There were more people outside in the commoner circle, though still fewer than a dozen, enjoying the summer night with fires in the common areas. The smell of an animal roasting on a spit made his mouth water.
“Ay, who’s there?” someone called out just as they slipped behind a square stone home. Corentine bent double next to Sy, her body close enough for him to hear the thump of her heart.
“Only me, you old girl-dodger,” another voice bellowed. Sy felt Coren relax behind him. The two men bantered for several minutes, then stepped inside the house. Light flooded the alley where they were hidden, and Sy glanced back to see Corentine’s eyes widen in alarm.
He held up a finger for her to wait, and sure enough, the shadows of the men flashed over the lighted alley, then away. He knew they were likely sitting and drinking or playing cards at a table, and wouldn’t notice anything outside the window. Sy pressed his body to the wall of the house and ducked past the window.
He turned and beckoned to Corentine, and they sprinted across the street and into another alley, weaving between the narrow homes and across abbreviated lawns. All of the homes had once been well-kept and filled with Weshen woman and children as well, according to his father’s stories, but they were decidedly run-down and somber now.
They slipped easily past the wall into the government circle. It was silent here, and Corentine turned to him questioningly.
“Only the students will be here, with a few of the teachers. Very few guards this far in.”
“Where are the students?” she whispered.
He shrugged. It had been many years, and he’d never stayed in the student quarters, only in his father’s spacious home. “Hopefully in bed by now. This way.” He navigated them around the dormitories and training hall, into the very heart of the city. With each circle, they had been slowly climbing in altitude, and he smiled at the thought of showing her Weshen City spread before them, dotted with small fires and smoking chimneys.
His father’s home was also the main government building, and although it needed repairs like everything else, it was still the grandest of all the Weshen structures. Its bulk and towers were on the highest ground of the city, and spoke of a time when their people were wealthy, respected, and most importantly, a time when they had never needed to hide who they were.
“Our people’s history,” he murmured, gesturing around himself at the grounds, where grids of ancient, twisted lemondrine trees marked paths of now-overgrown paths of rosewhip vines, their spicy-sweet fragrance heavy in the night air. Corentine reached to grasp a blossom in her fingers, its width as much as her palm. A tendril of the vine stretched and curled around her wrist like a child’s finger.
“I never imagined any of this,” Corentine said. Her voice echoed in the night, and she shook her hand free of the vine and ducked behind him as the words echoed off the stone façade. As he scanned the area for signs they’d been heard, Sy tried to look at the building from her eyes, and shame crept across his shoulders. Of course, the men’s way of life was greatly reduced from how it was before the Separation, but to Corentine, such a building must look as foreign as the NeverCross Mountains and the city of EvenFall would.
The Weshen women had the sea and the plains to run, and he had always envied them that. Life on the island had seemed simple and pleasant until he’d begun to pay attention. And now, watching her survey the vast city spread below them with a frown, he felt anything but proud.
Ashemon hadn’t slept since he had sent Syashin on the Alimente. The entire night had been a blur of prayers to the Mirror Magi, and the lonely day had passed with more of the same. His heart ached with the heaviness of what he’d been forced to do. But as the second night approached, with the creeping dark came Tagsha.
“Ashemon, you know I’m with you in everything,” the burly guard said, barging into Ashemon’s tent. He set a tray of food and strong tea on the table and waited, shuffling his feet.
Ashemon barely looked at his friend, but he did rise from the floor where his personal altar was still open. He sat heavily on the bench, reaching for a mug.
“It had to be done, Tagsha. The people aren’t ready to fight. Syashin’s magic isn’t enough for all of us.” He knew most wouldn’t question his actions, but Tagsha was different.
“But banishing your own?” Tagsha continued, his fist hitting the table harder than necessary.
“Syashin will survive.”
“But will he ever trust you again?”
Ashemon glared at the guard. “That is not my first concern in this matter.” He began to eat, stacking the meat and rich cheese between thick slices of bread. He had not eaten since watching his son’s Last Meal, but he knew his strength would wane if he did not break his fast.
“Perhaps you should send Reshra to the city to wait for them. That will be the hardest part of the journey.”
The General looked flatly at his oldest friend. “Each part of their journey will be hard. Reshra is not ready to understand the magic. He resists.”
“He resists because you never told him of its existence! You never told any of us!” Tagsha exclaimed, the hurt evident in his voice. He turned his head away when Ashemon tried to look squarely at him.
“Weshen is not yet ready,” Ashemon repeated. “I made Syashin on purpose - I prayed he would have magic. But he is one son among hundreds of Weshen sons. It is not enough for a revolution of our fates. The girl’s family has strong magic, though. Their children, perhaps…” His voice faltered as he realized he’d never told this plan to Tagsha either.
“My General, you do not know your son at all if you think this banishment will force him to claim the girl. He will discover your plan and distance himself from her out of spite.”
“I appreciate your ability to speak freely with me,” Ashemon said, the growl in his voice speaking the opposite. “But again, you do not know everything. I have told Syashin that if he does not provide an heir this summer, his First Son rights will pass to Reshra.” He pinned Tagsha in his gaze finally.
Tagsha glared. “That was not wise-”
Ashemon held up a hand. “So yes, I believe this banishment is the perfect solution. Syashin has come to care for the girl. He sacrificed his position for her. But he must learn to put his people before himself, and providing an heir is a good first step.”
“And so we are to wait for the next generation? Our people must continue to suffer this self-inflicted banishment until the magic is born again into Sy’s child? Why not now, Ashemon? Why not us?” They had held this debate before, but never had Tagsha been so adamant.
“Weshen is not strong enough,” Ashemon insisted, shame slumping his shoulders. He wanted nothing more than to fight the Restless King. To regain their ancestral lands. But he would not risk the end of their race to do it. “I will not lead my people to slaughter, Tagsha.”
Tagsha pushed up from the bench. “But you will send your First Son.”
He left his dinner on the table and pushed open the tent flap. Turning one last time, Tagsha glanced at Ashemon, the sorrow evident in the slump of his shoulders. “Make no mistake. When we return to the city after the summer, Syashin will not be waiting for us.”
He closed the flap, leaving the tent silent behind him. One of the candles on the altar sputtered and died, and Ashemon sighed deeply. Tagsha may be right on this one.
Perhaps he should send Reshra after Syashin, to convince his brother to wait in the mountains.
The second candle stuttered out then, leaving Ashemon in complete darkness. “I should have told him of his heritage,” he whispered, beginning another prayer to the Magi as he rose and left the tent. He crossed the clearing to his sons’ tent and pulled open the flap, calling his younger son’s name. Hopefully, there was no girl with him tonight.
But no noise greeted him, no movement within.
Ashemon entered the tent and looked in both small rooms. Both beds were empty, and both sides of the tent looked abandoned, cleaned of personal items as
though the summer had ended. His heart began to beat faster, a heavy knowledge growing there.
Rushing to the dock, he noted the expected absence of the Alimente.
And then he counted two other spots, emptied of their vessels. He knew - his heart knew - that his younger son had already left the island. But with what purpose in mind?
And who could have taken the other boat?
“Tagsha!” Ashemon roared. He needed a count of the men, and soon. Then a new thought exploded into his brain. He remembered Maren, her eyes slicing him to ribbons at the Last Meal.
Her eyes had been murder. Treachery. Treason.
“Tagsha, we need a count of all the people on the island. Immediately!” he yelled at the guard lumbering toward him.
Coren pushed her eyes up again at the enormous building before her. How much bigger could the king’s palace possibly be? The main door itself was as tall as the city walls, bolted through with bars of iron wider than her body. Syashin unlatched a narrow side door, and they slipped inside.
“This is an old servants’ entrance,” he whispered, locking the door behind them. “Of course, no-one has servants anymore.” His voice sounded guilty, as though he recognized how out of place she felt.
Inside, there were rooms upon rooms, connected by hallways with ceilings so high they faded into shadows above her, lit only by the soft moonlight streaming in the multi-paned windows. Syashin led them into the main entry vestibule, which was large enough to hold dozens of people and hung with dusty tapestries she could barely see in the dim light. Gripping the curved wooden banister, she followed him up a sweeping staircase that parted halfway up, offering a choice.
Syashin pointed. “That half is the government side. This half is quarters for the General’s family.”
“You have half of this building as your home?” Coren couldn’t help the comment, although she regretted it when she saw how his cheeks flushed. Yes, their lives had been very different, but he had never tried to make her feel small.
He had never treated her as a General’s son might be expected to treat a common girl.
They entered a hall of closed doors. “These are bedrooms. Mine and Resh’s, and my father’s. And guest rooms.”
“Why didn’t your father ever have more children?” Coren asked idly, running her fingers over a locked door.
Syashin shrugged. “He had at least one other that died young. I always thought he was just too busy training to become General.”
“Perhaps he needs to keep your brother more busy,” she said, her voice flat.
“This is mine,” Syashin said, opening a door and moving past her. He stepped to the window and drew the heavy curtains shut the last few inches, removing all moonlight from the room. She stood completely still, afraid to move in the thick dark. Then there was a squeak of metal, and a soft glow emanated from lamps on either side of a large bed.
“Gas lighting,” he said, his voice low and apologetic. Coren bit into a sigh. Yet another thing the women had always done without, except for the Matron, and a handful of women who had been favored by certain wealthy sons. Certainly her own family was more used to moonlight and candles.
He moved deeper into the spacious room, disappearing behind yet another door, but Coren felt odd following him. It was such a private space. Something in her still needed solid distance between them, so she continued down the hall.
One door stood carelessly ajar, as though its occupant would be home any moment. Curious, Coren pushed it open a few more inches and crept inside. The room was as large as Syashin’s but cold and surprisingly bare. The curtains were drawn completely back, and moonlight streamed in, silvering the white bed and pale wooden furniture. Something of it all smelled familiar. She rifled through the papers on the desk, noting how a pen had broken and splattered its black ink over the pages.
On one, she noticed a signature that explained the note of familiarity: she was in Reshra’s room.
Narrowing her eyes, she advanced to the closed doors on the opposite side of the room. What secrets might a Second Son keep? What could she take of his that would be equal to what he had taken from her?
Nothing. Even if she set fire to the building itself, it still wouldn’t be enough.
But it wouldn’t hurt to look for a prize anyway.
Opening one door revealed shelving for an impressive array of weapons. She palmed a stiletto with a bone handle, inlaid with colored crystals that reminded her of the MagiSea. Many of the other weapons were far too heavy for her to manage on the trip up the mountains, and she preferred the simplicity of her whip. But this knife was pretty, so she wrapped it back in its leather and slipped it in her pocket.
The second door opened to reveal stacks and hanging bars full of winter clothing - hunting gear and furs and leathers. She turned a small knob on the wall, and a gas lamp above her glowed to life. Coren pulled a coat from a hanger, but it was too long for her arms, too large across her body. The other clothing was the same. Cut for a tall, strong General’s son. Finely tailored to suit the arrogance that he wore as well.
Near the back, she found a cloak that could likely be cut to length, hooded and lined with silver and black fur. But as she pulled it from between the others, a flash of bright satin caught her eye. Shoving the menswear aside, she found a second rack, a rainbow hidden behind the dark clothes.
There was nothing practical on this rack, but the beauty…Coren sighed into the soft sheen of the dresses. Her calloused fingers stuttered across the expensive fabrics, tracing the beading and intricate embroidery. What were dresses doing in Reshra’s closet?
She remembered Amden’s skirt then. A fluff of impractical lace and cloud-like tulle. Since Coren had never been caught in a hunt, she had never received a gift like this from a Weshen boy. She would never admit to jealousy of those girls, but here in the soft light and silence, she might admit to coveting the specific right to be impractical.
The right to own something not for its usefulness, but simply for its magnificence.
And of course she’d heard of the legendary presents given by Reshra, Second Son of the General. It was one of the reasons so many Weshen girls were willing to set aside their pride and be caught by the conceited young man. But here in the semi-darkness in the private room of a very dangerous Weshen son, Coren’s fingers clutched possessively at the water-blue dress in her hand.
She’d never had anything like it, and by the Magi, she wanted it.
Pulling it from the rack, she held it to her body. The length was perfect. The skirt was full and heavy with crystal embroidery. It must have cost a fortune. Enough to feed her family for a year. Still, she ached to slip it on, to feel the satin next to her skin.
“No,” she whispered to herself, pushing aside the coats again to replace it. These dresses were not for girls like her.
“You should take one,” Syashin said, his voice carrying from the door of Reshra’s bedroom. Coren nearly dropped the dress, her face flaming at being caught in such a place, with such a symbol of all that she hated grasped in her greedy fingers.
“You’ll need dresses in EvenFall and StarsHelm. We can buy some, but coming to a dressmaker dressed like a man would alert the wrong sorts of people. Take one,” he repeated, walking toward her.
Coren started to shake her head, then stopped. Her fingers curled into the dress, and she knew she would take them all if she could carry them.
“I guess I have a right to choose a dress,” she said, gazing at the heady mix of satin and velvet. “Your brother did catch me, after all.”
“And so did I,” Sy said, his voice rough with an anger she didn’t quite understand. “These are mine.” He stepped into the closet with her. She felt the heat of his body in the narrow space between the racks of clothing. He held out a strand of pearls, long enough to loop her neck three or four times. Each pearl shimmered like the depths of the MagiSea: colors of the sand, the dark green kelsh plants, and the white-blue of the upper waters.
“Take them,” he said.
She allowed him to drop them into her palm, where they pooled and cascaded through her fingers like droplets of home.
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes fixed on the riches in her grasp, wishing they were not so close or so alone. Wishing her skin were not so warm from his nearness.
A few seconds passed, and still she kept her eyes on the clothing. Finally, she felt Syashin move away, back into the bedroom.
“Take the dress, Coren, and a plainer one, too. It should be nearing daybreak soon, when the younger boys will be off to training. Their rooms should be empty, and we might find other clothing to fit you there.” His voice sounded far away and tired, and as Coren dropped the pearls into her bag, she regretted how she must treat him. But regardless of how her body might respond to his, she knew her mother’s advice held truth.
She needed every shred of her magic, and losing any of it to anyone could mean death when she met the Restless King.
Coren chose a second dress too, midnight-blue and cut with a more practical high-necked velvet bodice and slim wool skirt. She folded the dresses and the hooded cloak into her satchel, frowning at its new heaviness, then turned off the light and followed Syashin out of the building.
They had been inside longer than she’d thought, and the sky was streaked with pink and orange.
They wove silently through a series of gates and narrow alleys until they reached a two-story dormitory. Banging doors and the shouts and laughter of young boys reached her then, and her heart ached uncontrollably for Kosh.
She was fiercely glad he would never know this life, but she was crazy with fear that he might not survive what life he had left, traveling to Sulit with Maren. And if he did survive, at what cost?
“They should all be gone now,” Syashin whispered, tugging her out of her miserable thoughts and leading them to the laundry room. “The younger boys do the washing, but they’re all at breakfast and prayers now. Take what will fit.”
Shift of Shadow and Soul (SoulShifter Book 1) Page 18
