“Why does what matter?”
“How I feel about Basea?”
“I don’t know. Shouldn’t it matter to everyone?” He shoved a grape in his mouth and offered me another cluster of the fruit. “It might be how I feel someday about Mara,” he signed. “If we lose.”
He was sympathetic, but also afraid. I’d never heard a highborn Maran put himself on equal footing with a Basean before. I stared at him, surprised, and then took the cluster of grapes he offered.
“To our home.” I lifted the grapes to his.
“To our home,” he repeated.
Those same grapevines now wind brown and lifeless along the walls. This place flanks the beginning and end of our bond.
The guards stop at the front door and motion for me to enter. “Master Barra is already expecting you,” one of them tells me.
I nod at him and step inside.
A rush of warm, dry air hits me. The faint smell of wood burning in a marble fireplace permeates the space. My boots echo against the floors. When I turn my head up, I see the soaring atrium of the estate’s main hall, a space that stretches up at least three stories, the arched ceiling painted into rainbows from the multicolored glass windows through which shines the weak winter light. Original architecture salvaged from the Early Ones. Beyond the main atrium, the Barra family had installed their own embellishments—a second floor lined with balconies, a spiraling staircase, and a main floor dotted with soft, cushioned seats and speckled cow pelts. The white engraving around the marble fireplace is embellished with gold. Arched windows reach from the floor to the ceiling, divided by thin black lines of metal, and the light stretches long against white-and-gray wooden floors. Stark beauty, everywhere, of a family centuries old.
Here, I feel myself clash against the pale floors and white walls like a stain. My mother and I had survived our first few years in this nation by running odd errands in the Outer City’s shantytowns. I’d deliver messages crumpled in my fists, shovel horse manure for the people who ran stalls rimming the walls, steal and sell metal from the scrapyards dotting the muddy, crowded landscape. I’d collect what little money I could for my mother. I’d huddle on the side of the narrow paths, surrounded by the stench of grease, fried fish, and sewage. No one spared me a glance. There were too many kids like me fighting to survive in the shanties. I was just another face lost in the crowd.
Now I’m here, standing inside the home of a family with obscene wealth, and all I can do is imagine myself as a child, dirty and startled, lost here. How did Corian come out of a house like this? He must have looked like the sun running through these halls, golden hair and skin and laughter against these white surroundings. And I feel the pit of my grief all over again, its pain the same as the hollow bite of a hungry stomach, tipping the world around me until I can no longer see.
No one is in here. I wait for a moment, wondering if maybe I’d come to the wrong room, except that the guards ushered me to this spot.
Finally, I hear the faint echo of footsteps coming from down the corridor. They are the solid, sure steps of an aristocrat.
I don’t wait to kneel. Before the figure emerges into the hall, I lower myself onto both knees so that I can feel the cold floor through the fabric of my trousers. I hold Corian’s folded uniform out, presenting it flat before me with both hands. Then I bow my head deeply. There is still a faint scent of Corian from his Striker coat. I catch it now in my bent state, the smell of smoke and sugar, still lingering there from the candies he always kept tucked in his pockets.
The footsteps enter the hall. From the corner of my eyes, I catch sight of a pair of black boots, polished to perfection, and the sweep of a pale coat against pant legs.
I remember the color of that coat. Corian’s father has come to greet me.
I swallow hard. I don’t know how to apologize for the death of his son. Cannot tell him my deep shame at being unable to protect his favorite child. I can do nothing except remain in this position, holding out Corian’s uniform. So that is exactly what I do. I remain perfectly still, waiting for the man to say something.
The boots stop right in front of me. I can feel the heaviness in the air of his father’s looming presence.
Tradition usually dictates that, when a Striker delivers his fallen Shield’s uniform to his family, the family responds by accepting the uniform with both hands. As Shields are bonded to each other like siblings, the family should then embrace the Shield as if he or she were also their kin.
But long moments pass. I wait. Corian’s uniform stays heavy in my hands, untouched, and his father’s boots remain leaden before me.
Then his voice echoes above me in a low, rumbling growl. “Do you know why my son chose you as his Shield?” Master Barra says.
I don’t dare look up. I can barely manage a shake of my head.
“Because Corian had a bleeding heart,” his father continues. “He felt sorry for you, little Basean girl, always crouched like an animal outside the arena. I told him not to choose you. You weren’t good enough. He did anyway.” His voice turns grating, harsh and cold with grief. “That’s why my boy is dead. Because he selected a rat to protect him.”
I see the man’s boots turn away and point in the direction he’d come. His voice snarls above me with disgust.
“Keep his uniform,” he says. “It’s already been dirtied by the hands that allowed him to die. This House does not accept trash as an offering.”
Then the voice stops, and the boots walk away, leaving me kneeling on the floor. He did not bother dismissing me. Without his permission, I am obligated to stay here.
Families simply do not refuse the uniforms of their fallen children. I hesitate, confused, unsure in the moment what to do. My arms shake from the effort of staying still. My eyes point down at the floor. The wood pattern breaks at the edge of each plank. All I can do is repeat his words, which are spinning through my mind.
He felt sorry for you. This House does not accept trash.
I stare down at my hands and arms and think of Corian’s last moments. I see his bright blue eyes pleading for me to end his life before it is too late. Trash. I know, logically, that I am not. But it doesn’t matter.
I had let Corian die. I’d killed him because I never belonged in the Strikers. My Shield’s blood will forever taint my fingers.
I have no idea how long I kneel here. No one else comes to greet me. No one takes Corian’s uniform from my outstretched hands. No one wants to accept the apology I have come bearing. The House of Barra will make sure I alone carry the weight of Corian’s death.
The light disappears from the room and is replaced by evening. I will myself to stay trembling in place. Waiting. Hoping.
I don’t know whether I make it to dawn or not. All I remember is waking up with my cheek pressed against the cold floor. A servant is quietly shaking my shoulders.
“You need to leave, now,” he whispers to me. I look up into the grave eyes of a young servant boy nervously wringing his hands. His eyes dart to the hall behind us as he holds a hand out toward the door. “The guards will show you out if you don’t go yourself.”
In desperate shame, I hold the uniform out to him, as if even a lowly servant of the House of Barra accepting my offering would be better than nothing. But the boy shrinks away, not daring to touch it. He gives me an apologetic stare, then straightens and leaves me.