Chapter 2: Indebted

“Do I really want to know how long it’ll take to clear your debt? Sure,” Seth replied easily. “Why? Is it going to be some big, shocking—”

“Twenty-three years, at the current rate.”

Seth swore as he nearly fumbled his bamboo crate. “What?!”

“My pay covers housing, food, and clothing first,” Rylan intoned, carefully keeping his voice steady. “What’s left to be subtracted from my debt isn’t all that much.”

Right now, he was making two silver florins and three bronze quarters a moon. And the two quarters and six copper bits he had left after paying two silver florins and two copper bits for living expenses were not exactly making quick work of his remaining debt of just over two hundred florins.

The fine of twenty-five florins that had been added to his debt for trying to run about a year ago hadn’t helped either. That had set him back at least three years.

“That’s messed up,” Seth finally said.

Rylan grunted. They’d just passed the barracks, so they were about halfway to the main building, which housed both the kitchen and the pantry. Could he perhaps convince Seth to run back with him to save time?

“But at least you live in comfort,” the lanky boy added with a shrug, proving that he really didn’t get it after all. “Honestly, your life would probably suck less if you weren’t trying so hard to pay it off quicker, you know? You gotta learn to enjoy the ride.”

Rylan sped up, the anklet pulling down his right foot with each step, Seth’s amused snort serving only as fuel for the fire that blossomed in the pit of his stomach.

“Whatever, man!” Seth called after him, a hint of mockery in his voice. “Have fun running yourself ragged for no good reason!”

Rylan ignored him. No matter how he sliced it, only by gaining a Skill and thereby becoming a Quinthar could he pay off his debt before it drove him to madness.

Any Quinthar, even the ones with just a single, Emerald-Grade Skill, could find decent employment. They definitely didn’t scrub pots and pans or clean out fog condensers; that kind of work simply did not befit their station.

He’d still have to settle his debt, of course, so getting a combat Skill would be best. Quint Cubes went for about a bronze quarter a pop and Ethereon supposedly rewarded several for the slaying of even weaker Malequints—the creatures that haunted the depths of the cloudsea. But frankly, he’d be happy with any Skill.

Not much was known about how people got Skills—at least, not publicly—but some things were common knowledge. One thing everyone knew was that to gain a Skill, you needed to meet its Attribute prerequisites. That was a problem, because Rylan didn’t know his Attributes, and never would unless he became a Quinthar and got access to his Status.

But that’s where his preparations came in. Every spare moment he’d found over the last few years had been spent practising everything he’d heard could manifest a Skill, often together with Zahra, though her drive wasn’t quite as high as his.

He’d done needlework until his fingers bled, run laps until he’d wanted to vomit, and a small, horizontal scar on his right cheekbone showed how close Zahra had gotten to poking his eye out when they’d tried fencing with sharp bamboo sticks.

That had been the end of that particular undertaking. Rylan had always felt he looked rather plain in general, but he was kind of fond of the light-purple tint of his eyes. More importantly, it was one of the few clues to his ancestry.

Of course, even without fencing, they'd still had plenty of things to practise.

About a year later, he’d broken his wrist doing acrobatics; that had been a miserable summer. But after it had healed, they’d been right back at it, shooting dull bamboo arrows with simple self-made bows, juggling with handcrafted cones, and throwing knives they’d ‘borrowed’ from the kitchen.

They’d gotten a massive telling off when Zahra’s father had found out and taken the knives back, which was a shame, cause he’d felt he was getting pretty good at it.

He’d even tried singing—until Zahra had begged him to stop.

“Hah!” a feminine voice shouted, interrupting his stewing with a flash of light and a clang of metal on metal. On a small court to the left of his path, Bryce Thistlethorn was sparring with his firstborn and heir.

Helen was in her early thirties, and gave off an almost primal, predatory vibe as she weaved the tip of her spear in an ever-changing pattern, her boots somehow barely crunching the crushed shell underfoot as she circled her father.

Her silver-blue hair was tied back in a ponytail with a worn leather strap. Her gambeson—much like the surcoat Lord Thistlethorn wore over his cuirass—was a deep crimson; the greater Thorn family’s traditional colouring. Both garments were emblazoned with numerous depictions of their branch’s coat of arms as well—a stylised blue thistle flower.

Lord Thistlethorn kept his sword and shield raised towards her as she circled, waiting for her strike with the stoic calm of a weathered cliff, his own silvery-blue hair and beard impeccably trimmed and groomed as always.

Rylan couldn’t help but slow down, his irritation momentarily forgotten, as Helen lunged forward again with her spear. A shimmering white glow came to life around her hands, which then started to rapidly extend along the shaft of the weapon—made of actual wood—reaching the steel spearhead only at the very culmination of her thrust.

Despite the impressive use of her Spear-Fighting Skill, Lord Thistlethorn simply slapped the attack aside with his shield. If he was using a Skill as well, Rylan couldn’t tell.

The man then proceeded to move forward with speed belying his age, and several clashes of his sword against her spear later, he had his blade pressed against her neck. Or more precisely, against the shimmering, barely visible shell of white light surrounding her skin.

“You’re still overextending,” he spoke in a deep voice, “You...”

Lord Thistlethorn trailed off as his eyes fell on Rylan. What little Rylan could see of the bushy silver-blue eyebrows beneath his helmet knitted together ever so slightly.

This was the second time today he’d made the mistake of not looking busy, but before he could heft his two crates a little higher and start moving again, Helen turned her head and spotted him.

“Hey Ryles!” she exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face as she pushed Lord Thistlethorn’s sword aside with her bare hand. “Whatcha got there, anything good?”

Rylan glanced uncertainly at Lord Thistlethorn as his daughter sauntered up to him, wiping some sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. While he was used to her familiar tone, hearing it in front of Lord Thistlethorn felt weird, his presence stifling.

“Ehm, I haven’t actually checked yet,” Rylan replied honestly, nodding down at the bamboo crate’s lid. “But it smells like crab.”

She pulled a face.

Despite himself, Rylan smiled, his shoulders losing some of their tension. Seeing her make that face reminded him of simpler times, when she’d tried to insist that Rylan call her his older sister, and he’d teasingly kept referring to her as Aunt Helen, due to their age difference.

Just last week, she’d approached him with a conspiratorial grin just to press a sugary treat in his hand—actual honeyed nuts—like she’d used to when he was little. Rylan had rolled his eyes and said he wasn’t a child anymore, but she’d just winked and left.

They had been just as delicious as he remembered.

She cocked her head to the side. “Why do you have a green stain on your forehead?”

He blinked. “Oh! I bumped my head on the bottom of the trade vessel just now. I guess some algae must’ve rubbed off on me...”

She frowned, leaning in closer. “You hit your head?” Her free hand twitched upward as if she were about to reach out.

It was too much, too familiar, especially under Lord Thistlethorn’s heavy gaze. Despite how she treated him, he was her family’s property, not her little brother or nephew. That had just been a silly child’s fantasy.

The heat of embarrassment filled his body and he stepped back, lowering his eyes. “It’s nothing. I barely felt it... milady.”

She winced and opened her mouth, but Lord Thistlethorn interrupted, clearing his throat. “Let the boy get back to his chores, Hel. I’m sure he’s eager to get them over with.”

The man wasn’t wrong, but the dismissive tone still made some tiny childish part of Rylan cringe in on itself.

Helen stood in front of him a moment longer, then glanced down at his right ankle and sighed, her shoulders slumping a little. “Right... Don’t work too hard, okay? You gotta take care of yourself.”

Then she lifted her spear, turned around, and got back into a fighting stance.

Rylan hefted his crates and hurried on after Seth, who had passed him by in the meantime. He kept his gaze level as he overtook the lanky boy once more, ignoring his snickers.

The fire in his belly, momentarily forgotten, blazed anew.

Just twelve to thirteen trips up and down, then I can show Ethereon what I’ve got...

***

By the time Rylan was done, his clothes were mostly dry, so when he returned to his room to grab his assorted equipment, he didn’t bother changing.

He did take off his shoes to avoid dirtying the woven mistweed mat that covered the cold stone floor, before he quickly grabbed the bulging sack from where it was propped up against his bamboo dresser, next to his futon.

His room was cozy and his furniture sparse, but at least he didn’t have to share with anyone. One small mercy.

With his shoes back on and the sack slung over his shoulder, the handles of his hand-crafted juggling clubs sticking out the top, he sped out of the large stone building to the small bamboo forest at the back, nestled in between the servants’ quarters and the outer wall.

He used to prepare outside of the compound as much as inside, but that was before he’d tried to run. The guards knew not to let him out now, and even if they did, the anklet would activate if he got too far from the estate.

He wasn’t entirely sure how it worked, but he knew it was powered by a Quint Cube—as he’d seen them insert one—and he suspected it contained deepmetal, as upon activation, the anklet would grow heavier and heavier, until he could no longer even lift his leg.

The one time he’d pushed his luck while out on an errand, the guards who’d found him had needed a wheelbarrow to get him back so the Thistlethorns could turn it off.

Rylan quickly weaved his way through the fast-growing stalks towards the little clearing in the centre, where Zahra was already waiting for him, sitting down in the grass in her livery.

She glanced up from her needlework, brushed some brown curls aside with russet-coloured fingers, and grinned. “Took you long enough. I thought you had the afternoon off?”

“I did,” Rylan replied with a sigh. “Ava felt otherwise.”

Zahra winced, sympathy in her silvery-grey eyes.

“How’s your project coming along?” Rylan asked as he put down his sack and started his warm-up, stretching out his sore fingers and rotating his shoulders.

Zahra excitedly held up the half-finished garment she was making for the young guard she was courting, Loukas. “I think it’s getting somewhere!”

Rylan looked doubtfully at the patchwork cloth, pieced together from swatches in all kinds of colours. “If you say so...”

Zahra narrowed her eyes at him, sitting up a little straighter. “You know I’m in possession of needles, and know where you sleep, right? You want to try that again?”

Rylan laughed as he drew his bow from the sack and danced out of her reach, just in case. “Of course, my apologies. I meant to say it looks amazing!”

Zahra nodded primly. “That’s more like it. Just you wait; he’s going to love it!”

Rylan was sure he would. Especially after Zahra’s mother, Miss Brightwind, put the last hand to it and fixed any mistakes Zahra might’ve made. But he wisely didn’t mention this.

“You’re right. Who knows, he might propose on the spot!”

Some red creeped up on Zahra’s cheeks, further darkening her skin. Being pasty and pale himself, Rylan had always been a little jealous of her complexion. Personally, he couldn’t get a tan to save his life.

“He’d better,” she grumbled, “If he doesn’t ask me soon, I’m going to start casting a wider net.”

Rylan shook his head fondly. It was pure bluff and they both knew it. Zahra was sick to the stomach, walking on clouds for ‘her warrior.’ Thankfully, Loukas seemed to return her feelings, judging from how the normally quite collected lad stumbled over his words around her.

“I bet he would’ve asked already,” Rylan teased, “if he didn’t shit his britches at the prospect of facing your father.”

Zahra scoffed. “My dad’s a total softie! I really don’t understand why people find him so intimidating.”

Rylan didn’t reply, knowing the argument to be futile. Instead, he nocked a simple bamboo arrow, lifted his bow in front of him, and took aim at the simple straw target Zahra had painted for him.

Zahra quietly continued her needlework as he prepared to launch into his routine of the past couple of days.

Because of course, he hadn’t just been patiently waiting for the day he knew for sure he was of age; he’d been demonstrating his abilities every day for a week or two now, hoping to be recognised by Ethereon just one day earlier.

Without success, unfortunately.

But today would be different. It hadto be. It was probably his actual birthday, which really wasn’t too farfetched, so it made sense that Ethereon hadn’t been paying attention to him yet.

Some people said Ethereon was one of the Great Spirits, others claimed it wasn’t, that it was something else entirely. Rylan wasn’t sure what to believe, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to start with a little prayer regardless.

“Blessed Ethereon, guide my hand today,” he whispered, his eyes closed.

Then he opened them, drew his bow, took aim, and released.

About an hour later, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Rylan was demonstrating what he’d saved for last; his juggling.

He obviously couldn’t get his hands on something as extravagant as actual wooden juggling clubs, so he’d improvised, making his own from split pieces of bamboo that he’d woven together, with clay and rocks added in the hollow interior for weight.

Right then, however, he wished he’d added a little less weight, as his arms were still heavy from lifting crates, and his sluggish fingers kept fumbling his clubs before he could get into a rhythm.

He stubbornly kept trying, but after about fifteen minutes, he missed another catch, and his heavy, self-made club dropped right onto his big toe.

Normally, the sight of him hopping around, swearing up a storm, would probably have sent Zahra into a fit of laughter. Today she was deathly silent, her eyes following him with a pity that stung Rylan almost as much as his toe.

When the throbbing lessened to a dull ache, he flopped down on his back in the grass and just stared up at the clear blue sky, feeling empty. As usual, there wasn’t a single skycloud in view.

“It’s not fair,” he mumbled after a while.

Zahra hummed softly.

“It’s not fair!” he repeated, rolling over to punch the ground a few times, imagining Seth’s stupid face there as he did.

Zahra put down her needlework with a sigh. “We always knew it was a long shot. But it’s not like you can’t still get one, right? Maybe you just need a little more practice...”

“When?!” Rylan exclaimed. “When am I supposed to practise if I’m always doing stupid chores?!”

Zahra bit her lip. “You know,” she said after a moment. “There’s one thing you haven’t tried yet. I know you’re not going to like this, but... if you asked Soren, I bet he would help you.”

Rylan lifted his face off the ground and stared at her, incredulous. “Ask Soren for help?! Over my dead body.”

Zahra sighed. “I’m just saying, he would. And he has a Skill now, so—”

“I’m not going to ask him for help,” Rylan bit out, his hands clenching into fists. “Soren Thistlethorn doesn’t want me to be free. If he did, I wouldn’t be wearing this fogging anklet!”

Zahra pursed her lips, but didn’t contradict him.

Rylan got up and started pacing, the weight at his ankle pulling him down with every step feeling extra aggravating somehow. The mention of Soren getting his first Skill had soured his mood further. His former friend had become a Quinthar about a moon ago, on the very day he’d come of age, so every day longer it took Rylan was a day he was further behind.

And of course, his odds were only about one in a thousand in the first place. Meanwhile, practically all of the Thistlethorns were Quinthar—Soren and Helen’s mom Dionne excluded. Clearly, it wasn’t a coincidence.

“They know things we don’t,” Rylan muttered, not for the first time. “They must!”

Zahra brushed a hand through her curls and shrugged. “Well, if you’re not going to ask Soren, then short of eavesdropping or snooping around, I don’t know how you’re going to find out what secrets they have.”

Rylan frowned at her. “Snooping around? What, you think they’ve got that kind of information just lying...”

He stopped in his tracks.

Zahra glanced up at him. “What? What is it?”

“The library. In the tower,” Rylan replied, his eyes wide.

Zahra stared at him, her face growing more concerned as his excitement grew. “You know the library is restricted, right? Heads of staff and Thistlethorns only.”

“Exactly,” he whispered heatedly. “Because they’ve got knowledge in there that they don’t want to see spread!”

“Or,” Zahra hissed back, “because books are precious and expensive! They don’t grow on clouds, you know?”

“It’s on the top floor. We could get to the roof through the fogtube, then climb down onto the balcony, then you could jimmy the lock!”

“Rylan’s that’s crazy!”

Rylan kneeled down in front of her and grasped her hands.

She looked at him wide-eyed as he started to plead.

“Please Zahra... I can’t take it anymore. I’m on my feet all day and by the time my chores are done, I’m too tired to think, let alone practise. If my efforts until now weren’t enough, then there’s no way I can impress Ethereon under these circumstances. And if I don’t do something, anything, I’m going to be forty before I’ve cleared this fogging debt. Please, help me; you know I can’t do this without you!”

Zahra blew out a breath. “You’re serious about this? You really want to break into—”

“Yes.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then bit her lip. “When would we do it?”

Rylan’s heart jumped for joy. “Now!” he blurted out.

“What? But—”

“No, it’s perfect!” he quickly interrupted. “Dinner preparations are about to start; almost everyone will be busy in the kitchen and we’re both free today! In fact...” He patted his pockets and excitedly fished out a keyring. “I’ve still got the keys to the tunnels! Ava told me handing them in could wait.”

Zahra glanced back and forth from the keys to his beaming face a few times, then groaned. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

However, the mischievous twinkle in her eyes and the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her excitement, a mirror to his own. Truth be told, Zahra had been a driving force in many of their childhood shenanigans.

“It’ll be just like old times,” Rylan promised, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that said it wouldn’t it, couldn’t be, because they’d still be missing their third partner in crime.

Soren.

Author's note:

Thanks for reading!

And remember: feedback is very welcome. ^^