Dark Rise: Dark Rise 1

by C. S. Pacat

The Elder Steward had said Simon had taken possession of an artefact that he would use to return the Dark King. But she had refused to say what it was. Why?

  ‘You think they’re going to try to retrieve it?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Violet was sprawled across his bed, still in her training clothes. She had dropped her sword on the floor when she had collapsed down, exhausted after her evening drills with Justice. Will had pushed his own practice to one side when she came in, looking away from the candle and rubbing his tired eyes.

  He picked up her sword. It was heavy; the simple act of holding it was difficult. But it took his mind off the unlit candle that he practised with each night, and his failure to make progress. Violet had tried staring at it with him the first night before she gave up. Now he tried one of Violet’s sword movements, and almost lodged her sword in the bedpost.

  ‘Not like that, thrust up, like it’s going under an armour plate,’ she said, when she had finished wiping her eyes. He shook his head and replaced the sword.

  ‘Your family worked for Simon. What do you know about him?’

  ‘He’s rich,’ said Violet. ‘Stupidly rich. My father has done business with his family for almost twenty years. He has offices in London, and a trade empire that stretches all the way across Europe. He also has digs all around the Mediterranean, in Southern Europe, and Northern Africa.’ She paused and thought for a moment. ‘His family estate is in Derbyshire … it’s miles from London. It’s supposed to be very grand, but he hardly ever invites people to visit there.’

  Will’s mind fixed on that one detail. ‘He has family?’

  Violet shrugged. ‘A father. And a fiancée. I heard she’s beautiful. He’s rich enough to marry whoever he wants.’

  Simon. Will tried to picture him. The man he had thought so much about since Bowhill – the man who had changed the course of his whole life. Was he frightening? Commanding? Sinister? Cold? He was the Dark King’s descendant. Was he like the Dark King? Did he look like him? Have his traits? Had something been passed down to him across the years?

  ‘I’ve never even seen him,’ said Will.

  He knew so little about Simon, even after everything that had happened between them. He had only a scattering of impressions: The kind of man who would brand his servants. The kind of man who would order others to kill. The kind of man who wanted to return the past to the present, heir to its terrible king.

  ‘I have,’ said Violet. Will’s eyes flew to her face. ‘He came to see my father, and he met Tom too, in my father’s office. I wasn’t allowed to join them.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘I only caught a glimpse of him – I was watching from the stairs. A shadowed figure in rich clothes. Honestly, what I remember most was how my father was acting. He was so toadying, maybe even … scared.’

  ‘Scared,’ said Will.

  His mother had been scared. Years moving from one place to another, of hurriedly packing, looking over her shoulder, until Bowhill, where Simon’s men had found her after she had stayed too long.

  Violet clambered up onto her elbows.

  ‘Have you ever noticed that there are no old Stewards?’ said Violet.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They die,’ said Violet. ‘They die in battle, like they died on Simon’s ship. There are old janissaries. But no old Stewards.’

  She was right. The only old Steward in the Hall was the Elder Steward.

  ‘It’s the price they pay,’ said Will, thinking of Carver and the other novitiates. ‘They all believe the Dark King is coming, and that it’s their duty to stop him.’

  ‘What happens if Simon attacks the Hall?’

  ‘You can fight and I’ll flicker the candles,’ said Will.

  And she let out a shaky breath, stopping to punch him in the arm as she rose to pick up her sword.

  ‘You spoil him,’ said Farah.

  Will had come to the stables before his lesson to see the black cart horse, carrying an apple he’d saved from his breakfast as a thank-you for the horse’s courage. When the black horse saw him, he cantered over to the railing tossing his head, then whinnied softly and whuffled the new apple up from Will’s hand. Will rubbed his neck, the strong curve of muscle under the satiny fall of his black mane.

  Farah was the stablemaster, a Steward of about twenty-five years. Her brown skin was streaked with dust from her work in the training yard, and her hair was tied all the way up. She had come over from the stalls, only a few Stewards and janissaries at work this early.

  ‘He helped me,’ Will said softly, feeling the warm, strong arch of the horse’s neck beneath his hand and remembering their race across the marsh. ‘He’s brave.’

  And perhaps there was something in the food or the air here, because the black horse had changed in even a short time: his neck was arched, his black coat had grown glossier, and there was a gleam in his eye that hadn’t been there before. He was beginning to look like a battlefield steed, one that could lead a charge.

  ‘He’s a Friesian,’ said Farah. ‘One of the ancient breeds … made for war. Brave, yes, and powerful enough to carry a knight in full armour. But the days of the warhorse are gone. Now Friesians pull carts in the city. Does he have a name?’

  ‘Valdithar,’ Will said, and the horse tossed his head and seemed to respond to the name. ‘It means dauntless.’ The word from the language of the old world came to him instinctively.

  When he looked up, Farah was looking at him strangely.

  ‘What is it?’ said Will.

  ‘Nothing, I—’ She broke off. And then: ‘It is a long time since that language was spoken in this place.’

  Valdithar. The black horse seemed to grow taller, as if the name had made him more himself.

  Will came back to the stables every morning. He loved to brush Valdithar until his coat shone and his mane was a black waterfall. Once or twice he went out to ride with the novitiates, and the Steward horses they rode were a strange delight. Graceful, otherworldly creatures, with silvery-white coats and high, flowing tails, they had the arresting beauty of a Pegasus. Farah said they were descendants of some of the great horses of the old world, the last herd of their kind. In motion they were as mighty as a wave crest, as light as foam, as intoxicating as spray from the ocean.

  But Will secretly preferred Valdithar’s powerful earthy gallop, and he was pleased that Valdithar held his own among them, a single black gelding in a herd of white.

  When Farah took him to ride outside the walls – safe with pairs of Stewards carrying ward stones – the Steward horses transformed the marsh into a place of wonder. They were fine as the mist that blanketed the marsh in the early morning, running so lightly over the watery earth it seemed like they never touched it. Watching them, Will’s breath caught in his throat, as if he had glimpsed the old world. This was why he was trying to move the flame: to preserve what was left from the danger that was coming.

  He kept training.

  But always that door within him remained stubbornly closed. He visualised it over and over in every possible way: it opening gently; it bursting open; battering at it; throwing himself against it; heaving at it with all his might. Once he strained so hard that he came out of the trance gasping and shaking. But despite his sweat-drenched clothes, there had been no change in the flame.

  ‘That’s enough for today,’ the Elder Steward said gently.

  ‘No, I can keep going. If I just—’

  ‘Will, stop. We don’t know what the strain will do to you. This is an unknown path for us both.’

  ‘But I almost had it!’ He spoke thickly, frustrated.

  ‘Rest and sleep,’ said the Elder Steward. ‘Return tomorrow.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘WHAT DOES HE have to do?’ said Will.

  There was a tense, expectant hush that hung over the crowd, every eye fixed on the lone figure in silver who stood on the sawdust with only a sword in his hand.

  All the Stewards, j
anissaries and novitiates in the Hall had gathered to watch the test, filling stands that ringed what must once have been a great amphitheatre. Its arches and columns had crumbled, but it still conjured up a past of mighty contests. The anticipation was a sharp metallic tang, like the sound of a sword unsheathing.

  Will sat with Violet and a handful of others, and he asked his question of Emery and Beatrix, who were perched taut on the edge of their marble step, because the lone figure on the sawdust was their friend Carver.

  ‘We practise triten – sword patterns,’ said Emery, answering Will’s question. ‘He has to finish three triten to pass; any less is a failure.’ Emery drew in a nervous breath. ‘You know his test is a year early. Most novitiates aren’t ready until they turn twenty. But Justice was eighteen. And of course everyone thinks—’ Emery broke off.

  Will followed Emery’s glance across the amphitheatre and saw Cyprian sitting beside his father, the perfect straight-backed novitiate. This was a test Cyprian would take at sixteen, a prodigy. Will could see Cyprian’s future in this ceremony, his shining excellence eclipsing quiet Carver, no one doubting that he would pass his test and become a Steward like his brother.

  ‘Carver can perform the triten as quickly or slowly as he likes, but if the tip of his sword falters, he will fail,’ Emery said.

  It didn’t seem like very much. Will had seen Violet practising the Steward sword patterns in their rooms night after night. Most novitiates had mastered them by the age of eleven or twelve. After that, it was just the endless Steward quest for perfection.

  ‘That’s all? He just has to complete three of the Steward patterns?’

  Emery nodded.

  Will looked back at the arena. On the sawdust, Carver was walking forward to face the Elder Steward, who sat on a simple wooden stool at the front of the stands. He wore armour, his surcoat the silvery-grey colour of the novitiates. He knelt in front of the Elder Steward in a traditional bow of respect that Will had seen Justice and other Stewards perform, fist over his heart. He has been training for this day his whole life, Will thought.

  ‘You seek to wear the star,’ said the Elder Steward. ‘To join the Stewards in their fight against the Dark.’

  ‘I do,’ said Carver.

  ‘Then rise and prove your strength,’ said the Elder Steward, her touch to his shoulder a benediction.

  Carver stood.

  Two Stewards emerged from one of the archways, carrying a metal casket between them with poles like a palanquin.

  Will didn’t know what to expect as the two Stewards came towards Carver, lowering the metal casket to the ground, but in the next moment the Stewards were pushing back the latches of the casket and throwing it open.

  Wrong. That was what Will felt the moment the casket opened. Inside lay a metal belt made to fit around the waist. Seeing it made Will sickeningly uneasy. It reminded him of the armour pieces that he had seen the Remnants wear on the chase across the marsh, the gauntlet reaching out for him. Don’t touch it! he wanted to stand up and shout. His fingers curled as he gripped his seat.

  Before he could say anything, the Stewards drew the belt from the casket with metal pincers and put it around Carver’s waist.

  The effect on Carver was immediate. He almost staggered, his skin turning grey. Carver was wearing plate armour. The metal belt wasn’t touching his body. But Will had seen Dark objects kill people even at a distance, like the sword and its black fire. The belt didn’t need to touch Carver’s skin to affect him.

  ‘What is it?’ said Violet.

  ‘It’s a belt made with a sliver of metal from a Dark Guard’s armour,’ said Beatrix.

  ‘Like the Remnants,’ said Violet.

  ‘Not as strong,’ said Beatrix. ‘It’s not a full armour piece. That would kill him. But it’s strong enough. Most who fail the test go to their knees right away.’

  Carver stayed on his feet. And when the two Stewards moved away and back, Carver drew his sword.

  That was when Will realised that the test was not the triten.

  It was control. To stay a Steward in the face of the Dark. To hold to your mission. To fight.

  Will’s heart was pounding as Carver began the first of the triten, the amphitheatre utterly silent. He could hear each footstep Carver took as part of the sequence, his sword cutting the air, arcing down from left to right. The belt around his waist was like an anchor stone, and he was soaked with sweat.

  The second triten – he must have drilled it thousands of times since childhood. Will recognised the movements, had seen Violet perform this same sequence only last night. It was longer than the first, and now Will could hear the exhalations of breath as Carver completed each motion. By the time he finished the second triten, it seemed impossible that he could continue. He looked like he could barely stay on his feet. The entire amphitheatre seemed to hold its breath – and they kept holding it in the long pause. Will saw the moment when Carver gathered himself to begin the third.

  ‘What if he falters?’

  ‘He won’t. His blood is strong,’ said Beatrix.

  Words of faith from his friend. Carver’s grey skin had mottled, and a thin trickle of blood was running from his nose. He kept going, movement after movement. It was like watching a man keep his hand in the fire while the skin burned away. But Carver’s sword arm never faltered, and he completed the final movement with a steady blade.

  The amphitheatre erupted in cheers. ‘Carver!’ Emery and Beatrix leaped to their feet, shouting with pride. On her seat at the edge of the arena, the Elder Steward smiled. The two Stewards in the arena quickly came forward and took the belt from Carver’s waist, hurriedly locking it back up in its casket. Carver, to his credit, did not drop to the ground with exhaustion but instead made his way forward to face the Elder Steward and knelt for her a second time. He managed to make it seem like a graceful movement, rather than a collapse. The Elder Steward looked down at Carver with kind, proud eyes.

  ‘You’ve done well, Carver,’ she said. ‘Now it is time.’

  Six Stewards emerged from the archway, dressed differently from the other Stewards in the Hall. They wore Steward whites, but long robes in the manner of a janissary, instead of the usual Steward short tunic. Most surprising of all was the insignia they wore on their chests: a cup, carved with four crowns. Will had never seen a Steward wearing anything like it. He had thought that all Stewards wore the star.

  They walked in twos, paired as Stewards always were. The cup on their tunics gleamed, bell-shaped. It gave them a strange, ceremonial significance. Carver rose and accompanied the six Stewards in a processional through the archway and out of sight.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Will.

  ‘He’s going to the drink from the Cup,’ said Beatrix. ‘It’s our Order’s most secret rite. He will take his vow, drink, and return with the gift of strength.’

  ‘The Cup?’ said Will.

  ‘The Cup of the Stewards,’ said Beatrix. ‘The source of our strength.’

  So this was where Stewards gained their supernatural strength: from a cup. It explained the six Stewards and the insignia they had worn on their chests. They must be the Cup’s attendants or guardians. But what did it mean for a novitiate to drink? Will’s mind filled with questions. ‘How does a cup give him strength?’

  ‘No one knows. No novitiate or janissary has ever seen the rite. Even the vow is secret. Only those who pass the test know what it is. But it’s said only those with the strongest Steward blood can withstand the great power bestowed by the Cup. It’s why there is a test. You have to prove your strength of will before you drink.’

  Will’s eyes swung back to the archway at the end of the arena. ‘You mean he risks his life?’

  Stewards already gave up so much. They lived lives of self-sacrifice and dedication only to die young in battle, while the janissaries lived out full lives, marrying and having children. Of the hundreds of Stewards in the Hall, only the Elder Steward had taken the whites and lived to old a
ge.

  He thought of Carver’s quiet dedication, his humility, and the courage that he had shown wearing the belt. He wondered how many hours Carver had practised, learning to hold his concentration through utter exhaustion.

  ‘Look, he’s coming back,’ said Emery. ‘There!’

  A new cheer went up from the stands as Carver emerged from the archway, and Emery and Beatrix clasped each other in an outpouring of happiness for their friend. ‘He’s done it!’ Will heard one of the novitiates exclaim behind him. ‘Carver’s a Steward!’

  Carver was all in white, transformed as if from a chrysalis. His eyes were quietly proud and happy. But the biggest change was in his manner, and Will felt a sense of wonder at the difference in him, the new quality that he shared with the other Stewards. It was an inner radiance, as though he’d entered the chamber in grey and come out forged by the Cup into radiant white.

  As he stood in the arena, a young woman Will didn’t know stepped forward and took both Carver’s hands in her own. She looked only a year or two older than Carver, but she wore Steward whites, and her long brown hair was worn in the Steward style. They each spoke ceremonial words meant for each other and for the gathered crowd. A shieldmate vow, Will realised with a shock as she spoke in a clear voice.

  ‘I will watch for you,’ she said, ‘and you for me, and we will fight the darkness for each other.’

  ‘Do you think they’d ever let an outsider take the test?’

  Violet stood beside him, the two of them alone on the balcony. The courtyards below were aglow with light, the Stewards gathered in celebration as the music of some ancient stringed instrument drifted through the leaves. Will could almost glimpse the beauty of the Hall at its height, the sights and sounds conjuring up long-ago pageants or the floating lights of a festival.

  When he looked over at Violet, her eyes were wistful. She looked like a young Steward hopeful, he thought. Hours of drills with Justice had given her the sword-straight posture all Stewards had. She had learned their tritens and their focused meditations and could sit perfectly still in stress positions for hours. But she wasn’t allowed to train with them or take part in any of their ceremonies.