A Tempest of Shadows

by Washington, Jane

  It seemed stupid that I had stayed in the cold stone room, knowing that as soon as the new day had crested, I was no longer in the Inquisitor’s service and no longer had to follow his orders. I finished eating and opened the package, revealing the complicated sections of leather pieces that somehow made up an outfit. Some of the sections were hardened with inlaid metal, a tarnished golden colour peeking through the stitching. I finally discerned something resembling the usual bodysuits worn beneath sectorian women’s clothing, though this one was different. It was thick brown leather, a silk underlining hidden on the inside. It moulded tightly to the body, two ovals cut into the sides, exposing the hips and the sides of the stomach and back. Some sort of covering fit over the top of the bodysuit, ending a few inches above the waist. The metal-inlaid patterns curved around the front of my chest and the top of my spine, connected with brown, buckled straps along my sides. A belted skirt slid over the hips, the belt pulling along the cut of the bodysuit, above my hips, another band looping around my hips. The skirt had two short layers. Yet another section of the outfit fit over my shoulders, metallic glimpses peering out from the leather that cupped my shoulders, attaching to the upper chest armour with straps. Another set of wraps covered my wrists and forearms, and I was glad to see the Inquisitor’s mark and the Spider’s mark disappearing from view. I was able to re-wear the same footwear, as there were also knee and thigh wraps in the same boiled brown leather that complemented the knee-high boots.

  The outfit was clearly some kind of warrior’s uniform. The Vold—and the Sentinels in particular—often wore revealing, scant clothing to show off their impressive physiques. With Calder’s cloak still on the ground, I could see half of his bare back above the golden armour that wrapped his torso. The muscles bunched and stretched as he pulled his forearm up for investigation. He had clearly stitched and re-dressed his wound after my dismal attempt at caring for it the night before.

  Despite my outfit showing so much skin, it was by far the heaviest thing I had ever worn, and I started to truly appreciate how quickly and silently Calder moved, weighed down as he must have been by so much armour.

  I tugged my hair over my shoulders, arranging the strands so that they might hide my face better. There was a lump in my throat when I stuffed everything back into my pack and muttered, “Done.”

  Calder spun without glancing at me, grabbing my pack and hoisting it onto his shoulder.

  “Come here,” he muttered, holding out his arm for me to grasp. He paused, then, his eyes on the space of skin between the wrappings on my upper thighs and the hem of the skirt.

  A deep furrow appeared between his brows, pulling at the scar along his left eyebrow as his eyes dragged up, crawling along my exposed hips to the brassy golden symbol stitched into the centre of the armour covering my chest.

  It was a nott flower, the stem straight as a rod, the bud drooping like a teardrop, two petals unfurling. The nectar from the plant could be deadly or soothing, depending on the quantity, which was why it was often called the “night flower” in Fyrian.

  It was also the King’s sigil.

  His eyes seemed to glow, even the blue iris sparkling with dangerous fire. I found the lump in my throat growing, my breakfast threatening to come back up. For some reason, I was terrified that he would disapprove of me dressing as a proper Vold. I was standing on a precipice, chased by my wildest dreams, afraid that he would push me from the edge with a laugh.

  Nice try, Lavenia … but you’ll never be one of us.

  “Almost,” he finally muttered, stepping forward, the toes of his boots against the toes of mine. He dwarfed me, his eyes hard on mine as he lifted a hand to his own head. His hair was still styled in the same way as the day I had met him—the dark golden strands braided tightly to the sides of his head, the top section of hair secured by rings of bronze from his hairline to his crown. He pried apart the first ring, loosening a lock of tarnished hair to brush against his forehead. He pushed his fingers into my hair, separating a section at the front. He began to braid it tightly along the top of my head, his fingers working without hesitation, a cloying scent drifting from his skin as he pulled my head down to finish the braid at the crown of my head. He smelled like cinders, the smouldering aftermath of a forest fire, his own burning, violent brand of power.

  He secured the bronze ring into my hair and then found my chin, lifting my head up to his. It was different to how the Inquisitor had touched me. Calder’s skin was warmer than was comfortable, but the touch barely brushed my skin. It was more of a suggestion. I wanted to thank him, but the knot in my throat had moved down to my chest and was gripping my heart in a squeezing, painful vice.

  His expression changed, became uncomfortable and then confused, everything exposed for me to read in his usually controlled expression. He grabbed my wrist in one hand, setting a finger against my ring.

  “Say his name,” he demanded in an anxious, brusque tone. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Helki,” I whispered as he pushed the ring once around my finger.

  He kept a hold of my wrist as the cellar floor cracked and crumbled, falling apart beneath us. As we fell, he wrapped a single large arm around me, and he landed with a heavy breath, his feet solid on the ground, mine dangling around his shins. He set me down immediately and melted away, already aware of his surroundings while I blinked away the dizziness.

  “An hour past sunrise,” a deep voice sounded. “You’re late, Tempest.”

  The Warmaster was barely a foot from me, my eyes stuck to his chest. He wore a variation of the Sentinels’ uniform—his broad chest on display above the dark metal plates and leather buckles wrapping his lower stomach, a heavier armour set across the length of his shoulders, straps crossing over his chest and beneath his arms to secure the giant sword at his back.

  “At least she’s dressed correctly,” another voice remarked. It was a voice I recognised: strong, a tenor of steel beneath words spoken so calmly, so smoothly, it confused you before the sentence was even completed.

  It was the voice of the King.

  I didn’t dare look away from the bear of a man before me, my eyes still stuck to his chest.

  “That she is,” rumbled the Warmaster. “I see your sigil on her chest, Vidrol.”

  “And I feel Fjor’s energy all over her,” another voice remarked. Gravelly from disuse. The Weaver.

  I swallowed, panic dripping down my throat, my eyes flicking to the side of the Warmaster. I couldn’t see very far around him, but at a single glance, I knew that we were in Edelsten. In Edelsten Court specifically, not just Edelsten town. There was a dome of multihued glass stretching far above our heads, fusing to walls of carved sandstone brick, some bricks replaced with glass at random intervals. The wall to my right was entirely glass, straight as a pine, pane upon pane, the edges crusted with salt from the sea. Beyond the glass wall was the feature that truly gave away our location—there was a balcony edged in long, crooked spires from the crown of the statue that held us up, the Sea of Storms raging beyond, stampeding out to the horizon. I had seen many paintings of the statue that held us up, and the castle that I now stood in.

  The Sky Keep hung from the edge of the seaside cliffs, it’s position impenetrable, extended over the deadly waters by a slab of opalsten—a curious stone of dark grey rippled with windows of milky opal. The statue withstanding the angry battering of the waves below us was of a woman in a driftwood crown, her carved body stretched upwards, muscles straining, decorated in seaweed. Her hands held up the sides of the platform, the end resting on her head, her crown forming the balcony that stepped into the sky.

  I had never thought that I would see the driftwood woman, or the colourful, domed Sky Keep, or the angry whip of the vast sea. I had never thought that my hero would stand less than a foot from my face, or that the king of this world would force me to wear his sigil.

  But most of all … I had never expected my life to become a game to people more powerful than me, my fa
te nothing more than a legend to be twisted, manipulated, tied to an advantage and tugged in every direction until there was nothing left of me but the strings that dangled from my shoulders and the marks of servitude on my skin.

  “That would be because he marked me,” I said, referring to the Weaver’s comment that he could sense the Inquisitor’s energy all over me.

  “You made a deal with Fjor?” the Warmaster demanded, his voice a rumble that I could imagine rattling things about the room. He didn’t seem surprised that my voice had returned.

  “I was tricked into a deal with the Inquisitor,” I corrected, inwardly cursing at my use of his Fated name. I had intended to show my strength, to use his true name, but the word had slipped from my lips, the other name taking its place.

  “Dirty tricks,” the Warmaster rumbled, a laugh in his voice. “But you’re a Vold, deep down, aren’t you girl? Look at how you dressed to serve me today. You won’t be swayed by manipulations. You know where you belong.”

  Calder must have known that the outfit would garner me favour with the Warmaster. I glanced behind me, sensing somehow that Calder would be facing the direction of the greatest threat to me—the men inside the room. I searched the shadows behind the furniture, the empty spots beside the doors leading from the room, and finally found him by a great fireplace at one end of the room. He was leaning against the sandstone brick mantle, his arm notched beside a collection of crystal decanters, his eyes casually sweeping the room.

  “You’re right,” I muttered, Calder’s eyes flashing to mine. “I won’t be manipulated. Not anymore.” I turned back to the Warmaster, forcing my gaze up to his, categorising the freckle of gold in his translucent brown eyes, a thick white scar cutting into the right side of his temple, a shadow of stubble hiding further nicks and cuts, his neck mottled dark with a healed burn.

  “And I won’t be married on the day of my kongelig ceremony. I might be promised into service, but last I checked, you can’t sell your servants off into marriage in Fyrio.”

  The Warmaster grinned, a large row of teeth flashing at me, his brows narrowing into a derisive expression.

  “The little one grew some teeth with her voice, it seems.”

  He stepped away, and I was finally able to see the rest of the room—a sort of sitting room, with heavy driftwood furniture lined in leather, thick furs tossed over nearly every surface. The Weaver was sans cloak, seated in one of the chairs, his fingers steepled, his elbows notched against the wooden arms. He surveyed me with a steadfastness, the deceptively shallow surface off his blue eyes bright with intelligence. Behind his chair stood the Inquisitor, scarred hands clasping a rolled missive, the paper turning between his long, careful fingers. To my surprise, the Scholar was also there, seated with a straight spine and a cutting glare, as if resenting my very presence. His mouth was firm, his legs set apart, his booted feet planted, his coat’s collar ironed into a sharp turn-down. Everything about him was perfectly, obsessively arranged.

  “She’s right, of course,” the King mused, moving to the driftwood bench populated by the Scholar, sitting next to him. “What do you think, Andel? What are the odds of her wanting to marry one of us in a month?”

  “Low.” The Scholar’s voice dripped in dissatisfaction, unhappy with the conversation. “She has no sense in her head. She would prefer to be a servant, a criminal, an outcast. The life of a master’s wife holds no appeal to her.”

  “She yearns for the wrong things,” the King remarked. “Come here, Tempest.”

  I stayed still, my eyes flicking to the Warmaster, whose dark brows shot up. He laughed, the sound rumbling boldly through the room. “She’s in my service today, Vidrol.”

  The King smiled, his green eyes growing dark, his power whispering across the room to wrap around my ankles. My breath became short, my eyes stuck on his, my tongue lying heavy and dumb as I took a short, unwilling step toward him. He held out a hand, still smiling, his eyes still whispering to me, and suddenly I was before him, gasping with the force of his energy as it clawed through my skin, sinking into me so thoroughly that I suddenly felt … connected to him, as though he had made a home for himself inside me.

  “Your soul magic is weak. Unpractised.” His voice was a low, crooning call, a sound heard from the shadows of a forest, hinting of a predator stalking in the shadows. His power was a place to become lost in. It was the tangle of roots beneath my feet, the pressure of a summer breeze against my spine, tripping me forward until I was between the trunks of his legs.

  “You yearn for a purpose.” He continued to whisper, his voice rustling like leaves, his fingers like trailing vines brushing up my arms. “You’ve always wanted a purpose, and now you’ve found it. You think you’re destined to protect the people of this world from the evil that grows, even now, even here.”

  His hands grasped my shoulders, pulling me forward, our faces inches apart, his eyes narrowing, his touch slipping to my neck. “You’ll do anything to serve your purpose, won’t you, Lavenia?”

  I nodded, my arms limp by my sides, my gaze searching his, a dying gasp above a well of life. His power consumed me, drying out my throat and offering me a drip of poison.

  “Make a deal with me,” he demanded, his tone changing, becoming sharp, a serpent striking and recoiling, threatening to flash forward again.

  I gasped with the effort to refuse, to escape his power. He hadn’t bothered to trick me into a deal as the others had. He was the king of this world, and he could demand what he wanted. The Sjel power was a force to be reckoned with. For the average sectorian, it could reveal a person’s true intentions or manipulate their base desires. The magic of the soul could grow a storm of terror from a seed of fear, a deadly torrent of desperation from a single trickle of desire.

  I stood limp and pliant, trapped in the clutches of the King’s insinuation, my dreams torn from my mind, skinned like hunted animals and racked up for his examination. I could feel him walking through them, touching them, judging them, defiling them. The hope that I had hoarded, though small and fragile, was plucked easily from its hiding place and tossed to the fire of his power as it blazed through me. I choked harder, and heard Calder’s angry voice from the other side of the room.

  “No,” I croaked, both for him and for the King.

  I won’t be manipulated.

  “No?” the King seemed almost delighted by my refusal, his fingers twitching suggestively. I realised that his large hands dwarfed my neck, the strength beneath his grip threatening to snap my head to the side in a single, clean movement. His power no longer seemed like the bigger threat, and for a moment I was overwhelmed enough to think that it wasn’t his Sjel power choking me, but his hands. I clawed at his grip, a strange rush flowing through me.

  “Make a deal with me,” the King repeated, though his tone was cajoling again, the bite of demand melting away. “You can name your price. I’ve never offered such a deal before, and never will again. If it’s in my power, I’ll grant it.”

  That rush doubled, tripled, and my hands slackened against his as I realised I could breathe easily, his hands only gently holding me.

  “What do you want, Lavenia Lihl?” the King whispered, his head dipping beside mine, his words brushing over my neck. “Tell me what you want and let me mark you.”

  The words were on the tip of my tongue, my dreams waving in the breeze before my eyes.

  Make me a Sentinel.

  Free me.

  Help me save the world.

  Sense briefly crept in, my teeth digging into my lower lip. They would help me save the world regardless. They would deliver medicine to fight off the Darkness and whatever else was in their power because they wanted to defeat the king of the afterworld.

  They wanted me to win.

  It would be a waste of a favour.

  It also wasn’t within his power to free me. I had been tried, my sentence split between the five of them. They would all have to agree to release me, and I knew that they wouldn’t. My
sentence bound me to them. It tied our fates together and ensured that they would benefit if I were to do what they believed I was fated to do.

  Which left one wish.

  The wish I had harboured for all my life, the true secret that nestled in my most secret of hearts.

  The words rose again, echoing around my head, riding the tide of excitement that was ebbing in my chest, bubbling forth at the touch of large fingers against the arch of my neck.

  Make me a Sentinel.

  I opened my mouth, my gaze distracted by movement behind the King. It was Calder, stepping forward, his blue eye sharp with warning. He wasn’t trying to stop me, only to get my attention. I frowned, some of the fog clearing from my head, some of the excitement draining away.

  He pointed to his eyes, and I kept my attention there, my mind clearing further, those secret dreams and hopes suddenly looking different. They paled, became less important.

  I scowled, my eyes flashing back to the King, his whispering magic repeating the same wish inside my heart.

  You wish to be a Sentinel.

  You wish to be a Sentinel.

  “I want to be a Legionnaire,” I demanded, and from the corner of my eye, I could see Calder’s smile flash, brief and vicious, before it disappeared.

  The King made a growling sound of disapproval, his eyes lighting to a poisonous green. “You know it will not remove your mor-svjake?”

  “I know.”

  “A Legionnaire?” the Warmaster boomed from behind us, roughly scathing. “The people won’t accept it. We haven’t had more than one in a century, at least.”

  “They’ll have no choice,” the Scholar inserted calmly. “Legionnaires, as you know, are not appointed by popular demand.”

  “They still need to prove themselves to the Vold,” the Warmaster shot back. “And the battle she must survive is with me. It’s my mark she should wear for this favour.”

  “She asks for no small thing,” the Weaver agreed.

  I was avoiding looking at the King, now uncomfortably aware of how close I was, his legs pressing either side of my hips, his breath on my forehead as he listened to the others. I refocussed on Calder, trying to ignore the whispering power that still tried to influence me.