“You’ll live through tonight. And the Tale of Three Worlds, the myth of the Fjorn, is the oldest in living memory. Unlike other stories, it’s a part of who we are; it’s a religion. Our women are strong because the Fjorn were strong. Our men are protective because the Blodsjel would die to protect their family. They covet this land we walk on and chase away their enemies because they believe the Fjorn fought for them and died for them, and that another will be born who will fight for them and die for them. Every one of them can feel the darkness in this world. The evil. They fear it before they can even put a name to it, and they hope with every subconscious fibre of their being that something bigger than them exists, that some higher power is at work to save them.”
“Them?” I questioned, pushing him away as the song finally, blissfully, came to an end. “Are you not one of us, Andel?”
“I am nothing but proof that their wishes are in vain,” he sneered quietly, crowding my space to utter his words against my head again. This was something he didn’t want people to know. “My power cannot grow any higher, and I still do not wish to save them.”
He turned suddenly, stalking away from me, leaving me to stare at his back as he rejoined the other great masters.
“They’re not like us.” I said it to myself, though I felt Calder shadowing me, driven to reclaim me with a hand on my shoulder after enduring my dance with the Scholar.
“And what are they?” he asked, his tone tight.
I shook my head. “Something else. Something more.”
“Do you feel anything yet?” he asked, both of us still standing, staring at the masters as people shuffled around us in dance.
“Not yet. How much time do we have before we have to meet with the small council—and why exactly do we have to meet with the small council?”
He steered me away, tearing my eyes from the others as we escaped the dance floor and walked back towards the pathway.
“There has been a lot of talk amongst the sectorians and stewards, apparently. Of the myth. Of the Fjorn and the Blodsjel.”
Of us.
“And?” A chill spread over me. Andel must have already known. He must have guessed that the small council would find me here and seek me out, seek the truth out.
“They know, Ven. Some of the Sentinel recruits were talking about it the day of our Legionnaires battle. Apparently they were laughed at, until I walked on stage to protect you. The model Blodsjel. And then you won the fight. An impossible feat. Now people believe it. It’s why so many people are wearing the Legionnaires symbol. It’s why they all flocked here to celebrate you. Whatever their intentions, the great masters have essentially confirmed what everyone was thinking by throwing this festival. To the small council, this won’t look like a birthday celebration for the new Legionnaire—it’s going to look like the King is celebrating the long-awaited return of the Fjorn.”
I absorbed his words as we moved to the other side of the path, slipping further and further away from the lights and sounds of celebration. We both stopped at the same time, as soon as we were certain that we were alone, shielded by one of the many needle pines scattered throughout a smaller grove of peach trees. The fruit fell around us, uncollected, rotting against the ground.
“We need to talk about what we’re going to say to the small council before we drop into the room—” Calder fell into silence as I placed a hand against his arm, something skittering along my consciousness.
The sounds of revelry faded into the distance, a chill seeping into my bones, the warmth from a hundred candles seeming so much further away. I jerked away from the tree, suddenly repelled by the brush of bark against my arm.
Calder had two knives in his hands, having drawn them in complete silence, alerted by my behaviour. We moved back to back, slowly circling, and the darkness around us thickened, making it harder to draw breath. The scent of rotting peaches became overwhelming, choking down my throat, and I glanced at the ground with a mounting horror, bending to examine one of the fuzzy little globes. It writhed, an oily black mass winking out at me from within. I jerked back, swallowing a scream, and grabbed Calder to stop him from moving.
“It’s here,” I hissed. “It’s all around us. The Darkness.”
Five
Peaches
Calder stared at the fallen fruit, running his eyes along the trees in the groves, examining the needle pine behind us.
“Why aren’t the trees rotting, as well?” he asked.
I stepped closer to the nearest peach tree, careful not to crush any of the fruit beneath my feet, and gently touched the bark, trying to see inside it to the core of the tree within. Nothing happened. The scent of rot was coming from the peaches, but not the trees.
“It’s the food supply. The Darkness is cutting us off, just like you said … except it’s not just poisoning the animals, it’s poisoning the food we grow, as well.”
“I think we should work with the small council. It wasn’t possible before—they never would have believed us. But things are different now. We can’t keep allowing the masters to control the flow of information. The people of Fyrio need to prepare for what’s coming. We need help.”
I nodded, returning to him and winding my arm through his. “What’s her name?” I asked, fiddling with my ring.
“Laerke.”
I turned the ring, repeating the name, the stench of death following us as we fell through the ground, landing in a room lit dimly, several figures gathered around the fireplace with their backs to us. Laerke was the only one who faced us, her shoulder propped against the wall beside the window as she stood separate from the rest of the group. She started at our appearance, falling back a step, a hand jolting to her chest.
“You’re here,” she rasped, before cleaning her throat. She glanced between us. I wasn’t sure which of us she was talking to. “Please, join us by the fire. I know those with the Vold magic burning in their blood don’t feel the cold as keenly as the rest of us, but the room has yet to heat.”
She swept over to the others, perching on the edge of another man’s chair. I counted four women and two men, including Laerke. Two of the women had visible rashes on their arms and one had bumps on the backs of her hands, which bounced on her knees. She was smaller than the others, a bright spark of intelligence in her cold eyes.
Sinn.
The two men both had skin discolorations—the most common magic mutation—spreading into their hairlines. It didn’t take me long to figure out that Laerke was a Sjel, every flick of her long braid accompanied by a sideways look at Calder, her soul magic prickling seductively into the room. One of the women and one of the men were Eloi, their energy skittering over me, trying to get a read on me. They examined me as though it was the first time they were seeing me, even though they had been at my trial.
The remaining woman was a Vold—she wore minimal clothing, her skin tight over streamlined muscle. The last man—who sat on the chair Emory was perched on—had slate-grey eyes, wore a heavy robe, and smelled of Lake Enke. He was a Skjebre.
“Captain,” the Skjebre man greeted, nodding at Calder. “Tempest.” He turned further, fixing me with a look, though he didn’t stand from his chair. “I trust you know why we’ve sought an audience with you tonight?”