by Dawn Peers
Back in the safety of her home, away from the bustle of the streets, she could stop concentrating, thinking about the world and keeping her mind distracted, and let herself wonder back into the here and now. Everfell’s castle gardens did not house drunkards, and only saw fights when the king hosted the annual tourney; a cause for joy and celebration, not a disgraceful spat in the street where two men simply acted like a pair of alley cats.
Quinn glanced up at the imposing grey granite structure, its walls smooth, painfully carved and slowly stacked into the sky over many years by Everfell’s finest craftsmen. Her heart crested and fell like a petal riding a wave. This was her home. But this home came with a price that, as she became older, she was beginning to resent paying.
There were a lot of stairs to climb, and Sammah was waiting.
5
Sammah’s long fingernails drummed impatiently on the tarnished tabletop, the thin tapping noise the only sound breaking the tense silence in the room. His usually smooth face was creased by an ugly line across his forehead arching down between his eyebrows into a frown. Even his jet black hair, usually so pristine pulled back in its tight high ponytail, gave him away, strands of hair fraying around his temples where he’d been rubbing them with his palms, and loose hair sitting over his forehead. Sammah rounded on his heel as someone creaked the door tentatively open. Sirah, his aide and lover, slithered into the room keeping her eyes on the floor. She had worked for Sammah in one capacity or another since she had been just twelve, and she knew without asking when her master was in a foul mood.
“Still no sign of her?”
Despite herself, Sirah flinched. “No, baron. No one has seen her since this morning.”
“She needs to be back for her duties tonight. I didn’t let her rest enough before I sent her out today, and I can’t put off sending her back to Ross for another night. She’s going to be working through the night. She’ll be dead on her feet before the end of it.”
“Listen to you, the dutiful caregiver all of a sudden,” Sirah purred, sashaying over to Sammah and wrapping her arms over her shoulder, clasping her hands behind his neck “Since when have you cared how hard you work your orphans?”
Sammah scowled, though his eyes danced at her affections. “You know I have to be careful with Quinn. She’s harder to manage than the others, and it’s getting worse with age, if starts to find out she can….”
Sammah pushed Sirah back as if she were on fire, as someone burst through the unlocked door. It wasn’t Quinn, as they had feared, it was Maertn. He was wheezing, and bent over double as he skidded to a stop in the centre of the room. He had likely been helter-skeltering around the entire castle looking for Quinn. He’d be in pieces not being able to find her, not knowing where she was for any period of time, so soon after what had happened in the Great Hall. Sammah was pleased that Maertn still instinctively turned to Sammah and Sirah first, when he needed to question Quinn’s whereabouts. If anyone else knew that Quinn disappeared for hours on end into the city on errands for the baron, awkward questions would begin that Sammah would want to avoid answering. Using Quinn as his inquisitor, Sammah was the one that asked questions, not one of the masses that was forced to bend his will and answer to others.
Maertn looked up at them pitifully, his body bent over and his hands on his knees as he tried to talk between taking in big gulps of air. Sirah waved him down, smoothly stepping in before Sammah could start with one of his infamous tirades, feared throughout the court.
“We don’t know where she is yet either little herbman. She went out to the market today. Sammah gave her a rest morning out of the castle, after what happened to her. When you see her, let her know that she’s late, though. You both know what that means. She’s not to hang around, you understand? She comes straight here.”
Sirah pointed firmly down at the ground. Maertn looked directly at the spot, nodding dumbly at Sirah’s voice, which was hinted at beauty as deadly as a silken noose. The apprentice in herb lore, all elbows and knees, adjusting to his adult height, scuttled out of the room. Sammah gave an exaggerated sigh. Sirah rolled her eyes before forcing her face neutral and turning to face him and his restrained wrath.
“I’m not letting you beat your apprentices whenever you get the chance. It’s not healthy.”
“Discipline is good for them; it keeps the mind clear. Physical discipline even more so,” Sirah stated, purring again. “I didn’t mean for them, my love. I meant for you.” She stroked a loose strand back behind his ear, tracing her finger down his jawline, letting her thumb settle on his lower lip. She wasn’t used to Sammah looking dishevelled. It was unnerving. She wanted to restore his sense of calm, reclaiming the man he usually was. “I don’t know why you keep up with all these throwaway children. They take up too much of your time. You’re an important man.”
Sammah almost sank in to her words. He certainly felt like he could let the world go for a time; forget his tasks, that he needed to go and meet with the king before the council got a chance to get their claws in to him tomorrow; forget the tight leash that he had to keep Quinn on; forget the new orphans they had found scattered around the eight kingdoms, all waiting in backstreet inns around Everfell for a meeting with him and a chance at a new life. He shook his head, dispelling the sensual fog Sirah was weaving around him. There was never time for rest. There was always something that needed his attention. Sirah was his wife in waiting, and he didn’t even trust her enough to let her work independently of his network of personally-chosen bodyguards.
Delegation wasn’t something Sammah had mastered. Strict organisation and iron will however, was. The nobility of Sha’sek did not produce layabouts, and he was not going to be the first son of his island to put his family’s hard-earned reputation to the sword.
With a force of iron will, Sammah put his hand on Sirah’s shoulders, and gently pushed her back. She didn’t resist him, instead giving him a disappointed pout. She was used to his mood swings. You didn’t pursue a man like Sammah casually. Being the consort of a noble was a lifelong commitment, with the precarious chance that the baron still may not choose to wed her, leaving her completely destitute on his death. She was willing to wait and take that gamble. Stuck here in Everfell, there was no one else vying for Sammah’s affections, and the court here held more power and intrigue for him than any of the city states of Sha’sek could manage. There, he was a middle son of a lesser house. Here, he was in a position of unrivalled strength. Her only real competition for Sammah were those damned orphans. Sammah held those dice tight in his hands though; she didn’t know what any of their abilities were. She only knew he was collecting them together. Like the king still kept soldiers, their drills on the dirty training grounds now serving no more purpose beyond muscular rote, they would still be there should they be required. It was better to keep your sword sharp and by your side, than leave it to rust in your cupboard. These were tense times. Any weapon to hand was best if kept honed and sharp. Sammah was honing his orphans. What Sirah didn’t know, was what he intended to do with them.
Quinn, the eldest of the children, with the exception of the gangly herbman, was the most troubling to Sirah. She was Sammah’s most precious pet and, as far as the man favoured anyone, his favourite child. He had collected around a dozen now, all in placements either in Everfell or one of the other seven castles around the country. Being the only Sha’sek noble in the land had lent Sammah a certain amount of influence to begin with. However, the way he had leveraged a rudimental position of a court adviser, into a powerful hand in the running of the country, had been astonishing. She wasn’t blind to his activities though, and knew for certain that Quinn was playing a part in this. Sirah had no idea what Quinn’s ability was, only that she, like all of the children Sammah showed an interest in, had one. All of Sammah’s proteges could do something exceptional compared to the normal children around them.
That told Sirah he was tracking down orphans of foreign descent left on this side of the desert.
Many Sha’sek were blessed at birth with additional capabilities beyond the normal human remit. Some talents were innocuous. Her own brother had been able to hold his breath underwater for astonishing lengths of time. Contrary to familial intentions, he had become a musician. Friends at her school had shown incredible feats of memory or strength. One boy cried blood. Sirah hadn’t know this until he fell over once when they were playing chase through the tight streets of the town. Everyone had clustered around him, horrified to see his face and chest covered in blood. Most had run off, petrified that they would be implicated in some accidental death. Sirah, nauseous beyond words, but aware the boy wasn’t screaming with otherworldly agony, had stayed with him whilst his parents were fetched. Once his tears had been dried and his face wiped down, she could see that the boy had suffered naught more than a scraped knee. Sirah didn’t have an ability that she knew of. Perhaps it was seduction. Certainly, clinging on to the coat tails of Sammah’s success was her only chance of achieving a position of wealth in her life.
Largely speaking, abilities became more significant, primarily through being more useful, the higher up the echelons you travelled. Sha’sek did hold heredity in high regard, but not as much as the culture here in Everfell. You could be challenged for your rule in Sha’sek, without bloodshed, and overruled. This had benefits; you weren’t going to be stabbed in the back during the night for your titles and your wealth. But you did spend most of your career dancing on the double-edged blade of popularity. Many of the crowds either side would be baying for you to fall and bleed. Most politicians did fall, eventually. Very few of the families ruling in the city states now had been there for more than a decade. Powerful families generally held powerful positions, and that would always be true; the changing factor would be how long they kept those posts, and what position of power those posts represented. Quinn was essential to Sammah’s own plans and until she knew why, Sirah would not be able to like the girl, never mind trust her with the career of her man and her own future stability.
It didn’t help that Sirah didn’t know what Sammah’s ability was, either.
She had asked him, once. He had beaten her black and blue for her insolence. He had told her then, in no uncertain terms, that she was lucky to be his consort and shouldn’t ask questions beyond her station. She had asked him what her station was. He hadn’t answered her, just looked disappointed. The look of disappointment had been worse than the lash of his belt. In his eyes then there had been an emptiness—a coldness that left her knowing without a single dash of doubt that Sammah would cast her aside if she gave him so much as a vague reason to do so. She wasn’t irreplaceable. She was convenient. She had spent the rest of her life from that point on making sure he never felt the need to be disappointed with her again.
As Sirah tried to think what to say to him next—how to possibly bring him down from this tense apex without being able to use her body as her primary weapon—Quinn walked quietly through the door. She dropped her hood. Her face, like the mercenaries Sammah hired to guard her, showed no emotion. Quinn shook her head a little, eyeing Sirah as if trying to work out why she was here, in this room and in the way of a meeting with her father. Sirah shuddered at the apathy Quinn showed her. So like Sammah, even without the slightest chance of a blood tie to the man that sponsored her. Sammah placed a gentle hand on Sirah’s shoulder. Without a further word, or meeting eye contact with either of them, she left. Rejected for Quinn. Again.
6
Sammah knotted his fingers together until his knuckles turned white. He centred himself as Sirah left the room, working hard not to shout. Quinn abhorred anger. It made her dizzy. She had walked in once when Sirah was berating one of her maids, and had passed out. Sammah hadn’t allowed Sirah near to Quinn for any extended period of time since then. He tried to make himself remain neutral too, for nothing put platonic and professional interests. He had nothing to fear from Quinn’s abilities, but she was fragile right now, and he needed to keep her as healthy as possible whilst other lords were going to be in residence.
“Where have you been today?”
Quinn pursed her lips and looked slightly confused. A crease showed in between her brows. Deception wasn’t one of her strong points. For an empath, she was incredibly vulnerable, emotionally. Sammah had been delighted when he’d stumbled across her. She was so malleable. That might not have been the case if she’d been older, but there again, with the peculiar behaviours exhibited by most empaths through history, she wouldn’t have made it much further through life without his intervention. Empaths without guidance usually ended up killing themselves, either by chance or choice.
“I was questioning, like you asked. What have I done wrong?”
“It’s not that you’d done anything wrong, my child. But you were missing for a long time. We were worried about your safety. You know that the tasks you do for me are exceptional, beyond your usual work. I can’t excuse you from your tasks in the castle because of that. You’re not going to get any sleep tonight, you know.”
Quinn bit her lip and looked down, nodding her head sadly. Sammah cusped his hand around her chin, gently lifting her head so that she was forced to meet his questioning gaze. He didn’t see any guilt there. Worryingly, he did not see any fear either. But she was upset, that much was evident. She didn’t understand why he was angry with her, as she had only been following his instructions. The last time she had returned from one of her errands late, a brawl at a bar and a party in the next street had hemmed her in like a trapped fox. The vortex of emotions pulsing through the streets had forced her to remain away and hidden until the chaos subsided. That had been near dawn, and she had missed her duties in the castle. Sammah had covered for her, at the cost of his own credibility. Quinn had been beaten for that transgression. She had been eight-years-old.
Sammah dropped his hand and pulled Quinn in to an awkward hug. This hollow gesture was the only way he had of expressing to her that he felt no malice. The gesture was unrefined and he was relieved that she wouldn’t be able to sense any of his discontent or underlying ill will. He almost pushed her away to end it, shooing her out of the room and instructing her to go and report for her castle duties immediately, and therefore at least three glasses early. No sleep for Quinn tonight, guaranteed.
When his door closed he relished the silence left in his room for mere seconds. There was no time for dawdling, never a moment that deserved to be used for rest. He already derided the times he had to spend asleep, and kept these sparse, spread throughout the day. There had been a boy back in Sha’sek that could live without sleep—oh how he envied such a talent! How much more could he master if he wasn’t debilitated by the limitations of normal humankind? No matter, for now. One day he would conquer the spirits of sleep themselves. For now, Sammah settled with seating himself at his desk, rustling through various reports coming in from around the kingdom on the talented being found at each of the cities.
They weren’t always orphans, not when Sammah found them. But by the time Sammah came to save them, he would be the only option they had left in this world.
7
Ross was surprised to see her arrive so early, and pleasantly so. Quinn had been petrified at coming back late and having to answer Sammah’s questions, but she supposed one of the guards had already made it back before her and somehow gave sign that the questioning had been a success. She knew that being sent to work early was a light form of punishment, and to go against Sammah’s orders would put her in much worse trouble. A loss of sleep was neither here nor there, every so often. Those times she went to bed completely and utterly exhausted, she imagined that she almost slept like a normal person did. No nightmares. No tumultuous dreams from the minds around her seeping into her own nightmares like an unwelcome ghoul slinking into her soul.
Quinn shuddered. Almost reflexively, the chamberlain closed a nearby window, thinking her cold. His concern for her willowed out from his body, and she calmed down again. Ross, Everfell’s stalwart chamber
lain, for as long as Quinn had ever known, was a pleasant man when he wanted to be. To many he was a domineering nightmare of a character, standing at well over six feet tall and perhaps almost as wide. He knew every spare inch of Everfell and he needed to, especially at times like this, when all of the lords would be converging on the city for the annual court. It was a regular affair in the Everfell calendar, and in times of tentative peace still as every bit important as the times it used to serve as a council of war. Not all the lords attended the council proper, but much other business was conducted at this time. Sometimes, if the year had been prosperous, Vance declared an unexpected tourney. Quinn always secretly wished for this. She had the run of the castle to herself when the tourney was on, able to hide in the bathing rooms completely alone, whilst the minds of many rioted far away, where she could not sense them.
Ross's voice bellowed—at his size, Quinn didn’t really think he could help it. There was no malice hidden behind those words though, so she did not flinch like the other night maids. She just stood there, watching and listening calmly.
