The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

Don’t move, I tell myself. Don’t move, don’t let him see.

  But he can see me—all of me. I can feel his gaze traveling over my body like the tip of a nail, scratching a hot, shameful line across my shoulders and down my back.

  A weight settles on my neck; my lip trembles. I don’t know if it’s fear or self-control that keeps me from slapping his hand away, and I hate myself for it.

  How far am I willing to take this charade? Orean’s hand slides lower, his fingers skimming over my back. Cold washes over me as I realize that it’s not a matter of willingness. I don’t have a choice, not really.

  Bile rises in my throat. No. No. I should fight. I must fight. I can’t just let him—but what would that achieve? He could snap my neck in his hand right now. I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “Come,” Orean says to Sadra, tickling my collarbone with a lock of my own hair. “Have a closer look. I know the Temple doesn’t approve of thralls. Surely you must be curious.”

  “I can wait for that,” Sadra says, and kisses him. “But not for you. The Council takes up entirely too much of your time—and your energy.” She laughs throatily and hands him a cup. “Poor old man,” she teases. “I’ve made you a tonic.”

  Orean gives an appreciative grunt. “Kind of you.”

  Orean takes the cup and downs its contents in one gulp. He doesn’t see the flicker of satisfaction cross Sadra’s face, but I do, and I dare to hope as she insinuates herself between me and Orean, pushing him away and guiding him toward the bed. His movements are strangely fluid; his feet scrape across the floor, and his head bobs weakly on his shoulders.

  Sadra dumps him on the bed, where he sprawls motionless among the covers. She studies him for a moment, then gives him a vicious poke in the back of the head and turns away. I stoop and pull on my shift with shaking hands, gasping in little jerks.

  “Thanks be,” Sadra breathes, putting her arms around me. “Hush, now. You’re safe.”

  “Wh-what—”

  She grins wickedly and holds up her hand, flicking at one of the rings with her thumb. The flat blue stone rises, revealing a tiny chamber that must have held some kind of drug. Somehow, I’m not shocked. And I’m not sure if it makes me trust her more or less.

  “Sit,” she says, pushing me into a plush chair and tucking my shawl around me. “Wait.”

  I watch, my muscles clenched in misery, as Sadra climbs onto the bed beside Orean. She tucks her hair behind her ear and leans over, whispering into his ear. I wonder a little bit what she’s doing, but I can’t seem to hold onto the thought long enough to really do a good job of it.

  My mind is—not empty, not like a thrall’s—but frozen, stuttering and blinking like the screen of an overloaded computer about to crash. Questions tumble over and around each other, filling my mind so that I can’t properly think about any of them.

  What is Sadra doing here? Why did she save me? If she’s trying to help me, why is she with Orean? Why should she care anything about me in the first place? And why in the world does she have poison hidden in her rings? Who needs to keep weapons like that on hand—in bed?

  “Sasha.” Sadra kneels in front of me, and I blink as she grips my knee. “We have to go.”

  “Is he dead?” My eyes flick to the figure on the bed. If he’s breathing, I can’t see it.

  “No,” Sadra says. “Just asleep. Come, now.”

  Sadra tows me through the halls, stopping only to drag me into an empty room when the house steward passes on his nightly rounds. Has he reached my room yet? Has he noticed I’m gone? He could be on his way to Ismeni right now. I could be lost.

  I should be panicking right now, but I feel curiously calm, like my body and even my thoughts are moving along without me. I follow Sadra without question, too numb to protest her rough treatment or remove her hand from my wrist.

  Sadra sighs in relief as we slip into the bedroom I share with Dove. There’s no movement from Dove’s bed, but that very stillness gives her away. Guilt cracks the ice around my mind, just a little.

  Poor Dove. I must be making her crazy. How does she do it? How can she stand to continue like this?

  I shake my head in disbelief, then remember the weight of Orean’s hand on my neck and the whisper of cloth against my skin as it fell to the floor. I’d do a lot to never feel that again.

  I sit on the bed and hold my head in my hands.

  “Sasha,” Sadra whispers, sitting beside me, “I know you have questions. I will try to answer, but I’m afraid you won’t understand. Not yet.”

  I nod, too miserable to speak.

  Sadra hesitates, then says, “There is…a thing I can do. While you sleep. It will help you. Will you let me?”

  I don’t see that I have a choice about it. This isn’t something I can handle by myself. If nothing else, I learned that from tonight’s disastrous escapade.

  I close my eyes, releasing a long, shuddering breath. “Yes.”

  Pas de deux

  I lie curled on my side with the thin hospital sheets pulled over my head to keep out the light. It hurts my eyes, and the chair in the corner is scaring me. Not the chair object, I mean, but the chair itself. The…the idea of the chair: It used to have two names, and now it has three.

  Emily is arguing about it with the doctor, but she doesn’t realize that’s what they’re talking about. I try again to tell her the chair’s new name. Nothing comes out. I try harder, straining to pull the words out of my mind and into my mouth.

  “There it is again,” Emily says. “At first, I thought it was Russian, but I asked someone and he said it wasn’t. It doesn’t sound like gibberish, though, does it? It sounds like a word.”

  “Ms. Somers, aphasia can present in many different ways—”

  “I know,” Emily snaps. “You told me that. But what if it’s, I don’t know, a name? A place? What if she’s trying to tell us something?”

  “She probably is,” the doctor allows. “But unless we can find some significance in her utterances, our efforts are better spent on her other symptoms.”

  Symptoms? What symptoms?

  Someone else enters the room and starts talking about abuse—Abuse, with a capital “A.” They’re talking about James—but why? What does he have to do with anything? I wish he were here, though, because Emily is crying, and I can’t comfort her. I can’t do anything.

  * * *

  A breeze drifts in from the window and wakes me as it hits my sweat-soaked body. My eyelids twitch, then still. What will I find when I open them? Pale blue walls covered with photographs and dance posters or hard, bare stone? Fear grips my belly in its fist and squeezes.

  You know, a voice whispers. You know. Hiding won’t change that.

  Reluctantly, I sit up. I’m still here, still in this strange world of my nightmares. I shiver as the voices and feelings from my dream come back to me. I didn’t know, I didn’t remember—I wasn’t me. Not the me that I am now, anyway. It was like being inside another person’s head. Just like this world felt when I was on the other side, I realize. But now this feels real—horrifically, terrifyingly real.

  But I feel real. I feel good. My body is strong and healthy, and my mind is clearer than it’s been since before Baba Nadia died. What does that mean? Was this real all along and I’m just now waking up? Is the doll now that other Sasha, the other me?

  Does that person even exist?

  I don’t understand. I press the heels of my hands against my temples, automatically suppressing a groan.

  Don’t speak.

  Don’t make a sound.

  Oddly, it’s Sadra’s voice rather than my own reminding me to stay silent. As my eyes travel around the room, words pop into my head—words I didn’t know before.

  For a moment I panic, afraid that these are the only words I have, that I’ve lost the languages I grew up with. With a guilty glance at Dove’s sleeping form, I break my rule and whisper to myself: “Chair. Stul. Window. Okno. Bed. Postel.”

  Those words are still
there. Other things aren’t, though: My toes wiggle freely, unencumbered by the bruises and blisters I’ve carried with me for nearly ten years, ever since I first began dancing en pointe. My grandmother warned me that it was a serious step, that it would hurt and keep hurting. I didn’t care. I wore my torn toenails and knobby knuckles like badges of honor and kept dancing. I never tried to hide them—they were just as much a talisman as my necklace was. A charm, a reminder of who I am.

  And now they’re gone, melted into smooth, clean skin.

  My necklace…if I focus, I can call up the image of a figure bending over me, silhouetted against a hazy background of blue-white mist. A scar stands out more clearly than the face behind it; a drop of sweat—or perhaps a tear—falls onto my cheek. Sensations I remember more clearly: warm, rough fingers at my neck; a sharp jerk as the chain breaks; and a rush of grief.

  Tears sting my eyes as they have so many times since Sadra pulled me completely into this world. I blink them away. I’ll have a lot more to cry about if I get caught.

  I close my eyes and school my features into stillness. Smooth, like glass, like the porcelain doll they think I am.

  Dove stirs, reminding me that it’s time to start the day. There’s an empty basin resting on the table between our beds. I take it outside, through the door that leads from our bedroom to a stone balcony. A flight of stairs made from cobbled stone takes me to the small courtyard where Dove and I get our water twice a day from a hand pump.

  Outside the courtyard lies the garden. I allow myself one longing glance toward the old wooden door and then hurry inside with the water. It’s only a few hours. Half a day, no more, and then Sadra will be able to tell me what the hell is going on.

  * * *

  Dove and I take turns washing. While I run a wet cloth over my face and body, Dove lays a clean dress on my bed. A shift follows, along with soft leather slippers. It must be a habit from—from before, when I needed her to help me do everything. My mouth pulls sharply downward; I hide it with the shift, pulling the thin fabric over my head. When Dove turns, my mask, like the rest of my clothes, is firmly in place.

  I sit patiently while Dove arranges my hair and then her own with quick, sure movements. How can Ismeni not realize that there’s a person behind those dark eyes? What Dove does is art—no empty shell could produce such elegance. How can they not know?

  We find Ismeni still in bed, sprawled in a tangle of blankets and nightclothes. Somehow, she looks elegant even with her limbs flopping around and her hair in her face. Dove moves about the room, putting away stray pieces of clothing and tidying Ismeni’s vanity. I help her, earning myself a long look from Dove but no protest.

  “Good morning, my darlings.”

  Hearing such an endearment from Ismeni’s lips sends disgust rippling over my skin like a wave of heat. Ismeni yawns and stretches, oblivious. She smiles at me with genuine fondness, and my heart warms in spite of myself—another reaction from “before.” It makes me sick.

  By the time Ismeni finishes getting ready, my face is aching with the strain of maintaining a blank expression. Not for the first time, I marvel at Dove’s seemingly effortless performance. Practice, I remind myself. It just takes practice and repetition, like anything else, and I know I can do that.

  The thought comforts me as we follow Ismeni to breakfast. As she takes her place between Orean and Cimari, Dove and I take ours with the other thralls along the wall. Sadra sits at Orean’s right hand, nibbling at a piece of cheese. Though she hides it well, I can tell she’s tired. There’s a sort of hesitation to her movements that I’m all too familiar with. I know the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that makes you weigh every ounce of strength like a miser with his last few coins. Whatever she was doing to help me last night, it took a lot out of her.

  A tinkling laugh distracts my attention. Ismeni and Cimari are talking and giggling like schoolgirls. Their conversation moves too quickly for me to catch most of it, but I understand enough to know they’re talking about Cimari’s wedding. Cimari doesn’t seem all that interested, though, and neither am I.

  I tune them out…until I realize they’re talking about me—or us. The slaves.

  “You will dress your thrall in something a bit more presentable, I hope.”

  Ismeni eyes the frayed and ill-fitting gown on Cimari’s slave, who stares at her grubby feet with perfect indifference. The muscles in my back clench against an involuntary shiver.

  “I suppose so.” Cimari grins, nudging Ismeni with her elbow. “You can be in charge of its attire. I know how you enjoy playing pretend.”

  Ismeni smiles, unperturbed. “There’s no shame in wanting to be surrounded by pretty things. Does the Temple not teach us to look for beauty in everything?”

  “It’s more than that with you,” Cimari says. “It’s like you think they’re your friends.”

  “But they are.” Ismeni smiles at me and Dove, and my jaw aches with the urge to grind my teeth.

  “No matter how well you dress them or train them, they’re not people, Isi.” Cimari laughs, genuinely amused, while I breathe through my rage—in through the nose, out through the mouth.

  “Oh, hush,” Ismeni says tolerantly. “You have your own blind spots. Your fascination with Light is most unseemly in a girl of your station. You’re lucky to be marrying someone as silly about it as you are.”

  “Silly! He’s the House Premier!”

  “And, anyway, it’s not all pretend,” Ismeni says. “Thralls can learn quite a lot, if you’re willing to teach them. Cygnet has been positively blooming. I have high hopes for her.”

  “Yes…it has been progressing quite quickly lately, hasn’t it,” Cimari says, giving me a narrow look.

  “Aha,” Ismeni says. “So you have noticed.”

  “It’s odd,” Cimari replies. “So, yes, I noticed. And did you know—”

  “Tell us more about the wedding banquet,” Sadra says quickly. “Will you sing, Ismeni?”

  Ismeni and Cimari both look at her in surprise but aren’t stupid enough to be rude to her right in front of Orean. Sadra pulls Orean into the conversation as well, drawing everyone’s attention away from the subject of slaves—or thralls, as I suppose we’re called. But now and again Cimari’s hard black eyes flicker in my direction, gleaming with interest.

  Finally, Ismeni rises from the table and beckons to Dove and me. Cimari’s eyes narrow, and she flicks one manicured finger in my direction. A sharp pain stings my neck, but I don’t cry out or even break my stride as I follow dutifully after my mistress. Cimari will have to do better than that if she wants to break my mask. But despite my bravado, a twist of fear lodges in my spine. I know Cimari can do better than that. And I suspect she will, if given the chance.

  When Ismeni finally dismisses us for the afternoon, I nearly burst out of my skin trying to stay calm. As soon as I reach the shelter of the garden, I run, darting along the paths until I reach my secluded little nook. The roses are in full bloom, as always, little bursts of color and delicious perfume. They’re like tiny stars, filling the shadows with light. And in spite of everything, it soothes me.

  “You’re here!” Sadra moves forward as if to hug me but then stops, lowering her arms. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  “I came,” I say. “I need to know—what is this place? Why did you bring me here?”

  “I didn’t do anything of the sort. I was sent to help you,” Sadra explains. “By people who don’t believe the House’s lies, who fight to free thralls and heal them. We’re called the Bird’s Path.”

  “Heal—I am sick?” My heart flutters. It’s been less than a day, in my mind. Though my body is strong and healthy now, I can remember all too clearly what it’s like to be ill.

  “Perhaps ‘heal’ isn’t the best word,” Sadra admits with a sigh. “But I don’t know how else to say it—I’m no Lightcrafter.”

  “Lightcrafter?”

  “Light,” she says. “Power—what Ismeni uses to move things and creat
e her glamours.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “What is glamour?”

  “How Ismeni changes her appearance at will,” Sadra explains. “Perhaps you’ve never noticed—she’s much more subtle about it than many women are.”

  “I thought it was paint,” I say, remembering how I marveled at her skill with cosmetics.

  “Some of it is,” Sadra admits. “She’s very good at it. But Light is—it’s—oh, curse it, I don’t know how to explain.”

  “Magiya,” I murmur. Magic. Surrounded as I am by ever-blooming roses, I don’t question it. “I know what it is. Is that my sickness? This Light?”

  “Yes,” Sadra says. “Sort of. They told me all about it, but I don’t understand it, either—not completely. The people I work with, they told me that thralls aren’t empty shells, that they’re people whose minds have been trapped by the House of Light and Shadow.”

  “What is—who—what are you saying?” I breathe heavily through my nose, frustrated as much by my own inability to form questions as Sadra’s shoddy explanations.

  “They said this would happen,” Sadra mutters, and drops onto an old bench overgrown with vines. “I’m sorry, Sasha. I’m going about this all wrong. I’m supposed to start from the beginning—but where’s the beginning?”

  “How I am here?” I suggest.

  “Alright. Come sit and I’ll try to explain.”

  “Is it safe?” I ask warily, looking back toward the house.

  “It’s as safe as it’s ever been,” Sadra replies. “That is to say, not very, but safer than anywhere else.”

  With another nervous glance at the house, I settle myself on the bench beside her.

  With a deep breath, Sadra begins, “You were brought here—to this world, to Kingsgarden—by the House of Light and Shadow to be a vessel for Light. That’s what we call the power that some people can use to do extraordinary things. But people think that you were created, not stolen from somewhere else. They don’t know that thralls are—well, alive. Aware. Or that they could be. Many really aren’t aware. Do you remember?”