Chapter Six #2
“How fascinating. You must be a powerful Emo, being able to sense an arcane energy such as that of my ancestor.”
“Does anyone else know the old lady’s dead?”
“I highly doubt it,” she purrs. “My brother and that old bat were both hermits. I suppose someone will come sniffing around for her eventually. I’ll be long gone by then, and the Principal Guard won’t have much to go on, will they?
That Soul Wraith was also the only thing tying me to this dreary place. ”
The Soulreaper tilts her head like a curious bird. “Could you imagine if an Emo soldier had cleansed it and seen the vision? I suppose that’s another way in which you helped me. I must reward you for your trouble.”
“You killed my sister,” I spit. “You call that a reward?”
“Well, no. It’s an unforgiving world, dear girl. And a thief is a thief. But you should know, your sister can still be returned to you.”
A cruel, sharp inhale steals my breath. I swallow hard. A flutter of hope flits through me, and it’s the most magnificent feeling. Then reality makes me crash back down.
She’s lying. She has to be. She’s wicked and heartless and enjoys playing with people’s feelings. To trust her would be a mistake.
All the same, I can’t stop myself from asking, “You … what? That’s not possible.”
“Only to those close-minded enough to believe it is. It’s a dangerous and taxing ritual, and only a handful of Soulreapers have mastered it, but I can return your sister’s soul and breathe life back into her form.”
Bring Elara back? The room spins. People don’t just … come back. It’s death. Final. It has to be a lie, and yet my desperate, na?ve self believes her.
“Even if you can bring her back, the High Council would never let you do it. It’ll be against the Soulreaper’s Decree…”
“Dearest, darling girl, haven’t you caught on yet?” She laughs, and it’s a high-pitched, squealing sound. “The High Council can’t touch me! I refuse to play by their autocratic, self-serving decrees. Rules are for those without ambition. And I, as you can see, am brimming with it.”
Confusion burrows into my gut. “Why would you take my sister’s life, only to dangle the promise of bringing her back?”
“Believe me, I never intended to make the offer,” says the woman, lowering herself on to the sofa. “But you impress me. I’m thinking … maybe we could strike a deal. Maybe I want something from you in return.”
I stare at her, unmoved. What could she possibly want from me? I’m an orphan, half an Emo who spends her days slaving away in an apothecary, crawling through people’s grubby attics searching for ghosts that go bump in the night.
“I have my ancestor’s rings now.” The Soulreaper sweeps her fingers through the air, making her own Necroseals shimmer and glow. “But what I need is … a wish.”
“What?” A gulp betrays the unease knotting within me. I look at the entry hall. Am I fast enough to make it to the front door? I can’t remember if she locked it behind us.
“Tell me,” she says, swinging one leg over the other, “what are your thoughts on competing in the Reckoning?”
“Very funny,” I say.
“What makes you think I’m joking?” She stands and walks towards me, eyes scanning my frame as if sizing me up. “You’ve not been trained at any of the Principal Academies, correct?”
“No.”
“Do you have control of your talents? Can you conjure as well as sense?”
“Y-yes.”
“Well then, congratulations. You’re going to compete for me.”
“That’s impossible.” I contest her suggestion. “The competing teams have already been announced in the ballot.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t be participating as yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My voice is sharp. This has to be a joke. Or maybe this woman is simply mad.
The Reckoning isn’t some silly race anyone can infiltrate. The tournament is harsh and unforgiving. All three principalities will have their eyes on it.
The contestants have to be at the top of their game, physically and mentally. Suffice it to say, I am not. I can’t even think about entering a deadly tournament and leaving Elara – her body – behind. I’m all she has.
But if doing this could bring Elara back…
I shake my head. Everyone knows competing in the Reckoning leaves you with only three possible outcomes: victory for the winner, and for the rest, death, or something far worse.
Returning a broken shell, brain and body destroyed, with your failures immortalized in the Games Master’s Post, laid bare for all to read.
Every stumble, every cowardly flinch, chronicled in excruciating detail for the Accord’s amusement. You wouldn’t only be broken, then. You’d be a public disgrace.
“I know it sounds far-fetched,” says the Soulreaper, “given that most of the participants who were announced in the ballot are students from top Principal Academies, all high-born and well known across the three principalities. They have formidable reputations.”
Formidable is one word for them.
“This does render the possibility of assuming their identities rather futile.” The woman’s words weave through the air with calculation. “But there is one pair…”
And then I remember. Alaric and the others briefly mentioned them earlier. “The privately trained team,” I mutter.
“Exactly. A pair of unknowns, perfect for the taking. And with the roster doubled to twenty-four teams rather than the usual dozen, the odds tilt so nicely in our favour. So many eager little contestants scrambling for glory… Who’s to notice a pair of impostors slipping through the cracks?
I do love a good tercentenary-anniversary shake-up. ”
“What do you mean, perfect for the taking?” I ask.
“That’s nothing for you to worry about, dear girl. Will you accept?”
“I’ll die.”
“Possibly.”
“You killed my sister. How can I trust you?”
The Soulreaper’s smile fades, replaced by a cold, unyielding expression. She anchors herself in front of the window, bathed in the dwindling afternoon glow that transforms her wavy yellow-blonde hair into dancing flames.
“You don’t have a choice – not if you ever want to see your sister alive again. Those cakes were fantastic, by the way. They really lifted my spirits.” She pauses. “What do you think, Taron? Is she up to the task?”
I frown. Who is she talking to?
Then I see him. At first, he’s a silhouette in the doorway.
Then he steps forward, into a beam of light casting in from the window.
He’s around the same age as me, with a tangle of lilac hair that falls across his brow.
A white vest clings to his lithe chest, and muscular grooves carve into his upper arms.
Taron’s eyes meet mine as he leans against the doorframe. They’re as icy as they are blue, and they have a steely quality, almost glazed over.
It feels like he’s looking right through me when he studies me, his gaze pausing on my collarbone for a split second before finding my eyes.
So, the Soulreaper has an accomplice. I shiver uncomfortably.
“I found you a new playmate,” the woman coos. “She seems much more promising than the last one. What do you think? Can you make use of her?”
Taron looks away and shrugs. “Sure. It’s all the same to me.”
“A Luna and an Emo,” the woman says thoughtfully. “This is good. Strength and sensitivity; force and manipulation. I think this could work.”
Of course Taron is a Luna. I should’ve guessed by his icy demeanour.
Luna elementals, those with the ability to manipulate gravity, are widely nicknamed “the cold-blooded”, both literally and figuratively.
It’s said the gravitational pull from the three moons influences their body temperature, lowering it to a level that would have most others shivering.
The Soulreaper is right. An Emo and a Luna, the mental and physical combined. The combination of our respective talents could work in our favour.
No, why am I entertaining this? I’m not strong enough. Fast enough. I’ve never even travelled beyond the neighbouring villages. But Elara…
I step back and collide with the wall. A portrait above my head swings on the hook before crashing at my feet.
“So, my dear,” the woman asks, “do we have a deal?”
I ignore her question, my eyes trained on Taron instead. “Why are you doing this? Is she paying you? Or did she blackmail you too?”
His eyes flicker with something I can’t quite place. Surprise, maybe? He studies my face, but remains silent.
I wonder if he’s a thief, too. Maybe he’s a pickpocket who tried to outsmart the woman at a market. Or a burglar caught in the act. Whatever game he played, though, it looks like he lost.
He gives me one last look, then – as if the sight of me fails to meet his expectations – retreats from the doorframe and disappears down the entry hall.
“He’s a man of few words, I’m afraid,” the Soulreaper says. “Luckily, you’ll have the entire tournament to get to know each other.”
I shoot the doorframe a sceptical look. This Taron guy might think he’s good at hiding his emotions, but I sense his turmoil; I saw it in the delicate threads of energy radiating from his skin. It was barely visible but impossible to ignore. Black as night.
I think he’s as trapped as I am. And he knows just as well as I do there’s only one way out of this. If the woman’s claims are true, and she really can bring Elara back…
I’d do anything to hug her again, see her warm smile and hear her laughter. She needs to know how sorry I am for letting this happen. For failing her.
“Fine,” I say. If getting Elara back means playing a deadly game with a silent stranger, so be it.
The woman smiles. “I knew you’d make the right decision. Taron will be in touch with the details later. You may go now. I suspect you’ve got some loose ends to tidy before your expedition to the capital kicks off tomorrow morning.”
Tomorrow morning? I have a job. Elara’s body. My blood runs cold – her body is still lying on her bedroom floor.
I nod through my apprehension, reaching far and deep for any sense of courage. The stars know I’ll need it right now.
“OK,” I say, my head reeling as she ushers me out of the parlour.
I can only hope Taron knows more than I do. Because if the two of us want to survive this thing, much less win, we’ll need to be prepared.
Taron stands at the foot of the stairs in the entry hall, watching coldly as the woman steers me to the door. I look over my shoulder at him, hoping for … I don’t know, some kind of sign that we’re in this together, but he just blankly stares into space.
As the woman forces me outside, it feels like I’m in a dream, at the brink of waking up in a cold sweat, entangled in my bedsheets and staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. But I’m not. This is real. I’m not asleep, and I’m not waking up.
I’m not supposed to steal from my clientele, but I did – more than once – and the time has finally come to settle the debt.