Shadows and Shade Box Set

by Amanda Cashure

“Regardless of your opinions,” Pax says through clenched teeth, then takes a breath and tries to relax his jaw before continuing. “We don’t make the assignments; they arrive by Sealer. No one can make one happen any faster.”

  “But we need one,” Seth says. “Both to get us out of here and to find out what’s going on. Crap, someone say stop.”

  “Stop,” I say.

  “Right, what is Lithael doing out there? Not enough Elite triunes are returning with news,” he stops talking, suddenly realizing he’s gyrate at the hips again. “Shit.”

  “What happens if he’s just naked – like all the way? Then he can’t strip anymore?” I ask.

  “He won’t stop dancing though,” Roarke says, then adds. “I think the council’s trying to keep us here. Trying to keep some control of the White Castle.”

  “They’re not helping,” Killian grumbles. Killian is always grumbling.

  “Enough of that,” Pax says. “Grab a breath and leave ready to fight.”

  “We don’t have a solid grasp on Logan’s scheme,” Roarke says, reminding us all that there’s a bigger problem right around the corner.

  “Leave and return,” they all echo.

  And with that ritual done, all five of us funnel out of the room. For half a second I’m number five in the line, then the boys rearrange themselves, and I’m once again boxed in.

  I realize I’m the only one of us wearing boots.

  “Wait, no. This isn’t going to work,” I say.

  “Have you got another plan?” Seth asks.

  “No, I mean, don’t you all fight naked?”

  “I don’t understand it anyway. Won’t your things get cut off? Oh, crap. Bury me now –”

  “You’re still talking,” Killian cuts in as he picks himself up off the floor – stretching his arms slowly in each direction.

  All of them are stretching out limbs through a series of long, specific, positions.

  “Can you lick your knee when you’re like that?” I ask Seth, who’s standing with his arms reaching down his left leg and his forehead on his kneecap.

  He chuckles, but doesn’t reply, before stretching down his right leg.

  This room is designed for tournament preparations. The guys move from stretching to doing final inspections of their weapons and various leather belts that they are allowed to wear – but they have to get naked to get into them first.

  Seth stretches straight down to the ground, his head between his knees. Damn, he’s flexible.

  “Can you lick your own –” I slap my hand over my mouth.

  “My what?” Seth presses, laughing hard!

  Too hard to realize he’s started dancing again.

  “Stop,” Pax orders.

  Which stops Seth’s dancing but does nothing to stop his laughing.

  I cross to Roarke, who’s using a knife to cut a leather strap shorter, and rest my head on his arm. The sigil burn has quieted down, just a light sting that barely registers.

  He practically jumps out of his skin, like he hadn’t expected me to ever willingly get this close to him. Then he moves his arm very slowly, which is good, because if he moves quickly I’m probably going to tumble forward and headbutt the bench. I tilt my head all of the way back and look up at him.

  The guy isn’t disproportionally massive, but the weight of saying stupid shit has left me with a slouch.

  “Turn my head off,” I say, gesturing in the rough direction of my brain. “I’m embarrassing the crap out of myself and you guys.”

  “We don’t mind,” Seth says from the other side of the room.

  Roarke’s gaze stretches over me and across to Seth. “She thinks talking about dicks embarrasses us.”

  “Does she realize we’ve had them all our lives?”

  Roarke looks down at me. “You do realize dicks are normal for us, right?”

  “Will you stop saying that word?”

  “Dick?”

  “Prick?”

  “Penis?”

  “Cock?”

  Roarke, Seth, then Killian, then Pax.

  I try to ignore them and not go down trains of thought to do with penises, their uses and so on.

  “Turn it off?” I plead with Roarke, pointing at my head. My mind.

  He’s done it before, made everything go fuzzy when I accidentally heard him order Aolyaire to ‘lose all his thoughts’. Having an empty head right now would be bliss.

  Roarke wraps his arm around my shoulders, gentle and confident, then he pulls me in close. I rest my head on the point where his shoulder becomes his chest and sigh into the embrace.

  “So nice,” I whisper, or rather purr. I’m practically purring right now.

  “No,” he says softly as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I won’t mess with your head.”

  “You’ve been wanting to mess with my head since you met me.”

  “Not like this.”

  “You’re someone whose mouth is regularly out of control, you should be used to this,” Seth says.

  “We’re used to you, so get over it,” Killian says.

  The sound of clothing hitting the floor somewhere on the other side of the room makes me move. Pulling away from Roarke is hard – not physically, the guy lets me go the minute I move – but emotionally. He feels like clarity, and the minute I’m not in contact with him I feel a storm of emotions and thoughts.

  I have three options: stand in the far corner of the room and face the wall, climb into one of the many low cupboards filled with supplies, or go up.

  My natural instinct is to go up. The support beams and rafters have enough clearance between them and the roof for a person to fit.

  So, I hop on the bench, use a shelf and the far wall as leverage, and in a few quick movements I’m belly down on a wide timber support and facing the arena. There’s a long narrow window up here. With grates covering it, so it doesn’t offer an exit, but it does offer a view.

  “What’s she doing?” Seth asks.

  “Stop. I’m finding an alternative view,” I say.

  “Oh,” is all Seth says.

  But I still kind-of scan the room out of the corner of my eye. The guys have hung their clothes over railings beside each of their prep benches. All I can see are lily-white bottoms, except for Pax, the guy has the same deep tan over all of his body. All of them have a sigil on their lower back, clearly an old one after seeing what new ones look like. The only person kind of facing in my direction is Roarke, and a bench is in the way of any kind of full view.

  So I can’t actually see anything interesting.

  “I’m not sure how I feel about that,” I say.

  “What?” Roarke asks.

  Crap. Yes, Shade – what?

  “Stop. Just things. Just thinking about sunshine, that’s all, sunshine and sand,” I try to tell myself.

  They pick up identical looking belts with weird cups attached and put them on – penises gone.

  “Wait, if you’re allowed weapons in there, then why the need to ditch the clothes?”

  “We’re allowed weapons in this match, but not all matches, and the showing of skin is to prevent cheating with seals, not blades,” Pax says.

  “Seals contain power. Sigils just contain instructions, they make the wearer do something, but seals are laced with magic that the person wearing can use,” Roarke says.

  “Or have used against them?” I ask, “Because I know the Return Seal is pretty deadly.”

  “Yep. The power in that one will rip the wearer’s soul from their body and return it to the castle, leaving the corpse behind, if the person doesn’t get back here quickly enough – but it leaves the actual act of moving up to the wearer. Lithael wants people to try to resist. Wants them to be the instrument of their own deaths. Other seals can give the wearer healing properties, or speed, or mind reading. Advantages in a tournament,” Roarke says.

  “Then why doesn’t everyone just walk around covered in the things?”

  “Because SealSeeds are
pretty rare.” Roarke pulls the last buckle at his waist into place. “The bloodline has almost died out. There’s no Seals Masters left to train the younger Sabers properly. Sealers that are alive today are glorified-errand-boys. Seals, especially with complicated commands, can go very wrong. A line not in the right place, a spot where the ink was a bit too thick, and instead of growing back one arm if the limb is removed in battle, you could grow back two.”

  Killian moves to queue at the door, and the others follow suit. They’re all in line when the bell tolls.

  “Shade,” Pax says, waiting until I’ve made eye contact before continuing. “You’ll be able to see everything from up there, but you won’t be able to hear anything, and we won’t be able to hear you. The magical wards on this place are enough to knock a Saber unconscious, so don’t even try to leave this room, or get to us.”

  “I’ll stay right here,” Killian says, then a smile creeps across his face. “I won’t let you die.”

  “Please don’t let me hurt. Death shouldn’t even be on that list. Stop before hurt.”

  He chuckles, the door opens, and they march out, leaving me locked in here.

  Four other doors open around the arena, and the otherwise calmness that I’ve had over the fact that these guys are about to go fight people ramps up straight past fear and right into terrified.

  Four triunes, that’s twelve people against my four guys. Against, three really, because their biggest weapon is Killian, and he’s stuck within a narrow radius of me.

  None of them seem to care though, which means they knew this was going to happen – and they didn’t tell me.

  “I should be consulted before they try to kill themselves,” I say, to no one because I’m alone – and still can’t shut up.

  Seth has his sword out, swinging it through the air in an arc of reflected light as he moves. There’s an excited bounce in his step. Pax and Roarke move easily, calm and certain of themselves.

  Killian stops a short distance from the door, folds his arms, and stands like a mountain. In a conflicting kind of way I’m glad it’s him they chose to stay back. For one, the man is least likely to die before my eyes. He has the added advantage of being able to feel my pain if in the thrill of the battle he moves too far away and if, unlike last time, he cares about the effect that has on me.

  Aside from Killian, everyone else gathers at the center of the arena. A white-haired and white-robed Master meets them there. The guy’s golden head decoration almost looks like a crown.

  His eyes glow white as he begins to speak, and when he’s finished, every competitor, even Killian, bows. Each team retreats, picking a spot in the arena to start from, except for Roarke, Seth, and Pax.

  I have no idea what to expect, but when the bell gongs, every single team moves toward my guys all at once – and I shouldn’t be surprised. Shouldn’t be, but am. And not just surprised, genuinely in terror.

  Long swords, spears, throwing knives and a few bows are snatched into ready hands. The people with the bows dash to climb boulders and trees. They’re moving as quickly as they can – but they have nothing on my guys.

  Apparently, super-speed is not something all Sabers possess.

  I try to follow their movements as Seth uses the butt of his sword to knock someone out before slicing into someone else’s leg. Training isn’t fatal, Roarke had said, but tournaments are genuine battles. The arena’s magic is supposed to stop the match if someone receives a mortal wound, but mortal means that’s it, you’re dead, and by that point it doesn’t matter if the match is stopped.

  Roarke moves to take out the archers. Jumping straight up into the tree. One second he’s on the ground and the next he’s in the branches. Then an archer falls and smashes into the ground at an awkward-looking angle. Roarke crosses the distance between the tree and a boulder in one leap, slamming his shoulder into the back of the archer there, and not even waiting for him to hit the ground before leaping down and running for the next height advantage obstacle and the next archer.

  The biggest boulder out there.

  Seth drops onto his knees and forms a human springboard for Roarke to make the leap up onto the rock. He does it without even looking over his back, so I have no idea how he knew Roarke was approaching. The archer hasn’t even managed to get himself to the top yet, climbing the normal way with handholds and effort.

  The poor guy looks up at Roarke and tries to reach for the blade strapped at his side. He’s still a bit below Roarke, with a buffer of room to figure out his next move. He either needs to go up, or Roarke needs to go down.

  Pax throws his spear – apparently, there was a third option – and Roarke snatches it out of the air. He jabs his opponent with the blunt end of the weapon, pushing the guy away from the wall, and into a freefall toward the ground.

  His landing looks less than comfortable.

  One of the triunes breaks away from the rest – running toward Killian, which is the stupidest move someone could make out there. The guys get close enough to recognize, Quin and his two companions. The new guys. So their dumb move doesn’t surprise me.

  It’s really hard to tell who’s who when they’re all practically naked, aside from belts holding sword sheaths and random penis cups. Except for my guys. I’d recognize Pax’s power, Seth’s energy, Roarke’s agility, and Killian’s steadfastness anywhere.

  Killian sidesteps an attack, then punches the guy in the head and he drops. Unconscious.

  The other two step back, seeming to communicate a plan using body language, and Killian lets them, waiting to see what they’ll do.

  There’s clearly a disadvantage out there, but no one is dead yet. Not for lack of trying on the other team’s parts – but for some serious restraint from my guys.

  “They’re dart-tip deadly, and they know it,” I say, because it’s what I’m thinking and until sunset, my mouth-brain connection is ridiculously uncensored. “At least there’s no one in here to hear me.”

  And right on that thought, the door creaks open.

  I cling tighter to my beam, twisting as much as I can to watch three guys enter the room Thom in the lead.

  My stomach knots hard and my chest contracts as I watch the door… and Asanta walks in behind them.

  “Where is she?” one of the men ask.

  “Oh, she’s in here. The door was locked,” Thom says.

  He waves a key dramatically in the air before closing and locking the door behind him.

  I bite into my tongue, but the question is already on my mind, and I can’t keep it from coming out.

  “Who gave you that?” I demand.

  Getting all of their attention and causing four sets of eyes to lock onto me. Thom laughs, slipping the key into his pocket. His dark hair is long and perfectly straight, mimicking the style that comes naturally to the Masters.

  “Logan, of course,” he says, taking deliberately slow steps across the room. “And we have two instructions. One, find out why the four prodigal sons covet you, and two, kill you.”

  “The killing you part will be most enjoyable,” Asanta sing-songs.

  I almost laugh and declare that I don’t know why the Elorsin brothers were at Lord Martin’s estate, or why something their mother sent them to collect might be me, or might be some statue, because they refuse to tell me anything until we’re far away from the White Castle. I almost say all of that, but then he mentions my imminent death and my thoughts shut up.

  “There’s no escape from here,” I groan.

  “At least we agree on that,” Thom says.

  The other two men scan over the various items on the benches, sharpening stones, tools for the leather, and lots and lots of weapons. Their gazes aren’t even on me as they run their hands over the items – mostly those that are sharp and pointy. Their movements make my skin prickle and my heart crawl up into my throat.

  Asanta’s gaze trails over the full length of my body, inspecting my tangled hair, servants clothing, and Soot curves right down to my worn
-out boots, with disgust in her eyes.

  “Maybe if you dressed down a little, with your satin trimmed shirt and embroidered belt, Seth could stand to be near you,” I say, and regret it because I know Seth would still avoid her, and poking the beast is never a good idea.

  “Seth will see the value in me, once you stop distracting him,” she says.

  “Value in you? You sound like you’re a cow sending yourself to auction.”

  She growls like a frustrated child, which makes me laugh.

  “Sister, stop bringing your love life into our assignments,” Thom snaps.

  “Your assignment was to come and entertain me?” I’m pretty proud of myself for thinking that way – when I’m sure my imminent murder will not feel very entertaining.

  “His assignment is to make you talk,” she says, stabbing her thumb toward Thom – her brother – as she saunters forward. “Mine is to make you cry.”

  I snort. “I only cry for onions, and at least they’re useful, unlike you.”

  “Get her,” she barks.

  I scramble across the rafters, trying to get to the center of the room where they might have trouble reaching me – if I can get across to the next beam. My fingers brush the timber, but they’re bloody big beams, and I can’t get a proper grip.

  One of the men leaps up onto the table saying, “Let me.”

  I push my feet up underneath me, ready to jump to the next beam. But he’s too quick. He grabs my outstretched arm, and yanks me so hard that I shoot from the roof and crash to the ground in a tumble of limbs and screams. My right arm lands first, followed by a sharp snap and searing pain, but the rest of me keeps moving. Rolling three more times toward the benches on the far wall.

  The pain in my arm is so intense that it locks the rest of my body down. By the time I realize moving is a priority, Asanta is standing over me. Leaning down low to sneer in my face.

  Her features could be pretty, delicate and perfect actually, if they weren’t layered with malice and evil. Beautiful full lips, long eyelashes, she has it all.

  “You have a perfect nose,” I groan, then with all my strength I headbutt her.

  Hard enough to feel a crack and make my vision go black. Blood trickles over my cheek, but I’m sure it’s hers and not mine.