3. Target Practice
Chapter three
Target Practice
S olveig sensed a shift in the air that wasn’t from the change of seasons. Something was different; it had been quiet. Too quiet. Two years at Luxenal. Fifty executions, and Solveig hadn’t known it to be this quiet in the months before winter. It was unsettling.
Throwing back the covers of her bed, she dressed quickly, in supple, deep brown pants, and a forest green cotton shirt. Lacing her leather boots by the flickering candlelight, she packed a small bag of supplies and headed out to the dark halls of the officials’ residences.
The cavernous open cast lurked to her right as she exited into the fresh air, an endless pit of deep black mystery in the still dark morning. Further she went, past sorting houses, guard stations and, finally, the crematorium. The chimney was mercifully smoke free for once. Head down, she exited through the main entrance block. The guards stood on the perimeter wall didn’t even glance her way as she headed straight off to the left into the western edge of the Cuprum Forest. A small river lay roughly a half morning’s walk away. It was a place Solveig frequented often; the mine offered little in the way of training grounds, and she needed to keep her skills sharp.
Solveig had learned from an early age that she couldn’t solely rely on her hydromancy and had to foster a talent for fighting instead. Skills she had paid for with her own blood and sweat. A currency of bruises, lacerations, and broken bones. She couldn’t afford to lose her edge.
The sun rose before her as she approached the shadowed edge of the forest, colouring the sky in shades of blood orange and warm yellow. Hidden within the leaves, she paused, listening for the rush of the river through the birds’ dawn chorus.
Torrelin was her home. Solveig often felt the power lurking beneath the surface, dance and play with that which lay in her veins. It was as though it recognised her. But magic could be a trickster, and the ley lines that ran deep within the earth, though tempting with the promise of unbridled power, were dangerous to play with. Often used to magnify someone’s power, they could also drain it completely, something she couldn’t risk falling victim to. She resolved to ignore its call, preferring her own eyes and ears over unknown, ancient magic in the dirt.
Autumn wasn’t the best time of year for fishing in these waters. Most species had already swum down river toward warmer climates, but she hoped a few still lingered. There were limited options for target practice in the mine, moving targets were even fewer. Since they frowned on torture outside of her regularly scheduled executions, and she had no desire to end up in the crematorium herself, the fish were her best option.
The river gushed down the mountains thanks to the night’s heavy rainfall; dangerously close to bursting its moss laden banks. Solveig watched, waiting until the first flash of brightly coloured scales appeared. No sooner had she spotted the rainbows arching off it, she released a dagger, slicing clean through the fish’s belly. The foam collecting on the river turned pink as blood seeped from the wound. A direct hit on the first attempt.
Solveig repeated the move over and over for most of the morning, from various vantage points. Testing her speed, endurance, and accuracy. When the fish failed to appear, she would settle for non-moving targets. Practice was practice in the end.
Soon morning fled to midday, and Solveig took a seat against a tree, lighting a small fire to cook lunch. She gutted her kills with practiced ease, inhaling the cooling air as she went through the motions.
The weather was turning. This far north, the roads that led home would become thick with snow and ice, within a month or two, impassable until spring. With every passing year, Solveig wished the snow would come sooner and stick longer. She’d avoided Marrelin City for two years and often feared what it and its inhabitants may have become in her absence. It held nothing for her now anyway, except the prospect of a cage, and a lifetime chained to a power-hungry fool, her betrothed, Gabriel Orson. Her parents and his had signed the deal before they’d even buried her previous intended. They hadn’t even allowed her to say goodbye, nor the time to mourn the man she had loved beyond reason. Not wanting to risk the chance that she would fall for someone they deemed unworthy a second time.
Torrelin was for her brother to inherit. She preferred to live out her days in the damp confines of the mine. There, at least, she had some semblance of freedom.
She chewed on the last of the salty white flesh of her catch, summoning a spurt of water from the river to douse the fire. Washing away any evidence of her meal before moving to pack her things. But the sound of a cracking branch saw her head snapping up. Moving quickly, she hid her pack beneath a dense Nyteberry bush and scaled the nearest tree to keep watch. The sounds of snapping branches and crushed leaves grew closer. Louder, until eventually hushed voices accompanied it.
“Getting close now,” a voice muttered.
“Yea, how d’ya figure that one?” came another.
“Grounds all orangey; means we’re nearing the copper,” the first insisted.
“Who put you in charge?” the third exclaimed.
“What ya bitching about, huh?”
“It’s iron that makes the ground orange, rot brain, not copper.”
“I’m in charge cos they said I am. How many of you have been in the Reaper’s presence?” The group stilled. “Gotta have ya wits about ya in this place. Never know when she might creep out of the shadows to steal ya soul.”
Solveig rolled her eyes at that. If only they knew the ghost of their nightmares was spying from above.
“How’d we get roped into this, anyway?” the second stranger grumbled.
“The prince said a message needed delivering, offered twice the pay. Don’t know about you, but my roof needs fixing before the snow arrives,” the first replied.
Solveig stilled this time. Even as children, she and Killian hadn’t been close. If she were the recipient of his message, she knew the news wouldn’t be pleasant.
Still, she remained on her perch. Hidden within the lush green foliage of the treetops until she could no longer hear even the faintest crack of a twig from the passing messengers. One step at a time, she scaled her way back down, careful to avoid scrapes from the rough bark. She fished her bag out from underneath the Nyteberry bush, surprised to find its branches still laden with berries, and made the long walk back to Luxenal.
Nyteberry was a popular poison favoured by the guards, when ingested in high quantities it resulted in agonising stomach pain. They’d often dose up anyone they deemed insubordinate before forcing them to work, day and night. Over and over until the message sank in.
Obey or suffer.
Solveig had executed countless guards who had caused a prisoner’s death. Whether accidental or intentional, unless the prisoner died of natural causes, the only people with the authority to order their deaths, where her parents. King Emerson and Queen Asta. But it wasn’t a deterrent for the sickest amongst them, those who enjoyed creating their own entertainmen t. As long as they met their quotas, and no one ended up in the crematorium, the Commander, turned a blind eye to their games.
The sun drifted low in the western sky as Solveig passed through the creaking wrought-iron fence. The air surrounding the mine was chill, its proximity to the mountains often the cause. Clouds would build up against the perpetually snow-capped peaks, obscuring the sun from view, stealing its precious warmth.
The orchestra of chains and exhausted grunts echoed still as she skirted the edge of the complex, avoiding the open cast. Instead, she walked round the back of the sorting houses where the women, children and the elderly sorted rocks into designated piles for their ores and minerals. One young woman had her arm in a sling, held tight to her chest, bruises marring her neck and cheek. Unease crawled down Solveig’s spine, and she wished she knew which guard had marred the woman’s face so she could repay the favour.
She dropped her gaze quickly to avoid drawing attention to herself and made her way to the operations base that housed all the officials’ offices. Somehow, the air inside the building was infinitely more humid. It reeked of rotting wood and rug fibres. Her gaze rose to the girl beyond the desk and froze. Because the girl Solveig had become accustomed to was missing. In her place sat a woman, with deep brown skin, her dark hair flecked with silver, secured back in an array of braids.
Solveig was about to clear her throat to gain the mysterious woman’s attention, when she glanced up, churning silver eyes beheld her impassively.
“Your Highness, how may I assist you?” The woman’s voice sounded smooth as honey. Her accent differed from anything Solveig had heard before.
“You have me at a disadvantage. Clearly, you know me and yet, I have never set eyes on you.”
“Surely, it’s not surprising for people to know who you are? A princess of the realm can hardly remain anonymous, and your exploits make it even less likely.”
“Have any messages arrived for me?” Solveig asked, changing tack.
“A few messages arrived today, Your Highness.”
“Solveig is fine.”
“Solveig,” the woman murmured, eyes falling to the papers in front of her, “but none addressed to you. Only the usual correspondence for the commander, a waste, honestly.” She tucked a stray braid behind her ear, the sleeve of her sweater slipping slightly to reveal wrists silvered with old scars. “They labelled one as urgent. Alas, the commander is away this evening inspecting the new sleeping quarters in the expanded eastern sector.” A single brow raised above burning eyes. “Was there anything else I could help you with, Solveig?”
“I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“I didn’t offer it.”
Silence yawned between the two women, coiling tight, waiting for either of them to break it. When neither did, the woman sighed, meeting Solveig’s gaze once more.
“If a name is all you require to cease disturbing me, then you may have Viana and take your leave. I’m sure you’ve better mysteries to break into tonight.”
“Viana is reminiscent of Farrenhold. Is that where you call home?”
“Am I on trial? I don’t recall being dragged here in chains.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Solveig whispered, taking a step forward. “It’s been a few days since I scented blood in the air. I find I’m growing to miss it.”
“Judging by the commander’s correspondence, your blood lust will be sated soon enough. Shame though,” she mused, eyeing the cuffs at Solveig’s wrists.
“What is?”
“Magic fails around us every day and you decided it was wise to test the boundaries of nature with the capabilities of your own.”
“How I choose to use my magic is none of your concern,” Solveig said, sliding a dagger free, slamming it on the desk with a heavy thud. “How I use this, however, should be. I’ll be speaking with the commander regarding your continued employment here. I’ve been itching for some extra target practice.”
Viana didn’t drop the princess’s gaze as she spoke. “We will meet again, Solveig Maleen. Of that, I’m sure. The level of your blindness when that happens remains to be seen.”