Outside, it was already dark. The moon was close to full, an irregular orb veiled in the gauzy tracery of smoke that was Arkannen’s permanent blanket. Ree breathed the night deep into her lungs and thought, as she often did, how different the city smelled from the countryside. It wasn’t something people often thought about, but even without the use of eyes or ears she’d still know she wasn’t in Torrance Mill any more. A sudden swift homesickness came over her, but she suppressed it. Nostalgia, no more. Strange how memory could gild her childhood with that wonderful, melancholy sense of long-lost time, even when she had absolutely no desire to return to it.
‘So.’ Zander grinned at her, breath steaming in the cool air. ‘You coming back to my room?’
By now it was a running joke between them. He always asked. She never said yes. But this time, unexpectedly, she found she was considering it.
A lady does not share herself around like a pot of ale between stablehands, her mother had said when she caught Ree kissing one of the neighbours’ boys at the age of twelve. If you will not conduct yourself as befits something rare and precious, you cannot expect others to treat you that way. She’d brought Ree up in the belief that sex should be restricted solely to marriage, and since Ree never intended to marry, she’d always assumed it was a part of life she’d never experience. Yet she’d defied her mother in everything else, so why hold on to that? As far as her fellow trainees were concerned, sex was just something you did to relax – nothing to do with love, and certainly not with marriage. Maybe if she tried it, she’d stop acting like such a mooncalf over … other people.
‘Fine,’ she said, before she could overthink it. ‘Why not?’
It was almost worth it for the sheer dumb surprise that flashed across his face. But that soon faded, to be replaced by rueful amusement. ‘You don’t have to look so depressed about it.’
Ree realised she was frowning and smoothed it away, trying for a smile. ‘Sorry.’
‘You know,’ Zander said, ‘this isn’t obligatory. If you’re doing it just because I’ve badgered you into submission, that’s a horrible reason and you should walk away now. Maybe punch me first.’
As always, she couldn’t tell if that puppy-eyed sincerity was totally genuine or if it was all part of the act. But in the end, it didn’t matter. It was her choice. She’d be using him as much as he’d be using her.
‘Oh, no, it’s nothing to do with you –’ she began, then stopped at his chuckle.
‘I hope it is a little.’
She couldn’t help smiling back at him. ‘Come on. It’s cold out here.’
Afterwards, she wandered around his room wrapped in a sheet, looking at the sketches he’d tacked to the walls and feeling pleasantly…floaty. A little sore, maybe, but certainly not like the damaged goods her mother had described. Nor, indeed, did she show any sign of falling in love with Zander, which had been her own fear. No – she still liked him well enough, but that was all.
Altogether a very satisfactory experiment, she thought, and giggled. Then clapped a hand over her mouth, because she never giggled. Giggling was for the Saydis of the world. Not her.
‘What’s the joke?’ Zander asked. He was lying back on his elbows in bed, bare-chested, watching her lazily. Good mood already dissipating, Ree shook her head.
‘Nothing.’
Lowering her gaze, she caught sight of the corner of a wooden box poking out from under the bed. The part she could see was carved all over with an abstract design that reminded her vaguely of the tattoo on his wrist.
‘That’s a pretty box,’ she remarked.
Zander nodded, but she noticed a hint of caution in him – the same as when he mentioned his family or where he came from. Plain curiosity led her to add, ‘What’s in it?’
He smiled. ‘Secrets.’
‘Will you show me?’
‘It’s locked.’
She gestured impatiently. ‘Then unlock it.’
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I threw away the key.’
Oh, really? She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Then why keep the box?’
‘I still use the box.’
‘Stop talking in riddles, Zander! There’s no way the quartermaster would have let you in here with a mysterious box that could contain anything –’
‘Oh, but he did.’ Now Zander was grinning. ‘I told him I lost the key on my way here, and asked where in the city I could get another made. To tell you the truth, I think I made him feel sorry for me.’ Suddenly the grin disappeared, and he looked at Ree with big, sad eyes. ‘It’s just so frustrating! That box contains all the keepsakes I brought with me to make my new lodgings seem like home. Honestly, sir, I’d rather have lost anything else but that.’ Just as quickly, he dropped the regretful voice he’d been putting on and switched back to his usual cocky smile. ‘But in reality I just pick the lock, when I need to. I decided that was probably safer than having a key I could lose or anyone could steal.’
Doubly fascinating – and a little disturbing, too, since she hadn’t realised Zander was such an accomplished liar. She longed to know what was in the box, but there were even more pressing questions. ‘How on earth did you learn how to pick a lock?’
‘I taught myself.’
‘So you break into things,’ she murmured. ‘You lie to city officials. And yet you want to join the Helm.’
‘Why not?’
‘Your skills seem more suited to crime than law enforcement. That’s all.’
He smirked at her. ‘Want me to show you how?’
‘What for?’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘For one thing, you never know when you might need to become a criminal in order to catch one. And for another, it would be fun.’
‘If I get it right, do I find out what’s in the box?’
‘The box’s secrets die with me,’ Zander said. ‘But I can teach you with the door lock, if you like.’
Ree weighed her desire to learn more of his secrets against her desire to learn new skills, and came down on the side of the latter.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But I’ll figure you out one day, Zander, I promise you that.’
‘There’s really nothing to figure out,’ he said lightly. ‘Now come on over here …’
It took her a while to understand how to manipulate the tumblers, but once she’d learned how to feel for the slight differences in pressure that indicated movement, she turned out to be surprisingly proficient at it. Zander was an excellent teacher, patient and encouraging – not at all what she might have expected, had she given it any thought at all.
‘There,’ he said finally. ‘You’re just as much a criminal as I am, now.’
She smiled at him. ‘You should do this for a living. If you don’t join the Helm, I mean.’
‘What? Pick locks?’
‘Teach people. You’d make a great weaponmaster.’
He lifted a shoulder. ‘Thanks, but it sounds like an awful lot of work.’
Why does he always do that? Ree had begun to realise that despite his cocky exterior, Zander was hiding just as many insecurities as everyone else. It was something of a revelation. But she didn’t think he’d appreciate her calling him on it, so she just grinned. ‘Bet the pay’s good, though.’
‘I like your thinking, Ree Quinn.’ He bumped her elbow with his and nodded at the set of lockpicks in her hand. ‘You can keep those, if you like. I have more.’
She looked at him quizzically. ‘Aren’t you worried I’ll try to open that box by myself, some other time?’
‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘Anyway, who says there’ll be another time?’
Barely managing to suppress her flinch, she lowered her chin and pretended to be very interested in the floor. ‘Of course.’ Was it that bad? Was I –?
‘Ree.’ She glanced up to find him watching her. ‘I was kind of hoping there’d be another time,’ he said softly. ‘I just didn’t want to … you know. Assume.’
‘I see. Um …’ Elements. She was b
lushing again. ‘I’d like that. If you want.’
‘Oh, I want.’ He reached out to unwrap the sheet from around her shoulders. ‘How about we start right now?’
SIXTEEN
Penn’s previous conversation with Captain Caraway, up in the sixth ring, had shaken him more than he cared to admit. Not that he’d changed his mind about killing the man; that would never happen. Apart from anything else, his father would disown him. But he was beginning to have serious doubts about his plan to achieve it. Because for an instant, talking to the captain had made him wonder if he’d got it all wrong. And if a single encounter could weaken his resolve, however temporarily, what would happen after he’d been trained by Caraway for a full year? It was possible that when the moment came, his own guilt at playing the double agent for so long would choke him. He needed to find a way of ridding himself of that guilt in advance.
In the end, he left the barracks and went down into the lower rings of the city, back to the shrine of Air he’d visited when he first arrived.
He waited by the shrine for nearly a full bell, ignoring the curious glances of its occasional visitors, before the itinerant priest he’d met before came into view. The man stopped when he caught sight of Penn, a wavering expression crossing his face as if he might run.
‘Don’t go,’ Penn said. ‘I’m not here about my coin-purse, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Coin-purse? What coin-purse?’ The priest took a few steps closer. Penn gave him a disbelieving look, but made no further comment on the disingenuous question.
‘I came for some more advice,’ he said. ‘I think you owe me that much.’
The man’s frozen countenance eased into a half-laugh. ‘All right, lad, if that’s what you want.’
He glanced into the shrine and, finding it empty, gestured Penn inside. The space wasn’t really big enough for two people; they knelt side by side facing the decorated alcove, shoulders touching, curtain drawn behind them to provide the illusion of privacy.
‘Right, then,’ the priest said. ‘What can I help you with? Women, is it? Young lad like you, it’s usually women.’
‘Not women.’
‘Men, then? Not sure as I can advise you so well there, but I’m willing to give it a shot.’
‘Not men, either.’ Penn paused, but he couldn’t resist adding acidly, ‘Not every problem in the world revolves around sex, you know.’
The priest gave a crack of laughter. ‘More’n you’d think, boy. More’n you’d think. So what is it, then? Spit it out, I’m a busy man.’
‘I came to Arkannen to kill someone,’ Penn said. ‘And now –’
‘You’re wondering if it’s the right thing to do?’ the priest put in. ‘That’s an easy one. Killing is wrong except in law or at war.’
Odd, to hear his own words replayed to him. But of course, that principle applied only to the original act of murder. Executing the murderer was simply upholding the law where the law itself had failed. An act of justice.
‘No,’ he said coolly. ‘I already know I’m going to kill him. What I’m trying to decide is whether I need to feel bad about it afterwards.’
He felt the priest tense beside him. The priest’s voice said, with an edge of unease to it, ‘I’d imagine the answer to that one is an unequivocal yes.’
Penn shrugged. ‘Ah, but you don’t know much, do you? You told me the wind is crueller than steel. But the truth is, steel can choose whether to strike or turn aside, and that’s what makes it cruel. Choice. Whereas the wind simply acts according to its nature. It has no choice but to blow. And without choice, how can there be cruelty?’
‘Listen,’ the priest said anxiously. ‘I don’t know who you are or why you want to kill this man, but people aren’t like the wind, nor steel neither! That was just something I made up, and I never meant –’ He breathed heavily, perhaps searching for words, before concluding, ‘We always have a choice. There’s no power under the sun can make a man commit murder unless he decides of his own free will to do it.’
‘Apparently you don’t know my father.’
The priest fidgeted beside him. ‘This isn’t a joke!’
‘I’m not laughing,’ Penn said. ‘And you haven’t answered my question. A man killed my cousin. I intend to take his life in return. Should I feel guilty once the deed is done?’
There was a long pause, before the priest sighed. ‘I understand the desire for vengeance. Believe me, I do. But that’s why we have the city watch, or the Helm. I can’t condone you taking the law into your own hands.’
‘Says the man who makes a living from theft,’ Penn put in drily, and the priest shook his head in stubborn denial.
‘If you’re looking to me for absolution, lad, I can’t give it to you.’
‘Fine,’ Penn said. ‘Good. That’s all I needed to know.’
He began to clamber to his feet, but was stopped by the priest’s hand clutching his sleeve. ‘Where are you – what do you mean?’
‘You’ve put my mind at rest,’ Penn told him. ‘Now I know I can’t be forgiven for what I have to do, it doesn’t matter how I do it. I’m putting myself beyond the pale anyway, so I needn’t have any scruples whatsoever. That’s actually quite comforting.’
Straightening up fully, he drew the curtain aside to step out into the street, then cast a glance over his shoulder at the wan-looking priest.
‘Thanks for your help,’ he said. ‘I hope you enjoyed my money.’
Once she’d discharged her duties as Darkhaven’s overlord for the day, Ayla spent the rest of the afternoon freezing water. It was exhilarating – as exhilarating, in its own way, as the Change itself. That was a large power, a vast shift in her entire being, a remaking into something new. Whereas this … it was more like discovering a hidden talent that had been lying dormant but fully formed inside her, like waking up suddenly able to speak a different language or play complicated music. A smaller power, but the fact that it belonged to her human self rather than her creature form made it extra satisfying. She was used to being able to do wonderful things when she Changed; it was good to have something to set against that, however slight, when she was in her human skin.
Even if Miles did turn out to be an assassin, she’d still be grateful to him for leading her to this.
She’d started with glasses of water, just like the ones she’d tested with Miles. Once the novelty of that had worn off, she’d turned to the tap in her bedroom, and discovered that a basinful of water was no harder to freeze than a glassful. She’d found herself wondering if it would be possible to freeze all the water in Darkhaven’s pipes in one go – and that was when she’d dragged her guards out to the central square. It had rained the night before, and she couldn’t cause too much chaos with puddles.
The summoning of the ice was becoming easier each time. She’d learned the trick of it, now: coaxing rather than forcing, Miles had suggested, and he’d been right. She just had to relax her mind, ask the water to change, and it obeyed. Not only that, but she could shape it as she changed it: a small pool of water could become a delicate ice tree, rising up out of the ground like a real growing thing. Amazing to think that she’d had this capacity inside herself for … years, probably, and she’d never even thought to look for it. That was how strongly her father had convinced her of her impurity.
The thought saddened her, but it also reminded her that she had two powers to play with, not one. Ice was so much fun that she hadn’t got around to testing whether she could now control wood without needing to work herself into frustration to do it.
Crouching down on the ground, she scooped together some of the twigs blown in by the autumn winds and regarded them through narrowed eyes. She’d try and snap one without touching it. That was a simple enough task. But she’d have to concentrate, or she’d end up freezing them instead …
The twigs snapped, one after the other, with a series of sharp pops like breaking bones. And then they froze, instantly, tiny ice crystals appea
ring across the surface of each one.
Ayla leapt to her feet and, temporarily oblivious to her stoic guards, did a triumphant dance.
Yet she stopped abruptly mid-spin, because she suddenly realised she had more company than the Helmsmen. Marlon and Lori were standing on the far side of the square, watching her gravely. Usually the boy would be taken for a walk outside the tower every afternoon, but since the assassination threat he’d been restricted to Darkhaven – which meant this was the only place that Lori could bring him for a bit of fresh air and freedom.
Ayla dropped her arms to her sides. She extended her thoughts to the ice-tree, trying to turn it back into a puddle, but the gift didn’t work like that. She could freeze water, not melt it again. Before she could work out what to do next, Marlon trotted over to her with Lori trailing behind.
‘Did you make this?’ he asked, peering at the little tree.
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
She didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now, maybe not ever. But he was waiting for a reply, so she answered shortly, ‘It’s what Nightshades can do, Marlon. Summon ice, or fire or wind. Bend wood or steel.’
‘Can Papa?’
She thought he meant Myrren. She thought he was asking what Myrren had been able to do, and she was already groping for the words that would allow her to explain to a two-year-old that a vital part of Myrren’s gift had been missing – and that she’d only just discovered this aspect of her own – when she realised he meant Tomas. She wasn’t sure whether that left her more saddened or relieved.
‘Your papa isn’t a Nightshade,’ she said softly. ‘Just us.’ Then, to forestall any more questions, she pointed to the far side of the square and ordered the boy, ‘Fetch me another twig and I’ll show you.’
He dashed off, returning with a waterlogged stick clutched in one fist. She took it from him, held it at arm’s length, and coaxed the wood round into a circle. Then she spun the water from its surface into a delicate pattern of ice-threads that spanned the centre like a cobweb. Marlon watched wide-eyed.
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