Storm of Shadows, page 7
“Two brothers. But not regular brothers – not brothers by blood. Brothers by bond. Shadow weavers who are bound to each other by the forces of fate for the entirety of their lives.”
“What?” I say. I thought I knew everything I needed to know about shadow weavers. Seems I was wrong.
“Please tell me you know about bonds.” I hesitate, then shake my head. “I mean, I don’t understand it exactly. I’m not a shadow weaver, myself.” He draws his hand down his body. “Obviously. But from what I understand, it’s when individuals find their other parts.”
“Other parts?”
“Like a soul mate I guess. Although, it’s not necessarily romantic,” he muses, “or sexual. Although I’m gathering sometimes it can be that way.”
“But what does it mean?”
“It means they’re linked together for life. Their magic becomes bound together.”
“And these other two boys are bound to Beaufort Lincoln? Are they happy about it?”
Fly laughs. “I have no idea, Cupcake. But considering they’re three of the strongest shadow weavers the realm has seen, I doubt they care too much.” He lowers his voice and adopts a mysterious tone. “They call them the Princes.”
“Not obnoxious at all,” I sniff, then glance towards my new friend. “What kind of service?” I ask next, my stomach turning sour.
Fly doesn’t answer, which tells me everything I need to know.
“Well,” I say with a frown, “I don’t care who they are or how powerful they may be, there’s no way in hell I’m being their thrall.”
Chapter Twelve
Briony
“Are you crazy?!” Fly asks. “Did you bump your head as well as twist your ankle? Or did you not hear what I said? If you’re a thrall, you’re untouchable. No one can hurt you.”
“Except the ones you’re a thrall to,” I point out.
I know how that goes. I’ve been a lackey to Muriel for years.
Firestone Academy may have a reputation for being brutal but at least it’s my chance at freedom. I won’t be dependent or bound to anyone. I will no longer be someone’s slave. Least of all a bunch of privileged shadow weavers who will use and abuse me just like my step-mother.
Fly shakes his head. “Do you know how many kids from Iron Quarter didn’t make it back from the academy last year? Four. Four kids who were some of the toughest, strongest people I knew. No offense, Cupcake, but you’re going to need all the help you can get.”
“If it’s such a help, then why the hell did some girl nearly kill me out there on the assault course?”
“Hmmm,” he ponders. “It’s not official yet, I guess. Until it is, maybe some of these kids think there’s still a chance the Princes will change their minds and choose them instead of you. Especially if you’re dead. I’d get it all official as quickly as you can.” He peers over his shoulder as if he expects someone to be coming at us with a knife.
I chew on my lip. “I’m not going to be a thrall. I’ll take my chances with the other kids.”
Fly harrumphs. “I’d give my right leg and my right ball to be someone’s thrall – anyone’s at all.”
“Can we change the subject?” I say. I don’t want to fall out with my new friend already and right now I can’t see us agreeing about this. I would refuse to be anyone’s servant as it is. I most definitely will not be serving shadow weavers. “Where are we going exactly?” Because we’re not heading in the direction of our rooms.
“The clinic, of course.”
“Uh uh, I don’t need any treatment. My ankle will be just fine.”
“You’re going to have to start accepting help if you want to make it through the next year.” He glances at me and I drop my gaze to the floor. “It doesn’t make you weak, you know. In fact, if you’re crazy enough to refuse the Princes, I’d say our next best plan is to stick together and help each other out.”
“It’s not that I think accepting help makes me weak, it’s just … it’s hard to trust people.” Because look what happens when you do! Muriel. Stanley. I trusted them and both of them abused me. And goodness knows who Amelia trusted.
Keeping my cards close to my chest, being wise about who I share my secrets with, is the only way I’m going to survive this place.
“I’m hurt,” Fly says, adopting a fake expression of pain. “You don’t trust me, Cupcake?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say honestly. “I want to.”
“Fair enough. That is sort of sensible. We probably shouldn’t trust anyone in this place. Not even each other.” He sighs. “Although that’s going to make for a very miserable twelve months.”
“Were you expecting anything different?”
He laughs. “No, I suppose not.”
Nonetheless, he still drags me along to a clinic, where there is a small line of other students waiting to be seen. Most of them are injuries from the assault course, a few look like casualties from the night before. I wonder just how many kids got hurt that night.
“Now,” Fly says, resting his hands on his hips, “can I trust you to wait here and be seen? Or do I need to stand guard?”
“It’s okay, Fly. You can go. I’ll be just fine.”
“Good,” he says, relief flooding his face. “Because I’m freaking starving and need to find some food.” My stomach growls loudly in agreement. “I’ll grab you some too. And hopefully,” he winks at me, “I’ll see you at the next lesson.”
“Which is?”
“You think they’d actually tell us?” he scoffs. “It starts at two in the Great Hall.”
I nod and watch him go. Then shrink into my chair, dragging my arms inside my sweater and dropping my chin to my chest, closing my eyes and making it clear I don’t want to talk to anyone else. Not that anyone in the clinic is talking. Most people are curled in on themselves like I am, one or two look ghostly pale.
One by one the students in front of me are called in to be seen and finally it’s my turn.
A nurse in a stiff uniform that once upon a time must have been white, but now, like everything else around here, is gray, calls my name. I hop up onto my good leg and limp towards her. She watches me come, a hand on her hip.
“Let me guess,” she says with sarcasm, “period cramps.”
I blink at her. “No, my ankle.”
“Come on then.” She beckons me to follow her. “Let’s check it out.”
Fifteen minutes later, both my ankle and my ribs are bandaged. The ankle is not broken, just sprained, the ribs, however, are cracked. Not that there’s anything the nurse can do about it.
“I’d tell you to rest and let it heal,” she says, handing me a bottle of painkillers. “But that won’t be an option here at the academy. You’ll just have to do your best. Pills will help … just don’t be silly with them.” She gives me a knowing look, then sends me on my way.
The bandage on my leg actually seems to help. I can place more weight on my foot and I am definitely not hobbling so much. I just have to hope whatever they have in store for us this afternoon, it isn’t anything physical.
I glance up at the clock tower and seeing I have half an hour before the next lesson, I make my way through the maze of towers to my own, hauling my tired body up the staircase hoping to discover the bathroom on my way.
My empty stomach aches just as much as my ribs and my legs and I’m exhausted. I’m in desperate need of food. I’m also covered in mud and dirt, and I smell really bad. Washing is definitely a priority. I don’t want to be picked out as the stinky kid, especially as it sounds like I already have a price on my head.
I find the bathroom halfway up the staircase. Unfortunately, there are no clouds of steam billowing from the communal showers. There’s just one lonesome girl, a thin towel wrapped around her middle, shivering so hard her knees knock together.
“The water’s frigging freezing!” she says through clattering teeth as she darts from the room.
There is a pile of towels set out by a row of sinks, a row of cubicles on the other side of the wall. Some containing toilets and some showers. As I’m short on time, and don’t fancy an extra climb up and down the tower, I grab a towel, duck into one of the cubicles, strip off my clothes and unwind my hair. I turn the ancient knob and after a moment of groaning from the pipes, a torrent of water comes gushing from the overhead shower. The girl wasn’t lying. The water is so cold I’m surprised blocks of ice aren’t tumbling from the showerhead instead.
I grit my teeth, and duck under the water, shrieking despite my best efforts because it is colder than the poles. Balancing on my good foot, while keeping the other out of the water, I scrub the mud from my body and the grime from my hair. There’s no soap but at least it makes the ordeal quicker and as soon as most of the dirt is gone, I yank off the water and wrap myself in the towel. It’s worn and threadbare and does little to warm me up so I dry myself as quickly as I can, dress again in the tracksuit, then climb back up to my room.
A small fireplace crouches in the corner of my room, but it contains no firewood or coal and no means to light it even if it did.
I strip out of my tracksuit, shivering like the other girl, my hands shaking and barely able to grip the material, and pull on my uniform.
When I’m done, I turn to my reflection in the warped mirror and confirm I do not have Fly’s sense of style. He’d made this uniform look good. On me it looks no better than the tracksuit. The short gray skirt shows off my bruised knees, the long socks are itchy as hell and the blazer hangs from my shoulders. Maybe it will be enough to convince Beaufort Lincoln that I am not worthy to be his thrall. The girl who pushed me from the net would be way more suitable.
I smile at my reflection as I drag a comb through my wet hair and then twist and pin it back as usual.
Yep, the Princes will take one look at me this afternoon and will no longer be my problem.
Chapter Thirteen
Briony
I arrive outside the Great Hall with precisely no minutes to spare but at least I’m not late.
“Briony!” I hear Fly call out and then find him squeezing through the other students to reach me. I cringe as once again it draws everybody’s attention my way. “How’s the ankle?”
I shrug. “I took some pain meds. So it and me are feeling pretty darn good.” I peer at him hopefully. “Just really damn hungry.”
“Well, that, Ma’am, is something I may be able to help with.” He does a fancy little bow and pulls four bread rolls filled with cheese and ham from his blazer pockets and passes them to me. “I risked my neck swiping these for you,” he whispers to me as I grab them from his hands.
“Oh my stars, thank you so much! I owe you big time,” I say, stuffing one into my mouth and the other three into my pockets.
Fly chuckles. “Slow down, Cupcake. You don’t want to choke. You’ve already missed near-death once already today.”
I chew aggressively and roll my eyes at him.
Then we notice the line is moving and we’re being led inside the hall.
Today, the hall is filled with single desks, all laid out in neat rows of tens.
“Take a seat,” a man booms from the raised platform in the recesses of the hall, his form bathed in shadow, no light filtering through the circular window today. “And be quick about it.”
I follow Fly along one of the lines, sliding onto a seat next to his and tucking my knees under the desk.
“We should be safe here,” Fly whispers as the other students grab their desks around us. “Never grab a seat at the front or the back. It’s asking for trouble.”
I grin at him. “They do send us to school back in Slate Quarter, you know.”
He grins back. “I wasn’t sure.”
Furtively, I break off a piece of bread roll in my pocket and smuggle it into my mouth.
The shadow weavers are the last to enter the Hall, strolling in like they have all the time in the world and heading straight for the empty rows of desks at the front.
I try not to, but despite all my protests to Fly about my determination to stay away from the Princes – I’m still curious. I can’t help it. After all, I’m as surprised as everyone else as to why the hell they would want me as their thrall. I mean, you only have to flick your gaze around the Hall and see there are far better candidates. No matter what their preference is, there is someone better suited to meet it. I don’t even come out tops among the scrawny, pathetic girls.
I spot Beaufort right at the back of the shadow weavers and this time I pay attention to who he is with – because I’m assuming they are the magicals he’s bound to.
My eyes linger on Beaufort and then move to the man behind him.
I jolt in my seat.
It’s the shadow weaver I encountered out there on the path yesterday evening.
He’s as tall and broad as Beaufort, but where Beaufort’s skin is fair, the other man’s is dark. His hair, shorn brutally short, is jet black and his eyes are just as dark. The expression he wears on his face is ominous – like one glance your way and he could turn you to stone.
I shiver and is it my imagination, or does that action attract his attention? His head snaps my way and his eyes meet mine. Dark and soulless.
Instead of turning to cold stone, though, my insides seem to heat, a flush creeping up my neck and into my cheeks.
What is it with the men around here? Did they all take lessons on being moody and broody before entering the academy? Or maybe that’s just how shadow weavers are. Maybe the aura of their magic, crackling in the air around them, gives them this sinister persona.
I lower my eyes down to my desk, only daring to raise them again several minutes later, just in time to catch sight of the third man. He couldn’t be more different to the others. A white mop of long locks sprawls from his head and a wild smile stretches across his face. His teeth sparkle white and perfectly straight and there are actual dimples in his cheeks.
However, his baby-faced appearance ends there. Tattoos crawl out from under his shirt and twist up his neck, in ominous patterns. A heavy silver chain hangs around his neck.
I can’t discern the color of his eyes over the distance, but I can see they’re brimming with mischief as he flicks his gaze around the Hall taking everyone in. When his eyes land on me, he doesn’t scowl like his friend did, instead his smile stretches even wider and he winks at me. It’s so damn flirtatious my cheeks burn even hotter.
My insides do something similar. Men were never this hot back in Slate Quarter. And the men in Slate Quarter never looked at me like that. It’s been a long time since a man looked at me with anything but revulsion. I’d forgotten what that felt like.
I bite down hard on my lip.
I don’t want to be admiring shadow weavers. I don’t want them to make my insides spin.
I hate them. I hate them all.
“So kind of you weasels to join us,” the voice of the teacher bathed in shadow booms, his form still hidden. There are several shocked gasps from around the Hall and one or two giggles. Shadow weavers are the elite among us. Sure we may bitch about them in hushed, secretive tones behind their backs, I’ve never known anyone to insult them to their faces. I swallow, expecting there to be some rebuttal – for the shadow weavers to jump to their feet in outrage, to fling magic at the hidden teacher. But most seem unconcerned. They slouch in their chairs, one or two yawning as if being dragged to the academy is one giant inconvenience and bore.
“Then let us begin,” the voice booms and immediately a booklet and a pencil appears on the desk in front of me. “You have three hours to complete the questions in this booklet. There will be no talking.”
The man clicks his fingers and an hourglass timer the size of a horse appears, suspended in the air at the front of the Hall. It tips over and the grains of sand inside begin to seep through.
Tearing off another piece of roll from my pocket and popping it into my mouth, I print my name on the front of my booklet and then turn over the first page, running my eyes down the questions. It’s all logic questions – a mix of mathematical and lateral thinking. I twist the pencil around in my fingers and then tackle the first question.
Around me I can hear the scratch of hundreds of pencils, the occasional scrape of chair legs against the floor or a huff of agitated breath. I keep my head down and focused on the paper. I’m going to give these questions my best shot. Even though I know it will make no difference, that my fate is Slate Quarter no matter what. I’m still going to try. I know I’m smart enough to make it into Granite Quarter – even if I don’t trust the system and have no expectation at all that I’ll make it there when this year ends.
Several of the questions make my brain hurt and my vision multiply; some I don’t even attempt, but by the time that last grain of sand filters through the hourglass and a bell clangs loudly above our heads, I’ve tackled all the questions I can.
Before we’ve had a chance to lower our pencils, they vanish from our hands along with the booklets from our desks.
“You are dismissed until your next lesson tomorrow morning,” that mysterious voice booms.
All around me, students hurry to push back their chairs and climb to their feet, rushing for the door and freedom. I glance at Fly and without a word spoken, we agree to wait until the crush is over and everyone else is gone. I don’t want to bump into the Princes again or the murderous brunette or anyone else with murderous intentions for that matter.
“Did you not hear me,” the voice booms, “you’re dismissed!”
We both jump to our feet and as fast as we can – given I have an injured leg – hurry out of the Hall.
“Jeez,” I say once we’re outside again, “who was that? Was it the Headmaster?”
“I don’t think so,” Fly says, peering back over his shoulder. Behind us the candles have extinguished and the Hall is now a dark cavernous space. It’s creepy as hell. “The Head is known to be a recluse. He hardly ever shows his face. Madame Bardin pretty much runs the academy.”
