The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  “As if Cimari is in any position to judge,” Sadra adds with a watery snort, and wipes her eyes. “She’s barely half a person herself. If you cracked open her heart, you’d find nothing but a pile of ash.”

  “We know what you are,” Luca says. “And we’ll prove it to everyone.”

  “How?” I ask. “How do you prove something like that? How do you even define what is a person and what isn’t?”

  “The presence of a soul, I suppose,” Sadra says. “And that, I think we can prove.”

  “How?” I ask again.

  Sadra pokes me in the side and gives me a small smile. “Isn’t it obvious? You dance.”

  en Avant

  “Miss, it’s time.”

  A little man with a sour, pinched mouth and a weak chin marches into the room with an air of harried self-importance. Two guards follow and stand on either side of the door, stoic and unblinking. The little man—the steward, perhaps—beckons to me impatiently.

  “It’s time,” he says again. “The Council awaits.”

  I rise slowly to my feet and smooth the rich, soft fabric of my dancer’s costume, which was brought to me this morning. There was no explanation, but I knew what it meant. Only one occasion could warrant my best clothes, flowing trousers bound tight below the knee and a soft, wide-sleeved shirt tied off with a sash, all in tawny gold and cream. Luca had given them to me months ago, shortly after I was Marked at the Temple. I’m sure it wasn’t easy convincing the guards to give them to me now, and the gesture gives me the courage I need to step out of the door.

  No one has been allowed past the guards outside my door except for a Healer whose name no one bothered to tell me. As neither Luca nor Sadra would abandon me willingly, I can only assume that they’re being kept from me. But for what reason, I can’t imagine.

  Now, it seems, I’m about to find out.

  I follow the steward through the twisting corridors of the palace and wince at a fresh, sharp stab of loneliness. I can hardly remember the last time I went anywhere without Kirit padding silently beside me. I hope he’ll be there at the trial with Luca. If the Council favors the House, I want to be able to say goodbye.

  I begin to shake. I don’t even know if Luca will be there. But he has to be—they can’t possibly make me do this on my own, can they? For one thing, this is bigger than just me. We’re going after the House’s whole enterprise—as the complainants, Bard, Mother Wenla, and the Apostate will have to be present at the very least. Unless each witness will be speaking to the Council separately?

  Bozhe, I want this over with.

  Finally, we stop. The older guard raps twice on an almost shabby looking door and waits. When it opens he walks through, bows, and stands aside. The younger guard behind me gives me a gentle nudge and motions for me to enter.

  My muscles tense, and for a moment I seriously consider making a run for it. But then a soft yap grabs my attention and a smile of relief blossoms on my face. Kirit. He is here—and wherever he is, Luca can’t be far away.

  I step through the door to see Luca stationed at the king’s shoulder. His face is cool and serious—a soldier’s face. But as I straighten up from my bow to the king, I catch the tiniest flicker of a wink. Warmth floods my belly, loosening the knots in my lower back. I take a deep breath and look around.

  Atop the dais, the king sits in a sturdy, comfortable looking chair decorated with only a hint of inlaid carving. Arismendi sits beside him, her face white and troubled. On his other side—I suck in a sharp breath, then release it slowly. I should have known. Of course Ismeni would be here. Not only is she the king’s lover, she’s also a central figure in the trial. But the shock of seeing my former mistress twists the muscles around my spine and through my shoulders so abruptly it’s nearly a spasm.

  Another breath.

  Council members spread to the left and right, curving around in a wide arc. Another arc of chairs is arranged opposite the king and Council members. The people in these chairs sit with their backs facing me, but I recognize Sadra’s dark curls and Mother Wenla’s shock of white hair immediately. Even Bard’s grizzled head and stiff shoulders spark instant recognition. The burly, shaggy figure beside them must be the Apostate. To their right, Cimari sits scowling beside her husband, the House Premier.

  “Come forward, child,” the king says, his voice stern but not unkind.

  I obey, passing between the chairs to stand in front of King Miocostin. For a moment, I’m caught by the familiarity of his features. His resemblance to Luca is uncanny. But he has none of Luca’s humor or warmth, only deep, hard lines around his eyes and mouth. His gaze is distant, calculating…and deeply unhappy.

  “Some weeks ago, my brother brought me the most astounding tale,” he begins. “He tells me that we have been deceived, that the House of Light and Shadow has conspired to exploit and enslave sentient beings. He tells me that you are one such being.”

  At his expectant pause, I nod and whisper, “Yes, my lord. I mean, my king.”

  “My sister tells me differently,” the king continues. “She insists that you are a deadly threat—though she unfortunately seems unable to provide any greater detail. The House of Light and Shadow tells me differently still. The esteemed Premier believes you to be a harmless oddity, yourself. But he warns me that what you represent could topple the very kingdom. We are met here today to determine the truth of this matter and decide what to do about it.”

  The silence stretches until he asks, “So, young one…what do you tell me?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but the Premier cuts me off.

  “My king, I must protest,” he says. “Of course the creature will parrot the lies it was fed by the Temple of Graces, which has long sought to undermine my House’s work.”

  “I granted your request that this girl be kept sequestered from her fellows,” the king says sternly, and I’m relieved to hear the slightest stress on the word girl. “I am confident she has not been coached in any way. We will hear her.” To me, he says, “Go on, child.”

  I open and close my mouth several times, but nothing comes out. A rushing sound fills my ears as I try to collect my thoughts.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say. “I just—I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Tell us your name and how you came to be here,” a kindly looking old man suggests.

  He leans forward in his seat, which is only two or three away from the king’s. His tone is gentle. So are his eyes. I swallow. Hopefully the man is as kind as he looks, and hopefully his proximity to the king is a measure of his influence.

  “My—my name is Sasha Nikolayeva,” I begin hesitantly. “I was born in another country—another world. I began to see things while I slept…and then, sometimes, when I woke. I saw myself here, in Kingsgarden. I was kept in a cage. I was starved, beaten, branded, and then sold to the lady Ismeni. She kept me as a servant…and as a pet. She called me Cygnet. I can’t say for certain how long I spent in her service before I was awakened.”

  “Awakened,” the kindly man says, leaning forward. “How do you mean?”

  “I had forgotten who I was,” I explain. “I had forgotten a lot of things. I couldn’t speak. I had trouble understanding and thinking. Sometimes I didn’t think at all. I was…gone. Absent from my own body. Forgive me, it’s—difficult to describe.

  “After a time, though, I remembered how to dance, and the more I did it, the more I came back to myself. Then Sadra found me and started teaching me your language. She—well, she bullied me into waking up in the end. I spoke my name, and…and I was myself again.

  “She told me about the casting, the shadow, that had stifled my mind and kept me silent. She called it the Pall. She said it was siphoning off my energy and turning it into Light for other people to use. She told me it was the House of Light and Shadow that had done this to me, and that with the Temple’s help I could have the Pall removed. I could be free.”

  I fall silent, and a tide of murmurs and whispering rises among
the Council members. The king waves them down and leans back, regarding me thoughtfully.

  “Certainly you are not the empty shell we have always believed thralls to be. You speak with an accent, yes, but you speak—something we have long thought beyond the ability of a thrall.” The king raises his eyebrows at the Premier. “How do you explain this? Do you deny that Sasha is—or was—a thrall?”

  “No, my king,” the Premier says, rising to his feet. “A thrall is not a hollow vessel, as many believe—”

  “As you have led us to believe,” the king corrects in a hard voice. “And neither are they prey to spiritwalkers, as you have stated explicitly—and untruthfully. But go on.”

  “As I say, they are not—completely—empty,” the Premier continues, apparently unruffled. “But neither can they be considered complete, sentient individuals. In short, they are not people.”

  “How so?”

  The Premier folds his hands over his substantial belly and speaks in a smooth, instructive tone, as if delivering a lecture to a group of students.

  “There lies in the northern forests a certain singularity. A catalyst, of sorts. Early members of the Temple of Graces—” and here he bows to Mother Wenla “—discovered the singularity some four hundred years ago. They studied it for many years and found that this catalyst attracts various…essences, shall we say, and concentrates them until those essences coalesce to form a body. A living, breathing body, yes, but not a person. What lives inside the body is—if anything—merely an echo, an imprint of a mind long dead.”

  “And how did these investigators come to such a conclusion?” one of the Councilors asks skeptically.

  “Every attempt was made to communicate with the creatures,” the Premier says. “Each attempt, however, was met with incomprehensible babble at best or violence at worst. The creatures proved incapable of—or even interested in—caring for themselves, and so we did it for them. We cared for them and studied them…and, yes, we made use of them. We found a way to harness their energies—through the Pall, as the creature says. Light was born, and with it the first Lightcrafters of the House of Light and Shadow, who helped the first king of the Garden build the very kingdom you rule today.”

  The kindly man frowns and clears his throat. “The King’s Chalice—”

  “Is a tale for children,” the Premier says dismissively. “Or at best a highly sanitized edition of the Garden’s history. The first king conquered the outlying cities with armies strengthened by Lightcrafters and their workings.”

  Ignoring the king’s narrowed eyes, the Premier continues, “By itself, the singularity is not particularly prolific, producing perhaps two or three thralls per year. House mages developed methods to amplify and concentrate the singularity’s effects so that more thralls could be cultivated among the roots of the trees.”

  “And will you tell them what these methods are?” the Apostate asks, his voice deceptively mild. “Will you tell them how you water your foul garden with the blood of innocents?”

  There’s a beat of shocked silence, then the room fills with the buzz of whispers and muttered conversations. Luca doesn’t speak or even move from his position at the king’s shoulder, but his eyes find mine. I cling to the momentary flash of comfort and sit straighter in my chair. Sadra smiles and gives my shoulder an approving pat.

  “Order, please,” the king says, giving the Apostate a hard look. “You will have your turn to speak. Until then, I must ask you to remain silent.” To the Premier, he says, “But do elaborate, if you please.”

  “Life must be fed with life,” the Premier says softly. “This truth is undisputed. We grow our wheat and barley in soil comprised of the once living flesh of other plants and animals and then harvest the living plants to make our bread and ale. We raise livestock and hunt beasts of the forest and field that we might eat. What we of the House do is no different.

  “I can attempt to explain the exact mechanics of our processes, but I think it is not necessary. Do not let the words of a malcontent and oathbreaker sway you, my lords. What we produce is livestock, nothing more, to be used as we see fit. That which proves unsuitable to serve as a thrall is used in other ways. We are not wasteful.”

  “What my former colleague means,” the Apostate cuts in, “is that thralls fall into a fairly narrow range of age and physical ability. Those who are too young, too old, too weak, or too unlikely to sell are slaughtered wholesale, their blood and bone harvested for amulets and other workings.”

  “You have seen this?” the king demands.

  “I have, my king.” Bard stands and bows. “I have seen children as young as three years old bled like pigs—but more slowly.”

  “Like pigs,” the Premier repeats quickly. “My point exactly. Do you object also to the meat we serve at our tables? Do you contend that the ox should be relieved of the plow? Thralls are no different from any other beast raised for food or labor. They are property—our property.”

  Alternating waves of fire and ice flood my stomach. White lights dance in the corners of my eyes. How can any person spew such filth and mean it? How can anyone hear and not recognize the disgusting absurdity of it? But they can—too many of them can. Half the Councilors look properly horrified, but the other half is nodding, like the Premier’s explanation makes perfect sense.

  “That’s not true.” My voice is even, but my body shakes. “I am not a piece of meat. I’m a girl, just like her.” I point at Arismendi, whose face has gone pale and hard as marble. “I have—I had—a family. The House of Light and Shadow stole me from them. They pulled me into this world against my will and turned me into a thing to be used by whoever had the coin to pay.”

  King Miocostin turns to a small, mousy woman with graying hair and sharp blue eyes. I hadn’t noticed her before, lurking as she was behind the king’s chair.

  “My lady,” he says. “What is your word? Who speaks the truth?”

  “I am called a Truthseer, my king, but in reality, I see deceit,” the woman says. “All I can say is that neither of them lies. But believing a thing doesn’t make it true.”

  The king sighs. “Then we must proceed and do our best to uncover the truth for ourselves.”

  “My king,” the Premier says. “Might I question the thrall?”

  “You may,” the king replies shortly.

  The Premier turns to me, cool and composed as ever. “You say you lived in another world. Was your life good? Pleasant?”

  The question throws me off guard. “I—no. I mean, it was, until…all this.”

  “The visions, you mean. Tell us more about that, if you please,” the Premier says.

  “I…I couldn’t sleep,” I say uncertainly. “Because of the dreams. I couldn’t eat. I started forgetting things, and hearing and seeing things that weren’t there. I started having…I don’t know the word in your language. Fits, maybe.”

  “In other words, you fell ill,” the Premier prompts. “Severely ill, would you say?”

  Reluctantly, I nod.

  “And at what point did you fully…ah, cross over?” he asks.

  “When Sadra—”

  “You misunderstand me,” the Premier interrupts. “I meant, what was your condition at the time of your transition into this world?”

  I hesitate, not sure what he’s driving at, but answer as honestly as I can. “I thought I was going to die.”

  “So, to summarize—and do correct me if I’m wrong—you became deathly ill and then found yourself in Kingsgarden. You remember nothing else—for instance, recovering from your illness,” the Premier says. “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  The Premier asks, very gently, “And isn’t it possible that you did, in fact, die? That you are not that girl but an imprint, as I have said?”

  “No,” I say automatically. “No, it’s not—”

  “She lies,” the Truthseer says promptly.

  I take a breath. “I—yes, I suppose it is possible. But I don’t think that’
s what happened.”

  The king glances at the Truthseer, who nods.

  “My king—” The Apostate moves as if to rise but remains in his seat at the king’s glare.

  “Hold your tongue. I will not tell you again,” the king says coldly. “As the accused, the House Premier has the right to present his case first.”

  “Thank you, my king,” the Premier says with a bow. “I would like to question the lady Ismeni next, if you please.”

  The king nods his assent and gestures for me to sit. I collapse, trembling, into the empty chair beside Sadra. Immediately, her hand finds mine.

  On the dais, the king lifts Ismeni’s hand to his lips. “Answer honestly and without fear, my love.”

  Ismeni nods, tight-lipped, and faces the Premier. “What questions do you have for me, my lord?”

  “This is the thrall you called Cygnet?” the Premier asks.

  Ismeni looks at me—really looks at me—for the first time that I can remember. “I…I think so. She looks different. Her hair, her clothes, her manner. And—something else. But yes, I believe it is Cygnet.”

  “And when the thrall was in your care, did you mistreat it?”

  Ismeni shakes her head vehemently. “Never. I was very fond of her.”

  “She was not starved or otherwise abused, as has been suggested?”

  “I—” Ismeni pauses, her gaze flickering toward the Truthseer. “Not by me.”

  The Truthseer nods. I grind my teeth. Surely everyone can see the giant, gaping hole in her answer. Won’t someone speak up? Anger simmers under my skin, echoed by the tightening of Sadra’s already bone-crushing grip on my hand. Then, in the moment the Premier draws breath for his next question, a low, clear voice rings out:

  “Not by you, my lady?” Arismendi asks. “But by another, perhaps?”

  Ismeni winces but doesn’t try to avoid the question. “Yes, Princess. Cygnet was once whipped on the lady Cimari’s orders.”

  And nearly raped by her brother. But, as Ismeni herself never knew of my disastrous escape attempt, the omission isn’t detected by the Truthseer.