Sleep, if sleep could be granted such dignity, was harsh, tortured relief from reality, full of caping shadows and distant sounds that were screams and clashing metal. Sora awoke not to light—the tall, narrow, barred window let in scarce a steady, gritty grey that bore witness to no passage of time—but to the constant cold that had seeped through the thin blanket and rough wool of his new uniform, to his very bone. Every muscle protested, cacophony of shock from falling, tension on fear, persistent shivering. Waking to dark cold in the cell for an instant, confusion possessed him. Had it all been but a dream? The familiar shriek of skateboarding wheels, ramune taste? But that hope was crushed even before it had a chance to exist. That smell - that smell of damp, chilly old stone, mold, and underneath all that, that sickly, metallic sweetness that clung to everything like an invisible shroud. The smell of the Castle of Shadows. The smell of Kurogane. The smell of frozen fear.
He was here. This is real. He sat on the edge of the pallet, crackling straw beneath him. His belly was flat but queasily moved to stir, yesterday's stew's images—stringy, unidentifiable meat—mingling over him with the gruesome scenes in the corridor murals. To eat or to be eaten. The refrain repeated in the chilly silence of the cell. He was most definitely one to be eaten, save for…
An abrupt metallic scraping sound made him jump hard. The heavy bolt on the door screamed back, its shrieking grating on his teeth. The door inched open to the same reluctant slowness as before, and Kenji's enormous shadow filled the doorway. The guard with scars spoke not one word. His face was that of weathered rock, and his dark eyes, empty of all evident feeling, rested for an instant on Sora before moving on. His sudden nod was an unspoken command to follow.
Fear, now permanent since arrival, intensified, constricting in tiny circles in his chest. How far were they going to take him to? Was that it, then? His brief time of "safety" ended? Getting to his feet on shaking legs, rough grey woolly robes on his skin felt alien. No other choice. To follow Kenji was all that lay open to him in this world in which his own will had seemingly departed along with the world.
They stepped outside into the cold, narrow passageway, darker still even than in the cell. Kenji went ahead, their boots clomping on rough flagstones in slow, laboured beat. Sora lagged behind him, stumbling in darkness now and again, their now filthy sneakers soundless, foolish contrast to guard's clomping feet. The wall torches flickered and smoldered as before, casting crooked, twisting shadows that writhed like monsters from his nightmare.
This time, despite the haze of terror, Sora was more alert. The castle came alive about him, some old, malignant beast. His fingers felt rough grain of stone as he leaned back momentarily against the wall to catch his breath, sensed pungent scent of damp in some alcoves, heard sounds, monotonous drip of water echoing far away, like slow agonies. And the murals. Oh, those murals. They sped by the main gallery to the entrance again. The crows seemed to pursue him from stone, their painted eyes glinting with malice in harsh torch light. The gruesome banquet on battlefields stood out more vividly, more stark. A crow pulling an eye in meticulous precision, another rending at exposed tendon. Nausea overcame him, and he quickly wrenched his eyes from it, focusing on Kenji's broad back.
More guards, all in identical black leather, metal plates, stood at crossroads or in front of locked gates. None of them gave them overt notice as they went by. Their faces, where visible under their helms, were hard, unyielding, accustomed to darkness and bloodshed frozen in every pore. They were part of the castle, as ineluctably as were the frigid stones and the macabre murals. Sora felt like an apparition from some other universe, an ostensible yet unnoted anomaly swept along on the tide of this macabre world.
He brought him not to the large hall where he had spent the evening. They turned down one of the wider corridors, walls not less empty except for empty weapon rails and additional flaring torches. They stopped at an obstinate door made from dark wood, bound in black iron similar to that on the main gate, but smaller.
"Enter," she called from within. Her own voice. Her even tone with that rough edge that cut through the air like an icy sword. The tone ran shivers down Sora's spine. Kenji stepped aside, pushing open the door, and gestured again curtly for Sora to enter.
It was neither torture chamber nor throne room, as his shaking imagination had dreaded. A study or strategist's den, austere but practical. Bigger than his cell, but still unventilated from absence of windows and from the faint light yielded by a pair of iron candlebras on an enormous, thick-wood table. Carefully drafted maps of strange countries, inscribed with lines and symbols of plans, adorned one wall. Another was lined with dark, bound tomes as well as curled scrolls. A rack contained an assortment of macabre-looking, alien arms, all spotlessly clean and well-oiled. And at the center of the room, sitting behind the massive table, was she.
Vayne Kurotsuki lifted her gaze from a report she'd been perusing. Wearing less formal armor—a black shirt underneath a dark leather cuirass—threat and authority that clung to her nonetheless. Her dark hair was tied back in its usual tight braid, her face as white as marble in the light from candles. The scar over her left eyebrow was a thin white slash drawing attention to fierce intensity in her dark eyes. Those eyes. Her eyes were fixed on Sora from the instant he stepped over her threshold, and he felt as if she were drilling him with them, examining him, stripping him strip by strip.
"Close the door, Kenji," Vayne instructed, not even glancing away from Sora. "Wait outside."
Quietly, Kenji nodded, stepped back, and shut the gigantic door behind him with a faint crash that sealed in Sora with the lady of the castle. The silence that descended after that was oppressive, charged, that was broken only by sputters in the candles. Stock-still, Sora stood just behind the door, not even venturing to breathe, tiny, fragile, impossibly misplaced in stolen robes, his fear an aura that clung to him. Vayne placed the paper on the table and rested on it, folding her gloved hands together. Her face was unyielding, impassive, as she stared at him for an seemingly endless amount of time. "Sora Hikari," she finally managed to utter, repeating his full name awkwardly on her lips. "The boy who descended from the heavens. An unusual… event."
Sora gulped, his mouth parched. He attempted to speak, but all he could get out was a croak.
Yesterday, you were… indisposed," continued Vayne, her frosty demeanor more intimidating than any scream. "And today I demand saner answers. Who is it that you are? From where more specifically do you originate? And most especially, how in heaven's name did you manage to find yourself in my courtyard in the midst of an attack? I shall not accept fairy tales or ramblings from a crazy lady."
She fixed him with a narrowed gaze. "Do you have anything to do with the Blood Heron Clan? Some form of conjuration by the Hidden Fire magicians? Your clothes… absurd. Fragile, useless. No one in Kurogane, not even Kurogane's lowest beggar, would ever be seen dead in such attire."
Summoning all his courage, he stammered, "I-I'm not a spy" as his own voice shook and was but a faint whisper. "I… I'm from… from Japan. It's… far away. Different."
"Japan?" Her chin tilted to one side, as if enjoying the rhythmic sound of the word. No recognition. "An unusual name in these regions. Describe to me this country. And have you descended from heaven by some means? Do you have flight capabilities? Use some type of device?"
He tried to explain Tokyo, his high school, his house, his mathematics tests, skateboards… all impossible, all absurd, in relation to this killing woman and this life in the keep. "I… I was crossing the sidewalk," he stammered. "There were… colors… and sounds… like broken glass in reverse. And then… I crashed here. I don't know how. I swear. I don't know where I am."
She listened to him in silence, her eyes never leaving him. Her face was that of a sceptic, but there was more. A curious, analytical interest. Rising from her chair, she glided silently across the table, moving towards him. Stopping short at an arm's length, she occupied that space. At close range, he could smell that peculiar mix again, that combination of tanned hide, cool metal, blood, and dehydrated herbs.
"Your story defies all that we know," Vayne told him quietly but firmly. "Fantastical. Childish. And yet." Her eyes narrowed at him, sweeping him from top to bottom. "You have inconsistencies. Your scent. As I noticed yesterday. Cleansing in ways that are not natural here. You have no stench of fear in the usual way, but you shake like an unhatched hatching. You have no stale sweat on you, or sickness, or grime from Kurogane. You smell like… nothing. Air after an electric storm on bare rock. That is… intriguing. And your original clothes, though absurd, the material, the style… ones that were not known to us." She stepped in close, and to avoid her, Sora drew back to crash into the unyielding wood behind him. The briefest glimmer of a smile, tough as ice touched Vayne's lips. "I won't hurt you. At least, not yet. You're… an anomaly. Something unusual. And unusual is valuable. Or dangerous. I want to know what you are."
She stood tall again. "In the meantime, however, here you are. In the Castle of Shadows. My castle. My domain. And therefore, under my control. And protection."
The word "protection" had an ominous tone on her lips. "But let there be no doubt about this, sky boy. This protection comes at a price. In Kurogane, there is price on all things. The rule is straightforward, as I've told you: eat, or be eaten. The weak feed the strong. The careless are carrion for the birds. And we." Her eyes creased from an unseemly glint. ".are the Crows."
She gestured toward the maps on the wall. "This is a harsh world. Violent. We're in constant strife. With other clans, with beasts in the wasteland, even with ourselves. Survival is all that matters. Dominance. Being able to get the job done." She stood facing him again, her face hardening. "Do you know what all this is, Sora Hikari? Do you have any idea about what kind of situation you've gotten yourself in?" Sora nodded dully, too tired to comment. Such callous words from Vayne formed an even more dreadful image in his mind than that bout he viewed.
"Good," he commented, as though in approval of his frightened reaction. "So long as for now, you're neither warrior nor tactician. No practical creature in any conventional sense. You're an enigma. Something in my care to puzzle over. As long as such, you'll have lodging over your head, simple victuals, and the relative protection of these walls. In return, I demand complete obedience. And compliance. You'll answer my questions when I pose them. And obey as I command."
She went back to her own table and, picking up a tiny bronze bell, struck it once, producing a sharp, clear ring that resonated through the chamber. The door came open and Kenji stepped in, standing just in crossing.
"Kenji," he told him, not glancing toward Sora. "This thing must be done. Inaction will bring no answer. Assign him menial work. Have him assist in the kitchens with carrying and scrubbing. Have him sweep the inner courtyards. Something that needs not skill nor trust. Have him learn to be useful in some small manner. You will answer for him. Expect him to make no more trouble and to obey. No one is to lay hands on him without my permission, but neither is he to be indulged. Do I make that clear?"
"Yes, Lady Vayne," he answered in that gruff tone. His eyes snapped to Sora, but he remained impassive.
"You can leave. Take him on," she said to him, returning to browsing through documents in front of her, wavinmg them aside in effect. The interview was at an end.
Kenji gestured for Sora to precede him through the door. Sora stepped back into the darkened corridor, glancing over her shoulder one final time at Vayne Kurotsuki. Her eyes were already lowered, buried in documents, an image of frozen calculating precision among maps for war and the scent of iron. The feeling of being an insect under microscopic study, an unusual pawn in a game about which he was just beginning to realize lethal rules, settled in Sora's belly.
He closed the study door behind them. Turning to look at Sora, his face was as impassive as usual.
"You heard the Lady," he snarled. "You'll work. Don't ask stupid questions. Don't go where you don't have to. And for all that's holy, don't try to escape. I've warned you, there is nowhere to escape to that's more unendurable than here. Do your work, keep your mouth shut, and maybe you'll live to see another dreary dawn in this god-cursed place. Carry on. The kitchens need yesterday's dinner pots cleaned."
The word "service" had never been quite so harmless as it might have been anywhere else. It gave him another shiver, as he followed hulking guard after hulking guard through the crooked, shadowy corridors of the Castle of Shadows, deeper still toward the heart of his new dark world. Alive, yes. Safe, perhaps. But at that instant, he was a prisoner, possession, and guinea pig for the rapacious lady of the Crows to study. And at what price, he now dreaded, that existence, was going to cost him.