definitely didn’t want to learn what they meant the hard way.

Parvani seemed to lose interest in me, so I stayed on the ground, curled, with my arms clutched to my chest. I wasn’t any sort of competition for her, so she asked, “Do you yield?”

I coughed out an answer and watched her walk over to a small wooden bench on the edge of the arena.
It could have gone much worse
, I’d decided. I could have had my arm or leg broken, I could have lost teeth, or been bludgeoned to death, for all I knew. As it happened, though, it still took several minutes before I could recover enough to stand, and I had nothing else to do but go talk to Parvani.

Farther from the crowd, her thoughts were more distinct, though at times I still wasn’t sure.
Why does she feel remorseful for beating me? Why not just stop before it gets out of hand?

“What happened to Patna?” I asked.

She thought of the day she destroyed his leg, and I had to fight not to cringe at it. “I broke his leg the last time we fought. He wouldn’t yield. He won’t be recovered for months.”

“And you’re stuck in Round Two until he’s ready to fight again?” She nodded her agreement, filled with frustration and regret. She hadn’t wanted to do it, but she couldn’t get him to yield and she was desperate to move on to the next round. As it was, she was already one of the oldest students in Round Two.

“I’m sorry I hit you so many times, Lar.”

“Actually, it’s Lark.”

“Like the bird?”
Yes, like the bird.

“Do you think you could teach me how to stop someone from beating me so badly? I don’t mind yielding to someone who is better than me, but I want to make sure I have all my teeth when we’re done.”

She laughed, then agreed. For the rest of the day, she attempted to hit me–or rather, she successfully managed to hit me while I barely blocked a few hits. “Use your forearm to block rather than your hand. It’s stronger and has a broader surface area,” she would say before another punch would hurl toward my gut. Plenty of times, I’d actually manage to get my arm in the right position, but her strength won out and broke through my block anyway.

By dinner time, I was starved, exhausted, and bruised beyond belief. Everything hurt, and I wasn’t sure how I would manage to make it to my room.
At least she didn’t hit me in the face.

“You did great for your first day,” she told me warmly as she patted my shoulder, though her thoughts revealed exactly how untrue her statement was.

“Thanks for your help. See you tomorrow.” I limped my way back to my room and collapsed gently into bed, confident that I would never get past Round Two.

As I nursed my sore body, I wondered how pleased Avis would be with how terribly I’d done. He was almost nice to me at breakfast, but now I was sure it was just a ruse. He had been well aware of what I would face and had done nothing to warn me.

I could hardly believe what I heard when a knock came at the door. I’d totally forgotten about what I’d promised until Micha opened it. “You look terrible,” he said when he walked inside. I hardly needed a reminder.

“Hi to you, too–and thanks.” We laughed when I told him about my introduction with Sinha and Parvani, and the rest of the story that detailed how I got all my bruises.

“If you’re that bad compared to her, then how am I supposed to win? You flattened me last time.” It was meant to be a joke, but it made him think back to his bear, and I allowed myself to cringe when his pain resurfaced.

“I’m sorry, Micha.”

“It’s alright. When I think back on it, I’m glad you did what you did.”

“I know.”
Yet it’s no easier a choice to make just because it’s the ‘right’ thing.
I wondered how many more times I would find myself in such a position and hoped the number would be few.

For the rest of the night, Micha and I talked about history with a few conversations strayed into stories of the combat area or home. I blamed my many injuries when I convinced him to get us both dinner; in reality, I didn’t feel ready for the dining hall. By the end of the evening, we were both fed and in good spirits, and I wondered why it had taken me so long to make a friend.

The next month passed in much the same way as my first day of Round Two. I ate breakfast once the crowd in the dining hall died down, and then I went to combat training with Parvani. My blocks got better by the day, but that was the only sort of progress I seemed to make; I couldn’t land a hit to save my life.

Micha would visit after training, and I’d help him review the history and study the maps. He already knew how to read before he came to the school, so it amazed me that I could translate faster. His biggest downfall was that he couldn’t remember the facts.

During our sessions, Parvani taught me more about Myxini and the various Sparks, the kinds of things Avis should have told me. Each student was identified once they entered the school. Their Sparks were recorded, and they were given coverings that represented their rate. Fellers wore bright green; Puffers wore light blue; Strikers wore red; Riders wore tan; mentors wore grey, and so on and so forth for the many different rates.

It would take the average student five to eight years to get to Round Ten, but only a small handful of those who made it that far would ever graduate completely. As she told me, I swore that I would be one of those few.

Then the day I dreaded finally arrived: another Round Two student challenged me to combat. Her name was Edith, and she appeared to be about my age despite being several inches taller. She had long, blonde hair and the dark blue coverings that were worn by Drifters.

Sinha watched from the sidelines while we stood apart from each other, prepared to engage. Others gathered, most of which chanted for her, and I wondered how I’d managed to garner such little interest.

She charged first and threw a fist to my right side. I blocked, just in time to see–and block–her other fist as it plummeted toward my jaw. She threw everything she had at me, and I had to admit she was fast, but somehow I’d managed to be faster. I blocked each and every hit she threw, and she wasn’t strong enough to get through them like Parvani. I supposed that was proof that I’d begun to get stronger, if only a little. I never once tried to return a punch. I was torn: she was a girl; at the same time, I knew I’d never graduate from Round Two if I blocked all day.

Whether it was thirty minutes or an hour, I wasn’t sure, but Edith gave up exhausted. I was ecstatic that I’d made it out of my first official skirmish with my body intact, and even more so that I’d managed to retain most of my pride. It didn’t count as a win, though; a win could only be achieved if the opponent yielded, and I’d hardly given her a fight worthy to make her do so. I hadn’t even thrown a punch at her. Still, after that, others became interested, just in time for Micha to graduate to Round Two no less. We never had the time to chat like we’d had before then. One by one they challenged me, to the point that I had two or three fights a week for the next several weeks.

I managed to hold my own, and one at a time, I stayed them off. Even though I didn’t win, I stopped them in their tracks all the same. Their anger as a group grew, and I could hear them wonder if I’d cheated somehow, if I’d used my Spark to win, though they couldn’t figure out how a Tracker was supposed to manage that. For two months, I’d successfully blocked and dodged any and all attacks that came at me.

Winter descended in full force and covered the grounds in snow for a week or two at a time. A thick blanket, made of furs patch-worked together, was added to each bed. We were given heavy jackets to wear over our coverings, but many–including me–opted to not wear them for Combat Training. The thick leather impeded movement too much, and the heat from our exercises was enough to keep us warm. It didn’t hurt that I had started to put on weight, too.

A point came that turned the seemingly frozen tide; Shaz challenged me. He had fifteen summers and was an entire head taller than me. His brown coverings identified him as a Shaker. I didn’t need to read his thoughts to know he intended to destroy me; his face was an open book that described how much he wanted to be the one to put me down.

It started much like the others. Shaz went on the offensive with a series of punches, only to be blocked. In the excitement and frenzy of the gathered students, I could also feel his anger. It was a matter of pride for him to be undefeated. Once I realize that, though, it was too late. He was too angry, and I realized he was liable to seriously hurt me if he got the chance. I had no choice but to defend myself.

After he missed a punch at my face, and I blocked another aimed for my stomach, I felt the impossible. My feet slipped off the stones beneath me, and I crashed onto my back. Shaz seized his opportunity, and dove on me. His fists pummeled into my face, but I managed to get my hands in the way a moment later. The damage was done, though; my eye started to swell, and I could taste the metal of my blood.

“Yield!” He shouted down at me, but my blood boiled, too, and I refused to give him the satisfaction. In the end, like all the others, he gave up: too tired to lift his arms and frustrated without a victory.

He stalked off to the dining hall, furious, and I stayed behind to clear my head. With the crowd gone with him for the most part, I could finally get my thoughts under control, even with all the pain. I didn’t expect Parvani to come sit by my side as she did, tenderly evaluating my injuries in a way that reminded me of my mother.

“What happened? I’ve never seen you lose your footing like that. Didn’t I teach you anything?” From her perspective, it seemed like I had just jumped backwards and landed on my back.

“I slipped on a rock. It happens. But tomorrow I want you to teach me to attack someone else.”

“Look, just because you got your ass handed to you doesn’t mean you’re ready to start challenging him.” Of course she guessed my intentions immediately, but I didn’t want to tell her that. For once I was glad that I was one of a very small population of Readers.
At least I have my thoughts to myself.

“I know, but the sooner I can start winning some fights, the sooner I can get to Round Three and end this. As long as I’m in Round Two, I’m a target to the others.” I knew the moment she decided.

“Alright, we’ll start tomorrow.”

It took a few days before the inflamed tissue around my eye shrunk down enough that I could see out of it, so when I returned to training, Parvani was eager to begin her lessons.

“The thing to remember is that they’re so busy trying to hit you, they forget to defend themselves. The only way to beat someone is to keep up your blocks and still get in a few solid hits. You don’t have to land a lot of them but, when you do, make it count.”

My instructions were simple: hit her without getting hit. The blocking part I could handle, I’d been doing it for months. The hitting part was a little awkward.