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She was an empath. She hadn’t known this when she was a child. It had been Baron Sammah, who had taken her in as a yearling and sponsored her residency in the castle, who had identified her particular talents. Everyone else had assumed her to be backwards at worst, socially awkward at best, and they had been close to casting her out altogether. Only her high standing in court of Sammah kept her position in the castle safe. He had even engineered her a working role that kept her away from the frightening maelstrom of activity that usually encapsulated court life.
When I’m not sabotaging that myself
, Quinn muttered to herself grimly.

When others argued, Quinn would sit and cower in the corner, trying to focus herself elsewhere before the headaches of fury overwhelmed her. When they were happy, she would become elated. In times of sadness, she was utterly inconsolable. Her emotions had been beyond her control, and without Baron Sammah’s guiding hand through her youngest years she knew beyond doubt that she would have taken her own life. When Sammah had told her the truth—that she instinctively knew and fed off the emotions of others—she hadn’t know what to think. It couldn’t have been a lie. The experiences of her life told her that much. But putting a name to it, and giving what she felt an identity, had overwhelmed her with relief. Not only had Sammah supported her financially through being her sponsor—orphans usually had a cold, lonely and short existence to look forward to in Everfell—she owed him her life. He was her father in more ways than one, and for as long as she could remember, she had given him unflinching loyalty.

As she skirted around filthy heaps of manure, ignoring the catcalls of street beggars and the wails of malnourished children, she thanked the spirits she had been given the chances she had. Life in Everfell was hard; life in all of the eight provinces was hard. It was a tough kingdom with a chequered history. Only recently, under the guidance of King Vance, had there been a makeshift peace.

The main aggressor had been the collective city states of Sha’Sek. Quinn had never been to Sha’Sek. Few citizens of Everfell had stepped in the Sha’sekian territories, and the bones of many that had still bleached the bare ground of the desert.

Sha’sek was an anomaly, as far as the rulers of the kingdom of Everfell were concerned. The Severed Desert, a barren wasteland of scrub and grey rock, cushioned the lands of Broadwater, Sevenspells and Port Kahnel like an iron hoof. After a three days of travel on foot, you would reach the rocky beaches of the Ever Sea, and if you were brave enough to risk a boat through those shallow, rocky straits, you would come, in a few days’ straight sailing, to the shores of one of the dozens of islands that collectively comprised Sha’sek.

The larger cities with the higher populations, tended to attract more powerful men. The smaller islands were known to collectively align, providing one ruler to account for all of them. In all, there were fifteen men and women sitting on the ruling Council of Sha’sek, making decisions in trade and war for all of their people. The council had negotiated peace after the Fourth War with King Vance. Sammah’s own residency in Everfell was a result of this tentative peace. A representative from each nation was permanently resident in their opposing court; Vance’s own cousin Lord Hartley even now lived in the lap of humid luxury in Farn, one of Sha’Sek’s largest cities.

This arrangement allowed the rulers to consult a foreign native on matters involving foreign policy without having to wait on long, dangerous and expensive courier journeys, or the even riskier air messages. Sammah had the power to advise on behalf of the council, though not to make outright decisions in their name. Lord Hartley could do the same for Vance. It had worked, for the last fifteen years. There had been no further wars. Whilst there had been near misses—skirmishes on the southern borders which had been dismissed by both sides as the activity of rebels and vigilantes—by and large, the peace had held.

Quinn pulled her hood close around her as she darted back into the castle grounds, through wide open gates that were manned by two sets of three men, all members of the King’s Guard. Sammah’s mute guards were easily recognised; they all wore the same sleeveless leather tunic as Elias, with bare legs from their thighs down, and cloth boots strapped with leather thongs all they had to protect their feet from the cobbled ground. It didn’t matter how deeply the bitter cold bit down in winter; you would never see those men out of their uniform. Their reputation preceded them also, so when they swept through the gate with Quinn, obscured by her hood, scurrying between them, they were not challenged. Sammah’s business was his own, and he was trusted not to bring any menace into the castle walls.

Back in the safety of her home, away from the bustle of the streets, she could stop concentrating, thinking about the world and keeping her mind distracted, and let herself wonder back into the here and now. Everfell’s castle gardens did not house drunkards, and only saw fights when the king hosted the annual tourney; a cause for joy and celebration, not a disgraceful spat in the street where two men simply acted like a pair of alley cats.

Quinn glanced up at the imposing grey granite structure, its walls smooth, painfully carved and slowly stacked into the sky over many years by Everfell’s finest craftsmen. Her heart crested and fell like a petal riding a wave. This was her home. But this home came with a price that, as she became older, she was beginning to resent paying.

There were a lot of stairs to climb, and Sammah was waiting.

5

Sammah’s long fingernails drummed impatiently on the tarnished tabletop, the thin tapping noise the only sound breaking the tense silence in the room. His usually smooth face was creased by an ugly line across his forehead arching down between his eyebrows into a frown. Even his jet black hair, usually so pristine pulled back in its tight high ponytail, gave him away, strands of hair fraying around his temples where he’d been rubbing them with his palms, and loose hair sitting over his forehead. Sammah rounded on his heel as someone creaked the door tentatively open. Sirah, his aide and lover, slithered into the room keeping her eyes on the floor. She had worked for Sammah in one capacity or another since she had been just twelve, and she knew without asking when her master was in a foul mood.

“Still no sign of her?”

Despite herself, Sirah flinched. “No, baron. No one has seen her since this morning.”

“She needs to be back for her duties tonight. I didn’t let her rest enough before I sent her out today, and I can’t put off sending her back to Ross for another night. She’s going to be working through the night. She’ll be dead on her feet before the end of it.”

“Listen to you, the dutiful caregiver all of a sudden,” Sirah purred, sashaying over to Sammah and wrapping her arms over her shoulder, clasping her hands behind his neck “Since when have you cared how hard you work your orphans?”

Sammah scowled, though his eyes danced at her affections. “You know I have to be careful with Quinn. She’s harder to manage than the others, and it’s getting worse with age, if starts to find out she can….”

Sammah pushed Sirah back as if she were on fire, as someone burst through the unlocked door. It wasn’t Quinn, as they had feared, it was Maertn. He was wheezing, and bent over double as he skidded to a stop in the centre of the room. He had likely been helter-skeltering around the entire castle looking for Quinn. He’d be in pieces not being able to find her, not knowing where she was for any period of time, so soon after what had happened in the Great Hall. Sammah was pleased that Maertn still instinctively turned to Sammah and Sirah first, when he needed to question Quinn’s whereabouts. If anyone else knew that Quinn disappeared for hours on end into the city on errands for the baron, awkward questions would begin that Sammah would want to avoid answering. Using Quinn as his inquisitor, Sammah was the one that asked questions, not one of the masses that was forced to bend his will and answer to others.

Maertn looked up at them pitifully, his body bent over and his hands on his knees as he tried to talk between taking in big gulps of air. Sirah waved him down, smoothly stepping in before Sammah could start with one of his infamous tirades, feared throughout the court.

“We don’t know where she is yet either little herbman. She went out to the market today. Sammah gave her a rest morning out of the castle, after what happened to her. When you see her, let her know that she’s late, though. You both know what that means. She’s not to hang around, you understand? She comes straight here.”

Sirah pointed firmly down at the ground. Maertn looked directly at the spot, nodding dumbly at Sirah’s voice, which was hinted at beauty as deadly as a silken noose. The apprentice in herb lore, all elbows and knees, adjusting to his adult height, scuttled out of the room. Sammah gave an exaggerated sigh. Sirah rolled her eyes before forcing her face neutral and turning to face him and his restrained wrath.

“I’m not letting you beat your apprentices whenever you get the chance. It’s not healthy.”

“Discipline is good for them; it keeps the mind clear. Physical discipline even more so,” Sirah stated, purring again. “I didn’t mean for them, my love. I meant for you.” She stroked a loose strand back behind his ear, tracing her finger down his jawline, letting her thumb settle on his lower lip. She wasn’t used to Sammah looking dishevelled. It was unnerving. She wanted to restore his sense of calm, reclaiming the man he usually was. “I don’t know why you keep up with all these throwaway children. They take up too much of your time. You’re an important man.”

Sammah almost sank in to her words. He certainly felt like he could let the world go for a time; forget his tasks, that he needed to go and meet with the king before the council got a chance to get their claws in to him tomorrow; forget the tight leash that he had to keep Quinn on; forget the new orphans they had found scattered around the eight kingdoms, all waiting in backstreet inns around Everfell for a meeting with him and a chance at a new life. He shook his head, dispelling the sensual fog Sirah was weaving around him. There was never time for rest. There was always something that needed his attention. Sirah was his wife in waiting, and he didn’t even trust her enough to let her work independently of his network of personally-chosen bodyguards.

Delegation wasn’t something Sammah had mastered. Strict organisation and iron will however, was. The nobility of Sha’sek did not produce layabouts, and he was not going to be the first son of his island to put his family’s hard-earned reputation to the sword.

With a force of iron will, Sammah put his hand on Sirah’s shoulders, and gently pushed her back. She didn’t resist him, instead giving him a disappointed pout. She was used to his mood swings. You didn’t pursue a man like Sammah casually. Being the consort of a noble was a lifelong commitment, with the precarious chance that the baron still may not choose to wed her, leaving her completely destitute on his death. She was willing to wait and take that gamble. Stuck here in Everfell, there was no one else vying for Sammah’s affections, and the court here held more power and intrigue for him than any of the city states of Sha’sek could manage. There, he was a middle son of a lesser house. Here, he was in a position of unrivalled strength. Her only real competition for Sammah were those damned orphans. Sammah held those dice tight in his hands though; she didn’t know what any of their abilities were. She only knew he was collecting them together. Like the king still kept soldiers, their drills on the dirty training grounds now serving no more purpose beyond muscular rote, they would still be there should they be required. It was better to keep your sword sharp and by your side, than leave it to rust in your cupboard. These were tense times. Any weapon to hand was best if kept honed and sharp. Sammah was honing his orphans. What Sirah didn’t know, was what he intended to do with them.

Quinn, the eldest of the children, with the exception of the gangly herbman, was the most troubling to Sirah. She was Sammah’s most precious pet and, as far as the man favoured anyone, his favourite child. He had collected around a dozen now, all in placements either in Everfell or one of the other seven castles around the country. Being the only Sha’sek noble in the land had lent Sammah a certain amount of influence to begin with. However, the way he had leveraged a rudimental position of a court adviser, into a powerful hand in the running of the country, had been astonishing. She wasn’t blind to his activities though, and knew for certain that Quinn was playing a part in this. Sirah had no idea what Quinn’s ability was, only that she, like all of the children Sammah showed an interest in, had one. All of Sammah’s proteges could do something exceptional compared to the normal children around them.

That told Sirah he was tracking down orphans of foreign descent left on this side of the desert. Many Sha’sek were blessed at birth with additional capabilities beyond the normal human remit. Some talents were innocuous. Her own brother had been able to hold his breath underwater for astonishing lengths of time. Contrary to familial intentions, he had become a musician. Friends at her school had shown incredible feats of memory or strength. One boy cried blood. Sirah hadn’t know this until he fell over once when they were playing chase through the tight streets of the town. Everyone had clustered around him, horrified to see his face and chest covered in blood. Most had run off, petrified that they would be implicated in some accidental death. Sirah, nauseous beyond words, but aware the boy wasn’t screaming with otherworldly agony, had stayed with him whilst his parents were fetched. Once his tears had been dried and his face wiped down, she could see that the boy had suffered naught more than a scraped knee. Sirah didn’t have an ability that she knew of. Perhaps it was seduction. Certainly, clinging on to the coat tails of Sammah’s success was her only chance of achieving a position of wealth in her life.