by Sadie Moss
When the drawbridge comes into sight ahead of us, Callum stops abruptly. Turning on his heel, he takes me by the wrist and pulls me to a bench on the side of the road, shoving me down onto the cold iron seat.
“What are you doing?” I snap, yanking my arm out of his grip. Farse, I wish I could punch him without fear of being squashed like a bug.
“I won’t have Kaius laying eyes on you again,” he says under his breath, his gaze roaming the street.
I blink, momentarily taken aback. Surely I’m hearing things or slowly going mad, because he sounds almost… protective. “What do you think he’d do to me?”
Callum looks down at me sharply, his nostrils flaring. He doesn’t answer, but the tension filling his body tells me everything I need to know. It would be nothing good.
“Wait here.” Turning away again, the big warrior strides off, leaving Echo and Paris looming over me.
“If he didn’t want me near Kaius, he could have left me at home,” I point out to my remaining companions.
Paris shrugs. “I think he didn’t want you alone there either.”
I throw up my hands in exasperation. “Well, what does he want?”
An odd expression passes over Echo’s face, and then he grins at me. “Best not to ask questions you’re not prepared to hear the answer to, little soul.”
I don’t know quite what he’s getting at, but the look he shares with Paris makes me sure it’s something. And despite his warning, I find myself burning with curiosity. Callum irritates me to no end, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m drawn to him, fascinated by him. There’s so much the big man thinks but doesn’t say, and it’s in that silence that the truth of him lives.
A few moments later, Callum returns, toting a girl who doesn’t look much older than me. She has rich black hair, toffee skin, and the biggest, brightest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Sage, this is Violet,” Callum says gruffly. “She’s going to sit with you while we’re gone.”
“What? I don’t need a babysitter.” I surge to my feet, horrified. I’ve been taking care of myself since I was old enough to carry a bow, and the idea of being watched over like a baby is a blow my pride can’t tolerate.
“It’s for our peace of mind,” Echo assures me, placing his hands on my shoulders. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead, just below my hairline. “You’re one of us now, Sage. Part of us. Don’t forget that. We take care of what’s ours.”
I can’t get my mouth to function well enough to voice a protest. These men keep surprising me with their sudden changes in demeanor, and I can’t seem to find my footing around any of them. Every time I think I’ve figured out where I stand, they throw me off balance again.
But Echo’s roguish face holds nothing but sincerity as he steps back and gazes down at me. It’s not just Callum that’s worried about bringing me into Kaius’s presence, I realize. It’s all of them.
And that means something.
So I don’t fight against their wishes. I nod once, finding Callum’s gaze to let him see that I mean it. I won’t run, and I won’t try to follow them into the palace uninvited.
Satisfied with my response, the three men venture off toward the palace, and I sink back down onto the bench, scooting over to make room for Violet.
The girl Callum dragged over offers me a tentative smile as she takes her seat. She smooths her blue satin dress around her legs and offers me a hand. “Violet Nottingham.”
“Sage Thorne.” I shake her proffered hand, which is warm and slightly calloused. It makes me like her a little more already. I have a natural distrust for people with soft hands; it means they don’t work. “You don’t really have to sit here with me,” I add, wincing in embarrassment.
“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “Yes, I do. Three of Kaius’s most respected messengers told me to. My master sent me into town to collect his sword from the blacksmith, but he would be furious at me if he learned I had refused their request.”
I should’ve guessed from the opulence of the three men’s dwelling that they were in high favor with their god, but I’m still a little surprised to hear her say it. Already, my perception of them is changing. They still intimidate the farse out of me, but not as much as they did when I first encountered them. I’m more familiar with them now, which makes it easier to see them as people and not just monstrously powerful near-gods.
“Are you new here?” Violet asks, breaking into my thoughts. “I assume so, since your masters seem so hesitant to leave you to your own devices.”
I nod bitterly. “I am. And they’re hesitant about everything. Including me even being here.”
Violet chuckles. Her voice is light and musical, with a hint of an accent I don’t recognize. “Messengers are a different sort of being. They’ll come around. Have you been brought before Kaius yet? Trust me, you’re better off sitting out here in the sunshine while they visit him. Worshipping him in life was easy; in death, a little harder.”
“He seems all right,” I reply with a noncommittal shrug. “My village worships Zelus. He set a low bar.”
Violet gasps, turning on the bench to face me more directly. I can tell I’ve caught her full interest now. “How on earth did you end up here? You should be in Zelus’s afterlife. Only those who worshipped Kaius in life end up in his afterworld.”
“I got… lost? My soul ended up in the no-man’s-land instead of going to Zelus’s realm. Something like that. That’s what they tell me anyway.”
“Oh, no!” Violet takes my hand between both of hers. It’s the first real and honest contact I’ve had with another person since dying—not counting messengers, who do strange things to my body every time they so much as brush against me. It makes me feel a little less lost and alone, and I cling to her. “That’s so terrible for you, Sage. I’m glad Kaius decided to give you an assignment anyway. I’ve never heard of any lost souls living in this realm.”
My brows furrow. “Assignment?”
“Serving your messengers.” Violet releases my hand and nods after the men, although they’ve long since passed over the drawbridge into the palace. “Though, fair warning—most souls who end up serving messengers have a rough time of it. My master is actually very good to me. I mean, relatively speaking.”
“Mine aren’t cruel. Not really,” I say.
I almost add, they saved my life, but I stop the words before they escape. I don’t think it would be wise to spread that story around. Kaius was angry at the men for even suggesting he let me live, and I doubt he would react well to word of his “softness” getting out. And I certainly have no intention of letting her know that my soul has been bound to theirs. I get the feeling that’s not a common occurrence here.
Fortunately, Violet doesn’t seem to notice my abrupt silence. She cocks her head, gazing at me curiously—something I’ve become far too accustomed to over the past day and a half.
“I wonder how you got lost,” she murmurs. “I’m always so fascinated by the inner workings of the afterlife.”
“I think I might know,” I say quietly, glancing around to make sure we’re not overheard. “Or I have a theory, in any case.”
“What’s that?”
“I sacrificed myself to Zelus to try to save my people. My death was violent and… at my own hand. Maybe that put me off course.”
“Oh. Yes, I see. That could make sense.” Violet’s voice is sad, and pity reflects in her eyes. She rests a hand on my knee and squeezes softly. “Do you want to tell me about your village?”
A part of me doesn’t want to, afraid of the pain it will bring. But as I tell her about my life on earth and the people I knew back in my village, I feel something loosening in my chest, the ache in my chest actually fading a little instead of getting worse—as if speaking of the people I love brings them closer to me, cementing their place in my heart.
Violet has been in the afterworld for many decades, but she tells me about her village on earth too. There are bits and pieces of
her old life that seem to have faded from her memory, and I try not to let my dismay show on my face as she struggles to recall them. The thought that this will happen to me someday—that I’ll struggle to remember the color of Nolan’s eyes or the small curved scar on my mother’s left cheek—feels like a dagger in my heart.
Right now, it seems impossible to imagine. But time has a way of wearing down all things, even memories.
Gradually, our talk turns to life in this world, and I soak up every tidbit of information Violet can give me, curiosity making me lean forward eagerly as she speaks.
Still, part of my mind lingers on the earthly plane, still sitting with my family and friends. During a lull in the conversation, I remark, “I just wish I could see my family one more time. I miss them so much. I sacrificed myself to help them, to save them, and all I can think is, what if it didn’t work?”
“Oh, but there are ways to reach out to the living!” Violet says, her eyes widen excitedly. “You should ask your masters. They have access to special powers that could help you.”
She means the weave, I’m guessing. And if they have access to something that could help me reach out to my family on earth, that means I have access to that same power.
If only I knew how to control it.
As if summoned by Violet’s mention of them, Callum, Echo, and Paris return across the drawbridge a moment later, their postures relaxed and their steps long and even as they stroll toward us. I stand and say my goodbyes to my new friend, hoping this won’t be the last time I see her, and then follow the three messengers on the road home.
But the whole way back to their dwelling, I’m quiet and contemplative, lost in thought. I can’t stop turning Violet’s words over and over in my head.
What if my connection to the weave can help me see my family?
13
The men are silent on the walk back as well. Nobody mentions what they were called to the palace for, though I’m itching with curiosity. I know it’s not my place to pry, so I don’t ask, but I’d love to know more about what they do for Kaius. He calls his servants “messengers,” but what does that mean, exactly? What does their service to him entail?
Unfortunately, none of them make themselves accessible for my prying questions. Even Echo, who’s been the nicest and most easy-going of the three, goes through bouts of being remote and aloof. Even if I had the courage to ask what their meeting was about, he’s too distant to reach at the moment.
“We’re going to train for a while,” Paris tells me as we enter the house. “You can amuse yourself, right?”
A strange wave of loneliness washes over me. At home, there was always plenty to do, but I don’t know quite how to pass the time here. Especially since the men have made it clear I’m not to be their servant or their cook. I’m accustomed to feeling useful and competent, and in this world, I rarely seem to be either.
But that’s too much to say to Paris, a truth that cuts too close to the bone. So instead, I just shrug one shoulder. “Sure. It’d be easier if I had something to amuse myself with.”
“Can you read?”
There’s no judgement in his tone, but for once, my chest swells a little with pride as I answer.
“Yes. My mother taught me.”
I’ve always been better at it than Nolan, although she taught him too. Several residents of our village can’t read, or else they read only a little, but I took care to cultivate and maintain the skill—even when hunting and foraging seemed much more important.
Echo waves a hand, and a book appears between his fingers. He tosses it to me with a, “Stay out of trouble,” then follows his brothers to the back courtyard.
I stare after the three of them, suppressing the urge to stamp my foot in irritation. Their constant tendency to dismiss me is grating on my nerves. There have been moments with each of them, even Callum, where it felt like a true connection existed between us. But I can never forget that I’m merely an inconvenience that was foisted upon them, a shiny toy for their amusement when they want me to be but an annoyance when they don’t.
Clutching the book in my hands, I make my way upstairs to my bedroom and sprawl out on the bed. I feel decadent and lazy as I spend the next several hours doing nothing but reading, allowing myself to forget my own troubles for a little while and lose myself in the grand adventure of the story.
But I’m used to being busy, to doing things constantly, so I start to get antsy after a while. When Paris shows up in my bedroom doorway and offers to let me help him cook dinner, I decide to take him up on it.
He flicks his fingers to illuminate the magical light fixture overhead as we enter the cool, empty kitchen. Then he pulls a white apron off a hook on the wall and hands it to me. “Cover your dress. Wouldn’t want to mar that beautiful satin.”
I tie the apron around my waist, biting back an amused smile as I watch him do the same.
Everything about Paris screams of elegance and vanity. His hair is always perfectly coiffed, his skin as fresh as morning dew. He even speaks with crisp, clear words, his tone varying like music. Of course he wears an apron when he cooks. I wouldn’t have believed it when I first met him, but even after the short time I’ve known him, it makes perfect sense.
“Now, little soul, have you ever stuffed pasta before?” he asks, unwrapping thin paper from around a large ball of dough waiting on the counter. I shake my head, and he waves a hand. “It’s quite easy. Watch closely.”
He pinches off a bit of dough and begins rolling it out with the heel of his hand. He flattens the log with his fingers, then points to a separate bowl. “This is our stuffing—a basil and mushroom meat paste. Take a spoonful like so, spread it on your shell. Then…” He flips the edges of the flattened dough together and pulls it end to end to make a circular noodle. “Then we boil. Your turn.”
I follow his instructions, finding it really is as easy as he made it seem. When I brandish my finished product, he nods in approval, and a grin that seems more genuine than his usual flirtatious smile flashes across his face.
“Well done. You make a good assistant.”
He takes it from me and tosses the noodle in the waiting pot. “Keep going. I’m going to get started on the sauce.”
I fall into an easy rhythm of rolling and pressing and filling, and it’s such a relief to have an activity, a purpose, that I feel the tight muscles in my shoulders begin to relax.
“I can’t quite believe the decadent meals you make,” I say after a while as I begin rolling out another ball of dough. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Time and practice,” Paris says from behind me, where he’s tossing ingredients into a saucepan. I glance over my shoulder in time to see him pluck lightly at the weave, igniting a small red disc on a piece of the countertop that appears to be made of slate. He places the saucepan atop the disc, and the contents begin to sizzle. “I found I had a knack for it. Perhaps you do too?”
“I wouldn’t know. Our meals back home were mostly soups and stews, made to get us through the leaner times.”
He glances over his shoulder at me, looking truly sympathetic. “That’s awful. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, considering Zelus was your god.”
“What on earth has he done?” I ask. Curiosity burns bright inside me, and in the quiet refuge of the kitchen, I forget to worry about prying too deeply or pressing for answers the messengers won’t give. “Why does Kaius hate him so much?”
Paris stiffens slightly. I can’t see his face, but the muscles of his back shift beneath his fine cotton shirt. When he glances at me again, there’s a penetrating look in his eyes. “You just told me you lived off soups and stews to survive in the lean times. That you made meals of raccoons when there was nothing else to be had. And you’re asking what reason someone might have to hate your god?”
I freeze, my hands poised in the act of rolling out pasta dough.
He’s right. There were more times than I can count when I lay awake in bed
, cursing Zelus’s name in the secret recesses of my mind and praying for some other god to take pity on us and rescue us.
That’s not how it works, of course. I was born in Zelus’s realm, so I paid homage to him and worshipped him. Even if I’d known the name of another god to pray to, they wouldn’t have listened. Because they weren’t my god.
But just because Zelus was all my village and I had, that doesn’t make him a good caretaker to his followers.
It doesn’t make him worthy of worship.
I set the half-rolled pasta down, sudden tears stinging my eyes at the unfairness of it all. I didn’t ask to be born under Zelus; neither did my parents, my brother, or anyone else in our little settlement.
In Zelus’s name, we worship and obey.
The prayer I’ve uttered hundreds of times flits through my mind, along with an image of a bloody altar, and I grip the edge of the counter, clenching my teeth as I force back the tears that want to fall.
I will not cry in front of Paris. I flat out refuse to do it.
There’s a moment of heavy silence in the kitchen, and I know the blond messenger is watching me. I can feel his gaze on me as I wrestle to get my emotions under control.
When he comes to stand behind me, so close his chest almost brushes against my back, I stiffen, biting my lip. But he doesn’t mock me for my display of weakness. He doesn’t comment on it at all. Instead, his hand falls on my shoulder, the weight warm and comforting.
“We’ve decided to keep training you in magic,” he says quietly. “To actually train you, not just watch you flounder about like Callum did today. We’ll help you get a grasp on it, so you can use it like we do. You’re whip-smart and capable. I have a feeling you’ll be quite skilled once you learn the basics.”
My chest swells at the compliment. How did he know just what to say? Has he picked up on my thoughts through the bond between us? I’ve been feeling helpless and useless, and his words are a much-needed reminder that I’m neither of those things.