Page 56 of Kissed By the Gods
Kiernan chuckles. “Not an exaggeration. We train at dawn, after morning meal, midday, after evening meal, and sometimes, if our masters feel particularly cruel, again before lights-out.”
Leif tilts his head, considering. “Or if we piss them off, which is often, all through the night.”
I groan. “So, when do we get to actually live?” When do we get to sneak into the Reckoning Hall and read?
Leif barks a laugh. “Who told you we do? We’re Altor, Leina. We live in war, in training, in service. That’s it.”
Kiernan nudges him. “That’s a bit grim. There’re feast nights, when we’re not in the field. And celebrations when we win something important. There’re rotations at the Crimson Feather.”
Leif sniffs. “Sure. And then back to training.”
I let out a breath, adjusting the satchel on my shoulder. I’m seeing similarities between how the Altor are expected to live and how the serfs live. They aren’t bound by chains, not physically, but it’s still servitude—a life dictated by forces greater than them, with no room for anything but duty. The serfs live for toil; the Altor live for war. Both exist to serve. To obey. To bleed for a cause they had no say in choosing. I shake the thought away. Thinking like that will only make this harder.
“So, do we get to do anything fun tonight before I settle into this incredibly exciting existence?”
Leif and Kiernan exchange a look, some silent conversation passing between them.
“Uh,” Kiernan starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “About that.”
Leif’s grin is the sort that tells me I’m not going to like what comes next.
“You don’t get to settle in first,” he says. “You have your unnaming ceremony tonight.”
I stumble.
Already? No past. No name. No identity. No family.
But I don’t have time to dwell on it before we’re striding through a different set of double doors, and I’m hit with a wall of stale sweat, unwashed clothes, and dirty boots left to fester. It’s the unmistakable musk of too many boys living in a small space. My nose crinkles.
Well, fuck. Maybe I do want to stay in the infirmary with Elowen.
The barracks are as simple and sparse as the rest of the Synod. Bunks line the walls, one stacked over the other, in neat rows. There are a few drawers on one side of the room, and each bunk has storage for weapons on the nearest wall. Three boys cluster around a game of dice at a table in the center of the room. They’re dirty and caked in dried sweat, as if they didn’t bother showering before settling in for their night of relaxation. Sounds of running water and raunchy jokes come from a bathing chamber to the left.
I let my eyes drift over the boys in the room, their ages ranging from 20 to 24. They’re all watching me, too. Curious. I’ve never been so thankful that I grew up with brothers.
“Men, this is Leina,” Leif says. “Leina, this is Joren. He’s in Stormriven but in a different cast,” he says, pointing to a broad-shouldered boy with dirty blond hair, a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, and bruised knuckles. Joren gives me a lazy nod and goes back to the game. Not hostile, but also not welcoming.
Leif moves to the next. “That’s Rian of Fellsworn—he’s the fastest out of all of us, but don’t ask him to carry anything heavier than a dagger, or he’ll start complaining about his ‘delicate frame.’”
Rian, short and wiry with sharp eyes and an easy smirk, winks at me and rolls his dice. “It’s nice to have another small warrior in here.”
I smile back at him, and Leif keeps going. He gestures toward the last one at the table, a massive man who looks like he could break everyone in the room. “And this brick wall is Daon of Atherclad. Careful with this one, he’s basically impossible to beat at dice.”
Daon grins, flashing a missing tooth, and gestures at the pile of coins in front of him. “Play me, and I might let you win once. You know, for morale.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the amused twitch at the corner of my mouth.
Leif turns, nodding toward the rest of the barracks. “The others are washing up, but you’ll meet them soon enough. There’s forty of us total.” And then he leads me toward an empty bunk. “This one is between mine and Kiernan’s,” he says.
I start to ask if there’s a reason I need to be between them—I’d much prefer a bunk by the window—when the door swings open again, and Tyrston walks in. Dripping with sweat from training, his shirt clinging to his defined chest, his steps falter when he sees me. Unlike most of the men here, who favor spears, swords, or knives, Tyrston has a hammer holstered at his hip—a massive thing, brutal and heavy. His fingers twitch toward the hammer as his gaze locks onto me, and he flashes me an uglygrin. The dice table goes silent. Some of the men shift, their casual ease evaporating.
Unlike most of the people at the Synod who keep their emotions under lock and key—even Rissa and Elowen—Tyrston doesn’t shield his emotions at all. His anger sparks in the air between us.
I take a step forward. “Do you have something you want to say to me?” I ask him, coming out swinging.
“You don’t belong here.”
The room goes silent.
