All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [190]
Eliot sat cross-legged on his bed. He had a lot to do. He’d tackle the hard stuff first: tonight’s music homework.
He had to play his violin for fifteen minutes without repeating himself. Ms. DuPreé said he had to or “the bit of creativity that hadn’t been sucked out of him yet would solidify like concrete.”
But repetition was part of the music Eliot knew. Self-taught with “Mortal’s Coil,” “The Symphony of Existence,” and “The March of the Suicide Queen”—those pieces had ordered stanzas and repeated phrases that built on each other.
How did you make music without repetition?
He pushed his violin case away. Maybe he’d get to that later.
The next problem on his list was Fiona. He’d hardly seen his sister this semester. She came home late from her Force of Arms class, showered, slept, and then got up at 3 A.M. to do homework. She was such a zombie by the time they walked to Paxington in the morning, he barely got a grunt or two out of her.
Which normally would’ve been great . . . except he had a feeling they’d need to work together more than ever to survive the rest of the school year.
Any free waking moments Fiona had between classes, she spent with Mitch. Not that it was any of Eliot’s business, but Robert was hanging out less with their group because of it. He couldn’t decide if Robert and Fiona not being together was a good or bad thing.
Which brought him to the next problem to solve: gym class.
Team Scarab practiced like their lives depended on it. Sarah was great. She’d learned how to harmonize with Eliot’s music, and together they could shatter a three-foot-thick beam halfway across the course. Fiona and Robert were just as impressive, stronger and faster than they’d ever been . . . although there was definitely some unresolved tension between Mitch and Robert. The only one who didn’t seem to be trying so hard was Amanda. Jeremy shot her glances that could kill, and occasionally he’d lose his temper and stomp out of practice.
The problem with gym wasn’t them, however, or even the competition. It was the unfair ranking system.
The lowest-ranked team had been dissolved: Team Soaring Eagle because of a disastrous accident during their first match this semester. Six deaths.
He’d thought about quitting that day. No school—no matter how fantastical or magical—was worth dying for.
But Fiona convinced him it was just an accident, a terrible accident, but one that could happen anywhere.
Maybe. But it wasn’t just anywhere where you had to dodge spears and swords sixty feet off the ground.
The result of Eagle’s dissolution hadn’t been a review of safety rules, a suspension of play, or the academic bell curve normalizing. Instead every team slipped down in the ranks one notch (sliding the entire freshman population that much closer to flunking). To make the cut and graduate, Team Scarab had to win two of their remaining last three matches.
Of course, gym would be a lot easier if they had their strongest player. Jezebel’s presence, however, would generate a whole new set of problems . . . but they’d be problems Eliot would want.
He dug through his pack and found Jezebel’s handkerchief, still stained with the blood from when she kissed him, still smelling like vanilla and cinnamon.
She hadn’t been at school since the start of the semester. Two weeks and no trace.
How long before they kicked her out?
It’d be the least of her worries, though; it meant the war in the Poppy Lands was still on.
Where she’d be fighting . . . or hurt.
Or dead.
His blood chilled at that thought.
So why was he here? He should’ve been back on the Night Train and helping her—whether she wanted it or not.
Was it because he knew they’d get in a big fight and she’d just try to get rid of him again?
Or was he just the world’s biggest chicken?
He swallowed, remembering the swarms of Droogan-dors that had enveloped Queen Sealiah’s knights . . . and left only frost and shadow in their wake.
Eliot made a fist, crushing her handkerchief, and then tossed it over to a corner of the pack.
His skin itched just thinking about