Page 67 of Harbinger

“You don’t miss your real home?” I ask, staring at a statue by the door. It’s so battered by time that its face is nothing but a few vague dents.

“I was dumped on the Bellatorum steps when I was about four.”

He says it so cheerfully that his words hit a beat too late. “You were abandoned?”

“It’s how most conscripts wind up here.” He pushes open the door and almost collides with a gaggle of children wearing various mismatched armor.

My heart lurches. How many of them were abandoned, too?

Taliesin yanks me toward the wall as wooden swords continue to swing. We’ve clearly interrupted something. “Stay here,” he orders me before striding into the fray. The effect of his presence is instantaneous. The wooden weapons hit the entry rugs with dull thumps as the children come to attention. Only a handful keep fighting, too caught up in their game to notice his arrival. Taliesin raises two fingers to his lips and looses an ear-splitting whistle. I wince, but it works.

“What have I told you about fighting in the foyer?” He winds his way through the kids, a single brow raised.

One of the littler ones lifts his chin and shouts, “If we break something, we’ll have to walk to Miradores and explain ourselves to Bishop.” He swallows like the thought horrifies him before squeaking, “Sir.”

Just his name is enough to spark the reaction, but it’s not fear on the boy’s face.

It’s respect.

“At least you remember that, even if you can’t seem to remember the rules.” Taliesin takes a deep breath, his face the definition of disappointment. He nods toward the door. “Take it outside.”

A chorus of yes sirs echoes as they grab their swords and rush out. The fight resumes as soon as they hit the top step, and I bite back a smile. Taliesin follows behind them, shaking his head and shouting more commands before he closes the door.

“So, this is where your love of fighting started.” It’s beginning to make sense. Although, it’s dangerous to imagine him as a boy with a wooden dagger, especially since I’m pretty sure he wants to kill me. “How many times did you make that walk to Miradores to explain breaking something?”

“I still hold the record,” he says with a smirk. “It’s a miracle that there’s anything left to break.”

That, I believe.

“This is the Commons,” he says as we pass a dozen open doorways, every room full of people of all ages. Some in uniform, others in everyday clothing. The whole place hums with energy. A boy no older than Andry races down the corridor, chased by a girl his age wielding a fireplace poker. People cluster around tables in one room, playing cards in front of them. In another, groups of conscripts pore over books.

“I thought this was a military base.”

“It is,” Taliesin says. “But no one fights all the time.”

He sounds a little sad about it.

It’s not what I expected. Neither is Taliesin, if I’m being honest. But I keep my guard up. A few lighthearted stories and a walk don’t absolve him from what he said to Bishop last night.

He leads me through a back exit into a large courtyard that looks over the rest of the complex. He points to a dormitory choked with ivy. “That’s where the youngest ones live.”

“How young?” I ask, remembering what he told me about how he wound up here.

“We don’t have anyone under five, last I checked.”

“Five? That’s too young for conscription.” I know what he told me before, but seeing it—knowing families abandoned their own children to a lifetime of fighting—is different.

“It’s not really conscription. Classes start when they’re six. No one starts training until they’re twelve. Before that, it’s all books and games and learning how to not be a jackass.”

He must have missed some of those lessons.

There are three more dormitories, several other buildings devoted to education, a gymnasium, and various training facilities, both indoor and outdoor, all teeming with activity. I strain to watch a sparring match happening in one of the distant arenas carved from stone ruins. But Taliesin directs me into the dining hall. Rows of tables and chairs are set up in precise formation. Banners hang from the rafters, each bearing the symbol of Order Marius.

Only a handful of people are eating at this hour. Heads turn as we pass. Some stare, others whisper.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Taliesin says. I can’t quite tell if he’s teasing me or warning me.

He waves to a woman in the kitchen, who responds by pelting him with a bread roll. He catches it one-handed, tears it in two, and offers me the bigger half. “Best bread in Antares.”