3 A Promise
A Promise
The Sanatorium was empty.
At the far end of the room, a door stood ajar, the scratching of pencil on parchment cutting through the silence.
Vaelira sat in a small chair beside a metal cot, her body stiff as Freya’s splinted leg under the thin sheet. The final task would take place the next morning, but there was no chance of Freya being able to participate now.
“Don’t look so glum,” Freya said, her voice a rasp. “This way I won’t make you look bad.”
Vaelira chuckled quietly and reached over to take her friend's calloused hand. “Maybe Lysander will let you take the final task once you’re healed,” she said, “that way you won’t have to wait until next year.”
A door creaked open. “That’s Commander Lysander to you, young lady.”
Vaelira dropped Freya’s hand and stood, turning to face the Commander. She wanted to be angry at him, but his pained expression upon seeing Freya was enough for her to hold her tongue.
“Stop with the formalities and sit,” he said, dragging a chair from the next cot to join them.
He eyed them both, a Commander surveying wounded soldiers. Seemingly satisfied that neither of them was about to keel over and meet the Abyss, he continued.
“The next task begins at first light. It will take several days before every recruit has been tested, but even if you were to go last, you would not be healed in time, Freya. I am sorry.” He sat tall, but his face was grave.
Freya nodded, accepting her defeat far too easily for Vaelira’s liking.
“Surely you can do something?” she said, heat building in her chest at the injustice. At the sight of one of the strongest people she knew giving up. “She’s the best out of any of us. It’s not fair.”
She knew she sounded childish, but she didn’t care. The idea that Freya wouldn’t join the Guard was incomprehensible.
Commander Lysander hesitated, leaning back in his chair. A glimmer of the man Vaelira had known as a child surfaced, his face softer, his eyes solemn. It wrenched at her heart.
“I promised your father I would watch over you, Vaelira, but I did not promise to bend the rules for you and your friends,” he said.
Vaelira opened her mouth to argue, but he raised his hand to silence her.
“I do not believe that Halric would approve. Not as Captain, and certainly not as your father.” He turned to Freya. “You have performed exceptionally. You should be proud. Next year, once you are back at full health, you may try again. One year is not so long.”
“I’ll wait for you,” Vaelira said, “we can take it together.” She forced a smile, even as the thought of it ached deep behind her ribs.
“You will not,” Commander Lysander said. He stood, his chair scraping loudly across the tiles. “Report to my office in the morning for orders.”
Silent tears rolled down Freya’s face. Vaelira took her hand again, squeezing tightly as Commander Lysander left.
“I’ll talk to him. Make him see sense,” she said.
Freya wiped at her eyes, sucking in a breath. “No. He’s right. I’m not going to hold you back, Vaelira. I know how hard you’ve worked.”
“You’ve worked hard too.”
“Not nearly as much or as long as you.”
“That’s only because you didn’t need the practice. I did.”
Freya’s green eyes held her own, and she shook her head. “If you don’t take the final task, I’ll never forgive you. You promised.”
“I promised we would pass first time. Together.”
Freya smiled, her expression equal parts sadness and understanding. “Then do it for me, Lira.”
Vaelira was up before first light.
Embers glowed softly in the fireplace, still hot enough to warm the small living room. She crept past where Jon sprawled across the sofa and padded towards to small kitchen.
Commander Lysander had acquired the one-bedroom cottage for them after their father died.
The more spacious Captain’s residence was given to the man that had replaced him.
Vaelira had never learnt his name, only known that he had been killed by Wasteland raiders a few years later, the demoncursed taking a second captain from Anhaven.
As a child, spiteful pleasure had filled her when she’d heard what had befallen the man who had thrown them from their home, but now, it was another of the countless stories that strengthened her determination.
Swiping a chunk of stale bread from the kitchen table, she grabbed her cloak and headed outside, closing the front door quietly behind her.
Vaelira took her time walking to the barracks. Her gaze drifted skyward, where flames danced in their braziers high on the wall. Dark figures stood out against the lightening grey sky, moving slowly and methodically through the crisp morning as they made their patrols.
The image of a shadow prowling at a treeline flashed through her mind.
She had never seen a demon before, but she was certain that’s what had been stalking them.
If she made it through today, she would no doubt see more and perhaps feel more of that strange hunger that had gnawed at her insides at its appearance.
Or perhaps she had just needed a bigger breakfast, and she was overthinking the entire thing.
The streets were quiet, and muffled voices came from behind the door of a cottage as she passed, followed by older tired ones. Most likely parents begging for a few more moments of sleep. Vaelira moved on quickly.
The chapel stood quietly on the edge of town, its whitewashed walls seeming to glow in the dimness.
A few trees dotted the patchy grass surrounding the building, their branches stretching spindly fingers towards the upper wall.
Ivy clung to the weathered stone of the building, curling up and over the tall glass windows.
At the top, a clock observed the town like a giant eye.
Inside, the air was cooler, the scent of fresh heartviolets snaking up her nose. She wrinkled it, always having found the smell too sickly-sweet for her taste. Perhaps that was why she avoided coming here.
She walked between the worn wooden pews, candlelight flickering in smooth alcoves, her steps echoing off the stone walls. She sat at the front, craning her head up at the three faceless statues towering above her.
The Goddess of Creation, Embral and the God of Destruction, Kharos, stood on either side of the stone lectern. Issar, the Goddess of Balance stood in the centre, her arms bent, palms raised outwards towards her siblings.
Below them, a long narrow bench spanned the width of the room, cluttered with idols to the many gods and goddesses people worshipped.
Some were artfully crafted, with delicate faces and tiny hands.
Others were crude, no doubt shaped in reverence, if not with skill.
She recognised a few, but there were too many deities for Vaelira to remember them all.
Below the bench, kneeling in such perfect stillness that she had not noticed him, the old priest, Arlon, bent his head, his hands placed on his knees. He rose slowly, the rough fabric of his thin robes rustling with the movement.
She hadn’t expected anyone to be here so early and had to fight the urge to bolt.
“Vaelira,” he said softly. A note of surprise. “It has been some time since I last saw you here.” There was no judgement in his voice, but her chest clenched anyway. “You have the same expression your father used to. He wasn’t sure whether to believe either.”
“I didn’t know he came here.”
“Often.” He smiled a little too understandingly. “I was sorry to hear you were injured in the first task.”
“Courtesy of your nephew.”
Arlon nodded solemnly. “I would like to apologise on Rurik’s behalf.”
Vaelira stared at him, wondering if he too could hear the futility of the words. They weren’t going to undo what Rurik had done, and they weren’t going to improve her chances in the next task.
When she didn’t speak, the priest drew a slow breath and nodded once more. “I will leave you to your thoughts.”
Vaelira waited until his footsteps faded before letting out a long breath. She wasn’t sure why she’d come, but now she knew her father used to, it felt like a mistake. It hadn’t saved him, and these statues wouldn’t save her. Only she could do that.
Despite the detour, the sun had barely risen by the time Vaelira entered the barracks. The halls were quiet, save for a few guards heading to their bunks or entering the dining hall for some breakfast.
Many of the guards chose to live at the barracks, but the idea sat uneasily with Vaelira. Their cottage only had one bedroom, but it had been just her and Jon for so many years now that the thought of living anywhere else felt like abandonment.
Vaelira made her way up the wooden staircase and took a left down the hall. She stopped in front of a plain door, the only sign of its importance being the words that had been carefully carved into the wood. Commander.
The door at her back seemed to watch her, tugging at her to turn and look, but she kept her eyes forward. Now was not the time for distractions.
Commander Lysander’s voice sounded from the other side, and Vaelira entered the office. It was a simple room. A meticulously organised bookshelf took up the right side of the wall, and in the centre stood a sturdy wooden desk with a worn leather top, a yellow candle dripping onto an iron saucer.
Behind the desk, a small curtainless window was obscured by the man seated before it, the light from the candle throwing the lines of Commander Lysander face into deep shadow.
He looked up then turned to peer out the window. “You’re early,” he said, arching a brow.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
The Commander pushed his chair back, crossing his arms over his chest. He was on edge, and the dark circles under his eyes told of a night with as little rest as her own.
“Go to the stables, then report to the main gate,” he said. “We will meet you there. No weapons.”
Vaelira’s heart pounded against her ribs. Something was wrong. The trials never took place outside the walls. Archery had been an exception, but they had gone as a large group, the risk had been minimal. Something twisted in her gut.