“We can try,” Anoor conceded. “During the tidewind.”
—
The letter that came in the morning halted their planning to get into the warden library. Creamy paper, with a red wax seal with the guild of strength stamped on the envelope.
Sylah had gone to collect Anoor’s breakfast, so she hadn’t seen the messenger drop it off.
“What is it? Is it about the trial? Have they told you what the terrain is?” Sylah put Anoor’s plate of eggs down on the dining table with a clang.
Anoor’s fingers were shaking as she handed over the letter.
“It’s at midnight.”
“That’s okay, we knew it was going to be tomorrow, they’ve just moved it to the evening to catch you off guard.” Sylah scanned the letter.
“Sylah, it’s at midnight.”
“Wait…midnight?” Realization dawned on her.
Anoor nodded miserably and pushed away the plate of food Sylah had brought. “It isn’t supposed to be until tomorrow at midday. We were going to practice with Kwame tonight…Sylah…the tidewind…”
“The tidewind…” Sylah sat down, or did her legs collapse underneath her? She began to eat Anoor’s bread.
“Each competitor has been given two strikes with a master armorsmith to create bespoke tidewind protection.” Anoor’s eyes were wide as she spoke. “It’s the kind only ever given to the night officers required to travel during the tidewind.”
The armor was designed to cover every element of the officers’ bodies in order to protect them from the winds. It had fewer joints for the sand to work its way in, and the helmets had glass visors to protect their eyes. Still, a lot of night officers died.
In all their planning, they hadn’t planned for this.
“Will you come with me?”
“To the armor fitting? Anoor…I have to work.” She wanted to see Jond, tell him about her plans to access the library.
Gorn appeared in the dining room doorway. “Sylah, I need you to—”
“Gorn, I need Sylah for the rest of the day.” Anoor’s voice had an edge to it that Sylah recognized as fear blunted into anger.
“But—”
“No, the trial of tactics is tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, at midnight, and I need her to help me prepare.”
Gorn stood, a statue of resolute disapproval. She nodded once. “Good luck.” She left to continue whatever task she had concocted for Sylah.
—
The master armorsmith’s workshop was to the left of the training grounds in the Keep. The shop had been cleared of all the usual work required by the army, to make way for the competitors’ requirements. A large circular forge burned bright orange in the center; the heat from it was stifling, making it almost hard to breathe. The copper chimney above the forge pumped smoke up through the rafters of the villa and away to the sky. Armor stands lined the far wall with half-finished breastplates and chain mail.
It struck Sylah that the Wardens’ Empire was always prepared to go to war, but she wasn’t sure who with.
“Name?” the smith asked Anoor.
“Anoor Elsari.”
“Stand to the left.” And so they shuffled to the left, thankfully away from the forge, their backs pressing against the cool whitestone of the smithy’s walls.