Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
T horne
Shadow weavers are given their own private dining room for meal times – a room lined in dark wood paneling, large oil portraits of shadow weavers from the past pinned along the walls, dark candelabras hanging from the vaulted ceilings.
A long polished table dominates the room with high-backed chairs. Serving staff stand to the sides waiting to take our orders and soft music wafts through the room – although it’s hard to hear it above all the excited chatter of all the other shadow weavers. They are already gathered around the table, talking excitedly about the last twenty-four hours’ events.
Silently, I walk the length of the room and take the empty seat beside Beaufort right at the end of the table away from everyone else.
I expect this is a million times nicer than whatever rat’s nest the commoners are given and I should be relieved we’re not eating with them. I’m already tired of the way they stare at us, whisper about us, even follow us about.
However, I’m not pleased about it at all. Because it means the girl is not with us and the girl is someone I wish to study.
Though I would never admit it, I’m as intrigued as Dray is as to why Beaufort would pick a girl like her as our thrall. Dray is right. We could have anyone we wanted.
“I ordered you steak,” Beaufort says.
I nod, straightening the cutlery on the table. Then tugging at my leather gloves, stretching my stiff fingers confined inside.
The dining room door opens and I expect the servers to enter with our dinner. Instead, the deputy headmistress strolls inside. She’s an older woman – possibly in her later thirties or early forties – and she’s dressed in a long tight dress, her hair piled on top of her head and her lips painted red.
The room falls silent as she walks to the head of the table and stops right beside me.
She smiles closed lips at Beaufort and me.
“Gentlemen,” she says quietly before addressing the entire room. “I trust you enjoyed your first trial at the academy.” Her smile widens and there are some chuckles and murmured ‘yeses’ from around the table. “I’m glad.” She rests one hand lightly on the table, her long red nails splayed across the surface, and leans forward a little, providing a view right down the front of her dress. I lower my gaze to the tabletop, the wood so highly polished I can see my face in it. “I believe it’s important that the other students understand where they stand. That they fully appreciate the extent of your powers and your abilities.”
Beside me Beaufort nods his agreement.
“It is important that they understand this process of assigning our people to their quarters is sacrosanct and crucial to our continued survival. Our processes have existed for centuries. They have kept our realm safe and prosperous.”
“Hear, hear,” Beaufort says and several others around the table imitate him.
“And so, it is important we maintain our traditions even if over time we … modify them. And so I move on to the tradition I’m sure you are all most eager to hear about.” Around me I hear people lean forwards on their chairs. “As I am very sure you are all aware, the first shadow weavers had squires to aid them in battle and in their defense of the realm. The squire was bound to his master – not only ensuring he had the equipment necessary for battle, but cooking for him, washing his clothes, finding him shelter for the night and,” she pauses and when she speaks again, there is a hint of excitement in her voice, “it is understood they provided other services to their masters too.”
There is laughter.
“I bet they did,” Dray calls out.
“In recognition of this highly valued relationship, one that served our realm well, this academy continues the tradition. The most distinguished and talented among you will be given the privilege of choosing a thrall from among the other students – someone who will serve and aid you during your time at the academy – just as the squire did his shadow weaver master. It is another way in which we, as shadow weavers, can demonstrate to the others how much more superior we are than them. How their role in our society is to serve and please us – while ours is to protect them from the darkness.”
I lift my gaze and stare at the deputy headmistress. Her eyes are glowing and a twisted smile now rests on her face.
“Those given this privilege have already been informed. Choose your thrall wisely and … do enjoy yourselves.”
She stands up straight and strolls from the room, the incessant chattering starting up again immediately.
“Yeah, Beaufort,” Kratos calls from down the table. “Choose wisely.”
“Shut up, Kratos,” Dray says in a bored tone. “We all know you have the worst taste in Onyx Quarter. Didn’t you screw your own cousin?”
The room laughs – all except Kratos who stares daggers towards our end of the table.
Beaufort looks at me. “You understand why it has to be her.” I nod. “You could look happier about it. Dray’s been chewing off my ear.”
I raise my gaze to meet his.
“Why would I be happy about it?”
My friend stares back at me. Then decides to change the subject. “What do you make of our competition here?”
I scoff, wondering why he’s bothering to ask me. Most of the other shadow weavers we have known for years. We grew up together, went to school together, we were trained together. Okay, there are a handful we know less well, but that’s because they come from the weaker, less powerful families. Of course, I’ve been watching them nonetheless, just in case.
“I see no threats.”
“Kratos’ acting like he’s growing more powerful.”
“It’s an act,” I tell him, sliding away from the server as he reaches around to lay my plate of steak and steaming vegetables on the table in front of me. I wait until the server is gone, then hesitate. Scratching the rough seam of my glove against my chin. “The girl could be a problem though.”
“Girls always are,” Dray says, turning away from Dallan on his other side and focusing his attention on us. He winks at me, his mouth full of food.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say coolly.
“How do you mean?” Beaufort asks, sawing through his steak, frowning. “How will she be a problem?”
“She’ll be a vulnerability,” I say.
“Exactly,” Dray says, waving his knife around. “That’s what I’m saying. She’s so puny looking, a gust of wind would snap her in two.”
Excitement sparks in my gut. I’d like to own something I could break.
“No one will touch her,” Beaufort says lowly. “Not if she’s ours.”
Ours.
Why do I like the idea of that so much?
Because it is a problem. It’s not good to want anything. It’s even worse to desire it.
I push my plate to one side, stand up and walk the length of the table. And you can hear all that twinkling music now because the room falls silent like before, even the scrape of cutlery and the crunch of food ceases as they all watch me leave.
I don’t know what I expected from the academy. It’s an eventuality I knew was coming all my life.
For most it’s an opportunity to thrive, to taste freedom, to indulge all their hidden desires. For me it already feels like a cage.
Too many people. Too little space. No room to breathe.
I descend the grand staircase, cross the elegant entrance hall and leave the building designated for shadow weavers only. At the front of the building is a wide courtyard, a fountain in its center, stone benches circling it, and cultivated trees at the edges. I cross this too and stride along the cobbled pathways, searching for an escape, swerving away when I hear voices or footsteps, choosing the less-frequented pathways, away from the curious glances of other people.
I’m at the edge of the campus, the oldest part, where the towers are solid but crumbling, the stonework basic but strong, when I hear the sound of more footsteps – hurried footsteps. I turn looking for a different way and then there she is.
The girl herself.
The girl whose name we don’t even know but who Beaufort says should be ours.
Our thrall.
She spots me further along the pathway and freezes. Her eyes widen.
In horror? Fascination? Admiration? I don’t know. The tall towers cast the pathways in shadows and it’s hard to make out the expression on her face.
She is small. Her head barely reaches my chest. And like so many from the Slate Quarter, she is slim. Too slim. I bet she’s all jutting hip bones and exposed ribs. Her hair is yanked back from her face so tightly it’s impossible to discern its color and it stretches the skin of her face, making her look startled and cross.
I realize it disguises how pretty she is. Her features symmetrical. Her skin smooth. Her lashes thick and long. Her lips plump and soft.
This pretty little thing belongs to us.
I’ve never owned anything so pretty. So delicate. So fragile.
It makes me want to touch her. To destroy her. Nothing so beautiful deserves to exist in a world like ours.
I ball my gloved hands into tight fists, the leather stretching across my knuckles.
She spies the movement and flinches.
A sickness swims through my stomach and I take a hurried step away from her. Then another.
“I’m g-g-going to be late,” she stutters, rocking on her toes as if she wants to be going. “For dinner.”
Late?
She points up towards the clock tower – visible from any point on the campus.
“They stop serving soon.”
She doesn’t know who I am.
It’s clear.
I take another step away from her.
And then another.
It doesn’t matter.
She’ll know soon enough.