Three weeks pass, three weeks of physicality, lessons and conditioning, sparring and technique. It's the first real, structured course she's ever taken in a Skill, and she finds the rigidity frustrating. To the powers that be, there seems to be a right and wrong way to Skill. Form and posture are paramount, and she soon learns that Lei is an expert on it.

Shocking, that.

The whole thing seems predictable, but Ruben is quick to remind her that following specific forms has its advantages.

"They are widely used because they most often yield the most powerful calling," he points out after a particularly half-hearted execution, "if you can learn them to the point of muscle memory you can perform them without conscious thought and become both fast and powerful. Look at how Lei executes the Bull form—"

It's a fair enough point, though she could do without the not-so-subtle parading around of Lei. She knows what Ruben is doing: it's his ploy to repair the damage caused by their spar, but it's not working on either of them. Allayria still thinks the forms lack an element of creativity—and thus surprise.

If I sparred him now, she thinks, watching Lei go through the water form with Ruben—the Swan form—I could take him down, even if he actually hit back.

The thought still rankles her, and her nose scrunches.

"Pay attention!" Ruben calls, straining a little as he stretches, his hands swooping up like the pointed beaks of swans, toward the ceiling. His face is red and blotchy.

In response, she stretches out, crossing a leg and spinning a couple of rocks in her hand, just because she knows it will annoy the shit out of Lei. Sure enough, there's a subtle tick twitching in the side of his face when he glances in her direction.

Got to keep an eye on me, make sure I haven't wandered off again.

She's taken to doing that—getting up and leaving without warning. The best is to slip away in the morning, as the light cracks through the mist and mountains. She likes the adrenaline of it, the satisfyingly yearning, seeking feeling of flying, feet pounding against the stone, toward or away from something. She runs after rough nights, when the same nightmares wake her up, or other things, subtler dreams of hands and bodies, which bring almost more pain than those about death. In these early mornings she can outstrip them all, feel them peel away from her bones with the sheer force of her will propelling her through the long corridors.

Of course, she has not bothered to tell her personal guard when she goes on one of these runs. He would insist on following, dogging her in ceaseless determination, and she has no time or use for that. There are enough ghosts whispering on her heels.

He always shows up anyway, panting and sweaty-faced, murder written in his eyes, and she leads him around for another hour, just so that when they get back to the training room Ruben can beam at the pair of them, thinking they've taken up the exercise together.

Dust rifles up as the double doors of the practice room open and Commander Beinsho strides through, looking around.

"Commander," Ruben calls, wiping his hands on his pants as he draws up from his stance, "have you come for a morning exercise?"

"No," Beinsho replies. "I am here to discuss our next move."

"Has something happened?" Allayria interjects, leaping to her feet and moving toward the two men.

"Nothing unexpected," Beinsho replies, "but I have a general idea of how we could best use you now."

Will I get no say in it?

It's the first thing that enters her mind and it lingers there, the voice twisting from her own, sounding lower, rougher, and it's his voice that adds on to the thought, sounding sly:

Just another cog in the machine for your kindly guide...

"I have been looking into the information you provided us," Beinsho continues, "and though my sources have confirmed the existence of some sort of Jarles program, the Imperator is keeping it very quiet—too quiet for us to know anything for certain."

Lei's head jerks up, his gaze locking onto Beinsho's, but the commander ignores him.

"We need more information," he says to Allayria, "and I hear you have experience breaking into Jarles forts and stealing things."

Here we are, back again.

Allayria's mouth twitches into almost a smile, but it's too cracked for that, too heavy with bitterness. "You could say that."

"Well," Beinsho scratches the side of his face, "with your cooperation we can get started. If we are agreed, then the next step is clear: you need a team."

"A team?" Allayria echoes, and there's a shadow of something she would not like behind the word.

"Of course, you have Lei already," he points out.

Ah, yes, there it is.

"But you two will not be enough. Six, I think, should do the trick. What do you think Ruben?"

"Possibly," Ruben agrees, glancing between Allayria and Beinsho, "depending on where you'll send them."

Beinsho grunts.

"You'll pick them," he tells Allayria. "They'll be your team, so you will have final say. Of course, we will have to pretend Ruben is in charge; none of them know you are the Paragon, and I don't think we should tell them until they have been chosen."

"None of them know?" Allayria interjects sharply. "Who?"

Beinsho glances over at her, eyebrow raised. "The potentials. I've weeded them down to eighteen. The three other kingdoms sent some hopefuls, and we had a few individual sign-ups, so you should have a diverse group to select from."

Allayria looks from Beinsho to Ruben, flabbergasted.

"What do they think they have signed up for, commander?" Ruben asks, folding his hands over his stomach.

Beinsho shrugs.

"A specialized, dangerous mission in Jarles territory." He brushes a smattering of dust off his sleeve. "I didn't lie to them, Ruben, I just left out some information."

He looks around at the three of them.

"Well, if we are in agreement, I'll leave them to you. The council will convene here in two weeks' time; have the team picked by then."

The mess hall is a blur  of colors. There's the usual slog of Halften soldiers milling around and  slopping food onto their plates, but weaving between them are people  Allayria has never seen before.

They seem to, for the  most part, keep to themselves. A group clothed in red sits huddled in  one corner, a large, tawny cat hanging off the shoulder of one of the  men. In the other corner a group wearing purple sits neatly around their  table, conversing in murmurs and glancing around. All eyes are drawn to  the middle of the room where four people garbed in green sit. At their  center is a very handsome man with a golden crown of hair and an almost  equally beautiful woman at his side, and she surveys the room with  narrowed eyes. And—Allayria almost skims past—there's another cluster,  but they appear to be in civilian attire. They don't seem to be sitting  together though; rather, it's as if they all ended up in the same spot  because there was nowhere else to go. None of them seem to be talking  but one—a small boy who seems entirely too young to be here—is gazing  around the room in wide-eyed wonder.

"We should get our food," Lei says pointedly.

It was agreed that  Allayria and Lei should go undercover as a pair of other hopefuls. Lei,  of course, is a respected lieutenant under Beinsho's command and  Allayria is Ruben's cherished pupil, eager to prove herself. Two faces  in a mix of people.

And a mix it is.

Allayria follows Lei's lead, musing that the Halften group must be here too, but wearing the same uniforms as the other guards.

Green will be Solveig, she thinks to herself, glancing back again, red, Roften; and purple, Keesark.

"We will be pressed to  choose at least one from each team," Ruben had told her in the pale  morning light, the words whispering over the slow steam of coffee,  undulating in ripples across its dark surface. "It would be seen as a  grave insult if the Paragon rejected one kingdom and chose from the  others."

A wry smile twitched on his face at her expression. And he has an eerie way of divining her thoughts, for he added:

"I am sure everyone will  be proficient. The true question is, Allayria, what kind of team will  you want? Commander Beinsho is, of course, a discerning man, but I  believe he will have chosen based on talent and political sensibilities  alone. It will be up to you to decide what kind of people you will want  to shed blood with."

Tucked away on the other  side of the mess hall, chewing on cold sandwiches, Allayria watches  each recruit's face in turn, trying to discern what she can from their  expressions.

Can they be trusted? the voice whispers in her ear once more. Could you sleep with them by your side?

The mottled scars twitch  along her skin, crawling in a vague memory of sunlight that has been  twisted by the dark tumble that had followed. There are two impressively  large men from Roften and Keesark respectively, but Allayria isn't sure  she wants to haul that bulk around. They certainly wouldn't be  inconspicuous, and she would rather start her mission, whatever it will  be, with some element of surprise.

People are a lot easier to kill when they don't know it's coming.

She shakes her head, and her hand shakes as she lifts a cup to her lips and takes a long swig of water.

A/N: Hi all, remember when I hinted I'd publish a chapter a little early this week? Me too. Long story short, I've spent the last couple of days strong-arming group members (yes, that's a plural, multiple people did this)  into maybe not plagiarizing our group paper, which is why I am, in fact, late and up very late. As penance, here's part one of a two-for-one.

Happy Thanksgiving, all my American readers. May your group projects be filled with people who have the intellectual capacity to understand how to cite sources and, you know, integrity. No, I'm not bitter at all.