Chapter 4

  Buenos dias, mi hijo.

  Aquiles eyes opened fast on a dark room. He hadn’t lit the candle the night before. He bent up and made a quick turn to sit on the edge of his bed. A pair of slippers waited for him below his hanging feet. He pushed off the bed with a measured control and slid his left foot into the left slipper. Then, he slid his right foot into the other. His feet padded over to a curtain hanging on the wall. He placed his left hand on the left curtain and his right hand on the right curtain. He spread his arms, and the curtains split with a soft shifting of fabric. Moonlight cast itself into the room, lighting the sketches of sundials pinned to the walls.

  Swaths of shame washed through him, over him, weighing him down and trying to force him back to bed. Screaming for attention and respect in front of all those people, people he was supposed to lead, some that idolized him. Soreness in his nose had been a welcome distraction, but that was gone now. That was gone now? Aquiles brushed his fingers against the tender bridge of his nose, and found it was no longer tender. Breath filled his nostrils, poured into his lungs, and no petulant knives stabbed at his forehead. Two days and a broken nose was healed? He needed to find some clear water to get a good reflection of his face, those bruises around his eyes were brutally unflattering. He almost forgot his shame.

  He replaced his slippers, and he got dressed, boots laced tight, waist cord wrapped and secure. Shifty little feet shuffled through the hallway outside carrying gullible and quite annoying young minds about their days. Young Ones could be intrusive on one’s personal space. They stunk too, more often than not, hygiene not yet a widely accepted practice at those ages. Many Children loved to take care of the Young Ones, perhaps Aquiles could leave those responsibilities to them. Perhaps he wasn’t a man for kids. He found himself more settled thinking on his distastes. His quick-mending nose was still distracting. Squeezing and pulling on it, he determined the pain really was gone already. It would make for an easier day. Although, perhaps, it was not an ease he deserved. He stepped into the hallway.

  Dirt shifted in the air as the smaller and, some oddly shaped, monks bustled through the cramped hallways. Aquiles would rather not breathe it, but he couldn’t hold his breath until he got to the Main Square. He would work on that. Inkpot and reed in hand, disgust at the foot-dirt in his mouth, relief at an open schedule for his day, Aquiles marched to the peak of the pyramid and its garden to sketch the sundial for his astronomy paper. An excuse more than a necessity. Many sketches of the same sundial were pinned to his wall. Aquiles was fond of the astronomical instruments. They were ingenious.

  Stone steps, thank the Father’s graces and the Mother’s blessings for the absence of dirt, carried Aquiles up the corners of the pyramid three hundred paces to its peak. The steps were deep and short. Taking two at a time stretched his legs too far, despite their length and lankiness, but one step was awkward. This was by far the most irritating thing about making this small trip. The lips of a cracked step caught on the tip of his boot, and Aquiles stumbled. “Pinch-” He caught himself before cursing in front of a pair of young girls descending the stairs. “Perdon,” he grunted through tight lips and a stiff jaw.

  Sunlight started to spill over the peaks of the valley to the east; humid air made thick, sticky, and cloying clutched at the thick monk robes Aquiles was forced to wear, and the heat of the sunrise started to bake and bathe the valley, uncaring, indifferent. Some might attribute the discomfort to some unseen malice. It was but another summer day. There had been many more, hotter days, and many more would pass in the years to come. People were malice. Not the weather. So, which had the monks been like with their dismissals of him, of his station? The weather? Or was it human nature even the holy couldn’t escape?

  Aquiles was being dramatic. Horacio might be right about him.

  The garden of the Monastery was a tool to learn and teach for the botanists and biologists of the religious and intellectual center of La Terra. Lush leaves of banana plants hung like curtains over the exit from the stone pyramid, almost a cliche? entrance to the supple susurration of insect clicks and chirps and whispering monks tending to their crops and study. Aquiles was torn on this place, as it was quite beautiful. Yet, it was terribly dirty. He wiped the sweat so eager to wet his brow the instant he made a footfall in the rich soil of the garden. Leaf and fertilizer crunched under his feet. Aquiles shivered and kept his eyes on the pretty fruits and flowers.

  Foot paths, closer yet to untended land, led away from the stone archway of the pyramid in three meandering directions. Each took its inhabitants on a lazy stroll and plopped them at a landing to view the sprawl of the Capital between the Monastery and the distant center of the government in the Ministry. It was quite a view, to be sure, but Aquiles didn’t care for that right now. Right now, he braved the dirt to get a calming sketch of the intricate sundial at the center of the garden. He took a single step down the central path before being set upon like an unaware stag surrounded by a group of quiet hunters withs nasty bows.

  “Hola, Aquiles!”

  Aquiles sighed and lowered his head, “Hola, Emilia.” The upbeat and bubbly girl from his lectures, and another recently promoted Child of the Parents, smiled up at him, lips nearly splitting her ears in two. She literally bounced with excitement while trying to stand still. Aquiles tried to explain his purpose, “I’m working on the paper for our astrono-”

  “Cómo estás?!” She trampled forward. Aquiles wasn’t sure she even heard him begin to speak. Otherwise, she would have stood there bouncing and listened to him for hours. It was quite the annoyance.

  “Bien,” he responded flatly, “I’m working on the paper for Profesora Lola, so if you wouldn’t mind…” Aquiles tried to slip past the buzzing girl, but she turned and followed him down the path. Emilia had to crane her head to look at him, midnight hair strapped and wrangled back to form a bun and round, dark cheeks carved into that perpetual smile. Men would likely think her attractive, proportioned well for a woman, but she would do terribly in a fight. Aquiles realized just how private the garden path was surrounded by greenery, sound sealed in by the stalks and stems.

  “I already finished it! You can use mine!” Emilia nearly jumped and scraped her head on the overhanging foliage with each word. “I’ll just write another for myself!”

  “Emilia, por favor. I can write my own. Keep yours,” his tone was too annoyed and off-putting, even to Aquiles. Emilia’s bouncing dampened a bit. Feeling too much like the shriveled old puta he often complained to himself about, Aquiles tried repairing her mood, “Though, I’m sure it’s fantastic. I’d love to read it.” He added that smile that made the Young Ones cringe. Emilia seemed to melt under it, eyes going wider somehow, mouth dropping open to gasp. What an odd girl.

  “YO TAMBIEN! I read yours and you read mine!”

  “Que? bien,” Aquiles laughed nervously. He looked forward to that meeting as much as a fistful of shame from Horacio, or a conversation spent with Soc- Child Socorra. The conversation stalled, Emilia bouncing and Aquiles glancing around trying to hold the smile. Two elderly monks approached from further along the path.

  “Ok, great! I got to run and talk to these two beautiful young ladies. Have fun in the garden, Aquiles!” Emilia said, cutting the silence, then took off, disappearing and reappearing next to the Children.

  “Que? bien,” Aquiles reiterated to himself, now exasperated. He went roundabout to the garden’s center and stood at the sundial.

  A single shadow stretched over the sundial’s face, shadow cast over thick stone pulled from the quarries to the east before the mountains became untamed and wild and unknown, a dark streak cut in the sunlight by a stark white shoulder blade of a bison. Aquiles was mesmerized. Craftsmanship unparalleled by any of the artesanos in El Mercado Rojo or in El Centro. The sundial was old, ancient. The bone was all but a fossil. Dancing beasts of all kinds, predator and prey, adorned the circular edge of the stone face of the sundial, a handspan thick. Bison, pumas, bats, butterflies, and the elusive jaguars. Dogs corralled sheep. An old life breathed in this stone; a life almost foreign to Aquiles. But the men in these carvings carried bow and arrow and spear, still hunted, still raised cattle, still farmed, still built in mud and stone. The people hadn’t changed so much as the world around them.

  Reed and inkpot dried in strokes on his parchment, and another intricate sketch was added to his collection. Aquiles exhaled in satisfaction. The monks appreciated art and the craft of a creative and curious mind, but Aquiles had committed himself to a martial art for his life’s work. He could present this sketch and his other drawings for the Children in the art halls. It would gain him nothing. Yet, this sketch was rather good. For this one, he went with a crosshatching and faded shadowing with the flat of some charcoal smeared into the ink. The color black could be used to an extreme and exquisite extent if a monk knew what to do with it. Aquiles would use one of the older renditions pinned to the walls in his room for the paper, and he would keep this one to himself.

  As he made his way back through the garden and onto the square spiral of the stairs inside the Monastery, Aquiles pondered the twenty-seven markings on the face of the sundial sketch he’d made. They stood out in the isometric view he’d chosen for this version. The shadow fell between the seventh and eighth hours in the drawing. Had those markings by the ancient people guided their alphabet, or had their language imposed a structure on their measure of a day’s hours? Not an impactful or useful thought, but Aquiles could spare the time.

  Something pulled Aquiles from his trance, and he looked up from his shambling feet and to the figure with knives in its hands at the next landing. It stood in the dark, in a shadow of its own. Skin prickling, breath increasing, heart thumping, sword absent. Who would attack him with knives in the dark? Child Horacio took a step forward and proffered a roll of pa?n, a tab of butter, and a butter knife. Aquiles chided himself behind a mask of happy surprise.

  “Arm of Us, I was informed by an excited mouse of a girl you would be coming from the gardens. Are you familiar with her?”

  Aquiles sighed, “All too.”

  “Well, I am happy to find you where I expected you. Now, come with me,” Horacio spoke with no inflection or sign of actual emotion. He turned and moved down the stairs then pointed over his shoulder at the food now in Aquiles’ hands. “Eat it. Child Socorra had some tasks for you.”

  “Que? bien,” Aquiles practically exploded with excitement. His molars creaked and nearly cracked under the pressure with which he clenched his jaw. How good. What fun.

  “Don’t bother with an attempt to hide your annoyance. You want respect, verdad? Maybe this will earn you a thimble full,” the old fool chuckled. No, this Child was a man of honor and intelligence Aquiles could only hope to achieve. His temper was being sorely tested. A mouthful of dry pa?n and fat only worsened it. Horacio tossed a vial of clear liquid over his shoulder. Aquiles reached out a practiced hand and snagged it from the air. The glass fit easily in his palm. It was stoppered with a small cork and a thin wrap of leather.

  “What is this for?”

  “Keep it on you.”

  “Yes Child, but what is-”

  “Keep. It. On. You,” Horacio emphasized each word as he took step after step down the stairs. His short legs were likely comfortable with the step height, while Aquiles almost skipped down the stairs made for little monks. “Your nose looks much better. You’re not even bruised anymore. Must have not been broken after all.”

  Aquiles touched his nose again and didn’t respond. Horacio’s thin shoulders protruded even from the thick robes weighing him down, spastic hair stuck out and unmoving with the walk down. Aquiles could see the Child’s eyebrows from behind. Weren’t their barbers on the premises? Aquiles kept himself clean shaven and short-haired with a sharp knife.

  They made their way past gaggles of Young Ones, prostrate and shaking at the sight of the most famous and infamous monks currently residing in the pyramid. Aquiles was the clear candidate for the most famous, and Horacio gained his notoriety with an unending series of unusual and impossible punishments. Activities like sweeping the dirt out of the dirt hallways or rearranging the equipment and ornaments in the circular training ground by intervals of three hundred and sixty degree rotations.

  Socorra awaited them in the Child’s mess hall. “Mira, mira! The Arm of Us graces our hall brothers and sisters!” Socorra jumped onto a wooden table with six silent Children sitting around it on the worn benches. The table wobbled, and their glasses clattered to the ground. Each of their gazes were pulled from staring daggers at Aquiles to stab Socorra. She didn’t notice or didn’t care. More monks sat at other tables and watched.

  “That boy will not be a liaison to the gods,” a Child with a smooth face and a squeal of a voice announced.

  “He cannot be allowed to speak to the Parents, throwing tantrums like a little boy!” This announcement from a man with a scarred face but an equally squealing voice. They looked to be close in age and resemblance. Maybe Aquiles just grouped these bothers together.

  He stopped to stand behind Child Horacio. “I just got here,” Aquiles muttered under his breath. Yet, the words fell on the ears of a bat.

  Horacio turned to Aquiles and spoke at a revealing full volume, “News travels fast.” Yes, pushed along by a wizened old sword master.

  “Accusations, faster still!” Socorra jumped off the table and slipped on one of the displaced glasses. Her feet went out to the side, and she slammed into the ground. None of the Children reacted. Aquiles rushed over to help. Socorra sprung to her feet and spun around him to slap his neck. “Twice in a row, pendejo.”

  Aquiles held his tongue. “Yes, Child Socorra.” What was he supposed to do? Stop and laugh? That’s probably what Socorra would have done.

  “Oh relax, boy. This temper is what’s landing you on a sizzling plancha today. Do you think the Parents are reasonable conversationalists? They’re gods. Son dioses, verdad?” Socorra leaned in with raised eyebrows and a knowing grin, more of a grimace.

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  “Si?.”

  “And we’re going to show this miserable group of culos that you can handle yourself in all sorts of stressful situations. Aren’t we?” She nudged his shoulder. Horacio shuffled toward the food set on a nearby table.

  “Si??”

  “The Children of the Monastery are not fond of your little outbursts. So, I’m going to personally train and mature you to assure you’re ready for the job as the Arm of the Monastery.” Shouldn’t personal training have been her plan from the beginning. Socorra didn’t seem to think so. “Then, we can get on with our lives! And you can deal with the angry old man,” Socorra was leaning against him now, an uncomfortable proximity Aquiles didn’t know how to comprehend. She smelled… old. Like queso blanco left in a cupboard for a hundred years, or however many years Socorra graced this good green land. Had she meant the Father by ‘old man’? She continued, “And you can stop crying and yelling at sad wrinkled monks.”

  “Que??” Horacio coughed up a bite of carnitas and tortillas.

  “Callate?,” Socorra shooed Horacio away.

  Reluctant and recalcitrant, Aquiles stared after Child Socorra as she hobbled away, apparently done with the conversation, and with a disregard to the Children left dumbstruck at the twists and turns a conversation with the legacy Arm of the Monastery could put a person through. Also the slaps. Thin hands as hard as stone and as sharp as swords nudged Aquiles after the hag. He turned his head to the side to see Horacio returned to where he stood prior to stuffing his face, shooing Aquiles along.

  “Don’t forget that vial,” the old man sang with an edge of knowing and an air of condescension, both of which made Aquiles rather uncomfortable. No, he could handle whatever ridiculousness this was. Child Socorra never turned to see if he followed. Arrogant puta. Like he’d just follow her as a stray pup, no stable or cover to sleep under, no generous little girl to throw stale food or pour leftover bones from soup-making onto the ground. Aquiles scowled.

  Then he followed.

  After a few familiar turns, Aquiles was certain they made their way to the training grounds. Socorra was going to literally be training him? Her contributions to the training of monks in martial arts was perceived by her absences more than her input. Historically, Arms would rotate among dedications and view and attend to the needs of the monks of the Monastery, but Socorra was not that kind of Arm. She preferred community outreach and more communication with the Father. Unorthodox and unnerving. The Monastery should do more as an example than a helping hand in the lives of the people. Leave the dealings with country folk to the Ministry. Aquiles would change things back to how they were meant to be. Never mind Socorra’s success with her methods, they were just a fluke, a bug in the system. Aquiles wondered about the epistemology of that eccentric expression.

  They arrived at the ready room, and the air felt electric. Muffled booms shook dust from the stone of the stairway above. A surging worry formed a pit in his stomach, and Aquiles came to the obvious conclusion. The Storms were training. His heart made company with the pit in his stomach. Socorra glanced over her shoulder with a smirk as Aquiles tried to keep his face straight, but he felt the anxiety behind his eyes press into his forehead and face and quicken his heart. Simple swordsmen couldn’t spar Bolts and Thunderheads! Well, Aquiles was more of a master than a simple swordsman, yet the point stood. These twins would blast him across the Capital and back before he had time to blink.

  “Come now, young Arm,” Socorra mocked him, “You’re not scared of a little wind, are you?”

  An odd gulping sound found its way out of his mouth. Aquiles cleared his throat, and it stopped. “What they do is a bit more forceful than wind, Child Socorra.”

  The Arm pondered on his assessment and replied, “Yes, it is. Disrobe. They don’t have much time left in their training.” Blunt as ever. “And they really aren’t supposed to interact with the rest of you. Highly blessed and all that.” Socorra hesitated and hung her head. “Yes, by the Parents’ guidance.” Was she talking to someone?

  Eyes bored into Aquiles' back, and he spun around. No one else stood in the ready room. His hackles rose, an exposed nerve of unwanted attention. Something was there.

  “I said disrobe.” Socorra stalked up the ramp to the training grounds and out of sight.

  Aquiles stood by himself, hopefully by himself, and shivered as the still air swirled about him removing the robe and moving to place it on his regular hanger. The hanger was taken. All the Childrens’ were taken, even some of the lower Young Ones’. More Storms inhabited the Monastery than he previously thought. Aquiles let the robes fall to the floor, the fleeting worry of dust and grime dirtying the garment hardly registering as his gaze fell on the ramp and the dancing shadows that played there. His hand gripped the vial Horacio gave him. None of the familiar ring of metal, none of the rhythmic scraping of feet. Dust drifted from the ceiling at another distant boom. It smelled like rain.

  Summer sun and a thick, wet air ripped him back into reality, and Aquiles stepped into the circle of the training grounds. Two dozen men and women were circling around Socorra. They watched him. Two bare chested brothers stood apart from the group, but they began walking to join the rest, clear vials of liquid raised to their lips, gulping down the contents, vials identical to the one Aquiles held firmly in his hand now.

  “Aquiles,” Child Socorra called from the center of the Storms, truly the Arm of the Monastery with her air of authority outshining all amongst a group of so much power, “no need for a sword today.” Her lip curled. “Or a spoon.” The group was silent. He didn’t think his heart could drop past his stomach to his feet, but he felt it down there between his toes. “Drink the ichor.”

  One of the brothers late to the group gestured with a dramatic flair at the vial in Aquiles’ own, the first movement in the crowd of twins. “She said to drink it.” The first sound. Some of the resemblances in the twins were hardly noticeable. Brother and sister, rather than the same sex. Some were uncanny to the point of verging on identical. Aquiles shivered. Greatstorms could not make this group company today, or ever, killed at birth as they were. He should stop acting like such a scared child. Shoulders squared and legs firm, Aquiles unstopped the vial and drank it.

  He convulsed at the texture of the thick liquid. It was a sickeningly sweet slime sliding down his throat. When he finally got it down, he gagged. The brothers chuckled, one much hairier than the other, chest sweaty and as thick around as a tree. They were squat men, coming only up to Aquiles’ sternum, but they probably both outweighed him. One sneered at his reaction. “Hey, I like it. Makes you strong,” the other brother smiled and drank the rest of his slime.

  “The Parents’ nectar,” sneer face growled. “That’ll give you plenty of energy, boy. You don’t have the blessings to spend it.” The man held his hand up. Sparks of electricity jumped between his fingers.

  “I was going to have you spar with the girls,” Socorra gestured to a pair of sisters whose combined age was certainly less than Aquiles’ own, “but I think Jorge and Emiliano will do nicely.” Aquiles jerked his hopeful head from the girls back to lightning fingers, heart ten paces into the stone below his feet now. Que? mierda.

  “I’m Emiliano!” The jovial brother pronounced. The hairy one cracked his neck and fingers and back. Really quite unnecessary, Aquiles would obviously lose this fight. Emiliano continued, “Well, except for him.” He pointed at a toddler. The toddler had an empty vial of ooze next to him. It hiccupped, and a shockwave shot from its open, drooling mouth and blasted over a training dummy made of wood, the arms and legs shattering against the stone of the pyramid. “Se llama Emiliano, tambien.”

  “Wonderful,” Aquiles gasped, the word almost catching in his throat.

  Socorra meant to teach him patience it seemed. Perhaps a little humility? He’d be the most humble Child the Monastery had ever seen. She stalked away from the Storms and toward Aquiles, and they all receded to the walls, except for Emiliano and his properly growling twin brother. She tossed him a small cloth bag, “Best put these in, I’d prefer to treat bangs and burns without burst eardrums.” He fumbled the catch, scrambling to pick the bag up in case Socorra decided to slap him again with his attention averted.

  The bag felt light. He opened it and found balls of bleached cotton and wool. The wool would prove itchy, so Aquiles chose the cotton and stuffed it into his ears with shaking hands. The sun beat down on them, and Child Socorra walked right past him to take up a seat where the weapons masters would watch Children train. Were the Storms considered Children too? Or an entire league of their own? Flashing light bit into Aquiles’ eyes as Jorge stepped forward, brandishing hands inundated with crackling electricity, arcs churning, jumping to the ground for an instant, weeds crawling to the sunlight through layers of stone to be smote by the Bolt. Yes, quite the league of their own.

  Socorra held up a hand, “Tu hermano primero, Jorge.” The Bolt stopped his trudge of death, and the Thunderhead scrambled forward to take instruction from Socorra. “Emiliano, throw some light strikes. I just want to see him move.” She seemed to ignore Aquiles now, and watched Emiliano walk forward to take a place opposite Aquiles. The bystanders gathered in a circle at the center of the grounds. Some played with lightning in their hands, others blasted small craters in the dirt with their index fingers.

  Aquiles took up a stance for fighting hand-to-hand at the center of the circle. Emiliano followed and stood sideways, right shoulder towards Aquiles’ chest and seeming just as nervous. Breath forced to be slow and measured, the apprentice to the Arm of the Monastery studied a Thunderhead. The young man and his brother were both built like barrels, but this half of the Storm was lighter skinned and watched Aquiles with kind eyes. That friendly gaze waivered, and Emiliano spun with a backhand. He was much too far to make any contact with Aquiles, yet a shockwave burst forth to pound his chest and send him sprawling on the ground. The circle bowed out to encompass him, but it did not break. Adrenaline pumped in Aquiles’ veins, he found his heart, and he got to his feet. Thunderhead a good fifteen paces away now, Aquiles had to close the distance to have any chance. That shockwave was almost channeled into a cone, extremities enough to stir up some wind but not to do any harm. He could dodge them.

  With a burst of his own, Aquiles sprinted forward, taking a shifting path to make contact with Emiliano. The Thunderhead jumped and spun, sending another shockwave towards Aquiles with a whirlwind of a kick, and again, it was a vague cone. Aquiles threw himself under, wind whipping at his skin, and slid to close the remaining distance. He pushed to his feet and thrust a closed fist, solid, steel, straight into Emiliano’s now exposed stomach as the man regained his balance. Breath left Emiliano, and he curled over Aquiles’ fist. The Arm moved to finish the fight with surprising ease, and struck down at Emiliano’s back. Something caught Aquiles’ open hand, then he was looking up at the clear blue sky, pebbles and a patch of dirt scraping at the back of his head. He regained his feet.

  “It’s about time you took advantage of that, Emiliano. Good job,” Socorra called from the masters’ lookout. She finally seemed to notice Aquiles, “Oh, Storms don’t just shoot stuff from their hands and feet. Common misconception. They can, and should, use all that open space available,” she continued, attention turning back to Emiliano as she waved her hands to indicate her chest and back. “Please, continue.”

  Well, Emiliano could use those shockwaves all he wanted, but he probably relied on them too much. Had to see where Aquiles was to do anything about it. Without hesitation, Aquiles reached into the loose dirt at his feet and flung it into the Thunderhead’s line of sight, a light brown billowing cloud between them. Those small cones couldn’t do anything now. Probably.

  A shockwave left from the whole of Emiliano’s body and hurled itself at Aquiles in a wall of white condensed air. Dirt in the air knocked aside, and he stumbled but didn’t fall. Must take a lot more power to make a big wave like that do any damage. Aquiles jumped forward and spun, heel connecting with Emiliano’s jaw, and a Storm fell. Well, the Thunderhead fell. Aquiles felt triumphant, nonetheless.

  Several women rushed forward and cradled Emiliano, some even looking at Aquiles with a hint of deference. He wouldn’t be so rash to call it respect. Though it probably was. Emiliano’s eyes fluttered open, and he shook himself. “Que? bueno, Aquiles!” He smiled and gave a thumbs up. “You move like a puma!” Aquiles smirked to himself. He had been training in his agility lately. Must be showing. Whatever was he worried about before?

  “Jorge, your turn.”

  Socorra had to interrupt the victory.

  Warmth and vigor flowed freely through Aquiles. This was a feeling past adrenaline. The Parents’ nectar, Jorge had called it. Maybe there was some use to the stuff, despite its vile taste and how it clung to his throat as he drank it. Aquiles flexed his arms, extending his forearms at the elbow and letting his triceps burn, then he twisted at his waist and popped up and down on the balls of his feet. He would have to find some more of the ichor before his next bout with Child Horacio. See if he liked an unfair fight. Socorra watched him, suspicion in her eye. This wasn’t going as she’d hoped. Too bad. Aquiles would show them he deserved respect.

  “Come now, Jorge. You can do better than your brother, right?” Aquiles taunted the man as he approached.

  Jorge clenched his jaw and spat. “Shouldn’t have done Emi like that, puto.”

  “Whenever you feel like it, Jorge,” Socorra sighed and began the sparring match with an aloof wave.

  Jorge nodded and took up the same fighting stance as his brother. Aquiles fought to keep the smile from his face. What had these Storms been learning out here? They couldn’t even switch up tactics while facing the same opponent. A strong gust of wind blew at Aquiles back, and he took a step forward.

  Heat and seizing pain pinned his foot to the earth the instant it contacted the ground. Jagged lines of light black and red burned into Aquiles’ eye, the lightning bolt that hit him had blinked so quickly his eyes only registered the after image. His bluster faded with the imprint of his doom in this sparring match. “Mierda.”

  Jorge spun forward in a flurry of furious far-reaching arcs. Some pinged the ground around Aquiles, a plume of dirt or a blackened spot on the stone where the Bolt’s lightning struck. Many more hit Aquiles square. This fury was far from the voracious impact on his foot from the first hit, yet he was driven back to find some sort of cover from Jorge. This is what they’d been learning.

  Aquiles tripped over himself as lightning and electricity jumped between him and the approaching Bolt. Respite in the rain, and then it continued again. He caught a glimpse of Jorge and noticed the man’s skin was turning a furious red as if he were… burning? The grimace on his face all but confirmed it. Socorra stood now in Aquiles’ periphery as he crawled towards the edge of the circle. The lightning stopped. Gravel from a particularly strong arc that had burst apart the stone lay just at Aquiles’ right hand. He grasped at it, body refusing to function, muscles spasming and heart palpitating. This couldn’t be healthy.

  Footsteps behind him indicated Jorge approached even without his lightning. Maybe he’d learned some actual hand-to-hand combat. Aquiles felt himself recovering from the onslaught. How, not odd, but rather… encouraging. He’d deal with the worried thoughts later. His foot kicked out desperately behind to collide with Jorge’s shin. Roaring and burning and angrier than a bull in a market, Jorge surged forward and yanked Aquiles to his feet, hoisting him by his underarms, then the Bolt drove his shoulder into Aquiles stomach. Yet, Aquiles was comfortable here. Breath escaped him, and Aquiles drove out the remainder. His hands clambered to cinch shut around the back of Jorge’s neck, and when he found his purchase, Aquiles let his momentum drive one foot back and twisted at his hips with all the strength not sapped by the electricity to throw his knee into Jorge’s gut. The man crumpled. His skin gained a pallor.

  Gravel bit into Aquiles’ hand, a trickle of warmth on his palm from a cut granted by the rocks. His arm and hands were seizing. He was looking back at the sky again. How had he gotten there? Lightning burned itself into his view of the world. Jorge loomed over him. Faintly, Aquiles could hear Socorra calling to take it easy as she rushed over. Heart beats thundered in his mind. The crowd of Storms just watched, apparently angry with Emiliano’s defeat. Not very monk-like of them. Lightning crept up Jorge’s arms again, skin blistering from the heat. Aquiles hadn’t known the blessing could do that to the Storms. In retrospect, Emiliano’s skin had turned red where he directed the shockwaves from. Painful blessings. Aquiles was drifting. His thumb found one of the little rocks. He absently flicked at it. The pebble soared up and plopped itself right into Jorge’s eye. The Bolt yelled and clawed at his face, pebble apparently lodging itself rather well in his eyelid.

  Aquiles stood and swayed. Socorra reached them, hands outstretched toward Jorge. The infuriated man shoved her away and raised his hand. Rain and sparking fire lit the air, wrinkled fingertips grazed Aquiles’ arm, and time slowed. Aquiles knew this one would hurt, or worse. The circle broke, slowly, knees lifting to chests to stop Jorge. Maybe they weren’t that mad. Aquiles giggled. Oh well, it seemed he’d lost this fight. He was nauseous. Either his mind was scrambled, or Aquiles just didn’t care. Let Jorge strike him down here and now and allow his life to amount to nothing. He’d done nothing. Nothing to lose.

  Light flashed. Heat built over Aquiles’ pounding heart. It grew, and had grown, ravenous, threatening to take him. His muscles were locked tight, and the sky was white then black. He saw and heard nothing.

  Then, just as it had come, it left.

  Breath left him, and by instinct, he drove the rest out. Jorge lay flat on his back, smoke drifting up from smoldering chest hair, an acrid scent filling the training grounds. Guess one of the other Bolts hit Jorge before he could finish off Aquiles. How nice of them.

  Aquiles collapsed, and his head was caught by withered hands. A lightning storm of hair blocked the sky, and the most unnerving thing he’d experienced the entire day swallowed his vision. The Child Socorra, smiling.

  He thought he heard her whisper, “Finally.”

  Buenas noches, mi hijo.