Between Smoke and Shadow

4. Rune

FOUR

RUNE

I am on the forty-sixth level of the Tower. Every section has its own aesthetic, and the military floors are almost as bleak as the low servant quarters. While we are known for filth and decay, the military levels are known for their emptiness. Each floor is made up of mirror-like walls, overly-polished silver floors, and gaping rooms with minimal furniture. There are no colors, no decorations, nothing to pull attention one way or the other.

I sit in a wide room lined with identical doors. Thirty minutes after I’ve arrived, the nearest door clicks and a crying servant hurries from the interrogation room. She brushes past me, hiccuping breaths echoing as she disappears into the blank corridor. I tense, trying not to panic. I can do this—I have to.

“Rune Ealde,” says a woman.

I startle, looking back to the door. A petite guard stands motionless in the shadows, nearly invisible in her black, full-body suit. She’s wearing the dog-shaped mask of a low-ranking guard.

After a moment too long, I force a smile and stand. I arrived early, wearing the nicest coverall I could find, but it doesn’t matter. I’m an unwashed rodent standing next to this guard. Her suit is pristine and high-tech, and my coverall is dingy with a small hole near the armpit.

“Good morning,” I say. I sound too eager, too obviously fake, but at least I’m not crying.

The guard doesn’t respond. She leads me through the door and down a hallway, her boots clunking against the marble. She stops when we reach the corridor’s end, where a gaping room splits into view. It’s twice the size of the waiting area and holds nothing but a square table and three chairs in its center. A royal and his guard, both stiff in their seats, occupy one side. The guard, hidden behind his wolf mask, looks more beast than man.

“Rune Ealde,” the royal says. His voice is sharp, like I’ve already disappointed him.

He’s dressed in a violet suit, stitched with red seams, and a pair of slick black shoes. His purple mask, cut short like most royals, starts at his eyebrows and stops an inch above his mouth. Unlike most, however, his is made of angled metal, not fabric, and interwoven with black mesh to conceal his eyes.

“Sit,” he says, folding his hands on the shiny table. The black reflects his image perfectly, from his smooth dark hair to his already downturned mouth.

I take the chair opposite the two men. I can see myself in the table too, and I have to work not to react. I look horrible. Clean coveralls or not, I’m hideous. Sallow skin and unkempt hair, lips so dry they’re bleeding. My mask–a strip of fraying tulle–is discolored and brown. The red emblem of an indebted servant scars the back of my hand. I subconsciously tuck it beneath the table.

“I am Sorace Awyr, descendant of the Architect,” he says. He didn’t need to tell me what he is—the intricate insignia on his shoulder already did.

I shift in my seat. Sharp panic sears my every nerve, but I can’t let him see it. I force a slow breath.

“You’re our final candidate for Lady Saskia’s handmaiden,” he says, face twisting unpleasantly. He tilts his head toward me, appraising me, I think. “A member of the cleaning crew, all the way to an elite’s handmaiden?”

It’s an unrealistic promotion—or it should be—and we both know it. One of Vale’s insiders snuck my application, filled with false qualifications, into the final round of candidates. That, paired with my innate ability to lie like my life depends on it, has gotten me to this point. Caleah and I each created elaborate explanations, in case anyone demands details. I have the story in the front of my mind, but I can tell he doesn’t want to hear it.

“Yes, my lord,” I say instead. I give him an absent smile, as if I don’t realize his question is an accusation.

Sorace stares at me. After an uncomfortable pause, he finally nods, grimace remaining in place. “All right, Rain, tell me what you know of the crown.”

I don’t correct him on my name. I smile as I regurgitate facts of the Architect and his descendants and their incredible dynasty. My expression holds as Sorace barrels through the interrogation, even as he shifts from Savoa’s history to mine.

“You are an indebted servant,” he says, after some time. His eyes narrow. “Criminals do not often serve elites.”

“My father was a criminal. I am not,” I say before I think better of it. Sorace’s lip curls, and I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

“Our family’s guilt is our own,” he says.

“Yes, my lord.”

Sorace rolls his fingers across the table, jaw tight. I wait for him to get angry, to end the interrogation early, but after several seconds, he continues.

He asks about my mother.

She died when I was eight. Your laws killed her.

Then about my father.

He was a failed criminal. The crown executed him. Maybe it was me.

Finally about my skills.

I am capable of working long hours. I am capable of plotting revenge.

I am an obedient servant. I am an excellent liar.

I have no aspirations beyond dismantling the crown.

By the end, I’m smiling and shattering and imagining Sorace’s blood on my hands. I force myself to look calm, so that he might believe I am. I don’t let myself break—I’m not sure I want to. I’d rather scream than cry, rather lunge than cower.

I should ask Sorace how he’d like to share his secrets, his family’s shame. How he would feel about claiming his ancestors’ guilt as his own. I want to know how he thinks a failed thief compares to his line of merciless killers.

But I don’t.

I answer his questions and nod and keep my voice light. Because Vale needs me to, because this is our best chance.

“Your interview is complete,” says Sorace. He retrieves a flat red token, marked with a complex pattern, and slides it across the table. “Your new quarters. Fifty-one CC.”

“You’ve chosen me?” I ask, unexpected pride swelling in my chest. “I have the position?”

Sorace doesn’t reply. He barely moves, nothing but a downward twitch of his mouth. I glance sideways at his guard. He hasn’t moved since I first arrived.

“Thank you, my lord,” I say, lurching to my feet.

I grab for the access key, only to let out a yelp when it attaches to my skin. Scalding heat grips the pad of my thumb, burning my flesh to the point I can smell it. I should have known it’d be laced with magic. With an embarrassing cry, I flail my hand until the token clatters back to the table.

For the first time, Sorace lets out a soft chuckle. He snatches the enchanted token and easily returns it to his pocket.

“Your thumb is the key,” he tells me.

“Thank you, my lord,” I say again, voice wavering for the first time.

I wait for him to nod his dismissal and then hurry from the interrogation room. My steps quicken, and before long, I’m running. I hit the stairwell, going down, down, down, until I realize I’m running toward nothing. My roommates will be thrilled to have the extra space, and I don’t have any belongings. Even the clothes on my back are borrowed.

I lean into the corner of an unmarked landing. Dozens of servants filter past me, juggling buckets of cleaning supplies and trays of dishes. None of them look at me.

Despite the swelling, I can already see the changes on my thumb. I stare at it, trying to bring back the pride I felt only minutes ago. Many servants work their whole lives for this, for a chance to earn a decent wage, to live amongst the important people.

But this is not a token of honor or a triumph. This is yet another brand tying me to my captors—and a reminder of why I must fight.

After five days as Lady Saskia’s handmaiden, I find myself on yet another military level. I stand behind her, juggling her water stein and heavily jeweled clutch. She’s already threatened twice to take my finger if I steal anything. Now though, she’s too distracted to harrass me. She sits to the right of Lady Viana and to the left of another well-dressed elite. There’s an entire line of them, over twenty elite ladies and gentlemen, all vying for their shot at royalty.

No, not just royalty. The crown .

All the elites look nervous, even Saskia and Viana, who take turns fidgeting and picking at their skirts. Like the others, they’re here to watch the crowned siblings train, or more realistically, to watch them show off. They sit near the center of the room, facing an elongated window. Through the glass, the training arena stretches in a wide rectangle of concrete walls and black-matted floors.

Dozens of weapons, almost all foreign to me, hang along the room’s interior walls. They’re different sizes and shapes, some with glowing magic, others without. Swords and knives, shields and gloves, oblong darts and sharpened rings. I survey the dangerous objects and wonder if Caleah’s doing the same. Though she stands beside me in the line of servants, she hasn’t moved since we arrived. Not a twitch or a glance or even a hitch of her breath. Acting unaffected comes naturally to her, but it takes every ounce of my effort to keep from peeking at her.

A sharp horn sounds over the intercom, announcing the arena’s first arrivals. Unconsciously, I lean toward the glass separation. A troop of twenty-five low guards, some with descendant insignias and others without, take their places around the massive room. They stand, tensed and ready, facing away from us.

“Wench,” Saskia hisses, stealing my attention. She’s painfully ordinary for an elite. Unremarkable features, lifeless hair, a round face. I wonder if she doesn’t use magic to enhance her appearance, or if she typically looks even worse. She whips toward me, arm reaching. “My bag, wench!”

I don’t have time to move before she surges over her seat, snatching the clutch from my hand. Then she turns to Viana again, and the girls hastily apply blood red lipstick.

“You’re going to win. I know it,” Saskia says, smiling at Viana.

Saskia has lipstick on her teeth, but Viana doesn’t tell her. She only glares, as if her friend has somehow insulted her.

“Of course I am,” she snaps. Her words are sharper than any weapon here.

I dig my fingernails into my side. Aside from her potential selection as queen, I’ve heard only two things of Viana Llroy: she is stunningly beautiful and viciously cruel. After only an hour, I know both to be true. She has tanned skin, upturned eyes, full lips and white teeth. Her dark hair is healthy and shiny and twisted in a beautiful plait. I wonder if Caleah braided it.

As for cruelty…Viana is vicious to everyone, not only the servants. She has the unique ability to draw people in, even as she blatantly tears them apart.

Saskia is right. No one else stands a chance.

I’m still studying Viana when Sorace Awyr enters the room. He exits from what appears to be an office, located to the right of the arena. Before he shuts the door, I catch sight of a metal desk, a stack of parchments, and what appears to be a pinned series of blueprints. Maybe of the Tower? I resist looking at Caleah. Instead I make a mental note that this interior door doesn’t seem to have a separate lock.

Sorace moves to the front of the room. He’s directly between Saskia and Viana, looking almost as unimpressed by the elites as he was with me during my interrogation. He lifts his arms, flashing what I think is supposed to be a smile. He’s unbearably rigid, moving in tight gestures, as if the false enthusiasm physically pains him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he calls. “Welcome to your exclusive viewing of this crowned training session!”

“The bag,” Viana hisses. “Get rid of it, Saskia! It’s hideous. We can’t?—”

Saskia twists and throws her clutch at me. There’s not enough time for me to react. Her clutch strikes my chin, and when I try to catch it, I drop the water stein. There’s a thud for the clutch. A clang for the stein. A slosh for the water across my threadbare flats.

A furious heat burns my cheeks as the entire room shifts to look at me.

“Pick it up, wench,” Saskia says. Her face is as scarlet as mine feels.

I sputter an apology before dipping to the floor. Caleah’s foot turns toward me, just slightly. I let myself believe it’s a signal, that it’s her way of showing compassion.

By the time I’m back to my feet, belongings in place, most of the ladies have turned away. Sorace’s glare lingers for another second before he returns to his overly-rehearsed spiel.

“Only those of the crown are permitted to utilize the training arena.” Sorace gestures stiffly behind him. “However, as a reward for making it this far into consideration for a place in the crowned family, your access codes will allow you entrance into this viewing room through the duration of the Flood Season.”

The elites glance amongst each other, whispering their excitement.

“Now, back to tonight’s main attraction,” Sorace continues. “The crowned siblings will demonstrate all things from physical combat to weapon control to magic casting. And as this will be an authentic experience, please prepare yourselves for great violence and potentially lethal bloodshed.”

The elites all suck in gasps, except for Viana, who turns toward Saskia with a bloodthirsty grin.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be safe here. The glass is magicked to ensure it.” Sorace nods behind him. “There are twenty-five guards in this arena. Their goal is to remain on their feet. Whichever sibling incapacitates the most guards wins.”

There’s a soft murmuring amongst the elites, but they fall silent as Sorace begins again.

“A final reminder to the servants: be mindful of your masters. They have worked their entire lives to reach this moment. You have not. You are here as shadows, not contenders. I advise you to remember your place.”

I chew on my tongue, forcing myself to nod, first to Sorace and then to Saskia, who has turned again to glare at me.

How have they worked for this? I want to ask.

Saskia is the one who hit me, I want to say.

I couldn’t forget my place if I tried , I want to scream.

Instead, I remain silent, motionless, as if I’m nothing but a brainless corpse. I focus on the squishing of my water-logged shoes until another horn sounds.

“Welcome Prince Harrick, Prince Malek, and Princess Tora!” Sorace calls. His plastic smile returns. “And please, enjoy the show!”

As the elites politely applaud, Sorace bows out of the room. We’re left to wait, the anticipation building in the air like thick poison. I shift my attention back to the arena. As much as I hate it, I want to see the crowned siblings. I’ve only ever seen them at executions, and even then, it’s from a distance.

I once saw Queen Elaria on her way to a celebration. She had passed by in a glass lift, wearing an elaborate red gown and an excess of golden jewelry. The sight of her should have made me sick. Her opulent clothing, the wasteful magic, the glittering jewelry that could have paid my father’s debt a hundred times over. Yes, I should have hated her.

I only hated that I would never be her.

Of course, I can’t admit that. Not to Caleah or the other rebels or anyone at all. I wouldn’t admit it to myself, if I could help it.

When a tall figure enters the arena, a collective breath draws through the viewing room. It’s one of the princes, broad-shouldered and dressed in a vermillion training suit. His face is bare, which is the most startling thing of all. Only members of the crown don’t wear masks, and this close, it’s unsettling. Viana grabs Saskia’s hand, hard enough that her fingers lose color.

“He’s beautiful,” she whispers. Her voice’s usual severity is gone, replaced with only the purest childlike wonder. “My husband is beautiful.”

Prince Harrick, heir to the throne, immediate descendant of the Architect. And yes, he’s stunning.

Despite myself, despite the fact Caleah is here, I move forward, desperate for a better look. I’ve heard snippets of gossip, seen portraits of the crowned on elite-level walls. This is different. I can see Prince Harrick, so near and unmasked and hauntingly beautiful. His eyes, closer to black than violet, contain more magic than any other descendant in history. That includes his twin brother Malek.

Prince Harrick steps farther into the arena and pauses. Without looking at the guards or the array of weapons on the wall, he nods at us through the window. Of course, he’s not nodding at all of us. He doesn’t notice the malnourished, dirty servants in the back. He only sees his choice of brides, the beautiful ladies all desperate to be his.

I fight the unexpected smile on my lips.

Because someday, things will be different. Everyone in this room will see me. They will learn my name, memorize my face. They will come to fear this little shadow, because someday, it will take everything from them.