Goddess in the Machine

by Lora Beth Johnson

“Is that bad?”

  Instead of answering, he pulled a rose-gold circlet from his bag. Not a crown or a tiara—more like a wreath, gold strands twisting into delicate vines and flowers, so intricate Andra was afraid to touch it. Zhade set it on her head. It weighed practically nothing, but the elaborate detailing pricked her scalp, sending a tingle down her spine.

  “It’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

  He paused, taking in Andra’s dress and hair and ’masked features. After a brief hesitation, he reached for her face. She tried to at swat him, but he grabbed her wrists. “Stop,” he whined. “I’m fixing it.”

  He activated the holo’display of Andra’s cos’mask. A few swipes of his fingers, and he pulled away.

  “Better,” he said.

  She gave him a shocked look before leaning over and glancing in the mirror.

  Holy shit.

  Not only did she look amazing—and she did look amazing, not like a sim star, but like the best version of herself, her round cheeks glowing, her eyelids dusted with gold—but Zhade had made the changes manually. Even in her time, it was difficult to program a ’mask from scratch. Most people just downloaded the look they wanted, keeping a catalog of them in their ’bands, and used their ’implant to activate them. But Zhade had made drastic changes to the algorithm with a few simple commands, as casually as though he were tying a shoe.

  “How’d you do that?” Andra lightly pressed her fingers against the node at her ear. With the ’mask and her new clothes, in front of a backdrop of pink marble and velvet furniture, she almost did look like a goddess.

  Zhade shrugged. “I keep telling you, I’m a sorcer. Working with magic is a bit what we do.”

  Andra gave herself one last look and followed him to the door. Before he opened it, he met her gaze. His eyes were a deep brown, and mixed with his blond hair, they made him look like a puppy. A mischievous puppy. He looked like he was about to say something, but all he did was adjust her crown and nod to himself in approval.

  They exited the relative safety of Andra’s room. The hallways were now lit with torches, and guards were stationed around every twist and turn. A few servants scurried past, averting their gazes. When they occasionally passed someone whose attire suggested they were relatively important, Zhade would bow to them, and they would bow to Andra.

  As they made their way through the palace, Andra lagged a half step behind Zhade, dread knotting her stomach.

  She cut him a sideways glance. “So . . .”

  “Soze?”

  “Ceremony?” she asked. “Big ritual in celebration of me? What does that entail? What should I do?”

  Zhade shrugged, not breaking his stride. “Don’t make eye contact too long. Respond to questions, but give vague answers, and don’t provide info on the voluntary. If asked to make a speech, make it short, and make it import. And don’t eat the stew. It’ll give you gas for days.”

  He stopped and watched her, and she realized he was waiting for her to respond. She nodded, swallowed her fear, and lifted her chin.

  “Can you have memory of all that?” he asked.

  “Well, you’re my escort,” she said. “You can remind me.”

  He took her chin in his hand, and what should have been an aggressive gesture, or an intimate one, was neither. Instead, it felt desperate. “You are not escorted. You enter unaccompanied, because you are a goddess, and will lean on no one.”

  Zhade released her, his face relaxing into his cocky grin.

  “Now, let’s meet your worshippers, Goddess.”

  She shivered in the drafty corridor. “But what about goddess lessons? And when are you bringing me the supplies I asked for? And what about—”

  He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. Her breath caught, and she watched him watch her through his dark lashes.

  “Did I mention you look beautiful?”

  Dear god, he was serious. There was no hint of amusement on his face, no sense of irony in his voice, not even the teasing lilt that permeated his every word. He was paying her a genuine, heartfelt compliment.

  “That’s terrifying,” she whispered.

  He drew back, brow furrowed. “What?”

  “You, being serious. It’s disturbing. What’s your malfunction? Are you dying?”

  He faked offense. “I can be serious. I’m mereish saying, you look nice without the bloodstains, and seeya, all . . .” He waved his hand to gesture at all of her. “ . . . agowned. You should always remind people who you are. It imports to set yourself apart.” He tucked a stray hair under her tiara.

  “Really? Is that the advice I get from an exiled p—”

  Prince. That’s what she was going to say: that he was supposed to teach her how to be a goddess, how to decide her fate, and whatever else nonsense he spouted, nonsense he wasn’t even following as he lurked in his brother’s shadow. But none of that came out, because his mouth was suddenly covering hers.

  She panicked, her muscles stiffened, and she stood frozen, but his hand was on her cheek, his thumb doing something that could only be called caressing, and she was suddenly kissing him back. His other arm snaked around her, drawing her close so her front was crushed against his. And he was so gentle, and it was not at all what she expected, and her hands were threading through his hair, messing up its carefully disheveled appearance, and it wasn’t enough. She wanted to dishevel all of him.

  She’d kissed boys before. A boy. Jay, behind the bleachers, freshman year. Neither had been into it. They’d just done it because they were both considered the “fat kids” and it seemed to be expected of them. Andra remembered thinking it was wetter than she’d anticipated and that lips felt weird.

  This was nothing like that. She wasn’t waiting for it to be over or overly aware of her limbs. She wanted to keep kissing him, wanted him to keep kissing her. She wanted.

  Zhade’s arms clenched, and she thought he was about to deepen the kiss, but he pulled away, looking down at her. The thumb on her cheek traveled to her lower lip, tracing it, and oh—

  “You should be at care,” he whispered, and she watched his lips, “with what you say in these halls.”

  Oh.

  He’d been shutting her up.

  She stood back and nodded, and fought the impulse to wipe his kiss from her lips because suddenly it felt dirty—unearned.

  “Evens, Goddess, time to peace.” His voice sounded as it usually did—lazy, arrogant, indifferent.

  He extended his arm, but she didn’t take it.

  * * *

  Zhade dropped Andra off in a brightly painted alcove, telling her to wait, and leaving with a wink before she could ask what she was supposed to wait for. The tiny nook made her claustrophobic, even though the walls were pockmarked with holes, like dozens of small windows. A cool breeze drifted in, but it did nothing to calm her nerves. She was close to wandering off to find out what she was supposed to be doing, when Maret appeared. He gave her a cursory glance, then turned away and started pacing.

  She stood stiffly against the far wall, the ghost of Zhade’s kiss still on her lips, as his brother prowled back and forth across from her. He held his hands behind his back, leaning slightly forward as he walked, his face pinched into a severe expression. His light hair was perfectly slicked back from his forehead, where his crown gleamed silver every time he passed a window. His feet created a syncopated rhythm on the stone floor, over and over until Andra wanted to snap at him to stop. But she needed to play nice so he would believe she truly was a goddess and not execute her.

  She watched as his pacing quickened, his jaw tightening. She swallowed.

  “So . . .”

  He stopped, his back to her, and Andra hurried on before she shorted out.

  “What’s this Awakening Ceremony like?”

  “Short.” He started pacing again.

  And
ra took a steadying breath. “Right. Right.”

  Click-click click-click went Maret’s footsteps.

  “What should I expect?”

  This time he didn’t even pause his movements. “To be worshipped, Goddess. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Are you nervous?”

  Maret froze. He squinted into a beam of light. “Scuze?”

  “You’re pacing. It’s often a nervous tic. I just don’t know what you’d be nervous about.”

  “I—nothing—habit, I spoze.”

  Andra shrugged. “Well, I’m nervous.”

  That’s what people did, right? Empathize? Surviving this planet would be easier if Maret was on her side. Or, at the very least, thought she was on his.

  His expression relaxed, but didn’t soften. “I don’t see why you have anything to be nerveful bout.” He leaned against the wall. It didn’t look nearly as natural as when Zhade did it. “You mereish have to stand there. I have to do all the work.”

  “What do you have to do?”

  “I have to speak.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it?” he sneered. “Would you like to do it instead?”

  She blanched. “No thank you.”

  “I recked not.” Maret started pacing again, and this time, Andra heard him muttering something under his breath.

  He seemed different than he’d been in the throne room and in his suite. Less confident. More whiny. Even his speech patterns were altered, and she wondered if he put on an act when the Advisor was around.

  Andra coughed. “Your mom didn’t seem to want to give me access to the ’bots—angels. Is there a reason?”

  Maret whipped around, and Andra was certain she’d gone too far. His gaze was intense, his muscles taut. She stepped back. For a moment, she thought he would attack—not with his crown but with his fists. He took a deep breath and smoothed his hair. “My advisor recks what serves the citians best. She wants to make certz you have time to accomplish that.”

  “And what serves the citians best?” Andra asked. “Shouldn’t it be fixing the ’dome that keeps them safe, so you don’t have to kill so many people?”

  Maret’s hand lifted again to his hair, hovered above it, clenched, then drifted back to his side. “I said you would have access to angels, Goddess,” he said through gritted teeth. “They can also address what is crystal a problem with your hearing.”

  Andra crossed her arms and plopped into a nearby chair.

  Maret scowled. “Stand up. You’ll wrinkle your dress.”

  She glared until he turned away. There was only so much nice she could play. She could hear the hum of voices on the other side of the alcove’s door, and nerves were overtaking her.

  “So,” she said, “you go in, make a speech, they clap, and then we’re done?”

  Maret was breathing slowly through his nose. “Firm. Just a few minutes of being worshipped, and then we’re done.”

  It should have been a relief, but something about Maret’s tone made it sound like a threat.

  FOURTEEN

  THE SPY

  Zhade was both stressed and bored as the crowd filled the room, buzzing excitedish.

  He was stationed plastered to the cathedzal’s back wall, fake saber at his side. He’d been to oozhles of these ceremonies, and he’d hated every tick of them. The chanting, the incense, the prickle of stardust.

  There were dozens of chapels throughout the city dedicated to each of the goddesses, but there was sole one cathedzal in the Rock, and it was one of the largest rooms apalace. The space was thin, but tall, and any echoes it might have produced were released by the numerful holes pockmarking the ceiling and three of the walls. These were said to let in the stardust, though Zhade noticed the dust could move through walls just evens without them, and the room needed days of drying out after every rain.

  Everything was deep shades of red and mahogany, and the stardust vents did little to brighten the room. There were a few benches up front for the olds, but mostish people stood. It was one of the things Zhade hated bout the ceremonies. Stand up straightish. Don’t slouch. Mereish talk when you say the prayers.

  Today’s ceremony would be blessedish short. Maret would intro the Third to the people, and fin would be fin. Later ceremonies would take longer, and the Goddess would need to be prepped on how to behave. He’d sent word through the speak-easy to Wead. The Goddess’s lessons would have to begin tonight.

  Zhade recked full well this ceremony was a test. While Maret was introing the Goddess, he was also watching to see how the people responded. They needed to adore her in a way that made them worship Maret, not her. To survive Eerensed—to survive Maret—she needed to half-walk the thin string between immortality and sacrifice.

  He had the urge to check the tracking spell in his pocket, but resisted. The scrying ball he carried was spelled to locate the rose-gold tiara he’d found in the First’s rooms yestereven. He was surprised Tsurina hadn’t melted it down, but it was in the First’s abandoned jewel chest. From there, it wasn’t hard to cast the tracking spell, and now he just needed the Goddess to get attached to the thing, so he would always reck where she was.

  “Bodhizhad.”

  He stiffened, turning toward the honeyed voice. “Grande Advisor.”

  Tsurina wore a silver dress and tapped one of her razor-sharp nails against her cheek.

  Zhade flashed her a grin, hiding his nerves. She had always given him the fraughts. “Shouldn’t you be astage?”

  She tilted her head. “Shouldn’t you be dead in the Wastes?”

  He forced out a laugh. “Hear, hear. Just because you wish for something doesn’t make it true.”

  She lifted a single brow, looking down her nose at Zhade though she was bareish taller. “Full true. Wishes don’t, but actions do.”

  He smiled as though she hadn’t just implied she was going to kill him. “Decide your fate, marah?”

  “Hmm,” Tsurina said non-commitalish. She gave Kiv a brief glance. He nodded back, and she moved on without another word, gliding toward her seat astage.

  He’d forever recked the Grande Advisor wanted him dead. At times he wondered why he was still alive, because not even Zhade could avoid death if Tsurina wanted it so. She hadn’t killed him for a reason. He just didn’t reck what it was. Or why she was letting Maret rule in her place. Or where the Silver Crown came from.

  “Not the advisor’s shadow today, Kiv?” Zhade muttered, leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed.

  “Neg. Yours,” Kiv grunted, and Zhade looked up to find Kiv watching him.

  Zhade winked.

  Before Kiv could respond, the back door opened and Maret entered to the fanfare of trompets. A hush fell over the cathedzal. The Guv was dressed in his normal drab colors, the silver stitching glittering in the sunbeams sifting through the stardust vents. The mysteriful Crown winked in and out of the light as he made his march to the podium. Behind him was a backdrop of stained glass forming the First’s Coil overlaid with the Second’s Crystal and the Third’s Celestia.

  “People of Eerensed,” Maret started. His voice echoed hollowish, the crowd absorbing every word. “We have been blessed with the awakening of two goddesses in our lifetime, and when the Third disappeared, we recked we would not see another.”

  What Maret didn’t say, and what the people chose to forget, was what had killed the first two goddesses, but it was full bars smart of Maret not to remind them.

  “But our fate has been decided yet again. We’re here today to celebrate the Third’s awakening and return.”

  Energy thrummed through the crowd. Cathedzal wasn’t the place for cheering, but they wanted to.

  “Eerensed has never been stronger,” Maret continued. He touched the Silver Crown at his temple, as though anyone needed to be given memory it was there. In adds to the guards, a
ngels were stationed round the room, waiting to respond to Maret’s High Magic. “I will continue to protect our city from the pockets, and all outside forces that threaten us. No meteor what our new and final goddess brings, we will be safe. Sole this moren, the Goddess has already promised me her help.”

  Zhade bit back a groan. Tonight’s first goddess lesson would be bout not making promises she couldn’t keep.

  “Many of you have noticed the gods’ dome weakening,” Maret continued, and Zhade’s stomach plummeted. If Maret was admitting something was wrong, that meant he couldn’t hide it anymore. And now, he had someone to shift the blame to. “We’ve had reports of increased winds in Southwarden, decreased rain in our farming districts, and for certz, the black ley lines that so often precede broken spells are spreading.”

  Zhade had bareish noticed when he arrived, but imagining back, there had been something strange bout the gods’ dome. If he’d looked closeish, he probablish would have seen lines of black rot creeping cross it like naked trees against the sky. He’d seen it before in some of his mam’s spells. Though some magic sustained itself, not all lasted forever. So many of her spells must be dying without her.

  The Guv continued. “But now that our Third has returned, there is nothing to worry bout. She will work with me not sole to strengthen the gods’ dome, but also to expand our borders, and protect us from invasion.”

  Maret’s words had a rehearsed rhythm. He was not an engaging speaker, didn’t care to be. Didn’t need to be when the people lived in fear of the magic he wielded. Tsurina sat tall behind him, and Zhade imagined she was mouthing the words with her son. Zhade bet his butter she’d written this speech.

  As Maret droned on, Zhade scanned the room, watching the crowd fidget. They were packed tight as a rock tin, kidduns settled on parents’ shoulders, olds leaning against youngers. There were people from every section of Eerensed, all their faces raised in anticipation of their Goddess.

  All but one.

  Cross the room, a woman was staring straightish at Zhade.

  One of her eyes was magic, shining bright against her black skin. Her head was shaved like a waster’s, and she wore the thick-knitted clothing Zhade had come to associate with the desert. He stared back, but her gaze didn’t waver. He recked he saw something shiny flicker in her hand.