The Battle for Ledenaether.
I flicked through the pages, past The First Mutation, showing how the Darkness had turned our magic to poison, a poison that began to deform us. Past The Barrenning, showing the systematic infertility plaguing our ancestors, ever so carefully, ever so slowly crippling our population. Past images of the other Fjorn—their births and their deaths. Past The Final Fjorn, where my own face stared back at me, my hair inked in a colour as bright as blood, my eyes as dark as night.
The portrait had changed, as I had changed. The skin had become smoother, the scars and freckles disappearing. The curve of my mouth seemed more pronounced, the line of my cheekbones sharpening. It wasn’t the structure of my face or the actual shape of my features that had changed … but something else. It was as though the eyes seeing me had been blurry, but now, their vision was razor-sharp.
Similar to the great masters, it appeared as though my magic was doing the opposite of mutating me, as it did the other sectorians.
It was perfecting me.
I flicked to the next page, already anticipating the scene, but the image of plague darkening the streets of Hearthenge still stuck tightly in my throat. I had to steady myself before I could flick the page again, but when I did, the breath rushed out of me in a strong curse.
It was empty. Of course it was empty.
Frustrated, I returned the book and walked into the washroom, pulling the torn silk from my body. I sorted through the clothing that had been left for me, picking out what was obviously a folded pile of Vold armour. The bodysuit was a hardened brown leather with a silk underlining, the sides cut out to reveal my waist, the sides of my stomach, and a section of my spine. I had been gifted something similar by the King, but this one looked new. Free of bloodstains and tears. Over the top of the bodysuit, I pulled on a fitted leather breastplate, metal inlaid into the stitching to harden it. The metal would catch the tips of smaller blades and daggers, but like most Vold armour, it focussed more on ease of movement. The covering connected to a similar section of leather shaping to the top of my spine, both ending at my waist, secured along my sides by straps.
I wrapped a skirt over my hips. It was made of two short layers, the belts for each layer following the cut of my bodysuit—one looping just below my hip, the other cinching in the naked curve of my waist. Both belts were equipped with straps and handles for weapons, but there were no weapons in sight. I fit another section of metal-inlaid leather over my shoulders, attaching it to the straps hanging from the top of the breastplate, and then wrapped up my wrists, forearms, knees and thighs before stepping into my boots.
I felt the familiar tight pressure of the armour and the wrappings, and I allowed it to bolster me. Moving to the mirror set against the wall, I stared at the wild-haired stranger and realised that no, my mother wouldn’t recognise me at all. With a wince, my hand dropped to that spot on my thigh, now covered by the skirt.
My hand dropped away from my leg as guilt descended over me.
Had I paid enough?
Had I struggled enough?
When would it be enough?
The answers to my questions didn’t come, and my eyes crept back up, over the hint of muscle beneath the honeyed skin of my torso, over the straight, proud line of my posture, my shoulders pulled back, my neck long, my chin tilted up.
I wasn’t staring at a stranger.
I was staring at a strange, unpredictable product of the Darkness.
The light in my eyes no longer spluttered like a candle in the wind. It burned feverishly. A dark fire of writhing shadows that screamed as they blazed, cinders collecting in the dark line of my lashes, my slow blink a promise of excruciating pain. My body no longer belonged to me, which was just as well, as it no longer looked like mine.
I had always been a waif, starved and weak, hiding from myself and the rest of the world—but where once I had hollowed, I now curved. Flesh swelled gently above the top of my breastplate, the leather narrowing to a waist that seemed smaller against the swell of my hips. I pressed my skin, feeling the unyielding muscle beneath, belying every inch of softness in view. It was my mother’s body—but smaller, scrappier, harder.
It was the body of a person who had fought tooth and nail to survive … and had won.
I frowned, meeting my own eyes again.
“Are you really there?” I asked the darkness swirling in my eyes, but it didn’t reply.
It didn’t wink out at me or crawl out over my skin. The slimy sensation of its presence didn’t overwhelm me, and the closer I crept to the mirror, the more it seemed to me that this darkness wasn’t like the other. This was my darkness.
My shadow.
My curse or my power, my weakness or my strength.
I still wasn’t sure.
With one last look, I turned from the mirror, my boots soft against the stone as I took a deep breath and whispered the name of the one person who knew more in this world than anyone.
The one person who might know exactly what the Darkness was doing.
“Andel.”
Three
Fate
The ring dropped me with a muted thud onto a small pile of rolled carpets. Confused, I tried to feel my way around the cramped, dark space. The ring should have dropped me right beside Andel. I paused when Vidrol’s voice sounded close-by—muffled, as though spoken through a wall.
Andel had to be on the other side.
“The agreement must be sealed before we go any further.”
A scoff sounded much closer, and then a thud, like a boot planted back against the wall before me. Andel was leaning on it. I set my hands against a heavy wooden panel, one that would surely open outwards if I put pressure in the right place—it seemed I had fallen into a small storage cupboard right behind the Scholar.
“You don’t trust us, Vidrol?” Andel sneered. I was accustomed to his rage-ridden tone, but I hadn’t heard so much venom in his voice—not when he was addressing the other four masters.
“Of course I don’t.” I heard the rustling of paper. “I’ve already used my wish. I’ve jumped first. I need to ensure the rest of you will keep your promises.”
I pulled my hand back from the panel as though it scorched me. Vidrol had used his wish to demand that I choose one of them to marry. I had assumed that they were all wishing the same thing … but I had misjudged.
They still had four wishes to go.
With a bite of fury, I set my shoulder against the panel and planted my feet, ready to break free, but caught myself at the last moment, wondering what else I might be able to learn.
“Dictate the agreement,” Vidrol ordered, and I felt Andel push off from the wall. There was a moment of silence before Vidrol began speaking again. “Each wish will require the endorsement of each of us before it’s spent, and only with unanimous agreement will it be spoken. No wish can benefit one of us over the other, nor is any wish to be used to sway favour in this, our final game.”
Our final game.
What in Ledenaether did that mean?
“Fjor,” Andel said, after the scratch of his quill-tip ceased. “Take it.”
I could barely hear the footsteps of the Inquisitor, but it was clear that someone was moving in the room. I felt along the panelling until I found a seam, then traced it to the sides, pressing on it gently until it began to give way. Holding my breath, I worked it open enough to reveal that I was in the wall of a familiar room in the Sky Keep. A thick dome of glass brick arched above us, and another wall of glass offered an imposing view of the Sea of Storms. To my left, one of the driftwood chairs blocked my hiding place, so I cracked the panel a little wider, trying to see around the chair to where the great masters were now all gathered around Fjor.