“They were running.” Sawyer makes a running motion with his first two fingers. “That’s all I know.”
“Good morning.” Professor Devera walks in, her smile tight as she passes three rows of tables and chairs to get to the front of the room. “I’ll be filling in for Professor Levini. He was called away due to an attack on the Eastern Wing.” She makes a quick study of his cluttered desk, then picks up the book on top. “You’ll hear about it in Battle Brief tomorrow, but so far there’s only one death.” Her throat works before she looks up from the book. “Masen Sanborn. Some of you may have known him, since he’s a recent graduate.”
Masen. Oh my gods, no. His face flashes through my mind, smiling as he pushes his glasses up his nose. It could be coincidence. There’s no logical way an attack would be used to cover up a single death…right?
“Unless they assassinated him during the attack,” I mumble under my breath. We weren’t even friends. I didn’t even know him that well, but out of the ten of us who flew into Resson, now only six are still alive.
“What?” Rhi leans into my space. “Violet?”
I blink quickly and clutch the fabric in my lap. “It’s nothing.”
Rhi’s brows lower, but she sits back in her seat.
“I see he has you discussing the second Cygni incursion from year 328.” Devera rubs the back of her neck. “But I honestly don’t see how that has any practical application.”
“That makes most of us,” Ridoc comments, tapping his pen against his textbook, and those around us chuckle.
“But just to say we did,” Devera continues, running a hand up and down a faded scar marring the warm brown skin on her upper arm. “Everyone should know that the end result of the four-day temper tantrum was Cygnisen being absorbed into the Kingdom of Poromiel, where they’ve been for the last three hundred years. History and current events are tied because one influences the other.” She glances up at the map on the wall that’s about a fifth of the size of the one in the briefing room. “Can anyone tell me the differences between Poromiel’s provinces and ours?”
The room is quiet.
“This is important, cadets.” Devera moves to the front of Professor Levini’s desk and leans back against it. When no one answers, she gives me an arch look.
“Poromiel’s provinces maintain their individual cultural identities,” I answer. “Someone from Cygnisen is more likely to label themselves as a Cygni instead of Poromish. As opposed to our provinces, who unified under the protection of the first wards, chose the common language, and blended the cultures of all six provinces into one cohesive kingdom.” I recite it nearly verbatim from Markham’s book.
“Except Tyrrendor,” someone from the left remarks. Third Wing. “They never quite got the ‘unified’ message, did they?”
My stomach sinks. Asshole.
“No.” Devera points her finger at the guy. “That’s what we’re not going to do. It’s comments like that that threaten the unity of Navarre. Now, Sorrengail brought up a good point that I think some of you are missing. Navarre chose the common language, but who was it common to?” She calls on someone from Tail Section.
“The Calldyr, Deaconshire, and Elsum provinces,” the woman answers.
“Correct.” Devera’s gaze sweeps over us just like it does in Battle Brief when she expects us to not only think through the answers but come up with the questions ourselves. “Which means what?”
“The Luceras, Morraine, and Tyrrendor provinces lost their languages,” Sawyer answers, shifting in his seat. He’s from Luceras, along the bitterly cold northwestern coastline. “Technically they gave them up willingly for the good of the Unification, but other than a few words here and there being assimilated, they’re dead languages.”
“Correct. There is always a cost,” Devera says, enunciating every word. “That doesn’t mean it’s not worth it, but not being aware of the price we pay to live under the protection of the wards is how rebellions happen. Tell me what the other costs have been.” She folds her arms and waits. “Come on. I’m not telling you to commit treason. I’m asking for historical facts in a history class of second-year riders. What was sacrificed in the Unification?”
“Travel,” someone from Claw Section answers. “We’re safe here, but we’re not welcome beyond our borders.”
Nor is anyone welcome past ours.
“Good point.” Devera nods. “Navarre might be the largest kingdom on the Continent, but we are not the only one. Nor do we travel to the isles anymore. What else?”
“We lost major parts of our culture,” a girl with a rebellion relic winding around her arm answers from two rows ahead. Tail Section, I think. “Not just our language. Our songs, our festivals, our libraries… Everything in Tyrrish had to be changed. The only unique thing we kept were our runes because they’re in too much of our architecture to justify changing.”
Like the ones on my daggers. The ones on the columns of the temple in Aretia. The ones I’m currently weaving in my lap.
“Yes.” Somehow Devera makes that word sound both sympathetic and blunt at the same time. “I’m not a historian. I’m a tactician, but I can’t imagine the depth of what we lost knowledge-wise.”
“The books were all translated into the common language,” someone from Third Wing argues. “Festivals still happen. Songs are still sung.”
“And what was lost in translation?” the Tyrrish girl ahead of me asks. “Do you know?”
“Of course I don’t know.” His lip rises in a sneer. “It’s a dead language to all but a few scribes.”
I drop my gaze to my notebook.
“Just because it’s not in Tyrrish doesn’t mean you can’t walk into the Archives and read whatever translated Tyrrish book you want.” It’s his haughty, arrogant tone that pricks my temper.
“No, actually you can’t.” I drop the fabric in my lap. “For starters, no one can just walk into the Archives and read whatever they want. You have to put in a request that any scribe can deny. Secondly, only a portion of the original scribes spoke Tyrrish, meaning it would have taken hundreds of years to translate every text, and even then, there are no historical tomes older than four hundred years in our Archives that I know of. They’re all sixth, seventh, or eighth editions. Logic dictates that she’s right.” I gesture up to the girl a few rows ahead. “Things are lost in translation.”
He looks ready to argue.
“Cadet Trebor, if I were you, I would consider the fact that Cadet Sorrengail has spent more time in the Archives than anyone else in this room, and then I would carefully consider an intelligent response.” She arches a brow.
The guy from Third Wing shoots a glare in my direction and sits back in his chair.
“We lost our folklore,” Rhiannon says.
Every muscle in my body locks.
Devera cocks her head to the side. “Go on.”
“I’m from a border village near Cygnisen,” Rhiannon says. “A lot of our folklore came from the other side of the border, probably as a result of the Migration of The First Year, and as far as I know, none of it’s written. It only survives as an oral history.” She glances my way. “Violet and I were actually talking about this last year. People raised in Calldyr or Luceras or other provinces aren’t raised with that same folklore. They don’t know the stories, and generation by generation, we’re losing it.” She looks left, then right. “I’m sure all of us have similar stories, depending on where we grew up. Sawyer knows stories Ridoc doesn’t. Ridoc knows stories Violet doesn’t.”