《Spirit of Shadow》


 A Door at the End of the World

    Lothor seethed.


    For all of his long years of life, he had never known such troubling times as these. The old ways were forgotten. It seemed he was doomed to live out the rest of eternity in a persistent state of agony. Were it that he could, he would sequester himself in a dark, dank forest and deny mortals his presence, the power that came with it, but Hanzo¡ªthat bastard¡ªhad taken the right to solitude away from him. The scum who took his place was no better. Eight even less palatable men and women, each with their own agenda, their own desires, and each had left the world an uglier place in their wake. This last one had known something they did not, and even he had proven an incompetent ruler.


    A door opened somewhere in the west, almost at the end of the world. A sonorous scream tore past his mandibles, echoed through the shadows. Agony ripped across his thorax. He squeezed his abdomen against it as pressure built in his joints. It was like someone was squeezing his bristly legs, splaying them apart. At any moment, they would be divorced from his body. Pulp and fluid would leak from the craters they left behind. His carapace would be prized apart by firm but delicate hands. The one who called him relished his pain, drinking in his cries like song as he twisted him to his whims, compelled him to do what was needed.


    The door opened in the shape of a man. Through it, he glimpsed the world outside. Torchlight and smooth, gray stone filled the man-shaped cavity. The light played off a pallid form, his hair black as ink and falling almost to his waist, his ears tapering sleekly to points just behind his head.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.  He saw the man falling into shadow, the world outside, through eyes sheeted with water. He hated him. Hated what he represented.


    ¡°I¡¯ll kill you one day.¡± He promised. ¡°I¡¯ll kill you all.¡±


    The figure twisted at the last moment, landed soundly on his feet. There was a grace to his movements, a feline reflex, a soft adjustment that spoke of long practice.


    Shadow flooded into the door, and it was shut. A lesser ache leaked into Lothor¡¯s body to replace the sharp pain he had felt for those moments while the Wraith fell from a world of light and warmth into shadow. He quieted, and the ambient whispers of countless men and women filled his ears, whispers inspired by dark thoughts, the dark hearts of mortals. He invited them, for there was relief in the familiar, and he knew they were no friend to the intruder.


    The Wraith walked freely, confidently, through the endless gloom, ignoring the whispers of the shadows. He denied them as he crossed his tiny corner of Lothor¡¯s domain, navigated toward his destination by some sixth sense the poor creature knew would come with pain for another, less experienced traveler.


    A fresh wave of pain wracked his body as a new door opened in the long shadow of a dirt-floored cell. The Wraith rose into the cell to his sternum, stole something¡ªa pewter tray, a cup and a bowl¡ªand sank back into the shadows once more.


    The pain faded. It resurged as the Wraith rose through a final door¡ªa battered, old table, a water trough along a stone wall, the harsher light of a bulb powered by electricity filling the amorphous space around him¡ªand left him, finally, alone.

 Morning in Shadovane

    Lance awoke with a start. A wave of visceral panic stole rationality from him for several moments as the dregs of a nightmare leaked out of him. Calm was not swift in coming. His heart pounded, and his lungs seized around short, choppy inhales as he stuffed the details of that cursed dream into the back of his mind. Cold sweat covered his body, and the sheets under him were uncomfortably damp.


    He lay back, rolled onto his side, his bunk creaking under his weight as his eyes darted from shadow to shadow, looking for signs of intruders. Finding none.


    Somewhere further up the wide corridor of the Servants¡¯ Quarters¡ªa barracks populated by narrow bunk beds and illuminated by moonlight through arrow slit windows¡ªtwo others were fucking. From where he should be sleeping, he heard their bed creaking, followed the sounds to see a young man¡¯s bare back painted in sweat and silver light, the edge of the upper bunk¡¯s rail keeping his partner well concealed. Soft gasps and moans issued from both of them, but if the sex was good, he could not tell.


    It hardly mattered, anyway. A momentary distraction, enough to draw his attention away from the storm of crazed thoughts caroming through his head. He was beginning to calm down.


    He knew he had nothing to fear from the barracks¡ªhe had lived in them most of his life. In none of those years, on none of those nights, had he ever been attacked. The most substantial thing that had ever come out of the shadows was a deep cart overflowing with fresh laundry¡ªuniforms, linens, wash rags and bath towels, and if it were the end of the week, a duvet cover to replace the old one.


    But he only half believed it¡ªthat he was safe here, with terrors in the night gripping onto his mind, pawing at old insecurities, squeezing out irrational conspiracies to haunt every blackened corner in this hall bathed in moonlight.


    He turned his back on the nearest shadow. A frock of wavy, auburn hair peaked over a coverlet draped over the next bunk, where Laramy slept. Above and behind him, in a window thick with fog, was an intricate web. A spider labored diligently to repair it, awaited a meal to sustain it until death came for it at sunrise¡­when a servant dashed its home into ruin. He closed his eyes, and as fast as he had, fresh flashes of the old nightmare resurfaced to chase him away from sleep.


    I¡¯m losing this fight. He thought sourly. It would be tonight, too.


    In the nightmare, he was a child. It was dark as pitch, and whatever space he occupied reeked of feces. He sat on coarse gravel, which dug into his bottom and the soles of his feet. He hugged his knees to his chest, a thick layer of oil pressed unpleasantly between his belly and his thighs. He could not recall the last time he had a bath, and in a child¡¯s mind the words weeks, months played over and over. His scalp and genitals itched, and his hair was a messy, dirt infested tangle.


    And he was alone. Always alone. In every variation of this nightmare, even the worst ones, there was just the absolute darkness, and him.


    At least it wasn¡¯t the bad one. He smiled at the ridiculousness of it. This version of the nightmare had been bad enough. What sense was there in inviting a worse variation. He watched the moon from his bed, a vague orb behind the fogged glass, and tried to find some sense of inner peace¡ªthat doorway into sound sleep and pleasant dreams.


    He lay awake for hours, lay there as the bed across the aisle creaked, the boy groaned and the girl gasped. One theatrical moan, and the pitch and keel ceased. The couple drifted off to sleep, leaving him alone to stare at the beams above him, and wonder what had gone so wrong that he couldn¡¯t be like them. That he couldn¡¯t just be normal.


    He gave up on sleep with the darkest hour of the night upon him. Dawn would be coming soon. He might be able to convince the palace guard stationed on this floor to let him out early, so that he could prepare for the coming day.


    He kicked his legs over the side of the bed, slid the drawer under his mattress open and removed shirt, briefs, pants and a towel. He tiptoed across poured stone floors, and approached a door made of plank boards bound together with bronze straps. He opened it, and peaked into the hall.


    A Wraith stood sentry just outside. He was elven¡ªhis ears long, sleek and pointed, his features soft and round, dark eyes framed by thick lashes, and hollow cheeks drawn down into a firm chin. A curtain of ink black hair fell over his shoulders and down his bare back, and bands of black script stood in relief against his torso. Bands of writing in the language of Shadovane coiled around his midriff and bicep, paying honor to the Shadow Queen. The image of an elf who might have been close kin¡ªa brother or a cousin¡ªwas branded over his heart, encircled by more of that writing.


    The Wraith turned a stern gaze on him. ¡°Go to bed, boy.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t sleep.¡± Lance whispered. ¡°It¡¯s almost time, isn¡¯t it? So¡­can you take me to the showers. I promise I won¡¯t disturb anyone.¡±


    The wraith grumbled something under his breath. His lip curled into the hint of a grimace. ¡°This once, but you¡¯ve had your last favor from me.¡±


    ¡°T-thank you.¡± Lance tried on a modest smile. It felt wrong.


    After nineteen years living in the palace, he should be used to the Wraiths, but in all of that time, he had only managed to hide his anxiety around them a little better. More than anything else about the palace, they were an unsettling reminder of the relative distrust between the crown and the noble houses, between the noble houses and each other, and in all of them, a unique distrust of the servants who kept them all comfortable. His fear of them was as sourceless as his complex about shadows and as raw as any of his nightmares. On occasion, he dreamed about them, too. Confusing dreams full of fire and chaos, and broad patches of unrelieved darkness. Those were comparatively rare, and less visceral besides.


    It¡¯s okay to be afraid of soldiers. He told himself. He was far from the only one who gave them a wide berth.


    The Wraith Core was perhaps the most well natured sect of the military. It was the one most populated by the lower classes, and though the ones who came from outside the palace seldom spoke of their former lives, they were as prone to laugh and banter as any of the servants.


    Still, some itch at the back of his mind told him not to trust them.


    ¡°Come now. Let¡¯s not waste time.¡± The guard took him by the shoulder and shoved him lightly forward. They marched by the cold light of glow bulbs, which worked by channeling electricity and were almost exclusively used for lighting where the nobles refused to roam. The candles they used in their own chambers were nearly always perfumed with lavender or bees wax, and the light they gave off was softer and warmer. These glow bulbs washed the color out of flesh, making all but the few kitunes scattered across the various departments the servants took ownership over look deathly ill.


    The Wraith pulled a door matching the one in the barracks they had just left open, and gestured him down the spiral staircase it looked in on. They descended four floors out of the tower proper and into its first basement, where the Wraith drew up short of another door, which was fitted with a small, glass window set high into its face.


    Beyond the fogged out lens, he could see blurred silhouettes moving about, though he could make out no more detail than that. Men and women of nearly every race across empire were present in that room, but there were no elves among them.


    A caste system was enforced, with the nobility in their high towers, behind their impassible walls, and commoners in the city which expanded into the box canyon beyond its gates, rising higher toward the First Turn and then flatlands where farms were rumored to be abundant. All of those that were free were elven, and the rest¡­they were servants, taken into the castle and bound never to leave except by explicit order, and he had never heard of any such order being given.


    ¡°Well, go.¡± The Wraith said. ¡°Unless you would rather I took you back to your barracks?¡±


    Lance lingered for a moment. He hated this place, the way the Shadovani elves insisted on making bathing a group activity. At least this way, this early, there would be few chances for him to embarrass himself, and ample room to stare at blank walls and flooring.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.He pulled the door open.


    Hot, vaporous clouds billowed around him as he entered. The Wraith was already marching back up the stairs when he took a last look over his shoulder. He took the plunge, stepped beyond the cloud of rapidly cooling fog, and nearly smacked his shin against a knee high block of poured stone, avoiding a painful scrape and the days spent dealing with it by some uncommon luck.


    The block was one of perhaps ten like it which spanned the distance from one wall to the other, framing a narrow aisle between the entrance and the shower pit. Bundles of discarded clothing sat atop them.


    A laundry worker, dressed in a snow white shirt¡ªsleeves rolled up to the elbow¡ªand trousers, scooped them up and threw them in a large cart parked near the door. Some of those bore brands of grim the like of which seemed beyond repair¡ªgrease and black dust, and all manner of other substances which stained as surely as water was wet.


    She favored him with a tender smile that didn¡¯t quite touch her eyes. ¡°The work never ends, does it?¡±


    He returned the gesture. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for adding more.¡±


    A mechanical chuckle. Her gaze slid from his face and all the artifice that was there to hide her discontent faded away. She moved up the row, back about her business.


    She¡¯s not very pleasant.


    He stripped off his clothes and set them atop the block, then crossed over to another series of blocks deeper in. These were framed on three sides by shelving units like those that might be found In a nobleman¡¯s study, except that these were not covered in books but clean towels and fresh changes of clothes brought in by servants from the night crews. Lance¡¯s own bundle went into an empty space with the rest, and then he turned, and the awkward and mortifying game of getting through this part of the morning began.


    Night workers toweled off amid shelves and blocks, gabbed and laughed, their hair limp and sopping wet, and falling into their eyes. A kitune boy--marked for his blood-red skin, the scattering of darker moles over his body, and conical ears thrust from the sides of his head which ended in tufts of dense hair--twisted his damp towel and snapped it across another boy¡¯s rump. The other boy yelped, glowered indignantly at the first, who roared with laughter.


    Several others joined in.


    ¡°It¡¯s not funny!¡± the boy sulked.


    ¡°Oh, grow a pair, James.¡± Another boy--all and dark-haired with thick lashes framing deep, brown eyes¡ªsnapped his towel across the complainer¡¯s thigh.


    The complainer, James, screwed up his face into a wrathful scowl.


    Lance deposited his clean clothes on one of the shelves, and left them to their business. He tried very hard to avoid looking at them, but despite his best efforts, his eyes drifted from one to another, among the blocks and beneath the showers.


    Fluted spigots poked out of the ceiling in concentric rings throughout the central portion of the room. They resembled flowers hanging from tree branches in a way. Their spouts were designed by a queen long passed to look like the blooming buds of tulips, and the pipes were hidden inside intricately worked tubing, which was made to look knobbly and organic, though the whole contrivance was cast in a silvery metal of a kind he had never identified.


    Against his better judgment, he snatched a look at a jua boy¡ªcoal dark with dense curls that hugged his scalp and taller than nearly all of the other boys in the showers.


    His gaze lingered too long and the boy noticed, shed a withering look on him. Fire climbed into his cheeks.


    Dead things. He thought, as he hurried away. Old people. Lady Jain.


    He summoned the image of a wizened, old hag. Lady Jain was among the most powerful nobles in Shadovane, and kept the Royal Office of Operations, which oversaw all of the coordination efforts behind the palace¡¯s grandest parties, as well as its more mundane services. Age had melted her in the way of a large candle left to burn for several hours. If all else failed, he could count on her image to banish the embarrassing results of his minds more perverted forays.


    He approached an unoccupied spout in a sparsely populated section of the room, and depressed a blackened, stone pedal in the floor in front of it with his heel. Water fell from the spout. He tested it with his fingers, depressed a gray pedal next to it and released it when the water had reached a bearable temperature.


    He kept the image of Lady Jain¡¯s pug-like face hard in his mind as he bent to a dish on the floor and pulled out a bar of soap, and swiftly rushed through the work¡ªlather, rinse and done. The whole affair was over in record time. He had no desire to linger here longer than was strictly necessary, and so backpedaled until his feet depressed both pedals, cutting the stream of water off.


    Lady Jain. He thought as he returned to the blocks and the shelves, snatching harried looks at a number of other boys as he passed them¡ªamong them, a kitune with a thick mat of black curls covering his chest, and a lanky human a little older than him with smooth cheeks and piercing, ice-blue eyes.


    He pulled his effects off the shelf, set his clothes on the nearest block, ruffled a towel through his hair, and patted his face dry. It was then that he noticed him.


    A boy who shared some features in common with the giida people¡ªloose, chestnut curls and eggshell skin, a beak of a nose thrust out from between eyes framed by dark circles. He was clean shaven, his eyes a warm, mud brown, lips somewhat thin and quirked upward at the corners. There was a natural, rosy flush to his cheeks, a feature that made Lance weak in the knees and sent his heart racing. He struck a slender figure, was not particularly muscled, and as he toweled himself off, he stood slightly duck footed, making him appear somewhat awkward without meaning to.


    Lance didn¡¯t realize he was staring, that his towel had dropped from his fist and was now a rumpled mass soaking up dew on the tiles. The other boy bent to towel off his calves, turned at that moment and met his gaze, and froze.


    His eyebrow twitched, and something that might have been curiosity, anxiety or frustration stole over him. His lips firmed, his gaze jerked away from the voyeur servant Lance had become, and he snapped his towel to his crotch.


    Lance shifted his attention pointedly away, a knee jerk response as the awkwardness of the situation caught up to him, that he had been watching this stranger, breaking the one unspoken rule regarding conduct in these compromising times.


    He snatched his clothes from their place and hustled to get them on. Underwear flew up his legs. His arms snapped into shirt sleeves, fingers worked frantically over the buttons. He needed to get out of here while there was still time to salvage¡ª


    Shit! He¡¯s coming over here. Why is he coming over here!


    What do I do? What do I do?


    He thought about running. Grabbing his pants off the block and bolting out of the showers in his briefs, but he would be out of the frying pan then, open to more trouble than he had any business entertaining. At best, he would be sent to Lady Tamalsen for a caning, then. The Mistress of Servants would carry the insult in her bones.


    He whipped his pants straight and nearly jumped into them, hiked them up as fast as he could.


    ¡°Hey!¡± the other boy called. ¡°Hey wait!¡±


    He broke into a jog as Lance buttoned his fly.


    Lance didn¡¯t give him time to get any further. He bolted out of the showers, missed a step on the way down the stairs and caught the rail just short of a tooth cracking fall; and then hurried down the flight barefoot, with his shoes hugged to his chest.


    When he reached the bottom, the towering doors into the canteen just ahead, he bent to catch his breath. And cussed.


    ¡°FUCK!¡± he said through clenched teeth. ¡°What were you thinking!¡±


    He stood there, bent double, his lungs on fire, trying to gather the thread of what had just happened. It had all gone off the rails so quickly. Before it had a chance to get anywhere good.


    ¡°You fucking coward! You absolute weirdo!¡±


    He noticed the stitching on the hem of his shirt, and realized he was wearing it inside out. One last reminder to tell him just how badly he had messed up. How easily he had let his one shot with that boy slide through his fingers.


    Oh god. What if I see him again? What if he approaches me. He thought. I need to talk to Sami. She always knows what to do.

 To Be Among Friends

    The canteen reminded Lance of the temples he had seen in picture books when he was young. Towering, stone walls rose to shadowed heights where thick timbers obscured most of the ceiling, and at the heart of the expanse was a massive clock with four faces. Each of them was oriented to face a cardinal point. A long pendulum hung from it, and swung back and forth a man height over the tallest servants heads, carving a channel down the center of the long hall. Narrow aisles ran between long benches throughout the space, and a window precluded a bronze counter behind which Janice, one of a few elder servants who still worked in the kitchens, served up plates of food to the various youth trickling in for an early breakfast before their shifts began. She had been with the palace staff so long the youth joked she must have started her career as a stone mason.


    The canteen was filled with the excited chatter of servants coming off the night crews when he arrived. Most of the gossip was about a coming state visit from the Sun Emperor, who would be in the city for the first time in a decade. A visit which was to happen at the beginning of the following month. With his visit so close, rumors swirled about his retinue of mirrhvalians, about the ruler himself, and some of those verged on the hysterical. The older servants spoke of his last visit with an air of self-importance, while the younger¡ªwhom had not been old enough to remember it¡ªabsorbed as much as they could take in of their tales.


    The emperor was one of nine creatures with near limitless power, a body of legendary figures called Immortals. The most mundane rumor about him was that he had lived for two millennia. For a boy of nineteen, or a man of forty-three, such a long life was nearly impossible to imagine. He would have seen everything from almost the time of the Sealing¡ªwhen the one true god was imprisoned by his offspring¡ªto the present day, having lived to witness nearly all of recorded history.


    The wilder rumors painted him like a character from the stories¡ªlike Boreas the Hero, or the Pirate Queen Anastasia. They told of an impossibly tall elf with eyes like fire or pure light, whose very voice called whatever room he entered to silence by some magic that went beyond ordinary reckoning, and who wore golden light as a shroud. He was a mysterious figure even to those who had been old enough to remember his last visit, was loved, perhaps, because he was mysterious.


    In the grand tradition of the Sun Empire, the Shadow Queen was his betrothed. In the modern era, that was Queen Meredith, the latest in a long line of politically necessary arranged marriages that saw Shadovane the crowned jewel of the empire¡¯s thirteen wards. The tradition dated back almost to the city¡¯s founding, to the first queen to hold the title, Alice the Reborn.


    Fingers lightly brushed Lance¡¯s shoulder, bringing him out of his funk as he picked at his eggs. He had found, on sitting at one of the long benches which filled most of the hall, that he had very little appetite. He turned to find two familiar faces looking back at him, and smiled, his mood brightening at the sight of Sami and Ariana, two of his closest friends.


    ¡°Long time no see, squirt.¡± Sami said.


    They set their trays down, blocking him in to either side as they took their seats.


    Sami was almost a decade older than he was, with sand-colored hair that she wore in a single tail down her back, a long face and hooded eyes that she sometimes shadowed with coal ash to draw attention away from the heavy bags under them.


    The other woman, Ariana, was just twenty, and already a sous in the kitchens under Mistress Dina. She had the tilted eyes and caramel skin tone common to harua people, of the unincorporated territories known collectively as the Free Lands.


    Many of the servants traced their lineages back to foreign places¡ªto Juakali or Haru or Ozos, or the Imperial Borderlands around Aranor or Ash Island, or Morgrotten, the lake city the merenern were supposed to have originated from. It was anyone¡¯s guess how they had ended up here.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been working a lot more, lately.¡± Lance said. ¡°I think Lady Talmalsen intends to work me to death before my birthday.¡±


    ¡°She does that to everyone when their time comes up.¡± Ariana said. ¡°But it¡¯ll be over soon, and then you¡¯ll have your path and you won¡¯t have to worry about it anymore.¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± Sami agreed over a mouthful of potatoes. She swallowed them down. ¡°Everything¡¯s easier once you¡¯ve made your decision.


    ¡°Were you nervous before you chose your path?¡± Lance asked, extending a searching look to both of them.


    Ariana took his hand in hers. ¡°Of course, I was. I wasn¡¯t fucking sure I¡¯d made the right decision until about a month after I started. Peter was a big help, but you can¡¯t really be sure you chose right until you get into the rhythm of things.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Sami cocked an eyebrow. ¡°You weren¡¯t sure about your path? You? The queen of the carpaccio?¡±


    ¡°Fuck off.¡± Ariana grumbled. ¡°Being good at a thing doesn¡¯t mean you want to spend your whole life doing it.¡±


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.     ¡°Well, hopefully, I make the right decision, then.¡± Lance said.


    ¡°Sky Lord¡¯s mercy, they didn¡¯t fuck the food up that bad, did they?¡± Ariana glanced pointedly at Lance¡¯s plate. Most of his food was still untouched.


    ¡°No.¡± Lance said. ¡°I¡¯m just not very hungry.¡±


    Sami snorted. ¡°The only time you refuse to eat is when you¡¯re dwelling on something. Out with it.¡±


    Ariana eyed him like a hawk might a rabbit. ¡°It is sort of shitty timing, isn¡¯t it? Your choosing a path on the heels of the emperor¡¯s arrival. I suppose it is your first time.¡±


    ¡°First time.¡± Lance mused sardonically. ¡°It¡¯s my first time for something anyway.¡±


    Ariana¡¯s expression turned quizzical. She exchanged a look with Sami.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t about the emperor or your path, is it?¡± Sami said knowingly.


    ¡°It¡¯s about a boy, actually.¡± Lance said. ¡°He kind of¡­well, anyway, it doesn¡¯t matter. I messed it all up.¡±


    ¡°Is he cute?¡± Sami asked.


    ¡°Does it matter?¡± Lance replied, meeting her eye.


    ¡°That¡¯s a yes.¡± Ariana said to Sami. ¡°Look. He¡¯s even blushing!¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯m not.¡± Lance protested, though he could feel the burn in his cheeks and across his forehead.


    ¡°Well, did you ask the fucker out or not?¡± Ariana said.


    ¡°No.¡± Lance said. ¡°But I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m ready for all of that and¡ª¡±


    "Lance.¡± Sami cut in. ¡°Hear me out. He¡¯s probably just as inexperienced as you are, and I doubt he¡¯s trying to get in your pants. If he was trying to do that, it would have been much easier to invite you up to the Teacher¡¯s Tower or to ask you to meet him in a supply closet off the tunnels. Not as many opportunities to be interrupted that way, you know?¡±


    Ariana looked at Sami like a new animal. ¡°You have some experience with this, don¡¯t you?¡±


    Sami waved her off. ¡°A little.¡±


    ¡°Maybe just don¡¯t think about it.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    Sami raised an eyebrow at Ariana.


    Lance took a bite of his toast.


    ¡°Worst case, you just imagine Lord Bran¡¯s pock-ridden five-head if you see him again. And take the fucking shot next time, loser. He might even say yes.¡± Ariana said.


    Lance choked. ¡°Lord Bran¡¯s five-head?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what Peter told me he thinks about when he needs a boner to go away.¡± Ariana shrugged.


    ¡°Your boyfriend¡¯s a masochist.¡± Sami said. ¡°Lord Bran¡¯s forehead is quite the canvas. Where is Peter, anyway?¡±


    ¡°Working.¡± Ariana replied. ¡°He drew the short straw, so Mistress Dina made him open the kitchen. He¡¯ll be done in a couple hours.¡±


    Lance looked at the clock face on his side of the boxy chandelier in the middle of the canteen.


    Ariana eyed him suspiciously. ¡°You¡¯re gonna try to pull the late card so you can ditch us before we get back to talking about this boy, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    She forked some eggs into her mouth, and spit them out as soon as she had.


    ¡°What was that for?¡± Sami asked.


    ¡°Too much salt.¡± Ariana growled. ¡°The damned things taste like a sweaty ballsack!¡±


    She slid off the bench, took two steps in the direction of the kitchen window where Janice was still passing out trays of food, turned around.


    ¡°You¡¯ll get another chance.¡± Ariana said. ¡°Just take it next time, okay?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not your decision.¡± Sami pointed out.


    ¡°The Pits if it isn¡¯t.¡± She said, glancing at Sami before turning her full attention on Lance. ¡°If I have to drag you all the way from your barracks to the Core by your earlobes, you¡¯re gonna do it. Do we understand each other?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± Lance said.


    Ariana had that look in her eye. She wasn¡¯t going to let it go, and he knew it. The last thing he wanted was a shouting match in the middle of the canteen, which is exactly what he would get if he didn¡¯t go along with her thinking.


    ¡°I¡¯ll try.¡± He said.


    ¡°Good.¡± She stalked off toward the serving window. A few moments talk with Janice produced a boy about the same age as Ariana, and a kitune dressed in a black chef¡¯s coat. Some choice words and chopping gestures from Ariana saw the poor boy reduced almost to tears. The kitune, her boyfriend, patted his back, exchanged a few more words with Ariana, and led him back into the kitchen.


    ¡°Don¡¯t mind her.¡± Sami said.


    ¡°We should plan on a game of stones soon. Peter and Ariana might even be able to get Mistress Dina to give them some wine.¡±


    ¡°Sure. That sounds nice.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve got to go, though. The armory¡¯s been swamped with orders for repairs and polishing all week.¡±


    ¡°Has it now?¡±


    ¡°It has.¡± She slid off the bench with her empty tray in both hands. ¡°You¡¯d be amazed at how many soldiers think they¡¯re going to be allowed within viewing distance of the emperor.¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t be?¡±


    ¡°If it goes anything like last time, the only ones that will see him are the Bloodless and the Council of Liam.  See you, Lance.¡±


    ¡°See you.¡± Lance waved her off, feeling much better than he had on entering the canteen, more sure of himself by far.


    He looked to the window, wondering how Peter had ever let something so bad hit the pass.

 The Choice of a Path

    Lance stood in front of a cedar door in one of the palace¡¯s upper halls. The door was embellished with a silver knocker in the shape of a raven¡¯s head, a thick ring held in its mouth. All of the nerves he had lost in his talk with Sami and Ariana were back with him, fresh and raw, as he stood there twiddling his thumbs. After several moments of standing there, with servants and the occasional noble passing behind him on their way up the hall, he summoned up the courage to lift it.


    He stood there with the ring in his hand for another several moments, breathing shallowly and casting glances this way and that. The halls of the palace proper were lit with mirrored lamps and chandeliers, all of worked gold, and the walls and floor were white-glazed tile, kept in pristine condition and free of dust. He had toiled away on those walls on too many days, and now the opportunity to escape the humdrum drudgery of making the palace look well was upon him, he wasn¡¯t sure he was ready to let it all go. Porcelain daises sat between cedar doors all down its length, each topped with a vase glazed with cobalt patterns of flowers and vines, and each of those contained a bushel of well-tended snapdragons, the queen¡¯s favorite flowers. Friezes ran the length of the walls at level with Lance¡¯s shoulder, displaying ravens flying over bushes of blackthorn, and smaller creatures¡ªsongbirds and rabbits¡ªhiding within them.


    He tapped the knocker against the door three times, and waited.


    ¡°Come,¡± a woman said from the other side, her voice slightly muffled.


    He turned the knob and pulled the door open.


    Lady Tamalsen sat at her desk¡ªa simple affair, though heavy and made of oak¡ªwhich was flanked by a pair of mirrored lamps which were her office¡¯s only source of light. Three piles of papers sat to one side on its surface, each arranged just so. An inkwell sat next to them, and she held a thick pen styled after the calligraphy brushes which the nobles had used commonly ten years previous, but with a nib inserted to replace the brush head. She tapped its handle against her lip as she observed a paper half-covered in her cramped, linear hand, ignoring him for the moment as he took the unoccupied chair across from her.


    The office was really more of a cupboard, the walls covered in ancient portraits and landscapes that rose almost to the ceiling¡¯s height. All of those were fine pieces, worthy of a high price at auction, and half of them had been commissioned by the previous lords and ladies of her house. They were a comfort to the lady, nothing more. To another noble, they would be seen as a show of the long-lived wealth of House Tamalsen, the peculiar choice on the part of the lady to take up work, as Mistress of Servants no less.


    Lady Tamalsen was a woman concerned with modesty and tradition above all. Her hair was done in a voluminous coil atop her head¡ªa style that had long gone out of fashion, and her dress was cut high with a closed collar. Her cheeks had begun to sag, and wrinkles creased the corners of her ocean-blue eyes. She had a motherly build, but a stern disposition, which made her seem colder than she was.


    The color of her eyes was a rarity in Shadovane, where most were so deeply brown they appeared black until the sun touched them. It had led to rumors that her family had some of the mirrhvalian blood in them, which might work to her advantage in a society obsessed with posturing. It was said that Lord Haman Bran, who was descended from one of the most powerful women ever to hold the title of Shadow Queen, had been so confused by her appearance he assumed for three years she outranked him. His own family, though certainly not his branch of it, was of a similar disposition, with many lending credence to the rumors that they, too, were descended of Mirrvhale. Unlike Lady Tamalsen, Lord Bran had cultivated some of those rumors himself.


    She looked to Lance, and he held her gaze, wondering what to expect from this meeting, and how many more like it he could anticipate in the near future.


    ¡°It¡¯s almost your time.¡± She said, stating the thing which had been bothering him without naming it outright.


    Lance tried on a smile. His stomach did cartwheels inside him, slapping his lungs and making them flutter.


    He had seldom been so nervous around her, as she had always treated him with kindness, but the coming choice changed things. Soon, he would choose a path, and then she would be his master and guide no longer. He would fall under someone else¡¯s care then, and perhaps his new master would be meaner. Most of them were.


    ¡°There are several departments I see as a good fit for you. You have the people skills to be a courier, and your math skills would make you a fine fit for keeping records in the palace treasury. Lady Ethelia would be glad to have you.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.     ¡°I understand you have friends there, but I do feel I must warn you against the kitchens. You might like it initially, but you would eventually grow tired of the bating, the flaring tempers¡­you may even begin to resent the friends you keep down there. I rather feel you might benefit from shadowing Mistress Dina for a shift before you decide to commit.¡±


    ¡°I¡­can do that?¡± he asked, though he had never considered cooking to be the right fit for him.


    ¡°With my approval.¡± Lady Tamalsen said.


    ¡°Is that the case with other departments?¡± he asked.


    ¡°It is. Again, with my approval.¡± She replied, favoring him with a level gaze that suggested he not press his luck too far.


    She set her pen aside, folded her hands together. ¡°You will have to perform a trial in any department you wish to enter before you settle on any one path. It¡¯s called a stage, and you¡¯ll find it provides you with an opportunity to see how you fit into a department without need to commit. These stages also give the heads of department an opportunity to see how well you fit into their teams. They will judge your fitness for the work on the basis of how you perform, and make their decision on whether to extend employment to you on that basis. You will need to be on your best behavior, you understand. You will only have the one shift to prove yourself.


    "When you decide on a path, we will discuss the specific trials you must undergo to get there. As an example, a furnace worker must learn to command and extinguish flames or summon and dispel wind, a bookkeeper must pass an aptitude test, and a courier must run a gauntlet designed to test his time management skills, as well as his attention to detail.¡±


    ¡°I have thought about the furnaces.¡± Lance rubbed the back of his neck, tried to break eye contact.


    Lady Tamalsen made it very difficult to. ¡°Most young men do, but you would have to be stone dumb to take that duty on. Unless you were a kitune, and I don¡¯t see fur growing out of your ears.¡±


    ¡°It sounds like¡ª¡±


    ¡°Like a great opportunity to learn a very limited bit of magic that, while useful, will eventually lose its novelty. When it does, you¡¯ll come to realize it is sweaty, backbreaking labor in a sweltering pit in the palace¡¯s bowels. It stinks, it¡¯s loud, and your fellows would be most politely described as coarse.¡±


    ¡°Can I¡­¡±


    ¡°I will approve a shift. A night shift, as that is where Master Gregor is most likely to start you.¡± Lady Tamalsen said. ¡°If learning to do magic is important to you, however minimal your knowledge of the craft is permitted to be, I might suggest you shadow with the couriers. They do make use of a rite in their day to day activities, but their duties require more of an intellect than what you would get in the furnaces.¡±


    ¡°I would like that.¡±


    ¡°I have just the one in mind.¡± She smiled warmly, putting on display a file of small, pearly teeth behind her rouged lips. ¡°He is green, but he is a good role model, and the head of his department quite likes him.¡±


    He smiled back.


    ¡°Is there anywhere else you may like to shadow?¡± she asked.


    ¡°No. I think that will do.¡± This isn¡¯t so bad.


    He had feared he would face a sharper reprimand for his interest in the furnaces, that Lady Tamalsen would not permit him to take up a job there. It was not so much his first choice as it was a choice he had considered in more detail than most others.


    ¡°I¡¯ll schedule you for a shift in Lady Ethelia¡¯s offices as well. We¡¯ll make that one first.¡±


    ¡°Okay. But I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll like that very much.¡±


    ¡°You might well be surprised, boy. Many servants come to me with fantasies about one path or another, but they are simply that. Fantasies. You might find you quite like running numbers.¡±


    ¡°Maybe, but I think sitting in one place all day would bore me. I¡¯d much rather be in a more active position.¡±


    ¡°You say that now, but time and new experiences will, I think, warm you to some ideas you never thought were for you.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see, I suppose.¡± Lance said amenably, though he thought she didn¡¯t know him well if she genuinely believed he would change his mind.


    ¡°I think we are done here for today.¡± She said, turning back to her letter. ¡°Now go to your other duties. The palace will not clean itself.¡±


    He rose, and bowed to her, but she did not raise her head to see. He let himself out, and went on with his day with a little more pep in his step.

 A Servants Place

    The thick sponge in his hand was a tool without use. Sopping wet and oozing thick suds down an already pristine wall, it provided a simple comfort to him in that this work was familiar. After the morning¡¯s events, his head was spinning. He could almost swear he caught movement from the looming shadows which pooled together in a nearby intersection, eyes peering out to monitor the servants in their work, but what need there was for such surveillance escaped him.


    He worked alongside several other servants, all close in age to him. Some of them whispered with their heads together about the choices they had been presented in their own meetings with the Mistress of Servants. Thin prospects for the dark-complected kitune a few feet off, who was lackadaisically dusting a vase with a dingy rag, a bottle of vinegar held in his off hand.


    ¡°She said I can work in the furnaces or the boilers. But I¡¯m smarter than that. I can do other things.¡± He groused.


    ¡°They give those options to all the kitunes.¡± His friend, a runt of a boy with a mop of shaggy, brown hair falling into his eyes, said.


    ¡°What did she tell you?¡±


    ¡°Operations with Lady Jain, but she¡¯s a bitch. I asked for laundry. She said I would be wasting my talents, but at least Mistress Rosaline is nice.¡± He grimaced. ¡°Well, nicer anyway.¡±


    Lance leaned into his scrubbing, trying to put distance between himself and their conversation. Several almost identical exchanges were occurring down the hall, and he tried his best to ignore those, too. They infected him with intrusive thoughts anyway.


    The couriers might be okay. They move around a lot. But Lady Therien¡­I don¡¯t know if I want to work for her. Lady Ethelia is as bad as Lady Jain. I¡¯d rather not work for a nobleman. Sami likes her job. Maybe they¡¯re not all bad. Who was the head of her department again?


    He couldn¡¯t remember. A retired soldier. A shadow elf who had made Bloodless before he stepped away. He wasn¡¯t particularly old, either. Had managed the elite corps before he turned thirty, served another ten years in that position. He couldn¡¯t be more than forty.


    He dunked the sponge into a scrub bucket, dragged it a little way down, started up again.


    God, this sucks. The kitchens, the couriers, the treasury or the furnaces. All bad options. Why didn¡¯t I push for something better?


    A dull thunk roused him from his thoughts. Down the hall, near the intersection on that side, a servant had overturned his scrub bucket. Soapy water spilled over the tiled floor, marring it with grime.


    At the same time, a nobleman came around the corner. Lord Haman Bran, the worst of them. Acne scars from a misspent youth dimpled his cheeks and forehead, which provided ample real estate beneath a receding hair line he tried valiantly to cover with what wispy hair remained. His shoes and the hem of his pants were spattered with wash water, and seeing this, the servants¡¯ whispered conversations all died.


    Everyone was looking at Lord Bran now. Everyone was pointedly ignoring the servant. No one, Lance not least of them, wanted to be caught in the crossfire of this exchange.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.Haman Bran stomped over to the servant, snatched him up by his hair and pulled, forward and down. A snarl painted across his lips wriggled, worm-like, around a stream of curses for the unfortunate youth. He dragged him head first into the floor, smashed his face against the tiles in the midst of all of that soap.


    ¡°Drink!¡± he roared.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Lord Bran. I didn¡¯t mean to it was an accident.¡± The servant pleaded.


    ¡°My pants need drying, boy!¡± he raved. ¡°Your inattentiveness has made me late. I can¡¯t be seen like this!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll take them to the laundry. I¡¯ll¡­I¡¯ll tell Lady Tamalsen what happened. I¡¯ll take the punishment, just please let me go!¡±


    The servant was sobbing. His cheek pressed into the pool expanding over the floor. Lord Bran pressed the heel of his shoe against the poor boy¡¯s temple, and for a moment, Lance thought he might kill him. An irrational thought. He had never seen a nobleman do it before. Had never seen one take it that far. But Haman Bran wasn¡¯t like other nobles. He was far crueler than most of them. If anyone would take it there, it would be him.


    He bared down on the servant with his heel, snarling, manic glee lighting his eyes as he tortured that poor soul, and though Lance¡¯s insides writhed, he couldn¡¯t look away.


    Another man came around the corner. An older man with salt and pepper hair running down the length of his back. He was dressed in military reliefs unadorned by patches or medals, but none of those embellishments were necessary. Everyone knew who he was.


    Lord Tarkenta of the Council of Liam approached Lord Bran, took him by the back of his overcoat and yanked. Lord Bran stumbled back, released the boy¡¯s hair and spun round to face his new assailant.


    ¡°Enough.¡± Lord Tarkenta said.


    Lord Bran blanched. ¡°Lord¡­Lord Tarkenta. This insolent¡­¡± he gestured curtly behind him. ¡°¡­fool has made me late for my affairs.¡±


    ¡°And how has he done that?¡±


    ¡°Look at me!¡± he snapped, arms thrusting down to address the state of his pants and shoes.¡±


    Lord Tarkenta glanced at the hem of his pants. ¡°A little water?¡± he met his gaze. ¡°I will escort this servant to Lady Tamalsen. You will go back to your chambers. In the meantime, I will send word to your peers that you will be late for their gathering. I am sure they will understand.


    ¡°Who is it that you are meeting?¡±


    ¡°Lady Bethel. Some others.¡±


    ¡°Drinks?¡±


    ¡°It hardly matters what we are to be doing. The point is¡ª¡°


    ¡°The point is you have misstepped by jumping over Lady Tamalsen in her official capacity as Mistress of Servants. I will leave that out of my report when I see her, if you leave the matter alone.¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± Lord Bran¡¯s shoulders slumped. ¡°Okay. Okay.¡±


    He marched off, and Lord Tarkenta removed the servant from the hall in short order.


    Maybe the furnaces, then. At least I¡¯ll be out of his way. Lance thought. His heart was beating a furious rhythm in his chest. He picked up his sponge, and scrubbed, and the hall was silent.

 The Palace Treasury

    The halls in this part of the palace were almost devoid of activity. A security checkpoint manned by two Wraiths looked much the same to Lance¡¯s eyes as the guarded entrance to the tunnel four floors removed that provided access to the Military Compound, but then the heightened security made sense given what lay here.


    A Wraith stepped forward and patted him down. Every contact between the elf¡¯s wide hands and his body sent tremors through him. His heart fluttered in his chest, and thoughts for what they might find on him¡ªwhat might be wrong with the way he presented himself, what he might have done in the preamble to this search¡ªrippled through his mind. He had nothing but a small notepad in his pocket, which had been issued to him by Lady Tamalsen for this day¡¯s stage, which he would return to her when he told her this department was not for him.


    The Wraith asked him to remove the contents of his pockets, and he set the notepad on a low table one side of the checkpoint. The other riffled through its pages while those wide hands assailed his body, beat a rhythm against his chest and flanks, slithered up the inside planes of his legs and arms, coming far too close to too many sensitive areas.


    He backed off, leaving Lance disabused of any notion he could have hidden something away if he had been so inclined. He had never intended to. He was, if nothing else, loyal to the crown. Was obedient in the execution of his duties. He would not have come to this reach at all if he wasn¡¯t.


    The other returned his notepad to him, and they let him through.


    A peculiar feature of this network of halls, like the dungeons well below, there were no cedar doors. Instead, heavy, bronze doors were inlaid with intricate, combination locks and pull bars, and those locks were inlaid with a silver metal which must have some function in enchanting. He suspected those vaults possessed other security measures, nasty sorceries for the would be robber, should any such person make it past those doors. Enchanters were not known to be merciful, and the elves of Shadovane were no strangers to cruelty. He doubted whatever traps lay in waiting would kill a thief outright. There was nothing to be gained from a corpse.


    One door in this expanse was lacking a lock, and lay slightly ajar. A slice of dim light carved a path across the floor at angle with it, and he stood to one side of it, listening in the quiet to the sound of pens scratching against paper, the clatter of something else, and sporadic, mumbled conversation.


    He pushed it open, and found what he had expected. The Office of Legers, the beating heart of the Royal Treasury.


    The office was outfitted with rows of writing desks set behind a long counter where several couriers waited, and those all held small lock boxes at their hips. An old woman poured over papers, and another, somewhat younger hefted small, burlap sacks onto a scale, ran weights by her senior who performed calculations.


    ¡°Account of Lord Bertram.¡± The bespectacled elder said into the quiet.


    A courier approached. He noted that none of these were new recruits. All of them were at least ten years his senior.


    He set his silver-chased box on the counter, and the woman produced a key. Bright green gems encircled the lock, and the key was outfitted with a piece of topaz the size of his thumbnail. She slid the key into the lock, and the gems all glowed momentarily as the mechanism was disengaged. The lid swung open of its own accord, and she deposited a hefty sack into it, then closed it back up and locked it once more.


    The junior accountant drafted out a receipt, and handed it to the courier, who marched away with the box cradled in both hands, the receipt tucked away safely in his pocket.


    A woman a handful of years older than Lance hustled around the counter then. She thrust out her hand. ¡°I¡¯m Lexis. You must be the stage.¡±


    ¡°Lance.¡± He shook her hand.


    She smiled warmly. ¡°You¡¯ll be with me today.¡±


    A flush in her cheeks seemed less a byproduct of physical exertion and more a natural feature. Hair the color of straw fell lank against her cheeks, was cut shy of her shoulders by a few inches. Bottle-thick lenses magnified her eyes, which together with her hunched posture and long arms reminded him of some bugs he had seen.


    ¡°How¡¯s your math?¡±


    ¡°Decent, I guess.¡±


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.She led him around the counter, down a wide aisle and to a writing desk near the back, which was outfitted with an extra chair for him. Cushions rested on both seats, and it did not take long for him to understand why. Each time he leaned back, his spine was sandwiched between two bars, and the rest pressed painfully against a series of knots in his back. The cushion provided small comfort in that it saved his tail bone, but just barely. It was no plush thing; merely a stop gap to alleviate some of the ache of long sitting, which after hours in this chair would come as a ghost to haunt him anyway.


    ¡°Before we get started, you need to take an aptitude test.¡± She passed a sheet with several math problems over to him. ¡°You¡¯ll be judged based on the answers and how you came to them. Don¡¯t worry, though. Most of what we use on a daily basis is simple arithmetic. Addition and subtraction, multiplication and devision. You don¡¯t need much more than that to count money.¡±


    A manic glint entered her eyes at the word money.


    He nodded, took the pen she offered to him, and set about solving the equations written out there. She waited until he was done, waved the paper dry and then stowed it away in a drawer.


    ¡°That was fast.¡± She said without inflection. ¡°You must be in a hurry to get to the real stuff.¡±


    ¡°No hurry.¡± He assured her.


    ¡°Anyway. Our job here is to process the taxes our people collect from the shadovani citizenry. We also handle requests for credit, but that won¡¯t be your department. Not right away, anyway. When you get some tenure, they¡¯ll start letting you handle real money, but as a new entry, you¡¯ll just be handling ledgers, which is what we¡¯ll be doing today.¡±


    She pulled a stack of notes to her. ¡°Lady Tamalsen gave you a scratch pad, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± He took it from his pocket and opened to a blank page.


    ¡°Good. I¡¯ll need you to calculate out the balances of these accounts against the withdrawals that have been made against them over the last month. That¡¯s the standard turnover period, but we do have some clients who have weekly, or even daily checks. You can think of those as high risk accounts. We even have a blacklist for withdrawal requests.


    ¡°The names on that list are only there until any delinquent balances are paid, but you¡¯d be surprised at how many people are chronically on it.¡±


    ¡°Like who?¡±


    ¡°Lady Bethel for one.¡± She screwed up her nose. ¡°A friend in the Palace Commissary told me its all wine. She¡¯s a lush and it shows in her funds. Her brother won¡¯t let her access the house coffers, either.¡±


    He chuckled.


    ¡°Lord Bran would be right up there with her if he didn¡¯t have a controlling interest in the iron mining trade.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that illegal?¡± he asked.


    ¡°It¡¯s certainly immoral.¡±


    The rest of his day was spent pouring over ledgers and balance sheets, running numbers until his eyes ached and he was wishing for death. The work was boring. He was permitted to leave only to use the bathroom, and the nearest lavatory was outside the perimeter of the Treasury, which forced him to make the uncomfortable decision between holding it in until his shift ended, or getting frisked by the Wraiths again. He chose the former.


    At the end of the day, he was dismissed with the rest of them. He did not see Lady Ethelia once in the entire time he was present, was left to wonder why that was. She would pass final judgment on his performance, after all. It seemed only right that she should want a first hand account of how he measured up.


    He stood in line with Lexis and the rest of the accountants and waited as the Wraiths patted down the servants in pairs, turning out their pockets, patting them down, even turning their shoes over. When his turn arrived, he closed his eyes and kept them closed until it was over. On the other side, Lexis approached him.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that. You¡¯ll get used to it in no time.¡± She said.


    ¡°Why is it necessary, though?¡±


    ¡°Well, we¡¯re working with hard coin.¡± She explained. ¡°No one really expects an accountant to steal any, but why take the chance?


    ¡°Anyway, I¡¯ve got an appointment to get to.¡±


    What does that mean?


    She hurried off, waving behind her. ¡°See you in a few weeks.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, no. I don¡¯t think so.¡± He mumbled.


    He took an adjoining hall away, headed for the stairs and then the kitchens. Ariana or Peter, one of them would be getting off their shift soon. He needed to unwind.

 The Kitchens

    An intricate network of pipes and ducts populated the ceilings of the servants¡¯ tunnels. Poured stone walls were marred in numerous places with hairline cracks, only some of which had been mortared closed. There was a sense of instability in these reaches, as if the whole subterranean floor could come down at any moment, taking much of the palace above with it, yet he had grown so accustomed to this advancing neglect he barely noticed, even as fresh water trickled down the wall just next to the open entrance to the kitchens, a sure sign a pipe somewhere nearby had sprung a leak. Or several. A weakened pipe was prone to them, and the problem rarely registered as in need of mending until a nobleman was left with a trickle of hot water to fill his basin.


    The kitchens were silent except for the dry whispers of copper wool grinding against metal, the occasional clank of a a new pot being dropped into an empty sink. The relative calm became a chilling omen when set against the usual banter and laughter he was accustomed to witnessing when he arrived in this reach. What professionalism the other, more elite departments were bound by did not exist here, where the rejected goods of the palace came to play.


    He peaked his head through a second door, which led from what passed for a break room into the kitchens proper, and found several men and women entirely too focused on their work, and pointedly avoiding each others¡¯ eyes. Mistress Dina loomed heavy near the back, and just visible behind a metal shelf elevated over a matching counter by thumb-thick posts, he saw that Peter was arms deep in the sink, scrubbing at dishes profusely as a string of soft cusses issued from his mouth.


    He ducked back out again, but too late.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be a coward, kid.¡± Mistress Dina shouted. ¡°Come on with ya.¡±


    Slowly, he passed the threshold, and traveled down a narrow lane which was populated on one side with refrigerated drawers, on the other with a variety of ranges and grills. He halted a few feet from the Mistress of the Kitchens, and bowed.


    The Mistress was a stout woman and uncommonly tall. Hard silver eyes, set into a pie plate face, danced with fire. A barely contained fury pulled plump cheeks apart around thin lips pressed tight together, and her nose¡ªhooked and beak-like¡ªwas thrust upward, compressing the thick waddle at the base of her chin against her wide neck.


    ¡°Well?¡± she said.


    ¡°I just wanted to pop in and say hi.¡± He said, avoiding that blistering gaze. He glanced in Peter¡¯s direction, then shifted his gaze to the floor tiles.


    ¡°He¡¯ll be a while.¡± She said.


    ¡°O-okay.¡±


    ¡°I look forward to seeing you for your stage tomorrow. Show up fifteen minutes to the hour. You are to be on the floor at six sharp. Any later and I won¡¯t consider your interest in my department to be serious.¡±


    It isn¡¯t. ¡°Thank you for the opportunity.¡± He said. ¡°Is it alright if I wait for him outside.¡±


    ¡°Again, he will be a while.¡±


    ¡°I take your point.¡± He said. ¡°Sorry for inconveniencing you.¡±


    She sniffed at that. ¡°It¡¯s these assholes who¡¯ve done that tonight. If you¡¯re half as good as my sous, you¡¯ll be better than all of them together.¡±


    Several heads ducked lower. The scrubbing picked up intensity.


    ¡°You can go.¡± She said.


    He bowed again, and hurried away from her.


    Peter found him in the hall an hour later. He eased up next to him, slid down the wall and sat. The scowl he¡¯d been wearing earlier was gone now. He looked tired, a little downtrodden, though generally okay.


    A scattering of dark moles and lighter freckles peppered his face and neck, and the cast of his eyes was a dark, deep green. His skin was the color of blood, a common feature among kitunes, and his nose was large and bulbous. Full lips were set wide and slightly upturned at the corners, so that when he was angered he looked quite as if he might kill someone and take joy in it.


    But now¡­now he had deflated, he was that disarmingly soft spoken boy Ariana had taken such a shine to some two years back now. His chef coat was a sopping wet nonobjective painting, a scattering of smudges and smears of various sauces and powders, and he smelled like mingled sweat and raw fish.


    ¡°You want to talk about what happened there?¡± Lance asked.


    He hugged his knees to his chest, and buried his face between them. ¡°Not really.¡±


    ¡°How bad was it?¡±


    He hissed. ¡°It started off okay. We were training someone new on the grill. Had him making steaks. Of course, you can¡¯t prick them. Too much juice will leak out, so we test them with our fingers. Pretty simple stuff once you get the hang of it, and he was doing fine. But then we got busy, and he grabbed the wrong tray. Sent six well done orders to Mistress Dina. A courier took one of the plates when she wasn¡¯t looking. I guess he was in a rush.


    ¡°Well, it went to Lord Cree.¡±


    ¡°Ouch.¡± Lance said.


    ¡°He sent the courier back with a black eye and a few bruised ribs. Said he¡¯d never tasted something so foul. The courier got an earful from Mistress Dina. So did the cook. Then midway through service, another cook burned the shit out of a demiglace we were supposed to be serving tomorrow. It was just black foam cemented to the bottom of the pot. That¡¯s what set Mistress Dina off.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.¡°I cut the poor guy.¡±


    ¡°You cut him?¡±


    He lifted his head, set an impatient look on Lance. ¡°What was I supposed to do? He fucked up.¡±


    ¡°So you stabbed him?¡± Lance said flatly.


    Peter guffawed. ¡°Oh, no.¡± He made a warding gesture in front of him. ¡°No, no. Nothing like that. I sent him back to the¡­do you really think I¡¯d take a knife to someone over something like that?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d hope not.¡±


    ¡°Hell, I don¡¯t have the balls to stab someone over much of anything. I¡¯m useless in a fight.¡±


    He was smiling now, gaze distant as he pondered the absurdity of it. ¡°No, if I did that I¡¯d have half a dozen knives pointed at me before I got the tip in.¡± He laughed, a rich, warm sound.


    ¡°Is she always like that?¡±


    ¡°Just when someone fucks up. Even then, it takes a lot with her. Ariana is way more aggressive.¡±


    ¡°Really now. I never would have guessed.¡±


    ¡°So what about you?¡± Peter said, changing the subject. ¡°You didn¡¯t come all the way down here for nothing.¡±


    ¡°I had my first stage today. In the Treasury. Got frisked by a Wraith twice.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, they do that up there.¡±


    ¡°You know some of those noblemen aren¡¯t as wealthy as you¡¯d think. Some of them aren¡¯t wealthy at all.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°Lady Bethel¡¯s currently delinquent on her account. Lady Jain¡¯s got her shit together, but she isn¡¯t pulling in much new revenue. And don¡¯t get me started on Lady Therien.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s Lady Therien got going on?¡±


    ¡°Well, she¡¯d be flat broke if not for her husband. He has a secret account that¡¯s pretty flush. At least, if she knew about it, I suspect she would have drained it a long time ago.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s cheating on him, anyway.¡±


    ¡°How did you find that out?¡±


    Peter rolled his eyes. ¡°You think the couriers don¡¯t talk? We get a lot of them down here. They gossip worse than anyone.¡±


    Lance nodded. ¡°She¡¯s the head of their department. Of course.¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡± He agreed. ¡°So you liked it up there?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°They liked you?¡±


    ¡°Not sure. I think so.¡±


    ¡°Then you¡¯re not going to take the offer even if they do make one.¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    Peter clapped him hard on the back. ¡°I knew you weren¡¯t a sellout. But hey! We¡¯ve always got a place for you down here.¡±


    ¡°Maybe.¡± Lance said. ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡±


    ¡°What you¡¯ve got your heart set on something else?¡±


    ¡°Not exactly.¡± He said. ¡°To be honest, I¡¯m not sure any of the departments I¡¯m supposed to stage in are a good fit for me. Accounting wasn¡¯t, but who knows. Maybe its the kitchens. Maybe it¡¯s the furnaces.¡±


    ¡°Maybe the couriers?¡± he furrowed his brow.


    Lance chuckled. ¡°What if it is?¡±


    Peter shrugged. ¡°You know they run interference, right? When she wants some strange. She makes them.¡±


    Lance snorted. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Really.¡±


    ¡°Like¡­they distract her husband?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the rumor.¡±


    ¡°You feeling any better?¡±


    Peter nodded. ¡°Thanks for that. Now do you want to get out of this shit hole?¡±


    Lance rose, and helped him to his feet. ¡°Where to?¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m meeting up with Ariana soon. But if you want to come?¡±


    ¡°No, you two have fun doing whatever you¡¯re doing. I think I¡¯m going to call it for today.¡±


    ¡°Alright. Fair enough.¡±


    He walked him to the stairs, said his goodbyes.


    Lance watched him head off in the other direction. It didn¡¯t take much figuring to conclude he was on his way to the Teacher¡¯s Tower. Once the center for noble education, the tower had been abandoned with the end of Queen Tania¡¯s reign, and was now primarily used for storage. But the servants had taken to using it for all kinds of other shenanigans over the intervening years. Before curfew, it was most often populated with couples who wanted a private moment. At night, when the nobility slept and the Wraiths were on the prowl, it was said there were lecherous parties up there. That the servants who could shadow walk came together with pilfered spoils from their various departments, and rebelled.


    He wondered how they managed to pull it off. If they did. The Wraiths commanded the shadows. They did not need to reveal themselves to see what transpired in any room in the palace. Everyone was under constant surveillance, so it followed that they knew about these alleged parties. They might even condone them.


    He marched up the stairs, made his way to the third floor of the Servant¡¯s Tower and his bunk. It was time to unwind in truth, do some light reading perhaps. He was allowed few books, and none of them anything consequential. No histories, no grimoires, nothing a servant might use to learn anything worthwhile. But there were those books they were given for the study of literacy, so that they could read well enough to execute their duties, and those could be stimulating.


    The Legends of the Five was his favorite, and it was this tome that called to him now. He could think of nothing he wanted more than to spend his evening immersed in it.

 A Chance Encounter

    Morning came on the heals of another sleepless night. He wasn¡¯t sure if it was the knowledge that he would have to impress Mistress Dina or make his friends in the kitchens look bad for their proximity to him, or if it was the usual fare. He had not awoken to the old nightmare. Had not experienced the worst one, either, but sleep had been slow in coming, and when it arrived it had lasted no longer than a scant few hours, enough to leave him worn out and groggy. The interplay of shadows and the occasional disruption of Fat John¡¯s sawtooth snoring might have complicated sleep by themselves, and as he lay awake he found himself staring at a spiderweb which was a precise copy of the one which had been there two nights prior, when the nightmare had come on. The spider was the same in its dimensions. Lit by moonlight from behind and cast in silhouette, it might have been a trick of the eye, but he felt certain it was the very same spider, which had escaped destruction with its web even as he had not seen it the night prior.


    There had been whispers in the dark to accompany him, talk just on the edge of hearing, and he had not been able to make out the words.


    With morning¡¯s arrival, and the first blush of sunlight creeping over the high cliffs behind the palace, he was awoken by the call of the Wraith stationed on this floor.


    ¡°First Bell!¡± he roared, and Lance hurried to gather up his uniform and a fresh towel.


    He made quick work of washing, avoiding eye contact with the various others in the showers as he scoured his slender body clean, washed excess oil out of his cold, blonde hair and, with the washing concluded, put himself together in a corner removed from most others. Even with the work done quickly, he was nonetheless unable to obtain breakfast before his stage began, was forced to work it on an empty stomach.


    Ariana was in the kitchens when he arrived, and swept him up as soon as he was through the door. He was assigned an apron and a cap, and a small pile of clean towels, and then ushered to a refrigerated cabinet she referred to as Garmo.


    She pulled back its lid, revealing a vacant compartment with a series of bars inside that she helped him assemble into a uniform grid.


    ¡°We¡¯ll fill this with pans and then get our mise, okay.¡± She said. ¡°You¡¯ll be in charge of cold appetizers and salads for the military brass. Most of them will be leading training exercises about now. They won¡¯t be done for a while. It¡¯ll get busy later, but that gives us some time to run you through the pickups before it does.¡±


    ¡°Alright.¡±


    ¡°Great.¡± She grinned. ¡°Follow me.¡±


    She led him into the dish pit, where a series of racks were arranged in close proximity to the various sinks, all filled already with cook pots and long serving pans. ¡°We¡¯ll need three third pans, another nine sixth pans, and some nine pans for garnishes.¡±


    They gathered the needed items, and returned with them to his station. She ran him through the setup, which required several trips to the various pantries, root cellars and a refrigerated closet she referred to as the walk-in, before they were done. Then it was to the real work.


    She took a knife from a magnetic strip mounted on the wall near the fryers, tested its edge and then presented it handle first to him.


    ¡°Keep that down and by your side when you¡¯re walking with it. If you trip, you won¡¯t stab yourself that way. It¡¯ll keep you from fucking someone else up, too.¡± She explained as they walked the short distance back to the garmo station.


    ¡°So, knife work. You won¡¯t be doing anything with heat today, but you should at least know the basics of how to handle yourself with a knife. So do it like this.¡±


    She curled up the fingers on her left hand, tucked her thumb behind them and set the flat of the knife against her knuckles. ¡°As long as you keep your off hand like this, you won¡¯t cut yourself, okay?¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡±


    ¡°Alright. So, see how I¡¯m rocking the knife as I cut. It¡¯ll feel awkward at first, but as you get better it¡¯ll be a lot faster and easier on your wrist to do it this way than to try to use that thing as a fucking hammer. And if Mistress Dina sees you flailing around like that, she¡¯ll make you wish you were dead.¡±


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.¡°Why are you smiling?¡±


    She shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s just nice training in someone I like for once. The last guy was such a bitch.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°So, tomatoes. A serrated knife works better for those, but I had the guys sharpen all the house knives yesterday. This¡¯ll work just fine. Just slice them into crescents.¡±


    She went through several exercises with him, saved the more tedious tasks for herself. As she promised, the first orders came in sporadically, leaving little for him to do in the intervals. She kept him busy with simple cleaning tasks, which were familiar in that they resembled the same duties he had been tasked with for much of his life. Couriers flitted in and out of the kitchen, taking plates from him after she had inspected them to make sure they were within her standards.


    ¡°You¡¯re doing good.¡± She said. ¡°I knew you would.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just glad Mistress Dina isn¡¯t¡ª¡°


    ¡°Isn¡¯t what?¡±


    ¡°Mad.¡± He said. ¡°Didn¡¯t Peter tell you what happened last night.¡±


    ¡°We, uh¡­we had other things on our mind.¡±


    ¡°So, I¡¯ll leave that right there.¡± He finished the last few touch ups on the plate in front of him. A Courier came to retrieve the plate, and he domed it. He looked up at the newly arrived Courier, smiled.


    His stomach did a back flip.


    Looking at him from barely two feet off was the boy he¡¯d seen in the showers. A boy he had hoped never to see again, even as he wished each morning he might. So that he could talk to him, diffuse the awkwardness, make amends for the way he had left things that morning.


    Now he was faced with him, in view of a startled expression which undoubtedly matched his own, he couldn¡¯t quite find the words.


    ¡°Hi, Ben.¡± Ariana said. ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡±


    ¡°Um¡­I guess I don¡¯t know. No one¡¯s been¡­complaining¡­about me. Yet.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good.¡± She said. ¡°This is Lance. He¡¯s staging today.¡±


    Oh please, dear lord, get me out of here. Or at least let me get through this without putting my foot in my mouth. At least give me that win.


    ¡°I¡­we¡¯ve met. Kind of.¡± Ben said.


    ¡°Y-yes.¡± Lance said. ¡°We have. Kind of.¡±


    ¡°Anyway, if that¡¯s all ready.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t really stay but I¡¯ll catch up with you later, okay.¡±


    ¡°I understand. You just get your shit handled. I¡¯ll be here.¡±


    He picked up the lidded tray, carried it off a short distance. As he stepped away, a dull ache formed in Lance¡¯s head. He massaged his forehead as the sensation quickened from a dull ache to sharp pain. Almost at the edge of hearing, whispers broke across the kitchen, in his ears but distant, as if the other cooks were all talking at once, but when he looked around it was to find a few shouting out calls and the rest silent.


    No one was whispering.


    Ben took another step forward. His shadow darkened from a a deep gray to matte black. It stayed in place, the feet divorced from his, and and he stepped into it, and then through. He slid into the shadow to the hips, and then shoulders, and all at once he was gone. The shadow collapsed behind him, was absorbed by the floor tiles, and the portal he had entered fell into dissolution.


    The headache remained. A vicious pain like white fire thrashing through his skull. For several seconds, he could not see for the sheer volume of tears leaking from his eyes.


    Ariana¡¯s hand found his shoulder, squeezed, drew him around to face her. ¡°Are you okay?¡±


    ¡°Just a headache.¡±


    ¡°It looks like a little more than that. Do you need to go to the infirmary?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Maybe we should just¡­wait a minute. Let it pass.¡±


    ¡°I can take you there if you need to¡ª¡°


    ¡°No. It¡¯s fine.¡± He gripped the edge of the cabinet, planted his feet and bit down on his cheek.


    The pain began to leak out of him. White fire became clamping jaws, which ebbed to a dull throbbing which was not really pain but the memory of it.


    ¡°I think I¡¯m good.¡± He said. ¡°I don¡¯t know what happened, but it seems like it¡¯s going away.¡±


    ¡°O-okay.¡± She said. ¡°Are you sure you don¡¯t want to¡ª¡°


    ¡°No, I¡¯m fine. Let¡¯s just get back into it.¡±

 Walking in Shadow

    After two shadow shifts, Lance felt drained and dejected. A newfound pessimism about his future in the palace had crept in and settled in the back of his mind. The Treasury had been a mind numbingly boring experience, and the kitchens were not at all what he wanted for himself. Peter and Ariana may love them, but he saw there an environment of extremes in which little respect was paid to an individual¡¯s well being, emotionally or otherwise, and everyone seemed hellbent on being better than their peers.


    He had begun to dread his stage in Lady Therien¡¯s offices. If Peter was right about the way she operated, working for her would inevitably mean covering up her misdeeds and placing himself in her husband¡¯s warpath should he find out about her extramarital activities. And there was the other problem, as well, which he tried very hard not to think about. There was the elephant in the room, and it had a name now.


    Maybe I¡¯ll get lucky. Maybe I won¡¯t see him.


    Entering Lady Therien¡¯s spacious office was a hardship by itself. His experiences thus far did not bode well for his future.


    He passed an hourglass that reached as high as his chest. It was made of gold and glass, and a red, silk sash was tied tight around its bottleneck. The table under it was an ornate piece hewn of chestnut with gold foil depressed into the floral shapes around its feet. Lady Therien¡¯s desk was its match, with a high-backed chair stationed behind it that the woman herself sat in.


    She wore a powder blue dress today, cut low and sheer in the mirrhvalian fashion. Many nobles had taken to the fashions of their cousins in the Bone Sands ahead of the emperor¡¯s arrival. Silver chains glittered in her hair and around her neck, and she had penciled in a mole on her upper lip that, to Lance¡¯s eye, looked ridiculous.


    He bowed low, his hands clasped together behind his back, and said: ¡°The shadow preserve you, Lady Therien.¡±


    She looked up from the papers she had been reading and set a gilded fountain pen aside.


    ¡°Lady Tamalsen said you chose to shadow here of your own will.¡± She said, surveying him. ¡°You may rise, now, boy. But keep that etiquette with you today. You will need it if you are going to make it through without embarrassing your mentor.


    ¡°Come, Benjamin.¡± She barked.


    He stood upright.


    Ben came hustling out of a cupboard holding a thick stack of papers in the crook of his arm.


    ¡°You can set those down.¡± She said.


    He twisted and dropped the bundle on another table, this one unadorned and loaded down with so many other parcels it was hard to fathom how it didn¡¯t crack in two.


    The stack thudded against the tabletop.


    Lady Therien winced. ¡°A bit more care in the future.¡±


    ¡°My apologies, Lady Therien.¡± He bowed in her direction, then turned his gaze on Lance, and froze.


    ¡°You¡¯ll be showing this boy how we do things here.¡± Lady Therien said. ¡°His name is Lance.  He comes with high regard from Lady Tamalsen, but do not let that cloud your judgment. I am counting on you to make an unbiased decision as to his fitness to join us.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll do my best.¡± Ben said. ¡°Thank you for the opportunity.¡±


    He favored Lady Therien with a mechanical smile.


    Had he the choice, Lance would have asked Lady Therien for a different mentor on the spot. It did not do to further antagonize Ben. He had made his discomfort clear enough. It didn¡¯t make sense to keep nudging him when he so clearly didn¡¯t want anything to do with him. But what option did he have? He couldn¡¯t exactly demand a high lady suffer more inconvenience than was strictly necessary. She¡¯d throw him out of her department as soon as he did.


    Maybe that¡¯s a good thing.


    Lady Therien selected a paper from the smallest stack on her table and held it for him to take. He plucked it from her grasp and scanned it.


    ¡°Lance will be with you throughout the day. There is a window for your lunch in the itinerary. You will remain with him during that time as well.¡± She explained. ¡°You are dismissed.¡±


    Another bow. Lance mirrored him.


    ¡°The shadow preserve you.¡± He murmured.


    Ben crossed to the door, opened it and gestured Lance through. Grinning, he closed it lightly behind them.  ¡°You know I¡¯m not gonna go easy on you, right?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t expect you to.¡±


    He scanned the list.


    ¡°First errand is¡­for Haman Bran. He¡¯ll be intolerable, like he always is.¡±


    He led Lance away from Lady Therien¡¯s office, into a servant¡¯s staircase that spiraled downward toward the lower levels. ¡°He¡¯s in his study drinkin¡¯ hard liquor with Lady Bethel and Elrin Stormbreaker if I know him at all. They like to get on early. We¡¯ll have to hurry or we¡¯ll catch him when he¡¯s good and sauced. You don¡¯t want to see that.¡±


    Lance opened his mouth to say something. Shut it again.


    Why hasn¡¯t he mentioned the other morning? He¡¯s acting like nothing happened.


    He decided that if Ben was willing to let it go, he should to. At the very least, it would get them both through this day without things becoming more awkward than they already were. When it was over, he could swear off the Office of the Couriers forever, and then it would be down to the kitchens or the furnaces for him. Lady Tamalsen wouldn¡¯t take it well, but the decision was his at the end of the day, and he could not fathom how he would get through the intervening years between his decision day and the moment of his death with the tension being ratcheted up again and again every time he saw him.


    Ben stepped forward, and as he did, a dull ache formed in Lance¡¯s head, pushing uncomfortably against his temples. He grit his teeth as Ben stepped forward again, and again, his shadow deepening from its organic shade to matte black.


    Ben looked over his shoulder. ¡°Are you comin¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Where are we going?¡±


    ¡°Into the shadows. How else do you expect us to get anywhere?¡±


    ¡°By walking?¡±


    Ben chuckled. ¡°Not so much, no. We¡¯d never get anything done if we did it that way. Here, just step into my shadow. I¡¯ll be right behind you.¡±


    He moved forward, that ache filling him up like so much hot tea in a clay cup. His leading foot touched the shadow, and he plunged face first into it. He hit hard ground on his hands and knees.


    Darkness swirled around him, an unrelieved black blocking all sight. On the edge of hearing, voices whispered, crooned to him in tens and twenties, all talking over each other so that he couldn¡¯t quite make out what any one of them was saying. The air was cool against his skin in a way it never was in the palace halls, cold and humid, as if they¡¯d stepped into some kind of cave, or maybe a far flung corner of the dungeons.


    Ben thudded aground behind him, and helped him to his feet.


    ¡°Do you hear that?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Just ignore it. As long as I¡¯m here, you have nothin¡¯ to worry about from them.¡±


    ¡°Who are they?¡±


    ¡°No one and nothin¡¯. What you¡¯re hearin¡¯ is the voices of the Dark Heart. People¡¯s insecurities mostly. This place exists within shadow, and a lot of shadows are attached to people. Their negative feelings come with them, and they act kinda like ghosts. They can hurt you, but only if you can¡¯t resist them. If you came here alone somehow, you¡¯d be swallowed up right away, but since you¡¯re with someone who knows how to resist them, you don¡¯t need to worry.¡±


    ¡°This is how the Wraiths travel.¡±


    ¡°Well, they¡¯re better at it than I am. They can move in four dimensions here. Couriers are only trained to move in three.¡± He explained. ¡°Come on. Follow me.¡±


    He took Lance under the arm and led him off. They traveled a few steps, turned corner and traveled a few more. Ben reached overhead and yanked at something Lance couldn¡¯t see. A veil parted, and blinding light stabbed into the dark, a rounded hole through which an expanse of corridor, the edge of a dais and a cobalt-glazed vase housing snapdragons, was made visible.


    Ben, illuminated in that shaft of light, reached up and touched the image, and they rose rapidly. Rose through it.


    The shadow underfoot eased off from that peculiar, dead black to a more natural shade, and he found the footing under him was quite firm. They stood outside a cedar door with a knocker in the shape of a raven¡¯s head. The raven held a thick ring in its beak, which Ben swung thrice.


    ¡°Enter.¡± Came Lord Haman Bran¡¯s voice.


    Ben swung the door inward, and ushered Lance through.


    ¡°Ah. You¡¯re late.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m terribly sorry, Lord Bran. I have someone shadowin¡¯ me today. This is Lance.¡± He gestured at him. ¡°


    ¡°No excuses. Just take all of that to the armory.¡± He gestured airily at a rack outfitted with a full suit of armor Lance doubted very much he had earned the right to wear.


    The pauldrons were treated to appear as if smoke was trapped in the metal, a design feature only given to the Bloodless. Those pauldrons were crafted masterfully to look like raven heads, and the heavy plate that accompanied them was embellished with a wide, purple sash around the midriff.


    ¡°They did a piss poor job of polishing it the last time. Just look at the thing!¡± he grumbled. ¡°How am I to judge it worthy of me when there are so clearly fingerprints all over it!¡±


    Lance looked the armor over. There were no fingerprints that he could see anywhere on it, but he bit his tongue. It would only worsen Lord Bran¡¯s temper if he commented. He did not want to become his next victim.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry on their behalf, Lord Bran.¡±


    ¡°Well tell them to put someone competent on the job this time! The Emperor¡¯s arrival is coming swiftly, and I will not be caught looking like a common Maul in his presence!¡±


    ¡°Help me with it?¡± Ben said.


    Lord Bran marched over to a small table near the windows at the back of his rooms. He snatched up a clay jug and poured its deep, red contents into a crystal glass until the wine was nearly flush with the rim.


    Lance helped Ben dismantle the armor, took the breastplate and greaves in his arms when he handed them to him. Ben took the rest. They hustled out of Lord Bran¡¯s chambers, and once clear, Ben opened his shadow.


    As the shadow went from its usual color to stark black, that headache returned, and more intensely than it had been the last time. It persisted throughout all the time they ventured through that dark other world, and did not fade until they were well within sight of the armory.


    The hall the armory occupied was wider and better lit than most other reaches of the palace, and the walls were unfinished poured stone like any of the servants¡¯ tunnels. The poured stone here was in better repair. What cracks may have been present were mortared closed, and the pipes in this reach did not drip. The military handled its own affairs, allocating its discretionary funds without need for approval by the nobility, for the queen saw fit to ensure they were well cared for. If the servants were disposable cogs in this grand machine, the soldiery could never be that.


    Men clad in gray reliefs marched up and down the long hall, their backs straight and their chins held high. They ignored Lance and Ben for the most part, though an occasional peon soldier spared a grin and a curt hello for the courier.


    ¡°Do you come here a lot?¡±


    ¡°Not really. Some of the Mauls were born peasants. Most of the Wraiths were, too. We get along fine, I guess. They¡¯re more like us than they are like the nobility, anyway.¡±


    ¡°The Wraiths kinda scare me.¡±


    Ben nodded.


    He approached a security checkpoint which was manned by two Mauls, infantry in the ranks of the shadovani armed forces, and the same ritual as had taken place in the Treasury was repeated. They set Lord Bran¡¯s armor on a table, and he was glad to have the burden relieved from him, even if it was only temporary. They then proceeded with a thorough pat down before allowing the servants to retrieve  the armor set and pass them by.


    ¡°What happens if you shadow walk into the military compound itself?¡±


    ¡°Without permission?¡±


    Lance nodded. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°What do you think? They¡¯d kill you.¡±


    ¡°Noted.¡±


    They hauled their burdens halfway up the hall. A wide gap in the wall housed the open entrance to the armory, and they dipped into it. The armory was an unfussy carve out with rooms behind vault doors in the back, and all of those doors lay open. Halberds, swords and maces looked back at him from within the nearest one, and several suits of armor decorated the walls in the main chamber, where servants in white uniforms fussed over them with strange tools, or soft cloths and brushes.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report itThey approached a tall elf whose muscled arms pressed tight against the sleeves of his military reliefs, who was otherwise whip slender. Thin lines spun out from the corners of his eyes, and his hair was cropped short, a departure from the more traditional, flowing cuts most other elves wore.


    Ben deposited his share of the armor pieces on the floor at the elf¡¯s feet, and backed up a step. Lance followed his example, adding the greaves and breastplate to the pile.


    The elf glanced at the pile, at Ben. ¡°Lord Bran again?¡±


    Ben nodded. ¡°Yep.¡±


    ¡°How does an early lunch sound?¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll give you permission to eat in our canteen. The food is better there anyway.¡±


    ¡°Sounds good.¡±


    ¡°Is Sami here?¡± Lance asked.


    The elf chuckled. ¡°You a friend of hers? She¡¯s here.¡± He twisted around, shouted to the back. ¡°Hey Sami! Your lover boy is here!¡±


    ¡°You know I don¡¯t like boys!¡± she shouted back, emerging from one of the vaults. She saw Lance then. ¡°Oh shit!¡± she rushed over and launched herself at Lance, took him in a tight hug. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± she said after she released him.


    ¡°I¡¯m on a stage.¡±


    She glanced in Ben¡¯s direction. ¡°With the couriers today. They set you up good. Ben¡¯s good people.¡±


    Ben furrowed his brow. ¡°You¡¯re friends?¡±


    ¡°Of course. Lance is the best. He hasn¡¯t been giving you trouble, has he?¡±


    ¡°Not yet.¡±


    ¡°So¡­how long will it take?¡± Lance asked.


    The three of them exchanged a look.


    ¡°Sami snickered. ¡°Fuck off, Duriel! You¡¯re gonna make me lose it.¡±


    That¡¯s Lord Halan to you, miss.¡± He chided, but he spoiled it by smiling.


    ¡°What¡¯s uh¡­what¡¯s going on here? I feel like I¡¯m missing something.¡±


    ¡°Oh, we¡¯re not going to touch it.¡± He said. Haman does this twice a week. You¡¯re going to give us an hour to look pensively at it and pretend we care, and then you¡¯re going to take it back and tell him Lord Halan polished it himself¡ª


    ¡°And he¡¯s going to gasp like a girl who just had her first orgasm.¡± Sami said.


    ¡°Something like that.¡± Lord Halan flushed. ¡°But you two enjoy your lunch. Maybe I¡¯ll let Sami off early today since you¡¯ll have so much to talk about.¡±


    ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary.¡± Ben said. ¡°We have orders for Lord Aren today, too.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that old cunt want?¡±


    ¡°Is that any way to talk about¡ª


    ¡°Relax. He¡¯s an old friend.¡± Lord Halan said, cutting Sami off. ¡°In any case, if you say so, I suppose I can use Sami a little longer. We can knock out that order for Lord Elise.¡±


    ¡°UGH!¡±


    ¡°Why the melodrama? He just wants a sword sharpened. And you don¡¯t have to deliver it.¡±


    ¡°Who drew the short straw on that one?¡± Ben asked.


    ¡°I did, actually. I wouldn¡¯t send a servant up to his office under any circumstances. He¡¯s too volatile.¡±


    ¡°And yet he¡¯s sitting on the Council of Liam.¡± Sami grumbled.


    ¡°A seat he has more than earned.¡± He said, his grin falling away. He produced a scratch pad and a pen from his shirt pocket, wrote out a note for them and signed it. ¡°You two better get going. He¡¯ll be drunk as a fish by the time you get back to him anyway, but at least he¡¯ll be awake.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll be back in an hour, then.¡± Ben said. He led Lance out into the hall, turned west. They marched up the way, deeper into the military complex.


    Lunch was a quiet affair. The food was far better than what they served in the servant¡¯s canteen, and the cooks were all military men, as best Lance could tell. Most of them were of an age with him, were likely assigned these duties to keep them humble, and they treated him kindly as he took his plate from them, and brought it back to the table in the corner Ben had chosen.


    ¡°It¡¯s not bad, you know.¡± Ben said as he tucked into his meal. ¡°Being a courier. You could do worse.¡±


    ¡°I guess.¡± Lance said.


    ¡°I mean, it comes with its drawbacks. Lady Therien isn¡¯t easy to work for, but she¡¯s not as bad as some of the others. I¡¯ve seen Lady Jain throttle a servant for asking a simple question before. Mistress Dina threw a plate at someone once, too.¡±


    Lance grimaced.


    ¡°Does she really make you guys cover for her affairs?¡±


    Ben shrugged. ¡°Sometimes. It¡¯s a fun game I like to play sometimes, though. Who¡¯s she fucking? Where is she fucking them? If she¡¯s being a bitch to us, sometimes one of us will leave a clue about where she is with her husband. But I wouldn¡¯t do that with the current guy.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s military. Imagine what would happen if Lord Therien got a hold of him. Best case, they walk away after a shouting match. Worst case, her side piece beats him half to death and gets demoted.¡±


    ¡°Hmm.¡±


    They spent the rest of their lunch in silence, returned their empty plates to the disposal window and then made their way back to the armory, where Lord Halan returned the disarticulated armor to them and sent them on their way.


    When they arrived at Lord Bran¡¯s rooms again, he was indeed so drunk he could barely stand up, and Lady Bethel and Elrin Stormbreaker¡ªa man who¡¯s father had purchased a seat as captain in the military for him, who hadn¡¯t so much as held a sword since¡ªwere seated in a pair of cozy, wing backed chairs near a burning hearth with him.


    He was snatching up a jug of wine when they entered, and two more were arranged behind it. Both, he assumed, were empty.


    ¡°Oh, you¡¯ve finally arrived!¡± Haman slurred.


    ¡°Yes, Lord Bran. Lord Halan tells us to let you know he took on this task himself. He did not trust his charges to perform the job to your high standard.¡± Ben said.


    Together, they arranged the various pieces on Lord Bran¡¯s armor stand.


    Just as Sami and Lord Halan predicted, he was all glowing praise. He gushed over every detail of the armor plating, and encouraged Lady Bethel and Elrin Stormbreaker to join in. They bowed when he dismissed them, and returned to the hall outside. Ben did not open his shadow this time, but set off down the corridor with Lance trailing him.


    ¡°Are we not going to take use that shadow place?¡± Lance asked him.


    ¡°I need a break. Traveling that way starts to wear on you after a while. We¡¯ll have to eventually. I just need a few minutes.¡±


    ¡°Alright.¡±


    They followed the hall almost to its end, then turned corner and traveled down another which followed the western side of the palace. Down two staircases, they went, and then followed yet one more back the way they had come.


    Ben froze.


    Lance followed his gaze to an ornate gate. Bars of a silvery metal, the same as was on all the vault doors he had seen in the last days, were framed by a thick border bearing designs that imitated honeysuckle and hyacinth, the remains of another queen¡¯s sensibilities. Beyond was a wide stair that descended into impenetrable darkness, beyond which lay something that drove fear like a sword deep into Lance¡¯s heart.


    On impulse, he reached out and snatched up Ben¡¯s hand.


    Ben¡¯s gaze snapped onto him. What are you doing?¡±


    Lance pulled away. He couldn¡¯t bring himself to look at the other man. To see him risked redoubling his embarrassment. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t mean to¡­I just¡­I usually avoid this place. It gives me the creeps.¡±


    Ben nodded, but something in his gaze was off when Lance finally found the courage to look at him. Something he couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on.


    Ben took him by the shoulders and kissed him. He retreated, leaving Lance with a vibrating sensation on his lips, which was quickly spreading to encompass the rest of him. His cheeks burned, and though he tried to say something the words wouldn¡¯t pass his throat.


    ¡°I thought that might be it.¡± Ben said. ¡°Do you want to get out of here.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d¡­I¡¯d like that.¡±


    ¡°Good. Me, too.¡± Ben opened his shadow.


    Matte darkness loomed under his feet and he took Lance¡¯s hand in his. They plunged in together, and though pain blossomed in his head as the magic stole away his sight, he would not let go. He could not let go.


    The Mauls at the checkpoint called for a Wraith when they arrived, and they were taken into the shadows by him. Lance¡¯s headache intensified, and vibrant auras marred the darkness at the edges of his vision. The pain thrashed through him, a cold sweat breaking over his body as he followed the Wraith with Ben holding onto him. They emerged in a far removed hall in the military complex, outside the open door into a cramped office.


    A silver-haired elf with crystal blue eyes sat behind a writing desk at its heart. A wardrobe stood against the right hand wall, and a lock had been fitted around its handles. Above and behind the desk was hung a staff like a shepherd¡¯s hook with a snowflake pendant attached by a fine chain to the tip of the hook at its head. A pair of younger elves dressed in black tunics that hugged their necks, and slacks entirely free of wrinkles stood at attention next to the desk, and Lord Aren passed orders to them before dismissing them. The Wraith took his leave after them, and as soon as they were gone, Lance collapsed.


    Lord Aren rounded his desk, ducked low over Lance¡¯s prone form. He laid hands on him, searching for some injury he would not find, and Ben knelt with him.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with him?¡±


    ¡°Some people are more sensitive to the Dark Heart than others.¡± Lord Aren said. ¡°Give me a moment.¡±


    Ben backed off a short way.


    Lord Aren¡¯s wide palm settled on Lance¡¯s forehead. He whispered words in a language Lance could not understand. As he looked into the general¡¯s wizened face, watched as words spilled from his lips, the pain began to fade.


    Lord Aren uttered a word he could not hear. His lips framed the syllables in a way he could not quite read, and he was left with the impression of something missing, something that in its absence held true power. The pain faded at last, leaving him feeling mollified.


    ¡°He should be fine now.¡±


    He climbed to his feet, and helped Lance to sit up.


    ¡°I¡¯d recommend you not join the couriers if this continues. It will be dangerous for you.¡± He turned to Ben. ¡°Don¡¯t speak to anyone of what happened here. The healing has been done, but it will do your friend no favors to alert anyone of what afflicted him. Especially the nobility.¡±


    ¡°I understand.¡± Ben said, though it was clear he was shaken by what had just transpired. ¡°I won¡¯t say a word.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± He said. ¡°Now, while I have mended him, he will not tolerate shadow walking better than he has. I have only given him temporary relief. You should go about the remainder of your shift by more conventional avenues. You may count yourself lucky that my needs of you are not demanding.¡±


    ¡°What can we do for you, my lord.¡± Ben asked.


    Lord Aren rounded his desk. He took up an envelope, heated a daub of bright blue wax and dropped it onto the fold. He impressed it with his seal, a circlet of blackthorn, and waited for the wax to set, then handed it to Ben.


    ¡°Take this to Lord Tarkenta, then return to Lady Therien. I assume I am your last errand for the day.¡±


    ¡°You are.¡±


    ¡°Then may you both have a bright evening.¡± He said. ¡°And sir?¡±


    ¡°Lance.¡± Ben supplied.


    ¡°Yes, Lance. I assume you have not chosen a path.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Then let me be clear. This is not the right one for you, but there is a department which takes on people like you, where you will not encounter much interference from the Dark Heart. If you have not been granted the opportunity, I will ask that Lady Tamalsen schedule you for a stage in the furnaces.¡±


    ¡°That is my last stage, Lord Aren.¡±


    Lord Aren nodded. ¡°Choose that path, then. Tell Master Gregor I have given you my recommendation.¡±


    He offered the letter to Ben.


    Ben took it, and placed it in his pocket.¡°May the shadow preserve you, Lord Aren.¡± He said, his gaze fixed on Lance.


    He bowed, and helped Lance out of the office.


    ¡°Are you okay?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine now. I don¡¯t know what he did, but it took the pain away.¡±


    Ben nodded shakily. ¡°Okay. Good. Let¡¯s just finish this up then. Lord Tarkenta¡¯s office is close.¡±