A Tempest of Shadows

by Washington, Jane

  Terror.

  She launched herself at him, a knife pulled from the skin of her own side, and plunged into his chest once, twice, three times.

  “You can’t feel it, can you?” she cried out, stabbing his arms when he raised them to shield himself, too afraid to fight her off, too shocked to speak.

  “You’re empty,” she taunted, as the real Bjern began to vibrate, a faint energy skipping through the amphitheatre, like a warm summer breeze carrying the scent of pollen and the hum of bees.

  It was his soul magic … but it wouldn’t do him any good against the fryktille. His hands were clawed, his arms curling in so that he could dig his nails into his shoulders in an attempt to not wrench the beetle from his head. I wondered if he could separate the vision from reality, or if it was simply instinct that had him reaching for the fryktille and an echoing determination not to touch it driving his hands away.

  In the vision, his mother had dropped the knife, her slippery hands tight around his throat, her lips near his ear as she whispered horrible things to him. It was terrifying, but confusing. Only the fryktille and Bjern understood where the seed of his fear lay within the vision, but I doubted it had anything to do with being stabbed or choked or even dying. The longer I watched the real Bjern struggle against his own mind, the more convinced I became that the thing truly frightening him was … himself.

  Eventually, Bern touched the fryktille and muttered a word in Aethen. The projection disappeared, and the beetle was plucked from his head, leaving behind only a few small pinpricks in his skin.

  “Tier one,” Bern announced. “Congratulations, Sentinel recruit. You must remain until the end of the sorting. Go back to your seat.”

  The other recruits all stood, cheering him on as he climbed back down from the platform. He grinned at them, but there was a tightness in his smile, a shadow in his eyes. Frey watched him silently. She didn’t stand or clap.

  “He’s in pain,” she said. “He was just stabbed twenty-two times. I counted. And look at him, smiling and walking. It will be some time before his brain catches up to the fact that he’s not, in fact, dying of blood loss.”

  I felt sick, and my stomach turned even further when he sat and the recruit beside him slapped him on the back. He closed his eyes briefly, his hand flashing to his chest, and then he was under control again.

  “He’s very brave for a Sjel,” I said.

  “I predict that was cultivated by his father,” Frey answered as another girl was chosen. “He must have been disappointed to have his bloodline deviate from the war magic.”

  The new girl’s magic mutation showed in her very long grey hair, the strands woven into many braids. She was tiny, her eyes large and grey like an owl’s. She was clearly Vold—her short dress bore a hardened leather corset, her boots containing pouches and straps for weapons, her arms boasting a few cuts and bruises from a recent fight.

  It was much harder to watch her test. Her greatest fear was death itself, and the fryktille delivered it to her over and over again, in as many different ways as it could manage. After the third death, she threw up. After the fifth, she fainted.

  “Failure,” Bern announced, instructing two of the recruits to take her to the tower infirmary.

  One more Sentinel recruit, three new scout recruits, and five failures later, Frey was picked.

  “A bloody Sinn!” someone shouted as she picked a careful path down to the platform, her nervous hands smoothing over the perfectly ironed linen of her pants.

  “Bet she’s scared of spiders,” another voice joined in, even louder. The others laughed. I frowned, feeling inexplicably protective of the odd, white-haired girl.

  Her fear, played out, had a dream-like quality that sent a chill down my arms. In the first scene, she stood before two small houses in a strange, foreign countryside. She watched people walk into the houses, and then it seemed that she faced a choice that made sense only to her. Her forehead scrunched, her pale eyes grew sorrowful, and she pointed to one of the houses. It burst into flame, the occupants screaming and beating against the windows, unable to escape. In the next scene, she watched two people seated at a table, facing each other over a meal. She pointed at one, and they began to choke, food lodged in their throat, their face turning red. Death. She dealt it out again and again, and the real Frey was slumping and sobbing by the time I realised what her deepest fear was.

  She was scared that she would one day be forced to kill someone.

  “Tier one,” Bern announced, finally relieving her. “Congratulations, Sentinel recruit—”

  “Are you serious?” a voice demanded, a boy with burnt-orange hair jumping to his feet.

  He was skinny, his face long, his shoulders wide and pointed. His magic mutation was a ring of bright gold through his hair, like a crown of sunshine. He wasn’t ugly by any means, but there was something mean in his expression that had the corners of my mouth turning down as we all waited for the rest of his outburst.

  “You call that a test? She barely deserves the second tier. Make her work with the stewards for a week.”

  Bern’s eyebrows jumped, his teeth baring. He was a man who didn’t like to be contradicted.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Sig Raekov, sir.”

  “Sit in the chair, Raekov. Since you have such an aversion to her, Ojesen will conduct your test herself.”

  Frey looked stricken, but she stopped edging toward the steps leading down from the. Raekov scoffed, and leapt down to the platform with ease and confidence, his eyes on Frey the entire time.

  “What are you going to do, Sinn? Bore me to death?”

  “You’re now a Sentinel recruit,” Bern warned Frey, taking her by the shoulder and leading her to stand beside Raekov’s chair. “Do not fail this task.”

  “I … I don’t understand the task,” she stuttered.

  “Make him suffer more than the fryktille or you’ll have to take his place and suffer through a second test.”

  She nodded, her eyes closing briefly, as though she needed to focus.

  “What is your deepest fear?” she asked, almost gently, her hand on his shoulder.

  He twitched away from her, scowling. “Ledenaether,” he answered, reflexively. “I mean—” He shook his head, perplexed.

  “Are you hiding something from me?” she pressed, and I finally felt her magic, invasive and probing. It poked around the amphitheatre and I could almost imagine it burrowing into the ears of the boy beside her, infiltrating his mind completely.

  She was strong, her ability extremely rare. No wonder they had recruited her.

  “Yes,” Raekov gritted out. “I think Ledenaether is here.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “It’s full of ghosts, right? Demons? Creatures? Sour souls?”

  Scattered laughter met his stuttering response, but Frey’s face remained the same, her voice still soft, serene, emotionless.

  “Go on.”

  “I think it got inside me.”

  I jerked up without thinking, my eyes meeting Calder’s—he had also jumped to his feet. I pushed past the recruits as whispering broke out, my Fated name passing into the air in shocked tones.

  The Tempest.

  I ignored them all in my rush to the stage, but Calder reached him first, pushing Frey away from him. She stood to the side, uncertain, not daring to interfere, even if it meant failing her task.

  “Don’t move,” Calder snapped, as Raekov grew restless, the confidence draining from him, his face paling.

  “The Tempest is eager for her test,” a loud, gravelled voice boomed, freezing my footsteps and forcing a heavy, pregnant silence to descend.

  The Warmaster stood from his seat, stretching out his arms, arching his chest, cracking his neck back and forth. He strode into the middle of the platform, grabbing the box that Bern cradled and shoving the fryktille onto Raekov’s head with a force that would have been painful.

  “Let’s get this over with s
o that she can have her much anticipated turn,” the Warmaster growled. “Have the Sinn girl torture this one later.”

  Raekov was sweating, hair rising on his arms, a strangled sound escaping from his throat. His fears were dark and twisted, full of morbid, mangled creatures. He was tortured endlessly, bitten and ripped apart, crushed and mauled. I grew sick watching, a dizziness washing over me as he was dragged beneath dark blue water, talons gripping his ankles, climbing up his body even as it dragged him down. He drowned as the creature’s claws pierced his throat, and I couldn’t help but think of the old tale of the beast beneath Lake Enke.

  There is a beast in the water,

  Talons of lead, death in his eyes.

  Raekov was stumbling when he was freed from the Fryktille, but he was still conscious. He had a slightly manic look in his eye, but the Warmaster stepped into my path before I could chase after him.

  “Your turn,” he whispered, so that only I could hear. “And also … my turn.”

  Confused, I shifted around to the side, so that I was closer to Calder. Bern and Laerke gathered Frey and Raekov, herding them quickly off the platform, their eyes trained on the Warmaster, alarmed by his sudden interference. I felt a touch against my spine, a warmth, a radiation of strength. Calder.

  “Do you consent to your test, Tempest?” the Warmaster asked with a sharp slash of a smile.

  Another trick. But what choice did I have? Recognising that I was backed into a corner didn’t open up any secret passages. My only way into the Sentinel ranks was his way.

  “I could refuse,” I muttered, more to myself.

  “You could,” he returned as Calder rumbled behind me.

  “But only a Sentinel can become a Legionnaire.” The Warmaster dropped that little bit of information on my head with all the casual smugness of a beast whose quiet patience had paid off. I was his prey, and I had walked right into his trap.

  Dimly, I realised that his mention of Legionnaires had stirred the recruits into a chattering of chaos, but my attention was for the asshole before me.

  “Do you have proof?” Calder asked, calmly. He was putting on an act again. Playing the part of the unemotional, unreachable Captain.

  “It just so happens that I do.” The Warmaster pretended to sound shocked at the coincidence. He pulled a sheath of paper from his sleeve, handing it over to Calder, who read it and then handed it to me.

  It was a decree of “Fyrian Indemnity for the League of Legionnaires” validated by the Citadel. I scrolled through it, unable to read some of the more complicated words. My eyes widened at the listed rewards for joining the Legionnaires, including a significant landholding in Hearthenge; a pardon for all past crimes; a share of the Legionnaires’ estate, paid immediately; a ship of choice from the King’s fleet; a diplomatic conscription notice that could be used to recruit other Sentinels for a maximum of one year; and a choice of bride from the King’s personal harem.

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the last benefit, moving on to assess the requirements. I needed to have the King’s blessing, I needed to survive the Legionnaires’ brand, I needed to beat the previous Legionnaire in battle, and … the Warmaster was right. I needed to be a sworn-in Sentinel.

  “You knew all along,” I said, though I was clearly unsurprised at this point.

  “Of course not,” the Warmaster lied good-naturedly. “It’s been such a long time since I became a Legionnaire, I had thoroughly forgotten all the requirements.”

  With nothing left to say, I tucked the paper into my belt and took a step forward, knowing exactly what price he wanted for my initiation.

  He wanted his mark on me.

  The reason he wanted it was a mystery—from what the Weaver had said, it could only cause me certain pain or death. It couldn’t control me or indebt me to him. It couldn’t benefit him in any way. The King’s words popped into my head as I stared up at the Warmaster, an itch in the back of my mind telling me that it was more than a competition between the great masters.

  We’ll be hard on her, cruel to her. We’ll drive her into the ground and force her back out again. We’ll do all of that and more, because we’re her only chance.

  It was more than that.

  I was also their only chance. They were going to break me down completely in the hopes that I would be reborn stronger, better, more powerful, more in control. I might have been strangely grateful, if I were someone different, but I could only focus on one truth. The most uncomfortable truth of them all.

  They didn’t think I could do it.

  They were destroying the person I was because that person wasn’t enough, and they were willing to risk losing everything in their attempts to remake me.

  I glanced over my shoulder, trying to read Calder’s expression. His blue eye was clear, his attention seeming far away. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and I decided to trust him. To trust that he had a plan of some kind, because I wasn’t sure how many more near-deaths I could take.

  “I consent to my test,” I said, taking the final step forward, bringing me within touching distance of the Warmaster.

  His smile faded instantly, his genial act dropping away. His eyes lit to amber, narrowing in a predatory way, his lips thinning in concentration. I unwrapped the covers from my left hand and forearm, dropping them on the ground. My other arm already had two marks.

  “Running out of space?” the Warmaster taunted, grabbing my hand and dragging me forward. “This is going to hurt a little bit.”

  I glanced beyond him, to the edge of the platform. Laerke had stepped forward, a protest at her lips that never sounded. If she suspected that the Warmaster was about to mark me, then she knew that my life was in danger … but was it so different to the fryktille? It was a miracle that Raekov had survived the pain of being tortured to death so many times.

  The Warmaster’s mark couldn’t be much worse.

  At first, it felt exactly like receiving anyone else’s mark. An initial, burning shock, followed by a stinging sensation … and then it was finished. A tiny, dagger-shaped symbol on my left wrist.

  I looked up, confused, searching the Warmaster’s eyes. They were bright and hot with anticipation, and when I opened my mouth to ask if it was over, he pressed his finger to the mark and my words turned to a scream. The pain was otherworldly. I could see through tear-filled eyes that my body was unharmed—though it had collapsed to the floor, and my limbs were convulsing. There was nothing actually wrong with me. I wasn’t on fire. I wasn’t bleeding. And yet, I could feel everything inside me burning in a strange, new type of fire. A fire with teeth; it tore flesh apart. A ravenous, hungry thing that ripped away the individual parts of me, connecting to make a whole. My lungs filled with embers. My throat shrank around fist-sized coal. My stomach digested licking flame. My heart melted. My ribcage cracked like a pile of blackened logs collapsing onto each other. Each individual eyelash singed from the root to the end.

  Everything sang with pain as black spots flashed over my vision. I wasn’t concerned about passing out and failing my test. I was concerned about dying. The pain was too much for my body. My mind was slipping, my breath was stuttering. Calder couldn’t interfere and save me. Not this time. This was my test, and I was failing it.

  I crawled forward, toward my tormentor, my hands clawed as I tried to drag my shuddering body to his boots. I was a dying person desperate for energy, for magic, for life, and here before me was a fount of it. I crawled, agonising inch by inch, until my hand was curled around his leg, my fingers ripping into the tops of his boot, fighting to find skin. He lifted his leg to kick me off, but I clung harder, every vestige of strength funnelled into the task, my weakening heart full of desperation, pulling toward him by a force I didn’t entirely understand.

  I finally touched skin, but the word that came to my lips was no use. Leevskmat wouldn’t give his life force to me, it would give mine to him. My grip weakened, the letters jumbling in my mouth, dancing around until they were reverse
d.

  With my final breath, I rasped out the word, my fingers slipping away.

  “Tamksveel.”

  15

  Contamination

  I couldn’t have been unconscious for very long, because when my eyes fluttered open again, I could hear the Warmaster growling for me to be dragged off the platform.

  “I’m fine,” I croaked, struggling to lift my head.

  Nobody heard me.

  I could feel hands wrapping hesitantly around my wrists and ankles, but I shoved them off, rolling onto my back.

  “I haven’t failed yet,” I said, a little louder, propping myself up on my elbows.

  I adopted a nonchalant, uncaring air, when in reality, I simply didn’t have the strength to lift my head even an inch higher. For effect, I crossed my ankles. I could have been relaxing in the sun.

  “Is that the whole test?” I directed the snide question to the Warmaster, who had retaken his seat, leaning back heavily against his chair.

  The gathered recruits gasped, some of them exclaiming angrily. It didn’t matter what the Warmaster did—he was a legend. He was the one person that every single one of them aspired to impress, to draw the attention of. His was the fierce face every Vold child daydreamed about as they lifted their wooden swords. And I had just disrespected him. As far as they cared, it was an honour to be tortured and almost killed by the likes of him.

  I had no idea if he was also playing at being unaffected, or if he was strong enough that I could steal his life force without affecting him too much. His eyes darkened, a storm rolling across his expression, his gaze narrowing as it swept disdainfully over me. Returning the expression to the best of my ability, I glanced at his fists, which had whitened, and then to the slight shake of his leg. He snarled, jumping to his feet, quick and smooth, completely without sign of injury, and I flinched back.

  “That’s all … for now,” he said, sweeping from the amphitheatre.