14. Rorax
Devastation made Rorax’s movements slow and clunky, and she couldn’t get the Guardian’s words out of her head.
We still don’t know who betrayed your unit.
Rorax rubbed her chest where it ached and turned on the water in the bath, slipping in without even testing the temperature. It was hot, scalding even, but as she felt the water burning and stinging her skin, she didn’t move.
She didn’t want to. She couldn’t.
It felt like a punishment—the hot water searing over every nerve ending on her skin—and yet somehow it eased some of the lingering pain in her chest.
Rorax sat there for a long time, staring at the murky, bloody water until it turned cold.
Eventually, someone came casually strolling into Rorax’s bathroom to fit Rorax for her clothes. A woman. She didn’t knock, and didn’t speak at first, she just reached into the water and plucked the drain stopper out of the bottom of the tub.
With soft, but firm hands the woman gave Rorax’s shoulders a gentle shove. “Out, girl. I have things to do today and you being wet isn’t going to help none.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Hella Wellbok. I am your tailor. I live in Bafta and I’m here to help you get your wardrobe in order.”
Rorax stood on numb legs and stepped over the rim of the tub into a waiting towel the woman held out for her. She dried off and dropped the towel to let the woman, Hella, hold her measuring tape around Rorax’s body.
Hella was slight and pale, with golden hair so curly it draped in ringlets around her shoulders. She handed Rorax a long-sleeved baggy, black linen shirt and matching pants, taking her bloodstained, sweat soaked Heilstorm armor to be cleaned at her tailor shop in Bafta, the nearest town to the Northern Castle.
Rorax slowly dressed.
“Now what kind of dresses and clothes do you want for the other days of the Choosin? You’ll have interviews and a few balls to go to, so you’ll have to wear a dress, or a nice pantsuit if you prefer, but no armor. Your House has put me in charge of your wardrobe while you’re alive here, and I will not have any fusses about getting you out of your armor.”
The numb fog that had seeped into Rorax’s mind seemed to lift, just a bit.
“Dresses?”
Rorax had never owned a dress. She’d never needed one. She’d been a soldier her entire life and had almost always been on a mission. But she’d secretly always wanted one, always wanted to be more . . . feminine.
“Dresses,” Rorax croaked. “Mostly dresses.”
Rorax spent the next twenty minutes telling Hella what kind of clothes she wanted and what clothes she would probably need. The mental break from thinking about Volla and the Choosing was welcome, and she was excited to have her own clothes that weren’t issued from the House of Ice’s army. It would be her very first dress.
Hella took notes and scratched on a mini notepad that had surfaced from a pocket in her dress.
They were interrupted by a loud knocking on the door.
“Come get these when I call for you, girl,” Hella said, sliding her notepad back into her pocket. “I will have my assistant slide you a note under your door when you are to pick them up. Don’t keep me waiting, or I’ll donate them all to the local pig pen.” She left Rorax’s room with a flourish.
Hella had left the door open, and one of the Guardian’s men stood in the doorway. “The Guardian sent me to fetch you. It’s time for the Contestar’s first meeting.”
Rorax nodded and let the man lead the way through the corridors and down a staircase until they came to a set of intricately carved wooden doors. The doors led into a room that could only be the Great Hall.
The Great Hall was a long rectangular room with the Guardian’s throne seated at one end, and tall wooden bleachers set up on each side of the room. It was a spectacular room, with stained glass windows and priceless tapestries. But Rorax was more interested in its occupants.
Ten other women, all dressed in colorful, beautiful dresses turned towards her, but Rorax kept her eyes focused on the Guardian, unwilling to back down from the Guardian’s gaze until Rorax made it halfway across the hall.
The women here were diverse, with various skin tones and heights, but one . . . The one who caught her eye and made her heart seize in her chest was tall, muscular, and had long blonde hair.
Rorax stopped breathing. She stopped walking too, standing utterly still, because if she took one more step forward, she didn’t know if her knees would support her.
Standing right in front of her, not twenty paces away was Volla. Volla Torvik was alive.
Volla, her best friend in all of Illus, was alive. She was breathing, she was whole, and she was here.
“Volla?” Rorax croaked, relief and surprise making her throat so tight she had to whisper the words.
The other women standing with her looked around, confused, and Volla’s face transformed from uninterested to murderous, but Rorax barely noticed. She didn’t know how this was possible, but she didn’t care, she didn’t give one single fuck. It was Volla.
She was going to be able to tell Jia her mate had survived. Rorax’s best friend had survived.
“Holy shit.” Rorax suddenly lurched into motion, and then she was jogging, almost running to Volla as she cried out Volla’s name again.
“Stop.” Volla held out her palms to stop Rorax. Volla’s green eyes flashed in fury, but Rorax continued.
Rorax still couldn’t breathe right, and her eyes were burning.
When Rorax was less than five feet away, Volla snarled and took a big step away, pulling out a sharp blade as if fending off an attacker. “If you take one more step towards me, I will rip your throat out.”
Volla’s snarl finally broke through Rorax’s shock, and she halted, frozen in place. She reached up and wiped away her tears with the back of her hand as she stared up into her best friend’s beautiful, snarling face. “What?”
“My name is Isgra Torvik,” the woman sneered, her eyes glittering with vicious intent as she took another step away.
“Isgra . . .” Rorax’s brain felt like it was filled with sludge, and the name felt foreign and wrong on her tongue. “Isgra.”
Her words didn’t make any sense.
Rorax blinked, then blinked again. “You’re Isgra . . . Volla’s . . . twin sister.”
Isgra’s lip curled in contempt, but she nodded.
Rorax looked her up and down slowly, rubbing her palm against a new throb in her chest, but noticing how this woman held herself. So different from Volla and yet . . . she was the spitting image of Volla, completely identical.
Rorax knew Volla’s face almost as well as her own after the last fifty years, and this was it. She was right here.
But Volla had never, ever looked at Rorax like that, with such disgust and disdain—even when Rorax had deserved it the most. Rorax’s eyes caught on a bright red scar that took up the length of the left side of Isgra’s neck—a burn mark that Volla didn’t have—and knew it was true.
Volla was still dead.
Rorax wrapped her arms around her middle and had to force her body not to collapse.
Isgra watched, her lips curling even farther over her teeth. “Do not ever mistake me for that murderous cunt again.”
“Her wife is here. At the castle.” Rorax’s throat worked, and her voice sounded haggard and broken even to her own ears.
The news made Isgra’s entire body flinch like Rorax had just slapped her across the face. “Her what?”
Flames started to crawl up Isgra’s arms, licking out toward Rorax with hot orange tongues.
A hand wrapped around Rorax’s shoulder, pulling her back a few steps. Rorax was so dazed she complied, almost tripping over her own feet as one of the women—one of the other Contestars—jerked her back and put her own body in front of Rorax’s to shield her. “Isgra, relax. She’s new, she obviously didn’t know,” the woman hissed.
The woman protecting her was an inch or two shorter than Rorax, with similar long black hair but skin a few shades darker than her own. The woman turned her head to look at Rorax, her large brown eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay?”
Rorax opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. No.
“Oh, let ‘em fight, Enna!” One of the women called from the group, a blonde with chin-length blonde hair, short bangs, and tan skin. There was a long white scar running through one of her eyes, violently marring one side of her pretty face. “We’ve been starvin’ for entertainment ‘round here!”
“Ladies,” the Guardian drawled at them from her throne. “As entertaining as it is to watch, I do have other matters I must attend to this evening.”
Rorax looked around to the other women in the room, having forgotten all about them. She found all of them watching her with wary eyes, except for the scarred blonde with an excited glint in her good eye.
The group started to sit down on the long bench, and Isgra turned away, dismissing her. Rorax could only stand there watching her go until some of the other girls snickered.
“Come on,” Enna grabbed her arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and dragged her to the bench, sitting Rorax down next to her.
The Guardian studied all of them for a long moment until she finally spoke, a smile slowly creeping across her mouth. “Finally, welcome to the Choosing for the new Northern Guardian, ladies.”
There were some nervous murmurs back.
“As most of you know, the Choosing is made up of a series of trials, each of these trials is made not only to test you, but to kill you.”
Rorax curled her arms around her waist again, needing her own strength.
“For the next six months, I hope you enjoy your freedom from the leeches of the Realms. Witches, Priests, Kings, Paladins, the Red Circle, the Ungifted, the Western Guardian, the Eastern Guardian, your families, and all the rest of them are barred from entry to the Choosing.”
The Guardian stared at the Contestars, then continued her speech. “According to the Guardian’s Law, my staff, an emissary from each house, and ten of their house’s soldiers are the only ones allowed to reside in the Northern Castle for the Choosing. No one else is to interfere.”
“What about the people coming for the Tournament?” one of the women asked.
Rorax thought about the people who had been in the carts next to her when she had arrived.
“Civilians are welcome to attend the Tournament of Houses, but even they must depart once the Tournament has found its victor. Everyone is required to leave the day after the Tournament ends since the Choosing will officially begin shortly after.”
“Why are the emissaries and their men allowed to stay?” The woman, Enna, asked from beside her, a little furrow appearing in between her dark eyebrows.
“There are eleven of you still alive. Each of you has been given a piece of my magick that will only be released upon your death. The released magick will divvy itself between the remaining Contestars making the survivors stronger. However, for a few minutes after the new magick hits you, you will lose yourself to a fit of rage for a brief time. The magick itself is angry that it’s been split, it wants to be whole; it desperately wants to be reconnected to itself, and it will urge you to fight and kill any Contestars remaining that have a sliver of that power. It will be a burst of uncontrollable rage and violence. This period is known as the influx.”
“But the God”s Law is if we kill each other we die?” Enna asked again, wringing her fingers in her lap.
The Guardian gave her a bloodthirsty smile. “Precisely. To protect yourself from that fate, we ask that each House sends an emissary that is tasked with building a team of soldiers and knights to choose one Contestar to protect. They are called your Protectorate House. They will protect you from others, yes, but mostly they will protect you from yourself. They will keep you from killing a fellow Contestar during your influxes.”
Rorax’s head was spinning. All the girls were quiet for a long moment.
“Did you say the Houses choose which Contestar they want to be Protectorate to?” Rorax asked, tightening her arms around her waist, her voice scratchy and hoarse.
The Guardian nodded. “The House that wins the Tournament of Houses at the beginning of the next moon will choose a Contestar to represent first. The second place House chooses second. The third place House will choose third, and so on.”
The girls whispered excitedly at that. The Tournament of Houses was legendary. It took place only when a Guardian retired and was one of the most famous events in the Realms, commanding more excitement than any national holiday by far.
“What happens if one of us is successful in killing another Contestar?” Isgra asked, and out of the corner of her eye, Rorax saw Isgra cut her a glare.
“If you kill any of the other Contestars here, the magick will poison you. You will be dead within minutes.”
Rorax ground her teeth together, the urge to go home, to be anywhere but here, was so strong she would have been out the door already if Jia’s life wasn’t at risk.
“As you know, the Guardian is responsible for the safety of the Realms. You must be up to standard, and so every day at four in the afternoon you will be required to participate in a training session in the Contestars” Courtyard. We will have trainers, coaches, and sparring partners there. You will be introduced to the emissaries tomorrow afternoon at three in the arena at the back of the castle, and then we will have our first social event tomorrow evening. I recommend you all rest tonight and come in your best dress tomorrow. Do any of you have any more questions?”
No one asked any more questions. The girls mumbled their agreement before standing and moving toward the door.
Rorax also stood, feeling completely off balance. She needed to be alone. She needed a drink. She needed another bath. She needed to go for a run. She needed sleep. She needed something to calm down her thoughts and help center herself again so she could figure out how she was going to survive the Choosing.
Rorax ignored Enna’s concerned look and turned towards the exit when a strong hand gripped her arm and yanked her back.
Isgra was standing so close to her, Rorax had to look up to meet her eyes. She must have been the full six-two inches in height that her sister had been, and a full six inches taller than Rorax.
Rorax sucked deep breaths into her lungs, talking herself out of shattering every one of Isgra’s fingers that were wrapped so tightly around her arm she was sure to have bruises.
“What do you want, Isgra?” Rorax ripped her arm out of Isgra’s grasp.
Isgra bristled, narrowing her eyes even further at Rorax’s tone. “I heard you were a soldier for the House of Ice. How well did you know my sister?”
“She was my commander,” Rorax hissed. “I was with her every day.”
“I heard Volla died begging for mercy like a coward. It doesn”t surprise me. I heard that when she died, she died in disgrace.” Isgra sneered. The breath caught in Rorax’s lungs. “Just make sure you stay away from me and keep my sister’s whore out of my si—”
Rorax backhanded Isgra across the mouth. So hard her body rotated around and Rorax saw where her bird ring had cut open Isgra’s upper lip from the line of trickling blood.
“You stupid cunt,” Isgra hissed as she touched her bloody lip gingerly with her fingertips.
Her eyes held anger, but for the first time there was a flash of hesitation—of fear—in Isgra’s eyes, and something deep within Rorax gloated. All the pain and self-pity in Rorax’s blood burned into anger and aggression.
Rorax took a menacing step towards Isgra. She smacked Isgra’s hand away from her face so she could reach up and grip her chin. “I have nothing left to lose in this life except Volla’s wife, Isgra. If you push me too hard, I would be more than happy to beat your skull in until it’s your brain dripping down your face and not just blood.”
Rorax smirked, running her thumb through the drop of blood running down Isgra’s chin, smearing it across her skin.
“Watch yourself. I will turn you both into nothing but roasted piglets,” Isgra sneered, knocking Rorax’s hand away from her face. But the fear remained in her eyes. Isgra conjured a ball of flame in her hands and was about to throw it at Rorax when a sharp voice cracked through the air.
“Stop!” Enna shoved her way in between them again, pushing Rorax back a few steps as another Contestar—the one with the scar and the bobbed blonde hair who had been taunting Enna to let them fight earlier—pushed Isgra away.
“Stop it, both of you,” Enna snapped.
“Both of ya are blockheads, didn’t ya hear what the Guardian just said? If we kill each other, we die. Don’t trigger an influx with all eleven of us standin’ in the same room,” the blonde hissed, the scar on her face tightening.
“Stay out of this Briar—”
“Greywood, come here. Now. Torvik, the rest of you, go back to your rooms,” the Guardian snapped from her throne.
Isgra gave Rorax one more scathing look before turning on her heel and sulking away. Enna and the blonde with the scar, Briar, hesitated for only a moment before following her out.
Rorax crossed the room to where the Guardian was waiting for her on a golden throne.
The Guardian looked down her nose at her. “If you’re not careful, Greywood, you’ll find yourself in an early grave.”
In the hour that Rorax had arrived and broken the news about Isgra being a Contestar, Jia’s tears hadn’t shown any signs of slowing down. She rotated between silently weeping, and full-on agonized sobs.
Jia had taken the news of Isgra’s presence at the castle hard. She’d obviously already been crying when she opened the door to her room for Rorax earlier, but the news that her sister in-law was the complete antithesis of Volla—while also identical to Volla physically—had thrown Jia over the edge.
Jia was curled up in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. The skin around her purple eyes was bright pink and puffy, her usually perfect complexion was red and blotchy over her cheeks and neck. There was nothing left in the angular lines of Jia’s face but agony and loss.
Jia’s room was just like Rorax’s, small but with a big bed and its own closet and bathroom. There was also a fireplace with two identical leather armchairs in front of it where they sat now, watching the fire.
“Jia, I . . .” Rorax’s eyes caught on the new white scar on Jia’s forearm the Guardian had made for the Blood Oath, to trap them both here. Rorax had to swallow down a lump in her throat. “I’ll make a new Blood Oath with the Guardian. You should be at home with your family. I’m sorry you’re here.”
Fresh tears tracked down Jia’s face as she shook her head. She unfolded herself from her chair and slowly moved to the window, wrapping her arms around her waist, and hunching her shoulders over herself protectively. “No. I’m glad you’re not here alone.” Jia sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist. “Even when the Guardian releases me, I’ll stay with you. Volla . . . well… she wouldn’t want you to be here alone either.”
Rorax had to clear her throat, the selfish part of her so relieved at the words. “Thank you. I’m going to start researching in the library here to see if I can find any books on the Choosing, see if there’s anything I can do to get myself out of this mess faster. I need to somehow get the magick to unclasp itself from my soul so we can go home.”
Jia’s limp purple ponytail swayed as she nodded her head. “I’ll help you. There must be a way out of this. I don’t want to see you, or . . . her die. Even if she isn’t Volla.” Her voice cracked, and so did a little piece of Rorax’s heart.
“Volla didn’t . . . she wasn’t close with Isgra, but she still loved her.” Jia’s shoulders bowed further and started to shake with silent sobs.
Rorax wasn’t very familiar with offering comfort, but her instincts pulled her towards Jia. She stood up and hesitantly wrapped her arms around Jia’s shoulders, pressing Jia’s wet face onto her shoulder.
“It’s alright. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” Rorax’s eyes burned with tears too, but she blinked them back.
Later. You’ll have time to mourn for them later.
Rorax ran her hand over Jia’s hair and across her shoulders, trying to soothe her the way she had seen Sahana and Volla do before. “We can get her out of here. We can make sure she makes it through.”
Rorax finally left Jia when her friend all but fell asleep standing up. After getting some directions from a soldier, she found the Northern Library. She stepped through the entrance and her breath caught in her throat.
After the War of the Wings, Valitlinn had taken damage, so the Guardians decided to move the national archives to the Northern Castle for safekeeping. Hundreds of aisles of shelves holding countless books and scrolls lined the walls of the library. Rorax stood for a moment and breathed in the familiar smells of books and underground musk and took in the endless number of stacks.
The Northern Castle Library had been established in a large, natural cave the original builders of the castle had found when they started construction. Hundreds of stalactites hung down from the forty-foot ceiling, each of various lengths—some long enough that they brushed the tops of the bookshelves, some short enough they could only be the length of her pinky finger.
Her jaw went a little slack at the sight. It was even more beautiful than she had imagined.
“Welcome!”
Rorax’s body jerked in surprise, and she twisted around to find a small man with a toothy grin and wrinkled tan skin perched excitedly at a desk at the entrance.
“Blimy! You must be the new Contestar!”
Rorax’s brow furrowed as the man hopped over his desk and scurried over to her. “How did you know that?”
He was almost six inches shorter than her, barely five foot tall, dressed in a loose white linen kaftan. He beamed up at her behind glasses that made his eyes seem three times too large for his face.
“You’re one of the only people in the castle I haven”t seen yet! Common folk aren’t allowed in the castle. My name is Radashan, and I am the Bookkeeper and Master of Gnomes for the Northern Castle Library.” He gave Rorax a little bow, and her eyebrows furrowed together with uncertainty.
Should she bow back?
Instead Rorax held out her hand. “My name is Rorax Greywood; it is nice to meet you, Radashan Bookkeeper.”
He beamed even brighter as he shook Rorax’s hand with one of his small ones.
Rorax tilted her head, running her eyes over the soft wrinkles in his brown skin. “Your wrinkles are beautiful. Did you relinquish the Gift?”
Rorax knew at any time the Gifted could relinquish their gift to their House’s Priests to age like the Ungifted. She’d known a few people in her life who had voluntarily chosen to see what was on the other side of the veil after hundreds or thousands of years of life. Rorax had never given much thought to her own death. She’d always assumed she would die on one of her unit’s missions.
Radashan nodded his head eagerly. “Thank you! Yes, I gave it up for fifty years! I reinstated it recently, once I heard the Guardian was . . . retiring.”
Rorax raised her eyebrows in surprise. Relinquishing the Gift took a certain amount of skill, but reinstating it was even harder, almost impossible. “I’m impressed.”
Radashan looked down to his toes, blushing. “You’re very kind, Rorax Greywood.”
Smiling, she turned to the rows and rows of books. There must have been a half mile’s worth of stacks in both directions, all under the hanging stalactites that were illuminated by torches anchored onto the ends of each aisle. Tiny gnomes with tall, multicolored hats and clothes scurried in and out of the rows, carrying books, scrolls and papers back and forth or dusting off the books.
“Does water ever get in here?” Rorax asked Radashan, eyeing one stalactite that was almost as thick around and longer than she was tall.
“No! Ukuros, no! The ceiling has been enchanted and stabilized with runes by witches gifted by Water and Alloy to make sure the stalactites are stable, and the books are protected from the elements.” Radashan pointed to a chandelier that had held up seven round balls of light. Two chubby gnomes were draped across it, fast asleep. “Those chandeliers are fireless, a gift from the House of Light.”
Rorax eyed the orbs of light, the stalactites, and the little gnomes running around, before focusing on the sheer number of books. “It’s amazing here.”
“Thank you, Contestar.” Radashan gave a pleased little shuffle under her praise. “Is there anything I can help you find?”
“What do you have here on the Choosing?”