22

After a few more weeks, Michael was looking at himself in the mirror. He took a moment to divine himself, and when he saw no changes and was unable to reveal anything new, he cleared it and instead looked at his face. His blond hair was long, nearing shoulder-length and fell in waves on either side of his head. He hadn’t found ways to avoid getting it cut, as Marcus had, but rather was always in Diviner training, working with Dugan, or healing someone when it was being done. His eyes were piercing blue, and he had a strong jaw and fine features. He was as tall at that moment as he’d ever been in his old body, which meant he was hovering just a little over six feet and would likely grow even more. He had a swimmer’s build, with wide shoulders and a large chest, and under his uniform he knew there was a lot of lean and powerful muscle. He sighed. He looked like a stereotypical version of Prince Charming. He hadn’t been ugly in his old body, but compared to the one he had now, he had been a troglodyte. He’d noticed a few stares from female mage students, though they quickly corrected them when they remembered what he was, and even the medics, lunch ladies, and archery teacher had all started treating him subtly more kindly in all respects. Some men too, but he felt it was more likely because of a general subconscious aesthetic appreciation rather than any attraction for him.

He’d deprived the soul that should exist in that body instead of himself a life of ease, at least when it came to women. There were some benefits to being plain, or even ugly, though. Would he have developed a good sense of humor in his old body had he been so handsome? Would he have worked as hard or been as determined? Would he have passed over his wife for a more beautiful woman? Probably not that last one. She’d be too smart to have been involved with that shallow version of him. He flexed his hand, briefly feeling the warmth of her touch.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Ollie, appearing at his side. “Hitler’s wet dream.”

“What?” asked Michael with a chuckle.

“I mean, look at you, man. You could be on a German propaganda poster.”

“And you could be in an advertisement for dog food. I guess we’re both missing out on our calling.”

They went from the barracks to their inoculation. They were getting smaller doses, he noticed, with less of the well water mixed into them and more of the “strength draught” that Meera had mentioned. It apparently helped aid the recovery and growth of muscles as well as the density of their bones. It was actually given as a drink to the regular recruits as well, but it was more effective intravenously. There were still variations in everyone’s shots, though, with Marcus’s in particular almost always having a subtly different color to it. He’d been able to pick up a lot of new information between Meera and his visits to the infirmary every morning. He guessed that the well water had ceased because they were already physically where they needed to be to fight, at least if the ages and looks of the regular recruits were any indication.

After that they were escorted to breakfast, but instead of going from there to the Diviner, Michael and everyone else were shuffled to a large auditorium. It was filled with several hundred recruits, all of them sitting on hard benches. Michael found himself next to Marcus, and soon after, several of the instructors began showing up, as well as Crim the alchemist and Meera. Crim gave a wave to Marcus and stood only a few yards from them against the back wall.

Shortly after everyone was seated, a number of knight-lieutenants like Kline appeared on the stage at the far end, with one man, not a lieutenant, in front of all of them. Michael couldn’t tell his rank from where he sat, but he’d guess he was the general in charge of the academy. He had white hair brushed back and a cleanly cut goatee, but Michael couldn’t make out any more details from where he sat.

He heard a giggle from behind him and turned briefly to see Crim talking to a tall recruit with blonde hair similar to his own. He recognized flirting when he saw it. He turned back around when the general started to speak.

“We are now at a time when your training is nearing its end. Starting next week, for two weeks we’ll be engaging in a series of exercises. You will all be divided into teams, with each team being given separate and conflicting objectives. Each team will be made up of fifty recruits, with a Commander selected from the eldest recruits that have remained for officer training. You will be wielding blunted swords, staffs, your hands, and your wits. We expect broken bones, and a healer from the capital has been sent to help to keep you all on your feet, but I advise caution—it’s all too easy to end a life if one is not careful. There will be additional information provided by your instructors. You are diss⁠—”

Michael didn’t hear the end of what the general was saying as Marcus launched himself toward the man who’d been flirting with Crim and tackled him into the wall. Before the man could recover, Marcus began raining down blows on him—undisciplined, violent haymakers and strikes very different from what he’d been being taught.

Michael leapt toward him and grabbed one of his arms, the archery instructor, Anna, grabbed the other, and they yanked him backward, though he kept struggling toward the older recruit, who spat out a bit of blood as he pushed himself to his feet. He took a few steps toward Marcus as if he was going to attack him back, but Michael fixed him with a stare that told him he’d let Marcus go if he attempted it.

Kline appeared, having walked swiftly up to that part of the auditorium. He was wearing no smile, and his face was red with rage. He grabbed Marcus by the collar and gave him a firm open-palmed slap to the face.

“Calm. Down.”

Marcus pulled against Michael and Anna’s grip again, and Kline revealed the brand on his arm. He clenched his fist, and Marcus doubled over in pain, forcing Michael to hold him up, or he’d have fallen over.

“Calm. Down,” repeated Kline, keeping his brand exposed.

Marcus looked as if his rage would continue for a moment, but he very slowly pulled himself together. He almost seemed as if he was waking from a daze.

Kline looked at Michael. “Let him go, and heal Clemson over there immediately.”

Michael let go and moved to Clemson. The recruit stepped back.

“Don’t worry. He’s a healer, a diviner,” said Crim.

He nodded, and Michael placed a hand on him, fixing a number of bruises and what he suspected was a crack in the portion of his skull near his eye.

He was escorted out of the auditorium along with the rest of the irregulars and taken to where they’d watched their former fellows hang only a few months prior. They’d all grown a lot more familiar with all of it. Having watched one more hanging, twice-weekly canings, and a few of them even being put in the underground stone cells called Tombs. They were all made to stand in neat rows and watch as Marcus had his shirt and jacket stripped off and was then manacled to the post.

Kline watched as it happened and rolled up his sleeves with a grim look on his face. A guard appeared and handed him a long, thin, and wicked-looking piece of wood. It had a leather-bound handle and was thick on the handle end, growing thinner and thinner further down.

“I know there have been some fights with regulars. I’ve seen black eyes and hidden scars, but most of you all did well to keep them concealed and small, as did the regulars. Thanks to that, I’ve kept the discipline at a minimum.” He gave the cane a few test swings. “This is a lesson in prudence. For attacking a fellow recruit, five strikes.” He took a few steps toward Marcus, who was staying stock-still, but his hands strained against the chains. “For interrupting general Achen in the middle of instruction. Ten.”

He raised the cane high and brought it across Marcus’s back with perfect form. The sound made Michael jump, but Marcus didn’t so much as whimper. He stayed silent for the second, and the third, and even the fourth strike. On the fifth he let out a slight groan, and from there it was over. He wailed as the next ten strikes landed, his body jerking violently with each strike. Michael looked away and caught a glance of Crim standing off to the side, watching. Her face was contorted into an expression of worry, but whenever a strike landed, Michael noticed something. The hint of a smile curling at the edge of her mouth, a little bit of light in her eyes. She was excited. She’d wanted this to happen. Had that been why the dose for Marcus was different? Michael tried to think back to the ones he’d noticed were different and who’d been given them. Had they all had fights after? Or been more aggressive? He honestly wasn’t sure, but he was certain of the joy on her face.

Kline finished and held out the cane for the guard that had brought it. He rolled his sleeves down and pointed at two other guards. “Take him to the infirmary.” They nodded at him and moved to remove Marcus from the post. His back was bloody and covered in deep cuts from the cane. Michael couldn’t imagine the pain.

Kline moved to the rest of the group. “Many of you are older than I am, but that doesn’t mean you’re wise. It doesn’t mean you’re intelligent or capable. It just means that you’ve managed to live in a world where it seems living is a much easier thing to do than it is here.” He finished buttoning his sleeve. “All of you can still act like fools, as Marcus has shown, but be wary of the fool within you.”

He turned to look directly at Michael.

“If I see that you healed him, I will add five more strikes to his punishment and give you five as well. You may heal him the day before the exercises begin so that he may participate. Understood?”

Michael nodded as he looked at Crim with gritted teeth. “Understood.”