This man was dangerous.
I frowned, realisation crashing through the haze that had drifted into my head. The King was a powerful Sjel, and the soul magic had a manipulative allure about it. The soul often concerned itself with desire. His eyes drifted to a spot just beneath my right eye, opposite to the Weaver’s mark.
“There.” He spoke, his voice a little deeper, a little lower than before. His hand raised, his finger almost touching the spot. “Fjor, gift her the mor-svjake mark, so that all may know what she has done.”
The man who rose to do his bidding was the Inquisitor, who knelt to my other side, his hand on my chin, lifting my horrified eyes to his.
Mor-svjake.
Killer of the weak.
It was the worst dishonour a person could receive. The mark referred to those who preyed upon the most sacred and vulnerable members of our society: the children … and the kynmaidens. I tore my chin out of the Inquisitor’s hand, rearing away from him, shaking my head. Silent pleas tumbled from my lips, falling to the little brass bell in my pocket. Those with the mor mark were targeted enough, but if anyone drew close enough to see that the little shield comprising the mor mark had a tiny tear-drop within … if anyone recognised the mor-svjake on my face, I would face all kinds of depraved punishments. Those marked by the mor-svjake carried a sanction on their skin: a sanction for any person to commit any act of violence or horror upon them completely without repercussion.
I would be a blind spot in the justice system. A blip in the map of humanity. A secret place where people could mete out their secret fury and frustration.
The Inquisitor recaptured my face, his fingers biting in, his dark eyes fixing to the spot that would doom me to a short life as a receptacle for the hate of strangers. My skin began to tingle as my eyes burned, but still, I refused to cry. I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, and the Inquisitor’s focus wavered, carrying down to my lip. His thumb swiped up from my chin to my mouth, pulling it free of my teeth.
“It’s better than death, girl.”
No, it wasn’t.
He stood, his dark robes brushing my knees as he walked to the side of the dais, pausing there and glancing back. “I claim her sentence.”
“What sentence?” the Captain asked. He seemed to be better under control now, though there was a flash of frustration in his face, shivering at the edges of his mouth, pulling at the scar hooking into his lip. “Is the mark not her punishment?”
“I’ve pardoned her from death, certainly.” This came from the King, still kneeling beside me, his eyes on my new mark. He stood, facing the Inquisitor. “A lifetime of service is better than death.” He paused, looking to the Inquisitor. “And it’s a sentence I will claim.”
The Warmaster stood, his large arms folding over his chest, his eyes becoming even more translucent, that fire within them sparking to an alarming burn. “She is of my sector. She must be with people of her magic. She will serve her sentence with me.”
My mouth dropped open. Shocked voices clashed in conversation beyond the dais. The Warmaster had just directly opposed the King.
The Scholar sighed, rising from his chair. He glanced down to me, disgust soft in his features, as though even ugly emotions could only enhance his striking features. “She knows nothing of her magic. She must serve her sentence at the Obelisk, as my servant. She will be schooled in a calm, tempered environment, where she is no danger to herself or others.”
“I will make her an apprentice,” the Warmaster replied, the muscles of his arms jumping as he tensed up. “She will learn as her magic requires her to learn. Through the difficult trials of war.”
“Really, this is quite unprecedented,” another man sitting at the dais muttered, looking uncomfortable and confused. The woman beside him nodded an agreement, though her face was white, her eyes flittering between the four men standing. Whatever the reason, these men had a history. They ignored each other’s titles and chose to forgo the motions of respect owed to the King. They were toying with my life quite possibly for the sake of a competition amongst themselves. And yet … I had a plummeting feeling that there was something I had missed, some crucial piece to the puzzle that had passed beneath me unnoticed.
I looked past them all, to the Captain. He had that furrow back in his brow, that suspicion in his eyes. I felt the burn of his golden eye before the blue eye had fixed on me, and something seemed to pass between us. A silent acknowledgment of larger things at work, of secrets passing above our heads, of the fools that we looked—him swathed in a Sentinels cloak and me kneeling in chains, both of us lost in the dark of other people’s machinations.
His interest had been piqued again and I watched him decide, in that very moment, that he would accept his role as my protector. Wherever I went, he would follow, until the truth was torn from the very unfortunate fabric of my being and his curiosity had been satiated.
5
Innocence
“And you, Vale?” The King turned to the Weaver, who had been sitting in silence, watching the exchange with a small, hard smile upon his lips. “What claim do you have upon the girl?”
“There must be one,” the Scholar added as the Weaver stood from his seat. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Had they all sought to claim my life before they had even arrived?
“My mark is upon her,” the Weaver answered. “Her life belongs to me.”
“She’s a prisoner and I’m the monarch of this realm…” The King paused, the shadows in his eyes flickering to the surface, something passing between him and the Weaver. “Her life is mine.”
Never before had I wished so badly for the gentle warmth of the worn rug by the hearth back at home. I could remember my mother’s dissatisfaction burning into the back of my head as easily as my fingers remembered the grooves between the wooden floorboards. I could feel her relief as she escaped the cottage with the first rays of light in the morning, and scent the strange smells that clung to her as she returned with the dark.
I had grown up mostly alone, venturing out to run with the dawn mist or carrying out small errands on the days my mother didn’t work. I had not been completely isolated … but my life had not prepared me for this.
“She must be shared, then,” the Scholar said, beginning to walk from the dais, his words floating out behind him. “Let us retire somewhere to discuss it. Calder…” He stopped, turning and seeking out the Captain, as though he had not paid attention to where the man was sitting. “I trust you have no further argument?” At the short, stiff shake of the Captain’s head, the Scholar turned away and began moving again. “Very well. You may release the girl. Her sentence will begin in the morning.”
He disappeared through a press of gathered people—the size of the crowd had swelled considerably—and everyone, it seemed, turned back to the King.
“Let us,” the King agreed, though the Scholar was no longer in sight.
He strode after him, and one by one, the Warmaster, the Inquisitor, and the Weaver followed. As soon as they had disappeared, something within the atmosphere seemed to visibly pop. Breaths were released, the volume of chattering increased, and several of the men and women seated at the dais released their rigid postures, some of them uttering words for the first time since they had appeared.