A Tempest of Shadows

by Washington, Jane

  There was a small passageway leading from the washroom to the sitting room, a door halfway down that I assumed led to a bedroom. As soon as I slipped into the corridor, I felt a hand on my shoulder, halting me. I turned my head enough to see the Inquisitor’s long, scarred fingers tapping against my skin.

  “It makes no difference.” His voice was low, his breath stirring the top of my head. “All the silk…” His finger slipped beneath the transparent strip of material looping over my shoulder. “All the perfume.” His touch moved up to the curve of my neck, and his head lowered further, his voice by my ear. “It still clings to you. It still fills your eyes. It still sings from your voice.”

  “What does?”

  “Death. No dress can hide your shadow.” He inhaled, his fingers falling from my neck to brush down my spine. “Fear and desperation,” he muttered, as though commenting on the scents added to my bath.

  He backed away, and I fought the urge to tear my dress off and use it to choke him. Mostly because I couldn’t reach his neck, but also because his words rang true. I was scared. I was desperate. I had been conditioned that way. I woke up each day fighting for my life and collapsed into sleep each night having spent every ounce of my strength—but there was something he couldn’t see.

  My fear was rebuilding me more powerful each day.

  I turned in time to see him disappear as easily as one might step through a doorway—except that he had stepped into air. I thought about how the Weaver had done the same thing. Neither of them had fiddled with a ring or spoken the name of their location. With a frown, I continued down to the sitting room, where a tray of food had been left at the table, a steward man informing me that I was to eat and then meet the Weaver downstairs, where the King was currently holding court. I sat down, pulling the tray toward me as the storm raged outside, rattling the windows. There were thick slices of brown bread topped by roasted sunflower seeds, a serving of chicken basted in lemon, butter, and sea salt, and a dish of vegetables tossed in roasted sprigs of rosemary. A second tray sat on a table by the door, housing tea and cakes.

  I stared at the heaping of food, spearing some of the chicken and pushing it past my lips with a groan. I wanted to eat all of it as quickly as possible, but I knew better. My stomach had grown accustomed to irregular, small amounts of food. I ate measured bites, chewing each one slowly, the flavours bursting on my tongue. All too soon, I was painfully full, and I pushed the tray away, eyeing the rest of the food wistfully. I wrapped the bread in a cloth napkin and hid it in the bundle of my clothing before going in search of the Weaver.

  It was surprisingly easy once I reached the lower levels of the keep, as the well-dressed sectorians of the court were all wandering in the same direction, their heads bent close together as they shot worried glances to the glass walls, which were holding up well against the raging storm. I followed a pair of women into the King’s court, but couldn’t make it past the doorway, my mouth dropping open in surprise. The whole hall was gold. Gold tiles underfoot; gigantic square pillars guarded the outer walls, panelled in gold filigree. Two lines of golden arches stretched along the side walls, intricate scenes painted within, gold foil shimmering from the details. A huge chandelier dropped between each pillar, casting flame over the paintings. I had never seen finery of the likes the men and women wore, and the more I looked, the more I was able to separate the people milling about before me. The Vold, predictably, showed more skin. The women wore dresses with transparent silk sections, like mine, or else hip-high slits or plunging necklines. The Vold men had discarded their jackets, vests, and other unnecessary layers. The Sinn seemed to like form-fitting clothing that nevertheless covered a lot of skin, with high collars, long skirts, and full sleeves. They were always graceful, and even seemed to hold their heads a little higher as they spoke to the other sectorians. There were dismally few Skjebre, or else they were blending in better than I expected. The Sjel were, predictably, draped in colour and expression, seductive with each of their movements. Their smiles were the brightest as they drew people to them like insects to a lamp. The Eloi, like the Skjebre, were difficult to discern, blending in as though they didn’t particularly want to be found.

  There was a stage to the left of the hall, where a small band of stewards played their instruments loud enough to drown out the storm outside, though the people in the room never seemed to quite forget about it. I even found myself glancing to the walls when a particularly loud roll of thunder shook the ground, expecting the arches upon the walls to start cracking apart.

  At the far end of the hall was another short platform, where a large chair sat beneath a curtained overhang that stretched almost the entire length of the back wall. Beneath the overhang were low velvet seats populated by women all in the same style of clothing—the barest wisps of silk, dripping in delicate chains and jewels. There were men present beneath the overhang, too. Some of them on the velvet seats, enjoying the company of what I was sure was the King’s harem—though others also stood along the back wall. I froze when I recognised Calder, his Sentinel cloak wrapped all the way around him, his hood drawn up, the golden eagle beak dropping over his forehead. Both gold and blue eyes were fixed ahead, staring blankly, his features set and firm. He was like a statue.

  I stumbled forward a step, but then paused as one of the King’s women approached him, her fingers splaying over his chest, her eyes peering up at him. He didn’t move, didn’t answer whatever question she had so sultrily asked of him.

  He may not have even been breathing.

  I started walking again, my eyes narrowing in on him, but a voice boomed louder than the others, carrying across the room and forcing me to halt again.

  “Tempest.”

  I swung my eyes to the speaker, who was standing by the base of the platform. The King was dressed in plain dark clothing, but the cloak that wrapped his shoulders was a deep blue lined in gold, patterned in exquisite stitching, trailing along the floor. His eyes narrowed on me, and I headed towards him. I didn’t stop until we were almost toe-to-toe, so that only he could see the insincerity in my eyes as I ducked into a curtsey.

  “I see you have accepted my gifts.” He glanced at my dress as I rose back to my feet, though no emotion showed in his expression.

  “The Weaver told me to change,” I replied.

  He smirked, knowing exactly what I was saying.

  This isn’t your day. You don’t own me right now. I was only obeying orders.

  “Vale.” He glanced to his side, and the Weaver approached, his shallow blue eyes drifting up the length of my legs visible beneath the sheer silk. He paused at my thighs, where the gold pieces were too close together to see my skin.

  “Vidrol,” he said. A greeting of sorts for the King, though he still stared at me.

  “Hasn’t the Tempest some kind of prize to claim tonight?” the King asked. “Being that she is standing before us. Alive.”

  “That’s right.” The Weaver’s eyes finally flicked up, narrowing on my face. “But she’s mine tonight, and I don’t spoil my servants. I only allowed her the bath and the dress because she was filthy.”

  “What a waste it would be now to have her stand in the wings. She must entertain us.”

  I winced, looking between them. The King was going to get his way, no matter whose “day” it was.

  “Do what you wish.” The Weaver was already dismissing me, turning to claim a seat on the platform. Almost immediately, two of the silk-swathed women fell to the floor by his seat, offering him food and drink.

  The King grabbed my hand, escorting me into the middle of the room. He looked every bit the polite gentlemen, though he was, in reality, almost dragging me, his grip like iron. He released me and stepped back, motioning to the band, which stopped playing immediately.

  “The storm has brought us a Tempest.” The King’s voice carried to the far walls, enunciated by the rumble outside. “You will dance for us,” he said, quieter this time, his eyes drifting away from me as he
turned and walked back to his seat beneath the overhang. The sectorians around me shuffled back, clearing the floor.

  Panic seized me.

  I didn’t know how to dance.

  I had faced far greater challenges, but with so many eyes on me and with the groan of the wind and the lash of the storm the only noise in the suddenly quiet hall, my palms were beginning to sweat in earnest. I sought out Calder, who stared back with empty eyes and unsmiling lips, as though he didn’t even recognise me, and I realised that I had never felt more isolated in my life.

  The King sat, flicked his hand, and the music picked up again, a slow pluck of the harp, a gentle teasing of the golii strings, the deeper hum of the gola. Each instrument was played on strings, but where the harp was large, the strings thick enough to tease with the fingers, the golii was laid out on the lap, sawed by bows of horsehair. The gola was a larger version of the golii, with a deeper drum to produce a deeper sound. It was placed on the floor, balanced between the knees.

  I closed my eyes, trying to imagine that I was atop Breakwater Canyon. I thought of the tease of smoke from the fire, and the tickle of grass beneath my bare feet. I breathed deeply, my eyes opening again … but it wasn’t the hall that I saw.

  It was smoke and stars, the night clear, the air salted from the sea. All around me, stewards gathered, coming together with tired, relieved smiles. Groupings of them huddled around about fires, excited for the travelling entertainers, begging for stories. Bodies twisted about me, wine-stained lips singing along to familiar, childhood songs. I wasn’t sure whether to smile or cry.

  I looked past the dancers and saw Calder, standing far away, standing against one of the traveller’s caravans as he had stood against the back wall of the King’s court.

  Dance, he mouthed at me, and I knew that I had pulled him into my mind again.

  I sucked in a breath of salt and smoke, joining the throng of stewards in dance. I was with them … but also separate. A lone thing communing with the stars and the grass, sucking in memory and exhaling absolution. It was another battle for me, and I fought it until I was spent, slipping from my mind and back to my body, sweat dusting my skin, my chest heaving as I opened my eyes in victory.

  The sectorians were clapping, but my attention was on the King, who had appeared in front of me and was pulling me into his arms. My first instinct was to run, but his right hand captured mine, his left hauling me up to his body, where I remained trapped. He began to move, to dance, and the surrounding people of the court all followed his lead, separating into pairs and swaying into the centre of the room.

  “Where did you go?” the King asked, his voice low, his eyes on mine.

  I stiffened a little, realising that he was … angry.

  “Nowhere.”

  With a brisk sound of frustration, he dropped my hand, holding my back with both of his. I was forced to lay my hands on his shoulders, though I was more resting them against his upper arms. He squeezed me, his fingers splaying, and I thought that he couldn’t possibly drag me any closer.

  “You’re becoming quite self-possessed,” he said. “You used to be so easy to rattle.”

  “Maybe you played with me too much.” My tone was even, further exemplifying his point.

  He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly, and one of his hands suddenly flashed up, cupping the side of my face, his thumb brushing up toward my lip.

  “I could force a reaction out of you yet, Tempest. Don’t forget that.” He stepped away almost immediately, and I rushed toward the side of the hall, hoping to escape before he could make good on his threat.

  The last thing I needed was for my soul mark to burn through my hard-won good sense. I had almost made it to the small side door that I had spotted to the right of the King’s platform when a large body stepped into my path. The Weaver. I stopped, staring at his chest, waiting.

  “You may sleep in the room we occupied earlier,” he told me. “Don’t return to the barracks until the morning.” With those words, he left me, and I chanced one last glance over my shoulder, hoping to see Calder … but he was gone.

  I returned to the room with a heart of lead, hoping to see a golden-eyed Sentinel step out from every shadow, and pushed into my room humming with disappointment. What was he up to?

  I shoved off the dress and found a slip already folded on the end of the bed. It was a more comfortable silk, ending in a soft ripple at my thighs. I climbed into the bed and closed my eyes, still thinking of him.

  My friend.

  My Blodsjel.

  “What are you up to?” I whispered, aloud this time, turning my face into the pillow.

  At first, I dreamed of dark things. Of velvety tendrils of disease eating away at the earth, spreading to the flesh, and sinking into our minds. I thought of the storm shaking the glass windows, imagining it ripping apart the room as it had ripped apart the Weaver’s hut … but then something changed. I felt a pressure on my lips, a memory of something painful and exciting, a kiss I had dreaded but which I needed. I thought of the look in Calder’s bright blue eye as he had ripped open my bodysuit, drawing back only far enough to see my own eyes as his fingers lit upon my waist.

  I woke up with a pounding heart and a stinging lip, my head cloudy, my mouth dry. I croaked out a curse, my eyes darting around the room.

  The soul mark.

  My hand flew to my lips, shame and horror chasing away the lingering feelings from my dream. I missed Calder, and the soul mark had twisted those feelings into a yearning of a different sort. I began to sit up, but there was a note on my chest, tucked into my curled fist. I slowly unfurled my fingers, straightening out the paper.

  The river. Dawn.

  19

  Aftermath

  Calder had been in my room. I must have heard him, or maybe even smelt him. It was why my dreams had suddenly turned to him. I launched out of the bed and tore off the shift, finding my clothes from the day before already laundered and folded at the end of the bed. The tears in the material had been stitched up, the bloodstains soaked out. They were like new again.

  I pulled on my boots last and tore into the bread from the night before as I twisted the ring and spoke of the place I wanted to go. I only said “the river,” but focussed my thoughts carefully on the exact location where we had stopped during our training the morning before. Luckily, the ring dropped me by the bank, and I trudged into the cover of trees, trying to escape the steady deluge of rain. I spotted Calder’s broad back. He had left off the Sentinels’ cloak, but had donned a jacket instead, his usually bare upper shoulders and chest covered.

  He turned when he heard me approaching, and I stopped, needing to raise my voice so that he would hear me.

  “What have you done, Calder?”

  He walked toward me slowly, taking me in with a serious look on his face.

  “Defend yourself, Ven.” He pulled out two of the long daggers attached at his hip, twirling them both around once, before flicking them up, holding them against the backs of his forearms.

  “But—”

  “There’s no time,” he growled, springing at me.

  We fought for an hour, him barely breaking a sweat while I was thrown into the ground, a dagger at my neck every few minutes. Whenever I tried to speak to him, he increased his efforts, until I was soon gasping so deeply for breath that I couldn’t have summoned a single word. When the hour was up, he turned and jumped onto his horse, leaving me in the mud without a single word of farewell. I groaned, rolling over to my side and spitting up blood before I crawled to the nearest tree and collapsed against it.

  I trusted him.

  Whatever he was doing … I trusted him. Not because I wanted to, but because I needed to.

  I twisted my ring, saying, “Hearthenge,” and tumbled straight into the hall in the middle of the barracks, knocking into at least two people. They steadied me and then jumped away from me in shock. They were both recruits—all of them seemed to have gathered in the hall, and a wave off whispering
broke out amongst them now, several heads snapping my way. Frey and Bjern pushed through the crowd toward me.

  “You look terrible,” Frey noted, raising her voice over the pounding of rain overhead.

  “Training,” I grunted out, not even bothering to prevent the words from spilling in answer to her strange influence.

  “For the Legionnaire battle?” she asked.

  “Yes.” I shook my head a little. “What happened last night?”

  “We were all called to the hall to watch your feast,” Bjern replied, though he looked highly amused. “When you didn’t show, my father got quite mad. You’re not supposed to turn your nose up at your rewards, Tempest.”

  “Lavenia,” I replied reflexively.

  “Lavenia.” He nodded. “Anyway, we were called here again this morning.”

  “I can’t stay long. Do you have any idea what he has in store for us today?”

  “Because you’re in service to the great masters?” Frey asked, though she didn’t seem to require an answer, as she simply kept talking. “I’ve been listening to the gossip around the marketplace. Apparently, they fought over claiming you at your trial, and decided to split your service up between them. You’ve been seen with the Scholar and the Inquisitor, and we’ve seen how the Warmaster gives you attention ourselves. It must be true.”

  I blinked at her. “It must be.”

  “Really tactful,” Bjern muttered, rolling his eyes.

  “Recruits!” Bern’s voice boomed from the entrance, drawing our attention that way. “Your task today is one of great importance. The storms have ravaged the homes along the lower reaches of Sectorian Hill, the occupants relocated to Hearthenge estates where others have generously offered to house them. You will each be assigned two houses, and you must gather their personal effects and bring them here to be sorted within the day. You may each take a horse from the main stables, but that’s all you’ll be provided. Come forth and collect your assignments.”