Chapter 8 Harkin #2
There were other observers, watching over the proceedings with varying levels of engagement.
My gaze stopped on one man in particular, the emblem of a Third Order Guardian pinned to his chest. Far enough along in his career to recognize the younger soldiers yet not too far progressed as to draw attention to my presence.
I sidled over to the Guardian, invisible tendrils of mágik already winding their way into his thoughts. I lulled him into a haze of contented ease before introducing myself. “Good Morning, sir. Guardian Aranti, at your service.”
The Guardian turned, looked me up and down, then grunted noncommittally.
I released his manipulation slowly, maintaining only the slightest sway of power. I took advantage of my newly acquired armor. “I am to hand deliver a message to Guardian Corso. Would an accomplished Guardian such as yourself have the time to assist me in identifying her?”
The man preened under the combination of my mágik and compliments. He gestured enthusiastically ahead. “Certainly. Guardian Corso is in First Cohort, Guardians of the Second Order. You can find her sparring at the front of her formation, just there at the far end of the field.”
I followed his pointed finger, eyes catching on the group he indicated, and nodded thoughtfully, squeezing my powers tightly around the man once more.
The Guardian’s head bobbed, a wide smile plastered across his face.
I left without another word, my mágik slipping away as I did. I followed the path along the outer edge of the field, remaining out of view of the higher ranked Guardians.
I found the woman I assumed to be Seren Corso just in time to see her slam the hilt of her sword into her opponent’s spine. She collapsed sickeningly fast, limbs sprawled and face in the dirt. Seren reached a hand out to assist the fallen woman.
Honorable, I thought.
A brief altercation passed between the two, shouts and hurt expressions exchanged on the other woman’s part.
Seren remained facing away from me, and I could not make out her impression of the events.
The woman stormed in one direction while Seren stood stock still.
She eventually turned and broke from formation.
As she moved, I finally caught my first glimpse of her face.
Seren was the woman from the garden.
Fuck.
I followed her at a distance, studying her face.
Her dark hair was no longer loose, but neatly braided in such a way that the ends brushed against the top of her spine.
I could not make out the color of her eyes from this distance, but it was clear that they were hardened in forced apathy.
I forced myself not to remember the spark of gold that had lit them under the rising sun.
Seren slid her sword back into the sheath at her waist and paused, leaning her forehead against the cold stone of the wall before her.
I took in her shaky breaths, watching her draw her composure back in check. Her anger and pain lanced through me.
She straightened suddenly and began moving with purpose, back straight and face composed once more.
I shadowed her for the remainder of that day, taking note of her skills, her mealtimes, and her lack of contact with any other Guardians beyond what was strictly necessary.
For the first time in ages, I was unsure of how to proceed.
She was hard for me to read, and the feeling was distinctly uncomfortable.
I could feel her indifference, her erected mental walls, from across the crowd I kept between us.
But I also knew what I had seen in the garden: a woman in anguish.
I had become so used to the pliable minds of humans and the airy headed Rázuri nobility.
I did not enjoy the feeling of unease that prickled through me in her presence.
When the sun began to set, washing the trees in a bath of twilight, I disappeared back to the woods where Equinox waited for me.
I made camp for the night, planning to return again in the morning.
Seren would not be an easy mark; I could ascertain that much already. I would need to find out what made her tick in order to gain her trust and steal her away to Acsilla.
These thoughts plagued me long into the night, and as I approached the space between wakefulness and dreams, I was reminded of the first time I met Prince Claudian. The moment that started my contract with the cruel royal and ended the peaceful days of childhood when my soul was still unmarred.
My sister was deeply unwell when Prince Claudian came into my life.
She lay coughing and feverish, blood splattering handkerchiefs stained with sickness.
She needed medicine that we could not afford, far more food than we had, and water that was not contaminated.
The aftermath of our father’s death left me in charge of protecting my mother and sister, and I was failing miserably.
Resources were neither plentiful nor inexpensive in the far reaches of Acsilla, and money was nearly impossible to come by.
My mother and I had already traded everything we could afford to part with.
Our dishes, jewelry, even my own bed had been exchanged at the market for flour or fish or herbal remedies we hoped might cure my sister.
I could not let Adina die. I could not lose another person that I loved, and so, on a desperate pitch black night, I stumbled upon the market square. I was determined to break into the apothecary and return home with every potential cure I could find.
The glass shattered with little effort beneath my wrapped knuckles.
I understood little of the various medicines stored in the shop, but my mother would know what to do if I only managed to get them to her.
My heart pounded a painful rhythm through my chest, stabbing at my sternum. Nervous hands fumbled the vials and pouches as I dropped them hastily in my pack.
The first and second cases lay bare before me, and I moved to sweep the contents of the shelves into the bag. The shaking in my muscles had grown tremulous, and my breaths came in ragged gasps.
I had never known fear like this. Fear for my sister’s life, for my own.
We had never been so desperate as to steal from our neighbors. I had never thought myself willing or able to stoop so low.
In the dark, I tripped over an uneven floorboard, hands catching the shelves as I tipped forward. They tore from the wall with a resounding crack, and the shatter of breaking glass rang through the dim space.
Stairs creaked behind me. Someone was descending from the upstairs apartment.
I scrambled for the unbroken medicines, cutting my fingers on broken glass as I did. I swung my pack over my shoulders, bloodying the straps, and darted for the door.
I did not dare look back as my feet found the smoothened cobblestone street.
A great wrenching tore me backwards, and I struggled to maintain my balance as I turned. My eyes caught on the hand gripping my pack. A whimper left me, involuntarily, as I noted the dagger in Mr. Carmentis's other hand.
The shop owner was a healer, but one willing to fight to protect his livelihood.
“Thief!” He growled, dragging me into the dim light of the flickering streetlamp.
Mr. Carmentis stared in a mix of anger and shocked recognition.
I knew the look in my eyes must be pleading. I willed the healer to let me go—to let me save my sister—but the man raised his dagger in one hand as flame burst forth from the other.
“Mr. Carmentis, please,” I gasped. “My sister is dying, please!”
“Nothing comes free, child.” He shook his head in resignation. The healer would kill the boy who was once his patient.
“No!” I shouted, too loud in the empty street.
As the flame roared bright, reaching its licking tongue toward me in slow motion, I pulled desperately at my own mágik.
It flowed through me, stronger than it ever had before, and the calm breeze suddenly ripped into a frenzy.
The tangle of wind wrapped lovingly around the flames then redirected them with violent passion.
Fire burned brighter—hotter, more wildly—engulfing the healer in a searing cocoon of his own mágik.
The screams should have been enough to remind me to let go of the power. I should have smothered the flames and saved the man, but I was made of pure panic.
All I could do was watch Mr. Carmentis writhe on the ground, skin and flesh peeling back in black husks until all movement stopped and the street was quiet.
I should have heard the clicking of the horses hooves or the roll of the carriage wheels, but I heard neither as I fought for my life. I heard neither as I stared into guttering flames, stark on white bone.
A hand clamped down on my shoulder—weighted and fire warmed.
I startled, drawing back in wide-eyed fear.
Before me stood a man I had only seen in paintings.
He drew a regal portrait, spine straight and chin lifted. Red hair lifting in the breeze, the wild winds dissipating as if they had never been. A thin golden circlet rested upon his head.
Prince Claudian wore a sickening smile upon his thin lips as he introduced himself.
“What is your name, boy?” His voice had an oily quality to it—dark and smooth and wrong—fostering immediate distrust in me.
“My name is Harkin Aranti, Your Highness.” I forced myself to bow my head, clenching my shaking hands.
“Your first murder, was it?” Claudian continued to gaze at me with disturbing interest.
My eyes fluttered shut, and I swallowed down the sob which threatened to rip free of me. I thought, surely, I would be arrested or hanged for my crimes. I was guilty, as witnessed by the eyes of the Prince of Acsilla. When I finally managed them, the words were only a whisper. “Yes, Highness.”
“Hmm.” Claudian appraised me, considering. He came to an eventual conclusion, nodding decisively. “No one has to know about this, Aranti. We can keep it between you and I.”
We made a deal that day, in the dark blue hour of morning.
The prince would pardon me of my crime that night, if I agreed to use my particular skill set as a mercenary to the crown. There was no true choice. Agreement was the only option that left my family and me alive.
For weeks, I was sick over the thought of stealing or lying or killing again. I was sick over the fact that the prince believed me to be a cold blooded killer when I had never intended to harm anyone.
Claudian called on me shortly thereafter, and I performed my first job. I was paid a shocking sum that allowed me to buy the medicine my sister needed.
She grew stronger with each passing day, each dose, and I knew I could not stop. I did not realize for many months; however, that there was no out.
Prince Claudian of Acsilla owned me, and he owned my family. I would serve the crown, or we would all be put to death.
Eight years passed, and I still fought every day to keep them safe. I would do whatever it took to protect the ones I loved, always.
The morning brought cloudy skies. The world was darker, as if my mood from the night before had been painted across the horizon. I did my best to shake the dreariness from my mind.
As I dressed, I contemplated the mask I would wear for Seren. It was clear from my observations that she did not value relationships with her fellow Guardians, nor did she seem interested in attention or glory.
She responded to competency.
I would challenge her with my blades.
I had come a long way since that formative day—when I had been only a seventeen year old kid, quivering beneath the threat of the healer’s measly dagger.
I would best her, earning her respect. I would probe her for how much she knew of her own mágik, and I would convince her to train with me and be reunited with the kingdom she was born from.
My confidence grew as I strode back for the unlocked gate, ready to work my mágik in more ways than one.