Page 34 of Into the Isle

“Confidence is good. Arrogance is not. You don’t get to decide the Old Way’s naming conventions because you simply don’t like them, initiate.”

Grinding my jaw together, I managed not to react. I bowed my head like a good little soldier. “Yes, sir. As you say.”

Ingvus sat back in his chair. “As a bastard, you were given that name. You claim you aren’t one. Who are your parents?”

“My mother is Lindi Foradeen. Same as my brother Eir—”

“Drengr.”

“Same as Drengr Eirik.”

Ingvus tilted his head. His hands remained threaded together in front of him. “And your father?”

My cheeks shaded pink. “I . . . don’t know.”

Ingvus nodded, as if that explained everything and he had come to a decision. “Lindi Foradeen is respectable. She is a graduate of this academy. That is not in question, initiate. She is not your only parent, however, is she? Your name reflects who you are here as a whole, young lady. Yours is marred in shame.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he held up a finger to quiet me.

“Shame that is represented by your wicked father, who passed down his name to you. Not to mention those ears and that hair. So, as such, Linmyrr it is.”

With that settled, Hersir Ingvus lifted his hands from the desk, grabbed a pen, and wrote something on a piece of paper in front of him.

Inside, I raged. Nothing he said was false—I had grown up with that knowledge. But to hear it said so matter-of-factly, so dispassionately, right to my face, ripped at my heart. These people will never give me a chance because they see me as a byproduct of something malicious. A byproduct of a man they’ve never met, who is hated because of the race he was born to.

My confidence wavered, my shoulders slumped. I couldn’t believe I was defending my nameless mystery of a father. I could feel Eirik behind me, tense as ever, as if he wanted to reach out and put a hand on my shoulder to either console me or still me.

I didn’t need his pity. All I need to do is prove everyone here wrong about me. I am not my name, like I told Arne. I am my own person.

While the storm of anguish and hate whipped around inside me, Hersir Ingvus turned his attention to Eirik. He spoke to him, again, as if I wasn’t sitting there. “Your younger brother was chosen as initiate, Drengr.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why is your sister here in his stead?”

“Because my brother is weak, and a drunkard,” I cut in with a hiss, letting some of my anger come out in my voice. “I defeated him in all the physical trials.”

“Yet he can Shape, yes? And you cannot?”

Shame filled me. I averted my gaze, cursing myself for my stupid magic—or lack of it. “. . . Yes, sir.”

Ingvus blinked at me. Again, he didn’t reprimand me for my outburst. To Eirik, he said, “Your opinion on your brother?”

“Ravinica, erm, has the right of it,” Eirik said, sounding squeamish. “Damon is undisciplined, sir.”

“You have faith your half-sister can meet the expectations your brother was expected to meet?”

“I do, sir. And then some. She will be a fine addition to the academy. I wouldn’t have brought her if I didn’t believe that in my bones.”

My heart soared at my brother’s admission. It bit away some of the frustration I’d been feeling. To hear him speak of me like that, after being two-faced in how he acted around me, renewed my faith in Eirik. It helped restore my confidence. If he believes in me, then I can too.

“There’s always next year for Damon,” Eirik said, his hide armor creaking as he shrugged.

“You don’t make that determination, soldier,” Ingvus said.

Eirik bowed. “Of course not, sir. I only meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Ingvus faced me again. “You’re lucky to have vouching from a Vikingrune warrior, initiate. You would do well to remember your place here, and not rock the boat, as it were.”

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