Kaitlyn Patterson - The Diminished

I bit back the sharp response that threatened to explode from my throat and simply nodded. There was no real use arguing with her. I’d do as they asked and count the days until I could leave, just like I’d always done.

“Go on,” Sula said. “They’re expecting you.”

My head snapped up and I stared at her, bewildered. “Now?”

“Yes, now . Go!”

I managed to keep the string of curses running through my head from making their way out of my mouth until I got into the hall, where I launched into a dead sprint. The last thing I wanted was to be noticed—especially unfavorably noticed—by the Suzerain.

I vaulted down the stairs and tore through the maze of corridors that led to the Shriven’s wing of the temple. I’d made it a point to stay as far away from the Shriven as I possibly could manage over the years, but I’d been sent on errands for them often enough that I knew my way to the large training room.

I paused outside for a moment to catch my breath before easing the door open, hoping to enter unnoticed. But the old hinges squealed, and I winced as every pair of eyes in the room turned to glare at me. There were maybe twenty of the Shriven initiates, all sitting cross-legged and silent. One of them grinned, baring newly sharpened teeth at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Curlin, her face flicking from surprise to a callous sort of amusement as she realized that my being there had nothing at all to do with her. I managed to keep my expression neutral, looking instead to the Suzerain. They stood at the front of the room, their arms crossed over their chests, identically impenetrable looks clouding their faces.

“Obedience,” Castor said, his voice at once familiar and disconcerting. “Anchorite Sula suggested that you might consider joining the ranks of the Shriven and would be well served by observing and assisting with the evening training sessions as we saw fit. In the future, do attempt to arrive in a timely manner so as not to disrupt our proceedings.”

Amler’s head cocked to the side, like a bird trying to decide if the creature in front of it could be eaten. I kept as still as I was able and did my best to fade into the wall. Standing there, with the full weight of their attention fixed on me, made me feel like they could see through to my very core and riffle through every secret I’d ever kept. My mind kept slipping to the loose floorboard beneath my bed and the box hidden there—my collection of pearls, waiting, glowing like so many miniature moons, still unbroken, inside.

“She doesn’t want to join the Shriven, brother. She wants to be rid of the temple as soon as we’ll consent to her leaving.”

“I simply stated Anchorite Sula’s suggestion,” Castor observed. “I didn’t say that she was correct.”

Amler nodded. “A fair point, well made, but we’ve lost two full minutes to this disturbance, and I would not like to divert from our schedule any more than absolutely necessary. Obedience, please remain in the back, out of the way. We’ll let you know when you’re needed.”

I bowed my head and shrank farther into the corner. As the evening passed into night, I found myself strangely fascinated by the Shriven’s training. I’d seen them at work in the city, of course—I somehow always managed to find myself nearby when one of the other dimmys fell into their violent grief, and the Shriven inevitably appeared to put a stop to their violence. But it’d never occurred to me that to become that capable, that deadly, the Shriven would have to work very, very hard.

The Shriven initiates mimicked the Suzerain in an endless series of exercises that inverted, balanced and stretched them in ways that didn’t seem to translate into combat at all. They practiced the same movements again and again, so many times that even I, in the corner of the room, could see their muscles quivering.

Eventually, the initiates separated into pairs, the dimmys in the room silently finding one another, and the twins turning to face their other halves.

“The staves, Obedience,” Castor called, not bothering to hide the exasperation in his voice. “Bring out the staves.”

I glanced around the room helplessly. Blunt clubs hung in clusters in one corner. Racks of blades—everything from throwing stars to swords almost as long as I was tall—decorated the wall behind the Suzerain, but I saw nothing that remotely resembled the deadly, metal-tipped staves some of the Shriven carried on their prowls through the city.

Finally, rolling her eyes, Curlin peeled off from the group, darted across the room and shouldered me out of the way. She slid open a door that I’d completely overlooked, despite the fact that I’d been standing right in front of it. Blushing, I helped Curlin heave the padded staves out of the closet and distribute them to the rest of the initiates.

The Suzerain exchanged a cryptic glance as I shrank back into my corner, fuming at myself and Curlin in equal parts.

“You’re dismissed, Obedience,” Amler said. “Remember, when you plan your day tomorrow, that to be on time is to be late, and to be late is to be an embarrassment to your faith.”

With no need for an excuse beyond my burning cheeks and the terrifying attention of the Suzerain, I turned on a heel and fled.

CHAPTER FOUR

BO

After a solid week of cold, gray rain, the skies cleared and the sun finally came out. Queen Runa suggested to my tutors that I might be allowed an afternoon dedicated solely to relaxation. While I would have been more than content to while away the entirety of my rare free time reading a novel, Claes and his twin, Penelope, insisted that we take advantage of the beautiful day and go for a ride. Just after lunch we took off across the city on horses borrowed from the Queen’s stables.

We three had grown up riding, and all of us were as comfortable on horseback as we were on our own two feet. Nevertheless, it had taken a great deal of wheedling and pleading to convince the stable master to give us mounts with a bit more spirit than a hay bale. We’d still ended up with a set of stodgy, dependable Alskad Curlies that made me desperately miss the horses I’d left behind at my estate in the country.

Penby had grown up around the palace and temple, and as such, there were almost no palace grounds to speak of. However, there were wide swaths of parkland across the whole city—acres upon acres of green lawns, cultivated forests and trails that dotted the city like emeralds scattered over a field of ash. The parks had been a gift to the people from one of my queenly ancestors, and Queen Runa had recently declared that their upkeep would henceforth be entirely funded through a tax on luxury items like fur, kaffe and imported Denorian wool and Samirian silk. Just when I thought my mother was finished ranting about the subject, she brought it up again, appalled that the rich be punished “for having good taste.”

The memory made me wrinkle my nose in disgust. For someone who had as much wealth and privilege as my mother to be upset by a tiny uptick in the cost of her unnecessary luxuries felt ugly, especially when that money went to providing all of Penby’s citizens with something as lovely as free, public green space in the middle of the capital city of the empire.

“Smells like rotting fish, doesn’t it?” Claes asked, misinterpreting my expression.

Penelope glanced over her shoulder and shrugged. “Better to suffer the stench of the wharf than chance getting our pockets picked by the riffraff in the End.”

“Oh, please, Penelope,” I said with a sigh.

“What? Didn’t you hear what happened to Imelda Hesketh three weeks ago? She was robbed blind coming home from a party. I’ve no idea why, but she decided to walk through the End. A gang of miscreants jumped her—they took her wallet, her jacket, her shoes, even her hairpins. Fortunately, she wasn’t hurt, just embarrassed by the whole affair.”