Slowly, painfully, Damien climbed back to his feet, left arm useless at his side. The master held up the unbroken sword. “Fail.”
He didn’t know who laughed first, but that first chuckle was joined by another and another, soon his whole class was laughing at him. Damien didn’t say a word, didn’t dare, fearing if he opened his mouth a scream would erupt.
So much for the army’s famous motto: “For the person beside you.” Damien believed in that motto. He’d heard it his whole life. His classmates either didn’t believe in it or didn’t consider him a comrade. Either way, he just stood there, left arm hanging limp at his side, and waited for the master to give him permission to go to the healer.
The master shook his head. “Go on.”
Damien nodded an acknowledgement, a proper bow beyond him at the moment. He walked across the yard, his boots scuffing through the dirt, toward the towering stone fortress that gave The Citadel its name. It served as a school and home for both the students and the masters and their families.
Like all the fortresses in the kingdom, sorcerers had built The Citadel out of dark gray granite, quarried in the northern mountains. The blocks were transported south, then fused together to make a single, solid piece of stone.
The main door stood open during daylight hours, thank all the angels in Heaven, so Damien didn’t have to wrestle the giant oak-and-iron thing open with one hand. Beyond the door, the entrance hall was empty, no surprise given the early hour.
Straight ahead, a flight of stairs led to the second-floor living quarters. On either side lay passages deeper into The Citadel. Damien eased his way down the right-hand hall. He knew the way to the healer’s quarters almost as well as he knew the way to the family suite upstairs.
The first door on the right led to the servants’ barracks. He passed it and went to the first door on the left. It was open and inside, holding a healing elixir and wearing a familiar, sad smile, stood Miss Ella, The Citadel’s healer.
Damien and Miss Ella had spent a great deal of time together since he began his training. She wore her usual white healer’s robe, a red cross embroidered over her heart, her gray hair up in a bun. Behind her sat six empty cots separated by curtains. A locked chest against the far wall held all her healing supplies, not that she needed many. Warlords could heal themselves from almost any injury with soul force, so besides looking after the new students and Damien, Miss Ella had little to do. Maybe she was so nice to him because he provided her with job security.
“I figured you’d be along.” The wrinkles around her blue eyes crinkled in concern. “How bad was it?”
Damien caught himself before he shrugged. “I didn’t pass out this time.”
She handed Damien the vial filled with red, bubbling liquid. “Drink up, then I’ll adjust the bone.”
He tossed back the potion. The strong peppermint flavor burned his throat a little. Damien didn’t care. The instant the healing elixir touched his mouth, the raging pain in his shoulder cooled to a dull ache. Whichever sorcerer had enchanted the potion, Damien owed him a thank you.
Miss Ella gave him no chance to savor the loss of pain. She put one hand on his neck and the other on his shoulder and guided his collarbone into the proper position. When the broken ends of bone touched, they vibrated as they knit back together. No matter how many times it happened, Damien never got used to feeling his body heal.
Damien sighed, the pain nearly gone. “Thanks, Miss Ella.”
She waved a hand, her face stern. “You know the drill. No strenuous activity for a day while the bones finish healing. Anything doesn’t feel right, come see me.”
“Yes, ma’am. Dad’s not going to be very happy with me failing again.”
Miss Ella’s lips turned down. “That man expects too much from you. You try your best, no one can ask more than that. He gives you any grief, you send him to me. Master of The Citadel or not, I’ll set him straight.”
She sounded so fierce, Damien thought she might daunt the great Fredric St. Cloud, King’s Champion and Master of The Citadel. But more than likely, his father would ignore her, the same way he did everyone who said something he didn’t want to hear. “Guess I’ll head home and get a nap.”
“Make sure you drink a couple glasses of milk at lunch, you need the minerals to help the bones heal.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He bowed to her and left the infirmary.
Damien retraced his steps back to the staircase and went up to the second floor. Well away from the public and student areas of the school sat the quarters assigned to the masters and their families. Damien, his sister and his father lived together in the largest suite: one of the few perks of being the son of the Master of The Citadel. On the downside, it was all the way at the end of the hall. That made it quiet, but when every step jarred his healing shoulder, quiet wasn’t as important as proximity.
He pushed the unlocked door open—no one would be stupid enough to mess with Dad’s room—and went in. He’d barely shut the door behind him when the mental voice of Lizzenwar, his father’s demon-possessed sword, appeared in his head.
You’re hurt again.
Damien smiled at Lizzy’s concern. She hung over their little fireplace in her lacquered black scabbard. If Dad hadn’t taken her today, he must be training with the fifth years. Damien walked between the couch and Dad’s favorite ragged, overstuffed chair to the fireplace and ran his index finger along the cool, smooth scabbard. Lizzy’s mental shiver tickled his brain. He didn’t know if she actually felt it when he touched her, but she liked to pretend.
“It’s
