The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  An anguished yelp distracts me from my thoughts. I keep my gaze soft and unfocused but watch out of the corner of my eye as Cimari steadies herself with a hand on the back of her chair.

  “Overgrown rat,” she mutters before kicking Pretty Girl out of her way.

  Anger burns under my skin as Pretty Girl rushes to me, limping slightly on the foot that Cimari stepped on. She cowers against my legs, whimpering, staring up at me with begging eyes. My stomach twists with the desire to give Pretty Girl the comfort she needs and pain at my inability to do so. The weight of my servitude presses on me like a physical force beating down on my shoulders. I’ve never felt so helpless—or so useless—in all my time here.

  “Cimari!” Ismeni cries, her eyes wide with shock.

  “Forgive me, Ismeni,” Cimari says, instantly contrite. “I just—”

  For once, Ismeni doesn’t fall for Cimari’s charm. “She’s just a baby,” she says angrily. “She doesn’t know any better, but you should. I can’t think what has gotten into you lately. First Cygnet, now this!”

  Sadra stays silent throughout the exchange, keeping her eyes on her plate and trying to remain unobtrusive. Getting involved would only draw attention, and the last thing we want is Cimari wondering why her brother’s bedmate would care about a dog or a thrall. And she would wonder, for it wouldn’t occur to Cimari that caring is something that comes naturally to many people.

  “Cygnet, pick her up and take her to your chamber,” Ismeni says. “Then come help me dress.”

  With a last, withering look at Cimari, she sweeps from the room. I gather Pretty Girl in my arms and follow with Pretty Girl’s legs and tail dangling awkwardly. She’ll be too big to carry soon. My arms tighten around her reflexively, as if in denial.

  I find Dove sitting in bed with a pile of mending. She flicks a glance at me, then down at the bed beside her. I settle Pretty Girl on the bed with Dove and turn to leave, but Pretty Girl’s soft whine makes me hesitate. She doesn’t understand why I sometimes can’t play with her or pet her or even acknowledge her, and when I can’t, it hurts her. It hurts me. But I leave anyway.

  Cimari is in Ismeni’s rooms when I get there, pacing like a caged animal. I hide my surprise and drift to Ismeni’s bed. As I set the coverings straight and fluff the pillows, I keep half my attention on my work and half on the ladies’ conversation.

  “You don’t understand, Isi,” Cimari is saying, “The Premier, he—”

  “Oh?” Ismeni raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. He was different, before you were betrothed. Kinder. More caring.”

  “I never needed coddling,” Cimari protests, wrinkling her nose. “But yes, he was different. He taught me. He confided in me. He—I thought—respected me. I thought we would be partners. But it’s been weeks since my last lesson. All his time is taken up with ‘matters of state’—matters he seems to think are far beyond the mental capacities of a mere woman.” Cimari’s voice is thick with bitterness. “Why could I not have been born a man? Why are women barred from serving the House directly or progressing to the highest levels of mastery? It’s not fair!”

  I have to turn my head away to hide my disgust at her hypocrisy. Poor Cimari, unable to pursue her chosen career. She has to stay at home with her jewels and perfumes and slaves instead.

  “Life often isn’t,” Ismeni says dryly. “I understand your frustration, Cimari, but I can’t condone your behavior these past weeks. Truly, my dear, it’s been appalling, and I’m not the only one to notice. People are beginning to talk. You must control yourself. Is that not what your precious House teaches? Control?”

  Cimari’s lips press together, then release as she sighs. “You’re right. I will do better.”

  “See that you do,” Ismeni says. “I will not tolerate further abuse of any creature in my care. If you cannot value Cygnet and Pretty Girl and Dove for their own sakes, you will at least respect my claim on them. They are not yours to discipline. They belong to me. Is that understood?”

  “Of course,” Cimari agrees. “I am sorry, Isi.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Be better.”

  Ismeni’s words are stern, but a smile takes the sting out of them and Cimari leaves in good spirits. It takes all I have to keep my resentment from showing on my face or in my movements. Of course Cimari finds it easier to understand ownership than empathy, but it hurts that Ismeni would resort to the same logic. I shouldn’t be surprised, but so often it seems like she and Cimari are two entirely different species.

  What I resent even more, though it disgusts me to admit it even to myself, is Ismeni’s very real affection for Cimari, a sociopath capable of feeling sorry only for herself and her own problems. And, despite everything, I think that Cimari’s desire for Ismeni’s regard is genuine. Their relationship is, if not healthy or profound, at least mutual.

  It’s a relief when Ismeni finally releases me into the garden for the day. I pass Dove’s fountain with a pang of worry; Dove has stopped coming to the garden and rests in bed instead. She seems to grow weaker by the day. How much longer can she last like this?

  * * *

  I wake once again with a hand covering my mouth. This time, though, the hand is accompanied by a musky-smelling weight on my chest and an anxious whisper in my ear as I jerk in panic.

  “It’s just me.” Luca removes his hand, and Kirit sticks his nose in my face instead. Luca scoops him away, depositing him on the floor with Pretty Girl. “Sorry. I didn’t know if you would scream. Bard sent me.”

  “Where’s Sadra?” I ask suspiciously, sitting up. “I’m not going anywhere without her.”

  “I went to her first,” he says. “She’s waiting for us in the tunnels.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  “Wait.” He puts a hand out as if to take hold of my arm, then pulls it back. “I owe you an apology.”

  “Do it outside,” I say with a pointed glance at Dove’s bed. “She needs to rest.”

  “Oh—of course.”

  I tell Pretty Girl to stay. Luca moves toward the door, his shoulders stiff. Kirit scampers ahead of him, slipping into the night and pausing on the stairwell. His ears twitch to and fro, and after a moment he looks back at us before disappearing down the stairs. The wind, crisp and sharp, blows through the open door as if in invitation. I step forward to peer apprehensively into the dark, shivering at the soft hiss of rustling leaves outside. Who knows what eyes could be watching us from those shadows?

  “Follow Kirit,” Luca whispers in my ear. “Stop when he does. He’ll see us safe.”

  We make our way carefully through the garden—much more carefully than we—he—did last night, that’s for sure. The muscles in my back clench painfully at the thought of what would have happened if we had been seen. I shoot a resentful glance at Luca over my shoulder. His apology had better be a damn good one.

  “The entrance is just through there,” Luca says finally. He points at a riot of bushes hugging the canyon wall. “But first…can I try to explain?”

  I shift uncomfortably. Suddenly I’m not so keen on the apology. “We should go—Sadra’s waiting, and so is Bard.”

  “It will only take a moment,” Luca says. “Please, just listen.”

  “Like you listened to me?” I snap, surprising both of us with my anger. “The longer we’re out here, the longer Sadra and I are both at risk. If you’re going to help us, help. Don’t make things more dangerous for us.”

  Luca nods, his eyes lowered. “This way.”

  He holds the branches back as best he can and points me toward the small crack in the cavern wall. I duck through and find Sadra clutching a torch. She hugs me tightly, holding the torch out to the side.

  “Stars, but it’s scary in here,” she whispers. “Even with a torch. Every shadow looks like a rock worm about to swallow you whole.”

  I open my mouth to ask what a rock worm is, then decide I probably don’t want to know. I have more than enough material to fuel my nightmares. No need to add more.
/>   “At least then we wouldn’t have to face Bard,” I say. “He must be furious.”

  Sadra smiles at the half-hearted joke, then makes a face. “Let’s get on with it, then. Keeping him waiting won’t do anything to sweeten his temper.”

  Luca clears his throat awkwardly and gestures for us to follow him.

  Tonight’s journey through the tunnels is only slightly less uncomfortable than the last. The silence is thick enough to cut with a knife, smothering us like a heavy, scratchy wool blanket. Shadows leap toward us and away, seeming to taunt us as we pass. Torchlight catches the occasional reflection from the stones of the tunnel, winking like tiny eyes and appearing and disappearing at random. I’m so relieved when it’s over I almost forget to be afraid.

  The tunnel’s exit is an uneven hole at about chest level. Through it, I can just make out an overgrown garden path and the bottom of a door beyond. Luca offers his hand, but I ignore it, hoisting myself up and through with a bit of scrambling.

  A damp, cold breeze makes me shiver as I step aside to let Sadra climb out after me. Luca and Kirit follow, showing no sign of discomfort or surprise at the cold. They must not spend very much time in the Terrace, where the seasons never change.

  “Welcome to my home,” he says with an ironic little bow. “Won’t you come in?”

  I give him a dark look and push past him, making for the door that already stands open. Bard waits for us in its shadow, his face hard as granite. My steps slow, then resume their steady progress; I square my shoulders as best I can. I did a stupid thing. I have to pay for it, and cowering won’t make it any easier.

  “Upstairs,” Bard says curtly. He jerks his head at us to follow and disappears into the house.

  Sadra hands me the torch and we follow in silence. Luca bolts the door behind us and catches up in a few long steps. Another step and he’s past us and at Bard’s side, directing him into a room at the top of the stairs.

  Sadra and I pause on the last step. We exchange a look, then enter the room.

  “Sit,” Bard says. He points to two chairs settled close together. “Both of you.”

  We sit.

  “I thought you knew the danger surrounding you,” Bard says after several long, uncomfortable seconds. “Evidently, I was mistaken. I am more than disappointed—I am disgusted. You each should know better.”

  He turns to look at me, and I wince.

  “Sasha, you have felt the pain of the whip on your back. I thought you would pay it more heed. I thought you were intelligent enough to realize that the House is capable of far worse.

  “And you, Sadra, you know what they are capable of, for I have shown you. As it appears that you have forgotten, you will share in Sasha’s lesson regarding exactly what kind of treatment you may expect from the House of Light and Shadow if you are caught.”

  Bard lowers his head, but not fast enough to hide the spasm of emotion that crosses his face. Cold creeps into my bones. I don’t believe he means to beat me, but I have this awful feeling that whatever he is going to do might be worse.

  “Give me your hands,” Bard says softly.

  I place a trembling hand in one of his; Sadra puts hers in the other. A heartbeat later, another hand settles over mine. I look up, startled, and meet Luca’s gaze. His apology is there in his eyes, and I find that it is a good one after all. His words are for Bard, but his eyes stay with me.

  “Give me your lesson also.”

  “So be it,” Bard says. “Sasha. Do you know what a House amulet is?”

  “It…it holds Light,” I say uncertainly, tearing my eyes away from Luca’s. “Like a thrall, but not as much, and it doesn’t last as long.”

  “Yes. I’m going to show you how an amulet is made.” He looks at me, his eyes sad. “Prosti menya.”

  Forgive me.

  “Close your eyes,” Bard says, and we do.

  * * *

  They’re here. Bodies lie scattered amid the dead leaves, still and silent as death itself. But they’re not dead—not all of them, not yet. Most will live to be transported and sold. But the others…

  One day, I will bring an end to this atrocity. I will end it, or I will die trying. No more will suffer as I have suffered—I, who was one of the lucky ones.

  There are children stirring. Dread roils in my belly, threatening to tip over into panic. The children—those who live—are never sold. It’s a poor investment, a House brother once told me. Even if a child should live to be sold, it won’t fetch much of a price. The Pall uses a body up in ten years, maybe twenty. A young child wastes half that time or more growing into something useful.

  “Attend, guardsman.” A small man in House robes sweeps by me, disappearing into the mists of the Deadwood. His voice floats back to me like a wraith. “Bring the small ones.”

  Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t stand by and watch evil men perform evil deeds before my eyes and do nothing.

  But no, not nothing. Bile rises in my throat. Not nothing. I lead the lambs to slaughter myself. I deliver them with my own hands.

  I see seven tiny bodies. Of those seven, four tiny chests rise and fall with movements so slight as to be nearly imperceptible. Three are still as stone. I lean over one, a tow-headed boy of about seven. His lashes flutter and he looks up at me with cloudy blue eyes that make my chest constrict with a familiar pain. My mouth firms in a split-second decision. I cannot save all of them, but that doesn’t mean I can’t at least attempt to save one of them.

  I kneel over the boy and bend close to his face as if listening for his breath.

  “Wait. Be quiet. Then run.” I repeat the simple instructions in as many languages as I can, then move on to the next body.

  A spasm of self-loathing wracks my bones. What a truly sad and unworthy savior I am, unable to offer more than a few words that will more than likely amount to nothing more than a slow death by exposure or starvation.

  And yet. It’s a better death than that which awaits him at the hands of the House mages. My heart turns to ash in my chest as I take the next body into my arms. I want to look away, but I force myself to take note of her red hair, her freckles, the milky pallor of her skin. I will remember you, I tell her silently. All of you.

  When the last child has been collected, the ritual begins. Three small forms are suspended above a smooth marble basin as long as a man is tall. The writhing bodies of the children are held with bands of Light twined around their wrists, their ankles, their ribs, and their foreheads. The Light shines without heat, without sight.

  Look away, my rational mind pleads. I will not, my heart replies.

  Chanting fills the air, low and sickening in its rhythm. The Light binding the children pulses in time. My blood thrums in my veins, drawn unwillingly into the pattern. Pressure builds and throbs in my joints and behind my eyes. Sweat pours down my back, soaking through the shirt I wear under my leathers.

  At the pressure’s peak, just when I fear my skin might burst with it, a robed mage steps forward and opens a cut along each child’s wrist. The pressure eases. I hate myself for the flush of relief that takes its place.

  Blood drips steadily, tracing the swirling marble with red.

  Another cut, another release.

  The blood pools like ink, spreading across the length of the basin. The chanting grows louder, more insistent, drawing Light into the basin to mingle and fuse with the children’s lifeblood.

  After far too long, the steady drip of red slows, then stops. The children are gone, their lives emptied into a pool of swiftly congealing blood cradled in marble. Soon the blood will be as hard and brittle as bone, ready to be crushed and beaten and re-molded into amulets: Three innocents reduced to commodities for sale.

  I turn away. I hate the hooded men—but I hate myself more.

  * * *

  Bard releases my hand and steps away. My fingers twitch, spasming, and latch onto the remaining hand—Luca’s. He grips mine just as fiercely, his knuckles white.
My other hand flies to my mouth as I gag, bending over double in my chair. Sadra swallows and reaches over to squeeze my shoulder with a clammy, shaking hand.

  “My Gift is memory,” Bard says bitterly. “I have seen many things: Vile, evil, hateful things, and they will never fade. They will never leave me. Remember that I carry this burden for you, child, and for those who will come after you. Do not disappoint me again.”

  He leaves us, and we watch him go in silence. Then we too make our way into the night, guided by the light of a single torch too small to keep the darkness at bay.

  Fondu

  That night, my visions return. I don’t feel glad, but I don’t feel frightened, either. I don’t feel anything, because I’m not me. I’m her—the other Sasha.

  * * *

  A man sits beside me, his large hand folded gently over mine. My fingers twitch and flex into claws, then spasm under the force of an invisible string pulling them outward, then flex again in an endless, erratic cycle. But the man doesn’t seem to mind. He has a name. I knew it once, but not anymore.

  “I have to ask you something, Sasha,” he says, and when he says my name, I know his. James. He’s James.

  “I know you can’t answer, but I still have to ask. You know how much I love Emily. She’s…she’s my whole world. When I look at her, it’s like seeing my own soul walking beside me, and it gives me more hope and—and peace than anything ever has. Because she’s so pure and strong and beautiful and good, and if she loves me, there must be something beautiful and good in me, too.

  “I’m going to ask her to be my wife, and I’ve come to ask for your blessing. I don’t know if you can hear me, or understand me, and even if you do, I know you can’t answer.” When he laughs, it sounds more like a sob. “I guess I was hoping for, I don’t know, a sign or something. Pretty stupid, huh? But I brought the ring to show you. I think she’ll like it—she’s been dropping hints about a princess cut…”