“Good luck,” Calder muttered before walking away.
He began to wind his way through the crowd, but by the third row, someone had recognised him. I watched as the whispered revelation spread through them, from row to row, until his path cleared completely. With an ache somewhere inside my chest, I watched him climb to the platform and take a seat in the short row of benches along the wall, wishing that I had been wiser in my choice of heroes.
I wished I had known about Calder. A man broken twice over, still willing to hand his life over to the greater good. A man drowning in bitterness and resentment, still a steadfast protector to the very source of his anguish. A man who lost everything and turned it into something, who had done what I was trying to do now.
I was staring down the path of impossibility, knowing he had already walked it … and that was what a real hero was.
The Vold obviously knew about him, but no tales of him were told by the stewards. Maybe it was because he was so young—the pair on the platform were easily ten years his senior, but were now glancing at him uncertainly, clearly torn between the importance of his presence and whatever their current task was. They turned away from the rest of us to present themselves before him.
I quickly found a seat beside a girl in a white linen shirt and pants, small white flats on her feet. Somehow, they didn’t have a speck of dirt on them. Her dove-white hair was secured in a tight ponytail. I was momentarily transfixed by the colour of the strands, and she caught me staring.
“Sorry,” I muttered quickly, turning back to the platform. “Your magic mutation is beautiful.”
“And you don’t have one, because you’re the Tempest,” she returned. It wasn’t an accusation. She spoke in a simple, matter-of-fact way, her voice gentle and pensive. From what I could tell, she hadn’t even looked at me.
“Uh.” I glanced at her again. “I guess.”
She smiled, another gentle movement. “What’s your real name? People don’t mention that.”
“Lavenia.”
‘That’s a nice name. Mine is Frey. Do you know why they’ve called in all recruits? I suspect it has something to do with the plague. They wouldn’t care this much about the stewards normally, so it must pose quite a danger to the sectorians.”
I blinked at her, examining her a little more carefully. “You’re Sinn,” I blurted.
She turned to me, her eyes the lightest blue. “Thank you for noticing. My mother was an Edelsten kynmaiden; my father is a Sinn.”
“Was? What happened to your mother?”
Frey looked momentarily perplexed before her eyes flashed in understanding. “Of course, you were raised as a steward, weren’t you? It’s quite common for those of us who were born in kynhouses to never see our mothers again.”
“I always thought my mother didn’t take me to see any of my half-brothers or sisters because of—” I cut myself off a breath before telling a complete stranger that I had believed myself to be cursed for over seventeen years.
She smiled, a little sadly. “Sorry. It’s my Sinn power. It tends to draw out the very things people don’t want to tell me. It’s why they recruited me. I don’t have much control over it.” She turned her head in the direction of the pair standing on the platform, now deep in conversation with Calder. I could only imagine what they were talking about.
Two more deaths in Breakwater Canyon.
The Spider re-emerging, and then disappearing again.
A plague breaking out.
Or the fact that Calder had stepped away from his job because of a convicted killer of the weak, handing over control of the Company to his third-in-command.
“That’s quite a skill,” I managed to say, deciding to keep my sentences to a minimum.
“It’s quite annoying.” Her tone had lost some of its warmth, a spark of disappointment in her eyes as she redirected her attention forward. “Growing up without friends isn’t fun. I expect that you, of all people, would understand that.”
“I thought I was cursed,” I told her quietly as the pair of Sentinels finished up their conversation with Calder and the other recruits fell into silence. She wasn’t exactly forcing the information out of me. I couldn’t even feel her magic reaching out to me, and yet, I felt that she was somehow the right person to give information to.
“I thought that was why she never took me to see any of the other children, why she never spoke about them. I thought she was protecting them from me.”
Frey’s expression was kind, but her tone held that strange matter-of-factness that had given her away as a Sinn. “You aren’t cursed. Curses aren’t real. What you are is fated. And the only difference between fate and a curse is in the multiplication factor.”
“The multiplication factor?” I frowned.
“Just a little study I came up with.” She waved her hand. “I believe that an unlucky fate—what stewards would call a curse—can be reversed by creating multiple, conflicting fates. The multiplication factor turns one path into many, thereby manifesting choice, which is the very snag needed to unravel an unlucky fate. Or a curse.”
I stared at her, my mouth a little unhinged, but was saved from a response when the female Sentinel began to speak.
“Welcome, recruits! Look around and acknowledge your peers. Stare into the face of courage and be assured by the knowledge that you are surrounded by the bravest, strongest, and smartest litens under this Company’s watch. Take comfort in this, because what you are about to hear may not be so reassuring.”
She stepped back, and the male stepped forward. “My name is master Bern,” he announced, his voice projecting boldly across the amphitheatre, his cool silver eyes scanning everyone’s faces. He had thick, dark hair tied back into a bun and two long, dark marks bleeding from the sides of his eyes to disappear into his hairline. “And this is mistress Laerke,” he indicated the woman, who I recognised upon closer inspection. She had long raven hair, straight as a pin, and she was dressed in the silks of a sectorian woman. She had been sitting beside Calder at my trial.
“I am the Sentinel in charge of recruits here at Hearthenge, and mistress Laerke is here on the bequest of the Inquisitor to oversee our next month of training. She is, for those who don’t know, a member of the small council and will be treated with the utmost respect while she is with us.”
“Why is the small council interfering in Sentinel training?” a voice whispered from the seats below us.
“Are we at war?” another asked, a little louder.
Apparently, it was loud enough for Bern to hear.
“No,” he answered, glancing in our direction. “We’re not at war. Yet.”
“But…” Laerke cast her eyes around us before finding mine and pausing. “We soon will be.”
Predictably, her words caused quite a stir, and she moved off to the side of the platform, as though handing the proceedings over to Bern now that she had thoroughly lost everyone’s attention.
“Alright recruits, that’s enough!” Bern boomed, to no effect.
The gathered people were now loudly arguing over who we were going to war with. Since most of the crowd was made up of those from the Vold sector, the whispering wasn’t frightened or panicked. They seemed to be almost … excited. They were working themselves into a frenzy, preparing to be marched off to battle as soon as the meeting was finished.
Frey sat quietly, watching them all. She was the one who noticed the Warmaster first, her eyes swinging to the side and widening. The first sign of fear that I had seen all morning.
He stopped beside me, his touch flicking against the metal ring Calder had secured in my hair.
How had he arrived so fast?
He continued on past me without a word. Row by row, the amphitheatre fell silent, a rustle of trepidation scattering across a sea of stiff shoulders and sidelong glances. He didn’t acknowledge Bern or Laerke, but sat beside Calder and waved a hand absently for the Sentinel to continue. Calder didn’t seem uncomfortable by the Warmaster’s sudd
en presence. They sat in exactly the same way: legs parted, boots pointing outwards, arms resting over their thighs as they leaned forward. As if realising this, Calder leaned back, his large arms crossing over his chest. He didn’t want to unconsciously associate with the Warmaster.
“Right then … let’s begin,” Bern announced, pushing his confusion to the side remarkably quickly. “You’ll be sorted into training groups based on your particular strengths and how those will benefit the Company. You may, of course, have a preference—and I know many of you have come here today with a particular hope, but we are the mighty Vold, not the delicate Sinn. You’ll be put where you should be, and if you want to be placed higher, you’ll have to work for it. You’ll have to prove your strength.”
“It’s funny, don’t you think?” Frey whispered, her attention still on Bern. “The Vold and the Sinn are the only two sectors that work together … and they’re the only two sectors who actively dislike each other.”
“The Sinn are a little weird, though,” I said, before slapping a hand over my mouth in disbelief.
Frey smiled, not an inch of hurt in her expression. “Yes, we are. Don’t worry, I know you didn’t mean to say it.”
“First,” Bern continued, allowing me to distract myself from embarrassment. “We have the garrison attendants.” A low groan spread through most of the recruits. “This is not a permanent position,” he continued in a warning tone. “It’s the job of a steward, and will be carried out under the direction of the steward coordinator here in Hearthenge. It’s offered to those of you not strong enough to start training. If you can prove yourself by the end of the week, you’ll be promoted to the scouts. If not, you’ll be cast out. Without repercussions. You’ll be free to make a future elsewhere.”
Beside me, Frey began to shift around, clearly nervous.
“The scouts are, of course, the second tier of our Sentinel ranks. Those of you assigned to the scouts will be comfortable in the face of danger, unafraid of death. You will be in optimal physical condition, able to last days of marching without food, water, or sleep. You will hold fast under interrogation. You will adhere to the Sentinels’ code and conduct yourself appropriately at all times. You will be given grace three times only. If you fail, if you flounder, if you disobey, it will cost you grace. If you run out, you’re out. No second chances. You’ll be cast out and labelled graceless. You’ll have a great deal of trouble finding your future elsewhere.”
“That’s the second tier?” I asked quietly.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Frey whispered back. “As a Sentinel, failing is usually fatal. Most people don’t make it to becoming graceless.”
“What a relief.”
“The first tier,” Bern continued mercilessly, “are the Sentinels. You’ll be tested beyond your limits. You must survive unimaginable pain. You must face your darkest fears. Each day you must be stronger, braver, and faster than the day before. If you choose to leave during your initiation week, you’ll become graceless. If you choose to stay, know that every task is a matter of life or death. To fail a task is to die. Usually, a Sentinel’s initiation is carried out after their kongelig ceremony, after they are no longer a liten … but the world is changing, and we must change with it.”
The recruits were, once again, completely silent. Breath bated, they stalled, withholding their reactions until they had more information.
“This time, the initiation for all Sentinels will be done at once,” Bern continued, glancing back over his shoulder to Calder. “As a group. Liten or kongelig, you will all be recruited, cast aside, or you will die. If you do not like these options, we invite you to leave now without consequence.”
There was a stir among the recruits, and while it didn’t exactly taste of fear, there was a vibration of confusion and slight trepidation. For the Company to put litens at risk was unheard of. It also should have been highly illegal, but Laerke’s presence in the face of that announcement spoke volumes. This decision was sanctioned by the small council, which meant that it was sanctioned by the Inquisitor, which meant that it was sanctioned by the King.
Not a single recruit left, but one of them stood after a few moments, clearing his throat. He pushed back a shock of raven-black hair, dappled brown eyes skirting the gathered people in the rows behind him before he turned to the front, projecting a loud, confident voice.
“Why is the King of Fyrio recruiting litens? If we’re to make a decision, we need to know what we’ll be fighting.”
Bern glared at the boy in a strange way, almost as if they’d had the same argument many times already. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the boy had the exact same magic mutation as Bern—two smaller, dark slashes extending from the corners of his eyes, as though he had wiped away tears of crumbling coal.
“Excellent question, Bjern,” Bern answered, though there was a warning in his voice.
If there had been any doubt as to their relationship before, there certainly wasn’t now. They were father and son … except Bjern didn’t wear the scant leather wrappings and hardened armour of a Vold liten. He wore a deep purple, silken coat, square at the shoulders and buttoned at the neck. The coat parted at the hips, revealing soft black linen pants.
“He’s not a Vold either?” I whispered to Frey.
“The recruiter’s son is a Sjel,” she whispered back, in a voice that suggested she was reciting facts from an invisible sheet of paper. “His mother also has the soul magic. They’ve been keeping an eye on Bjern Endredsen, as they’ve been keeping an eye on me. Apparently, he can persuade people to do things they don’t want to do.”
“As I said, the world is changing.” Bern continued, forcing Frey to stop whispering. “Very soon, we’ll be at war, but not with Reken. Not with the wild tribes of the Vilwood. Our battle is with evil itself—an evil we don’t yet know how to defeat. The plague spreading through Breakwater Canyon is only the beginning.”
Bjern sat again, and I could tell from his blank expression that he had already known—likely his father had told him, but he had wanted to force the Sentinel to offer up more information to the other recruits. Whether that was wise or not remained to be seen. Everyone seemed to be in shock. The Vold lived to fight, but evil itself couldn’t be run through with a sword or burned on a pyre.
Bern pulled a little box from his pocket, and every held breath expelled at once, an excited wave of whispering passing through the recruits.
“For those of you who don’t know”—Bern opened the box and pulled out what looked like a wriggling little jewel—“we sort recruits through the use of a fryktille.”
“Fear beetle,” Frey quickly translated, before I could ask.
“The fryktille is a living artefact created by the leading minds in our world, and as such, you must not touch it. It will show you your darkest, deepest fear. It will try to convince you that what you are seeing is real. You will truly feel whatever it is the fryktille shows you, but no matter what … you must not touch it. Doing so will result in instant failure.” He turned his eyes to a spot in the amphitheatre, narrowing them slightly. “Bjern … since you’ve decided to champion your peers once already, why don’t you volunteer to go first?”
As Bjern stood, I found my assumption that he was being punished for standing earlier quickly quashed. Several other Vold recruits jumped to their feet, shouting out that they also volunteered, but Bern ignored them all, his eyes on his son, who calmly stepped down to the grass at the bottom of the amphitheatre before climbing up to the platform. Bern dragged a chair into the centre of the platform, facing us, and Bjern took a seat, his eyes fixed steadfastly forward, the slashes of black colour on his face making him appear fierce.
Bern placed the fryktille in the centre of his forehead, mumbling something as the jewelled beetle shifted slightly, fluttering its wings, before sinking downward very quickly. Its large jewelled shell was still visible, but it truly looked as though it had borrowed a little way into Bjern’s skin. He barely winced, his eyes s
till fixed ahead, his jaw cracking to the side. The fryktille fluttered its wings again, spreading its hard shell until light flickered upwards from its concealed body. The light was like a projection, visible to all of us against the outer stone walls curving around the lowered platform. The flickering light took form, filling with colour and shadow, until a perfect picture moved before us.
It showed Bjern reclined on a velvet couch, swathed in sectorian robes of royal blues and muted gold. All around him were bodies. A woman in matching robes, her pale cheek stroked red with blood, as though someone had caressed her after her death. A steward housekeeper in rough linen clutched a bundle of silken blanket, which trailed a short distance along the floor, leading to a mangled little body.
The real Bjern began to twitch, his eyes widening, while the Bjern in the projection smiled, raising a bloody hand as though to dismiss what we had seen so far.
“I made them do it,” he said nonchalantly. “It was so easy.”
“Even the baby?” another voice answered. This one was familiar. It belonged to his father, who watched the scene with as much steadfastness as his son.
Bjern looked toward the little body that had spilled from the blanket, his eyes cold and detached. “Why should I leave him out?” he asked.
There were three other bodies—all children of various ages. And another woman, by the door of the richly decorated room, as though she had been trying to run away. She had short dark hair, curled and thick, her dappled brown eyes staring skyward. She blinked and then began to laugh. It was a horrible, gurgling laugh that drew Bjern’s cold gaze.
“Mother?” he asked. “You’re not dead?”
“You can’t kill me,” she answered, stumbling to her feet, her dress torn, jagged wounds gaping beneath, blood slicking to the floor behind her. “I’m as empty as you are. I can’t feel anything.” She reached him, and the real Bjern and the fake Bjern adopted the same expression.
A Tempest of Shadows Page 21
