Page 10 of Between Smoke and Shadow

As children, we believed a utopian world lived on the other side of the mountains. We had seen the ocean rise and pour over the ridges, drowning half of Savoa with its saltwater. We had seen it, and yet, we still hoped a safe haven existed there, just out of sight. We stopped believing a while ago, and yet, we couldn’t bear to forgo the dream entirely.

“Yes,” I say, my voice a whisper. “We’ll start climbing.”

Tora falls silent as the sunset fades to a blackened sky. My throat tightens through the quiet. I can feel the weight of Savoa pressing heavier against me, tearing through my skin, piece by piece. Savoa will soon be mine, and these people will beg me to save them.

But just as there is no utopia beyond our mountains, there is no salvation for those who deserve it most.

FOUR

RUNE

I am on the forty-sixth level of the Tower. Every section has its own aesthetic, and the military floors are almost as bleak as the low servant quarters. While we are known for filth and decay, the military levels are known for their emptiness. Each floor is made up of mirror-like walls, overly-polished silver floors, and gaping rooms with minimal furniture. There are no colors, no decorations, nothing to pull attention one way or the other.

I sit in a wide room lined with identical doors. Thirty minutes after I’ve arrived, the nearest door clicks and a crying servant hurries from the interrogation room. She brushes past me, hiccuping breaths echoing as she disappears into the blank corridor. I tense, trying not to panic. I can do this—Ihaveto.

“Rune Ealde,” says a woman.

I startle, looking back to the door. A petite guard stands motionless in the shadows, nearly invisible in her black, full-body suit. She’s wearing the dog-shaped mask of a low-ranking guard.

After a moment too long, I force a smile and stand. I arrived early, wearing the nicest coverall I could find, but it doesn’t matter. I’m an unwashed rodent standing next to this guard. Hersuit is pristine and high-tech, and my coverall is dingy with a small hole near the armpit.

“Good morning,” I say. I sound too eager, too obviously fake, but at least I’m not crying.

The guard doesn’t respond. She leads me through the door and down a hallway, her boots clunking against the marble. She stops when we reach the corridor’s end, where a gaping room splits into view. It’s twice the size of the waiting area and holds nothing but a square table and three chairs in its center. A royal and his guard, both stiff in their seats, occupy one side. The guard, hidden behind his wolf mask, looks more beast than man.

“Rune Ealde,” the royal says. His voice is sharp, like I’ve already disappointed him.

He’s dressed in a violet suit, stitched with red seams, and a pair of slick black shoes. His purple mask, cut short like most royals, starts at his eyebrows and stops an inch above his mouth. Unlike most, however, his is made of angled metal, not fabric, and interwoven with black mesh to conceal his eyes.

“Sit,” he says, folding his hands on the shiny table. The black reflects his image perfectly, from his smooth dark hair to his already downturned mouth.

I take the chair opposite the two men. I can see myself in the table too, and I have to work not to react. I look horrible. Clean coveralls or not, I’m hideous. Sallow skin and unkempt hair, lips so dry they’re bleeding. My mask–a strip of fraying tulle–is discolored and brown. The red emblem of an indebted servant scars the back of my hand. I subconsciously tuck it beneath the table.

“I am Sorace Awyr, descendant of the Architect,” he says. He didn’t need to tell me what he is—the intricate insignia on his shoulder already did.

I shift in my seat. Sharp panic sears my every nerve, but I can’t let him see it. I force a slow breath.

“You’re our final candidate for Lady Saskia’s handmaiden,” he says, face twisting unpleasantly. He tilts his head toward me, appraising me, I think. “A member of the cleaning crew, all the way to an elite’s handmaiden?”

It’s an unrealistic promotion—or it should be—and we both know it. One of Vale’s insiders snuck my application, filled with false qualifications, into the final round of candidates. That, paired with my innate ability to lie like my life depends on it, has gotten me to this point. Caleah and I each created elaborate explanations, in case anyone demands details. I have the story in the front of my mind, but I can tell he doesn’t want to hear it.

“Yes, my lord,” I say instead. I give him an absent smile, as if I don’t realize his question is an accusation.

Sorace stares at me. After an uncomfortable pause, he finally nods, grimace remaining in place. “All right, Rain, tell me what you know of the crown.”

I don’t correct him on my name. I smile as I regurgitate facts of the Architect and his descendants and theirincredibledynasty. My expression holds as Sorace barrels through the interrogation, even as he shifts from Savoa’s history to mine.

“You are an indebted servant,” he says, after some time. His eyes narrow. “Criminals do not often serve elites.”

“My father was a criminal. I am not,” I say before I think better of it. Sorace’s lip curls, and I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

“Our family’s guilt is our own,” he says.

“Yes, my lord.”

Sorace rolls his fingers across the table, jaw tight. I wait for him to get angry, to end the interrogation early, but after several seconds, he continues.

He asks about my mother.

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