Chapter Six
The market streets were alive with an energy that thrummed and twined through the chilled morning air.
It was an overwhelming discord of sights, sounds, and smells.
Even now, with a sweet roll stuffed halfway into my mouth, my senses were stretched thin as I roamed through the maze of chaos with practiced precision.
I dodged and weaved between the crowds, eyes always searching for thieving fingers reaching for my belongings.
The market located just before the finely polished portion of Amori City, where the wealthy—though not notability—dined and slept was always a raucous adventure to tame and claim.
It was chaos, but I greeted it with familiarity.
The scent of delicious food and incense wafted up and over the crowd, drowning the scent of bodies too sweaty for the frost in the air.
Even now, sweat pooled beneath my own woolen coat, the heat of bodies pressing all around.
Vendors and merchants called out as I passed, some knew me by name, others did not, but all tried to entice me to glimpse their wares.
Tents full of jeweled trinkets, weavers who called out offering to braid my hair, fruit and vegetables carts laden, their farmers sitting behind them weary to the bone.
Yet I did not stop. It was not the market itself I sought out today, merely passing through. A means to an end.
It wasn’t until a familiar voice called out, its tone bright over the din of the crowd, that my feet stalled.
Rosie Donnchadh approached, red hair loose and wild today, falling to her waist. She carried a basket filled to the brim with various vegetables, my eyes catching sight of potatoes and carrots beneath the green of peppers. My mouth watered, her tavern was certainly having a stew tonight.
“Rosie,” my greeting was chilly as the air, my feet slowing, but not stopping as she fell into step beside me.
Her full lips curved, not truly a smile, but something akin to it as she bumped her shoulder to mine. “Don’t tell me you’re still sore from the lashing I gave you. I told you, no more fights within my tavern walls, Syra.”
I had never had many friends, the only true one being Bran, and while I wouldn’t entirely consider Rosie Donnchadh one, neither could I call her a stranger.
Only a few years my senior, she too had always been around.
Her tavern, which had once been her father’s before he had taken ill with The Fever, was a place of respite for Bran and I.
“I wasn’t going to fight them,” my grumble came out sullen, almost childlike, my scowl deepening as her breath huffed with a laugh.
“Be careful of the lies and half-truths that spill so easily from your lips. Tell too many and the Demon Prince Dedrio will drag you to the Ninth Hell for your treachery.” Her warning was a singsong, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Are you bestowing misfortune on me, Rosie Donnchadh? Today of all days?”
Finally a full smile broke across her face, reaching inside her basket she pulled a golden ribbon and dangled it before me, the apples of her cheeks red with cold, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
“The opposite actually,” she said as she grabbed my hand, winding the golden ribbon four times—a number of luck—around my wrist before tying it off with a knot. “I was hoping to catch you to wish you well on your trials.”
Fingers tracing the silken ribbon, I gave her a tight smile. It was an old Solerian tradition, a ribbon wound four times and tied with good intention would bring Soli’s blessing upon the wearer.
But I did not barter in luck or blessings with the Goddess of the Sun.
“Thank you,” I said, throwing a glance over my shoulder, “I’m already running a bit late, I should—”
“Go,” Rosie shooed me, “and be sure to tell all of the new friends you meet of my tavern!”
Saluting her, my laugh a chime lost to the din, I hurried on my way.
My steps didn’t slow again, not until the looming palace walls entered my gaze.
Sparkling sunstone shone under the winter light, bright and harsh in all its glory.
The wall shimmered, a kaleidoscope of sparkling golds, blues, and pinks that glowed in such a way that it appeared as though fire licked up its length.
It was so tall my head had to crane to see the little watchtower that sat atop it.
A golden watchtower for a golden kingdom.
My breath caught in my throat when a sound called out, “Who goes there?”
I couldn’t see who spoke, hidden in their nest atop flame, like a watchful bird for all the city to see.
The words nearly caught in my throat. “Syra Sommers, Apprentice to Merle Sommers. I’ve come for my trials within the Institute."
A moment of silence.
It lingered long enough to have my anxiety blooming, my stomach churning. They couldn’t refuse me, could they? I’d filed my case months in advance and received my acceptance and date to arrive not long after.
Just when my nerves began to fray and I had half a thought to turn and flee, a great rumbling shook the earth beneath my feet.
Stone began to shift and part, smooth and without a crack, like a knife cutting through soft butter.
It was a feat that never ceased to amaze me, no matter how many times I laid witness.
The stone split by those blessed with magic of the earth, a blessing of Soli.
I walked through the opening, my gaze awestruck as the stone shifted once more, closing me in.
I couldn’t see the magic-blessed who split it, hidden somewhere, perhaps the watchtower?
But I could still feel the tingle of magic in the air, could still smell the heady scent of rich soil and rocks baked under a blazing sun.
“Syra Sommers?”
A nasally voice called out, prim and arrogant, snatching my attention from the sunstone wall at my back.
The woman was tall, reed thin, and wore an expression so stern upon her narrow face that my spine straightened of its own accord.
She wore the long flowing robes of a Palace Master, the olive color symbolizing her to be a Potions Master in particular.
Her robes were threaded with gold, intricate little designs of swirling vines and flowers that crawled up the garment.
My excitement washed anew. I would soon have my own to wear, though I knew they would be nowhere near as opulent. Still the same olive color to mark me a Potions Maker, but the threading would be black and simple, unlike the gold of a Master.
Realizing her shrewd gaze was expectant, I took a few hesitant steps forward. “Yes, I’m—”
“You’re late,” she intoned, pushing her thin rimmed glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose as disapproval tightened her features. “To be late is to hold a lack of respect for those who await your arrival, Miss Sommers.”
My mouth was that of a gaping fish plucked from the sea, opening and closing as I tried to force an apology from my traitorous tongue. Too stunned to let the words come forth, instead a silence stretched between us.
A sigh came from her, followed by a tsk as she spun upon her heel and gestured for me to follow.
“Nothing to be done of it now. Let us get the preliminary questions out of the way while I escort you to your housing. You’ve already stated Merle Sommers as the Potions Master you’ve apprenticed under,” she said as she scribbled something upon a thick booklet she held in hand, “have you any blessed gift of the Goddess?”
My voice returned, nodding once, anxiety churned my stomach. “Yes, but it’s very weak.”
The woman gestured impatiently, glancing sidelong at me. Waiting, I realized with a start, for me to display the gift.
Heartbeat fluttering like the small wings of a sprite, I held out my hand, fingers shaking. Concentrating, I coaxed the shadows forth, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I could taste the tang of iron upon my tongue.
Please, please look like smoke.
This is an insult to our power. An indecency to those who have come before you.
The shadows grumbled through my mind.
Please, I prayed back. Coaxing them, willing them to work for me.
I heard the sigh through my mind as loud as if it had come from my own mouth.
Nervous tension stooped my shoulders, as the first tendrils came forth—light and fluttering—and quickly snuffed away as if caught upon the breeze. Looking exactly like the smoke of a candle, blown out and dissipating quickly.
Thank you.
My relief was instantaneous as the woman once more scribbled something upon her booklet.
“The gift of smoke, though weak, keeps you safe from The Fever, girl. You should thank our benevolent Goddess for that.”
Benevolent to whom?
The shadows were a brewing storm beneath my skin, a cloud of indignation and reproach.
Day after day we are hidden away.
Always there, but never seen.
Locked away within the body of a girl who wishes to waste us upon parlour tricks, frightened of her own blessed gift.
Brows bunching, I pushed at them within my mind, wrangling and grasping as they slipped like oil from my control.
Our patience is not infinite, little Shadow-Blessed.
Our thirst for vengeance is everlasting, long have we waited for the blood—
A gasp fell from my lips when they silenced, an emptiness ringing through my mind of sweet silence. Still they stirred, but locked were they from hissing their insidious words in my head.
“Are you quite alright?”
Head snapping, my gaze met that of the Potion Master. I swallowed thickly, feigning a tightlipped smile.
“Yes,” I answered, smoothing my hands down the tunic I wore. “Using my blessed magic drains me quickly. I’m sorry, were you saying something?”
Her narrowed eyes roamed over me, wary with a hint of worry, but she quickly spun on her heel and resumed her pace.
“I was saying that I will show you to the room you’ve been assigned for the duration of your stay within the palace grounds, after which your roommate has agreed to give you a tour of the facilities.”