The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  No, no, no. I squeeze my eyes even more tightly shut, as if I can change the truth of where I am if only I deny it hard enough. I can’t be here, I can’t. I jumped. I made my peace with death—but not this. Not the House of Light and Shadow.

  “I knew it,” a voice whispers. “I knew it.”

  My eyes fly open. I know that voice. It’s haunted my nightmares for months.

  “Cimari,” I breathe.

  She peers down at me through a small window. Traces of light creep under the door and around her face, illuminating only my immediate surroundings: stone walls, stone floor. Nothing else.

  “Please—listen to me.” I speak in a low, urgent voice. Ismeni cared about this girl. There must be a reason. There must be something good or fair or at least reasonable in her character. “I’m not what you think I am.”

  “Actually, I know exactly what you are,” Cimari says. A trace of pride colors her voice. “My husband trusts me. He told me the truth weeks ago.”

  “You know,” I repeat, dumbfounded. “Then why—”

  “Why don’t I free you?” Cimari says, tilting her head. “Because without you, there is no Light.”

  She says it as if it’s simple. And I suppose it is. She wants power and doesn’t care where it comes from.

  “Besides,” she goes on. “You’re not a person.” She waves off my protest. “I know you probably believe you are. But you’re just an echo, really. Memory made flesh. The real entity, whoever she was, is long gone.”

  Her words take my breath away. In just a few words, she’s confirmed my every fear. But she’s wrong. She has to be wrong.

  “That’s not true,” I say unsteadily. “I have a life. I have a family.”

  “You had a life,” Cimari corrects me. “You had a family. But no longer. You forgot them once. You’ll forget them again.”

  “Never,” I swear.

  Cimari shrugs. “We’ll see.”

  She slides a panel over the window, leaving me in complete darkness. I back slowly into the corner and hug my knees. Spasms of cold and shock wrack my body until my muscles simply lock, clenching and clenching with no release. But I have no thought for my body—this body. Cimari’s right about that, at least. Though in nearly every physical particular it’s exactly the same, this isn’t the body I was born with—it was created, somehow. So what does that make me?

  “No,” I whisper. “No.”

  I thump my head against the wall hard enough to see stars and—almost—hard enough to shake that thought right out of my head.

  I am real. I am Aleksandra. Sasha. A real girl with real thoughts and passions and emotions. I feel pain and fear and joy—and love.

  Once I admitted it to myself, I never once doubted Luca’s love for me, nor mine for him. And I won’t start now. Luca loves me, and he’ll find me. He’ll come for me, like he said. All I have to do is wait.

  And so I wait. I work diligently at an imaginary barre, filling the hours with calm, smooth motion and the soothing stretch and release of my muscles. But as the hours turn into days, my limbs begin to falter. I’ve received no food and little water. Much as it did during those first days in the Cage, my mind weakens with my body.

  I begin to forget. Little things at first, like the exact words Cimari used to torment me during her latest visit or which corner I used to relieve myself. Then I forget her name. I forget that I ever tried to confine my business to one corner. I forget that someone is coming to find me and take me away from this place. I forget that I was ever outside these walls. And I forget how to dance.

  When I sleep, I hear things: Voices calling to me, begging me to wake up. Voices carrying on one-sided conversations that I don’t understand. Voices singing, voices sobbing. Sometimes, I hear music. Beautiful, otherworldly music that makes me want to do…something. I’m not sure what it is I want to do, but the desire is so strong it wakes me up.

  Often, it takes me several minutes to determine if I’m awake or asleep. I can’t remember the last time I saw anything but black. There was a light once, I think. Just a little. It came through the cracks between the rough bits. But there hasn’t been any for a long time. I think it’s been a long time, but I don’t know.

  I don’t know anything.

  * * *

  “Sasha,” a voice whispers. “I don’t know if you can hear me. They say you might. But they say a lot of things.”

  For a moment I can’t hear anything but heavy breathing. I feel warmth…somewhere. My hand? My face? I don’t know. My body hasn’t moved in so long that I can’t remember what lies where.

  “Everyone’s doing alright. James came by earlier, do you remember? He said to remind you that we’re all praying for you. He’d be here with me now, but it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding. I’m getting married tonight, can you believe it? I wish you could be there, honey. I wish that more than anything.”

  “I want you to know I love you,” the voice goes on. “And that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I tried to take care of you. I did my best. And you did yours, baby. It’s okay if you’re tired. It’s okay if you want to stop. But if you can, if you have anything left…keep trying. Come back to me, please. You can’t be gone, not yet. Please, Sasha.”

  * * *

  The voice fades away as I swim back to consciousness. I blink. Something is different. The voices are different. And they’re angry. One voice in particular stands out. I focus on it, my brows furrowed in concentration. The voice makes me feel strange—warm, and a bit floaty. Odd.

  Light flares, sending me scurrying like a rat into a corner where I cower, shielding my watering eyes. The light hurts almost beyond bearing. I whimper and press myself against the stone. I want it to go away—all of it: the light, the noise, everything. But now there are hands on my shoulders, pulling me away from the wall.

  “Sasha. Come on, Sasha, you’re alright.”

  It’s that voice. I don’t know why it pulls at me so. The words mean nothing to me. Am I alright? I don’t know—probably not. Speak to me, the voice seems to beg. But what should I say? I’m not sure I can speak now, or if I ever could.

  “Hold on,” the voice says. “I’ve got you.”

  I freeze as I find myself suddenly hoisted into the air and held against something hard and warm. A soft puff of air ruffles my matted hair.

  I look around wildly, trying to make sense of the shifting, shadowy forms moving around me. Slowly, my eyes stop watering and I can see that the corridor outside my cell is crowded with men. Some wear robes, some wear swords. All of them are shouting.

  “You have no authority here,” one of the robed men blusters, puffing up like a rooster.

  “As I’m sure you’ve been informed, I’m here by order of the king,” the warm voice says somewhere above me. “Are you challenging his authority?”

  “The king cannot know the danger this creature poses,” the robed man objects. “My lord Premier is with him at this moment, explaining matters. I must insist that you leave that—thing where you found it and return to the palace. You’re not needed here.”

  “On the contrary, I believe I am needed here,” the warm voice says politely. “But if you’ll step aside, I would be more than happy to return to the palace, as you say. The Premier is not the only mage with explanations for my brother. Perhaps you’ve heard of a man named Porr?”

  “Apostate,” the robed man hisses, drawing back in shock. But he quickly rallies. “You cannot—”

  “Step. Aside.” The warm voice has gone steely. “I am leaving, and I’m taking this girl with me. If you try to stop me, there will be bloodshed. I trained as a Lightcrafter in this very facility, as did every one of my guards. Do you really think you can stop us?”

  With a flash of light and steel, we sweep past the gaggle of robed men. The man holding me leads us unerringly through a maze of corridors and cavernous rooms until we emerge onto a narrow ledge. Not three feet from where we stand, the ground drops away into the narrow valley of the Terr
ace.

  I frown. The Terrace. I don’t know where the name came from or what it means, exactly, but I know that’s what the valley is called. I must have been there before. But when? And why? As far, far up as we are, I can still see the perfectly manicured gardens and fancy houses lining the valley. What would someone like me be doing in a place like that?

  The arms around me tighten as we make our way down the mountainside. I press my face into the smooth leather jerkin under my cheek, but not out of fear. Both the garment and the body beneath it feel familiar, safe. The heartbeat under my ear tickles my memory like a half-forgotten but beloved song. You knew me once, it seems to say. Know me again. Remember.

  I want to remember. My head aches with trying. But something stands in the way, pliable and formless but solid, like a blanket with no end and no beginning. Has it always been there? Maybe—I can’t tell. I’m so confused. What is wrong with me? I know I’m not supposed to feel like this, but I don’t know why. I close my eyes and listen to the voices in my head. Maybe they can tell me.

  * * *

  I drift, floating through something that’s neither air nor water. I want to go to the voices that have become my familiar companions these eternities past, but a new voice intrudes, pulling me away toward something that fills me with both dread and longing.

  “Remember who you are,” the new voice whispers. “Remember that day in the garden? You spoke to me. You told me your name. You’re Sasha and I’m Sadra. Remember what I said? Sasha and Sadra—it sounds good together, doesn’t it? Remember. We danced together. You taught me your art and I taught you mine.

  “You’re my friend—my best friend. My sister. Remember.

  “You were in a cage, but you flew away. You fell in love. He’s a good man. His name is Luca. Remember…”

  The old voices become fainter. Dimmer, somehow. I can’t catch the words anymore. But I still hear the desperation, the grief. Guilt gnaws at me, pushing me away and pulling at me at the same time. Which way do I go? Forward or back? Up or down? But which is which?

  And does it matter?

  “Don’t leave me,” the voice whispers. “Remember…”

  The voice whispers ceaselessly, giving me the story of my life—or part of it. When she—it feels like a she—whispers to me, I find myself nodding along, thinking, yes, that’s true, that’s how it was. But then I hear the old voices, the sad voices, and they feel true, too.

  I don’t know what to think.

  And so I retreat until, finally, I can’t hide anymore.

  * * *

  Music pulls me out of the darkness and into a bright, airy room filled with simple but elegant furnishings. A green-eyed man and a girl with golden eyes sit beside my bed. She plucks a small harp, her fingers rippling smoothly across the strings. He balances a narrow instrument like a violin on his knee, drawing a familiar melody out of the tiny piece of wood.

  I rest my gaze on his face, admiring the hard lines of his jaw and cheekbones and the dark smudge of his lashes. I look at the girl next. I inspect her smoky curls and elegantly arched eyebrows. Their names tantalize me, like a raft bobbing just out of reach in the middle of a storm: so close, but far enough away to leave me drowning.

  The green-eyed man begins to sing. His voice is a rough but pleasant baritone that sends every question and doubt winging out of my mind. I watch him, enthralled, my eyes fixed on his lips.

  “Leaves turn, snow falls

  Green on the ground, sun in the sky.

  In each turn of the seasons, I turn to you

  Do you think of me? I think of you.”

  The golden-eyed girl joins him, her voice flowing over and around his like honey.

  “Every sun, every moon

  Every star in the sky shines for you.

  I can see the morning breaking in your eyes.

  Do you think of me? I think of you.”

  The green-eyed man lays down his instrument and kneels beside me, taking my hand carefully in his. For several moments he simply looks at me while the girl continues playing. Then he brings my hand to his lips and places a soft kiss on my fingers.

  “Can you tell me your name?” he asks.

  I frown. I want to, but I’m not sure I can. My frown deepens. What if I can’t and he lets go of my hand? I don’t want that.

  “Tell me,” he says, his hand tightening on my fingers. “Please.”

  When I open my mouth to tell him something, anything, nothing comes out.

  “Tell me your name,” he says. “You can do it. I know you can.”

  His eyes bore into mine, willing me to speak with an intensity that borders on desperation. I open my mouth again and again, hanging onto both his hands as I rock back and forth. My name, my name—what is it? I know I’ve heard it—repeatedly and recently. Why won’t it come to me now?

  At last, I sit back with a dejected sigh and release Luca’s hands reluctantly—and then I bolt upright, my eyes widening in excitement. Luca!

  I take a deep breath and force out a hoarse grunt. I try again: “L-lu…luuu…”

  “Yes.” Luca grips my shoulders with trembling hands. “That’s it, love, keep going.”

  “Luc—Kirit!”

  I laugh at the furry bundle that suddenly appears, wiggling, in my lap. Kirit squeaks as I wrap my arms around him and squeeze, burying my face in his fur. When at last I look up, tears quiver in the corners of my eyes. I reach out and touch Luca’s face.

  “Luca,” I say, my voice broken and gravelly. I turn to the golden-eyed girl, who stares at me with a sort of wistful excitement. “Sadra.”

  Sadra sets her harp aside and sits at the foot of my bed, her hand resting lightly on my knee.

  “And you?” she asks gently. “Who are you?”

  “Sasha,” I whisper.

  My heart and lungs seem to constrict, making me gasp with the pain of it. Luca holds me tightly against his chest, his lips pressed against my hair. Sadra rubs my back with one hand and catches my groping fingers with the other. I cling to them both, shaking uncontrollably.

  I came so close to losing them. Now that I know what it feels like, I know I can’t do it again. I can’t leave them. The realization brings on a fresh wave of grief as I finally accept what I’ve known for some time: I’ll never get my old life back, even if I somehow return to that world. Too much has changed.

  “What?” Sadra asks, leaning close. “What did you say?”

  I didn’t realize I was mumbling. I lift my face and take a deep, shuddering breath, pushing them both away so I can look at them.

  “I want to stay,” I say.

  Kirit yips joyfully and jumps up to lick my face, his tail whipping back and forth. Luca swallows and closes his eyes. I fend off Kirit with one hand and slip the other into Luca’s. He presses my knuckles against his lips, then takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. My heart flips at the joy and love I see there, wild and tender and fierce, all at once. I could get lost in those eyes and never even want to find my way back.

  “Thank the stars.” Sadra throws her arms around me and squeezes so hard my ribs creak under the strain.

  I hug her back, resting my forehead against her shoulder. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.” She leans back, regarding me seriously. “I’m sorry I barked at you that night. I was just so angry. If you died—”

  “But I’m not going to,” I say as firmly as I can. “I’m going to be a good girl and do whatever Bard says. Where is he? Did he find the Apostate?”

  Sadra and Luca exchange a glance.

  “What?” I ask, looking from one to the other.

  Luca rises and begins to pace. “Bard did find the Apostate. But there’s been a change of plans.”

  “Why?” Dread creeps, cold and sickly, into my belly. “What’s happened?”

  Sadra looks down, her face puckered. “I’m so sorry Sasha. It’s all my fault. I was the one who sent Ari—I mean, the princess. After you left the City, Mother Wenla assigned me to th
e palace to keep an eye on the investigation into Orean’s treason. The House knew about us—at least, about the Apostate. I still don’t know how. I sent the princess, but she was meant to warn you. And I warned her, I told her not to involve the House! I thought I could trust her. I thought she trusted me.”

  Sadra breaks off, tears streaming down her face, and I wonder if it’s only guilt that bites her so keenly. She cries as if she herself has been betrayed as well. After a brief, uncomfortable pause, Luca picks up the story.

  “You’re in the palace,” Luca says. “It took us nearly three weeks to talk my brother into giving me the writ to extract you from the House. My sister was in a rage, insisting that you would bring down the kingdom and that only the House of Light and Shadow could stop you. I told Costi everything, and Mother Wenla and Porr—the Apostate—confirmed it all. But it was Bard who changed his mind in the end.” Luca gives a crooked smile. “We all know how persuasive he can be, don’t we? I don’t know what he showed Costi, but it worked.”

  Hope surges in my chest. “So the king believes us? That’s good news—isn’t it?”

  “He believes that the House has overstepped,” Luca says. “And he’s agreed to an investigation. Porr and the Lord Premier have been going at it for a week now, each one presenting his side of the story. You’ll be called on to give your testimony at a hearing before the whole Council as soon as you’re well enough.”

  I gape at him. “What ‘side’ is there for the House to present? If the king knows the truth, how can they possibly defend what they’ve done?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” he says. “Costi has kept the meetings private, for the most part. But I can only assume they’re arguing that your body is their property. That you’re not an individual but a manufactured product, as they’ve maintained all along.”

  “That’s what Cimari told me.” My gut twists at the memory. “She said I’m not real. That I’m an echo.”

  “She’s wrong.” Luca returns to my side and squeezes my hand. “Or she’s lying. Either way, it’s not true.”