The Sentry

by Lyssa Morasey

  “This car suddenly seems really, really tiny,” I say. Keira mmms in agreement. I think back to last night, sitting beside the fire with her and actually enjoying the closeness—that feeling, unfortunately, is long gone now, replaced with nervousness and doubt and a dull sort of adrenaline.

  “I’ll drive as fast as I can,” Iraine promises. She turns on the car, pulls it out of park, and follows the road on westward.

  ❄❄

  Baz wakes me up somewhere in western Montana to take the reins for the last part of the drive. I take the car up steep mountain climbs and down dips and past more speeding pickup trucks than I thought existed. Finally, about an hour before sunset, I begin to hear the telltale vibration of the aura detector stuffed into one of our bags, and soon enough we drive by an old wooden sign almost unreadable under the plants that cover it: NAL FERRIS STATE FOREST.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, “I think we’re here.”

  Keira yawns, sitting up and blinking around at our surroundings. “Turn here,” she says, pointing to an unpaved road to our left. I do, the car bumping and rolling over the gravel. “There should be a little parking lot up ahead.”

  Keira’s “parking lot” is a loosely-defined corral of rocks, divided up by wobbly lines of white spray paint. I pull into an open space, shut off the car, and turn to Iraine.

  She’s sleeping in the passenger’s seat, sunlight falling on her face in a way I’m sure she’d never allow if she were awake. Her hair looks beautiful under the light of the sun: a deep, intense purple at the top that fades into cobalt with electric blue at the ends. Even her brows and lashes are purple-blue, and somehow the coloring looks entirely natural on her. It is natural, I guess, for a Shade hybrid.

  I shake her lightly. “Hey. We’re here.”

  She wakes almost instantly, rubbing open her eyes and arching her back. “All right,” she murmurs; “let’s do this.” She swings open her door and jumps out, waiting for the rest of us to follow.

  Baz and I check our fire-guns and search one last time through our bags—I ignore Ferignis’s hilt sticking out of mine. At this point, the jnani sword is just an extra useless thing to carry around.

  “The city gates are about a ten minutes’ walk from here,” Keira says. “We’re still on Sen turf, but just barely.”

  “It’s probably time to go invisible, then,” Iraine says. She clutches at her ring, and suddenly my body has vanished out from under me. Panicking instinctively, I grab onto the nearest tree branch, feeling my nonexistent fingers closing around it. I’m still here I’m still here I’m still here. With a deep breath to steel myself, I let go of the branch, running my hands over my arms and legs and chest to make sure they all still exist.

  “Shit,” Basil’s voice says from behind me. “That almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Over here,” Keira calls. She shakes a fir sapling off to our right to get our attention. “Follow my footsteps.”

  We do, keeping tight to Keira’s trail of pushed-aside branches and dead fall leaves pressed into the mud. She takes us deep into the forest, up hills and over rocks; eventually, all four of us are breathing heavily enough to disclose our location by sound alone.

  “It’s like we’re ghosts,” Basil pants. “Like we aren’t even here.”

  “Not exactly,” Iraine warns. “We still take up space—we can’t pass through walls or anything.”

  “Or heavily-guarded castle doors,” I add.

  “I have a plan for that,” Keira assures us, snapping a thorny branch back into my face.

  We emerge from the woods near a big wooden platform, behind which a cargo train is stopped. Shifters carry boxes and barrels and tied-up goods across the platform to where a long procession of horse-drawn wagons waits, driven by whip-wielding Sentries. As soon as a wagon is full, a tarp is pulled over its top, and the wagon is urged forward to make room for the next. Each of them is pulled by two horses—white or gray or red or brown, but never black.

  “That’s our ride,” Keira tells us. “The wagons.”

  “They’re going into the city?”

  “Yep,” Keira says. “All our goods from the Shades and Sylvans are brought to Nal Ferris on planes and trains and shit, but nothing can be brought through the city gates except in a carriage.” Branches bend and rustle as she steps out of the trees. “Come on.”

  She grabs my hand; taking her cue, I grab Basil’s behind me. We creep quietly forward in an awkward conga line, tiptoeing over the leaf cover. Keira takes us behind one of the wagons currently being filled, loaded with corn and bread from some overexploited Sylvan village. A Sentry yanks forward its tarp; Keira’s grip on my hand strains as she lifts herself inside. I climb in after her, the wood floor creaking just the slightest under my weight.

  I lower myself onto a big closed box—Baz grabs my shoulder and pulls himself down next to me, and one of the girls leans back against my legs. A pair of Sentries duck their heads inside to inspect, shining a light around at all the supplies. I hold my breath, painfully aware of the fact that we could all pop back into sight at any moment.

  But the Sentries’ eyes pass right over us, and they pat the sides of the wagon to signify that it’s full to their satisfaction. I hear the crack of a whip from up front, and the wagon lurches forward.

  We’re brought down a narrow, well-worn trail through the woods, the wagon rattling and shaking enough to set my teeth on edge. The temperature seems to drop with every step, and soon we see patches of snow on the forest floor and between the boughs of trees. The snow quickly becomes a full-cover blanket, and the trees go from colorful to dead and bare.

  “Almost there,” Keira murmurs.

  I crawl to the wagon’s opening, craning my head around the tarp, and see the gates of New Fauske—tall and metal and formidable—just ahead of us. On either side of the gates, and beyond them in frequent intervals along the city wall, are watchtowers manned by Sentries pointing bows into the woods.

  “How explosive are the arrows the Sentries use?” I whisper to Keira.

  “Explosive enough to turn everything within three feet of them to dust,” she replies. “You don’t even have to aim right.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Great.

  As the first wagon approaches the gates, about a hundred feet ahead of us, the armed Sentries on both sides begin to turn giant wheels kept in their towers. Smoothly and silently the gates draw open, inviting the carriages into the city.

  “Here we are,” Keira murmurs. “Welcome to New Fauske.”

  6 October: Cassatia

  “Happy birthday, Cassatia.”

  I turn to find Caphian standing at my door, a polished wooden box in his arms. “I brought you a present.”

  I stand up slowly, careful not to fold or stretch my dress. Caphian’s eyes widen as he takes me in, seeing how I look after hours and hours of preparation for the bond-lock ceremony. I’m wearing the diamond-imbued mermaid dress I picked out for Svalbard, and a sapphire-studded snowflake necklace Phoebe chose for me—and, of course, Keira’s watch. My hair’s been done in layered waves, and my face has been smoothed and colored with hundreds of different powders and pastes. I look like I should be turning twenty-eight instead of eighteen today.

  “You really do look like a princess, Cass,” Caph says with a smile, setting the box down on the table beside my bed. “Has your father seen you yet?”

  I shake my head. “He hasn’t been to see me all day.”

  “He’ll be pleasantly surprised, then.” Caphian helps me into the seat behind the table. “Go on—open it.”

  I crack open the box to find a checkered board topped with carved wooden black and white pieces. “A chess set,” I say.

  Caphian nods, lowering himself down onto the table beside me. “Remember when I first taught you how to play?”

  I purse my lips. “It was right after my mother died.”

  He nods again. “You hadn’t left your room in days. I thought this game might help you take your mind off th
ings a bit. It’s hard to concentrate on much else when you’re trying to think ten moves ahead.”

  I pick up the white queen piece, running a finger across its crown top. “You think we could play right now?”

  “Caphian.” Diana ducks into my room. “It’s time.”

  Caph shrugs, giving me half a smile. “I guess not.” He pulls me up from my seat; I clutch at his wrist nervously. He raises his eyebrows at me, surprised. “It’ll be okay, Cass.” I swallow, nodding.

  Caph and Diana escort me through the halls and up to the castle temple. My father waits at its door in suit and tie, ready to lead me in. Soft ceremonial music leaks through the walls, reminding me unnecessarily of the significance of the occasion.

  My father nods to Caphian and offers me his arm. “You look beautiful,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say, my mouth dry.

  “We’ll have a concert afterwards,” he tells me. “I promised the king you would treat us to some of your violin. Avasol’s Concerto, perhaps?”

  Of course. “I’d love to, Father.”

  He hesitates for a second, studying me. “I’m proud of you, Cassatia.” He says it like he means it, but his words only make my heart beat faster. I hope this is over soon—a sweaty bride is probably not optimal for a royal’s bond.

  I take my father’s arm, and Caphian draws open the door.

  My limbs go stiff as I look inside. Blue and white flowers circle the room, and an ornate rug stretches from the door to the little landing on which Prince Iven waits in a crisp white suit. The king stands behind him, wearing his crown and cape, and Evana stands underneath the landing’s giant arched window, dressed in white and looking three times as striking as I ever could in the color. My brother Aren waits off to the side with Rhody, freshly-groomed, sitting beside him; both of them look entirely overwhelmed. And sitting among the pews of the temple, crowded into every nook and cranny, are people, Nixans and Sentries and even Sylvans and Shades. As soon as the door opens, they all turn to me in unison.

  I try for a smile; the prince gives one back encouragingly from the landing. My father leads me forward with measured, careful steps. I stick close to his side, holding my head up as regally as I can and praying to the Goddess that I don’t trip over my dress. Everyone bows deeply as we pass them.

  My father helps me up onto the landing, then takes his position beside King Aknes. I stand at Evana’s shoulder, face-to-face with the prince.

  Evana raises her arms, and the corner orchestra’s music dies down to silence. She begins to speak, her voice ringing out loud and strong throughout the room.

  “Today we have come together to celebrate history,” she says. “Today, for the first time, the blood of Avasol Loraveire will be joined with the holy family of Heilagur. Today, the provinces will be united as they have never been before. Today, our blessed Prince Iven chooses for his bond the child of our most noble duke, Lady Cassatia Loraveire.”

  The crowd breaks out into enthusiastic applause. Iven nods to me, his eyes bright.

  I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I wait for the applause to end. No backing out now.

  Iven holds out his hand, palm facing me and fingers aimed up at the sky. I place my palm against his, the diamond of my bond-ring reflecting enough light back into my eyes to blind me.

  “Now they will seal their bond,” Evana says.

  The prince begins, his voice much softer than the priestess’s. “I choose you, Cassatia Loraveire, for my bond. I will love you and honor you and defend you from all harm. I give you my heart, my body, and my soul. I pledge this to you in the holy name of our Goddess.”

  I go next, half as loud and twice as shaky. “I choose you, Iven Heilagur, for my bond. I will love you until my death and bear you children to further your name. I give you my heart, my body, and my soul. I pledge this to you in the holy name of our Goddess.” I slip my fingers between Iven’s, and we clasp our hands together tightly.

  “You are bonded,” Evana says; “for now, and forever. I present you now to our people as prince and princess of Nixa’s Kingdom.”

  “Avtalte!” the crowd begins to chant. “Avtalte! Avtalte! Avtalte!”

  Iven pulls me in for a kiss; I wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips to his, closing my eyes and tasting his breath. The chanting grows louder, the air grows cooler, and I feel the gentle touch of snowflakes on my arms and face and shoulders. “Avtalte! Avtalte! Avtalte!”

  I pull back from Iven, turning back to the crowd. The music has begun again, and the room has dissolved into a mess of scattered flowers and snow.

  Iven squeezes my hand, and I press myself against him, my legs too weak to support my weight on their own. “Are you all right?” he murmurs into my ear.

  “Fine,” I tell him.

  It’s probably the worst lie I’ve ever told, and he knows it. He squeezes my hand again. “It’ll be okay,” he says—the second time I’ve heard that today.

  “Of course it will.” Please, Nixa, I pray, let him be right.

  6 October: Westrey

  The next few minutes are some of the strangest in my life.

  Our wagon clops down a snow-dusted cobblestone path through the city, giving us a front-seat view of its little homes and shops and buildings. Nixan men and women chat and laugh on patios, and little kids throw snowballs at each other from their yards. One snowball hits the flank of one of the horses pulling our wagon, causing him to whinny and freak out the other.

  It’s weird; surreal, even. I’d never seen a Nixan before—no Warden on the continent has, probably, for hundreds of years. Now we are surrounded by thousands of them, and they have absolutely no idea.

  Ahead of us, looming over the entire city, is a giant white castle, harsh and chiseled, with a tower sprouting from each of its corners. It is flanked by two other giant buildings, one tall and the other long—the Royal Academy and the Great Temple, according to Keira. The castle’s massive double doors stand directly ahead, guarded by two Sentries with pointed staffs. And behind the guards are fluttering blue flags with the Nixan snowflake emblazoned on them.

  The cobblestone path bends to the right, and the wagon jerks sideways to follow it. “Here’s where we get off,” Keira murmurs, grabbing my arm and pulling me with her. I jump obediently, and land hard on my invisible knees with Baz’s elbow between my ribs. I gasp; Keira pulls us up and out of the way of the next carriage in line.

  “Could you be any louder?” she hisses in my ear, guessing its location surprisingly well. “In a minute we won’t have a stampede of horses to cover up all your noise.”

  “Sorry,” I growl. We stand frozen at the edge of the path while the rest of the convoy goes by, right in the middle of the Nixans’ capital city. All around us are Nixans and shifters going about their business, blissfully unaware of the fact that a bunch of their worst enemies have just infiltrated their home.

  “Let’s go.” Keira pulls me off the path and onto another one, a path made not from stone but from countless footsteps compressing the snow. I feel a hand close around my shoulder—Iraine’s, I think. We inch forward on the balls of our feet, careful not to touch the undisturbed snow to our sides.

  The path leads around the side of the castle, through a twenty-foot-wide alleyway between it and the Royal Academy. “Where are we going?” I breathe.

  “To the southern entrance,” Keira replies.

  “Why?” I ask. “Do they not guard their back door or something?”

  “Of course they guard their back door,” Keira says, the eye roll clear in her voice. “Two Sentries inside and out, just like the front entrance.”

  “Then why does it matter where we go in?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Behind the castle, a huge crowd of Nixans has gathered around a giant frozen pond on which a man and woman are skating. Beside the pond is a white grand piano with a young woman bent over its keys; next to her sits another woman, singing in what I assume to be Old Norse with one of the clea
rest and best voices I’ve ever heard. The melody sounds like a cross between Amazing Grace and Auld Lang Syne sped up a few BPMs. The skaters dance and leap in perfect harmony with it, weightless as feathers. And the ice ripples around them like a rolling sea, obeying the will of the singer and the skaters.

  “Whoa,” Basil breathes beside me.

  “What is this?” Iraine murmurs.

  “New Fauske has a big skating show whenever there’s something important to celebrate,” Keira explains.

  “What are they celebrating today?” Basil wonders. “Our arrival?”

  “It’s the birthday of the duke’s daughter.”

  “Oh, right,” Baz says; “I almost forgot about her. Are we planning on offing her too, for anarchical purposes?”

  “Just Fenris,” Keira insists, her grip on my arm tightening. “Anyway, we’re not here to watch an ice show—we’re here for the distraction. Look at the doors.” They’ve been propped half-open, allowing the guards stationed inside to watch the skaters.

  “How considerate,” I mutter.

  “Come on.” The audience stands a couple yards back from the edge of the ice, but a few sets of footprints circle the pond and lead through the open doors. When Keira yanks me forward I step into one of the bigger prints, hearing a soft crunch as my foot digs into the snow. I tense, but the noise is easily covered up by the music and the crowd’s conversations.

  As we make our way around the pond, I find my eyes inextricably drawn to the figure skaters. I watch as the man grabs the girl by the waist and tosses her into the air, quickly falling back to give her center stage. She lands neatly and enters into a tight spin, arms above her head; a tornado of snow forms around her, growing taller as she spins faster and faster until all I can see are her fingertips. The piano strikes a heavy chord, and she lowers her arms in one quick motion, the snow-tornado dissolving instantly into nothingness.