The Sentry

by Lyssa Morasey

  I begin digging through the folders, finding maps of the Novan world, old battle plans, and compiled information on different Warden leaders, but no records on Sentries or patrols.

  Behind me, Rhody gives a low growl. “Quiet,” I snap, shining my flashlight at him. He doesn’t notice; his ears are drawn back, his tail down. He growls again.

  “I’ll have to shut the door if you keep that up.” I don’t want to—Caphian’s office door looks heavy, and would probably make a louder and more suspicious noise than Rhody’s growling if I closed it.

  Giving up on the bookshelf, I check behind the altar. Here there are a few common prayers, for luck and strength and victory in battle, but still no Sentry records.

  Rhody follows up his next growl with a throaty bark. “Quiet, Rhody!” I repeat. “What is it with you today? I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

  “I would listen to your dog, my lady,” a voice says from just outside. I jump, the prayers flying from my hands.

  Caphian steps into his office, armed with a flashlight of his own. The moonlight from outside his window falls slanted onto his face, accentuating his scars and his piercing blue eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” His tone is playful—amused, even—but still I find myself shrinking back against the altar. Just like the ice wolves, Caphian looks scarier at night.

  “I was looking for something,” I say, my voice shaking. Caph raises an eyebrow, prompting me to elaborate. I gulp. “You know Keira, right? The Sentry who used to be my maidservant? I need to know where she is.” His brow doesn’t lower; I purse my lips, trying not to stutter. “We’re leaving for Svalbard City tomorrow, and I have a question about how she used to do my hair. I want my new maid to style it the same way for our Arrival Day celebration there.” It’s a petty excuse, but a sadly plausible one for a Nixan lady.

  Caphian gives a sheepish smile. “You won’t find any information on her in here.” He points to his head. “I keep track of my Sentries through our mind-link.”

  Of course; I should’ve known. Stupid mind-link. “Could you tell me where she is, then?” I try my best not to sound anything more than mildly curious.

  “Afraid not, my lady.” He sighs. “She isn’t here, or on patrol—she’s on a confidential mission for your father. She’s cut herself off from the mind-link, and I’ve got no specifics on her location.”

  A mission? “So you have no idea what she’s doing?” Desperation leaks into my voice.

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Caphian says quickly. “She’s only seventeen, and alone—the duke wouldn’t send her on anything too dangerous or important.” But something in his voice tells me that the situation is unusual, that Sentries aren’t usually sent away on missions that he knows nothing about. Sweat begins to break out on my temples.

  But I have to keep my cool, for the sake of both of us. Just breathe, Cass. “Okay. Well…that’s too bad. I guess I’ll just have to see what Phoebe can do.”

  Caphian nods, sliding his hands into his pockets with another sigh. “I’d recommend trying to get some sleep,” he says. “You won’t be getting any tomorrow night.”

  “Yes—I will,” I promise. I whistle for Rhody, leading him around Caphian and out of the office. I pause on the threshold, hesitating, before turning back to Caph. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell my father I was here,” I say.

  The corner of Caphian’s mouth twitches. “My lips are sealed,” he assures me. He gives a deep bow. “Sleep well, my lady.”

  “Thank you.” I nod to him, try for a smile, then turn back around and let Rhody lead me through the Sentry ward. I click off my flashlight as we begin to pass by beds again, balling up my hands in my nightgown to keep them from shaking.

  “Where are you, Keira?” I whisper. “And what does my dad want with you?”

  I have an awful, awful feeling that it has something to do with me.

  Two Years Ago: Keira

  We arrived at our venue for the Sentry trials at about three in the morning. As soon as the train slid to a stop, the majority of its occupants leapt to their feet and scrambled for the doors. My suitcase was knocked to the ground in the chaos, and Delphi’s almost landed on my head when I stood up myself.

  “I think your bag wants me dead,” I told him.

  He shrugged. “One less shifter to worry about, then.” Nixa, please stop me from laughing every time this guy says something stupid like that.

  Outside on the station platform, I was confronted with a thick wall of heat. Dry, gross desert heat. In the middle of the night.

  “Is it always like this?” I heard someone ask.

  “No. It’s worse when the sun’s out,” someone else replied.

  Wonderful. I was not used to heat at all. There was a layer of snow on the ground in New Fauske all year long.

  I rolled up my sleeves. Diana had packed all the castle shifters lots of cool clothes for the trials, but I was still wearing the long sleeves and pants I put on that morning in New Fauske.

  A Sentry pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “Follow me,” he called, holding up a hand. “Calmly, please.”

  From the station, a trail of lampposts lit the way down a winding path to the Sentry trial building—the Sonoran building, it was called. The building was low and flat, with a big overhang shading the entranceway and wings branching off of either side. The Sentry mark was carved above the doors—a pair of arrows making an X underneath the Nixan snowflake.

  “Welcome to your new home,” the Sentry leading us said, yanking open one of the doors and ushering us inside.

  We were taken down a hall to a large gym room, where a couple thousand plastic chairs had been set out before a big blank screen. There were more Sentries inside already, sitting in nice comfy chairs beside the screen. The coaches.

  I took a seat towards the front of the room, three rows back from the screen. Delphi sat next to me, a choice that immediately sent a great swarm of wasps buzzing around my stomach.

  One of the Sentries up front rose to his feet as soon as everyone had sat down. He was tall and lean, but with arms that bulged with muscles. He’d brushed back his long golden hair, exposing the scar that ran across his temple. I’d seen him a few times before with Cass—Caphian, commander of the Sentries of the Western Province. He’d held that title for ten years, ever since he orchestrated the successful Battle of the Vindhyas at the age of twenty-one. He supposedly had thirteen shifts, much more than the usual eight or nine, and one of them was a king cobra. That was even more unusual—most shifters only had warm-blooded forms, birds and mammals. So Caph’s alleged cobra shift was doubly badass.

  Everyone went quiet immediately, the decibel level in the room dropping from one-fifty to zero in an instant. Even narcissistic fifteen-year-old shifters had respect for Caphian Serasul.

  “I’d like to welcome our new batch of candidates to the Sentry trials,” he began, pausing for a bit of scattered applause. “Over the next two months, all of you will be put through a series of rigorous tests and exercises meant to shape you into this province’s newest Sentries. You will be stretched to your breaking point, and well past it. Your abilities, courage, and determination will be put through the wringer. You will be pushed harder than you have ever been pushed before.”

  Well, that sounded like fun. Delphi wiggled his eyebrows at me; I gave him a tight smile.

  “Those of you with the strength to make it through will be branded with the Sentry mark and take on the name Serasul, the name of the ancient shifter who became the Nixans’ first Sentry. Unfortunately,” he said, tapping the screen, “there are fourteen hundred of you in this room, and we only have five hundred twelve openings for Sentries across the province this year. Only the very best of you will make it.” The screen lit up, displaying a giant map of North America divided into eleven sectors. The area east of the Appalachians—Warden turf—had been grayed out.

  My eyes flitted over to Sector One, the sector that covered the
Pacific Northwest: the capital sector, where New Fauske was. Below the sector name was the number 238.

  Two hundred and thirty-eight Sentries needed in New Fauske, almost half the number of Sentries needed total. It made sense; in addition to the supply patrols that every sector had to send out to the Sylvans and Shades, the Sector One Sentries had a nice slice of the Pacific border to watch, as well as two thousand New Fauske guard towers that needed to be manned at all hours of the day. 238.

  I needed to be one of those.

  “Do you want to go back to your old sector?” Delphi whispered to me.

  I nodded. “Where do you want to go? Back to Quebec?”

  He shrugged. “I just don’t want to be sent off to Greenland. Or the Yukon. Anywhere south of that is fine.”

  “My lieutenant Asreil will remain here to supervise your training,” Caphian continued, nodding to the auburn-haired man sitting next to him. “I will return to New Fauske in the morning, and come back in two months to see those of you who have proven yourselves worthy of the title of Nixan Sentry.” He gaze swept the room, slowly like he was sizing each of us up individually. “Good luck to you all, and may the Goddess bless your days.” He dipped his head to us, and his audience burst into enthusiastic applause.

  As he turned to leave, I promised myself that I would still be around to see him when he came back.

  2 October: Cassatia

  “My lady.” A hand shakes my shoulder gingerly. “My lady, please—you have to wake up.”

  I yawn, blinking open my eyes. Phoebe is standing over me; she backs away quickly when she sees that I’m awake. “I’m sorry, my lady—Cassatia—but Diana said I had to get you up to prepare for your trip.” She looks as jumpy as always, like she’d run away screaming if I so much as lifted a finger. If Phoebe is so afraid of me, a seventeen-year-old who can’t even dress herself, she won’t stand a chance at the Sentry trials next year.

  “It’s all right,” I mumble, pushing myself up with my elbows and accidentally kicking Rhody as I try to stretch my legs. It’s light out already; Phoebe has pulled back my curtains to let the sunlight stream in through my windows, probably in a failed attempt to wake me naturally. “Did I miss the prayer service?”

  “You did, miss—it’s eight-thirty now.”

  Eight-thirty. I slept decently, then. I’m surprised I was able to after my trip to Caphian’s office last night. A feeling of guilt twists my stomach into knots: Keira is probably off risking her life somewhere, and here I am sleeping in.

  “Are you all right?” Phoebe asks, looking down at me concernedly.

  I force out a breath. “Yeah,” I tell her, “I’m fine.” I can’t think about Keira—it will only make things worse. Still, that’s a whole lot easier said than done.

  “Your father wanted you to try on some dresses before we leave,” Phoebe mumbles, refusing to meet my eyes. “For the Arrival Day ball tomorrow night.”

  Don’t I have enough dresses already? I have an entire closetful of the frilly things; they’re pretty much all I’m allowed to wear.

  But the five gowns Phoebe shows me splayed out beside my bed look more expensive and intricate than anything in my closet. All of them are long and fine, with tiny jewels sewn into their fabrics. And they’re all white—the color of the Goddess, usually only worn by Nixa’s priests.

  I guess I have to step my attire up a notch if I’m going to be in the presence of the Nixan king.

  “I have to try all of them on?” I ask. Phoebe nods, her cheeks red.

  “All right.” I step up to my mirror, holding back a groan at the sight of the stringy-haired girl staring back at me. “Let’s get started, then.”

  I pull off my nightgown before Phoebe can do it for me and allow her to help me with the dresses. Each of them, I can tell, has been custom-made for me; they all fall perfectly around my figure and reach just a hair off the ground. The fifth one is my favorite—it’s a mermaid dress, hugging tightly at my waist and flaring out past my knees, with little diamonds embedded in the top and skirt.

  “I like this one,” I tell Phoebe, spinning around and craning my neck to get a view of it from the back.

  “You look beautiful, my lady,” Phoebe murmurs, brushing my hair back behind my shoulders.

  “Can I see?” a man’s voice asks. Phoebe yelps in surprise. I whip around to find my father standing in the doorway, watching us.

  “Your Grace,” Phoebe whispers, curtsying deeply.

  “Father,” I say, giving a little curtsy myself. “You want to see my dress?” I try to cover up my surprise—my dad has never cared before about what I wear, as long as I look nice.

  “Yes.” He walks around me in a slow circle, scratching his bearded chin. “The king’s Arrival Day ball is one of the most esteemed events in all of Nixa’s Kingdom. You must look exquisite.” He takes a second to think, then nods to Phoebe over my shoulder. “Pack up the dress,” he orders, “and clean her up. We’ll be leaving in half an hour.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Phoebe says with another curtsy. The duke leaves, my eyes following him out the door. What did you do with Keira? I want to ask him, but I know I never could.

  Phoebe helps me out of the dress and into a much simpler one, light green and just a little above my knees. She fixes up my hair and dabs on makeup until I can no longer see the bags under my reflection’s eyes. When she is done, I put on a pearl necklace and heels, say goodbye to Rhody and ensure Diana has assigned someone to look after him, and leave for the castle doors with Phoebe in tow.

  The entrance guards draw open the doors when we reach them, letting in a cool breath of New Fauskian air that makes Phoebe shiver. My father is waiting for us on the outer steps along with his manservant, Caphian, and Evana. Our carriage is parked behind them, with a Sentry in the coachman’s seat and two large alabaster horses—Virgo and Taurus—swishing their tails impatiently. They’re Katyran horses—descendants of Katyri the Great Wolf, blessed with Nixa’s magic. They live as long as humans, and their blood is an essential ingredient in draugr potion, the deadliest poison known to man. They’re extremely rare; Virgo and Taurus are the only two we have in New Fauske.

  “Are you ready, Cassatia?” my father asks, holding an arm out to me.

  I nod, and obediently wrap my arm around his to descend the castle steps. The rest of our party follows behind, Evana hanging from Caphian’s elbow and hoisting up her long dress to keep from tripping. There are Nixans crowded around the front of the castle, some only feet away from the carriage, waiting eagerly to see us depart.

  My father helps me into the carriage before taking his seat opposite me. Evana sits beside him, and the shifters change into birds to fly out over our heads. The carriage is nice and comfortable, with downy seats and huge windows, but I’d rather be outside, breathing in the fresh air before our flight.

  My father signals to the Sentry driver; she urges the horses forward, and the carriage lurches into motion. The Nixans around us part hastily, giving the horses a wide berth. The carriage spins to face the city gates and clatters over New Fauske’s plowed cobblestone streets towards them. The waiting Nixans smile and bow as we pass them—I wave back vaguely for a minute, then manage to forget all about them. I’m used to having hundreds of eyes set on me at once.

  I turn to my father. “We won’t have to speak Norwegian in Svalbard, will we?” I can speak a little Norwegian, along with Old Norse and French and German, but I’d much rather stick to English.

  Fenris shakes his head. “English is the language of the court,” he replies. “You should know that.” I blush.

  “I hope that you at least know the proper forms of address for the royal family,” he says.

  “Of course,” I say tiredly. “The king and queen are Your Majesty, the prince is Your Highness.”

  Evana cups her hand over my father’s. “She will be fine, Fenris. Your daughter knows all she needs to know.” Her fingers rub against my father’s bond-ring, tugging at it like they want to
pry it off.

  Our carriage has reached the city gates; the Sentries in the watchtowers on either side bow and crank them open for us. The Katyran horses clop onto the well-trodden path beyond, and soon we’ve left New Fauske behind, with the watchtower Sentries aiming their bows into the woods ahead of us.

  It’s another half-mile, in which the snow-strewn ground gives way to stones and greens and rainbow-colored trees, before the carriage draws to a stop at the edge of a long strip of open field, where a little jet plane perches with its hatch doors hanging open. Now that we’re away from New Fauske, we can trade in the horses for a more realistic means of international travel.

  The coachwoman Sentry helps us out of the carriage and through a hatch into the plane cabin, plush and carpeted and air-conditioned. Caphian, Phoebe, and the manservant fly down and return to human form; Caphian nods to the coachwoman before climbing up into the front section of the plane where the pilot sits. The coachwoman spurs the Katyrans back towards New Fauske, and the shifter servants climb into the cabin with us, immediately slinking over to huddle together in a back corner.

  I’ve never been in a plane before. I’ve been in a car, to visit nearby Shade camps and Sylvan villages with my father, but never a plane. This is the first time I’ll be flying, like Keira gets to.

  Keira.

  I can’t worry myself about her, not if my father already suspects something. He’s given no indication of it, but there’s still a chance that Caphian told him about my visit to his office last night; for Keira’s sake, I have to come across as entirely unconcerned about anything but this trip.

  I take a seat by one of the windows, buckling myself in. As soon as I do, the plane gives a low growl that vibrates the seats; I clench my armrests in surprise, my knuckles quickly turning white. The plane jerks forward, and suddenly we’re rolling past the trees, bumping and jostling over the grass, faster and faster and faster until the nose of the plane tips upward and we leave the ground entirely. The plane scales the treetops just as we reach the end of the strip—over the buzzing and droning of the engine, I hear the crackling of leaves lashing against its hull. We climb higher and higher, until all of Nal Ferris is an indistinguishable mass of green below us. And finally we reach the clouds, slicing through them like wet, gray cotton candy. My eyes are glued to the window the entire time; I don’t feel quite like a bird, quarantined in a temperature-controlled plane cabin, but being up in the air like this is nothing less than surreal.