Page 6 of Under Restless Skies

“Three hundred and forty-seven,” I say as I let my nose get used to the scents.

“Mayara of the Earth?” he asks, his tone neutral, a subtle Sorensen accent in his voice.

I hate the last name my mother picked, but it’s still mine.

“Yes,” I say, all my focus on the cups.

“Daughter of Ruynara of the Spring and Sonos of the Dawn?” He definitely has an accent.

“Yes,” I mutter. True or not, it’s what is written on my documents.

“Third time?”

The surprise in his voice makes me look at his face, and I hate the confused frown and the judgment in his eyes. I wish I could snap and yell, “What if it is?”, but the last thing I want to do is antagonize an academy instructor.

I smile. “It’s in the records, right?”

He stares at the book again like someone tasting mildly spoiled fish and unsure if it’s bad or not. Maybe there is a note saying I’m the stupid girl who won’t quit. But I don’t care what he thinks. I’m here to do what I trained for.

My nose got used to the cups, and now it hunts for the scent of the wooden ball. Figuring out the direction of a smell at such a close range is not easy, and I’ve never heard of anyone doing it, but I realized it was how I’d seal my destiny. Sorry, Foros. I’m not going to put my fate in your hands. Instead, I’ll trust my senses.

Focusing on the cups, I ignore the smells of rain, earth, blood, ignore the pretty instructor’s smell of skin and clean hair and a hint of bergamot. Instead, I reach out with invisible fingers to find the wooden ball.

Thunder roars in the sky, and I flinch as the instructor lifts the cloth, then says, “Pick your cup.”

All his friendliness is gone, replaced by a dry, irritated tone, and I focus on my task. Wood is quite distinct from metal, and the bottoms of the cups can’t block the scent from within. If there was a scent. I smell nothing.

Nothing.

And I need to push away the panic about to make me shiver and confuse my mind. I need to focus. Where’s the ball?

“Are you going to choose or not?” the instructor asks, his tone still irritated, as he’s likely eager to get rid of me and go to his quarters to rest and avoid the impending storm.

But I can’t smell any ball, and my stomach feels like a cold pit of despair. No. I’ll trust my senses. This instructor is trying to sabotage me, but I won’t let him. There’s only one solution.

My heart’s about to erupt from my chest, but I turn around and yell, “There’s no ball! The three cups are empty!”

Other instructors and a few candidates look at me.

The Foros table instructor snorts. “Nonsense. Step aside.”

I do as he says, so that everyone sees that I’m telling the truth.

He turns one cup around. Empty.

Another. Empty.

Then he puts a hand in his pocket and brings out a ball poorly hidden in his hand. He lifts the third cup and places the ball under it at the same time, not even trying to disguise what he’s doing.

“See?” he says.

I wish I could strangle him, but I turn around to the crowd. “He’s lying!” I shout. “Cheating!”

Some of the instructors are already looking away as if this was a common occurrence, as if I was a worthless nuisance. My chest feels heavy and hollow. Can’t they see what’s happening?

A strong palm clamps over my mouth, preventing me from yelling. I don’t even know how this instructor jumped over the table and got to me so quickly. I want to bite those hands, but his hold is too strong.

“Guards!” he yells.