the days of the Sasson conquerors, with slits for windows to deflect the course of harmful arrows. Everything about the place was eerily antiquated. Instead of modern electric lighting, Partisan used old-fashioned torches, which lit the way up dozens of worn stone steps and through an enormous wooden door that rather resembled a drawbridge.

“Spooky, isn’t it?” Adam whispered to Rohan.

Henry, who was behind his friends, tried not to smile as Rohan elbowed Adam in the side.

But it was spooky, Henry had to admit. And freezing. Trying to keep his teeth from chattering, Henry followed the line of students through the drafty corridors and into Partisan’s Great Hall.

Checked banners bearing the Partisan crest (an equal-armed cross inside a diamond) and the Nordlandic crest (three serpents and a star) billowed from the elaborate ceiling beams. The Partisan students stood in neatly formed squadrons, their thick wool uniforms trimmed with fur and gleaming with badges.

Henry’s heart thundered with excitement and awe as he marched behind his friends. They came to a halt at the far end of the hall, where the High Table stood resplendent in front of an enormous stained-glass window that depicted victorious crusaders on horseback. They formed the lines from Professor Turveydrop’s drills, and at their year monitor’s count, saluted.

Henry was glad for his height, as from his place he could see Headmaster Winter step forward and embrace the Partisan headmaster, a short, plump man in a fur-trimmed military-style suit so heavy with brocade and badges as to render the color of the fabric unrecognizable.

Headmaster Winter, Henry noted with some amusement, had spilled tea down the front of his shirt on the journey—but at least his cravat was done and he’d remembered to replace his bedroom slippers with proper shoes.

The short, plump man saluted Headmaster Winter, kissed him warmly on either cheek, and stepped up to a lectern. Immediately the hall quieted.

“Welcome, Grand Chevalier Winter, Knightley Academy students, and distinguished staff,” he said in his thick Nordlandic accent, which butchered the vowels in a way that fascinated Henry. “I am head of Partisan School, Dimit Yascherov, and I cannae tell ye how glad I am to host this year’s Inter-School Tournament here at Partisan Keep.”

Henry and the rest of the students clapped politely, and Henry couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d heard Yascherov’s name somewhere before.

The feeling nagged at him all through Yascherov’s speech about the tournament festivities, which would begin the following morning with both levels of fencing and choir, to be followed by mock treaty and quiz, then oratory and composition.

Finally Headmaster Yascherov bade the students to sit for supper at their year tables, which had been extended specially for the occasion. Henry stuck by Adam and Rohan as they walked toward the first-year table, which seemed nearly long as a train. Henry felt ridiculous in his formal jacket and especially in his rarely worn school hat, but was glad enough that they’d been forced to wear them, as it gave Adam some anonymity. Rohan wasn’t as lucky. The Partisan students stared.

Their expressions, Henry noticed, were nothing like the surprised-but-resigned-to-being-polite looks that the other students had given Henry and his friends during their first week at Knightley. No, the Partisan students’ faces looked almost … disgusted.

Rohan smiled bravely and pretended to ignore it, but Henry could tell that his friend was on guard. Henry didn’t blame him—even though he, Henry, looked unremarkable to the Partisan students, he was still guarded as well.

They took seats at the farthest end of the joined-together tables, away from the Partisan students. As if prompted by some invisible cue, the Partisan students removed their hats and bent their heads, joining hands.

Henry exchanged a look of horror with Adam.

Wordlessly, Adam removed his hat along with the rest and joined hands with Henry and Rohan.

The Partisan students recited a short thanks for the meal, gratitude for their strength and courage, and the hope that a common good would prevail.

As the prayer subsided, Adam reached up and pulled the yarmulke from his head, stuffing it into his pocket.

Henry didn’t blame him.

The meal was served family-style, in large, plain bowls to reflect the lack of a class system, but Henry wasn’t fooled. When the Partisan School staff emerged from the kitchens with the heavy bowls and platters, Henry could see deep chilblains across their hands, and noted that their uniforms were of thin cotton that provided little, if any, warmth.

“Looks like we’ve got purple soup,” Henry said, ladling a small amount into his bowl and passing the