The Sentry

by Lyssa Morasey

  “Try changing shape now,” Fenella suggests.

  Keira looks down at her cuffed wrist, then back up at us. “I can’t,” she says quietly, narrowing her eyes.

  Fenella smiles at her confusion. “Your Nixan priests may be the only ones with Old Magic,” she says, “but the rest of us still have some tricks up our sleeves. It’s a form chain—as long as it’s locked around your wrist, it’ll keep you from shifting.”

  Keira’s mouth opens halfway; she closes it, shuts her eyes and balls up her fists, but still she can’t shift. Fenella’s smile stretches all the way up to her eyes.

  “Did you know we had that thing?” Baz whispers in my ear. I shake my head; I wonder what other magical relics Fenella has hiding around her office.

  Keira bites her lip and crosses her arms in defeat. “Okay, you win,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Good.” Fenella pulls two fire-guns out from underneath her desk and throws them to Baz and me. I catch mine between my palms and slip the hot steel weapon into the holder on my belt. “Time for the council meeting, then.”

  The four of us take another elevator ride back down a floor to the council room. I’ve been in this room before, but only a few times. It’s big and circular, with twenty senior officers seated around a round table in the center like King Arthur’s knights. Basil’s dad—Cesil Kinscey, tall and stern and scarred—is among them; as soon as we enter, his eyes flit to me with an accusation I’m quite familiar with: What have you gotten my son into this time, Doorstep? All the other officers’ eyes go immediately to Keira.

  “You brought her inside,” one of them murmurs.

  “She’s not a threat,” Fenella assures him, closing the council room door behind her and circling the table until she reaches her seat in the back. “She’s alone.”

  “I don’t understand,” another says. “How did she get here, across the Appalachian Line?”

  Keira steps forward, the chain jangling between us. “I wasn’t stopped by anyone,” she says simply. “That’s how.”

  “Yes.” Fenella’s amber gaze sweeps across the officers before falling on one in particular. “I would like for you to answer that one, Sherah.”

  Sherah sits up and clears his throat, a little blush rising to his cheeks. I know him—he’s friends with Basil’s parents, and the supervisor for our border guards. “I have no more of an answer than you do,” he assures Fenella. “No shifter registered on the aura detectors at any of our border stations.”

  “Nothing showed up on the detector in the security office, either,” Basil adds tentatively.

  Fenella nods to Keira. “Would you care to explain, then, how you’ve come to have no aura?”

  Keira shrugs. “Maybe you should find yourselves some new detectors. I have an aura; you just saw me shift a few minutes ago.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” one of the officers, a gray-haired old man, rasps. “What is a Sentry doing here in our headquarters?”

  Keira purses her lips, lifts her chin. “I’m not a Sentry anymore,” she corrects him. “I defected. I want to help you fight the Nixans.”

  The room goes pin-drop quiet at that. Several of the officers shift in their seats, and Fenella’s eyes narrow into slits. “No shifter has defected to our side since the Nixan War began,” she says.

  No one alive knows exactly when the war began, but it was sometime back when the Romans were still around, and it’s never let up since. Even today, while the Senex fuss over drilling rights and deficits, the Nixans and Wardens and their allies are locked in a silent battle for world domination. If you look at the right maps—Novan ones—the whole planet is either Nixan or Warden land, except for India and Antarctica and a tiny piece of Ireland. Ireland and India are where the neutral Novans live—the avians and jnani—and even the Nixans haven’t bothered to worry about Antarctica.

  “Then I could be extra useful,” Keira says. “When was the last time a Warden crossed the Appalachians and survived?” More silence. “I lived in New Fauske for ten years; I know everything there is to know about the Nixans and Sentries. I know Fenris Loraveire’s favorite kind of wine and what kinds of movies Caphian likes to go see when he’s off-duty.” The names she gives send needles down my spine. Fenris Loraveire is Nixan nobility, and Caphian is the sadistic commander of his Sentries. Both names are profanity to Wardens.

  Basil’s dad leans forward, turning so that the thick scar down his cheek shines in the dim light. The sight of it reminds me of the Massacre; a new wave of hatred for the shifter standing next to me turns my stomach. “A Sentry would be a significant asset,” he says, “but only a loyal one. How do we know the Nixans haven’t sent her to study our bunker and return to New Fauske with all our secrets?” His question sends a low murmur rolling around the table.

  Fenella raises a hand for silence. “For now she is attached by form chain to Westrey Dorsan, and unable to shift. If the council allows her to stay, she will remain chained to him until our meeting next month, when we can reevaluate.”

  What? I never agreed to that. I open my mouth to protest, but Fenella silences me with a glare from across the room. “That’s an order.” Basil shoots me a pitying look; I dig my heel into his toes in response. “You may keep the fire-gun I gave you and use it on her if necessary.”

  Fenella and the council go on to discuss logistics and arrangements, but I can no longer pay any attention. Anger heats my insides until the tips of my fingers are on fire. Of all the Wardens in the Boston bunker, I am the one stuck with the shifter. And only because I happened to be on security duty when she showed up, and because Fenella wouldn’t dare piss off one of her officers by giving her to Basil. It isn’t fair.

  I really hope the council votes to blow her brains out.

  Once every question and opinion has been brought to the table, the officers debate amongst themselves for a couple of minutes, arguing over Keira’s fate. I glance over at her, a few feet off to my right. She stands still and poised, but I notice beads of sweat collecting on her brow, and her eyes are raised in what must be a silent prayer to Nixa, the goddess that all the Nixan allies drool over.

  Finally, Fenella motions for the discussion to end. “Those in favor of allowing the shifter to remain, provided that she is tethered to a Warden at all times?” Twelve hands shoot up in response. Damn it.

  Keira lets out a soft sigh, too quiet for anyone but me to hear.

  “It’s decided, then,” Fenella says. “The shifter will live here in the bunker with us. Tomorrow she will meet with the council and myself and provide us with the information we request. I will make an announcement tonight authorizing any Warden who finds her unchained to shoot her down immediately.” She looks to Keira, who gives her a simple shrug in response.

  The Chief Warden ends the meeting and the council files out, giving my new prisoner a wide berth. I wait with Basil and Keira until everyone else is gone so that I can talk to Fenella about her decision to stick me with the Sentry. Keira shouldn’t be my problem; I didn’t vote to let her stay in the bunker.

  Fenella slinks back around the abandoned table to speak with us. “Put out your fingers,” Basil hisses. They’re still on fire. I wipe the flames off on my jeans like they’re grease stains.

  Fenella stops right in front of me, frowning slightly. “You aren’t very happy about this, are you?”

  Well, at least she’s being point-blank about it. “I just think there might be someone better.” Like you, maybe? “I’m only seventeen. I mean, I’m flattered, of course, but I don’t know how to deal with a Sentry.”

  Fenella tilts her head to the side. “You’ve taken your Warden’s vows, haven’t you? You’ve had a decade’s worth of training. Surely you’re qualified enough to handle an unarmed shifter girl.” Keira makes a face at me, a smug little smile twisting her lips. I really, really wish the council had voted to blow her brains out.

  “But what about school? And my job?” I can’t walk around Boston with a girl chain
ed to my side—I don’t think the Sen police would be sympathetic to the situation. “I can’t just pretend to be sick for a whole month.”

  “You can,” Fenella says. “One of our doctors will figure it out. And Basil can cover your work shifts, can’t he?” She lifts her chin to indicate Baz beside me.

  I glance over; he shakes his head vigorously. Too bad. If I’m going to be stuck with Keira for four weeks, at least I won’t be alone in the suffering. “I guess so.” Baz gives me a look that says I’m going to kill you for this.

  “Excellent.” Fenella’s attention returns to Keira. “You can show her around tonight. Dinner bell will be in about twenty minutes, and she can sleep with you in your room.” She hands me Keira’s Solas phone. “I’ll leave you in charge of this. If anyone calls, you tell a senior officer immediately, understand?”

  I slip the phone into my pocket, the one with the fire-iron key. “Yeah.”

  Fenella nods, and her voice goes unusually soft. “I’m trusting you, Westrey. You have always been a strong and loyal Warden, in spite of everything that happened with your sister. I have faith in you.”

  I want to tell Fenella that she’s wrong—what happened to Freya makes me one of the least suitable Wardens to babysit a Sentry. But praise from the Chief Warden is hard to come by, especially for someone like me, and I know that Fenella isn’t going to change her mind now. So I take the compliment and let her leave without protest.

  “No way,” Baz says once she’s gone. “You have a six-hour shift after school next Tuesday. That’s insane; I’m not covering that for you.”

  “It’s either that,” I say, rattling the chain locked to my wrist, “or the shifter. I’m willing to trade.”

  “The shifter is not a nameless commodity,” Keira butts in.

  Baz pretends to consider the offer. “Have it your way,” he says. “I’ll stick with the extra time at Starbucks.”

  “You’d pick coffee over a pretty girl?” Keira says incredulously. “What kind of teenage boy are you?”

  “A smart one,” I reply. Basil snorts; I spin around and yank on the form chain as hard as I can. “Come on, shifter—we’re going for a walk.”

  26 September: Cassatia

  Being Nixan nobility certainly has its ups and downs.

  You get all the precious stones and fancy dresses the world has to offer, but you can’t be caught dead with a cell phone. You get to live in a castle the size of Switzerland, but you can’t set foot outside without an armed escort. You’re waited on hand and foot by groveling servants, but you’re not allowed a single friend.

  Well, I guess I’ve kind of broken that last rule.

  It’s a beautiful New Fauske Saturday evening, one I’d like to spend outside skating figure-eights across the frozen pond behind the castle or running around in the snow with Rhody or jealously watching Keira fly loop-de-loops above my head. Instead I must spend it locked in my room, sawing away at my violin on Winter Hymn No. 6. It’s a piece that was composed by one of my great-great-uncles back when Hitler was still alive, and my music tutor wants me to have it down to memory by tomorrow.

  Violin practice was a lot more fun when Keira was my maidservant. She liked to listen to me play, even if she’d never say so, and I never turned down an opportunity to show off to her. Now I only play because my father would kill me if I stopped.

  Someone knocks hesitantly on my door. “Come in,” I call, cutting the music off abruptly and setting down my bow.

  In steps Phoebe, dressed in a servant’s frock with her golden locks pulled back behind her shoulders. She’s been my maidservant ever since Keira left for the Sentry trials a couple years ago.

  Phoebe bows her head and curtsies, which I suppose is a bit of an improvement. At least I’ve gotten her to stop calling me my lady all the time.

  “What is it, Phoebe?”

  “I’m sorry, miss—Diana wanted me to remind you that your dinner with the duke is at six.”

  Damn it. I have dinner with my father every Saturday, but somehow I’d still managed to forget about it. “What time is it now?”

  “About five-thirty.” Phoebe eyes me uncertainly. “Do you want me to help you prepare?”

  I wave her off. “No, that’s all right. I can get ready myself.” Knowing better than to argue, she ducks out of the room with another quick curtsy.

  I slump back against my bed with a sigh. “For the love of the Goddess.” Our Saturday dinners are about the only time I see my father and brother, but I’m starting to think that once a week is once too often. The older I get, the stricter my father gets. Don’t wear your hair like that. Hold your chin up higher. Your clothes are too tight. Maybe I should’ve let Phoebe help me dress, if only so that I could have someone else to blame for whatever he finds wrong with me today.

  I play for a few more minutes, working out the kinks in a particularly difficult section of the hymn, then return my violin to its case so I can pretty myself up. From my closet—itself about as big as a bedroom should be—I pick out a pleated skirt and a blouse that I hope will help bring out the blue in my eyes. I fasten a gold chain around my neck, too; I always make sure to wear a necklace whenever I dress up for anything. If my neck is bare, my father will ask why I’m not wearing my mother’s pendant, and I don’t have an acceptable answer to that question. “I gave it to my secret shifter friend” probably wouldn’t go over too well with him.

  I slip on some shoes and make my way up three floors’ worth of spiraling stairs to the reception room in the castle’s east tower, where I’m supposed to meet my father after he’s through with his weekly conference. For the comfort of the duke’s delegates, the upper east tower is one of the warmest parts of the castle, “warmest” meaning “above freezing.” The conference room where they’re meeting is one floor up; the staircase leading up to it lies behind a heavy stone door, guarded now by two Sentries standing at attention. Both of them acknowledge my entrance with deep bows.

  The walls of the reception room are circled by a giant gilded tapestry depicting the coming of Nixa twenty-two hundred years ago: the Goddess herself, woven deftly into the fabric, tall and regal in a snow-white dress; little Nixans, her chosen people, kneeling before her; a phoenix hanging limp between the jaws of Katyri, Nixa’s winged wolf. The reception table has already been prepared for our meal—a large plate of gingersnaps has been placed in the middle, and three ornate silver chairs have been set out at one end of it. My little brother Aren is already in his place, his arms folded tightly and his legs dangling neatly beneath him. In the chair across from his—my chair—there sits a white puffball of a dog. I sigh.

  “I tried to get him to move,” Aren says apologetically.

  “Down, Rhody,” I order, snapping my fingers and pointing to the ground. The dog gives me an annoyed look before jumping underneath the table.

  I brush the fur off my seat, adjust my skirt, sit down, cross my legs at the ankles, and hold myself up as straight as I can. I take a cookie between two fingers and nibble on it as daintily as possible.

  Aren and I don’t talk—we hardly ever do. I snack, and he watches.

  After a good five minutes of waiting, the guarded stone door is drawn back and the Sentries step aside with bows. A long train of councilmen files out, led by Professor Fayeren, chancellor of the Royal Academy. He side-eyes me as he passes my seat on his way out of the reception room; I turn away guiltily, blushing.

  After the councilmen come the delegates for the Nixan allies—Caphian for the shifters, of course, and a Sylvan and Shade. I never bothered to learn the names of the last two; other than Caphian, the delegates change each month so that every Shade camp and Sylvan village can be represented at some point or another. This month’s Sylvan is a bear-sized thirty-something man with weeds and twigs laced through his hair, and the Shade is a tallish woman with Shade-purple locks and combat boots.

  The Nixans have four Novan orders as allies—the shifters, the Sylvans and Shades, and the llyrsi, who don’t
live in our province. Each of them has been allied with us for centuries; the Shades, the only Novans native to this continent, were our last addition nearly five hundred years ago. Our agreement with them is pretty simple: they provide us with whatever we need—food from the Sylvans, guards and soldiers from the shifters, money from the llyrsi, everything else from the Shades—and in return, we grant them protection from the Wardens and places to live away from Sen eyes. Nixan priests can use Old Magic to hide huge tracts of land from the Senex—New Fauske, for example, sits in the middle of Nal Ferris State Forest, which would be only a pinprick on any Sen’s map of Idaho but is in fact big enough to hold ninety-nine percent of the American Nixan population, enormous castle included.

  The duke Fenris Loraveire—my father—follows out the ally delegates, with the High Priestess Evana hanging from his arm. Bile rises in my throat at the sight of them pressed together; I have to swallow to keep it down.

  Evana is, I’ve always thought, the most beautiful woman in New Fauske. She looks like every other Nixan—light blonde hair, pale skin, blue eyes—but she wears the coloring better than anyone else I’ve seen. She is dressed in the fine white silk that all of Nixa’s priests have to wear, and the fabric clings to her figure in a way that highlights her hips and curves unfairly well.

  “I have to leave you,” my father says to her, clearing his throat and wiping away his half-smile. “My children are waiting.” He glances down and fiddles with the bond-ring around his finger.

  “Of course, Fenris,” the Priestess says, slipping her arm out of his. I smirk; Evana is one of the only people who can get away with calling my father by his first name. She curtsies to the three of us before exiting after the rest of the party with a graceful whirl of fabric. Underneath her intricate bun of hair, I catch the gleam of a thin scar etched into the nape of her neck, marking where the ice-glass stone she uses to channel Old Magic was inserted. Nixan healers can heal any scar, of course, but the priests and priestesses like to keep their ice-glass scars intact as a point of pride.