The Shadow Watch

by S. A. Klopfenstein

  Darien smiled. “All right, then.” They reminisced some more. Darien joked about running away and swimming across the Sound, back to the Fringes, but Tori knew that even a soldier’s life was better than that hellhole. Even death on some battlefield was better.

  They leaned against a sack of feed, passing the flask. But far too soon, the wine ran out, and the effects dwindled like the coals of a fire. Tori laid her head against Darien’s shoulder, wishing against the morning when they would say goodbye, likely for the last time. Again, she wished she had been the one to be drafted. He’s not made for a soldier’s life.

  Ever since Darien had arrived at the workhouse in the Fringes, the two of them had been close. Tori had taught Darien how to fight, and he had taught her how to hunt rats. They survived together.

  They had never been more than friends, though. Servants in Maro’El were not allowed such pleasures. A pregnant servant was a burden no master, not even Commander Scelero, desired. But Tori always felt the odds of both of them being selected in the same year by the same nobleman were insurmountable. Coming to serve the commander had only drawn them closer. It was as though they were meant to remain together, to keep one another strong, as though the old gods themselves had paired them. Tori always wondered what they would have been in another life, in some other land, where they were the highborns with a say in their lives. Would they have fallen in love? Had a family?

  Tori imagined it would still be a secret affair. She would be promised to some lordling, and Darien would be her midnight paramour. Even in her imagination, it was something forbidden. None of that mattered now. Tomorrow, he would be gone.

  Darien’s eyes were closed. He looked handsome in the lantern light, his cheeks ruddy from the wine, a bit of stubble specking his jaw. His hair would need to be trimmed, but he already had the stature and firm features of a proper soldier. Tori kissed his cheek.

  “What was that?” he said, sitting up.

  “For… another life,” she said. She still felt warm from the wine. Or maybe it was Darien’s warmth.

  Darien shook his head with a smile. “In another life, we never would have met. I wouldn’t trade it.” He leaned forward, kissed her forehead, and that was all.

  Tori knew it was for the best. As her head slowly cleared, sadness overwhelmed her. Darien was leaving. Leaving forever. But she couldn’t let herself tear up. She had to be strong. Darien needed her to be strong. She pressed into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her, and they fell asleep in the far stall.

  When Tori woke, it was morning, and Darien had gone.

  She hurried outside, worried that somehow she might have missed the commotion of the household leaving for the chancellor’s drafting ceremony. But outside, the horizon was just turning with the colors of the rising sun. She made for the kitchens to find Ol’ Merri already hard at work on the morning’s porridge.

  The old woman looked weary, as though she had not slept. “What’s got you up so early, dearie?”

  “Couldn’t sleep, Mum.”

  “Ah,” said Ol’ Merri. “The draft, en’t it?” Tori nodded. “You an’ that boy’re close. I could always tell that.”

  Tori managed a weak smile. “Why isn’t someone else cooking? You’re leaving too.”

  Ol’ Merri’s face tightened. “Well, why don’t you help me, then? Stir this pot while I fetch them loaves out o’ the oven. It’ll take your mind off it, doing something useful.”

  Tori took a giant wooden ladle and slowly stirred the porridge, letting it thicken and curdle. “That why you’re down here? To do something useful?”

  Merri set down a hot pan of loaves to cool. “Always did love these kitchens. Sure, I could’ve had someone else make breakfast terday, but when it’s something you love, well… might as well do it one last time.” Merri cut up the loaves and tossed them in a basket to serve. “An’ I was awake as a ghost all night, anyway.”

  “Will you go?” said Tori. “When they call you at the ceremony?”

  “Will I defect, you mean? Rather than go ter war against my own people?” Merri laughed. “Nah! Tori, no one defects.”

  Tori hoped that would remain so. She kept thinking of what Darien had said, about not doing what was done to his family. Yesterday, it was talk. It meant something different now that he’d been drafted.

  “I’m a white-knuckle survivor, dearie,” said Merri. “An’ I’ll be damned if I don’t keep right on clinging by my nails ter the bitter end. I’ll tell you what, though, if I was going ter go down, I wouldn’t do it at no drafting ceremony. I’d wait for the right moment, an’ I’d take as many o’ them bloody—oh gods! You’ll burn it, stirring so slow! Gimme that!”

  Ol’ Merri snatched the ladle back and stirred the porridge herself. “Nah, dearie, I reckon I’ll join up like the lot o’ them. An’ you’d be blessed ter do the same when your own time comes. If it en’t you, it’s someone else. But you can’t do no one a lick o’ good if you’re dead—porridge is done.” Ol’ Merri poured some in a bowl and set it before Tori with a mug of goat’s milk. “Check an’ be sure it en’t burnt now.” She cackled to herself.

  Tori took a small bite and then stirred the rest around the bowl aimlessly with her spoon.

  “You want ter know why I really like it down here in the kitchen so early?” Ol’ Merri said, taking up her own bowl of porridge. “Ah, now that en’t bad. Reckon you didn’t stir it too slow, after all.”

  Tori took another bite. The porridge warmed her body as it eased down her throat. She leaned over the bowl, letting the steam evaporate on her face.

  “Every morning, I cook. An’ down here in the quiet, it’s just me for a while. I can be alone an’ pray, ter the All Mother an’ All Father. The high gods o’ the Old World.”

  Tori tensed at the mention of the old gods. Oshans prided themselves on being devoted to no gods. They were above such Old World superstitions, and it was what set them apart from the rest of the world. If there was a god in Osha, it was the chancellor. Tori’s people fervently worshipped Arayeva, the goddess of the sun. The Morgathian rebels had their fire god, and there had been many gods in the Trium’vel. The old gods, though…

  They stirred up dark memories from her past. Tori’s mum had worshipped the old gods too, burning incense in their tent and kneeling on a woven rug. And look where those gods got me, she thought bitterly. But she didn’t voice it. Merri had enough to worry about.

  “You pray you’ll survive the war?” Tori asked.

  “Well, yes. But even more, I pray that one day—maybe in my lifetime, maybe in yours—their Watchers will return.”

  Tori jerked up from her bowl at the mention of the Watchers, nearly spilling her porridge. “You shouldn’t speak of them, Merri.”

  Ol’ Merri smiled. “The old chancellors may have killed ’em off in the War Between the Worlds, but they can’t stop my prayers. One day, the Ancient Ones will send the Watchers back ter free us. Ter make things right in the world again.”

  “Don’t waste your prayers.” At the sound of Darien’s voice, Tori and Ol’ Merri leapt in their seats.

  Ol’ Merri spilled porridge on her apron and cursed. “Don’t you sneak up on an ol’ maid like that, son. I’ll spill this down your shirt, next time.”

  “Sorry, Mum.” Darien’s voice was somber. “You want to pray for something? Pray the chancellor catches the plague, or a chandelier falls on his head. Something possible.”

  “The plague. Ha!”

  “He’s right,” said Tori. “The chancellors banished magic. The Metamorphi killed all the… Watchers.” Fearful tales of the shapeshifting magic hunters of Osha were told all across the New World.

  Ol’ Merri raised an eyebrow. “Mmmm… well, then your guess is as good as anything, en’t it?”

  Darien shook his head. “You don’t really believe those children’s tales, do you? The Watchers are nothing but myths. Like the gods and the shaman summoners of the White North. Stories the Fringe rats tell their star
ving littles to get them to sleep. If the Watchers ever did exist, they’re long dead.”

  “An’ what do you know?” said Ol’ Merri. “Hmmm? You’re barely a man!”

  “I’m eighteen,” said Darien.

  “Ah, I stand corrected.” Ol’ Merri chuckled to herself. “Boy, you live as long as me, you get ter seeing there’s things that can’t be explained in this world.”

  “Way I see it,” said Darien, taking up his own bowl of porridge, “you’ll be called up at that drafting ceremony, same as me. There’s no explaining needed about that.”

  Merri went quiet. Tori could have hit him, but she held back. That was not how she wanted their last day to go. And besides, blunt as he had been, she knew Darien was right. Hoping in gods and Watchers was useless.

  “Rest’ll be down in a minute,” said Merri solemnly. “I got ter go set them tables for the last time. We report ter the square in an hour.” Ol’ Merri hurried off, muttering to herself.

  Tori and Darien ate their porridge and bread in silence, the weight of the day stifling any conversation they attempted. Darien stared off at the wall, his eyes blank, his mind elsewhere. Tori had the strange sense that she was eating breakfast with a dead man.

  3

  Snow rode upon the wind and bit at Tori’s skin as Scelero’s servants joined the throng in Maro Square. Thousands of servants in orderly lines, sorted by their Lord House, made their way to the stage they had helped build beneath the shadow of the White Citadel. The empty gallows loomed over every corner of the square. Darien never left Tori’s side, but they both remained silent as they marched. It had been the same when Ollie was drafted last year. What could you say when the world showed its ugly face?

  Tori squeezed Darien’s hand, wishing she were going with him. Her fists clenched as she pictured her friend learning to spar, to load a musket, to kill.

  The servants of Maro’El stood in the cold for some time. Tori stamped her feet to keep warm, watching as the stage slowly filled with lords and ladies dressed in thick fur cloaks. Lesser nobles and their families watched from towers above the square. And then, Cyrus Maro appeared.

  The chancellor was clothed in thick white furs, and in his hand, he held a large scroll that had determined the fates of hundreds. Darien’s life reduced to a scribble on a bit of parchment. The chancellor held up his hands, and Tori joined the rest of the city kneeling before their ruler.

  It was the third time Tori had seen Cyrus Maro; nevertheless, the sight of him made her entire body tense. She was struck by how young he was for someone so powerful. The chancellor had only been sixteen when his father died, thrusting him into power shortly before Tori came to Maro’El. His hair was blond and drooped to his brow, his face was ghostly white and shaved perfectly smooth, and his teeth shone like snow-capped mountain peaks. There was something terrifyingly beautiful about him.

  Histories claimed that the First Chancellor had rid magic from the world so that humanity could rebuild after the devastation of the legendary War Between the Worlds. Cyrus Maro was the sixteenth Chancellor of Osha, and he was feared more than any other ruler in the New World. Standing beside a roaring fire at a podium set before the gallows, the chancellor unrolled the scroll of names for the draft of Maro’El. Darien gripped Tori’s hand tighter. She shivered, even in her cloak and woolen gloves.

  “Good morning.” The chancellor’s greeting was so soft and casual, it was menacing. “Many of you, on this momentous morning, will receive the honor of joining the valiant quests of the Night Legions. Together, we will continue to spread our grand empire across the New World. Together, we will crush King Hollsted’s rebellion, once and for all!”

  King Hollsted had once been a general in the Night Legions. Tori remembered the bitter murmurs among the servants when Hollsted joined the Morgathians to incite this civil war. War meant more servants would be drafted than usual. Now, as Hollsted’s name left the chancellor’s lips, he did not try to hide his own disdain for the traitor. The square shook with the angry cries of vengeance the chancellor expected. Nobles shook their fists from their balconies, and the servants shouted dutifully along with them from the snow-covered streets.

  Cyrus Maro raised his hands for silence. “Today, it is your chance to rise, to serve our great empire, to make a name for yourself. Today, we raise up the next brave legion of Shadows. I thank the lords and ladies for their generous contributions.” Tori hated the way the chancellor used soft, sterile words to describe the deathly fates of human beings the empire deemed lower in value—barbarians, tribals, peasants. No highborns were drawn for service. They served only as officers, trained at noble academies in the arts of military strategy. “Now, the time has come to welcome those who have received this great honor of service.”

  With that, the chancellor began reading names. The first, Tori recognized—a stableboy from House Fedra. The boy trudged to the front of the crowd and was greeted on-stage by his master, who handed him over to one of the generals in the Night Legions. A young girl, barely of age, followed. When Fedra was finished, it was House Dragonis, and then House Tindeir and House Wallis.

  Tori spotted Commander Scelero on the stage, seated near the gallows. Scelero’s face betrayed no emotion. He looked on dutifully. When his Lord House was called, Tori knew, he would shake his servants’ hands, they would join the Legion ranks, and it would be done. In a few days, he would journey to the Fringes to purchase a new boy to take Darien’s place. And so, the world turned on and on.

  The stage was soon filled with new recruits. Over one hundred men and women had been called, and there were many Lord Houses that remained. Tori’s feet were going numb inside her boots. Darien’s hands trembled, whether from the cold or from fear, Tori did not know. She wanted this to be over, for Darien’s sake more than anything.

  Finally, the chancellor spoke the words: “From House Scelero…”

  Tori stared forward, fighting back tears. She did not know how to say goodbye. The people she cared for usually just disappeared from her life. Darien’s face bore no expression.

  Hollen and Gordon were the first to be called, and then, Ol’ Merri. Tori feared the portly woman would not last long in the Legions. Commander Scelero stepped forward to meet her, slower than usual. The commander shook Ol’ Merri’s hand, held it gently, and led her to her new master, a general of the Legions.

  “Lastly, from House Scelero… Darien Redvar.”

  Tori stopped breathing. The old gods wrapped their hands around her throat. Darien’s grip went limp on Tori’s arm. Her gut twisted. He took hold of her hand, and she realized he was saying goodbye. Their eyes met for a moment. The last moment. Say something, she thought. Anything.

  “Be brave,” she said, unsure what compelled her to echo the last words her mother had spoken to her.

  Darien nodded, his expression grim, but there was something off in his eyes. A strange fire. He still had not moved.

  “Darien Redvar,” the chancellor said again. It was eerie how calm the man was.

  “What are you doing?” Tori said. “You’ve got to go!”

  Darien shook his head. “I told you. I can’t do what they did to my family.”

  “No,” Tori hissed. “Don’t you dare!”

  Everyone in the city was watching them now. Tori felt like a great stone had been placed on her chest. The tears were starting to fall now. Darien squeezed her hand one last time, and then he stepped forward without another word. He weaved decisively through the crowd, no falter in his step.

  This can’t be happening! she thought helplessly. He would never defect if Tori were joining the Shadows alongside him, she knew he wouldn’t. We were supposed to go together. Keep each other alive!

  Darien climbed the steps to the stage, and Commander Scelero greeted him. He clapped Darien on the shoulder, thanking him for his service. But Darien shook his head. He stepped away to face the chancellor, and the crowd turned silent as death. No servant addressed the chancellor.

  Nononon
onononononono!

  The chancellor remained calm, expressionless. He whispered something, but Darien shook his head, stood tall, and spoke the words Tori was dreading with everything in her. “I will not join the Shadows, milord.”

  The chancellor did not respond. He simply motioned to his guards, and they took Darien’s arms and led him across the stage. To the gallows. The gallows he and Tori had built.

  Darien wasn’t even putting up a fight. He was like a sow going to the slaughter. He would be nothing. He would accomplish nothing through his death. The only person to be hung at the draft, that was all he would be.

  Ol’ Merri’s words rushed to Tori’s mind: You can’t do no one a lick o’ good if you’re dead.

  Darien could train with the Shadows, wait for his moment, like Merri. Maybe, one day, he could do something about the chancellor’s cruelty. Maybe they all could. But not if he was dead.

  The guards led Darien up the platform, bound his hands, draped the noose round his neck, and drew it taut. Darien’s face was settled, his eyes closed. The guards looked to the chancellor for the word to drop the trap.

  Tori felt something surging inside her. At first, she thought it was rage. But it was something more. Energy—like a river that had been dammed up for years and years inside her. Something within her screamed, I have to make this stop!

  Suddenly, Tori became acutely aware of her surroundings, but not as she had always known them. She sensed the elements of the world. Tiny droplets of frozen water that made up each frame in the snowflakes that nipped her cheeks. Every splinter that made up the boards of the gallows. The little particles that made up the strands of rope around Darien’s neck. She reached out with her mind, oblivious to how she was doing it. Yet it was true. There was energy at the heart of the world, and with a flex in her mind, she felt the world shiver.

  The chancellor nodded to the guards—to drop Darien and snap his spine—and Tori reached out with her mind.