Chapter Three Inana
Chapter Three
Inana
There’s a hierarchy among the Sinless.
The original Sinless, King Kaelum, rules from the capital Sacred City at the heart of the Holy Continent.
Beneath him are seven Sinless princes, made royalty not by birth or bloodline but by sacred appointment following their Absolution.
Each prince rules over a walled Sacred City of their own, like Nalheim, where I reside now.
Below the princes are the Sinless dukes.
All three ranks are bestowed with solar astrotheurgy, the divine magic that allows them to ignite the Holy Braziers that dome their cities in light.
The dukes’ lands, however, are not protected by silver walls, making them more susceptible to the threat of Shades.
Still, they’re safer than unprotected villages.
At the bottom of the hierarchy are the Sinless lords and ladies.
Neither are they royalty, nor can they perform astrotheurgy.
Instead of ruling over land, they head the aristocracy.
All good citizens aim to be turned Sinless, regardless of rank.
They seek to be rewarded for their devoutness with the Absolution ritual that rids their souls of sin.
Since royal positions are hard to come by, most aspire to simply reach the bottom rung of Sinless gentry.
The Sinless male with his harpist thrall is one of these lords. While he may rank low among the Sinless, he’s the highest among the gentry and common folk, and the last person I’d want to attract attention from. At least, that was before the Shadowbane entered the soirée.
The Shadowbane stands at the back of my crowd, his dark gaze too keen, too penetrating, and locked straight on me.
I shift my face slightly, just to feel the weight of my mask and the sway of the bronze beads that dangle from it.
To remind myself he can’t see my face. Should we ever meet on the city streets, he’ll have no clue he first met me here.
I’m safe.
Or as safe as I can be.
Shadowbanes are considered half Sinless.
Sometimes called halfsouls, because only half their soul has been saved.
They are given a partial Absolution, but the reason why isn’t public knowledge.
Some say being partially stripped of sin allows them to carry out wretched tasks a true Sinless never could, such as killing Shades.
Others insist it enables them to wield shadow monsters like weapons.
I haven’t a clue if any of that is true, but it’s clear the man in my audience is different from the Sinless lord.
Where the other male appeared almost illuminated by his lack of shadow, the very air darkens around the Shadowbane.
There is no effortless grace in his posture, no delicate perfection to his features.
He looks to be a few years older than me, thirty at most. His shoulders are broad, his nose angled like it’s been broken, his sharp jaw dusted with a short beard.
His dark hair is overlong, falling in loose waves away from his forehead to the nape of his neck.
His striking yet rugged appearance so greatly contrasts with the gentlemen in the room, with their perfect coiffures, expertly waxed mustaches, and vibrant frock coats.
That doesn’t mean he’s unattractive, only that his beauty is unconventional.
He’s gorgeous the same way a lightning storm is—breathtaking despite its danger. Or maybe because of it.
Yet this beast of a man is the highest-ranking figure here.
Shadowbanes serve directly under the royals and have more authority than the gentry.
The sword at his back is evidence enough of that authority, for Shadowbanes are the only figures aside from the church’s priests who are allowed to carry weapons.
And theirs are made from coveted silver.
Gods above, seeing a Sinless lord at the Wretched Lair is already rare enough, but a Shadowbane? My palms grow slick with sweat. Shadowbanes don’t tend to seek out entertainment like the Sinless lords occasionally do. Their purpose revolves around hunting down two things: Shades and bounties.
And since this is a Sacred City devoid of the former, that leaves only the latter.
Which is a big fucking problem for me, considering I undoubtedly have a bounty on my head. Not for the daisies I sewed on silk at the textile mill. That was a petty enough crime that the proprietress simply sold me off to Rockefeller. No, my previous crime is much graver than that.
The crime of escaping a Sinless.
I clench my fingers into fists, anchoring myself to some physical sensation that isn’t my racing heart, and suck in a steadying breath. Then, forcing words from my lips that just might seal my doom, I tell my story again.
I fumble my performance. And the next. And the next. My threads get tangled in the second round, and my heart refuses to stitch correctly together. By the start of the third, I don’t even bother with my props. And not once do I reveal my scar again.
It doesn’t matter that the Shadowbane only stayed for half my story and I haven’t seen him since. He shook my confidence, and it’s probably for the best. A talentless storyteller like me couldn’t be of interest to him, right?
By my fifth and final performance, my nerves settle to a dull hum.
I finish my ending line and curtsy, though my audience is so deep in their cups they hardly notice.
It’s always like this at the Wretched Lair, since it’s one of the few places such upstanding citizens as these can imbibe so unrestrained.
Gluttony may be a sin, and would normally attract Shades, but in walled cities like Nalheim, the monsters aren’t a threat.
Such acts simply need to be kept from the public eye.
Otherwise, the common citizens who keep pious lives would know their utopian city is a sham.
Mr. Rockefeller returns to the center of the room to thank his guests and conclude the evening’s festivities.
While a handful of patrons linger to finish their drinks, many others clear out at once, hungry for their next forbidden fare at the brothels and gambling dens.
Such an honorable lot, the gentry. At least they know better than to seek further—and more private—entertainment from us, thanks to the rules of Rockefeller’s club.
We are not to be touched or spoken to. We are only to be looked at as we wait upon our stages until the last guest leaves.
Only then, when no one is left to witness our exit, can we lower our guard and return to the barracks we call home.
Now that sleep is in sight, an entire week of fatigue catches up to me.
Rockefeller’s performers do more than entertain at the Wretched Lair.
Some work in pleasure houses, while others, like me, serve as cleaning maids at various establishments Rockefeller owns.
I let my gaze wander to my colleagues, who seem to share my exhaustion.
The Bard’s thick shoulders droop, his mandolin dwarfed by his enormous frame, his wolflike mask partly askew.
The Lover’s fingers flinch at his sides, and I wonder if he’s yearning to rub his aching feet like I am.
After spending the evening dancing, spinning an invisible partner upon his stage, I wouldn’t blame him.
The Blade flips one of her knives, always in motion, while the Harlot—
“Seamstress, is it?” The voice is male and chillingly soft.
My spine stiffens as a man saunters toward me through the sparse crowd. A man with no shadow. A man with golden hair and the harpist’s blood still staining his lips.
I blink at him, hoping the Sinless lord might be a hallucination of my fatigue, but I should know by now the futility of hope.
He stops before my stage, expression empty as he stares up at me. “Step down,” he says, his voice a honeyed drawl. The tips of his sharp canines peek from behind his lips when he speaks. “I don’t like to crane my neck.”
Fuck. This can’t be happening. What did I do to draw his attention? I may have disregarded him as a threat after my close call with the Shadowbane, but my botched performances should have made me less interesting. My pulse beats a staccato rhythm. Where is Rockefeller?
A quick glance around the room shows no sign of my master, but what could he even do?
The rules of the Wretched Lair don’t apply to the Sinless.
This man can touch, talk, and take all he wants, and no one can stop him.
Not me, not my master, and not my companions, who now watch in frozen terror.
Is this what happened on the last night the harpist played here?
If so, I wasn’t there to witness it. Nor am I close enough to the other performers to have been included in such gossip.
The remaining guests stop to watch too, but it’s only out of amusement, not pity or worry.
The Sinless’s eyes narrow. “I won’t repeat myself, sinner.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, reminding myself of the command he gave me. On trembling legs, I descend from my marble block. He’s tall, but so am I, bringing us eye to eye. I’d give anything to shrink down, to fold in on myself, though maybe it would be worse if he towered over me.
“How…can I be of service…my lord?” My words are stilted, jagged.
“Are you afraid of me?” The first hint of emotion crosses his face, a dash of cruel mirth. “Fear is only a virtue if it is reserved for that which is evil. To fear the Sinless is to be greatly wicked.”
I purse my lips, for I have no answer that would please him. The truth is I’ve never feared evil things like the Shades and darkness as much as I’ve feared the Sinless. Shades never tried to cut open my chest.