Page 64 of The Art of Exiley

I nod. I’ve been practicing more at the hover park and have even started to manage hitting the targets with my lance.

Miriam rummages through a basket full of protective gear and tosses me a padded vest, some kneepads, a shield, and a helmet. Most of it is made of spidersilk in shades of Alchemist emerald green and resembles medieval armor.

I pull on the gear and mount my hover. While the floor is packed dirt, there’s a magnetic surface beneath it that engages the maglev of the hoverboard with a now familiar hum.

I feel good going into my first practice match against Carlota—that is until she’s careening toward me with a massive lance aimed at the shield on my left arm, which suddenly feels far too small. I squeeze my eyes shut and do everything in my power not to follow my instinct to veer away. Carlota’s lance crashes hard against my shield, my whole body jangling with the impact as I zoom past her to the other end of the pit. At least I stay on my hover and don’t drop the lance. Carlota beats me 3–0.

Miriam has us do various balance and aim drills and rotates us through more practice matches, all of which I soundly lose.

The entire experience is… painful. The team is made up of competitive, well-trained athletes who have been playing this game for most of their lives. By the time we pause for a break, I’ve fallen numerous times, I’m sore in places I didn’t even know existed, and I’m pretty confident that I’m not getting onto the team anytime soon.

But Miriam is surprisingly pleased with my performance. “For a totalnovice? We didn’t expect anything different. In fact, we expected much worse. Welcome to the team!”

“I mean, you’ll have to work on keeping your eyes open and on your lance control,” Carlota pipes in.

“Who cares about lance control when she can stay balanced while moving that gravdamn fast?” Sebastian responds with a wink.

A gong indicates that the team’s time using the pit is over, and everyone gathers their things as players from another team stream in for their practice. I glide toward the exit, but I overestimate my ability to jump a barrier and crash into it, landing on my hip, my face scuffing the dirt. I groan and roll onto my back.

A harsh laugh echoes above me, and I glance up to see Rafe. He looks scrumptious in his tightly fitted padded armor—all in Bio shades of amber—with his helmet in his hand and his blond hair flowing like some kind of punk rock Lancelot.

“You’re the prospect the Alchemists have been excited about?” He does not look impressed. “I guess the Ciphers will be our only rivals for the title this year.” He hops on his hover and glides off, making no effort to reduce the amount of dirt he sprays into my face.

“Hey!” Carlota shouts, gliding after him, but Sebastian and another boy, whose name I already forgot, hold her back.

“What did he say to you?” Carlota huffs. “I’ve already reported him to the Jousting Lodge once, and I will happily do it again if he’s being a prejudiced son-of-a-sphinx….”

“Ignore him,” Sebastian says. “He’s purposely trying to get a rise out of us.”

“No, don’t ignore him,” Miriam objects. “Raphael Vanguard was the captain of the Blood Sci team in Avant before he transferred here. We have to take him seriously. He’s our biggest competition—him and Hera. He knows how to use shame and intimidation against us. So don’t ignore that kind of thing.” There’sfire in her eyes. “Let it make you angry, and use your anger to fuel your game.”

We all clasp arms, and I see my determination reflected back at me on my new teammates’ faces. When tournament season begins, we’re gonna take that arrogant prince down.

I’ve been calling home every Sunday, so after practice I knock on Georgie’s door, hoping to use her internet.

“Come in!”

When I enter, I find her excitedly typing and glancing back and forth between her monitors.

“I was going to ask if I could call my family, but you seem busy.”

“Nah, I’m just working on one of my pet projects. Actually”—she waves me over—“you’ll like this.” Her fingers clack a percussive symphony on her keyboard. “I’ve been tracking different forums for conspiracy theories about our existence.”

“You mean the existence of the Makers?”

“Mm-hm. They think we’re so well hidden, and for the most part we are, but stuff gets out every now and then.”

This gets my attention, for obvious reasons.

“Here, check this out.” She’s pulled up a web page. It’s a conspiracy forum dedicated to “the Hidden.”

“Some of their info is scarily accurate; there’s no way it’s only speculation. The main moderator goes by the handle Cicero. He seems to know the most.”

I lean over Georgie’s shoulder and skim through the posts, certain phrases sticking out. “…poison that makes people forget…born with wings…” I take control of the mouse and continue scrolling, goose bumps breaking out on my arms. “…hidden location for hundreds of years…faked death…”

Georgie’s right; this is definitely more than just speculation. At the same time, plenty of posts are way off base. I see more than one entry aboutvampires and even one about the philosopher’s stone, both of which I’m pretty sure are fiction.

I slow my scrolling when I reach an entire section on illness. According to these rumors, “the Hidden” can cure almost anything, including cancer. More than one person claims to have received miraculous medication from a mysterious benefactor.

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