The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

I nod, chastened. At her raised eyebrows, I add, “Yes, Mother.”

  “Very well,” she says. “You will be Marked with the insignia of the City of Orchids. It’s far enough away that people won’t think it strange if you’re a bit backward.”

  “But…I heard that it’s illegal to impersonate a Temple initiate,” I say. “I heard that it’s punishable by death.”

  Mother Wenla smiles. “So it is. But you are an initiate, Sasha. You may call your Temples by a different name in your world, but I believe you share our faith.”

  Yes, we do call our “Temples” by a different name. We call them conservatories…or studios, or Academies.

  “Are you ready to receive your Mark?” Mother Wenla asks.

  I stand, the packet of weapons clutched to my chest. “I’m ready.”

  * * *

  Mother Wenla leads me into a tidy, well-lit chamber behind her office. A high padded table stands in the center of the room. The walls are lined with cabinets and shelves, but everything is so neatly arranged that there’s plenty of room to maneuver.

  “This is where I perform more complicated Healing,” she explains. “It will do for your Marking.”

  “Will you be Marking me?” I ask.

  She surprises me with a merry laugh. “Certainly not. My talents lie firmly in the musical realm, I’m afraid. No, you’ll be Marked by the best, a dedicant named Calan.”

  At Mother Wenla’s direction, I perch on the table. We don’t wait long before a soft knock signals Calan’s arrival. Mother Wenla opens the door and ushers in the biggest man I’ve ever seen. I blink at his hulking shoulders and shaved head, which seem at odds with his twinkling black eyes and rosy cheeks. He bows his head, then gives me a warm smile.

  “The sun shines on you.”

  “And on you,” I reply, smiling in return.

  “I’m afraid I must leave you for now,” Mother Wenla says. “Take your time, my dears.”

  “Is this your first time under the needle?” he asks as he unloads his tools from a worn leather case.

  “Yes,” I say, eyeing the steadily growing array of needles and ink pots on the counter.

  “I won’t lie,” he says. “It will be painful. Just do your best to breathe and remember that the beauty will remain long after the sting fades.”

  I soon find that the needle does hurt, but it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It’s unpleasant, certainly, but manageable. Even so, I take his advice and concentrate on my breathing rather than the burn of the needle.

  Soon I fall into a kind of trance and realize this must be very like what Sadra tried to get me to do when I couldn’t dance. Time is meaningless, and so is pain. Nothing exists but the steady rise and fall of my chest and the cool air sliding into my lungs. It comes as a shock when Calan taps me on the shoulder and tells me he’s finished.

  “Already?” I blink up at him, groggy and confused, as if I’ve just woken from a deep sleep.

  He smiles and hands me a small mirror: There, just under the dip between my collarbones, is a swirling rune surrounded by delicate orchids inked in soft blues that offset the stark black of the rune. I frown. As beautiful as it is and for all the honor and prestige it will supposedly bring me, I’m not sure I like exchanging one brand for another.

  “What’s wrong?” Calan asks, his black eyes sharp on my face.

  I hand him back the mirror and do my best to smile. “Nothing. I’m sorry. It’s—it’s lovely.”

  “You can speak freely,” he says. “I know what you are. And what I am.”

  My breath hitches in surprise. “You’re—you were—”

  “A thrall,” he confirms. “Yes.”

  “Then you know what it is to be…to be claimed,” I say. “To have it burned—or Marked—on your skin.”

  “I do,” he says softly. “That’s why I marked my own claim.”

  He pulls up his shirt and hooks a thumb into the waistband of his trousers, flashing a swift smile of reassurance at my embarrassed twitch. But the instinctive protest dies on my lips as I see the bold splashes of color spilling across his hip and up onto his side. More importantly, I see the scar underneath where his brand was cut.

  I look up at him, hardly daring to speak the words. “Can I…I mean, will you…”

  “Yes,” he says. “If you wish it.”

  “I wish it,” I breathe.

  Now that I know the trick of it, it’s easier to slip into my trance. I rest contentedly in my own mind, aware of the needle’s burn but not bothered by it. Some time later—minutes or hours, I can’t tell—Calan taps me once more. I blink groggily as I come out of my trance and twist, trying to get a good look at his handiwork. Did he get it right? I tried my best to describe what I wanted, but now all my explanations seem like so much meaningless babble.

  “Wait,” Calan says, and disappears through the door.

  He returns moments later with a long mirror and props it against the wall. I climb down from the table and hike up my skirts, my heart thumping.

  “Oh, Calan,” I whisper when I see it. “It’s perfect.”

  The awful mess of my scar has been replaced by a swirling, delicate design composed of tiny vines and symbols. Each shape is independent of the others, but they come together to form a larger design suggestive of a bird surging into flight. Not just any bird—a swan.

  “These runes are for strength,” Calan explains quietly. “This one for stillness and serenity. And this…” He taps the rune at the swan’s heart. “This is for freedom. It’s yours, Sasha. Forever.”

  * * *

  Luca returns soon after to collect me. As we make our way back toward the Temple gates, I try not to pick at the salve-slick Mark on my chest and consider my situation.

  Calan was right. I am free, Marked or not. But I’m also arguably in greater danger than I was before. Who really knows how or when the Bird’s Path will make good on its promise to remove the Pall? Before Cimari, I was content to follow Bard’s orders because I had no other choice. But now…I wonder.

  “Luca,” I say, wincing as a troupe of musicians bursts into raucous song on a nearby street corner. “Your brother is the king.”

  “He is,” Luca agrees. He looks down at me quizzically. “So?”

  “Does that make you a prince?” I ask. “You’re his brother.”

  “Half-brother,” Luca corrects. “And born out of wedlock to a woman whose name my father never told me. We don’t have the same stigma against such alliances as you do in your world, but it does mean I’m not in line for the throne.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?” I ask, curious.

  “Stars, no.” He chuckles. “It’s a miserable, thankless job, as far as I can tell. The world on your shoulders and everyone telling you what you should be doing differently and never a moment of privacy. No, it doesn’t bother me. I wouldn’t take Costi’s place for anything. He wears it well, but the crown is a great burden to him. As it should be,” he adds, serious now. “Our father always said ruling is a duty and a sacrifice, not a privilege.”

  “Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” I murmur.

  “Yes, exactly.” His grins, his eyes twinkling down at me. “I had no idea you were a poet as well as a dancer.”

  My smile in return is bittersweet. “It is poetry, but it isn’t mine. It’s from a play in verse, written by a man named Shakespeare. I was studying his work when I got sick—when I was taken.”

  “Ah.”

  Luca opens his mouth and then bites his lip, as if he doesn’t know what to say, and we fall into silence. After a few moments, I reach out hesitantly and lay a hand on his arm.

  “Luca, if your brother knew…could he help? Would he help?”

  “I don’t know.” Luca sighs, his face troubled. “If Costi learned the truth…I don’t know if it would make a difference. The entire infrastructure of our City, our whole civilization, depends on Light. Without thralls, everything would fall apart. What the House is doing is wrong—of course it�
�s wrong, and my brother would see that, but my brother is also the king. He’s responsible for the welfare of the whole kingdom. Weighed against the collapse of the world as we know it, he might see thralls as the lesser of two evils.”

  I push away a surge of bitterness. “So the Bird’s Path is my only hope.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Luca shoots me a measuring sort of look. “Maybe I’m underestimating my brother. But until we can be sure, I think we’d do best to play by Mother Wenla’s rules.”

  “We?” I meet his gaze with raised eyebrows.

  “Yes, we. You’re my friend, aren’t you? I’m happy to help the Bird’s Path as long as they’re helping you, but I know where my loyalties lie.” Luca studies me with sharp eyes. “You don’t trust them?”

  “Not completely, no.” I press my lips together against the sudden tremble brought on by Luca’s declaration. “They hold some secrets tight in one fist and dangle others in front of my face with the other. I don’t know…maybe I’m not being fair. They’ve done a lot to help me—or Sadra has, anyway. But I know Bard is hiding something from me, and now he’s gone for who knows how long.”

  Luca takes my hand to help me over a rough patch in the street, his brows furrowed in thought.

  “What?” I squeeze his hand and look up at him. “You can tell me if I’m being—if you think I’m wrong. I hardly know myself what I’m thinking these days.”

  “It’s not that.” Luca stops for a moment and seems to struggle with himself. Then he says, “I don’t think you’re wrong.”

  My hand tightens around his. “What makes you say that?”

  “Here,” he says, pulling me off the street and through the gates of the City’s famed gardens. “Let’s find a place to sit.”

  We hurry along the garden paths, twisting and turning among ferns and flowers I never imagined could exist, much less bloom in autumn. Each section of the garden represents a region of the kingdom, or so I’ve been told, and every inch of the place is meticulously maintained by an army of both House mages and Greenloves—citizens Gifted with an affinity for plants.

  Finally, we find a secluded bench nestled among a thicket of flowering bushes—the City of Camellias, I suppose. We sit, our heads so close I can feel his hair tickle my ear. Anticipation makes my heart race—but is the anticipation for his words, or just his lips? I push the thought away, disgusted with myself. I have to focus.

  “When Bard showed me his memories,” Luca begins, “the first time, I mean, it was memories of your world. Most of it was awful, terrifying—smoke and filth, noise, machines like I’ve never seen. There were good things, too. Music and dancing and carts that pulled themselves, people laughing together…

  “But there was one memory that I think he didn’t mean to share, and I couldn’t tell whether it was from this world or the old one. It was a girl—a young woman. I thought it was you, at first. It wasn’t, but…Sasha, she looked an awful lot like you. I can’t think what it means, except that you must be right. Bard is hiding something from you.”

  I don’t say anything for several long moments. My head is spinning, and the gentle breeze is suddenly freezing on my sweat-slicked neck. I swallow several times, trying to suppress a surge of bile. I wish he hadn’t told me that. I wish I didn’t know.

  But I do, now, and I can’t hide from the knowledge or what it means.

  “Sadra was right,” I mutter, my voice faint and breathless. “She’ll be so pleased.”

  “Sasha?” Luca lays a warm, steadying hand on my back. “Are you alright?”

  “Mostly.” I look up and try to smile. “There are some things I need to tell you.”

  Kirit, sensing my distress, climbs into my lap and tucks his nose into the crook of my elbow as I wrap my arms around him. Luca’s hand moves up and down slowly—tentatively, as if he’s not quite sure how or if he should comfort me. I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile and then tell him everything; I leave nothing and no one out. Not my mother, not even Dave.

  Bozhe, I barely remember Dave. I wish I’d gotten the chance to thank him—or even say one nice thing to him. It’s just one more mistake to add to my steadily growing list of regrets.

  “Stars…your mother?” Luca says when I’ve finished. “You think she may have been suffering from the Pall.”

  “My grandmother kept records,” I say. “Her symptoms were almost exactly like mine. It seems too close to be coincidence. Bard has gone to such great lengths and broken so many rules for me, and I’ve been trying to figure out why…maybe this is the answer.”

  Luca frowns. “Yes. If he knows her…”

  “Or knew her,” I say. “We know time moves differently here and there. Who knows how long she’s been here, or if she was freed, or even if she survived to be sold in the first place? A lot of us didn’t.”

  I remember the emaciated, wax-white bodies in the Cage and shiver, cuddling Kirit closer.

  “Do you think Bard knows?” Luca asks. “That she could be here?”

  “I have no idea.” My lips twist into a grim smile as an idea occurs to me. “I hope he doesn’t. He knows far more than he’s willing to tell me. If I had something to bargain with…”

  Luca frowns. “That’s what you’re worried about? Don’t you want to find your mother?”

  “No,” I say shortly. “I don’t.”

  His brows shoot up at that, but he doesn’t inquire further. “Well, whatever you want to do, it’ll have to wait. He left this morning with a House caravan.”

  My stomach drops, then settles with surprising ease. Though I hate to admit it, even to myself, it’s something of a relief to have this particular choice taken out of my hands. The thought of confronting Bard makes my hands sweat. But is my uneasiness tied to Bard himself, or what he might say?

  I stand, shaking off a web of uncomfortable thoughts. I’ve survived this long. Whatever Bard has to say, I’ll survive that too. When the time comes, I’ll get my answers, and then I will choose what to do with them. I’m free. I can’t forget that.

  Luca tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow to lead me out of the garden, but I stop him with a gentle tug.

  “Wait.” I blush as I meet his eyes but don’t look away. “We’re quite near the Terrace, aren’t we?”

  “Somewhat near,” Luca allows. “But I wouldn’t worry. Your chances of being recognized are very, very slim.”

  “Good. I want to see it.”

  Luca frowns. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Sasha. It’s unlikely that you’d be recognized, but not impossible. Why take the risk?”

  “I’m not sure I can explain,” I admit, and this time I do look away. “It’s just something I need to do.”

  Luca studies me for a moment, then nods and leads me down a different path. We walk in silence, but not an uncomfortable one. Kirit frolics in the flowers and bushes, and Luca’s arm is warm and steady under my hand. Maybe its wishful thinking, but I feel that he understands my need to see the place where I was enslaved, to stand at its gates as a free woman.

  Luca slows as we exit the garden and approach a towering cliff face. But as we get closer, the seemingly solid stone resolves into three dimensions. Behind the cliff’s jutting stones lies a narrow passage, one that I remember with painful clarity from my first days in the City. Luca looks down at me, concern pressing a tiny crease between his brows.

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “There’s no harm—and no shame—in staying away.”

  I shiver and tighten my grip on his arm. “I’m sure.”

  We move closer, passing into the cliff’s shadow, and round the rocky outcropping that hides the passage.

  There it is: the Terrace Gate. Little more than a gash in the rock, the Gate earns its name—and its fame—by virtue of the exquisite carvings etched into the surrounding stone. Dancing maidens seem to leap from the mountainside; young lovers embrace, twining together amid flowering vines. A little girl laughs, clapping, as her mother plays a flute.

 
One carving in particular catches my eye: an old woman holding a baby. Her stone features are nothing like Baba Nadia’s, but the artist, whoever she was, managed to capture something of the perfect tenderness and wisdom that maybe all grandmothers possess.

  The carvings go on, I know, all the way into the Terrace itself. They represent all the facets of human love, human beauty…but I wasn’t human, then. Not to them.

  My throat closes, and it takes me a moment to draw the moisture back into my mouth. But I manage it in the end. I spit at the base of the cliff and turn my back on all the beauty that was never meant to be mine.

  Divertissement

  The next morning, Luca meets me on the stairs with a wide smile that matches Kirit’s.

  “I brought you presents,” he says.

  I pause mid-yawn. “What kind of presents?”

  Luca reaches for my hand and tugs me gently down the last few steps. He pulls a small dagger out of his belt and hands it to me.

  “I want you to keep this in your hand for the rest of the day,” he says. “Don’t draw it. Just hold onto it and get used to the way it feels. Can you do that?”

  I nod, taking the dagger from him with a strange mix of eagerness and apprehension. The only blades I ever held were meant for cutting vegetables, not people. But my fingers tighten on the dagger’s hilt, Cimari’s face flashing before my eyes. I study my white knuckles and breathe hard against a surge of sick certainty.

  I’ll never take another beating lying down.

  Never.

  “You needn’t grasp it quite so tightly,” Luca says, his lips twitching. “It won’t jump out of your hand.”

  Still breathing harder than I should, I force my hand to relax. “You said presents. Are there more?”

  With a courtly flourish, Luca hands me a vial of perfume. “For you, my lady.”

  He blushes. “I thought—well. I just thought you might like it.”

  I take the vial, fighting down an answering blush. He’s just playing his role and helping me with mine. But the softness in his eyes, the warmth of his fingers as they brush against my own—it feels real.

  Luca steps back and clears his throat. “We should go out. If you’re ready, I mean. It’s a good idea to be seen together. But if you don’t want to—”