Chapter Five Inana
Chapter Five
Inana
The tension in the air is as thick as the silence that blankets the streets of Nalheim, punctuated only by the rhythmic beat of horse hooves and wagon wheels on cobblestones.
The Shadowbane manages the reins at the fore of the wagon, while Bard, Harlot, and I sit in the back.
The vehicle is no different from those used in rural villages like the one I grew up in, with an uncovered bed, a wooden perch for the driver, and two horses hitched to the front.
Not the grand hunting carriage I pictured someone of his rank owning.
Since the Shadowbane commanded us to leave the city with him at once, we’re the only souls on the road.
Anyone seeking evening amusement knows better than to use the main streets.
All to keep up appearances that Nalheim is home solely to saints.
I lean against the inner wall of the wagon bed, legs pulled to my chest, head tilted back as I watch empty storefronts and grand manors give way to clustered row houses, then factories.
Night has fallen, but our surroundings are almost as bright as day.
The astrotheurgical dome of light blazes from every angle overhead, leaving hardly a sliver of shadow between buildings or beneath the manicured greenery.
My eyes glide to the center of the city, where Nalheim Palace towers from the summit.
Its silver turrets shrink farther and farther into the distance, yet the glow that emanates from the tallest spire remains undimmed, the Holy Brazier an ever-shining beacon of safety.
During the day, the dome cast by the brazier is invisible beneath the sun’s rays, but at night, it maintains a twilight haze over the city, regardless of how dark the sky is beyond it.
I scowl at the blinding pinprick of light shining from that far-off tower.
The brazier’s secrets may be unknown to most citizens, but not to me.
I know the price of its safety: a human heart.
It isn’t just in Nalheim. Every brazier in every protected city, whether walled or not, requires such a price.
And now I know the secrets of the Sacred Cities too.
They aren’t the perfect havens I was raised to believe they were.
The royals may reward those who prove themselves devout by inviting them into these walled cities, but once inside the silver gates where Shades can no longer follow, there’s nothing to keep citizens from reverting to sin. Not if they hide it well enough.
It’s that dichotomy that makes a Sacred City such an ideal environment for an outlaw. It’s the one place we aren’t supposed to exist.
When Rockefeller purchased me from the textile mill’s proprietress, I thought he’d drop me off at a labor mine at best. When I realized he was taking me to a Sacred City, I imagined being fed to a prince.
Gods, the dread I felt when I considered that my master maybe did know who I was.
That he’d purchased me knowing I was a bigger investment than the proprietress had surmised.
But that wasn’t the case. If he’d known I was guilty of far worse than telling stories while sewing daisies on stolen silk, he wouldn’t have given me a bed in his barracks, a job, and a clear path to buy back my freedom.
Not to say I’m fond of having been bought and sold like property, but laws against human trafficking don’t apply to criminals.
So for me, twice convicted of forbidden art and lucky to be alive, my situation in Nalheim was as good as I could hope for. I had a plan. An outlet for my art.
Now…I don’t know what I have, aside from the Shadowbane’s promise of freedom in exchange for six months of service. But can I trust him? Can I even trust Bard and Harlot?
“Get some sleep if you can,” comes the Shadowbane’s voice over his shoulder. “We reach the city gates in an hour, and we’ll remain on the road until daybreak.”
None of us answer, nor do we ask where we’re headed once we leave Nalheim. I posed a similar question when he first loaded us into the wagon, and all he said was “Somewhere else.” A fucking wordsmith, this one.
My gaze flicks across the wagon to Harlot, who picks at her nails, a glower on her pretty face.
She can’t be older than seventeen, with ash-brown hair and blue eyes that hold too haunted a look for someone so young.
Bard sits closest to the front of the wagon, his broad back facing our new master.
The way he positioned himself between us and the Shadowbane feels almost protective, though there’s nothing to suggest Bard is alert.
His gaze is hollow, distant, strands of thin salt-and-pepper hair hanging over his forehead.
One hand rests on the cloth-wrapped mandolin tucked close to his side while the other strums absently over strings that aren’t there.
Everywhere from his face to his hands bears deep scars, which makes me wonder about his story.
What’s the truth behind the sorrowful songs he sang at the Wretched Lair?
And what about Harlot? What led her to choose such a moniker, to draw caricatures of her patrons living out their sexual fantasies with her while she gripped her pen like she was strangling it?
I know nothing about these two whose fate I now share. Or the mysterious hunter who calls us his crew.
My lashes flutter open to the most beautiful sight—the night sky.
I rub sleep from my eyes and tilt my head back, drinking in the inky black expanse speckled with glittering stars, and the moon at the center of it all.
It’s been a whole year since I’ve seen night.
Not just darkness, but the true night sky.
It’s a comfort I didn’t think I’d miss so dearly.
No decent person would take comfort in the dark, in leaving the safety of one of the eight Sacred Cities.
But I’m not a decent person, and perhaps I never was.
Even my mother called me a cursed child.
Born on winter solstice—the longest night of the year, and a new moon at that—I entered this world a bad omen.
The way Mother told it, Shades were clawing at the door despite the silver-lined walls of the midwife’s birthing room for all forty-six hours she labored.
And after I was born, they continued to screech and claw the remaining hours until sunrise.
Were she not such a devout woman, I’d think maybe she had her own knack for storytelling.
But her tale isn’t a unique one. No mother wants to give birth at night, for the Shades are drawn to new life almost as much as art.
Scripture claims it’s a mockery of our deities to procreate before we’ve earned our gods’ forgiveness.
It is therefore a sin, hence the Shades’ attraction.
Funny how it’s the one so-called sin that isn’t forbidden.
Almost makes you wonder if it’s bullshit.
Or if there’s a reason the church wants us to keep populating the continent to perhaps—oh, I don’t know—replace all the people who are sacrificed to the Sinless?
I lower my eyes to the horizon, spotting the faintest beam of light above a silhouette of hills and trees.
That must be Nalheim, far behind us. I slept through our exit from the gates, but based on the pitch-blackness surrounding us and our proximity to the city, I didn’t sleep for more than a few hours.
A cool breeze dances over my arms, reminding me of another thing I’ve missed during my time in Nalheim—cold.
The Holy Brazier not only illuminated the city but maintained the perfect temperature year-round.
Not once did I need a cloak while walking home at night, or extra blankets on my bunk despite it now being late into fall.
That may sound ideal to some, but I love experiencing seasons, from shivering before the hearth in the winter to wiping sweat from my brow beneath the relentless summer sun. It makes me feel alive.
I shift to the side, muscles aching from the half-sitting position I slept in, and search for the wool cloaks the Shadowbane pointed out when he loaded us into the wagon.
Only…there’s already one covering me like a blanket.
I frown down at the warm weight on my lap, the corner of the cloak slipping down my torso.
Maybe it was the chill that woke me, the cloak having come down from over my shoulders.
But how did it get there? Did either of my companions drape it over me after I fell asleep?
I doubt I have the Shadowbane to thank for such a kindness.
A glance at Harlot and Bard shows they too are tucked under cloaks, eyes closed.
Bard still sits with his back facing the Shadowbane, but his head is lowered, bouncing with the movement of the wagon.
Harlot is slumped on her side, using her sketchbook as a pillow.
I’m about to tug my cloak back over my arms when I note the warm weight in my lap is from more than just the fabric.
There’s something heavier pressing down on my legs.
My heart stutters as I stare down at myself, noticing a thickening of shadows that form the mass of some large beast.
With its head in my godsdamned lap.
Terror courses through me as I recall the snuffling breaths by my ear, the tongue that slid over my cheek. Is this…a Shade? That Shade? The monster the Shadowbane threatened me with? What the fuck is it doing on me?
As if alerted to my rising panic, the shadow beast lifts its head, meets my eyes with two onyx orbs, and scrambles back on four paws. Then, with canine grace, it darts for the raised driver’s seat and plants itself beside the Shadowbane.