by C. S. Pacat
Step where I step, Justice had said, picking a careful path across the marsh. Any time she hadn’t followed his footsteps exactly, she had found herself up to the waist in mud, scowling at Justice’s outstretched hand ready to haul her back up. In the distance, they had heard the eerie baying of the hounds, and once they had glimpsed the Remnants in their ancient armor on the horizon, galloping over the bridge. “We saw them riding west back to Simon.” Streaming across the land with hounds. She had been surprised at the sharpness of her own relief that Will wasn’t with them.
“To tell him where I am,” said Will.
It was darkly shocking. Violet shivered at the thought of Simon turning his attention to the Hall. She had a vision of those black hounds swarming across the Lea, baying as they surrounded that lonely, broken arch on the marsh.
“Why does Simon want you so badly?”
Her words hung in the air. It was something she had wanted to know since she had stumbled upon him in the hold of the Sealgair. Why would Simon capture a dock laborer, have him beaten and chained up? Will looked different now that he was bathed and out of his ragged London clothes, but he was still just a boy.
“I don’t know. But you heard the Elder Steward. It has something to do with my mother.” Will looked at the palm of his right hand, which was crossed over with a long white scar. He rubbed a thumb along it, as if unconsciously.
It was more than his mother. It was something to do with him. With what he was. The Stewards had reacted to him with a mixture of awe and fear. Justice had been the same, going to his knees in front of Will the instant he had seen Will’s medallion. Different forces were converging on him, closing on him like a vise.
Before she could ask him about it, Will moved to the window and said, “Have you noticed? You can’t see London from the windows.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t see London. You can just see the marsh, disappearing into a kind of mist. It’s as if this place is hidden away inside a bubble.”
That didn’t make sense. Distracted, she came to stand beside him. And every hair on her arms stood on end at the sight.
There was no sign of London, and the purple marshes faded to a distant blur. She remembered standing on those empty marshes, the arresting ruined arch against the sky. The Hall of the Stewards hadn’t appeared until she had ridden through that arch. Before that it had been invisible. The utter strangeness of that moment struck her anew. She hadn’t thought about what it would look like from the inside. It really was as if they were in a bubble; a pocket; a hidden fold in the world.
“Does that mean that the gate is the only way in and out?” said Violet, tension in her voice. It made that lonely arch on the marsh seem even stranger. And made her feel trapped. “What happens if you tried to get out another way? If you climbed one of the walls and kept walking?”
“Your path would bring you back to the wall,” said Justice, from the doorway.
Violet jolted, turning. Her heart raced at the idea of what he might have heard her say. Tom . . . Lions . . . her family . . .
“Good morning,” said Justice.
He was a tall, arresting figure in the doorway. His long black hair was half pulled back from his face in a tight bun, the other half falling down his back. His white Steward surcoat gleamed.
The sight of him made her every nerve come screaming to alert. Where his old-fashioned livery had been incongruous in London, here he fit, part of the otherworldly nature of this place. But he was still a threat. He had attacked her brother; he had attacked Simon’s ship. Her heart was thundering.
He brought me here because he didn’t know what I was. If he knew—
“Why is there only one way in or out?” An edge to Violet’s voice.
“The gate protects us,” said Justice. “Ancient wards hide this place from the outside world, so that a stranger on the marsh can walk around the gate and even pass through it, and never find the Hall. But you may come and go freely.”
“So—we can leave any time we want?” said Violet.
“You are our guests,” said Justice. “You may leave if you wish, to return to London, or simply to ride on the marsh. . . . But if you come back, you will need a Steward to escort you through the gate, as it will only open for one of Steward blood.”
Return to London. A sharp stab, pain and danger. She couldn’t go back to her family, not to visit, not ever. She forced herself not to show what she was feeling on her face, not with Justice standing before her, gazing at her with his warm brown eyes.
It was Will who stepped forward. “Neither of us have business in London.” He didn’t look at Violet but kept his voice steady. “For now, we’d like to stay.”
Relief, even as the tension of maintaining the lie stretched out in front of her. When Justice turned back to the door, she and Will quickly met each other’s eyes, and she felt the renewed reassurance of his presence on her side.
“We live lives of simplicity and order, but I think there are some benefits to life in the Hall.” Justice gestured for them to follow him. “The Elder Steward wishes to see Will but is not quite ready. While you wait, I can show you something of the Hall. Come.”
Violet hesitated. Was it safe? The feeling of being on enemy territory was sharp. But she was curious too. She followed Justice out into the corridor.
A fortress the size of an ancient city greeted her. Violet caught her breath at the scale of the place that stretched out around her; she had never seen or imagined anything like it. Huge stone carvings made them tiny as they descended wide-set stairs that looked out onto views of interior courtyards. She caught glimpses of abundant gardens where blossoms rioted, while berries and apples and peaches fruited all together out of season. The length of one hallway had a ceiling covered with interweaving coats of arms. It was beautiful, like a forest canopy. Another was crowned with stars carved into the stone where the apex of arches met.
“We call it the Hall, but it is really an entire citadel,” said Justice. “Much of it has fallen into disrepair. The western wing is off-limits, and parts of the north are closed as well. There are whole sections and rooms where Stewards have not walked for centuries.”
In the distance, she could see the high outer wall, where pairs of white-clad Stewards patrolled, while three young men dressed in blue passed them. The simplicity and order that Justice had spoken of was all around them. Everyone here had a purpose, moving amid the beauty and tranquility of the Hall as though they belonged to it.
“This is the eastern wing of the Hall, where we live and train. Stewards rise at dawn and eat after the morning chant. You have missed the morning meal, but the janissaries have set aside some food for you both.”
They entered a room with a large wooden table, where she could glimpse what looked like kitchens. She hadn’t expected anything as simple as breakfast, but the moment that she saw the baskets and linen-covered foods on the table, she was suddenly ravenous.
“Janissaries?” she said, sitting down opposite one of the linen parcels and beginning to unwrap it. She breathed in the smell of fresh-baked bread.
“The life of a Steward is strict. We seek perfect discipline, train continuously, and take vows of self-sacrifice and celibacy.” Justice sat opposite her but did not eat; if what he had said was true, he had broken his fast hours ago, at dawn. “Not everyone with Steward blood wishes to become a Steward. Nor are all those who wish to become a Steward capable. Those who lack the desire or who fail the tests become honored janissaries, not Stewards. They wear the blue, while Stewards take the white.”
“Like Grace, and the young men we saw . . . ,” said Violet. She remembered Grace showing her to her room, and the three figures they had just passed in the halls. The janissaries had looked as otherworldly and ethereal as Stewards, but they had dressed in blue, not white, and they had not carried swords. Her own tunic was a silvery gray, like those of the novitiates. Gray, blue, and white, she thought. Novitiates, janissaries, and Stewards. “Janissaries mad
e this for us?”
Justice nodded. “Janissaries keep the knowledge of the Hall; they are scholars and artisans. They tend to the libraries, the artifacts, the gardens. . . . It’s janissaries who craft our weapons, write our histories, and even weave our clothes.”
Violet looked down at the tunic she wore. The light silvery-gray fabric seemed like it had been woven by magic, not by human hands. The artistry of the janissaries was beyond anything she had ever seen.
And when she took her first bite of the breakfast, it had the same quality. It was simple fare, but more sustaining than any food she had ever tasted. The freshest bread, wrapped in a linen cloth and still steaming. Bright yellow butter newly churned, and the sweetest honey. There were six red apples in a bowl, and when she tasted one, it was more freshly rejuvenating than the cool, crisp taste of water in a forest stream on a hot day.
“It’s as if I always thought food should taste like this, but it never did,” said Will.
“Some of the magic of the old world still lingers here,” said Justice. “You can feel it in the food we harvest, the water, even in the air.”
It was true. Violet felt refreshed after only a few bites of the warm bread, and the honey melted on her tongue. Was this what the ancient world had been like? The colors brighter, the air cleaner, the food more delicious?
She thought about her family again, eating their breakfast in London. Did they know about this place? They knew what Stewards were. Tom had recognized them on the ship. And Simon . . . Simon knew about the Hall. His Remnants had chased Will here, until the Stewards had driven them off. But did they know about its magic, its bright-tasting food, the quality of the air?
She felt the pang of wanting to share all of this with Tom but knowing that she couldn’t, and fearing that he had known it all along and kept it from her.
What else hadn’t he told her? What else didn’t she know? As Justice took them out into a series of gardens, Violet saw Stewards and janissaries working side by side tending the plants and the soil, sharing the menial tasks of the Hall. She realized that she was seeing traditions that had been carried out in just this way for hundreds of years. An entire world hidden away, that no one on the outside would ever see.
Especially not a Lion.
Justice pointed out the armory and then the stables and told Will that later he might visit his horse. But Violet barely heard him, overwhelmed by the realization that she and Will were the first to witness any of it, to breathe the air, to taste the food. . . . Stewards had lived and died here over centuries, following their rules, keeping traditions alive when no one else knew they were here.
“Why do you do all of this? Why not live a normal life outside the walls?”
Justice smiled—not an unkind smile, but a smile of acknowledgment, as if she had asked him the most important question.
“Look up,” said Justice.
High above them on the battlements burned a brilliant beacon, its flames reaching impossibly high into the sky. She had seen it blazing in the dark last night, when she had passed through the gate with Justice.
The Final Flame.
“Magic sustains it,” said Justice. “Magic from before our time. From a distance, it looks like a bright star burning in the sky. The symbol of the Stewards.”
Looking up at it, she imagined she could feel the heat of its flame. As she did, Justice came to stand beside her.
“The Flame is our purpose,” said Justice. “When the Dark King swore to return, we swore to prevent it, no matter how long our Order had to stand at the ready. We have kept that vow for centuries, holding the knowledge of the old world, quashing his Dark objects where we find them, and preparing for the day when we would fight. In that way, we keep the Flame alight.”
As she looked at the Flame, she imagined the Stewards of the old world swearing that vow. Had they known what it would mean for their descendants? That they would live apart from the world for centuries, waiting for a day that might never come? Generations of Stewards, rising each morning to their mission, holding to their traditions, living and dying while the Dark King lay silent?
“Outside, the world sleeps like an innocent who is not afraid of the dark,” said Justice. “But in here we remember. What has come before will come again. And when it does, the Stewards will be ready.”
Like a single flame burning, they had carried light of knowledge across the centuries. The Undying Star, the Elder Steward had called it. The Final Flame. But the spark of light that the Stewards had tended all these years was even more fragile than she had thought.
If the Stewards had ever faltered, ever allowed themselves to drift from their mission, the past would have faded out of memory, and the Dark King could have returned to an unknowing world.
No one would have seen him coming. No one would have known how to stop him.
The past would have risen to overwhelm the present, and all the battles fought, all the lives given to defeat the Dark King, would be as nothing. He would rise again, and all he had to do was wait, until the world forgot him.
That thought stayed with her.
“Now come,” said Justice. “I will show you the heart of the Hall.”
They entered the great hall through its giant doors. What had been a vast, torchlit cavern by night was by day transformed into a cathedral of light. Sunlight streamed in from high windows, creating huge beams of light that reflected off the many white columns, like a dazzling forest of white trees rising high and bright.
Violet saw the four empty thrones high on the dais. Now that she had a sense of the history of this place, she wondered for the first time about the figures who had once sat there. The Hall of Kings, the Elder Steward had called it.
“What happened here?” Violet said, looking around at the magnificent structures of stone. “How did this place survive when everything else was lost?”
Justice followed her gaze up to the empty thrones. Each one was different, and carved with a unique symbol. A tower; a faded sun; a winged serpent; and a flower she had never seen before.
“Long ago, there were four great kings of the old world,” said Justice. “The Hall was their meeting place, a nexus of sorts. But as the Dark King rose, the four kings faltered. Three made a bargain with the Dark King and were corrupted, and the fourth fled, his line lost to time. It was the Stewards of the four kings who stood against the dark in their stead, part of the great alliance who joined the final fight.”
“The Hall of Kings became the Hall of the Stewards,” said Violet.
Justice nodded. “The Stewards swore when the battle was done that they would keep guard against the Dark King’s return. Humans were growing in number, and the last remaining magical creatures of that world spent what was left of their power to hide the Hall, shrouding it in wards and magic. Now we Stewards serve in secret, and those who have the Blood of Stewards are Called from across the world to join our fight.”
It explained why many Stewards seemed as if they were from other countries, if they had come here from across the world as their kings had once done. Violet had heard different languages spoken in the Hall, particularly when the Stewards had gathered in knots to discuss her arrival with Justice. She remembered that she had also heard Stewards with different accents, like the French Steward on the ship.
“It’s said that in our darkest hour, the Stewards will Call for the King, and the line of Kings will answer.” Justice smiled a little ruefully, as if even to him this was just a story. “But for now, we stand because we are the only ones left. And we hold to our vows—to guard against the Dark, to watch for signs, and to remember the past—as Stewards have done for centuries.”
She couldn’t help wondering what had happened to those ancient kings. They had left the fight to the Stewards, who had taken it up loyally, holding to their duty for far longer than anyone might have imagined. What had made the kings turn from the fight?
Around her, the Hall took on a new importance, and as they walked through it
s forest of marble columns, she thought about the kings and queens who had lived in here, glimmering, majestic beings who surpassed humanity in power and beauty.
Then she turned and saw a face.
It was floating midway up the wall and staring at her. She let out a sound and stepped back.
A second later, she saw that it was only an etching. Tarnished and faded, the face of a lion was staring back at her with liquid brown eyes. It was carved onto the old, broken piece of a shield that hung on the wall like a trophy.
“What is that?” she said.
“The Shield of Rassalon,” said Justice.
The Shield of Rassalon. That name echoed in her, stirring something deep. The lion seemed to look right at her. She reached out to the stone beneath the shield, where strange writing was carved into the wall. Time had half eroded its words.
Violet’s fingers brushed the words, tracing the cool stone, her heart pounding. “What does it say?”
“We Stewards have lost most of our knowledge of the old language,” said Justice, “but I’m told it says, ‘Rassalon the First Lion.’”
Violet jerked her fingers back as if singed. She was staring at the lion with its great mane and liquid eyes, her pulse racing.
The First Lion . . .
“The Stewards have few artifacts of the old war,” said Justice, “but this is one of them. Here the Shield of Rassalon was broken.”
She couldn’t help staring at the lion on the shield, her mind racing with a thousand questions.
Who was Rassalon? Why had the Stewards fought him? How had he come to fight for the Dark King? This shield . . . what is it? What am I caught up in?
The lion seemed to gaze back at her. She imagined Stewards with spears encircling an animal that bled where it was pierced in the side. Stewards had been fighting Lions since the great battles of the old world.
“Excuse my interruption, Justice.” A girl’s voice jolted Violet out of her reverie. She recognized Grace, the janissary who had shown her to her room the night before. “The Elder Steward is ready to see Will.”
