Veiled Innocence (Book One, The Soul Cycle) (5 page)

She scanned the room for Gabriel, but he had disappeared.

Her heart sank a little, and she left the hall without saying goodnight to anyone. Not that it mattered. No one would notice her missing.

The rain had stopped, and the only sound in the dark hallway was the hissing of the torches as she passed and the
clip clop
of her heels. As she stumbled back to her bedroom, she became more and more aware of the teardrop resting on her chest. She glanced around to make sure she was alo
ne
and tugged it free. It twinkled with that swirling white light, beautiful and frightening at the same time.

Her head spun, no doubt worsened by the drought. No one had mentioned losing a piece of jewelry at dinner, and she hadn’t picked up on any rumors circulating around the staff. She considered posting a notice
around
the fortress about a missing necklace, but quickly dismissed the idea. Any of those desperate, greedy weasels would claim the teardrop as their own if
they thought
it would trade well for another month’s worth of liquor or vern.

She clenched the teardrop in her fist, overtaken by a sudden urge to protect it. But
the feeling
was gone as quickly as it came, and her eyelids drooped as she was hit by a wave of exhaustion.
Tomorrow. I’ll figure out what to do with it tomorrow.

As she crossed the passage that overlooked the training yard, the sounds of swords clashing against armor and shields drifted up to her. She tucked the teardrop away and paused on the landing. 

Could Gabriel be training at this hour? It must be nearly midnight.
Her heart began to race as she tiptoed to the balcony’s rail, eager to catch a glimpse of him. Her head was beginning to clear, but her skin still felt flushed and her equilibrium askew.
Gritting her teeth against her growing headache, s
he gripped the cool iron railing for balance and strained to see the figures sparring below.

Premonition

ROWAN SNARLED AS HE
lunged for his opponent, the tip of his sword aimed for the heart.

The bulky figure countered him with a swing of a shield, knocking his sword to the side as Rowan stumbled past him. Panting, he lifted a gloved hand to wipe his forehead and brush his bangs from his eyes. Though the rain had cooled the air, it was still unbearably muggy, a typical Asilean summer night.

“You really need to cut that.”

The sound of Orris’ harsh bass was muffled inside the helmet, but that did not make it any less menacing. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. I could use it against you in battle.”

Rowan rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’ve heard it all before,” he muttered, studying Orris as he squatted into a defensive position. Rowan imagine
d
the twisted scar curving into a jeer of pointy yellowed teeth as Orris held his shield in
front of him and clutched
a dagger the size of an infant in his free hand.

Rowan attacked, slicing his sword to the left. At the last moment, when it looked like Orris would fall for his bluff, Rowan quickly changed directions, aiming for the exposed spot along the ribs.

The corners of Rowan’s lips curled in a triumphant grin.
Got him.
   

Orris’ weight shifted. Before Rowan could blink, Orris lunged to the side of his outstretched arm and nailed him square in the chest with his elbow. 

Rowan dropped his sword as his breath left him in one huge gush. He stumbled backward, brain scrambl
ed from the blow, and bent over to clumsily grope
for the sword. A shadow moved from the corner of his eye.

What the –

Before he could finish the thought, Orris had stepped behind him, grabbed his arm, pinned it behind his back, and knocked him to his knees with a sharp kick. It happened so fast that Rowan barely had time to register he had lost before Orris grabbed a fistful of his shaggy hair and yanked his head backwards, exposing his throat. Orris laid his dagger alongside his neck. 

For a few moments, Rowan only sat there catching his breath. What happened? Did he really just lose again?

  His body finally slacked with the acceptance of surrender. Orris released his grip, sheathing his dagger as he did.

Rowan buckled over and gingerly ru
bbed his chest. “Did you really – have to hit me –
that hard?” he said between gulps of air.

Orris only grunted as he removed his helmet and shook out his sopping wet hair. He stalked over to his bag and removed a cotton cloth, turning his back to Rowan as he methodically began polishing his shield. 

“You haven’t been practicing.” Orris continued to clean his shield, moving his hand in short circular strokes. He did not sound angry. His tone was even and gruff, like he was merely making an observation.

Rowan swallowed hard and
suppressed a bitter laugh. “Yes
, well, I’ve been busy.” He already spent a good twenty hours a week training in addition to his duties as Black Knight. What made Orris think he’d want to spend every waking hour with a sword in his hand?

Rowan rose and stretched his arms high over his head, trying to loosen up his already sore chest.

“Putting this off
isn’t going to change anything,” Orris said.
“
You’re still going to take my place someday.”

Rowan let his arms fall to his sides a
nd groaned. “Save your breath, F
ather. We’ve already been through this a thousand times.”

He shuffled over to the bench, swiped his towel and closed his eyes, trying to calm his unsettled nerves. He was so focused on his own thoughts that he didn’t hear the footsteps until they were upon him.

Orris grabbed his shoulder, swung him around, and backhanded him hard across the cheek, gauntlet still on.

Rowan bit his lip to keep from swearing; that would only make Orris hit him again. He tasted blood on his lip and on the inside of his mouth where his teeth had cut into his tong
ue from the force of the blow.
He closed his eyes, breathing hard as his father began his tirade.

“Then you must not have been listening the first thousand times! Gods, Rowan, why do I have to keep repeating myself? You’re nearly eighteen years old. When I was your age, I was already a sergeant with a unit of my own men. And what have you done? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“And I’ve told you I don’t want this. I don’t care about being captain!”
Rowan
shouted, drawing himself even. 

Orris’ eyes burned, the centers
like
ti
ny glowing coals
. “You’re too young to realize what a fool you sound like. This family has had generations of established soldiers
,
and I will be damned if it ends with my son because he
didn’t want to
.”

Rowan looked away, unable to
stand loo
king
at his father. He silently fumed as Orris turned his head, spit
ting
loudly
. “Don’t forget
about what we spoke of earlier,” Orris said, lowering his voice.
“
You don’t have much time to claim it.
Don’t let me down again.
”

Rowan glared at him.
As if I could possibly forget when you remind me at every turn.

Without another word, Orris
stormed out of the training yard, throwing his helmet to the ground as he went.

Rowan’s loathing
toward his father
felt
like acid, slowly decaying his insides with hatred and resentment as he watched the retreating figure.
Someone
gasp
ed softly
from above. He whirled around to find a ghost staring down at him, her eyes and mouth drawn wide in shock. 

No, not a ghost
, he thought with growing distaste.
A girl;
Lianora
.

“You don’t have much time to claim it.”

His irritation grew.
She’s nothing but trouble. She
’s
driven a wedge through the
royal family
, and now she’s going to drive one
between
my father and me.
How important
can a damn necklace be
?

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, lining up venomous words on his tongue. When he looked back up, retort ready, she was gone.

The training yard was once again quiet, save for the soft erratic clicking of the greyner beetles.
Scowling, h
e cried out and kicked the helmet as hard as he could, pitching it clear across the yard
into one of the wooden dummies. He looked
very much like a spoiled kid throwing a temper tantrum and
didn’t care
in the least.

The military academy had been
his home, the cadets his family. They raised
him as one of their own after his mother died and he saw less and less of his father. But every day, the glass walls seemed more and more like a prison.

He had to get out of
here
. He had to have
freedom
.

Wiping the back of his hand across his brow, he trudged over to the helmet and lifted it from the mud. Embossed on its side was the Accalian Crest. In addition to honor and bravery, it was meant to represent power and advancement in strategical warfare, since Accalia boasted the largest army in the whole southeast region of Eresea.

He took off his right glove and ran his thumb along the crest, watching the moonlight bounce off the raised metal. Abandoning his country was not something he could take lightly, though it was a thought that had crossed his mind many times. Other countries would not shelter him for fear of bringing down Accalia’s wrath. He would be a rogue, a wanderer.
Once he left, he would never be able to return, not unless he wanted to be
hanged
for treason.  

He shuddered to think what would happen to the Accalians if he left, who would take his place. Not every soldier he’d grown up with was completely honorable. Black Knight wasn’t as glamorous a position as White Knight, which was more for bragging rights than anything else. Being the Black Knight often times mean
t grueling, never-ending shifts
and sometimes unpleas
ant interrogations of the city’s
criminals, if caught. There was far more work to be done than the pay was worth, if the job was done right, and he wasn’t convinced every candidate would hold the wellbeing of Accalia into first consideration. If
he
wasn’t
so concerned with the welfare of the people, he
would have
said to hell with treason and left a long time ago.

He would figur
e it out, and one of these days
,
he would walk past those great wrought-iron doors and leave this place far behind him.

But he wouldn’t leave just yet. No, tonight he would work on his plan.

With a heavy sigh, he gathered up his things and went to stroll in the gardens to clear his mind, leaving the h
elmet, crest-down, in the mud.

***

AFTER WHAT SEEMED LIKE
hours of lying awake,
with
the scene between Rowan and Orris playing out in her mind over and over,
Lian finally fell asleep. She always dreamed, but she was not quit
e
expecting what she saw when her dream-self opened her eyes.

It was dark and warm, much like any other Asilean midsummer night. A gentle breeze tickled her skin from the void behind h
er, lifting her curls playfully
and beckoning her forward. The air smelled of yeullises, musky and wonderful. They were her favorite – delicate
,
multi-petaled flowers of
varying colors she no longer remembered the names of
anymore. The garden at the fortress
was
once ripe with yeullises of every shade and size, and she had spent many hours there basking in their perfume. Bu
t as more and more of the capita
l’s income
was
allocated toward the military academy
and fattening the courtier overlords’ paychecks
, her father had let the garden go to waste. 

She let the breeze pull her forward, one tentative step at a time. The teardrop pulsed at her throat, fading fro
m green to white and back again. It cast
barely
enough light for her to see that there truly was nothing there at all. It was as if she walked on pure air. 

One, two, three steps.

The ground materialized beneath her feet. Mud gathered in the slits between h
er toes. It felt wet and frothy
but comforting at the same time because it was a familiar sens
ation. She dared to glance down
and saw her watery reflection staring back at her, only this version of her was different. She was far paler, almost an albino, and a bit older, old with the kind of age that is acquired after having endured many hard times. She felt sorry for her, this shadow of herself, a specter looking so devoid of hope and light.