Page 33 of Into the Isle

Before getting to the door, I thought of something. “Why are there guards along the walls surrounding the academy, E? Isn’t this supposed to be a school? Makes it seem like a stronghold or a . . .” I trailed off when he stopped walking and narrowed his eyes on me. The door to the building was a few short feet away.

“Jailhouse?” he ventured.

Gulping, I nodded.

“In some ways, it is a stronghold, though not in the way you think. This isn’t a prison, Vini.” He gave me a small smile, which was nice to finally see since he’d been frowning so much recently. “Vikingrune fosters independence,” he continued, leading us to the door. He pulled the door open and moved aside to let me pass.

Inside, the place looked like an office building more than anything else. Small tables, a hallway leading to doorways on either side.

Eirik talked in a low voice while we walked. “Cadets and students are allowed to leave whenever they like, though they have to state their business on the way in and out, every time, like I did when I brought the Wraith crew through the southern gate. The guards are there for our protection. To keep out enemies.”

“Enemies? Here?”

“You’ll learn more at orientation, sister. For now—” He cut himself off as he stopped at one of the side doors and knocked.

A grumpy-sounding voice called out from the other side. “Enter.”

The small office on the other side was like any other—nondescript, with a small bookshelf to the right, a desk in the center with a chair on our side, and a man sitting on the other side of the desk.

The man looked funny to be sitting in a modern-day office with his plaited blonde-gray hair, bushy beard, and the black leathers of a warrior rather than the robes of a scholar. Even sitting, he was nearly as tall as me, though quite lanky. He wore no ornamentation other than a pair of spectacles on the tip of his nose.

He was quite handsome for an older man, though deep grooves lined his face near his mouth, like he’d done too much frowning in his life.

Eirik swept his hand out toward the man when we entered. “Sister, this is Hersir Ingvus Jorthyr.”

Without “dan” or “deen” at the end of his name, I knew his suffix meant he was something special. I just didn’t know what “thyr” meant yet.

“Sit,” he said in his deep voice that brooked no argument.

Swallowing hard, I sat before I could start fidgeting. I started wringing my wrists once I could hide them under the edge of the desk. Eirik stood behind me to the right, hands clasped in front of him.

The Hersir inspected me for a long moment, making me uncomfortable. When he let out a sound that was either a sigh or a grunt, I started, “Hello, Hersir—”

“State your name,” he demanded.

I blinked. Held my chin higher. “Ravinica Lindeen.”

Ingvus glanced from me to Eirik over my shoulder. “Sister, you said?”

“Yes, sir,” Eirik answered.

“You have multiple?”

“Erm . . . no.”

“Then this is the famed bog-blood sibling of yours?”

A tic rippled through my chin, and I fumed. “I’m sitting right here. Sir. I can answer your questions.” My main question was: What the fuck are you getting at?

“Ravinica—” Eirik started to reprimand me, but Ingvus silenced him with a grunt.

It seemed manners were lost at the academy, from everything I’d seen so far. I tried to tamp my frustration down, thinking, Makes sense, I guess. No time for bullshit when you’re training the defenders of tomorrow. The soldiers of our people. Which means no time for pleasantries, either.

I was used to shitty attitudes, so I sat back and leveled my eyes on the Hersir.

Ingvus stared at me. His eyes were dark and his face was unreadable. He didn’t look offended at my complaint. His lips moved as he mulled me over, making me uncomfortable again. “If you are bog-blooded, then you are Ravinica Linmyrr, not Lindeen.”

The frustration flared. I seethed. “I don’t call myself bog-blood, swamp-bred, or anything like that, sir. I find it derogatory, and don’t wish to deter my self-worth and confidence.”

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