Counting Shadows (Duplicity)

by Olivia Rivers

  When I don’t respond immediately, his scowl deepens, and some inner part of me screams that I should run the opposite way. But I don’t—my fight-or-flight instinct died out a long time ago, replaced by the instinct to fight or die trying.

  “You were out late tonight,” Jolik says, his rumbling voice echoing through the corridor.

  His words are sharp, and I unconsciously glance at the sword at his side, my instincts prickling with a warning to be careful. Jolik is a member of the Iris Guard, an elite group of Vampire mercenaries who protect royalty. Centuries ago, an ancient spell back-fired on the Vampires, forcing them to live a life of servitude until the day they die. But the Vampires have kept their ancient warrior roots, and most of them spend their lives as protectors. Jolik is no exception, and while his dark skin and tall stature make him stand out from the regular human guards, it’s his explosive temper that really sets him apart.

  He glances at the bulge in my sleeve and raises an eyebrow. His exasperated expression tells me that he suspects it’s a dagger, but he’s not going to call me out on it. He knows Jackal—the former leader of the Iris Guard—would strangle him if he ratted me out.

  “I took a long walk,” I say, and try to brush past him.

  He steps in my way. “This is the second time you’ve taken a ‘long walk’ this month. I don’t like you sneaking around like this.”

  “I’m not sneaking.”

  “Oh, really? Then why didn’t I see you leave?”

  “Maybe you weren’t watching me close enough.”

  He leans forward, letting me get a good look at the frustration in his red eyes. His irises are the only pale feature on him, and I absently wonder if he’s been eating enough. Usually, they’re an eerie blood-red color.

  “Cut the bull, Miss Princess. I watch you like a hawk, and you know it.” He shakes his head. “You’ve been sneaking out, and I want to know why.”

  I shove past him. This time he lets me, probably knowing it will attract other guards if I put up a fuss. “Jolik, you’re not Jackal. Stop trying to act like him.”

  His voice gentles just a touch. “I’m not trying to act like a mentor to you. I just want you safe. You know Jackal assigned me to protect you when he left. Do you really think I can ignore his last order?”

  I sigh, knowing I’m trapped. “No. You couldn’t.”

  “Then tell me where you were tonight.”

  “Out.”

  “And how you got out?”

  For a moment, I’m tempted to tell him about my hidden passage. I’d discovered it in one of my visions years ago; it’s a dusty, winding tunnel that leads from my library to the base of the castle. The passage is great for getting out, but I prefer to come back using main routes. That way, there’s less chance of people discovering the passage. But, instead of telling him, I shake my head and snap, “None of your business.”

  Jolik throws his hands up in exasperation. It’s a little odd watching him do that, a mountain of a man getting so frustrated by tiny, little me. “Just… Get inside, okay? I don’t want you wandering around any more tonight.”

  I nod, not wanting to fight him. Jolik is one of the few people who can get away with treating me like I’m not royalty, and as much as Father hates him for it, I find it kind of relieving. Except for situations like this, when I know that if I argue, I’ll get a verbal butt-kicking.

  He pushes open my chamber doors for me, shoving it a little harder than he needs to. As I’m about to step inside, he mutters, “Sometimes I wonder if what they say about you is true.”

  He’s not referring to the rumors that I’m trained to fight. No, he’s talking about the more vicious rumors, the ones that say I’m a witch and should have been put to death along with my Ashe. Those whispered lies should probably sting, especially since they mostly revolve around my Guardian, but I can’t bring myself to feel anything but biting contempt.

  Because I’ll never regret taking Ashe as my Guardian. Ever.

  “You’ve been listening to too many rumors, Jolik,” I say. “I’m not a magic-user.”

  Jolik merely shrugs. But as he stares at me, I can almost feel his disbelief as his harsh gaze wanders over me for the millionth time. I’ll admit I look a bit witchy. Black stick-straight hair, ivory skin, and pale blue eyes. In a land where people are supposed to have brown-tanned skin, curly brown hair, and brown eyes, I’m what Father calls “exotic”. Or what others like to call “freakish”.

  And the visions don’t help. Ever since I was three, I’ve seen visions of the past. Historical events, places, people—I see them all. At first, I was proclaimed to be a Sage, and the people celebrated me. But, as I got older, it became obvious that I only saw the past, not the future. I was deemed to be a worthless magic-user.

  And a dangerous enemy.

  Jolik finally steps to the side, granting me access to my chambers. “Lord Farren is inside.”

  I nod and walk inside my chambers. I fight against the guilty twist that strikes my gut the moment I see the small entryway. The entrance looks just like it has for ten months: no furniture, no rugs, nothing. Just stone walls and flooring, and a hallway leading toward the other rooms in my chambers. When Ashe was taken away, he left spatters of blood in this room from his injury. Father insisted everything stained had to be thrown out, but I refuse to replace anything.

  “Faye?”

  It’s Farren’s rich voice, his deep timbre resounding through the room. He always sounds like he’s giving a momentous speech, even when he’s just calling my name from across the hallway.

  “Coming,” I call back. My words echo, reminding me of how empty my chambers are, of how it used to be Ashe calling out to me instead of Farren. I nod to Jolik, letting him know he can leave. “Thank you, Jolik.”

  He bows deeply and closes my door. I wait until his footsteps retreat, and then let the knife fall out of my sleeve. Catching it by its handle, I quickly tuck it into the sash of my dress.

  I’ve always carried a knife—Jackal insists—but I’ve never felt like I needed it until now. Of course, Father feels the exact opposite, and has a bad habit of confiscating the weapons I don’t hide well enough.

  “I thought Father took all your toys away.”

  Farren sounds like he’s standing behind me. His voice drips with sarcasm, something I’ve learned not to acknowledge. It’s the lowest form of humor.

  “And how was your day?” I ask, changing the subject away from my dagger.

  “Boring. More pointless meetings with pointless people.” His footsteps echo off the stone floor—one, two, three—and my brother comes into view. Farren looks the epitome of royalty; straight shoulders, sharp jaw, and narrow eyes that demand respect. Which is a good thing, since he’ll soon inherit the throne.

  As my older sibling by thirty minutes, Farren is the immediate heir to the Irradorian throne, and has been trained to be the ultimate ruler. The Grand Prince, the people call him. Soon to be the Grand King.

  If only those people knew he wanted none of it.

  “Although I must say,” Farren continues, breaking into my thoughts. His eyes trail over the engraved handle of my dagger. “The day just got all the more interesting.” His voice changes to a horrible falsetto that sounds nothing like me. “Why hello, Jolik. You’ll open the door for me? Why thank you, it is so very heavy, and carrying this knife up my sleeve makes it all the more difficult to open.”

  I wag my weapon in Farren’s face. “It’s a dagger, not just a knife.”

  Farren shrugs. “Same difference. My point is, I don’t know how you manage to go gallivanting around on this little murder mission, and no one notices. It’s insanity.”

  I shrug. Farren sighs, taking it as the same answer I give him about most topics: I don’t want to discuss it. I’m not sure why he bothers to visit me anymore, when I hardly talk to him.

  I walk to the sitting-room, one of the four rooms in my chambers I still use. The others contain too many vivid memories of Ashe—the bedro
om where he slept, the library where he lost himself in books, the balcony where he sat every morning and let the sun warm him. The list goes on, and so do the locked doors.

  “It’s not fair,” I told him once. “You don’t have any memories at all from before I found you. And I have so many extra memories. I wish I could give you some of mine.”

  He smiled at me, that gentle, thoughtful expression I loved so much. “Maybe it’s a gift that I had my memories wiped.”

  “How could that be a gift?”

  “Because I don’t have any pain to remember.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory. Years ago, I hadn’t understood him. But now I know.

  I sit in a small chair with an intricate floral pattern and pick at a loose thread, trying to distract myself. The chair is one of the last things I have from my mom, and a constant reminder of death, of loss and pain. But Father makes me keep it, saying it’s “sentimental”.

  Farren sits on the couch across from me, dwarfing the tiny thing with his tall frame. He stretches out and crosses his feet at the ankles, then raises an eyebrow at me. “So,” he says, his voice much too cheery. “How goes the murder mission?”

  I swallow hard. Farren rarely asks about my plans to kill Ashe’s murderer, and as bile rises in my throat, I’m reminded why. It’s awkward to discuss murder plans with someone as moral as Farren. Really, really awkward…

  “It’s the same as always,” I reply slowly, and keep picking at that thread. “I found a lead tonight, but it won’t go anywhere.”

  “How do you know?”

  I sigh, glancing toward the fireplace. A fire crackles in the hearth, and wisps of smoke disappear up the chimney. “My leads never go anywhere,” I mumble. “They get me close, but not close enough. He’s always gone when I get near.”

  “But this man is still around Kastellor?” Farren asks, referring to our country’s capital.

  I nod. “He’s staying close to the castle, or at least most of the time. My informants say he’s leaving the city for periods of time, and then coming back. But I have no idea what he’s up to.”

  Which just about kills me. The day before Ashe was taken into custody, I saw the man in the royal throne-room. He was tall and broad, with a long scar at the corner of his mouth. A pearly patch of skin marked his collarbone, a small circle that almost looked like a brand. Treason, I’d heard him whisper out of his ruined mouth, and Father’s eyes had grown wide.

  After Ashe was sentenced to death, I started hunting the man. But, after ten months, I barely have anything to show for it. Every day I wake up with this reality hanging over my head, and every day I wake up nauseous, pained… guilty.

  “You don’t even know his name, Faye,” Farren says softly. Then he scoffs, his tone hardening a little. “You can barely confirm he exists.”

  “I know he exists. I saw him, Farren. He’s the one who reported my Guardian as a traitor. He set him up!”

  Farren does another one of his hand-flicking gestures, dismissing my words. “Maybe he did report Ashe. But what if this man was working for someone else? What if he was only a messenger?”

  I wince at the way he says the name: Ashe. Like it’s just another casual word to use in discussion. I stopped using it soon after Ashe died, deciding his name deserves more respect. But I can’t convince everyone of that.

  “If he was just the messenger,” I reply, my teeth gritted, “then I’ll make him tell me his employer’s name before I kill him.”

  Farren shakes his head. “Why are you so set on killing him, Faye? Why does he have to die?”

  The answer is so obvious that I laugh. We both wince at the harsh, ruined sound. “He has to die because he murdered my Guardian,” I growl. “It’s his fault, and he needs to die for it.”

  “So now it’s your job to deal out justice, huh? Great. I’ll inform the Grand Judge that he can retire.”

  I ignore the sarcastic drawl in his voice. “It’s revenge, not justice. There’s a difference.”

  “And that is?”

  “Justice is laws and politics and lies. Revenge actually means something.”

  Farren shakes his head. One, two, three, four, five… I count the moments of silence that pass. After Ashe’s death, I was always counting my heartbeat, remembering his promise to me. Soon I figured out methodical counting can be soothing, and it became a habit.

  When I reach eighteen, I let out a long breath. “Seriously, though. How was your day?”

  He groans and lets his head fall back, but goes along with the subject change. “Good, I guess. I went and saw Ameila.”

  I try to hide my wince, but fail miserably. Farren shoots me a glare, his shoulders suddenly tensed, and I quickly say, “I just worry about you.”

  “No,” he says, “you just don’t like that I’m courting a peasant.”

  “She works in a bakery, Farren. Don’t you see how terrible that would look if anyone discovered you were courting her? You could be stripped of your titles.”

  “And why would that be so bad?”

  Because then I wouldn’t have you in my life, I want to say. But instead I snap, “You’re always saying you don’t want to be king, but the alternative is worse. Being cast out of a royal family is practically a death sentence.”

  “You’re being overly dramatic.”

  I scoff. “Being a cast-away means no bodyguards, no laws to protect you. Do you really think you’d last long on the street, with all the grudges people hold against royalty?”

  He chews at his lip for a long moment. Then he glances away from me, his gaze focused on the fire, and says, “I love Ameila. And I’m not just going to leave her just because she’s a peasant.”

  “You’re being ridiculous, Farren,” I say, even though my heart screams that he’s making the right decision.

  “You’re one to talk. Falling in love with that Angel boy? You know that’s worse than falling for a peasant.”

  I dig my fingers into my palm, trying to stop myself from lashing out at Farren. Sometimes it seems rather pointless to be so highly trained in fighting, when I can rarely use my skills… “I was already disgraced by practically the entire kingdom when I Chose him. It didn’t matter who I took as my Guardian. You, on the other hand, have an image to uphold.”

  “I don’t care about images.”

  “The people love you. Don’t ruin that, Farren. It’s not worth it.”

  “Ameila is worth anything.”

  I grit my teeth, holding back a frustrated groan, and stare up at the ceiling. Smoke from the fireplace has blackened the stone over the decades, and it almost looks pretty, a patch of dark amidst all the pale stonework. I try to focus on the prettiness, but all I can think of is that the stone will crumble sooner because of all that soot.

  Neither of us say anything for a long moment. Then Farren hesitantly murmurs, “You should know that there were three more magical raids on the border.” He shifts his gaze to me. “Some of the Council is trying to blame you.”

  I let my lip twist into a sneer. “When will they ever give up on that theory?”

  “They have no reason to give up on it, Faye. These are magic raids. People are dying, and they can’t find any culprits.”

  “Except for me, of course,” I mutter.

  “Except for you. You look strange, you act strange, and you’re a person of power. Plus you have those visions and you keep hidden away from everyone outside the castle. You’re the perfect suspect.”

  “So now it’s my fault that Father makes me hide away? You know I’d be murdered within days if the peasants knew what I looked like. Like you said, they don’t trust me or my visions.”

  Farren grinds his teeth. “You’re not getting the point, Faye.”

  “And that is?”

  “You need to be more careful. Stop going out at night, and stop drawing negative attention to yourself.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Farren, you know I have no power. I’m a princess, not a prince. You don’t actua
lly think I’m responsible for anything, do you?”

  Farren rolls his eyes. “Of course not. You’re odd, but you’re definitely not a witch.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  “You should be thanking me,” he says, his tone a little sharper. “There are some people who—”

  “—want me dead. I get it, Farren. I hear all about it. I’m not as oblivious as people treat me.”

  He bites his lip and doesn’t agree with me. I cross my arms and look away from him, trying to hide my glare. Mature, no. But wise? Yes. It’s never smart to get into a heated argument with Farren. Neither of us ever wins—we’re too stubborn—and we’re both fantastic at holding grudges.

  Farren gnaws at his lip for a couple more seconds—it’s a habit he’s never been able to break, no matter how much Father gets after him—and then murmurs, “I don’t understand you, Faye. Not at all. You don’t seem to care that there are people out there wanting you dead.”

  I care, of course. I won’t die knowing the man who murdered Ashe is still alive. But I only care enough to ensure Father will protect me from the witch-hunters and all the other paranoid citizens calling for my death.

  “I do care,” I say simply.

  “Not enough.”

  I shake my head. “You’re being ridiculous, Farren. We all know who’s behind the attacks. The Council is just too afraid to admit it.”

  Farren raises an eyebrow. “You think it’s Shale?”

  “Of course. He’s publicly admitted his intentions to take our country. How could he not be behind the raids?”

  He nods in agreement, his expression darkening. It’s a little odd, seeing him look so glum when he’s usually cheery. But it’s not surprising. Shale is a powerful Mage—so powerful, that he’s set out to conquer the entire continent. No one has been able to get in his way so far, and now that he’s claiming his next victory will be Irrador, Farren has good reason to dread Shale’s name.

  “But we seem to be the only ones who believe it’s him,” Farren mutters. “Everything else is pretending like he’d never be able to take Irrador.”