Chapter 10

Ten

Fieran waited in line in the mess hall, counting those ahead of him in line, then the seats left at the next table. Four people in front of him in line. Five seats left on one side of the table.

That meant he would be the last person to sit down, and he'd have the least amount of time to eat. As soon as the first person who sat down was done eating, the whole side of the table had to be done, no matter how much or little they'd eaten.

At least they only had one more day of this. After tomorrow, they would get five minutes to eat.

Five whole minutes. Such luxury.

At the moment, Merrik was in that first spot. He'd slopped some of the tough mystery meat onto his tray, and he was gamely chewing the leathery stuff, buying the others as much time as he could without getting yelled at by the drill sergeants for obviously delaying.

As the line moved forward, Fieran grabbed two slices of bread and scanned the offered food.

Ah, good. Spaghetti and meatballs. Lots of good carbs and proteins there.

He slopped the spaghetti and meatballs onto one of his slices of bread, flopped the other bread on top, and hurried to the table.

The fastest way to eat anything was as a sandwich. If there was mac and cheese? Put it between bread and it was a mac-and-cheese sandwich. Spaghetti? Spaghetti sandwich. Even soup was poured onto bread and eaten as a sandwich.

Fieran plunked his rear into the last seat on the bench, picked up his spaghetti sandwich, and wolfed down a huge bite. He spared only a brief nod for Stickyfingers sitting next to him.

Next to Stickyfingers, Tiny hunched to take up less space on the bench, his elbows tucked as close to his body as he could, given his brawny arms.

Lije squashed onto the seat on the other side of Tiny, and he dug into his own spaghetti sandwich as if it was his favorite meal.

Across the way, more recruits began filling up the table. The self-obsessed handsome man who had the bunk below Merrik sat across from Fieran. Everyone called him "Pretty Face." Pretty Face had turned out to be the seventh son of an earl who was more prolific at producing children than was fiscally wise, given his penchant for gambling. As Pretty Face had become a bit of a wastrel himself, his only way to dodge both his and his father's creditors had been to join the army.

At the far side of the mess hall, a group of mechanics sat at a long table, sequestered away from the army recruits. Pip sat at the far end of the table, the table coming up higher on her than on the others.

She glanced up, and Fieran caught her eye. He grinned, and she smiled back.

Merrik glanced down their bench, gave them all an apologetic wince, and popped his last bite into his mouth.

As a sergeant was already patrolling in their direction, Merrik grabbed his tray and stood.

On cue, the rest of them slid to their feet. Even though Fieran's mouth was already full, he shoved the rest of his sandwich in anyway, struggling to chew so much food. But he had to eat every calorie he could get.

He'd thought himself fit before, but after two weeks with the army, he'd dropped so much weight he had to cinch his belt to the last hole to keep his pants up. He'd need the next size down if he kept losing so much weight.

After filing out of the mess hall, Fieran, Merrik, and the others lined up on the parade ground before their barracks, standing at attention while they waited for the rest of their unit to finish eating.

A light drizzle misted the air while dark clouds piling in the west threatened more rain. Their slickers shed most of the rain, but some dribbled down Fieran's collar onto his neck.

Fieran worked a bit of gristle from between his teeth with his tongue, careful to keep his expression blank and his jaw from moving. If the sergeant caught so much as a hint of movement in his face, he'd be down in the mud doing push-ups or sit-ups in a heartbeat, especially if one particular drill sergeant happened to look his way.

Several of the drill sergeants seemed to have it out for him and Merrik because they were half-elves and, worse, they had famous parents. If the rest of the unit had to run two miles, Fieran and Merrik had to run four. If the rest of the unit had to do the obstacle course in under a minute, Fieran and Merrik were expected to do it in less than half a minute. Sure, they could usually pass the extra duties, given their elven agility. But it still rankled, and Fieran had gotten extra PT more times than he could count in the past weeks.

At least he had no trouble with the actual training part. He'd easily won hand-to-hand combat sessions with everyone but the most experienced drill sergeants or if he was paired with Tiny, who had the immovability of a boulder. He was top in their class at the gun range with both pistol and rifle, though he shared that top spot with Merrik.

As the last of their unit joined them, the drill sergeant swept his hard, assessing glance down the line. "Kit up."

Under the drill sergeant's orders, they marched into their barracks and over to their bunks, where they were ordered to pack their rucksacks.

There was, of course, a special way everything had to be folded and an order in which it had to be packed. Fieran checked everything as he packed, from the rolls of his spare underwear to the placement of his Not-Knot boots. Today was a Knot boot day, so those were on his feet.

Once he was fully kitted out from his helmet on his head to his rifle resting on his shoulder, Fieran stood at attention next to the end of his bunk for inspection, his toes right at the line that marked the sergeant's zone in the center of the room but not crossing over.

The drill sergeant paced in front of them, his gaze taking in their uniforms, searching for any flaw.

One recruit's rifle wasn't clean enough. Another was wearing his Not-Knot Boots instead of his Knot Boots.

Fieran held his shoulders straight, his eyes straight ahead, as the sergeant halted in front of him. Surely there was nothing wrong this time.

"Is that what you call a well-made bunk, Red?" the drill sergeant yelled in his face.

Fieran couldn't turn his head to look. What was wrong with his bunk now? He'd made sure the sheet and blanket were perfectly tucked and taut this morning.

What was he supposed to say? He settled on, "No, Drill Sergeant." It seemed like the less insubordinate option.

The sergeant stalked past him. Fieran caught a glimpse of his blankets tugged askew—he must have caught it with his rifle or pack when mustering—before the drill sergeant flipped Fieran's mattress off the bed, tumbling blankets all over the floor. Among a slew of insults and curses, the drill sergeant barked, "One minute, knucklehead!"

After properly setting down his rifle—he'd get even more PT if he treated his weapon less than carefully—Fieran rushed to heave the mattress back onto his top bunk. He tucked in all his blankets, keeping them tight in proper military fashion. While lower bunks were favored because they were easier to make, especially quickly, Fieran's height helped negate the difficulties of a top bunk.

He grabbed his rifle and toed the line just before his minute was up, though he was breathing hard and trying not to show it.

As the sergeant finished his inspection, he swept a glance over all of them. "Due to the sloppiness of your bunkmates, your two-mile ruck march is now a five-mile march. Move it! Left, right, left, right."

Fieran fell into line behind Lije and before Pretty Face, Merrik marching behind him.

The drizzle had turned into a cold rain that slanted on a breeze seemingly determined to drive the water through any gaps in their slickers. The muddy ground slipped beneath the treads of their boots even as the mud spattered up their boots and onto their clothes.

Just as bad as the chill rain, his spaghetti sandwich sat like a rock in the pit of his stomach. His joints and shoulder muscles felt the weight of the sixty pounds of gear the longer he marched. It would have been easier and lighter to carry his little brother Tryndar on his back than his pack.

By the time they finished, he was more than ready for the two-minute shower that was all he was allowed.

They were lined up before their bunks for one last inspection. As the sergeant finished, the corporal stepped up, a bag at his side and holding a stack of letters. "Mail call."

Fieran stayed where he was until his name was called. He walked the perimeter of the room, staying out of the sergeant's zone, and claimed the stack of letters. As he returned to his bunk, he passed Lije on his way to claim a package.

Reaching his bunk, Fieran climbed up and sat on the hard mattress cross-legged, paging through the letters. Three from his mother and one each from Adry, Louise, and Ellie. If Tryndar included anything, it would be in one of the letters from Mama. Same with anything from Dacha.

The final letter appeared to be some kind of official letter. Fieran set aside the other ones and tore open that letter first. He scanned it, then laughed, waving it at Merrik, who sat across the way on his bunk. "The Flying Corps is trying to recruit me into the Mechanics Auxiliaries because of my magical engineering degree. Joke's on them. I'd rather fly the aeroplanes than fix them."

Though if he was one of the mechanics, he'd have the chance to flirt with Pip far more than just smile at her across the mess hall.

Not that he was flirting with her. Nope. Not flirting.

Merrik huffed, sorted through his letters, then held out an identical letter of his own. "Looks like they sent me one too."

The way he looked at it made something in Fieran twist. Had he made a mistake in dragging Merrik along with him as he always did? Was Merrik having second thoughts about taking the more dangerous choice?

After a moment, the look cleared, and Merrik raised his eyebrows at Fieran. "At least we'll have a backup plan for when the army kicks us out due to your insubordination."

"Hey, now. I'm a model recruit." Fieran flapped a hand at his bed. Which he had somehow managed to muss up even more than Merrik had, even though all he was doing was sitting on it.

"The amount of extra PT we have had to do because of you would say otherwise." Merrik rolled his eyes and set aside the recruitment letter. "The only reason you have not been kicked out yet is that you easily pass every drill and test."

"Yeah, that's the reason." Fieran muttered this last bit under his breath, tossing his Mechanics Auxiliaries recruitment letter aside.

It wasn't like the sergeants would have a downright difficult time kicking him out. Despite all of Uncle Julien's changes to the army, names and reputations still carried weight. And no one would want to be the person who kicked the son of Farrendel Laesornysh out of the army. Not to mention the nephew of the great General Julien Ardon, Spymaster Edmund Ispamir, King Averett of Escarland, King Weylind of Tarenhiel, and King Rharreth of Kostaria.

Come to think of it, Fieran was probably every commanding officer's worst nightmare.

But he didn't want to be there because of whom he was related to. He wanted to prove himself. Prove that he was worthy to carry the name and legacy he bore.

No matter what he did, people would assume that he only got where he was because of his father and mother. Or because of his highly connected aunts and uncles. What no one realized was that he had to work twice as hard as anyone else for his accomplishments to be taken seriously.

He shook off those thoughts. Nothing he could do about that. Right now, he just had to survive training. Only then could he get his butt in a flyer, take to the sky, and chase a few legends of his own.

Fieran opened all the letters from his family, checked the dates on the top, and arranged them in order.

The bunk creaked as Lije plunked onto his mattress below Fieran. The sound of crinkling paper came from below, then Lije's excited, "Yes!"

Fieran peered around the end of the bunk, but he couldn't see much more than Lije's knees and feet. "Got something good?"

"A care package of my ma's best soap." Lije leaned out and showed off the box. Inside nestled a row of cream-colored bricks of soap. "Nothing takes off grime like my ma's goatmilk lye soap."

On the lower bunk across the way, Stickyfingers snorted. "Don't tell me you'll smell like roses or flowers or something. You'll be duded up worse than Pretty Face."

Lije sniffed the box. "Nope. Oatmeal and honey. Nothing fancy."

On the bunk below Merrik, Pretty Face reached across the aisle and made a grab for one of the bars of soap. "You're going to share, right?"

Lije yanked the box out of reach before Pretty Face could snag any of the soap. "Not a chance. Just because you're missing your high-class perfumes doesn't mean I'm going to share my ma's soap."

"Cologne, not perfume." Pretty Face huffed as he flopped back onto his bunk. He waved his stack of letters. "Perfume is what ladies use on their letters to me. See?" He sniffed one. "Ah, Lorelei." He sniffed another one. "And sweet, sweet Marianne."

Lije made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and turned his attention back to his soap and accompanying letter.

Fieran raised his voice to be heard across the way. "You get any mail, Sticky?"

"One from Mama." Stickyfingers held up the single sheet of yellow, cheap paper filled with a rough scrawl. "My brother Kevin is back in solitary so he won't be able to get a letter out for a while. But she's hoping to visit Jack and Ron soon so I might hear from them. She's hoping they'll be able to get their transfers to Saltan Prison soon so they'll be closer to home."

"That's…good news." Fieran wasn't sure what else to say to that. Sticky might have grown up in Aldon like Fieran had, but his life experiences and family were vastly different.

Once everyone else was absorbed in their letters, Fieran finally took the time to read his.

His mama's letters had all come from Estyra. She, Dacha, Tryndar, and Ellie were there at the moment, while Dacha trained with the elven warriors and discussed plans with Uncle Weylind about the possibility of war.

Aunt Jalissa was currently also in Estyra while Uncle Edmund was off somewhere doing something that no one could talk about, especially in a letter. Nor was there any mention of Fieran's cousin Jayna, Uncle Edmund's and Aunt Jalissa's daughter. Fieran hadn't seen hide nor hair of Jayna in over two years, and he highly suspected that wherever she was, it was classified.

Tryndar had included a picture he'd drawn and colored of their cat Munchkins sitting on the workbench in Dacha's inventing workshop in Estyra.

Dacha had added a small postscript to two of Mama's letters. Just a few short, stilted lines. But that wasn't unexpected. Dacha wasn't all that great with words.

Ellie's letter was mostly filled with a recap of the recently released Star Forest novel she'd read. Which was convenient for Fieran. He could save all the work of reading the book himself if Ellie was just going to tell him the whole story in a nice, shortened version.

Adry's and Louise's letters were filled with news from Aldon. They'd stayed behind at Treehaven while they created a stockpile of magical power cells. The newspapers were filled with stories of Mongavarian aggression toward the ogre kingdom of Groyria.

As the Alliance Kingdoms didn't have an official alliance with Groyria, nor had Groyria reached out to Escarland asking for aid, there was nothing Uncle Averett or any of Fieran's other uncles could do. Their hands were tied, politically.

Yet the calls for war were building. Articles declared that war was just around the corner while Parliament members pushing for war were making speeches decrying Mongavarian aggression.

"Your parents are in Estyra too, I take it?" Fieran glanced across the way at Merrik.

"Yes." Merrik folded his letter and neatly slid it back into the envelope. He met Fieran's gaze, something in his brown eyes even more serious than usual. "I suspect we will see our dachas as the warriors they once were rather than the inventors and businessmen they have become, before the year is out."

Fieran nodded, dropping his gaze to his letters. For seventy years, his and Merrik's dachas had been Prince Farrendel and Iyrinder Loiatir, partners in the AMPC and the wealthy inventors of much of Escarland's infrastructure.

But they'd once been the warrior Laesornysh and his faithful bodyguard. Sure, Fieran caught glimpses of the warrior of stories in those morning practices with his dacha.

Yet the warriors of the legends were greater, more deadly, than anything Fieran had ever witnessed. His dacha was just…his dacha. It was hard to picture him with so much blood on his hands no one was even sure just how high his body count in the previous wars was.

If war came, Fieran's dacha would have to become the warrior Laesornysh once again.

And Fieran wasn't sure if he was prepared to see it.