“It’s true.” Calder’s voice wasn’t angry and grating as I had expected. It was soft and smooth. Quiet. I shivered against his back, the hair along my arms raising. “I’m her Blodsjel.”
“How is this possible?” the Scholar asked, holding his arm out as the Warmaster stepped forward.
I could see them through the gap between Calder’s arm and his torso, and it seemed that the other four masters were all carefully following the Scholar’s example, staying a foot behind him but advancing slowly, carefully, their attention switching between him and Calder.
“A better question is why you would want her separated from her Blodsjel,” Calder returned, his voice still chillingly soft. “If you truly want her to defeat the Darkness, why separate her from her greatest strength?”
“Don’t be absurd—” the Inquisitor began, but the Scholar shot him a look, and Calder laughed, quick and sharp.
“You assigned me to protect her because I’m the only remaining Blodsjel alive. A man you could be sure wouldn’t be bound to her.”
“Well, it wasn’t just that,” the Scholar reasoned. “You were also very convenient.”
“Not anymore. Why is that?” Calder flicked out his knife as they advanced another step, the heat in the room growing oppressive.
I was choking on it, sweat pooling along my brow, the distant thunder of gathering power beginning to swell painfully in the back of my brain.
“Captain,” the Weaver’s gravelled voice sounded. “Listen to me. Focus on what I’m saying. You need to get yourself under control before you set the whole damn Keep on fire.”
I watched Calder’s head turn toward the Weaver, though he offered no response.
“Seven years ago, there was a shift in the world,” the Weaver explained. “I felt it and travelled straight to Vidrol.” He motioned the King, who was standing further back than the others, as though he had given up on advancing and had decided that watching Calder from a distance would be a better course of action. “I wasn’t the only one who felt it—the others arrived on the same day. Together, we came up with a theory. We decided that—what did you call it? The Darkness?” His tone was naturally abrasive, but there was a note of persuasion in the way he spoke, in the careful shallowness of his eyes as he kept his attention locked on Calder. “We decided that this fourth Fjorn hadn’t come from the same place as the others. She wasn’t the same.”
“No.” Calder stiffened, tossing his knife to his left hand and pulling another free. He flicked them once, twice, tightening and flexing his grip. “I know what you’re trying to say. You’re wrong. Don’t come any closer.”
“She’s a product of the Darkness, Captain.” The Weaver held his hands out, showing that he was unarmed. “It’s not a sickness that kills, it’s a sickness that possesses. It consumed the Fjorn energy and produced the girl behind you. That’s what we believe.”
“That’s why you’re championing her.” Calder didn’t seem to be expecting a response, but seemed to be talking more to himself.
The Scholar answered anyway, his violet eyes finding mine where I was peering through the gap in Calder’s stance. “The Fjorn have been weakening, their power fading with each reincarnation. But the surge in power that we felt was immense. We felt in all certainty that she was more powerful than the previous Fjorn—that she had the power of all three. The Darkness gave her that.”
“You’re still not explaining yourselves.” Calder’s energy grew unbearable, the hostile force pressing me into the ground, my knees slipping to the floor.
The five masters didn’t seem effected, but the King glanced at me, his green eyes narrowing. “She has immense dark power,” he said, turning his attention to Calder. “It stood to reason that if she took a Blodsjel, the connection would be twisted. We predicted that it would reverse the usual connection—that it would be detrimental to both her and him.”
I fought off the effects of Calder’s magic, struggling back to my feet and then edging out from behind him. He stepped to the side without even glancing my way, boxing me in again.
“This is what we thought,” the Scholar said, pointedly watching his protective movements. “You of all people would know … this binding between you and her is twisted.”
“What it is—is between me and her.”
I edged the other way, and Calder blocked me again. Sweat was soaking my skin, sticking my hair to my neck. I was on the point of passing out and needed him to rein it in. I planted both hands on his back and shoved, managing to shift him forward an inch. He half-turned, and I used the opening to jump out from behind him. His arm shot out, winding around my front and yanking me back, not allowing me to step any closer to the others.
“We’re not a threat, Captain.” The Inquisitor’s voice was like a cool balm drifting through the broiling heat of the room. “We won’t force you to separate. Your connection is safe.”
“I need you all to back off so that I can calm down,” Calder replied. “And don’t touch her like that again.”
To my surprise, the five masters all drifted away, their eyes watchful, their bodies tense. Calder set my feet back on the ground but didn’t release me. His hold loosened, tapping distractedly at my waist.
“The Blodsjel have extra abilities as well, don’t they?” I guessed, taking in the varying degrees of wariness spread across the faces of the five masters.
There was no way that these men would normally treat anyone with such care. The Scholar was too scathing, the King too arrogant, the Inquisitor too cunning, the Weaver too uncaring, and the Warmaster too brutish. None of them would think twice about shoving aside anyone who got in their way or meddled in their plans.
As impossible as it seemed … they were afraid of Calder.
“It’s a lesser-known fact,” the Scholar answered me, his frown tight. “But yes. They become quite … temperamental … when the Fjorn is threatened.”
“I’m not threatened,” I said plainly, before twisting in Calder’s grip and repeating myself. “Calder. I’m fine.” I touched his arm, and his eyes flashed to me, burning gold and freezing blue, sharper than his knives. There was absolutely no change in him.
“Like we said. Twisted,” the Scholar muttered. “He’s not about to explode because you’re in danger. He’s about to explode because he can’t abide anyone touching you. The protective instincts have become heightened, tainted by dark energy, as has his power.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Calder snapped, releasing me. He flicked his remaining knife in a fast, agitated whirl before sliding it away. “You can’t touch her like that again. It’s too dangerous. I can’t control my reaction.”
“You’ll have to learn.” The Scholar was striding toward the door, not even glancing backwards. It seemed he was done with the situation now that the danger had evaporated.
“It will most certainly happen again.” The Inquisitor followed after the Scholar. “She won’t be able to help herself now that she bears the soul mark.”
“I’m just going to throw myself at whoever I’m standing near?” I asked in horror.
“Well … almost.” the Inquisitor paused in the doorway, his velvety eyes meeting mine, the darkness hinting at something horrible. “Vidrol did mention that it would prevent you from developing any feelings for others.”
“How?” I asked, stepping away from Calder, relief warring with a new wave of suspicion. The temperature in the room had lowered considerably, the sweat already drying on my skin.
“The mark will poison the soul of anyone who touches you.” It was the King who answered, pulling a fur from a twisted antler rack that looked to be growing straight from the sandstone floor. He secured it around his shoulders, the bulk of it making him seem even larger.
“How?” I repeated, the word ground out in frustration.
“If another man tried to kiss you, he would find himself suddenly bereft of all positive emotion. The more he kissed you, the more despairing his soul would become until eventually
, he would be driven to take out his knife and end his own life.”
“But not you?”
“We are the only men in this world strong enough to withstand it.” The King looked proud of his own ingenuity. “You will kill any man you become intimate with unless it is one of us.”
This child is doomed to death, and to share death with those closest to her.
I stared at him, seeing a monster in King’s clothing, wanting to slap myself for once again underestimating one of them. The soul magic wasn’t typically known to be evil or dangerous, but I had to assume from this point that all magic in the hands of one of the masters was deadly.
“Looks like I’ll be dying alone.” I spoke plainly, pushing my reaction to the back of my mind and then burying it. I hadn’t possessed the freedom to fall in love anyway. The soul mark changed nothing.
The King folded his arms across his chest, the golden eagle clasp at his belt glinting as he rocked on his heels, a strange smile shifting across his face.
“You’ve got bite, girl. That’s something, at least.” His eyes swept over me before drifting over my shoulder to Calder. “I know better than to separate you two, but not even you can stop this from happening, Captain. We’re her best chance at survival. Her best chance in the battles to come. We’ll be hard on her, cruel to her. We’ll drive her into the ground and force her back out again. We’ll do all of that and more, because we’re her only chance. Without us, she’s weak, impulsive, and her power is a hazard to everyone. After we’re done with her, she might just stand a chance.”
He began to follow the others out the door, but Calder stepped to my side, his voice quiet but sharp, a whip dipped in bitterness.
“Why didn’t you do this for Alina? You never even spoke to her.”
The King shook his head, his eyes pitiless. “You know the answer to that, Captain. Until the Tempest, there was never a chance.” He closed the door behind him.
A solid wall of scarred chest appeared before me, rising above dark leather plates of armour.
“Don’t think those wings free you from your duties today,” the Warmaster groused, his brown eyes lit from within as they examined my neck. “The stewards are protesting. A riot broke out last night after the sick were removed from their homes, and there’s been a new outbreak this morning, increasing their panic. The Company has sent all Sentinels in the area to deal with them—all the Vold recruits have been summoned to the tower in Hearthenge to undergo emergency training. The evil eating away at this world isn’t going to wait for them to have a proper initiation.”
“You want me to join them?” I asked numbly, careful not to show my hope or excitement.
“Obviously.” He brushed past me. “Their sorting assembly starts shortly. I wouldn’t be late. The tower isn’t the Obelisk—you won’t get a ruler across the knuckles and a list of chores in punishment.” His grin was rapid and deadly—a flash of white teeth that might as well have been fangs—and then he too was gone.
Only the Weaver remained, standing by the glass wall, his eyes on the ocean. He didn’t glance at me as I approached, but I could feel his eyes on my reflection. I stared at the new brand on my neck—two joined eagle’s wings, curving around the sides. Silver, like the marks of power.
“What does your mark do?” I asked him, touching the tender skin beneath my brand.
He turned his head half an inch, his eyes dropping to mine, as blue and violent as the ocean beyond him. “It’s a life debt, as you know.”
“But what does it do,” I insisted, refusing to back down even as he turned fully to face me.
“It will force you to do anything I want you to do.” He spoke the words slowly, overenunciating them as though I might be hard of hearing. “Every sectorian has a mark, but their power determines the effects of the mark. Vidrol’s mark feeds from the soul to produce emotion, producing a dangerous and delicate cycle that could easily end in death. Andel’s mark is a chisel to the brain, cracking you open for his examination. Helki’s mark is pain and death, and usually the last thing a person sees.”
I stared at him, waiting for the final name. When he didn’t readily offer it, I asked, “And the Inquisitor?”
The Weaver’s eyes narrowed, drifting down to the back of my right hand, even though the mark was covered in leather.
“Fjor has never marked a person before,” he murmured. “Now leave me alone.”
“I want to hear my fate.” I crossed my arms over my chest, ignoring the weakness in my legs and the scraping pain in my throat as the winged mark across my neck throbbed dully. “I want to hear the words I paid for with this mark.”
He tilted his head to the side. “You seemed remarkably unwilling to hear it before. This is quite a change.”
I waited, silent. I didn’t owe him a reason.
He sniffed, the movement almost a snarl, and then he turned his eyes back to the ocean.
“Tempest-born and tempest-dashed, be wary of the forces of chaos that brought you into this world, as they would see you leave it the same way. Bathed in blood and screaming. Look to the deep waters for your fate, for your soul is not your own. You belong not in this world or the next, but to the final world, where you will return, dead or alive, in victory or defeat. The great war has begun, and it will not be won until all five battles for Ledenaether are completed.
“The first, for resilience of the body. The second, for sharpness of the mind. The third, for purity of the soul. The fourth, for strength of the spirit. And the final battle, the most impossible, to cheat immutable fate. To unite the three worlds once again, you must be the master of all.”
The Weaver, after saying more than I had ever heard him speak, drifted past me without another word and exited the room, leaving me to stumble back to one of the chairs in shock.
“Three worlds?” I squeaked, as Calder stopped at my side.
“Apparently all the legends are true,” he replied. “The midworld, Forsjaether, is real.”
I took his offered hand and pulled myself out of the chair, ignoring the way my limbs wanted to protest.
“Is it just me or did that sound as though I needed to surpass each of them to become the master of their sector in order to win this battle?”
Calder’s mouth quirked a little. “That’s what it sounded like.”
“And they still want me to win.”
His eyes shot down to me, searching for something in mine. “They’ll kill you as soon as they get what they want, Ven. You might be able to defeat the Warmaster and grow strong enough to prevent what happened to the previous Fjorn the day they turned eighteen … and you might even surpass the others. But there’s a limit to everything, and I don’t see you coming out on top if they decide to get rid of you. Beating even one of them doesn’t seem possible right now … all five of them is just suicide.”
“I know.” I linked my arm through his, and his hand came up automatically, his finger set against my ring. “But like you said, our battle is here and now. I need to survive the Darkness first, and then we can worry about how to survive the tyrants.”
He smiled—another of those sharp, quick flashes that disappeared as quickly as it had happened, leaving me strangely elated and disappointed all at once.
“How many marks do you think you’ll get for treason?”
“One from the Scholar to make my skin fairer, one from the Weaver to make me taller, one from the King to make me fatter, one from the Inquisitor to make me stronger, and one from the Warmaster to fix whatever it is he doesn’t like about me.”
“Probably your general attitude. He gets at least a dozen offers of marriage a week; he doesn’t understand what you don’t like about him.”
“Probably his general attitude.”
Calder’s eyes crinkled up, dousing me in soft gold warmth and sparkling blue amusement, his teeth appearing again, but this time … the smile remained.
14
Recruit
I knew that the garrison for Hearthenge w
as inside the tower of Hearthenge itself—comprising a base of some kind within the forecourt, and taking over the top levels of the tower, which were off-limits to other general citizens. We were dropped outside the capitol marketplace, since the only location within the city centre that I had visited was Calder’s room inside the tower. I had, however, stood in the exact spot that we were standing now.
Hearthenge actually covered a vast distance of land, from the mountaintop that overlooked Lake Enke to the Citadel. There was a large stone wall that wrapped the south-eastern perimeter, with a guarded gate by the Steps of Atonement. The northern perimeter was unguarded, likely because there were no steward settlements between Hearthenge and the Citadel. The sectorian estates occasionally had walls or little guardhouses at the boundaries of their property, and the henge itself was relatively unguarded—buffeted by the capitol marketplace sprawling out from its base.
Because of that, it was easy to figure out where the garrison was located. A great big wall sprouted from the southern side of the henge, connecting four small watchtowers together, the upper walkway exiting one side of the tower of Hearthenge, and entering again at the other side. The capitol marketplace crammed up to the wall, stretching halfway around it to the edges of a short moat lined in stone. Water lapped happily at its stone container, mingling with the sounds of excited chatter from the closest stall. It was a warm, welcoming sound.
Calder turned us away from the gathering of people trickling into the marketplace, and we followed the curve of the moat to a lowered drawbridge, manned by a set of Sentinels at each end.
“Captain,” the first two greeted in unison.
Calder turned left at the forecourt, following an open pathway through a line of metal and leather-working stalls. We stopped at grassy amphitheatre stepping down into the ground, leading to a wooden platform set against the outer wall. There were a male and a female standing on the platform and a crowd of almost fifty recruits gathered within the amphitheatre seats. They all seemed to be around my own age, most of them dressed in combat-style clothing, with the exception of a few nervous-looking individuals in sectorian silks or neatly pressed linen.
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