Shaman's Crossing (The Soldier Son Trilogy #1)

Even so, all those miseries would have been bearable, for they fell on all of us alike, first-years, upperclassmen, officers, and even our instructors, but shortly after Spink and I returned from our days away from the Academy, our fellow new noble first-years and we became the targets of a different sort of misery.

There had always been differences in how the new noble first-years were treated compared to the sons of the older families. We had joked about being given the poorest housing choices, endured Corporal Dent making us eat later than our fellows, and hunched our shoulders to the fact that we received a rougher initiation than that inflicted on first-years of old nobility. Our instructors had seemed aloof from it for the most part. Occasionally they remonstrated with us to uphold the dignity of the Academy despite being new to its traditions. It made us bitterly amused, for no son of any old noble could say that his father had ever attended any sort of military academy, yet many of our fathers had graduated from the old War College. The traditions of a military upbringing were in our bones, while our old noble fellows learned them only now.

Our classes had been scrupulously segregated for the first third of the year. We always sat in our patrols. New nobles’ sons did not fraternize with the sons of old nobles, despite sometimes sharing the same classrooms. Now our instructors began, not to mingle us, but to make us compete against one another. With increasing frequency, our test scores were listed by patrol and were posted side by side outside the classroom doors, where all could see that the new noble patrols consistently lagged behind the old nobility first-years in academics. The exceptions were drafting and engineering, where we often excelled them, and in drill and on horseback, in which they could not best us.

As our instructors began to encourage the rivalry between the two groups, I saw healthy competition take on a darker character. One afternoon we raced into the stables, sure that we would triumph over our rivals in an equestrian drill exercise, only to discover that someone had crept in and smeared dung stripes down the sides and flanks of our mounts and filled their tails with burrs. The hasty grooming we had time for was inadequate, and left our horses looking ill kempt. We were marked down for that, and though we won for precision, we lost for overall appearance, and thus the cup and the half day of liberty went to the old nobility troop.

We muttered at the unfairness of it. Then several of the scale models that belonged to Bringham House old nobility first-years were ruined immediately before a judging, leaving Carneston House the winners. Foul play was suspected, and I found it hard to take joy in the victory. My construction of a suspension bridge had been, I felt, so superior that we would have been assured the win without the sabotage. It was very difficult to write my letter to my uncle that night, for I felt that I had to be honest in stating my suspicions of my own fellows.

At about that time, I had a final encounter with Cadet Lieutenant Tiber. Rumors about him had died down at the Academy. I had heard little about him and seen even less. Thus I was a bit surprised to encounter him one evening as I returned from the library to Carneston House. We were both bundled in our greatcoats as we approached one another in the semidarkness. He walked with a marked lurch to his gait now, probably as the result of his still-healing injuries. His head was down, his eyes on the snowy path before him. I was tempted to pretend I didn’t recognize him and simply hurry past him. Instead, as was right, I stepped to the side of the path to give him the way and snapped a salute to him. He returned my salute in passing and kept going. An instant later he rounded on his heel and came back to me. “Cadet Nevare Burvelle. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. That’s my name.”

Then he let a silence fall. I listened to the wind and felt dread build within me. Then he said, “Thank you for coming forward with those names. I didn’t know who jumped me. When Ordo claimed to have seen me drunk and staggering, I suspected, of course. But your saying Jaris’s name aloud was what made it certain for me.”

“I should have come forward sooner, sir.”

He cocked his head at me. “And why didn’t you, Nevare Burvelle? That is something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

“I wasn’t sure…if it was honorable. To speak suspicions without having any facts. And…” I quickly forced the truth past my lips. “I was afraid they’d take revenge on me.”

He nodded, unsurprised. Nothing in his face condemned me. “And did they?”

“In small ways. Nothing I can’t endure.”

He nodded again, and gave me a small, cold smile. “Thank you for facing up to your fear and coming forward. Don’t think yourself a coward. You could have never mentioned it to your uncle, or when the time came, lied and said you’d seen nothing. I wish I could tell you that you’d be rewarded for it. You won’t. Remember, you were right to be cautious of them. Don’t underestimate them. I did. And now I limp. Don’t forget what we’ve learned.”